by Katie French
They’re stalling the joust on purpose, I think. But Nada would hold that lance until her arm fell off. Crete has no idea what he’s dealing with.
They wave the yellow flag and both quads take off. It’s clear from the start that Crete can’t control the quad and hold a lance at the same time. Nada, teeth bared like a mad hyena, guns for Crete’s wandering quad. Her lance has dipped a little, but just before impact she manages to lift it to chest level. Crete does the same.
It would be a mercy if Nada loses, but she’ll be devastated if she does. I watch them charge toward each other, my feelings in knots.
They smack into each other at the same time. Twin cracks echo through the square. Two bodies go flying, their quads stuttering forward without riders. Both land with awful thuds.
As the swirling dust settles, I clutch my hands over my mouth and hold my breath. Please let Nada get up, I beg God, whoever. Please.
Slowly, the bodies twitch. Nada waves an arm and Crete rolls onto his side. The guards run out and pull both injured benders to their feet. Nada has a busted lip and what looks like a dislocated shoulder. Crete seems in a little better shape with a cut on his forehead and a dazed look on his face. The announcer steps up.
“Well, lords and ladies, it appears we have a tie. We turn to our good Lord Merek for a pronouncement of who will be moving on to the next round.”
All eyes turn to Lord Merek. He’s watching the joust from beside the guards’ bench. When they turn to him, he straightens his velvet waistcoat and studies Nada and Crete. Finally, he sighs and points to Crete.
Just like that, Nada is eliminated and I can’t help but feel relieved.
Chapter 15
Clay
I grit my teeth as Nessa leans over me and stitches up the gunshot wound in my shoulder. She’s numbed the area and extracted the bullet. Hurts like hell, but compared to stitch-ups of the past, this is the least painful. I think about Dr. Rayburn’s trembling hands months ago back in the church. People say you forget the pain of past wounds, but it’s a damn lie. I can remember his tweezers, hot from a fire, diggin’ around my flesh. I’ll remember it forever.
My eyes drift up to the ceiling of Nessa’s house as she leans over me, pressing her body into mine as she finishes. I try not to think about her breasts on my chest. She’s my mother and I don’t want her rubbing up against me. However, she seems to make touchin’ me a priority. Even now, as she holds a bandage over the stitched up wound, her fingers trail over my bare skin. It’s weird and I don’t like it. I roll away from her, onto my good shoulder, and stare out the window. Dawn breaks. The smoke from the exploded tank still climbs into the pink sky.
“All set,” she says, standin’ up.
I sit up and place my good hand on the bandage. A deep ache rests inside the muscle, but the area around it’s still numb. I’m sure the pain will come with time. It always does.
“Thanks,” I manage. “That numbin’ stuff probably goes for a month’s wages.”
She looks at the vial of liquid on the nightstand. “What we have at our hospital is worth more than everything else out there combined.” She gathers her materials and places them in a plastic case with a red cross on the top. Then she walks to the door. “Breakfast?”
“Well, yeah,” I stand on weak legs. “But what about the wounded? All those boys.”
Nessa’s face shows no concern. “They have their own combat medics. They don’t need me.”
My brow furrows. “Then what are you doing here? You ain’t military.”
She grips the doorframe. Her red nail polish is chipped. With her disheveled hair and bloody clothes, she looks less frightening, more human. “My work…” She studies my face. “It’s experimental.”
I glower. “Isn’t it always?”
“Yes.” She smiles like I’ve given her a compliment. Then she turns and tromps down the stairs. “Eggs coming right up.”
I walk to the window and stare out at the dead subdivision and beyond to the curl of smoke waftin’ in the morning breeze. When I move my injured arm, it flares with pain, so I rest it at my side. I can still smell the stink of burnt bodies. Still hear the cries of the boys who were picked off before their nineteenth birthday. Nessa better have some answers.
When I make it down the stairs, Ethan has joined us and waits quietly at the kitchen table, head down. I sit beside him and put my good hand on his shoulder.
“All right, bud?”
