A Brutal Justice

by Jess Corban

  For the hundredth time this week, Rohan’s question bubbles in the thick stew of my uncertainty: Which is better?

  When I encountered my sister Ciela at the Center weeks ago, she suspected Brutes were to blame for the raid on Jonalyn’s finca. She was right—about the raid and about their danger. They’re dangerous because we can’t control them. But who gives us the right to decide their fate?

  Protect the weak. Safety for all. Power without virtue is tyranny.

  When the foremothers founded Nedé, women were the weak who needed protection. Women needed safety. They vowed to wield power better than the Brutes—with kindness and virtue. Have we?

  The injured stablehand goes limp, passing out from the pain, and it takes four other Gentles to drag him to a cart. They argue over who will transport him to the Center, the only medical facility in Phoenix City. But a Gentle’s heart handles trauma little better than his bones; I wonder if this one’s will keep beating until they arrive.

  What have we done? These are the weak among us, and rather than protect them, we treat them as servants at best, annoyances and liabilities more often. Worse, now I know we’re the cause of their weakness.

  The force of this Gentle’s pain, the weight of our treachery, snaps something inside me, too, and I push my way into the commotion.

  “Give him to me,” I command, not waiting for a response as I snatch the harness from the nearest Gentle. It fits snugly around Callisto’s midsection. I adjust the straps, then slide the cart’s poles through the rigging.

  I’ll take him to the Center, and then I’ll find Ciela—she must know something that will help me help them. If the vaccine makes Gentles like this, I have to find a way to stop it. Maybe there’s even some way to reverse the damage we’ve done. Rash? Maybe. But I have to do something.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHEN THE GENTLE REGAINS CONSCIOUSNESS, he moans with each bump over the cobblestones, making the thirty-minute journey to the Center drag twice as long. He cradles his mangled arm against his side, a circle of blood blooming through the right sleeve of his tunic. Should I speed Callisto to get the poor invalid there faster? Or slow her down for a smoother ride? Mercifully, another few blocks and the dilemma finally becomes irrelevant.

  The massive square Center for Health Services rises above every other building in sight, nine stories of gleaming glass and smooth cement walls, skirted with neatly trimmed landscaping. Twelve arches create a tunnel toward the entrance, each laden with fiery-orange flame vine blossoms.

  As I wrap Callisto’s reins around a hitching post, Dom Russo’s crooning lecture voice echoes in my memory, a relic of our Succession training here: to prevent a recurrence of the blight on human history—both of sickness and of Brutes—we place the utmost importance on maintaining the physical hardiness of our population. At the Center, we create life, then maintain vibrant lives.

  Right. Tell the Gentle curled up in this rickety cart, shaking from shock and pain after a simple fall, that he’s leading a “vibrant life.”

  I loop my arm under his good side and force him upright. With a miserable groan, he stumbles forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. I half carry him under the archway to the front entrance. I almost expect Dr. Novak to greet us at the front desk, like the last visit, but instead, a receptionist inquires, “Can I help you?”

  I hoist my charge a little higher. “This Gentle fell at the Alexia stables. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

  “I’ll call for assistance.” She hands me a towel and smiles sweetly, but her tone remains matter-of-fact. “Keep the blood contained, will you?”

  I wrap his arm with the cloth, trying not to jostle the piercing fracture. He winces and grunts, and I’m afraid if we stand here long, he’ll pass out again.

  I remember the basic layout of the floors from my tour a few weeks ago. “Don’t trouble yourself. I know where to take him.”

  She seems mildly surprised, but maybe the Alexia uniform works in my favor, because she doesn’t fuss when I head down the east hall without waiting for permission.

  I pull the half-limp Gentle across shiny, smooth tiles, his shabby leather shoes sliding as he struggles to place one foot in front of the other. He shakes from the effort required to cross a mere thirty meters, but we finally reach the double doors marked “Gentle Care.”

