Chapter 1: Transgressor’s Punishment
“Remove your leg!” Commander Protector Atwood’s voice cuts through the wind whipping across the airship’s deck.
I watch as Old Man Ambrose trembles before him, and my mechanical legs itch with phantom pain. They call these brutes “protectors,” though I’ve never seen them protect anyone. They’re just Lord Solomon’s trained dogs, and Atwood’s the meanest of the pack. Give him a list of people to punish, and he’ll work through it like he’s checking off items at the market—methodical, emotionless, brutal.
“But sir, please,” Ambrose begs, his voice cracking. “I’m going to die out there anyway. Without my leg, I can’t—”
The airship lurches left, and Ambrose stumbles forward into the commander. Atwood’s hand shoots out, wrapping around the old man’s throat. He yanks him close, and even from ten paces away, I can smell the commander’s breath—like he’d been eating skitterer dung and washing it down with mud juice from Ashen Falls’ sediment pools. The thought of Atwood eating dung brings a flicker of joy to my otherwise grim situation.
“You know the law, old man!” Atwood towers over Ambrose, his head looming like a boulder about to break free from a cliff face. The old man’s neck bends backward at a sickening angle, held in place only by Atwood’s iron grip. After five endless seconds, the commander shoves him back into our crowd of fellow transgressors. None of us move to help. We can’t. We’re all prisoners on this damned airship, sailing toward our punishment.
The muscle in Atwood’s jaw twitches. “Now remove your leg, or I’ll remove it for you and take the other one as well!”
When Ambrose nearly collapses trying to undo the leather straps of his proth, I rush forward to help. His smile of gratitude is hopeless but genuine. My fingers work quickly at the familiar mechanism—undo the straps, disconnect the muscle sensors, quarter turn to the right. The prosthetic releases with a soft hiss of escaping air.
“You all know the law!” Atwood bellows. “If you’ve committed a level 2D crime, remove your proths and toss them over now. I will not repeat the command!”
I turn and add Ambrose’s leg to the growing heap at Atwood’s feet—a graveyard of mechanical limbs leaking brown fluid through the deck boards. Thirteen of us stand here, all convicted of level two crimes. But I’m lucky, if you can call it that. My crime was only level 2B, which means I get to keep my legs. Not many nineteen-year-olds have two prosthetic limbs, and no one has proths like mine. Papa made sure of that.
My proths are more than just legs—they’re my canvas, currently painted a deep obsidian with intricate patterns of copper and brass gears etched into the surface. The designs flow from my thighs down to where my trek boots conceal the mechanical workings of my feet and ankles. But these boots hide more than gears—inside the left sole rests a five-inch spey-point blade I forged myself, using skills Papa taught me.
The knife isn’t my only hidden tool. My brown leather top has reinforced seams containing surgical thread. Two needles nest inside my suspender buckles, and a two-foot length of death wire winds through my dark braid, disguised among leather cords. In the Dread Wastes, anything can become a weapon—or save your life.
Commander Atwood pulls a directive from his black leather trench coat and unrolls it with practiced ceremony. “Transgressors! Listen up!” His eyes scan the parchment. “You have been convicted of level two crimes. The penalty is banishment to the Dread Wastes. In addition, level 2D crimes require the surrender of proths. Punishment will be rendered in groups of thirteen on the first day following the waxing crescent moon. The group will be provided with four weapons and four tankards of water. If any person survives the Dread Wastes and returns to Eden, it will be taken as a sign of forgiveness by the Great Creator. Therefore, your Lord, Solomon the Merciful, will pardon your crimes and welcome you home.”
What he doesn’t say is that no one has ever returned to Eden. Half of us will die within minutes of touching the ground. The rest will succumb to thirst, baldagaars, or worse—the packs of grays that hunt in the darkness. Our only hope lies in reaching one of the scattered outpost settlements. I intend to be among the survivors, not just because I want to live, but because revenge burns hotter than the Dread Wastes’ sun in my heart.
The punishment system is carefully engineered for maximum suffering. Thirteen—the cursed number. The waxing crescent moon means seven nights of pure darkness ahead. Four weapons and four tankards of water for thirteen people—barely enough for a day, designed to turn us against each other before the Wastes can claim us. Even the entertainment value of our desperation was calculated.
Atwood tucks the directive back inside his coat and clasps his hands behind his back. The only sound is his boots clomping against the wooden deck as he paces. At least the open-air design of the transport ship allows a breeze to cut through the suffocating tension. It’s a standard three-balloon vessel, hovering just high enough to avoid trees, buildings, and in the Dread Wastes—baldagaars.
We’re crowded at the aft end, separated from the Royals by a brown canvas stretched from port to starboard. The wind carries fragments of their laughter and conversation—the same pompous garble I’ve heard countless times during my unauthorized visits to Eden’s Forbidden Zones.
Those excursions were always a game to me—one mouse against many cats. I’d start by launching a mud ball at a protector’s chest or head, watching them give chase while I slipped past their abandoned posts. The lobcocks never realized I was leading them away, too focused on catching the mysterious troublemaker to notice the real purpose behind my distractions.
For seven years, I played this game, gathering knowledge about the Royals that they probably didn’t know themselves. Until that one root caught my foot, sending me crashing through a hedge into a Royal matron. She was already half-drunk on kiju, but that didn’t matter. At least they never connected me to the years of protector harassment. I claimed I was chasing a rat, said I hadn’t noticed crossing into a Forbidden Zone since no guards were posted.
They convicted me of a B-level crime. Being my second documented offense pushed it to level 2B, landing me on this forsaken death ship. If they’d known the truth—the real extent of my transgressions—they’d have marked me level 2D or even level three. Direct insurrection against Lord Solomon is rare; I’ve only heard of two cases. Both ended badly.
Atwood’s smug grin sweeps across our group. “When the ship lands, you will exit in single file via the starboard ramp. Once you reach the ground, you are not to move until you hear the powder shot.” He pulls his blunderbuss from its holster, holding it high. “Weapons and water will be dropped fifty paces away. If anyone moves before the shot, I will personally put a bullet in your head. Once again, you are here on your own accord. No one forced you to commit the crimes…”
Papa’s arm wraps around me as his voice drops to a whisper in my ear. “Neeka, honey. Listen to me. Do not go for the weapons or water. Do you understand?”
“But, Papa,” I whisper back, keeping my voice just as low. “I’m faster than anyone here. I can—”
“No, Neeka! The protectors can’t know your proths have been enhanced. They will shoot you.”
He’s right about the shooting, but wrong about my chances. These airships max out at twenty-four on a windless day like today, and that’s after they build up speed. I can hit forty in an instant. If I can dodge their first volley, I’ll be out of range before they can reload. We need that water to survive. I could grab it, keep running, meet up with Papa later…
“Take heed!” Atwood shouts.
The protectors snap to attention as the separator canvas pulls aside. My fellow transgressors drop quickly to their knees, lowering their heads. I take my time, using the excuse of steadying Old Man Ambrose with his missing leg. But I would have been last anyway. I have no respect for the Royals.
Especially not for him.