Page 13 of Silver Elite

Before the Coup, Mods could walk freely among society without anyone knowing the difference. Any stranger in a shop could be Modified. A classmate. A sanitation worker you greeted as you walked down the street.

General Redden changed all that, making it impossible for Mods to go unnoticed. After he imprisoned and subsequently executed President Severn, he marked the Aberrant, tattooing thin black bands around their left wrists—if they pledged loyalty. Those who didn’t received a second tattoo, a red band to indicate their prisoner status.

It could be easy to mistake Redden’s actions for mercy, even tolerance, if not for the fact that very few tattoos can be spotted on the Continent. In other words, the General’s preferred Mod is a dead one. He killed so many of us in the Silverblood Purge, tens of thousands, only sparing the ones he considered useful.

The woman in front of us is not a loyalist. Her wrist is both black and red.

She’s a slave.

I maintain a normal level of interest while inwardly grasping for every detail I can. She appears to be in her thirties. She’s short, slight. Her skin is paler than milk. Brown hair thick and curly.

She must be a powerful mind reader like Jayde Valence. No other reason the General would allow a Mod on his precious military base. Beneficial Mods are typically used as manpower and sent to labor camps, but not always. It’s no secret Redden is sickened by our blood and would rather all of us be eliminated, especially those with the gift of telepathy, as he believes they can plot against him more easily.

But he’s also not a fool. His strategist’s mind appreciates that some of us can be used as weapons, although I’m sure he much prefers the weapons who are loyal to him, like Jayde. Not that it matters either way. Even the loyalists who are allowed to live in society hold fewer rights than Primes. For a quarter century, unconcealed Mods have been second-class citizens.

My fellows whisper among themselves, their voices laced with disdain.

“Didn’t realize there were ’fects on this base.”

“Hope she doesn’t come too close.”

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms as I fight to keep my emotions in check. It’s a struggle to remain composed.

“This is Amira,” Struck introduces. “At the end of each class, she will be testing your shields.”

Shit.

A shiver races down my spine. How do I handle this? I can’t make my shield too strong, or she’ll wonder why it is. If I make it too weak, I risk her hearing my real thoughts.

“I don’t want this lab rat touching me,” Bryce announces, voicing what most of my fellows are thinking. Her shoulders are set in a straight, tense line.

“This doesn’t require physical touch,” Struck assures the recruit. “It’ll take less than a minute.”

“No,” she says stubbornly. “I’m not letting her read my mind.”

“Build a strong shield and she won’t be able to.”

“She’s not getting inside my head,” insists Bryce.

Struck picks up her tablet. “All right. As you wish, Granger. I’ll grant your request to be cut from the Program.”

Alarm widens Bryce’s eyes. “No! You can’t do that!”

“Then you’ll allow Amira to test your shield.”

“I’m going to talk to my father about this.” Desperation trembles in the young woman’s voice.

“You can talk to whoever you want. But in order to complete the Program, you have to complete shielding. And in order to do that, we need to test your shield.”

The Mod—Amira—stands there expressionless. Like a statue in her short-sleeved top and slim pants. I wonder if she’s forced to deal with this nonsense at the onset of every session.

“Anybody else have objections?” Struck asks the class.

Nobody speaks.

“Good.” She nods at Amira, who crosses the room toward an empty table in the very back. “We’ll start with Granger. Please go join Amira.”

The tall brunette is visibly ill as she rises from her chair. Her legs are actually shaking, and I almost feel sorry for her. I’m well aware that people are afraid of us. I’ve witnessed it myself in Hamlett, the fear and apprehension on villagers’ faces when they talk about Mods. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen someone this terrified to be in a Mod’s vicinity.

Everyone is curious, watching as Bryce sits down, arms folded tight to her chest, eyes downcast.

The entire exchange lasts all of thirty seconds. Amira studies Bryce for a moment, taps something on her tablet, and then dismisses the traumatized woman. Ivy, Bryce’s seatmate, is up next.

After a while, my fellows get bored. Watching a woman stare briefly at someone else isn’t the most stimulating of activities. Soon they occupy themselves by making disparaging comments about the Modified, some of which are outright lies.

“My aunt said their blood is toxic,” Betima’s seatmate says in an obnoxiously assertive tone. As if she’s speaking fact. “If they have an open wound and their blood gets into your bloodstream, it can instantly kill you.”

A snicker slips out.

She glances my way, frowning. “What?”

I shrug. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“My aunt said—”

“Your aunt is an idiot.”

Kaine chuckles, but I notice Lyddie isn’t smiling. She appears worried, her light-brown eyes darting to the back of the room where Amira now sits with Lash.

I lean closer. “You okay?”

She swallows, her face a tad pale. “I don’t like the idea of an Aberrant poking around in my brain.”

