Then I’m dragged inside the Ceremonial Suite, away from my sobbing brother and Mrs. Bledsoe, leaving my heart behind.
“Wait!” Cassius calls. The Imps drop me to the ground. Cassius steps through the archway and kneels beside me.
“Why?” I ask, a short question to fill a gigantic void.
Though I’m surprised by the tears in his eyes, I’m not moved. Not anymore. Not by anything.
“You broke my heart, Lucky. I came to you for help, and you chose him over me.”
I’m too dazed to immediately register what he’s talking about. Until I catch a glimpse of a face on the jumbotrons behind him.
Digory. Another non-coincidence in this never-ending chain of events.
Cassius reaches down and caresses the silver chain around my neck. “A simple transmitter. When I found that poster on you, I thought you’d lead me to the rebels eventually, though I had no idea how soon. Imagine my shock to discover that you went right to him and agreed to keep his activities a secret from me, the person you claimed to care so much about. The person who would have done anything for you.” He rips the chain from my neck, cutting into the skin.
But nothing can hurt me anymore.
“Digory’s a good person. More of a man than you’ll ever be, Cassius.”
A flicker of hurt in his eyes flames into a glare. He signals the Imps, who jerk me to my feet to face him.
“I hope you enjoy your time with this Digory. Especially since you’ll be competing against each other to save the ones you love from the Culling.” He leans in closer, his hot breath like irons on my cheeks. “Tell me, Lucky, is he worth Cole’s life to you?”
I spit in his face.
His eyes are green skewers. Nostrils flare. He flicks away the foamy trail trickling off his chin.
Valerian slings a metal collar around my neck and clamps it tight. I gasp. Then the other Imps hook a leash to it.
The last thing I glimpse, as I’m hauled away from the archway, is my face plastered on the jumbotrons right next to Digory’s.
Eleven
The freighter bulldozes through the black sea, smashing against the crisscrossing whitecaps.
“Attention,” a voice blares from the ship’s com system. “We have arrived at the Infiernos training installation. Prepare to disembark.”
My joints are stiff from days of solitary confinement in a cramped stateroom; the Recruits were separated right after we boarded the ship. Steadying myself against the railing, I take in a lungful of salty sea air and peer over the bow, searching through the patches of early morning mist.
An island looms directly ahead. A huge, steel, domed structure squats on the horizon, pockets of smaller buildings and turrets spreading away from it. One tower rises hundreds of feet above the rest, its peak an oval of clear glass that observes all. Jutting pillars, resembling horns and lined with teeth-like spires, form a perimeter around the complex, which stretches from the shoreline to what appears to be miles deep inland.
“Let’s go.” A tall, thick Imp shoves his weapon into my back and I double over. Clutching the railing, I regain my balance and trudge on as he prods me the rest of the way.
The freighter deck is a whirlwind of activity as the crew bustles about, guiding the vessel into the shadows of a huge hangar-bay hewn out of a natural cave formation. Overhead, stalactites mix with gleaming steel girders and catwalks, resembling a massive set of fanged jaws that swallow us whole.
Once we’re moored, I get a glimpse of the other Recruits as a squad of soldiers hustles us down the gangway. The girl with the raven hair—Cypress—is followed by my former IF mate Gideon, and then Digory.
He smiles at me, but I look away and brush past him.
When the time comes to vie against the other Recruits for my Incentives’ lives, Digory’s the last person I want to compete against. After all, he’s probably the strongest and most skilled Recruit. But that’s not the only reason. I can’t even imagine what it would be like if by some insane miracle I best him in one of the Trials and have to stand by while he’s forced to choose which of the people he loves must die. It would be like I’d murdered his kin myself, even though it was to save my own. How could we ever look each other in the eye after something so horrid?
No. I can’t do that. I won’t. Let someone else bear that horrible burden.
The only Recruit missing from our group is Ophelia. Not sure where she is.
But there’s no time to speculate.
