Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

Normally a gentle person, Halla has a stubborn streak and I know she means it.

“What are you . . . how do you plan to—?”

She looks me in the eyes, her own red-rimmed, but determined. “I’m running away.”

“You can’t!”

“I have to.”

The difficulties that will confront her swirl in my mind. How will she find food? What about shelter? She’ll be an enemy of the state—hunted. Her family is dead, so they can’t help. Her parents died when she was one and her grandmother took her in; she lived not far from the coast in the Delta Canton, a land of swamps, drawling speech, hurricanes and religious enclaves that were among the last hold-outs against the Pragmatist government. When her grandmother disappeared and was presumed dead, Halla came here. She’s soft and gentle, not a fighter. She’ll fall prey to one of the roving bands of outlaws. Horrible images hold me silent. “Where will you go?” I finally ask.

“To Loudon.” Her soft mouth sets mulishly. “I heard from him a week ago. He’s finished his training and been assigned to an IPF base outside of Atlanta.”

“You haven’t told him?”

She shakes her head, dense curls dancing. “How could I? You know the Prags are reading and listening to everything.”

I nod. I wonder what Loudon’s reaction will be if she reaches him. I know he loves her; I watched their friendship turn into something more in the year before he left. But it takes a special kind of love to give up everything familiar and safe, and make yourself a fugitive for your beloved’s sake.

“He loves me,” she says fiercely, as if reading my mind.

“I’m sure he does,” I say, “but that doesn’t fix anything. Even if you get to him . . .”

We both know her troubles aren’t over. Even if she manages to find Loudon, he’s still an IPF recruit with six years to serve on his mandatory enlistment, not allowed to marry until he’s done. They still don’t have a procreation license.

“We’ll go west,” Halla says, “to a pioneer outpost. They need all the people they can get.” She nods hard twice, more assuring herself that her plan is workable than trying to convince me. “Loudon and I are strong—we’ll be good pioneers.”

Yeah, right. The chances of a pregnant woman and a deserter reaching an outpost are non-existent. They’ll be hunted down and captured before they reach the Mississippi.

“There’s got to be another option. Let’s think abou—”

“I have my semi-annual physical day Thursday,” Halla says. Today is Monday. “The doctor will find out. I have to leave before then. Will you help me?” Her eyes plead with me.

I’m sure the most helpful thing I can do is talk her out of this insane plan. I try. I bring up the hardships she’ll face traveling to Atlanta, the dangers, the very real possibility of her being tracked down and captured. I imagine she’d get prison time, or worse. She listens with an expression that says she’s hearing me out to be polite, but her mind is made up. I need to jar her back to reality.

I stab her with, “You’re going to kill this baby. You won’t have enough to eat, so the baby will starve. It’s little better than murder.”

When she pales, I’m immediately ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She stands, looking shaken but resolute, and says, “I have to do this.”

Suddenly, I’m angry. “You don’t! You’re going to end up dead and your baby with you. Or you’re going to end up in prison and your baby will end up who knows where. How is that better?” I try to sound calm and reasonable when inside I’m so afraid. “You’re not thinking this through. You’re making an emotional decision, not a logical one. The Prags have the best plan, one that benefits the baby and the country. Let them raise the baby. They did okay with us. They’ll make sure the baby is educated so it can—”

“Him! Not
it
—him!” Halla’s chin juts out. “You say ‘emotional’ like it’s a bad thing. It’s not. Everything’s not about smart and rational and intellectual and data. Some things are about
feelings
. Love. Not that you would know. And don’t bother to hit me over the head with science and tell me my hormones are out of whack, because I know that. I’ve been puking my guts up and crying for no reason for months—I freaking know that. But they haven’t changed who I am or messed me up like a Dr. Jekyll potion. There’s science for you! I love Little Loudon and I know—I
know
—that he belongs with me. We belong together. I thought you would help me. I thought you were my friend.” She breathes hard through her nose, her chest rising and falling.

“I am your friend.” It comes out as a whisper, even though I mean it with all my heart.

“Not the friend I need right now. Go, Everly. Just go.”

“Halla, I can help. I’ll—”

She shakes her head vehemently, unable to speak. When I don’t move, she walks around me and opens the door. Her head tipped down, she motions for me to leave.

I get to the threshold and hesitate. When she doesn’t look up, I step into the hall. The door closes behind me with a snap that should have me looking over my shoulder, hoping no one heard it, but I’m on the verge of tears, choked up about losing Halla. Part of my sadness is for her, and part for me. I’ll never see her again if she runs away. I can’t stand it. I rest my forehead against her closed door. “Don’t go,” I whisper.

