by Bryan Davis
Her coughs easing, Sing drew back. “Thank…” She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I apologize for the interruption. I think I feel a cold coming on.”
“You need not worry. These are mere formalities to show you the details of the procedures here.” Bartholomew withdrew the photo stick and slid it into his pocket. “You will find future visits to be much more relaxed.”
Bartholomew hooked his arm around Shanghai’s, Thaddeus hooked mine, and they escorted us to our respective pedestals. We stood in front of the pedestals at ground level with our backs to our images, raised our hoods, and locked our clasps into our valves.
After escorting Mex and Sing to their holograms, Bartholomew and Thaddeus positioned themselves in front of the Gatekeeper’s image. “Rise to your pedestals,” Bartholomew said.
I nodded at Sing. “Just do what I do.” I took a backwards step up to my pedestal and settled within my hologram, though the static made it hard to conform perfectly to the hologram’s undulating frame. Shanghai and Mex did the same on their pedestals.
Sing rose to hers. As soon as she set herself inside her image, a click sounded, then a hum. At the front edge of each pedestal, a metallic pole rose and stopped at chest level. A flat, rectangular sheet of metal sat on top of the pole, similar to a music stand.
“Connect.” Bartholomew called.
I grasped a flexible tube protruding from a hole in the center of the stand. While looking at Sing, I removed my cloak clasp. She did the same, watching while copying my motions. I plugged my clasp into one branch of a T-adapter at the end of the tube, then plugged the other branch of the T into my valve. A sudden suction locked it in place. Until the process ended, I was stuck there. Trying to leave would tear the valve out and my heart along with it.
Once all four of us had connected, Bartholomew returned to the central pedestal and set his tablet on a stand similar to ours. He reeled out a tube that protruded from the stand and walked with it behind the pedestal toward the Gateway. When he arrived, he plugged the tube into a hole at the center of the gate’s clasped hands. Light flashed at the connection point, and a brief sizzling sound pierced the air.
He stepped up to the central pedestal again and poised his finger over the tablet. His brow bent downward. After a few seconds, he called, “Valve check. We have a leak.”
Thaddeus joined Sing on her pedestal. While she lifted her chin, he wiggled the tube’s adapter.
I smiled at her, hoping to communicate that such a check was normal for a new Reaper. During my first journey to the Gateway, I hadn’t connected properly. The fastening procedure wasn’t exactly obvious.
“It’s flush,” Thaddeus said. “She did it correctly.”
As Bartholomew stared at the tablet, his frown deepened. “The readings still indicate a leak. Check them all.”
Thaddeus stepped up to my pedestal, wiggled my connection, and nodded. “His is tight.” He then limped to Shanghai’s and announced the same result. When he stepped up to the final pedestal, Mex shifted his connector. “I’ve been having trouble with my valve.”
Bartholomew stroked his chin. “When the suction increases, the leak might seal on its own, and to make sure it seals, I could increase the suction in your tube beyond the normal level, but too much could endanger your life. It’s risky.”
“I’ll just hold it in place. I’ve done it before.” Mex patted Thaddeus on the back. “You’ve seen me do it, Thad. Tell him.”
“It is true.” Thaddeus looked at Bartholomew. “Is that acceptable?”
“Hmmm…” Bartholomew stared at the tablet’s screen. “You have only one more cycle after this one.”
“Yeah.” Mex licked his lips. “My valve is kind of worn out. I’m looking forward to retiring and getting it removed.”
“I can adjust your clasp to make it fit better.” Bartholomew extended a hand. “Bring the cloak to me.”
“Wait!” Mex laid a hand over his clasp, his smile trembling. “I’m fine. It’s just one more cycle. I can make do. Just let me—”
“So you’ve been a Reaper twenty years?” Bartholomew asked.
“Right. Like you said, I have one more cycle after this one.”
“So you will be anxious to fulfill quota and return here as quickly as possible.”
“Well… yeah.” Blinking, Mex cocked his head. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Not enough to violate protocol. And your years of experience do not match your nervous demeanor.” Bartholomew nodded at Thaddeus. “Check him for another photo stick. Perhaps he is holding back a soul.”
