《KATERAKTS》


 Prologue

    Now


    If they find me guilty, I¡¯m going to die.


    But they can¡¯t, right? I refuse to believe it. Without me they would all still be getting torn apart and eaten. As would their children, and their children¡¯s children. I saved them. All of them.


    But, a part of me points out, you¡¯re in a cell. You¡¯re in a cell, and they haven¡¯t given you any food in two days. That¡¯s not how you treat someone you intend to let live, is it? That¡¯s not how you treat a hero.


    It¡¯s a fair point. My stomach feels like a shrivelled raisin, sucked up against my spine, and every time I stand up my head fills with grey static. I¡¯ve long stopped trying; instead I sit at the single window, a narrow slit in the stone around the length of my forearm, and stare out at the bare little courtyard below. From the sturdy wooden gallows, the rope they¡¯re going to hang me with sways gently in the breeze. Bit of a morbid view. But it¡¯s either that or read the cramped graffiti on the walls for the hundredth time. I can pretty much reel it all off now from memory. The most popular ones - I¡¯ve counted - are: FUCK THE PEACERS (8 counts), TOPS DIE (7 counts), or, my favourite: AT LEAST IT¡¯S NOT THE KATERAKTS (3 counts).


    Yeah, at least it¡¯s not the katerakts. You¡¯re welcome.


    And now they¡¯re going to kill me for it. Maybe. There¡¯s no clock in here, but they told me the decision would come in at midday. The sun¡¯s inching up towards its zenith, the shadow of the gallows is a short black point. The stone cell is turning warm and stinking. I press my face further into the window, trying to steal a breath of fresh air, and then I see them.


    Two figures are making their way along the edge of the courtyard, towards the tower. One wears a stiff blue uniform and has his hand on a pistol holster. A Peacer. The other I only need a glance at to know. I¡¯d know his shape anywhere, even across a courtyard, five floors below, even through the glare of the sun. The click of my throat as I swallow is loud in the cell. I don¡¯t dare blink as he and the Peacer make their way closer, trying to take in as much detail as I can, as much information that might prepare me.


    Klaus¡¯s hair and face gleam white in the sun above his black scholar''s robes. He¡¯s cut his hair short since I saw him last, and he¡¯s shaved. It makes him look gaunter but younger. Trying to make a good impression on the council?


    It¡¯s hard not to feel bitter. He¡¯s not spent the last four days in a cell. He¡¯s had access to a bath, and a barbers, and food, even though, really, this is all his fault. He made the ring in the first place. He set it all in motion.


    Klaus stops briefly next to the gallows, although he doesn¡¯t look at them. He says something to the Peacer, who nods. Then his head tilts, turning, and his eyes find mine.


    I didn¡¯t expect it; I stop breathing, staring down. He can¡¯t see me, can he? There¡¯s no way. Not with the bright light outside and the shadow of the cell - and even then, not with the width of this tiny window. But it feels like he¡¯s looking right at me. Like his eyes are boring right into mine.


    Slowly, I raise my left hand next to my face. A wave of pain follows as the chemetal cuff around my wrist inches closer to my temple. Without blinking, I uncurl my middle finger and flip him off.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Another second passes - no reaction - and Klaus looks away. The Peacer follows him as he walks to the door, slipping from sight. There is a very faint clang from far down below.


    I slump against the cold stone wall, drag my palm over my face. My heart¡¯s hammering. But of course it¡¯s hammering. He¡¯s about to tell me if I¡¯m going to make it to see the sunset.


    A few minutes pass, though it feels like an hour, in which I try, frantically, to calm myself down. Then, footsteps. Echoing up the stairs, growing louder. I straighten my spine and tuck my hair behind my ears. I¡¯m grimy with four days of sweat, and the collar of my shirt is still stained with blood, but they only gave me one bucket of water. I did what I could using my sleeve as a cloth, but I wasn¡¯t stupid enough to waste more than that on washing. It turned out to have been the right call - the only refilled the bucket on the third day, when my lips were so cracked they had begun to bleed.


    Clang! goes the door, the one to the corridor. Then the floorboards creak. Footsteps again, clear enough now that I can make out the heavy tread of the Peacer¡¯s boots and a second, lighter pair. They pause outside the door to my cell. One beat passes. Then another. Melodramatic prick - is he trying to ramp up the suspense?


    ¡®Open it.¡¯ Klaus¡¯s voice is faint through the door but I still flinch. The metal bolt scrapes loudly as it¡¯s drawn back.


    And then there he is, filling the doorway. The oil lamp outside carves his face into harsh planes: a sharp jaw, two black hollows for eyes, the elegant curve of his brow. He looks pale and tired, but his expression is carefully controlled. His eyes run over me, top to bottom, and then linger on my face. The blood on my collar gets a second glance too, as do the chemetal cuffs around my wrists and neck. Then he looks at the cell: the bucket of water, the other bucket that I usually try not to think about, the mat for sleeping, the graffiti, the window. He still hasn¡¯t said anything, which pisses me off.


    ¡®Well?¡¯ I say. My voice is pitiably hoarse. ¡®Are they going to hang me?¡¯ I¡¯m sitting with my knees bent, back against the wall, trying to look relaxed, like I couldn¡¯t care less. In reality, I am battling the sudden urge to launch myself at him and sock him in the jaw. I was unprepared for how angry I would feel - at how all the betrayal and bitterness would come rushing back. I pleaded with him not to do it. I screamed, and I begged him and he still slapped the cuffs on me and dragged me back within the walls. My head hasn¡¯t stopped hurting since we set foot in the city. A constant, grinding pain. Does he know?


    Klaus¡¯s jaw twitches. Irritation, maybe, or just awkwardness. I thought I knew how to read him; turns out I never did. He takes a single, smooth breath. ¡®No,¡¯ he says. ¡®They¡¯ll use chemetal, like they did for the Thirteen.¡¯


    I stare at him. For a moment it doesn¡¯t all fit together - that carefully pronounced accent, his voice, the same voice that whispered in my ear, his body curled warm around mine, the one that told me to keep going, told me I was going to be okay, that he was going to make sure of it.


    Telling me they¡¯re going to kill me in the most painful way imaginable.


    ¡®They¡­¡¯ It takes me two goes to get it out. ¡®They¡¯re going to poison me?¡¯


    The barest hesitation. ¡®Yes.¡¯


    My little raisin stomach does a valiant attempt at clenching as a wave of nausea surges over me. ¡®And Finn?¡¯


    Klaus glances behind him, just once, at the open door. Then he shakes his head.


    So they still don¡¯t know about him. At least there¡¯s that, but the relief is a flash of moonlight on the surface of a vast, dark sea of dread. Inconsequential. I stare at the floor, struggling to pull myself together. I am only now realising that I really didn¡¯t believe they were going to do it. I really thought they would - pardon me, or banish me, or¡ª


    They¡¯re going to kill me?


    Klaus makes a strange, quiet inhale through his teeth, and then whirls around.


    ¡®Wait,¡¯ I say. I try to get up but my legs don¡¯t cooperate. ¡®Wait, that doesn¡¯t make any sense. They can¡¯t do that. What about my trial? Aren¡¯t I supposed to be at my own trial? I¡¯ve heard nothing - they haven¡¯t even asked me any questions!¡¯


    He¡¯s frozen in the doorway, back stiff, shoulders tense. ¡®There are no trials,¡¯ he rasps, and stalks off into the shadows. The Peacer follows, the clop of their boots almost, but not quite, drowning out Klaus¡¯s next words, which float down the corridor behind him.


