Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
Of all the ways they’d tried to kill him on Base Lab 9, Brinx figured the closest HyperHelix might ever come to success was breakfast.

Wouldn’t that be something. The thought almost made him smile.

When he reached the entrance to the cafeteria, he tried not to gag at the smell that wafted through like some kind of warning. On either side of the doorway, holograms of recent graduates towered over him, each one striking a pose before cycling through to the next hologram in an endless loop. The projections were translucent, making the grads look more like ghosts. Brinx didn’t recognize any of their faces, but he was well acquainted with the slogans that circled them in rotating, three-dimensional type.

START AT ZERO… FINISH A HERO.

EVERY TEST BRINGS OUT YOUR BEST.

CLAIM YOUR TOMORROW… TODAY.

What made Brinx want to gag more: those lines or the odor? Maybe, after all his years here, he’d had his fill of both. Not for much longer, though.

He ducked his head through the doorway and scanned the tables. The room was so big that it was hard to see the end of it, but seats were filling up with hybrids and there wasn’t another Featherbone in sight.

Brinx sighed. The cafeteria wasn’t somewhere you wanted to be caught without backup. Hunching his shoulders, he made his way to the counter on the far side of the room and queued up at the back of the line. Ahead of him, a trio of Howlers broke into a low growl. They grew louder until he took a step back. Howlers were always itching for a fight, but Brinx never got into it unless he had to. Especially on an empty stomach. Or solo.

He looked around again. Where was Jang? Or anybody?

He’d probably already missed the others. Most Featherbones were slated to eat their first meal early, but Brinx had arrived a good twenty minutes later than usual. And with the smell, nobody stayed in the cafeteria longer than absolutely necessary. This was all his morning instructor’s fault. Brinx had been held after class for insufficient attention. But how do you pay sufficient attention to Carnivorous Flora and Fauna of the Driftlands for the zillionth time? When it’s still dark outside? For Brinx, it was just an endless list of local plants and animals that wanted to eat him.

He had more important things to worry about. Like surviving breakfast.

Avoiding the lingering gaze of the Howlers, Brinx attempted to fade into the background. He rubbed his arm, which had become a habit. There, beside the HyperHelix logo: exactly 999 bars of nano-ink, all in neat little rows, etched into his coppery skin. They covered his entire forearm, from the crook of his elbow down to his wrist. Together, the bars formed a perfect rectangle, save one tiny corner that was still missing.

At Base Lab 9, your ink was your most valuable possession, the only thing a genetically engineered hybrid truly owned. Each bar represented the successful completion of a test, but what HyperHelix really meant was survive.

Brinx had survived over and over. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times over, in fact, averaging between two and three tests a week since they’d pulled him from the vats. And now he just needed one more bar to leave this dump forever. Hybrids who hit their thousand mark got transferred to Havenport, which sat on the opposite end of the Driftlands, a long chain of giant floating rocks suspended high above Grimulus’s surface.

Brinx (and everyone else) was a little thin on details about what actually happened at Havenport. It wasn’t like anyone ever came back to tell—except maybe as grinning holograms. All the instructors and lab assistants told them was that they were meant for some higher purpose, that it was in every hybrid’s best interest to be their best—live their code—and the company would take care of the rest. Brinx figured whatever kind of life Havenport, or anywhere beyond that, had to offer, it had to be better than here, right? Boring classes, awful tests, disgusting food… How could it be worse?

One of the black-capped guards cracked his zapstick against the metal railing near Brinx, sending a cascade of sparks down onto gray, hex-tiled floor.

“Keep it moving, rats,” the man grumbled.

Brinx shuffled a few steps forward. The Howlers started growling again, just not as loud this time.

Vat rats, halfsies, crosslings, gloopers, partials, muckers, freaks, iggies. Brinx didn’t give two scatballs who called him what. Just one more test, and he’d get to go by a new name: graduate. Maybe they’d even make a hologram of him, striking some cheesy pose.

He finally reached the counter, where a hovering bioscanner bobbed near his head. Brinx held still as the silver orb flashed a sequence of lights into his retinas and across the contours of his copper-colored face. After a pause, it blurted a short beep of recognition, then delivered his stats in a tinny, monotone voice.

“Featherbone-class hybrid, tenth generation, male, age thirteen.”

A moment later, another black cap behind the counter handed Brinx a tray featuring a numbered, vacuum-sealed nutripak laser-stamped with the HyperHelix logo containing a protein tube, two stale carbo-wafers, and a hydrovial of pulpy greenish liquid. The meal was supposedly calibrated for his body’s specific needs. Apparently, those needs included acquiring a taste for steamed garbage.

Brinx grabbed his tray and turned back to the sea of tables, hoping to spot an empty one. No other Featherbones meant eating alone. That was one of the unspoken rules at Base Lab 9: You eat with your own kind. Because nothing was more awkward than sitting down next to someone you’d just been forced to fight in a test.

Brinx watched the Howlers in front of him get waved over by a table of similarly snout-nosed friends. As he walked by, their cold, wolflike stares all dared him to start something, but he kept moving. From there, he passed a table of Griplocks, their long tails waving behind them like banners. Brinx skirted a group of multi-limbed Fourfists, all shoveling their rations in double time. Beyond them, he caught a table of Ghostwalkers shimmering in and out of view. That bunch was especially strange and always gave off an air like they owned the place. They gave Brinx the creeps.

There were Shieldskins and Bighorns and Allseers… an unending freak show of mix-n-match genes collected from multiple galaxies.

Brinx finally spied an empty table. He grabbed a seat. He’d have to keep his guard up and hope for the best.