The Sowing (The Torch Keeper) (10 page)

twelve

He smiles at me and waves.

The shock tears through the shroud of numbness enveloping me. Instead of everything moving in slow-motion, it’s as if things are speeding up.
This can’t be happening what have I done he’s going to die right here in front of everyone and it’s all my fault oh mother forgive me I failed you both I fucked things up murdered my own brother all my struggles to save him were for nothing I’m nothing but a dumb stupid shit oh sheesh oh no cole I’m so sorry I’m so—

Cassius reaches in and plucks the BMP pin from my uniform. He may as well be ripping my still-beating heart from my chest.

I clutch at his hand. “No! You can’t take that—give it back!”

He gapes at me as if I’m crazy. Maybe I am. “What’s
going on with you?” He squeezes the whisper out through a gritted smile.

I risk a glance at the fountain. Cage’s backing away from the Imposers. His hand’s reaching into his pocket. The same pocket that holds the triggering device …

On the stage, Cole’s looking at me, his eyes brimming with confusion and fear. He mouths the words
what’s wrong
? The other trainees are fidgeting in their stances. Arrah’s shaking her head at me.

Cassius tries to pull his hand away. His mild annoyance has turned to anger. “Let go of me, Lucian.”

But I don’t. I can’t.

My eyes lock with Cassius’s. I hear Prime Minister Talon’s voice. “Is there a problem, Prefect?”

The wave of fury in her voice drowns out the hubbub of the crowd. Her bodyguards move in on me …

The Imposers at the fountain draw their weapons at Cage’s team. Cage is nothing but a blur as he shoves one Imposer against the other and whips out the gleaming black remote.

“Stop him! He’s got a bomb!” someone yells.

Screams and shouts penetrate the crowd.

“Give it to me!” I shriek at Cassius, even as my fist connects with his jaw and I rip the BMP free from his grasp. He tumbles backwards.

Cage’s jaw drops. He stares at me in horror for a moment, then aims the remote at the stage. The guards lunge for me. But before they can tackle me, I hurl the BMP toward the only place I’m sure will prevent it from being triggered.

Right at the fountain. Right at Cage and his team.

They didn’t take the blocker. If Cage triggers it, they’ll die.

A heavy weight slams into my back. I collapse onto the stage floor, my head hanging over the edge, my body pinned in place.

Ignoring the pain, I raise my head, looking for Cole. But he’s gone, along with Delvecchio. The Prime Minister’s guards have already escorted her off the stage to safety. In the square, enforcements have arrived, ringing Cage and his team and seizing the remote from his hands. As the Imposers lead them away in energy cuffs, Cage glances my way, his face a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

I’ve betrayed him. I’ve betrayed them all.

I had no choice.

There’s always a choice.

“Put him in the brig,” I hear Cassius say.

Then I give into the pain, the dizziness, the nausea and close my eyes, wondering if I’ll ever open them again, not caring if I ever do.

I wake up alone, in one of the Citadel’s holding cells.

As I flex my jaw and finger the tender skin, all I can think about is Cole. Where is he now?

There’s a bandage covering the crook of my elbow. Once
I’ve checked to make sure nothing’s broken, a panicked
thought hits me and I check the hidden compartment in my uniform. Digory’s video journal is still there.

Sighing, I pull it out and clutch it in the darkness, a shield against the desperation creeping in. There’s no reason they won’t kill me now, and probably Cole, too.

What the hell can I do now?

After what seems like hours pass with no one making an appearance, I decide to risk it and activate the holocam.

Digory’s face appears once again, eclipsing the dread of loneliness.

“There’s no reason why Lucian has to be recruited,”
Dig
ory says, continuing from where I shut the recording off
before. “He can be a very valuable ally.”

Valuable ally? Me? We’d barely said two words to each other at that point. Besides, I don’t think Cage, Arrah, and the others would agree.

Digory’s face seems different now. More … I don’t know. Clinical. Detached. “All I need is a little more time with Lucian and I’ll be able to get results. One way or another, as instructed, I’ll find out where his loyalties really lie. If it turns out he can be trusted to join our cause, I’ll personally deliver him.”

My finger jabs the pause button, freezing Digory’s face.

So Digory was working with the rebellion to actively enlist me? And the meeting in the alleyway that morning was scripted, not just random? But why am
I
so important to the rebellion that they’d actively seek me out? What the hell could I possibly have to offer? It makes no sense.

