CHAPTER ONE
Nate knew better than to slow down on the elevated rail, but he dropped to a crouch anyway. His stomach growled at the sound of fluttering wings. Picking up a sharp piece of broken pavement, he scanned the air to take aim.
A hoarse laugh escaped him. “Those aren’t gulls.”
Ribbons of fabric snapped in the smog-choked wind from laundry lines strung between corroded water towers. Staring at the frayed edge of a sheet stained with exhaust, he dropped the rock and absently rubbed the callus on his pointer finger. It’s not like he would have managed to hit the bird.
His hands ached.
So did his feet from keeping a brisk pace to dodge Gathos City commuter trains that never slowed down as they passed over the Withers.
Below, someone was shouting about spoiled sludge-rat broth. The ugly thuds and cries of a scuffle broke out. Nate spared a glance over the edge of the rail before a swoop of vertigo struck him. He pushed gritty hair behind his ears. High up or not, running the rails beat dealing with streets crowded with hunger and hurt.
The tracks shuddered.
Nate’s body went cold. A train growled at his back.
Fear jolted through him as he sprinted to the next support beam and swung down onto its rusty rungs. A pale girl scrambled down alongside him, narrowly avoiding getting flattened. They exchanged tight nods as the train blasted by, raining hot gravel down on them.
Shielding his eyes with one shaking hand, he dared a look at the blur of the commuter train, hungry for a glimpse of the beautiful gearwork. It was too fast to make anything out. And maybe that was how the Withers looked to the commuters—just a smear of faded color and decay.
Nate coughed against his arm. His chest ached sharply, and a thread of worry wound through him, bigger than the bitterness that struck him every time a train passed, carrying people who weren’t tired or scared.
It hasn’t even been a week.
He didn’t have time to go to Alden’s for help. If he reconciled himself to the mercy of Alden’s pace, he’d never get to the port before dark. And before he sold the tech-guts weighing his pockets, he had to sell the precious fishing line he’d bartered an afternoon of tinkering for. If he struck a good bargain, he could get enough credits to buy fresh greens. A month of dried meat and watery broth wasn’t doing the gang any good.
Another cough rattled his chest, and he grimaced.
“Lunger?” The girl covered her mouth with the back of her grubby hand and ducked away like she smelled something bad. She gestured to the faded, torn lung-rot quarantine poster on the support beam above them. Someone had drawn a dog peeing on the swirling Gathos City logo.
“Very funny.” Nate rolled his eyes. No one had lung-rot anymore.
As one of Gathos City’s experiments, he knew that better than anyone. His kind had been developed by scientists to fight the lung-rot outbreak, and later—when the lung-rot was gone—to be used up. Harvested by the wealthy. Kept endlessly asleep or left awake to participate in the horror of it. At least that’s what people said when they whispered about GEMs.
Even that word was nicer than the truth.Genetically Engineered Medi-tissue.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
She arched a bushy eyebrow. “What then?”
The stray thought of this girl somehow discovering what he was made him itchy to keep moving. He climbed back onto the rail with a groan, wishing he had the strength to rip the poster down, ball it up, and throw it at her face. “It’s nothing. Just the dust.”
She swung her wiry body up onto the concrete rail platform and tugged at the blue bandana around her neck. “You should wrap something around your face when you run the rails, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.” Nate wasn’t tall by any measure, and this girl only came up to his ears. Irritation—and fear he didn’t have time for—sharpened his tongue. “I’m older than you.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Only if you’re betting with sausage.”
She laughed. “I’d rather bet with my life than a piece of good meat.”
“I’m nineteen.” He was sixteen, but nineteen sounded more distinguished.
“Nineteen? That’s a funny name. I’m Val.” She took off with a limber jog.
Nate didn’t bother to catch up. The ease of her pace prickled at him. His boots felt like they were full of stones. “My name isn’t Nineteen, little brat!” he called out. “It’s Nate.”
