The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

  The speakers crackle to life again with the warning message: Attention all personnel. The self-destruct sequence will be initiated in T-Minus five minutes. Proceed to evacuation vehicles at once.

  The boy lunges for the case, but I push him back down, straddling him until I have him pinned and he’s squirming beneath me. What if it’s all connected to the same virus that Digory and I were infected with during the Trials? What if Digory’s in this facility, in cryo, and whatever’s in this case is a cure for the virus?

  Running feet approach. There’s no time to speculate.

  The only thing I know is that if the Establishment wants the contents of this case, this GX07, I mustn’t let them have it, even if it means giving it up myself.

  I pull the boy to his feet and thrust the container back at him. “I’m on your side. I’m the one that shut down the Emporiums. Now go on! Get out of here!”

  He stares at me for a split second with a mixture of suspicion and confusion. Then he grabs the case and flees.

  As fast as I can, I backtrack the way I came, through the maze of blinking emergency lights and dimly lit passages, darting into the elevator just as the others round the corner and dash inside with me.

  “Spark!” Leander shouts. “We didn’t find it. Get us the hell topside now before this bitch blows!”

  Behind him, Leander, Dahlia, Rodrigo, and Arrah form a grim tableaux, breathless.

  I release the elevator brake and jam my fist against the button that will take us to the roof. We brace ourselves as the car begins zooming up at a breakneck speed.

  Rodrigo shoves me. “Where the hell were you coming from? You were supposed to stay put!”

  “I heard some shots. Thought you guys might need backup.”

  Arrah stares me down. “I tracked movement coming from Medical Records. Two heat signatures.”

  I shrug. “Instead of you guys, I found one of this station’s personnel. But he’d been mortally wounded and died pretty quickly before he could tell me what happened. Then I hightailed it back here.”

  “This is Flame Squad,” Dahlia barks into her wrist-com, mercifully interrupting. “We’re on our way topside to the rendezvous point. Requesting confirmation. Over.”

  A burst of static. “Affirmative Flame Squad,” Valerian responds. “On the way. We’re not sure we’re going to be able to recover you in time. Requesting confirmation that you retrieved the biological agent. Over.”

  Leander and Rodrigo look at each other and sigh, all trace of bravado gone. Arrah’s face looks grim. Before Dahlia can answer, I grip her wrist-com and smash it against the railing.

  She glares at me. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  I shake my head. “Do you want out of here or not?”

  The car lurches to a halt and the elevator doors burst open. Then we’re all scrambling outside and grabbing onto the transport harnesses dangling from the Vulture that’s hovering above us. As soon as we’ve all grabbed on, the aircraft zooms us away—just as the research facility disappears in a deafening roar and a blinding ball of fire that singes through our suits.

  If Digory’s body was in cryo in that facility, it’s gone now. Forever.

  Once we’ve been hauled back on board, we’re greeted by Valerian’s anxious face. “Where is it? Did you get the case?”

  Dahlia shakes her head. “That’s a negative, Sir. By the time we got to Med Lab 10, it was already gone. We searched a few of the surrounding labs but found nothing.”

  Valerian looks like she’s been physically struck. No doubt her superiors won’t be happy either.

  I clear my throat. “I’m sorry we failed, Sir. At least it’s nice to know you would have come back for us no matter what.”

  Valerian surveys the room, then pins me with a glare. “Quite right, Spark. The important thing is that the station and the insurrectionists who attacked it have been destroyed.” Her words drip with disdain. “How fortunate for us all.”

  My gaze wanders to the others, then out the cabin windows to the destroyed facility, then back to Valerian.