We’re herded through a maze of corridors that take us past a crowded mess hall, an indoor stadium where soldiers are engaged in a slew of hand-to-hand combat exercises, and a vast parade ground where squads march and run in formation. From the color and cut of their uniforms, it’s apparent these soldiers have been separated into distinct groups: the black-clad Imps, the blue hues of standard infantry, and the more recent, inexperienced draftees clad in telling green. Should we have any doubts which way to go during this tour, Imps stand sentinel, station after station, graciously pointing the way with the barrel of their weapons.
I’m almost out of breath by the time we emerge into an oval-shaped chamber filled with half a dozen personnel clad in stark white medical uniforms, hovering over shiny metallic instruments and data screens.
The medic who appears to be in charge sweeps us all with a contemptuous look. “Strip,” he says, stifling a yawn.
Once we’re all naked, I make sure to keep my eyes glued straight ahead as we’re subjected to bio-scans and all sorts of physical examinations. I feel like every inch of me is being poked and prodded. They check pulse, blood pressure, brain wave patterns, and vision, and then extract blood samples. At least they let us go behind a partition to provide them with a urine specimen.
After the invasive med exam is over, we’re issued black jumpsuit uniforms and duffel bags, and given “physical assessment” tests.
“Drop and give me twenty push-ups,” the Chief Medic says when it’s my turn. He holds up a digital chronometer displaying one minute and activates it.
I drop to the ground and begin. But my best effort proves to be pathetic. By the fifth rep, my arms are buckling so much I feel like my joints are going to pop free of their sockets. By the sixth, I’ve collapsed on my chest and I’m rasping for breath—humiliated at first, and then terrified by what it bodes for my chances of making it through the Trials.
The medic shakes his head and jots something down on his clipboard.
The push-ups are only the beginning of the ordeal. These are followed by sit-ups and a one-mile run, both of which I fail at miserably. At least most of the others aren’t much better, with the exception of Digory, who not only completes each task but manages to elicit a grunt of “Not bad” from the doc.
I look away before Digory can catch me staring at him.
When the physical examinations come to a merciful end, we’re escorted to the next station, where each of the guys is strapped in a chair while hovering spheres use laser tech to shear our hair until it’s neatly cropped. Only Gideon opts for a full buzz cut. Cypress is allowed to keep her hair pinned back.
“Time to meet your drill sergeant,” one of our armed escorts barks.
The Imps lead us down another corridor and take flanking positions by the door as we file into the briefing hall, with me bringing up the rear. By the time I’m through, Digory’s already standing on a long red line between Cypress (and her intimidating eyes) and Gideon. Still no sign of Ophelia Juniper.
As I walk past her, Cypress eyes me as if I’m some annoying insect just out of reach, which she’ll allow to exist as long as I don’t get too close. I really don’t see that happening.
“Traitor scum,” she mutters through perfect rose lips.
The words sting, but I try not to break my stride and give her the satisfaction. Unfortunately, I’m not smooth enough, and the falter in my ste
p spawns a smirk on her face.
Crossing Digory’s path, I can’t help but send a quick glimpse his way. But his eyes stare blankly ahead as if I don’t even exist. That bothers me more than Cypress’s contempt. Can’t say I’m surprised, though, after the way I snubbed him when we got off the freighter. It’s still sending a pang through me, no matter how much my brain screams it’s for the best.
I step into the spot next to Gideon, and I’m finally rewarded with a half smile. At least someone doesn’t want to swat me and knows I’m alive … for now, anyway. I extend a hand, but Gideon just stares at it as if he’s not sure what it means.
“I thought it was you they called last, Spark. How’ve you been?” he whispers.
My hand drops back down to my side. “You just thought it was me, Warrick?” I whisper back. “What? I thought you were smarter than that. My Recruitment too subtle for you?” I punctuate the last with a wink.
He taps his temple. “I can be a little dense sometimes.”
