Flame: A Sky Chasers Novel

  For the last several days, she’d given in to her depression, had hidden in her room, head under the covers, her mother bringing trays of food and taking them away barely touched. She was waiting.

  She knew Mather would come for her. It was in the woman’s DNA to invade, meddle, control. So when the knock came at the front door, Waverly jerked in her bed, listening to her mother greet the holy Pastor with utmost deference. Sighing, Waverly reached for a black cardigan that had been left in her bedroom closet along with a full wardrobe of the simple, somber clothes that people wore on this ship. She slipped it on and looked at herself in the oblong mirror hanging on her bedroom door. She didn’t know the girl in the drab shift standing there with the ratty brown hair and the haunted eyes. Too thin, too pale, too wispy. Weak.

  “Waverly!” her mother called from the living room.

  She took a deep breath, walked the length of the hall, and found Anne Mather in the doorway, two armed men behind her. They held their guns across their chests, their eyes on Waverly.

  “Hello,” Mather said, betraying a nervousness in the quick movements of her hands that Waverly had never seen before.

  Waverly did not return the greeting. She stood in the middle of the living room with her hands at her sides, waiting.

  “I thought you might join me for a pot of tea and some treats?”

  “I don’t suppose I can refuse,” Waverly said with a glance at the guards.

  “You absolutely can refuse,” Mather said. “I want a fresh start with you. That means you’re free.”

  “Except for the guard posted outside my door,” Waverly rejoined with a look at the snide, balding man she’d come to despise.

  Mather dropped a beat. “Yes. I do need to worry about the safety of my crew.”

  “And your own safety.”

  “Yes.” Mather flicked her chin up defiantly. “Well? Will you come?”

  A small part of her was curious about what Mather had to say, so she kissed her mother, strode out the door past the armed men, and headed toward the elevators.

  Mather caught up with her, stooped, struggling to keep pace. She’s short, Waverly realized. She’d never thought of the woman’s height before. Mather had always seemed beyond physical considerations, but now she looked small and weak. Maybe what Dr. Carver told Waverly was true: The Pastor was losing her grip.

  Mather’s office looked different since the last time Waverly was here, more disordered, like a war room. Papers were spread across her desk, and she quickly stacked them on a credenza in the corner. A woman carried in a tray laden with tea, biscuits, and fruit preserves, and nodded when the Pastor thanked her.

  “Have what you like,” Mather said, pouring herself a cup of tea. Waverly noticed that it was black tea instead of the chamomile Mather had always drunk before. Waverly refused any food or drink and sat in the soft chair across the desk from Mather, who sipped at her dainty teacup.

  “Is Sarah Wheeler okay?” Waverly asked. She’d been worried about Sarah ever since she’d been dragged out of the central bunker by Mather’s thugs. “And Randy Ortega?”

  “Sarah … is she the one who caused the scene at the Empyrean reunion?”

  “More like she suffered a breakdown.”

  Mather nodded sadly. “The poor girl has been through too much. She’s being treated for depression now, along with her friend.”

  “With drugs?” Waverly asked. Is that what they’d done to her mother?

  “Gentle ones,” Mather said. “Harmless.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I’ll look into that for you,” Mather said, but the disingenuous look of concern on her face made Waverly think the woman knew very well where Sarah was.

  She wants to keep us separated, Waverly thought angrily.

  “Well. How is your mother?”

  “She’s very … changed,” Waverly said with quiet fury. “I know you’re drugging her somehow. Why haven’t you drugged me?”

  “Drugs? No.” Mather wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. “Your parents staged a hunger strike for a period of weeks before our rendezvous. It’s likely your mother was weakened by it. A period of reduced calories can have an effect on the brain.”

  The assured way Mather told this obvious lie was the final insult. Waverly stared at her, so angry she imagined the liquid coating over her eyes boiling away.

  “Knock, knock,” someone called from the doorway.

  Waverly turned to see the decrepit old man, Dr. Carver, standing there, his hands grasping his cane with what looked like preternatural strength.