    ¡®Not for a mage.¡¯

 One

    Then


    Getting into Mid from Under¡¯s easy if you know where to go. There are places where the wall is broken, or where the trees are tall enough to climb and jump over from. I¡¯ve been sneaking up there since I was seven, running away from my chores at the Dorms to find more food or interesting shiny stuff for Finn to play with. The others would always act like I was crazy for doing it, stare at me and point and giggle when I came back free of bullet holes. Finn would cry every time, throw his arms around me and beg me not to go again. I¡¯m fairly sure the Dorm Mother knew too, especially as I got older and started stealing more, but she never said anything. Probably because she knew she couldn¡¯t stop me - that and if she kicked me out she would have lost the only person in that place that could teach the others how to read.


    Getting older made it harder. It¡¯s easy enough to slip through cracks in the walls when you¡¯re short and twiggy. When you¡¯re seventeen, you¡¯ve got to be more discerning. Peacers probably aren¡¯t going to bother chasing down a kid - I always thought so, anyway - but an older teenager is a different story. Luckily there are still districts in Mid where the Peacers don¡¯t really patrol. Trick is to sneak in there, then run along the jagged roofs and up the stone steps to the districts closer to Top. That¡¯s where the nice shops are, the merchants, the street markets. Plenty of pockets to pick and houses left unoccupied. I tell Finn I go for people who look like they can afford to lose a ring or a bracelet. In reality, I don¡¯t give a shit. If they¡¯re in Mid then they¡¯re doing better than me. If they even have a bracelet then as far as I¡¯m concerned they can stand to lose it. You need money to have morals.


    I realise I¡¯m speeding up and force myself to slow down. The old tiles beneath my boots protest with a groan, and one of them edges free, flashes crimson in the light of the setting sun as it falls off then edge. I wince when it hits with a little crack, and look around.


    No blue uniform. He wouldn¡¯t have followed me out here anyway, I tell myself. Those from Mid rarely come into Under, and certainly not so close to nightfall.


    It helps a little. My heart¡¯s still galloping though, and there¡¯s a sharp pain in my side from sprinting for so long. The bullet had whistled past my cheek, an inch out, and then exploded into the wall. That mess of brick would have been my skull if the Peacer¡¯s hand had twitched.


    Maybe I need to stop this. Maybe Finn¡¯s right, and I need to find a real job - I could join the Association and work the lifts - or ask Big Jay if she need a hand with the pub?


    They¡¯re empty thoughts. I¡¯m not going to do that. I¡¯m going to keep doing this, even if it gets me killed. I¡¯d rather a life where I struggled than one where I didn¡¯t try at all.


    I dig my knuckles into my side, grimacing, and then pat over the cloth pouch under my shirt to make sure it¡¯s still secure around my waist. I need to stuff some more cloth in there - I landed a coin purse earlier and the stupid thing keeps jingling. It¡¯s how the Peacer got me and I¡¯d rather avoid the same thing with the gangs. Careful, I pad across the roof and hop down to the next one. Down, down, down. I¡¯m careful where I step, sticking to the shadows, deepening as night crawls closer.


    When I reach the next set of crumbling stone steps, I hear voices floating out from a rooftop a few buildings away.


    ¡®¡­extending the hours again. That¡¯s on top of the extra we¡¯ve already been doing last month.¡¯


    ¡®And who¡¯s to say it¡¯s gonna end next week? They¡¯ll just keep pushing it up!¡¯


    ¡®Can¡¯t do anything, that¡¯s the fucking problem.¡¯


    Pit miners, I conclude. I eye the sun - the weak, purpling dregs of it that are left, and wonder if I¡¯ve got time to stop and listen. If they¡¯re planning something, it would be good to know before the sun sets entirely and I start tempting fate. Under¡¯s the most exposed part of the city - and our walls are old and problematic. Every month or so a section caves in and then it¡¯s a rush to get it patched before the Katerakts notice. Years ago, it would get fixed within twenty four hours; now it takes almost a week. Top has sucked up all the chemetal workers in the city and put them to work reinforcing their own, metres-thick wall. Never mind that they¡¯re the safest in the city. For the Katerakts to get to them, both Under and Mid¡¯s walls would have to fall, along with all of us poor bastards living here.


    ¡®I say we strike,¡¯ the next voice says, and the decision¡¯s made for me. I scurry down, slipping along old metal balconies and swinging myself to the next roof with a faint jingle.


    They¡¯ve chosen their meeting point well. The courtyard is a dusty rooftop square, close enough to the wall that there won¡¯t be any lingering overseers. There are more of them than I expected, around fifteen men and women, all dressed in pale grey mining rags. The worn fabric flaps off toothpick legs and arms, skin as ghostly white as their hair. Chemetal bleaches the colour out of everything - even humans. My own palms are mottled white in places, a spiderweb of poverty stamped into my skin, just from living in Under.


    ¡®Have you lost your mind?¡¯ a large man with a grim, wolfish face asks. His muscles stand out, all bunched and stringy in a way that doesn¡¯t look quite right; they don¡¯t get fed enough in the Pits. ¡®You remember the last strikes, don¡¯t you? They¡¯ll wait for sunset and push us all over the edge!¡¯


    Grumbling ensues.


    ¡®But that was last time, weren¡¯t it?¡¯ someone pipes up, a younger man still with brown streaks in his hair. ¡®And we can¡¯t just keep going with these hours.¡¯


    A chorus of nodding.


    ¡®And they¡¯re not even using it for us, for our wall! They¡¯re taking it for the inner one, that¡¯s why they want a new dig site!¡¯


    I wince at the thought of weeks of wheezing.


    ¡®I reckon¡­¡¯ The young man swallows. ¡®I reckon striking¡¯s the way to¡ª¡®


    ¡®Keep your damn voice down!¡¯ the wolfish man snaps, taking a threatening step towards him. ¡®Peacers could be¡ª¡¯


    ¡®They¡¯re not down here, are they?¡¯ he bites back. ¡®They won¡¯t come this close.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re not striking!¡¯


    ¡®What else we supposed to do!¡¯ a woman says, loudly enough that the others fall quiet. Her chest rises and falls fast, her arms outstretched. I can¡¯t see her face, just the back of her hair: white with a crown of black dust. ¡®Sign up and get sent to service instead? We¡¯ll die anyway! I can¡¯t¡ª can¡¯t do this anymore!¡¯


    Another man puts his arm around her. ¡®Mellie,¡¯ he says softly, and then the air thumps with noise.


    It¡¯s so loud that I instantly duck, and my coins give a sharp jingle. Nobody hears. They¡¯re too busy looking up at the sky, where a shock of lime green powder falls in a contained cloud. High up in the east, bright against the darkening sky. Green flare - Katerakts sighted. They¡¯re coming tonight.


    I become horribly aware of the time.


    The wolfish man curses. ¡®We¡¯ll meet again next week,¡¯ he says as people start to scurry away, drawing their ragged grey scarves up to cover the lower half of their faces. ¡®Stay safe! Stay strong!¡¯


    Someone says something else but I don¡¯t hear it. I¡¯m already gone.


    It probably says a lot about Under that even with a flare so close, the pubs are still all open. To get to The Old Boat I have to navigate my way down, close to the Pits.


    Under doesn¡¯t make a lot of sense if you view it straight on. The buildings are old and stony, at least three of four storeys tall, but they¡¯re all at a slight slant - like some great wind ripped through the streets and pushed it all just a little bit out of line. Over the decades since the Katerakts, we¡¯ve all built upwards, houses on top of houses, streets between the balconies. You can forget about city planning - now there¡¯s dead ends and half rotted staircases that don¡¯t lead anywhere and whole sections were the structures have slid and fallen into rubble.


