In the hall, I find a new Loyalist guard on duty. When I ask him to see my family, he says he knows nothing about that. When I ask where Reed went, he says he’s unsure. When I ask him if there’s anything he actually does know, he ignores me.
I pace my room for the better part of the morning, rewarded with a sip from the cup around noon. The gathered water is no deeper than the height of my pinkie nail, but it is clean and odorless, and I gulp it down with confidence. I’ve only just dropped the curtain in place when Reed strides into the room carrying a plate of food, his ram-skull mask still pushed back on his forehead. I’m beginning to wonder if he ever actually wears it outside gunner patrol. I take a step away from him, my hip grazing the window ledge, not sure which I’m more afraid of: his presence or the possibility of him finding the inverted well.
“I’ve been told to take you to see your family,” he says dryly. I’m surprised I didn’t have to fight to see them, and it must read on my face, because he adds, “The General keeps his promises. All of them.” He says this last bit with a pointed look, and I know he’s talking about the threat against my mother. “Food first, before we go.” Reed holds out the plate of melon and a single fried egg. It smells divine, and I hate that my traitorous stomach growls at the sight of it. I doubt my pack is eating so well.
“I’ll eat while we walk,” I say, wanting to put distance between us and the pitcher on my window ledge.
He shrugs, and I follow him through the halls, shoveling food into my mouth as we go. I can’t remember the last time I had melon. Maybe as a kid of four or five? The traders haven’t brought it in ages, and we sure couldn’t grow it at Dead River. I lick my lips after eating, practically moaning. To think something this ripe and sweet grew from wasteland soil just several days’ journey from my home.
When we step from the Backbone’s sprawling network of tunnels, Reed pulls his ram-skull mask down to shield his eyes. I squint.
A shrill kree-kree sounds overhead, and a shadow flicks over the ground before Reed’s falcon settles on his shoulder. He turns toward the animal, and I catch a smile on his face as the bird nips playfully at the nose of his mask. “Go on, get outta here.” He jerks his arm, and the bird lifts back into the sky.
“You get a pet if you do all the General’s bidding?” I ask.
He ignores me.
Making our way up the large dirt path that divides the crop fields, I take him in properly for the first time. He’s about a head taller than I am, but the horns on his skull make it feel like more. Unlike the General’s clothes, Reed’s are stained with dust and dirt. There’s a patch on his left elbow. His boots have been mended several times, and the leather ties that wrap up his calves are varying shades. A modified rifle hangs across his back. I’ve never shot one, but it’s tempting to imagine taking it from him. Of course, there are gunners positioned along the rim of the dam, surrounding all of Bedrock, their eyes and barrels scanning the masses. In my weakened state, I probably couldn’t even get the weapon from Reed. Along his shoulders and elbows, there are spikes secured into his leather jacket. One well-placed jab, and I’d go down.
One way in, no way out. He controls everything.
I glance over my shoulder. The Backbone is dizzying from this angle, a towering city that climbs toward the heavens. In the uppermost window, just beside the waterfall, I can make out a figure. Something glints in the sunlight, along the person’s front. The General. His chain necklace.
I look away, scanning the other windows quickly as I bring my gaze back to level ground. There must be hundreds of these windows, and many of the ledges hold what appear to be potted plants. It’s a small bright spot. My pitcher setup will be almost impossible for a guard along the dam to find suspicious.
“This way,” Reed says, stepping from the dirt road onto a network of paths that snake through the fields. I follow him through a patch of melons, then tomatoes, peppers, and squash. Stalks of corn. Potato and turnip plants that look twice as healthy as ours back home, and another patch of vines with deep green leaves and orange flowers the size of my hand. The petals are long and slender, almost paper-thin. I’ve never seen such a plant, and I wonder what sort of fruit the flower will yield.
It’s a miracle, all this food. Not only that it is growing, but the sheer variety of it. More than I’ve ever seen in a single settlement. More than seems possible to maintain.
Overseers patrol the fields, flicking switches at workers who dawdle. Reed steps around them, nodding to the guards but never bothering to look at the people huddled near his feet.
Women workers easily outnumber the men, and they range from young to old, whereas most of the men appear elderly. Probably because the Loyalist army absorbs the younger, agile men. All the workers wear threadbare clothes stained with sweat. The backs of their necks have darkened to deep russet and brown. A few wear broad-brimmed woven hats to fend off the rays, but what they really need is the protection the guards get; brush-made canopies shield the overseers, allowing them to bark orders from the shade.
The General claimed that everyone is here willingly, but no one with choices elects to get whacked with a switch.
“Almost there,” Reed says, stepping over the heels of a young worker who has knelt to gather pea pods. She glances up at me, and when the brim of her hat lifts, I’m struck by the lifelessness in her eyes. They don’t communicate fear or helplessness. They’re not even tired. Her eyes just look . . . empty. As if she’s already left this life and is halfway to another.
“Do you want to see them or not?” Reed snaps.
I look up, realizing that I have stopped in my tracks. Reed is several paces ahead, beneath the shade of the next canopy. The overseer is even deeper in the fields, jabbing his switch into the side of one of the workers.
The woman straightens, brushing sweat from her brow with her forearm. Her clothes are caked with dust, and the yellowed remnants of a bad bruise encircles one of her eyes.
It’s Ma.
I run, leaping over the legs of workers and straight into her arms. With my cheek against her chest, I listen to the thrum of her heart, the very realness of her. She’s okay. Her arms come around me, and she holds me for a moment before pushing me back so she can cup my face with her hands. “Indie?” she asks.
I shake my head, and tears gather in her eyes. I feel a brief jolt of relief; at least she’s hydrated enough to cry.
“The baby?”
“A girl. I’ve been calling her Bay. The General has her somewhere. A guard mentioned a nursery when I was brought in.”
“How’d you find us?”
“I was traveling to Powder Town to ask after you. Got caught along the way.” I can’t bring myself to say Asher was involved. Mentioning that he’s alive will only prompt her to ask questions, and I have too many of my own that need to be answered first. “They tried to sell me in the Barrel, but a gunner saw the brand, brought me to the General.”
I expect her eyes to widen at this, expect fear to lace her features, but she barely even blinks. Her gaze has skirted back to the peas she’s been gathering, her basket nearly full. She kneels and begins harvesting again. I drop beside her.
“What happened, Ma? Old Fang mentioned an attack. Why did they attack?”