by Anna Vera
We turn the corner, entering a cul-de-sac. There’s a cabin at the end, windows lit up with the glow of firelight. It’s the only actual house on the compound: single-story, but it’s large, with a lovely stone pathway leading up to its broad wooden door.
“Who’s on shovel duty?” Jac asks, walking up the pathway cleared of snow. He raps his knuckles against the front door, muffled slightly by gloves. “Sucks to be them.”
The door opens, exposing Mia. “What sucks?”
Her light eyes are a strange muddled color of gray, yellow, and blue. She’s more stunning in daylight, even with her eyes looking so tired and her perpetually haunted expression.
“Shovel duty,” Jac says before handing her a fistful of bra while he walks past her into the cabin. “You forgot this.”
“Wha—” Mia’s jaw drops. “God, you’re a prick.”
“A prick? Really?” Jac pushes inside. “Isn’t doing you a favor a very non-prickish thing to do?”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” Mia says curtly, casting an icy glare in Rion’s direction. He walks past her without even meeting her eyes, and I feel the twang of tension ring in the air.
Mabel’s cabin is full of mismatched furniture: wicker and lumpy old couches, love seats draining stuffing from a series of holes, and a unique copper end-table with a turquoise patina.
Weirdest of all, a chicken walks by, clucking cheerfully.
I stop, totally frozen, mid stride. “What . . . is that . . . ?”
“She’s an indoor chicken.” Rion heaves a sigh, as one might after losing too many battles to the same war. It seems likely he, among others, protested this in vain. “Mabel’s pet hen, Gloria.”
Gloria’s red-eyed stare ignites a strange phobic kind of fear in my chest that not even a Mute could inspire. I start walking as fast as I can without looking ridiculous, but wherever I go it’s as though Gloria purposefully follows.
Until now, I’ve never seen an animal before.
I look at Rion. “Get her away.”
Jac’s lips itch to smile. “Awe!” He kneels swiftly to pick her up, following behind me a little faster as my cowardice takes hold and spurs me across the living room. “But she likes you, Abe!”
Gloria’s red-eyed stare indicates the opposite.
I sidestep Jac. “Get her away, I said!”
“Fine—but no scrambled eggs for you later.” Jac gives me a playful wink, setting the hen on the headrest of a love seat, where she perches and fluffs her feathers, preening.
I cast Rion a cold stare. “Can we go?”
“You can,” a voice says—a voice that’s Mia’s. “Lucas is in the last room at the end of the hallway.” She pets Gloria’s head, the hen’s eyes closing happily. “Everyone’s there waiting for you.”
Rion looks at me. “I’ll take you.”
“No.” Mia’s starry eyes widen. “Can we talk?”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure Rion before heading down the gloomy hallway, stopping at the end. Voices murmur inside. I palm the warped wooden door and find myself thinking of Rion’s words to me this morning. “Are you sure?”
I look back at him without thinking. Mia speaks to him in shy whispers, reaching a finger forward and hooking it around the belt loop of his jeans, tugging him closer.
His hips sway, giving in, and—
I look back at the door.
What am I doing?
Before they realize I’ve hesitated, I burst through the door and am greeted by the taut, worried faces of my league. I wonder if my face looks similarly—all angles and hollows, shaped by a fear that won’t relent until Lios is well again.
If he’s ever well again.
My eyes land on Cyb’s, of all people’s. She looks through a lens of unspilled tears.
“Finally,” she says.
Lios is lying in a twin-sized bed, flanked by Merope on one side and a tearful Cyb on the other. Apollo stands, wraith-like, in the far corner of the small room.
Lios has been bandaged in white cloth. A series of dirty, blood-stained rags fill a bucket at the end of the bed, emitting that same foul, metallic odor. He looks pale, his hair falling in finger-thick locks that tickle the back of his eyelids.
I don’t know what I expected—not that he’d be awake and cheerful and alive, but certainly not this.
“How is he?” I croak.
