by Terina Adams
To hide my awkwardness, I asked, “Will I be eating with everyone else?”
“In the dining hall, yes.”
Another night on my own and I craved to talk to someone other than my incarcerator. I’d hopefully get a chance to learn more about this world, especially the provinces and what it was really like in here. Maybe someone would know where they sent the children.
“How long do I get to eat?”
“Long enough, if you don’t dawdle.”
End of discussion, he swiveled and led me out the door.
The babble of chatter from the dining hall could be heard from this side of the door. Keen as I was to meet other people who resisted the senate, my steps slowed alongside Archon as we neared. The last thing I wanted were a dozen questions focused on me. Archon stopped before the door and turned to face me.
“Word of advice. Keep quiet about your true identity.” This was the first time he admitted any knowledge about me. Needing to know how much of my history he knew, I held his eyes, a silent inquisition.
Quirked eyebrows, he said, “I thought you were hungry.”
“What is my true identity?”
“I would love to hear it from your perspective.”
“You must have everything logged on some database somewhere.” How do you know my name?
“Not the important things.”
Such as? The extended quiet became uncomfortable.
“Still mistrustful. That’s to be expected.” His one step toward me upped my heartbeat. “No matter. All in good time.” Halfway through turning to the door, he stopped and faced me again. “One thing I would like you to tell me very soon is the whereabouts of your father.”
All the saliva in my mouth dried.
“The location of your mother and brother would also be handy, your brother more than your mother.”
I took a step backward, needing a chasm of distance before I could school myself into controlled neutrality. Archon allowed me no space at all, following in my wake to eat any distance I created. A jerk of his arm and the vice of his fingers locked mine in place.
“It will make things easier. But it’s your choice how I am to proceed.” No more Mr. Nice Guy. This was him, the real him. No more Set falsity wrapped in treacle.
Wrist released, he swept his arm sideways in an elaborate gesture of welcome. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
Not waiting for me to lead the way, Archon strode through into the dining hall and up the center of the benches arranged in neat rows, heading for the front of the small queue.
I melted under everyone’s gaze. Scurrying behind gave me little time to look around. As I passed, my eyes landed on the faces closest to the aisle to see hungry, curious, suspicious eyes gobbling me up as we soldiered past.
“Grab a plate from here.” Archon pointed to a stack in a metal cradle at the bottom of a chute. The plate felt warm in my hands.
At the end of the two-person queue, a woman dished food onto offered plates. In front of her was a large pot on a metal trolley.
“I’ll give you half an hour to finish your breakfast,” Archon instructed before leaving me alone. I stared at his back, his strides forceful as he pounded back down the room. In a roomful of strangers, aliens, I should panic about now. Instead, with every step Archon made away from me, the tightness in my chest eased. I was finally amongst the right sort of people. Being with Archon, his personal attention, made me feel dirty, like I had betrayed Jax and the team.
I hate you. If only I could say it to his face.
The grafter lied to me. He used his factional nature to get me on that table without complaint. He turned me into a puppet, manipulated my emotions, much as Archon had done in the lift. Set were deadly, worse than all the other factional natures put together, to bend someone’s will to their choosing, to control another’s emotions as he’d done. It was the most personal violation.
With Archon gone, the chatter in the room resumed. I was forgotten. The person in front of me shuffled ahead one space, holding out his plate. The serving lady dolloped a ladle full of what looked like scrambled egg onto his plate.
When it was my turn to offer my plate, the serving lady’s eyes skimmed my face for a brief moment before she hefted the same-sized pyramid onto my plate. The food had no smell and looked dry, but I was hungry enough I was bound to eat it. I withdrew my plate and turned to go.
“This might come in handy,” she said with a voice sounding like she smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. In her hand was a spoon of sorts, broader and flatter for big mouths.
“Thanks.” Being polite earned me an amused expression.
Two rows down, a man waved me over with an encouraging smile. One quick skim around the room showed there were few spaces left and no one else welcoming me. What did I have to lose? And I wanted to ask questions.
