The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

by Santos, Steven dos

  Her parents. But only one of them is lit in green—her mother, the Incentive who survived the Trials when Arrah was a Recruit.

  My heart is at full throttle while I scroll to the option labeled Begin Interactive Simulation and press the enter key. A low hum fills the room and an image appears on the computer screen. I see the resemblance immediately. Arrah’s mother is staring down at me with a smile on her face. It looks like a real-time video. She’s outside somewhere; it’s a beautiful summer day with a lake glistening in the background.

  I turn to whisper to Digory. “She’s supposed to be at Haven, the Incentive compound somewhere.”

  “Why, of course I’m at Haven. Where else would I be?” she asks, startling me with her cheerfulness.

  “You can hear me?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yes, I can hear you.”

  It’s uncanny. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear we’d actually established a live feed with her. My mind’s racing. What if we have, somehow? If I could track the location of Haven—

  Digory tugs my arm and point at a list of other options.

  Age Progression. Time of Day. Location. Health variables.

  A rapid clatter fills the room as I select one option after another, watching as Arrah’s mother ages—a few years. Ten. Twenty. At the tap of a key, the simulated figure changes location. Outdoor lakes become indoor fireplaces. Day becomes night. Eyes swell as if with a minor cold, then look more sickly, and then look the picture of health.

  “Are you Arrah’s mother? ” I finally ask.

  She nods. “Of course I am. Have you seen my daughter? I miss her very much.”

  On the computer, information scrolls by. Line after line of data, information on Arrah and her mother down to the most minute details. All the information one would need to replicate a perfect copy capable of interacting with their loved ones.

  All this time, Arrah and the others held on to the belief that those they loved were safe.

  But it’s a lie.

  All this time, the Incentives haven’t been safe in Haven. They’ve been here, in Sanctum.

  Which means that there are those in the Establishment who are in collusion with Sanctum and what’s going on here.

  I look around at the capsules crowded in the chamber.

  They may as well be tombs.

  thirty-three

  I sag against Digory as if I’ve been struck. He’s taken over the keyboard from me, scrolling through the names of prisoners with the designation Incompatible Specimen by their names. As he pulls up their data, my eyes grow wide.

  The bodies of those that reject the bio-mechanical synth are broken down for food processing.

  Those crackers, passed around and consumed during their religious rites …

  Consume the flesh of the Begetter and become one …

  I brace myself against the terminal. Bile rises in my throat and I fight the urge to retch. Terror engulfs me. This is even worse than all the horrors I’ve seen combined.

  Digory reaches out to me, but I push him out of the way and type a name in the search field.

  Lucian Spark.

  Instantly, all the data associated with my Recruitment appears onscreen, along with entries for Mrs. Bledsoe.

  And Cole.

  Beside Mrs. Bledsoe’s name, there’s a notation in red:

  Subject Shelved. Interactive Simulation inactive.

  I select the entry anyway and her face appears onscreen. The lump in my throat makes it nearly impossible to smile. She’s smiling at me like Arrah’s mother was, and looking the picture of health, so unlike that ghastly apparition I saw deep in the tunnels of the Skein when I was a Recruit.

  “Mrs. Bledsoe,” I whisper.

  Her eyes light up. “Oh, Lucky! It’s so good to see you, boy!” Even through my tears, I can see how she’s beaming with pride. “You’ve grown into quite the young man. I always knew you would.”

  The simulation must be programmed to respond to my voice pattern, which it does—too perfectly. For a second it’s like glimpsing an alternate future, one that might have been if it hadn’t been so cruelly ripped away.

  I tap the next selection before I lose my nerve. Mrs. Bledsoe’s face disappears, replaced by Cole’s face.

  Cole smiles at me. “When are you gonna come see me, Lucky?” he asks.

  Digory’s hands grip my shoulders, steadying me.