    In the darkness, it doesn¡¯t look too bad though. Black dust blown in from the Pits just outside the our wall coats the surfaces and glitters faintly under the moon. And the Pits themselves can be beautiful. They¡¯re constantly sighing out plumes of thin grey smoke, and on nights like this, when there¡¯s no wind, you can see it writhing and twisting in a dance up towards the sky.


    Anyway: The Old Boat. It¡¯s a local favourite, hidden at the end of a musty tunnel made of overlapping slabs of fallen rock. Inside, a wooden rib cage holds up the sagging stone flesh of what presumably was once a grand residence. It¡¯s gloomy and smoky, and smells so much like ale that I bet if you wrung the whole place out it would go splashing down the street. I like it because it tends to draw a quieter crowd than the others, like The Bleeding Horse - meaning you¡¯re less likely to get beaten up or shanked by some drunk miner with anger issues.


    Tonight there are only a few dust-stained miners, nursing their tankards, and a middle-aged Flipper tinkering away in the back corner with something metallic and complicated-looking.


    Big Jay is at the bar, absentmindedly polishing glasses as she watches the Flipper. She¡¯s a short, bulky woman with a big gap-toothed smile. ¡®Addie,¡¯ she says when she sees me approaching. ¡®Finn¡¯s not here yet but your new friend is.¡¯ She drops me a wink and my face goes beet red. ¡®Go on, head over there,¡¯ she nods towards the corner encouragingly. ¡®I¡¯ll bring it over.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks,¡¯ I say, willing my face to cool down. She just snorts.


    By new friend, she means Tom, who¡¯s been here three months already. He¡¯s the first friend I¡¯ve made from Mid. Except he doesn¡¯t like to talk about it - as far as he¡¯s concerned, he¡¯s an Under now. Which is sweet, but completely impossible. Even looking at him now, sitting with his long legs crossed, his spine¡¯s too straight, and his hair¡¯s too neat - with not a hint of white to be seen. Nobody would mistake him for an Under. Everyone else here is slumped over their drinks or the table, head in hand and exhausted from a day¡¯s work. He sticks out like a sore thumb.


    My belly flips as he makes eye contact with me, but I ignore it, and smile back. It¡¯s stupid. He¡¯s not interested in me like that - why would he be? - but I still tuck my hair behind my ears (pointless, it¡¯s curly enough that it just comes springing back) and subtly wipe the sweat from my forehead. God I probably stink, don¡¯t I? All that running¡ª


    Well, it¡¯s too late now. I yank out the chair opposite and take a seat. Don¡¯t make it weird, I tell myself. Treat him like Finn.


    ¡®You¡¯re late,¡¯ Tom says, but he¡¯s smiling. ¡®I thought we said seven?¡¯


    ¡®Finn¡¯s not here yet either,¡¯ I point out.


    He rolls his eyes. ¡®Yes, because clearly tardiness is a family trait.¡¯


    See - who says things like ¡®tardiness¡¯ in Under?


    ¡®I¡¯m only¡­¡¯ I lean back and peer at the clock on the wall. I¡¯m twenty minutes late. I divert: ¡®I bumped into some miners on the way back.¡¯


    Tom instantly leans forward, dark eyes growing concerned.


    ¡¯Not like that,¡¯ I say quickly, ¡®they were talking about striking.¡¯


    He sits back in his chair and sighs. ¡®They won¡¯t do it.¡¯If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ I say. ¡®But apparently there¡¯s gonna be a new dig site.¡¯


    That gets his interest again. A frown pulls across his pretty mouth. ¡®So soon?¡¯


    ¡®Maybe we¡¯re running out of chemetal,¡¯ I say.


    His frown deepens. ¡®We wouldn¡¯t need so much of it if those idiots stopped blowing up the walls.¡¯


    ¡®Do you think it could be the miners?¡¯ It¡¯s half the reason I stopped to listen. Everyone suspects the people that work in the Pits - they have access to explosives, after all, and a motive. Although in my view it¡¯s a bit like shooting yourself in the foot. If they keep blowing up the wall, they¡¯re only going to have to work harder to mine the material for the repairs.


    ¡®Who knows,¡¯ Tom says. ¡®How was Mid today?¡¯


    ¡®Fine,¡¯ I say on reflex and then freeze.


    He¡¯s smiling up at me now. ¡®So you went there again? Finn¡¯s not going to be pleased.¡¯


    ¡®Finn,¡¯ I say, scowling, ¡®doesn¡¯t need to know.¡¯


    Tom is unfazed. ¡®What did you get then? Anything interesting?¡¯


    I glance at the door and then around the pub. Big Jay is pouring my drink and chatting with the Flipper at the bar. Old man Thesp is there too, slugging back a pint like his health depends on it and mumbling to himself. Nobody¡¯s looking over.


    I slip my hand around the bottom of my shirt and unbutton the pouch. I fish around until I feel the sharp scrape of cut wire, and drag out onto the sticky table. The battery - I think that¡¯s what it is, anyway - is the most interesting thing I picked up. It¡¯s around the size of my palm, an elegant cylinder made of glass and gold. I had to cut the metal wires locking it in, and the tail ends of them curl up like decoration. It¡¯s pretty.


    Tom takes it off me, turning it around in his fingers. ¡®Where did you get it from?¡¯


    ¡®A clock in a town square. It¡¯s new - they must have fitted them all with it last week. I reckon it¡¯s something to do with the sun, but maybe¡­¡¯ I trail off - Tom¡¯s hunched over, shoulders shaking. ¡®What,¡¯ I say with trepidation.


    He looks at me and starts chuckling again. ¡®You took this from a clock? A public clock? What must they have thought!¡¯


    I scowl and swipe the metal thing back. ¡®They didn¡¯t think anything, because nobody saw me.¡¯ Complete lie - a Peacer had rounded the corner right as I¡¯d cut the last wire. Hence the shooting. ¡®Anyway, Finn can sell it at the shop.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m sure.¡¯


    ¡®You know, if you came with me, you could point out the really valuable stuff. And you could tell me where to go.¡¯


    ¡®No thanks,¡¯ Tom says breezily. ¡®I¡¯d rather keep my body free of bullet holes if it¡¯s all the same to you.¡¯


    I go to reply - to whine at him, really - when the door trills. Both of us look up as my brother ducks inside.


    Finn looks tired. His hair¡¯s everywhere, dark curls all in his face, and there¡¯s a scorch mark on his shirt that wasn¡¯t there this morning. His glasses flash in the light as he heads to the bar and the Flipper perks up. Finn¡¯s somewhat famous with the Flippers around here.


    ¡®I bet Rodger kept him late,¡¯ I say, irritated.


    ¡®Have you ever met him?¡¯ Tom asks


    ¡®Rodger?¡¯ I check, and Tom nods. ¡®Yeah. Once. He¡¯s a prick. He inherited the shop from his mum but he¡¯s got barely any Affinity. Can¡¯t even fix a lamp. If Finn wasn¡¯t there he¡¯d lose half his customers.¡¯


    Finn¡¯s wasted in a repair shop. I watch him chat to the Fiddler, a smile tugging at his tired face. What him bend over, eyes intent as he looks at what the man¡¯s trying to fix. Big Jay¡¯s watching him too, pouring again. Her eyes have gone all sweet and mopey.


    I sigh and steal Tom¡¯s glass.


