Gearbreakers Read online

  “Looking for this?” he asks, producing my bra from underneath the sheets, strap dangling from a calloused fingertip. He already looked a little overly comfortable; now he looks far too smug.

  I ease myself onto the edge of the bed, reclaiming my bra with one hand, and using the other to sweep the hair from his brow.

  “Hey,” I murmur, leaning in, lips brushing close to his. “I know it’s early, babe, and I know we have a long day ahead of us.” I smile wide. He feels it coming, but my fingers tangle in his hair before he can recoil, forcing his head back, making the whites eat up those pretty blue irises. “But when your crew captain says get out, it means you’re getting out.”

  “Or what?” Milo taunts, though his own smile is nervous now. “You going to carry me over the threshold like it’s our wedding night, Eris?”

  “You can carry yourself.” I spot my shirt peeking out from beneath the blanket and release him to pull it on. “It’s just the choice of whether your weight is on your feet or your hands, because I’ll only let you keep one set.”

  He’s up by the time I finish slipping my arms through the overall loops, taking the warmth with him as he stands to tug up his jeans. I drop to the floor and dig a hand underneath the bed, my fingers finding the familiar strap of my welding goggles.

  “Your threats are better than coffee,” he informs me.

  I jerk the goggles on. “Designed to keep you up at night.”

  Milo pauses before the door, considering, and then turns around to plant a kiss on my lips. I let him, because although everything tastes likes cinders in the Hollows, he sometimes makes the ash a little sweet.

  “Love you,” he says, and I don’t say it back. Not because it isn’t true, necessarily; more because there’s always a chance of him getting stepped on by a Windup and dying a horrible, excruciating death.

  A bleeding heart doesn’t really fit into this line of work. Not that I don’t have one, or that I’m not viciously attached to each little idiot making up the crew—I’m just aware it’s a problem. So I don’t think about them dying too much, just like I don’t think about loving all of them too much. Thinking about one always feeds the other, and then my heart feels like a sinkhole in my chest, and in all honesty, screw that.

  I wait for the sound of the door shutting, and when it doesn’t come, I say without turning, “You must be an absolute masochist if—”

  “I’m not,” comes another voice, thick with boredom.

  I turn. Jenny stands in my doorway, leaning up against the frame, dark canvas jacket loose off one pale shoulder. Her own welding goggles perch on her crown, lenses as black as her eyes and her long hair, which crowds wildly around her shoulders whenever she’s not fighting. A clipboard dangles from her fingers, Windup blueprints fluttering weakly.

  I snatch the clipboard from her hand, singing, “You got suspended again.”

  Jenny says nothing, doesn’t even look at me; just uncaps the pen from behind her ear and crosses something off her list, which is written across the length of her arm:

  HARRY (DELIVER INTEL)

  POPPY (DELIVER INTEL)

  LITTLE BASTARD (DELIVER INTEL)

  REALIZE: I WON’T BE ON SUSPENSION IF I BREAK SUSPENSION (FIGHT ROBOTS)

  Then she snatches my wrist, and, ignoring my shouts, scribbles wildly on the back of my hand:

  IF FOUND: BURY.

  She resets the cap with her teeth and walks away, gaze rolling over her shoulder to call back in an uninterested breath, “Rot, little sister.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I shut the door and stand in front of the mirror, tucking flyaway strands of black hair into the strap of my goggles, then try to wipe the marker from my hand. It only smudges and stains my fingers.

  Just above the front of my overalls, the black dots that scatter across my collarbone are blatant underneath the white shirt. One tiny, inked gear for each takedown.

  Eighty-seven gears.

  Eighty-seven mechas scraped from the skyline.

  I know what makes the Windups tick, and each time I creep inside their limbs, I know precisely which pieces to pluck and shatter to make the entire atrocity collapse like a house of cards. Because as much as Godolia likes to preach otherwise, the line between their deities and scrap metal can be snipped away by simple human hate.

