Two years ago, when my family lost the war against the so-called New World, the Big Three, I went searching for another place to live. I quickly learned that any place I chose would soon be chosen by a bounty hunter as well. I needed something in between.
That's when I stumbled upon the train conductor, who drove the line from Copper City to Gearford Academy every day. Soon I had a place that was no place at all.
A hiding spot, but never a home.
"Fresh bread, candied nuts, drinks!" I call down the aisle.
I pause at the first compartment and peer inside. Three students in Academy uniform. None of them spares me a glance. Just as it should be.
"Something to eat?" I ask.
All I get in return are dismissive gestures. A handwave. A shake of the head. A curt, no thanks. Even after three carriages I haven't sold a single thing. Not even the candied nuts.
"Semester's starting," I think. It's only my second time witnessing it, but the signs are unmistakable.
Students full of self-importance, drunk on the dream of the Academy. The restless youth, the heady air of romance, the promise of great opportunities. Too bad that all of it blinds them to candied nuts and warm bread.
After the fourth carriage I stop bothering to ask twice. Aside from a few scattered passengers, everyone is a student, most of them my own age. Some already wear the Academy's uniform, others are newcomers. All of them eager for the Academy – or for what I call the greatest marketplace in the world.
A marketplace for the Big Three to gather talent from all four cities into a single place. I can hardly imagine education plays any real role there.
And yet I can't blame them. Part of me longs for knowledge again. For tutors and professors, for debates, for the rhythm of learning and sharing. It's the same part of me that I buried in the ashes of my home.
I sigh and call out to Car Five, Compartment Seven.
"Fresh candied nuts–"
"Cigarettes." The voice comes before I even see who it is.
"Of course!" I say, taking out a pack as I step inside.
She sits alone in a compartment meant for four. Dark eyes fix on me, her narrow face crowned with hair even darker. At once I realize she hasn't asked for cigarettes, instead demanded them, because she's someone who never asks. Everything about her is beyond question. Her posture, her crossed legs, the crest stitched into her coat.
I hand her the pack. She doesn't ask the price, just gives me five Chitons. Four too many. I pocket them anyway.
Because in front of me sits Victoria Blackwood, eldest daughter of the owner of Blackwood Steel.
The crest is a tower of iron. The same crest I saw the day my house burned and my parents died.
First comes the shock. Then the shame – because instead of anger and hate, I feel fear. Sweat beads on my brow, my fingers tremble.
She'll recognize me. Here and now, Victoria Blackwood will kill me the way her family killed mine.
I should run. The window. I have to get to the window.
She extends her hand.
"Fire," she says. Again not a question.
I slip my hand into my pocket. I pretend to fumble for the lighter, but really I'm just hiding my shaking hand.
And then I realize: the Blackwood daughter isn't even looking at me. Her gaze is almost curious, fixed on the cigarette pack. She pulls one out, holds it wrong. Like a pipe.
I flick the lighter, hold it to her. Then set it on the table, turn quickly away, eager to leave. My heart hammers as if it wants to tear free from my chest. At any second she might notice something.
Keath's words flash back to me. Five hundred thousand. The last remnant of the Old World.
"You," she says.
"Yes, Lady Blackwood?"
She blinks, surprised I knew her name without being told.
"You know who I am. Fine. How does this work?" She lifts the smoking cigarette.
"You mean, how to smoke it?"
She nods.
Though I don't understand what's happening, I explain patiently. As patiently as a train attendant addressing one of the most powerful people in the New World would. I certainly won't mention there's a designated smoking car.
Yet halfway through the cigarette, Victoria grimaces, throws open the window, and tosses the rest out. The steward in me wants to remind her the windows are to be opened fully only in emergencies.
"Awful," she says, sitting straighter, brushing down her coat. She lifts her suitcase from the floor and opens it.
I'm still standing there, unsure if I've been dismissed. So I ask a question.
"Then why smoke it at all, if I may ask?"
Her look says she'd forgotten I was still there. But then she shrugs, rummages through the suitcase, and pulls out a pistol.
"I like to try new things in moments like this."
My eyes fix on the weapon. It lies there on a heap of clothes, like a toothbrush. Victoria rises, checks the barrel and ammunition.
She knows. She's going to kill me.
"You never know when it might be over. Sorry for you," she says, "that you're caught up in this. But I fear someone's about to make an attempt on my life."
Her coat flutters in the wind from the open window. A heartbeat later I feel a presence behind me.
Two heartbeats later and Victoria Blackwood has the pistol leveled at my chest.
"Duck."