The Sowing

Taking a moment to orient myself, I start to crawl through the duct, feeling my way past the transport mechanisms that connect to the pulleys and rails at the top of my cell. Once I’m into the network of ventilation shafts, I reconcile my direction with what I’ve already memorized of Purgatorium’s floor plan and fit this journey to my mental schematics.

Up ahead, shafts of light illuminate my way as I pass by the mess hall, the showers, the other prisoners’ cell blocks. I peer through the slats of each vent as I go by. There must be a skeleton guard crew on duty since I only spot a couple of Imps, silent wraiths haunting the corridors below.

It took so long to get up here. How much time do I have left? Surely it won’t be long before the morning shift takes over and the entire facility’s flooded with activity—

And my absence in the holding cell is discovered.

My pace increases. I ignore the pain in my bare kneecaps as I forge on. By my calculations, what I’m really looking for should be just around the next corner. A few feet away, I reach an intersection with a vertical shaft.

This has to be it. A way to access the upper control rooms located on the catwalks overlooking our cells. Fortunately, there’s a maintenance ladder leading up, and I’m able to skirt the rungs in seconds and emerge into a horizontal shaft parallel to the one I just left.

As I start to crawl toward the nearest vent grate, I can hear the steady hum of machinery mixed with the murmur of voices. Being as careful as possible not to make any noise of my own, I inch my way toward the grating, staying as much in the shadows as I can while still being able to peer down into the control center below.

There are only two Imps that I can see, Renquist and Echoes. They’re both kicked back in their glossy black chairs, feet resting on the console, staring absently at the monitors that flicker around them and create strobing patterns on their disinterested faces.

My eyes are drawn to the transparent locker behind them and the cache of weapons gleaming in it. Neurostims, seismic charges, knives, clubs, guns, grenades… a virtual treasure trove of destruction that can make the difference in the duration and outcome of our little stay here.

All I have to do is figure out how to get my hands on them.

Bleep!

One of the lights on the monitor hiccups a glow of red, and both Imps’ postures stiffen.

I duck farther into the shadows and hold my breath.

Echoes presses a button and the intercom crackles to life. “This is control center one.”

“Control center one,” the voice on the other end says, “this is recon patrol four. We’ve finished our sweep. All pylons powering the sonic fence perimeter have been repaired and reinforced. We shouldn’t have a problem with any more of them getting inside.”

My pulse quickens. Them? Inside? Could the Fleshers have already breached security?

“Copy that, recon patrol,” Echoes responds. “I’m showing no signs of activity on the cams and I’ve triple checked all locks and shields. Nothing’s getting in again. And it’ll be dawn soon. Looks like we all pulled an uneventful shift.”

“Thank the Deity for that,” Renquist mutters. “I’ll rest more easy when our contingent is up to full strength and not this skeleton crew they have running the station.”

“You got that right,” the voice on the intercom crackles. “Whatever made them pull out the bulk of our troops must be pretty big. This is recon patrol, over and out.”

The red light dies.

So Infiernos is operating with limited personnel. This definitely gives us the edge.

Renquist gathers his gear and heads for the door. “Speaking of dawn, shift’s almost over. Time to squeeze in a little stress relief before I’m outta here.” His wink to Echoes sends a chill worming up my spine.

Echoes grins. “That’s right. You’ve got a two-day furlough coming. Who’s it going to be tonight? Pretty boy, Spark?”

“Bledsoe.” Renquist pauses. “You won’t see me for another forty-eight hours. Try not to let anyone in while I’m away.” Then he’s gone.

So Jorgen’s dead and Dahlia’s alive.

Ignoring the throbbing in my hands and knees, I speed through the tunnel, navigating through the maze of ductwork, trying to get my bearings and make it to Dahlia’s cell before Renquist does.

But the whole way, one thought jackknifes into my brain. Even if I do get to her first, what can I do?

I’ve finally made it to the ducts above the holding cells and my eyes barely register the sleeping forms below.

Finally, at the far end, I peer through the vent down into Dahlia’s cell. Unlike the others, she’s breathing heavy, like when she’s exercising. She must be doing push-ups.

And she’s still alone.

I press my face against the grate. “Dahlia!”

Rustling below me. “Who is that?” she whispers back up to me.

“It’s me, Spark.”

“How did you—?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Renquist is on his way to your cell. He’s going to… hurt you.”

“What are you talking about? Lee-Man said I should trust you now, but—”