We have to make it right. It’s just going to take some time.”
Somehow this sounds even worse coming from her. I’ve always liked Mrs. Dembo. I always thought she had my back, even when Alkine was less than cheery about my training progress. Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach. Or maybe it’s hunger. I haven’t eaten since dinner last night.
So this is the choice I have. It’s always the same. Play by their rules and wait, or become their enemy-work against the only family I’ve ever known, even if they’re not the real one. Skyship Academy used to mean safety. Now I’m not sure.
Mrs. Dembo stands. “The Sophomore Tour is tomorrow afternoon. I’d like you to be able to participate. These types of activities are helpful to take your mind off of things you’re unable to control.” She paces to the center of the room. “Of course, we can’t let you out of here consequence free, but we’re giving you another chance. I know I can’t speak for the others, but you’ve always been very special to us. We hate to see you like this.”
I glance up at her. I know she expects a response, a declaration of loyalty or something, but I can’t stomach the thought of it. It’s all about them, like always. But the bottom line is, I’ve gotta get out of this room. I can’t do anything in here. So I make the only move I can. I nod.
Mrs. Dembo returns the gesture. “I’m going to give you just a little more time to think about it. Should I grab you some more water?”
“No,” I whisper. “Sorry about the mess.”
She smiles. “Don’t you worry.” She turns to leave, but stops before grabbing the handle. “Things are going to be alright, Jesse. I hope you know that. Days might seem dark now, but I’m confident that your turning point isn’t as far away as you expect it might be.”
I don’t know what she means by that. It sounds like a mild threat, even coming from her. But maybe that’s just me being paranoid.
I watch her leave in silence and kick the heels of my feet against the couch. When she’s gone, I bend forward and pick up the largest shard of glass I can find. I run it across my finger, not strong enough to cut, but firm enough to feel. Then I chuck it at the door, hoping that maybe it’ll stick. It doesn’t. I watch it fall to the ground. Everything’s silent.
4
Cassius pulled his head from the water and took a gasp of breath. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and used the splash to cleanse his shoulder. The bullet had only grazed his skin, leaving a shallow wound. Still, he couldn’t afford an infection. The worst of it had closed throughout the evening. Even so, the cool saltwater stung.
He sat with his bare, calloused feet dipped into the Arctic. He’d found a sheltered area, a secluded grassy outstretch from one of the city’s lesser-known waterfront parks. Trees surrounded him on all sides, save for a narrow walkway behind him that offered a brief snapshot of the city skyline.
The sunrise beamed a shocking orange, lifting from the edge of the skyline so close that it seemed like its fire could reach out and touch him. Back home, the chemicals in the Fringes obscured much of the sky’s color, dulling sunsets and sunrises. The Polar Cities were lucky that way. By the time the chemicals from the Scarlet Bombings made their way up north, they were so dilute that they had little impact. A ten-degree climate increase, fifteen at the most.
He stared at his reflection in the ocean, trying to understand the face before him. Beyond the scratches and bruises, he’d lost close to fifteen pounds since running from New York. He looked more like Fisher now. Skinny. Or skinnier, at least.
It was just after three in the morning. The sun had been down for exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes. He’d been keeping track. This time of year it was light almost all day and night in the Polar Cities. He’d tried getting some rest, but every time he closed his eyes, the thought of that Unified Party gas bomb shocked him awake. It killed him not to know who threw it. They’d done him a favor, finishing off those slum assassins. They could have easily killed him, too. Instead, they sent gas. They wanted him unconscious, but not dead.
And they hadn’t followed him into the city. He wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or petrified.
He snapped his fingers and ignited a tiny flame that hovered above his hand and evaporated what beads of water were left. He played with it for a minute, quivering it sideways, expanding it, adding heat. Then he clenched his fist and extinguished it altogether.
There was a time, not too long ago, when the fire controlled him-built inside until it tore through his skin, triggering an explosion capable of destroying a room, a train car, a building. Now he could snuff it out with his bare hands, not that it had done much for him back in the slum building.
Madame had called it a sickness, tried to convince him that there was something wrong, that he needed to shoot and kill to fix it. And in the end, that’s exactly what he’d done. Maybe it hadn’t been with a gun. Maybe it hadn’t been by his hands directly, but he’d left her in Seattle, buried under the rubble. His mother, or the closest thing to it for twelve years, dead because he hadn’t come back to save her. He couldn’t face the thought of the murder he’d aided, even if it had been to save his own brother, so he remained up north. But even that had its dangers.
Providence was one of twenty-five Polar Cities the U.N. had nestled along the Arctic Circle decades ago in preparation for intense global warming. They all had fancy, quasireligious names like Arcadia and Assumption. Most were in Canada and Northern Europe and functioned as normal cities had before the bombings. No Bio-Nets constantly stabilizing the environment. Rent was expensive and real estate even more so. The North Coast was incredibly desirable, and with a Unified Party ID socket carved into his wrist, finding legitimate work had been impossible. He’d managed to find shelter in the basement of a condemned building on the outskirts of town, dead in the middle of slum territory. Hardly beach-front property, but it had been hardwon regardless. Of course, the problems far outweighed the perks. Cassius didn’t search out trouble, but it was difficult to walk through the slum lands without finding it. Narrow escapes, arguments that intensified to fistfights-they had all become part of the norm these past few months.
He didn’t spend much time indoors. Most days he roamed the city, familiarizing himself with every nook and cranny. Boredom compelled him, as well as the need to erase the past. And then there was his brother. Fisher.
Cassius carried his communicator with him everywhere he went. It was an older model, the last before the new line of com-pads made long-range contact more convenient. But it was untraceable. He and Fisher could talk candidly, and Fisher certainly had a lot to talk about.
He took things harder than Cassius, or perhaps he was just less afraid of discussing them. While Cassius spent most of his energy worrying about Madame and the Unified Party, Fisher had only one thing on his mind each time they talked. Pearls.
He’d become obsessed, but it was understandable. While Cassius could only store and manipulate the broken Pearl energy into fire, Fisher had the power to break the things open-liberate those from his home planet. Restore life, in a way.
It was suitable. Fisher could give life. All Cassius could do was take it. It had always been this way, from the murder of the Year Nine teacher back onboard the Academy to the massacre on the chute from Seattle to Spokane. Death followed him around like an old friend.
His stomach grumbled. Food was an issue. Without credit, he’d been forced to steal-especially at first. At the height of the summer he’d found a reasonably steady job loading and unloading smuggler’s boats at the east-side dockyards. Pay had been under-the-table, and he hadn’t needed to identify himself. He’d had steady payment for five weeks until the local authorities had raided and shut down the organization.
He lifted his feet from the water and breathed in the fresh morning air. The city lay quiet and still. He pivoted to stare at the bright, looming metropolis behind him. All Polar Cities had humble beginnings, but after the climate changed in America, they’d grown exponentially. A skyline of silver towers laid before him, nearly uniform in height and sprawled over the land in a vast sculpture of boulevards, catacombs, and wide sidewalks-the complete opposite of the smashed together Chosen Cities he’d grown up in.
He ran his fingers over the scar on his wrist, just below his identification socket. Before breaking through the
