Hope in Paradise

by Elizabeth Kirby

  Five minutes, that’s all.

  Cynthia swung her legs out from under the sheets and stood wearily, leaning heavily against the wall. Even recovered, her body was not fully prepared. She pushed off of the wall, and began shuffling her way to the door. Peeking out into the hall, she found it empty, oddly enough. She opened the door and walked out.

  Walking turned into jogging, and then to running. Door after door, and not a single soul. Were they lying in wait? Was there a lockdown?

  “Halt!” A voice behind her. Cynthia stopped, and the person walked steadily towards her. When he reached her, she whipped around, kicking his head, sending him to the wall. He slumped to the floor. She crouched over the forest-green fatigues and searched for a weapon. She reached under his jacket to find his sidearm and pulled it out of its holster. Holding it, she continued to run.

  More doors, an endless hallway. An unseen exit. Her vision was failing. Her whole body was wracked with pain. The symptoms had come quicker than expected, much quicker. Had it truly progressed this far? Every so often, she would come upon her own reflection, only to find her irises amber, the edges rimmed with black. What would happen to her now?

  She slipped and stumbled. Everything ahead of her was a blur. She slammed herself against the next door. It opened on impact, swinging wide enough to send her sliding into the room.

  Inside, everything was frigid. The floor was slick with ice and fallen icicles. Her breath froze midair. A freezer? Cynthia felt around blindly, groping for any object. Her hand hit something, and she dragged it backwards.

  A face.

  Cynthia instinctively pushed it back. She leaned on the far wall, her breath slowing. Maybe she would die here, along with the dead. Her vision darkened. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them. She raised the gun and fired.

  The bullet ricocheted off the frozen wall, shattering ice onto the floor. It stuck in the floor, cracking it. From the entrance came a muffled, but startled, cry.

  “Who’s there?” Cynthia demanded, firing off another shot. It breezed past the doorway and into the hall. Another cry, but subdued.

  “Ms. Wood,” a voice echoed through the room, “you’re sick. Please put the gun down.”

  She knew that voice. “Rayleigh?” she breathed, and began lowering the weapon, but thought better of it. She held it as steady as she could.

  “I repeat my statement,” Rayleigh’s announcement was clear. Cynthia listened, but she didn’t move. “You need to return—”

  But she couldn’t hear him. It was as if she was in a daze. The weapon dropped to the floor, its landing clattering across the room. Cynthia’s irises were pitch-black, her mind dissolving. Organs perished, and she lay on the floor, writhing from the breakdown.

  This is it… I’m dying. She looked up at the approaching figures, weakly fending them off, tears running down her face. I’m sorry…

  “Si…mon…”

  She lay there, staring at them, her eyes unfocused, fading.

  Goodbye.

  Chapter XVIII

  Traitor

  The speed of sound. It shattered in their ears when the jets flew by. They hid behind a rock for cover. She worried over their fate. He comforted her, reassured her that everything would be fine. Soon, they would be home.

  More jets roared overhead. When the jets passed, they ran. When they ran, he felt her slipping.

  He looked back to see her falling once more.

  Fire. Explosions. The muffled cries from the comms. What was happening out there, on the battlefield? He glanced at her. She was just as he remembered, just as he envisioned her. Alarms began to blare, lights bathing the cramped space in a reddish glow. Controls lit up, powering the systems necessary to keep them alive. He smiled.

  It had worked.

  He looked back at her, only to see something terrifying.

  Her eyes. They were crimson.

  He nearly cried out at the sight. Soon, she would crumple and fall, dying a horrible death. It was vastly unlike his own symptoms. His had passed, hers… he didn’t know.

  His vision was failing him once more, drawing him ever closer to sleep.

  No, he couldn’t. He’d just found her again.

  His eyes began to close.

  He fought the feeling, but still, he couldn’t help it.

  “Simon.”

  His eyesight blurred, the images muddied, like a dream.

  “Simon, wake up.”

  Was it her?

  The images sharpened, collecting into objects. The faint smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils. He scanned the objects around him. Machinery filled nearly the entirety of the room. A wooden door was near the far wall, and a darkened screen to the left of it. Tiled floors, white ceiling and walls.

  Surprisingly, he wasn’t worried in the slightest.

  What worried him was the fact not one person was in there besides him. How did he come to be here? It certainly wasn’t the Crows; the machinery was too advanced. Was it the Alliance, or an outside third party, perhaps?

  Whoever it was, he wasn’t about to comply with their demands, whatever they were. As he began to devise a plan, the door opened.

  Simon’s eyes filled with tears of joy.

  It was her.

  Although her appearance baffled him. She wore a dark green uniform, almost like that of circus clown. Long, ill-fitting belted pants. A tan tee-shirt covered by a jacket a few sizes too large. Coal-black flats.

  A dense, sickly air loomed about her.

  For an instant, everything felt normal again. Then silence overcame them. No one spoke. Tension rose as she stood there, probably judging him as well.

  He held his gaze, and so did she.

  Alarms began ringing from his abnormal vitals, and Cynthia said, “You’d better lie down.”

  He grimaced; even lying down was quite the nuisance.

