Page 3 of Silver Elite

“Tana! They took Jim.”

For the first time all morning, she answers.

“Who?” She sounds horrified.

“Command. Why didn’t you warn us?”

Tana is the first line of defense between us and the Command, since no one can get to the ranch without first passing through Hamlett, where every unit must stop to check in with our controller. That’s how we’ve been able to keep Jim under the radar all these years. A projector, Tana has saved my uncle’s hide more than once. Whenever soldiers arrive in the village, she projects their faces for us, and if Jim has even a trace of recognition, he rides into the mountains while I ruefully inform the inspecting soldiers that my uncle is out with the herd and won’t be back till morning. The system’s worked well for us. Until now.

“I was asleep. Never been so hungover in my life. And anyway, it didn’t even occur to me there might be an inspection on a weekend.”

Because it wasn’t an inspection. They came to the ranch for the sole purpose of watching me shoot. Because I was stupid enough to fire my rifle in front of a soldier.

This is all my fault.

“They’re gone now, but they left one guy behind. Waiting for me, I guess.”

“You can’t go back there.”

“No shit. I’m going to make my way to you. I’ll use the tunnel.”

“I’ll tell my father.”

I cut the link and hop back in the saddle. My brisk ride to the lean-to in the northern pass is fueled by sheer panic. Luckily, I have no need to return to the house. Uncle Jim and I are drowning in contingency plans.

At the back of the wooden lean-to is a trapdoor, which I crank open to reveal the metal ramp below. I crouch and slide my way down the ramp toward the dusty corner where we stashed the bike. The crawl space isn’t much taller than the motorcycle, so I’m stuck in that crouched position as I roll it up the ramp, along with a canvas go-bag. I check the bike’s solar battery to ensure it has a charge. My bag contains extras in case I need them.

Outside, I warily study the approaching clouds, thick and gray. Hopefully not an omen of things to come. I tear my gaze off the darkening sky and run my hand over Kelley’s coarse mane.

“Go home, girl.”

I smack her on the rump, and off she goes. She knows her way back. I just pray the soldier stationed down there isn’t trigger-happy. If he kills my beloved mare, I’m going to hunt him down, put a bullet in his skull, and then hunt his ghost down, too.

I take the back roads to the village, stashing the bike in a metal shed behind a small brick home whose owners died a couple of years back. The house hasn’t been assigned to anyone else yet, so it’s stood abandoned ever since. The shed is a network drop location, conveniently located less than fifty yards from the edge of the forest.

I’m about to exit the shed when I hear it. A low, mechanical buzz, like the vibration of a hummingbird’s wings, if those wings were metal.

Surveillance drone.

Heart pounding, I duck inside and plaster myself against the wall. The surveillance cameras in the wards are omnipresent, their unblinking gaze a reminder of the Company’s ever-watchful eye. From the corner of my own eye, I catch the shadowy movements of the drone as it hovers near the dirty window at the back of the shed. It’s rare to see a drone this close to Hamlett. We’re a small, inconsequential village. Hardly worthy of attention.

Until now, I suppose. Until the infamous Julian Ash was discovered to be hiding out in this small, inconsequential village.

Thanks to me.

I ignore the wild hammering of my pulse and wait until I can no longer hear the drone. Then I take a tentative step, peering out the door. When I glimpse the gray blur in the sky, buzzing away in the opposite direction, I nearly keel over with relief.

Now. I need to go now.

Without wasting another second, I sprint toward the forest.

A long time ago, someone dug a tunnel system beneath these woods, back when political tensions were running especially high. Ironically, this is a Prime tunnel. Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter who your leaders are—they’re all assholes. President Severn, who ruled before General Redden, was a Mod who believed we were a superior new race. After decades of being persecuted themselves, he and his followers decided it would be a good idea to do the same to the Primes. Fools. Nothing good ever comes from the notion that one group is better than another. I can’t stand General Merrick Redden, but I don’t hate all Primes. Good ones do exist.

Like the one who meets me at the end of the tunnel. Tana’s father, Griff, isn’t Modified like his daughter. But he’s loyal to Tana and the network.

“Tana told me what happened,” Griff says, bending down to hug me. He’s a huge man with a shaved head and bushy beard, and I welcome his warm, safe embrace. “Are you all right? Have you spoken to him?”

