From the Indie Side (14 page)

As if merely thinking about it could bring
happenstance to life, Cray slipped, struggled to regain his
balance, and plopped hard into the river. The water was cool, even
in late summer, soaking his legs and his shirt so that it clung to
his skin. He cursed, climbed back to unsteady feet, and kept going.
The bomb was safe, but he shivered so much that his muscles cramped
whenever an errant breeze skittered past.

He reached the northern wall unhindered, the
great behemoth looming high above as he craned his neck to see the
top. If what Rowan had said was true, there would be bored wall
guards with vision magnifiers strolling along the soldier course,
looking for anything out of the ordinary a hundred feet down.

Over his years of living in the forest, Cray
had developed incomparable night vision, and on his approach, he’d
timed their passes so that he arrived at the wall with the area
unguarded. Two minutes and thirty seconds. Plenty of time.

He took one last look above, saw no minuscule
outlines of men, high enough overhead that they were no larger than
the silhouette of a hawk hunting its prey, and ran.

The spot where he and Rowan had exited thirty
years ago was exactly as he remembered it—the images of that
terrifying crawl under the wall seared into his mind—but now, it
showed signs of repeated fillings and excavations. Dry, crumbling
earth in piles. Fresh, brown dirt that had been recently tossed to
the side, possibly by the gaggle of teens back in the forest.
According to Rowan, it was the only place along the northern wall,
for miles, where the structure was built on top of loose topsoil
rather than a layer of impenetrable bedrock.

Cray lowered himself, bent forward, and dived
into the hole.

Ten feet later, in a pitch-blackness so thick
that no amount of heightened vision would help, his forehead
smacked into something cold, hard, and thin. He reached out, hands
clawing in the blindness, and found another, then another.

Metal bars. At some point, the wall engineers
had wised up to the hole’s location and tried a halfhearted measure
at prevention. The bars were close enough together to hinder a
normal-sized man’s passage, but not so close that a daring, skinny
teenager couldn’t slip through. Cray’s breathing quickened, and the
thought of being stopped after having come all this way sat deep
and heavy in his belly. It was the conjoined feeling of
disappointment and loss. He hadn’t felt it since Eryn died.

He briefly thought about retreating, finding
another way in somewhere along the wall, but decided that no, it
was too dangerous. He couldn’t risk being spotted. The perimeter
patrolmen were on familiar territory, while he’d have to scramble
along, ignorant of what lay ahead. Even if he managed to find
another spot where the dirt was loose, there would be no time to
dig a new tunnel.

Cray wriggled free of the rucksack and
Rowan’s crutches. It wasn’t easy in the confined space, and he
dared not think about the hundreds of thousands of pounds of
concrete and metal above him.

He shoved his things through the bars, turned
on his side, and stuck his arms through first. Kicking with his
legs, clawing at the dirt with his fingers, he pulled and forced
himself between two bars, exhaling deeply, making his body as small
as he could, wondering how a weak, one-legged teenager could manage
such a task.

Risk. Motivation. Bragging rights.

They were powerful factors.

Desperation, stronger than all three, saw him
through, bruised, aching, and feeling as if his insides had been
smashed like corn kernels into fine meal dust.

Cray smelled the permeating scent of damp
earth, and then wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was one step
closer to his target, and his mother, on the other side.

His mother. Caran.

As he crawled forward, toward the far
opening, Cray realized that Ollen had been right in more ways than
one—there was no possibility of getting her through the tunnel
underneath the wall, not with the bars blocking the path.

Caran would be too old, too slow, and too
weak to even attempt an escape through this route. Cray knew that
bombing the Consulate and freeing the citizens of Tritan from the
tyrannical rule, at least temporarily, was the right, and only,
thing to do. Yet he’d harbored some small bit of hope that it
wouldn’t come to that. Slip in undetected, grab Caran, and slip
out.