Nothing happens. Halla doesn’t emerge. I don’t knock.

I make the stealthy trek back to my room, thinking about Halla. She’s been my best friend forever. We played pretend together when we were little, with me the daughter and Halla the mommy, or me the scientist making save-the-world discoveries and Halla sometimes my lab assistant and sometimes an insect I was dissecting. The world’s only giggling cockroach: “Being dissected
tickles
,” she used to say. When we got older and spent more time in classes, we always sat side by side until one exasperated proctor or another separated us to keep us from talking. I helped her keep up in science classes so we wouldn’t get split up. She smuggled me rations when I did something that got me confined to quarters. I can’t imagine being here without her.

As I enter my room, I have a thought that makes me let go of the door so it bangs shut. I wince. I can save Halla by telling Proctor Fonner about her plan. They’ll keep her under guard until she has the baby, and then take it to another Kube. That would be the right thing to do, for the baby, Halla, and the nation, but it feels incredibly wrong.
Amerada over all
, I remind myself. She’ll hate me forever for separating her from Little Loudon, but wouldn’t that be better than letting her go off to die somewhere between here and Atlanta? I worry about it for hours, tossing and turning so much the covers wrap me like a mummy and I have to get up to untangle them. Yes, I finally decide, it would, but can I make myself do it? Can I betray her to Proctor Fonner? I punch my pillow. I’m ninety percent certain she’ll die if she runs away on her own, her and the baby both. I can’t have that on my conscience, even though keeping her here against her will, hating me, will be unendurable. I can’t understand why she wants to keep the baby so badly, but I understand that she does, and I know she’ll never, ever forgive me for what I’m going to do. I cry myself to sleep.

Chapter Four

At breakfast the next morning after the mandatory physical fitness period, I’m heavy-eyed and draggy, uninterested in food. Halla and I exchange a brief, unsmiling look when we enter, and she chooses to sit across the table and well down from me, rather than at my side. She looks as bad as I feel. It’s painful to think that we’ve probably exchanged our last words, because she’ll never talk to me again after I tell. Proctor Fonner glides in after we get seated and steps onto the small dais where the proctors stand to read to us or lecture as we eat. His presence is unusual and his aspect solemn. From the thick silence that smothers conversation, I think we all know what’s coming.

Looking down his long nose, and with his hands clasped at waist height, Proctor Fonner says, “I regret to inform you that our Kube community, our nation, has lost two of its valuable members, Dal Spaeth and Yuna Nieves. They were killed in yesterday’s unconscionable attack on our train. Additionally, Proctor Jeffson suffered serious head and spine injuries—she’s paralyzed from the neck down—and has been transported to Atlanta for treatment.”

There’s a collective gasp. Yuna was four years younger and I didn’t know her well, but she seemed to be a sweet girl, always smiling, with a gap between her two top teeth that somehow made her smile infectious. Dal was my age, but a little slow, almost simple, so we hadn’t been in the same academic track. Still, I’ve known him forever and I feel his loss more keenly than I would have expected. I push my plate away. Muffled sobs and sniffles sound from all sides.

“The Premier and her ministers are outraged by the increasing boldness of the Defiance and she has promised to send an additional IPF contingent to find and neutralize the individuals who participated in yesterday’s lawless attack,” Fonner continues, letting righteous anger creep into his voice.

“It was the Defiance, then?”

Oh, no.
The voice is Wyck’s, too interested, and I turn my head to see him half out of his chair.
Sit down and shut up.
I scrunch my eyes closed as if that will keep the inevitable from happening.

“Has the Defiance—”

“The perpetrators were murderers, plain and simple,” Fonner interrupts him coldly. “Report to my office after classes today, AC Sharpe.” His voice smoothes out again. “Every premature death is a blow to our nation’s stability, but especially so when the deceased were so young and vital and still had so much to contribute. This is a very sad day, a tragic loss. We will have an appropriate memorial for our lost colleagues on Friday, but for now I ask for a minute of silence on their behalf.”

I bow my head and think about how Dal, always big for his age, used to pick me up under the arms when we were six or seven, and swing me around so my feet flew out and it felt like I was flying. He’d laugh and I’d laugh and he’d spin me until he got dizzy and we both fell. I haven’t thought of that in years.
Poor Dal
. I’m lost in my memories when the sound of my name startles me.

“—and AC Jax report to my office before the afternoon service period.” He descends from the dais and leaves, his straight back telling me nothing.

Why have I been summoned? Who else’s names did he call? I look around, and the girl beside me gives me a tiny, puzzled shrug. Maybe it’s for the best. I can tell Proctor Fonner about Halla when I see him.