  “I’m coming home real soon,” I whisper. I toggle through the options, watching Cole age, become a man in seconds before my very eyes, then grow older. The one thing that never seems to change is his eyes, trusting, believing in me.

  Unlike Mrs. Bledsoe’s, this is a future that can still happen.

  That will happen, if I have anything to say about it.

  I scroll further down the menu under my name and see something at the bottom of the list that almost makes my heart stop.

  Sowing Protocol initiated on test subject Spark, L.

  Digory’s eyes grow wide.

  “Digory—you mentioned this Sowing thing in your last transmission to the rebels on Recruitment Day,” I say urgently. “You found out about it while spying on Cassius and you said it was very dangerous. What did you mean? Tell me.”

  He grips a fistful of his hair. His eyes narrow and the muscles in his jaw clench. Finally he turns to me, slowly shaking his head.

  Whatever they did to him at Infiernos has blocked the memory.

  My heart’s racing as I try to access the file, but all I get is the same message.

  Highly Classified. Access Restricted.

  What have they done to me? And what have they already done to Cole?

  Crowley’s groan of pain mirrors my own. Digory and I rush to his side.

  “I don’t want to be like them … ” His grips tightens and his eyes grow wide. “Kill me, Spark. Please … ”

  I tear myself from his grasp, backing into Digory.

  All these capsules … they’re all people from the Parish. Over the years, countless Recruits have fought for their Incentives’ lives, only to be rewarded by having the people they loved most mutilated and transformed into Fleshers.

  Digging into my pocket, I pull out the transceiver and make sure it’s set to the right channel. I’m not sure of its range, but I have to at least try to transmit the files to Arrah and the others. They need to know what’s going on here.

  Rifling through the lab, I find a data chip, and in a few anxious minutes have downloaded the information, plugged it into the device and hit transmit. The signal’s weak, and there’s no way of telling if my message was received, but there’s nothing else I can do.

  But I don’t send anything related to this Sowing Protocol. Not until I find out what it is and what they’ve done to me.

  “Spark, I’m begging you. It hurts so much.” Crowley begins to sob.

  His words feel like a knife carving me from side to side. There’s a small part of me that wants to flee. But after everything I’ve been through, all the suffering I’ve seen, I understand what it feels like to want to die. If I turn away, I’ll awaken every night to Crowley’s pleas in my head, knowing I could have stopped his agony and did nothing.

  Breathing deep, I take a step toward the capsule.

  But Digory beats me to it. He reaches his hands inside and I hear Crowley’s cries become muffled. The cords on Digory’s neck pulse with the effort. His face turns red, even as his eyes well.

  Crowley’s gurgling starts to fade. And then it’s gone.

  Digory bows his head and I rest my hand on his shoulder.

  Then the lights on Crowley’s capsule begin to flash and the blare of an alarm fills the room.

  I’m already pulling Digory away, but we’re not quick enough. Shadows descend around us, dropping out of the ceiling like huge arachnids spiraling down invi
sible webs. Four huge Fleshers land on the ground, surrounding us. The same four that always escort Straton wherever he goes—except for now.

  Digory snarls at them. The muscles in his neck and arms pulse under the strobe of the Fleshers’ lights. I assume my own attack stance. Although we’re outnumbered and outmatched, I’m not going to go down without a fight. Maybe we can even inflict some damage before we’re taken.

  There’s a series of sharp clicks as flaps of skin on the creatures’ arms burst open. Long, metallic appendages squeeze out from the flesh, dripping that slimy dark ooze that passes for blood. The sharpened probes inch toward us …

  Game time.

  Digory lunges, grabbing the glistening instrument and twisting it away even as he leaps onto that Flesher’s shoulders. I whirl and strike the Flesher in front of me with a roundhouse kick. My foot throbs with the impact, but the automaton barely stumbles backwards.

  The next few seconds are a blur. Flashes of steel strike my body. I roll, kick, punch as these horrors lash out with their hideous tentacles and sharpened pincers, steel teeth chattering like the whirring blades of meat grinders. At one point, Digory somehow manages to twist the instruments of two Fleshers together, forcing them to engage in a screeching bout of tug-of-war to free themselves.

