The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

by Steven dos Santos

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  The Sowing © 2014 by Steven dos Santos.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2014

  E-book ISBN: 9780738739496

  Book design by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

  Cover illustration: Chris Nurse/Début Art

  Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Flux does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Flux

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.fluxnow.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To my dear brother, Edward dos Santos, who helped sow the seeds of imagination and creativity in my childhood by introducing me to the awe and wonders of Star Wars for the very first time. Even though you’re gone now, Eddie, you will never be forgotten. Until we meet again, in a galaxy far, far away …

  PART I

  HOMECOMING

  One

  I squint through my protective goggles against the maelstrom of swirling sand and blinding neon lights closing in on either side of me, trying to crush me in their rainbow vise.

  This is it. The Avenue of Longing. Home of the Pleasure Emporiums, the place where every appetite can be satisfied—for a steep price.

  How many thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—of patrons have had their dark fantasies fulfilled behind these brilliantly lit facades, all at the expense of countless kids with no one to care, no one to fight for them?

  Until now.

  The sandstorm moans in my ears, its winds buffeting my body as if trying to hold me back.

  But I won’t be denied. Not after coming so far.

  Adrenaline burns through me like lit kerosene. The familiar rush that I’ve nicknamed the crush—a mixture of fear, defiance, and justice, with a heaping dollop of vengeance. After months of sneaking off from my unit and risking execution, you’d think I’d have gotten used to it.

  Still, each act of sabotage, each betrayal of the Imposer uniform I wear, seems just as exciting as the first and has made me even more daring. But it never seems to be enough.

  Not until I’ve made the very government I serve pay for all the hurt it’s caused.

  I pull the chronometer from my pocket. Sand covers its face, obscuring the digital display. I brush it away and study the readout.

  Less than an hour left. If I don’t accomplish what I came here to do and get back to my unit, I may never get another chance.

  Stuffing the timepiece back in my pocket, I pull my cowl tighter against the sudden chill of the desert night, fully hiding my Imposer uniform. It wouldn’t be good for anyone to recognize Lucian Spark, the Establishment’s newest Recruit and member of the Imposer elite squad. Especially since I’m AWOL.

  I push through the gusts and down the paved concourse, leaving the yawning wasteland in my wake.

  There are only a few stragglers here and there, lurking in the shadows, ducking down side streets. Probably just servants, valets of the Establishment’s elite, hidden from the public’s gaze. Weaving among the buildings, I pull out a few of the silver discs stuffed in my pocket and make sure to scatter them at random. If anyone sees me, they’ll assume I’ve had one wanderer’s brew too many.

  I’ve never been more sober in my life.

  I round the corner and spot my target.

  Harmony House.

  Its vulgar turrets and arches, bathed in the glow of sweeping, multicolored spotlights, are a fitting monument to the Establishment’s corruption. A pathway of red carpet, flanked by golden rails, leads to the arched double doors.

  This was the place that ultimately destroyed her. The place that’s destroyed so many.

  I stride up the pathway, burning with purpose. A hover carriage, propelled by gravity boosters, nearly collides with me.

  “Watch where you’re going,” an electronically modulated voice shouts from behind the tinted windows obscuring the identities of the passengers.

  But I ignore it, reaching the entrance at last. Before I can knock, the doors slide apart of their own accord. I enter and they squeal shut, sealing me inside.

  It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust. Wisps of stale smoke swirl through the shafts of dim gaslight, flickering down from the vaulted ceiling. The cloying stench of incense, sweet perfumes, alcohol, and sweat is suffocating. The sounds of wind instruments weave their way through the chamber.

  “Welcome,” a throaty voice croaks from the shadows.

  A tall, sinewy figure slinks out of the darkness, wrapped in form-hugging leather. It has short, dyed-blue hair and skin pale as chalk. Even from here I can see the thick concealer caked on that face, drawing attention to the wrinkles and blemishes it’s trying desperately to hide.

  My eyes flick to the silver tablet clutched in one of those bony hands—the master control unit. As subtly as I can, I press a notch in my utility belt, activating the computer virus that’ll hack into the security system at Harmony House and reprogram it—that is, if my black market source earned his hefty fee.

  I nod. “Evening.”

  The figure circles once before sidling up to me, hot breath snaking up my left ear. “Raja Featherbone here, carnal caterer extraordinaire. Your pleasures are my desire.” The proprietor takes a puff of the long cigarette clutched in the other hand, smiles, and exhales a wave of concentric circles that ring my head and throat like a smoky noose. “So tell me. What does it take to make your clock chime, young man, hmmm?”

  I smile back, fighting the urge to cough. “I’m looking for something … fresh tonight.” I force a wink to hide my disgust. “I hear that’s your specialty.”

