Then

Getting into Mid from Under’s easy if you know where to go. There are places where the wall is broken, or where the trees are tall enough to climb and jump over from. I’ve been sneaking up there since I was seven, running away from my chores at the Dorms to find more food or interesting shiny stuff for Finn to play with. The others would always act like I was crazy for doing it, stare at me and point and giggle when I came back free of bullet holes. Finn would cry every time, throw his arms around me and beg me not to go again. I’m fairly sure the Dorm Mother knew too, especially as I got older and started stealing more, but she never said anything. Probably because she knew she couldn’t stop me - that and if she kicked me out she would have lost the only person in that place that could teach the others how to read.

Getting older made it harder. It’s easy enough to slip through cracks in the walls when you’re short and twiggy. When you’re seventeen, you’ve got to be more discerning. Peacers probably aren’t going to bother chasing down a kid - I always thought so, anyway - but an older teenager is a different story. Luckily there are still districts in Mid where the Peacers don’t really patrol. Trick is to sneak in there, then run along the jagged roofs and up the stone steps to the districts closer to Top. That’s where the nice shops are, the merchants, the street markets. Plenty of pockets to pick and houses left unoccupied. I tell Finn I go for people who look like they can afford to lose a ring or a bracelet. In reality, I don’t give a shit. If they’re in Mid then they’re doing better than me. If they even have a bracelet then as far as I’m concerned they can stand to lose it. You need money to have morals.

I realise I’m speeding up and force myself to slow down. The old tiles beneath my boots protest with a groan, and one of them edges free, flashes crimson in the light of the setting sun as it falls off then edge. I wince when it hits with a little crack, and look around.

No blue uniform. He wouldn’t have followed me out here anyway, I tell myself. Those from Mid rarely come into Under, and certainly not so close to nightfall.

It helps a little. My heart’s still galloping though, and there’s a sharp pain in my side from sprinting for so long. The bullet had whistled past my cheek, an inch out, and then exploded into the wall. That mess of brick would have been my skull if the Peacer’s hand had twitched.

Maybe I need to stop this. Maybe Finn’s right, and I need to find a real job - I could join the Association and work the lifts - or ask Big Jay if she need a hand with the pub?

They’re empty thoughts. I’m not going to do that. I’m going to keep doing this, even if it gets me killed. I’d rather a life where I struggled than one where I didn’t try at all.

I dig my knuckles into my side, grimacing, and then pat over the cloth pouch under my shirt to make sure it’s still secure around my waist. I need to stuff some more cloth in there - I landed a coin purse earlier and the stupid thing keeps jingling. It’s how the Peacer got me and I’d rather avoid the same thing with the gangs. Careful, I pad across the roof and hop down to the next one. Down, down, down. I’m careful where I step, sticking to the shadows, deepening as night crawls closer.

When I reach the next set of crumbling stone steps, I hear voices floating out from a rooftop a few buildings away.

‘…extending the hours again. That’s on top of the extra we’ve already been doing last month.’

‘And who’s to say it’s gonna end next week? They’ll just keep pushing it up!’

‘Can’t do anything, that’s the fucking problem.’

Pit miners, I conclude. I eye the sun - the weak, purpling dregs of it that are left, and wonder if I’ve got time to stop and listen. If they’re planning something, it would be good to know before the sun sets entirely and I start tempting fate. Under’s the most exposed part of the city - and our walls are old and problematic. Every month or so a section caves in and then it’s a rush to get it patched before the Katerakts notice. Years ago, it would get fixed within twenty four hours; now it takes almost a week. Top has sucked up all the chemetal workers in the city and put them to work reinforcing their own, metres-thick wall. Never mind that they’re the safest in the city. For the Katerakts to get to them, both Under and Mid’s walls would have to fall, along with all of us poor bastards living here.

‘I say we strike,’ the next voice says, and the decision’s made for me. I scurry down, slipping along old metal balconies and swinging myself to the next roof with a faint jingle.

