Beyond the Red (3 page)

“We could break it,” Day suggests with a shrug.

“With what? You know not even phasers can get through this stuff.”

“Hmm.” Day looks over the sleek, reflective exterior, shifts Aren to his back, and peers inside, cupping his hands around his eyes. I don’t need to try to know he can’t see a blazing thing.

He leans back, running his thumb over the small patch of hair below his lip. He nods at the bloody knife in my hand. “Hack off a soldier’s hand, then. I’ll cover Aren’s eyes.”

I grimace. “Right, because sawing through reinforced Sepharon bone with a dagger is as easy as making sand mud.”

“True.” He shifts Aren higher and squints at the port. “Well, the kids were driving it, weren’t they?”

I glance at Day. Back to the bodies in the sand. My stomach churns. “You think the door’s coded to their palm prints?”

“I’ll cover Aren’s eyes.”

I sigh and step around the port, clutching the knife in my slippery fist. “Give me a few mos. Don’t let him peek, Day.”

He says something, but I can’t focus on his words—my gaze is caught on the smallest boy with trim black hair and olive skin. The boy sprawled face-first in the sand with a singed hole the size of a curled-up lizardmouse in the center of his cloak.

I shouldn’t turn him around. I shouldn’t look at his face. I shouldn’t try to recognize him when it doesn’t matter, not anymore.

I do it anyway.

He’s staring right at me and my breath freezes in my lungs. Wide hazel eyes and thick dark lashes, exactly like his sister. Aryana despises me already—what will she think when we return her little brother’s body to her family? Why do I care?

I crouch beside him and close his eyes. Glance at his hand. The knife is shaking in my grip, but I can’t bear to do it, so I slip it into my pocket and grunt as I hoist the kid over my shoulder. He’s heavier than I expected, but it’s not too much.

“Toma,” Day sighs as I step around the port. His name is a boulder in my stomach—the name I couldn’t remember. Toma, Aryana’s brother, now deadweight on my shoulder. “Did he and the others … abduct you?”

I shift Toma’s body into my arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How did a bunch of kids—”

“It doesn’t matter!” I snap. Close my eyes. Inhale. Open again.

Day shakes his head. “You’re too soft, Eros.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to get you killed if you’re not careful.”

I ignore him and press Toma’s hand against the glass. The door hisses, then pops open.

Resting the body in the sand, I peer around the long front bench. It was obviously built for Sepharon adults, who are way taller than most humans—the bench and backrest are much larger than anything a human would need. The kids were small enough that the four of them were probably able to easily cram in.

I climb in and glance around the compartment. I’m not sure what I’m looking for; it just seems odd that they would’ve had easy access to a port. Nomads never use ports this large—they’re too conspicuous. Most of us have sand bikes and we share four beat-up half-dead junkers to put the heaviest equipment and animals—but a camo’d port? You only ever see those in the cities—the cities humans aren’t permitted to enter. Not without tracking nanites clouding their eyes and masters’ names tattooed to their arms.

I run my fingers over the wide steering unit. The handgrips are cool to the touch and coated with some kinduv flexible, slightly sticky material. The unit is shaped like a sideways X with closed off ends. My fingers stop at the symbol in the center where the handgrips meet: eight stars forming a circle with the Eljan moniker scrawled in the center. The insignia of the Eljan Guard—the Sepharon military sect for this territory.

“Day, I think I know where this came from.”

He looks up at me and peers inside. “Find something?”

I point to the moniker. “It’s got to be from one of the cities, maybe Vejla. But why would the Guard give a group of human boys a port?”

Day shrugs. “Easier than transporting slaves on sand bikes.”

“Maybe,” I say, but something’s not right. The Sepharon don’t make trades with humans—not even greedy human kids selling slaves. I trace the circle around the symbol, then slide off the bench. There’s something going on here, but I’m not sure what. “We should get back to camp. Have you commed someone to collect the bodies?”

Day grimaces. “I forgot to grab one when I was running over to save your ass. And besides, we’re way out of the two-league radius.”

I frown. “How far did they take us?”

