Code Bound

1. Vesper

VESPER

Our ancestors must have had such hope. They came long before us and built this place on that very hope.

Whether God or man, they must have placed this world brick by brick and thought, “Humanity will be eternal and great.” As I stand in the decaying remnants of that hope, the old buildings held together with dreams and old parts I have no name for, I wonder, not for the first time, what they would think now.

Would they still dream so big when they see us living like rats?

Would they still think humanity is great when they see us breathing air so toxic it makes your lungs burn?

I doubt they would, but then again, I stopped believing in gods a long time ago. Faith only gets you killed here. Or worse . . . brainwashed.

I’ve seen people smile as they starve, believing in some higher power that’ll swoop in and save them in the next life.

I’ve seen them beg for forgiveness from deaf gods because they killed to survive in this world.

We’ve all killed. You don’t survive in Dross without blood on your hands; sometimes yours, maybe strangers, other times the people you love. It’s eat or be eaten.

And I’ve done a lot of eating. The buildings are tall around me, the only shield left against the unbearable heat from the dwarf star at our center.

It cooks above the tops of the buildings, the heat so thick, it makes it hard to breath some days.

Rumor has it that there used to be shields to shade the buildings, but if that’s true, they certainly don’t work now.

Us humans have had to recede down between the tall ancient buildings, running from the heat as we all run from starvation.

It’s fucking hot, and that’s putting it mildly.

Even down between the buildings, the heat radiates down the metal and concrete, forcing sweat to bead on my lower back and my hair to stick to my nape as I move through the crowded alleyways.

The “streets” are only the gaps between buildings where it’s possible to walk.

Some of the buildings are connected by long bridges, most of them too dangerous to use.

So, we’re forced to use the pathways on the ground.

We’re overpopulated. Even with the high mortality rate, and the monthly opening of the Harrow Gates, it seems like we fester and grow regardless.

Just like rats.

I shove the thought out of my mind. It wouldn’t do well to let the propaganda start to leech in. Luxe thinks badly enough of us without me adding to it. To them, Dross is the sewer, and fuck if they’re not that far off in description. This place is hell for everyone.

It’s nothing like Luxe.

The posters of the golden ring are plastered fucking everywhere. They barely get time to peel and fade before new ones are put back up. They don’t even take the old ones down, leaving a collage of propaganda as thick as the heat. The Ascendants don’t bother with trash. That’s for us Wastrels.

Fucking assholes.

If Dross is the gutters, Luxe is the city sitting on top of them just out of reach.

They get to breathe and glitter and toss their trash and shit down to us if they remember to.

They can actually grow food there, and once a month, they bring their undesirables to our ring.

It’s never enough though. You’re better off attempting to grow your own piss-poor plants in your windowsill, even if it’s damn near impossible to grow something healthy with our toxic air.

I can’t remember the last time I had good fruit that wasn’t over-ripened or moldy.

Most of what we have readily available is Harrow Bars, some mish-mashed bar that tastes like ass and breaks your teeth when you try to eat it.

I have a chipped tooth to prove it. Harrow Bars are absolutely disgusting, but it’s a better option than dying.

So, I eat the fucking mystery bar. If only so I can look at the fuckers up top and give them the metaphorical middle finger while I do so.

Around me, people rush past, bumping into me hard enough to make me bare my teeth at them as they rush away before I can start a fight.

There’s no such thing as personal space, not when there are four Wastrels to every half meter of space.

I have no idea if that number is correct though.

I heard an Astronomer say it once and it stuck with me.

“Watch it, rat!” some Suffer Saint Priest snarls as I bounce off his chest in the crowd.

He’s a big fucker, dressed in the deep maroon robes that only Priests wear, the color more intense with the red wash of the light.

The robe is rough, wrinkled, and crunchy-looking, lending to the rumor that they get the color from their own blood.

To be a Suffer Saint Priest, you must bleed for your god.

Whatever fucking god that is.

“I’ll slit your throat if you don’t keep moving,” I threaten, flipping out the knife I keep in my pocket. It was a gift from Dox a few years ago. She’d traded a hell of a lot for it, and it’s become a cherished item in this hellhole. It never leaves my side.

