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  “No.”

  But we did. That first night. He’s lying. But why? They wouldn’t care if Alder ran from a patrol. The only person that would reflect badly on would be me. I suck in a breath. He’s trying to cover for me.

  “You’re sure?” Kurich says. “Our records indicate there was a patrol in the area less than thirty-six hours after the incident.”

  “We went off-road,” Alder says. “We didn’t want to run across any jackers.”

  He sounds so tired, and my heart breaks a little bit. What will happen to him? What will they do to him at the assimilation camp?

  I stop the recording and knead my forehead. Dr. Mitra would have the answer in his files, but his lab is closed now, and I don’t have his log-in credentials. If I could find a way . . . wait. Who wrote the proposal for the new strain of corn? Dr. Mitra? I go back to the first file and open it again.

  There, at the top of the page, along with the names of three other scientists—Dr. Yves Mitra. I scroll down past the abstract, past the introduction, to the section on methodology. There.

  On the third attempt, the authors successfully isolated the genes responsible for the resistance trait and transferred them to the proposed corn strain, iteration ZM112-864. (See appendix B for a detailed analysis of the resistance gene.)

  I flip to the appendix. A detailed genetic graph and notes. It was here. It was here the whole time. I check my cuff . . . 2:43 a.m. I don’t know exactly when the transport carrying Eli will leave, but at the compound, caravans usually set off before dawn. I have a few hours, at most.

  I open the internet and pause, my fingers hovering over the keys. Once I do this, all the pieces will start to fall. No more plentiful food and soft bed. No more chance at a future inside AgraStar. No more family, no more belonging. I hesitate. My whole body feels cold. Some small part of me hangs back, clinging to the image of my mother smiling, to Isabel needling her with talk about Rene and asparagus pee.

  I stand and push back the curtains over my window. The city glitters beneath me. Will I ever really belong here? No matter how long I live in this high-rise and dress the part, will there always be something off about me, some stigma, the same as there was back at my old compound? Will I ever really be a human being in the company’s eyes, or just a resource to use?

  But if I go through with this, what’s the alternative? Alder’s people would kill me on sight, and any other scavenger band would always look at me sideways, knowing where I come from. Defecting to another company wouldn’t be any better than staying with AgraStar. Maybe no matter where I go, I’ll never truly belong. Here I have a future, a family, even if that family doesn’t have a past. Even if I don’t exactly fit, even if it feels like something’s missing, at least things could be easy.

  But do I want that? Can I live with that, knowing what will happen to all the scavengers, to anyone who resists AgraStar? The memory of Alder, bruised and weak in his cell, rises up at me. Then the image of the clearer that haunts my nightmares, blight spreading wherever her feet touch the ground. An orphaned baby, scrunch-faced and squalling as his blood is taken. Maybe this is the price—that I’ll never have a place of my own, that I’ll never belong. I’ll always be someone who exists between worlds. But aren’t tens of thousands of lives worth that much? Aren’t they worth more than some shadow of belonging? I think of my great-grandmother trying so hard to pass on who our family was, that common language, the things that made us us. And then of AgraStar draining it all away. Our roots drying up until they’re nothing but dust.

  I pick up the computer again. MoleMaze, I type.

  A brightly colored site with a grass-green background and a cartoon of a mole emerging from the dirt pops up. MOLEMAZE—ESCAPE THE MAZE! DIG YOUR OWN! it says in rounded brown-and-yellow letters.

  I scan the page. GALLERY—FAN ART AND PHOTOS! one of the links reads. I open it and scroll past dozens of photos of moles and drawings, until I reach the submission box. It’s exactly what Alder described, but it looks so real, like nothing more than an innocent game about garden pests. Is this really it?

  Alder trusted me. He covered for me. I have to trust him. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I upload Dr. Mitra’s proposal and click submit. A cartoon mole appears, holding a placard. CONGRATULATIONS! YOUR FILE WAS SUCCESSFULLY UPLOADED.

  I have to move. I have to go. But all I can do is stare at the screen. Everything feels surreal. Like I could delete my browsing history, go to bed, and in the morning, everything would go on like before. I could keep feeding information to the Latebra Congress. That’s what Alder would tell me to do. Forget him, and do whatever I can from the inside.

