Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2)

by Laura Disilverio

  He taps the offending chin and I lower it slightly.

  “Your test scores tell me you are a very, very bright young woman. Well, you need to dedicate that brainpower to playing the role of injured vic—innocent, and you’d better put everything you’ve got into it because otherwise . . . Trust me when I say execution would look merciful compared to your likely fate if they convict.” He steps back and pins a broad smile to his face. “Not to mention the crushing blow to my flawless record. Agreed?”

  I nod slightly and work on looking timid and confused. With my brain worrying at what sentence could be worse than death, it’s not too hard.

  “Excellent!”

  I change back into my prison garb since Vestor says he wants my trial outfit pristine for tomorrow. We spend two more hours together and I get another good meal out of it. The food makes it almost worth being put on trial. Vestor tells me there will be three pre-selected jurors and a judge who will determine my fate. He takes me through the process, telling me about the courtroom layout and procedures. Again and again, he emphasizes the need to guard my expressions. “Contrition plays well, my dear,” he says.

  “What about when I testify? What should I say?”

  “Uh-uh-uh.” Vestor wags a finger. “You will not be called to give evidence. I will present the case on your behalf. That’s my job. Indeed, my calling.”

  “But shouldn’t I—”

  “You need to believe in me.”

  I have no choice.

  I am returned to my cell in what I guess is late afternoon, judging by the sun slanting through the interview room window. My cell seems even drabber and more sterile than before after a couple of days spent in the presence of sunlight and Loránd Vestor. I read a chapter of Little House, even though I have virtually memorized the book, but then put it aside. My situation is so far outside the confines of the Ingalls’ world that I can’t even imagine what Pa would tell Laura if she were in a similar situation. No, I do know. He would counsel her to tell the truth, but I won’t have the opportunity and I might as well slit my wrists if I do. The truth is a death sentence. Or worse, whatever that is. My mind flits to Anton Karzov, the victim of a vaccine experiment gone awry, and I visualize the boils and constant itching that make his life a living hell. That would be worse.

  I get down on the floor and begin to do sit-ups, needing to use up some of my nervous energy. I don’t even count; I’m going to do them until I can’t do anymore. As I raise and lower my torso, my mind returns to the question that has plagued me since I arrived here: Who betrayed Bulrush? Who gave away our location to the IPF? And why? I long ago discarded the idea that the IPF just happened to locate us at that particular time. Too coincidental. Besides, I heard one of the soldiers say something about “the information” being correct. What could that information be except our location?

  The only person I’m sure didn’t give us up is Fiere. I saw her get shot. If she’d been the IPF’s informant, they wouldn’t have killed her, would they? That leaves Alexander, Saben, Idris, Casanova, Milo and Gunther. I’m ninety-nine percent certain Alexander didn’t betray Bulrush. He started it, he commanded it, he was passionately committed to helping women bear their own children and raise them if they wanted to. No, not Alexander. Saben . . . a vision of his blond hair, broad shoulders and geneborn gold eyes rises in my mind. When I first met him, I didn’t trust him. I could easily have envisioned him as a traitor. Why, after all, would a geneborn leave his family and genetic destiny to become an outlaw? I’d grown closer to him toward the end, though, and he’d put himself at risk to save me and Halla from the RESCO. He’d been the first to give warning of the IPF’s approach, too, and had also been shot. For the first time, I wondered how he, injured, had made it out to the street when no one else had. Bottom line: I didn’t want it to be Saben.

  I could readily believe it was Idris. He was a malcontent, always challenging Alexander, pushing him to align with the Defiance and undertake missions against the IPF and infrastructure targets the Pragmatists needed to maintain power. I’d gotten the feeling he sincerely cared about Alexander, though, so would he have done anything that would put him in harm’s way? I think about his hot-headedness. Maybe. Probably. Fact is, I don’t much like Idris, so it is easy to paint him as the traitor in my mind, even when I have no proof.