  A chuckle bursts from Featherbone’s throat. “Oooh! Yes indeedy! But that will cost you an extra premium. You know, supply and demand and all.”

  I wave these concerns away. “Not a problem.” The computer scanner in my belt vibrates once, signaling that the hack is about one third complete. A genuine smile coats my lips this time.

  “Oooh, Goody-goody!” Featherbone shoves the cigarette in place between yellowed teeth and presses a hand against the control unit’s scree
n. There’s a buzz as Featherbone’s fingerprints are scanned. A split second later, a green light on the device blinks.

  Featherbone nudges me with a pointy elbow and a lewd glance before tapping the keys with the speed of a scavenger. “We have quite the selection tonight, oh yes we do, yes indeedy!” The music cuts off. A rising hum fills the room, tingling through my ears, rattling my teeth. Panels in the ceiling stretch open with a bone-crushing grind. With the whir of motors, transparent tubes descend, each containing a body. One by one, these capsules rotate just above me, allowing me to get a good look at their cargo.

  They’re just children.

  I can see the fear in their faces, particularly the younger ones, imploring me with saucered eyes. But what’s even more chilling is the jaded expression of the older ones. They’re maybe fourteen or fifteen years old at most—just a couple of years younger than me. It’s as if they’ve been through this selection process hundreds of times and are almost bored with it. All of them are wearing blinking red bands around their wrists—security restraints. If they try to escape, a remote signal will deliver instant pain and death.

  I want to reach out and snap Featherbone’s scrawny neck. But that would be too easy. I’d be taken down by security quickly, and then this whole operation would have been in vain. My belt scanner vibrates twice. The security hack is halfway complete. I just have to hold this scum off a little longer.

  “You certainly have a lot to choose from.” I push the words through my mouth even as I struggle to push the bile back down my throat. “I guess you’ve been doing this for quite some time.”

  Featherbone’s fingers tiptoe up my back. “I’m not that old, lovie.” He squeezes the words through his cigarette-clenched teeth. “Well? Care to taste any of my treats?”

  I purse my lips. “Actually, I was wondering if you had someone that looked more like this.”

  Reaching into the folds of my cloak, I pull out the small, triangular holographic display cam and switch it on.

  A three-dimensional figure of a little girl is projected before Featherbone’s face. A beautiful little girl of six with long, raven hair and striking green eyes.

  The proprietor’s cigarette dangles from a pouty lip. “Seen a lot of pretty faces in my line of work, oh yes I have, yes siree! But there’s one I’ve never forgotten.” A smirk cracks the plaster of makeup. “That little crumpet was quite popular while she was here.” Featherbone sighs. “Pity she had to get careless and breed. Ruined a good product. Often wondered what ever happened to that one, oh yes I have.”

  “Maybe I can satisfy your curiosity.” Each beat of my heart blasts my blood with molten fury. “This is what she grew up to look like.” I flick another button on the holocam. The image of the little girl disappears, replaced by that of a young woman. Even though her features look older, the hair and eyes are unmistakable. Memories flood my brain … a freighter, an island, two small children … all smothered in friendship, pain, and loss. “Her name is—was—Cypress Goslin.”

  Featherbone guffaws and points the cigarette stem at the grainy image. “I recognize that wench. She was one of the five—those Recruits from the Parish that were drafted last season!”

  My eyes are riveted on the image. “Yes.”

  “I remember her well, yes, oh my yes! Business was slow and I bet a small fortune on missy here, hoping to recoup some losses if she beat the others during the Trials. Just look at the fire in those eyes.”

  But the holographic eyes pale in comparison to my memory of the real thing branded in my brain.

  I shut off the holocam and jam it in my pocket. “She was my friend.”

  “Pity-pity. She had a good thing here. Indeed she did. I guess once she failed at the Trials she got sent to the mines. Serves her right.”

  The scanner in my belt vibrates three times: Security hack complete. Surveillance cameras disabled.

  Molten steel pulses through my veins. This is it.

  I whip out the blade hidden within my boot and thrust it toward Featherbone. “She’s dead. Just like you’ll be if you don’t hand over that master control unit.”

  But Featherbone only stares at me and yawns. “Naughty-naughty. I hope they don’t get too much blood on the carpet when they’re through with you. Just had it replaced.”

  I lunge for the device but the slaver claws at me, knocking my hood away and exposing my face.

  Featherbone’s eyes bulge. “You! You’re the one that won the bloody Trials! You’re an Imposer for the Establishment, on our side! Your name is—”

  “Lucky,” I finish. “But unfortunately, not for you.”

  Featherbone backs away, jabbing at the controls on the unit. Lights flash. Alarms blast through the air.