    Ten minutes later, Finn arrives at the table with both of our drinks. ¡®Big Jay says sorry for the wait,¡¯ he says as he sits. I take the glass off him and swig a healthy amount back; I didn¡¯t realise how thirsty I was. ¡®Eli¡¯s working on the lift repairs,¡¯ he goes on, excited. ¡®There¡¯s this new safety mechanism that¡¯s come from the University, he¡¯s trying to reverse engineer it from parts.¡¯


    ¡®And what did Big Jay want?¡¯ Tom asks. She had commandeered Finn after the Flipper.


    ¡®She said her watch was broken.¡¯ Finn¡¯s nose wrinkles as he takes a large gulp from his class. He licks his lips and frowns. ¡®But the hands just needed to be reset.¡¯


    I snort.


    He fixes me with a confused look. ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®She¡¯s flirting with you,¡¯ I tell him.


    The look that creeps over Finn¡¯s face is one I know well. The kind of frown that manages to convey disdain far better than any words could.


    ¡®She was,¡¯ Tom adds in a dry voice.


    Finn pushes his glasses up on his nose. ¡®Whatever,¡¯ he says, but the tips of his ears are pink. He¡¯s always been this way. More interested in the scraps of metal he could find near the Dorm than playing with the other kids. It used to lead to arguments. That¡¯s how I got good at fighting.


    ¡®How was the shop today?¡¯ I ask.


    Finn¡¯s smile falls a fraction. ¡®Fine.¡¯


    ¡®And Rodger?¡¯


    Finn makes some grunting noise. ¡®The usual. He¡¯s got it into his head that I¡¯m fucking up the electrics. Made me stay to check them all over. It was fine - they were fine in the end.¡¯


    Under the table, my hands fist in the fabric of my trousers. Finn has the strongest Affinity of anyone I¡¯ve ever met. He can take what looks like utter junk and somehow create incredible things: self-sustaining water purifiers, honing catapults, smoke bombs, no-slip pocket watches - which sell for a pretty penny in the Association - and now magnets. If he had been born in Top, he¡¯d be at the University now. Even if he¡¯d have been born in Mid, he would have gone on scholarship. But there aren¡¯t any scholarships for those of us in Under. Most people assume we can¡¯t read.


    ¡®Rodger¡¯s an asshole,¡¯ I say.


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ Finn says. ¡®He is.¡¯


    ¡®Take off the strap,¡¯ Tom says. He¡¯s eyeing Finn¡¯s hand.


    Finn brings his left out flat on the table, then unbuckles the prosthetic. He made it himself - he¡¯s been refining it ever since he was big enough to hold a welding iron. But he has to replace it at least once every two months when the heat from the mechanism burns out the wiring. Towards the end of the month it can get so hot it burns his hand too, especially if he wears it all day without a break. When the strap finally unreels, the skin around his palm is bright red, and the stump where his last three fingers should be looks chafed.


    ¡®Finn,¡¯ I say, and then stop myself. I want to tell him he needs to take a break, that he can¡¯t do this to himself or he¡¯ll cause long term damage. But he knows that already. ¡®Keep it off tonight,¡¯ I say instead.


    ¡®I know,¡¯ Finn says, working out the muscles with a wince. ¡®It¡¯s my hand.¡¯


    This is another reason I hate Rodger: he pays Finn seventy percent of what he pays the other Flippers, because of the ¡®risk¡¯ of his prosthetic malfunctioning. It¡¯s bullshit, of course. Rodger¡¯s just embarrassed that he can¡¯t measure up. If he had Finn staying overtime, it was just to screw with him to stroke his own ego.


    ¡®You know,¡¯ Tom says, ¡®Bauman just signed off on new biomech for veterans. They¡¯re unveiling them tomorrow at his residence in Top. Apparently they use chemetal.¡¯


    ¡®I know,¡¯ Finn says, sitting up straight, green eyes flashing. ¡®I heard. They must have used it as a coating for the transistors, to stop leakage. Apparently it also helps the sensors find nerve cells and attach.¡¯


    ¡®Bauman?¡¯ I ask.


    From the looks I get in return, apparently this is something I should have known.


    ¡®The Head Scientist,¡¯ Finn says, eyebrows raised. ¡®Dean of the University.¡¯


    ¡®Ah,¡¯ I say. ¡®Him.¡¯


    Finn snorts. ¡®He¡¯s a certified genius. Strongest Affinity of anyone, ever, but he stopped designing things himself years ago. This is his first unveiling in about seven years.¡¯


    ¡®I heard it¡¯s because his niece got wounded,¡¯ Tom says. ¡®In the attack last year. You know, when they came before the sun had set.¡¯


    He¡¯s talking about what happened in Hendy, a district on the South side of Under. There was a really bad storm one summer and it was the final push for a huge chunk of wall to fall. They sent out a bunch of patchers and a regiment to supervise when the Katerakts came. Nobody was expecting it - prior to that we thought they were nocturnal, that they couldn¡¯t stand the sunlight. But hundreds of them turned up and ripped through soldiers and workers alike, started grabbing people in their homes and eating them. The council had panicked, thinking there was a chance they might get through to Mid, and sent another regiment out. Half of them had died pushing the Katerakts back and getting the fix in place.


    After that, criminals were offered a choice: the Pits or signing up. Most chose the Pits.


    Finn sighs and drinks. I can¡¯t bear it when he looks like that. I clear my throat and shove the battery I got shot at for on the table. ¡®What do you think this is? I found it in the street.¡¯


    Finn puts his drink town and glances over with interest. Then his eyebrows crumple with confusion. He picks it up, peering closer.


    ¡®Well,¡¯ I ask. ¡®Can you use it?¡¯


    He looks at me. ¡®Addie,¡¯ he says slowly. ¡®Did you take this from a public clock?¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ I say. How could he possible know that?


    ¡®Yes you did,¡¯ Finn says. ¡®It¡¯s a huge pace keeper. The only thing these are used for are clocks.¡¯


    ¡¯S¡¯not huge,¡¯ I mutter. Tom snorts.


    ¡®For a pace keeper it is. Were you in Mid again?¡¯ He¡¯s no longer looking wistful and sad. Now he looks angry and sad. I suppose it¡¯s an improvement.


    ¡®I was near the wall,¡¯ I lie. ¡®And it was there in the street. Maybe it fell. Or maybe someone else stole it?¡¯


    Finn gives me an incredulous look but a commotion from the bar halts his reply.


    Thesp is splayed out over the wooden counter top, moaning into his own palm. ¡®¡­go on,¡¯ he¡¯s saying. ¡®Little shot of shine for your favourite customer.¡¯


    Big Jay slams a tankard of water in front of him. ¡®There you are.¡¯


    Thesp groans, other hand scrabbling across the wood. He¡¯s barely holding himself up. ¡®Fuckin¡­ this place isn¡¯t the same. Flippers setting up shop, some fucking Topsider¡­¡¯


    I look back at Tom who is glaring at Thesp. ¡®Someone should cut the drunkard off,¡¯ Tom says sharply. He doesn¡¯t like Thesp - he gets prickly about being called a Topsider.


    I exchange a glance with Finn. ¡®I¡¯ll go,¡¯ I say. but it¡¯s too late. Tom¡¯s voice has carried, and now Thesp is looking right at us, face coiling into a sneer. I get up out of my seat but he¡¯s already staggering over.


    ¡®Addie! Finn! You¡¯ll have a drink with me, won¡¯t you? Like we used to?¡¯


    He¡¯s referring to the system of payment we worked out when we were younger. He¡¯s the reason both of us can read; we bought him drinks in exchange for lessons. Once, when we were thirteen, he¡¯d refused to answer our questions until we¡¯d both taken a shot of shine with him. Finn had thrown up everywhere. He¡¯d found it hilarious.


