The Duality Bridge (Singularity #2) (Singularity Series)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  I blink, confused. I think he means that I’ve found her beautiful, attractive, wanted to kiss her, and more. This is so obvious I’m kind of stunned. But something—namely the red-hot poker in his hand—is holding me back from saying anything.

  “Answer me truthfully, Elijah,” he says, drawing closer. “Have you lusted after her in your mind?”

  “Lusted?” The haze is pushing me to say yes, because of course, but I fight against it, my brain pushing on the fog, and as I do… the room flickers, shifting back and forth again. This time it locks, and the two states merge—somehow I see two Nathaniels, one with his robe and the spitting-hot poker in his hand, the other in his fugue-state military uniform. While the double vision makes me blink, it clears the haze in my mind.

  I lie with conviction. “I’ve never lusted in my heart. For her or anyone else.”

  Nathaniel’s eyes narrow, and he pulls back. He contemplates me for a moment, then returns the poker to its bucket of coals. When he comes back, I still have the double vision and clarity of mind I need. I don’t know how, but the fugue is fighting off the effects of the drug.

  He braces his hands on his knees so he’s eye-to-eye with me. “What sins of the mind have you committed, son?”

  “None.”

  “Nothing in word or deed? No strike against a brother? No murder or stealing or unrighteous act?

  I’ve never killed anyone, but I’m pretty sure punching my best friend Cyrus would count as a strike against a brother. And yet, I don’t feel any need to confess. Instead, words come out of my mouth that I don’t expect—like the fugue is conjuring them from somewhere else. “A man who sins against his brother, sins against his own self.”

  Nathaniel jerks back like the words are a punch to the face. His eyes go wide, then he turns away. I frantically search what I’ve said, hoping like crazy the fugue hasn’t killed my chances of escaping the poker.

  When Nathaniel turns back, his face is stone-cold again. “The sin of jealousy?” he continues his interrogation, just like before, but now the muscles in his cheek are working, like he’s gritting his teeth. “Surely you have seethed with envy of those who possessed something you wanted?”

  My breathing calms. Maybe I can make it through this after all. “No.”

  “And what about pride? Did you never think high thoughts of yourself, in all your purity, in all your righteousness with the Lord?” There’s anger rising in his voice.

  I say, “No,” before I think it through. When his eyes flash and his mouth sets into a tight line, I know I’ve made a mistake. He stares hard at me for a moment then marches to the door, throws it open, and stalks down the hall, away from the room. Outside is the man with the shaved head, standing impassively, head down. He doesn’t move. My double vision shows him not only in his robe but a simple shirt and trousers as well.

  The door is open, but the man with the shaved head doesn’t seem to notice—it’s like the implant has turned off his brain entirely. If only I wasn’t tied to the chair, I might actually be able to escape. I look back to the bucket, but I’m still tied down, and I can’t see how to use the poker without burning myself in the process. Before I can think of a way to get free, Nathaniel returns with a wooden cup. He slams the door shut behind him and thrusts the cup in my face.

  “Drink, Elijah.”

  I stare at the cup. It’s filled with more of the wine, which I’m sure is laced with a double dose of whatever he gave me the first time. I’m equally sure I have no choice but to drink it. What I don’t know is if the fugue will still be able to fight it off. I gesture to my hands still bound between my knees and shrug my shoulders. He reaches down and unhooks the rope from whatever is tethering it to the chair. My wrists are still bound, but at least I can grasp hold of the cup.

  I raise it to my lips. Nathaniel watches as I drink the entire thing down. It takes several tries, and I have to pause for breath, which is becoming more labored as I go. My whole body is relaxing, the effects of the drug seeping into every corner. I nearly drop the cup when I’m done, but Nathaniel catches it.

  He examines me carefully for a long minute, saying nothing. My eyelids are heavy, and I have to fight to keep them open. The double vision flickers back and forth, but what I’m losing most is my hold on reality—at least the reality that is comprised of the room with the red-hot poker that will soon be my punishment for my sins. I’m starting to wonder which is more real—that vision or the one of Nathaniel in his military uniform. When he leans in toward me, I see the tattoo on his wrist is gone.