  Above us, the children stir in their transparent coffins, cheeks and palms pressed against the glass. Even the older ones seem restless now.

  “Oopsy! Security will be here in a minute,” Featherbone hisses. “And you’ll never make me give you access to the system before then, lovie, oh no you won’t!” A triumphant glare pierces me.

  “Then we don’t have much time.” I shrug. “Either you hand over the unit or you force me to take it from you.”

  The glint of strobing emergency lights douses my raised blade with splashes of crimson. I move in.

  My shadow shrouds the flesh dealer, whose shrill screams are muffled by the blaring siren.

  “Open up in there!” The rumbling voice vibrates through the other side of the parlor wall.

  I dig my knife into Featherbone’s arm. The cut’s nowhere near as deep as I could go, just enough to draw a scarlet streak and an even higher-pitched yelp before I wrench the master control unit away. If the virus I uploaded has done its job and infiltrated the Emporium’s computer network, this master unit now controls not only the security for Harmony House but every house in these pleasure pits. All I have to do is select one command to free all these kids and get them the hell out of here.

  Bony arms clamp around my neck. The control unit drops from my hand as my vision blurs and the cold metal of my own ID tags digs into my throat like a garrote.

  “What’s this?” Featherbone croaks in my ear. “One tag says Spark … the other Tycho? You have a sweetheart, yes?” The cackle drowns out everything else and coats my ear with warm spittle. Everything’s going dark. My knees buckle. The room’s spinning. “Never see that one again, oh no you won’t!”

  No. I’ll never see him again.

  My head tilts so that my lips graze Featherbone’s ear. “Cypress … sends her regards.”

  I rip the still-protruding blade from Featherbone’s arm and jam it deep into the slaver’s neck, feeling it cut through artery and sink into bone. Then I fling the twitching, grisly body off me. It thuds lifeless to the floor, inches from the master control unit.

  BLAM!

  The parlor doors burst open. Shrapnel torpedoes through the room, slicing through my hand. Before I can lunge for the control unit, a squadron of about a half-dozen black-clad security personnel swarms into the chamber, brandishing weapons that glisten in the flickering gaslights. They cut me off, standing between me and the master control.

  The lead officer nudges his companions in my direction. “If he tries anything, shoot to kill.”

  I drop and roll. Electric charges pierce the ground inches from me. I spring and vault behind the bar. A volley of blasts strikes the shelves above me. Bottles rain down, some shattering against the floor. I spit out the taste of metal.

  No cover. No weapon. No time. It’s the Trials all over again.

  “We have him cornered!” yells the leader.

  “Nixter, take him alive for interrogation!” shouts another.

  The glint of a steel toe rounds the bar. I grab one of the few unbroken bottles of alcohol lying next to me.

  Nixter thrusts her weapon toward me like a skewer. In
the flickering shadows, she resembles a wiry, bug-eyed insect. “You’re gonna need more than booze when we’re done with you.” She cocks the trigger.

  I stare her down. “I wasn’t planning on drinking it.”

  I hurl the bottle toward the closest gaslight and dive through the still-smoking gap in the bar, just as she fires.

  Glass shatters. Sharp pain nicks my leg. I have just enough time to register the shocked looks of the guards on the other side of the bar as I slide toward them.

  A loud explosion roars through the parlor. We’re all hurled against the far wall. Rousing myself, I take in the carnage. From the looks of their contorted bodies, at least one of the guards broke his neck, while two others lie unconscious and bleeding. Above, the mechanisms holding the translucent prisons buckle under the impact. Children teeter inside their oval pens. The alcohol on the bar ignites. Soon the entire room is blanketed in a mantle of smoke that burns through my lungs.

  I catch sight of the blinking green of the master control unit, just a few inches away. I reach for it.

  Steel-like pincers clamp around my ankle, yanking me backwards.

  Through the haze, I can make out one of the guards standing above me, holding my leg. His jaw is set in a grimace, blazing firelight reflecting in his eyes. He presses the butt of the weapon against my forehead.

  I kick up, hitting him in the groin. His face twists in pain. I hook my foot around his, tripping him. He smashes into the floor next to me. Another guard aims her weapon at me and fires.

  Instinctively, I hoist the first guard on top of me and the blast hits him instead.

  Then in one fluid move, I grab the fallen guard’s weapon, roll him off me, and let loose a barrage on the second guard. She collapses face-first, her nose crunching and popping against the floor as I take out the guards who are still stirring.

  The weapon clicks empty and I toss it.

  By this time the entire room’s covered in a thick blanket of filthy mist. To my right, a curling tongue of flame laps the underside of one of the cylindrical prisons. Inside their capsules, the children are screaming, pounding against the reinforced glass, falling to their knees, gasping for breath.