The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

by Santos, Steven dos

  “What are you waiting for?” Slade barks. “If you start now, you’ll barely have enough time before the next Trial.” A smirk stretches across her face like a sail in blustery skies. “And I assure you, you won’t want to miss it!”

  She snaps her fingers and the guards step forward, prodding our line out of the chamber. Slade points a finger at Leander and myself. “You two wait here.”

  Both Arrah and Dahlia crane their necks, staring back at us as they follow the other Incentives out. The two of us stand alone before Slade and the remaining armed guards.

  Leander’s face is filled with venom. But behind his glare, I sense anxiety, if not downright fear. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am.

  This can’t be good.

  Slade’s eyes move between us. “I figured, with such qualified and elite Incentives as yourselves, it would be best to put your leadership skills on display to set an example to the others.”

  She snaps her fingers and another guard appears, wheeling a bucket, an old mop, and scrub brushes, which he plunks down in front of us. Some of the water spills over the rim, splashing our feet and ankles with muddy ice.

  “Some of the containment cells can get particularly grimy, so you have to make sure to get in between each crack and crevice,” Slade whispers.

  Grinding gears shake the room, rattling my teeth. Rodrigo’s and Mrs. Grimstone’s cell descends and I stifle a gag. The once-clear glass is coated with reddish gunk, some chunks still glistening with moisture as they drip from the glass in a symphony of loud plops.

  She tosses me the mop. “Don’t just stand there. Clean up your friend.”

  “I oughtta just kill you right now and mop you up along with Rodrigo.” Leander glares at me. “He is—was—my best friend. Even before we were recruited. We went to school together. Lived in the same neighborhood. He had everything going for him. Would’a made a great Imposer if you hadn’t come along.” He wrings the scrub brush so hard, I can see the veins in his arm bulging. A stream of gore sloshes from his brush and into the bucket, spattering my cheek. It’s going to take more than a shower to feel clean after this.

  My kneecaps feel like they’re about to pop from resting on them so long. “I’m sorry.”

  Leander plops the mop into the bucket. “You will be, Sparkles.”

  I grimace. “You do realize none of us are getting out of this alive—”

  “Shut up!” He bangs the bucket against me, spilling a clump of gore on the floor with a loud plunk. “Everything out of your traitor mouth is a dirty lie!”

  He shoves me aside and squats with the brush. It squeaks against the floor, reminding me of the sound of rodents.

  It’s no use trying to explain anything to him. He’s too blind and brainwashed to understand. I’m just about to turn away when I notice that he’s scrawling something with his index finger in the grayish matter under the bucket’s shadow.

  I crane my neck.

  U were right

  At first I think I must be seeing things. But one look at Leander and I can see this is no joke. His finger dips into the bloody sludge again.

  They killed him, gonna kill us

  His eyes pierce me, then dart to the ceiling just outside.

  I follow his gaze.

  Of course. There are cameras surveilling us, equipped with audio, not to mention an Imposer sentry making her rounds.

  His eyes flash back to mine and he scrubs the message away. “You’ll say anything to place the blame on everyone else but your rebel self!” He brings the brush back to the bucket, wrings it again, then continues to polish.

  Now it’s my turn to communicate with him. What if it’s a trap? Should I risk it? Then again, what choice do I really have? I’m going to need help to get out of here.

  I slosh some of the filthy liquid onto the floor and scrawl my own message.

  We have 2 work together

  “You’re only getting what you deserve,” I grunt, turning away from him.

  “You can’t even look me in the eyes, can you, coward?” His dripping finger scribbles another message.

  What’s ur plan?

  After he’s sure I’ve seen it, he scrubs it away again.

  I fake a yawn. “I’d rather look at this mess than filth like you.” I make a show of scrubbing harder, then I squiggle another note.

  Vent shaft in my cell after dark. Access to compound. Need tools.

  This time he’s the one to wipe it away after reading it.

  “Yeah,” he snickers. “Take a good look at this mess, Sparkles. Before the end of the day you’re gonna look even worse. That’s a promise.”

