Forged (3 page)

Sammy glances at the two drinks I'm still clutching. “How many have you had?”

I shake my head. “None, but I must be drunk anyway, because I somehow want you around, too. Even though you're a pain in the ass.”

“Likewise.” Sammy's eyes drift back toward the game, where Bree is taking aim at the dartboard. “How come she's not in your story?”

“I'm still working on those details. Which is probably the same reason Emma wasn't in yours.”

His face pales. We haven't talked about Emma recently. Not for at least a week. We both still worry about her, both still love her, even, but in different ways. My feelings for Emma are unconditional and irreplaceable, but they've settled in a new territory since escaping Burg. I love her the way I love Blaine, or Kale, or Clipper. Even Sammy. She's someone I'd
die for, but for completely different reasons than why I'd also die for Bree. It's so obvious now, these feelings, that I'm not quite sure how I was ever confused.

Sammy forces a smile, clinks his glass against one of mine in agreement. “For what it's worth—and pardon me because I'm about to get painfully serious—I don't think you should give up on her.”

Bree throws her dart. It strikes a thumb's width from the bull's-eye.

“I was never planning on it.”

We toast Clipper and celebrate late into the evening. Everyone has a bit too much to drink. We try not to think about what's awaiting us tomorrow or what Elijah might find when he reaches Crevice Valley. I wanted a reason to resume forward momentum, but not at this cost. Plus, now that our meeting with Vik looms, I'm starting to worry about what he has planned for us. The last mission I was a part of saw over half our team die.

Sammy has Riley in a fit of giggles from a napkin he's rolled up and scrunched between his upper lip and nose—a ridiculous white mustache. Bree and Clipper are attempting to re-create the look themselves. The boy looks especially determined to make Riley laugh as Sammy does. Nearby, Jules is sitting on a tall stool at an even taller table, talking
with Blaine. They're laughing about something, their proximity dangerously flirtatious. Blaine brushes the tip of her nose with his knuckle and she bats those eyelashes. Better at him than at me.

I keep wishing my buzzing head would warm to the merriment surrounding me, but when I look around, all I see are faces that might not make it. The odds have never been good. Not in anything the Rebels have faced.

I don't want to lose any of them, and what stings most of all is the very real possibility—a deep, unyielding fear—that I won't possibly be so lucky.

DESPITE THE FACT THAT ADAM
is missing and Sammy can barely keep his eyes open, the meeting begins promptly at 0700.

With the exception of Blaine and Jules, who disappeared from the bar well before midnight, the rest of us didn't retire until closer to two. By that time, Clipper was dozing off on a shabby couch, Riley out cold with her head on his shoulder. After a lot of nudging he grumpily followed us to bed. When I collapsed on my bunk, I couldn't help but notice that Blaine's was empty.

He sits beside me now, looking a lot more agreeable than he has the last few weeks. His hair is wet from a shower he didn't take in our bathroom. I raise an eyebrow at him and he just smiles. Good for him. Maybe he'll be carefree enough
to finally side with me in these meetings.

Vik kicks things off unceremoniously, announcing that there still hasn't been any word from Ryder. He promises more details as soon as Elijah is able to survey things and contact us.

The doors bang open, and Adam walks in, looking a bit disheveled. “Sorry I'm late. Did you tell them yet?”

Why are we constantly a step behind?

“You're well aware that we have forces gathering in various areas,” Vik says to us, completely ignoring Adam's entrance. “And if your group is still anxious to play a part, we've got an operation you can help with.”

Vik glances at me, waiting. I realize I'm somehow in charge again.

“I've made it clear we're ready.”

He slides a glossy piece of paper across the table: a bird's-eye view of the New Gulf. I saw maps bearing the same visuals aboard Isaac's ship. AmEast and AmWest are divided by a blue chunk of water, which spreads north through two-thirds of the land before splitting into two thin bays. Vik touches an island in the dead center of the Gulf.

“You know what this is?”

“The Compound,” I say automatically. Isaac told me, my father, and Bo about it. I can feel the group's surprised eyes on me. “It's a water treatment plant.”

“Wrong,” Vik says. “About its purpose, not its name.”

“They're working to purify salt water there,” I say. “I'm sure of it.”

“That's just what they want everyone to think. We've got reason to believe this place is far more important.”

“What could be more important than water purification?” Sammy asks.

Adam grins from where he's standing, slouched against the far wall. “Frank's got enough water. He's
always
had enough.”

Sammy shakes his head. “But it's rationed. You need water ration cards. And my father . . .” He swallows, letting the statement fade out. His father died—was executed—for forging them in Taem.

