The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

by Steven dos Santos

  “What have they done to these people?” Arrah’s voice flares in my helmet speakers. I’m too breathless to respond, and just as concerned with the why.

  Up ahead, Leander, Rodrigo, and Dahlia are waiting for us by the elevator bank. Rodrigo’s got the access panel open and is busy rewiring it, trying to bypass security, while Dahlia and Leander flank him, firing at any contaminated that venture too close.

  Leander barely stops firing when he recognizes Arrah and me. His eyes bulge. “Don’t look back! Keep running!”

  A pang of guilt hits me. Leander and the others are Establishment, and they’re waiting for me. Would I hesitate to leave any of them behind?

  As Arrah and I reach them, Rodrigo connects two sparking wires together. “That’s it, baby.” The elevator doors grind open and we spill inside, just before dark shadows smother us.

  Rodrigo jams his gloved palm against the elevator’s key pad and the doors clang shut, sealing the horde out.

  Leander grins through a blood-speckled face and elbows me in the ribs. “Everyone having fun yet?”

  four

  With a stomach-curdling lurch, the elevator begins its descent into the bowels of the research center. The lights flash on the floor indicator at dizzying speed, creating a strobe effect. I shut my eyes. A brief flash of memory assaults my senses. I’m on a different elevator, descending into the depths of the Skein on my way to begin the Trials. Instead of my fellow trainees, I’m surrounded by the four other Recruits, all with bowed heads. Cypress, Gideon, Ophelia, and …

  Digory.

  This time my chest lurches. My blood’s like a mallet pummeling the inside of my temples. Dead. They’re all dead. And there’s nothing I can do for them now but exact justice on their murderers.

  My eyes spring open.

  An alarm blares.

  I brace against the side of the car. “What’s that all about?”

  “Everyone remain at attention!” Leander barks.

  The elevator brakes suddenly, bouncing to a stop and jostling us around the car.

  The overhead lights flicker and dim.

  The doors swoosh open. A crimson glow spills into the cramped car, drenching us in emergency lighting.

  A voice bursts from speakers in the walls: Attention! A security breach has triggered the research facility’s failsafe device. The entire complex will self-destruct in T-Minus fifteen minutes. All personnel proceed to evac stations immediately. This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill.

  I can’t help but notice the disdain in Leander’s face flicker into … something else. Is it fear? His hand coils around his sidearm.

  A guttural scream that sounds like it came from just outside the elevator doors shatters the silence, piercing my flesh like a skewer.

  “Back up!” Leander shouts, drawing his weapon in a flash and aiming it at the opening.

  We huddle behind him, drawing our own guns, our backs pressed against the rear and sides of the car. Arrah and I exchange a glance.

  I prod her shoulder with mine. “It’s going to be okay. Just remember our training.”

  Leander snorts and gives me a wink. “That’s cute, Spark. I’m deeply touched.”

  Arrah pushes away from me. “I’ve had more training than you, Spark. You just worry about taking care of yourself.” She looks away, her eyes focusing outside the car, her expression unreadable.

  Another scream reaches a crescendo, then echoes down the corridor. The crackle of several energy bursts follow it. Someone’s firing. But at who? And why?

  Dahlia takes a few steps forward until she’s standing at the opened elevator doors. “Stay put!” she says to us.

  Another yowl stretches through the corridor, followed by several short energy bursts.

  Then nothing but the sounds of our breathing and the steady thrum of my own heart in my ears.

  Crackle! A burst of static from Leander’s wrist com shatters the quiet.

  “Flame Squad, what’s your position? Over.” Even over the static, I can feel the tension in Valerian’s voice.

  Dahlia peers out the doors. “At the sub-level three south elevators, Sir. Over.”

  “Now that the failsafe has been activated, your directive has changed. It is imperative that you elude attack, make your way to Med Lab 10, and take Project GX07 into your custody. Then proceed to the emergency escape lift to the rooftop for evac before the station is neutralized. You now have fourteen minutes—” The radio hisses and sputters. “You must—”

  Valerian’s voice cuts off, replaced by the earsplitting whine of feedback before going dead altogether.