  “Hello, Doctor,” Mather said with reserved politeness, though she looked discomfited.

  “This is the famous Waverly Marshall, I presume?” the doctor said, looking Waverly up and down as though he’d never seen her before.

  “Haven’t you two met?” Mather asked with a tilt of her head.

  The doctor hobbled in, leaning heavily on his cane, which was beautifully carved into the shape of two snakes intertwined, one white, one black. He extended a knobby hand. “I’m Dr. Carver,” he said. “Pleased to finally meet you in person.”

  After a brief recovery from her surprise, Waverly shook his hand. “Hello.”

  “I heard you two were meeting this morning, so I dropped by, unable to control my curiosity.” He motioned a hand for Waverly to move to the next chair. His imperious manner demanded immediate compliance, and she found herself obeying. He lowered himself gingerly into her vacated chair. “I’ve heard so much about you, Waverly, I wanted to come and see you for myself.” His eyes twinkled as though he were enjoying a private joke with her.

  “Tea?” Mather asked him with controlled courtesy.

  He shook his head. “My old stomach can’t take more than lemon water these days,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “We were just talking about the hunger strike.”

  “Oh yes,” the man said with a kindly chuckle. “I know you lost some sleep over that one, Pastor!”

  “But we finally resolved it,” Mather said cheerfully. “When they learned we were on a rendezvous course with the Empyrean, they started eating again. Thank goodness.”

  Waverly noticed the way Mather’s gray eyes darted over the frail doctor. She’s afraid of him, Waverly realized.

  “So, Waverly,” Dr. Carver said with a gleeful tap on the handle of his cane. “How are you liking your new life in the bosom of your enemy?”

  Waverly stared at the old man with no idea of how to answer.

  “Come, now. You must have thoughts on the matter.”

  “Doctor,” Mather broke in, tapping a pen furtively on her desktop. “I’m not sure stirring up past resentments is the right way to build trust with Waverly.”

  “Resentments?” the old man said, his gaze trailing over the woven tapestry that hung on the wall behind Mather. “Is that how you’d put it?”

  The Pastor looked at him, cowed.

  “What word would you use, Waverly?” the man said quietly. “War crimes?”

  “Atrocities,” Waverly whispered, her sudden rage choking her. “Monstrosities.”

  Mather smoothed her smock with trembling hands.

  “Come now, Pastor,” the old man said. “You must embrace your mistakes to embrace your enemy.”

  “All right,” Mather said quietly, looking at the old man first, then at Waverly. “You’re right. What I did to you and your families was…”

  “Unforgivable,” the old man said.

  “Yes,” Mather replied, before Waverly could say anything.

  “So how do we move on from here?” the old man asked Waverly.

  Mather opened her mouth to speak, but Dr. Carver held up a hand to silence her, and to Waverly’s astonishment, Mather obeyed.

  “Waverly?” He looked at her expectantly. “What do you feel would make life bearable for you and the rest of the Empyrean refugees?”

  “She would have to go on trial,” Waverly said evenly, wondering if he actually had the power
to make that happen. During her captivity on this ship, she’d thought the church elders were beholden to Mather for their power, but she was beginning to wonder if it was the other way around. “The Pastor and all her thugs would have to be punished.”

  “You mean to send them to the brig?” he asked. “Or perhaps you mean for the Pastor … to be executed?”

  Waverly stared at Mather, unflinching.

  “Listen, now,” Mather began, holding up a hand.

  “So you see, Pastor?” said the old man. “Your idea that we can all live on this ship as one big happy family is perhaps…” He waved a talon in the air, searching for a word. “Unrealistic?”

  “No,” the Pastor said. All the fear left her face, and she looked doggedly at Dr. Carver. “I don’t believe that. Peace is always the better alternative.”

  “A rather odd thing to say,” the old man said, “coming from the architect of the Empyrean Massacre.”