  He doodles another message.

  Already on it

  His hand digs into a pocket in his pant leg and he slips something from it into his brush, continuing to scrub. His nod is almost imperceptible.

  As I scrub, our hands brush against each other and we swap brushes.

  Then I lean back and sit up, stretching for show again, and flip the brush over behind the bucket to get a better look.

  Embedded into the brush’s bristles is a rolled-up piece of torn fabric. I pluck it out and unfurl it.

  It’s a bone fragment about three inches long, jagged at both ends. Leander was probably thinking about using it as a weapon. It just might work to pry open that vent. I shudder. I can’t tell if it belonged to Rodrigo or Mrs. Grimstone. No matter. Either way, something good may come of their gruesome deaths.

  I tuck the bone into the lining of my waistband, hoping they won’t search us before taking us back to our cells.

  Leander scrawls another message.

  Don’t worry. Will get D and A on board. No one messes with our squad.

  I nod.

  “What’s going on here?” Slade’s voice startles me.

  “We were just finishing up, Sir,” Leander responds.

  “Stand up, both of you,” she hisses in reply.

  We exchange a look and climb to our feet—

  That last message is still on the floor.

  Slade’s eyes inspect the cell. “Hmmm. Not bad. Looks like you two deadbeats might be of some use after all.” Her gaze digs into me. “What’s the matter, Spark? You look ill. I’d have thought you’d be over your squeamishness by now.”

  “No, Sir,” I squeeze out.

  “What are you hiding behind that bucket?”

  Leander’s face turns red.

  “Nothing, Sir.” I feel my throat tighten up.

  Slade takes a step toward us. “Out of the way!”

  Just before she reaches us, I move, banging my foot against the bucket. It teeters and splatters the floor. Slade pushes past me and I turn. Most of the message is erased—except for the last word, which Leander quickly steps on and smudges away.

  She stares at the slimy puddle a moment, then shoves us away. “Incompetents, both of you. Ensign! Get them out of here.” A jittery soldier just a few years our senior appears and escorts us back to our cells.

  As soon as he’s gone, I pull the bone fragment from its hiding place and run the tip of my finger against its sharp, jagged edge.

  We won’t be here much longer, one way or another.

  eighteen

  I barely have time to wedge the bone into a corner crack in my cell when the others are herded back through the cell block at gunpoint by Styles and Renquist.

  “We haven’t got all day!” Renquist barks.

  The six of them look as bad as I feel. Dark hammocks cradle bloodshot eyes. Their skin is mired in gruesome muck.

  As they pass me, both Dahlia and Arrah make eye contact with Leander and me, a mixture of confusion and resentment. They’re probably wondering why we were separated from the rest. At least the two of them look like they’re keeping it together, still holding their heads high.

&nbs
p; That’s more than I can say for the rest of the Incentives.

  Styles waves his weapon at me and Leander, who’s also standing at the threshold of his cell, across from me. “You two! Get your asses in line with the rest of ’em!”

  Leander and I join the formation. Soon we’re trailing through the familiar maze like rats until we reach the showers.

  “Strip!” Renquist orders.

  No one says anything as we slip out of our clothes. Exhaustion is much more potent than modesty.

  Styles lets out a sinewy whistle. He sidles up to Dahlia and tugs at the torn shirt draped over her bare shoulder. “Need any help with that?” he snickers.

  She gives him a look that could cut and cauterize and turns away, flinging her clothes at his boots.

  His walkie crackles to life. Get the Incentives prepped and over to the tanks, stat!

  Cassius’s voice.

  Tanks? What is he planning on doing to us now?

  Before we can head under the shower heads, Renquist steps forward holding a hose, which uncoils behind him like a monstrous serpent. He’s grinning. “Sorry, folks. Haven’t got time for anything else.”

  Styles lets out a whoop as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard and spins the valve on the wall. They hose us down.

  After what seems like forever, the onslaught stops and we’re left naked and freezing, hugging our bodies, the chamber echoing with chattering teeth and rapid breaths.

