Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2)

by Laura Disilverio

  “Yes, I think it’s come to that.” Alexander bows his head slightly.

  “You lived through the Between—you told me how horrible it was. How can you support the Defiance?”

  “You underwent forced implantation at the RESCO—how can you not?”

  I would never have thought his warm brown eyes could be so chilly.

  “We need to change the laws—make the RESCOs illegal.” I stand and pace, unable to sit still, the turmoil inside me needing release. “And the procreation laws—they need restructuring. People should be able to have children if they’re capable of it, their own biological children. I couldn’t watch Halla and not understand that.” I sadly recall Halla’s desperation to bear and keep Little Loudon. She died because of it. And her baby was lost, given to a pre-approved family to raise.

  “There’s more to it than that,” Alexander says. “We have created a society of haves and have nots, of privilege and exclusion.”

  “The geneborn?”

  He nods. “Genetic manipulation seemed like the way back to prosperity after the flu and the famine, the way to ensure we had a population with the ‘right’ mix of skills and abilities to bring this country back from the brink. We all bought into the idea of geneborn at first. A little genetic manipulation, splicing DNA from two or three carefully selected ‘parents’ into a single zygote, optimizing it for science or leadership or what have you—it seemed like the perfect solution. I bought into it. God help me, I helped develop the technology.”

  I can’t stand to see the sadness drawing down his face. “And Amerada is better off because of it. Look at how far we’ve come with food production, and rebuilding the infrastructure. The factories have started producing again, and—” I tail off in the face of his adamant head shakings.

  “We weren’t far-sighted enough. We didn’t look ahead and recognize that the geneborn might consider the natural borns inferior and keep them from comparable education and service opportunities. Indeed, many of the power players from my generation encouraged that, convinced that the geneborn could move us forward farther and faster than the nats could. But we were wrong. What’s the saying? Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. I can’t remember ever even discussing the possibility of engineering a child to be extra compassionate or ethical. It never crossed our minds.” He rubs a thumb over a ropy vein on his hand, compressing the blue-green tube and letting it spring back.

  “So, we stop producing geneborn children,” I say, not willing to concede that fighting is the only option. “And, and we open up more opportunities for nats. I’m—”

  “Ah, Everly. It takes a rare individual to undermine a system that has brought him or her to power. What motivation does our government have to change its course?”

  “Idris and his team are back,” someone yells.

  I see the light of anticipation in Alexander’s eyes and help him up. He makes it clear he doesn’t need my assistance any further and I return to my caulking as he hurries toward the gangway to meet his son. I work until the sun is low on the horizon, then clean up and join the others for a late dinner which features many of the fresh fruits and vegetables Alexander brought with him from the dome. It’s an almost raucous gathering, with Idris and his team celebrating success at capturing a train laden with cutting edge military gear. Idris's desire to impress his father makes it impossible for him to relax, and he alternates between telling the story of the mission too loudly, and eating too rapidly. The way he watches Alexander, alert to the slightest signs of approval or reservation, is almost endearing. I had thought Idris beyond caring what others thought of him, interested only in results.

  I slip away early, and curl up in my hammock, wishing I had my Little House book to read. I recite the opening paragraphs in my head, but it’s not the same as holding the book in my hands, turning the worn pages. A book is more than the story it tells. That thought gets me thinking about Fiere and her belief that her body carries the story of who she is, and I get an idea. I roll out of the hammock and pad to her bunk to leave a note telling her to meet me on the observation deck the next morning. Returning to my room, I drift into a fitful sleep plagued by nightmares of the station master’s gargling when I drove my knife into his throat.

  I’m on the top deck, stretching, as the first pale fingers of dawn reach out the next morning. I hope Idris will sleep in after a days-long combat mission and a late night; I don’t need him interrupting what I’ve got planned. I’m barefoot. I crouch and spring up, crouch and spring up, landing lightly each time. When I hear Fiere’s footsteps on the stairs, I position myself. She steps onto the deck and takes two steps toward the stern, calling my name tentatively.