  Before swinging open the door, I brace myself for what waits on the other side.

  A downright putrid wave of sweat, old wounds, and unwashed bodies pours from the room. Yep, it’s as foul and depressing as I remember. We weave between sick Gentles to the front desk, and I try not to wonder how many of the ailing will end their lives with the stinger before nightfall.

  Can I blame them? I’d like to think I’d keep fighting, but if a clumsy fall snapped my arm like a twig, if I fell ill every other Tuesday, if I knew I wouldn’t live past forty anyway, then quietus—a respite from life itself—would likely tempt me, too. I can’t judge their resignation. I can only try to eliminate their need for it.

  I intentionally meet the eyes of each suffering, swollen, tearstained face I pass, as if by acknowledging their presence I can validate their existence or soothe their pain. It’s stupid, I know, but their bleak end—whether stinger today or phase-out tomorrow—threatens to crush me. I want them to know that. With each pair of weary eyes I meet, my resolve grows.

  I have to put an end to this.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I tell the Gentle I’ve brought, lowering him into a chair. He stares back with hollow eyes, either still in shock or offended by my blatant lie.

  I feel bad leaving him, but there’s nothing I can do to help in this room. My fight begins on the ninth floor.

  After alerting a disinterested woman behind a tall desk to the newest Gentle in the room, I slip out the doors and practically sprint up eight flights of stairs. Halfway up, I pass a handful of Alexia headed in the opposite direction. Their shift must be ending. Good. It’ll look like I’m part of the next crew, arriving for the night.

  The lab hasn’t changed much since the last time I was here, save an increase in Alexia. I keep to the edges of the room like the other black-clad peacekeepers. I’m supposed to be here, I tell them with my straight back and eye contact, begging my nerves to play the part. Just another one of you.

  I scan the rows of desks, cluttered with beakers and microscopes. It’s getting late; only a handful of workers remain. What if Ciela went home for the night?

  A petite lab technician with a thick chestnut bun leaves her station, thumbing through a notebook as she moves toward an adjoining hall. I recognize those slender shoulders, that thin nose. I step lightly toward the hallway, turn the corner, then pick up my pace to catch my sister as she ducks into an office.

  “Ciela,” I whisper as I duck into the room behind her.

  A jolt of surprise sends her notebook flying from her hands.

  “Bats, Reina!”

  I retrieve the notebook, smoothing the bent pages. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I snap back. “I’m just—not exactly supposed to be here.”

  “You think?”

  I’m used to Ciela’s tart bite—bitter as a green mango. I’m not always honey sweet either, and I own my part in our frayed sibling bond. Maybe there’s still a chance to fix it. The last time I saw her, our normal bickering subsided some.

  “What are you doing here?” She recovers her composure, softening a bit, flipping through her notebook to find her place.

  “I . . .” Where to start? I’ll have to word my questions carefully. I can’t reveal that I already know about the link to the vaccines, or my involvement with the Brutes. “Look, Ciela, I think you could be right about the raids being linked to Brutes. Have you discovered anything else? Like, how they might exist?”

  She chews the inside of her cheek, then closes and locks the door. So she has found something.

  “Why do you want to know, Rei?”

  Think fast . . . “Same reason as you. If there are Brutes out ther
e, we have to make sure they don’t attack anyone else. For Jonalyn’s sake.”

  This seems to appease her. “Alright. I did find something. But you can’t tell a soul, okay? I could get fired or put in the stocks for tampering with specimens.”

  That would be an ill fate indeed. I know Ciela has had her eye on a director position since she was young. A director like the mother she adores. I’d never want her to lose that chance for my sake.

  “Promise,” I assure her.

  “I’ve been analyzing Gentles’ and newborn babies’ blood samples. Something changes between birth and the time they enter the Hives. I traced the anomaly to the vaccine, and have been studying it ever since. At first, I was convinced some rare defect in the inoculation must be reverting the Gentles to brutish behaviors.”

