Martha leads Asher forward. She considers knocking, but instead reaches for the doorknob, her hand cold and damp against the smooth steel.
The room inside is white, and sparse. There is a narrow bookshelf on one wall, and a desk in the middle of the room where an older woman is seated. Unlike the others, she is dressed all in white. Her grey-blond hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail. The lights are bright, but there are no windows. When Martha lets go of the door it swings shut behind her, slamming shut with a resounding bang. Martha winces. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
The woman does not speak, but gestures to the chairs in front of her desk. Martha pulls her brother along with her, sitting him down before she takes the second chair for herself. She stretches her arm out to be verified, but the woman waves her away dismissively. “There’s no need for that, Martha.”
She is shocked to hear her name, but she doesn’t show it. “I’m here to see General Forrest of Whispering Peak,” she says again.
The woman lifts her eyes, and they are blood shot. There are dark circles under each of them, as dark as bruises, and her cheeks are hollow. She doesn’t look like the other citizens. “I know that, Martha, but you shouldn’t go around announcing it.”
She is taken aback. “What?”
The woman shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing an invisible pain spiking through her forehead. “Things don’t work that way in Invictus City. I worked so hard to get you in here before you did something stupid. All you had to do was keep your mouth shut and go with the guards. You shouldn’t have told anyone you’re from Whispering Peak, not after what happened there. You certainly shouldn’t have called James Forrest a general.”
Martha looks at Asher, but he is already looking to her for answers. Minutely, they shrug. She turns back to the woman, whose tired eyes are still focused sharply on her face. “Excuse me?”
The woman gestures to Asher. “You’re putting him at risk. Why would you bring him here?”
She is too shocked to think of a lie. “I couldn’t leave him at the barracks.”
“Neither one of you should be here. You have no idea what you’re doing.”
Martha bristles. “Where were we supposed to go? Whispering Peak is gone. The Council made sure of that.”
Councilwoman Hart ignores the jab. “Anywhere but here, girl. Anywhere.”
Martha looks at her brother, very small in the chair built for an adult’s body. “There is nowhere,” she whispers. “We have nowhere to go. We need him.” She realizes too late who she is talking to. This is a Councilwoman; she is the last one to reveal her true feelings to. But when Martha looks again, the woman’s eyes are gentle.
“You’ll find somewhere, but it’s too late for him. You have to go, now, while they’ll still let you leave.”
Martha’s ears only catch the most important words. “What do you mean it’s too late? Do you know where he is?”
The woman purses her lips uncomfortably. “He was captured a week ago, the only survivor of a raiding party caught trying to escape the city with a felony amount of goods. He was processed by another department. By the time I managed to have his case transferred to me, it…” She hesitates, looking strangely ill. “It was too late.”
Martha sits on the edge of her seat. “What do you mean?”
The woman’s eyes flick to Asher, but it doesn’t stop her words. “He’d already been receiving augmentation for days. It’s too late, Martha.”
A cold fist wraps around her heart. She looks at her brother again. What will happen to him without the general? What will they do? “That’s not possible.”
“Augmentation isn’t optional in the prison system. You understand? The council has started coming down hard on raiders. They don’t get trials anymore, not real ones. Too many people trying to run away, too many dreams of starting over in the Outlands. The punishment starts before they even reach a verdict now.”
Martha looks at the woman, at the glassy sheen on her eyes. “You’ve been augmented.”
She pauses. “Yes. But it’s not the same, Martha. I’ve spent years making sure the dosage they give me is kept low. When the general was brought in, they started him on massive doses of almost every psychotropic I’ve ever heard of. You have to understand. They’re not trying to keep him complacent like the citizens, or just lucid enough to be useful, like the council. They’re not even treating him like the other prisoners. They’ve driven him mad.”
Martha swallows past the swollen lump of her pain. “I need to see the general,” she whispers.
“He’s not who you think he is, Martha. Not anymore.”