Too late, I almost say.

You’re not good enough.

I still think about Lyddie’s internal mantra. It still saddens me.

“And what if she touches me by accident?”

I can’t stop the disappointment that tightens my throat. I don’t know why I expected Lyddie to be more accepting. Maybe because I was starting to view her as a friend, and my friends would never worry about the dangers of me touching them.

I have to remind myself that she is a product of her upbringing. Her mother works for the Company. Her father, the Command. She was raised to hate and fear me.

But it still hurts a little.

“They can’t control your mind by touching you,” I assure her.

“You don’t know that.”

“We would absolutely know if that were the case. If their touch was harmful, then we’d have records of that, right?”

I turn to Betima for backup, but she doesn’t seem comfortable with the discussion. When I glance at Kaine, his expression is stoic.

“Holy hellfuck, you guys, they’re not monsters!” I say in exasperation.

Lyddie’s eyebrows soar, and my stomach drops when I notice the attention I’ve attracted. A few tables away, Roe frowns at me. Bryce twists in her chair, aghast.

I backpedal as fast as I can. “All I’m saying is, they’re still human beings. Not mutants, but human. That means we can fight them like we would any other human. They’re not going to shoot thunderbolts out of their eye sockets or melt your skin with their touch—”

“Darlington, you’re up,” Tyler Struck says, and I’ve never been more grateful to exit a conversation.

I hop out of my chair and walk toward Amira. She has gentle eyes. Too gentle. How are they not burning with anger? Blazing from the injustice?

Guilt tickles my stomach when I realize I’m judging her. I shouldn’t do that. Maybe she’s like me. Biding her time. Inwardly scrambling to find a way out of her predicament.

As I approach the table, something inside me shifts. The temptation to reach out to her, to reveal myself and link, is overwhelming. I can feel the pull of her presence. I can taste the desire to connect with someone who understands.

Don’t you dare.

I lower myself onto the chair in front of her and construct a flimsy shield. Nothing that will raise suspicion. At the same time, I decoy my mind, emptying it of all thoughts save for how much I miss my horse, Kelley.

I know the moment she pierces the shield from the electronic shock that jolts through my neck. I convey nothing but ignorance to the intrusion, but I can’t pretend not to notice the way her veins begin undulating beneath her flesh. Her arms glow under the glare of the fluorescent lighting.

“Decent,” she acknowledges after about thirty seconds. I feel the path close, and her veins settle in her arms. “But easily penetrated.” She offers a placid smile. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. She sounds sweet.”

“She is.”

My gaze drops to the tattoos around her wrist.

How long has she been a slave?

I want to ask her. I want to know whether she’s tried to escape before. A thousand questions burn on my tongue.

As she lowers her head to record something on her tablet, a more dangerous emotion begins to take hold. The lure is back. The desperate longing to open a path.

I take a breath.

Why not do it? She’s a prisoner. She won’t have loyalty to these people. She’ll want to know she’s not alone here—

“Sutler, you’re up.”

Our instructor’s voice breaks through the haze of my thoughts. My senses snap back into focus, and clarity washes over me like a cold wave, jolting me back to reality and the asinine decision I almost made.

What is wrong with me?

On what planet is it a good idea to link with this woman?

In public.

While she’s wearing short sleeves.

I return to my table, where I give Lyddie’s shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze. “See?” I tell her. “No harm done.”

—

There’s a film screening in the common room tonight. More Company propaganda, I presume. Lyddie said it’s about aliens, but I’m sure they’ll find a way to villainize the Mods. Those disgusting silverbloods that ruined society.

While everyone in Black Cell congregates there after evening meal, I return to the bunks instead. My mind is troubled tonight. Or rather, it’s been troubled all day. The anxiety started with Tana’s warning not to return to Ward Z and only intensified after shielding class.

I can still see that word on the holoscreen. Inciters. I can hear Tyler Struck calling me a monster.

Tana is wrong. It’s not safer for me here. How can it be when I possess the one power that will invite no mercy from my enemies? If I were a healer, they would want to use me. If I were a powerful mind reader like Jayde, I’d be the General’s pet.

But I drew the short stick in the mutation lottery.

If they discover what I can do, they’ll kill me. And I have absolutely no control over whether they find out. Stir up my emotions violently enough, and I might incite without warning. Reveal myself against my own will. Or worse…unintentionally hurt someone I care about. Maybe even kill them.

When I feel Wolf trying to link, I cling to that thread of energy like I’m drowning and it’s a life preserver. Anything to derail the train of thought I’ve been careening toward.

“Hey, Daisy.” His weariness engulfs my senses.

“Well, shit. You sound as done as I feel.”

