Caleb woke before the artificial sun of Sector 13 flickered to life.
The room was submerged in the slate-grey hue of dawn. The air was cold and damp, seeping into joints already stiff from the previous day's beating. He lay still for a moment, calibrating himself to the rhythm of Lyra's breathing.
Shallow. Steady. Alive.
He slid out from under the thin blanket, his feet hitting the cold concrete without a sound.
He began to don his "armor."
It wasn't Kevlar. Caleb's protection was a collage of refuse. He wrapped strips of thick canvas around his forearms and shins to guard against jagged scrap. He pulled on his heaviest jacket, stuffing the lining with flattened cardboard for insulation.
Finally, he pulled on his boots. The sole of the right one was peeling off like a dead tongue. He took a roll of black tape and bound it tight, winding it around the instep three times.
I need a new pair, he thought. He might as well have wished for a new pair of lungs.
Caleb stood by the workbench. The Black Cube sat there under a rag, silent and useless. He ignored it. He tucked his makeshift shiv and a set of pliers into his belt, then slipped out the door.
The lobby was deserted, save for the hum of a battered vending machine. Caleb jammed his hands into his pockets and pulled out his remaining credits.
50 Credits.
He stared at the illuminated buttons.
Protein Bar: 20 Credits.Nutri-Soup (Beef Stew): 30 Credits.
His stomach gave a long, painful growl. He hadn't eaten since yesterday noon. But Lyra needed the fuel to fight the infection.
He pressed the button for the Hot Nutri-Soup.
[Transaction Complete. Remaining Balance: 20 Credits.]
The can clattered down. Caleb didn't open it. He crept back up the stairs and placed the steaming can on the floor next to Lyra's pillow. He scribbled a note: "Early shift. Eat it all."
Then he went back down and headed for the main doors.
"Going somewhere?"
Granny Martha was sitting in her booth, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand. Her eyes swept over Caleb's outfit: the taped boots, the knife, the empty backpack.
"Looking for work," Caleb replied shortly.
"Work?" Martha raised an eyebrow. "You're not heading toward the scrapyard. That direction leads to The Edge."
Caleb froze.
"I know what I'm doing, Martha."
"Do you?" Her voice dropped, becoming grave. "Listen to me, boy. I don't know what stupid, desperate plan you've cooked up. But don't throw your life away. If you die, that girl upstairs won't last the night."
Caleb gripped the door handle.
"I'll be back. Before dinner."
He pushed out into the morning.
Caleb slipped through the breach in the fence, crossing the threshold into The Edge.
The atmosphere here was dense, carrying the taste of oxidized copper and the sickly-sweet flavor of leaking radiation.
He pulled his makeshift mask up—a plastic soda bottle lined with charcoal. He breathed in the acrid air and moved forward, his eyes darting between the piles of rubble and pools of black sludge.
Two hundred meters in, Caleb stopped.
Propped against a crumbling wall was a shadow. A corpse.
The scavenger was desiccated, skin stretched tight over bone. He had died sitting up, a steel bolt from an ancient trap buried in his chest.
Caleb felt no fear. Only calculation.
His gaze dropped to the corpse's feet. Combat boots. Military surplus. Old, but the leather was intact.
Caleb looked down at his own feet. His canvas sneakers were soaked, the freezing sludge numbing his toes.
He knelt in the mud.
"Sorry, friend," Caleb whispered through his mask. "You ran out of road. I haven't."
He grasped the corpse's stiff ankle. He pulled. Hard.
Snap.
The sound of the dry joint breaking echoed like a gunshot. Caleb flinched, but he didn't stop. He worked the boots off the dead man.
Minutes later, he kicked his own ruined shoes into the trash. He slid his feet into the stolen boots. The thick leather encased his feet in a fortress of warmth.
He stood up, gave the corpse a small nod, and pressed deeper into the ruins.
He entered a narrow corridor leading to the main building. It looked empty. But the fine hairs on his neck stood up.
Current.
He spotted a glint on the wall. An optical lens.
Caleb grabbed a rusty screw and threw it.
HISS.
A red laser beam slashed across the corridor, slicing the screw in half. Molten metal hit the floor.
"Industrial cutter," Caleb muttered, sweat beading under his mask. "Fixed angle."
He dropped to his stomach. He pressed his body into the freezing mud and crawled. He slid directly beneath the invisible line of death, his heart hammering against the ground.