But now, living up to the flimsy promise he’d
made to Ollen—and himself—was the only viable option. He had to
blow up the Consulate. By creating a diversion of such magnitude,
every available soldier, patrolman, and guard would be focused on
the city center, likely sprinting on one good leg and one
mechanical, toward the flames, dust, and rubble. The supply gate
would be left unguarded, and they could escape amid the chaos.

He’d lift Caran onto his shoulders and carry
her if he had to.

Was it worth it, destroying the building
where evil men ordered evil things? Would the citizens of Tritan
appreciate their freedom, or would they be wary of the lack of
security, forgetting that it had been lorded over them in every
possible way? If you kept the people suppressed long enough, they
would lose sight of what mattered: their individuality. In the
absence of someone to tell them where to go and what to do, would
chaos ensue, or would they band together and rediscover
themselves?

Was it pointless to eliminate the government
of Tritan? Would it matter? Would someone else rise to power and
rule the populace under the same traditions and laws?

Cray shook his head and kept crawling. What
came after wasn’t his concern. He and his mother would be hundreds
of miles away, hidden in the forest of his home. He would give them
their freedom, and it would be up to them to choose what to do with
it in the weeks and months to come.

He could see the dim light of the opening
ahead, the dull gray seeping into the mouth of the tunnel where the
orifice would empty him from its gullet.

Cray picked up his pace, scrambling forward,
shoving the crutches and delicately nudging the bomb. Five feet
from the exit, he stopped, frozen in an awkward position; afraid to
move, afraid to make a sound.

Afraid that his raspy breathing, his
dust-filled lungs, would reveal him.

The legs of a sentry, one real, one a
conglomeration of pistons, rods, and bearings, stood guard. The man
lifted his good leg, twisted the ankle, working the stiffness out
of it, then planted it firmly on the ground beside the other.

What now? Obstacles he hadn’t expected at
every turn.

Rowan’s words—
It’s suicide
—rattled
around inside his head.

Could he inch forward close enough to grab
the man’s ankles and yank, pulling him down so that he could
clamber out of the tunnel and overtake him? Maybe. Would it work?
Would his screams alert others? Would Cray be able to knock him
unconscious, or even kill him, and get away in time? So much risk,
too many unaccounted-for variables. What if there were others
stationed beside him, out of sight?

Cray needed to see, to be sure. If he could
get to the hole’s edge, maybe he could risk a look to either side
undetected. He crawled forward another six inches.

A hand grabbed his right leg. Startled, he
sprang up and knocked the back of his head against the concrete
above, and managed not to scream. Instead, he winced and groaned
quietly.

A whisper came next. “Lome, is that you?” The
fingers patted their way down his leg, felt his foot. “Oh my God,
what is that? Is that a right f—”

He wrenched free and looked back over his
shoulder. “Quiet,” he hissed. “There’s a guard.”

Through the soft glow of external light, Cray
watched as a young girl, pretty, who maybe had sixteen winters
behind her, scooted forward. Eyes wide. Face and neck peppered with
dirt and cobwebs. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face
and said, “Who’re you? Where’s Lome and the others?”

“Shut up,” Cray said, punching each word
through his teeth. He stabbed a finger toward the guard’s legs,
then put it to his lips.

She grinned. “He can’t hear us. That’s
Sarlen. He’s deaf.”

“Deaf?”

“Yeah, that’s why he’s guarding the
hole…because he can’t do anything else. So who are you? And by the
gods, why do you have two legs?”

The girl nudged up closer to him. Cray could
smell her breath. It was sweet, but with an undertone of pungency
from exertion. She was probably from the group in the woods,
retreating back to the safety of the other side. She’d crawled a
long way and wiggled through the bars, just as he had.

“I’m—” he said, hesitating. “My name is Cray.
I left here a long time ago.”

“But—but you’re
whole
.”

“I am.”

“How? Why?”

He ignored her questions, largely because he
wasn’t entirely sure himself, and even if he did know, it was too
much to explain. “What were you doing in the woods?” he asked,
relying on the easily distracted nature of young minds, prompting
her bravado, giving her room to boast.

“Having fun,” she said.

“You can’t have fun inside?”