But she only shakes her head. “I need to see the general.”
The woman sighs. “Fine. Keep calling him that outside of this room, though, and they’ll throw you in a cell right along with him. You’ll be analyzed overnight, and they’ll start augmentation before morning. You and the boy both. But if you’ll keep your mouth shut, I’ll take you to him. It’s the only way you’ll understand.”
Martha catches only the most important words.
“You’ll take me to him?”
The woman nods, and stands. She crosses the room with a strange gait, slow, like the other citizens. “Come with me,” she says, opening the door. “He’s being held in a cell underground. Hopefully I can get you in without having your passes scanned.”
Martha stands in a haze, pulling Asher along with her. He tugs at her shirt, his eyes wide and questioning, but she doesn’t have time to explain. Every step she takes brings her closer to the general.
At the end of the hall, they wait a long time in front of a set of steel doors for a slow moving elevator. The doors part to reveal a pair of guards. They are another matching set, copies of copies. They take a step back to make room, and suddenly Martha has trouble catching her breath. She can’t imagine being closed in that tiny space with those people, and the way Asher is clutching her hand shows he feels the same. But the woman leading them steps easily into the tiny metal box. They are forced to follow, or be left behind. The doors slide shut bare inches from Martha’s arms, crossed tightly over her chest. She holds her breath. She counts.
A moment later, the doors slide open. Martha stumbles into the hallway, into the cold, sweet air, only to see the guards come out past her. Her guide still stands in the box, and Asher is tugging her hand, insisting she step back inside. She resigns herself to the elevator, relieved to be rid of the guards’ insistent white gaze on the back of her neck.
It takes a long time for the elevator to reach the basement. When the doors slide open again, Martha hauls Asher into the dim hallway without hesitation. She leans shakily against the wall, made from a different kind of stone than the elegant white columns above, rougher, and slowly catches her breath. Asher tugs her hand insistently.
“Are you okay? Martha, are you okay? What’s wrong?” But her head is spinning. She cannot speak.
Councilwoman Hart approaches slowly, looking down her nose at the woman, still a girl, really. “You can’t act that way in front of the guards. They’ll never let you inside.”
Martha’s eyes are still swimming with small white spots. Growing up in the Outlands, she has never heard of claustrophobia. She shakes her head. “Why are you helping us?”
The woman looks anxiously down the hall. “Be quiet,” she hisses. “There are greater forces at work here than you, Martha. This isn’t about you, and you coming here was a mistake. I’m trying to get you out of Invictus City, to pay respect to an old friend, and this is the only thing I can think of that will convince you to leave without making a scene. Now straighten up.”
Martha and Asher both turn to stare at the woman. They have heard those words pass by the general’s lips so many times that they had lost their meaning, instead taking on the one he had given them. Be strong. Be brave. You will be fine.
“Okay,” Martha whispers, pushing away from the wall. She smoothes her hair and untangles Asher’s hands from hers
. “I’m okay now.”
The woman nods, but doesn’t speak again. She starts down the hallway, and they follow close behind.
The lights underground are not nearly so bright as the lights in the rest of City Hall. They are dull and yellow, some flickering weakly, casting heavy shadows down the long hallway. Civilians are not meant to see the cell blocks, hidden so far underground, and Outlanders see them only from inside their cells.
Two figures appear in the gloom before them. They are guarding a single doorway, with rifles across their chests and dogs seated at their feet. Martha’s hands itch for her own gun, hidden deep in the heavy pack. As they draw closer, the woman leading them on confidently, the dogs begin to growl. Asher’s hand finds Martha’s again, as a fine sheen of sweat breaks out across her forehead.
The Councilwoman stops before the guards, and they stare but do not speak. Martha’s eyes are locked on the dogs, who have lumbered to their feet and begun to growl in the depths of their chests. But these are not dogs. Invictus guard dogs, maybe, but not dogs. She can see them better now than she had in the chaotic darkness of the forest. They have tall, pointed ears and long fur, sleek on their faces but thickening to a mane on their heavy shoulders. Their snouts are long and slender, wolfish, but end in a soft, pink nose. And their eyes… they are staring at her. They are watching her every move.
