Forged (2 page)

“I miss you,” I say.

“I'm right here,” she responds sharply. “I've
always
been right here. That's half the problem.”

The base is huge: an old military facility made up of training fields, weaponry stores, vehicle garages, barracks, and meeting and communication offices. We head for the smallest of the conference rooms, which is where Adam and Vik hold all their meetings. Or at least the ones we're invited to.

“You might want to make yourself comfortable,” Vik says when we file in. He's sitting on the far side of a long table, legs crossed. “The others are on their way, but I have them double- and triple-checking a few things first. Want to be sure.”

Vik is Adam's opposite in nearly every way. Clean-shaven. Polished. Willowy and pale haired and charismatic. He's a man of many words, with a bounce in his step that is almost graceful. When we first landed in Pike, I was surprised to learn that
he
leads the Expats. Adam is second-in-command and reports directly to Vik, but Adam looks the part in a way Vik doesn't: rugged, worn, ready for a fight. I guess Vik's pristine appearance could assure people that he's organized and professional, but his build reminds me of Harvey—a touch delicate—and it's surprising so many have put the fate of their battle behind someone who looks so . . .
nice
.

Vik stands when Adam strides in. “Well? Is it confirmed?”

Adam hurries over and they embrace the way they always have—a hug as intimate as if they were siblings. When they step apart something is passed between them in the silence, told with just the shifting of their eyes. Elijah and Clipper are in the room now. I didn't even hear them come in. One look at them, and I know this meeting is not about taking action. It's about something much, much worse.

Adam scratches the stubble on his chin. Vik smooths his pressed pants.

“I'm afraid we have some bad news.”

WE WAIT WHAT FEELS LIKE
an eternity.

“We lost contact with Rebel headquarters earlier today,” Vik says finally. “A little before noon.”

“And you're just telling us now?” I say. “It's nearly dusk!”

Elijah pivots toward me. “We didn't want to worry you if it was only a temporary communication issue.”

“You knew about this, too?” Sammy says.

Elijah doesn't answer. By the look on Clipper's face, I'm guessing the boy also knew. Of course he did. He's been allowed in the com offices with higher-ranking Expats on account of his tech skills, and if it weren't for our ridiculous greenhouse schedule, he likely would have told me by now. Clipper keeps no secrets from me. I realize then that he's
crying. Silently. The tears paint two glistening rivers down his cheeks.

“Don't be too hard on Elijah,” Vik says. “I didn't loop him in until very recently. Not until after Clipper was able to help us confirm a few things.”

The boy nudges his twine bracelet—a gift from his mother—with his forefinger. It swings lazily around his wrist.

“What the heck is going on?” I demand.

“Clipper tried everything, but we can't get through to the Rebels' technology wing. He doesn't think it's a connection issue either. It seems more like . . . well . . .” Vik sighs.

I know what happened. I know it and it's slitting my chest open.

“Will you just spit it out, Vik?” Bree snaps. “We're all thinking it. Put us out of our misery.”

“We think they've been hit,” he says after a moment. “It was only a matter of time, to be honest. I'm half surprised it didn't happen sooner. Frank has always suspected the Mount Martyr Range as the general location of the Rebel headquarters. It's possible he took a risk and decided to level the whole of the mountains with an air attack.”

Our group is silent, numb. The only sound is Clipper, who has finally started to cry audibly. His mother is still at Crevice Valley. Or was. And he couldn't get through to them. Couldn't confirm or deny anything. All this on his birthday.
Sammy is right. I don't know a single thirteen-year-old who has worn heavier burdens than Clipper.

“Last we talked to Ryder was 1900 yesterday,” Vik continues. “He didn't mention any suspicions regarding a possible attack, nor had he received any warnings from his Taem spies. This strike seems unprompted, unless Frank was responding to Rebel antics Ryder didn't share with us. We're holding out hope we'll hear from him soon, but it's not looking good.”

Blaine and I make eye contact. Ryder didn't want to send Blaine west. It was supposed to be only Elijah overseeing our new alliance with the Expats, and if Blaine and I hadn't demanded otherwise, my brother could be dead right now. And all those people still at Crevice Valley . . . The entire goal of teaming up with the Expats was to grow our numbers, and now every single Rebel who sought shelter there is potentially gone.

Unable to bear it anymore, I jump to my feet. “Can we finally do something? Fight back? Or are these casualties not large enough?” Blaine tugs at my sleeve, urging me to sit, and I shake him off. “Over two thousand of our people are potentially
dead
. What else needs to happen before we act?”

