Page 4 of Silver Elite

Hours later, I lie on the single bed in the safe house, staring at the ceiling and wishing I could speak to Jim. I’m desperate for his guidance. He would know exactly what to do in this situation. He’d know how to save me if the roles were reversed, the same way he saved me fifteen years ago.

I roll onto my side and curl my knees to my chest, biting my lip to stop from crying. I think about the first week I spent with Julian Ash. How rude he was. How intimidating. How often he’d scold me for one sin or another, like if I ventured too close to the purple hemlock bush on the edge of our clearing. Girl, he’d always bark. Stay away from those plants. One of the first things he did when we made camp was march me over to various hybrid plants and explain which ones could kill me and how. In other words: Don’t get too fucking close.

By the end of that week, he was growing on me. Don’t get me wrong, he still unnerved me. His strict commands and complete lack of tenderness were daunting. But he no longer scared me. I felt safe with him.

I used to be so fascinated by all the birds that visited our clearing. There was one morning when I saw three of them in my favorite tree, sitting placidly on a gnarled branch. One, two, three, all in a row. They peered right at me. Unbothered by my presence. Curious, even.

“What are they called?” I’d asked Jim.

He studied their markings and said, “Bluebirds.”

I stretched out an arm, trying to reach for the branch, but I was several feet too short. I lowered my arm and pouted, turning back to Jim. “What are you called?”

He thought it over. “You can call me Uncle.”

“But you’re not.”

“In here I am.”

“But—”

“Enough, girl.”

“My name isn’t Girl.” I stubbornly stuck out my chin. “My name is—”

“No,” he interrupted. “It isn’t.” He knelt in front of me, grasping my chin when I tried to look away. “That name you think is yours, you need to forget it, do you understand? The little girl you used to be is dead. You are somebody new now.”

“But I don’t wanna be,” I whined, before getting distracted by a new arrival to the bird tree. “Look!” I pointed at one of the lower branches. “What is she called?”

Jim had squinted at the small, light-brown bird. “I believe that’s a wren.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

He lifted a brow. “You can claim it.”

I frowned, not understanding.

“You don’t like it when I call you girl, right?”

“It’s not my name,” I said mulishly.

“You’re right. Because your name is Wren.”

The frown deepened. “It is?”

“It is if you want.”

My nose wrinkled for a moment as I thought it over. “Are you still Uncle?”

“I am. I’m Uncle and you’re Wren.”

Fifteen years later, he’s still Uncle to me. He’s still my guardian and my protector, and I can’t do a damn thing to save him.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slide out from under the covers and get dressed. It’s time to go.

—

The citizens are thirsty for blood. I can feel it in the air—the current of excitement. And I hate them all for it.

I snuck out of the safe house at dawn. The network is probably already trying to track me down, but I know how to stay hidden. I grew up in the dark, after all. I’m a shadow. As I made my way to the west sector of Sanctum Point, where the Command base is located, I eluded every single street patrol and surveillance drone. Last thing I need today is to raise some soldier’s suspicions and get my thumb scanned, right when my ID has a big red flag on it again.

I’m going to rescue Jim.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it. But I do know I’m not going to let him die. I refuse to.

South Plaza is essentially a glorified courtyard. Reddish dirt floor surrounded by high walls made of stone. To enter, you pass through a pair of menacing iron gates guarded by soldiers from Tin Block, which, along with Copper, has the easiest training program and usually produces soldiers assigned to lower-level ward patrols or sentry duties. The ones guarding South Plaza today look younger than I am, but their only job is to search the citizens streaming through the gates for the morning spectacle.

Frustration tightens my body as I enter the plaza completely unarmed. I feel naked.

When I see the platform, a lump of dread fills my throat. My vision wavers for a moment. The wooden execution stage is about four feet off the ground, and a crowd is already gathered in front of it. I weave my way through the growing sea of people, throwing an elbow or two to position myself in the front row. There’s another set of electric gates behind the platform; beyond the black bars is nothing but darkness, but I know the doors open into the tunnel that leads to the bowels of the base.