  “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.”

  five

  Along with my fellow trainees, I spend the next few days back home in the Parish under quarantine at Imposer headquarters. We’re confined to the stark medical ward of CKT, the centralized knowledge tower located in the Citadel of Truth. I lie flat on my back, tethered to a series of IVs that burrow into my skin like icy worms. Although Valerian and the medical staff assure us it’s just a precaution, since the infection that contaminated the research facility isn’t communicable except through direct contact with the bloodstream, the concern chiseled into the stone of their expressions doesn’t necessarily inspire confidence. Nor does the fact that every time I ask just what disease, exactly, was set loose in Asclepius Valley, all I get is some mumbled gibberish about viral anomalies.

  If anything, everyone—ranging from Valerian and the other Imposers to the doctors to my fellow trainees—seems more concerned about what I was doing in Medical Records and what exactly I saw there.

  “So when you found the body of the med tech,” Valerian asks for the umpteenth time after the incident, “you were never exposed to any viral agents, Spark? Nor did you see any evidence that any data was compromised, correct?”

  No matter how many different ways she or any of the others phrase that question, my answer remains the same. “No, Sir. I picked up a stray heat signature on my tracker, heard gunfire, and when the others didn’t return, I left my post to investigate and provide backup. The sector was in disarray and the med tech died a few seconds later. Then I returned to rendezvous with the rest of Flame Squad.”

  In spite of some eye-narrowing here and there, extensive jotting of notes in pads and com screens, I get a lot of nods and “I see’s,” so I figure I’m in the clear. For now.

  Pellets of ice ping against the window by my bed; hail that melts into slush, frosty tears that trickle down the glass. From up in this tower I can take in the familiar sight of huge, rusty pipes coughing up plumes of obsidian smoke that stain the fresh-falling snow. By the time it reaches the cobblestone streets, the white powder will look more like flecks of grime.

  Yep. I’m home.

  The other trainees have barely talked to me. The general consensus seems to be that somehow my inexperience and recklessness might have caused me to be exposed to the biological agent, and I’m responsible for everyone having to spend their first couple days back home in the sick tank. This completely ignores the fact that they were all busy

  wandering around sub-level three, possibly exposed to the same contagion that infected all those other poor souls.

  But I think their mood has more to do with the unsettling ramifications of what Valerian said, right before I prevented Dahlia from informing her that we didn’t find the GX07.

  I can’t worry about any of that right now. My head’s still reeling from the information I saw on that computer. I press my palms against my forehead. Cole, being held by those crazies in the Priory. And who knows what this U.I.P. procedure will do to him.

  And that video of Digory. He was actually alive for at least a few minutes after I left him. But if he was being kept in that research facility for study, then I just witnessed him die all over again. It’s overwhelming.

  The doors to the ward slide apart, startling me out of my reverie. A lone figure enters, holding a tablet. Dr. Marquez, whose snow-white hair contrasts with his youthful face.

  Marquez glances around the room, consults his tablet screen, then turns his attention to the display of chart holos projected in the corner. His face is immersed in their shimmering, greenish glow, as if his head’s underwater. He waves his hand in the air regularly, leafing through the images as if they were printed pages, using his fingers to highlight and zoom in and out as he studies the readouts. A smile flits across his
face that seems as perfunctory and planned as his perfectly pressed cobalt scrubs. Then he’s striding toward us.

  “So what’s the scoop?” Rodrigo calls.

  “Yeah, when do we get out of here?” Dahlia chimes in.

  Marquez ignores them and stops at the foot of my bed, which is closest to the door. “How are we all feeling this morning?”

  Reaching over the side of the bed, I thumb the button that elevates the headrest until I’m at eye level with him. “Hmmm. Let’s see. Other than all the bruising and aching from being attacked by infected psychos at that research facility, barely escaping incineration in the mushroom cloud that destroyed the station, not to mention being sore from all the needle poking and prodding and being confined in a place that increases my possible exposure to contagion, I’m doing great. How ’bout you, Doc?”

  A thin smile splinters across his face. “You forgot to deride the quality of the hospital food. It has quite the reputation for being inedible.”

  “Food’s actually pretty good,” I say.

