hands on my back. Instead, I punch him lightly on the arm. “Let’s get moving,” I tell him. “I don’t
fancy standing around in a dead woman’s clothes.”
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
—Captain, return to orders. COMMAND won’t stand for this. —RAM—
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, COMMAND CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 29 of Operation SHIELDWALL, Stage 2.
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: DRUMMER at REDACTED.
-No contact from LAMB in 2 days.
-Request permission to intercept.
-SHIELDWALL ahead of schedule. Island #3 operational but transit problematic. More
boats needed than previously thought.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: General REDACTED.
Designation: DRUMMER.
Origin: COMMAND at REDACTED.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-Permission to intercept granted, will relay further info re. her location.
-Use force if necessary. She was your suggestion and your mistake if things continue.
-Get RED WEB to Stage 2. Collab with other teams to begin removal.
-Will explore other transit options for #3.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
—LAMB get your ass in line, or it’s your head. —RAM—
Another message to the fire.
“Charming,” I mutter, watching the Colonel’s words burn up.
This time, Cara doesn’t bother to ask. But her lips purse into a thin line, holding back a torrent of
questions. Five days now since I’ve responded to any messages, official or otherwise. She obviously
knows something is afoot.
“Cara—,” I begin, but she holds up a hand.
“I don’t have clearance,” she replies. Her eyes meet mine with startling ferocity. “And I don’t
care to know what path you’re leading us down, so long as you think it’s the right one.”
A warmth fills my insides. I do my best to keep it from showing, but a bit of a smile bleeds out
anyways. My hand finds her shoulder, offering her the smallest touch of thanks.
“Don’t get sappy on me now, Captain.” She chuckles, tucking away the broadcaster.
“Will do.” I straighten, turning around to face the rest of my team. They cluster at the edge of the
steaming alley, a respectful distance away to allow for my private correspondences. To hide our
presence, Tristan and Rasha sit on the alley curb, facing the street beyond. They keep their hands out
and their hoods up, begging for food or money. Everyone slides past, looking elsewhere.
“Tye, Big Coop.” The pair in question steps forward. Tye tips her head, pointing her good ear at
me, while Big Coop lives up to the nickname. With a chest like a barrel and almost seven feet of
heavy muscle, he’s nearly twice the size of his brother, Little Coop. “Stay with Cara, keep the second
radio ready.”
She extends a hand, all but itching to get hold of our newest prize. One of three top-of-the-line,
techie-made, long-range secure radios, all swiped from the Corvium stores by Barrow’s light fingers.
I pass along the radio, though I keep the second tucked close. Barrow kept the third. Should he need to
get in touch. Not that he’s used it yet. Not that I’m keeping tally of his communications. Usually
Barrow just shows up when he wants to trade information, always without warning, slipping past
every spotter I put around the farmhouse. But today we’re beyond even his sly reach. Twenty-five
miles east, in the middle of Rocasta.
“As for the rest. Cristobel, Little Coop, you’re on over watch. Get high, get hidden. Usual
signals.”
Cris grins, showing a mouth of missing teeth. Punishment for “smirking” at her Silver master, back
when she was a twelve-year-old serving girl in a Trial mansion. Little Coop is just as eager. His size
and mousy demeanor, not to mention his brick wall of a brother, hide a skilled operative with a steel
spine. Needing nothing more, they set to their work. Little Coop picks a drain pipe, scrabbling up the
brick walls of the alley, while Cris scrambles to a fence, using it to boost herself onto a narrow
window ledge. Both disappear in moments, to follow us from the Rocastan rooftops.
“The rest of you, track your marks. Keep your ears open. Memorize movements. I want to know
everything from birthdays to shoe sizes. Gather whatever you can in the time we can.” The words are
familiar. Everyone knows why I called for this scout. But it serves as a rallying cry, one last thread
drawing us together. Tying them to your disobedience, you mean.
My fist curls, nails digging into my palm where no one can see. The sting erases the thought quite
nicely. As does the breeze sweeping through the alley. It stinks of garbage, but it’s cool at least,
blowing off Lake Eris to the north.
“The more we know about the Corvium supply convoy, the easier it’ll be to infiltrate.” As good a
reason as any to be here, to stay when all the Colonel does is tell me to leave. “Gates close at
sundown. Return to rally point within the hour. Understood?”
Their heads bob in taut unison, their eyes alive, bright, and eager.
A few blocks away, a clock tower chimes nine times. I move without thought, stepping through my
Guardsmen as they fall in line behind me. Tristan and Rasha are the last to stand. My lieutenant looks
bare without his rifle, but I know there’s a pistol on him somewhere, probably collecting sweat at the
base of his back.
We head into the street, a main avenue through the Red sector of the city. Safe for now, surrounded
by nothing more than Red homes and businesses, with few if any Silver officers to watch us pass. As
in Harbor Bay, Rocasta maintains its own Red Watch, to protect what Silvers won’t. Though we’re
heading for the same place, my team splits into their pairs, putting space between us. Can’t exactly
rove into the city center looking like a jumped-up assault squad, let alone a gang. Tristan keeps close
again, letting me lead us to our destination—the Iron Road. As in Corvium, the Road bisects Rocasta,
driving right through its heart like river through valley. As we get closer to the main thoroughfare,
traffic picks up. Late servants hurrying to the homes of their masters, volunteer watchmen returning
from their night posts, parents hustling their children to ramshackle schools.
And of course, more officers with every passing street. Their uniforms, black with silver trim, are
severe in the harsh sun of late spring, as are the gleaming guns and clubs at their waists. Funny, they
feel the need to wear uniforms, as if they’re at risk of being mistaken for Red. One of us. Not a
chance. Their skin, undershot with blue and gray, leached of everything alive, is distinguishing
enough. There is no Red on earth so cold as a Silver.
Ten yards ahead of us, Rasha stops so quickly her partner, Martenson, almost trips over her. No