  We all stare at each other in silence as the seconds tick by.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Dahlia’s eyes sweep over us. She reaches into her cache of ammo. “I want Leander and Rodrigo to assume flanking positions.” Before she’s even finished, she’s tossing them new cartridges.

  Leander’s grin splits his face like a crescent moon as he catches his. “Yes, Sir!”

  He nudges Rodrigo, who locks and loads his with a sharp click. Then they both assume their positions at Dahlia’s side.

  “I want … ” Dahlia’s eyes bounce back and forth between Arrah and me. “I want Arrah providing rear cover.” She reaches into her satchel again, tossing wristbands to the other four but not to me. “We won’t be completely blind. Activate holotrackers.”

  She touches a button on hers and a palm-sized, three-dimensional image appears. There’s a steady unsettling sound, like a heartbeat, as sonar waves bounce back, revealing a series of heat signatures that represent Flame Squad. Soon the cramped elevator car is filled with five distinct glowing cubes and abuzz with five heartbeats in deep sync with one another as we move toward the corridor.

  I wait for my instructions, but after ten seconds or so, it becomes obvious none are forthcoming.

  “Aren’t you forgetting someone, Sir?” I interrupt at last.

  Dahlia’s eyes slash across me. “I don’t have time for this, Spark.”

  “But what are my instructions?”

  Leander sneers at me. “You’re too green, Spark. We don’t trust you. You’re to stay put here. Out of the way, and keep the elevator primed and ready to go topside.” He tosses me a holotracker. “You can monitor our activity with this.”

  I stare at the tracker, watching as their heat signatures move farther away from my position—five meters, then ten—until they disappear from range.

  That’s when I spring into action. I activate the emergency brake on the elevator car to keep it from going anywhere. Leaning out the doors, I peer first left, then right, down the crimson-hued corridor. There’s no way in hell I’m staying put, not when something’s going on in sub-level three that could point to a potential weakness for the Establishment.

  Pressing against the cold, steel walls of the hallway, I slink along quietly, passing empty laboratories on either side. Maybe it’s because of all the medical equipment and refrigeration, but the temperature feels noticeably cooler. I pause at a fork. A cloying medicinal smell snakes up my nostrils. I check the holotracker.

  But the hologram is empty, like a three-dimensional tomb. No movement—just the steady beats of the sonar pulse racing to catch up to the rhythm of my own heartbeat. I decide to go right this time.

  Still nothing on the tracker. How long have the others been gone? Five minutes? I’m about to turn around and head in the opposite direction when the pulse of my tracker quickens and a low bleep penetrates the quiet. My blood turns to antifreeze and I drop it. I fumble for the tracker and grab it before it can skitter away into the dark.

  But it’s not displaying the four distinct heat sigs of the others. Instead, only one signal flutters on the display. Whoever it belongs to is fading fast. Dying.

  According to the distance readouts, it’s only five meters away, ju
st around the next junction. Wiping away the cold sweat pooling in my brows, I turn the corner. Directly ahead of me, the corridor dead-ends into a door. The sign above it reads Medical Records.

  As I skulk toward the door, I struggle to apply the brakes to my speeding heart and lungs. I can’t let my emotions get the best of me. I can’t afford to be that person anymore.

  The tracker’s heartbeat pulses faster and faster.

  I reach out and grip the icy handle. Maybe it’s locked. Maybe the decision to confront whatever’s inside will be taken out of my hands after all—

  CLICK!

  The door opens with a drawn-out creak that chisels up my spine with ice picks.

  I pause at the threshold, taking in the neat rows of storage cabinets and banks of computer monitors, all dark except for one, flickering in a far corner and creating shadows that crawl across the room.

  I can sense it. There’s someone else in here. I can hear the shallow rasps of breathing intermingled with the low hum of the equipment. And they’re right on the other side of that working monitor.