He nods, but there are dark circles under his eyes. I doubt anyone got any sleep last night with all the shootin’ and explosions.
“Mom says the fighting’s over.” He stifles a yawn.
I flick my eyes up to Nessa. She’s at the stove, fryin’ eggs in a pan. When she brings three plates of eggs to the table, I turn to her.
“You said you had answers. I wanna know who the Free Colonists are.”
She blows out a big sigh, sets down her fork, and looks at me. “You won’t even let me eat?”
I shake my head.
“Fine.” She pushes the egg plate away. “Who needs warm eggs anyway? Those people”—she says, pointin’ out the window— “are lunatics. They want to take over this military installation. They think if they can get their grubby hands on the fire power, they can control the Breeders and all the medical advancements.” She places her hands on the table and clacks her nails on the wood. “There’s only two things worth a damn in this world: weapons and medicine.”
“Anyone with half a brain knows that,” I watch her carefully. “Why attack now? Ain’t these weapons been here for a century?”
Nessa pushes a messy strand of auburn hair out of her face. “Because they’re idiots.”
“They blew up your plane,” Ethan says.
She gives him a narrow gaze and he drops his head. “They got one plane operational and used their only bomb to blow up our plane, yes. They don’t stand a chance otherwise.”
“They had a tank.” I fork some eggs and shove them in my mouth. “That’s something.”
“A tank with no ammunition. Look,” she says, frownin’, “these people think that freedom is the only goal. They’re maniacs. They don’t think rationally. They have no idea what it means to prop up a society that has burned itself to the ground.”
“In my opinion,” I say, takin’ another bite of egg, “you’re underestimatin’ these people. Freedom is the strongest motivator I know.”
Nessa pushes up from the table, clearly irritated. “No, Clay,” she says, almost spitting, “Fear. Fear is the strongest motivator. And if you don’t start toeing the line, I’ll show you exactly how motivating it is.”
She storms out of the kitchen and up the stairs, slammin’ a bedroom door behind her.
I turn to Ethan. “She’s easy to work up.” I smile and scrape her eggs onto my plate. “Want some?”
He nods, a tiny smile on his lips.
“You should be careful.” Ethan takes a bite and looks up at me. “She gets mean when she’s angry.”
I stop chewin’. “She done something to you?”
He shakes his head.
“Listen, Ethan, when I get the chance, we’re bustin’ outta here. If there is such a thing as the Free Colonies, maybe we should go there. We’ll get Riley and your Auntie and head there. If they got balls enough to take Nessa on at her own base camp, they’re the kinda people we gotta be with. Okay?”
He nods, but there’s no spark in his eyes. He doesn’t think I can escape Nessa. I stare out the window at the orange dawn and wonder if even I’ve stopped believin’. And when another headache crops up at the back of my skull, it’s all I can do to make it through this breakfast.
The front door blows open and footsteps scamper toward us. I’m outta my chair in seconds, lookin’ for a weapon. The fork by my plate is the only thing I can grab before the intruder blows into the kitchen.
Betsy runs in, all outta sorts. Her hair is a curly mess that looks like it’s been slept on for weeks. Her round face is pink a
s a boiled ham. Her bare, filthy feet slap on the tile as she runs at me.
“Dr. Rayburn, I tried to tell her to follow the rules, but she wouldn’t listen.” Betsy licks at her raw, red lips and shakes my arm. “She keeps on saying she’s going to escape.”
“Betsy,” I pry her fingers from my bicep, “I ain’t Rayburn. I’m Clay.” I don’t tell her Rayburn’s dead.
Her eyes search my face in fear and bewilderment. Then she shakes her head. Strangely, her hair seems to slip sideways on her head. Is she wearing a wig?
“No, no, no. I told her. I told her.” She balls her hand into a fist and slams it into her own forehead with a smack.
“Stop that.” I grab the hand that’s pulled back to smack herself again. She tries to fight me, but she ain’t strong. Suddenly all her weight is on me as she tilts forward still murmuring nonsense.