“He’s alive,” Cyb says, echoing Jac’s earlier sentiments, but with a far darker delivery. “Heavily medicated. Has a few cracked ribs, chance of an infection, and a ton of bruises, but he’s doing okay for somebody who nearly died of exsanguination.”
I sit at the edge of the bed. Its coiled springs strain, and for a split second, I worry I’ve just disturbed him, but Cyb’s right.
He’s completely out.
The door creaks open, emitting Jac and Rion. The room is so small they brush up against me, smelling strongly of pine sap and in Jac’s case, the earthy, stale smell of cigarette smoke.
“What medication is Lucas taking?” I ask.
“Heroin,” Jac replies simply. “Pain killers are impossible to come by, as you know. The pharmaceutical companies having gone down, oh, what was it? Twenty-seven years ago?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “But drugs, man—hard drugs will always exist. People will always find ways to keep them alive.”
For a moment we stare at Lios; he’s so still, he could pass as a cadaver. Now that I’m looking for it, I notice the track marks spotting his bruised inner elbow.
“Where do you get it from?” I ask offhandedly. “Heroin?”
“Another quarantine,” Rion replies. He takes a step to his right so he’s hovering over my shoulder, so close he brushes against me. “Our quarantine is the biggest. With that comes the ability to gather more supplies—which we trade for heroin.”
“Speaking of,” Jac interjects abruptly, “there’s a supply drop three days from today, man. Mabel’s asked us to take first run.”
Rion’s posture goes rigid beside me. “Shit.”
“Yeah—it’s winter, after all.” Jac fidgets, his fingers flexing at his side. “I’m going out for a cigarette,” he adds. “We’ll hash out the details later, man.”
“You got it,” Rion answers distantly. Jac leaves, navigating through the cramped room and bumping Apollo accidentally as he does so before exiting.
Apollo grimaces, scandalized. “A little privacy,” he growls as his dark eyes regard Rion, “would be appreciated right now.”
“He’s not going to leave us alone—here,” Cyb hisses, glaring at Apollo intensely. “With precious medical supplies? With all the medication?”
Rion shifts his weight as though to say, Not happening.
“Fine.” Apollo’s nostrils flare, accepting defeat. “I forgot we’re in a hostage situation. Thought for a second we were being treated like human beings.”
“We are,” Merope snaps angrily. “They saved Lucas’s life!”
“Just shut up, Apollo,” Cyb adds in a raw bark.
“Stop arguing,” I order, resting a hand over Lios’s. It’s cold and stiff as something that’s been long-dead, and I feel a fissure break my stoicism like a pickax chipping ice.
He’s all stitched up, scabbed and still bloody—blooms of it seeping through his bandages and into the blankets. It’s cold in this room when it should be warm. Supplies are limited, and he’s forced into taking heroin . . .
And after all this, a simple infection could kill him?
All so we can complete our stupid Purpose?
The supplies and medication Lios needs are plentiful on our ship in space. Are we really going to stay here and watch him die when there’s a way to save his life?
To hell with our Purpose. I want him to live.
“Why aren’t we taking him back?” I whisper. Everybody stills in res
ponse—my league, especially.
Cyb’s bloodshot eyes flare, shooting an indicative glance at the space over my shoulder—at Rion. “You know that is not an option for us,” she spits.
My breathing quickens aggressively. “We could save him.”
“You’re delusional.” It’s Apollo speaking, of course. “I think it’s best if you step outside—get some air. I’ll go with you.”
“I’m not leaving Lucas,” I snarl, but Apollo isn’t finished with me yet. He steps sideways, gripping my arm feverishly, and yanks me up to my feet.
Rion’s arm rises in my periphery, but then he stops, likely thinking better of shoving Apollo off me.
Apollo smirks, his upper lip curling at Rion. They’re inches away from each other. Briefly, I forget my argument with Apollo and worry they’ll get in a fight—right here, in this cramped room.
“Going to hit me?” Apollo challenges.
