Hayden nodded toward the far wall. “This way.”
I trailed after him, eyes wide as we skirted the mountain of materials. “That’s… a lot,” I muttered, unable to hide my awe.
He glanced at the crates, then at me. “They have to keep up with all this… expansion.” His tone was flat, but I caught the flicker of something in his eyes—pragmatic, maybe a little wary.
“How many caves like this are there?” I asked.
“Ten, last I heard. And that doesn’t count the processing rooms further in.”
The sheer scale was dizzying. “They’re planning to build out a whole new world, then.”
He only nodded, gaze already fixed forward as he led us into a tunnel that branched off from the main chamber. We veered right, following a narrow, sloping corridor that curved downward in a tight spiral, dragging us deeper into the heart of the mountain. The noise intensified, echoing off stone walls—metal on metal, the hum of machinery—like we’d wandered into the throat of some enormous, restless beast.
The air changed, too. Gone was the tang of fresh dirt, replaced by something older, stale and almost metallic. I wiped sweat from my brow, longing for the cool ocean breeze. Or better, the calm, green breath of the jungle.
At last, we reached a set of double doors. Hayden pressed his palms against them and shoved, the heat spilling out like a physical force. I flinched, blinking against the blast.
He didn’t hesitate, just shrugged off his jacket and strode into the swelter. “These are the furnaces,” he called back, voice echoing off the black iron giants looming overhead. Their chimneys disappeared through gaping holes in the rock above.
I pulled off my own jacket, wishing I could shed even more. My mouth was already parched.
“They’ll give us suits for the heat,” Hayden said, scanning the room.
He steered me toward a wiry man in a dark orange uniform, who stood near a worktable, tablet in hand. The others who’d arrived with us formed a loose half-circle. The man finally looked up, his eyes narrowing as he counted us, thumb poised over his screen.
“Good morning,” he said, voice brisk. “Restrooms are open. If you already know the drill, go suit up. If you’re new or need a rundown, hang back. I’ll walk you through it.”
I glanced at Hayden, uncertain. He nodded me toward the doors up ahead. “Go there and grab a suit. I’ll fill you in on what youneed to know.”
I slipped away from the group, heading for the marked doors: one for men, one for women. Inside, the air was blessedly cool. A row of toilet stalls lined one wall, with benches and broad mirrors for changing. At the center, a heap of bulky white suits waited.
Three women clustered near the pile, struggling with the thick material. As they pulled the suits over their clothes, I couldn’t help noticing how they resembled puffy spacesuits from an old picture book, complete with a transparent face shield.
I grabbed a suit and stepped aside, fumbling with the zipper. The women’s voices lowered when I entered, but a few sentences still carried across the room.
“—not that I’m ungrateful, Jemima,” one said. “I’m not. But the more I see of this place, the more I have my doubts.”
“I don’t know. Any alternative would just seem so… farfetched,” a second woman replied.
“More far-fetched than them going to all of this trouble fornothingin return?” the first woman retorted.
I froze.What are they talking about?I moved a little closer to them, as more women spilled into the room and the trio dropped their tones lower still.
“But that’s the definition of charity, isn’t it?” the second one replied. “Doing things for free. You know there used to be charities in the old world, too.”
“But none of this comes free, does it?” the third woman cut in, her voice low. “People are giving up their children. And look at us: working ourselves ragged for them. Took four months just to get this damn bronze ring.”
The second, more optimistic woman let out a sigh. “Still… can you really say we’re worse off? If they hadn’t picked us up after the flood, we’d have nothing. Probably not even be here at all.”
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t have come,” the first woman shot back, bitterness roughening her voice. “It’s not like we had a choice. Hell, if they’d dropped us in a desert, it would’ve been better than what we left behind, at least for a while. All I’m saying is, don’t kid yourself that any of this is charity. They’re not doing it out of kindness.”
“But you don’t know that for sure,” the second woman replied, though her voice wavered just enough to betray her own doubt.
The first woman gave a low laugh. “No, none of us know for sure. Yet. But every day, these people are feeling more like opportunists than charity workers.”
There was a long silence. I found myself holding my breath, their words swirling around in my mind. I’d sensed something odd about this place from the beginning—just from my few interactions with Anna. But “opportunists”—that was a sharp word, the kind that lingered. Did they really seek out the desperate, gathering up those who had nowhere else to go? Was all this—tracking disasters, chasing the floodwaters—really about helping? Or was it less about providing aid, and more about turning desperation into opportunity?
What kind of people would do that?