  “No man is without sin, Elijah.” His breath is sour in my face.

  I blink and stare at him. His face is younger than before but still lined at the corners of his eyes. They were old before he was.

  “Even the purest among us have some sin to atone for,” he says. “And there are sins that only the Lord sees. Maybe a lie so small that it seems innocent. One so tiny no one would ever know. Except we know the truth in our hearts, don’t we? That it was a blasphemy against the purity of speech the Lord requires. Everyone does this, my brother. It is the least of our sins. Confess it now, and we can be done here.”

  He waits.

  I stare.

  His dark brown eyes turn cold. “Tell me the truth, Elijah: have you ever spoken falsely?”

  His face is only inches from mine, but my gaze is drawn to his uniform. I notice the coarse fabric of his jacket and the bars across his shoulder: captain, my mind tells me.

  My tongue is thick with the drug, but I manage to say, “No, captain, sir. I’ve never lied, sir.” The words are hot in my mouth, lies that rebuke the drug coursing through my body.

  Nathaniel pulls back, his face stricken. He turns away, but I can see his shoulders rise and fall and hear his labored breath. He’s muttering something, but it’s to himself. He stokes the poker again, shaking his head, talking to himself. When he finally turns back, there is awe in his face.

  “It is you,” he says.

  I have no idea what he means, so I just nod.

  He hurries to the back of my chair, and the rope around my chest loosens and falls. Then he kneels in front of me and unties the one binding my wrists. Once I’m free, he doesn’t move, just stays on bent knee, staring at the floor next to the chair, blinking. Like he’s not sure what to do next.

  I don’t have that problem. I ease up from the chair, not too fast, so I don’t alarm him. Then I step around him to the bucket of charcoal where the poker sits. I grab it and swing hard with everything I have.

  I hit Nathaniel square on the back. He goes down on the floor with a grunt. I swing the poker through and hold it high overhead, ready to hit him again. My heart pounds through several seconds of waiting… I’m shocked he stays down, but he does. I teeter, the effects of the drug and my double vision playing havoc with my balance.

  Then I stumble to the door.

  I fling open the door and swing my iron poker high to fight the man with the shaved head and neural implant.

  He doesn’t look up.

  I let my arms drop and lurch past him, down the corridor, bracing myself against the wall with one hand. The floorboards seem to rock like I’m on a ship at sea, but it’s just the truth-telling drug and the fugue state giving me double vision. I pause and close my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass, but it doesn’t. And I’ve got to get out and find Kamali before Nathaniel is discovered.

  Only I have no idea where she is.

  I manage to exit the building without being seen. Night has fallen—only the spotlights above each entranceway light the compound. I put up my hood and hope no one wonders why one of the brotherhood is wandering around carrying an iron bar with a glowing red tip. There are a dozen buildings on the women’s side—Kamali has to be in one of them. The entrances are around back, which is good because I’d like to stay out of sight of the men’s side.

  The first door is locked.

  I bang on it, but no one answers. Same with the second and third. I have t
o be waking up the whole lot of them at this point, but there’s not even a whisper from inside. At the fourth one, I start wailing on the solid wooden door with my poker, which doesn’t accomplish anything besides making a tremendous racket. At the next building over, a door cracks open. I dash across the gap between the barracks-like housing, but before I get there, the door slams shut again.

  Then I see a brown-robed figure hurrying between the next two buildings. Given the short stature and arms full of a basket of clothes, I guess it’s a woman. I sprint over, sickened by the idea of having to threaten her, but I have no choice.

  Her head is so bowed, hood falling forward, that she only sees me when I’m practically on top of her—with my iron bar raised over my head. She jerks to a stop, and her hood falls back. She’s only fourteen or fifteen with wide blue eyes that are terrified. Of me.

  “Where is she?” I demand, which only makes the girl shake so badly she nearly drops her basket. “Kamali. Take me to her.”

  The girl’s full-body quiver coalesces into a fervent nod. She stumbles to the door, drops the basket at the doorstep, and fishes a key from the folds of her robe. It takes her three tries to get it in the door, but when she does, I don’t let her finish—I shove my way in. A good thing, too, because the door bangs into something solid. The woman behind it tumbles to the floor, and the long-barreled gun she was holding clatters against the floorboards. I dart to pick it up. Now I have a shotgun in one hand and an iron bar in the other… and no desire to use either one.

