Page 49 of The Sixth Fraction

My father used to say the city would be better off if Erudite wasn’t in it. But the more I learn about what they do there—beyond stick their noses in books or play chess, which is what I’ve always pictured—the more I wonder how we’d survive without them.

“How will I ever be able to lift that?” I ask, pointing at the empty container.

“Every factionless should be able to lift his or her own body weight,” Carr says. “Unless there’s some condition preventing them from doing so.”

Everything he says sounds like it comes out of a factionless handbook. I stare at the container, feeling helpless. I don’t think I could lift my own body weight even if it was to save my life.

“Feels impossible right now, I know,” Jove says to me. “But I promise, you’re capable of it.”

She doesn’t smile at me when she says it, and that makes me feel like she means it.

We go to the next tank, where there’s already a container waiting for us, and I watch Carr do the same thing again: unstopper the container, lift it up, pour in the coagulant, press the green button.

It’s not difficult work, but I feel time stretching on as the novelty of the task turns into tedium. After an hour has passed we again descend the steps and walk to the storage area—which is just a corner full of containers identical to the one Carr lifted up—so he can heave one over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. We’re walking to the next tank when I hear a bang.

I don’t decide to crouch and cover my head; I’m already doing it by the time I register the sound. I hear the tinkling of falling glass and wince. A hand falls on my shoulder, and I jerk away from it, my shoulders slamming into the damp wall.

“Tris,” a soft voice says. Jove’s. I look up at her, and I realize there’s no falling glass here.

There was falling glass at the Choosing Ceremony. When Robert died.

“Sorry,” I say, and I force myself to straighten, even though my heart is still racing.

Someone is shouting, but the space is too big, the echo too loud, for me to make out the words. Carr sets his container down and rushes toward the sound, and with a concerned frown, Jove follows him. Steadying myself on the wall, I rush after them both.

Weaver, the sentry from before, is the one shouting. She’s calling for all of us to come to the front. The other sentries from the overpass are gathered around her, as well as some others I didn’t see on my way in. They’re all holding their needle guns.

“What’s going on?” Carr asks Weaver. “We’re in the middle of—”

“I don’t give a shit what you’re in the middle of,” Weaver says. “I want to know about the attack.”

“Attack?” Carr says. He looks around in obvious confusion. “There’s no attack here, Weave.”

“Not here.” Weaver scowls at him. “At the detention facility—your factionless pals broke at least ten people out of their holding cells, and I know she’s got something to do with it.” Weaver points at Jove.

“How do you figure?” Jove says coldly.

“You come here unannounced with a pack of fresh-faced lackeys, knowing full well I’ll call in reinforcements to monitor the extra numbers,” Weaver says, rounding on Jove. “Reinforcements that, big surprise, had to come from the detention facility, since it’s closest. And you just happen to do this on the night when your fellow scum attack said facility? You’re one of those ‘death to factions’ types, aren’t you?”

I spot Colin and Rory between two of the other huge tanks, but Cassandra and Miles are nowhere to be seen.

“First of all, I have no goddamn idea what you’re talking about,” Jove says, crossing her arms. “And second, you all claim to pity us because we don’t have your precious community, but the second something happens that you don’t like, you’re suddenly sure we all know each other?”

Weaver hesitates.

Jove sneers at her. “Well, which is it? Are we defectives who can’t function in a society, or are we a sixth faction of criminal masterminds?”

Weaver touches the gun to Jove’s sternum. Her finger is next to the safety, which, I notice with deep relief, is still on.

“I don’t know,” Weaver says. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Be my guest. But in the meantime, we have a job to do so we can get paid. You mind?”

Weaver sniffs.

“In the meantime I guess I should warn you.” She puts her gun in its holster but moves closer to Jove, so she’s right in the other woman’s face. “We’re short a crate today. Problems with the paper fabricator. Maybe having to conserve toilet paper for a couple weeks will motivate you to get a handle on your radical friends.”

If her intention was to rattle Jove, she seems to have succeeded. Jove has suddenly gone limp.