The Sowing

I join the others in sifting through the stack of clothes, covering my nakedness with a pair of ragged pants that barely run from my hips to my knee caps, and a sleeveless shirt that’s missing most of its buttons and fits more like a vest. There aren’t even any shoes to protect our feet from the cold, hard floor.

“Time to eat!” the Imposer that frisked me shouts.

They jostle us into an adjacent chamber with the noses of their weapons. The steel and chrome fixtures remind me of the commissary back at the Citadel only a lot more threadbare, with just a few tables and no variety in menu items.

The Imposer smirks. “Grab it while it’s hot,” he snickers to his companions.

One by one, we take steaming bowls of grayish clumps. There aren’t even any utensils. I’m the last one at the gruel station. The rest are already seated, divided between two tables. My former squad stares at me with looks that smolder more than the glop in their bowls, and Leander kicks the remaining chair at their table away. Tristin and the rest of the family members, at the other table, barely look up as they scoop the goo into their mouths. I decide to take my chances and sit with the latter group. At least they don’t look like they want to kill me as much.

Tristin gives me a tentative smile as I set my bowl beside hers. Then I stoop and right the chair Leander kicked, scooching in close to the table.

“Hello,” I mutter as I tilt the bowl to my lips, letting the noxious gunk seep past my tongue and throat. I churn it past my gums as quickly as garbage through the sewer treatment plants. I need the nourishment, not the taste. At least it’s hot.

“What’s he doing here, Jorgen?” It’s the pale, gaunt, middle-aged woman with stringy brown hair I saw prodded by the Imp earlier. She’s sitting across from me, loudly whispering into the ear of the tanned young man seated beside her.

Jorgen’s dark eyes are as cool as the stew is hot. “Mrs. Grimstone, I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

Tristin pushes her three-quarters-full bowl away from her. “Everyone, this is Lucian Spark.” You’d think we were at a social affair. She half-smiles at me and I’m reminded of Cage’s infectious grin.

The balding man seated on the other side of Tristin slams his bowl down, rattling the table. “We know who he is!”

Mrs. Grimstone and Jorgen nod their heads.

Corin glares at me and spits a wad of food in my direction. “He’s the snake that got us into this mess.”

I expected hostility from these people, so it doesn’t surprise me. Scanning their eyes now, I wonder whether they distrust me simply because I’m a former Recruit or because they, like their recruited loved ones, are part of the rebellion and know that they’re here because I betrayed the cause.

As if reading my thoughts, Jorgen clears his throat and stares me down. “You’re not welcome here. Why don’t you go sit with your little friends over there?” He nods his head in the direction of my squad, who, with the exception of Arrah, are staring at our table with amused smirks on their faces.

“Because even they won’t have him,” Baldy grunts through another swig of the slop.

“True, Mr. Ryland,” Tristin says to him. “But we’re not like Imposers, even those in training, are we?”

“They wouldn’t show any pity on us,” Jorgen growls.

Tristin grabs my arm to prevent me from leaving. “That’s exactly my point,” she continues. “What would the Deity ask us to do?”

The others drop their gazes.

I think of this poor girl at the mercy of slime like Prior Delvecchio and his minions. “You actually attend services at the Priory?”

She shakes her head. “Our family can’t afford the tithing. And Cage thinks I’m crazy. But I still believe on my own.”

There’s something so profoundly innocent and tender in her demeanor and tone that I squirm in my chair. Lately, I haven’t been the most compassionate person in the world, and my motives haven’t been the purest. I’ve done what I’ve had to do. I’m not even certain if there is or there isn’t some mystical Deity, whether everything we do is based on free will or some sort of divine determinism. The only thing I’m sure of is that we can’t just sit around on our asses and wait for things to happen.

Mrs. Grimstone’s cold fingers touch my hand. “Please. I remember when you were recruited. You’ve been through this before. Is my daughter… my Preshea… is she safe now? Are they torturing her? I need to know…”

The fear and worry on her face wrench my gut. I pat her hand. “Your daughter’s fine right now.” I turn to the others. “All of your loved ones are. They keep the Recruits strong and healthy so they can compete in the Trials. Just like they’ll keep us alive.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, trying to stop the streams leaking down her cheeks.

All the edge seeps from Jorgen’s face. Suddenly, he looks like a child. “But we’ll never see them again, will we?”