The Sowing

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?