  And the Bots—the Pilots who glow red and hold more wire in them than skin and bone, who gave up being human to destroy my people—they’re no different. The Windups can’t function without their movements, so when the gears don’t provide enough destruction, they’re my next target. They’re even easier to dismantle than the mechas.

  I grin at my reflection. I won’t say I’m synonymous with chaos, not truly. If this world has taught me anything, it’s that humans have no right playing pretend at being Gods.

  But I am a Gearbreaker, and that comes pretty damn close.

  * * *

  Dust in their hair, fire in their cheeks, draped over our common room’s worn, moth-eaten furniture like they were kicked into place, at too-fucking-early o’clock, every single kid of my crew is a sight for sore eyes. And—unfortunately—I wouldn’t be doing my job right if I weren’t constantly sore.

  Nova, our driver, is settled on the splintering table, her tiny form balanced on her toes, legs tucked in her usual precarious perch. She’s having popcorn for breakfast again, chucking the burnt pieces into the mousy fluff of Theo’s hair. Neck lolled over the side of the fraying love seat, legs kicked over its puckering back, our marksman grumbles obscenities as he hunts for the wayward kernels.

  On the couch, Arsen lies either dead or asleep, limp and facedown in Juniper’s lap. June’s face is turned, cheek to the back cushion, a faraway look in her brown eyes as she twists the demolitionist’s curls around scarred, hazel fingertips. Behind them, Xander hovers near the single window that allows entrance to only a sorry amount of light, face pressed far too close to the filthy glass, breath spreading clouds that match the ones outside.

  Milo sits neatly at the table, a paperback book clutched in his hand, his rifle leaned casually against his chair.

  “Morning,” I say.

  Milo is the only one who lifts his eyes to me. I ignore him completely.

  “Gearbreakers, I said, good morning.”

  Nova looks over with a shit-eating grin already snaking across her lips. “You didn’t say good.”

  I stare back, unimpressed. She sticks her tongue between the gap separating her two front teeth, wiggles it around, then chucks the popcorn bag at Theo’s head. Kernels stick to rug fibers and love seat stitches, and sputter and crack in the fireplace.

  Theo lunges. “You can wither, you little—”

  “Do not—” I start forward, trying to snatch for his shirt collar, missing by miles.

  Nova shrieks, feet scraping against the tabletop before launching herself onto Juniper—which also means launching herself onto Arsen. He yelps awake just as Theo meets them, and then there’s four of them on the couch, thrashing and shouting. Xander turns from the window, button nose blotted with dirt, and crawls over the back cushion and into the fray. Milo turns a page, completely unbothered and completely unhelpful.

  I take hold of a nearby chair and send it crashing into the far wall.

  When I turn back, they’re detangled and sitting respectfully in the remaining seats.

  “Good,” I say, kicking away a detached chair leg before looking down at my clipboard. The pages hold the blueprints of a Phoenix Windup, charts of the allotted time during which we’ll have access to it, and information about the Pilot. All the data comes from previously Gearbroken mechas, or from guards and Bots heavily persuaded to tell. The intel is then distributed throughout the Hollows—the Gearbreaker headquarters—by the higher-ups to the crews most suited for the task. And my crew, though they may not look it right now, is always suited.

  Reckless kids for reckless jobs, you could say. Plus, they know it’s always good to let us blow off a little steam. We find other ways
to fill the time, of course. We read whatever we can get our hands on (though June is the only one who likes the romance novels), have movie nights (Nova is banned from making the popcorn because she’s terrible at it), and do general fun, recreational activities (like last week, when we thought we were about to paint the walls because Xander thought it’d be a kick to throw an old pin from one of Arsen’s grenades onto the table while we were eating dinner, or like yesterday, when Theo hung Nova out the window, and afterward, when we all had to stop her from ripping his face off).

  But for us, nothing beats Gearbreaking. Call us adrenaline junkies. Hells, call us suicidal. We don’t take this lightly. We’re good at what we do, and we do it for the people who can’t and who couldn’t.

