The Sowing (The Torch Keeper) (25 page)

Fleshers.

“We’re going to get you out of here.” Even as I say the words, my eyes dart across what’s left of his body and I feel helpless and frustrated.

He shakes his head. “Too late. No time. This whole place … ”
His eyes wander for a few seconds. “All of these people … prisoners … Incentives that survived … they change them … turn them into … ” His face screws up and an agonized mewl twists from his throat.

My body is racked with the shakes. Crowley is delirious with pain. That’s why he’s talking such craziness. The Incentives that survived … the loved ones of all the
Imps
… they can’t be in this place. I’ve seen Imposers communicating with their kin at Haven, carrying on conversations in real time. It’s the one carefully greased cog in the machine that keeps them following orders: knowing that those they care about are at least being taken care of, living a life they would otherwise have no chance at, all thanks to the sacrifice the Recruits have made. The continued well-being of what, in essence, are Establishment hostages is at the core of its lethally trained forces.

I scan the room, my eyes darting from one control panel to the next. “There must be a terminal—some kind of control panel with a database,” I tell Digory, my tone breathless with the possibilities.

Digory takes my cue. Between the two of us, we comb the lab until minutes later he’s ushering me over to a keyboard inlaid in an alcove in the far corner.

I scroll through the entries. A list of names I don’t recognize at first. But as I near the end of the chronological list, the entries become more familiar to me. Residents of the Parish. Old friends and neighbors. People who served as Incentives for those who were selected in Recruitments just prior to my own.

On a hunch, I search for Cassius’s name on the roster. But all details of his own Recruitment are missing.

Did he wipe the information from the system? If so, why?

What’s he hiding?

By this time the keys are slick with my sweat as I toggle through the names and come across the Incentives of Arrah, Rodrigo, Leander, and Dahlia. I select the names by Arrah—

Her parents. But only one of them is lit in green—her mother, the Incentive who survived the Trials when Arrah was a Recruit.

My heart is at full throttle while I scroll to the option labeled
Begin Interactive Simulation
and press the enter key. A low hum fills the room and an image appears on the computer screen. I see the resemblance immediately. Arrah’s mother is staring down at me with a smile on her face. It looks like a real-time video. She’s outside somewhere; it’s a beautiful summer day with a lake glistening in the background.

I turn to whisper to Digory. “She’s supposed to be at Haven, the Incentive compound somewhere.”

“Why, of course I’m at Haven. Where else would I be?” she asks, startling me with her cheerfulness.

“You can
hear
me?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes, I can hear you.”

It’s uncanny. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear we’d actually established a live feed with her. My mind’s racing. What if we
have
, somehow? If I could track the location of Haven—

Digory tugs my arm and point at a list of other options.

Age Progression. Time of Day. Location. Health variables.

A rapid clatter fills the room as I select one option after another, watching as Arrah’s mother ages—a few years. Ten. Twenty. At the tap of a key, the simulated figure changes location. Outdoor lakes become indoor fireplaces. Day becomes
night. Eyes swell as if with a minor cold, then look more
sickly, and then look the picture of health.

“
Are you Arrah’s mother?
” I finally ask.

She nods. “Of course I am. Have you seen my daughter? I miss her very much.”

On the computer, information scrolls by. Line after line of data, information on Arrah and her mother down to the most minute details. All the information one would need to replicate a perfect copy capable of interacting with their loved ones.

All this time, Arrah and the others held on to the belief that those they loved were safe.

But it’s a lie.

All this time, the Incentives haven’t been safe in Haven. They’ve been
here
, in Sanctum.

Which means that there are those in the Establishment who are in collusion with Sanctum and what’s going on here.

I look around at the capsules crowded in the chamber.

They may as well be tombs.

thirty-three

I sag against Digory as if I’ve been struck. He’s taken over the keyboard from me, scrolling through the names of prisoners with the designation
Incompatible Specimen
by their names. As he pulls up their data, my eyes grow wide.

The bodies of those that reject the bio-mechanical synth are broken down for food processing.

Those crackers, passed around and consumed during their religious rites …

Consume the flesh of the Begetter and become one …

I brace myself against the terminal. Bile rises in my throat and I fight the urge to retch. Terror engulfs me. This is even worse than all the horrors I’ve seen combined.

Digory reaches out to me, but I push him out of the way and type a name in the search field.

Lucian Spark.

Instantly, all the data associated with my Recruitment appears onscreen, along with entries for Mrs. Bledsoe.

