Rainmaker

Chapter One

Year: 2300

It hasn’t rained on Earth in over two hundred years.

Not even one of those drizzles that they talk about in old books. Where people apparently complained because their clothes got wet.

I’ve never understood that.

If water started falling from the sky, I’d stand outside naked, in front of my entire camp, with my mouth wide open.

But we get sand...lots of sand.

I’m eighteen years old, but I have never experienced a thunderstorm. Or even seen a lake.

I was born in a migrant camp somewhere east of the Dryline-the divider between them and us. The Drifters and the Inlanders.

We reside in dusty shacks scattered across the desert. They live behind a wall—one that protects them from the worst of the dust storms.

Legend has it, they don’t even have to scavenge for water.

I don’t remember the name of the camp I was born in. My mother and I moved through so many when I was young that they all blended together eventually.

Migrant camps never stop moving. You have to keep moving when you’re a Drifter. For several reasons.

People fighting over water or food.

When a Sandworm suddenly builds a nest between your campsite.

Or when word reaches the camp that raiders are coming.

When I was ten, we ended up in Rusk. Rusk wasn’t technically a migrant camp because instead of living in tents-we live in metal buildings; their roofs faded under the harsh rays of the sun.

Rusk is located in the dead centre of the desert, surrounded by enough desert to kill you in every direction. Which is exactly why it was such a safe location. Because no one had any reason to travel to the middle of a dead desert terrain.

The only reason Rusk existed was that twenty years ago, someone had discovered hundreds of Thirstroot cacti here-a rare cactus species that retained and somehow generated water.

But of course, they were all gone now.

So, we had to find water in a different way.

Our camp was also located near an ancient bore, that trapped water deep beneath the surface of the desert. A common way for Drifters to source water.

The bore had been producing water for almost eighty years, which was practically a miracle. It was still too far from the camp to pump directly, though, so every few days we made water runs into the desert. We took empty tanks out, filled them at the well, then hauled them all the way back.

It took three days for us to complete a single water run.

Water runs are dangerous because Raiders know where most wells are located. Sandworms seem to know too, and they love to lay their nests near water sources.

Every now and then, a group simply doesn’t come back. But unless you happen to be born with water magic, there isn’t another option.

The Inlanders population had hundreds of people with water magic-the primary reason that their civilization survived, while the rest of us rotted in the dust. Water magic gives a person the ability to conjure drinkable water in seconds-but the ability is not common.

Especially when you’re a Drifter. Our bloodlines are rarely magical. We were just born unlucky.

I’d been on several water runs—against my mother’s wishes. I was younger and fitter than many of the others. And quite frankly, I was sick of being thirsty.

And-I could fight. Like really fight.

Not the pull-hair-and-bite kind of fighting most Drifter kids picked up before puberty. No-I’d been trained.

When I was nine, a man named Dax joined our camp. He was an Inland deserter—or a criminal, depending on who you chose to believe.

He told me that he had status in the Inland before he was banned. That he trained students at The Warden Institute-a place where people with special abilities trained to improve their magic.

For most of my life, he trained me too. He taught me hand-to-hand combat and how to use blades. How to shoot a gun-and an arrow.

How to put someone twice my size on their back before they realized I’d moved. How to push through hunger, thirst and exhaustion

The day that I buried Dax’s body in the sand, had been the saddest day of my life.

Now I was standing beside one of our camp’s dust wagons, examining its broken wheel. We were scheduled to go on a water run today, but this piece of shit had other plans.

Dust wagons are long, low vehicles built to cross the sand dunes, with six enormous wheels and a thin metal body that carry people, supplies and, most importantly, water.

Now, one of its wheels was sitting on its side near my feet. It was the only dust wagon we had and without it-we couldn’t collect water.

I held a small piece of fruit in my hand-my only meal of the day. I took a bite of what I thought might be a tiny melon of some sort, chewing thoughtfully as I studied the wheel.

“Lumi!”

A voice broke through my thoughts-but I ignored it.

“Lumi!”

I ignored it again, pretending like I hadn’t heard a thing. I knelt in the sand, running my fingers along the bolt in the middle.

“Lumi, you thieving little bitch!”