“We
have
been acting,” Adam snarls. “Bleak's traveling to Expat safe houses and trying to rally any fellow Burg
survivors who want to join our fight. We've got a bunch of our own men along the Gulf working with September to tip loyalties in Bone Harbor. Rebel and Expat spies are gaining numbers within domed cities. We are waiting for the pieces to align—for the moment when we can strike, all at once, in multiple locations. Any offensive attack before we are truly ready could backfire and set us back indefinitely.”

“You can dress your logic up however you want, Adam,” I say. “It doesn't change the fact that Frank is getting stronger while we do nothing. That more of our people suffer while we tiptoe around miles from the fight, using the excuse of
planning
to calm our consciences.”

“We all want the same things here, Gray, so don't imply this loss doesn't hurt everyone. Or that the Expats aren't as invested as you.”

I catch Bree in the corner of my vision. She's shaking her head, a tiny movement that is not reprimanding, but cautious. A warning. Like she means to say she agrees but now is not the time. I clamp my mouth shut.

“Gray does have a point,” Vik says. Adam, who was leaning toward me from his side of the table, stiffens.

“I only mean that if Frank did indeed attack, it cannot be shrugged off,” Vik explains. “If we don't counter in
some
manner, what message will that send? Clearly, Frank's comfortable going after any lead that might hurt us, no matter
how vague his information. He didn't have direct coordinates for Crevice Valley, and it appears he acted anyway. He has resources to spare and is fighting dirty.” Vik turns to address Elijah. “We will shuttle you east immediately to survey the damage with a small crew.”

Elijah nods. In moments like this, I forget he isn't much older than me. Other than the flask he keeps sipping from, he looks completely unfazed.

“As for everyone else,” Vik continues, “I want you back in this room first thing tomorrow morning. 0700. We have a lot to discuss.”

He escorts Elijah out, one hand on the captain's shoulder, the other splayed across his own heart as he offers sympathies. This is why Vik is in charge and not Adam. This nurturing side, this ability to make people feel loved and cared for.

Heidi—Adam's sister, Jules's mom—sticks her head in the room. “Can I steal you?” she asks Adam.

Adam grumbles something and stalks off, leaving our original mission team—the few of us left from the trek to Group A in December—alone with Blaine. Ten of us set out from Crevice Valley and only four of that group made it to Pike. September, our cook and weapons expert, stayed behind in Burg. Everyone else is dead, two of them lost
directly to Emma's hands. Well, her Forgery's. The same Forgery who reported information about Rebel headquarters to the Order. Nearby coordinates, not direct ones, but in the end, it didn't matter. Frank suspected a certain location and Emma's last tracker transmission was close to it. He took a chance, and the Rebels' defensive grids couldn't stop an air attack.

“So . . . ,” Sammy says.

He's never been good in situations like this—too used to cracking jokes and delivering sarcastic comments. Then again, I'm not in my element either. Clipper is still struggling to gain control over his tears, and it hits me again: He is only thirteen.

“It's still not confirmed, Clip,” I say. “She might be okay.”

“Some birthday gift, huh?” he says between sniffles.

The idea of a party—drinks and darts—suddenly seems ridiculous. “Hey, if you just want to head to bed tonight, we all understand. Whatever you need.”

“No,” he says, sitting up. “Don't change the plans.” He wipes his cheeks dry. “I want to keep things as normal as possible. Let's have that party. I think I could use a drink.”

“I don't know if—”

“You just said anything I want,” he snaps.

I glance at Sammy, who looks like he wants to take back his
comment about treating the kid to several rounds.

“You got it, Clipper,” Bree says. “Come on, I'll get you your first.”

After grabbing dinner from the mess hall, everyone makes their way to the bar. Everyone but me. I can't bring myself to celebrate a birthday with the fate of Crevice Valley still unconfirmed. I pace the halls, head to the barracks and shower just to keep my mind occupied. In the end, being anxious alone seems even more absurd than being anxious with friends. As it is most evenings, the bar is packed when I finally arrive.

I find Clipper and Jules facing off against Sammy and Bree in a game of darts, the others watching. When Clipper spots me, a dumb grin streaks over his face.

“How much did you give him?” I ask Bree.

“Enough.”

“Great, he's just drinking so he can forget.”

Bree examines the tip of her dart, then glances up at me. “That's why everyone drinks heavily, Gray: to forget.”

“You know that's not what I . . . Look, he's just a kid. I think—”

“Treating him like a kid is what's dangerous. He's one of us. If he thinks we don't see him that way, it will be nothing but trouble.”

“He's gonna be passed out in—”

“Relax. I let him have one drink and then switched him over to watered-down stuff. He doesn't know the difference, and if he does, he clearly doesn't care. Point is, he
feels
like he's included, that we're not babying him, and I'm pretty sure that's what he needs right now.”

