Page 83 of Silver Elite

It’s total horseshit, but she doesn’t know that. The way her eyes flash tells me she doesn’t love the idea.

“Enjoy it while you can. He’ll drop you fast enough.”

“The way he dropped you?” I smile at her reflection.

Her lips twist, cheeks flushing. I leave her glaring at me in the mirror.

Chapter 19

Our shielding classes continue to make me feel exposed. It’s as if every question asked, every piece of information provided, is a direct attack on me.

“Can they read your mind if you’re not in the same room?” asks a recruit named Minh.

Tyler Struck shakes her head. “No. You need to be sharing the same energy space.”

“But they communicate telepathically over long distances.”

“Telepathy is different than mind reading. Once a telepathic link is formed, they can access it from anywhere. But the initial link must be established in person.”

Not always. Wolf and I linked spontaneously when we were kids in two different wards. Total strangers.

I’m not sharing with the class, though. I might be reckless, but I’m not stupid. I’m not giving these people ammunition they can use against me.

At the conclusion of each class, the Modified woman, Amira, appears to test our shields. Her presence has become easier for my fellows to stomach. Except for Bryce. Whenever Amira walks through that door, Bryce’s faces puckers like she just bit into a lemon, as ifshe’s appalled to be subjected to such atrocities. She’s probably already lodged a complaint with her high-clearance father.

Me, I’m busy battling the impulse to reach out every time I see Amira. The temptation to link with the other Mod remains strong.

After dinner, Lyddie drags me into the common room for a study session, keeping her promise to help me raise my scores. I feel guilty that she’s investing so much time and effort into me when I’m trying to fail. Though if I’m being honest, the reason I’m doing so terribly on my tests isn’t entirely due to self-sabotage.

I’m an intelligent person. Observant. Strategic. I’ve got an excellent memory—I can take one look at the north pasture on my ranch and tell you if one blade of grass is out of place. But force me to memorize codes and coordinates and military jargon, and it all bleeds together into one boring jumble. I’ve never been good at staring at screens.

Lyddie enlists Kaine, Lash, and Betima to study with us tonight. Because “the more minds, the more knowledge.” One of the many nuggets of De Velde wisdom. As obnoxious as she can be, I can’t deny she’s growing on me.

I’ve had Prime friends before. It’s not as if Tana and I isolated ourselves in Hamlett and never spoke to a single Prime classmate. I’ve slept with Prime men. Exclusively, in fact.

But there’s something different about befriending a Primehere.In a place that is designed to hunt, locate, and punish people like me.

We have another codes test tomorrow morning. Every Command installation is tagged with its own code. Red Post is P12. The weapons depot in Ward F is AF6. The airfield near the Blacklands is T299. I didn’t realize how many outposts, depots, and airfields there actually are on the Continent, and I resent the fact that the Uprising continues to shut me out when I could behelpingthem, damn it.

“Whoa, there’s a Silver Block outpost at the South Port,” Lyddie exclaims, staring at her source. “That’s where the trade ships to Tierra Fe dock.”

I perk up. “Do you think we’ll ever travel down there? Maybe for mock ops?”

I’d take that assignment in a heartbeat. Uncle Jim told me mymother’s ancestors were from Tierra Fe, before it was ever called Tierra Fe.

Kaine laughs. “They’ll shoot you on sight if you try to go there. We’re godless heathens to them.”

“I went there once,” Betima surprises us by saying.

“Really?” Lyddie’s eyes widen. “What’s it like?”

“Unbearably hot. Very green. Menacing.”

“How’d you manage that?” Lash asks.

“Well, my dad worked on a fishing boat,” Betima starts.

Lyddie clucks sympathetically, but Betima doesn’t seem offended by the response. It’s no secret that in terms of desirability, commercial fishing is low on the list of job assignments. Fishermen are transported by helos and basically dropped in the middle of the ocean. With our ravaged coastlines sorely lacking in safe areas to dock, fishermen need to be delivered to their vessels. And fish processing plants don’t operate on land anymore; everything is done on processing liners, which is yet another unfavorable assignment. I wouldn’t want to live on a boat my entire life. No amount of shore passes can make that sound fun.

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