And Cole.

Beside Mrs. Bledsoe’s name, there’s a notation in red:

Subject Shelved. Interactive Simulation inactive.

I select the entry anyway and her face appears onscreen. The lump in my throat makes it nearly impossible to smile. She’s smiling at me like Arrah’s mother was, and looking the picture of health, so unlike that ghastly apparition I saw deep in the tunnels of the Skein when I was a Recruit.

“Mrs. Bledsoe,” I whisper.

Her eyes light up. “Oh, Lucky! It’s so good to see you, boy!” Even through my tears, I can see how she’s beaming with pride. “You’ve grown into quite the young man. I always knew you would.”

The simulation must be programmed to respond to my voice pattern, which it does—
too
perfectly. For a second it’s like glimpsing an alternate future, one that might have been if it hadn’t been so cruelly ripped away.

I tap the next selection before I lose my nerve. Mrs. Bledsoe’s face disappears, replaced by Cole’s face.

Cole smiles at me. “When are you gonna come see me, Lucky?” he asks.

Digory’s hands grip my shoulders, steadying me.

“I’m coming home real soon,” I whisper. I toggle through the options, watching Cole age, become a man in seconds before my very eyes, then grow older. The one thing that never seems to change is his eyes, trusting, believing in me.

Unlike Mrs. Bledsoe’s, this is a future that can
still
happen.

That
will
happen, if I have anything to say about it.

I scroll further down the menu under my name and see something at the bottom of the list that almost makes my heart stop.

Sowing Protocol initiated on test subject Spark, L.

Digory’s eyes grow wide.

“Digory—you mentioned this Sowing thing in your last transmission to the rebels on Recruitment Day,” I say urgently. “You found out about it while spying on Cassius and you said it was very dangerous. What did you mean?
Tell me
.”

He grips a fistful of his hair. His eyes narrow and the
muscles in his jaw clench. Finally he turns to me, slowly shaking his head.

Whatever they did to him at Infiernos has blocked the memory.

My heart’s racing as I try to access the file, but all I get
is the same message.

Highly Classified. Access Restricted.

What have they done to me? And what have they
already done to Cole?

Crowley’s groan of pain mirrors my own. Digory and I rush to his side.

“I don’t want to be like
them
… ” His grips tightens
and his eyes grow wide. “Kill me, Spark.
Please
… ”

I tear myself from his grasp, backing into Digory.

All these capsules … they’re all people from the Parish. Over the years, countless Recruits have fought for their Incentives’ lives, only to be rewarded by having the people they loved most mutilated and transformed into Fleshers.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out the transceiver and make sure it’s set to the right channel. I’m not sure of its range, but I have to at least try to transmit the files to Arrah and the others. They need to know what’s going on here.

Rifling through the lab, I find a data chip, and in a few anxious minutes have downloaded the information, plugged
it into the device and hit transmit. The signal’s weak, and there’s no way of telling if my message was received, but
there’s nothing else I can do.

But I don’t send anything related to this Sowing Protocol. Not until I find out what it is and what they’ve done to me.

“Spark, I’m begging you. It hurts
so
much.” Crowley begins to sob.

His words feel like a knife carving me from side to side. There’s a small part of me that wants to flee. But after everything I’ve been through, all the suffering I’ve seen, I understand what it feels like to want to die. If I turn away, I’ll awaken every night to Crowley’s pleas in my head, knowing I could have stopped his agony and did nothing.

Breathing deep, I take a step toward the capsule.

But Digory beats me to it. He reaches his hands inside and I hear Crowley’s cries become muffled. The cords on Digory’s neck pulse with the effort. His face turns red, even as his eyes well.

Crowley’s gurgling starts to fade. And then it’s gone.

Digory bows his head and I rest my hand on his shoulder.

Then the lights on Crowley’s capsule begin to flash and the blare of an alarm fills the room.

I’m already pulling Digory away, but we’re not quick enough. Shadows descend around us, dropping out of the ceiling like huge arachnids spiraling down invisible webs. Four huge Fleshers land on the ground, surrounding us. The same four that always escort Straton wherever he goes—except for now.

Digory snarls at them. The muscles in his neck and arms pulse under the strobe of the Fleshers’ lights. I assume my own attack stance. Although we’re outnumbered and outmatched, I’m not going to go down without a fight. Maybe we can even inflict some damage before we’re taken.