  But I will, if forced.

  The woman on the floor scrambles back. The girl who let me in is still standing on the threshold. There are two more—an elderly woman and a little girl—huddled at the edge of the common room. Down the length of the building is a hallway with doors, just like the one on the men’s side.

  I point the gun at the woman on the floor. She’s middle-aged, as far as I can tell in the low light. “Take me to Kamali, and no one has to get hurt.” I seriously hope they don’t fight me on this.

  The woman slowly gets to her feet, hands out in surrender. Then she points down the hall. “She’s back here.”

  “You first.” I gesture to the rest of them. “All of you.”

  They scurry with hunched shoulders down the hall. My double vision is starting to fade, but I still feel woozy. From the drugs. Probably the wine, too. Possibly because I’m ordering women and girls around at gunpoint. I plod after the women, careful with my steps so I don’t fall on my face and ruin any chance of pulling this off. The oldest one stops at the third door and opens it with her key. I motion for her to toss it to me, then I wave them all farther down the hall. I stand at the threshold of the door, afraid to go in the room—I’m sure they’ll try to lock me in.

  I push open the unlocked door… and my shoulders sag in relief at the sight of Kamali on the bed. Her face is turned away, and I almost call out to her, but then I see she’s bound to the bedposts at the wrists and feet. Rage paints my blurry vision red. What have they done to her?

  I swing my shotgun to point at the girl who let me in the building. “You!” I yell. “Untie her!”

  The girl squeezes past me in the doorway. Kamali slowly swings her head to watch the girl run around and unlatch the bindings. She has a glazed kind of look that makes my throat close up.

  When Kamali finally looks toward the door, she gasps. “Eli.” Her voice is so weak.

  I just nod. She squirms free of the last of the ropes at her feet and leaps out of the bed. She has a flimsy white nightgown over her tanktop and shorts—the thin fabric of the gown isn’t going to be much protection in the cold trek back to the camp.

  I clear my throat. “You need something warmer.” I gesture to the girl. “Give her your robe!”

  She quakes in front of me but doesn’t move.

  “I’ve got one here,” Kamali says, dashing to something behind the door. A second later, she’s slipping a robe over her head. Once it’s on, I hand her the iron bar, then take her hand.

  “You okay?” I ask, as I tow her from the room. Her lips are dry and pressed into a straight line, but she gives me a quick nod. She seems unharmed, outwardly, at least. Hands clasped, we slowly back down the hall the way I came, holding the women off with my gun. I’m afraid they’ll grab another weapon from somewhere, but they simply watch us go.

  My heart is pounding—someone has to have discovered Nathaniel by now, but when we reach the still-open door, there’s no one outside. Kamali and I dash out into the dark and run toward the front of the compound. I slow our pace at the last of the buildings before the giant gate at the entrance.

  Between the running and the adrenaline, not to mention the drugs, I’m starting to feel seriously light-headed. I brace myself against the rough wooden wall where we’ve taking refuge in the shadows and suck in gulps of night air.

  Kamali puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s reassuring how strong her grip is. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” I’m completely out of breath. Her soft brown eyes catch some of the distant light, and the concern on her face helps calm the pounding in my chest. I reach out a hand to reassure her and somehow end up touching my fingertips to her cheek.

  I stand there for a moment, breathing hard, my hand to her face. “You are so beautiful,” I say.

  Her expression opens in surprise, and I realize I shouldn’t be saying those words. Or touching her that way. I drop my hand.

  She scrunches up her face. “Are you drunk?”

  “No.” I shake my head. Too much. I stop because it’s making the world spin. “Maybe.” Then I shake my head again, slower this time, and peer into her deep, dark eyes. “Truth drugs.”

  Her eyebrows fly up.

  “Don’t…” I wag a finger to stop her from saying anything. “Do not ask me anything. You know, anything important.”

  Her eyebrows crash down into a frown. “Okay.” She thinks I’m drunk for sure now.