“More than twice that. But if we hurry, we can get back and send some guys to collect the corpses before sunrise.”

“You mean before Nol and Esta see we’re missing.”

He smiles grimly and sets Aren onto his bike, steadying him as its scratched red body hums to life and rises off the sand, shining bright white light below. Aren giggles and clings to Day’s arm. I start to comment on the scuffed up paintjob—Day is usually pretty obsessive about keeping the old thing as polished as a new phaser—but I close my mouth. Better not. Last thing I need is another lecture about how if we could just sneak into Vejla and steal a decent coat of paint, she’d be back to her “former aerodynamic glory.” Right.

I turn back to the transport—and that’s when I see it: a blinking blue light just below the steering unit. I crouch, peering closer at the little light, and curse under my breath.

Day ducks beside me. “What is it?”

I point to the light. Bite my lip. “Isn’t their gear usually tracked?”

He whirls to me, paler than Safara’s largest moon. “Did they bring—”

“A tracked port to the camp,” I finish. “What if they—”

Day swears and jumps onto the bike in front of Aren. “We have to go. Now.”

I climb on back, reaching over Aren’s little body to grab Day’s waist. It’s awkward and I’m barely half-seated, but there isn’t a blazing chance I’m about to bring that tracked port back to camp.

My brother doesn’t waste any time. He kicks the bike forward and we speed across the sand.

We ride in silence, past patches of glowing blue tube-like prickleplants and zig-zagging between scattered lizardmice burrows until the skies shift from deep, blackish purple to a striking red, stained by the rising suns. The orange glare from the larger of the two is directly in our eyes, and it’s so bright I almost miss the smoke on the horizon.

Almost.

“Day,” I gasp. “Is that….?”

It is. He leans forward, and we shoot faster across the red desert sea. My eyes are trained on the black line reaching into the sky, but it isn’t until we crest the highest peak of the sandy mountains that we see camp. Burning.

Every tent is a ball of flame—well over a hundred bonfires spitting black into the stars. The livestock pen is a crimson blanket of severed pink and once-white hodge heads and bloody, curled up fetchers. Our people are screaming, on fire, fighting soldiers dressed in white and red.

No, not fighting, not really—the sand is stained dark with slaughter.

Day stops the bike and jumps into the sand. “Eros, stay here with Aren.”

I scoff. “Right, because I’m just going to let you waltz in there alone.”

“I need someone to protect him while I get everyone out. I’ll catch up with you, but stay here with the bike.”

Wait. He’s not serious. He can’t really expect me to stand here while he dives into that bloodbath, can he? “Day—”

He spins back and glares at me. “I swear to the suns, if you follow me and leave my son out here alone, I’ll paint the sand with your blood. Got it?”

I scowl and glance at Aren. He’s staring at camp, oblivious to our conversation. “Go,” I grumble. “He’ll be safe with me.”

Day nods once, turns on his heel, and races down the dune.

I watch until he plummets into the smoke, and that’s when Aren starts crying. Pulling him off the humming bike, I turn him away from the massacre. He clings to my bruised neck and buries his face in my shoulder. The added pressure stings, but I don’t try to stop him.

The fires spread across the sand, and my people are gunned down fleeing from the blaze. The blend of horrified screams, crackling flames, and the high-pitched whine of phaser pulse after pulse rips down my spine and sucks the warmth from my blood. Through the smoke, a soldier yanks a man away from his wife and teenage son. I recognize the husband’s short, dark ponytail—Bram is the only man in camp besides myself who doesn’t keep his hair cropped. Heat twists around my lungs. Bram is one of Day’s closest friends, and one of the few who doesn’t look at me like a dirty half-blood.

And there’s no one around to help him.

Bram rips out of the guard’s grip and spins around, curved knife in hand, screaming. The soldier shoots him in the face with a red blast and he crumples silently in the sand. His son, Zeyn, breaks away from his mother and races toward him, shouting as he lunges. He takes three steps before a phaser burst rams into his chest.