    I meet him halfway across the floor and tug him back to the bar. He¡¯s old and bony - weighs even less than I do. ¡®Come on,¡¯ I say. ¡®Drink your drink.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t want it,¡¯ he sniffs, but dutifully gets settled at the bar stool. Big Jay mouths thanks over his head. ¡®They put stuff in it, y¡¯know,¡¯ he slurs. ¡®That¡¯s why them lot are always coughing.¡¯ A mottled white finger sways, then points to the miners in the corner. They don¡¯t look particularly impressed.


    ¡®Come on, Thesp,¡¯ I say, pulling his tankard closer to his mouth.


    He takes a big gulp, then stiffens, and spits it out all over me. I stand there, gritting my teeth as my shirt goes wet and clinging. It drips onto the floor.


    Thesp takes one look at my face and starts to cackle.


    Big Jay clicks her teeth. ¡®Oh no you don¡¯t,¡¯ she says, setting down her rag. In a moment she¡¯s hopped over the bar, and has grabbed hold of Thesp¡¯s old shoulders. ¡®Out you go. You¡¯ve had enough.¡¯


    Thesp makes some grumbling noise but there¡¯s no shape to the words. He¡¯s too drunk. Big Jay wouldn¡¯t have let him get in this state - he must have staggered in from somewhere else.


    A hand on my shoulder - Finn. ¡®Are you alright?¡¯ he asks, taking in my soaked shirt.


    ¡®Fine. It was just water,¡¯ I say, and allow him to tug me back to the table. The door trills as Big Jay heaves Thesp out. For such a slight woman, she¡¯s good at that. Lots of practice, I guess. Can¡¯t be easy to run a pub in a place like this. Gotta get good at dealing with drunkards.


    The next surprise of the night is that Finn gets drunk. He didn¡¯t have time to take a lunch break, as we find out a few drinks later. He¡¯s a lightweight anyway, all knobbly knees and elbows, with a high metabolism. And he¡¯s stressed. As Tom and I drag him out of The Old Boat, propping him up on either side, he¡¯s mumbling about Rodger, and the lanterns. Big Jay gives us a sad smile as we head out.


    Dragging a woozy seventeen year old through a tunnel made of broken rocks is exactly as difficult as it sounds. Finn¡¯s nose is pressed into my neck, his breath warm and wet. ¡®M¡¯broken,¡¯ he slurs. ¡®Tha¡¯s why.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah yeah,¡¯ I say, my jaw tight. Fucking Rodger.


    ¡®You know,¡¯ Tom says as we emerge out into the rooftops. ¡®That biomech I was talking about. The prosthetics.¡¯


    ¡®What about them?¡¯


    ¡®You like stealing things.¡¯


    I stop in place and gape at him. Then I snort. ¡®I also like being alive.¡¯


    Tom tugs Finn forward, and I have to follow to keep him stable. ¡®If you can get into Mid, you can get into Top. If anyone can do it, it¡¯s you.¡¯


    I laugh to cover up the stupid blush. Hopefully it¡¯s dark enough that he can¡¯t see it. ¡®Thanks?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m serious.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s a bit of a difference between pickpocketing the markets and getting into a biomech unveiling, wherever the hell that¡¯s going to be.¡¯


    ¡®In his house,¡¯ Tom says. ¡®It¡¯ll be in his house, tomorrow evening.¡¯


    Finn lets out a stream of mumbles and we both go quiet. The night is silent, which puts me on edge. The Katerakts don¡¯t have voices - they don¡¯t make any sound. That¡¯s part of what¡¯s so terrifying about them. You¡¯ll never hear them coming.


    ¡¯The tech will trickle down,¡¯ I say with a confidence I don¡¯t feel. ¡®If everyone¡¯s using it then we¡¯ll get knock-offs soon. Finn can reverse engineer it and--¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯ll take years,¡¯ Tom points out.


    ¡¯So it takes years,¡¯ I say, starting to get a little irritated. ¡®What can we do?¡¯


    With a grunt, Tom takes all of Finn¡¯s weight for a moment as he stumbles. ¡®True,¡¯ he says. ¡®Very true.¡¯


    The Den¡¯s a mess when we get back. It¡¯s always a mess. It¡¯s six rooms on the top floor of a long-abandoned mansion, close enough to the Pits that it¡¯s probably bad for our lungs, but good in the sense that we¡¯re not going to get cornered or robbed by the gangs. The streaky walls are covered with my childhood graffiti and the vast paper wings of Finn¡¯s schematics that he pins up wherever he pleases. Only two of the rooms have proper wooden floors, although they¡¯re so battered and scratched they barely look like wood anymore. It¡¯s cluttered with mismatched furniture we¡¯ve hauled up over the years, and the shelves are stuffed with the kind of junk that someone with an Affinity ends up accumulating: bowls of tarnished silver cogs, tangles of wiring, half deconstructed engines and boxes and screwdrivers.


    We first found it years ago, back when we were living in the Dorms, and originally just used it as a hiding spot when the Mothers would foist chores on us. Over the years we cleaned it up and bought in the furniture, and when Finn got the job with Rodger we moved in properly.


    There¡¯s not much electricity in Under, so Finn made us our own lanterns. They¡¯re small and blueish-green - he mentioned copper once, but I forget - and strung up on the walls. The whole room glows when I switch them on, like I¡¯m under water.


    We get Finn into bed, almost tripping over the debris of a half-finished something on his floor, and then Tom wanders off for a smoke. I¡¯m left sitting on the battered green sofa in the largest room, staring out the window. It shows nothing but black, and my own ghostly reflection.


    I look down at my left hand. At the thumb and four fingers there: a full set. There¡¯s a nasty black bruise on the nail bed of my left thumb, from when I hit it off a wall during a trip to Mid last week. I flex and curl my hand into a fist, each finger slotting easily together.


    I think about biomech.

 Two

    Noon the following day finds me standing outside of Rodger¡¯s shop, scowling with my hands shoved deep in my pockets. The shop is a tall, narrow building at the end of one of the main shopping streets, and from the outside looks like the last place on earth you¡¯d go to repair anything. It¡¯s also pink - likely a previous owner trying to bump up attention - but the paint hasn¡¯t been redone in years and so the original brick pokes through in ghostly red patches. A bunch of metal pipes streak down the left side of the building, striped with different coloured metal where the parts have been exchanged or replaced. Thin black stains creep along the wall beneath them. Above the door, a corrugated iron hangs at an angle: RODGER¡¯S REPAIRS. The ¡®I¡¯ is shaped like a spanner, although the charm of that detail is somewhat lost at this point.


    ¡®At least straighten the fucking sign,¡¯ I mutter as I duck through the door.


    I¡¯m instantly hit by the smell of cigarette smoke. It¡¯s hazy inside, and dim. The sound of a radio floats out from one of the back rooms, loud, rhythmic drumming. I snoop past the towering stacks of bolted shelves, glancing at them as I go. It kinda looks like Finn¡¯s room in the Den, a bunch of parts in bowls and boxes, screwdrivers of various sizes hanging on the walls, tangles of red and green wires.


    The stool at the shop till is empty - no Rodger. Good. I picked lunch hour on purpose. I walk through into the back corridor. The cigarette smell grows strong enough to make my eyes sting, and then I hear shouting from up ahead.


    When I duck my head into the room it¡¯s coming from, I find Finn lying on the workbench with his eyes closed, and Rodger standing over him, yelling.


    ¡®You can¡¯t keep doing this man!¡¯ Rodger¡¯s saying, hand on his hips. ¡®Get a fuckin¡¯ grip! You told me you were serious. Taking a nap in the middle of the day isn¡¯t serious!¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not napping,¡¯ Finn says in a quiet voice. ¡®I¡¯ve done the lanterns and I finished the schematics for the connector. I just need ten minutes.¡¯ He¡¯s rubbing at his temples like he does when he gets migraines. He gets them when he¡¯s spent too much time working with chemetal without proper protection. My jaw goes tight.