I nod. “I remember.” I mean it as a joke, but hurt flashes through his eyes and I instantly regret saying it. “To answer your question with the obvious response, I’ve been better.”
Gideon’s index finger straightens the glasses on his nose. They look grafted together from several different pairs, held together by heavy black tape. Being from the Industrial Borough means you don’t throw things away, cause you never know if you’ll ever have enough money for a replacement. Still, I’m not sure how he tolerates seeing through the fracture in one of his lenses. This world is cracked enough without adding to it.
He cocks his head. “Did she give you the look, too, Spark?” He nudges his head in Cypress’s direction.
“You mean Black Widow over there?” I mutter under my breath. “What’s her story?”
“I don’t know all the details, just that she and her people are Aggies,” he volunteers, as if that explains everything.
“She’s a farmer? I’d have pegged her as a butcher.”
He shakes his head. “It seems like this new Prefect is going for variety. I heard he wants fresh blood for the pool, has all these new ideas. Who knows? It may be for the better.”
I swallow a geyser of acid scorching my throat. “I doubt that.”
“Careful.” He looks around. “These bulkheads have ears.”
“Gotcha.”
Gideon bumps my shoulder with his. He cocks his head, whispering lower than before. “What d’ya think about this Digory Tycho? Guess he’s not better than the rest of us, like he thought back at the IF. He still looks pretty strong, but I think I can take Mr. Popularity down when the time comes.”
My eyes dart to and from the still stone-faced Digory. “I don’t really know much about him. We were never friends.”
Gideon nods. “I say you and I stick together. I mean, for as long as we can. Us against them until the end.” He stares down the line at the others.
My eyes wander over to Digory once more. Still no change.
I turn back to Gideon. “Yep. Us against them.”
I grab his hand before he can stop me and shake it a few times, sealing the deal, before releasing it.
His eyes go from terror-filled to grateful. He studies his hand as if it’s some new appendage that’s sprouted from his arm.
“Attention Recruits! Officer on has the floor!” bellows one of the Imps guarding our corral.
The power of that voice snaps us all to attention. A tall woman, over six foot at least, strides into the room, flanked by two hulking males even taller. She stands a few feet in front of us, scanning us with twin cold slits passing for eyes. When she grins, her teeth look small and sharp, like the mouth of a predator savoring its next meal.
She licks her lips, as if she’s read my mind. “Welcome to Infiernos. I’m Sergeant Slade. I must say, in all my years of overseeing new Recruits, this has got to be the most pathetic collection that’s ever stood before me.” Her grin turns into a smirk. “Then again, I do so enjoy a challenge. And you’d better, too. Not that whatever pleases you makes one iota of difference to me.” She nudges her chin in the direction of the banks of monitors embedded in the wall. “In any event, should any of you entertain the notion of deserting your posts, I’d seriously rethink that strategy.”
As if on cue, the screens come to life with images of the giant pylons positioned around the entire perimeter of the base. The blinking green lights on them change to yellow, then red. Slade turns to the nearest display. “Infiernos is protected by a highly sophisticated defense grid which includes sensors that detect body-heat signatures. Anyone attempting to cross the barriers while the fences are active will trigger a sonic pulse powerful enough to implode the brain and make it leak out your ears.” She glances back at us and shrugs. “But you don’t have to take my word for it.”
The next thirty seconds are a grisly montage of prisoners being pushed and thrown into the armed barriers, complete with piercing screams of agony as their insides turn to mush. When the monitors finally, mercifully, go dark, Slade turns around to face us again. “Any questions?”
We all shake our heads.
“Who are we missing?” she barks.
I risk a glance down the line. Ophelia and her curly red hair are still a no-show.
That can’t be good.
The sergeant steps forward and stands nose-to-nose with Cypress. “Identify yourself, Recruit!”
“Cypress Goslin, ma’am.”
“Sir !” Slade barks.
