Even now, I think back and marvel at the straightness of his shoulders and the lift of his chin. He knew why they were there, and that he had no way of protecting me and my sister. He could only tell me to find a moment—any moment—to escape.
His final words echo in my thoughts as we hide in the outer limits of Cardinia at dusk. Here, the city dwindles, the storefronts and apartments and parks making way for large factories and turbines. Massive waterwheels churn against the side of the inner walls, powered by a series of irrigation canals running over the top of the walls that pour water endlessly over the wheels. Billows of steam and smoke rise from the factories.
Here, there are no spectators, no crowds on the streets. Instead, I see workers dressed in gray and black, faces smeared with sweat and dirt as they walk in steady lines between buildings inside the factory grounds.
My father had always told me and Laeni to stay away from the edges of Cardinia. This is the prison district, and it runs in a large ring around the city. Criminals deemed unworthy of use in the lab complex come here instead. They are charged rent for their prison cells and must work to pay it off. The numbers never quite add up, though, so you always end up earning less than the rent of your cell costs. Some families manage to scrounge up enough money to pay the debt and help a prisoner finish their sentence. Most never do.
Even without the lengthening evening, we are swathed in shadows from the moment we draw close to the prison district. Towers loom high over us, spewing their steam, and enormous gears churn, generating the electricity that keeps the light bulbs burning bright throughout the city. Most of the workers have cloth draped across their heads to protect themselves from the constant rain of soot that stains the streets.
I guess it’s a good thing. At least I have an excuse to hide my face.
A short wall runs around the edge of the prison complex, and as we draw near to it, I see more soldiers there than I’ve ever seen outside of a warfront. They stand nearly shoulder to shoulder along the wall, their eyes turned out to the city streets. The only breaks come in the shape of a dozen open gates spaced out in regular intervals along the wall, through which lines of prisoners now shuffle back into the complex under heavy guard. They must be returning from work shifts outside the city, cleaning the streets or working in greenhouses outside the prison complex.
Jeran keeps a dark gray cloth looped around his own head, the fabric hiding his face from view, while I do the same. In this evening light,we blend into the shadows at the corner of a street as we watch the lines of prisoners move.
Above us, moving along the balcony ledges of the surrounding buildings, are Aramin and Adena.
I can’t help shaking my head in admiration. Even after being captured and subjected to the terror of the arena, they can still glide silently through the shadows of the city, their movements so subtle that sometimes even we lose track of where they are above us. Only now and then do I see a faint glint of light flash at us from the ledges. Adena, already back to crafting her makeshift gadgets, has polished Aramin’s newly acquired dagger enough to make it shine like a mirror. She uses it to communicate with us in the darkness, alerting us to where they are without giving away their position to anyone else.
Jeran tilts his face in their direction at Adena’s latest signal, then signs to them briefly. He glances at me. “They can see the top of the prison wall from where they are,” he whispers to me. “Adena says there are too many guards stationed at too regular of intervals.”
As we draw near, I catch myself unconsciously touching the collar of my shirt, underneath which my chest brand lies. Every prisoner has a brand. It tells the guards where they belong inside the complex, and it gains entrance into the complex. From there, they match the prisoner with a complex’s manager, who keeps track of who belongs in which prison block. My brand had assigned me to the turbine factories, where I worked ten-hour shifts pushing the pedals that powered the electric generators.
“Not if we find a way to bring those guards over to us,” I whisper back. “Give them some room to get in.”
Jeran thinks about this for a moment. “Do they keep a written tally of who works inside and outside the complex?” he asks.
I nod. “The workers allowed outside of the complex are tracked in great detail.”
He shakes his head, studying the sheer size of this district. It loops all the way around the city. “Even if some of us make it inside, how would we find Talin’s mother? That is, if she’s here at all? What if they moved her tonight to some other place?”
“They tend to divide the workers by their specialties,” I reply. “Talin’s mother is skilled in medicine. They might use her for the turbines or they might have her as a nurse to treat injuries the other prisoners sustain from the factories. We should head first for the prison infirmaries.”
“And what if they’re just holding her in there without assigning her to anything? What if they’re just punishing her?”
I shake my head. “Then they wouldn’t have taken her here. Constantine would have sent her to the labs. Torture is inefficient for the Federation in this district. They want to get something out of you here.”
Jeran nods, his eyes turning to the lines. His focus pauses on one some distance from us. Then he looks back up in Adena’s direction and signs again. “I’m telling them your idea of distracting the guards,” he whispers to me as he goes.
I wait in silence as Jeran watches for Adena’s signals. After a pause, he turns back to me, blushing, and wraps his head scarf tighter around himself.
“What?” I whisper.
Jeran just shakes his head, as if embarrassed. “Nothing,” he mutters. “That was Aramin responding this time, not Adena.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.” Jeran shrugs, his blush deepening. “He said he can tell it’s me from a mile away, and to readjust my disguise.”
Even through Jeran’s mumble, I can clearly hear Aramin’s gruff affection for him. I smile a little, my eyes darting up to the others. How closely Aramin must watch Jeran to be able to still decipher his little movements and graceful figure.
As I observe them, my mind returns to Talin. Hours earlier, I’d felt a tug of agony through our bond, sharp and bracing despite the distance between us and the fraying of our link. I’d stopped in my tracks, my face turning so pale that Jeran had asked me if I was okay.
The feeling dissipated the instant I’d tried to reach out to her, as if she had closed off her emotions to me. Since then, all I’ve gotten from her is a thin trickle of her pulse. Even that is laced with tension, everything about her coiled tight like a spring.
Something happened to her, and I don’t know what it is.
For once, my other voice attempts to soothe me.
