The Sowing

If I tell them that Digory did what he did out of love for me, they might not care about his reasons and harbor resentment at his choice. The truth could seal my own fate, and Cole’s fate as a result.

But why would any of this matter now?

Unless they, too, suspect he’s still alive and want justice.

I shake my head, trying to maintain my composure and smother the emotions swirling inside me. “Look. I don’t know what it is that you’re after, but Digory died because he was a victim of the Trials, like we all were. I only wish there was some way I could have saved him—”

The words slip out before I can reel them back in. I try to contain myself, but by the look in Hoodie’s eyes, which are growing wide behind the slits of his hood, I’ve failed miserably.

“So you admit that you and Tycho got to be cobbers during the Trials, did you? Perhaps even closer? Was he secretly working for the Prime Minister? Following orders from the Prefect? Tell us what you know.”

I look deep into Hoodie’s eyes without so much as a blink. “I don’t know anything, except that Digory was horrified by the atrocities we saw committed during the Trials. He seemed like one of the most decent and compassionate human beings I’ve ever met.” I choke back the riptide of emotion crashing against the walls of my chest. I have to be strong.

Hoodie doesn’t break my gaze. “So how did Tycho supposedly cark it?”

Splinters of memory embed themselves deep in my skin, tearing through, leaving gaping wounds. “The three of us remaining Recruits were infected with a virus. There were only a limited number of antidotes. Digory was trying to get the last one so he could save his husband’s life.” Hoodie seems to tense at these words. “I…” I take a deep breath. “I beat Digory to the last one and… left him there alone to die.”

And left a part of myself with him to die, too.

“So why were you wearing his ID tag?” Hoodie finally asks.

For the first time during this little interview, I feel like I can finally be a hundred percent honest.

“Digory had no other family that I know of. It wouldn’t be right if he were forgotten.”

Hoodie is silent for the next minute or so. Then he proceeds

to barrage me with questions for the next thirty minutes. Or is it an hour? Two? It’s hard to tell. I’m emotionally drained and physically exhausted. He grills me regarding Imposer troop movements, security protocols, weapon caches—but I can sense it’s more of a formality at this point. I don’t have any vital information to give them, and they know it.

Finally, Hoodie turns and huddles with his companions, muttering and whispering out of earshot. At one point I hear him tell the others, “If we do this, it’ll make us just like those mongrels.”

My eyes find Arrah, her hands entwined with Drusilla’s, her expression grave. We both know what’s coming next. A heavy cloak of silence drapes over the motley assembly.

Then Hoodie surprises me by tearing off his hood, revealing the handsome face of a young man close to my age, with pale skin stretched over high cheekbones and an angular jaw. His long wavy brown hair is pulled back and tied. He clears his throat.

The fact that he’s letting me see his face can only mean one thing.

His charcoal eyes pierce right through me. “A decision has been reached. You are to be executed immediately.”

NINE

I struggle against my shackles. “Please…” But my mouth grows numb and I can’t form any other words. The three captors who are still hooded wheel the slab I’m shackled to out into a small auditorium jammed with people, some whispering to each other, others pointing, and more than a few glaring at me. An older, rugged man with a salt-and-pepper beard appears and holds out a hypo to the young man who’s been interrogating me. “Make it quick and painless, Micajah,” he mutters.

“I will, Dad.” Micajah hesitates, then takes the hypo. He turns to me, stone-faced, his eyes locked onto mine as he slowly approaches me. I can feel my life slipping away with each step he takes, and the fear that I’ve managed to contain behind the wall of pain and anger is breaching it at last, sending a rampaging surge through me.

“There has to be another way!” Arrah shouts.

“Arrah!” I gasp. “My brother. Cole. He’s being held at the Priory. You have to get him out of there before—”

Two of the hooded figures grab onto me and hold my struggling body in place while the third rips up my sleeve. I can see the vein in the crook of my elbow throbbing, my fear betraying me, pumping the blood so hard it’s as if it’s trying to invite the lethal invader.

“Let go of me!” I yell.

The one named Micajah stands before me, needle raised. “Sorry, mate.”

“He was the one that let me get away in the Valley.”

This declaration sparks a wave of muttering throughout the crowd as they turn toward its source.

A figure emerges from the shadows. Even without the envirosuit, I recognize him.

It’s the boy I let escape. The boy I gave the GX07 to.

The whole chamber erupts in gasps and murmurs of surprise.