by Nick James
Fire exploded where his hand met the ground and arced around him in a half-circle before spreading outward like a deadly scythe, tearing through the figures on its way to the wall of shacks beyond. He prayed it would cut off before catching on any of the buildings, but once it had left his body, there was no controlling it. The old wood went up instantly. The fire spread through the city block with dangerous speed.
Worse yet, the figures remained standing, completely immune to the flames. Cassius stumbled to his feet and stepped back, realizing with horror the true nature of their black bodysuits. Fireproof. Of course. If they had been sent to capture him, why wouldn’t they take the necessary precautions?
Now he’d started a blaze in the most dangerous part of the city for nothing. People would lose their homes. There would be fatalities. It was the Washington Chute all over again. He’d killed. He’d been stupid and he’d killed.
The figures approached with ferocity now, surging at him like one multi-limbed monster. Two grabbed his arms and pulled him to the ground. Others restrained his legs. He struggled, but they were too strong. There were too many. Fire didn’t hurt them. Fire was all he had.
One remained standing. Cassius watched as the soldier removed a tube from somewhere at his hip. As the object neared closer, he recognized it as a syringe filled with a paleblue liquid. Cassius’s eyes widened as the figure crouched low, straddled his legs, and brought the point of the needle to his neck.
Then, with his free hand, the figure ripped off his mask.
Cassius’s mouth dropped. For a moment the horror and futility of the situation melted as he stared at the face of Avery Wicksen. Fisher’s girl. The same one who had disappeared in Seattle, who had been captured and brought to Unified Party quarters. She’d helped Fisher run away from Madame. She was one of Alkine’s good guys. Or at least, she was supposed to be.
“What are you doing—” He managed to speak, then coughed as a knee rammed his diaphragm.
She didn’t smile or frown or show that she recognized him at all. Instead, she pushed down on the end of the syringe, sending sharp metal through his skin.
Immediately, he felt a surge of cool liquid into his blood stream. His legs and arms went limp, then numb. Avery stared down at him, her soft brown hair glowing in the sunlight, a hint of fading freckles on either side of her nose. Cassius could tell why Fisher had been so infatuated with her. She was beautiful, even now.
His eyelids became heavy and he found it harder and harder to stay conscious. Soon it wasn’t even worth fighting anymore. The figures released their hold on him. He wasn’t going anywhere.
7
Red. Water. Rocks.
Something’s wrong, I’m sure of that, but it’s too vague a feeling to act on.
My bracelet hummed for about twenty minutes yesterday afternoon, then again last night. It’s trying to tell me something, just like it did four months ago after it first fused to my wrist. Back then, it was a message from my mother about the Authority. Now it’s far less clear. Today’s the Sophomore Tour—an unnecessary distraction from the mysteries I really need to be solving. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Dembo was so keen on me participating.
It’s a bizarre shift, coming from the gray room yesterday morning to the training room now. Agent Morse escorted me to breakfast this morning, and then to the locker room to get suited up. He’s probably waiting at Lookout Park to watch me finish the Tour. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had monitors tracking my every move. That way, if I step out of line, they can charge in here and restrain me. The Sophomore Tour. They say it’s a tradition for us Year Tens. I hear public beheading used to be a tradition hundreds of years ago. It doesn’t mean that it’s okay. It’s the first Friday of the training year, a soul-draining
obstacle course from the bottom of the Skyship to Lookout Park on the top level. The rules are simple: start at the entrance to the docking bay and “survive” until you reach Lookout. No elevators or stairs. That’d be too easy. The Tour’s a mass big deal here, even for the adults. Even in these trying times, there are hoards of them up at the park now, sitting on the sidelines waiting to cheer on their favorite students like it’s some sick parade.
Maybe it would be better if it was just an endurance thing, but it’s not. Hiding within the Academy’s nooks and crannies are Agents waiting to get you. They’ve got these guns—not loaded, though in my case who knows—that shoot sticker tags. Each tag’s a penalty, and the more you have on your body by the time you get to Lookout, the crappier you get to feel about yourself. We’re ranked by time and number of penalties. My back is covered with the stupid stickers, so I guess I gotta count on speed. Too bad, because I’ve already seen half my class pass by, including Eva and Skandar.