The moment I slid myself along the cold metal seat, the man who waved me over held out his hand. “Jerome.” His beefy, clammy hand enveloped mine. With a neck as wide as his head, he looked like a pole stuffed in overalls with a face drawn on the front.
“Sable.”
“Special treatment, ah. None of us got a personal introduction to the dining hall.” He winked at me as he shoveled a spoonful of scrambled egg into his mouth. My neck heated. The heat then inched its way up into my cheeks. The last thing I wanted was for anyone here to think Archon thought me special. That was bound to isolate me from the prisoners. No one wanted to befriend the eyes and ears of their jailers. “It’s rare the likes of him come into the dining hall.”
“What does the likes of him mean?”
“The guy runs the place.”
Just great. That was the last thing I wanted to hear. “Maybe he doesn’t trust me to get myself here.”
“They don’t trust any of us.” His bald head revealed the tattoo of Perun behind his ear. With his next mouthful, he exposed the underside of his wrist, showing me his graft. Seeing where my eyes fell, he said, “Got this soon after I arrived here. That’s how much they trust us. Caught in the sweep, I was.”
The man beside him extended his hand toward me. “Fethon. All trades merchant. They caught up with me at one of the outer stations. The senate had placed sweepers there some months back after there was a noticeable discrepancy between the cargo in my wagon and what was recorded on loading.” By the way his face twisted up in disgust, I’d expect him to spit on the floor if we’d been anywhere else but the dining hall.
Outer station? I wasn’t about to ask. I’d have to listen well and catalogue a map of all the names I learned for future reference.
“How ’bout you?” Jerome asked.
Seemed initiation into life at the compound involved sharing your capture story.
“The fringe. There was a sweep a few days back. I was one of the unlucky ones.”
Jerome and Fethon nodded their understanding. In contrast to Jerome, Fethon looked as though he stuck his finger in a power socket with all his wild, stringy hair. Given his skin looked like crinkled parchment from a long-lost scroll, I’d say the outer station was in the desert or close to it, and he spent all his time sucking up the rays. His wild hair hid his tattoo.
“I was running supplies for the mines when they caught me,” the guy sitting on my right said. “Ishren.” His long hair was tied behind in a thin plait, and his goatee and mustache were trimmed neat. My height while sitting, he had to be a small man, wiry, with shaped, clean nails and pianist long fingers. He’d shaved his hair around his tattoo to ensure everyone saw the symbol of the family he belonged to. Phonus.
“Where does everyone else come from?”
“Mostly the fringe or the transition zone.”
Another name I’d have to remember. It sounded like the place bordering Califax and the provinces.
“How long have you all been here?”
Jerome shrugged. “Weeks, months. Long enough.”
“I was told most stayed a short time.”
All three made the
ir own sort of derisive noise.
“Had to be one of the intake crew. They love to see us suffer,” Fethon said.
“It was Archon.”
I got their full attention for saying that.
“He gave you his first name?” Fethon said.
Careful. Too many of those slipups and no one would want to talk to me. I could lie, say I overheard his name called by someone else. No good would come from lies, so I kept my mouth shut.
“You know what I think? You have or know something they want to have or know,” Jerome said.
“I couldn’t think what.” My family. “Besides, why would they put me in with everyone else if they wanted to break me?”
“Reasonable question,” Fethon said.
Jerome leaned across the table, casting a not so subtle glance around first before he spoke. “You’re a part of the rebellion.” He sat back, looking like he just convinced himself. “Either that or you have intimate knowledge of who’s involved. Looks like intake area is a little biased against you.” He motioned with his finger toward my nose and mouth.
Jesus. I forgot about my face, and only now, with the mention, I felt the faint pulse of pain. I continued the conversation as if he’d never drawn attention to my fat lip and nose. “You know of the rebellion?” Which rebellion was he referring to? Carter and Dad? Or was there another brewing separate from the Dominus plan?
