Scions of Sacrifice

by Eric Kent Edstrom

  Kirk’s heavy breathing trailed after Humphrey as the thickly muscled boy struggled to carry his own weight. Humphrey needed to get their mind off of their suffering. “Drone report.”

  Kirk’s breathing stopped momentarily. Humphrey imagined the boy stopping, scanning the forest behind them, cocking his head to listen for the telltale whine of the strange spherical machines. “Nothing. Not since we left camp this morning.”

  Humphrey didn’t know what to make of the sudden disappearance of the drones. He had heard at least three of them during the night, all in different directions. There had possibly been more, but with the way the wind shifted and distorted sound, it was impossible to know for sure.

  The drones were obviously sentries of some sort. But why hadn’t the machines tried to communicate with the human interlopers they were watching? The only explanation that made any sense was that Dr. Carlhagen didn’t know they were there. If the Scion School on St. Vitus was any guide at all, there had to be an AI in charge of these machines. Something like a Madam LaFontaine.

  Humphrey said, “Maybe they don’t interfere with us because they don’t want to make trespassers more curious.”

  “That’s—a good—point,” Leslie said, breathing hard. “If they—attacked a curious—landing party . . .” She gasped several times to catch her wind. “That would—draw more attention—to the island.”

  So that was it, Humphrey decided. The drones were keeping an eye out, making sure the trespassers weren’t getting too close to the Scion School. Wherever it was. He was starting to reconsider Kirk’s idea that the school was hidden underground.

  He was going to say so when he broke through to the clearing. It was perhaps fifty meters in diameter, carpeted with tall grass. A few clumps of frangipani grew along the fringe. Swirls of white butterflies flitted all around. They could have been on St. Vitus, it was so familiar.

  “Look,” Leslie said. “The grass is pressed down there.”

  They trudged to the spot and studied the bent grasses. The impressions weren’t very distinct, but Humphrey detected two lines separated from each other by three meters of undisturbed grass. He raised an eyebrow and questioned his companions, “Maybe a helicopter landed here? This clearing doesn’t seem natural.” And then he spotted a few tree stumps at the perimeter. “This was definitely cleared for a landing pad.”

  “Maybe we’re seeing what we want to see,” Leslie said. She was kneeling and wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her Scion uniform, which she’d tied around her waist. Sweat soaked her tank top. “But I agree that these impressions weren’t made by an animal.

  Kirk had dug a ration bar from his backpack and was mid-bite when he froze. “It looks like our friends have decided to introduce themselves.”

  Humphrey looked up and saw three drones approaching from the verge of the forest ahead. Behind the Scions came three more. Still more came from the left and the right. The drones’ hum grew into a buzz coming from all directions.

  “We can’t let them hem us in,” Humphrey said. “Let’s get into the trees.”

  Twenty meters of open space separated each drone, but that distance was shrinking as they closed in from all sides.

  Humphrey ran straight at the central drone.

  “Stop. Stop. Stop,” it ordered in an expressionless male voice.

  Humphrey ran straight at the hovering sphere. At the last moment, he darted to skirt past it.

  “Stop. Stop. Stop.” All the drones were saying it in unison, their combined voices loud and cold.

  A high keening noise sizzled all around Humphrey.

  Leslie shrieked.

  Humphrey’s world erupted in white light and searing agony.

  43

  Am I to Your Liking

  Jacey had been trapped before, so this was nothing new. Not too long ago, she’d been knocked unconscious, stuffed in a body bag, and thrown into a fruit crate. She’d gotten out of that just fine.

  This time there would be no such easy escape.

  Hansen and the black garbed man had bound her hands behind her. A black hood was fastened over her head, cinched around her neck by a cloth cord. Then she was dumped into the back of a truck. Meow Meow lay next to her, not moving. Not making a sound.

  The vehicle had skimmed across the roads for several hours, then clunked and dipped as it left pavement. After that the ride had been simply tooth-jarring.

