The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

  Oxygen level: nineteen percent.

  I think of Digory. Instead of the dark, cold waters drowning me, I’m bobbing in the warm blue of his eyes. He smiles, his flawless lips forming words that travel in concentric circles of perfect ripples until they cozy up to my ears and fill them with bliss.

  Never give up.

  My heart surges—

  Until I remember Digory’s betrayal and how much it hurts. I’ve tried my best not to think of it during these weeks in Purgatorium.

  But the rage works just as well.

  Frosty sea water laps against my chin, jarring me back to reality. Control yourself, damn it! Cole needs you to survive and get back to him!

  I force myself to imagine that each breath I’m expelling is pushing me farther and farther away from Cole, and I feel them begin to slow.

  Oxygen level: ten percent.

  On the monitors, Boaz has overtaken Drusilla and Crowley and is racing ahead of them to pick up his second Incentive. Seawater seeps past my lower lip, filling my mouth with salty ice that I spit back out.

  Boaz scoops up his remaining Incentive and heads for the surface, followed by Drusilla. At least that guarantees that Corin, Leander, Arrah, and Mr. Ryland will make it through to the next round.

  Crowley’s left behind, trying to untangle his remaining Bio-Pod from debris. From the way his face is contorting, he looks like he’s struggling to breathe.

  My mouth’s now completely submerged and I tilt my head up as far as I can, struggling to keep my nostrils free.

  Crowley finally pulls the last of the debris free and grips his Incentive’s Bio-Pod.

  Cage darts into view, propelling himself like a fish. Gripping my pod, he heaves me from the ocean floor and begins the trek to the surface. Crowley’s just a little farther ahead with his Incentive.

  Oxygen level: four percent.

  The water spewing into my pod is trickling past my nostrils.

  Then Cage pulls ahead and takes the lead. Oxygen level: two percent.

  An oblong shape zooms into view, dissecting the shafts of surface glow. It’s a fish. A big fish with a long pointed snout, angular fin, gills like slashes in its side, and the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  A carcharian.

  Crowley lets go of his Incentive and swims away, but Cage just freezes. Wham! The predator slams into me, teeth chomping through the monitors and gauges as it rips a large hole in my pod.

  I manage to avoid the creature’s teeth and slip through the opening. Cage grabs my arm and starts to pull me up with him to the surface. Beside us, Crowley’s recovered his Incentive and is swimming neck-in-neck with us, just as the carcharian rips free of the remnants of my Bio-Pod and shoots toward us like a silver bullet. Its maw grazes one of Crowley’s legs as it zooms by him, then circles around to attack him full force. Crowley clutches his wound and shoves his remaining pod toward the predator.

  Tearing away from Cage, I grab Crowley, pulling him up with us to the surface as the carcharian devours Crowley’s Incentive, Bio-Pod and all. Then I’m breaking through the surface, gasping, filling my starving lungs with glorious air, Crowley slumped against me. On my other side, Cage is bobbing

  in the water, hand clasped in mine, holding them both high for everyone to see we’ve made it.

  “You okay, mate?” he whispers.

  I nod.

  The whine of feedback pierces my clogged ears:

  Recruit Cage, you have rescued your second Incentive and completed this Trial in Third Place. Unfortunately, Recruit Crowley has finished last and his Incentive has been shelved accordingly.

  On the platform above us, Drusilla and Boaz stand, anxious looks plastered on their faces.

  “Crowley … needs … help!” I gasp.

  Boaz pushes forward. “We got him!”

  Then they’re crouching at the edge, helping Cage and me haul Crowley onto the platform. Blood oozes from the wound in his leg, puddling at our feet.

  Crowley’s eyes are wide open and glazed, all the color drained from his flesh. “Jorgen … ” he mutters through clenched teeth.

  Drusilla cradles his head in her lap. “Is he even breathing?”

  Cage rubs Crowley’s forehead. “He’s in bloody shock.”