“I think I’ll leave before I do just that,” Rion says with a breed of such lethal calm—so pure, so genuine—there’s no need for a raised voice. It’s clear, without question, he’d love to throw a punch or two into Apollo’s face.
Apollo doesn’t speak, waiting until Rion leaves to clamp a hand on my shoulder. His fingers dig into my skin like a hawk’s cruel talons, and along with them I feel the zip of his energy, the pull of his strange, beautiful skillset.
He presses his cool lips to my ear. “You’re aware of what’s at stake here, aren’t you?”
“Get off her,” Merope warns, but Apollo isn’t done.
“You’re aware of what we have to lose?” he raves on, his grip on my shoulder tightening. “You’re blowing our cover! If you ruin this for us, I swear I’ll kill you myse—”
“That’s funny, Apollo,” Cyb scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Didn’t she beat you in sparring less than a month ago?”
I stare blankly for a second. I don’t think Cyb’s ever paid me a better compliment—or any compliment for that matter—in all the eighteen years I’ve been alive.
“And if you did touch her,” she goes on, “Merope would kill you faster than a guillotine.”
Merope smirks, as though enjoying the mental image.
“What’s wrong with you idiots?” Apollo yells. “Have all of you forgotten why we’re here?”
“We get it,” Merope says, sobered. “But issuing threats—”
“Eos nearly blew our cover,” Apollo crows, pointing a finger rigidly at the door. “We’re in enemy territory! If Rion has a brain in his head, he’s already figured out we aren’t from—”
“Don’t you think Lios’s life is worth more than completing this cursed mission?” My jaw is actually sore from clenching my teeth in an effort to hold myself back.
“It’s not a mission, it’s our Purpose!” Apollo speaks quietly but looks hysterical—a glint of severity in his eyes I’ve never really seen in anybody else. “It means everything for us—”
“For you,” I breathe, swallowing hard, unable to get Nova’s final words out of my mind. It’s all up to you. Tell your league. Once they get to Earth, they must betray the Project . . .
What if she’s right? What if we’re fighting for something that isn’t actually worth fighting for because we’re too busy with following orders, with falling for false promises?
And what if Lios dies for it?
I get up, glaring at Apollo. “This is all your fault,” I seethe, sloughing him off with a fast jerk of my arm after he tries, yet again, to rein me in. “Lios was trying to save your life!”
Apollo stares, shocked. “You’re taking it there?”
I inch closer, putting my face in his. “I’d sooner die than have somebody else die on my behalf.”
“Ah, that’s ironic!” he chuckles mirthlessly, his face so close to mine we’re almost touching foreheads. “Coming from you.”
“Apollo,” Cyb barks in warning.
“Failing your Psych Eval,” Apollo recites. “Not having any particular . . . skills,” he adds with an indignant sniff that tempts me to claw out his eyes. “Onyx was right about you.”
“I don’t care,” I yell riotously, “about Onyx.”
“She tried to keep you away from us, knowing you’d only weigh us down like an anchor,” he says, breathing each word in my face, his lips taut. “Why don’t you stay here. Why don’t you go back to doing what you’re good at: tending the gardens?”
That’s it.
I throw a knee into his stomach. He pitches forward with an audible, pained grunt. But it doesn’t feel good enough. I’m on fire and I’m seeing red and I’ve already gone there.
I ship a fist to his jaw, bashing him into the bedroom’s wall.
Merope shoots up. “Apollo! Go for a walk.”
Apollo rubs his jaw and leaves, plowing angrily through the room’s exit. We hear the front door slam behind him and even though he’s gone, nobody dares to speak.
What is there left to say?
He’s right. He’s right about everything.
I almost blew it. I am deadweight.
My fury fizzles and despair funnels in. I don’t even dare to look Cyb and Merope in the face. I know they’re looking at me, waiting to see what I’ll do next after facing the undeniable truth.
Maybe they didn’t want me to join their league . . . Maybe they were happy that I wasn’t going to deploy, are disappointed I have . . .