They’ve chosen their meeting point well. The courtyard is a dusty rooftop square, close enough to the wall that there won’t be any lingering overseers. There are more of them than I expected, around fifteen men and women, all dressed in pale grey mining rags. The worn fabric flaps off toothpick legs and arms, skin as ghostly white as their hair. Chemetal bleaches the colour out of everything - even humans. My own palms are mottled white in places, a spiderweb of poverty stamped into my skin, just from living in Under.

‘Have you lost your mind?’ a large man with a grim, wolfish face asks. His muscles stand out, all bunched and stringy in a way that doesn’t look quite right; they don’t get fed enough in the Pits. ‘You remember the last strikes, don’t you? They’ll wait for sunset and push us all over the edge!’

Grumbling ensues.

‘But that was last time, weren’t it?’ someone pipes up, a younger man still with brown streaks in his hair. ‘And we can’t just keep going with these hours.’

A chorus of nodding.

‘And they’re not even using it for us, for our wall! They’re taking it for the inner one, that’s why they want a new dig site!’

I wince at the thought of weeks of wheezing.

‘I reckon…’ The young man swallows. ‘I reckon striking’s the way to—‘

‘Keep your damn voice down!’ the wolfish man snaps, taking a threatening step towards him. ‘Peacers could be—’

‘They’re not down here, are they?’ he bites back. ‘They won’t come this close.’

‘We’re not striking!’

‘What else we supposed to do!’ a woman says, loudly enough that the others fall quiet. Her chest rises and falls fast, her arms outstretched. I can’t see her face, just the back of her hair: white with a crown of black dust. ‘Sign up and get sent to service instead? We’ll die anyway! I can’t— can’t do this anymore!’

Another man puts his arm around her. ‘Mellie,’ he says softly, and then the air thumps with noise.

It’s so loud that I instantly duck, and my coins give a sharp jingle. Nobody hears. They’re too busy looking up at the sky, where a shock of lime green powder falls in a contained cloud. High up in the east, bright against the darkening sky. Green flare - Katerakts sighted. They’re coming tonight.

I become horribly aware of the time.

The wolfish man curses. ‘We’ll meet again next week,’ he says as people start to scurry away, drawing their ragged grey scarves up to cover the lower half of their faces. ‘Stay safe! Stay strong!’

Someone says something else but I don’t hear it. I’m already gone.

It probably says a lot about Under that even with a flare so close, the pubs are still all open. To get to The Old Boat I have to navigate my way down, close to the Pits.

Under doesn’t make a lot of sense if you view it straight on. The buildings are old and stony, at least three of four storeys tall, but they’re all at a slight slant - like some great wind ripped through the streets and pushed it all just a little bit out of line. Over the decades since the Katerakts, we’ve all built upwards, houses on top of houses, streets between the balconies. You can forget about city planning - now there’s dead ends and half rotted staircases that don’t lead anywhere and whole sections were the structures have slid and fallen into rubble.

In the darkness, it doesn’t look too bad though. Black dust blown in from the Pits just outside the wall coats the surfaces and glitters faintly under the moon. And the Pits themselves can be beautiful. They’re constantly sighing out plumes of thin grey smoke, and on nights like this, when there’s no wind, you can see it writhing and twisting in a dance up towards the sky.

Anyway: The Old Boat. It’s a local favourite, hidden at the end of a musty tunnel made of overlapping slabs of fallen rock. Inside, a wooden rib cage holds up the sagging stone flesh of what presumably was once a grand residence. It’s gloomy and smoky, and smells so much like ale that I bet if you wrung the whole place out it would go splashing down the street. I like it because it tends to draw a quieter crowd than the others, like The Bleeding Horse - meaning you’re less likely to get beaten up or shanked by some drunk miner with anger issues.

Tonight there are only a few dust-stained miners, nursing their tankards, and a middle-aged Flipper tinkering away in the back corner with something metallic and complicated-looking.

Big Jay is at the bar, absentmindedly polishing glasses as she watches the Flipper. She’s a short, bulky woman with a big gap-toothed smile. ‘Addie,’ she says when she sees me approaching. ‘Finn’s not here yet but your new friend is.’ She drops me a wink and my face goes beet red. ‘Go on, head over there,’ she nods towards the corner encouragingly. ‘I’ll bring it over.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, willing my face to cool down. She just snorts.

