The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

by Santos, Steven dos

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 contempt, 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,” Digory 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 anticipate 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.

  fourteen

  I follow Valerian through the bulkhead into the corridor. “Where are we going?”

  “You’re an Incentive now,” she says without looking back. “Time to find out just who will be championing you this time.”

  Considering that I’ve betrayed every single one of the Recruits, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already made a pact that whoever I’m paired with will lose the first round of the Trials deliberately, just so they can all watch me die as soon as possible.

  That is, unless my former trainee companions—now fellow Incentives—don’t take me out first.

  “Let’s go,” Valerian grunts.

  After having been confined to that cramped berth for days, my limbs ache as I hurry to keep pace with her, the guards’ neurostims digging into my back every time I start to fall behind. We head forward, down the narrow passageway, until we reach the hatch leading to the nerve center of the entire craft: the Control and Attack Center. I pause for a moment just outside the CAC hatchway before following Valerian through.

  The chamber is much wider than the corridor, running the full width of the Eel. A myriad of screens and equipment banks blink and flash with activity as crew members seated at the consoles monitor screens and gauges.

  To my right, several Imps stand watch over a disheveled group of five people who are shackled just like I am. They must be the family members of the rebel Recruits. The only one I recognize is Corin. The poor kid. The fear on their faces sends ice caps bobbing through my blood. That look is engraved in my brain. I saw the same look on Gideon’s parents, the Warricks, and even on Ophelia’s mother, Mrs. Juniper. It’s the look of people who know they’re going to die and are just waiting, wondering which second it will strike.

  To my left, Arrah, Dahlia, Leander, and Rodrigo stand shackled as well. They look exhausted, their eyes bloodshot, shoulders sagging. But the moment our eyes connect it’s like a wave of electricity courses through them, making them stand erect. It fills their eyes with crackling fire that burns right through me.

  I look away.

  Dead center, Sergeant Slade stands on a raised platform that houses the periscope, the eyes of the Eel. She sneers at the sight of me. “Good. Now that everyone’s here, it’s time to find out what the Incentive pairs will be.” She pauses. “Of course, all the selections have been made randomly.”

  Her smirk says otherwise.

  She taps a few keys on a control panel and the screen dominating the chamber flickers on. Half of it displays images of the five Recruits: Cage, Drusilla, Boaz, Crowley, and Preshea. The other half is a blur of shuffling images moving faster and faster, racing to catch up to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

  The first of the Incentive images freezes, then slides into the slot next to Preshea’s image.

  It’s Rodrigo.

  Then Dahlia’s image appears and moves into place besides Crowley’s.

  A few seconds later, Leander’s face takes it’s place besides Boaz’s.

  Just two more. Arrah and me.

  Faces slide across the screen, right in between Cage and Drusilla, hesitating for an instant—and then my image glides into place besides Cage, the one rebel I personally betrayed. The Recruit who I’m sure would be more determined than any of the others to make me pay for what I did.

  Arrah buries her face in her hands as her image connects to Drusilla’s. I’d experienced that same feeling when Cassius informed me that my new second Incentive—replacing Mrs. Bledsoe—was Di
gory.

  Of course, the Establishment has planned these pairings for maximum effect. We’re all just pawns in a game for their twisted amusement.

  “And there you have it,” Slade hisses. Her eyes fix on me and her tongue darts across her lips. “This should make for the most intriguing Trials ever to take place.” She motions to the guards. “Make sure our Incentives here are nice and comfortable, regardless of the length of their stay.”

  “C’mon! C’mon!” one of the Imps barks from behind.

  A squad of Imposers herds all the Incentives single-file off the sub. From there we exit the docking bay and pass through an aircraft hangar, heading into a section of Infiernos I’ve never seen before. With the muzzles of Imps’ guns pointed at our backs the entire way, we trudge over a narrow underground gangway. We’ve been placed in alternating order—each former-trainee Incentive followed by a family-member Incentive. Cage’s other Incentive and I are at the end of the line.