  “Your tests came back,” Marquez says, nodding at the charts. He pauses.

  “And?” Arrah gestures with her hands as if she’s trying to scoop the rest from him.

  Marquez waves a palm and the charts blink out. “Everything checks out. You’re being discharged today.”

  The ward erupts with cheers, applause, whistles, and palm slaps.

  Marquez holds up his hands to quiet us down. “The nurses will be here momentarily to remove the IVs and bring you your uniforms. Your squad leader will arrive within the hour to collect you.” He pauses on his way out and turns … to me. “Oh! I almost forgot. All except you, Spark.”

  My abdominal muscles clench as if trying to crush my internal organs. I bolt upright. “Excuse me, Doc?”

  “As soon as you’re dressed, you’re to report to the rotunda on the observation level.” His eyes are like two sharp pinpricks. “It seems you have a visitor.”

  Then he’s gone, the doors knifing through the air and sealing behind him with a loud whisper.

  The silence that follows is palpable. Even Leander and Dahlia, who’d normally make some crack about the Fifth Tier being coddled, don’t utter a word, which in itself speaks volumes. I sit still and avoid their gazes, confident that they’re all thinking the same thing that I am.

  Who’d come to visit Lucian Spark? And why?

  I stare at the nearly drained IV bag still lodged in my vein, imagining that each drip is laced with dread that slowly invades every cell, every artery, in my body until I’m literally burning with anxiety.

  What if they suspect what I’ve been up to? What happens to Cole then?

  The fact that there are two armed Imposers flanking the lift to the observation level when I approach does nothing to neutralize the acid burning through the lining of my stomach. We trade silent salutes, then I enter, taking in a deep breath as the elevator zooms up and stops.

  As soon as I step through the parted doors, they slide shut behind me and the light fades up. The entire room is comprised of clear windows that provide a breathtaking, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the entire Parish as the chamber slowly rotates. Above me, a high domed ceiling of glass shifts from a reflective state to a transparent one, revealing an unobstructed view of the gray sky. The horizon is already soaked in a deep orange twilight bruising to a vivid purple. A flurry of snowflakes flutters toward me, and—to my shock—seems to go through the glass and right into the rotunda with me, sprinkling the room as if with a giant, invisible salt shaker.

  I hold out my palm. Instead of a few flakes pooling there and giving me the frosty sensation of holding a handful of slush, the flurries go right through my hand, fading away once they reach the floor.

  A computerized simulation. How cozy.

  “Hello, Lucky.”

  The voice freezes me. I turn.

  And look Cassius Thorn dead in the face.

  He hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him—both of us standing on that ramp, his thick auburn hair writhing in the wind. His eyes, which before his recruitment had sparkled like emeralds, were rotted over with reptilian green. He’d pleaded with me then, his hand outstretched, beckoning me to leave Digory to a gruesome, lonely death and join him instead.

  I’d almost succumbed, in order to save Cole’s life …

  almost …

  Until I realized that aligning myself with Cassius would only have damned my brother.

  “I should have known it was you,” I finally say. My eyes hold his. Cassius is the one that flinches, a millisecond twitch of the cheek that’s gone before I can even blink. He must sense the change in me. Maybe he shouldn’t be here without his trusted bodyguards to protect him. Then again, I’m probably being watched by unseen eyes. This is Cassius, after all.

  “You’re looking well. Seems like trainee life agrees with you.” His lips curdle into a thin smile.

  And to think there was a time when the thought of those lips against mine—I shove the vile memory back in its niche.

  “It’s not like I have much choice in the matter,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “That’s not true. There’s always a choice. If memory serves, I seem to remember you making quite a few during the Trials.”

  If he’s trying to goad me into an emotional reaction, he’s wasting his time. “What’s so important that it would drive the Prefect himself here? It couldn’t be concern for my health.”

  His footfalls gouge a deliberate path across the stone floor until they stop directly behind me. “Despite whatever you may think, you’re always in my thoughts.”

