Terra, p.1
Terra, page 1
TERRA
TERRESTRIALS
BOOK 1
GRETCHEN POWELL FOX
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Content Warnings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
The Story Continues
About the Author
Also by Gretchen Powell Fox
Terra © 2012 by Gretchen Powell Fox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book or the characters within may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express permission of the copyright owner, except in the instance of quotes or excerpts for review or marketing purposes.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are completely fictional, and any reference to real places or events is used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people or occurrences, past or present, is purely coincidental.
Cover Design and Illustration © 2026 Kim Cavrak, Spirit Of Ebullience
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I first published Terra in December 2012, back when self-publishing was still the new kid on the block, before BookTok and Bookstagram existed, and long before a myriad of life’s curveballs had me putting my writing dreams on pause.
It took me more than a decade to finally bring its sequel, Underground, into the world—a fact that could easily paralyze me with shame over how long I let those dreams simmer on the backburner. Instead, I choose to take pride in the fact that, though I may have been waylaid for a time, I still did the damn thing. I finished that story.
And now, with a new chapter in my author career unfolding—thanks to the incredible readership I’ve found with Smoke and Scar—I wanted to return to this story and ensure I do it justice.
So, I’ve polished and repackaged Terra and Underground, both as individual ebooks as well as a single-volume omnibus edition, all with absolutely stunning new covers by the amazing Kim at Spirit of Ebullience.
For those of you who have read the earlier versions, I hope you find new joy in revisiting this world with Terra, Adam, and Mica. For those of you reading for the first time: Enjoy the fall.
Love,
Gretchen
CONTENT WARNINGS
This is book one in an upper YA dystopian sci-fi romance duology that contains themes that may not be appropriate for all readers.
Content warnings include: strong language, physical violence, psychological torture, depictions of grief, and romantic moments that will culminate in closed door intimacy (sometimes referred to as “fade to black”) in the second book.
for my brother, Ben,
the family trailblazer
and my sister, Jenny,
for always asking,
“what comes next?”
ONE
“Terra?” Mica’s voice, heavy with sleep, seeps from his half-open door. “Where are you going?”
Damn, I think. I was trying to be quiet.
I pause in his doorway, resting my shoulder against the frame. “Don’t worry about it,” I say softly. “It’s still early. Go back to sleep.”
His ancient computer blinks softly on his desk. With silent steps, I walk over and shut off the monitor, then peer up through the grime-streaked window above my brother’s head. The soft gray light of early morning is beginning to peek through. I need to get moving.
“No argument here,” Mica mumbles as he buries his face in his pillow.
I hover over him for a few moments, waiting for his breathing to slow before quietly drawing his door back to its half-open position. I’m careful not to close it all the way. Even now, after all this time, he still won’t sleep with the door shut.
I retreat to the main room. Our apartment’s layout is based on Floor Plan #4, which means our bedrooms empty out into one large, square room that serves as living area, dining room, and foyer in one. In one deft movement, I grab my bag from a hook near the front door and I am off.
Thankfully, at this hour, it’s still cool out. The sun has barely crested over the horizon. I sling the strap of my blue scavenging bag over my shoulder and zip my black jacket up halfway.
The air is thick, as it always is. I know that the sun will be blazing by the time I get back, but I take it as a good sign that there’s even the slightest of breezes this morning. It’s two miles to settlement limits, and I'm headed a good deal farther than that; the longer I can go without breaking into my water canteen, the better.
The streets are empty. The few people who are up at this time of day will all be out by the docks, getting ready for the bustle of morning business. Nonetheless, I choose my route to the southern wall carefully, skimming along the outskirts of town, darting down side roads and occasionally throwing a glance behind me to make sure I’m not being tracked.
It might be a little paranoid of me, but you really can’t be too careful around here. Last month, a boy from the East Quadrant was nearly beaten to death by a group of men who swore they saw him sneaking extra food pills into his pack after the Rationing. When they ripped the bag off his back, there was nothing inside but his scavenging spoils from the day before. The mob fought over the bits of copper wire and scrap metal anyway.
Once I clear the limits of the South Quadrant, I start to breathe a little easier. Slowing my pace, I root around in my bag for breakfast, pulling out a white pill bottle. I twist off the cap and shake a large brown pill into my palm, the bottle rattling noisily. There are only a couple of pills left inside, I realize with a grimace.
Mmm, delicious, I think sarcastically as I read the bottle’s label. B-E665. I unhook my water canteen from the side of my bag and pop the pill in my mouth, trying not to shudder as I wash it down. Bitter as the “meal” tastes, however, I feel energized immediately and pick up my pace as I head toward the edge of town.