I hid a swallow. Of course Mex didn’t do that. He barely made quota. Yet, that was exactly what I was doing. The attendants wouldn’t like it, but I had no idea they might punish someone caught in the act.
Mex turned his pants pockets inside out. “Look. Nothing. I wouldn’t keep back a—”
“But what is this?” Thaddeus reached into Mex’s cloak pocket and withdrew his valve-adapter tube. Nodding, he looked Mex in the eye. “Now I understand.” He hobbled to Bartholomew and laid it next to the tablet.
While Bartholomew examined it, I glanced at Sing. She pulled in her bottom lip, her hands trembling. I had told her that transfers were legal. Maybe they were clamping down for some reason.
Bartholomew touched the tablet. “I see now that you are carrying a transferred soul.” He slid his finger across the screen. “From Shanghai.”
“Right.” Mex laughed nervously. “It’s legal. I’ve done it before.”
“Of course it is, but I prefer that you report your transfers when you arrive.” Bartholomew looked up and nodded. “The extraction will proceed. Mexico City may hold his connector in place.”
Mex blew out a sigh. I smiled at both Shanghai and Sing. Everyone seemed relieved. Mex had gotten by unscathed.
“Okay,” I said to Sing. “You don’t have to do anything. The computer will match the images to what’s in your cloak, and the vacuum mechanism will draw them out. This is the worst part. You’ll feel backwards pressure, like something is trying to suck your insides out, and when each soul emerges…” As Sing’s brow wrinkled deeply, my mouth grew dry. “Well, I guess you heard about it in training. It’s going to hurt.”
Sing’s eyes reflected a hint of fear. “Don’t worry. I can handle it.”
Bartholomew pushed a finger across his tablet screen. The suction against my clasp’s connection point spiked, and my valve grew warm. The tingling sensation spread across my skin. My heart vibrated, making my pulse race. As the cloak’s shimmer brightened, waves of radiance rode the fibers toward my clasp, each wave signifying a different soul.
I kept an eye on my cloak. Since my clasp wasn’t directly connected to my valve, Crandyke’s soul wouldn’t cause a shimmer unless the computer drew him out. That would keep his presence a secret, at least for a while.
When the first soul reached the clasp, pain jolted my heart, as if trying to rip it away from its attaching vessels. Sharp stabs knifed into my bones—my legs, my hips, my arms. Spasms clenched my thighs, abdomen, and biceps. I tried to relax my muscles, but they wouldn’t respond. I just had to endure the torture, as usual.
After the second soul pushed through the valve, the pain decreased—a brief respite while I waited for the third. I took a breath and sneaked a peek at the other Reapers. Similar waves crashed across their cloaks and through their valves, like tsunamis breaking on a fragile coastline. The face in Shanghai’s hologram altered with every change of expression in her real face—widened eyes and grinding teeth, then sudden slackness as she waited for the next peal of pain. Mex’s image did the same, a time-lapsed collage of fluctuating emotions.
To my left, Sing kept her head low, sucking in short gasps with each pulse. Her image stared straight ahead as if disconnected, but the shimmers rippled from cloak to connector all the same.
After souls three and four entered the Gateway system, a final wave shimmered along the cloak’s fibers toward the valve. Molly’s voice filtered
into my ears, stretched out and pain streaked. “I thought… I could trust you… Phoenix.”
More knives stabbed my body. “It’ll be okay soon, Molly. You’ll see.”
Her voice came through again, but I couldn’t pick up the words. Whatever she had said, it sounded lost and forlorn… betrayed.
Seconds later, my muscles unclenched. The stabs eased. I exhaled and took in a cleansing breath, sweat now dampening my tunic. As my heart steadied, a wave of sorrow flooded my mind. Molly hated me, at least for now. Soon she would awaken in a new world and maybe change her mind, but these moments of terror and uncertainty for departing souls never failed to skewer my heart.
I reached out and took Sing’s hand. “Are you all right?”
“I… ” She swallowed, tensing her facial muscles. “I have one more soul to go. It’s really hard.”