One meter. Two meters. Clear.
He scrambled to his feet on the other side and entered the R&D lab.
The lab was a tomb of technology, illuminated by shafts of dusty sunlight.
Caleb dug through the debris. He found a spherical white robot—a high-end assistant bot—cracked but hibernating. A good find for the future, but useless for today. He stuffed it into his bag.
He needed credits. Now.
He ransacked the drawers. Empty. Loots had been picked clean years ago.
"Damn it," he cursed.
Then he saw it. Under the head researcher's desk.
A skeleton.
It wasn't a scavenger. It was an Old World researcher, still wearing the tatters of a white lab coat. The skeleton lay curled in a fetal position, its arms wrapped tight around its chest, protecting something even in death.
Interlocked between the bony fingers was a glimmer of silver.
Caleb crawled under the desk. The smell of bone dust filled his nose.
He grabbed the skeleton's wrist. He tried to pry the object free. It wouldn't move. The calcium had fused, locking the fingers in a grip of steel.
He didn't have time for gentleness.
Snap.
Caleb broke the index finger. The dry crack was loud in the silence. Snap. The middle finger followed.
He dismantled the dead man's hand, one joint at a time. It was a violation, a desecration, but the image of Lyra's dissolving arm drove him on.
Finally, the object fell free.
A Silver Slate.
A razor-thin tablet of liquid alloy, stamped with the Aether Corp triangle. Pristine. Valuable.
"Eight hundred credits," Caleb whispered, his voice trembling. "Minimum."
He shoved the slate into his chest pocket. He had done it.
He pushed himself up to leave.
CLICK.
His knee pressed down on a loose floor tile.
The sound of a hydraulic engine revving up tore through the silence.
From the rubble behind him, a nightmare erupted.
A Mech-Hound.
It was a mass of rusted steel and hate. One eye was broken; the other burned with a manic crimson light.
Caleb scrambled backward as the beast lunged.
SCREECH.
Metal claws tore deep gouges into the concrete where his head had been a second ago.
"RUN!"
Caleb bolted. He sprinted back toward the corridor, the roar of the machine filling his ears. It was faster than him. He could feel the heat of its engine on his neck.
He didn't think. He reacted.
He saw the puddle of water in the hallway. He saw the open fuse box on the wall.
He didn't stop to aim. As he ran past, he whipped his screwdriver backward, throwing it blindly at the wall.
Thunk.
The tool embedded itself in the rot, severing the dangling wire bundle.
The live cables dropped. Straight into the water.
Just as the Hound splashed down.
CRACK-BOOM.
Blue light exploded. The smell of ozone choked the air. The Hound seized mid-stride, convulsing as high voltage fried its rusted circuits. It crashed into the water, thrashing and smoking.
Caleb didn't look back. He ran until his lungs burned like fire.
...
He collapsed in the mud outside the perimeter fence, gasping for air. His clothes were shredded, his body bruised, but he was alive.
"Well, look who crawled out of hell."
A small shadow dropped from the roof above him.
Before Caleb could open his eyes, he felt a small, quick hand slide into his pocket.
Slap.
Caleb caught the wrist.
"Don't try it, Pippin."
Pippin, a ten-year-old street rat with eyes too old for his face, winced. "Ouch! Just checking for injuries, Caleb. Relax."
The boy eyed Caleb's bulging backpack and the frantic look on his face. He smirked. "Looks like you scored big. But I've got bad news."
Caleb sat up, still wheezing. "What?"
Pippin rubbed his thumb and index finger together. "This info saves your life. Put it on my tab? One free repair job?"
Caleb gritted his teeth. "Fine. Talk."
Pippin's smirk vanished.
"Don't go home. Gary saw you leave yesterday. He told Rictus you were holding out on the gang."
Caleb's blood ran cold. "Gary snitched?"
"Yeah. And Rictus isn't happy," Pippin whispered. "He sent Vorg to your place. They're turning your room inside out right now looking for the stash."
"Lyra..." Caleb choked out.
"Granny Martha is trying to stall them, but Vorg... he's an animal. If I were you, I'd run."
Caleb stood up. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a cold, white-hot terror.
"They are in my room? With Lyra?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He took off, sprinting back toward the residential sector, clutching the knife at his belt.
Pippin watched him go, shaking his head.
"He's crazy. He's actually going back."