  I’d expected Cage’s other Incentive to be Jeptha. A logical choice. After all, not only is he Cage’s father, but he’s also a member of the rebellion. But instead I’m unsettled to find myself teamed up with a teenage girl, maybe a year or two younger than me. From the color of her hair and tear-soaked eyes to her facial features, it’s obvious she and Cage are related. His younger sister, I’d bet.

  Even if Cage didn’t already have reason to want me dead, I’m sure he’ll do anything to protect his sibling.

  After all, I did.

  Hopefully that blood bond will translate into logical thinking and he’ll put aside any possible thoughts of throwing a Trial just to get his revenge on me. The sooner disposes of me, the closer he brings his sister to death. And the longer he avoids getting the lowest score on a trial, the longer I have to plan my escape.

  The girl’s foot collides with the back of mine and she gasps. I turn just in time to see her teetering over the edge of the gangway, and I grab onto her.

  For a few seconds, I’m staring into the abyss below, a landscape of twisting machinery and pipes extending hundreds of feet, flowing through and around the natural rock formations. I hold on tight as I pull her up, just as much to make sure I don’t go over myself.

  “Thanks,” she half-sobs into my shoulder, her arms noosed around my waist.

  I wonder if she knows that I’m the one responsible for what’s happened to her brother, and for what’s about to happen to her.

  A dark caul descends over us.

  Slade.

  She leers at us like she’s stepped in shit. “Spark! Of course you’d be the reason for the delay!”

  I untangle myself from the girl and carefully rotate on the walkway so that she’s now behind me, away from the sergeant. “She tripped and almost—”

  The snout of Slade’s gun shoves into my gut. Sparks of pain rip through me as if I’ve been stung with a cattle prod.

  I double over, trying to snag a breath, wiping the blurry moisture from my eyes.

  “I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses.” Slade grips me by the hair and pulls me to my feet. Her eyes glance at the chasm, then back to me.

  I take a deep breath. I can’t make my move.

  Yet.

  When I look around, I catch a glimpse of the others staring at me. Arrah’s face is cold, impassive. She’d probably push me over herself if she could.

  Guess she’ll have to wait her turn, in line along with everyone else.

  I focus on the back of the person ahead of me as the queue continues moving forward.

  We reach two massive gleaming doors on the far side of the gorge. They rumble open.

  “Welcome to Purgatorium!” the Imposer at the head of the line grunts as we follow him through.

  The massive cavern we enter resembles the insides of a behemoth’s rib cage. Bonelike support braces made of metal are spaced a few feet apart. They curve up the walls and fuse at the ceiling. Between each rib is a small, transparent cubicle with barely enough room for two bunks.

  Holding cells.

  Appropriate that they should be located inside what appears to be the torso of a dead body.

  As I look closer, I can make out wheels, pulleys and gears just above and below each cubicle, which rest on a series of tracks. Of course. In order to avoid the delay of having to transport all the Incentives to the location of each trial, this conveyer system is constantly moving through the Skein, keeping the Incentives readily available and accessible for disposal.

  How efficient.

  At the far side of the chamber, an enormous black screen dominates the wall. Slade marches into the center of the room. “This area is known as the Pen, your home for the duration of the Trials.” Her serpentine slits scan the room. “Of course, some of you will enjoy a shorter stay than the rest.”

  Some of the other Imposers chuckle at this, and Slade doesn’t bother to discipline them.

  “You will all be confined to this common area during the Recruits’ rest periods,” she continues, “but during each round of competition, you will remain in your cells unless otherwise instructed.” She paces back and forth, stabbing each of us with her gaze. “Anyone who disobeys this regulation will be considered to be in direct violation of protocol and will be shelved immediately.” She motions to the Imposers standing guard on the upper levels.