    Rodger catches sight of me standing in the doorway and does a double take. ¡®The hell is she doing here?¡¯ he sneers a second later, glaring at me.


    ¡®I came to give Finn his lunch,¡¯ I say, holding up my cloth bag and giving it a shake. It¡¯s partially true. Mainly I came to make sure that he doesn¡¯t skip it again.


    Rodger turns to face me fully, crossing his arms. His veiny old muscles bulge in a way that I think is supposed to be intimidating. He¡¯s a big forty year old with piercings through his eyebrows and lips and greying black hair, tied up in a ponytail. He thinks he¡¯s scary. He¡¯s not.


    ¡®You can¡¯t be in here,¡¯ he says slowly, like I¡¯m stupid. ¡®Employees only, there¡¯s a sign.¡¯


    I roll my eyes. ¡®Give it a break Rodge, it¡¯s only me. You alright Finn?¡¯


    ¡®Fine,¡¯ Finn says, but he¡¯s still lying down. ¡®Just need a moment.¡¯


    Rodger curses under his breath. ¡®I¡¯m docking you for this,¡¯ he tells Finn. ¡®You¡¯re on half pay again today.¡¯


    ¡®That doesn¡¯t make any sense!'' I scowl.


    ¡®It¡¯s fine,¡¯ Finn says.


    ¡®But you should be on lunch break anyway!''


    ¡®Get your sister out of here,¡¯ Rodger says venomously to Finn. Then he pushes past me, roughly knocking his shoulder into my head.


    I turn around, my fingers going to the knife sheath hidden on my hip, but Finn sits up suddenly. ¡®Wait,¡¯ he says, green around the gils. ¡®Wait, Addie, don¡¯t¡ª¡® He starts to tip. I rush over, get my arm around him. Gently guide him back on the bench.


    ¡®When did it start?¡¯ I ask, keeping my voice soft. Rodger will have to wait.


    ¡¯This morning,¡¯ Finn says. His palm is back over his eyes and I can see his ribs stuttering as he takes purposefully steady breaths. He¡¯s too thin. ¡®Think it was drinking last night. But it¡¯s fine. I¡¯m already feeling better.¡¯


    He doesn¡¯t look better.


    I look around the work room. Even without seeing it, I know there¡¯s chemetal here. I can feel it, pins and needles in my fingers, my lips. It¡¯s coming from the corner, and sure enough, my gaze narrows as I spot an old wooden table with a small black lump resting innocently on top of a white plate. It won¡¯t be anywhere near pure, of course. But there¡¯s enough of it in the alloy to be unpleasant. Finn should be wearing gloves and a mask to deal with it, but there¡¯s no sign of either.


    ¡®Thanks for lunch,¡¯ Finn says.


    I turn back to him and sigh. ¡®Do you want me to help you home?¡¯


    The set of his mouth turns predictably appalled. ¡®I¡¯m seventeen. Not seven.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re gonna stay?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, of course. I told you, I¡¯m fine. I¡¯m already feeling better.¡¯


    I stow the bag on the side and eyeing him. He¡¯s pale. ¡®Alright,¡¯ I say. ¡®But if it¡¯s Rodger you¡¯re worried about¡ª¡®


    ¡®It¡¯s not Rodger,¡¯ Finn interrupts. He holds his breath and slowly sits up. ¡®Thanks,¡¯ he says, peering up at me. His eyes shine bright, bewitching green in the tired hollows of his skull, beneath his glasses. ¡®Really. But I¡¯ll see you tonight.¡¯


    ¡®Alright,¡¯ I say, reluctant. ¡®I¡¯ll try to find you something interesting.¡¯


    That gets me a disapproving frown. ¡®I¡¯d really rather you didn¡¯t.¡¯


    ¡®You didn¡¯t like the pace keeper?¡¯


    ¡®Leave the clocks alone.¡¯


    I give him a mock salute as I turn to go. The faint smile slides straight off my face as I reach the corridor and hear Rodger humming along to the crappy drumming on the radio.


    I don¡¯t have a steady job, not like Finn. Sometimes I help out teaching at the Dorms, or hang around the card rings, or slip into Mid to see what I can scavenge. People know me as an odd-jobber - someone who can track down what they need without asking too many questions. It¡¯s enough to get by, but not enough to call it a real living. Most months, I¡¯m counting on one or two decent finds in Mid and the luck to find a buyer for them. Someone, unfortunately, like Rodger.


    Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake - if I should have learnt a profession or gotten Finn to teach me about repairing stuff. But I¡¯m no good with my hands and I can¡¯t stand chemetal. And he¡¯s the one with all the Affinity. I can¡¯t visuals mechanics or draw schematics like he can.


    After the repair shop, I spend the afternoon stomping around seeing if anyone wants any help - they don¡¯t - and imagining what would happen if Rodger suddenly went missing. As fun a thought as it is, it probably wouldn¡¯t help us. Rodger¡¯s definitely used the shop as collateral, gambler that he is, and all that would happen is Finn shifting to another unpredictable boss.


    I consider going back into Mid and seeing if I can do a spot of pickpocketing, but if I¡¯m honest I¡¯m still on edge from what happened yesterday. I even dreamt about the Peacer last night, the empty black eye of his pistol, levelled right at me.


    I end up, once again, at the Old Boat. Finn and Tom will come later, so I reason I may as well wait for them there.


    Pubs always feel weird the daytime, naked without all the people. Dust motes swirl in the shards of grey daylight slicing in from the windows, illuminating all the wear and tear and general shabbiness: the stained floor, the scratched bar top, the yellowing lamp shades. The Association workers are still toiling away in the Pits at this point, and the only other person in there is Thesp, sitting at the bar looking haggard. He turns when the bell chimes, looks at me, and then replaces his head on the bar. Big Jay is nowhere to be found - she must be down in the cellar.


    ¡®Good afternoon,¡¯ I say to Thesp, coming to sit with him at the bar. Then I get a whiff of his stink - he hasn¡¯t showered since last night - and pick a bar stool two seats away instead.


    He ignores me.


    ¡®Did you hear the Association are thinking about a strike again?¡¯ I try, in a way that I think is very friendly considering he sprayed water all over me last night.


    ¡®You what?¡¯ The rasp floats out from the general direction of his head.


    ¡®I said, did you hear the Association are thinking about a strike again?¡¯


    You have to be careful with Thesp. When he¡¯s drunk, it¡¯s hard to get him to stop talking about his past; when he¡¯s sober though, he doesn¡¯t like to talk about it at all. Kind of like Tom. You can never ask him a question about himself without circling around it for a while beforehand.


    Thesp¡¯s chuckle sounds like crushed gravel. ¡®Oh aye, they¡¯ll think about it. I¡¯d bargain they haven¡¯t stopped thinking about it since they joined. Whether they¡¯ll do it is another thing entirely.¡¯


    ¡®Well,¡¯ I say, surprised he¡¯s capable of full sentences, ¡®they were talking about a new dig site. Topsiders want to reinforce their wall.¡¯


    ¡®Aye. The bastards would.¡¯ Thesp finally raises his head. Up close, he¡¯s grey with a hangover.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    To explain: the city of Erudict has three walls. Ours, in Under, is the largest and oldest one. It rings the whole city, made of big, weatherworn blocks of tarnished black chemetal. It took them fourteen years to build, fighting off Katerakts every night whilst the creatures crawled along the streets and into the first floors of houses, eating whatever they found.


