by Nirina Stone
She composes herself quickly, but I catch a slight flinch in her shoulders as I speak.
“At least,” I continue. “At least I was unconscious.” It doesn’t make it any better, but I can’t think about it all too much or I will end up in a corner feeling sorry for myself. That’s not productive and won’t do anyone any good right now. Besides, I’ve cried enough.
“What will you do?” she asks. I suppose there are options to me, but I’d rather not consider them.
Having a child never once figured in my plans for the future, so one would think the decision would be quick and easy. Still, there’s a small part of me that remains unsure.
“I don’t know,” I answer. It’s the best I can come up with for the moment. Before Knox is able to say anything, my Mirrorcomm flashes and beeps. “Must be Strohm,” I mutter, knowing that Mother told him ‘the news’ already.
Knox excuses herself, promising to come by later as I sit down and accept his call.
“Are you alright?” he asks, before I’m able to greet him. His eyes are narrowed, his forehead crumpled.
I nod and say, “Yes, exhausted but I’m fine. The Doc says I’m a hundred percent.”
“And the—and the baby?”
Not that I know how someone should react to this but he seems relatively—calm. “It’s fine too,” I say. “Growing as it should.” As it should, I think, though it shouldn’t exist in the first place.
Woah where did that thought come from? I’ve been confused, but that’s the first time I’ve thought anything actively negative towards the thing. I realize that I missed what Eric said last when he watches me expectantly. “Sorry,” I say. “Still having a hard time focusing. What did you say?”
“I said I’ll be there in a week,” Strohm says. “I’m on my way now. We have several stops on the way, but I can’t wait to be there.”
My eyebrows shoot up. That’s not something I expected. Why does an Apex Leader need to be here right now? “Why?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“I’ve missed you,” Strohm says. “And I’m worried about you.” Okay. I’m not sure what to do with that. We haven’t really had a relationship for months. Why is he really coming here? I wonder.
There goes my mind again. I catch only the last of Strohm’s words. “—well, have you?” he says.
“Have I what?”
He stops and tilts his head to the right. He probably thinks I’ve lost my mind. I’d agree with him.
“I said—I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately. Have you?”
Frankly, no, I think. Not even a little bit. There hasn’t really been an “us” in a long time. I stare back at him. “Why are you really coming, Strohm?” I ask.
“There are things we need to discuss,” he says. “I think they’re better handled in person.”
Okay. Just what I need right now—more complications. Still, I nod and decide to humour him. I know my alternative is to get into an argument, but I’m tired. “It will be nice to have you around again,” I say. I don’t have much more to say to Leader Strohm other than, “See you soon and safe travels.”
“The fires were started simultaneously,” Mother says. “They were set to destroy our entire community—they weren’t set merely as a distraction while they went in to collect Rojhay. The Northies have declared war on the Sorens. and the Sorens never back down from a fight.”
“But why, Mother?” I say. “Why did they declare war? Why now?”
We’re sitting in her office, sipping on tea while we chat. It’s the most we’ve spoken in a long time, so I take my time, hoping she’s not pulled away for something for a few more minutes.
She smiles at me. “Why do you think we left Apex, Romy?”
“We needed to set up a new colony here, in the north.”
“Why did we need to do that? We brought down the Prospo. We could have continued our life in Apex.”
It’s true—there is a large community there still re-building, but I didn’t want to stay there to see it happen. The north and its lush green open spaces was far more interesting for me.
“We wanted a new life,” I say. “We wanted to build and live somewhere new, start afresh. We wanted to see it for ourselves.”
She nods and smiles. “But you’re talking about a visit, a quick hop over to look at it and then go back home again.”
I realize that we needed to move here. We didn’t on a whim or desire—it was necessary. I knew that of course, but never sat down to really think it through until now.
“We needed more space,” I say. “More greenery, more food and a different environment.”
The Northies’ environment. The Northies’ food, the Northies’ greenery. They were here before we were and now that we’re here, they want us gone.
“Where did they live, Mother? Where were they when we first showed up?”
“They were everywhere,” she says, “but mostly underground.”
I don’t want to know the answer to my next question, but have to ask. “What did they do when we arrived? Were they welcoming? Was it a peaceful transition? Or did we fight?”
She watches me for a moment. “We were here to move in, Romy,” she says, “by any means necessary.” One of her favourite Soren expressions. There is no negotiating with a Soren when they have their eyes on something that they want. That we want. It’s a rather inflexible way to live, I think. How can that sort of thinking possibly be sustainable? Then again, they are my people—I have to live with the knowledge that this is just a Soren way to be.
Before I can ask her to elaborate, one of her officers rushes through the door. He pauses for a split second to look at me before whispering in short spurts into Mother’s ear.
“That can’t be—” Mother says, as her eyes fall on me as well. She’s probably about to ask me to leave for the sake of whatever new intel this is, so I throw back the last of the tea and wait. “How could—” she says, before she waves the officer away and leans back into her chair, her eyes still on me.