  I’m gripping Crowley’s leg, trying to apply as much pressure as I can. “He’s losing too much blood.”

  “We need a medic here!” Boaz shouts at the spherical drones hovering above us like insects.

  I lean in close to Crowley’s ear. “Hang in there. It’s going to be okay. Help’s coming.”

  He moans and clutches my arm. “Please tell me I didn’t just kill Jorg—oh, hell … what have I done … ?”

  “Stay away from him!” Boaz shoves me so hard I nearly fall back into the sea.

  Cage grabs me and keeps me from going over. He springs up and shoves Boaz away. “Rack off! It’s nobody’s fault except the mongrels running this show.”

  Boaz ogles him. “How can you take this traitor’s side? Crowley’s one of us. And now he’s going to die because of—”

  “He’s not going to die, you whacker!”

  But even as he says the words, Cage’s jaw clenches, his expression hardening like dried clay.

  He turns to gaze at the recovered Bio-Pods, which are being picked up by metal claws descending from a conveyor belt in the maze of girders and beams above. “Tristin okay?” he mutters.

  “She’s hanging in there. Better than most.” I try to crack a smile. “Why didn’t you just leave when you saw who was in your other pod?”

  He nods toward the drones. “Is that what you’d do, mate?”

  Two Imposers appear and lift Crowley into a hovering med capsule, disappearing with him.

  I can’t help but think of that image I saw of Digory on that grainy surveillance footage.

  Styles and Renquist emerge out of a side door and approach me with weapons drawn.

  Drusilla touches my hand. “Tell Arrah … tell her … I love her … ”

  I nod. “I will.”

  “Let’s go, Spark.” Renquist grunts.

  Then they’re hauling me away, and I’m wondering if it’s Dahlia or Jorgen who won’t be there when I get back.

  nineteen

  I’m standing in the middle of a long corridor of arched black stone. Something’s swaying back and forth, something metallic like dangling chains …

  A Bio-Pod, torn and smeared with blood.

  I grab hold and rip the faceplate away.

  It’s Digory. His skin’s mottled gray, once-full lips shriveled and torn. His eyes pop open. Instead of that brilliant blue, they’re white as eggshells. Tears of blood pool and drip from the corners down his hollow cheeks. His mouth opens with a sickening pop, as if his lips have been stuck together for a long time.

  “You never came back for me like you promised.” His voice is a throaty gurgle. His skin tears as his mouth stretches into a smile, oozing pus. “But soon you’ll be dead, too.”

  I bolt upright.

  “Lucian, are you okay?” a voice whispers in my ear.

  I can’t see anything but the thick cloak of blackness that smothers me. Panic jolts through me like a live wire. What have they done to me? I’m blind. Instinctively, my fingers grope my face to make sure my eyes are still in their sockets.

  Then consciousness tears through the tattered vestiges of my nightmare. It was a dream. I’m in my cell. Must be after lights-out.

  I sense breathing and my hands find the face near me, cupping the smooth, cool cheeks.

  “Tristin?” I whisper back.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Her hand touches mine. “When I got brought back, you were already passed out. Then they turned off the lights for the night. Looks like you were having some kind of bad dream. Heard you calling for ‘Digory.’”

>   I let go of her face and grab her hands, anxious to change the subject. “The others, did you see them? Are they okay? Who did we lose? Was it Dahlia?”

  She sighs. “I’m not sure. I only caught a glimpse of some of the others—Corin, your friends Leander and Arrah. That’s about all I remember seeing before they switched off the juice. Sorry.”

  I nod, forgetting for an instant that she can’t see me. The last image of Cage’s face on the platform hovers into my memory. “Your brother. I’ve seen him.”

  “Cage? Is he okay? I couldn’t tell from those monitors, and then they went blank, and—”

  “He’s okay. Asked how you’re doing,” I try to inject a little levity into my words. “How long was I out for?”

  “Maybe an hour, hour and a half. Why?”