A twitch exposes a chink in the armor of Cypress’s composure. “E-excuse me?”
Slade widens her stance and leans in, her forehead practically touching Cypress’s. “What’s the matter, does the Aggie in the group have crops growing out of her ears? You will address me as Sir, not Ma’am, not Miss, not whatever other term of endearment you so choose. Understood, Recruit?”
“Yes, Sir,” Cypress mutters.
“I can assure you, Recruit Goslin, that if you’re having trouble enunciating, I have a repertoire of techniques available at my disposal that will ensure you scream at the top of your lungs.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Much better. Pity. I was so looking forward to motivating you.” She steps back. “I’m sure I’ll have that opportunity very shortly. You’re bound to make a stupid mistake. Don’t you agree, Goslin?”
“Yes … Sir!”
“Very good. You learn quickly. I can see the hatred burning in your eyes, but you’re capable of controlling it. Hold on to that emotion. Let it nurture you. Draw strength from it. It can prove quite useful as you prepare for the Trials.”
“I will, Sir!”
But Slade has already moved on, stationing herself in front of Digory. “Identity, Recruit?”
“Digory Tycho, Sir!”
“Tycho? Hmmm. I’ve heard a lot about you, Recruit. It seems you have quite the reputation, as one of the most promising candidates at your Instructional Facility.”
“Yes, Sir!”
Apparently Digory’s not about to make the same mistake Cypress did in her initial responses.
Slade eyes him up and down. “I see. Unfortunately, this isn’t some popularity contest where you can charm your way past instructors and your fellow students to the top of the class with the minimum effort you are used to.”
Digory’s face remains stoic. “Understood, Sir.”
Her eyes continue to appraise him. “You’re obviously quite strong, Tycho. But physical prowess alone is not enough to emerge triumphant during the Trials. A good Recruit will possess an exceptional acumen, acute cunning and guile which I’m not sure your all-star school-boy status has prepared you for.”
Gideon lowers his head and I can tell he’s holding back a chuckle, which makes me want to dissolve our newly born alliance before it’s taken its first steps—until I think it’s probably the first
time he’s stood and watched while someone else was being bullied.
His attempt at subtlety doesn’t escape the eye in the back of Slade’s head. “Do you find me amusing, Recruit?” She strides over and plants herself smack-dab in his personal space.
His body stiffens. The familiar fear reappears in his eyes. “No, Sir!”
“Too bad. I’m known for possessing one of the keenest senses of humor in the entire battalion.” Her words are as dry as sun-baked sand. “So if you’re not laughing at my wit, you must be laughing at my person. Do you find me odd-looking, Recruit?”
“No, Sir!”
“Foolish then?”
“Not at all, Sir!”
“I see. Then you must be mad, Recruit. Simply laughing at things for no reason at all. Are you mentally deficient, Recruit?”
“Yes … I mean … no … Sir!” Sweat gathers on Gideon’s brow.
Despite his slight toward Digory, I can’t help feeling sorry for Gideon and angry at myself. I never stood up and defended him against his tormentors at school, and I can’t do it now.
Slade sucks in her cheeks. “You are just incapable of formulating your own thoughts and standing by the strength of your convictions, Recruit.”
“Yes, Sir!” Gideon squeals.
Slade claps her hands. “At last, an honest answer. How refreshing! And to whom do I owe this kernel of truth in this granary of deception?”
“Pardon me, Sir?”
She sighs. “You were doing so well for a moment. Your name, Recruit. What is it? Or should I just call you Recruit Dense?”
“Oh, Gideon Warrick, Sir! But you can call me whatever you please.”
“Recruit Dense it is, then. And nothing about you will ever please me.”
She moves away without another word. My heart goes into overdrive as she hovers into view, her shadow moving across me and eclipsing the overhead fluorescents.
“Lucian Spark, Sir!” I volunteer, figuring I’ll save her the trouble and speed up the ritual.
The Culling Page 8