  I’m hurled hard onto my back, which sends a flash of pain through my spine. A blade pistons out from the Flesher’s throat. I manage to shove my head aside and, a split second later, the blade smashes into the floor beside me, spraying my face with chunks of cold tile. Before I can roll out of the way, the pincers crash down on either side of my neck, pinning me into position. The cold, slimy metal instrument presses against my throat, making it hard to breathe as it cuts into my skin.

  My eyes begin to water. I manage to twist my head to the side, ignoring the pain of the pincers cutting the sides of my neck. It’s taken the three other Fleshers to finally overpower Digory and pin him to the ground. Through the blur I can see the fresh cuts and welts on his heaving torso where his jumpsuit has been torn away, leaving only the gleaming silver of my ID tag over his heart, rising and falling with each breath. He goes out of focus for a moment. Then our eyes meet, and I see the mixture of fury and tenderness there.

  Whir.

  I shift my gaze to the Flesher holding me down. It’s face is expressionless as the pincers begin to contract, cutting deeper, squeezing out all my air.

  Digory unleashes an agonized cry that wrenches what’s left of my soul from me.

  I close my eyes, hoping it’ll be over soon, waiting for the death grip to cleave my neck in two—

  It doesn’t happen.

  I open my eyes. The Flesher is still staring at me with those soulless eyes. But the pressure around my neck decreases. One if its long silver probes moves toward my chest, a gruesome steel finger. I brace myself as the icy talon grazes my skin, expecting it to tear into my rib cage and pluck out my heart.

  Instead, the probe traces a path to my throat. There’s a low clink as it grips the chain around my neck—Digory’s ID tag—and holds it up. Infrared beams spill from the creature’s ocular sensor, bathing the tag in hues of greenish blue.

  What the hell’s going on here?

  I glance in Digory’s direction and see the Flesher holding him perform the same scan on the tag around his neck.

  The Flesher scanning my chain emits some kind of low rumble.

  The four Fleshers’ lights blink erratically for a moment before they all sync in a steady pulse.

  It’s like they’re communicating and have reached an agreement of some kind.

  The pincers retract.

  Digory and I exchange looks of puzzled relief.

  A socket in the abdominal cavity of the Flesher above me springs open. The creature pulls something from it, something dripping with dark goo, and dangles it in front of me.

  Swallowing hard, I reach up a tentative hand and touch the warm links. Four chains.

  Four Recruit ID tags, just like ours.

  My heart races as I wipe away the slimy matter to make out the names, already knowing what I’ll see written there.

  The names of the four remaining Recruits of the Fallen Five.

  The holograms of those four people with Straton when we first arrived were illusions. Just like the doctored holograms of the surviving Incentives. Nothing but decoys to distract us and throw us off the scent.

  This is what really happened to the Fallen Five. This is the grisly fate that Orestes Goslin escaped almost eleven years ago, that drove him mad and turned him into a crazed cannibal.

  The missing Recruits were mutated into Fleshers—by Straton and the denizens of Sanctum.

  Taking a deep breath, I release the ID tags and squirm out from under my captor, as does Digory. Inch by inch, we crawl our way toward each other, my senses on alert, expecting the Fleshers to attack at any second.

  But they remain still.

  We help each other to our feet and begin to back away from the foursome. There must be a part of the Fallen Five, still beating within their organic husks, that remembers what they once were—before they became the very first of Sanctum’s drones.

  As we reach the edge of the lab I take one last look at the Fleshers, still immobile behind us.

  A thin, dark trail, starting in its optical sensor, drips a pathway down the face of the Flesher that pinned me.

  Oil or blood—or something else. I can’t tell.

