The Sowing

Sirens blare as Digory and I race through the winding corridors of the hive. Overhead, emergency beacons spiral, creating a dizzying strobing effect that wreaks havoc on any sense of direction I have left. My lungs churn overtime trying to compensate for each ragged breath I manage to take, competing with the throbbing in my chest and ears. Several times we overrun a turn and have to double back to dart down a passage, only to dash in the opposite direction as sinister silhouettes appear just ahead, closing in on us.

By now the entire processing plant must know we’re here, and they’re probably trying to initiate some kind of lockdown. They can’t afford for us to escape and get back to the Parish with everything we know.

Somehow we manage to make it back up to the level we came in on. Up ahead, a sliver of light tantalizes us with the hope of escape.

No. Even if we make it out of here and manage to fight our way to one of the elevators to the surface, that still leaves the problem of transportation. With no ride back to the Parish, we’ll be recaptured before we can get a gulp of putrid surface air.

My hand locks onto Digory’s arm. “We have to find one of the ships they’re gonna use to get to the Parish and get the hell out of here.”

Dark shapes appear in the corridors on either side of us.

Without looking back, we race down the hallway ahead to where a lone Flesher stands barring the way.

Digory doesn’t even pause an instant. He just leaps and crashes into the thing, pummeling it with his fists. The Flesher’s mechanisms squeal and whir as it tries to dislodge him. In seconds, flailing, stabbing instruments whip from its exoskeleton, trying to skewer its attacker.

As valiant a fight as Digory’s putting up, he won’t be able to hold the Flesher off too much longer. I can already hear the clatter of approaching feet behind us. Pouncing, I grab one of the Flesher’s appendages—some type of snapping pincer—and jam it against one of the power cables lining the wall. I let go just as the instrument clips the cable with a loud snap. Sparks bursts, raining mini-fire on my exposed skin. The Flesher bucks and jerks as if it’s having convulsions.

There’s a part of me that squirms at the idea that this thing, having a seizure in front of my eyes, was a vital human being before Cassius, Straton, and Sanctum genetically altered it in their miserable quest to play the role of gods.

Digory shoves the pitiful thing away from us. Then he grabs me in his other arm and pulls me across a threshold.

My fist slams a panel on the wall just as our pursuers reach us. A steel door crashes closed behind us, cutting them off.

I lean against it, my body vibrating from the heavy thudding coming from the other side. “It’s not going to take them long to get through to us,” I manage to say through heavy breaths.

Digory’s not paying attention to me. His eyes are riveted on something beyond us, and I turn to follow his gaze.

My breath is torn away.

“Looks like we found a ship,” I barely whisper.

The entire room is a huge hangar bay, filled with row after row of V-shaped craft. But it’s not just the magnitude of the ships that’s shocking. It’s the ships themselves. Like the Fleshers, each craft is a combination of metal, steel, and organic matter, all fused together in an obscene marriage of biology and machine. Gleaming exhaust ports grow out of slimy, pulsating skins, engines whir even as cockpit doors tear apart with the squish of organic matter in an obscene synthesis. Fuel lines throb like giant umbilical cords, pumping who knows what into each vehicle.

And scurrying around the crafts are legions of Fleshers, thousands upon thousands, some clanking along like living forklifts, others zipping around on wheels, while even others clatter along on all fours like giant insects, their skins splitting open and sprouting vast arrays of gleaming silver instruments as they dart about, servicing their ships.

I almost want to cover my ears to shield them from all the buzzing, clomping, and snapping that vibrates through the air. Air that smells like a mixture of fuel and the barely perceptible stench of meat that’s just starting to go bad.

Then it occurs to me. These are more than just scouts on a diplomatic mission.

It’s an army.

A huge screen dominates the far side of the hangar bay. On it is an aerial view of the Parish. It seems that Sanctum has the Parish under close surveillance. They must have spies on the inside, spies within the innermost workings of the Establishment.

I have to warn Cage and the rebels. I grab my transceiver. If they get this message and broadcast it to the entire Parish, there might be a chance to deal a significant blow to the Establishment, Cassius, and Sanctum all at once.

Digory’s face is brimming with different emotions. It’s as though the footage of our home has unleashed deep feelings inside him, feelings he’d prefer to keep buried forever rather than have to relive the horrors that caused him to block them all out in the first place.