  Except, eventually, AgraStar will figure it out. Kurich will trace the source of the leak. He’ll narrow in on my mother, and Alder will disappear into the assimilation camp. But if I go, if I disappear tonight, they’ll know it was me, not her, and I’ll have a chance to repay Alder, to make it up to him.

  I open the closet and rifle through the collection of purses hanging from hooks along the back wall. Most of them are delicate beaded things or silk pouches no bigger than my hand. I push them aside and grab a black leather bag with a silver clasp, not anywhere near the size of my long-lost backpack, but bigger than the rest. It will have to do.

  I dress quickly, in the darkest, plainest clothes I have—navy jeans and a black dry-wick shirt with long sleeves—and walk softly to the kitchen, carrying my shoes. I open the cabinets and start stuffing the bag full of food. Almonds, olives, peanut butter. Anything shelf stable. Anything with protein.

  “What are you doing?”

  I nearly drop a packet of dried pineapple. “Isabel,” I gulp. “Nothing. I was just going out.”

  “No you’re not.” Isabel looks at my bulging purse, and then glares at me. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

  “No.” The look on her face tells me there’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “They’re sending my friend to an assimilation camp. I’ve got to stop them.”

  Isabel’s eyes widen. “That shirk boy? The one that was with you at the checkpoint?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I thought you liked Eli.”

  “I do.” Suddenly my whole body feels heavy. “It’s not like that, though. Alder and me, we owe each other.”

  “What about me?” Isabel frowns.

  “What do you mean?”

  Isabel fidgets with her nightgown. “I want to go with you.”

  “Isabel,” I say gently. “You can’t. It’s too dangerous. Besides, when I’m gone, our mother’s going to need you even more.” I’m not going to repeat what my father did. I’m not going to whisk Isabel away in the middle of the night. I can make this choice for myself, but not for her.

  “She’s much nicer when you’re here,” Isabel says. “If you go, she’ll turn witchy again.”

  “I’m sorry.” My chest aches and my throat feels tight. “But I have to do this.”

  Isabel stares at the floor. I recognize that look. She’s trying to fight back tears.

  “You won’t tell her,” I say. “Will you?”

  She looks up at me, chin trembling slightly and eyes defiant. “No. I won’t.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I zip my bag closed and head for the door.

  “Tempest?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I liked having you as a sister.”

  I stop, staring at the scanner lock on the door.

  “I’ll always be your sister,” I say. “No matter where I am.”

  Then I open the door, and I’m gone.

  I sidle around the back of the security forces dormitory and let myself in by the stairwell. First things first. I need a disguise. I hurry down the stairs to the basement laundry. The lights shine bright over the rows of washers and dryers. Some of the machines are on, but the only sound is the low tumbling of clothes spinning. I look left, then right. No one.

  I check a dryer.
All men’s clothes, too big for me. I try the next one. Jackpot. Plain green coveralls, like the ones drivers wear. They may be a little big and slightly damp, but they’ll do. I had thought about disguising myself as a guard, which would mean finding a sidearm and body armor, but maybe a driver is better. No one pays much attention to the driver, and I won’t have to risk finding and breaking into a weapons locker. My eyes go to my bulging purse. I still have the tablet. I can alter one of the other drivers’ schedules, slip into her place. I find a matching green cap in the same machine and pull it low over my brow. The only things that look out of place are my feet. I’ll have to hope I can find some boots before anyone notices.

  I race up the stairs to the main level, suddenly much more aware of the black security camera bulbs studding the ceiling. My skin crawls, and I duck my head. They’ll realize it’s me later, when they analyze the recordings, but I don’t think they’ll recognize me now.

  The corridors are quiet, the lights set to motion-sensor mode so that they stagger on as I approach, and slowly click off behind me. I check the time—4:51. Sunrise is at 6:37. I pass a girl headed in the opposite direction. I hold my breath, but she nods sleepily at me and pads past in sock feet.

  The duty roster screen glows electric blue in the dim light of the lobby. I stand watching it until Eli’s name cycles into view.