Reaching the boundary wall, I toss a wary eye behind me before I begin to climb. I’m alone for now, but others will be venturing into the plains soon enough, competing with me in scouring the fields for whatever useful bits and pieces might have dropped from the trash barges that pass overhead. I want to ensure there’s plenty of distance behind me when they do.
Gran told Mica and me once that, long ago, before even her father’s father was born, the walls surrounding Genesis X-16 stood fifty feet high, and the black dystridium brick was smooth as glass. Still feeling the scars of the Skyfall—the catastrophe that brought civilization to a grinding halt centuries ago—the founders of Sixteen built a protective dome that enshrouded our entire settlement. The giant ceiling acted as a UV filter that kept out both the acid rain and the harsh sun, akin to the ones that still encapsulate the skycities floating above us.
A single gate was built into the northernmost wall as the sole way in and out of the settlement. Of course, after the UV filter inevitably broke down and broke apart from lack of maintenance, it didn’t take long for scavs to find more convenient routes to the outside.
Since the gate is located in the North Quadrant, most scavs don’t bother going that way to get to the plains. It’s not just that it’s out of the way; most of us don’t like dealing with the hoity-toities who live in that part of Sixteen. I’ve only used the main gate a handful of times myself, on the few occasions when I’ve brought Mica out with me.
It’s not like what we’re doing is illegal—scavenging is a regular part of life down here. But scavs don’t exactly like to have guardsmen breathing down our necks, so we prefer to climb over the western or southern walls instead.
As it stands now, the south wall is no more than fifteen feet at its highest point, so I have little trouble climbing up. As always, I’m careful to avoid the remnants of jagged bricks and broken glass that still decorate certain sections. Soon, I’m jumping down on the other side, kicking up a cloud of dry earth behind me when I land.
The sun has settled in a spot halfway up the cloudless sky; in this light, the dusty brown landscape seems to stretch on forever. Patches of dead weeds line the sides of my path, the light breeze my boots make as I sweep past causing them to crumble.
The glint of something buried halfway in the dirt catches my eye. I stoop down and see a pair of small metal plates, maybe three or four inches across, slightly bent in the middle and with holes in the corner where screws would normally go.
Meh, I think, shrugging as I stand. They’re not a bad find as far as generics go, but I decide to leave them for the other poor schleps to fight over. It is Collection Day, after all. The scavs will be out in full force. The more stuff that’s available just outside the settlement, the less likely others will venture further out. I kick some dust over my boot prints and set off again with light steps.
No trails, I remind myself . I don’t want some curious latecomer following me and cashing in on the poor-man’s-treasure trove I’ve managed to keep to myself all these months. As I trudge on, the ground begins to slope and before long I see the tips of barren trees in the distance.
Another half-mile covered and I’ve reached the Dead Woods. I make my way south through the empty forest; the farther I walk, the less space there is between the trees. Scavengers rarely bother coming this far out from town. The woods are the only physical barrier between Sixteen and the District—the sprawling landscape of crumbling buildings that used to be one of the groundworld’s greatest cities. A quarantine line wraps around the ruined city to warn us away too, but a few beams of red light don’t provide quite the same sense of security as a petrified forest. Plus, the spoils are hardly ever worth the journey out to the woods for most, given the risk of your findings being stolen by raiders on the way back.
For those of us who know where to look, however, the odds of finding something worth collecting are much higher out here. Metal generics drop all over the place, but plastic is where the real money is. Something to do with dried-up fuel sources or something along those lines—I admit I never cared for the specifics. They don’t really matter anyway. All that does matter is that plastic is worth a pretty penny to the folks at the recycling center, and the placement of the petrified trees out here makes it far less likely for the acid rain that regularly pours down to dissolve it before someone can scoop up a rare scrap of the stuff.
As for the raiders . . . thankfully, I know these woods like the back of my hand. I make an X over my heart and throw a prayer of thanks toward the sky that they’ve never had the chance to get close to me. Though I wish I could say the same for everyone else.
I weave my way through the thick trunks, the path I forge growing narrower as the roots that have broken through the ground begin to overlap, overtaking the forest floor. I’m less than a quarter-mile in when I start to see the first recyclables, discarded by skyworld citizens without a second thought.
One man’s trash, I think, a bitter taste on my tongue.
I doubt the skyfolk even realize how quickly they would run out of their luxuries if we weren’t down here, working in their recycling plants and scavenging for their leftovers. It’s not like these resources just grow in the ground, after all.
Not anymore.