  Then we’re running from that terrible place as fast as we can.

  thirty-four

  Sirens blare as Digory and I race through the winding corridors of the hive. Overhead, emergency beacons spiral, creating a dizzying strobing effect that wreaks havoc on any sense of direction I have left. My lungs churn overtime trying to compensate for each ragged breath I manage to take, competing with the throbbing in my chest and ears. Several times we overrun a turn and have to double back to dart down a passage, only to dash in the opposite direction as sinister silhouettes appear just ahead, closing in on us.

  By now the entire processing plant must know we’re here, and they’re probably trying to initiate some kind of lockdown. They can’t afford for us to escape and get back to the Parish with everything we know.

  Somehow we manage to make it back up to the level we came in on. Up ahead, a sliver of light tantalizes us with the hope of escape.

  No. Even if we make it out of here and manage to fight our way to one of the elevators to the surface, that still leaves the problem of transportation. With no ride back to the Parish, we’ll be recaptured before we can get a gulp of putrid surface air.

  My hand locks onto Digory’s arm. “We have to find one of the ships they’re gonna use to get to the Parish and get the hell out of here.”

  Dark shapes appear in the corridors on either side of us.

  Without looking back, we race down the hallway ahead to where a lone Flesher stands barring the way.

  Digory doesn’t even pause an instant. He just leaps and crashes into the thing, pummeling it with his fists. The Flesher’s mechanisms squeal and whir as it tries to dislodge him. In seconds, flailing, stabbing instruments whip from its exoskeleton, trying to skewer its attacker.

  As valiant a fight as Digory’s putting up, he won’t be able to hold the Flesher off too much longer. I can already hear the clatter of approaching feet behind us. Pouncing, I grab one of the Flesher’s appendages—some type of snapping pincer—and jam it against one of the power cables lining the wall. I let go just as the instrument clips the cable with a loud snap. Sparks bursts, raining mini-fire on my exposed skin. The Flesher bucks and jerks as if it’s having convulsions.

  There’s a part of me that squirms at the idea that this thing, having a seizure in front of my eyes, was a vital human being before Cassius, Straton, and Sanctum genetically altered it in their miserable quest to play the role of gods
.

  Digory shoves the pitiful thing away from us. Then he grabs me in his other arm and pulls me across a threshold.

  My fist slams a panel on the wall just as our pursuers reach us. A steel door crashes closed behind us, cutting them off.

  I lean against it, my body vibrating from the heavy thudding coming from the other side. “It’s not going to take them long to get through to us,” I manage to say through heavy breaths.

  Digory’s not paying attention to me. His eyes are riveted on something beyond us, and I turn to follow his gaze.

  My breath is torn away.

  “Looks like we found a ship,” I barely whisper.

  The entire room is a huge hangar bay, filled with row after row of V-shaped craft. But it’s not just the magnitude of the ships that’s shocking. It’s the ships themselves. Like the Fleshers, each craft is a combination of metal, steel, and organic matter, all fused together in an obscene marriage of biology and machine. Gleaming exhaust ports grow out of slimy, pulsating skins, engines whir even as cockpit doors tear apart with the squish of organic matter in an obscene synthesis. Fuel lines throb like giant umbilical cords, pumping who knows what into each vehicle.

  And scurrying around the crafts are legions of Fleshers, thousands upon thousands, some clanking along like living forklifts, others zipping around on wheels, while even others clatter along on all fours like giant insects, their skins splitting open and sprouting vast arrays of gleaming silver instruments as they dart about, servicing their ships.

  I almost want to cover my ears to shield them from all the buzzing, clomping, and snapping that vibrates through the air. Air that smells like a mixture of fuel and the barely perceptible stench of meat that’s just starting to go bad.

  Then it occurs to me. These are more than just scouts on a diplomatic mission.

  It’s an army.

  A huge screen dominates the far side of the hangar bay. On it is an aerial view of the Parish. It seems that Sanctum has the Parish under close surveillance. They must have spies on the inside, spies within the innermost workings of the Establishment.