I half-carry, half-drag her limp body to the table and plop her into my chair. Ethan looks completely stunned. “She okay?”
I shake my head. “Not by a mile. Get me a glass of water, will ya?”
Ethan gets up and does as I ask. I lean forward and peer into Betsy’s face. It’s drenched in sweat and scrunched up like she’s tasted something sour. She shakes her head over and over and her hair slumps to the side. Definitely a wig. That’s when I notice strange markings. Peerin’ closer, a roadmap of scars crisscross behind her right ear.
“What happened here?” I pull up the wig and study the stitches.
Betsy snaps upright like a tightly wound toy. Her eyes flash to mine and her hands clamp down on her wig. “Nothing. Nothing.” She attempts to straighten her hair, but messes it up further. The back is now the front with long, tangled curls coverin’ her eyes.
“What happened to you?” I reach for the wig. “Let me see.”
“No!” She tugs at the wig at the same time I do and it slips off.
I gasp. I don’t mean to, but the shock at what I see short-circuits all manners.
Her bald head is covered with so many scars it’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins. The stitched-up cuts look like a street map of a busy city etched into Betsy’s flesh. Some cuts are old. Some look very fresh—angry red lines with black stitches still holdin’ the skin together. How many surgeries? And why?
She shoves the wig back on, but her hands tremble so bad it takes her three tries to get it right. “Follow the rules,” she mutters over and over.
I point at Betsy’s covered head. “Did Nessa…do this?”
Betsy clenches her flowered dress into her fists and continues to shake.
I stare at broken Betsy who seemed like a nice girl before she was damaged. “If Nessa did this…”
“What?” says a voice behind me.
I whirl around.
Nessa stands in the kitchen entrance, cleanly dressed, hair coiffed, and hands clasped at her waist. She raises one trimmed eyebrow at me. “If I did this, then what, Clay?”
“Why?” I point at Betsy’s dissected head.
Nessa lifts one corner of her mouth and shrugs. “Someone had to be the guinea pig.”
A stuttered sob comes from Betsy as she clenches and unclenches her dress.
“She’s a person.” I put a hand on Betsy’s shoulder. “You can’t just use people.”
“Can’t I?” Nessa raises the eyebrow again, an arch of smugness that makes me want to punch her.
“No.” I grip the fork I realize is still in my hand. “No, you can’t. You can’t treat people like guinea pigs. We aren’t your experiments to use up and throw away.”
“Clay, my love.” She curls red lips into a smile. “That’s precisely what you are.”
I lose myself to anger and run at her, fork pointed at her smug face.
Her hand flies to her side. The ankle bracelet. I forgot I was wearin—
Electricity rockets from my ankle up through my body. Pain and pulse and spasm. My face finds the tile, my body, too. For seconds that feel like decades, electricity surges through my body. Pulse and pain. Pulse and pain. I’m a live wire, frying.
And then the surge is gone and I’m left a useless mess on the tile. My muscles twitch uncontrollably. When my eyes adjust, they find the fork lying useless on the tile by my face.
Heels click in my direction and Nessa’s face appears in front of mine. “I tried to win you over with sweetness. Now I’ll have to find other ways to make you see reason.”
I want to shake my head, spit in her face, do…anything. But I can’t move. All I can do is stare into blue eyes so like my own. Like my own except the soul beneath is dead.
My mother is a monster.
When I come to, I’m strapped to a bed in a dark room. I fight against my bonds, but the straps are tight. My last memory is of my mother lookin’ at me smug.
The room is hot and I’ve sweated through my hospital gown. My body wants sleep, but I fight it. The terror is too big within me. What is she going to do to me?
When the door cracks open and Nessa walks in wearing operating scrubs, I thrash on the bed.
“Let me go!” I rock the bed so hard the metal supports creak.
She stops at my bedside and raises that damned eyebrow. “Fight all you like, dear.”
I pull against the straps, but it’s no use. Nessa watches me like a bored mother, waitin’ for her toddler to quit a tantrum. When I finally do, she smiles and pats my shoulder. “This will all be over soon.”