  “You—”

  “I really hope you appreciate the Alliance’s hospitality,” she said, sitting down in the chair next to him.

  Hospitality? What was she talking about? For all he knew, this was some sort of setup, an interrogation.

  “Wait—”

  “Hold still,” Cynthia ordered as she checked his pulse.

  Why wouldn’t she let him speak? She was just as irritating as ever.

  When she finished her examination, a thought surfaced in Simon’s mind.

  He needed to tell her, right? About Arcadia. What the Alliance did to it.

  “Are you all right?” Cynthia brought him out of his thoughts. He stared at her, and he sat up in the bed despite the excruciating pain the effort brought him.

  “Listen,” he choked out, “They invaded it… home. The… Alliance…”

  As he spoke, Cynthia’s attention turned to the far wall, and something erupted in her eyes.

  Rage, anger, suffering.

  He knew that look.

  Simon grabbed her sleeve, and she whipped around, tears in her eyes, and they communicated a single thought, an echo.

  If they discover us, then….

  He too had thought that countless times, but now….

  “You’ve already blown our cover,” Simon chuckled.

  Cynthia rubbed at her eyes, and her expression turned grim. His hand reluctantly fell from her sleeve, but as it did, her attention was caught by the monitor. His vision slipped away from reality, favoring the darkness where he once more escaped.

  A tree. The sweet scent of apples. An ecstatic azure sky. Clouds blowing past. Breezes whistling through the branches.

  He looked up, and there she was. Braided hair, emerald eyes. He waved to her, and she smiled back. She jumped from the branches. He watched her drop, a graceful leap. Although not much of a landing—she nearly crushed the life out of him.

  She jumped off of him and ran through the orchard. Simon chased after her. The sun was overhead, winds rustled the trees.

  He’d lost her.

  He slumped down at the base of an apple tree. An orchard, hah!
It felt more like a labyrinth. An increasingly intricate, dizzying maze. The sun began to dip towards the horizon now, expulsing vivid reds and oranges above the orchard. He could make out violet, the same as the flower.

  He shielded his eyes because of the sunset. When he dropped his hand, he saw a silhouette in the fading light.

  He saw her running back to him.

  The beeping of machinery once again filled his ears. Yet another annoyance. He was trapped, captured by the enemy. But still, he had seen her again after so long.

  Barely a glance these days, he thought when his vision cleared.

  There, leaned forward in her seat, was Cynthia. The rhythmic noises of the medical machines must have lulled her to sleep as well.

  “Hey.” He shook her shoulder.

  She stirred.

  “Hey,” he repeated.

  Cynthia woke with a start.

  “Awake, I see,” she said.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Do you always ask that?”

  “So I don’t forget,” he explained.

  That, at least, was true.

  “Four hours.”

  “That long?”

  She nodded.

  He watched as she inspected him, little by little. He slowly became aware of his flaws. His sunken eyes, their violet color gradually being replaced with red. His burnt hands, his damaged body. Simon assumed she was similar, but he also knew it was better to just wait.

  She asked him a question.

  “Did you lose someone?”

  “What?”

  “I can see it scribbled all over your face.”

  He looked down at the sheets.

  “Yes, I did.”

  A moment of silence, and then, “So, that’s how they found it.”

  “Found what?” he asked.

  “Genesis,” she replied.

  Simon’s head whipped up, causing even more pain.

  “You have it here?”

  “Yes. I’m the pilot.”

  He looked back down at the covers again.

  “Good… for you, then,” he murmured.

  Simon swung his legs over the bed. He tried to stand, bending his legs to get his feet under him.

  “Don’t,” Cynthia warned him.

  He struggled to push himself off of the bed. “I know what I’m doing.”

  He fell.

  After the failed attempt, Cynthia held him up, and brought him to the edge of the bed and gently set him down near the pillow. He left a trail of blood behind him. Simon’s breathing got shallower, the IV pulled from his vein.

  Cynthia was horrified. She dropped him, furious at his foolish attempt at walking. Only then did he see the glimmer in her eye.

  She’s figured it out.

  He prepared himself for the backlash.

  “You idiot,” she nearly yelled at him. “You piloted it, didn’t you?”

  “Same as you,” he countered. “Only once, though. I suspect you’ve piloted more than I have.”

  Silence. Simon watched as she fumed. Every time she glanced in his direction, he smiled weakly at her, only to earn another glare.

  Then, he dared an opinion.

  “And here you are, lecturing me about my choice! Hah!”

  She broke.

  She spun on her heel, tears streaming down her face. Her facade had lasted this long—not long enough, he could see.

  She kneeled to his level, and accused, “You joined them. The Crows. How was I supposed to know you’d come?”

  “Because you didn’t. And the last time I remember, you left,” he replied.

  Simon leaned towards her, and whispered, “Run.”

  “I can’t,” Cynthia whispered back, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  She stood and walked away from him, towards the door. He heard it slam, then click behind her.

  The lights never faltered. They felt like artificial sunlight, draining him of any life he might have. Fresh bandages were wrapped around his arm and stomach. Nurses checked in on him every other hour. If that’s what you’d call it. An hour.