  Name: Byrd

  ID: BE20780115

  Duty: prisoner transport

  Report to: East Vehicle Lot

  Time: 0600

  0600. Six a.m. I look at the time again. A little over an hour before Eli and everyone under his command reports for duty. I have to be in that caravan.

  I pull at my too-big sleeves. I need to be out in the lot early, but not too early. Until then, I need a place to stay out of sight and make room for myself on the caravan. The basement, I think, but then immediately feel sick. There may not be any security cameras down there, but that’s where I saw the ghosts of my old teammates, where the blight and kudzu came creeping over my vision. Will it all still be there, waiting for me?

  I take the stairs down and stand outside the door. I will not hyperventilate. I outran firebombs, escaped the Red Hand, survived the blight. I’m not going to let a stupid empty room defeat me. I push open the door and flip on the lights. The lounge smells even mustier after the clean scent of drying laundry. There’s a half-eaten bag of corn chips in the center of the table, and a pair of abandoned boots flopped over in the corner. Boots! They’re a size too large and the laces are frayed, but they’ll work. I dump out the chips, rip the bag in half, and stuff the toes with it.

  I turn on the tablet and find the list of drivers and vehicles slated for 0600 transport duty. I have my choice—a huge personnel carrier on eighteen wheels, several fuel trucks, armored cars, pickups, jeeps, and motorcycles. Not the eighteen-wheeler. That and the fuel truck will be closely watched, if they’re assigned to the caravan. Same with the armored car—that’s likely what they’ll use to transport Alder and any other prisoners. A motorcycle would be excellent for agility, but guards usually take those, and I’m dressed as a driver. A jeep, then. It’ll be better on rough terrain than the truck, and if I’m lucky, no one will notice a new driver.

  I scroll over to the current driver’s name. One Padma Black. I open her schedule detail and change her departure time to 0730. Her com cuff will alert her, and if I’m lucky, she’ll think it’s only a simple schedule change, until she arrives at the lot and discovers everyone is already gone. By the time she and her supervisors work it out, we’ll be well outside Atlanta.

  I jiggle my foot. What is Eli doing now? Did he just roll out of bed, or has he been up all night like me, nervous about the transport? And Alder? Do they let him sleep? Have they fed him? Does he have more bruises purpling his arms?

  I check the time again . . . 0537. I can’t dwell on these things. I’ve made my decision, and now it’s time. I make my way up the stairs and down the left wing of the barracks. This side of the building is flush with the vehicle lot, so there must be a door that opens directly onto it. The sound of showers running and the mumble of voices behind closed doors reaches out into the hall. The barracks is waking. Soon I’ll have company.

  Out in the lot, the dark, humid morning clings to my skin. The transport duty vehicles are lined up in front of the gate. I locate Padma’s jeep, J-195. The door opens easily, but the keys aren’t in the ignition. Dammit. I check the dash, the glove box, the sun visor. Nothing. Or no keys, anyway. I sigh in frustration. I’ll have to hot-wire it. I check the time—0548. The other drivers will be arriving soon to do safety checks and prep for the journey.

  I grope under the passenger seat, then the driver’s. My fingers brush something hard and plastic. I pull it out. A small emergency kit, full of flares, water purification tablets, a flat-head screwdriver, electrical tape, and a slim nine-millimeter with a full ammo magazine. Yes.

  I glance out the window. The distant hum of an air conditioner fills the air, and the streetlamps cast pools of yellow light onto the asphalt, but nothing moves. I wrap each of my fingertips in electrical tape, kick loose the panel beneath the steering column, and pull out a fistful of multicolored wires. Red to yellow, power to engine. I use the screwdriver to strip the wires and touch the exposed ends together. The jeep sparks to life.

  The door to the barracks squeaks open, and a pair of drivers walks out onto the lot. Act normal, act normal. I nod to them as they pass and pretend to adjust something on the navigation and communications screen built into the dashboard. All it shows is a rotating image of AgraStar’s logo, but at my touch, the short-range radio crackles to life, broadcasting a low line of static. An aerial map of the route from Atlanta south to the assimilation camp appears on the screen.