I shift my grip and wrap my blistered fingers around the width of a sweat-dampened rope until I’m stable again.
I hang in the center of one of the Academy’s gym-sized training rooms, halfway between the battlefield and the balcony. No, not even halfway.
They usually use this place for games like Bunker Ball, outfitted with projected battlefields and skills courses.
Today it’s empty, except for the ropes.
I glance above me. With every second I hesitate, the thought of pulling myself up to the balcony seems more impossible. After that, I’ve got to navigate the catacombs above the training room on my way to the secret underground exit leading to the park.
One hand in front of the other. One hand in front of the other.
I repeat the mantra in my head, willing my body to follow through. The alternative is letting go and hitting the mats below, but then I’d have to start all over. Not only that, but I bet an Agent would pop around the corner and tag me with another sticker. They’re heartless like that. I grit my teeth and pull, wrapping my feet around the swaying rope. My muscles strain and heat up like I’m about to break a Pearl. I’ll be feeling this for days. I manage to move a foot closer to the ledge. Seems like nothing, but I’d kill to do it again. Across the length of the balcony hang a dozen other ropes, each separated by a narrow gap. Most are empty. Manjeet Rajah, another Year Ten, struggles four ropes over. I can tell he’s hating this as much as I am. He’s a science guy, not a soldier. But seeing him fight with his rope strengthens my motivation. This whole thing’s meant to be a race anyway. At least I have someone to race against.
With that in mind, I yank up, ignoring my trembling, about-to-burst arms. Three more pulls and my muscles give out. I press my toes inward and weave my fingers together. I grip on for life as the rope wobbles, sending me in rapid, nauseous circles.
I close my eyes and try to recharge myself. I pretend I’m holding a Pearl, that it’s covering me in its healing green glow. As the rope becomes still again, I take a deep breath and prepare for the final assault. One more strong pull ought to do it. The ledge is only a foot above me now. I can practically reach out and grab it.
Distracted by my own little struggle, I don’t hear the footsteps above me until a dark-skinned hand reaches over the lip of the balcony.
I glance up and meet Manjeet’s eyes. An exhausted smile spreads along his sweat-dampened face.
“C’mon, man,” he wheezes.
I cautiously release my right hand and grab onto his wrist, letting him supply the extra strength to get me up over the ledge and onto the balcony. I take a look down at the empty gym before sinking to my knees, panting.
“How’d you get up here so fast?”
“Fast?” He laughs. “I think we’re the last two.”
“No.” I run my hand through my wet hair. “I swear I saw Allison and Bernice down there.”
He frowns. “The last two guys, then.”
I fall on my back and stare at the maze of dark catacombs above us.
Manjeet sits beside me, breathing hard. “Hey, wanna help each other out?”
“Isn’t that against the rules?”
“Not technically.”
I rub my biceps, hoping they’ll stop going all
psycho on me. “I’ve been up there before, in the catacombs. Just once, with—” I catch myself before her name escapes my lips. Avery.
I can’t say it out loud.
“If we hug the left side there’s rungs fastened into the walls,” I continue. “We can make it halfway using those before we have to do some jumping.”
“Jumping?” Manjeet’s expression wavers. After the Rope of Hell, I understand where he’s coming from. “There’re these big panels up top. The gap’s only a couple of feet at most. They’ll hold us.”
Manjeet sighs. “This is not how I wanted to spend my afternoon. Can’t you just, y’know, fly us up there or something?”
I pull myself to my feet and take a deep breath while stretching. “What do you mean?”
“You know … some of the guys told me they saw you floating through the level three corridor a couple of nights ago. Like a ghost.”