The dog on the right has green eyes, full of rage and viciousness, but no less human for it. The other, the one with the brown eyes, still wears a small hoop, a silver filament, through one nostril. The creatures don’t like her staring. Their growls intensify to snarls, and as they strain against their collars, the guards are forced to break their stony silence. They drop their guns on straps, uttering sharp commands as they clutch the leashes in gloved hands.
Both of the creatures are wearing collars with long rows of metal teeth, turned inwards, pressed against the soft flesh of their throats. The dog on the left knows enough to stop at the guard’s command, dropping back onto its haunches and staring up at the man with reproachful brown eyes. The one with the furious green eyes, though, continues to strain until the guard gives the leash a vicious snap. The dog cries out, a sound too terribly human to bear, and then returns to its master’s side with narrowed eyes. It sits, staring at Martha, as lines of blood begin to drip from under the collar and onto the floor, beading in the creature’s thick, dark fur.
Councilwoman Hart gives the dog a distasteful glance, and then turns back to the guards. “These visitors are here to see James Forrest, prisoner 100442657, under the authority of Councilwoman Jane Hart. I’ll be escorting them there myself.”
The guard with the brown-eyed dog hands the leash to his partner, who wrestles the monsters away from the door. Their eyes are still locked on Martha, murderous eyes, and she wonders if the creatures in the forest left a trace on her, some scent to warn the pack. To tell them, She is not to be trusted. She is dangerous. She stares at the creatures’ hands, straining against the floor; hands, not paws, with long, delicate fingers covered in fine hair.
But the other guard is opening the door, and Councilwoman Hart is disappearing through it, and once more, Martha has only a single option. She pulls her brother along behind her.
In the next long hallway, Martha is surprised to find the walls lined with plain wooden doors, instead of cages. She had expected the Invictus City prisoners to be treated like animals. “Doors?” She whispers.
Councilwoman Hart nods curtly, eyes sweeping the hall. “There’s no need for shackles and chains here, Martha. They have other ways of controlling their prisoners. Come on.”
She leads them down the hall, and Martha sees that these doors, although less ornate than the ones on the floors above, also have small nameplates. When she looks closer, though, she finds they are marked only with numbers. Asher begins counting doors again, but he loses his place when a horrible moan erupts from the room on his left. Another follows from the right. Tears in his eyes, Asher bites down on his knuckle, focusing instead on the smooth concrete floor.
Just as it seems the trek will be never ending, the woman stops. She gestures to the door on her right. “This is it, Martha. This is what you wanted to see.”
Martha is sure that her heavily slamming heart will tear its way through her chest. What will she find on the other side? She whispers, “Is it locked?”
The woman shakes her head, and when Martha doesn’t move, she reaches for the knob. She opens the door, and when that hurdle has been cleared, Martha finds that it is easy to take the first step across the threshold.
But then Councilwoman Hart gently touches her shoulder. She breathes, “You should leave the boy with me. He shouldn’t see.”
Martha narrows her eyes suspiciously, wrapping her arm around Asher’s shoulders. The woman has brought them this far, but she will not leave her brother alone with her. Not with a member of the Invictus City Council. Never. “Thank you for your opinion,” she says coldly, and turns to pass through the doorway with Asher tucked tight to her side.
The room is small and clean, but poorly lit. When the door swings shut behind her, it takes a moment for Martha’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. She stands blind, waiting for the memory of light to fade.
As her eyes slip into focus, she can see the shape of a small, square room, the walls bare cinderblock. In the centre of the room is a steel bed frame draped in sterile white sheets. A heavy curtain hangs from the ceiling, running on a track that could close the bed off, but it has been left open. It looks like a hospital room, and in confusion, Martha takes another step forward. The man on the mattress is so thin that for a moment, she is sure the bed lies empty. It is the rasping of his breath that convinces her otherwise. She squeezes Asher’s fingers.