  “Let’s go!” Styles snarls. He leads the way while Renquist follows behind. From somewhere ahead I can hear the soft sounds of sobbing, but I’m not sure who it’s coming from.

  As the passageway veers into a new direction, I again concentrate on memorizing it, the number of steps, every turn, every grate. The corridor finally opens into a large room with gangways crisscrossing pools of black water, almost like the hangar bay the Eel docked in when we arrived.

  Instead of submarines, however, dark sacks hang from the ceiling by cables. They’re like chunks of meat hanging in a butchery, except they’re vaguely formed into the shape of a human body. I swallow past the knot in my throat.

  There are eight of them—one for each of us.

  Armored personnel hustle about like bees in a hive, checking gauges, observing monitors, checking printouts. Styles and Renquist lead us down one of the gangways until we’re all standing directly below the ominous black casings.

  A whir of grinding pulleys echoes through the room as the shapes descend until they’re at eye-level. One is noticeably smaller than the others and I glance at Corin, trying to control my sadness and rage.

  Then the pods open like metallic jaws. Inside the padded interior I can see a miniature screen at eye-level, as well as small speakers surrounding a headrest area.

  The Incentives shall now enter the Bio-Pods.

  “Inside,” Renquist growls, shoving the muzzle of his gun into my arm.

  Fear bores through my heart and into my stomach. I grip the sides of the pod. The material’s coated with a slimy lubricant and feels like a giant, leathery tongue. I hesitate on the gangway.

  “I can’t go in there,” Jorgen gasps. All traces of cockiness are gone. His eyes are riveted on the pod before him. Mr. Ryland looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.

  Tristin grips Corin’s hand, both of them silent, expressionless. The kid looks almost catatonic.

  Then I’m shoved roughly between the shoulder blades and into my own pod. I have just enough time to catch a glimpse of Leander, Arrah, and Dahlia, their expressions grave as they’re jostled into their respective pods, before the enclosure seals closed with a soft pop, like a dark kiss. I’m plunged into pitch black.

  My heart clatters against my ribs. The icy gelatinous mucus of the Bio-Pod closes in all around me, jamming into my ears, my nostrils, hardening against the contours of my body like drying cement. I’m paralyzed. My pulse thrums against the substance. Can’t move. Can’t see. Completely powerless.

  Like being buried alive.

  The infrared goggles I spied earlier have come online and I can make out the personnel scrambling to perform their duties in the hangar.

  In one corner of the screen, superimposed over this image, are four thumbnail video feeds showing Cage, Crowley, Boaz, and Drusilla. They each appear to be barely clad, the guys bare-chested and in briefs, Drusilla in a tank top and shorts. All of them are standing on the bank of a dark body of water, just like the one the Bio-Pods are dangling over.

  In the other corner of the screen is a display of readouts, with each Incentive’s name listed. Next to each name is data listed under the headings Oxygen Levels and BPM.

  Right now, everyone’s O2 reading is exactly the same: one hundred percent. The heartbeat readings are another matter. Mine seems to be holding steady at ninety-five beats per minute. Higher than normal, but not too bad.

  I study the oxygen readouts once again. If they’re keeping track of how much air we have in these prisons, it must mean we’re going to start losing it during the course of this Trial. As the implications sink in, the blip on the screen next to my name increases its pace.

  Ninety-eight BPMs.

  One-hundred and two BPMs.

  Welcome Recruits to your next Trial!

  Cassius’s hateful voice startles me in my cramped confines. Cage and the others stand at attention as Cassius continues.

  In this Trial, each Recruit will be required to dive into the sea and retrieve the Bio-Pods containing each of their Incentives, which have been marked accordingly.

  While the instructions are being relayed, I can feel my Bio-Pod vibrating as the pulleys overhead begin lowering it into the ocean. The bobbing hangar bay I saw before begins to pull away. My stomach churns. The lower half of my goggle screen fills with bubbles, then darkness that quickly devours the remaining light.

