Legacy of the Lost

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  I could understand why Raiden was being extra watchful. Guessing we might be here, at this very gate, wouldn’t take a huge mental leap.

  I sat back in my seat, focusing on Raiden. It made ignoring the thousands of people crammed into the terminal all around us just a teensy bit easier.

  He had a prescription for Valium. I couldn’t help but wonder why, though I wasn’t about to ask. Mental health could be a touchy subject, and I didn’t want to be rude. It had to be because of the war—or was it wars? I knew he had spent the majority of his time abroad in the Middle East, so I could only imagine the things he had seen.

  Raiden’s slow scan of the terminal turned his face away from me.

  When I first brought it up two days ago, Raiden hadn’t exactly been excited about my plan to head to Rome to search for my mom, but swaying him hadn’t been all that hard. I figured he was just glad we were getting out of Dodge. The Order was looking for us here. It made sense for us to get ourselves elsewhere.

  A voice came on through the overhead speakers, announcing that it was time to begin priority boarding. The last few tickets available had been in business class, so we’d been forced to dig into our cash-on-hand for the splurge. We were operating strictly cash-only, now, credit and debit cards being way too traceable. It was a pain to deplete our resources so quickly, but Raiden assured me we could get more money once we were in Rome.

  Hearing the call to board, Raiden and I stood, hoisted our backpacks onto our shoulders, and left the crowd of waiting passengers to join the line of several dozen people already formed at the gate. I felt like all eyes were on us, and it took a concerted effort not to glance around suspiciously.

  Thankfully, nobody jumped us while we were boarding, and we found our seats easily enough. I took window, Raiden took aisle. I felt safer knowing I only had to worry about brushing up against his arm rather than spending the whole flight avoiding anyone who moved up and down the aisle.

  I sat stiffly in my seat, seatbelt buckled and backpack stashed under the seat in front of me. I fidgeted with my boarding pass and forged passport while I watched the remaining passengers shuffle onto the plane and slowly funnel down the two aisles.

  “Nervous?” Raiden asked. I could feel his gaze skimming the side of my face.

  A thready laugh bubbled up my throat. “Uh huh,” I said without looking at him.

  This would be my first ever flight, and I had no idea what to expect. Like the majority of my knowledge about the world, everything I knew about airplanes came from TV, movies, and video games, and a good chunk of my source material included some pretty serious issues—hijackings, malfunctions, or full-on crashes. In my head, I knew airplanes were a relatively safe mode of travel, but my vast second-hand experience made me feel like our odds of dying on this plane were somewhere around fifty-fifty.

  “The flight’s the least of our worries,” Raiden said.

  I looked at him, lips pressed together. “Thanks, Raiden. Super helpful.”

  He frowned slightly, then shrugged and settled back into his seat, elbows on the armrests and hands clasped over his abdomen. He rested his head against his seat back, looking to all the world like a man in repose.

  But I could see the tension in his jaw. The focus in his gaze as he watched the other passengers. He studied each and every one of them as they boarded.

  Inhaling and exhaling deeply, I turned my attention to the window. To the cart on the ground delivering bags to the plane. Our duffel bags were down there, somewhere. I’d shuffled some things around, making sure all of the essentials were in my backpack, but it still felt strange to be separated from my things, just trusting that the bag would make its way halfway across the world and meet me in Rome.

  It felt even stranger to be separated from Tila. Emi had dropped her off at the doggy ranch the morning after Raiden and I fled the island, where she would remain until my return. For six years, she’d been my constant companion, lending me her sturdy strength and support. And snuggles—her snuggles were probably one of the main things that kept me sane through my no-human-contact life sentence. Leaving her behind felt like leaving behind a vital part of me. I was the tin man without his heart, the cowardly lion without his courage. I was fractured, far from whole.

  I glanced down at my passport, flipping the cover open. My picture stared back at me, but that was about all there was of me on the identifying page. I had a new name. A new date of birth. A new everything. I was a new me: Sarah Summers. At least, I was on paper.

  I returned to staring out the window, trying to convince myself that this new identity would provide a fresh start. I could break free of the weaknesses that had held me back for so long. The name was an homage to one of my all-time favorite TV shows, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where the main character was named Buffy Summers, played by actress Sarah Michelle Gellar. I’d picked the name hoping it would help me to be strong and brave, confident and competent, like Buffy, herself.

  I could be someone who never let herself be left behind. Not anymore.

  As the plane pulled away from the gate and taxied to the runway, I clutched my knees and repeated a series of affirmations in my head.

  I am strong and brave. I am someone who won’t be left behind.

  I repeated this as the plane accelerated and as the wheels lifted off from the ground. I repeated it, over and over, until I actually started to believe it.

  The plane climbed higher. The flight attendants performed what was clearly a well-rehearsed show, explaining the plane’s safety mechanisms and what to do in the case of an emergency. The captain’s voice came on over the plane’s intercom system, announcing that we would be reaching cruising altitude soon. And still, I repeated the affirmations in my head.

  I am strong and brave. I am someone who won’t be left behind.

  “How are you feeling?” Raiden asked.