  Jacey tried to get to her knees, but a hard boot to the spine had laid her flat. She stayed there, anxiety warring with reason. Her captors were rough, scarred. Strong. But they hadn’t exactly harmed her. Yet. So that was good. But what frightened Jacey more than their toughness was Meow Meow’s uncharacteristic meekness. Right before the hoods went on, the girl had the large-eyed, fearful look of a Dolphin caught stealing ice cream. Even stranger, Meow Meow had kept her mouth shut and had submitted to capture without resistance. That wasn’t like her. At all.

  There were no stops, no water, no food. Just hour after hour after hour of jostling over rough terrain, the metal bed of the truck thrusting up into Jacey’s shoulder. When she got tired of lying on one side, she rolled to the other and let the truck abuse that shoulder. But if she ever tried to get upright, the boot thrust her back down.

  The truck rolled to a stop, its tires snapping over gravel. Momentary silence, then the squeak of the driver’s door opening and slamming shut. Boots on gravel. Low, muttered words.

  Hands grabbed Jacey’s ankles and dragged her across the truck bed, then they scooped around her waist, lifted her down, and set her on her feet. Her knees buckled and a man held her up by the bindings holding her wrists behind her back. If not for that, she would’ve fallen on her face.

  More noises behind her, presumably the other man bringing Meow Meow out of the truck.

  “Walk.” It was the big man’s voice. Hansen. She had never imagined a human could be so large. He had pressed a thumb on her left ear, a pinky to her right one, and put two fingers over her eyes, middle finger trailing down her nose. That hand had squeezed, hard enough to let her know the true threat of his strength.

  She walked. Slow, stumbling steps, feeling gravel under her Scion shoes. The man guided her, turning her first left, then right. The sounds of outside faded, and she sensed she was now indoors. There is a damp smell, wet rock, old dirt. More walking, the ground now level, now sloping down.

  Side conversations were mumbled behind her, unintelligible through the black hood. Jacey’s own breathing grew louder and louder the further into the scav domain she went. Panic began to flail in her mind, making her sweaty and chilled at the same time. She could feel the animal instinct to fight grow in her gut, her shoulders, her fingers. The desperate need to struggle, to kick, to flail, to scream.

  The man behind her yanked back on her bindings, sending stabs through her shoulders.

  “On your knees,” he said. She obeyed.

  There was a loosening at her throat, and with a whoosh the hood came off. Her first breaths of clean, unfiltered air were as sweet as a cool drink of water. The thought brought focus to her thirst. She licked her lips, but there was no moisture in her mouth to wet them.

  The chamber was dim and large. The ceiling domed above what appeared to be a natural cavern. Braziers lit the space along the side walls with flickery flames. An assemblage of men and women stood all around, dressed in clothes made from scraps of other clothes that perhaps might have been scraps of previous clothes. Many wore leather jackets; all wore boots. Their faces were square, lined from brutal winds and scalding sun. Their hair was long, braided, threaded with feathers, woven with beads.

  Straight ahead on a slightly raised platform was an assemblage of furniture. Sofa, armchair, a few folding chairs. A big table off to one side stood upon thick wooden legs. Atop it were mismatched cups and plates. The smell of roasted meat made Jacey’s stomach growl.

  A petite woman with ice gray hair stepped forward and climbed the dais. She turned a gray eye on Jacey, then calmly s
at and crossed her legs. She wore a patchwork skirt that went to her ankles and a long cloak that billowed at the wrists. She had to be at least 70 years old, but there was a girlishness to the shape of her face, a bright aliveness in her eyes.

  And such eyes. They speared Jacey, scanned her brain, looked into her heart, and knew every secret. The eyes shifted, and Jacey realized that Meow Meow was off to her left, also on her knees. Meow Meow kept her eyes to the floor a meter in front of her. The demeanor of a child prepared for punishment.

  Several more people came onto the dais and stood behind the gray-haired woman. One in particular captured Jacey’s attention. The woman’s dress was different from the rest of the scavs. And she wore a colorful scarf tied over her nose so that only her luminous eyes showed. There was something familiar about the woman, but Jacey couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “Kathryne Killusky,” the older woman said to Meow Meow, her voice low and soft. The chamber was utterly silent except for the thump of Jacey’s heart. “I never thought I’d see you here again.”