  “The Phoenix is guarding a cargo train running from Pixeria—that small mining town a couple dozen miles south of here—up to Godolia,” I say, rubbing at a spot of toothpaste at the top corner of the page. It was dropped there about ten minutes ago when I was brushing my teeth and leafing through the intel, piecing together today’s deicide plan while trying to ignore what an absolute wreck our bathroom is. I’m making them scrub it when we get back. “As they could not meet their ridiculous coal quota this month, Pixeria has requested our assistance in assuring the train never makes it to the station, or else their numbers will be logged as insufficient and a Windup will be sent out to massacre them by next nightfall. You know the drill: We take out the Phoenix escort, stop the train, ransack its contents, and return it to the town.”

  “And take the blame,” chirps Juniper, beaming brightly so her dimples show.

  “Happily.” It’s a win-win situation—the town’s population is spared, as the coal is marked as stolen rather than inadequate, and my crew keeps climbing the ranks of Godolia’s watch list. “Nova, you’ll coast us between the train and the Phoenix, preferably avoiding its footsteps, and Xander and I will carve an opening in the ankle and get us inside. Milo and Theo, artillery, as per usual. I don’t want any of us getting shot again, so, you know, shoot first and all. Next—”

  “I want to drive this time,” Theo says.

  I turn a page, studying the blueprints of the train. “Sure. Give Nova your gun.”

  “Yes. Give Nova your gun,” Nova mimics.

  “Never mind,” Theo says.

  “Once we’re in, Juniper and Arsen will jump onto the second train car and place explosives along the link that connects the cargo to the engine room,” I continue. “If there happens to be a conductor that gets in the way, take him out, but don’t go looking for a fight. I’m serious, you two. Stop grinning at each other like that. Nova will be close, so jump back to the car once the bombs are set. You’ll blow them remotely. Ideally by that time, Xander and I will be done with the Windup. We’ll try to get out the same way we came, but if the mecha is already collapsing, we’ll have to wing it. Keep an eye out, for us and for the rubble. Any questions?”

  The room is silent. As before every mission, excitement has begun electrifying the still air. It energizes our souls. We live for nothing except to catch sight of that last glint of crimson in the eyes of the mechas before they flicker out from existence, to cause nothing but discord and disarray and yet still blink back the smoke from our sight at the end of it all, and recognize the sheer ludicrousness—no, the sheer impossibility—that we still possess breath in our lungs.

  I take a moment to look over the lot of them once more. Just a bunch of kids splayed over crumbling furniture, in a crumbling world, helping it to crumble even more. Kids hurt by Godolia and the Windups in the past, who’ve had people stolen from them, who were thrown into absolute hell and came back, kicking and screaming and wanting, more than anything, to return the favor.

  Yeah, we’re small. Yeah, we’re human. But we’re also Gearbreakers, and we’re here to dismantle the fuckers who thought we’d just sit back and take it.

  I put a hand on my hip.

  “Gear up, Gearbreakers. None of you have my permission to die today.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ERIS

  Nova revs the engine when the rest of us come out of the dorms, one arm dangling out the open window, the sleeve of her heat suit glistening with the sunlight that has managed to evade the tree foliage.

  We all climb into the back of the pickup truck, Milo claiming a seat next to me. I kick my feet on top of his, and he watches as I adjust the strap of the black cryo gloves around my wrists. Tubes of blue fluid are stitched tight against the fabric, intricate as veins inside a hand. A small button lies on the side of my forefingers, awaiting a quick press to bring the gloves roaring to life. They’re my most prized possessions, perfect for every scenario—especially when it involves a Phoenix.

  Nova weaves though the Hollows compound, occasionally sticking her head out the window to scream at the streams of people who wander from one building to the next, teetering blueprints or tools or breakfast bars in their hands. Throughout the compound, worn concrete paths wind around the trunks of ancient oak trees, tall as the heavens but so heavy with autumn leaves that they seem to crouch over the earth. Jenny rigs up some mirage tech over the forest when the trees go bare, but through the winter, most of us can’t help but hold our breath whenever a Godolia helicopter passes overhead.