  Two guards pass my cell, talking about the large swarm of super locusts believed to be headed this way. “There’s rumors that in the Mid-Atlantic Canton they ate—”

  The other guard elbows him to shut him up. They’re not supposed to communicate with me in any way, not even by talking to each other in my presence. It doesn’t matter—I don’t need to hear how many tons the locusts ate. I’ve heard it all before. The insects can eat their body weight in vegetation each day, so a large swarm can devour over 400 million pounds of food in one day. The locusts plagues are the main reason Amerada hasn’t been able to rebound and re-populate the way it should have. As soon as grass starts to grow again or trees and shrubs bounce back, the locusts descend like they’ve been summoned by a dinner gong.

  Saben and I threw ourselves into the midst of a swarm trying to escape the IPF, but the soldiers still managed to capture me and I awoke in this cell days later, battered, bruised and confused, with no clear memory of my actual capture. If I were where I belonged—in a lab—instead of locked up in here, I might have discovered a way to eradicate the locusts by now. I give myself up to a vision of being able to grow crops outside again, of leafy trees and wildflowers and grass softening the landscape, of people sowing and reaping their own food rather than depending on government domes for it. Fantasy.

  My breaths become labored as I force my torso up so my elbows connect with my knees. I continue my analysis. Casanova, Milo, Gunther . . . I didn’t interact with any of them enough to have a feel for who they are and what they might be capable of. I should have paid more attention, I tell myself for the zillionth time. Fiere was always telling me to be alert. I failed her. I failed all of us.

  My abs seize up and force me to stretch out on the floor, arms over my head. As the cramp eases, I breathe deeply and determine to play Vestor’s game. If I’m acquitted, I’ll be free. And if I’m free, I can find out what really happened that day four months ago. Once I know who betrayed us, I will hunt him down and kill him. For Halla, for Fiere. My hands clench into fists. Slowly uncurling my fingers, I massage my abdomen and then rise and get ready for bed. Tomorrow is a big day.

  Chapter Three

  Vestor comes for me at eight o’clock. I’ve risen and dressed in the white tunic and leggings. My stomach rebelled at the thought of breakfast. I did not scratch a mark on my makeshift calendar; one way or the other, I’m done with the Central Detention Facility within a couple of days.

  Rute is on duty and cuffs my hands in front of me before leading me through a maze of corridors, past cells containing other prisoners. I knew there were other prisoners here—I occasionally heard their screams when I was in the interrogation wing—but I never laid eyes on one before now. I study them as we pass, but recognize no one. They all stare at me but say nothing. Finally, we emerge into an open room with three guards on duty, beamers at the ready. Large windows should have suffused the area with light, but the projectile-repelling film on them gives the space a gloomy cast. Vestor, clad in scarlet, waits for me. He greets me with a flamboyant hug.

  “The ankle bracelet,” he reminds Rute.

  Rute bends and releases the explosive anklet. I roll my ankle gratefully. As Rute straightens, he says, “Good luck. I hope they acquit you.”

  Surprised and grateful, I look into his homely face and wonder for the first time if he’s married, if he has children, what he likes to do when he’s not on duty. “Thank you,” I say.

  Vestor hooks an elbow through mine and we walk toward the doors which a guard buzzes open as we approach. They slowly spread into a wide V, funneling us out of the prison. I take my first step outside in four months and pause for a deep
breath. An empty expanse stretches to a guard kiosk and a semi-circle of large boulders that keeps vehicles from approaching the gray stone building. Glorious sunlight glints off the six-seat armored ACV waiting to take us to the courthouse. A slight breeze flutters the hem of my tunic. Humidity weights the air, but the oppressive heat hasn’t kept the crowd away. Fifty or a hundred people nudge up against a cordon of IPF soldiers, some of them jeering, others shouting, “Murderer!” and “Baby killer.” One holds up a sign with an image of me and the words “Death to enemies of the state” scrawled over my face.

  Startled and a little scared, I look at Vestor. He squeezes my arm against his chest, waves to the crowd as if they were cheering me instead of demanding my death, and says, “Curtain up!”

  I take that as my cue to put on my timid, puzzled face, and I watch my feet as we descend the steps. It’s easier not to look at the mob of people who hate me without knowing me. Their curses and insults fall like rocks on my bent shoulders. Then we’re inside the ACV which immediately engages its air cushion and surges forward, forcing the crowd to back away. Vestor and I sit opposite each other with two guards flanking me, and there’s no opportunity for conversation. The number of soldiers seems excessive. How do they think a hundred and twenty pound girl with manacled hands is going to overpower them?

