Her nightmare flashes before her; Ever reels the memory in, forcing herself to focus on this very real terrifying moment. Suddenly her impulsive jump out of the boat feels idiotic. She considers turning around, climbing back into the boat, but she can’t. She won’t. She is already in the water. The shore is a hundred yards away. The unincorporated world awaits, at least for a few hours of blessed and dangerous exploration.
Don’t you dare chicken out, Ever.
She snaps into motion again, moving more quickly toward the shore and hopefully away from whatever bumped into her, staying low to avoid being spotted by her mother, or Angela, or anyone who might peer over the side of the boat. The lapping waves guide her forward. The surface of the water is at her thighs now. Her knees. Ankles. The ship is well behind her, programmed to slow as it approaches land, while Ever picks up speed.
Striding through the last few yards of the water, wind whipping at her wet skin, she shifts from fear to elation. She walks more quickly through the shallows, then gives a sudden small cry as something slices through the bottom of her foot.
She stepped on something, not something alive, but something sharp, which cuts right through the flimsy sole of her soft black shoe. Ever feels a trickle of warm blood seeping from her foot, through her shoe, pooling and contrasting with the cold sea water. As the sea mixes itself into her foot, the salt lacing its way through the wound makes her wince, but sharper than the pain is the realization snapping into focus: predators can smell blood.
Though she is in barely four inches of water now, the idea of a water-predator coming after her in some sort of blood-frenzy triggers a primal motivation. Limping a little, she runs through the shallows, emerging quickly from the water. Once on dry land, she summons all of her athletic training, real and archived, and stretches out low to the ground, running as fast as her perfect legs can carry her toward the tree line in the distance.
Her long black hair (Ebony #188) flies behind her, comingling with the night sky. The pain in her foot is all but forgotten. She runs forward, hell-bent on making it deep into the great unknown, with no intention of stopping until she gets there.
Chapter 6: Ere
Leaves. Green. Thick, heavy foliage. Heady, humid jungle air. He moves as quickly as the environment allows, stumbling frequently, getting caught and tangled, untangling himself by falling forward and just continuing to move forward.
Breathing heavily, heart surging, sweating through his clothes, Ere tries to take a normal breath but can only gasp as he keeps half-running, half-falling forward. The fabric of his shirt clings to his chest and he wants to take it off, but his clothing is all that protects him from the thousand little stings of barbed branches, underbrush, insects. He runs. Faster, faster, faster.
He becomes aware of a humming sound, realizes that this sound is what he is moving toward. He doesn’t know what the hum means, or where it’s coming from, he just knows that he has to get to wherever it is. Whatever it is. Whoever it is. As quickly as possible. Another sound cuts through the hum:
“Ere!”
He turns quickly, too quickly; a cruel root twists under his foot and his ankle snaps, sending him down to the earth as a sharp pain shoots up his leg. A blinding ray of sunshine cuts through the leaves, assaulting Ere. He senses danger, a Syn—a thousand Syns, a million Syns—
“Ere!”
Blinking and shielding his eyes with the back of his arm, he looks up, tries to see who is calling his name. How could a Syn know his name? Unless it wasn’t—he sees her: a girl.
She stands silhouetted, blocking out the harsh light but also shielding her features from Ere. All he can see is her hair—long, flowing, black. He wants to ask who she is, but feels he should already know her. He searches his mind for her name, or to recall the shape of her face, the color of her eyes. Even in shadow, without being able to see her face, he senses her urgency. She needs to tell him something. She needs him to do something. Something very important—
“Ere!” This time the voice is whispered and sharp, punctuated by strong hands gripping his shoulders. He is wrapped in a blanket, curled up in his corner of the main sleeping room in the Franklin Commune. His dream dissipates like a lifting fog as his mother shakes him awake.
“What is it?” He asks, forcing alertness in his voice. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice is a loaded weapon: “Syns.”
And with that, she’s gone.
Whenever the Syns appeared, his mother disappeared. Ruth Fell would defend her people to the death, but only in an extreme emergency. Outside of an outright attack, she simply vanished, resurfacing only when the Syns departed. This was never explained to Ere; it was just the way things were.
Uncle Howard used to be the one who represented the tribe when a Syn approached. Interactions with the Syns had not been violent in quite some time, but they were never pleasant. Most often, when a Syn approached an Original tribe, it was to deliver an eviction notice, informing them that the tribe’s camp was being developed for Syn territory expansion. But there is always the threat of something worse than a simple eviction notice. Ere’s heart stutters at the thought.
“Ere.” Cal stands in the doorway, fingers resting lightly on the knife at his side.
“Who’s going to speak to the Syns?”
“Helena,” Cal says.
“But she’s so old—”
“Younger than Uncle Howard was.”
“Yes, but…”
Cal gestures for his cousin to stop speaking. “I’m going to stand guard, while she talks.”
“Should I get my knife—”
“You should never be without your knife.” Cal snaps. “Get it. And stay in here. Don’t come out unless I call you.”
Embarrassed at how relieved he is at these instructions, Ere nods. He pulls his leather knife holster tight around his thigh. He curses himself, silently swearing that he will never again be caught without a weapon. He follows Cal as far as the window, then crouches, peering just above the sill, to watch Cal guard Helena Garrison.
Helena is already standing in the field in front of the Commune. Cal approaches her rapidly, but as he draws near, Helena raises a hand.
“Further back, boy,” Helena calls out in a voice shaky with age but firm in its command. Ere can barely hear her. “Keep your distance. You can watch from right where you are.”
Cal wants to argue, but Helena’s seniority forbids him. He halts, keeping his fingers on his knife and his eyes on Helena.
Helena Garrison is one of the eldest of the Elders, somewhere around eighty-eight, though exact dates were hard for the Originals to keep up with these days; a few months ago she referred to this year as her piano year, which made her contemporaries smile at a joke only they understood. Ere and Cal, who had never seen a piano, went blank at this reference, which wiped the smiles from the elders’ faces.
Ere is amazed at how Helena holds her ground as the Syns exit their ship and stride toward her. One Syn is clearly the leader of the group. He looks as they all look, polished and svelte and cold. But there is something else about him. Ere squints, and realizes that this Syn looks somewhat like Louie Garrison, Helena’s son, who passed away some years ago. From the subtle tilt of her head, Ere can tell that Helena is noticing this as well.
Louie, a wonderful storyteller, prankster, and great favorite in the tribe, died suddenly of a heart condition. That’s what they thought, at least; one morning when out scouting for water, he simply crumpled to the ground and never got up. Now this