And if Digory meeting up with me that day wasn’t chance, then what about everything else he said and did? What about the way he felt?

My head throbs and my mouth goes dry. I hesitate for an instant, and then my trembling finger presses the play button.

Digory’s expression grows colder than the blood churning its way through my system. “If it turns out Lucian Spark can’t be trusted, then I’ll make sure he gets recruited myself.”

I pause the playback again. Staring at Digory’s face. Trying to reconcile those last words with the memories of what we meant to each other.

There has to be a rational explanation. Yes, he made this recording shortly after our not-so-fateful first meeting. He didn’t really know me, didn’t have deep feelings for me yet. But he told me, later, that he’d cared for me since way back in school, before we’d ever spoken.

Whatever the truth is, it doesn’t change the look in his eyes. It’s a look I’ve never seen before. Cold, emotionless.

Who is
this
Digory?

There’s movement, right outside the cell, and I turn off the holocam and jam it back into the hidden pocket just as the cell door opens.

Styles and Renquist barrel in. “We’ve been ordered to take you to the Recruitment Ceremony,” Styles hisses.

My eyes bug out of my skull. “The Recruitment? You mean I’ve been out a whole
day
?”

Styles snorts. “That’s right. The Recruitment is already underway.” He aims his weapon at me.

Renquist drags me out of the cell and shoves me into a line with Dahlia, Leander, Rodrigo, and Arrah. From the circles under their eyes and the bruises on their skin, they don’t seem to be doing much better than I am.

Leander grabs me by the collar and shoves me against the wall. “This is all
your
fault! One second we’re getting promoted, the next we’re being hauled off and interrogated by our own people about some plot to assassinate the PM, all on account’a that stunt you pulled on stage! Start talking, Spark!”

“Don’t forget the blood they drew!” Rodrigo adds.

This revelation has a sobering effect. “Blood?”

“Yeah, blood,” Arrah hisses.

I can barely look her in the eye and turn away.

Dahlia nudges her chin in the direction of my arm. “From you, too.”

So that’s what the bandage on my elbow’s about.

Leander shoves me again. “Just what the hell have you gotten us mixed up in?”

“Move!” Styles commands, leading us down the corridors.

“I give you … this season’s Recruits!” Cassius announces
from his balcony to the cheering crowds below, just as we’re escorted onto the observation deck behind him.

During the whole trek from the prison, I’ve been imagining all of the monstrous forms our punishment can take. Public execution. Private torture. Even being sent back into the Trials to compete against each other.

But that last possibility dissolves the moment I look at the jumbotrons—and see the faces of the five Recruits standing on the dais below.

Cage, Preshea, Boaz, Crowley, and Drusilla.

Tears stream down Arrah’s cheeks and she turns to me, trembling with rage.

Prime Minister Talon steps forward and the crowd goes silent.

“It seems, since our last Recruitment, we have started a trend of
firsts
,” she says. “Most of you witnessed the attempt on my life yesterday, carried off in part by the insurgents who have just been selected to partake in the Trials. Being the just society that we are, we have given them the chance to redeem themselves and embrace the principles we so cherish.” She braces herself against the lectern, as if in great pain. “But a darker problem has been brought to light. It appears, through the actions of Cadet Lucian Spark, that our trainees also had knowledge of this plot, a fact that has been further corroborated by a blocker that was found in their bloodstreams.”

Rodrigo nudges Leander. “What’s she talking about?” he whispers.

But Leander only glares at me. “You should be asking Spark. Maybe he can offer you another drink while he’s at it.”

Talon extends a hand to Cassius. “Fortunately, Prefect Thorn has suggested a perfect way to deal with this distressing situation.”

Cassius smiles and steps forward again. “Thank you, Prime Minister. Citizens of the Parish, in keeping with our principles and our commitment to instill a sense of justice in all of our citizens, we have decided that the five insurrectionists shall compete in the Trials to redeem themselves, as planned. However, only
one
of each Recruit’s two Incentives shall be selected from their pool of loved ones.”

My throat tightens.

“Their other Incentives,” Cassius continues, “shall be comprised of the five Imposer trainees: Dahlia Bledsoe, Tyrus Leander, Valdin Rodrigo, Arrah Creed, and Lucian Spark. These former Recruits will now get the chance to experience the Trials from a whole new perspective.”

