Blood, Ink & Fire

by Ashley Mansour

  “I know there’s a lot of pressure, honey,” says my mother. “But just think about what your life could be like.” She plants her hand firmly on my shoulder. “Out there. Outside of Fell.” I do. More than you know.

  “You have to understand there are limitations. There are rules. We are the fortunate ones, remember. There are many on the outside who wish us ill because of this.” My mother’s grave expression lifts to cajoling. “You are a Valer. And that means succeeding here in Vale 1. Your home.”

  My mother gives my father a look. He clears his throat. “This is where you belong. Nothing you do could ever change that.”

  “What about what I am? Could that change it?”

  “What do you mean?” My father leans back toward the stream. My mother glares at him.

  “I’m a slack. You said so earlier. Maybe I don’t belong here after all.”

  “I didn’t mean what I said when I called you that,” he says finally. The cello and violins swell. “It was wrong of me. I’m sorry, honey.”

  A close-up of raindrops—or tears—hitting a pool of water. Waterfalls. Green hills. A rainbow above a house from long ago, its chimney puffing in a way that doesn’t seem real. It’s all too safe, too expected, as if Verity can sense something is wrong. I have to break this. I have to alter things to have any hope of escaping.

  “It’s okay,” I say quietly. “You were just being honest.”

  My parents glance at each other. Verity plays images of children getting along. Of hundreds of butterflies all exactly the same. Of lights turning on across the Vale. Hundreds of little round pod houses glow, as alike inside as they are outside. I hear the words in my head clear as day: Unity. Togetherness. Safety in sameness. I feel something taking hold inside me. I know what they want to hear. The burn of my desires pushes the words right out of me.

  “I’m glad I’m scheduled for immersion tomorrow. So they can fix me. I’m ready to be fixed. I don’t want to be different.”

  A glassy layer fills my mother’s eyes and spills onto her cheeks. She smiles at my father and squeezes his hand with pure relief. It’s the first genuine emotion I’ve seen from her in a long time, and for this, I feel a twinge of guilt. “Oh, honey. It will be so easy. And then everything will be better for you. You’ll see.”

  I nod and give her a hug. My father studies me for a moment, unsure. “Just like that, huh?” he says when I release her. “Just like that you’ve changed?”

  “What I did was wrong,” I tell him. “Am I not allowed to feel remorse?”

  He studies me, a shard of confusion still within him. My father’s expression turns pained, like a minute part of him is disappointed. He shakes it away. My gut pangs with the same deep-ocean feeling I get when I look at Verity.

  “It’s been a long day. For all of us.”

  My mother inclines her head to Verity’s cyan face. The display reads 9:00 p.m. “We better get some sleep.”

  My parents hug me quickly and linger at the door. “Don’t stay up too late,” says my mother. “Tomorrow is a big day.”

  *

  I lay in bed, my mind alert, listening past the drone of the stream. In an hour everything is quiet. I peel back my covers and swing my feet to the cold floor. With careful steps, I head to the bathroom, then crouch at the sink. Under the safety light, I feel for one of the slick corners of my ID Philm on top of my wrist-plate. When I find it, I pick at it with my fingernails, raising an edge. I head back down the hallway and slip quietly into my parents’ room, where they’re sound asleep. I check the door to the closet—shut—and tiptoe into their open bathroom instead. I find my mother’s white chemical uniform hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It slips easily over my shorts and T-shirt. I check around for my leather cuff, but it’s nowhere to be found. I want it gone, my father said. I check the disposal unit. It’s there, buried under the rest of the garbage. I reach in, elbow deep, and pull it out, wiping it off before smoothing it around my wrist. I find a pair of tweezers at the side of the sink and stash them in my pocket on the way out.

  I’m lucky both my parents are sound sleepers. They don’t stir, even with me in the crinkly white uniform rustling alongside their bed, even as I find my mother’s wrist-plate in the dark. The tweezers help me. I wedge one tip under a corner of her sticky ID Philm, then I freeze. Her fingers twitch. I watch her closed eyes as they dart back and forth in deep sleep and realize she’s watching something. I check her wrist-plate, and then I understand. Verity Dream™. They already have the download. I hold my breath as I begin to peel off the sticky, clear substance, careful not to disturb the stream.