This is the worst thing. Captain Alkine’s been vague with the student body about what’s really going on. Rumors are bouncing around everywhere. Maybe it would be better to get it all out in the open. But I don’t even know everything yet, and I’m not sure I could explain it to someone like Manjeet anyway. Part of me wouldn’t want to see his reaction when he learned how different I am.
“They’re making it up,” I say. “If I could fly, don’t you think I would’ve zipped up here instead of doing all this climbing?”
He’s about to reply when a voice rings out from the entrance to the catacombs. “Fisher!”
I watch August Bergmann emerge from the darkness, flanked on either side by a pair of Year Eleven boys, each blockier and less-friendly looking than the other. August himself is the blockiest of all the blocky. His broad, smarmy face is impossibly to stomach.
For a few weeks after Seattle he left me alone. I’m not sure if he was afraid of what I could do, or if he just needed time to reload. Whatever the case, he’s back to throw dirt in my face.
I struggle to my feet. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be up at Lookout, cheering us on?” He crosses his arms, blocking our path. “I was at Lookout, but you’re taking so long that I figured I’d have time to come down here, run a few laps, and make my way back before you were done.”
Manjeet freezes beside me. He stares at the floor. I’m sure he’s had his fair share of run-ins with people like August.
“That’s a lot of stickers, Fisher.” August points his finger at me like a gun, cocks it, and shoots. “Blam blam blam blam blam blam blam.”
“You’re gonna be in trouble when they find out you’re on the course.”
An eyebrow raises. “Not as much as you. That was you two nights ago, yeah? With the Pearl?”
I shrug.
He grabs the shoulder of the guy to his right. “Jensen here was in the showers after a late-night training run.” Jensen frowns. “The lights went out.” His voice is an almost incomprehensible, deep mumble. “Water turned cold.”
I nearly laugh, but if I do it’ll send August’s fist flying right into my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
August steps forward. “I’m not stupid. I didn’t suit up and head to Seattle last spring just so I could rescue a traitor.”
The fact that he thinks that he rescued me is beyond hilarious. Yeah, he was one of dozens of soldiers sent down to fight the Unified Party, but as far as I’m concerned, he was lucky not to get himself killed in all of the commotion. “Me and the Year Elevens,” he continues, as if he speaks for all Year Elevens, “we’re not happy with what you’re doing. Destroying Pearls—whatever’s going on—that’s Unified Party stuff. That’s Pearlhound work. And the fact that the teachers let you carry on like normal makes me sick.
Just admit it. You’re a traitor. Everything since Seattle has been planned. You’ve been working with the Unified Party behind our backs. Some of the guys are even saying you’re related to one of them.”
I bite my lip. “People say a lot of things.”
“It’s sabotage,” he continues. “Alkine’s keeping you onboard, but he’s gotta know.”
Manjeet’s hands quiver. “Maybe you shouldn’t rush to judgment until you’ve got all of the facts. Dr. Hemming would want you to—”
“Did I ask you a question?” August fumes.
His head goes down. “No.”
August continues to approach until he’s within striking distance. He could do anything. He could trip me and push me off the platform altogether if he wanted to. “You know,” he whispers, “if I were to knock you out and drag you outside the ship … leave you in the middle of nowhere so that you couldn’t find your way back, there are plenty of people onboard that would call me a hero, including some of the adults.”
My back tenses. I inch away from him, but I can’t go far. A few more steps and I’ll be falling back to the mats. If I had a Pearl right now, I’d show him what I can really do. I’d wipe the smug look from his face.
My lip quivers. I try not to let it, but I can’t help it. My voice is small, retreated somewhere inside of me. “So what are you gonna do?”
His eyes narrow. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about it, you know… the consequences. Weighing the good and the bad. I always knew there was something different about you, Fisher, but I never gave you enough credit. That’s my mistake. It all fits together now.”
“You’re an idiot.” I refuse to meet his eyes.
“What did you say?”
“An idiot,” I repeat, louder. “A moron. You know … stupid.”
He shakes his head, visibly distressed.
