The Sowing

But during those few days we spent together right after the Trials, I got to witness him waking up in the middle of the night screaming, and zoning out during conversations. Innocuous noises like the shutting of a door could send him into a tantrum. Classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Huddled here in the darkness, my brain is my own worst enemy. It grasps at every possible scenario, trying to focus on anything but the growing claustrophobia smothering me.

I’m not sure how much longer I can take being trapped in this tiny compartment without losing my mind.

What few meals I’ve received have been sent via the vacuum chute on the wall panel, mostly stale ration bars and lukewarm water. At this point, I’d relish the company of anyone, even those bastards Styles or Renquist. That’s how lonely it feels.

The only other sound besides my breathing is the steady hum of the steam-driven turbines and generators of the nuclear reactor that’s powering the sub’s propellers. Then my stomach sinks as the cabin shifts. The air pops in my ears. There’s a distinct change in the thrum as the nose of the craft tilts up. The stern planes in the rudder have been activated.

I press my face against the cool glass of the solitary porthole that separates the inner hull from the outer hull. My head feels like it’s going to implode from all the tension. Up until now, I haven’t been able to make out anything through the blackness of the murky depths that make everything feel like one endless night.

Now I see bubbles. The ballast and trim tanks must be expelling water.

We’re preparing to surface at last.

Rising through the darkness are the remnants of an immense city comprised of massive structures; some look almost perfectly preserved. It’s as if the inhabitants have just fled, never to return, leaving the buildings undisturbed.

This must be the Lady’s city. Or, it was. Before the Ash Wars consigned it to the bottom of the ocean.

The Eel maneuvers through the once-towering buildings. Lights from the sub sweep over an enormous multileveled bridge with giant towers that crisscross like an insect’s web. What a great civilization this must have been, to have built such a grand system of thoroughfares.

Next, we pass over what appears to be a huge coliseum. It must have seated at least fifty thousand people. But all those seats are empty now, barnacles clinging to them like a cancer, eating away at them until they’re barely recognizable.

Then we’re rising again. The lights grow brighter until I can make out the ramps and platforms of a docking bay looming all around the Eel.

We’ve arrived at Infiernos—the one place I’d hoped to never see again in my life.

I’m about to face them all. Flame Squad—Leander, Rodrigo, Dahlia, and worst of all Arrah. What can I possibly say to erase what I’ve done to them? And how am I going to look Cage and the other rebels I betrayed in the eye again?

The cabin door bursts open.

Two armed Imposers stand at attention on either side of the doorway. Can’t see how I’m much of a flight risk. Where the hell would I go on a sub?

Captain Valerian marches through the hatch and stands in front of me. The expression on her face is so cold, I feel like I’m getting hypothermia just looking at her. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since I was arrested.

Though she’s always looked at all of us trainees with contempt, I’m surprised to see a ripple of something else in her expression now—is it disappointment? Pity?

Why should I even care? She’s one of them.

She sighs. “Despite my initial misgivings when you were recruited, I truly expected more from you, Spark. Even when you were a Fifth Tier, I could see in your training that your abilities far exceeded those of your elder trainees. I allowed myself to believe that you had what it takes to get things done. That you would come through under the most difficult of circumstances.” She shakes her head.

I lean in closer so that we’re practically nose to nose. “Begging your pardon, Sir, but torturing and dehumanizing people is more a measure of cowardice than it is strength.”

She smiles, but there doesn’t seem to be any pleasure in it. “Ah, an idealist. Not everything in life falls into neat little compartments labeled good and evil. Eventually everyone has to get their hands a little dirty to get things done.”

Before I can ask her what she means, she motions to the guards, who step inside. One of them hands her a familiar-looking duffel bag. Mine.

She begins to rummage through it. “When you were taken into custody, Spark, you certainly didn’t have that many items of interest among your personal effects. Just these.” She pulls out a set of shiny Recruit ID tags, Digory’s and mine, and lets them dangle in front of my eyes before shoving them back in the bag. “And this.” She holds out the holocam with Digory’s journal.