He whispers, “Is it the general?”
The man grunts at the sound of his voice, and Martha watches as he tries to lift his arm, the spidery fingers fluttering and then dropping limply back onto the sheets. A thin voice lifts from the pillow. “Is someone there?”
She knows his voice when he speaks, knows from Asher’s sharp fingernails tearing through her palm that he does too, but it is so wrong. The general has never sounded so lost, so far away. He has been a pillar of strength in both their lives for as long as Martha can remember. With heavy, leaden steps, she begins to cross the immeasurable distance between them, counting the smooth tiles that pass beneath her feet.
One… two… three… four…
Asher follows behind with tiny stuttering steps. He glares at the bed as they approach, knowing that the creature who has begun to writhe and moan against the pillow cannot be the general. It is some kind of impostor, a monster like the creatures in the woods or the guards who are all the same man, sent to fool them. Somehow, he must let Martha know.
But then they have reached the bedside. Eyes narrowed suspiciously, he peers over the edge of the mattress. The general’s eyes look back at him, and Asher is taken aback. It must be him. Even if the ruined landscape of his face is nothing like it was the night he left for his last raid, the eyes are the same. Only the general has eyes that strange shade of blue.
He whispers, “General?”
But the blue eyes are blind. They go wide with terror at the sound, and he tosses his head back and forth, trying to find the monster he is sure must be there. “Who is it?” He cries out, “Who’s there?”
Martha leans forward slightly, reaches out with one hand, but draws it back before she touches him. “General?”
His eyes swing toward her, but seem to fall somewhere in the space between them. His face is a complete blank – there is no recognition at all. His voice, when he speaks, quavers with fear. “Who’s there?”
Her heart leaps into her throat, tears choking her. Martha cannot remember the last time she cried. “It’s me, general.”
He squints, lifting his head off the pillow, thin, tight cords leaping out of his neck. “Is that the nurse?” Deciding without confirmation, his face melts with relief. “Oh,
it’s you. You’re finally here.”
Martha feels the first cruel tickle of hope. “General-”
But he doesn’t let her speak. He scrambles at her with cold, clumsy hands. “Please,” he gasps, “Please, I need my medicine. Please. It hurts.”
It takes her a moment to find her voice. She can feel Asher’s eyes on her, boring into her skull, demanding answers that she will never be able to give.
I will not cry, she insists. I will not. “General, I’m not – “
But he interrupts again. “I’ve been waiting all goddamn day for that nurse. She said she was coming back, but she never did.” He throws his head back and forth against the pillow, grinding his teeth. “Fucking bitch,” he hisses.
“General, please. I’m not a nurse. You know me.”
When he looks at her again, he squints. He seems to consider for a very long time. “Do I?” But then his focus drifts away, his dead eyes wandering the room. “I don’t think so…” When he turns back to the pair, it is as if he is seeing them for the very first time. With renewed fervour, he reaches out and grabs Martha’s wrist in a viciously tight grip.
“She knows I need it,” he says, desperately trying to convince her. “She knows! She just doesn’t give a shit…” His voice trails off, and then, to Martha’s shock and horror, the strongest man she has ever known begins to cry. He covers his face with his shaking hands, and he weeps like a child.
Asher’s hand reaches for her in the twilight of the prison. He whispers her name. “Martha? What’s going on?”
The general peeks through his fingers at the boy, and his sobbing tapers off. The tears sink back into his eyes, and he is calm. He studies Asher’s face, and for just a moment, a crease of indecision appears in his forehead. He lifts his head to look closer, squinting hard in concentration. For a single heartbeat, she is sure he will know Asher. Even if he doesn’t know her, there is no way he could forget the boy. But then his eyes fall away, his gaze once again wandering the small room as if it were completely different than the last time he looked.
Whispering Peak Page 3