By new friend, she means Tom, who’s been here three months already. He’s the first friend I’ve made from Mid. Except he doesn’t like to talk about it - as far as he’s concerned, he’s an Under now. Which is sweet, but completely impossible. Even looking at him now, sitting with his long legs crossed, his spine’s too straight, and his hair’s too neat - with not a hint of white to be seen. Nobody would mistake him for an Under. Everyone else here is slumped over their drinks or the table, head in hand and exhausted from a day’s work. He sticks out like a sore thumb.

My belly flips as he makes eye contact with me, but I ignore it, and smile back. It’s stupid. He’s not interested in me like that - why would he be? - but I still tuck my hair behind my ears (pointless, it’s curly enough that it just comes springing back) and subtly wipe the sweat from my forehead. God I probably stink, don’t I? All that running—

Well, it’s too late now. I yank out the chair opposite and take a seat. Don’t make it weird, I tell myself. Treat him like Finn.

‘You’re late,’ Tom says, but he’s smiling. ‘I thought we said seven?’

‘Finn’s not here yet either,’ I point out.

He rolls his eyes. ‘Yes, because clearly tardiness is a family trait.’

See - who says things like ‘tardiness’ in Under?

‘I’m only…’ I lean back and peer at the clock on the wall. I’m twenty minutes late. I divert: ‘I bumped into some miners on the way back.’

Tom instantly leans forward, dark eyes growing concerned.

’Not like that,’ I say quickly, ‘they were talking about striking.’

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He sits back in his chair and sighs. ‘They won’t do it.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘But apparently there’s gonna be a new dig site.’

That gets his interest again. A frown pulls across his pretty mouth. ‘So soon?’

‘Maybe we’re running out of chemetal,’ I say.

His frown deepens. ‘We wouldn’t need so much of it if those idiots stopped blowing up the walls.’

‘Do you think it could be the miners?’ It’s half the reason I stopped to listen. Everyone suspects the people that work in the Pits - they have access to explosives, after all, and a motive. Although in my view it’s a bit like shooting yourself in the foot. If they keep blowing up the wall, they’re only going to have to work harder to mine the material for the repairs.

‘Who knows,’ Tom says. ‘How was Mid today?’

‘Fine,’ I say on reflex and then freeze.

He’s smiling up at me now. ‘So you went there again? Finn’s not going to be pleased.’

‘Finn,’ I say, scowling, ‘doesn’t need to know.’

Tom is unfazed. ‘What did you get then? Anything interesting?’

I glance at the door and then around the pub. Big Jay is pouring my drink and chatting with the Flipper at the bar. Old man Thesp is there too, slugging back a pint like his health depends on it and mumbling to himself. Nobody’s looking over.

I slip my hand around the bottom of my shirt and unbutton the pouch. I fish around until I feel the sharp scrape of cut wire, and drag out onto the sticky table. The battery - I think that’s what it is, anyway - is the most interesting thing I picked up. It’s around the size of my palm, an elegant cylinder made of glass and gold. I had to cut the metal wires locking it in, and the tail ends of them curl up like decoration. It’s pretty.

Tom takes it off me, turning it around in his fingers. ‘Where did you get it from?’

‘A clock in a town square. It’s new - they must have fitted them all with it last week. I reckon it’s something to do with the sun, but maybe…’ I trail off - Tom’s hunched over, shoulders shaking. ‘What,’ I say with trepidation.

He looks at me and starts chuckling again. ‘You took this from a clock? A public clock? What must they have thought!’

I scowl and swipe the metal thing back. ‘They didn’t think anything, because nobody saw me.’ Complete lie - a Peacer had rounded the corner right as I’d cut the last wire. Hence the shooting. ‘Anyway, Finn can sell it at the shop. You know, if you came with me, you could point out the really valuable stuff. And you could tell me where to go.’

‘No thanks,’ Tom says breezily. ‘I’d rather keep my body free of bullet holes if it’s all the same to you.’

I go to reply - to whine at him, really - when the door trills. Both of us look up as my brother ducks inside.

