Page 14 of Silver Elite

Now. I need to gonow.

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 onesdoexist.

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. Ican 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 sterndon’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 mythumb 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’tseethat 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.”

---