There’s a series of sharp clicks as flaps of skin on the creatures’ arms burst open. Long, metallic appendages squeeze out from the flesh, dripping that slimy dark ooze that passes for blood. The sharpened probes inch toward us …

Game time.

Digory lunges, grabbing the glistening instrument and twisting it away even as he leaps onto that Flesher’s shoulders. I whirl and strike the Flesher in front of me with a roundhouse kick. My foot throbs with the impact, but the automaton barely stumbles backwards.

The next few seconds are a blur. Flashes of steel strike my body. I roll, kick, punch as these horrors lash out with their hideous tentacles and sharpened pincers, steel teeth chattering like the whirring blades of meat grinders. At one point, Digory somehow manages to twist the instruments of two Fleshers together, forcing them to engage in a screeching bout of tug-of-war to free themselves.

I’m hurled hard onto my back, which sends a flash of pain through my spine. A blade pistons out from the Flesher’s throat. I manage to shove my head aside and, a split second later, the blade smashes into the floor beside me, spraying my face with chunks of cold tile. Before I can roll out of the way, the pincers crash down on either side of my neck, pinning me into position. The cold, slimy metal instrument presses against my throat, making it hard to breathe as it cuts into my skin.

My eyes begin to water. I manage to twist my head to the side, ignoring the pain of the pincers cutting the sides of my neck. It’s taken the three other Fleshers to finally overpower Digory and pin him to the ground. Through the blur I can see the fresh cuts and welts on his heaving torso where his jumpsuit has been torn away, leaving only the gleaming silver of my ID tag over his heart, rising and falling with each breath. He goes out of focus for a moment. Then our eyes meet, and I see the mixture of fury and tenderness there.

Whir
.

I shift my gaze to the Flesher holding me down. It’s face is expressionless as the pincers begin to contract, cutting deeper, squeezing out all my air.

Digory unleashes an agonized cry that wrenches what’s left of my soul from me.

I close my eyes, hoping it’ll be over soon, waiting for the death grip to cleave my neck in two—

It doesn’t happen.

I open my eyes. The Flesher is still staring at me with those soulless eyes. But the pressure around my neck decreases. One if its long silver probes moves toward my chest, a gruesome steel finger. I brace myself as the icy talon grazes my skin, expecting it to tear into my rib cage and pluck out my heart.

Instead, the probe traces a path to my throat. There’s a low clink as it grips the chain around my neck—Digory’s ID tag—and holds it up. Infrared beams spill from the creature’s ocular sensor, bathing the tag in hues of greenish blue.

What the hell’s going on here?

I glance in Digory’s direction and see the Flesher holding him perform the same scan on the tag around his neck.

The Flesher scanning my chain emits some kind of low rumble.

The four Fleshers’ lights blink erratically for a moment before they all sync in a steady pulse.

It’s like they’re communicating and have reached an agreement of some kind.

The pincers retract.

Digory and I exchange looks of puzzled relief.

A socket in the abdominal cavity of the Flesher above me springs open. The creature pulls something from it, something dripping with dark goo, and dangles it in front of me.

Swallowing hard, I reach up a tentative hand and touch the warm links. Four chains.

Four Recruit ID tags, just like ours.

My heart races as I wipe away the slimy matter to make out the names, already knowing what I’ll see written there.

The names of the four remaining Recruits of the Fallen Five.

The holograms of those four people with Straton when we first arrived were illusions. Just like the doctored holograms of the surviving Incentives. Nothing but decoys to distract us and throw us off the scent.

This
is what really happened to the Fallen Five.
This
is the grisly fate that Orestes Goslin escaped almost eleven years ago, that drove him mad and turned him into a crazed cannibal.

The missing Recruits were mutated into Fleshers—by Straton and the denizens of Sanctum.

Taking a deep breath, I release the ID tags and squirm out from under my captor, as does Digory. Inch by inch, we crawl our way toward each other, my senses on alert, expecting the Fleshers to attack at any second.

But they remain still.

We help each other to our feet and begin to back away from the foursome. There must be a part of the Fallen Five, still beating within their organic husks, that remembers what they once were—before they became the very first of Sanctum’s drones.

As we reach the edge of the lab I take one last look at the Fleshers, still immobile behind us.

A thin, dark trail, starting in its optical sensor, drips a pathway down the face of the Flesher that pinned me.

Oil or blood—or something else. I can’t tell.

Then we’re running from that terrible place as fast as we can.