The Sowing

She’s trembling, her eyes fixed on Renquist’s body. “What are we going to do about that.”

Pulling away from her, I stare back up at the grate. “We have to get him out of view, up inside the shaft.”

She looks confused. “Won’t they notice he’s missing?”

I shake my head. “Not for forty-eight hours.”

I scramble up into the shaft. As she helps me pull and wedge him through the duct, I explain about Renquist’s furlough.

Once he’s hidden away, I rummage through his uniform and utility belt. Aside from his security clearance card and flashlight, he’s got infrared goggles, a chronometer, and a compact, hand-held version of a holocam that can be worn around the wrist and will be great for monitoring the facility’s transmissions. He’s also got a gun. I take these, and then help Dahlia secure the grate cover enough that no one will be able to tell it’s been opened.

I check the time and stare down at her. “It’s almost 0600 hours. The morning shift will be arriving soon. Gotta get back to my own cell. You going to be okay?”

She nods. “Thank you. I just need to get cleaned up.” Plopping back down on the cot, she stares at the wall, humming some unrecognizable tune to herself as if I’m no longer there.

All the lights come on in the holding cells.

“Rise and shine, maggots!” an Imp croaks down the cell block.

I scramble away from the grating, squeeze past Renquist’s body, and scurry along the maze of ducts like a rat, my heart racing, my breaths rapid-firing. I’m breathless by the time I get back to the grate above my cell.

Tristin’s anxious eyes find mine—just as Styles opens the cell door. He stares at the lump on my cot. Apparently, Tristin’s bundled the sheet to make it look like I’m there.

He reaches for it. “Get your ass up, Sparky!”

Before he can touch it, Tristin bolts past him out the cell door. Styles turns and grabs her, and they begin to tussle.

“I have to see my brother!” she screeches.

She’s positioned her body so that Styles has his back to the cell… to me…

Not wasting a precious moment, I move the grate aside and slip through, moving it back in place just as Styles tosses Tristin back into the room, where she collides against me.

“No ration privileges for you today!” he shouts.

Then he glares at both of us. “Now hit the showers. Both of you. Today’s Trial is about to start.”

I nod at Tristin as we join the others lined up outside their cells.

As anxious as I am about what they have in store for us today, I can’t help but smile.

Things have changed.

TWENTY

The next Trial is about to begin.

Cage, Boaz, Drusilla, and Crowley are perched on the ledges of long cylindrical columns, which gleam like silver missiles ready to launch them into oblivion. Even through the unnatural flicker of the holo-projection, there’s no mistaking the new lines carved into their haggard faces. Their arms and legs tremble as they struggle to keep their balance, their backs pressed against the smooth steel.

But as bad as the other three look, Crowley’s fairing the worst. His flesh is leached of color, a sickly whitish yellow. His features are contorted, his cheeks and jaw clenched. Unlike the others, who are bracing themselves against the pillars with both hands, one of Crowley’s hands is grabbing his leg, just above the bloodied bandage that covers his torn flesh. Every time he teeters, I hold my breath, expecting him to lose his grip, tumble off, and plunge down the twenty feet or so to the surface.

Dahlia is standing in the shadows of the common room with the rest of us. Her eyes remind me of the carcharian’s—cold, empty sockets reflecting the dark emptiness within. I can’t even imagine what she must be feeling—if she’s even feeling anything right now. Maybe it’s better if she isn’t.

Welcome to your third trial, Recruits!

The lights in the chamber dim even further, until I can barely make out that the other Incentives are standing here with me.

Spotlights capture the four Recruits, washing out their features in a flood of cold light.