  Emerging from behind a smokestack, I sweep her feet out from under her with a low sideways kick. She falls. Struggling up on one elbow, she says, “What are you—?”

  Standing over her, I say, “Lesson one: Be alert.”

  I reach down, grab her good hand, and haul her up. Her injured arm flops awkwardly. I stomp on the twinge of remorse that threatens to overcome my resolve. “It’s time you remember what you’re capable of, even if you can’t remember who you are.” I launch a punch at her solar plexus, pulling it slightly. She’s less solid than I remember.

  “Oof.” She bends forward, arm wrapped around her middle.

  “Solar plexus, groin, throat, nose. Those are the spots you go for, the weak spots. You taught me that. Your hands, heels, knees and elbows are your weapons.”

  “You might have noticed I’m down to only one hand and elbow, singular,” she says, straightening. Her voice hovers on the edge of self-pity.

  That is so un-Fiereish it makes me growl. “You used to tell me you could put me down with one hand tied behind your back. Prove it.” I launch a palm strike at her nose and her forearm comes up automatically to block it. “Excellent!” I crow.

  By the rising sun’s light, I see a hint of confidence return to her eyes. I lead her onto the open deck where we’ll have more room. She gives the hard wood a disparaging look. “At least I put down mattresses for you.”

  It takes a beat for each of us to recognize what just happened. I’m filled with a ferocious sense of victory and I see an identical gleam in Fiere’s eyes. “In the ballroom at the brothel,” I say. “They didn’t help much.” Before she can prepare, I slip behind her and get her in a choke-hold.

  Her elbow jabs toward me, but then she stops herself.

  “Go with it,” I urge. “Listen to your body. It knows who you are.”

  I regret that advice immediately as her elbow slams into my still-tender ribs. She breaks away and faces me, panting. We spar and scrabble, with Fiere gaining confidence with every successful block and strike. Before long, I’m grateful she’s only got one usable arm.

  “Is anything coming back?” I ask when we pause for a moment, breathing heavily, assessing each other.

  “Some. I used to be stronger and quicker.”

  “You’ve been in prison and you’re injured.” Plus, you were tortured, I think but don’t say. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  “I should leave that to you, right?”

  I make like I’m going for a roundhouse to her head, then switch targets and take her down at the knee. “Lesson two: Reflex,” I chirp in the annoying voice she used when training me.

  She crawls toward me and latches her good hand around my ankle, pulling me off-balance. I hop backward, wheeling my arms, and break away before she can bring me to the deck. She lunges for the rail, grabs a life-preserver, and slings it at me, low. I jump over it and land hard, tilting left. She rushes me, but I tackle her low. As we’re going down, her feet come up beneath my hipbones and thrust. I save myself by going with the motion and somersaulting over her head. I spring up and turn in one motion, but she’s tiring and gets to her feet more slowly.

  I say, “Enough for today. Let’s call it a draw.” I lean in and offer my hand.

  She grabs my wrist, uses my momentum to pull
me closer, and sweeps my legs out from under me. I land with a thud and a curse. My body is going to hate me in the morning.

  She looks down at me, hand on her hips, a quintessentially Fiereish look of superiority on her face. “That one time, when you were mad about the tea, I let you win.”

  A grin splits her face as the realization hits me. She remembers! I scramble up, prepared to hug her, but the ship’s klaxon rends the air. We freeze. The sentries must have sounded the alert. We must be under attack.

  Chapter Twelve

  I head for the stairs with Fiere close behind. We clatter down them to find Idris, Wyck, Rhedyn and a cluster of other Defiers on the main deck.

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  Silently, Idris points east.

  I look and see the cloud of darkness taking up the sky. I know immediately: locust swarm. It’s still some distance away, but the hum of millions of wings reaches us. I savor the greening leaves on the trees, the hopeful grass sprouting along the bluff; once the locusts pass, the green will all be gone. The noise grows louder—they’re only half a mile away now. Time to go below decks if we don’t want to be smothered by them. Before I can move, a woman pounds up the stairs from the lower deck, holding out a radio, her face white.