  I peer around the edge of the workstation. The only sound I can hear now is my own heart thudding in my ears.

  And that’s when something grabs my foot.

  It’s a man wearing surgical scrubs, maybe in his late thirties, early forties—hard to tell in this light. His short hair is plastered against an ashen face. A hypodermic needle juts from one of his arms. His eyes are glazed with a milky film.

  I hunch down and cradle his head in my palm. His skin broils under my touch. “Don’t worry. I’m going to get help—”

  Both sets of his fingers dig into my arm. “There’s no time. The virus … it’s too … you … have … to … stop … ” He gasps for air.

  “Stop what? Who did this to you?”

  His rasps turn into a wet gurgle. His nails claw at my suit. Those eggshell eyes roll back into his skull. Then one last breath wheezes from deep in his throat and he slumps over. Silent. Still.

  I choke back a flash of the past … it’s the same thing that happened to Digory. The memory of him lying there in my arms, saying our goodbyes.

  This is not some random coincidence. There has to be a connection.

  I lunge for the monitor, hoping against hope that I’ll be able test my theory. The terminal is still logged onto the central system. Whoever jabbed the med tech must have snuck up on him while he was entering data, which now gives me access to some of the Establishment’s secrets.

  My fingers fly over the keyboard, accessing menus, submenus. But it all might as well be in another language. Projects and names that mean nothing to me. If only I had enough time. There’s a trove of information here that could help me strike strategically at the Establishment’s weakest links, as opposed to the random targets I’ve selected up until now. When I get to an alphabetized list, I begin to scroll down to search for intel about the virus, past the As, Bs, Cs, further and further down the list, my eyes flitting back and forth between the screen and my holotracker, hoping I have enough time to find what I’m looking for and escape before I’m discovered or the building self-destructs.

  I’m at the Ss. Only a few more to go …

  Two words stop me cold.

  Spark, Cole.

  My heart surges. All thoughts of the virus are ripped away. As much as I’m thrilled by the prospect of maybe learning my brother’s whereabouts, seeing his name in stark bold-face in an Establishment roster feels like a knife in the gut.

  I press the tips of my fingers against the keys, which for some reason feel more resistant to the touch. I press harder and highlight the entry before hitting “enter.”

  I hold my breath. The screen goes dark. For a second, I think the connection has been severed.

  An image of Cole fades into view, accompanied by a block of text. Key words jump out at me. Brother recruited. Orphaned.

  Every muscle in my body tenses. He’s not an orphan. He has me.

  I continue skimming, hoping to find some information on how he’s doing, why he’s in the medical research database. And that’s when I see it. Almost near the end. Highlighted in red.

  Scheduled for U.I.P. on 12-24.

  That’s less than a week away. What the hell does it mean?

  The last line in the entry says: Currently under the tutelage of the Priory.

  The Priory—the guardians of the Establishment’s mandated state religion. The ultimate hypocrites. The Priory’s creed might be to serve the Deity by demonstrating compassion for the poor, the sick, and the less fortunate, but their only true masters are the Prime Minister and the corrupt political parasites feeding off her power.

  The thought that my brother is being brainwashed by this crazed and sadistic cult—and facing this mysterious U.I.P. procedure by the Establishment—turns my blood into an icebreaker plowing through a glacial wilderness. They won’t have him. I’ll crush every single one of them with my bare hands if I have to. At least now I know where to find him.

  Ta Dum! Ta Dum! Ta Dum!

  I scramble to inspect the holotracker, which is now displaying a solitary heat signature. Someone’s approaching. Coming down the corridor toward this lab.

  I jam my index finger on the scroll key, whizzing through the last of the Ss. But before I make it very far, my finger springs from the keyboard, pausing the entries on the last of the Ts.

  Tycho Syndrome—U.I.P.

  Tycho?

  Digory.

  And once again, the same mysterious U.I.P. designation.