  “That would make sense.”

  She lowers her voice even further. “But there were no defects—not one. In all the samples of Gentle blood I examined—hundreds of them—the only abnormality appeared in a handful of infants who were reported dead within hours of birth. Those babies wouldn’t have received the vaccine—they died too soon.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “What do you make of it?” I coax.

  “I still can’t connect the dots. But those infant samples, they contained large amounts of a substance not found in the older Gentles.”

  “A substance? Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I bet I do. Tristan Pierce called it testosterone, and it makes a Brute what he is. If the vaccine blocks it during infancy, he becomes a Gentle. I’m going to have to lead her to that conclusion if I’m going to secure her help.

  “Could it mean newborn babies are born Brutes, but the vaccine makes them Gentle?”

  She purses her lips. “I’m still not positive, but . . . yes.”

  I’m proud of my sister. Her sharp mind has brought her to the truth, even without a dead Matriarch’s tattered confessions. Good for her. And now I can ask what I really want to know.

  “But that still doesn’t explain how there could be Brutes out there.” I gesture to the broader world with a flip of my hand. “You said the infants who had the anomaly died shortly after birth.”

  She looks thoughtful. “That’s what I can’t figure out. But I’m certain there’s a link somehow. Once a Gentle receives the vaccine, he can’t become a Brute. It’s just not possible.”

  “Are you sure? There’s no way to reverse the vaccine?” Now it’s getting personal, and I feel my pulse quickening. I think of Treowe, and Neechi, and the broken stablehand on the first floor. “If a shot of liquid chemicals can turn a baby into a Gentle, couldn’t there be a way to turn a Gentle back into a Brute?”

  Her nose wrinkles, brows drawing together. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “Just theoretically, could someone?” The words come out too hopeful. I try to add distance to my tone, falling into genuine confusion. “I mean, there must be some explanation why the Brutes are out there.” Even though I know the vaccine gentles Brutes, I still don’t have a clue how the Brutes in the Jungle came to exist. Every baby at the Center—at least those who don’t die near birth—gets the vaccine.

  “It’s funny,” Ciela muses. “Grandmother asked me the same question.”

  “Grandmother?” Gooseflesh prickles the skin over my arms and neck.

  “Yes, Grandmother. You know, the moody Matriarch who made us dab our mouths with our napkins? She came by last week and asked me to look into it. Weird, right? I hadn’t spoken to her since the last Initus, but she said it was a matter of Nedéan security, and she’d really appreciate if I’d put my ‘sharp mind’ to it. She all but promised me a director position if I could give her a definitive answer, and if I . . .” She cuts herself off, then starts again. “I’ve been working around the clock to figure it out.”

  “Wow, Ciela.” I try, unsuccessfully, to force down the dread creeping its way up my windpipe. I barely manage a chuckle. “She’s like a different Grandmother. That’s amazing. And have you found anything for her?”

  She shakes her head. “As far as I can tell, the effects of the vaccine are irreversible.”

  Irreversible. The word carries too much finality for the Gentles I’ve come to know.

  “And you’re sure?”

  “I’m not saying it could never happen, but I’ve tried every combination of materials we currently have at our disposal, and none of them have made any measurable increase in a Gentle’s levels of the mystery substance in live trials. So yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

  I go silent, shuddering at the implication of “live trials” on Gentles, and still trying to fathom how the Brutes exist. They must have avoided getting the vaccine, but how?

  Ciela scans my uniform. “So you decided to join them after all.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “You’re not surprised?”

  “Let’s just say you’d never make it as an actress in Ad Artium. Have you told Mother?”

  I cringe at the thought of facing her, still afraid I’ll disappoint her with my decision.

  “No, but I have to take my horse to Bella Terra soon. I’ll tell her then.”

  “She probably won’t mind too much. There are so many Alexia around the Center these days, it’ll practically be like you chose the destiny she wanted for you anyway.” She smiles slyly, and I genuinely laugh.