Finn looks tired. His hair’s everywhere, dark curls all in his face, and there’s a scorch mark on his shirt that wasn’t there this morning. His glasses flash in the light as he heads to the bar and the Flipper perks up. Finn’s somewhat famous with the Flippers around here.

‘I bet Rodger kept him late,’ I say, irritated.

‘Have you ever met him?’ Tom asks

‘Rodger?’ I check, and Tom nods. ‘Yeah. Once. He’s a prick. He inherited the shop from his mum but he’s got barely any Affinity. Can’t even fix a lamp. If Finn wasn’t there he’d lose half his customers.’

Finn’s wasted in a repair shop. I watch him chat to the Fiddler, a smile tugging at his tired face. Watch him bend over, eyes intent as he looks at what the man’s trying to fix. Big Jay’s watching him too. Her eyes have gone all sweet and mopey.

I sigh and steal Tom’s half-full glass.

Ten minutes later, Finn arrives at the table with both of our drinks. ‘Big Jay says sorry for the wait,’ he says as he sits and thunks mine in front of me. Ale slops out onto the table.

‘What did she want?’ Tom asks. She had commandeered Finn after the Flipper.

‘She said her watch was broken.’ Finn’s nose wrinkles as he takes a large gulp from his class. ‘But the hands just needed to be reset.’

I snort and he fixes me with a confused look. ‘What?’

I can’t believe I have to spell it out. ‘She’s flirting with you.’

The look that creeps over Finn’s face is one I know well. The kind of frown that manages to convey disdain far better than any words could.

‘She was,’ Tom adds.

Finn pushes his glasses up on his nose. ‘Whatever,’ he says, but the tips of his ears are pink. He’s always been this way. More interested in the scraps of metal he could find near the Dorm than playing with the other kids. It used to lead to arguments. That’s how I got good at fighting.

‘How was the shop today?’ I ask.

Finn’s smile falls a fraction. ‘Fine.’

‘And Rodger?’

Finn makes some grunting noise. ‘The usual. He’s got it into his head that I’m fucking up the electrics. Made me stay to check them all over. It was fine - they were fine in the end.’

Under the table, my hands fist in the fabric of my trousers. Finn has the strongest Affinity of anyone I’ve ever met. He can take what looks like utter junk and somehow create incredible things: self-sustaining water purifiers, honing catapults, smoke bombs, no-slip pocket watches - which sell for a pretty penny in the Association - and now magnets. If he had been born in Top, he’d be at the University now. Even if he’d have been born in Mid, he would have gone on scholarship. But there aren’t any scholarships for those of us in Under. Most people assume we can’t read.

‘Rodger’s an asshole,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ Finn says. ‘He is.’

‘Take off the strap,’ Tom says. He’s eyeing Finn’s hand.

Finn brings his left out flat on the table, then unbuckles the prosthetic. He made it himself - he’s been refining it ever since he was big enough to hold a welding iron. But he has to replace it at least once every two months when the heat from the mechanism burns out the wiring. Towards the end of the month it can get so hot it burns his hand too, especially if he wears it all day without a break. When the strap finally unreels, the skin around his palm is bright red, and the stump where his last three fingers should be looks chafed.

‘Finn,’ I say, and then stop myself. I want to tell him he needs to take a break, that he can’t do this to himself or he’ll cause long term damage. But he knows that already. ‘Keep it off tonight,’ I say instead.

‘I know,’ Finn says, working out the muscles with a wince. ‘It’s my hand.’

This is another reason I hate Rodger: he pays Finn seventy percent of what he pays the other Flippers, because of the ‘risk’ of his prosthetic malfunctioning. It’s bullshit, of course. Rodger’s just embarrassed that he can’t measure up. If he had Finn staying overtime, it was just to screw with him to stroke his own ego.

‘You know,’ Tom says, ‘Bauman just signed off on new biomech for veterans. They’re unveiling them tomorrow at his residence in Top. Apparently they use chemetal.’

‘I know,’ Finn says, sitting up straight, green eyes flashing. ‘I heard. They must have used it as a coating for the transistors, to stop leakage. Apparently it also helps the sensors find nerve cells and attach.’

‘Bauman?’ I ask.

From the looks I get in return, apparently this is something I should have known.