“There was a time, right after the Continental Quake, when water was in short supply,” Adam says. “But our numbers are fewer than they were before the War, and this country is rich in forests and streams and lakes. There is water—plenty of it—if you venture beyond a dome to seek it out.

“The truth is that Frank's convinced his people they need his protection. He controls what they know and what they read. He fabricates stories and with the right delivery, they are accepted as fact. Remember what we discussed when you first arrived here?”

I think back to the moment. Adam introduced us to Vik,
who immediately assigned us greenhouse duties. Only Elijah and Clipper would be working directly with the Expats. I'd been furious, yelling about how the Expats were using us for their own needs, how I shouldn't have been surprised given that they'd attacked Taem—a city filled with thousands of innocent citizens—just months earlier.

It was then that Adam had laughed.

“We live beneath a dome of the same exact strength,” he said. “If we were going to use precious resources to flatten Taem, don't you think we would have known exactly what to drop?”

The attack as I witnessed it flashed through my head: planes flying in formation, the sirens blaring through town and inducing panic.

“Was it staged?” I muttered, barely believing my own words.

“Not quite,” Adam said.

“We act only when we have a chance for success,” Vik explained. “That's meant small things. Along the border, on the Gulf. We've got some spies in Haven. But the last time the West truly attacked the East, it was our distant relatives, ages ago, with an engineered virus. And we will do everything in our power to not watch so many innocent lives fall again.

“We knew the attack last fall wouldn't breach the dome, but
I had to send Frank a message. He was tossing threats our way, growing land hungry along the border, and I needed him to know that I wouldn't stand for it. I wasn't going to submit or crawl back under his rule. The only united country I want to see is one without him in it. I should have known how he'd twist everything—broadcasting that the Order barely held us off, that Taem had been just moments away from annihilation at our hands.”

Another lie. Another brilliantly altered tale Frank passed off as fact. And now . . . with the water . . .

He's always had enough. Years of water rationing just helped him create a constant state of uncertainty. It gave civilians another reason to rely on the Order and never leave the safety of a dome. The world outside might have been deadly once—during the War, when the West's virus spread rampant—and Frank's made sure that fear never died.

“So if the Compound isn't a water treatment facility, what is it?” I ask.

“That's exactly what we want you to find out. If you're willing to take the job.”

A handful of problematic details surface: how far we are from the place, the way it's surrounded by water and heavily fortified, Isaac's comment about the number of guards patrolling it night and day.

Vik senses my hesitation and goes into compassion mode.
“I understand your concern. Truly, I do. It's a lot for us to ask, but we wouldn't ask at all if we didn't think it could mean something huge for our side.

“We'll arrange transportation for you and assign a specialist to guide the team. But Frank—the Order—is up to something there. We need to learn what, and plan our defenses accordingly. Maybe we can even use whatever he's hiding to our advantage.”

Blaine and Sammy glance sideways at each other, looking skeptical.

“This idea that the Compound is more than the Order lets on . . . ,” Bree says. “Where did it come from?”

“What do you mean?” Adam looks insulted, like Bree's questions are a personal attack on his character.

“I mean,” she drawls, “if we're heading to a seemingly unbreachable location and being asked to breach it, you had better tell us what led you to believe it's worth checking out.”

“Some of our spies on the Gulf have been suspicious of the place for a while,” Vik says. “They claim boats come in and out, but not frequently enough to be handling mass provision shipments of drinking water.” Vik pushes another photo across the table, this time of a man I've never seen. “That's one of our best spies, Nicholas Bageretti. Sells water to AmEast under the alias
Badger
. He says he's found a way in.”

For me, it's enough. More than enough.

Clipper and Sammy don't hesitate when I tell them to get ready. Even Bree refrains from being difficult. But Blaine has yet to pack a single possession.

“I think it's a death wish,” he says as I toss clothes into a bag.

“I think it's a great lead.”

He stops pacing between the bunks. “A lead? How? Vik's asking us to approach a heavily patrolled area and stick our noses inside. I bet all we find is a bunch of weapons and war provisions. I don't see how that can help us.”

I take a deep breath and squeeze the handle of Pa's carving knife, pressing the etched shape of our last name—
Weathersby
—into my palm.

“We blow the place up. Or steal the supplies. Sabotage it. It doesn't matter what we do so long as it's some sort of setback for the Order.”

“We're not prepared. The whole thing is—”

“Blaine!” I turn on him, let his name come out of me like a whip. “Look,” I say as evenly as possible. “Badger claims he knows a way in, and Vik is going to exploit that with or without us. If we don't take the job, he'll just send someone else. This is our chance to
do
something. Be a part of the big strike he's planning.”

