RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
It took longer to get here than I anticipated. Not to mention the fact that I came alone.
After the bombing in Archeon, travel is difficult, even through our usual channels. Whistle cargo boats and transports are harder to come by. And getting into cities, even Rocasta, is no mean feat. Reds must present identity cards or even their blood at different checkpoints entering the city, checkpoints I must avoid at all cost. Even though my face was masked, hidden in the video during which I announced the presence of the Scarlet Guard to the entire country, I can’t take any chances.
I even shaved my head, parting with the long blond braid clearly visible in that broadcast.
Crance, the Mariner working the supply convoy, had to smuggle me in, and it took a great amount of back channeling to get him to agree. Even so, I managed to get into the city proper in one piece, my radio firmly tucked into my waistband.
Red sector. Marketgrove.
That’s where Shade wanted to meet, and that’s where I must get to. I don’t dare cover or hood my face, which would give anyone a better clue as to my identity. Instead, I wear shaded glasses, hiding the one part of my face anyone saw in the video. Still, I feel risk in every step. Risk is part of the game. But somehow, my fear isn’t for myself. I’ve done my part, more than my part, for the Scarlet Guard. I could die now and be considered a successful operative. My name would go into someone’s correspondence, Tristan’s probably, clicked out in dots for the Colonel to read.
I wonder if he would mourn.
It’s cloudy today and the mood of the city reflects the weather. And the bombing is on everyone’s lips, in everyone’s eyes. The Reds are a strange mix of hopeful and downcast, some openly whispering about this so-called Scarlet Guard. But many, the old especially, scowl at their children, scolding them for believing our nonsense, telling them it will bring more trouble to their people. I’m not stupid enough to stop and argue.
Marketgrove is deep in the Red sector, but still crawling with Silver Security officers. Today they look like wolves on the prowl, their guns in hand rather than holster. I heard news of riots in the major cities, Silver citizens going after any Reds they could get their hands on, blaming everyone they could for the Scarlet Guard’s deeds. But something tells me these officers aren’t here to protect my people. They only want to instill fear and keep us quiet.
But even they can’t stop the whispers.
“Who are they?”
“The Scarlet Guard.”
“Never heard of the like.”
“Did you see? West Archeon in flames—”
“—but no one was hurt—”
“—they’ll bring more trouble—”
“—worse and worse times—”
“—blaming us for it—”
“I want to find them.”
“Farley.”
The last is a warm breath against the shell of my ear, his voice familiar as my own face. I turn instinctually and pull Shade into a hug, surprising both of us.
“Good to see you too,” he mutters.
“Let’s get you out of here,” I murmur as I pull back. When I look at him properly, I realize the last few weeks have not been kind. His face is pale, his expression drawn, and dark circles ring his eyes. “What happened?”
He tucks my arm in his and I let him lead us through the crowd dutifully walking the market. We look like anyone. “A transfer, to the Storm Legion, to the front.”
“Punishment?”
But Shade shakes his head. “Not for passing information. They still don’t know I’m the leak or that I’m bleeding everything to the Guard. No, this order is strange.”
“Strange how?”
“A general’s request. High up. For me, an aide. It makes no sense. Just like something else doesn’t make any sense.” His eyes narrow pointedly, and I nod. “I think they know, and I think they’re going to get rid of me.”
I swallow hard and hope he doesn’t notice. My fear for him cannot be construed as anything but professional. “Then we’ll execute you first, say you ran off and got shot for deserting. Eastree can falsify the documents like she does with other assets. And besides, it’s high time we moved you anyways.”
“Do you have any idea where that might be?”
“You’ll be going to Trial, across the border. That shouldn’t be too difficult for someone with your skills.”
“I’m not invincible. I can’t jump hundreds of miles, or even, well, navigate myself that far. Can you?” he mumbles.
I have to smile. Crance should work. “I think I can secure you a map and a guide.”
“You’re not coming?” I tell myself I’m imagining the disappointment in his voice.
“I have other business to handle first. Careful,” I add, noting a cluster of officers up ahead. Shade’s arm tightens on mine, pulling me closer. He’ll jump if he has to, and I’ll get sick all over my boots again.
“Try not to make me sick this time,” I grumble, drawing his crooked grin.
But there’s no need for his trepidation. The officers are focused elsewhere, on a cracked video screen, likely the only one in the Red market. Used for official broadcasts, but there isn’t anything official about what they’re watching.
“Forgot Queenstrial was today,” one of them says, leaning forward to squint at the picture. It blurs occasionally. “Couldn’t get a better set for us, eh, Marcos?”
Marcos flushes gray, annoyed. “This is Red sector, what did you expect? You’re welcome to go back to rounds if this doesn’t satisfy!”
Queenstrial. I remember something about the word. In the briefing on Norta, the packet of cobbled-together information the Colonel made me read before I was sent here. Something about princes—choosing brides, maybe. I wrinkle my nose at the idea, but somehow I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen as we get closer and closer.
On it, a girl in black leather demonstrates her storied abilities. Magnetron, I realize as she manipulates the metal of whatever arena she’s been dropped into.
Then a flash of red drops across the screen, landing hard against the electric shield separating the magnetron girl from the rest of the Silver elite watching her display.
The officers gasp in unison. One of them even turns away. “I don’t want to see this,” he groans, as if he’s about to be sick.
Shade is rooted to the spot, his eyes hard on the screen, watching the red blotch. His grip tightens on me, forcing me to look. The blotch has a face. His sister.
Mare Barrow.
He goes cold against me as the lightning swallows her whole.
“It should have killed her.”
Shade’s hands are shaking and he has to crouch in the alley to keep the rest from following suit. I drop to my knees next to him, one hand on his shivering arm.
“It should have killed her,” he says again, his eyes wide and hollow.
I don’t need to ask to know he’s replaying the scene in his head, over and over again. His young sister falling into the Queenstrial arena. To her death under all circumstances. But Mare didn’t die. She was electrocuted on camera, but she didn’t die.
“She’s alive, Shade,” I tell him, turning his face to mine. “You saw yourself, she got up and ran.”