  We approach the gates, and beside the operator, a familiar figure looms. His canvas jacket is as black as the iron spikes behind him, spine stiff as the silver-hooked cane he leans against. His gray hair is shorn close to the scalp—apparently a military style in the ancient days, but I think it just makes the veins snaking his head that much more visible—and there’s a muscle ticking in his scarred cheek. Wrinkles crack the skin edging his eyes.

  James Voxter, the first Gearbreaker.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Ah, shit.”

  It’s been nearly sixty years since Voxter proved that humans could take down Windups from the inside, sixty years since the people of his resource village attempted to flee Godolia’s reign. Most try to slip their servitude by escaping overseas, so his village headed for the coast.

  A half day later, they sent the Berserkers.

  As night fell over the scene of the massacre, Voxter learned a very important lesson: From the beginning of Godolia’s supremacy, there had been such a degree of fear injected throughout the Badlands that the people would always choose fleeing over fighting back, and that this mindset existed because they viewed the mechas as invincible. They only needed someone to show them that this was far from the truth.

  So sixteen-year-old Voxter goes out with a few explosives in his pocket, and he picks a fight. The Gearbreaker resistance begins, founded on the basis of sending a message to both Godolia and the people of the Badlands: We can fight back.

  I stand up to hand the gate operator my clipboard, and the silver handle of Voxter’s cane hooks over the lip of the trunk.

  “Oi! Don’t damage my car, Vox,” Nova snaps.

  Voxter ignores her, rolling his gray eyes up to me. He’s mad. Again. “Shindanai—”

  “Hang on,” I say, twisting back. Behind me, Juniper is seated next to Arsen. Both of their hands are entangled in the wires spilling across their laps, heads bent, Arsen’s brown curls threading into Juniper’s green-dyed hair. Vials of colorful liquids are kept steady between their pressed knees. I snap my fingers at them. “I told you guys to quit messing with those.”

  Arsen picks his head up, black eyes wide and innocent. “Don’t you want the train to blow?”

  “No, I want part of it to blow.”

  “Oh,” he murmurs, looking back down at the wires. “Oh yeah.”

  “You gonna let us out?” I ask the operator. “We do have a train to catch.”

  “Shindanai,” Vox starts again. “What’s this I hear about one of your crew members hanging another out the window yesterday?”

  I shrug. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  At the same time, Juniper says, “We put a mattress down below her, sir.”

  This is actu
ally true, but because Voxter knows we’re on the fifth floor, he opens his mouth to start screaming at us.

  “Jenny’s breaking her suspension right now,” I tell him as the gate splits open. His face turns a nice shade of purple, and Nova shoves her foot to the gas as soon as there’s just enough room for the car to squeeze through. Then Voxter and the Hollows are growing smaller and smaller behind us, the splotch of his cheeks blending with the smear of fall leaves. I grin and give him a small wave before taking my seat.

  After a half hour, the trees peel away and Nova’s maneuvering the car through the rubble of decimated buildings and small valleys of Windup footprints that we all know double as graveyards, even though bones pressed to fine dust don’t leave much of a mark. The landscape is evidence of battles from long ago, when people fighting against Godolia’s reign looked up to see the mechas blocking out the sky, in place of the Gods they’d prayed for.

  All of us were born enlisted in an already-lost war. But after the Gearbreaker resistance began, after everyone realized that we had the ability to dismantle deities, there was something new. Something that makes me grin rather than writhe with pain at every new tattoo that gets pricked across my collarbone. Something an awful lot like hope.

  In the front seat, Nova leans over to the glove box and pops it open, digging around the stash of tapes before selecting one. She blows on it affectionately, gives the plastic side a kiss, and throws a wicked grin into the rearview mirror as she shoves it home.

  The music spills out in thumping peals, and a happiness comes screaming into place, so warm and light that all I can do is tilt my head back against Milo’s shoulder, feeling the rush of wind stinging my cheeks.

  After a while, the land evens out and there’s nothing but loose dust caking the earth. At the horizon’s point, the world splits into two perfect halves: blue sky and brown dirt, holding nothing but a 175-foot mecha and a train car approaching from the east.