“No. He’s not letting me link.”

Concern wells up inside me. Chances are, Jim’s keeping our link closed because he thinks he’s protecting me. But it could also mean something else. Something more dire. Like he’s unconscious.

Or dead.

No. He can’t be. I still feel his energy when I open a path to him. I can still follow that thread between our minds. Jim once told me that when someone dies, their signature completely disappears. You’re not supposed to feel them at all anymore.

I feel him, damn it.

“Do you know where they’re taking him?” Griff asks.

“To the city, I presume. One of the officers recognized him. They know he’s a Command deserter.” Panic bubbles in my throat. “They’re going to kill him.”

“Maybe not. Might send him to one of the camps.”

Uncle Jim would slit his own throat before he allowed himself to become a labor slave for the Company.

“There’s a soldier stationed at the house waiting for me. They’re going to want to talk to me.”

“They will. So we get you out of here. The network has a safe house in S. We can start there, then move our way south.”

“No way. I’m not running. I’m going to the city to rescue Jim.”

“Wren.” His tone is firm. “That’s not an option, you hear me? If he was a prisoner in a labor camp, the network would certainly attempt a rescue. But he’s being taken to the Point. He’ll have to face the Tribunal.”

The Tribunal is the only system of justice on the Continent, comprising a small council of men and women who decide the fate of an accused, usually on the spot and with very little background to go on. Anyone found guilty is sentenced to either death or labor. From what I’ve heard, the only time the Tribunal sets a guilty person free is if that person happens to be one of the General’s loyal supporters. Those crimes get a slap on the wrist and a stern don’t do it again.

“I don’t care.” I shake my head stubbornly. “I’m getting to the city one way or another. The question is, are you going to help me, or do I need to do this alone?”

Griff lets out a breath. “I’ll contact the network.”

—

The Uprising secures me a leisure pass and a ticket on the next speed train to Sanctum Point, or the Point as everyone calls it. Scanning my thumb at the train station is a nerve-racking affair, because our contact at the network discovered my ID had already been flagged. Fortunately, over the years, the Uprising has successfully infiltrated every level in the Company, including Intelligence. Ten minutes before I board the train, our operative hacks into my file to lift the flag. She does it under the guise of a system glitch and warns us the system will reset itself in six hours. That gives me just enough time to reach the city. Once I’m there, the flag will return and I’ll be designated a person of interest again. Which means keeping a low profile at all costs.

Despite the assurance that my ID is safe for the moment, I’m still anxious when I’m scanned for a second time after I board the train. It’s standard procedure, along with the request to press my thumb to the attendant’s screen.

Several decades ago, someone in the government tried to implement a more cutting-edge approach to identity checks: microchips embedded under the skin. But not only did the chips fail to work on Modified people, something about the human body’s natural electric impulses kept shorting out the microchips even in Primes. The method wasn’t reliable, so they scrapped that program.

I find an empty seat in the back row of the middle car. I feel naked without my rifle—hell, at this point I’d kill for a dull switchblade—but bringing weapons onto a civilian train is impossible. You pass two security checks just to enter the station. I keep my gaze downward, pretending to read on my comm. It’s a four-hour ride, and I resist the urge to tap my foot the entire time. The Command would’ve brought Jim in on one of their jets, not the train. He might’ve already faced the Tribunal by now. My attempts to contact him telepathically continue to be rejected. Either he’s purposely not allowing me to link, or he’s unable to.

My thoughts wander, morphing into memories. One in particular. The first time Uncle Jim taught me how to create a path from my mind to his. A few weeks after we fled the city, he sat me down on the grass outside our Blacklands hut and told me to close my eyes. To imagine my mind was a vast empty space.

“People like us are fueled by energy,” he explained, as if a five-year-old was capable of truly grasping the concept. “But the brain can’t see that energy, so it creates images to represent it. Do you understand what I mean?”

“No.” I’d given him a petulant look.

He sighed. “Let me show you.”

His deep voice grew almost hypnotic as he ordered me to close my eyes again so he could show me how to find the path.