  Sooner or later, Simon suspected, they’ll have no choice but to take me away.

  At this rate, he’d stay silent. Forever, if necessary.

  The monitors had become familiar to him now. The constant beeping kept him awake if he decided to drift.

  Beep, beep, beep.

  He checked his vitals. They were steadily falling. He probably looked like a corpse at this stage. Was this their objective? Keep him healthy and sane, then creep up on him like a snake, sapping his body until he talked?

  Simon laughed, coughing up blood. The covers were splotched with it now. Perhaps Cynthia had told them her interrogation was a failure? That was quite possible, considering his current position. But, then again, she hadn’t come by in some time.

  Pain constantly flowed through his body. He wondered if it was possible to stand. After all, it was never quite successful, was it?

  I can’t. What had Cynthia meant by that? Was her condition worse than he thought? Worse than his was now? Not too likely, but not impossible. He had to see her, somehow.

  The door slid open. He didn’t even look; he didn’t need to. Even though he didn’t recognize the steps, he figured it must be one of the nurses. Only when a tall shadow loomed over him did Simon look up.

  A man in his early thirties with startlingly blonde hair was above him. Blue eyes gazed down at his frail state, and he glimpsed at the insignia near the shoulder.

  “So, you’re the commander here?”

  “Why, yes, I am, Mr. Black.”

  Simon flinched; how did he know his surname?

  “What are you here for, Mister…?”

  “Rayleigh. Mitchell Rayleigh,” the man said, sitting down in the chair.

  Somehow, he seemed familiar.

  “Listen, I—”

  “Do you know Ms. Wood?” Rayleigh interrupted.

  “Know… who?” Simon asked innocently. It would take a miracle for this man to not figure the connection.

  “Alexandria Wood,” the man repeated. “She’s a pilot in my division. She’s told me quite a lot about you, Simon.”

  His eyes widened. What had happened? Cynthia would never….

  “How do you—”

  “I know many things. One of them is the mystery of your creation, Genesis.”

  Questions. Answers. The cycle repeated itself for what seemed like ages. One thing Simon knew for sure was that Rayleigh didn’t know everything. Just his name and Genesis. Hopefully, it would stay that way. He didn’t know about Arcadia, it seemed. For all he knew, Simon was just another captured rebel for him to crack.

  “So, what’s your plan, eh? If it’s information, I don’t have any,” Simon told Rayleigh after he’d lost count of the questions. “In fact, I’m just a mechanic. Nothing special, I assure you.”

  “Just a mechanic, huh?” Rayleigh replied. “You only just created a new generation of Rangers.”

  “I helped, ‘tis all.”

  “I see.”

  With that, Rayleigh stood and walked away, just like Cynthia.

  He’d underestimated that man. He knew patience was key. The waiting game, was it?

  Did that man really think that was all it was going to take?

  Simon’s patience was running thin. He thrummed his fingers against the railing incessantly, trying to pinpoint a melody from long ago. He couldn’t recall what it was, exactly, but it was nagging at the back of his mind. Maybe she knew it? He didn’t know.

  It became a routine. Waiting for nurses, listening to noises, and even more waiting. Time took its toll on him. Waiting, waiting, waiting. When would something else happen?

  He counted down from ten.

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…”

  The door slid open, admitting a new visitor.

  Simon looked up, smiling meekly.

  Finally, she’d come.

  “Welcome back,” he said.

&nb
sp; “Same to you,” she replied. She held a pair of silver handcuffs out to him, smiling. “Shall we?”

  Simon stared blankly at her. What was her plan now? At least she looked livelier, but still….

  Cynthia helped him stand and placed the handcuffs around his wrists, clamping them. Simon leaned against the wall gratefully when she had removed the IVs and other items, but when his friend pulled him off of the wall, however, he nearly fell to the ground.

  “Hey!” he yelled, pain shooting up from the stumble.

  “Sorry,” she told him.

  Regaining his footing, he was surprised to find that he could stand after being in that bed for so long.

  He looked at Cynthia. She smiled.

  “Happy now?” she said.

  “Very.”

  She grabbed him by the arm, pushing him towards the door.

  “Where are we—”

  “Shhh,” she held her finger to her lips. “You’re a prisoner, right? I’m transferring you!” she whispered.

  “Ah.”

  They rounded a corner, passing several people along the way. They were barely spared a glance.

  “What about Rayleigh?” Simon asked.

  “He’s busy. Planning an attack, I think.”

  “An attack?” he said, much too loudly.

  “Be quiet!” she whispered.

  Finally, Cynthia stopped him at a steel door, which slid open with a hiss. It led straight to the docking bay. Dozens of ships filled it, along with hundreds of maintenance workers and crewmembers.

  “Where’s Genesis in all of this?” Simon asked, whispering.

  “Different station,” she replied, leading him towards one of the ships. Several people watched them moving through the racket of drills and sparks, most of them looking suspiciously at Simon. Cynthia hurried to the shuttle, which drew even more attention.

  “You’re not very good at this, are you?” he teased.

  No response.

  He surveyed the area. Only a few more steps and they would be there. An orange cargo ship came into view. A standard model; not much speed, but it would have to do.