  “One more thing.” Slade clears her throat. “Due to the unusual composition of Recruits and Incentives selected for the Trials this year—namely, the better-than-average skills possessed by this distinguished group of candidates—the committee has agreed that the pre-Trial training and orientation, usually scheduled for a ten-week period, shall be considerably shortened.” Her voice echoes through the chamber. “Any questions?”

  Cage’s Incentive lifts her gaze and clears her throat. It sounds like the last sputter of a dying engine.

  Slade’s eyes skewer her. “Yes? Speak up!”

  “When … w-will I … ” The girl drops her gaze again. “Get to see … my brother Cage … again … ”

  Her words trail off into barely a whisper.

  I was right. They are brother and sister. And I know exactly what she must be feeling.

  Slade walks up and hovers over her. She smiles like a mother about to eat her young. “You miss your brother very much, don’t you, my dear?” She grips her by the shoulders.

  “Y-yes. Yes, I do.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tristin.”

  “And you’d like nothing better than to talk to your brother, if only for just a few moments, wouldn’t you, Tristin?”

  The girl looks up at Slade, eyes barely able to contain their wetness. “Oh, please … ”

  The Sergeant leans in, as if to whisper in her ear. “Be careful what you wish for. The next time you see him might very well be the last time you’ll see him … or anything at all, for that matter.”

  She shoves the girl away and whips around to face the rest of us. “That goes for every single one of you suffering from a sentimental streak or”—her eyes penetrate mine—“the pangs of a guilty conscience.”

  GONG!

  The sound of the deep clang reverberates throughout the chamber, drowning out the rest of Slade’s words and sending a frost spiraling down my spine. I recognize that sound.

  It’s the call of the Fleshers.

  Grisly images flash in my memory. Sitting around the campfire with Digory and the other Recruits during one of our training exercises … the legend of the Fallen Five … trekking through the island wilderness in search of the missing recon team. Then there was that canyon filled with mounds of human bones, skulls screeching as the wind passed through their gaping sockets, and the dark, barely glimpsed horde of Fleshers that chased the five of us.

  The room is doused in the crimson glow of emergency lights.

  Attention! a voice blares t
hrough the speakers. Possible breach in quadrant seven. Repeat. Possible breach in quadrant seven. Initiating emergency containment procedure. This is not a drill.

  The smug look on Slade’s face turns to concern. She jabs a finger at one of the Imposers stationed at the control console above. “Seal it!”

  The officer jams his fist onto a switch embedded in the wall. A drawn-out sssssshhhhhh drowns everything out as all the cell doors slide open.

  Slade gestures at us, then at the holding cells. “Each pair is to proceed inside the pen closest to you.” Her panic disappears. “Now!”

  Where the Fleshers are concerned, I don’t need to be told twice. I grab Tristin’s hand and pull her with me. “Everyone inside! C’mon!”

  Then we’re tumbling through the cell doors, just as they seal behind us.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Tristin.

  But she’s not paying attention to me. Instead her eyes are glued to the scene playing out through the transparent walls.

  Imposers dash to and fro, checking control panels, shouting into com units. Across the way, Arrah, Leander, Rodrigo, and Dahlia are pressed against the glass of their cells while their fellow Incentives cower in the corners.

  They’re all looking at me, and I can tell that they know I’ve got some idea about what’s going on.

  Minutes later, the emergency lights switch back to normal and the activity peters out. Slade nods to an officer nearby, who punches the keys of his terminal.

  Attention, the voice blares through the speakers again. Breach has been contained. The facility is secure.

  Slade takes the mic. “Time for you to get your rest. Lights out.”

  Then the cells are plunged into darkness.

  As I lie on the cold floor listening to Tristin’s quiet sobs, my mind races with possibilities.

  I’m still not sure what the Fleshers are and why they scare the Establishment so much.

  But they might just be the advantage I need to break out of this hell.

  fifteen

  “Rise and shine, people!”