“Nothing but darkness, Wren. You can’t see anything but a silver rope. Do you see the rope?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Picture it stretching out in front of you. And at the very end of it is a silver light. Do you see the light? Good. You’re going to bend down and pick up the rope, wrap your hand around it. That’s your path, keen? From the rope to the light. You’re going to follow the path.”

“Follow it where?” I’d asked in confusion.

“Into my mind,” he answered. “Are you at the light? Good job. What do you feel now?”

A soft whimper came out. “I don’t like it. It feels…heavy. It makes my head hurt.”

“You’re feeling the pressure build up. It’s my shield protecting me from you. Try to picture the shield. It looks like a metal wall, doesn’t it? Thick steel.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s—”

“And there’s gold sparkles floating in the air. It’s pretty.”

He didn’t speak for so long that I cranked my eyelids open. Uncle Jim’s brow was furrowed. He looked uneasy. But when our gazes locked, he gave a fast nod and returned to the lesson.

“Next time, I’ll teach you how to search for cracks in someone’s shield. But right now, I’m going to lower mine so we can practice. Close your eyes again. Step into the silver light.”

I did what he said, and he cursed suddenly, startling me. My eyes popped open in time to catch him rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s all right,” he assured me when he noticed my concern. “Let’s keep going. You’re inside my mind now. I feel you there. Eyes closed, Wren. There you go. The most important thing you need to know about the Modified—about people like us—is that our minds have two frequencies.”

Keeping my lids squeezed shut, I mumbled, “I don’t know what ferkencies is.”

“Frequencies. Like…” He paused. “Ocean waves. One wave gives off positive energy—that’s for talking. The other gives off negative energy—that’s for listening. The first thing you’ll see when you break through someone’s shield is an open door. Beyond the door, black waves are trying to push you out. Do you see them, little bird?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good—”

“What is down the hallway?” I interjected.

Another long pause.

He cleared his throat. “Ignore it for now. Focus on the black waves. Push your way through them until they clear up and then tell me what you hear.”

I remember concentrating so hard, my closed eyelids began to twitch. Jim hadn’t expected me to succeed on the first try. Children rarely do. So he was visibly shocked when I squeezed past the waves of negative energy trying hard to repel me. My expression bloomed with joy.

“You’re proud of me.” I bit my lip, straining to hear more of his thoughts. “You’re—”

My happiness faded.

“You’re ’fraid of me,” I accused.

“No,” Jim corrected, his voice gruff. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid for you, little bird.”

I didn’t understand, back then, what he meant by that.

He cleared his throat. “All right. That’s how you read a mind. Now walk back through the door and go toward the hallway you saw. Follow that positive energy wave. That’s your second frequency. It’s where we establish a link so we can use telepathy.”

“What’s tellepappy?”

“Telepathy. It means we can talk to each other in our minds. And once we form a link, it doesn’t matter if I’m very far away from you, or if my shield is up. If you want to talk to me, all you ever need to do is tap into that frequency, follow my energy thread, and poke my shield to ask to link. To talk.”

I was still distracted by what he had said before, but I forced myself to push his odd words from my head— I’m afraid for you, little bird —and focus on our lesson. I could tell Uncle Jim was impressed by how easily it all came to me.

By the time we added shielding and image projection to our lesson plan, he had stopped being surprised by what I could do.

—

When we finally pull into the station, I’m a tight bundle of anxiety. I hurry off the train and link with Polly, my usual handler.

“I’m here.”

“Your contacts are waiting outside. She’s a Prime. Black shirt, green cap. Your silent contact is Declan. He’ll be your handler.”

I leave the station and carefully approach the woman in the green cap, trying not to give in to the paranoia that everyone is staring at us.

“Is he dead?” I ask in lieu of greeting.

“Not yet” is the response.

She’s a pale, black-haired woman in her thirties who introduces herself as Faye and leads me to a waiting car in the arrivals lane. The man behind the wheel has dark skin and piercing eyes. He twists around to nod at me when I slide into the back seat.

“You’re my silent contact in the Point? Declan?”

He looks startled. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Open a path so fast.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “It wasn’t that fast.” But I suppose it was. I always forget there are others whose powers aren’t as strong as mine. Or as plentiful.

Declan’s shrewd eyes lock onto me, as if assessing my competence, my worth. It’s unnerving. Then he faces forward and drives us through the exit checkpoint, leaving the train depot behind us.