I nodded. “They say it’s like childbirth, only worse.”
Across the way, Shanghai let her shoulders droop, her hair in disarray. Mex just closed his eyes, as if thankful that yet one more cycle had ended. After twenty years of reaping and traveling to the Gateway, he was probably dreaming of going home to Abilene, finding his family, and forgetting about roaming in Jungles and hunting for the fallen fruits of death.
When all the cloak shimmers faded, a new click sounded. The suction slowly eased, then reversed. New energy flowed into my valve. I inhaled deeply. Heat radiated through my limbs and down my spine. It felt so good. As the energy’s healing effects coursed through my body, every muscle ache diminished. The flow would continue until my reservoir filled, an amount calculated based on the reading Erin took.
I looked again at Sing. Since she requested no energy, she just watched me, a smile emerging. Shanghai closed her eyes and swayed, her head tilted back as if she were listening to beautiful music.
Mex, still holding his clasp, blinked at Bartholomew. “Hey! I’m not feeling any energy flow.”
“There is a reason for that.” Bartholomew shook the adapter tube. A syringe fell out of the end and dropped to the ground.
I gulped. My syringe!
Mex cocked his head. “What? Where did that come from?”
Bartholomew set the tube down. “I was going to ask you that.”
Mex looked at me, his face pale. I kept my expression calm. He could easily accuse someone of planting the syringe on him, but with no proof, what good would that do? No one would believe him.
After heaving a sigh, Mex squared his shoulders and folded his hands behind his back. “I don’t know where it came from.”
“Yet you admit to a soul transfer, so this must be your adapter.”
“It is my adapter, sir, but I didn’t put the syringe in it. I think someone else must have done it while I was sleeping on the train.” Mex looked at me as if begging for help.
I tensed. Only one option remained—the truth. “Bartholomew! That syringe is mine. It’s filled with an antibiotic I hoped to use to heal a little girl in my district. There’s a Reaper who’s been hunting for Mex because of some kind of grudge, so he must have waited for us to go to sleep on the train. Then he took the syringe from me and put it in Mex’s tube to get revenge.”
Mex gave me a thankful head bow, though fear still bent his features. Now he seemed more worried about me than himself.
Bartholomew chuckled. “Leave it to Phoenix to come up with a cockamamie story to protect a friend. You’re not stupid enough to transport contraband to the depot.”
“But it’s true. I just forgot—”
“Nonsense. A certain Owl has entered a note in your records indicating your willingness to lie for such a purpose. Your loyalty is well-known, Phoenix, but I cannot allow you to suffer for someone else’s offenses.” Bartholomew tapped his screen a few times in various places. “Smuggling of medicine is a capital crime. If essential supplies are siphoned and misdirected, deserving citizens will suffer. The fact that Mexico City was hiding the syringe so carefully is proof enough of his offense.”
A sucking noise filled the air. Mex’s tube stiffened, and his eyes shot open. “What are you doing?”
“Administering the penalty. A trial would take far too long.”
“No!” Mex grabbed the tube and pulled, but it didn’t budge. “You can’t! I have just one more cycle!”
My own tube clicked. I let go of Sing and grasped it with both hands. Locked tight. Shanghai and Sing also pulled on theirs to no avail. We were trapped.
Chapter Eight
My belt lay on the ground, way out of reach—its tools useless. “Bartholomew!” I shouted. “Stop! Let him go!”
“All in good time.” Bartholomew kept a finger on the pad, his expression flat.
The hum increased. Mex fell to his knees. His face paler than ever, he tipped to the side, but the taut suction tube kept him from falling. With his mouth hanging open, he dangled like a fish on a grappling hook.
“Mex!” Shanghai reached for him, but her fingers brushed air only inches away.
As Sing stood shakily on her pedestal, a tear coursed down her cheek, sparkling in the hologram’s radiance.
Finally, the hum ceased. Our connectors clicked. I jerked the suction tube away from my valve and cloak, leaped from the pedestal, and dashed toward Mex. When I arrived, Shanghai was already crouching next to him. While I supported his body, Shanghai detached his tube, and we lowered him to the ground in front of his pedestal. Sing joined us and knelt close to his head, holding her breath.