‘The Head Scientist,’ Finn says, eyebrows raised. ‘Dean of the University.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Him.’

Finn snorts. ‘He’s a certified genius. Strongest Affinity of anyone, ever, but he stopped designing things himself years ago. This is his first unveiling in about seven years.’

‘I heard it’s because his niece got wounded,’ Tom says. ‘In the attack last year. You know, when they came before the sun had set.’

He’s talking about what happened in Hendy, a district on the South side of Under. There was a really bad storm one summer and it was the final push for a huge chunk of wall to fall. They sent out a bunch of patchers and a regiment to supervise when the Katerakts came. Nobody was expecting it - prior to that we thought they were nocturnal, that they couldn’t stand the sunlight. But hundreds of them turned up and ripped through soldiers and workers alike, started grabbing people in their homes and eating them. The council had panicked, thinking there was a chance they might get through to Mid, and sent another regiment out. Half of them had died pushing the Katerakts back and getting the fix in place.

After that, criminals were offered a choice: the Pits or signing up. Most chose the Pits.

Finn sighs and drinks. I can’t bear it when he looks like that. I clear my throat and shove the battery I got shot at for on the table. ‘What do you think this is? I found it in the street.’

Finn puts his drink town and glances over with interest. Then his eyebrows crumple with confusion. He picks it up, peering closer.

‘Well,’ I ask. ‘Can you use it?’

He looks at me. ‘Addie,’ he says slowly. ‘Did you take this from a public clock?’

‘No,’ I say. How could he possibly know that?

‘Yes you did,’ Finn says. ‘It’s a huge pace keeper. The only thing these are used for are clocks.’

’S’not huge,’ I mutter. Tom snorts.

‘For a pace keeper it is. Were you in Mid again?’ He’s no longer looking wistful and sad. Now he looks angry and sad. I suppose it’s an improvement.

‘I was near the wall,’ I lie. ‘And it was there in the street. Maybe it fell. Or maybe someone else stole it?’

Finn gives me an incredulous look but a commotion from the bar halts his reply.

Thesp is splayed out over the wooden counter top, moaning into his own palm. ‘…go on,’ he’s saying. ‘Little shot of shine for your favourite customer.’

Big Jay slams a tankard of water in front of him. ‘There you are.’

Thesp groans, other hand scrabbling across the wood. He’s barely holding himself up. ‘Fuckin… this place isn’t the same. Flippers setting up shop, some fucking Topsider…’

I look back at Tom who is glaring at Thesp. ‘Someone should cut the drunkard off,’ Tom says sharply. He doesn’t like Thesp - he gets prickly about being called a Topsider.

I exchange a glance with Finn. ‘I’ll go,’ I say. but it’s too late. Tom’s voice has carried, and now Thesp is looking right at us, face coiling into a sneer. I get up out of my seat but he’s already staggering over.

‘Addie! Finn! You’ll have a drink with me, won’t you? Like we used to?’

He’s referring to the system of payment we worked out when we were younger. He’s the reason both of us can read; we bought him drinks in exchange for lessons. Once, when we were thirteen, he’d refused to answer our questions until we’d both taken a shot of shine with him. Finn had thrown up everywhere. Thep had laughed so hard he’d cried.

I meet him halfway across the floor and tug him back to the bar. He’s an old sack of bones - weighs even less than I do. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Drink your drink.’

‘Don’t want it,’ he sniffs, but dutifully gets settled at the bar stool. Big Jay mouths thanks over his head. ‘They put stuff in it, y’know,’ he slurs. ‘That’s why them lot are always coughing.’ A mottled white finger sways, then points to the miners in the corner. They don’t look particularly impressed.

‘Come on, Thesp,’ I say, pulling his tankard closer to his mouth.

He takes a big gulp, then stiffens and spits it out all over me. I stand there, gritting my teeth as my shirt goes wet and clinging. It drips onto the floor.

Thesp takes one look at my face and starts to cackle.

Big Jay clicks her teeth. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ she says, setting down her rag. In a moment she’s hopped over the bar and grabbed hold of Thesp’s old shoulders. ‘Out you go. You’ve had enough.’

