Forged(5)

Heidi—Adam’s sister, Jules’s mom—sticks her head in the room. “Can I steal you?” she asks Adam.

Adam grumbles something and stalks off, leaving our original mission team—the few of us left from the trek to Group A in December—alone with Blaine. Ten of us set out from Crevice Valley and only four of that group made it to Pike. September, our cook and weapons expert, stayed behind in Burg. Everyone else is dead, two of them lost directly to Emma’s hands. Well, her Forgery’s. The same Forgery who reported information about Rebel headquarters to the Order. Nearby coordinates, not direct ones, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Frank suspected a certain location and Emma’s last tracker transmission was close to it. He took a chance, and the Rebels’ defensive grids couldn’t stop an air attack.

“So . . . ,” Sammy says.

He’s never been good in situations like this—too used to cracking jokes and delivering sarcastic comments. Then again, I’m not in my element either. Clipper is still struggling to gain control over his tears, and it hits me again: He is only thirteen.

“It’s still not confirmed, Clip,” I say. “She might be okay.”

“Some birthday gift, huh?” he says between sniffles.

The idea of a party—drinks and darts—suddenly seems ridiculous. “Hey, if you just want to head to bed tonight, we all understand. Whatever you need.”

“No,” he says, sitting up. “Don’t change the plans.” He wipes his cheeks dry. “I want to keep things as normal as possible. Let’s have that party. I think I could use a drink.”

“I don’t know if—”

“You just said anything I want,” he snaps.

I glance at Sammy, who looks like he wants to take back his comment about treating the kid to several rounds.

“You got it, Clipper,” Bree says. “Come on, I’ll get you your first.”


After grabbing dinner from the mess hall, everyone makes their way to the bar. Everyone but me. I can’t bring myself to celebrate a birthday with the fate of Crevice Valley still unconfirmed. I pace the halls, head to the barracks and shower just to keep my mind occupied. In the end, being anxious alone seems even more absurd than being anxious with friends. As it is most evenings, the bar is packed when I finally arrive.

I find Clipper and Jules facing off against Sammy and Bree in a game of darts, the others watching. When Clipper spots me, a dumb grin streaks over his face.

“How much did you give him?” I ask Bree.

“Enough.”

“Great, he’s just drinking so he can forget.”

Bree examines the tip of her dart, then glances up at me. “That’s why everyone drinks heavily, Gray: to forget.”

“You know that’s not what I . . . Look, he’s just a kid. I think—”

“Treating him like a kid is what’s dangerous. He’s one of us. If he thinks we don’t see him that way, it will be nothing but trouble.”

“He’s gonna be passed out in—”

“Relax. I let him have one drink and then switched him over to watered-down stuff. He doesn’t know the difference, and if he does, he clearly doesn’t care. Point is, he feels like he’s included, that we’re not babying him, and I’m pretty sure that’s what he needs right now.”

Clipper throws his last dart and turns to us, the grin still on his face.

“You need a drink,” he says to me. “I want a birthday toast.”

“We’d have initiated that in the end,” Blaine says. “You don’t have to demand it.”

I wave a thumb over my shoulder, letting Blaine know I’ll visit the bar.

“Grab one for me, too?” he asks, and goes back to teasing Clipper.

In many ways, the bar reminds me of Crevice Valley’s Tap Room. This place has cleaner edges and uniform tables, but the energy is the same. Music is seeping from a far corner—the strum of a lazy guitar. The lighting is dim and the space around the many tables crowded. After a day of work and a lifetime of worries, the Expats here are seeking out a little merriment, trying to forget the grim uncertainties for a while.

Forget. Just like Bree said. Does that girl have to be right about everything?

I raise two fingers for the bartender and tell him to charge the drinks to Adam. It’s worked every other visit, and I don’t think Adam is going to start complaining now. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if this is his way of bribing us: drinks at night in exchange for another day of pointless work in the greenhouse.

The bartender slides two glass mugs my way. I’m gathering them up, a palm cupping each, when I’m hip checked playfully.

“You were supposed to let me buy you one,” Jules says. “Remember?” She leans into me until we’re touching from shoulder to elbow. She’s so tall she barely has to look up at me as she blinks those lashes.

“Guess it slipped my mind.”

“Then why don’t we just talk awhile? I’ll drink my drink”—she waves for the bartender—“and you can drink yours. I mean, you owe me after all.”

“I don’t owe you anything. And aren’t you in the middle of a game of darts with Clipper?”

“Riley took my place.”