  More drivers and the first of the security teams file out. I check my fuel gauge. Full. I check the time again—0556. This is the hard part, the waiting. I keep my eye on the door, watching for Eli. Will he recognize me? My heart feels like it’s slowly crawling up my chest. Call roll out, call roll out, I plead silently. What if I fail? What if I’m caught before I can reach Alder?

  The short-wave radio spits to life. “Drivers, preliminary safety check report.”

  “J-212, go,” a woman’s voice comes back.

  “A-134, go,” a man says.

  “J-195, go.” Please, don’t let anyone have noticed the tremor in my voice.

  The callback continues. Thirteen vehicles in total.

  “Roll out,” comes the command.

  I put the jeep into gear and pull behind the fuel tanker. Two motorcycles peel past me on the left. We circle around the far side of the barracks, and then roll to a stop on the main road, the skyscrapers towering around us . . . 0604. The sky is still dark as night.

  “Stand by for detention transport,” the radio says.

  I look up and down the length of the caravan. That’s the MA building ahead of us, to our right. Another jeep, four guards on motorcycles, and the fuel tanker stand between it and me. Behind me, the armored car, four more motorcycles, and two pickups. A short line of people files out of the building, cast in blue by the streetlights. As they come closer, I make them out. Five prisoners shuffle forward in loose gray jumpsuits, flanked by guards.

  A man in fatigues and a helmet walks out to meet them and follows along beside the lead guard, leaning close to speak to her. Eli. I tighten my fingers on the steering wheel. I’m not only ruining my mother’s life. If I succeed, I’m going to ruin his as well. They’ll think he was in on this in some way. And even if they decide he wasn’t, he’ll always have that cloud of suspicion hanging over him. Was he? Wasn’t he?

  He’s not Ellison, I remind myself. You don’t owe him anything. You barely know him.

  But he was kind to you, I argue back. He made you laugh. He doesn’t know what AgraStar has done.

  The prisoners walk past my window, and I fight to keep my gaze straight ahead. The second they’re past, I lift my eyes to the rearview mirror
. A short, overweight girl. A pale man with thinning hair. A middle-aged woman. Two boys. I zero in on the one with a head of unruly black hair. Alder. They stop on the sidewalk beside the armored car, waiting to be loaded into the back of the vehicle. For a moment, he looks my way, and I think our eyes meet in the mirror—but then he drops his head and steps off the curb.

  “All vehicles, roll out.” The order comes over the radio.

  We pass the darkened Ferris wheel and crawl out onto the raised, fortified highway hugging one side of the inner city. NOW ENTERING YELLOW ZONE, a sign above the road reads. The buildings around us drop in height and move back from the road—low, windowless warehouses, a cinder-block mechanic’s shop, a tumbledown brick building with a single light shining eerily in one of the upper rooms. A bus trundles past us, heading into the city. Against the lightening horizon, I can make out boxy apartment buildings.

  Ahead, the other vehicles slow, and then come to a stop. I crane my neck to see what’s happening at the head of the caravan. A gate and two trucks block the road. A checkpoint. Dammit. I look down at my com cuff, and then at the dashboard clock . . . 0633. Is my mother still asleep? I picture her waking up, fixing coffee, knocking on my door, softly at first—and then pushing it open to find my bed empty. Isabel lying in her room, feigning sleep.

  A cold, electric thought passes through me. How long before my mother finds me truly gone and activates my tracker? And what if the checkpoint guard sees my wrist com? A driver would have a dark green utility cuff, like Eli’s or my old one, not one disguising itself as a piece of jewelry. I should have thought of this before now. I’m so used to the weight of a com cuff on my wrist, I forgot about it in the rush to plan Alder’s escape.

  One of the checkpoint guards moves down the line, a clipboard and scanner in her hand. I tug at my com cuff, trying to pull it off. No luck. I pull harder, gritting my teeth as the cuff grinds against my bones. Dammit. I stop, panting. All I’m doing is making my hand swell.

  The guard taps something into her clipboard and moves to the car two ahead of me. There must be a way to get this thing off. I hold my thumb down over the settings feature and select maintenance mode. The cuff makes a tiny buzzing noise, and a pinhole the size of a paper clip head opens in its side. Dammit. I must need a special tool to remove it altogether. I look around the cab of the jeep. Nothing.