The crowd erupts.

Leave it to Cassius to think of such an ingenious way
to
appear benevolent while disposing of his enemies at the
same
time. Cage and the others will choose my death, and the deaths of my fellow trainees, before their own Incentives’
without hesitation. And whichever of the rebels prevails in the Trials will undoubtedly suffer a little
accident
.

We’re all doomed.

Thanks to me.

Cassius raises his hands to silence the crowd again. “During the Trials, our new Recruits will learn”—he glances at me—“that there’s always a choice. Which do they value more, their personal relationships or their misguided cause?”

I step forward but am immediately intercepted by the Imps and pulled back. “They’re all innocent. It was all
me
!” I shout.

Cassius sighs. “You’re making quite a habit of public spectacle, Cadet Spark.”

I sag against the guards.

On the jumbotrons, Cage and the others’ expressions seem to burn right through the crowd, singling me out.

By my side, my fellow trainees stare at me with nothing but hatred and contempt smoldering in their eyes.

I’m going back into the Trials.

Surrounded by former allies who want nothing more than to see me dead.

And this time there’s no way out.

PART II

EXILE

thirteen

The Eel-class submarine shoots through the dark ocean like a bullet searching for its target. I’ve been isolated in this tiny compartment on the berthing deck for days now. The sub has stopped at a few ports along the way, to restock supplies, before zooming onward toward Infiernos and the Trials.

I can’t believe I’m headed back there again. I can still picture the enormous steel dome, the teethlike spires, the jutting pillars of the deadly sonic fence that surrounds the military
training base. Last time, I spent a few months in training
before being sent underground for the actual Trials, held in the subterranean labyrinth known as the Skein.

I thought that part of my life was over. But as horrible as it was, at least I had some control over my fate then. The idea that whatever happens to me now, as an Incentive, rests purely on someone else’s performance and decisions just emphasizes how powerless I feel.

I never asked Cole what life was like for him as an Incentive, living in fear of the moment when I’d finish last in one of the rounds and have to choose whether to save his life or Digory’s. After Cole’s ordeal was over, he seemed to block out most of what had happened—a defense mechanism I’m sure—and I didn’t press him. Better for him if he didn’t remember.

But during those few days we spent together right after the Trials, I got to witness him waking up in the middle of the night screaming, and zoning out during conversations. Innocuous noises like the shutting of a door could send him into a tantrum. Classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Huddled here in the darkness, my brain is my own worst enemy. It grasps at every possible scenario, trying to focus on anything but the growing claustrophobia smothering me.

I’m not sure how much longer I can take being trapped in this tiny compartment without losing my mind.

What few meals I’ve received have been sent via the vacuum chute on the wall panel, mostly stale ration bars and lukewarm water. At this point, I’d relish the company of anyone, even those bastards Styles or Renquist. That’s how lonely it feels.

The only other sound besides my breathing is the steady hum of the steam-driven turbines and generators of the nuclear reactor that’s powering the sub’s propellers. Then my stomach sinks as the cabin shifts. The air pops in my ears. There’s a distinct change in the thrum as the nose of the craft tilts up. The stern planes in the rudder have been activated.

I press my face against the cool glass of the solitary porthole
that separates the inner hull from the outer hull. My head feels like it’s going to implode from all the tension. Up until now, I haven’t been able to make out anything through the blackness of the murky depths that make everything feel like one endless night.

Now I see bubbles. The ballast and trim tanks must be expelling water.

We’re preparing to surface at last.

Rising through the darkness are the remnants of an immense city comprised of massive structures; some look almost perfectly preserved. It’s as if the inhabitants have just fled, never to return, leaving the buildings undisturbed.

This must be the Lady’s city. Or, it
was
. Before the Ash Wars consigned it to the bottom of the ocean.

The Eel maneuvers through the once-towering buildings.
Lights from the sub sweep over an enormous multileveled bridge with giant towers that crisscross like an insect’s web. What a great civilization this must have been, to have built
such a grand system of thoroughfares.

Next, we pass over what appears to be a huge coliseum. It must have seated at least fifty thousand people. But all those seats are empty now, barnacles clinging to them like a cancer, eating away at them until they’re barely recognizable.

Then we’re rising again. The lights grow brighter until I can make out the ramps and platforms of a docking bay looming all around the Eel.