  In the stark quiet, the Philm gives off a sickly squelch with every pull. When my mother’s Philm is halfway off, I turn to my own and tease it up to the same extent. I’ll need to swap them quickly, before the switch is noticed. I position my hands around my mother’s wrist ready to pull. A few tiny moves, and the Philm will be free. Without warning, my mother changes position. “No, Verity. Please, Verity. We’ll abide,” she mumbles. Her hand jets up and lands limply on the bed. I try to move with her, but I’m not quick enough. The tweezers tear through the delicate Philm. I steady myself and yank it off in one swift motion. I remove my Philm and lay it onto my mother’s wrist-plate, where it seals itself into position. I place my mother’s torn Philm on my wrist-plate and plead silently for it to adhere.

  Rustling noises from the bed draw my attention, and I back out of the room, keeping my eyes on my parents. In the hallway light, I examine the tear. It’s just long enough to matter, cutting into the tiny bright flecks containing our information. The stream glows softly beneath the sticky Philm. Nothing can be done now, so I tuck my hair into my collar and lift the white hood. Outside, with only the nighttime safety lights, no one will be able to tell the difference.

  *

  I keep my head down at the transport station, the white chemical uniform my only barrier from Fell’s eyes. Two minutes. To pass the time until the next train arrives, I squeeze together the torn edges of the ID Philm, hoping it will seal itself together in the same way human flesh does. It doesn’t. The substance merges, then falls apart after a split second. But a split second might be all I need.

  The train pulls up, but the doors remain shut this time. They know. They know I’m not authorized to leave. I step up to the scanner, and its blank face bleeps rapidly. “Please scan your ID to board the train.”

  A torn ID Philm will set off the alarm. I close my eyes. If this doesn’t work, I’ll be in serious trouble. “Here we go,” I mutter. I squeeze the Philm together, then raise my wrist and hold it up to the scanner. A sliver of light passes over it, then redirects into my pupils. I dart back, stunned.

  “ID invalid. Please scan a valid ID to board the train.”

  A loud siren pierces my ears. I check the station clock. The train wants to leave. Once more. One more time. I hold my arm up just beneath the scanner, pinching the Philm together. The instant it seals, I shove it toward the scanner. The light blinks twice. I don’t know what this means. I step back and wait.

  The doors glide open. A swoosh of white steps folds out like an invitation.

  “Kiralynn Hartley. Vale 1 resident. Sanction granted. You are clear for transport.”

  “Thank you,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. Inside I’m celebrating as I step into the carriage. The doors close behind me. I exhale. Outside, the platform shifts left as the transport starts to move.

  “Welcome aboard the UVF transport to Sovereign 1.”

  A bolt of excitement zings through me. I did it. In an hour, maybe two, I’ll be with John in the Sovereign. I stand at the window, elated, as my small world whisks away. The leafless trees obscure the rows of pod blocks and dry-lawns. The safety lights dim with the distance. Vale 1 shrinks from view. It takes just seconds to leave everything behind like a memory.

  My heart beats wildly when we approach the edge of the bioslice. The opalescent dome curves impossibly into oblivion. Up ahead the gapin
g mouth of our exit tunnel appears. Darkness consumes us. The lights inside the train brighten inside the tunnel. I choose a seat and settle into the empty carriage for the journey. I try to imagine John riding this train day and night to New Down City and back. The lights flicker as we pull out of the tunnel. I twist in my seat for a view of the outside. My reflection stares back at me, frantic and wide-eyed. I cup my hands to the window and search beyond it. Everything is pitch-black. The train kicks and starts to slow. We left the Vale just minutes ago. The distance feels incorrect. I start sweating in my suit. We can’t be there so soon.

  The train eases to a halt. I dart to the window and press my face against the glass. Outside, the world is just a mass of solid night. When the doors pull open, a solitary light illuminates the empty ground ahead. There’s nothing visible beyond it. I hesitate at the doors. No steps peel out. This isn’t a platform. There are no shiny red seats. No clock. No stream. And the stillness of the air is wrong, all wrong.