“The strike he's planning but hasn't shared any details
about,” Blaine mumbles. “What do we really know about this Badger guy? He could get us all killed.”

“I read about him in some underground papers in Bone Harbor. He's been selling water to AmEast citizens right under the Order's nose. Badger's good and he knows what he's doing. He'll get us in. And anything we need to plan further, we'll figure out before we get to the Compound.”

Vik has a chopper set to bring us to the small Expat settlement of Pine Ridge west of the Gulf. From there, we'll get in touch with Badger. We need to be ready within the next hour, which means packing fast, and asking questions—the detailed questions—later.

“I still don't like it,” Blaine says. “We shouldn't go. We—”

“Do you even care that Pa is dead?” I erupt. “I'm trying to make his sacrifice worth something. Trying to get us back to Emma, Claysoot,
Kale
. Remember your daughter, Blaine? Or are you fine pretending she doesn't exist either?”

His fists grab the front of my shirt, his momentum sending me backward. My shoulders hit the wall, followed by my head.

“Don't you dare,” he hisses. “I think about her every damn second.”

“Sure doesn't seem like it.”

“Just because I don't say something aloud doesn't mean I'm not feeling it. But this is so like you—jumping to conclusions,
saying whatever comes barreling into your head.”

This is the closest we've come to a fistfight in years. I half want him to throw a punch, but he won't. I know he won't.

“I used to think you were so much better than me,” I say, staring him down. “I'd always beat myself up over how selfless you are, putting everyone else first, being so sickeningly
decent
, and it's like I don't even know you anymore. Because this isn't decent: wanting to sit around and do nothing but work soil and fool around with Jules. It's cowardly.”

“You arrogant—”

“Pack or stay, Blaine!” I grab his wrists and tear myself free. “I don't care what you decide so long as you don't stop me from doing what's right.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. We stare at each other for a painfully long moment. Then he picks up his bag, throws a few things into it haphazardly.

“You're an ass, you know that?” he says. Dark shadows linger beneath his eyes, and he's squinting slightly, almost as though looking at me blinds him.

“I've always been an ass.”

He either doesn't hear the teasing tone of my voice, or he chooses to ignore it.

“I love you, Gray. I always will. Which is why I get so riled up by the fact that you can't see how losing you would kill me.”

He snatches his bag and leaves, and I realize for the first time that all his hesitations could be for different reasons—ones that have nothing to do with not wanting to remove Frank from power or returning home to Kale.

He's still trying to keep me safe. Just like he did when we were kids—shielding me from a slingshot blow with his own body, or pulling my curious hand away from a flame. Blaine is never going to outgrow playing big brother.

I stop by the female quarters and find Bree making her bed like the room is more than a temporary home.

“Here goes nothing,” I say.

She straightens, turns to face me. “It'll be a breeze, I'm sure. Getting in off-limits places always is.” Her eyebrows are raised with the joke, the corners of her lips curled in a smile.

“Can't go much worse than Burg, right?”

She swings her bag onto her shoulders. “Don't tell me to hand over my gun when I need it, and we should be fine.”

The reminder of how she took a beating at Titus's hands because I convinced her to lower her weapon makes me cringe.

“Oh, don't give me that look. I bounced right back. Even have a nice battle scar as a result.”

She's speaking of the thin mark above her left eye, a pale
echo of where stitches once held together split skin. I reach out, my thumb eager to trace it, and she pivots away from me. It's quiet for a moment, the air heavy with how things once were between us.

“We should go,” Bree says. “They're probably waiting.”

She attempts to squeeze by me and I grab her elbow before she can escape into the hall. “I'm not going to stop trying, Bree.”

“Then you're an insensitive jerk who doesn't respect me,” she snaps. “Or what I want.”

“You really don't want us to talk? Ever?”

“That's not what I said.” She's scowling, looking at her feet, the doorframe—anything but me. “It's complicated,” she says finally.

“Explain it, then.”

Bree stares down the hallway. Licks her lips. Finally, she glances back at me. “I still trust you on missions like this, I do. I still want us watching out for each other. I just don't want to be anything more.”

I don't believe her. Not for a second. But then I wonder if that's because I'm doing exactly what she said: not respecting her decision, choosing my own feelings as a greater, more worthy truth. I let go of her arm and the tension in her body dissipates. Her shoulders relax. She peers at me, as if she's trying to read my thoughts.

“Come on,” she says, but I feel like I've managed to pull her closer by letting her go and the concept is so bizarre that I stand there smiling, my feet fused with the floor.

“What's the matter with you?” she asks.