  “We found them near Tracy, Misery, a hundred clicks east.” It was the man in black, Hansen’s boss. His gravelly voice carried the tired, seen-it-all-before indifference of a man whose only concern was for the next meal and the death of all enemies.

  “Ah. Going for the old cache, were you?” the woman said. She waited until Meow Meow nodded before continuing. “I’ve watched the news with great interest. I’ve watched your career with great interest. Tell me, how did you come up with the name Meow Meow?”

  “I don’t recall,” Meow Meow said. “A joke, I think.”

  “I don’t find it funny in the slightest.” She turned her attention to Jacey. “Jacqueline Buchanan.” The name was a denunciation, Jacey realized. The woman’s tone was so full of disappointment and disgust that Jacey felt a surge of guilt, even though she had done nothing wrong.

  “She is not Jackie B.,” Meow Meow said. “She’s one of the fancy new carbos the president was talking about on the news.”

  The woman stood and approached Jacey, her patchwork skirt swishing with every small step. She stopped right in front of Jacey, and she was so short Jacey did not have to crane her neck to look up at the woman’s face. With a delicate, blue-veined hand, the woman pressed Jacey’s chin up, then side to side. “Amazing. Can it speak?”

  “Of course I can speak.” Cracks in her voice robbed it of all indignation.

  The woman flashed an eyebrow before leveling a considering gaze at Jacey’s face. “Carbos aren’t legal.”

  “A valuable find,” the man in black said. “Want me to place some calls?”

  “It is indeed valuable,” the woman said. “And since the President of the North American Union has declared carbos like this legal, perhaps we are obliged to set it free.”

  Laughter. Jacey didn’t get the joke.

  Meow Meow said, “If you’ll just listen to me, Ashala, I think you’ll want to help us. I brought her to our territory hoping to find you.”

  Ashala squinted at the girl. “Our territory? So you include yourself in that ‘our?’ The child who abandoned us to seek riches, luxury, and a life of debauchery among our enemies? No. You came here because you had no other choice. You were wanted by the IPA. Then you got into trouble with Shanya Delfer’s drone swarm, and now you are pursued by that strange mercenary who’s been putting feelers out looking for you . . . and this one.” She pointed at Jacey.

  Meow Meow struggled to her feet but was pushed back down by the man in black. She glared at him, teeth bared. “I see you still rely on Carl and Hansen to do your dirty work.”

  Ashala turned away from Jacey and headed back to her chair. Once she was comfortable and composed, she waved a finger. Carl stepped forward and helped Meow Meow to her feet. Hansen did the same for Jacey. The men shoved the girls forward, until they stood at the edge of the dais. The two men lurked directly behind the girls, a clear deterrent against any attack on Ashala.

  Jacey didn’t have the strength to attack anything at the moment, except maybe a sandwich.

  “You’re a carbo of Jackie B.,” Ashala said. “And yet you can talk like an actual person. Interesting.”

  “May I have some water?” Jacey asked.

  Ashala made a motion with her left hand, and a stout man hustled forward with a plastic cup. Ashala motioned to Jacey, and the man handed it over. Jacey didn’t bother to sniff it, didn’t care if it was poison. She drank it all down, stopping only once to gasp for air. Water had never tasted so good.

  “Do you have a name?” Ashala asked.

  “Jacey. I grew up on an island in the Caribbean called St. Vitus. I did not know I was a clone until very recently. I had never heard of Jacqueline Buchanan.”

  “That’s all true,” Meow Meow said. “I was on Vin’s island when Jacey arrived. She was as naïve as—”

  “I saw that on the news,” Ashala said. “The rich and powerful are not content with having more material wealth than everyone else. Now they want another whole life. Isn’t that right?”