“Everyone knows someone who is part of some rebellion,” Ishren said, sounding dismissive.
“Aye, but have you heard of the whisperings coming from Persal province?” Jerome questioned.
“What whisperings?” Perhaps I replied too quick, sounded too eager for the information.
“Talk of an army built from people freed of their grafts.”
This was it. Holden had returned to Uradra as Dad had thought. Was he successful at reversing the grafts without a high death tally, or were the people willing to risk their lives for a cause they believed in much as Holden had been?
Fethon sighed. “More rumors. Can’t see how that’s possible.”
“Doesn’t sound right to me either,” Ishren said.
I’d forgotten my breakfast but took a spoonful now to save myself from having to respond. It had to be true. I knew Holden had the grafter. Dad knew Holden would return to Uradra. No way could rumors surface naming these specifics and not be true. Mum and Ajay would be there. I ate the flavorless egg, staring at the mound on my plate while my thoughts raced off on possibilities. I let myself be robbed of destruction. My hands clenched around my spoon. If destruction was still a part of me, I’d end this charade, pull down this compound, and go to Uradra to rescue Mum and Ajay. I’d beg Holden to at least return them home. He owed both Dad and me that. But Archon had seen to it I would never be able to free my family.
My hand clenched around the spoon. Lies, lies, I’d drowned in them, lost my ability to make the decisions I would choose to make. Instead, I’d willingly allowed myself to fall for the deception of Archon and Martimon. And now I was Archon’s puppet. Jax would’ve known straight away what Archon was capable of, never believing a word that crossed his lips. He would’ve fought, not climbed on the table like I did, nor offered his wrist up with resignation to be grafted, not like I’d done. How many times would I fail him, fail them all?
I couldn’t help them anymore. Never would I be a part of their team, fight on their side. Separated, permanently. I asked to be tattooed Aris so this would never happen. And now I was grafted, there was no greater separation. Not only was I separated from Jax, I was separated from myself, carved down the middle so that one part of me sank deep within, severing me in half.
I didn’t stay long, locked in my dark pit, when a question formed in my mind. How did Archon know about Mum and Ajay? With my hair analysis, he’d know I was Nixon’s daughter, but how could he possibly know about Dad’s life on earth? The same way he knew my name, which would also not be found with hair analysis. He’d been told.
“How long have you guys been here?”
“Plenty of time for them to conduct their experiments,” Fethon said.
“Experiments!” Jesus.
“Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt. Not always. Sometimes, you’re left feeling a bit groggy for a few days. Your memory slips as well. Most of it will come back. But some have lapses that are permanent,” Ishren explained around a mouthful of egg.
“What memory, short term or long term?” The panic was there for them to hear.
“Short mostly. But some don’t remember patches of their childhood either,” Jerome said.
I didn’t want to forget Mum or Ajay or anything that happened to get me here. “They’re trying to scrub our memories?”
Jerome snorted a hard laugh. “If they are, they’re doing an awful job. Nah, they’re trying to achieve something else, and temporal or partial memory lose is the byproduct. All speculation, mind you. I’ve got no proof. No one can guess what they’re up to.”
Ishren slapped me on the back like I was one of the boys. “Cheer up. No one’s died, as far as we can see.”
This was the mysterious other things that needed doing Archon had referred to. “Two children were taken with me. Do you know where they go?”
“It’s not right they take the children,” Ishren said.
“Nobody can say. They’re never seen again. Not by their parents. This gives rise to some of the rumors about the experiments. A not so vocal few think they’re trying to work out how to strip the memories of the children. With a blank slate, they can assure the children will remain loyal citizens to Califax. But they obviously haven’t succeeded, seeing as they’re still experimenting on us,” Jerome said.
I was an Aris, according to my tattoo, so it would be reasonable I should know nothing of the Persal province, which meant it should not be weird, me asking subtle directions. “I’ve never left the fringe. How do you move through the desert to the outer provinces?”