“Julian Ash met with the Tribunal two hours ago,” Faye tells me. “They found him guilty of treason and concealment.”

I look over in surprise. “Concealment? They know he’s Modified? How?”

“Jayde Valence recently joined the Tribunal.”

I inhale a sharp breath. There’s no further explanation needed. Valence is indisputably the most powerful mind reader on the Continent. She’s also a Prime loyalist and traitor to her people, serving as General Redden’s right-hand woman for more than a decade. She started working for the Company when she was only seventeen and is rumored to be cold-blooded and highly intelligent. But it’s her ability to penetrate almost any shield that concerns me.

My uncle has the strongest shield of anyone I know. If she was able to read his thoughts, that’s extraordinary. And petrifying, because…what does she know about me ? How much of me was inside Jim’s head? Is this why he’s not linking with me? Is he worried Jayde Valence will return and somehow uncover my identity?

I swallow the fear and try to focus on Faye’s voice.

“…he faces the firing squad tomorrow morning.”

“What?”

“His execution is scheduled for nine o’clock.”

“We can’t let that happen.” I take a calming breath. “The network is going to organize a rescue mission, right?”

“No,” Declan says from the front seat. Emphatically.

“What do you mean, no? He’s one of your most essential operatives!”

Declan’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “No. He’s not.”

My shoulders stiffen. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means he’s not. It means he’s been living in hiding for fifteen years. He was compromised years ago. How could he ever be an asset when enough Primes are still alive to remember his face? We can’t use him for any significant operations.”

“That’s not true.” My protest sounds weak to my ears. Because it is weak. Nothing Declan said is incorrect. But…

He’s my uncle, damn it.

“He’s still a Mod,” I insist. “We rescue our people.”

“The people on top have been conferring about this all day,” says Faye. “If there was a way to save him, they’d do it. But it’s too dangerous.”

“What’s the point of this network if not to take on high-risk missions to save Mods? Get that hotshot pilot of yours to bomb the shit out of something and create a distraction while we rescue Jim.”

“And take out how many civilians in the process?” counters Declan. “In any case, we don’t have the bombers to spare, and Grayson Blake is too important to our cause to jeopardize. Nobody on top is going to allow Blake to fly over the Command base in the goddamn morning and expose himself like that.”

“Then what the hell is he good for?” I mutter. I’ve been hearing about the dastardly feats of this ace pilot for almost two years now.

Faye offers a sympathetic look, but neither she nor Declan wavers in their conviction that Jim is wholly expendable.

“Julian Ash is not our objective,” Declan says. “You are. Your village and ward are now crawling with soldiers. You’re lucky Griff got you out when he did. Our only job is to install you in a safe house and keep you hidden until we’re able to procure a new identity for you.” He makes a sound of disapproval. “Would’ve been an easier task if you’d agreed to be housed in the wards instead of insisting on the Point, but—”

“I didn’t come here for a safe house. I came here to rescue my uncle.”

Declan doesn’t budge. “Julian Ash is beyond rescue. Focus on protecting yourself.”

Frustration squeezes my chest. Why aren’t these people more concerned about Jim? When did we become dispensable to our leaders?

I throw out a desperate link to Tana.

“Jim’s been scheduled for execution tomorrow and the network refuses to rescue him.”

“I know. Polly just told me.” There’s a pause. “Wren…whatever you’re thinking…”

“I don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

I don’t. I don’t have a plan. All I know is that I’m in the most dangerous place on the Continent, without a weapon, with my ID flagged and my uncle about to be shot to death.

My mind races over my options. The Command’s firing squad operates in the South Plaza, an open-access area directly on the base. Executions are always held in public, and all citizens are encouraged to attend. Most of them enjoy it. Which isn’t as sick as you’d think, because according to my old textbooks, our ancestors relished violence and gore, too. Turning death into a spectacle.

I suppose having access to the execution site aids my cause. I could sneak through the crowd unnoticed, get close enough to the platform, and…and then what? What exactly am I to do? Single-handedly face down a firing squad? And then, after magically avoiding death by eight assault rifles, I free Uncle Jim and just…waltz off the military base?

That’s not a viable plan. I need to come up with something a little less…suicidal.

And I only have about, oh, twelve hours to figure it out.