  Realizing it’s the first chance I've had to study the capital city in the daylight—I mostly know the city from below ground via the sewer pipes and tunnels Bulrush used—I gaze out the darkened window which I assume is shatterproof and one-way. I see immediately that the city is in much better shape than Jacksonville. Where my home city has slabs of concrete and asphalt blocking the streets and mounds of chartreuse kudzu overgrowing everything that doesn’t move fast enough to get out of its way, Atlanta—this part of it, anyway—has streets in good repair with a fair number of ACVs zipping past on business of one kind or another. I’ve heard there are more than 20,000 people in Atlanta.

  A dome rises on the horizon, and I twist to observe it, noting the riot of green within, healthy plants protected from the locusts. It dominates the skyline, easily bigger than the 50-acre dome we had at the Kube, and I wonder what kinds of crops they grow and wish I could visit. For a moment, I wish I’d never left Kube 9 and my work in the dome. I visualize Dr. Ronan in the lab, puttering with slides and cross-sections and samples, smelling faintly of Wexl. Has he taken another AC under his wing the way he did me? The thought hurts and I bite my lip. Vestor taps my knee and I look up.

  “We’re here.”

  My muscles tense.

  “Breathe,” Vestor whispers as we get out of the ACV. He waves and beams at another hostile crowd. I glimpse a stately building topped with a gilded cupola and then we’re inside, bathed in cool air blasting from vents above us. I can’t imagine how much electricity that must waste.

  A twiggish woman lopes forward, rust-colored hair spiraling around her thin face. She’s got geneborn gold eyes; on her, they look like a raptor’s eyes. “Everly Jax! When you killed the soldier, what did you—”

  “Now, now, Zestina.” Vestor imposes his bulk between me and the woman. “If you want a comment, you ask me. If you want an interview with Everly Jax, ask nicely and I might allow you to chat with her after she’s acquitted.” He moves us forward before the woman has a chance to object.

  “Zestina Pye,” he tells me in an undertone. “Chief of the Ministry of Information’s Broadcasts Department. She puts together those little montages you’ve seen at Assemblies and I’m sure she’s in charge of broadcasting your trial. Not a bad sort, all in all—loosens up quite a bit over a glass of Wexl—and terribly useful. Very plugged in to the Premier and her crowd and not above sharing for the right consideration. We’ll rehearse what you can say to her after the trial."

  Overwhelmed by it all, I say nothing and let him escort me to the court room. A black-robed woman glides by us, tucking her hair underneath a wig that is all over white rolls that fall to her shoulders. She shoots me a sharp look.

  “Prosecutor Babbage,” Vestor whispers.

  A man I take to be his assistant scurries over and offers him a similar wig.

  “The white washes out my complexion,” Vestor complains, fitting the wig over his mahogany hair. “Thankfully, the power of my oratory makes up for it.” He winks at me with one charcoal-rimmed eye, then shrugs into a black robe that his assistant holds open. “This ceremonial folderol”—he gestures the length of his robe—“is so much eyewash, but the spectators love it so. We all wear costumes and masks every day—it’s just made explicit in the courtroom. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Not giving me a chance to say anything, he urges me forward with a nudge at the small of my back. “Show time, my dear girl. Show time!”

  Heavy wooden doors, twelve feet tall, at least, swing open at our approach and we walk side by side into the courtroom. It’s an echoing chamber of marble and metal and I get the uncomfortable feeling that the powers that be could execute a prisoner at trial’s end and hose the blood off the slick surfaces without leaving a trace. Directly in front of us, a marble podium of mottled cream and gray rises up, an elevated platform from which the judge will survey his or her domain. The seal of Amerada is hung behind it, the eagle and the maple leaf plainly visible. Two chest high tables face the judge’s podium and Prosecutor Babbage is standing at the one to our left as we enter, reviewing notes on her reader. There is an identical podium across the aisle for Vestor. No chairs. That must speed things up.