  I’ve made a mistake, taken the wrong train. A bleep overhead is followed by an instruction: “You have arrived. Please disembark. Destination is ahead.”

  I step off the carriage and fumble through the darkness, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The doors swish together. The train starts speeding away. I watch it leave, taking all light and sound with it. I should call out, call it back and make it stop, but I can’t find my voice. Something is wrong with the air. It’s empty as though the oxygen has been depleted. My heart pounds in the desolate quiet.

  A wave of dread encircles me. This cannot be the Sovereign. No one could live here. I grab the stream from my wrist-plate and throw it into the darkness, hoping it will find a surface. The images flash rapidly, distorting midair before landing twenty feet ahead. The stream catches, then curves unnaturally, the images stretching beyond recognition, bending upward forever.

  I crane my neck to gaze up. Miles of curved gray wall stretch above me. My mouth becomes a desert. My stomach sinks, heavy with terror. This is not a wall. It’s a dome. A second bioslice encasing our own. I had no idea one even existed. My head feels dizzy as I peer up at the endless stream arcing overhead. Then it hits me: I’m still inside. This is an outer ring of Fell. I never even left.

  My legs loosen. I feel my body meet the cold floor. I’ve made a grave mistake. I assumed it would be possible to get out. But there’s a second bioslice for a reason. No one leaves. Maybe not my parents. Maybe not even John.

  I stare ahead at the bioslice, but wondering what’s beyond the shell is pointless. For all I know, it could be just another bioslice after this one, layer after layer into infinity. Maybe that is the whole world now. Maybe it always was.

  I grab the gigantic stream and crush it into my wrist-plate. Blackness encases me once more. I rip off my hood and dig my hands into my hair. I feel myself caving in, the weight of the bioslice bearing down on me. How little I know about my own world. Is there a Sovereign 1? The Winnow. Does it even exist?

  A distant blink of light catches me, then disappears. I jolt upright and squint into the darkness, willing it to find me again. There! A sharp spindle of yellow emanating from an unknown source is calling me. I watch it pulse on and off to an indiscernible beat. I move to get a better view. The light appears. I move to the side, and it’s gone. The light isn’t pulsing, I realize. My perspective is changing. The light is obscured by something. By the bioslice. It’s out there. Beyond.

  I go toward it, feeling in the dark for the mass of solid gray wall. The ground talks to me as I walk, each step a loud, hollow warning.

  I reach out. My hands find the surface of the bioslice, slick and dry. I hunt for the golden light. My fingers find a hairline crack running vertically, straight from the floor upward. Not a crack, I realize. A seam.

  I press my face into the seam and search for the light, for any glimpse of what might be out there. A tiny swirl of air blows inward. Something sharp hits the corner of my eye, forcing me back. My eye tears as I daub it out onto my fingertip. I hold it up into the tiny streak of light. A single grain. Golden. Irregular. I press my cheek hard against the cold bioslice and look again through the hairline opening. My fingertips squeeze the grain between them as I realize its name: sand.

  There is no sand in the Vales.

  My heart leaps. I hear my own laugh bounce off the bioslice. My hands roam the surface, searching. I crawl as far as I can to either side, probing the dark desperately for a way out. If there is a way, I’m finding it.

  My knee hits something hard and sharp. I leap up. There’s a scanner in the floor. It rises to waist height. I pinch together my mother’s ID Philm and present it to the clear scanner lens, timing it to the swipe of the pale light. There’s a bright green flash, then a ridge of gray metal bulges from the floor, rising next to the scanner. My whole body jumps as a long clear tube the width of a human arm extends toward me. The green light reflects off the tip of a slender needle angled inside the tube. It protracts, indicating my flesh. “Please submit biological sample.”

  I freeze. The tube slants toward my arm. It’s my blood they want. My DNA. To match up with my ID Philm, no doubt. My mother never talked about this protocol, never so much as alluded to this strange outer ring of our world. Maybe she didn’t know about this. Maybe she never came this far.