We’ve arrived at Infiernos—the one place I’d hoped to never see again in my life.

I’m about to face them all. Flame Squad—Leander, Rodrigo, Dahlia, and worst of all Arrah. What can I possibly say to erase what I’ve done to them? And how am I going to look Cage and the other rebels I betrayed in the eye again?

The cabin door bursts open.

Two armed Imposers stand at attention on either side of the doorway. Can’t see how I’m much of a flight risk. Where the hell would I go on a sub?

Captain Valerian marches through the hatch and stands in front of me. The expression on her face is so cold, I feel like I’m getting hypothermia just looking at her. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since I was arrested.

Though she’s always looked at all of us trainees with
con
tempt, I’m surprised to see a ripple of something else in
her expression now—is it disappointment? Pity?

Why should I even care? She’s one of
them
.

She sighs. “Despite my initial misgivings when you were recruited, I truly expected more from you, Spark. Even when you were a Fifth Tier, I could see in your training that your abilities far exceeded those of your elder trainees. I allowed myself to believe that you had what it takes to get things done. That you would come through under the most difficult of circumstances.” She shakes her head.

I lean in closer so that we’re practically nose to nose. “Begging your pardon, Sir, but torturing and dehumanizing people is more a measure of cowardice than it is strength.”

She smiles, but there doesn’t seem to be any pleasure in it. “Ah, an idealist. Not everything in life falls into neat little compartments labeled
good
and
evil
. Eventually everyone has to get their hands a little dirty to get things done.”

Before I can ask her what she means, she motions to the guards, who step inside. One of them hands her a familiar-looking duffel bag. Mine.

She begins to rummage through it. “When you were taken into custody, Spark, you certainly didn’t have that many items of interest among your personal effects. Just these.” She pulls out a set of shiny Recruit ID tags, Digory’s and mine, and lets them dangle in front of my eyes before shoving them back in the bag. “And this.” She holds out the holocam with Digory’s journal.

I feel sick. I knew they must have found it, but I’d hoped that somehow they’d bury it in some storage locker where I might one day get it back before they realized what it meant to me.

Valerian activates the recording, and Digory’s face appears between her and me.

“I’m leaving for the Recruitment Ceremony now,”
Dig
ory says. “I’m confident that before this day is over, I’ll be able to gather intel as to Lucian Spark’s true allegiances. I think I can get him to trust me … ”

Again, that uneasy feeling grips me like a stranglehold. Why was I so important to Digory and the rebellion? No. I don’t want to know. All I want is to rip the holocam from Valerian’s hand before it can continue. But I’m paralyzed.

“I promise I won’t fail you,” Digory says, and for a crazy moment I think he’s talking to
me
. I wish he were.

The recording bleeps and a small window opens in the lower right corner of the screen, with the words
Incoming Transmission
flashing inside it.

Then it hits me. This whole time, I’d assumed Digory was chronicling his private thoughts, when in fact he was communicating with someone else. Probably Jeptha or another one of the rebel leaders, maybe even his husband, Rafé—

There’s a burst of static in the new transmission window, coalescing into the image of the mysterious second party.

The Trials may not have killed me, but at this moment, the image of Digory’s superior does.

It’s Cassius.

All the hurt, all the pain, the sorrow, the grief—all of it blends together in a molten avalanche.

It’s all been a lie.

“Excellent work, Tycho,” Cassius says. “I eagerly antic
ipate the filing of your next report. Your efforts to quell
this insurrection from the inside will be duly rewarded.”

Digory nods and smiles. “It’s an honor, Prefect Thorn,
Sir
.”

The image freezes on Digory’s face, then begins to pixelate, obliterating any semblance of familiarity. But it’s still seared into my brain.

Valerian shuts off the holocam. I half-expect her to be gloating over the pain she’s inflicted. But she appears stern, like a parent who’s just administered a harsh lesson to their unruly child. She holds up the holo and the ID tags. “Maybe I can get them to let you keep these in your cell.”

I shake my head. “They’re garbage. Possessions of a dead man. Toss ’em.”

As she shoves the items back into the duffel bag, the two Imps shackle my hands together, shove the butt of their neurostim weapons into my lower back, and prod me out of the room.

At least I’m not shackled to false memories anymore. Digory Tycho is truly dead.