Now that…that caused me to stand back up to my feet and turn to look.

Rafe-a trader in the camp-was limping towards me. He had a bad knee, which did him no good when walking through sand.

I took another bite of the fruit, his eyes narrowing as he watched me. It wasn’t particularly good fruit. It was wrinkled and sour. Disgusting if I was being totally honest. But…it was food.

But considering Rafe wanted it back, I ate faster.

“You stole that!” he yelled, still wobbling my way.

I looked at the fruit in my hand and shrugged, “This thing?”

“Yes, that!” he yelled, stopping in front of me, his face bright red.

I smiled back at him and shrugged.

I’d known Rafe since I was a kid. He owned one of the market stalls and charged twice what anything was worth because his daughter had crop magic.

Not strong crop magic. Not the sort of magic that granted you admission into The Warden Institute. She could grow melons roughly the size of my palm and onions that tasted like sand.

But magic was magic-especially here. Where people were willing to murder their neighbor over an orange peel.

“Give it back,” he hissed.

“I’ve eaten half of it,” I said nonchalantly.

“Then give me the other half,” he screeched. “I can still sell it!”

“That seems unhygienic,” I gasped. “You would sell half-eaten fruit? Do you have no dignity?”

“Lumi,” he said firmly.

I sighed and reached into the small pouch tied around my waist, pulling out two copper pieces. I held them out in my palm. He immediately snatched them up.

“That’s not enough,” he grunted. “It’s four copper pieces.”

“It’s what I have,” I shrugged, biting into the fruit again.

“You shouldn’t take things you can’t afford,” he sighed, slipping the copper pieces into his pocket with a sigh.

Then he stared at me for a few moments. Eventually, he grumbled something under his breath and turned around.

“Great customer service,” I called after him. “Love your work!”

He ignored me, walking away until he disappeared into the distance. I finished the fruit and wiped my hand against my trousers.

My clothes were the same color as everything else in Rusk. Rusty brown. I wore boots wrapped with strips of fabric to stop sand from getting inside them. A scarf hung loosely around my neck, ready to pull over my mouth and ears, to protect them from sand.

Two knives were secured on my belt, sharpened in preparation for the water run I was meant to be on today.

“Your mother is looking for you,” a voice said from behind me. I turned and saw Tavi standing there with a smile on his face.

He wore similar clothing to me, paired with a set of goggles that rested on the top of his head. He often drove the dust wagon on water runs and wore them to protect his eyes. No one liked bits of sand scraping against their cornea.

I raised a brow at him, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to watch you steal from an elderly man again,” he smiled, sauntering over to me and peering down at the wheel.

He was twenty, tall and thin, with the permanently exhausted expression of someone who had been born in Rusk and knew he would probably die here too.

But unfortunately, most of us would. Unless we had magic.

Every few years, recruiters from the Warden Institute travelled from the Inland and into Drifter territory. They’d search through the outer settlements for children with reclamation abilities.

Earthshapers and Growers were the most common they would find-on the rare occasion that a Drifter was magical.

Earthshapers could flatten dunes or expose fertile soil for Growers to grow crops in. But what they really wished for…were Water Wielders, due to their ability to conjure water. It was also the rarest magic form.

They were all abilities that could help reclaim the Deadlands and keep the Inlanders civilization from dying out. Every year, more and more of the Inland shrunk, as the desert slowly took over.

When I was six, a recruiter tested me. Then again at nine and twelve. The prime ages for abilities to emerge. After twelve, you can give up hope of being saved from the desert.

But I wasn’t one of the lucky ones. So here we were.

Tavi sighed as he looked at the wheel, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Come on.” He said, turning to walk away. “It’s already too late for a water run now, so we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

He was right. The desert was at its most dangerous during two parts of the day. The middle of the day, when the sun was dangerously hot. And at night, when raiders were lurking around.

Just as I was turning to follow him, I saw something in the far distance. I squinted at the sandy horizon, trying to make it out.

I gasped and stepped back. It was a dark figure lurking behind a large rock.

“I saw something,” I said, my head snapping towards Tavi.

He walked towards me and peered into the distance, “What was it?”

My heart slammed into my chest. I swallowed and then turned to look at him.

“Raiders,” I whispered.