Clipper throws his last dart and turns to us, the grin still on his face.

“You need a drink,” he says to me. “I want a birthday toast.”

“We'd have initiated that in the end,” Blaine says. “You don't have to demand it.”

I wave a thumb over my shoulder, letting Blaine know I'll visit the bar.

“Grab one for me, too?” he asks, and goes back to teasing Clipper.

In many ways, the bar reminds me of Crevice Valley's Tap Room. This place has cleaner edges and uniform tables, but the energy is the same. Music is seeping from a far corner—the strum of a lazy guitar. The lighting is dim and the space around the many tables crowded. After a day of work and a lifetime of worries, the Expats here are seeking out a little merriment, trying to forget the grim uncertainties for a while.

Forget
. Just like Bree said. Does that girl have to be right about everything?

I raise two fingers for the bartender and tell him to charge
the drinks to Adam. It's worked every other visit, and I don't think Adam is going to start complaining now. In fact, I'm starting to wonder if this is his way of bribing us: drinks at night in exchange for another day of pointless work in the greenhouse.

The bartender slides two glass mugs my way. I'm gathering them up, a palm cupping each, when I'm hip checked playfully.

“You were supposed to let me buy you one,” Jules says. “Remember?” She leans into me until we're touching from shoulder to elbow. She's so tall she barely has to look up at me as she blinks those lashes.

“Guess it slipped my mind.”

“Then why don't we just talk awhile? I'll drink my drink”—she waves for the bartender—“and you can drink yours. I mean, you owe me after all.”

“I don't owe you anything. And aren't you in the middle of a game of darts with Clipper?”

“Riley took my place.”

I glance over and sure enough, there's Riley, a miniature Jules of fourteen, only skinnier and still without curves. Clipper sure seems pleased about the change in partners. I didn't think it possible, but as Riley shows Clipper a better throwing technique, the dumbstruck expression that was previously only on his lips moves into his eyes.

“See? No need to rush back. In fact, we are perfectly capable of celebrating Clipper's birthday from here.” Blink, blink, blink. “Or elsewhere.” She touches my forearm.

I pull away.

“What? You honestly don't want to get out of this place with me?” She gives me the most seductive smile she can muster. She
is
pretty. “Well?”

I raise one of the mugs in Bree's direction. “You see that girl, Jules? She's the only person I want to leave this bar with. She's the only girl I want, period.”

“And you've told her that? Because she doesn't seem all that interested in you. Actually, I can't help but notice she doesn't seem to give you the time of day.”

This, like she knows Bree. Like chatting occasionally at dinner makes them best friends. Like offering Bree special Expat meds for her cramped gardening muscles or whatever they were going on about a few weeks back makes Jules an expert on Bree's desires.

“Doesn't change the fact that she's still all I want,” I say.

Jules's expression hardens. “Maybe you should start thinking about what you want if you can't have her, Gray. Who are you on your own? Because it looks like you're going to stay that way.”

She snatches up the drink the bartender delivered and heads back to the group.

I'm glad she didn't wait for an answer, because I don't have one. The truth is I never imagined much of my life beyond eighteen. For so long, that marker was a foggy, black void, a milestone draped in unknowns. The only thing I believed for certain was that my Heist would be the end. I've lived longer than I ever thought I would, and now that there's more beyond eighteen—a possibility that we might actually beat Frank and I could carve out the life of my own choosing . . . Well, I don't know what to do with that sort of prospect.

“Damn, if that's not a look that scares me.” Sammy is standing beside me, ordering another round.

“Huh?”

He points at my face. “You went all serious.” He scrunches his nose in disgust.

“What do you want to do with your life? After all this is over?”

He rests an elbow on the bar and leans his weight into it. “Be happy. Get old. And maybe fat. But only if I've got a girl by my side and a bunch of children running around and no reason to still look like a catch.” He winks a green eye. “I'd probably try to learn a few guitar chords, too. My dad used to play before he . . . Well, you know. What about you?”

“I'd want to settle somewhere quiet,” I say, trying not to overthink things. “I'd want woods nearby so I could still go hunting, and I'd want a small house. I guess something
simple like what I grew up in. I wouldn't mind privacy either, so long as Blaine was around. Oh, and Kale, too. She grew so fast in the two and a half years I knew her.” Sammy is staring at me like I'm a stranger, but I keep right on rambling. “I'd take up whittling, because my father always was fond of it. And I'd try to enjoy it all—every last moment, the highs and lows, even the people who drive me crazy. I'm starting to see life's too short to hold grudges and judge everyone, you know?”