  I think it might be all over this very instant, when it clicks for me: only the children of Valers with sanction could provide a DNA match, and I am one of those few.

  I slip my arm into the tube. Before I have a chance to second-guess myself, a brace secures my forearm, locking me in place. I jerk as the needle jabs into my skin. It dips deep into my vein to draw blood, depositing it into a nano-vial. The brace pops open, and the device blinks red. Please, I think. Please let red be the right color. Let my blood be a match! The device telescopes back into the floor.

  I wait, holding my breath, pleading silently for the impossible to be possible. Open. I hear it in each of my heartbeats. Open. Open. Open.

  A gust of wind hits me, cold and sharp, as the bioslice retracts. I spring back, amazed. The air is full of substance, of debris. Dampness and sand bite at my face. I pull my hood forward, shielding my eyes. The outside world swirls in shadow and a milky haze. The yellow light ahead oozes left to right, expanding before me as the bioslice parts. In the distance, a soft layer of fog settles over the glowing horizon like a halo. The Winnow. Sovereign 1. I see it! A hiccup in the endless dark. The pulse of my heart is urging me forward, asking me to run.

  I shut my eyes. I grasp my leather cuff, my map, feeling for the stitches. This is the way. John knew I would find it. He foresaw this moment and helped it arrive. Now the bioslice is closing with my blood inside it. If I go, there’s a chance I could pay dearly for my escape, a chance Fell could take everything from me. But they cannot take this, not this night.

  My chest explodes as I throw myself blindly into the torrent of the outside world. Tomorrow may belong to Fell, but tonight still belongs to me.

  NOELLE

  FOUR

  I’m tasting ash. It’s everywhere. Inside my chemical suit, clinging to my eyelashes, sticking to my teeth. I’m vaguely aware of a road beneath my feet, of walking. The air sits heavy, as though a perpetual curtain of dust hangs in the sky. I pass an overturned vehicle, its charred tires twisting up to the sky like a dead animal. My shoes crunch glass from its blown-out windows. Ahead, there are more of them, scattered along the stretch of road, which appears endless.

  The road inclines upward. A railing appears at the sides. The wind blows me toward it. I brace myself against it to keep from going over. A gust yanks my hood back and whips my hair. I pull my hood back up and edge along, pressing my belly into the railing until I can see what’s out there. The sight is strange. Impossible buildings, blackened and misshapen, line the road. Solitary walls stand incomplete, their doors and windows just empty holes. I inch along. Street after street bears signs of destruction and decay. What I think at first might be mountains turn out to be piles o
f rubble from fallen structures. The world looks alien, dead. My hand reaches ahead for the railing and misses, catching air instead. I lose my balance, and my foot slips off the edge of the road. Clinging to the rail, I stare down a sheer drop of more than a hundred feet. As I scramble back onto the asphalt, I instinctively grab for my leather cuff. I feel for the stitches John made. The long central line. The tiny marks on either side. These, I realize, are the landmarks. I’d better pay attention to them if I want to live.

  I find a safe place along the railing and crouch down, angling my wrist-plate over the leather cuff so I can see it better. The cluster of circles on the left is clearly the Vales beneath the bioslice. The single stitch connecting the cluster to the other end is the road I’m on. At least that’s what I think. The arrow and square at the end of the stitch tell me I should follow it. I move my finger along the central stitch to a patch of crosshatched lines on one side. The broken railing. Crosshatching equals danger. Beyond it on the same side are two squares. Based on the scale of the part of the map I’ve already traveled, I estimate they are thirty feet from each other. Because the Winnow is also a square, I interpret these to mean “safe.” Across from the two square landmarks is a long stretch of zigzags that seem neutral. Between the second square and the Winnow is something I do not like: a large area of patchy crosshatching spread unevenly, randomly around a central thick stitch. I decide it must mean something bad. Beyond this is a clear zone ending in a long line of warning stitches blocking the entrance to the Sovereign. I decide to deal with these when I get there and, for now, focus on reaching the yellow horizon. This must be the way, I tell myself. I know it inside me like I know what John is thinking: Just get there.