“I am. So fucking done.” He sighs. “It’s been a long day.”

“Everything keen?”

“For the most part. What are you doing right now?”

“Thinking.” I settle onto my back and rest my head against my pillow. “Remembering.”

“Hmm. What are we remembering?”

“How I almost killed my father that one time.”

His answering laugh holds a wry note. “Ah. I remember that. When you were thirteen? Fourteen?”

“Fourteen,” I confirm.

“You realize you didn’t do it on purpose, right?”

He’s not wrong—it was entirely accidental. He just happens to be missing about, oh, all the context.

I adore Wolf, but what I share with him will always be partially redacted. He doesn’t know that the father I often refer to is Jim, who wasn’t even blood-related to me.

He doesn’t know I possess more than the power of telepathy.

And he certainly doesn’t know that the night Jim’s truck flew off the road and rolled half a dozen times before coming to a stop in a heap of crushed metal…it happened because I incited Jim to do it.

“Of course I realize it,” I answer.

“The roads were wet. You hit the gas too hard and skidded off the shoulder.”

There wasn’t a drop of rain that night. And I wasn’t in the driver’s seat.

“It was an accident,” Wolf says.

It was a moment of raw, immature rage.

Uncle Jim had dragged me out of the town square where Tana and I had been sharing some pints of ale with a few Hamlett boys. Much older boys. He humiliated me in front of my friends. Hauled me over his shoulder and threw me into the passenger side of the truck while I cursed and shouted at him. He ignored my protests and started driving home. Didn’t even look at me as I growled for him to turn the truck around and take me back to my friends.

We were halfway to the ranch when my frustration spilled over. When I yelled out the angry command. “Turn the truck around now !”

And he did. Giving the steering wheel a tug so sharp and abrupt that our truck flipped itself over.

“I’m aware of all this,” I tell Wolf. “But that doesn’t negate how terrifying it was. We were lucky to be alive.”

Jim was lucky to be alive.

I always wondered if he’d have preferred I died that night. I know he loved me, but…I was a burden to him. I know I was.

I press my lips together to suppress a sob and distract myself by lobbing an accusation at Wolf.

“Somehow you always turn conversations around to make them about me. Tell me why you sound so exhausted tonight.”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m in the same place you were in on Liberty Day. Tired of it all. Pretending to be normal, hiding what I am…it’s draining.” There’s a long pause. “Every day, I feel like I’m losing a part of myself.”

It’s a rare glimpse of vulnerability from Wolf. I know how he feels, though. Sometimes the weight of my abilities presses down so heavy on my chest, it’s hard to breathe.

“It wears on you,” I agree. “Always looking over your shoulder, always second-guessing everything you say and do.” I bite my lip and stare at the ceiling. “How long do you think a person can keep doing that before they break?”

“We won’t break.”

He sounds very confident of that.

“No?”

“Nah, Daisy. We have each other. We’ll keep each other strong.”

His words are a balm to my weary soul. But that sense of contentedness doesn’t last. After he retreats from my mind, I’m left feeling trapped and restless again.

I slide off the bed and head for the door. Voices travel out of the common room. The film is still playing. I walk in the opposite direction toward the exit of the building. I’m very aware of the cameras affixed to the ceiling, tracking my movements.

When I emerge outside, I jolt in surprise at the sight of Kaine sitting at the bottom of the short steps, his source in hand.

“Reading anything interesting?” I call out.

He twists his blond head to look at me. “Not in the slightest.”

“Do you want to take a walk?”

“Sure.” Tucking his source in his back pocket, he waits for me to descend the stairs and then holds out his hand.

I stare at it.

“What?” Kaine says.

“What are you doing?”

“If we’re going to take a romantic walk together, Darlington, we should hold hands.”

A snicker pops out. “Hold your own damn hand.”

Those green eyes twinkle as we wander away from the barracks.

The night is unnaturally quiet, considering it’s barely nine o’clock. I expected to see more activity. To hear more voices carrying in the darkness. But the only sounds are my soft breathing and the distant hum of the security force field that marks the perimeter of the base. I try to ignore the guard towers looming over us, the sensation of being watched, not just by the sentries but by the blinking cameras all around us as well.

Kaine is quiet, too. I wait for a flirty remark, but his gaze is focused straight ahead, his hands tucked loosely into the front pockets of his uniform pants. I follow his lead and stay silent.

We meander our way toward the east quadrant, where several supply warehouses sit in the shadows. Beyond them is one of the base’s delivery gates. As we approach, I finally hear some voices. Male. They waft through the open door of a small outbuilding with a gray exterior.

Tension snaps my shoulders straight. The door isn’t the only thing that’s open in our vicinity.

So is the delivery gate.

And there’s a motorcycle standing unattended just beside it.