  Shaken out of my semi-meditative state, I looked at him. “I—” I stopped myself before I could blurt out the thirteen words repeating in an endless loop in my mind.

  I cleared my throat, taking a mental assessment of myself. I hadn’t thought about the other people on the plane in a while, not since take off, at least. And the fact that I was in a metal tube, hurtling through the air, didn’t seem to be bothering me one bit.

  “I feel all right,” I told him. Clearly, the drug was working. “I’m scared, though,” I added, surprising myself with the admittance. Oh yeah, the drug was definitely working. My usual MO was more of a feelings-hider than a feelings-sharer. There were fewer pitying looks that way.

  Raiden nodded, more to himself than to me. “Makes sense,” he said, expression open and kind, not a hint of judgment or pity in sight. “A lot of firsts . . .”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that—not flying or heading out to experience the big, wild world that scares me.” I frowned, looking down at my hands as my fingers fidgeted with the metal clasp on the seat belt. “I just—I finally feel like I’m waking up . . . like I’m able to really live, and I’m afraid it’ll all disappear. I’m afraid I’ll go back to the way I was, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to be that girl anymore . . . so isolated and lonely. So afraid of everything.”

  I ventured a sideways glance at Raiden, laughing under my breath. “So, I guess I’m afraid of being afraid.”

  Raiden met my hesitant stare, nothing but kindness and understanding in his warm, brown eyes. “Acknowledging fear is half the battle,” he said, voice unusually soft. “You can only face your fears once you’ve admitted to yourself that they exist. Once you’ve accepted them.”

  I laughed, once again shaking my head, my gaze landing on the journal tucked into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me. “Easier said than done.”

  Raiden grunted in agreement, his stare returning to the seat ahead, as well.

  Maybe the affirmations were working, because I was suddenly struck by a bout of bravery. Or maybe it was just that my inhibitions were muted by the Valium. Either way, as
I stared at the journal, I inhaled deeply, only holding my breath for a moment before saying, “I’m scared of what’s in here, too.” I reached out and skimmed my fingertips over the top of the journal.

  “Oh?” Raiden said.

  I pulled the journal free from the pocket and looked at him.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “The truth,” I said, handing him the leather-bound book. “Have a look for yourself.”

  16

  I’m sitting in a classroom of some sort, in the far back-right corner, my position giving me a good view of row after row of stainless-steel desks. There are exactly sixty-three desks, set up in nine columns.

  Kids fill the desks. Or teenagers, maybe. They fall somewhere in the brief, awkward window between child and teen. A quick glance down at my underdeveloped body tells me I count among them.

  The room is all sterile white and silver. No color. The wall on my left is lined with two rows of bookshelves atop a long string of cabinets that reaches from the back of the room to the front, maybe forty or fifty feet. The wall on the right is one long mirror, broken only near the center with a sliding door that remains shut unless opened by an instructor.

  I’ve been here before. Many times, though I can’t recall any specific memories. But I feel a general sense of familiarity. And I know things.

  I know that instructors stand on the other side of the mirror-wall, watching us. Assessing us. I know that my position in the back-right corner of the room marks me as the best among my cohort—the strongest, smartest, healthiest, and most capable. I know that the desks are often cleared out to make room for other, more physical tasks besides reading, writing, and written assessments.

  And I know that the test I’m about to take will determine my future. What I do. Where I do it. Who I do it alongside. This group, like the others before us, will split up after today, each of us separated into new groups based on the training we will need to successfully carry out our duties as workers.

  I glance at the wall of mirrors. We’ve been in here for hours—five or six, maybe—sitting, waiting. My stomach has been rumbling for the past hour. Though the clock has been removed from the front wall, I know it’s well past the time of our usual lunch break. I have to go to the bathroom, but I can hold it. I’m not willing to risk my future based on a little discomfort.

  Unless—is this the test? To see who cracks first? Or who holds out longest?

  I narrow my eyes, carefully considering the purpose of such a test. To measure obedience, perhaps? Or maybe even willpower?

  I return to staring ahead and wonder what action might be viewed favorably during such a test, and what might be considered failure. There are only two options: do nothing, or do something.

  I look to my left, scanning the faces of the six students seated in my row. None move save to blink or to breathe. So far as I can tell, the same goes for the rest of the kids in the room.

  My lip curls. My gut tells me their blind obedience is a weakness. Whether it’s fear or determination that paralyzes them, they all look the same to me—pathetic. If this is what passing looks like, I’d rather fail. I’m not interested in any work assignment that requires such blind obedience, anyway.

  I place my hands flat on my desk, then push my chair back and stand. I can see some of the other kids watching me out of the corner of their eye. But still, none move.

  I give the room one final scan, then march over to the door and reach for the thumbprint scanner in the wall to the right. I’ve never used it myself, and I hold my breath, half expecting nothing to happen. We were told to wait. To sit and wait and not talk. Not move.

  The door slides open. The hallway beyond is dark compared to the bright light in the classroom, and it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust.

  Almost immediately, I know I’ve made a mistake. I’ve failed.

  A woman stands before me, not one of the usual instructors. She’s young, but her stern expression makes her seem ancient. And terrifying. She’s wearing a black, form-fitting suit and carries a long, golden staff. A name forms in my mind: Demeter.