  “You’re the one who wanted the rendezvous,” Mather shot at him.

  He waved a languid hand. “A meeting is what I wanted.”

  “You suggested the nebula. To surprise them.”

  “I raised many concerns about your plans. You assured us there would be minimal loss of life.”

  “Things did not go as expected.”

  “Ah yes. The fog of war.” He chuckled. “Invoked by many a war criminal.”

  Waverly could not believe her ears. She watched the old man’s profile as he sat back in his chair, grilling Mather ruthlessly, calmly, taking in every twitch and squirm as the woman shrank under his attack.

  “What matters now is the future,” Mather offered.

  “Not to Waverly,” the old man said. He turned to her, lifted his chin, waiting.

  “You need to answer for what you did,” Waverly said to Mather.

  Mather stuck out her chin. “What about what your crew did to us?”

  “Ah!” The doctor was shifting in his seat back and forth, as though he were at a sporting event. “Go on.”

  “Captain Jones and your … his scientists destroyed our fertility,” Mather said, her strength restored.

  “They paid for it with their lives,” Waverly said. “What more do you want?”

  “What?” The doctor looked at Mather. “Does the girl not know?”

  Mather shook her head, barely perceptibly, but the doctor ignored her. “Your Captain is alive, Waverly.”

  Waverly felt as though the wind had been knocked from her body. When she looked at Mather, she saw the woman glaring at the old man as though plotting his murder. He stared back at her, fearless.

  Waverly finally started to believe at least part of what the doctor had said. He wanted to topple Anne Mather. Judging from the way Mather was watching him, beads of sweat moistening the small hairs on her upper lip, he’d already begun.

  Waverly looked at the old man sitting next to her, his maleficent glare, the way his fingers dug like claws into the wooden arms of his chair. Like it or not, whoever he was, Waverly had just cast her lot with him.

  “Waverly,” the old man said as he struggled out of his chair, “I wonder if you’d lend me an arm.”

  Waverly stood, feeling awkward under the watchful glare of Anne Mather, and took hold of his elbow. Under the rough fabric of his woven jacket, his arm felt surprisingly alive with wiry strength. “Good-bye, Anne,” he said as he straightened his back and looked down at her in triumph.

  “Good-bye, Wesley,” Mather muttered. Her fear seemed to have left her, and she looked at him with a loathing that seemed rooted in a great deal of time and experience.

  Waverly walked out with the old man, acutely aware of his thumbnail, thickened and discolored, as it dug into the flesh of her elbow. He steered her toward the elevators, holding up a single finger to the armed guards who started to follow them. To Waverly’s surprise, the men went back to stand outside Mather’s office door.

  The old man said nothing, seeming to wait for Waverly to speak. “Have you found out anything about what’s wrong with my mom?” she finally asked.

  “I have.” Carver glanced at her with jiggling red eyeballs. “As far as I understand, most of the Empyrean crew has been medically lobotomized.”

  With her free hand, Waverly wrapped her sweater around herself more tightly. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “A lobotomy severs the connection between the prefrontal cortex and the rest of the brain.”

  “What?” she shrieked just as they passed an open office door. A red-haired man seated at the desk looked up irritably from his portable reader.

  “I said it was done medically.” He held up a finger, then pressed the elevator call button. “Medicinally.”

  “With drugs,” she said softly. “So it’s reversible?”

  “I might be able to design an antidote, given the right incentives.”

  Waverly wished she could pull her arm away from him. “Why didn’t Mather do that to me?”

  Carver smiled with half his face so that he looked distorted, as though she were watching him through a vortex. “She still might, I suppose. Unless you do something to stop her.”

  Waverly pressed her free hand into the pit of her stomach. “I feel sick.”

  “I don’t blame you,” the man said, feigning sympathy, though he looked delighted. “Don’t you see, Waverly, why I want to put an end to these monstrosities? Don’t you see how much we need you?”

  The elevator bell sounded, and the doors slid open. From inside came three pregnant women dressed in farm coveralls, giggling together.