My eyes fixed on the dirt, I am methodical about how I walk between the withered trees—back and forth, then over two paces and back again. I stop occasionally to pick up lengths of wire and screws that sparsely pepper the ground and add them to my bag. They jangle as they mix into the pile I gathered earlier this week.
The work is consuming, and at one point I have to force myself to choke down my last few food pills.
The sun has long since peaked in the sky, beating down through the leafless branches. Sweat slicks my neck and arms. I roll the sleeves of my jacket up and wish I could just shuck the whole thing off, but the thin brown tank I’m wearing underneath provides little protection against the burning rays. My shoulders are freckled with more than my share of sunspots as it is.
Time for a break, I think, having just snatched up a cracked square of plastic. I grin as I calculate how much steel it will net me; it’s got to be at least fifty credits’ worth. My trek out to the woods has been worthwhile.
I straddle the trunk of a large fallen tree lying a few feet away and take a few grateful sips from my water canteen. I pull off the stretched-out elastic band that is knotted around my wrist and tie my sweat-dampened hair into a bun on the back of my head, grimacing as I twist it a little too tightly. When I pull my hand away, several dark strands come with it.
I groan as I swing my head from side to side, my neck stiff from hours of staring at the ground. I cock my head to the left in an attempt to work out the kinks and hear a dull series of pops as my vertebrae resettle. I then hang my head to the right for a few moments, stretching my neck muscles, and from this new sideways perspective, something catches my eye.
Sunlight glints off of something small and silver, and I see the vague outline of whatever it is tucked under a raised root about a yard over.
I crawl over and gently dig around the object. After some maneuvering, I pull out a small machine, consisting of dozens of little interlocking tubes and shafts. The device is slightly larger than the palm of my hand and surprisingly heavy. Underneath the caked-on dirt, it looks shiny—brand new, in fact. It’s missing that matte sheen, a telltale sign of having been processed through the recycling center. Some small pieces might be missing—a few loose wires hang out, a lonely peg sticks out from the side—but, for the most part, it seems intact.
“Jackpot.” This thing has got to be worth at least a hundred credits, easily. Enough to cover an entire month of Rations. I can’t help but smile. Between this little machine, the plastic, and the myriad of generics already lining my bag, this is going to be a stellar Collection Day.
I carefully tuck the piece of machinery into the inner pocket of my bag and survey the spoils inside. Toting around a week’s worth of generics is bothersome, but I’d rather deal with the annoyance than with the line that will form outside the recycling plant in the time it takes me to collect my spoils from home. Sweat drips down the crook of my arm and I decide that this should be more than enough to carry us through until the next biweekly Collection.
Not bad. I swing the strap of my bag over my shoulder and start back toward Sixteen. The bag bounces softly against my side with each step, and I can hear its contents jingling as the generics roll against each other—a soft symphony commending me on my success.
I steadily work my way back, still on the verge of overheating but in good spirits. As the trees begin to thin, I vaguely make out the silhouettes of other scavs scouring the fields. I peel off my jacket and shove it down into my bag to mute the sound of metal on metal before striding into the field.
“Ahoy, Terra!” Mal is the first to see me, and I wince slightly as he shouts his friendly greeting in my direction. He and I have always been on good terms, but he’s one of very few to regard me with such enthusiasm.
Several men in the surrounding area sneer as I pace toward them. I’ve been a scav for over three years and they still can’t stand that, at just eighteen, I pull bigger payouts most weeks than they do. I guess the fact that I’m a girl doesn’t do much to draw their favor either.
“And just where are you coming from? You look kinda . . .” Mal trails off as I come close, dusting off his brown pants as he stands. I can tell by his expression that I’m not exactly at my most gorgeous. He runs his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, leaving a streak of dirt on his temple.
“What? I can pull off the dirty, sweat-soaked look just as well as you can, old man,” I respond with a grin, though my words sound stiff and formal compared to Mal’s easygoing South Quadrant drawl.
Mal grins. “So ya can. Good haul?”
“I’ve just been cruising the Southern Plains for a while. Picked up a few more generics, nothing too exciting,” I lie smoothly, shrugging my shoulders. A rugged-looking guy who’s been surreptitiously observing me returns his gaze to the ground.
“Same here. Just some screws mostly, but I did find half a spool of copper wire right outside the wall.” He shoots his eyes in the direction of our eavesdropper before adding in a hushed voice, “Chrys scored the real jackpot though. Found two metal plates just south of the wall, with a battery core underneath ‘em. That’s, what, a hundred and fifty credits for the core alone? At least? Lucky bastard was hardly out here twenty minutes. Turned tail and headed straight back to turn ‘em in.”