Thesp makes some grumbling noise but there’s no shape to the words. He’s too drunk. Big Jay wouldn’t have let him get in this state - he must have staggered in from somewhere else.

A hand on my shoulder. Finn. ‘Are you alright?’ he asks, taking in my soaked shirt.

‘Fine. It was just water,’ I say, and allow him to tug me back to the table. The door trills as Big Jay heaves Thesp out. For such a slight woman, she’s good at that. Lots of practice, I guess. Can’t be easy to run a pub in a place like this. Gotta get good at dealing with drunkards.

The next surprise of the night is that Finn gets drunk. He didn’t have time to take a lunch break, as we find out a few drinks later. He’s a lightweight anyway, all knobbly knees and elbows, with a high metabolism. And he’s stressed. As Tom and I drag him out of The Old Boat, propping him up on either side, he’s mumbling about Rodger, and lanterns. Big Jay gives us a sad smile as we head out.

Dragging a woozy seventeen year old through a tunnel made of broken rocks is exactly as difficult as it sounds. Finn’s nose is pressed into my neck, his breath warm and wet. ‘M’broken,’ he slurs. ‘Tha’s why.’

‘Yeah yeah,’ I say, my jaw tight. Fucking Rodger.

‘You know,’ Tom says as we emerge out into the rooftops. ‘That biomech I was talking about. The prosthetics.’

‘What about them?’

‘You like stealing things.’

I stop in place and gape at him. Then I snort. ‘I also like being alive.’

Tom tugs Finn forward, and I have to follow to keep him stable. ‘If you can get into Mid, you can get into Top. If anyone can do it, it’s you.’

I laugh to cover up the stupid blush. Hopefully it’s dark enough that he can’t see it. ‘Thanks?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘There’s a bit of a difference between pickpocketing the markets and getting into a biomech unveiling, wherever the hell that’s going to be.’

‘In his house,’ Tom says. ‘It’ll be in his house, tomorrow evening.’

Finn lets out a stream of mumbles and we both go quiet. The night is silent, which puts me on edge. The Katerakts don’t have voices - they don’t make any sound. That’s part of what’s so terrifying about them. You’ll never hear them coming.

’The tech will trickle down,’ I say with a confidence I don’t feel. ‘If everyone’s using it then we’ll get knock-offs soon. Finn can reverse engineer it and--’

‘That’ll take years,’ Tom points out.

’So it takes years,’ I say, starting to get a little irritated. ‘What can we do?’

With a grunt, Tom takes all of Finn’s weight for a moment as he stumbles. He doesn’t reply.

The Den’s a mess when we get back. It’s always a mess. It’s six rooms on the top floor of a long-abandoned mansion, close enough to the Pits that it’s probably very bad for our lungs, but very good in the sense that we’re not going to get cornered or robbed by the gangs. The streaky walls are covered with my childhood graffiti and the vast paper wings of Finn’s schematics that he pins up wherever he pleases. Only two of the rooms have proper wooden floors, although they’re so battered and scratched they barely look like wood anymore. It’s cluttered with mismatched second-hand furniture we’ve hauled up over the years, and the shelves are stuffed with the kind of junk that someone with an Affinity ends up accumulating: bowls of tarnished silver cogs, tangles of wiring, half deconstructed engines and boxes and screwdrivers.

We first found it years ago, back when we were living in the Dorms, and originally just used it as a hiding spot when the Mothers would foist chores on us. Over the years we cleaned it up and bought in the furniture, and when Finn got the job with Rodger we moved in properly.

There’s not much electricity in Under, so Finn made us our own lanterns, little bluish-green lights strung up along the walls. The whole room glows when I switch them on, like I’m under water.

We get Finn into bed, almost tripping over the debris of a half-finished something on his floor, and then Tom wanders off for a smoke on the rooftop. I’m left sitting on the battered green sofa in the largest room, staring out the window. It shows nothing but black, and my own ghostly reflection.

I look down at my left hand, at the thumb and four fingers there: a full set. There’s a nasty black bruise on the nail bed of my left thumb, from when I hit it off a wall during a trip to Mid last week. Each finger slots easily together as I flex and curl them into a tight fist.

I think about biomech.