Free LEGACY RISING by Rachel Eastwood

swept by, examining a rotating chart of names and messages, almost too busy to notice the new faces. Then she froze and whirled. She pointed a single finger at them as her eyes ticked from Dax to Legacy to Dax to Legacy, her mouth forming a cute little O. Without awaiting an explanation, she turned to their pink-haired leader.
    “Neon!” she rebuked. “You can’t just—What the— Again? Who are these people?”
                  Trimpot came forward, simpering at her as if she didn’t understand the delicate art of hosting. “ Forgive my associate,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and turning her to face them. He slid his arm around her back and gestured to each of them in turn. “ Rain , these are Dax and Leg. Friends to the cause. Potential recruits, daresay? Dax, Leg, this is Rain Ellsworth . She’s head of our communications, and she’s also medical.”
                  “I’ve only been trained as a nurse,” Rain said.
                  Medical? But . . .
                  “I thought Chance for Choice was nonviolent,” Dax spoke.
                  “Well, we are ,” Trimpot allowed. “But most of us have abandoned our homes and our legal identities, and so finding care should we require it can be difficult .”
                  Trimpot and Rain shared a significant look.
                  “Let me take that atrocious thing off of you,” she said.
                  Trimpot nodded, and she stepped behind him to strip off the frock coat.
                  “We thought it’d help him blend in,” she explained sheepishly.
                  “Not so, turns out,” Trimpot said.
                  “Imagine,” Dax said. In spite of the seriousness of this moment and this place, Legacy smiled.
    “Well, I really shouldn’t be up so late,” Rain said, looking away from Trimpot to glance at the two guests. “I’ve got work in the morning.”
                  “But I thought none of you had legal identities,” Legacy said.
                  “I still do,” Rain answered, folding the printed frock coat over her forearm. “Vector and I both still work in the city. Anyway, good night. I hope to see you two again.” Amicable farewells were exchanged, and the girl deposited the coat on a rack before striding to a flexible brass periscope and checking the park. She then activated the door and stepped out of the side of the hollow copper mountain.
                  “ And how long can protest remain civil?” Trimpot continued, not missing a beat. “I mean, at some point, that becomes just martyrdom , and who is that helping?”
                  The thought of the rebels becoming violent, in all honesty, hadn’t really occurred to Legacy. For the past several months, it’d been nothing but rumors, news stories, supposed clandestine rallies, and that one big installation of graffiti in the business district. They hadn’t even infiltrated the founder’s ball . . . except that they had. Legacy wondered what would’ve been planned if Trimpot’s real name, Leopold, hadn’t been on their blacklist already. Vector was working on some kind of glass cannon.
    As she allowed her eyes to roam the workshop, she noted the various weapons in states of production, both melee and ranged.
                  “It does look like the stakes are getting higher,” Legacy conceded, unable to tear her eyes from a table of hand-held saws.
                  “We would like to keep anything like that from happening,” Trimpot replied. It was clear what “that” meant in this sentence, and also, that he didn’t see this is as a particularly realistic goal. “But . . .”
                  “But if not, then what’s the plan?” Dax asked. “Long-term.”
                  “Well, we’d like an open and