  She extends it out to Idris. “Sir, the sentries—”

  Ghastly screams issue from the device.

  “What the hell—?” Idris snatches the radio from her and twists a dial. “Point Alpha, come in.”

  There’s a gasping noise, a moan, and nothing more. The sound of the locusts drowns everything. The Defiers shift uneasily. Suddenly, I know. The welts on my neck and hand the time I got caught in a swarm at the Kube, and Dr. Ronan’s hypothesizing about the locusts adapting; similar wounds when I came to in the prison, wounds I put down to the firefight at the brothel and manhandling by the soldiers; the half-understood comments from the guards at the prison—

  “Downstairs now!” I scream, shoving Fiere and a young man I don’t know toward the staircase. “Everyone downstairs. Close all the windows and hatches.”

  Idris starts to object, sees the fear and determination in my face, and seconds my order. “Go!”

  They’re almost here. I can make out individual locusts in the undulating cloud approaching the riverboat. Windows slap shut below me. An insect plops onto the deck. Then another. They fall like heavy rain drops. It’s almost hypnotic.

  “Ev, come on!” Wyck grabs my hand and pulls me down the stairs. We trip and fall the last couple of steps, landing in a heap. Hands reach out to drag us inside. The doors slam and an iron bar clunks down. Idris details someone to check each of the rooms to make sure windows are closed. When they’ve headed off, he comes to me.

  “What’s this about, Jax?”

  “The locusts.” I pause. “They’re carnivorous.”

  Disbelief flashes across his face. “There’s no such thing as a carnivorous grasshopper.”

  “There is now. They’ve adapted to eat flesh. Maybe not all of them—yet—but enough.” The sentries’ screams echo in my head.

  The main body of the swarm has reached us now and the old ship’s timbers creak and groan with the weight of the insects as they thump against it. Some of them land. With wooden shutters closed over the windows and all the doors secured, it’s a gloomy dusk in the gathering area where we’re all huddled. With the ship shut up, an odor of stale beer becomes noticeable. It has probably soaked into the floor boards, lakes of it spilled during the course of thousands of party cruises. A yelp from down the hall startles us and Rhedyn emerges from one of the bunk rooms.

  “A couple got in. One bit me,” she says in a shocked tone. She’s examining a red spot on her upper arm when Idris's hand flashes out and tangles in her hair. She jerks back instinctively.

  He squeezes his fist tightly and opens it to show the mashed remains of a locust. Rhedyn looks a bit green about the gills. “The sentries,” she breathes. “It was Henley and Shintaro.”

  I wonder if I’m the only one who notices her use of past tense.

  Idris sets a few of the Defiers to tasks—busy work, I think, to take their mind off the locusts and the fate of their comrades. He descends to the lowest level and I’m sure he’s in the communications room, alerting other Defiance cells to this new threat. Soon, I imagine, the word will spread across all of Amerada. The locusts have long been the force that made it impossible to reestablish crop production on a large scale, but now . . . I try to get my mind around the implications. They’re staggering. Livestock, wild animals, humans—all will be locust prey. The lack of biodiversity will have consequences I can’t begin to imagine. We’ll have to spend manpower staging locust sentries in every occupied city or town, everyone will need a shelter close at hand they can seal up. The locusts will disrupt work in factories and any outdoor work will render the workers vulnerable. I can’t imagine how outlaws and people living off the land will cope. In the end, unless we find a way to stop them, the locusts will decimate all food sources. They’ll die off then, of course, but that will be much too late for us.

  An hour later, Wyck’s touch on my shoulder brings me out of my thoughts. “I think they’re gone,” he says.

  Cocking my head, I listen. I don’t hear the overpowering whirr of locust wings anymore, or the plunk, plunk of insect bodies hitting the boat. Somehow, everyone has come together in the dining area again. Idris strides forward, unbars the doors, and pushes them outward. Light dances in. Feeling like I’m emerging from the ark after the rains flooded the earth, I join the cluster of Defiers returning to the deck. Idris is first, cautiously poking his head up. He waves the rest of us forward and we climb up.