The Priest holds up his hands in surrender, backing away even as his eyes tell me he won’t forget my face. Fucking great. That’s all I need is for the cult to come hunt me down. They’re just as bad as the Spine Jackers and Gutter Runners, even if they’re the only spot of color in these streets.

If the buildings are the decaying backbone of Dross, the people are the mottled spots of sickness between them.

Everything is a resource here. When you die, you become salvageable.

Because of that, most people I come into contact with wear clothing made up of a variety of materials.

Bones, metal, the rare cotton fabric. My own clothing is held together with wire in shades of brown.

The material, a knitted sheet made from tiny strips of plastic, itches as it rubs against my skin, but a rash is a small price to pay for decent clothing.

The only thing we have here is our dignity, and even that is always at risk of slipping away.

I push through the crowd, annoyed that the bodies seem to have thickened on my journey.

It must be resting time. Despite it being the end of a rotation, the sky remains just as bright and just as hazy.

I frown up at the red leeching down from the tops of the buildings, the red wash as eternal as the heat, and keep pushing my way through the crowd, getting more aggressive by the minute. Dox will be waiting for me.

A fight breaks out to the left of me, three teenagers throwing punches over a Harrow Bar one of them found on the ground.

They seem to be friends, but that doesn’t mean much.

You fight for every bit you have here. It’s rare to find someone willing to starve so another can eat.

Hell, I’ve watched mothers eat in front of their starving babies and not share.

It’s all about survival, and hunger has reduced us to the very rats the Ascendants think us.

I fucking hate that. I hate that we have no choice in the matter.

I hate the putrid smell and the suffocating heat and the thick smog.

I hate the way my lungs burn with every breath and the way my shirt itches my ribs.

I hate it all. And I let that hate fuel my survival.

Because fuck the Ascendants. I’ll live despite them.

But if I’m being honest, none of that attitude would be possible without Dox.

I climb the stairs to our shared apartment two at a time, leaping over the Breathers on the stairway landings until I reach the fifteenth floor.

It’s not ideal and it’s hot as fuck inside the small apartment when I open the door and walk in, but it’s better than those who are much higher up.

We’d salvaged for years to be able to make it this low.

“Honey, I’m home!” I call as I shut the door behind me and lock it. “Didn’t I tell you to lock this thing when you’re here?”

Dox appears from the left bedroom, dressed in nothing but a slip of a shirt and underwear.

She’s lean like almost every Wastrel is.

The only people with an ounce of fat on them are the Ascendant Guards who show up once a month and “gift us” with their authority.

Where my skin is a copper shade, Dox’s is more fawn-colored.

Her dirty blonde hair is currently tied up on top of her head to help with the heat as she wipes herself down with a tiny scrap of fabric stained a dingy shade of gray.

Small smudges of grease are smeared across her arms and her face from her earlier delivery in the under-tunnels.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I knew you’d be coming, so I didn’t bother.”

I point my finger at her. “One of these days, we’re gonna get robbed when you’re home and they’re gonna pick your bones clean.” I eye her as she wipes at her face. “You need help with that?”

“Please,” she says, groaning. “I hate the under-tunnels.”

I take the rag from her hands and start wiping at the large smudge on her cheek. “I hope you were at least paid well for it.” When she doesn’t answer, I pause and level her with my gaze. “You were paid, weren’t you?”

She winces. “They gave me an I.O.U.”

“Dox—”

“Don’t say it,” she grunts. “I wasn’t gonna deliver, but then I saw the baby and—”

“So, you delivered because of your bleeding heart.” I sigh heavily and wipe at the smudge again. “We can’t eat an I.O.U., Dox.”

“I know that,” she says, “but I did manage to get a few Harrow Bars from my first delivery.” Her eyes light up. “And!” she jerks away and moves over to her bag, rummaging through it. “I got this!”

She pulls out a bright spot of color that makes my eyes widen. “Is that—”

“An orange?” she says, grinning. “It is.” She looks it over. “It’s at the end of its life and there’s a little bit of mold growing on it, but . . .”

My mouth waters. “I haven’t had an orange since . . .”

“I know,” she says, smiling. “I thought we could share it.”