    Around twenty five years ago, the wall around Under started to crack. Instead of reinforcing it, like any sane government would have done, the council decided to build another wall, inside Under¡¯s wall, around the section of the city known as Mid. Riots followed. They lined the rioters up on the top of Under¡¯s wall, and pushed them off as the sun set. There were no more riots after that.


    Then, eight years ago, Top decided two whole walls and a bunch of people between them and the Katerakts wasn¡¯t good enough. The Miners Association opened up twelve new dig sites, choked the city half to death with the dust kicked up, and began to build. Top got their nice new wall, and we got bled dry of chemetal. Now if Under¡¯s wall breaks, we can¡¯t fix it properly. All we can do is try to salvage the stuff that falls and patch it up from that.


    ¡®I reckon they should do it,¡¯ I say, tapping my fingers on the bar. ¡®Strike, I mean.¡¯


    Thesp tuts and makes the same excuse as the worker from yesterday. ¡®They¡¯d kill them all before they sat down for breakfast.¡¯


    ¡®That was years ago. Now¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Now¡¯s not so different. You didn¡¯t see the Red Courtyard. No, no, no, they won¡¯t be striking again.¡¯


    I leap on my chance. ¡®The Red Courtyard¡¯s in Top, isn¡¯t it? What¡¯s it like?¡¯


    It¡¯s like watching a chemical reaction. Thesp¡¯s bony old spine straightens and a silver gleam returns to his yellow-washed eyes. ¡¯Bigger than you¡¯d imagine,¡¯ he says with relish. ¡¯Big and cold and awful. You can still see the blood stains on the stone. And nowt in there but that great big crying statue looming over the whole thing. Makes you shiver, I¡¯ll tell you that.¡¯


    ¡®You think it¡¯s true then? They really killed the last magicians there?¡¯


    Thesp looks at me. ¡®They killed something there, alright. Places don¡¯t get that kind of pain in the air without a whole lot of death.¡¯


    I raise my eyebrows¡ª


    ¡®Bullshit,¡¯ Big Jay says, and I turn to see her shouldering her way through the door, hefting a big wooden crate. Her forehead¡¯s damp with sweat and her apron¡¯s smeared with dust.


    ¡¯S¡¯not bullshit,¡¯ Thesp sniffs. ¡®And you¡¯ve never been there so you don¡¯t know either way.¡¯


    Big Jay rolls her eyes as she lifts the crate onto the bar and begins to stack the new glass bottles.


    ¡®It¡¯s impossible, right?¡¯ I probe. ¡®To get into Top now. Since the wall was finished.¡¯


    ¡®Aye,¡¯ Thesp says, and frowns. ¡®What¡¯s gotten into you?¡¯


    ¡®But it can¡¯t be impossible,¡¯ I press. ¡®There¡¯s gotta be places where you can jump it. Or parts that aren¡¯t guarded, or have cracks or something. Right?¡¯ If anyone knows it¡¯s Thesp - he was once a student at the University in Top, before he got thrown out.


    Thesp massages his forehead with spindly, dirty fingers. ¡®Give it a bloody rest, Addie.¡¯


    I look up at Big Jay, who¡¯s clearly trying not to smile, and roll my eyes.


    Big Jay snorts.¡®Hangover¡¯s kicking in, is it?¡¯ she says - with remarkable pleasantry considering she threw him out not ten hours ago.


    ¡®No,¡¯ Thesp rasps, and puts his head back in his palms.


    I mooch around at the pub talking to Big Jay and manage to wheedle my way into helping her out with restocking, in exchange for a few free drinks tonight. It just makes me feel worse, like I¡¯m wasting more time, although I make sure to keep up a steady stream of cheerful conversation.


    What else am I supposed to do? I¡¯ve been thinking about it for months and I still don¡¯t know. Finn¡¯s got the repair shop. Big Jay¡¯s got the bar. Even Thesp seems to have found his calling as the local alcoholic. And then there¡¯s me. Occasional shitty thief who nearly got shot. I can¡¯t even do that well.


    Around six, before the sun sets, the Association lot trickle in. They look tired and pissed off. Like the Miners yesterday were saying, their hours have been extended, which means they start earlier in the day, and nobody likes a dawn wake-up. The pub transforms from a pale, grey room into a place full of light and sound and talking. My shoulders start to come down and I feel like I can breathe easier, like the air¡¯s gotten clearer, even as it fills with the acrid tang of pipe smoke.


    Tom comes in and that cheers me up too. He smiles wider when he catches sight of me, walks straight up to the bar where I¡¯m slouched over my second pint. ¡®Addie,¡¯ he grins, gesturing Big Jay for a drink.


    Her eyes flit from Tom to me and she has the nerve to wink. Again.


    I frown back pointedly, and then turn back to Tom with a neutral expression. ¡®Good day?¡¯


    He nods as he tugs his bar stool closer - so close I catch a faint whiff of the soap we have at the Den. ¡®Pretty good, yeah. They might offer me a job at the Association.¡¯


    The beer I was drinking meets the bar with a thud. ¡®The Association?¡¯ I echo, wide-eyed. ¡®Why do you want to work there?¡¯


    He rolls his eyes. ¡®Not as a miner, obviously.¡¯ The back of my neck prickles; I wish he¡¯d lower his voice. ¡®As an assistant. Of sorts. To do some clerk work, help out in the medbay. They need someone who can read and write, so I thought I¡¯d offer myself up.¡¯


    He looks excited and I¡¯m happy for him. But it also makes me feel a little¡­ uneasy. I can read and write. I never thought about going to the Association to see if they needed the help.


    Would I want to do that though? I don¡¯t like the Association. I don¡¯t like what it stands for.


    ¡®Yeah?¡¯ I say, trying to keep my thoughts off my face. ¡®Well. Congrats. That sounds good.¡¯


    Tom puts his hand on my knee, a warm, heavy weight. I go very, very still as my heart begins to splutter. ¡®I mean it¡¯s not a proper job,¡¯ he says, leaning in to be heard. Fuck fuck fuck. His eyes are dark and molten, staring into mine. ¡®But I like learning about it. The Pits. How it all works.¡¯


    I pull my thoughts together and try to put it diplomatically. Without stuttering. ¡®It¡¯s, uh, it¡¯s not looked upon as a good thing here.¡¯ I have to look away from his gaze, it¡¯s too intense. ¡®Nobody wants to join the Association. It¡¯s sort of a last option type thing.¡¯


    ¡®I know. But if I can earn some money to help you and Finn then I want to. You¡¯re letting me stay with you for free. And if it weren¡¯t for you both I¡¯d have probably gotten a knife in the back by the first week.¡¯ He grins, as though it¡¯s a funny joke.


    I can¡¯t quite bring myself to smile back. ¡®Nah,¡¯ I lie. ¡®You¡¯ve got a good head on your shoulders.¡¯


    Tom¡¯s grip tightens on my knee - I stop breathing - and then he leans back. Big Jay¡¯s come over with his drink, hollering over her shoulder to someone else. I try not to look disappointing.


    Tom takes the drink with an easy smile, and then looks round. ¡®It¡¯s busy tonight. Is there some kind of event?¡¯


    Some kind of event. He¡¯s so Mid sometimes. But he¡¯s right - it is weirdly busy for mid-week. I tune into the conversation the big group of lads at the end of the bar is having. Then I notice their black overalls and the white streaks in their hair and don¡¯t bother trying to overhear. ¡¯The Patchers have come in,¡¯ I explain. Big Jay¡¯s serving them with hearts in her eyes - they¡¯ve all ordered food, which¡¯ll be a tidy taking for her.