  “You say you might be able to design an antidote? For my mom, and the others?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On you, Waverly. Anne Mather would hardly let me reanimate her flock of tamed doves if she remains in power. But if you give us the testimony we need…”

  “Okay,” she finally said. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  “Good.” He let go of her arm, and as she stepped onto the elevator, she felt the blood rushing into her fingertips.

  He blocked the elevator door with his cane as he beckoned Mather’s guards. They rushed to comply and stepped onto the elevator with Waverly. The doctor turned his back on her before the elevator doors closed.

  THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

  Kieran had just finished shaving, a ritual he still performed though it seemed poignantly futile. He was still haunted by the reunion of the Empyrean children, unable to sleep, hating himself for being unable to help the orphans. As a leader, he was a complete failure. He rinsed his razor in the steaming water, then turned off the faucet. In the quiet, he heard laughter coming from the living room. Someone was here.

  He opened the bathroom door to find his mother sitting with Felicity on the large orange couch, eating cookies and drinking fruit juice. Felicity had made his mother laugh, a lightweight giggle he hadn’t heard in months, and Felicity smiled in a way that made her cheeks glow. When she noticed him standing in the doorway, she stood. “Kieran!”

  “Hi, Felicity,” he said and tripped on his own feet as he left the bathroom. He wanted to ask what she was doing here, but he couldn’t think how without sounding rude.

  “Do you remember that dance recital we were in together when we were little?” She asked. “I think we were…”

  She looked at Kieran’s mother, who said, “No more than seven.”

  “We were square dancing, and you and I knocked heads during the do-si-do?”

  “I felt really bad about that,” Kieran said, wincing at the memory.

  “You helped me off the floor,” Felicity said, her bright eyes wandering over his face. “You were always a gentleman. Even back then.”

  “He’s a good boy,” Lena said, smiling at her son. Talking about the old days had done her some good, Kieran could see. Her amber eyes glowed in a way he hadn’t seen since before the initial attack, and she looked relaxed and easy in Felicity’s company. “I’ll leave you two alo
ne,” she said as she stood up. “Sit down, Kieran.”

  Kieran had never felt so awkward as he stumbled toward the couch, minutely aware that Felicity was watching him. Her eyelashes were blond, he realized as he took his seat next to her. He’d never noticed that. And her eyebrows were a shade darker than her light blond hair. His face burned as he realized he was staring, and he turned away to pour himself a glass of juice. He took a few sips to calm himself, but he hardly tasted it.

  He was embarrassed to have Felicity see the opulent surroundings Mather had provided for him. A large oval porthole behind the couch where she sat showed a view of the galaxy, and the spacious living room was lavishly decorated with paintings and objets d’art. A thick rug in an ancient Persian design lay diagonally on the floor, leading the eye toward the bright kitchen and dining area. His own bedroom was even worse, with satin sheets, down pillows, and an original painting by Kandinsky hanging on the wall. As soon as he’d seen this place, he’d known Mather must be buttering him up for something, and it made him feel dirty to live here. Now, seeing it all through Felicity’s eyes, he felt even worse.

  “Pastor Mather is sending me around to Empyrean survivors,” Felicity said, having recognized the question in his eyes. “I’m kind of an ambassador, I guess.”

  “Oh,” Kieran said. “Because you’ve been here so long.”

  “I’ve ‘successfully assimilated’ is how she put it,” Felicity said, not without bitter irony. She looked him over with frank concern. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Of course. Just fine.”

  “Really?” She raised one eyebrow, her eyes moving from his tense mouth to his fidgeting fingers.

  He laughed. “Don’t look so skeptical.”

  “I won’t, if you’ll tell me the truth.”

  He leaned back into the couch cushions. Her candor stripped away his thin layer of pretense, and all the devastation of the past week flooded through him. I’m not fine. How can I ever be fine again? He didn’t want to cry in front of her, but he couldn’t speak without crying, so he said nothing.