“There’s a bigger world out there, and we go
a little further each time.”

“Won’t they execute you if you’re
caught?”

She offered a cute, girlish giggle. “Me? No.
Not while Papa is the head of Security.”

Cray kept his face as flat and unmoved as
possible, but on the inside, his stomach churned. Could the fates
have delivered anything more deliberate than this, anything that
would beat more firmly at his chest, telling him that he was making
a mistake? Not that he’d intended to anyway, but now he certainly
couldn’t mention anything of his plans to this girl, not even a
hint, because she could easily become the enemy.

And how suspicious was he, a two-legged man,
a
whole
person, sneaking into a city of one-legged people
held up by their crutches? What would stop her from informing her
father that he was somewhere within Tritan? She’d seen his face,
she could identify him.

For a moment longer than he was comfortable
with, he briefly considered—no, he couldn’t do it. The madmen
inside the Consulate deserved what he was about to bring down upon
them. Not her. Too young. Innocent, daring, with a life yet to
live.

He swallowed it all, and relied on hope.
“What’s your name?”

“Meredith,” she answered.

“That’s…”

“Unusual? Yeah. Papa saw it in a book one
time.”

“I was going to say pretty.”

“No, it’s ancient.”

Cray took a chance. “How are we getting
past—what’s his name—Sarlen?”

Meredith squirmed around, brought her arms
underneath her chin, rested it on her hands. “We wait.”

“How long?”

“Not long. In a few minutes, a nightwoman
will be by. She’ll lead him into that alley across the street, and
show him what she can do with her crutches.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we pay her, and because he falls for
it every time.”

“Smart,” Cray said, thankful that, so far,
she’d been distracted enough to forget about his leg. “Aren’t you
worried about your friends?”

“If they haven’t made it back by now, they’ll
get a free ride through the main gate on the back of a patrol bike.
It’s not as fun and they’ll get a reprimand, but at least they’re
safe.” She rolled her head to the side, facing him. “Can I ask you
something?”

Cray said no, but knew it wouldn’t stop her.
And how strange was it to be lying underneath the northern wall,
hours from detonating a bomb inside Tritan and destroying the
government, having a conversation with a girl half his age as if
they were old friends? She was too young, by many winters, but it
reminded him of the easy conversation he’d had with Eryn.

Meredith asked, “Why’re you trying to get
inside?”

Cray looked at her. The naïve expression on
her face. No underlying motives hiding behind her eyes. Nothing but
pure, simple curiosity. He told her the truth.

Part of it.

“I want to get my mother out.”

She smiled. “That’s nice of you.” Trusting.
Accepting. Not asking for more detail than he was prepared to
give.

Silently, he thanked her, then asked, “Do you
like living here?”

“Gods, no. It’s horrible. Everyone hobbling
around, miserable, thinking that this is all there is. They don’t
understand that they have a choice. They’d rather prop themselves
up and go to the factories every day, living in this blissful
ignorance, rather than daring to hope for something better.
It’s…heartbreaking.”

Cray watched her. She was wise beyond her
winters. It flashed across his mind that he could use her. She
could be an ally.

He shook his head. No. She was only an
adolescent. He couldn’t get her involved.

She saw him do it, and asked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me,” she begged.

“No.”

“Tell me or I’ll scream for help.” The
impertinence of youth.

Meredith had grinned when she’d said it, but
Cray couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t telling the truth. Her
father was in a powerful position—she’d get nothing more than a
good scolding for being underneath the wall. It didn’t matter if
the sentry in front of them was deaf. Others would hear, they’d
alert him, and for Cray that meant capture, imprisonment, and
possibly even death.

Forward through the tunnel, or back out
through the rear, he would be trapped.

The timing, the circumstances, the
unfortunate luck of getting stuck inside the tunnel at the same
time as this young girl—you can make plans, but chance has other
ideas.

One barely perceptible flick of his head, one
random thought, had opened an unavoidable crevice beneath him. Cray
groaned and beat his forehead against the cool dirt.