“Not. Your. Decision,” the White District rep says. “I put it to a vote. Two options. One: Do the smart thing and ally ourselves with the winning side, to a people who are slightly mysterious, yes, but who have been a valuable and amicable trade resource to us. Namely, the Glassies. Or two: Take this boy’s advice and ally ourselves with the very people who were involved in the distasteful slave trade that ultimately led to the overthrow and execution of King Goff. Two options, my friends, I need not tell you which option I’ll be voting for.”

My face is on fire. My knuckles hurt and I realize my fists are clenched at my sides. The old Dazz is back, and if I let him loose I’m pretty sure he’ll charge off the platform, break this man’s freezin’ jaw, and rip every last icin’ hair of his curly mustache from his skin, one by one. Breathe, Dazz. Breathe. Focus. Words, not actions.

“If I may,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, to mimic the air of confidence and slight arrogance my adversary just displayed. “While…”—I almost say Curly Mustache Man, but I catch myself—“…our honorable Blue District member has been sitting in his parlor room drinking hot tea and eating bear fritters, I’ve been in the middle of the action, seeing things that would shock and disgust you all. I might not be as old, might not have as much experience, but I am more informed than anyone in this room. Without the Tri-Tribes, Goff never would’ve been exposed or overthrown. Without the Tri-Tribes, my little sister would be dead. Without the Tri-Tribes, the dictatorial Admiral of the Soakers would still be enslaving Heater children on his ships. So, if you want to make an informed decision, I advise you to take option two.”

When I finish a shiver runs through me, and I realize my fists are still clenched, my face still on fire, and I’m leaning forward, all the way to the edge of the raised platform. Who was that? Where did those words come from? I almost want to jump up and pump my fist. I never knew words could have such power, not when my fists are so good at what they do.

“Hmm, well met, boy,” Mustache Man says. “But it will still be decided by a vote. And your plan is still teetering on the edge of crazy and insane. Voting begins now. You can choose one of the two options presented to you today, or you may, as always, choose to abstain.” Things are moving much quicker than I expected. Too freezin’ quick. “All those in favor of option two, an alliance with the Tri-Tribes…”

I also didn’t expect my option to be presented first. I hold my breath.

Abe’s hand is the first one up. He even drops his cigarette on the floor, stomps on it with his heel, and folds out of the current hand of cards he’s playing. Yo’s hand is up a second later, followed by another Brown District member. Although the three other Black District reps seem oblivious to the vote, Abe grab’s each of their arms in turn, lifting them above their heads. Six out of sixteen votes.

I stare at the two unvoted Brown District reps. They’re looking at their feet. Yo nudges one of them, but she doesn’t react, just keeps staring down. The other guy is equally nonresponsive when Yo says something to him. Yo looks up at me, lips pursed, eyebrows narrowed. I’m sorry, he mouths.

It’s not over. Everyone might just be abstaining, because they’re unsure, or scared, or whatever. As long as the other option gets less than six votes we’re okay.

“Six votes,” Curly Mustache says with half a smile, as if we can’t count. “Now for the first option, the smart choice. All those in favor of an alliance with our old friends, the Glassies…”

Four White District hands go up. Two Blue District hands. Six votes. All tied. The final four are evidently abstaining. How do they break ties?

But my question is lost on my lips, because just then, very late, a final hand goes up from one of the Blue District reps.

No.

No.

It’s not a stretch, or a yawn, or a question—it’s a vote. The seventh vote.

No.

This can’t be happening. It can’t.

It is. It’s over.

“An alliance with the Glassies, it is,” Mustache Man says. “Fortunately, I had the foresight and intelligence to send a message with our decision to the Glassy leader earlier today. President Lecter should be receiving it any moment, if he hasn’t already.”

“You can’t do that,” I say, but the fire’s gone from my voice. Was it a whisper? Did I even speak?

“I can and I did. It was a risk, yes, but one that clearly paid off. District reps—please inform the people you represent of the decision. I fully expect the Glassies to send some of their forces to ice country to protect us from any backlash from the Tri-Tribes as a result of our decision. The people will have to get used to having them around.”

Chapter Thirteen

Adele

“Where’d you get those?” I ask, staring at the gasmasks like they’re precious gems.

“Off dead Glassies,” Lara says. “The last time they attacked us we killed a bunch of ’em. They were wearing these. There’re more in New Wildetown.”

“And they’re not broken?” Tristan asks, his voice equally full of amazement.

“See for yourself,” Wilde says, handing him one. She gives me one too.

I turn it over in my hands, inspecting it for damage. It’s a little scuffed, a little dusty, but seems okay. I give it a try, strap it around the back of my head, feel it suction around my nose and lips. Take a breath. Whoosh! The air comes in with a rush. It doesn’t taste any different, except maybe a little plasticky. “I think it’s working,” I say, my voice coming out muffled and warped.

Tristan’s got his on, too. “Cool,” he says, and I can’t help but laugh at the way his voice sounds, deeper and garbled. And then he laughs at my laugh, which sounds all husky and throaty.

It’ll be annoying wearing the masks all the time, but at least we won’t die from the air. “Why don’t you wear these?” I ask.

“There aren’t enough of them,” Wilde says. “And we’re not as affected by the air as your people; we’re more used to it. Eventually we die from it, but not until we’re at least thirty.”

Thirty? Gosh, I had no idea. So young. And I thought the moon dwellers dying in their fifties was bad. It’s not right that the Glassies, I mean the earth dwellers, should live inside their bubble, unwilling to share their air-filtering technology with the people they share the land with. And worse still, attacking them and trying to annihilate them? A fresh swathe of anger roils down the rivers of hot blood running through my veins. We have to help them. For their sake and for the sake of the dwellers below, who deserve the truth and a chance to live aboveground.

“Thank you,” I say, biting back a twinge of emotion. Now’s the time to stay levelheaded.

“Don’t make us regret it,” Skye says, but there’s not as much bite in her voice as before. Is that a hint of a smile on her lips?

“You won’t,” Tristan says.

“Now that you can breathe freely,” Wilde says, “we have much to discuss. Hawk, what’s the latest?”

Hawk, still shirtless, clears his throat, looking a little awkward. It seems every time he’s around Wilde he can’t stop fidgeting. Maybe he’s got a thing for her. “Well, uh…” he stammers.

“The Glassies have been sending out soldiers,” Lara prods.

“Uh, yeah,” Hawk agrees. “There are at least ten groups around fire country already, and more ride out on their fire chariots every day.”

“Fire chariots?” Tristan says.

“They’re very advanced in what they can build,” Lara says. “They ride ’em. Metal chariots with wheels. They roll with no one pushin’ or pullin’ ’em. Dark smoke pours from a tube in the back, so we think they must be powered by fire somehow.”