I pressed my ear against Mex’s chest. No heartbeat. I felt for a pulse at his throat. Again, nothing. I whispered, “He’s dead.”
“No!” Shanghai set her hands on Mex’s chest and pushed down again and again. “He’s been out only a few seconds. Maybe we can—”
“Don’t waste your time.” Bartholomew walked our way, his tablet’s screen facing us. “His soul has already migrated into the Gateway. You can see for yourself.”
On the tablet, three icons filled the screen from left to right—an image that looked like a Reaper standing on a pedestal, a second image resembling the Gateway, and a third mimicking sunlight penetrating a gap in the clouds. Several faces hovered over the clouds, including Molly’s and Mike’s, while just to the right of the Gateway, only one face appeared—Mex’s.
“Mexico City is just inside the Gateway waiting for me to send him to eternity with the others.” Bartholomew dropped the adapter tube on the ground. “He cannot be returned to his body without a replacement.”
I scowled at him. “A replacement?”
“Ah, yes. Reapers are ignorant of how our transport mechanism works.” Bartholomew pointed at the middle icon. “Your friend is on the eternity side of the Gateway, and it will not open for any disembodied soul on that side. Yet, while he is there, if it opens from our side by means of sending another soul through, he could come back, as long as his body is still intact enough to revive.”
“How long does his body have?” I asked.
“Under normal conditions, perhaps several minutes. I could, however, use our energy reserves to put him in a state that would minimize deterioration, though without a soul he would not revive. He would merely be preserved.”
I laid a hand on Mex’s cheek—already cold. As Thaddeus pushed buttons on the stand, our holograms faded. It seemed that death itself had draped the forest in a dark shadow. “So when the next soul goes through, the Gateway will open and allow Mex to come back.”
“Not just any next soul. Transferring requires Reaper training. If one of you chooses to die, I can send your soul to the Gateway. There you may attempt to transfer your friend back to this side. If you succeed, he can be restored to his body.”
“And what happens to that Reaper?”
“He or she will go on to eternity, unless, of course, another Reaper wishes to perform the same transfer, but such a cycle of redundancy would be absurd. Someone has to go on to eternal rest. The Gateway will not allow a void.”
I glanced at Shanghai and Sing. Tears st
reamed down their cheeks, their expressions torn.
Bartholomew laughed. “I have been calling Mexico City your friend, but it seems that I have overestimated your relationship with him. It appears that you three are not willing to lay down your lives for him.”
I averted my eyes. I couldn’t stand to look at his smug expression as he continued in a mocking cadence.
“And what a shame that you pride yourselves on taking souls to the delights of never-ending comfort while not believing in those comforts enough to risk going there yourselves. It should be a place you want to go.”
I boiled inside. As if Bartholomew would ever die for someone else. He was the one who sentenced Mex to death, and now he laughed at us for not wanting to suffer the same fate. This Gateway attendant was too callous for words, a glorified clerk who let his power turn him into a pompous, self-important prig.
“How about this?” I rose, stepped close to him, and fanned out my cloak. “Since you’re so sanctimonious about sacrificial acts, how about if Shanghai, Sing, and I arrange for you to visit the Gateway so you can enjoy the delights of never-ending comfort? Being the senior Gateway attendant, I’m sure you believe in those delights. You must be dying to experience them.”
Bartholomew backed away a step. “Young man, are you threatening me?”
I mimicked his earlier mocking tone. “Of course not. I am offering you transport to a place you surely want to go.”
Bartholomew gave me a hard stare. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you. If not for my friendship with your father, I would write up an order to demote you to roamer status. Don’t let anger be your downfall.” He tapped on his computer screen, his eyes darting. “Seeing that Mexico City has no Reaper friends in this world, I am sending him along now. I will call for someone to dispose of his body.”
The radiance in the Gateway flashed, then dimmed. “And don’t think I didn’t notice what you’re hiding, Phoenix. After today, I will grant you no further pardons. My friendship with your father will stretch only so far.” Bartholomew pivoted and marched toward the central pedestal with Thaddeus following.