  The words are like alcohol poured into a gaping wound. A chuckle escapes my lips. “Is that why you let Ophelia try to kill me after I refused your little offer?” I snap. “Your thoughts don’t seem to be a good thing for my health. Do me a favor and forget I ever existed, Sir.”

  His fingers clamp around my shoulders like talons, spinning me to face him. “I was angry. Hurt. I would never have let anyone harm you.”

  He’s so close I can feel the hot flecks of his saliva peppering my face. I wipe the offensive matter away with the palm of one hand and prod him in the chest with the index finger of the other, punctuating each word with a jab. “Don’t … touch

  … me … again … Sir.”

  He releases his grip and backs off. “You think you’ve grown so much, but you’re still that same naïve little boy who couldn’t even tie his shoes without my help.” His smoldering features cool into a smile at the memory before turning to stone. “You’re no better than anyone else. No better than I am.”

  I sigh. “It’s not about being better, Cassius. It’s about compassion, humanity.” For a second I remember the boy who fed me his scraps even though he was starving, who shielded me from the cold with his own shivering body. Before the Establishment erased him. The muscles in my face become more pliable. “I went through the Trials myself. I know what you experienced and what was taken from you.”

  His expression looks wounded. And weary. The silver chain around his neck glints in the light: a pendant bearing two clasped hands. Behind him, the horizon rotates, casting his silhouette in alternating shades of gray and fiery sunset. I spot the banks of Fortune’s River, frozen over now, like my feelings for Cassius. The halo of deep red surrounding him gives way and plunges him into the darkness of night.

  “You shouldn’t pity me … ” He pauses and purses his lips. “Save it for all the poor people that died in those mysterious fires that wiped out the Pleasure Emporiums.”

  He knows.

  For a moment we just stare at each other in silence. The room continues to spin like a macabre carousel.

  “What’s the matter, Lucian? You’re as stiff as the marble bust of our illustrious founder, Queran Embers, standing in the Citadel’s great hall.”

  “Wh
at do the Emporiums have to do with me?” I finally ask, my voice disembodied and tremulous.

  “Funny you should ask that. Especially in light of the fact that it’s not the first heinous crime that’s occurred within the past, oh”—he scratches his temple—“six months or so, is it? Around the same time frame you started your training … ”

  “I’m not sure what—”

  “Now let’s see … hmmm … ” The muscles of his face contract. “There was that explosion in the outland refinery, which hampered the government’s communications systems. Then, about a month later, that mysterious electrical fire that disabled the surveillance and security systems in the agricultural plants.” He frowns and shakes his head. “Nasty business. The breach allowed countless food storage containers to be stolen from right under our noses.”

  He’s ticking points off with his fingers now, circling me counter-clockwise even as the room continues to revolve in the other direction.

  “And we mustn’t forget that horrid incident with the railroad tracks being tampered with on their way to the mines—what? Two months ago?” He shrugs. “Lost a whole squadron of troops in that one.” His eyes fix on mine. “Miraculously, the car carrying the prisoners went unscathed and they all managed to escape. If I were a religious man, I’d question the Deity’s sense of divine judgment on that one.” He brakes directly in front of me. “And finally, the most recent incident at the Emporiums.”

  I bite my lower lip. “Such an unfortunate loss, to be sure.”

  “The general consensus seems to be that it’s all the work of the insurrectionists we’ve been trying to flush out.”

  “But you have a different theory?”

  He nods. “I believe it’s the work of only one, a terrorist with a single-minded purpose to disrupt our way of life. Do you know that at every crime scene we keep finding a lit torch that would appear to be this terrorist’s signature? Despite our attempts to keep these incidents from the public and stir further unrest, news of many of them has leaked, prompting the insurrectionists to begin referring to their new hero as the Torch Keeper.” He pauses. “I seem to remember you having a fixation with torch-carrying ladies once.”