  I reach out to her again, but just to put my hand on her shoulder. “Tell me again they didn’t hurt you,” I say, trying to move on from my impaired state. “I mean, you were tied up, Kamali. What’s that all about?”

  “They didn’t hurt me,” she says with conviction. “But these people are crazy, Eli.”

  I huff a small laugh. “I noticed.”

  “They were going to…” She drops her gaze, then looks away and squints at the lights coming from the men’s buildings.

  A core of anger flames to life inside me—the idea that she’s embarrassed by whatever they did to her makes me grip the gun barrel tighter.

  “What did they do?” I say between my teeth.

  “They wanted to marry us,” she says, still peering at the light. Then she looks back to me. “And they wanted to make sure I wasn’t already pregnant.”

  What? Then I realize they tied her down to do this... inspection. I screw up my face in anger and have to ball my fist against the building. The wrongness of it squeezes on my chest. I want to go back and make someone pay. I fight for words that aren’t hot with anger.

  I finally manage, “I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s just get out of this place.” Her shoulders sag.

  I nod vigorously, as much as my still-dizzy head will allow. “We need to surprise the guards.” I hand her the gun. “You take this. Give me the bar. That way you can keep your distance, threaten them, and I can get up close and—” My tongue is still thick from the drug, and with the fugue state fading, my mind is starting to cloud again. Running up and beating the crap out of the guards sounds really good to me right now, but I can’t think straight enough to know if that’s a smart thing to do.

  “Do what you have to, Eli,” Kamali says. “Just get us out of here.”

  I nod, and her words help clear my mind: no matter what happens, I’m getting Kamali free of this cult. We edge down the corridor between buildings, not bothering to put up our hoods. Two guards are stationed at the gate with long-barreled guns slung over their shoulders. It t
akes a moment for them to see us stalking toward them, but when they do, Kamali’s already got her gun trained on them.

  “Put your guns down,” I say.

  They freeze, then look at each other but don’t make any move to drop their weapons.

  Kamali raises her gun to eye-level. I don’t know if she’s fired a weapon before, but she’s been in the Resistance longer than I have. “Drop your weapons now,” she says to the guards, in a voice that says she’s one second away from pulling the trigger.

  “I’d love for her to shoot one of you,” I add.

  “Okay, okay,” one says, holding up his hand and putting the gun on the ground. The second guard follows suit.

  “Open the gate,” I say. They hesitate, but then one lifts his chin to the other. That one edges backward, toward the giant crank that operates the gate. It clanks as he unlatches something, then the racket is even louder when he puts his muscles into working the crank. There must be some gearing inside because it takes a lot of turns before the tall, spiked wooden doors even start to move.

  Then a shout behind us brings the clacking to a halt.

  Kamali and I spin around, but there are already a dozen guns pointed at us.

  Jacob is at the front, his rifle aimed at my head. “Daniel,” he calls to the guard at the crank. “Shut the gate.”

  My heart sinks as the clacking resumes behind me, sealing off our escape route.

  “Put the gun down, girl,” he says to Kamali.

  She throws a fearful glance to me, but we’re massively out-gunned and outnumbered. Kamali slowly lowers her gun to the ground, and I toss my iron poker down as well. Then someone shoves me from behind, and I sprawl into the dirt.

  “You fooled Nathaniel into thinking you could be a man of God,” Jacob says, his voice bitter, “and look what that got him. He should have listened to me. I saw you for the devil you are from the beginning.” Then to the others, “Take their robes.”

  Several of the men lower their weapons and advance toward Kamali. I scramble up on my knees, determined to stop them, but someone lands an iron fist to my face. I’m back down, dirt in my mouth, dazed. A boot kicks my stomach so hard, it lifts me from the ground. I crash down, face-first into the dust. I can’t breathe. I claw the hard-scrabble ground, trying to crawl away, but another kick flips me over and makes stars dart past my eyes. I hear Kamali’s muffled protest, but I can’t do anything—I can’t even breathe. Then a dozen hands are on me, rough, some punching but most wrestling me out of my robe. My arms lock up, reflexively protecting my body. When the men get the robe free, they don’t stop there—they take my invisibility suit jacket and pants and leave me shivering in my tanktop and shorts on the packed-dirt ground.