I get nothing out of my morning class, a physics lesson with Proctor Lutz who stammers. I’m too busy agonizing over Halla, mourning Yuna and Dal, and worrying about my summons to the Supervising Proctor’s office. When he wraps up the lesson, Proctor Lutz reminds me of the appointment and I get into the elevator nervously. Has Proctor Fonner decided on my punishment?
Not Reunion Day, not Reunion Day
, I think.
Don’t let him take it away
.

Wyck is waiting in the anteroom when I arrive, chatting with Proctor’s Fonner’s aide as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. My first thought is that I can’t tell Proctor Fonner about Halla if Wyck’s there. He winks at me as I come in. Rolling my eyes, I enter Proctor Fonner’s lair. He’s seated behind his desk, erect and severe as always, and he eyes us dispassionately as we stand in front of him. He gets right to it.

“AC Sharpe, AC Jax. I’ve selected you to carry out a special task this afternoon during service hours.”

Is his pause to gather his thoughts or heighten the tension? I’m guessing the latter.

“Someone must undertake the sad duty of inventorying and packing up AC Spaeth’s and AC Nieves’ effects. I have selected the two of you.”

Relief whooshes through me. This is my punishment for the beach. It’s a sad task, but he’s not taking away Reunion Day. I sneak a sidelong glance at Wyck who seems equally relieved that he’s not being disciplined more severely.

“I trust you will carry out this duty with decorum and thoroughness.”

I nod and Wyck says, “Yes, sir.”

A slight lift of Proctor Fonner’s brows dismisses us. Wyck holds the door for me. I hesitate for a moment, but Proctor Fonner is engrossed in work on his desk and Wyck is waiting. I’ll tell him later. Feeling cowardly, I hurry out.

Back in the anteroom, we let out simultaneous sighs of relief and it almost makes me giggle. Then I remember what we’re tasked to do and I sober up. The aide gives us the room locations and we head for Dal’s room first. Two empty cartons are stacked in the hall. Only two. A palm sized imager for making an inventory record sits atop them. Wyck immediately grabs up the gadget, along with a box. I lift the other box. Wyck pushes open the door without hesitating, but his movements are jerky and I know he’s as uncomfortable as I am.

Dal’s room is furnished like all the rooms, but his is messier than most, with the bedclothes draping onto the floor, spare jumpsuit crumpled beneath a hook, and oddments piled high on shelves. Scraps of paper, pinecones from the dome, funny shaped rocks, used up toothpaste tubes and other things I’d classify as junk litter every flat surface.

Wyck looks around. “Dal was quite the collector.”

I nod, set my box down, and open the top drawer of the nightstand. Wyck scans the shelves with the imager, and then picks up the other box and looks at the litter, irresolute. “Should I box this stuff up or just throw it away?”

“Box it,” I say without hesitation. “It was important to Dal.”

“I wonder where it goes?”

I don’t know, so I don’t say anything. The top drawer contains nothing but underthings and I layer them into the box, not sure why I’m not just flipping the drawer over and dumping the contents. The bottom drawer contains more “treasures,” I see, but Wyck distracts me from inspecting them.

“They died instantly,” he says, not looking at me, seemingly focused on putting what seems to be a kudzu leaf collection into his box.

I remember that he went behind the screen to fix something when the medics were trying to save Yuna and Dal. I hadn’t thought about his seeing them.

“The explosion got them both. Yuna had a two-foot piece of metal straight through her heart, and Dal’s neck was broken by the force of the explosion. Proctor Jeffson wasn’t so lucky. I’d rather die quick than end up like her. Not being able to walk or feed yourself—” He shudders. “I want it to be quick when it happens. No pain, no lingering, and for certain sure no fire. Drowning might not be so bad.”

My lungs ache and my throat closes against the water. It invades my nostrils and I watch little bubbles drift to the surface. My limbs thrash. The gold eyes above me, blurred by the water between us, seem full of dancing flames. Need to breathe
. . . I suck in a breath, and blurt, “Drowning’s horrible.”

Wyck gives me a look, startled by my vehemence, and says, “How do you want to die?”

“This is a morbid conversation.” I fling items in the box, completely unaware of what they are.

Undeterred, Wyck says, “I could die a hero’s death, throw myself on a vaporization grenade to save my troops. Gone”—he snaps his fingers—“just like that. That wouldn’t be a bad way to go.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be a soldier.”

Wyck shrugs, annoyed, and a handful of dried kudzu leaves flutter down. “A sergeant in my dad’s unit died like that the week I got repoed. Not my dad, that’s for sure. I want my death to mean something, that’s all.”