I rub my damp palms against the front of my jeans. I’m anxious, a state made worse by the constant tugs on my mind. I’ve felt Declan trying to link with me all morning. Tana, too. I haven’t been letting them in.

I don’t care how worried Tana is, or how annoyed Declan must be that I fled the safe house. I simply don’t care. Because this is Jim. He’s saved my life countless times and it’s my turn to save his. Somehow. I hope.

It’s an excruciating wait. Forty-five minutes of fidgeting and shifting my feet, until finally, the tunnel gate creaks open, and an excited buzz travels through the throng of citizens. The two halves crank apart to allow a Command truck to drive out of the cavernous black space.

Resentment burns my throat. Fuck the Uprising for being so damn ready to sacrifice Jim. They wouldn’t have even half the intel they’re in possession of if it weren’t for men like Julian Ash, who put their lives at risk to infiltrate institutions like the Command. He had climbed the ranks to become a colonel. All the schematics he’d procured them, all the information he’d funneled out of the base over the years, and now they’re abandoning him because they’re too cowardly to attempt a rescue.

I feel a tickle in my mind. Tana trying to link again. I ignore her. I’m sure she can guess where I am.

The crowd murmurs again, low voices echoing in the square. Two uniformed officers slide out of the truck and march toward the back.

My heart jumps to my throat when I finally get a glimpse of Jim.

I’m relieved to see he doesn’t look too bad. He’s still wearing his jeans and undershirt, but his flannel is gone. His hands are cuffed in front of him. There are streaks of dirt on his muscular arms and white shirt, but other than that, he appears unharmed. No bruises. No bloody nose. I’m grateful for that. He’s been in their custody since yesterday, so it could be a lot worse.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. A mangled face, maybe? But no, they would want everyone to see him clearly. To relish the fear and defeat in his eyes before the bullets tear into his flesh.

There is no fear, though, as the two men drag him up the wooden steps to the platform. They don’t push him onto his knees. He stands tall, shoulders straight, face utterly expressionless. Until his shuttered gaze sweeps the crowd and lands on me. Only then does he react. Just slightly. His jaw tics, lips tightening.

For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, I feel a poke in my mind.

Panic lodges in my throat, because what is he doing ? His arms are bare. Everyone will know if he—

But they already know, I remind myself, the panic dulling into resignation.

I let him in, needing to hear his voice.

“Get out of here, Wren. Now. You can’t be here.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Freak!” yells someone in the crowd.

“?’Fect!”

They see what I’m seeing. It’s less noticeable in the morning sun than when he uses his gifts at night—then, his veins are silver signposts. But we can all see them now. Rippling. It’s like liquid silver moving through them.

Suddenly Jim’s head is thrown back. Somebody hurled a rock at him. Outrage sizzles up my spine. If I had my rifle, that asshole would already be dead.

The Command officers immediately train their rifles on the mob.

“Enough!” one shouts. “He’ll get his due soon enough.”

“How do we stop this?” I ask Jim.

“We can’t. You really shouldn’t be here.”

“Where else would I be?”

I scan my surroundings in desperation. I need a weapon, but the citizens are unarmed. The only weapons belong to the officers on the platform. Close-range assault rifles. They’ll do. One of the men is speaking into his comm now. I can try to distract him and—

“Don’t even think about it,” Jim admonishes.

I glare at him. I don’t like the acceptance in his expression. It wasn’t there before, but now his face is bordering on defeated. Jim’s not stupid. He understands that if I’m here alone, that means the network didn’t find him worthy of rescue. And if he’s not trying to fight his way out, that means he knows there’s no point.

A second truck rumbles out of the tunnel.

The firing squad has arrived.

I’ve never witnessed an execution before. Hell, I’ve only been to the city twice in my life—that I can remember, anyway. Both times on a leisure pass with Griff and Tana. But it wasn’t leisure; it was an Uprising mission. And I call it a mission, but really, we just handed some stolen comms to a kid who barely looked older than thirteen, and he darted off into an alleyway. Uncle Jim had been grumbling in my head the entire time, worried sick. He rarely travels to the Point to avoid being identified, yet look where that got us. Fifteen years of keeping him out of sight and he’s recognized at home. Because of me.