“You’re jealous,” I continue. “Aren’t you? That’s what it really is. You’re just upset that all of Alkine’s attention is on me. You’re … you’re not the important one for once.” Manjeet grabs my shoulder. “Jesse … ”
August stands still for a moment, shoulders tense. Then, before I can react, his fist connects with my stomach. I bend forward, then stagger to the side. The heel of my shoe hangs off the edge of the platform for a split second before I stumble back to safety. I can’t talk. Can barely breathe.
He’s about to punch me again when a voice rings across the ceiling, emanating from speakers all around us. It’s Mrs. Dembo. “Year Elevens!” she bellows. “Get off my course!” August’s friends scatter. August sneers at me for a moment longer, unwilling to move. But I barely see him. Something else happens.
My vision goes red. I don’t know if it was triggered by the force of his punch or not. I topple onto my side. Manjeet panics. “You’ve killed him!”
August prods my leg with his foot before stepping away. “No, I haven’t. He’s just a freak, doing what freaks do.” I barely hear him. The heavy red begins to fade. Then, clear as a photograph, the coastline pulls into view again.
Only this time it’s different. I can manipulate it now, like I’m a bird staring down at the land. I pull away and steal a wider view. I twist in the air and see the pathway to the Academy—every last inch of it, all at once. Coordinates flash in my mind, exact crosshairs targeting the destination. I see everything, and in such detail that it’s almost too much. I imagine the Drifters sending the information to me. They’ve got to be doing it. They’re reaching out. They’re helping me.
My eyes snap open. The ceiling tiles of the training room blur into view, but the memory of the coastline remains. It’s burned into me.
“Jesse.” Manjeet crouches by my side. “Are you okay?” I nod. Never been better.
I’ve got it. I know where to find them.
8
Cassius woke with a start. His head jerked back and banged against a wall, sending a jolt of shock through his skull. His hands were pulled unnaturally to his sides, his legs bundled together and secured to the metal behind him.
He smelled it instantly, like coming home. Even after the fire he had conjured destroyed much of the main floor last spring, the sterile, scrubbed-down smell lingered—the hint of lavender that she ins
isted must always hang around. Memories flooded his barely conscious brain. Training courses, conversations, faces. He had no doubt. He was in the Lodge.
He took note of his surroundings, trying to discern what wing he was in. He knew the building inside and out, yet this room was unfamiliar. It was no bigger that the infirmary he’d woken in after his first explosion, and empty. A wall of cabinets hung to his right, each door shut and locked. Temperature-controlled air seeped in through the ceiling, pristine and cool.
He struggled against the restraints. No use. He was trapped.
His mind rocketed back to the slum lands of Providence—Avery Wicksen’s cold, emotionless face staring back at him as she injected the fluid into his neck. If he was truly in the Lodge now, they’d have traveled thousands of miles past the border and into New York State. He’d been unconscious the entire time, unable to remember any of it. Helpless for hours. They could have done anything to him.
He nearly lost it for a moment. It was the smell, mostly. He knew all of the officials at the Lodge on a first-name basis. He’d had friends here. Not real ones, but acquaintances nonetheless. Had they watched him being carried in? The murderer who had double-crossed their leader and left her for dead? If Cassius had been in their position five months ago, he would’ve wanted revenge. They’d be right to hate him.
His breathing quickened. He forced himself to calm down. Panicking would cloud his mind.
The door handle turned.
He tensed as he watched the single door crack open. A shadow fell across the wall.
Then Madame entered.
His heart sunk. He blinked twice to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. His expression lost all composure. She’d be happy to see that, he knew.
Madame. Alive. Walking.
“No,” he started. “No, I saw you … ” He trailed off. Words couldn’t express it.
She stepped into the room with the same authoritative ease she’d possessed when he’d last lived at the Lodge, when he’d still considered himself her son. Her dark hair was tied back, not a single strand out of place. She wore a custom-fitted business suit. The sleeves of her white blouse spilled over her wrists. The familiar pair of delicate spectacles rested over her cold eyes. Below that, a scar ran down her left cheek until it met with the folds of her smile. But she wasn’t smiling.
