“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” someone answers. I’m a good enough liar to recognize doubt when I hear it. “It’d take more than some rebel demons to break the dome. Besides, we have the military and High Council to protect us. They’d never let anything like that happen.”
Now there’s a good joke. I try not to laugh as I keep moving. The military and the High Council are going to protect everyone? They couldn’t protect a piece of paper if their lives depended on it.
Why did I think it was such a good idea to stay with the military for so long? Sure, they’re the ones who found me injured Outside the sector’s gates and took me in despite my total amnesia, but I knew they were shady. After their information database couldn’t tell me anything about my past, I should’ve left. I could’ve made something work on my own. I never would’ve ended up in this situation.
But then I never would’ve met my team. Would that’ve been a good thing or not? I want to think I’d be better off without the lot of them, but I know that’s just because we’ve been fraying since the ambush. It’s only thanks to them that I started paying attention to the present instead of just blindly chasing after my past. If I hadn’t met my teammates, how would I have felt when I found out I used to be a rebel? Would I have just been happy to have clues, a place to go back to? Would there’ve been any of this dread?
One thing’s for sure—only clue to my past or not, I don’t want to go back to being a rebel. I’ve seen what they do to innocent people. I’m no pinnacle of morality, but even I can’t accept their violence.
There’s nowhere I actually want to go—I just needed to finally get some space from everyone—so I let my feet lead me down a side street lined with makeshift stalls. Some beat-up sign says it’s a craft fair, this weekend only. There’re a bunch of shops selling jewelry and paintings, but some sell bigger wares like furniture, too. Spindly tables sit next to elegant wooden chairs. A wooden footrest carved in the shape of a rosebush sticks out like a gaudy sore thumb. I stop to get a better look at a chair with birds etched along the backing. When I run my fingers over the detailed carvings, an itch to create stings my hands.
Man, I miss Central’s woodshop. Everything else about being in the military might have sucked, but at least I had that. I wonder what they did with all my stuff after we were arrested. Did they throw away the furniture I made? Sell it? Burn it? What about my sketchbooks? I don’t really care about the furniture, but I poured my soul into those drawings. Now they’re probably at the bottom of a trash can somewhere.
Great. Just great.
A hand on my shoulder nearly gives me a heart attack. I spin around to find a kid, maybe around fourteen years old, behind me. He’s pretty small, with bronze-colored skin, unruly black hair, and intense brown eyes staring at me from out of a small, angular face.
Ice trickles down my spine. I know this kid. He was one of the rebel leaders at the ambush they set up to kill us.
Do I run? Punch him in the face? That’d give me a good head start. But his hands shoot up, palms out, and he says, “I’m not here to fight. I just want to talk.”
“Talk.” I take a step back. “Right.” Stalls run up and down the whole street, blocking some of the alley entrances, but there was an opening a few yards back. I can cause a distraction with my gift and make a run for it.
The kid reads me easily. “It’d be better for both of us if you don’t cause a scene. Just hear me out.”
“That’s rich coming from one of the rebels who tried to kill me and my teammates not that long ago.” I flex my hands, reaching for my gift. But then I remember this guy probably has some kind of neutralization power crystal. I won’t be able to use my telekinesis on him. Could he stop me from using my gift at all?
The kid grabs his elbow. It’s the same thing Jay does when he gets nervous. “I know. I know you have no reason to trust me. I know the last time you saw me, we were on opposite sides of a battle. But I had to see you again.” His eyes focus on the chair behind me. “I couldn’t just leave things like that. I wanted to talk—one last time. Please.”
A likely story. Gods, I go out on my own for the first time since before the ambush and a rebel leader finds me in less than twenty minutes. Just my luck.
But … ever since I got back to Sector Eight, I’ve been dealing with the fact that I’m shit out of luck when it comes to learning more about my past. And now someone who probably knew me says he wants to talk. This could be my chance. My only chance. Even if he is a rebel.
I’m still trying to decide what to do when the kid speaks again. His eyes stay on the chair. “Pretend we’re looking at the market together. We look too suspicious just standing here.” He heads to the next stall before I can answer.
Ugh. This is such a pain.
When I catch up to him, he’s pretending to admire a necklace. He holds it up to the light, runs the chain through his fingers as he talks quietly. “My name is Cal. We were best friends. You taught me how to fight and saved me more times than I can count. When you went missing, I searched everywhere for you. But when I finally found you, it was already…”
“Let me guess,” I say, “you’re here to convince me to come back to the rebels.”
He shakes his head, surprising me. “No. If this is the decision you’ve made, then I won’t try to force you to come back. I just wanted to talk to you again.”
When the stall vendor comes over and starts talking to us, the kid humors her, asking about the necklace, the materials, how much time it took to make, the price, before he sets it back down on the blanket-covered display stand and keeps walking. I follow.
“I don’t remember you,” I say.
“I know.”
“All I know about you is that you ambushed me and my team at that fake negotiations meeting.”
His back is to me, but I swear I see him flinch. “I know.”
I wait for him to justify himself, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t try to say that he never thought I’d refuse to come back to the rebels or that he’d be forced to fight me. He doesn’t make any excuses, and that makes me like him a bit more. Not that I like him at all. He’s an enemy. Not a friend.
I sigh and make it obvious I’m not happy about any of this.
The kid—Cal—stops at another stall, this one selling hanging chimes. Streamers tied to silver, tinkling cylinders blow gently in the wind. The vendor is nowhere in sight.
“Fine,” I say. “What did you want to talk about?”
I don’t think my voice has lost any of its hostility, but Cal brightens. “I thought I could tell you about your past. Or, at least, what I know of it. I could answer questions you have about your time with us.” He hesitates, then adds all in a rush, “I know you don’t remember me, but I remember you. To me, you’re still my best friend, and I want to help you.”
His burst of sincerity catches me off guard. His eyes are shining, almost desperate, and I get the feeling he’s being honest.
No, what if that’s just what he wants me to think? Or what if he’s using his gift to manipulate my emotions or what I’m seeing? Nytes with unknown gifts can’t be trusted, and especially not a rebel Nyte—and especially especially not a higher-up rebel Nyte. No matter how earnest he seems, it doesn’t mean anything when I don’t know him.