“What are you gonna do to me?” I can’t keep the fear outta my voice, no matter how much I hate her hearin’ it. My eyes land on the tray beside the bed. Shiny knives and operating utensils lay in neat rows, more frightening than any gun I ever seen.
Nessa follows my eyes, walks over, and picks up a scalpel. She plays with it as she talks. “Let me tell you a little story, Clay.” She touches the tip of the scalpel, makes an ouch face, and smiles. “Once there was a little boy who didn’t do what his mommy wanted him to do.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Let me finish!” she shrieks, her eyes wild. “This little boy was very naughty. He always thought he knew what was best, and did rash things that got people hurt. So, one day his mommy decided it was time for him to learn a lesson.”
“Stop,” I say, pleadin’ now. “Just let me go.”
Nessa leans down, her perfumed neck hoverin’ above my face. Her hand caresses my cheek, long and tender. I whip my head away, but her hand follows. Grippin’ my head, she presses her lips to my ear.
“I’m going to make you forget how naughty you’ve been,” she whispers.
A poke in my arm startles me. Nessa smiles, holdin’ up an empty needle. Whatever she flooded into my veins works fast. In seconds the world floats away.
Chapter 16
Riley
“Not fair!” Nada shrieks, stumbling forward in the dust. Her opponent just stares. “I want a rematch!”
The crowd, sitting on the benches or standing in the hot dirt, looks toward Lord Merek’s platform for his decision.
He frowns as if it bothers him to have to do anything other than fan himself and eat spiced meats, but he waves at the guards to take Nada away. They drag her struggling body back, tugging on her injured shoulder until she cries out in pain. I grip the rope separating us and scan the crowd for Doc. He hasn’t returned from mending Dareen’s or my opponent’s wounds.
Nada struggles until they drag her out of the square and into the infirmary. At least Doc will take care of her. And she can’t be hurt anymore. Even though I know she’s pissed, I’m relieved.
Crete comes in and joins us in the winner’s circle, which is really a patch of dust roped off on one side. It’s me, Mister, Crete, Michal and three other benders I don’t know. All are bigger than me except Crete, and he and I are pretty much the same size. None are as big as Mister. A few feet away, he paces back and forth, a tower of a human with blood splattered on his shirt.
“Lords and ladies”—the announcer says—“this concludes round one of Lord M
erek’s birthday games!” The crowd cheers appropriately. “Seven victors will go on to round two after lunch.”
We are ushered into the guard’s side of the mess hall, much cleaner with benches and chairs, and given a meal of grilled chicken breast and potatoes. I eat with abandon, stuffing my face to keep from having to talk to my opponents. A few of the other benders chat. Crete talks to a lanky brunette by the name of Joe. He seems friendly enough and I could jump in, but there’s no sense in making friends now. Who knows what I’ll be asked to do to these people?
After lunch we wait, staring at the closed door, the anxiety building like a mutating fungus.
“What d’you think the next game will be?” Crete finally asks.
A few benders come out of their stupor and look at him. Michal, who’s been staring morosely at the floor, laughs. “Probably disembowel your buddy or something else horrible. You saw how Merek likes it.”
“Yeah, wasn’t too keen on Mister’s show of mercy, was he?” another bender, named Harriette, asks.
Mister’s head snaps toward Harriette, who instantly cowers. “Didn’t mean nothing by it, man,” Harriette stammers, holding her hands out in defense.
Mister glares at her for a moment and then goes back to staring at the tile, breath puffing out of flared nostrils like an angry bull.
Crete gets my attention with a nudge. “Your friend really wanted to win, huh?”
I look into his eyes. They’re brown and warm and too soft to belong to someone I might have to kill. “Nada wanted to win, yeah. She wanted her freedom. So do I.”
Crete leans away from me. “Well, good luck with that.”
The doors burst open. For a moment, bright daylight shows us silhouettes of the three figures in the doorway. Nada, flanked by two guards, strides in. She comes to sit by me. I stare at her, open-mouthed.