    Tom lights up with interest, like he does around anything related to Under. ¡®Patchers are the ones that fix the walls, right? They work with chemetal.¡¯


    I nod.


    ¡®Do you think any of them would talk to me about it?¡¯


    ¡®They¡¯ve just finished their shift,¡¯ I say after a beat. ¡®I¡¯d let them get another few drinks in them and then you can ask.¡¯ I¡¯ll need to make sure Finn or I are there. We¡¯ve been teaching Tom to soften his accent but he often forgets and ends up sounding like someone from Mid, and the Patchers won¡¯t like that.


    ¡®Right,¡¯ he says, peering over my shoulder. ¡®One of them¡¯s staring at you, by the way.¡¯


    I turn around. For a moment I can¡¯t see it, just the group of guys, talking, laughing. Then someone moves and I catch it.


    It¡¯s Jan. The crooked nose would do it, even if I didn¡¯t recognise the rest of him: thin, weedy, face like a kicked puppy. The nose is my fault, although it was a long time ago - decades. I raise my glass at him in a little cheers! motion. Jan¡¯s eyes grow wide and he stares harder. Guess he¡¯s still afraid of me.


    ¡¯Friend of yours?¡¯ Tom asks, following my gaze.


    ¡®We grew up together. He was in the Dorms with Finn and I. Bit of a creep though.¡¯


    Tom looks curious. ¡®A creep?¡¯


    ¡®He was always muttering to himself,¡¯ I say, trying not to sound like an asshole. ¡®And he was really into numbers. Apparently they spoke to him.¡¯


    Tom arches an eyebrow. It¡¯s unfairly attractive.


    ¡®Not like he was good at maths,¡¯ I go on. ¡®But like they actually spoke to him. He said maths was code from the gods. And he was really into rules. He once punched Finn for sneaking an older boy portion at dinner and broke his glasses.¡¯


    ¡®Right,¡¯ Tom says.


    I smirk. ¡®You still want to talk to him?¡¯


    ¡®As long as you¡¯re there to stop him punching me,¡¯ Tom says. ¡®He looks terrified of you.¡¯


    I look at Tom, his height, his athletic build. ¡¯You could take him,¡¯ I say, but Tom just laughs.


    It takes me another hour to decide it might be fun to set Tom loose. There¡¯s no point waiting for Finn - he¡¯s probably at home, sleeping off his migraine.


    We finish our drinks and wander toward the group of Patchers clustered at the end of the bar. Half of them are crammed around a large table cluttered with dirty plates, while the rest lean against the bar or walls. Most look to be in varying stages of drunk.


    Jan, as usual, hovers on the edges of the group conversation without contributing. His faint, giddy smile disappears soon as he sees me approaching and Tom snorts behind me.


    ¡®Alright Jan,¡¯ I say, all cheer. ¡®It¡¯s been a while, hasn¡¯t it?¡¯


    ¡®A-Addie,¡¯ he stutters out. I feel a prickle of guilt: in the bright light of the lamps, his nose really is crooked.


    ¡®This is Tom,¡¯ I gesture an introduction and Tom gives a polite nod. ¡®He¡¯s got some questions for you.¡¯


    ¡®Oh,¡¯ Jan mumbles, grip tightening around his pint. ¡®I¡­ uh¡­¡¯


    I clap him on the back and he almost drops the glass. ¡®Come on, Jan, he doesn¡¯t bite. He just wants to hear about your work.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯re not really supposed to¡ª¡¯


    ¡®¡ªBauman¡ª¡¯ someone slurs from the group nearby, and whatever Jan stutters out next goes unheard. My attention locks onto the conversation.


    The man speaking is loud, his East Under accent rough and slurred. His stringy, shoulder-length hair streaked white in places - a seasoned Patcher. ¡®They were tryna kill him! They¡¯re on our side. Could be any one of us!¡¯ He jabs a finger at his friend¡¯s chest and nearly falls over.


    His friend shoves him off, laughing. ¡¯No way. They just built it wrong. That¡¯s why it cracked.¡¯


    ¡®But why¡¯d it crack there, huh? Why there, in his garden.¡¯


    ¡®Addie¡­¡¯ Jan says nervously, but I shush him, leaning closer. They haven¡¯t noticed me yet and I want someone to mention Bauman again. That was the scientist Finn and Tom were talking about last night. Biomech. I haven¡¯t forgotten.


    I wet my lips, putting on a drunken grin, and raise my voice. ¡®Whose garden?¡¯


    The first man swivels, sways, and blinks at me. ¡®Bauman,¡¯ he says. ¡®The guy.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah,¡¯ his friend says.


    ¡®His garden cracked?¡¯ I ask.


    It gets me a laugh. ¡®Nah, nah,¡¯ the first man says. ¡¯The wall next to his garden. That¡¯s what we¡¯ve gotta patch tomorrow. Never mind there¡¯s been another crack in the East section.¡¯


    I infer he¡¯s talking about the East section of our wall - Under¡¯s wall.


    ¡®A wall in Bauman¡¯s garden cracked?¡¯ I repeat. He nods back and I nearly grin. Holy hell. I turn back to Jan, who¡¯s looking at me guardedly. Tom¡¯s raised eyebrows suggest he¡¯s already caught on. ¡®So Jan,¡¯ I say. ¡®Why don¡¯t we talk somewhere quieter? Catch up properly.¡¯


    ¡®Um,¡¯ Jan says. ¡®No, it¡¯s okay.¡¯


    I grab his clammy, cold hand and steer him away from the group.


    Tom follows, at least sensible enough to keep his voice lowered this time. ¡®Are you really thinking to¡ª¡¯


    ¡®That depends on Jan here,¡¯ I say, patting Jan¡¯s shoulder. Jan looks at me like I¡¯m the grim reaper, like he¡¯s considering calling for help. ¡®Loosen up!¡¯ I tell him. ¡®Tom, can you get the man another drink? On my tab.¡¯ I¡¯ve still got one left from the carrying I did for Big Jay earlier.


    Tom gives me a deeply unimpressed look - he doesn¡¯t like being ordered around - but turns back to the bar anyway.


    I sling my arm around Jan¡¯s shoulders. ¡®So, tell me about the job tomorrow.¡¯


    Jan stiffens like a board. I¡¯m almost offended. ¡®We¡¯re not supposed to talk about the job.¡¯


    ¡®Come on, it¡¯s just me,¡¯ I coax. ¡®We¡¯re old friends, aren¡¯t we?¡¯ Then I remember - a stroke of genius. ¡®Are you still seeing¡ª¡¯ it was M something, wasn¡¯t it?¡ª¡®Mennie,¡¯ I throw out. ¡®How she holding up?¡¯


    He goes even stiffer.


    ¡®Are her lungs still bad? Because you know Finn¡¯s been working on purifiers. We could get you one for her.¡¯


    I¡¯m kind of lying. We could¡­ we probably won¡¯t. Air purifiers are the kind of expensive none of us can afford. I don¡¯t even think Rodger has any in his shop - they¡¯re mostly sold in Mid. I muse, for half a second, about stealing one, then decide I can figure it out later.


    Lucky for me, it does the trick.


    ¡®Finn works on them?¡¯ Jan blurts out. He tugs out of my grip and rounds on me, puppy eyes wide. ¡®He can do that?¡¯


    ¡®Sure,¡¯ I say breezily. ¡®But I¡¯ll need a favour.¡¯


    Jan blinks. ¡®What favour?


    I tuck my curls behind my ears and pull out my best, most winning smile. ¡®I need you to get me into Top tomorrow.¡¯