I exhale sharply, moving to leave.
Cyb catches my elbow. “Stay,” she begs. “Please.”
“No.”
I move so quickly—so blindly—it’s almost as though I’ve teleported to the cabin’s front door. I slam it shut behind me and drag in a breath of the cold, snow-smelling air.
And see Apollo is standing right in front of me.
“You think you can just hit me like that?” he says, coming closer, but moving slowly—dangerously. “You should be thanking me for keeping you in check.”
I don’t know why I say it. “Give me your hand.”
“Why?” Apollo’s lips lift into a sly smile.
“You know exactly why.” I snatch his hand in mine and am surprised to see he isn’t resisting me.
Apollo stands perfectly still, his bare palm facing skyward in my own, allowing the thrum—so unlike Onyx’s!—to beat through his skin and drip into my own.
I feel my breath catch pleasantly as I’m swept up and away in the intoxicating whirl of this mysterious energy. Nobody has ever felt the way Apollo does—like melting, collapsing blissfully into the beat of a song.
“You should probably let go,” he whispers.
“No,” I breathe.
“Let go of me, Eos.”
I can’t and I won’t. It’s like I’ve lost full control, and even as he begins pulling away, my hold doesn’t loosen. I feel the energy transform, manifesting into something new—something else.
Images flash in my mind’s eye.
“Who are you?” I ask—no, I beg.
Apollo’s eyes dance over my own, and when he replies it’s as though we’re standing at a distance and shouting over the rush of a strong wind. “I thought you’d remember.”
I do remember.
Years and years and years ago. I was baby. You were a toddler.
In my room. Playing.
Onyx caught you there when you weren’t allowed to be. You held out a finger and my whole hand wrapped around it. Then something happened and there was screaming. Onyx punished you for months for going against orders and disobeying her.
It’s as though Apollo sees the memory—as though we are, at the same time, together, looking through an identical lens. The edges of his lips twitch.
“You do remember,” he breathes.
“What—” I lift my eyes to his, my hand still tight around his open palm. “What’s happeni
ng?”
There’s a shift in his energy, an increase, and he notices it at the same time I do, his eyes widening.
“Stop,” he begs. “Eos, STOP.”
But it’s too late.
Visions flower in front of my eyes, colors drizzling to shape the image of a dirty, unventilated house. I’m looking through the eyes of somebody else.
This isn’t an image. It’s a memory, and I’m reliving it.
A silver vase is shattered on the floor. I stop before a large shard of it and see my reflection: I’m a boy—just a little boy—with a mop of black hair and eyes, and porcelain skin.
Apollo. This is Apollo’s memory.
Alongside the broken vase are bodies. Four of them are the corpses of people, and twelve are the Muted. The living room window is broken, exposing a ridge of purple mountains and a soft, cerulean sky.
My chest tightens. No . . . There’s no way.
The boy was drawn out of his hiding place by the sounds of approaching footsteps—distinctly alive, uninfected ones, which he was hoping would help him.
His parents are among the corpses strewn on the ground, as well as his older brother. He’s alone, now—and he hasn’t seen a living thing that wasn’t a Mute in days.
The people enter the house.
The first thing I see is a pair of bulbous, pitch-black eyes.
Onyx.
And walking beside her, Pavo.
“The boy was present for the attack,” Pavo says, stepping lithely over shattered glass. “He stood alongside his family as they were slaughtered by the Muted—yet he’s still alive.”
“How is that, Brother?” Onyx inquires.
“The Muted didn’t see him . . . He’s a very special boy, a very special threat.” For a moment the siblings study each other with their matching black eyes—a silent exchange. “You’re aware, I’m sure, of the two options facing us?”
Onyx’s lips tighten.
“We’re not leaving without this boy, Sister.”
“We can’t take him.”
“We must.”
“We can’t just pick native-borns up off the streets and bring them into the lives we’ve lived for so long—the lives we’ve lived in space, orbiting Earth!”
Native-borns.