I want to close my eyes, but I can’t. I won’t. The soldier nears Bram’s wife, Lia, who is sobbing on her knees. He grabs her hair and she slams a dagger into his arm.

The blast of a phaser silences her, too.

I don’t even realize I’m shaking until my grip on Aren slips and he squeezes tighter around me, digging into my bruise. I’m glad for the burst of pain blossoming over my shoulder—
I need something to remind me I’m here. Something to tell me not to move because Aren isn’t safe here alone.

But my family. My people. They’re screaming.

Small groups break from the smoke and race for the hills, scattering in all directions. No one chases them—they’re too busy with the massacre in the center of camp. I search for Day’s muscular frame, for Nol’s slight limp, Esta’s tied-back hair, or Aren’s pregnant mother and young siblings. Two bloody teenagers crest the dune and collapse beside me, retching black from their lungs and shivering despite the furnace-like heat radiating from camp. Aren has quieted, and I keep my hand on the top of his head, more to make sure he doesn’t turn to look than to comfort him. I count thirty-two escapees, only a fraction of our two hundred thirty-six. I don’t see my brother.

I’m about to tell Aren to wait with the teens—we’re far enough away that he won’t be seen if I leave for a couple minutes—when three faces I recognize break from the smoke—Day’s wife, Jessa, and her two older children, Nia and Mal. They stumble up the sand dune and wrap their arms around me. The kids are in tears and Jessa is crying, too. Day isn’t with them.

I put Aren down and take Jessa’s shoulders. I don’t have to ask—she grabs my wrists and bores into me with piercing gray eyes. “Some soldiers attacked Nol. You have to help them—”

My feet start moving before I’ve registered her words—I tear down the dune, grab a dead guard’s phaser, and race into the smoke. My eyes and lungs burn—I forgot to grab a scarf from Jessa in my rush—and I steal one from a body at my feet. It smells like blood and ash, but it filters the air well enough.

The western edge of the camp grows eerily quiet—only the crackle of flames touches this side, while phaser blasts and shouts echo from the other end. Every breath tastes like soot and smoke. My heart slams in my ears and my eyes water as I crouch, jogging around the edge of camp, the sleek black and red phaser held up to my face. The Kit’s tents are on the far west edge—where Day and our parents should be. A five-minute jog—less if I push harder. I move quickly and silently, trying not to think about what’s happening—what may have already happened.

I’m not too late. I can’t be too late.

Nearly there. I race around the half-burnt orange tent bearing our neighbors’ white family crest—my foot catches on something heavy and I tumble into the sand. There’s movement just ahead—just around the row of tents—and I know what I’ve tripped over, but I don’t look back to see who it is. I grab the phaser and whirl around the tents and aim.

I register three things at once:

One: There are two bodies in the scarlet-stained sand. I recognize my father’s close-cropped gray hair and my mother’s soft tanned hands, her fingers interlaced with Nol’s.

Two: Day is on his knees with a phaser pressed to his skull. There are four soldiers around him, including the injured one who murdered Bram’s family. Day’s face is bloody and bruised and his eyes widen as I step around the corner to face them.

Three: My phaser isn’t shooting.

I pull again and again, but the blazing thing is fucken fingerprint-locked and it’s useless to me. Thank the suns the soldiers are facing Day and haven’t noticed me. I grab my knife instead and run toward the nearest of the four as Day closes his eyes. There’s a sound like a muted screech and Day jerks sideways, crumpling into the sand.

Something inside me breaks.

A scream rips from my throat, but by the time the soldier turns and sees me, it’s too late—I slam my dagger into his neck. He drops, gurgling as I rip the blade away, whirling on the second soldier and catching him in the throat.

Lightning cracks across my eyes—

I’m on my knees. Someone has a fistful of my hair and is yanking my head so far back that my spine might snap. My vision returns in a slow fade, and a second dark-skinned soldier with sharp, angled markings who’s more muscle than a man-eating wildcat towers over me, my knife in his hand. Blood drips down my face and neck, soaking the scarf tied around my head, but I’m not sure whose it is. The soldier’s white uniform is soaked in red.