  Good. That means I still have several hours before the morning guard shift arrives.

  “Tristin, I’m going to need your help. There’s something I have to do if we’re all going to get to see the people we care about again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need to get out of this cell and find a way out of this complex. If we don’t get out of here soon, we’re all dead—you, me, your brother, everyone. That’s the Establishment’s endgame. No survivors this time.”

  There’s nothing but silence for a few moments. I feel the weight on the cot shift. If she doesn’t cooperate, there’s no way I’m going to be able to pull this off.

  “I’m in. What’s your plan?” she finally whispers back.

  “I’m going to try and get through one of the ducts.”

  Groping against the wall to orient myself, I reach into the crevice where I’ve hidden the bone fragment and pull it out. I climb back onto the cot and feel my way up the corner wall until I can feel the rim of the ventilation grate. My fingertips probe the metal slats on one side of it, finally finding the grooves.

  From the mental blueprint I’ve been able to piece together, it seems our holding cells move vertically and horizontally on some type of gear system, so this grate must lead to a ventilation or maintenance shaft that runs parallel to the track system, at least when our cells are locked in their default ground-level position, as they are now.

  Unless my theory’s totally wrong.

  I guess I’m about to find out. That is, if the bone fragment is thin enough to fit into the screw head. The fabric wrapped around my makeshift tool rustles as I unfurl it.

  “What’re you doing?” Tristin whispers into my ear.

  “It’s just a little gizmo Leander slipped me to help loosen these bolts.”

  The next couple of hours are an exercise in frustration and jangled nerves. While I’m able to wedge the bone fragment into the screws without being able to see, actually turning the heads to loosen them requires repeated attempts. I’m only able to turn them a millimeter at a time before my tool pops out and I have to repeat the process over again.

  I’m all too conscious of every single creak from the grinding bolts, which pierce the muffled sounds of our breathing and the thudding of my pulse in my ears.

  Twice, Tristin and I are forced to abandon the project and fling ourselves into our bunks when Imps making their rounds approach and shine a light into our cell.

  The second time, the guard lingers and I keep my eyes squeezed shut, trying to control my breathing. I grip the sharp utensil like a weapon, hoping the guard doesn’t decide to come into the cell and take a closer look, forcing me to use it.

  But it’s Tristin who breaks the tension by releasing a stream of soft snores, mimicking the sounds of deep sleep to perfection.

  Moments later, the glare of the flashlight disappears and the guard’s footfalls echo down the corridor, leaving us in the thickness of black silence once again.

  We spring back into action.

  “Nice work,” I whisper into her ear.

  Finally, I’ve released all of the screws on the grate except for one. The last thing I need is for the grate to clatter to the ground and alert the guards. Also, I need to be able to slide it back into place in a hurry and not worry about securing it to the ceiling. Gripping the loose edges, I shove the vent to the side, having to push real hard against the rust holding it in place.

  Without needing a cue from me, Tristin fakes a coughing fit to cover up the sound of the creaking metal. The sound makes me break out into gooseflesh as if it were nails scraping across an old chalkboard.

  There’s no way they can’t hear this.

  Once the grate is moved sufficiently, I pause, slumping against the wall, my ears straining for the first chords of booted feet heading our way.

  Each second seems like an hour.

  But no one comes.

  “I think we’re good,” Tristin murmurs. I can hear the anxiety tingeing her words.

  Releasing my breath, I whisper to her. “I need you to help boost me up.”

  It’s awkward in the dark, but in a few minutes, she’s cupping my foot in her hands and pushing me up and through the open duct and into the shaft. There’s a panicked second where I don’t think I’m going to be able to squeeze through, but after a little pushing and some scraped flesh, I’m in.

  I poke my head back through. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Hurry,” she mutters. This time there’s no mistaking the fear in her voice. She slides the grate back into place.