  The camouflage netting hangs in tatters, ripped apart by the locusts plowing through it, beating it ragged with their wings. Here and there, a locust is trapped in the netting which shivers with their struggles. Every shred of green is gone, as I knew it would be. The landscape is shades of brown—mud, dun, ochre—enlivened only by the unnatural blue of the river cutting through it, and the occasional glint of chartreuse kudzu which the locusts won’t touch because the leaves release a mild acid when bitten. The sky is darker in the northwest and I know I’m seeing the back end of the swarm.

  Idris says, “Red, organize some troops to kill those”—he points his chin toward the locusts in the nets—“and hang new camo netting. We can’t be exposed like this. Alexander, Wyck, Jax—you’re with me.”

  He leads us to the old boathouse a hundred yards away where the ACVs are hidden and maintained. I know we’re going to the sentry hide. We get into the only six-seater, which I think is optimistic. I know Idris wants Alexander along because he’s a doctor, but I don’t think there’ll be anything he can do. Idris and Wyck get in the front seats and I ride in the middle row with Alexander. His profile is stern, his thoughts inward.

  The ride is too short. Idris sets the vehicle down beneath the hide. Getting out, he calls, “Henley! Shintaro, report.”

  Silence. Idris looks at each of us; I’ve never seen him so unsure. He swallows hard, sets his jaw, and heads for the ladder nailed to the tree’s trunk. I hesitate, and then begin to climb after him. He shouldn’t have to face this alone.

  Wyck stops Alexander from climbing. “Don’t waste your strength. If there’s anything you can do, they’ll let you know.”

  Emerging onto the platform, I find a scene much gorier than I expected. The cloying coppery odor of blood makes me gag. I had anticipated that the locusts would have stripped the bodies to the bone, but they’re partially intact. My scientific mind automatically searches for possible hypotheses to account for this and I guess it means only a small percentage of the locusts are carnivorous. That percentage will increase with every breeding cycle, I know, since being omnivorous is an adaptation that will increase species survivability.

  My foot makes a thwucking sound as I step forward, the congealing blood holding it to the platform. Shintaro is lying atop Henley, as if he tried to shield his compani
on from the danger. The locusts have gnawed through most of the soft tissue on his face and neck, and the white of bone gleams balefully. Blood stains blotch all other parts of his body. He died from blood loss and shock, I suspect. I’m stooping for a closer look at the wounds when the jumpsuit over his abdomen suddenly bulges and ripples. Idris and I jump back.

  It takes mere seconds for me to realize the movements must be locusts trapped under the clothing. Idris and I exchange sheepish glances. He bends and rolls Shintaro’s body off Henley and feels for a pulse on the intact side of Henley’s neck. He stares up sightlessly from empty eye sockets. Vomit rises in the back of my throat, but I keep it down.

  “They’re dead,” he calls down, voice tight. “Nothing we can do for them now. We’ll send a crew to retrieve the bodies.” Gesturing for me to go first, he follows me down the ladder.

  Something in my face or demeanor reveals the horror of the scene because Wyck asks, “That bad?”

  I dip my chin a fraction. Putting an arm around my shoulders, he guides me back to the ACV. Alexander and Idris exchange a few words and then join us. Alexander reaches for my hand as we glide back to the ship. His hand is bony and chilly, but I draw comfort from it on the short journey. The Defiers are waiting for us at the top of the gangway. I thread my way through them and descend one level to my bunk. I don’t need to be there when Idris breaks the news that two of their comrades are dead, consumed by locusts. I have decisions to make.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After dinner, a subdued meal with little conversation, I follow Idris from the dining room. “Can we talk?”

  He narrows his eyes at me, but nods. We head up to the pilot’s cabin. The wind has come up and is whipping the partially installed strips of camouflage netting Rhedyn’s team has been putting up all afternoon. The sun is setting without much fanfare and the river has become a dark gleam flowing past. It’s not really cold, but I cross my arms over my chest.

  “What is it, Jax?” Idris asks, propping himself against the instrument panel.