It takes everything not to break out in sobs. He’s standing there, hair falling into his face, hands bound, veins exposing him as the freak these people believe he is, and it’s all because of me.

The squad consists of six men and two women, all in navy-blue Command jumpsuits. They climb the steps and dutifully line up at one end of the platform. Anger rips through me. One of them is a stocky young man with a shaved head whose eyes are glittering with what I can only describe as anticipation. He’s excited for this. The others just appear bored. I think that makes me angrier. These people are about to shoot a man to death, and they look bored.

“Wren…”

Jim’s warning echoes in my mind. He must see the murder in my eyes.

“I’m not going to let this happen,” I growl at him.

But what can I do?

Maybe they’ll accept a trade? Me for him?

…which is such an asinine idea, because come on, two Mods are better than one. If I identified myself, I’d be right alongside him awaiting my own hail of bullets. And maybe that’s what I deserve, because I’m the reason he’s up there.

“You need to go now.” There’s sadness in his voice.

Emotion clogs my throat. I can barely see through the sheen of tears. I discreetly bend my head toward my shoulder to wipe my face, trying to make it look like I’m scratching something. I can’t let these people catch me crying, can’t let them see I’m affected.

The woman beside me gives me a funny look. She’s got pale hair and delicate features, and her cheeks are flushed with exhilaration. She has two children with her. Young children. As if they’re on a family outing. Like they secured themselves a leisure pass to Ward B to visit the only zoo on the Continent. Jim is the caged animal they’re fawning over, on display for their amusement. I don’t know this woman, but I loathe her.

One of the officers steps up to the edge of the platform. The top of his left sleeve bears a colonel’s patch. It’s the same rank Jim had when my mother begged him to smuggle me out of the Point. She knew she’d never be able to keep me safe. I was already displaying powers at the age of five, gifts that for most people don’t manifest until twelve. She was terrified for me.

Colonel was also the rank my mother held when she was shot for treason herself. I wonder if it happened on this platform. Maybe she stood right where Jim is standing. Maybe her blood still stains the wooden slats beneath his bare feet.

“Julian Ash, the Continental Tribunal has found you guilty of treason and concealment.” The colonel’s voice booms through the plaza. “And as such, you have been sentenced to die.”

A roar goes through the crowd. This thrills them. Animals.

“Do you have any final words?”

My uncle stares back at him, stone-faced. But that hardness is not what I hear in my head. When he speaks to me, it’s with the utmost tenderness, albeit gruff.

“I love you, Wren. I hope you know that.”

My stomach twists. It feels like someone is squeezing my heart, jagged fingernails digging into every cavity, making the hot, achy mass shriek in my chest.

“No words? Excellent. That makes our lives easier,” the colonel sneers. Then he and his officer step off the platform to stand to the side, and my entire body begins to shake.

Fear and hysteria whip around inside me like the loose cable that got dislodged at the ranch in a thunderstorm last month. The thing was whipping in the air, creating sparks that bounced off the side of the house and sprayed the porch, snaking along the grass. That’s what I am right now. A live wire twisting desperately, trying to find a safe place to land.

Stop this, I want to shout at the firing squad. Stop this. Leave him alone.

“Weapons up!” the colonel shouts.

They raise their weapons and train them on Jim, and I’ve never experienced more agony than when I see Jim lower his gaze. He won’t look at them. He won’t look at me. He’s given up.

Put your guns down, I want to scream. Put them down. Put them down.

A hush of confusion moves through the spectators.

I blink.

Half the squad has lowered their weapons.

The ones who are still in position glance at their comrades in bewilderment. One of the women, a tall brunette, appears puzzled. She shrugs one shoulder, her body twitching. Then she shakes her head a few times as if trying to snap herself out of something. She begins to aim her rifle again and I furiously glare at her. Put it the fuck down.

All eight rifles are pointed at the floor now.