  Then the black sea is all around me, gulping down my body, which rocks with sickening turbulence as I plummet into the depths.

  This is a race. Each Bio-Pod has been equipped with a limited amount of oxygen. You must retrieve both of your Incentives before their oxygen levels become depleted …

  My Bio-Pod tumbles end over end, spinning me upside down, right side up. I fight the urge to puke, concerned that if I do I’ll just choke on it in this watery prison.

  Choose the order of your retrieval carefully, Cassius continues. Whichever Incentive remains submerged when their oxygen runs out shall be the losing Recruit’s de facto choice to be shelved. If more than one Recruit is unable to retrieve both Incentives, that Recruit will also be considered to have failed, making a choice as well.

  With a thud, my Bio-Pod strikes the ocean floor. I’m resting at an angle, but at least I’m not upside down.

  Onscreen, the Recruits stand at the water’s edge, bodies arced, waiting to receive the signal.

  Be cautious. The sea is filled with all manner of natural obstacles. Good Luck. Begin!

  The four Recruits plunge into the water.

  My eyes dart to the oxygen levels, which have all already dipped to ninety-nine percent. In the murky depths, I can make out the ghosts of some of the other pods, swaying like restless sleepers in the current, but I can’t tell who’s who.

  A shadow falls across my shell. Something jostles my Bio-Pod, shifting its angle. Every muscle locks.

  A hand appears at the faceplate of my pod, smearing the dark glass. I recognize Cage’s face. His eyes are pools of desperation and fear as they dart back and forth, not a hint of recognition nesting in them.

  He drifts from view. I glance at his monitor, which shows him hovering over the Bio-Pod next to mine, repeating the same frantic ritual.

  Then it hits me. While we can track the Recruits via the feeds from the cameras attached to the surface of the suits, they can’t see us. Whatever choice each Recruit’s making as to who to rescue first is p
urely guesswork.

  My eyes flick to my vitals readout. Oxygen level: eighty-two percent.

  Cage grabs Tristin’s pod, and then mine, attempting to swim with both of us to the surface. My pod sways and bounces, then stops. Cage’s face looks like he’s straining, the veins in his forehead pulsating, his cheeks bulging. He’s running out of air.

  A second later he shakes his head and lets go of me, kicking his feet as he glides upward with Tristin’s pod. He disappears in a trail of bubbles.

  My Bio-Pod bounces to a rest on the ocean floor once again.

  At least Cage will be pleased he made the right choice.

  Oxygen level: sixty-eight percent. I squeeze my eyes shut as another wave of claustrophobia slams into me. I focus on the monitors and readouts.

  Drusilla and Crowley are already making their way back to the surface, each towing Bio-Pods of their own. It could mean that Dahlia and Arrah are safe, but the bio-readouts for the Incentives are impossible to interpret. The racing heartbeats could mean elation at being rescued or terror at being left behind.

  Boaz is in last place, just having picked one of his Incentive’s Bio-Pods before scrambling after the others. Since that pod is smaller than the others it means that at least poor Corin is safe.

  I hear a quiet sound. And then a steady stream, like the sewage sloshing through the sewer tunnels back home.

  An even deeper cold slices through the numbness in my lower extremities and I force myself to look down. Ocean water is seeping into my pod, climbing past my feet, my ankles, my calves. The Establishment isn’t taking any chances. At this rate, they’ll drown us before the oxygen levels are depleted.

  My anxiety levels kick into overdrive. The door in my mind blasts open, letting in a tsunami of ice-cold panic that engulfs everything in its path. “Get me out of here! ” I screech, buckling against the confines of the capsule.

  But it’s no use. My throat’s raw, my stomach twisted like a wrung-out washcloth.

  Oxygen level: thirty-eight percent.

  My breaths are quick rasps bursting through my ears like the chugging of a steam engine, growing faster and faster. I’m starting to feel dizzy, like I’m going to pass out. Lightning jets through my hands, feet, and lips. I’m hyperventilating, losing too much carbon dioxide. The realization makes me feel floaty.