  Just underneath this entry, there’s another one marked in red: High Level Classification. Bio-Weapons Division. Infiernos. Containment Lab 5.

  The ball of my finger highlights Tycho Syndrome and jabs the enter key once more.

  Footsteps shuffle on the grates just outside the lab.

  Instead of a static image arising, the screen dissolves into grainy black-and-white video surveillance footage that only takes a moment to register. It’s me. Crouching down beside Digory, holding him in my arms as we’re saying our last goodbyes in the darkened corridors of the Skein, just before I left him there, alone. Just after he sacrificed his life so that I could complete the final Trial and save Cole. Just before we told each other how we felt about one another.

  At the time, Cassius said that all the surveillance in that sector was shut off. So where did this video come from?

  As Digory and my lips touch onscreen, I can feel my mouth burning with the power of that moment. I brush my forearm against my eyes, trying to wipe away the feeling of violation.

  I’m glued to the screen, my emotions asunder. As soon as the footage shows me running off, I watch as three figures converge on Digory. The two burly, sadistic Imposers Styles and Renquist, and—

  No. Not him.

  Cassius Thorn.

  He kneels by Digory. My fingers curl into claws and my skin crawls as I watch him grip Digory’s wrist. He’s listening for a pulse. The bastard’s making sure Digory’s dead. Then Cassius is up and barking orders that I can’t hear. The next thing I know, a medic team moves into camera range and lifts Digory’s body into a hovering, transparent cryogenic tube, the kind used for injured elite and military personnel who have suffered grave injury and are frozen until they can be safely revived at a medical facility. Such as this one.

  Cassius had Digory placed in cryo? But why? And does that mean his body’s here?

  My heart’s trilling at a million beats a minute.

  Oomph!

  Something slams into me from behind. The impact shoves me into the monitor. It plummets from its stand and smashes in a shower of glass, sparks, and smoke.

  Pain jolts through my shoulder when it smacks into the ground. The holotracker flies from my grip. Then I’m rolling on the floor, locked in a scuffle with a nightmarish, ghost-white form. A set of gloved hands grips m
y helmet, trying to tear it off my head and expose me to the contaminants polluting this place. I grasp the steel-like fingers, trying to pry them loose as I force my eyes to focus on the face above me.

  It’s a boy no more than twelve or thirteen, clad in a rag-tag envirosuit that looks like it’s been patched together from various castoffs. What I can see of his face is as pale as a burial shroud; his dark eyes are cold and expressionless, mere slits cut into face. His teeth are gritted and the veins in his temples pulse.

  Before I can reach for my weapon, he kicks it away from my hand. It clatters into a dark corner of the room. What this kid lacks in size he makes up for in skill. But unfortunately for him, I don’t have time for child’s play.

  Ignoring every instinct screaming in my brain, I let go of one of the kid’s hands and grope at the med tech’s corpse, ripping out the hypodermic needle still sprouting from its wound. I slash an arc in the air with the needle, stopping just short of plunging it into the thin layer of suit protecting the boy’s neck.

  The boy releases my helmet and I fling him off me. His eyes bulge as he stares at the gleaming hypo. He knows that whatever’s in this ampule is lethal. Perhaps he’s the one that killed the med tech.

  I don’t wait. I slide away backward, never taking my eyes from him. My hand crunches against the remains of the holotracker, a casualty of the scuffle. I frown and toss it aside. Leaning against one of the file cabinets, I can feel the energy flowing back through me. I pull myself to my feet.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say. “Aren’t you a little young to be part of the resistance?”

  The kid’s still sprawled where I left him, amidst the remains of the monitor and the med tech. Eyeing me. Unblinking. Still, except for the rise and fall of his chest. That’s when I notice the case tucked under one arm.

  Before he can stop me, I hunch over him and rip it free, staring at the text stenciled on its face.

  GX07.

  This is it. This is what Valerian sent us here for. This is what they want to make sure doesn’t get into the resistance’s hands. The others are looking for this in Med Lab 10. This kid beat them to it.