I realize they can hear me. They can hear me. I feel a familiar surge, like my mind is suddenly alive, exploding with energy. It’s the same way I felt the first time I was able to incite Jim in the Blacklands.

That day, I was so startled that I broke the link.

It won’t happen today. I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to scare myself into stopping.

A sense of calm washes over me as I stare at the eight people who want to murder my uncle.

Raise your guns to your head, I tell them. Do it.

I watch their faces. Their features are frozen masks of confusion and fright. Good, let them feel what I’m feeling.

Raise your guns to your head .

I suck in a breath as a wave of dizziness suddenly overcomes me. I sway slightly. It’s taking a lot of mental energy to do this, more than I’m accustomed to.

I notice Jim’s head turn sharply toward the crowd, seeking me out. I see a glint of silver as his veins begin to flow. I suspect he’s trying to contact me, but there’s no room in my head because I’ve got eight open paths as I struggle to incite the command.

Raise your guns to your head. Raise your guns to your head.

My body feels the toll of incitement, sweat beading across my forehead, my limbs beginning to grow weak. This hadn’t happened with Jim, this fatigue. But it’s working. They’re doing it. The barrels of their rifles are moving. Slowly. Inch by inch.

“What are you doing?” the colonel shouts at his squad.

The stocky man, the one who seemed downright giddy at the prospect of killing somebody, now helplessly fights my command. Fights his own hands as they slowly twist the rifle around. Sweat drips down his face.

Press the barrel to your forehead. Do it now.

“I can’t stop this,” he gasps out. “Someone else is controlling me!”

Screams and gasps rip through the crowd. The entire squad is now pointing their weapons to their foreheads.

I can scarcely breathe. It’s taking every ounce of concentration to introduce the final command.

Pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger—

My lungs seize, no oxygen able to get in. It’s too difficult. Fireworks explode in my brain. Strange flecks, like gold dust, swirl in my field of vision. I blink, trying to clear them. The lightheadedness is getting worse. I don’t know how to control this. I can barely incite one mind, let alone eight, and panic bubbles inside me again because I know I’m losing my grip. It’s as if I’m in the creek at the ranch, reaching for the rocks that are wet and slimy with moss, trying to climb out of the water and constantly sliding back in. It’s too slippery. I’m trying to find my grip, trying to hold it, trying to—

Pull the trigger, pull the trigger—

My control breaks.

The guns slap forward like an elastic band snapping apart. One, two, three, eight. All of them swing at Jim, and my last command— pull the trigger —is all they know.

They fire.

Cries mingle with the sound of gunfire. I almost collapse as bullets pierce into Jim’s chest, sending him flying backward. Even as he falls, his shirt stained red, he twists his head toward me. For one heart-stopping second, his eyes lock with mine and I hear him in my head.

“Goodbye, little bird.”

He’s dead by the time he hits the ground. The link is abruptly gone. He’s not in my head anymore. I can’t feel his energy. I can’t feel anything. For a moment I stand there, utterly numb. The crowd is still in an uproar. Some scream with excitement. Others in horror because they’re able to comprehend what they just witnessed.

“Inciter,” I hear someone hiss.

I don’t know if it’s directed at me, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t draw any suspicion.

Incitement is punishable by death. Not just that, but it’s the only high crime in the Continent where the perpetrator doesn’t get to plead their case to the Tribunal. Which is a big hellfucking deal. Even an assassination attempt on the General lands you a hearing with the Tribunal.

Inciters, simply put, aren’t allowed to exist. We terrify the Primes too much.

Citizens are already drifting away from the platform, making my escape easier. I take one last look at Jim, the man I love more than anyone in this world. Dead. Gone. Then I turn and start to move. Not a full run. Fast enough that I can see the outer gates approaching quickly, but slow enough that I’m not drawing attention to myself.

Except I’m wrong. I haven’t gone unnoticed.

I’m ten feet from the exit when someone grabs my shoulder and yanks me backward.

I stumble, trying to regain my balance. I catch a glimpse of a uniform. A blur of motion as a hand raises a Command-issued handgun and a voice hisses past my ear.

“Where do you think you’re going?”