“What is it, Mother?” I ask. I look to the door, but the officer’s already passed through and has left the door open. I wonder if it’s a new development on Apex, but don’t wonder if she’ll fill me in. I know she won’t.
“Romy.” Her voice is soft, gentle, bordering on kind. I haven’t heard this tone of voice in years.
I lean back as well, bracing myself for whatever news she has.
“Tell me about that night,” she says, “the night of the fire. What do you remember?”
The question takes me aback and I breathe out.
“Why are you asking me about the fire?” I say.
“You told me you dreamt about them again. Is that right? What happened in the dream?”
I rewind my thoughts and know there’s nothing there. “Nothing Mother,” I reply. “I slept through that dream. Then I woke up here—in our home—-and it was on fire.” I’ve told her all this before. Why is she asking me again?
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Are you sure that’s all?”
Of course I’m sure. I remember sleeping. Then waking. Then coughing. Am I sure—? “Yes,” I lie.
“I believe you,” she sighs. She rests her elbow on the table between us, then dips her head and pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.
“What is it, Mother?” I ask, as a heavy lump rests in my belly. Something awful’s about to happen. “Why are you asking me about that night?”
“One of the Northies claims you helped,” she says, without looking up at me again. “She’s on heavy Truthser. She claimed you helped them set the fires.”
The lump in my belly gets heavier, and cold. What in Odin.
“Why would I—” I ask, but before I can finish the sentence, two more officers walk into the room and Mother looks up at them. She raises her hand, stopping them in their tracks.
“I believe you Romy,” she says, as her head turns to look at me again. “But we do have to follow protocol. We must i
nterrogate you. We must use Truthser on you.”
I know I did nothing wrong—I know I was asleep and woke up with a house on fire. So why does this new knowledge make my chest hurt? Taking a deep breath only makes it hurt more and my head pounds as I start to understand the implications of what’s happening. I didn’t do it. This isn’t really happening. It can’t.
“Be gentle with her. Remember she’s a Legacy,” Mother instructs as each officer stands by my side. “This won’t take long, Romy,” she says, “I promise.”
I walk out the door with the officers flanking me. This can’t be good. Though I know I’m innocent, my heart hammers in my chest. Something is very wrong here. Even though I’m certain I was asleep, I’m certain I was dreaming, something tickles in the back of my mind.
Something tells me nothing is as it seems and everything is very wrong.
8
Interrogation
The interrogation lasts an entire day. I’m sitting in an interrogation room, one I’m sure some of the Northies were held in before waiting for their executions. They already have a bot ready to inject me with Truthser, but Mother insists that they wait.
She says she believes I’ll answer truthfully, and if there’s any doubt, then they can inject the Truthser when the time came.
“It may have a negative effect on the pregnancy,” she says.
I don’t say a word. I try to tell myself I don’t really care if the drugs have any effect on the pregnancy. The thought makes me feel a pang in the middle of my belly though I know I can’t actually feel any movement there yet. The feeling surprises me since I’ve tried not to give it any further thought.
Still, ignoring a fact, especially a physical fact like this pregnancy, has never been my strong suit.
But if I’m being completely honest, I also know that I’m too scared to answer any questions on Truthser.
What if it drags something in my memory to the surface? Something that I somehow repressed?
They start with questions about my past, about my life in Apex, as if my boring existence there will ever clarify what happened on the night of the fires.
“Did you like being a Citizen?” asks the officer. He’s clean cut, I notice. A softer, younger version of Commander Blair.
“I didn’t know of any other life at the time,” I say. “I loved it when I had my parents, when I understood my purpose as a Citizen. It was simple.”
“And what about being a slave to the Diamonds?” he asks. “What did you like about that?”
The word ‘slave’ makes me cringe, but I accept that used to be my station in life. Back then, it didn’t matter nearly as much as it does now. Back then, I didn’t know of any other life.
“Working with Isaac,” I say. There isn’t really anything else to say so when the officer looks up at me, I wait patiently for more questions. Still, I don’t understand what any of this has to do with the fires.
“So when the Sorens saved you from the Diamonds,” he says, “what was your first instinct?”
Saved me? It sure didn’t feel like I was being saved at the time as I remember my long days in the dark hole.
“It was to escape,” I say, “because I’d only ever known the Sorens as kidnappers and terrorists. I didn’t know the whole truth about Apex and our past until I came onto the Iliad.”
“And who are you loyal to now? Citizens? Or the Prospo, or the Sorens?”
The question stumps me for a moment. “I’ve never been loyal to the Prospo, as far as I know.”
“Even though your father was a Prospo?”
“I didn’t know that until after he’d—died—” I say.
“Right.”
“I’m a Soren,” I say, “but I’ll never stop being a Citizen either.”
“Right,” he says again. Gah. What does that mean?
I wonder about the relevance of all the questions. When my eyes alight on Mother’s, she just nods at me and turns to look at the officer.
“What happened that night?” asks the officer.