  Taking a moment to orient myself, I start to crawl through the duct, feeling my way past the transport mechanisms that connect to the pulleys and rails at the top of my cell. Once I’m into the network of ventilation shafts, I reconcile my direction with what I’ve already memorized of Purgatorium’s floor plan and fit this journey to my mental schematics.

  Up ahead, shafts of light illuminate my way as I pass by the mess hall, the showers, the other prisoners’ cell blocks. I peer through the slats of each vent as I go by. There must be a skeleton guard crew on duty since I only spot a couple of Imps, silent wraiths haunting the corridors below.

  It took so long to get up here. How much time do I have left? Surely it won’t be long before the morning shift takes over and the entire facility’s flooded with activity—

  And my absence in the holding cell is discovered.

  My pace increases. I ignore the pain in my bare kneecaps as I forge on. By my calculations, what I’m really looking for should be just around the next corner. A few feet away, I reach an intersection with a vertical shaft.

  This has to be it. A way to access the upper control rooms located on the catwalks overlooking our cells. Fortunately, there’s a maintenance ladder leading up, and I’m able to skirt the rungs in seconds and emerge into a horizontal shaft parallel to the one I just left.

  As I start to crawl toward the nearest vent grate, I can hear the steady hum of machinery mixed with the murmur of voices. Being as careful as possible not to make any noise of my own, I inch my way toward the grating, staying as much in the shadows as I can while still being able to peer down into the control center below.

  There are only two Imps that I can see, Renquist and Echoes. They’re both kicked back in their glossy black chairs, feet resting on the console, staring absently at the monitors that flicker around them and create strobing patterns on their disinterested faces.

  My eyes are drawn to the transparent locker behind them and the cache of weapons gleaming in it. Neurostims, seismic charges, knives, clubs, guns, grenades … a virtual treasure trove of destruction that can make the difference in the duration and outcome of our little stay here.

  All I have to do is figure out how to get my hands on them.

  Bleep!

  One of the lights on the monitor hiccups a glow of red, and both Imps’ postures stiffen.

  I duck farther into the shadows and hold my breath.

  Echoes presses a button and the intercom crackles to life. “Thi
s is control center one.”

  “Control center one,” the voice on the other end says, “this is recon patrol four. We’ve finished our sweep. All pylons powering the sonic fence perimeter have been repaired and reinforced. We shouldn’t have a problem with any more of them getting inside.”

  My pulse quickens. Them? Inside? Could the Fleshers have already breached security?

  “Copy that, recon patrol,” Echoes responds. “I’m showing no signs of activity on the cams and I’ve triple checked all locks and shields. Nothing’s getting in again. And it’ll be dawn soon. Looks like we all pulled an uneventful shift.”

  “Thank the Deity for that,” Renquist mutters. “I’ll rest more easy when our contingent is up to full strength and not this skeleton crew they have running the station.”

  “You got that right,” the voice on the intercom crackles. “Whatever made them pull out the bulk of our troops must be pretty big. This is recon patrol, over and out.”

  The red light dies.

  So Infiernos is operating with limited personnel. This definitely gives us the edge.

  Renquist gathers his gear and heads for the door. “Speaking of dawn, shift’s almost over. Time to squeeze in a little stress relief before I’m outta here.” His wink to Echoes sends a chill worming up my spine.

  Echoes grins. “That’s right. You’ve got a two-day furlough coming. Who’s it going to be tonight? Pretty boy, Spark?”

  “Bledsoe.” Renquist pauses. “You won’t see me for another forty-eight hours. Try not to let anyone in while I’m away.” Then he’s gone.

  So Jorgen’s dead and Dahlia’s alive.

  Ignoring the throbbing in my hands and knees, I speed through the tunnel, navigating through the maze of ductwork, trying to get my bearings and make it to Dahlia’s cell before Renquist does.

  But the whole way, one thought jackknifes into my brain. Even if I do get to her first, what can I do?

  I’ve finally made it to the ducts above the holding cells and my eyes barely register the sleeping forms below.