“Better for your life to mean something.” A glint from the bottom of the drawer catches my eye. It’s a mirror. A palm-sized, silver-backed mirror like the girls were searching for on the train. There’s a bracelet, too, with heavy links; a knife with a short, shiny blade; a six-inch square remnant of reflective mesh; and a ring made of intertwined metals.
Uh-oh
. I rock back on my heels. Dal was the thief. My brow crinkles as I try to reconcile the happy, somewhat simple Dal I knew with this evidence. I use a forefinger to rearrange the objects; they are all so shiny. I know suddenly that it’s the shininess that attracted Dal. I can see him when we were younger, fascinated by a hematite specimen that the geology proctor passed around. Dal turned it over and over, staring at it, mouth agape, until the next kid in line wrestled it away. I scoop the objects into my messenger bag. Wyck’s busy imaging the items he’s packed up and doesn’t notice. I’ll get these things back to their owners somehow. I’m not branding Dal as a thief. He wasn’t, not in his heart. I don’t want him remembered that way.

Wyck approaches with the imager and inventories the items in the box. “Not much, is it?”

“No.” I think of the feather, my
Little House
book, and the clothes and toiletries in my room. What would someone sorting through my effects think about me? Would my feather be dismissed as “nature junk,” the way Wyck and I have written off Dal’s treasures? Would the person dropping
Little House on the Prairie
into a box assume I was slow, that I read on an eight-year-old level? Stuff lies, I decide.

I stand, and the items in my bag clink. I must look funny, because Wyck asks, “You okay?”

There’s concern in his voice and I tear up, even though I didn’t know I was feeling so sad. That’s the thing about Wyck—one minute he’s talking about how cool it would be to get vaporized, and the next he’s tuned into my feelings, sometimes before I am.

“Yeah,” I sniff. “Okay enough.”

He puts an arm around my shoulders and hugs me against his side. “I can do Yuna’s room by myself.”

I let myself lean into him for a moment. He’s warm, comforting, skinny enough I can feel individual ribs. Before the embrace can get awkward, I ease away, saying, “Thanks, but I’ll help.”

There’s something indefinably feminine about Yuna’s room, even though she has the same furniture as Dal. Maybe it’s the neatness, with every toiletry item carefully aligned on the shelf, or maybe it’s the scent, a hint of baby powder in the air. It takes us less than twenty minutes to inventory and pack her things.

“She was only twelve,” Wyck mutters, imager held high to document it all. “Twelve.” Laying the imager on a shelf, he crosses to the door and closes it. He returns, halting only a foot away from me, his expression intense.

He’s going to kiss me. Finally. Anticipation rises in me like helium, making me light-headed. I angle my face slightly and sway—

“Halla told me she told you.”

I stagger back a step. I feel stupid for thinking— “She told you? When?” I immediately realize how stupid it is to care whether Halla told Wyck about her pregnancy before she told me.

He sits on the bed. “This morning. She says she’s leaving. I’m going with her.”

His announcement hits me like an axe in the stomach. I deflate onto the bed beside him. “What?” I whisper.

“She needs me,” he says, almost angrily. “No one needs me here.”

“That’s not true!”
I need you.
“You fix—”

He grabs my shoulders and makes me face him. His eyes burn greenly. “Halla
needs
me. She’ll probably die out there on her own—”

At least we agree on something.

“I mean, what are her chances? She’s not tough to start with, and she’s pregnant.”

“Did she say anything else?”
About our fight?

“Like what?”

I guess not. My fingers pluck at the coverlet hard enough to yank fibers from the decorative tufts.“She shouldn’t go.”

“Of course not, but she’s going to. And so am I.” He firms his mouth into a thin, resolute line.

With Wyck along, Halla has a chance. Maybe fifty-fifty. Not great, but good enough that I let go of my plan to tell Proctor Fonner, a plan I hated anyway. But they’ll both be gone . . . I’ll be alone.
Halla’s stealing Wyck away. I wasn’t a good enough friend to offer to go with her. I’ll have nobody.
The thoughts stream through my mind, a jumbled mix of panic and fury. “Wyck, don’t—”

“Fonner handed me my orders for border sentry training last night,” he says. “I’ve got a ticket on tomorrow’s train to Base Kestrel.”

“Oh, Wyck.” He’s always said nothing could make him undertake military duty of any kind. “Oh, Wyck. There’s got to be another option. Running away—”

“There’s not.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re needed here, Ev. You’re going to be the one who finds a way to eradicate the locusts—I know it. Me . . . yeah, I come up with some useful gadgets now and then, tinker with stuff and fix it, but no one will miss me anymore than they’ll miss . . . than they’ll miss Yuna.”