  Demeter holds a position of power, a position that comes with an important title. Others stand along the wall of glass to either side of her, dressed in looser fitting clothing in varying shades of gray, but Demeter’s domineering presence makes them all seem to disappear.

  “Mother,” I say, addressing Demeter by her official title as I bow my head. It’s a relief to be staring down at the floor rather than into her steel-gray eyes. I hold that position, thoughts spinning. I made the wrong choice. I should have been patient like the others.

  “I knew you were different,” Demeter says. I can’t tell if she means “different” in a good way, or in a bad way.

  My brow furrows, and I’m glad my face is angled down toward the floor. I hate the idea of her seeing my confusion. My fear.

  “Persephone,” she says. “Come.” She turns away from me and, in a few steps, her boots move out of my line of sight.

  I stand there, frozen, thoughts spinning out of control. Instinct takes over, and a moment later I straighten and rush after her. I can feel the eyes of the other adults on me, but I’m too focused on catching up with Demeter to register any of their faces save for one—Hades. His presence makes me almost as nervous as Demeter’s does.

  He stands farther down the hallway, his shoulder leaned against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest. He exchanges a look with Demeter as she passes him. The look holds layers of meaning, every single one a mystery to me. When his focus shifts to me, the corner of his mouth rises almost imperceptibly. He nods his head as I pass. The gesture feels almost respectful.

  I am more confused than ever.

  I follow Demeter through the maze of hallways that make up Sector C. When she reaches the door leading out of the sector, I stop, hanging back several paces. I’m already standing closer to the exit than is allowed. I consider backing up, but my shoes feel glued to the floor.

  Demeter presses her thumb to the scanner, and the door slides open. She passes through the short airlock to the second door and presses her thumb to a second scanner. That door opens, too.

  I can’t stop staring. I’ve never left Sector C, and I’ve only ever seen into the airlock. Everything beyond is a mystery to me. Sure, all the kids have theories about what lies beyond. “Outside” we call it. It’s a place of limitless wonder and endless possibilities, at least in our imaginations.

  I’m disappointed to see that, in reality, “outside” is just another hallway, no different from those within Sector C.

  Demeter pauses in the new hallway, turning just enough that she can peer back at me over her shoulder. “Come along, Persephone. There’s something I would like to show you.”

  Numbly, my right foot moves forward, then my left. I take another step, and another, my body taking over while my mind races, attempting to figure out what’s happening.

  Demeter leads me through a warren of new passageways and doorways marked with various numbers and letters, until finally, we reach the widest doorway I’ve ever seen. A word is painted on the dull metal in huge, blocky white letters. It’s in some strange, foreign language made up of strange, foreign symbols, but my mind translates the word to “COMMAND.”

  The door glides open as Demeter approaches it.

  My steps slow when I see what lies beyond.

  The space is enormous—dwarfing the classroom where I’ve spent so much of my life. Even the cafeteria seems tiny in comparison. I gawk as I step through the doorway, eyes finding the ceiling high above, then dropping to a massive thing in the center of the room. It’s made up of huge, golden rings, the largest taller than the ceilings I’m used to. There are seven rings in total, each fitting one within the others.

  People dressed in white from neck to toe move around the thing, touching it here or there. More people stand near the walls, fingers pushing buttons and sliding across light-up screens atop the desks scattered about the periphe
ry of the cavernous space.

  Demeter crosses the room, and I follow, taking it all in as I trail behind her. I notice people pausing what they’re doing to glance at her, then stopping completely when they notice me. They stare at us. At me.

  A layer of cold sweat forms on my palms and on the back of my neck. I wipe my hands on my pants.

  “Prepare the gephyra for a trip to Atlantis,” Demeter orders as she passes the mass of golden rings.

  Beyond it, there’s a broad, circular basin in the floor, filled with what appear to be tiny metal beads. Beyond that, the floor drops off, and the ledge is blocked by a three-barred steel railing.

  Demeter skirts the basin and continues on toward the railing, where she stops, waiting on me.

  I follow, doing my best to ignore all of the unwanted attention. When I reach Demeter, I grip the top bar of the railing.

  The floor drops off here, and there’s a whole other floor below us, with dozens of desks, all covered in an amalgam of screens, lights, dials, and buttons. There are more people down there, dressed much like the ones up here, except their clothing is navy-blue rather than white. The far wall ahead appears to be some sort of a video screen. Bright, pale lines stream out from the center of the screen toward the edges. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen anything like any of it.

  I stare down at the people working at the desks on the floor below. They’re all so busy, just like the people up here. Everyone seems so confident and moves with such purpose. All I can think is that I want to be like them. I want to work here, dressed in all white or all blue, and I hope, desperately, that Demeter has brought me here to show me a glimpse of my future.

  “Watch,” Demeter says, redirecting my attention toward the video screen on the wall. The lines are slowly shortening.

  An alarm sounds, a series of three low, drawn-out tones that seems to come from everywhere and from nowhere at once, filling up the vast space.

  My body tenses, and I tighten my grip on the railing, preparing for the lurch.