  Jacey shrugged. “That’s my understanding. But that isn’t my fault. And it isn’t the fault of any of the others of us who were raised on St. Vitus. I managed to escape, but things got out of control before I could—”

  “Boo hoo. Poor you.” Ashala pointed over Jacey’s head. “Melinda back there is having a difficult pregnancy. Our medics need certain supplies to see her through it. And then there’s Bobert. He’s 97 years old and as vigorous as he was when he was 50. Except his kidney stones cause him no end of misery. He needs a special nanite that is available to anyone in Chicago but impossible to get here. And then there’s Sindy, five years old. She had her appendix out last year but has been fighting an infection ever since. The old antibiotics don’t work. But we can’t get the new ones.”

  She waved her arms, encompassing all of the people in the chamber. “We all need clean water, food, generators, tools. It isn’t an easy life, living apart from the rest of civilization. We do it because it gives us more freedom, the ability to live the way we want to live without being watched 24 hours a day. So, my dear innocent Jacey, I’m faced with a terrible choice. I could sell you and use the proceeds to address all of those needs in one swoop.” She made a balancing motion with her hands. “Or I could help you. I think it’s pretty clear what the expedient choice is.”

  Jacey nodded. She understood completely. She had done many things she hadn’t liked for the sake of expediency, because they were in the best interest of the Scions. Ashala didn’t owe Jacey anything. And if the positions were reversed, Jacey knew she wouldn’t think twice, even if the decision saddled her with a lifetime of guilt.

  “It won’t be that easy to sell a face as famous as hers,” Meow Meow said. “The buyer would have to keep such a prize secret now that Jacey’s kind are legal. But that would mean allowing no one—not even his servants—to ever see Jacey’s face.”

  “That will be the buyer’s problem,” Ashala said. “I assure you, there are many eager bidders.”

  “Bidders?” Jacey said, mouth going dry.

  Ashala motioned ever-so-slightly with her left hand. “Bring them in.”

  A door creaked open somewhere in the back of the chamber and a line of five men walked in. They wore loose black robes and weird masks over their faces. The first mask was cat-like and painted red. The second was a bird, with a cruel black beak that curved like a scythe. The third was a dog, lips pulled back in a snarl. The fourth was a grotesque monster, with green cheeks and bared teeth. The last was plain white, smooth except for eyeholes and a slit for the mouth.

  The bidders wanted to remain anonymous.

  The man in the plain white mask chilled Jacey the most. She did not have to see the man’s face to know who he was. The bandage wrapped around his head told her it was Captain Wilcox.

  Ashala motioned to the lineup of bidders. “I put the word out the moment I confirmed you were captured. Sub-orbs and choppers have been arriving in th
e nearby airfield all day. These five qualified for the final round of bidding.”

  The men lined up next to Ashala. “Cat, you may go first.”

  The man stepped from the dais and approached Jacey. The mask was paper maché, the work of an eager, if less than gifted, hand.

  Meow Meow swore and lunged, but Carl snatched her back and clamped a black-gloved hand over her mouth.

  Cat man came to within arm’s reach. An odd, spicy aroma wafted from him. He circled Jacey, bending close to inspect her from every angle. “Smile, please,” he said. A soft voice. Gentle, even.

  “I have little to smile about.”

  The man grunted, but didn’t seem displeased by the answer.

  “You would do well to comply with the bidders’ requests,” Ashala said. “It will drive up your value, and the higher the price paid, the more precious you will be. Do you see how that benefits you?”

  Jacey supposed she did. Her new owner would perhaps not leave visible marks on her flesh. Not much comfort in that thought at all. She bared her teeth, a mocking smile.

  The cat snout pressed close to her face and Jacey heard the man behind the mask make sniffing noises. She hoped he gagged on her smell. She needed a bath.

  “Your time is up,” Ashala announced, then motioned for the man in the dog mask to descend for his turn.

  And so the process continued, with Jacey being stared at, asked to smile, and once asked to take off her clothes. Ashala interceded at that point, saying such a request was demeaning. Jacey considered pointing out the irony inherent in that statement, but fell dumb when the plain-masked Captain Wilcox came down to inspect her.

  “Well, Captain, am I to your liking?” she whispered.

  The mask jerked and went still for a moment. But Wilcox didn’t answer as he made a circuit around her. Finally he came to stand in front of her, blocking her view of Ashala. His voice was a rumble, but so, so quiet. “You are a pain in the ass.”