  Rustlings and conversation ceased when we appeared, but now they rise up again, louder. I look around and see the balcony at the back of the room, as full as it can hold of citizens eager to gawk at me. I wonder if a single one wants to see me acquitted, or if they’re here for the same reason medieval peasants attended hangings—feeding on the defendant’s pleas for mercy, eager for the whoosh of the trap door opening and the snap of a broken neck. I stiffen. I will not give them the satisfaction. Forgetting everything Vestor told me, I tilt my chin up and glare at the ghouls hanging over the metal railing.

  “Bailiff.” Vestor summons a uniformed man who approaches and takes my arm. “Remember, I believe in you,” Vestor says, squeezing my arm. The bailiff leads me toward a bell-shaped enclosure made of transparent polyglass. He swings open the door and motions me inside. I step over the low threshold and he closes the door behind me. With a pneumatic hiss, the capsule begins to rise. Not expecting it, I stumble, but find my balance. Soon, I’m suspended above the courtroom, on display for the crowd in the gallery. I hate it. I focus on Vestor who is tapping his chin as if deep in thought. I recognize the reminder, lower my own chin, and look down.

  “All rise for the Honorable Bastet Tysseling,” the bailiff intones.

  A short man enters from a door behind the judge’s podium and strides confidently to his seat, black robe swishing around his ankles. His white wig, tied off in a queue at the nape of his neck, offsets swarthy skin and gold eyes. He doesn’t so much as glance my way as he takes his seat. “Is the jury empanelled and sworn in?” he asks.

  “They are, your Honor,” the bailiff replies. He nods toward an enclosure I hadn’t noticed, below me and to my right, where three robed and hooded people sit on a metal pew-type bench.

  The hoods are not reassuring.

  One juror turns his—her?—head up slightly and seems to be looking at me through slits that make it impossible for me to see eye color or expression. It’s unnerving.

  “The trial of Prisoner Everly Jax, accused of murder and treason by theft of a government zygote, shall now commence.”

  The bailiff’s voice rings through the courtroom and Prosecutor Babbage leans forward. I swallow.

  “How does the accused plead?” the judge asks.

  “Not—” I start.

  “Silence,” the judge thunders, jerking his head up to look at me for the first time. The gold eyes dismiss me contemptuously. “The prisoner shall remain silent. Prisoner’s counsel may speak.” />
  “Absolutely not guilty,” Vestor says. “The very notion is preposterous.” He smiles as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

  “A simple ‘not guilty,’ will suffice,” Judge Tysseling says drily. “Very well. Let the prosecution present the government’s case.”

  Prosecutor Babbage begins to speak, her voice clipped and clear. She has the crowd eating out of her hand as she relates my theft of an ACV scooter when I left the Kube in company with Halla and Wyck, the disappearance and suspected murder of an IPF soldier sent to re-capture us, the abduction and restraint of the soldier’s comrade, the theft of an IPF ACV and supplies, the murder of Ulla Czosnyka—

  Who? I’ve never heard of Ulla Whoever. I am afraid to speak up after the judge’s admonition, but I don’t know how to communicate with Vestor. Then, Prosecutor Babbage’s next words over-ride my thoughts.

  “—her throat slit most viciously.”

  The swamp woman. The Psyche-brewing crone who kidnapped Halla and would have sold her and her baby. Halla stabbed her during our rescue. How does Prosecutor Babbage—the government—know all this? The woman’s son was still alive when we got away . . . he must have talked to someone and the government made the connection to us.

  Vestor speaks up. “Objection. Everly Jax is not accused of any of the crimes Prosecutor Babbage is jabbering on about. Let’s not waste the court’s time with a listing of offenses that have nothing to do with the task at hand.”

  “I’m establishing a pattern of criminal behavior and depraved indifference to the value of human life,” Prosecutor Babbage says.

  “Proceed.”

  With that one word, Judge Tysseling sets the tone for the morning. Prosecutor Babbage, not even bothering to shoot a victorious look at Vestor, continues with her litany. She accuses me of joining Bulrush, an organization “dedicated to depriving Amerada of women and babies essential to our repopulation efforts,” and finally gets around to the actual charges, telling the court that I entered a Reproduction Support Community with the express purpose of stealing a zygote, and savagely murdered an IPF soldier who attempted to keep me from escaping with the zygote in my womb. “We have holo-image from one of the microdrones patrolling the RESCO, your Honor,” Prosecutor Babbage concludes.