  “Why are there so many Alexia around here?”

  She takes up the question without concern. “They doubled the guard about the time Grandmother came by. Maybe there have been more raids. The Center is the heart of Nedé. I wouldn’t blame her for being cautious.”

  Maybe, but something doesn’t add up. If Teera has Dáin in custody, the attacks should have stopped. Could other Brute defectors be going after fincas?

  Ciela cuts through my internal muddling. “I’d better get back to work.”

  “Right. Good luck with your research. I hope you find whatever Grandmother needs. You’d make a great director.” I squeeze her shoulder. We’re making progress toward sibling civility, but I don’t think either of us is ready for a hug.

  “Thanks. And good luck with that,” she says, motioning to my uniform. Her gaze lingers on the short sword at my hip. Is it my imagination, or is she slightly impressed? “You’ll make a great Alexia.”

  She goes back to her notebook as I slip out the door. Halfway down the hall, I realize I should have asked whether she has seen Jonalyn since the baby was born. I retrace my steps to the office door, but as I reach for the handle, a small glass pane reveals my sister’s back, telephone pressed to her ear. Phones are rare in Nedé, reserved for important matters. I’d better not interrupt. Anyway, I’ll find out soon enough.

  I follow a different path to the stairwell to avoid encountering any fellow Alexia in the main lab. I should get back to the Arena. But as I descend the flight to the seventh floor, something Ciela said snags against a rough board of reason. The infants who showed the abnormal—or rather, normal—blood died before they could be given the vaccine. Why?

  I remember passing a records room when we toured the Center, near the nursery. I wonder if they have documentation of anything useful, like what caused those Brute babies to die.

  It wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look around before I head back to the Arena.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER TWO WRONG TURNS ON the eighth floor, I find a plain, windowless door between delivery and the nursery marked “Records.” The air smells of sterile metal and clean linens, and the moans of a woman in labor echo through the hallway. I give a terse nod to a passing nurse. She notices me, though her gaze sticks to the floor. This Alexia gig is really paying off.

  I tug the door open, hoping to find the records room empty. Instead a woman in a white lab coat leans over a broad ledger book, pencil scribbling quickly. Her graying dark hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and when she lifts her head to me, light hazel eyes stop me midstride.

  “Mother?”
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  “Rei?” I’m not sure who is more shocked to see whom.

  “I thought you were home, with Jonalyn.” I quickly take in the rest of the room, relieved to find it empty. Two walls are lined with similar pale green and peach ledger books, the center of the room a maze of waist-high filing cabinets.

  Instead of answering, she wraps me in a fierce embrace, kissing my hair and muttering, “Oh, my Reina.” For the first time since I was old enough to resent my mother, I really hug her, and I make up for lost time. I feel her warmth and the slight give of her soft body in my arms. I breathe her in, and I love her. Really, really love her.

  She releases her grip and holds me at arm’s length. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, Reina. She’s a fool not to choose you . . . but I can’t say I’m sorry she didn’t.”

  “I know.” The statement runs deeper than an answer to her condolences. My mother’s distrust of Teera always confused me before, but now I know why she was so cautious. I’ve experienced Teera’s power-hungry madness for myself. “I’m okay. Really.”

  For the first time she notices my uniform. She takes it in with a placid expression, and I brace for inevitable displeasure. But when her eyes find mine again, she looks peacefully resigned.

  “It suits you,” she says. “Serve them well.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  She sighs a little. “Oh, you know it would not have been my first choice, mostly because . . . well, it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you are my daughter, and I will always love you, no matter what. Besides, in my opinion, Alexia is still safer than Apprentice.” Her quiet laugh disarms me completely.

  “I guessed as much.” I initiate another hug, the only gift at my disposal to thank her for understanding. “How is Jo?” I ask, remembering the reason Mother wasn’t at the two-hundredth-anniversary celebration yesterday. “Shouldn’t you be with her?”