The Sowing

I open my eyes and make out Arrah, Drusilla, and Cage pulling and dragging me into a coffin… no… it’s a ship… a Squawker…

Then the cold wind stops and I’m inside. A mask is smashed against my face. Oxygen. Someone’s at my side. Cloth swipes my side, white cotton turned red with fire.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” someone—Arrah again—yells.

The last thing I see, through the cabin window, is a formation of Squawkers heading toward us. Our ship veers and banks wildly, around and over buildings… and then we’re heading into the blackest night of my life.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The convoy stretches over the rocky plain like the winding body of a great caterpillar. Battered glide-craft, rebuilt Squawkers cobbled together from discarded parts, and makeshift transports patched with rust all zigzag through the dying night. Even with the creaking from poor shock absorbers and lack of proper lubricants, it’s relatively quiet—considering the thousands of people that are part of this stealth caravan, the remnants of the freedom coalition that have managed to make it out of the Parish.

Cage and Arrah received my transmissions and warned Jeptha, who had just enough time to contact the other resistance cells with warnings and evacuation orders. By the time the first wave of Squawker attacks hit, most of the rebel strongholds were only partially occupied. Still, many were trapped or killed when the squads of Imposers and soldiers sealed the city in the aftermath of Cassius’s coup d’état against Talon and those still loyal to her regime. The clean-up by Cassius’s forces was swift and violent—and fortunately provided enough of a diversion for the rebel survivors to slip from the city limits. Unfortunately, Tristin hasn’t been seen since. Even though she’s probably dead, I find myself uttering a silent prayer to whatever god she believed in to watch over her.

I stare out from the open cockpit of the transport I’m riding in as the first rays of light penetrate that cloak of blackness. With the encroaching dawn, Cassius’s forces will come calling, ready to decimate what’s left of the resistance. Maybe he has his hands full dealing with Sanctum and that’ll buy us some time. In any event, we need to establish a new base of operations soon.

“How’re you feeling?” Arrah asks.

I turn toward her, my fingers tracing the outline of the bandages still plastered to my side. The side where—

I wince. “Still breathing.”

Her eyes narrow, as if she can’t tell whether I’m grateful or bitter.

I’m not so sure which, either.

“Sorry if that patchwork job wasn’t exactly up to standard,” she says. “It’ll probably leave a scar.”

“Yeah. I’m sure it will.”

She hasn’t asked how exactly I got wounded, and I haven’t volunteered to fill in the blanks. Maybe someday we’ll have that conversation. But I can’t. Not now.

The cavalcade begins to wind down into a canyon. The crater’s huge, the walls pockmarked with natural niches that have been reinforced by steel beams and girders. I smile. The resistance coalition has been busy over the years, constructing this ersatz base little by little out of supplies and equipment pilfered from the Establishment’s carefully recorded inventory.

As we descend, I see that hundreds—no, thousands—have already assembled, bustling around, constructing shelters, soldering equipment, distributing meager supplies of food and clothing.

Amidst the throng, I spot a group of familiar black uniforms and gleaming helmets and my hand reflexively goes to the weapon strapped to my opposite side. But the moment I see the face of their leader, I relax.

It’s Valerian.

The closer I get to her, the more I can see that recent events have already started to take their toll. Her face is drawn, mired in cuts and bruises, and her usually pristine uniform is wrinkled and torn.

My transport comes to a stop. I hop off and limp toward her.

She manages a smile. “Spark. That uniform you’re wearing isn’t exactly up to code, Recruit.”

I nod. “Neither is yours, Sir.”

“I guess we’re all going to need new uniforms now.” She glances at her companions. Imposers who, like her, have chosen a side.

“Tim Fremont,” she whispers.

“Who—?”

“He was a young man, a Worm peddling fake IDs, who my partner and I caught on the very day you were recruited. I was faced with the choice of killing him outright or taking him into custody and letting him be tortured until he begged for death. I chose the former.”

Of course. The poor guy in the alley on the day Digory and my fates became intertwined.

She rubs her weary eyes. “Tim’s screams haven’t left me. But it was a decision I made for the greater good, one of many. Which is why I’ve left now.”

There’s always a choice.

And I’ve made mine.

We grip hands and stare at each other for a moment, until she finally breaks away. “I’ve got to get back to the Parish before Thorn misses me. I can be much more effective working on the inside. Besides, loading supplies is grunt work for Fifth Tiers.” She winks at me.