No one seemed to find that a peculiar question. “You catch a lift if you can,” Jerome replied. “Some merchants are willing to ferry people as well as cargo. Though none will take you from the city into the provinces without a pass. If you’ve been in here, you won’t get yourself a pass; that’s for sure.” He glanced at my wrist. “The senate will monitor your movement once they give you a cephulet.”
“There’s no way someone can tamper with the cephulet to ensure it gives a false report?”
Jerome smiled to himself as he munched on his mouthful. Fethon leaned across the table, waving his spoon at me. “You’re going to get yourself in deep trouble with thoughts like that.”
I focused on my food again.
“Once it’s on you, it’s on you. That’s what I hear,” Ishren said. “You can’t take it off. They do something to it so that any attempt to remove it does something to your brain. Messes it up real bad.” He scooped in another mouthful.
Jesus. Was there no end to the senate’s cage? I could barely breathe with the suffocation in knowing all the ways Archon chained me. This was why the people fought to free themselves from their grafts. This was why I would do the same.
“But I love your spirit, girl. None of us are hero material. We can’t help you with these ideas you’re having,” Ishren continued.
“Is there anyone here who could?”
Chapter 27
Pounding of boots on concrete drew me away from my half-eaten breakfast. Behind, six sweepers entered wearing no shields, because none of us here were that sort of a threat. They still carried their weapons, which probably meant some of the prisoners rallied against the reeducation process.
Islia’s tattoo, now a disjointed mess, reminded me of who I was—one of the grafted. When Islia had asked me what I wanted for my grafted tattoo, I’d thought of what Jax had said the first time he’d shown me his tattoo in the lift on the way up to the top of the Adolphy Tower. To him, the graft tattoo was a sign of enslavement, and so I asked Islia to tattoo a series of chain links. At the time, t
he image held no real significance. It was only now that the tattoo had been destroyed did I feel chained.
My three new friends set their utensils down and rose from the table. Around me, the noise of scraping chairs followed the rest of the prisoners as they too left their places and filed out of the rows toward the exit, passing the line of sweepers who formed a guard at the door.
I wasn’t sure what was expected of me, so I followed everyone else. Shuffling forward in the group, I spied women amongst the predominately male crowd. Like everyone else, they weren’t looking at me. I’d become another number, one more captive and now recruit to the senate’s freedom eradication program and propaganda.
Picking up my pace, I moved closer to Jerome as the crowd slowed to funnel through the doors. “What's going on?”
“Exercise time.”
“What does that entail?”
“Depends on the weather. If the storms are blowing, we’re forced inside. They’ll send us to the velodrome. If the weather’s good, we’ll lap the compound until we drop.”
“Storms? It looks pretty dry out there. I didn't think there would be storms.”
“Not storms that bring showers. I'm talking about dust storms. Ferocious things, they are. If you get caught in one, it will cut you to pieces.”
Something to remember. If I ever did manage to escape. Not only would I have to deal with the life-sucking heat with no shade, but I would also have to deal with dust storms.
“How often are there dust storms?”
“Often enough to force us inside a lot of the time.” Jerome shrugged. “Or maybe that's just what they tell us to keep us in. Seeing the sun, smelling the fresh air, even if it’s full of dust, gives us hope. It saves us from feeling caged and keeps us believing there is another life outside the compound and that we’ll be living it real soon.” The closer we came to the exit and the guard of sweepers, the lower Jerome’s voice dropped. “They don’t like that much. Hope fosters resistance, and they want to wipe that from our psyche.”
Outside the dining hall, the prisoners filed off to the left, not needing any prompt from the sweepers, moving as one. Not seeing Archon—he said he would give me half an hour before he came and got me—I followed, sandwiched between Jerome and Fethon. Ahead, the prisoners were parting around an obstacle, which turned into a sweeper standing in the middle of the corridor. His eyes scanned over everyone as they passed. When we neared, those flat gray eyes fell on me, and that’s where they stayed. After eyeing my approach, he jabbed a finger my way before I split with the rest to move around him. “You’re coming with me.”