some very sensitive information to you.”
Qaara’s pulse jumps. “About what?”
“About this.” Mercer eyes the dark object in his hand. “Something I learned after my father’s death.” The index finger of his other hand stretches out and taps the side of the rock.
After a pause, there’s a slight humming sound, and a piece of the rock slides open, like a tiny drawer. Inside, Qaara sees a green jewel the shape of a crescent moon.
7
TRIBE
Jedd steps outside into the night air of the Fringe.
His lungs instantly revolt at the chemical stench of reclaimed plastic and recycled carbon. He pulls a soft pink tube from his pocket, finds the opening in the middle and slips it between his teeth so it’s protruding from the corners of his mouth. As his lips close around the filter, he thinks of the dog he had as a kid, back when he was traveling with the Family. It always carried a favorite stick between its teeth, eager to play fetch with anyone who had the time.
He must look like that dog with the stick in its mouth, only Jedd’s not running off to play.
“Here,” he says, turning to hand a filter to Ricky. “The recycle plant’s working overtime tonight. You better suck on this before your lungs start to melt.”
“Thanks,” Ricky says.
“Let’s hurry.” Jedd breaks into a brisk run down the middle of the street.
There’s a slight drizzle, more mist than rain. A full moon gives the clouds a faint orange glow as if lit by fire from within. On either side, the outlines of the buildings that fill the Fringe resemble a swarm of cicadas emerging from the ground, disjointed, organic and menacing in the dark. The walls of the structures are made of packing materials discarded by the local munitions factory and look like massive jigsaw puzzles of reconstituted chemboard and hard plastic sheets of random colors bolted together at uneven angles.
Welcome to the Fringe, Jedd thinks, the dregs of society. The dung heap of Manhattan.
Every costal city on the planet tells the same story. The wealthy live and work in pristine high-rise cocoons close to the ocean, encased in tombs of steel and glass, protected and separated from the world they ransack, rape and destroy. Slums like the Fringe spring up on the outskirts, necessary to the smooth functioning of the System, the source of subsistence labor, eking out an existence from the dirty industry that supports wealth and privilege, living off the garbage that flows from it.
“Hey, can you slow down to a gentle jog? I’m dying back here.” Ricky pulls up alongside, breathing hard.
“I wonder if he’s still alive.” Jedd whips out his jax and stares at the holoscreen that jumps above it. “His marker is gone, and I haven’t heard anything in the last five minutes. He’s not even on the Mesh. That’s not like him. Someone must have taken his jax. And he wouldn't give it up without a fight.”
“Where is the little runt?”
“In the Tribe Quadrant, two klicks away, if he’s still at the same coordinates.” Jedd picks up his pace with longer strides over the broken pavement. “See you there.”
As he runs, his mind finds a delicate equilibrium between fatigue and euphoria and begins to wander over the ten years since he and Ricky first arrived in the Fringe, just a couple of scared teenagers escaping from the interior of the continent, a place he soon found out had a name on the coast.
They called it the Dead Zone , or Zone for short.
Months after their arrival in the Fringe, Jedd still flinched at the sound of an angry voice or cowered in fear when a hand was raised against him, a common occurrence in their neighborhood. His former existence under the iron fist of old Moses was like living in hell. It took a steady diet of entertainment and food to clear it out of his system.
Eventually, Jedd learned to relax. But the nightmares never ended.
Moses.
The name still carries an aura of awe mixed with terror.
He gave Jedd and Ricky food, when
Qaara’s pulse jumps. “About what?”
“About this.” Mercer eyes the dark object in his hand. “Something I learned after my father’s death.” The index finger of his other hand stretches out and taps the side of the rock.
After a pause, there’s a slight humming sound, and a piece of the rock slides open, like a tiny drawer. Inside, Qaara sees a green jewel the shape of a crescent moon.
7
TRIBE
Jedd steps outside into the night air of the Fringe.
His lungs instantly revolt at the chemical stench of reclaimed plastic and recycled carbon. He pulls a soft pink tube from his pocket, finds the opening in the middle and slips it between his teeth so it’s protruding from the corners of his mouth. As his lips close around the filter, he thinks of the dog he had as a kid, back when he was traveling with the Family. It always carried a favorite stick between its teeth, eager to play fetch with anyone who had the time.
He must look like that dog with the stick in its mouth, only Jedd’s not running off to play.
“Here,” he says, turning to hand a filter to Ricky. “The recycle plant’s working overtime tonight. You better suck on this before your lungs start to melt.”
“Thanks,” Ricky says.
“Let’s hurry.” Jedd breaks into a brisk run down the middle of the street.
There’s a slight drizzle, more mist than rain. A full moon gives the clouds a faint orange glow as if lit by fire from within. On either side, the outlines of the buildings that fill the Fringe resemble a swarm of cicadas emerging from the ground, disjointed, organic and menacing in the dark. The walls of the structures are made of packing materials discarded by the local munitions factory and look like massive jigsaw puzzles of reconstituted chemboard and hard plastic sheets of random colors bolted together at uneven angles.
Welcome to the Fringe, Jedd thinks, the dregs of society. The dung heap of Manhattan.
Every costal city on the planet tells the same story. The wealthy live and work in pristine high-rise cocoons close to the ocean, encased in tombs of steel and glass, protected and separated from the world they ransack, rape and destroy. Slums like the Fringe spring up on the outskirts, necessary to the smooth functioning of the System, the source of subsistence labor, eking out an existence from the dirty industry that supports wealth and privilege, living off the garbage that flows from it.
“Hey, can you slow down to a gentle jog? I’m dying back here.” Ricky pulls up alongside, breathing hard.
“I wonder if he’s still alive.” Jedd whips out his jax and stares at the holoscreen that jumps above it. “His marker is gone, and I haven’t heard anything in the last five minutes. He’s not even on the Mesh. That’s not like him. Someone must have taken his jax. And he wouldn't give it up without a fight.”
“Where is the little runt?”
“In the Tribe Quadrant, two klicks away, if he’s still at the same coordinates.” Jedd picks up his pace with longer strides over the broken pavement. “See you there.”
As he runs, his mind finds a delicate equilibrium between fatigue and euphoria and begins to wander over the ten years since he and Ricky first arrived in the Fringe, just a couple of scared teenagers escaping from the interior of the continent, a place he soon found out had a name on the coast.
They called it the Dead Zone , or Zone for short.
Months after their arrival in the Fringe, Jedd still flinched at the sound of an angry voice or cowered in fear when a hand was raised against him, a common occurrence in their neighborhood. His former existence under the iron fist of old Moses was like living in hell. It took a steady diet of entertainment and food to clear it out of his system.
Eventually, Jedd learned to relax. But the nightmares never ended.
Moses.
The name still carries an aura of awe mixed with terror.
He gave Jedd and Ricky food, when
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