He’d already asked me this, earlier in the day.
“I already told you what happened,” I answer. Then I run through it again, embellishing a bit on just how much fire I had to run from. It’s probably the hundredth time, but they’re simply not satisfied with my response.
“Just give me the Truthser,” I finally say, “since my word is not enough.”
Mother sighs out loud, her tired eyes on mine. Does she believe me? I simply can’t tell.
She nods her head slightly, then instructs them to inject only a little bit into me. “Just enough so it works, but not enough so it will affect the baby.”
Before I can wonder why she’s so concerned about this baby, one of the officers has a bot inject me. We wait the two minutes until they’re certain enough of it is running through my veins.
“We must ask our questions fast,” he says, “before the Truthser is ineffective.” The little bit they put in me will last all of four minutes, if that.
I sigh, relieved that this will all be over soon. That they will hear the same words I’ve said over the last several hours and I can go home. My eyes widen as I take in more of my surroundings—the Truthser makes me hear and see better. I see individual wisps of Mother’s hair as she pulls it all back into a ponytail.
“Okay, Romy,” she says. Her voice sounds friendlier, kinder, the kind of voice I could listen to for days. “What happened the night of the fire?” she asks.
Before she finishes her sentence, flashes of the night spring in my head, like colourful forgotten memories from my childhood. My mouth, as if no longer attached to whatever receptors in my brain keep it in check, rambles about every single picture I see in my head.
“They contacted me,” my mouth says.
“Who did?” says one of the officers.
“The Metrills—the Northies. They contacted me through a dream. Not a dream, but close enough. Not anything any of you would understand, with your limited view of the world.”
What? What did my mouth say? Those didn’t sound like my words at all. Why do I sound like that?
“And what did they want, Romy?”
“They wanted to offer me an opportunity.”
“To do what?”
“To prove myself to them. So I can join them.” What in Odin am I saying? None of this actually happened that night. Right?
I try to bite my tongue, my lips, to keep more words from coming out, but that’s the beauty of Truthser. It makes you say everything, even if you are not conscious of the words and fighting it is a fruitless effort. But I don’t physically remember any of this. Do I?
“And what did they request of you, Romy?”
“They asked me to start a few—” I bite my tongue again, knowing that it’s to no avail, knowing what’s about to come out of my mouth. Knowing I’m guilty.
“Fires,” I say, as tears roll down my cheeks.
They ask me a few more things, but I can already tell the Truthser’s effects are wearing off. It doesn’t matter though. They got what they needed.
Mother says, “We’ll make a decision before tomorrow, Romy.”
But I already know what it is. There’s no way to hack Truthser, and no way to avoid its effects. I’ll be deemed a traitor to the Sorens. I’m to be executed, along with the other three Northies, Legacy be damned.
This is far from what I expected of my new life in Haven. I wasn’t even planning to come watch their public executions, yet here I am, about to join them in death.
But I know I’m innocent. Don’t I?
What in Odin have these people done to my memories? To my dreams? How did they manage to influence me to lie like this?
My brain is muddled and hazy, even more so as the Truthser finally leaves my body completely. I wonder if Mother will be there to watch my execution. I wonder what Eric would say about the whole thing. More than anything, I wonder how in Odin I ended up here.
The thing is, no matter what my mouth r
ambled about the night of the fire, I know I’m innocent. I’m as certain of it as I am that I’m not ready to die. Not quite yet, thanks.
So I rack my brain, trying to think of a way to escape this. I know the chance is slim, but I also won’t be walking to my execution without a fight. I’ll take some of them with me if I have to.
I’ve watched a public execution already. I was reluctant, but didn’t want to appear weak in front of my fellow Sorens.
John Diamond was kept in a small room we could view from glassed-in balconies. He was sat on a tiny wooden chair, without restraints. No need for them when your prisoner is under freeze serum. The room was empty but for him.
He had on his usual cold, calm demeanor and I would have sworn he was unafraid the entire time. The only hint of his distress was his red face and a throbbing purple vein in his neck. Then a bot rolled into the room. It listed Diamond’s “crimes against humanity” as it injected dark green liquid from a vial into his neck. He only managed to throw a glare at the bot as the whites in his eyes grew bigger.
Before the door shut behind the bot, he was already still in his chair, his chin resting on his chest, and his body had expelled of its waste.
I remember thinking that it must the worst sort of torture, being physically unable to fight or run or do anything but watch your impending death. Then dying alone, in such a state, excrement dripping down your legs. Diamond was a proud man—I’d imagine he would have been mortified.
And how would it feel, I wonder, to face a similar fate? How loud would my screams be in my head, though I won’t be able to say or yell a thing?
I’m not interested in finding out, especially not from a front seat, and certainly not from centre stage.
The officers stand me up and we walk away from the room and from Mother, who doesn’t look me in the eye. She must believe me though. She has to.
As we walk, I know that they will bring me to one of the cells, that I will spend my last night there, that I will die tomorrow.
