Poison

by Lan Chan

  “Do you think seeds last forever?” Tom says. “Thousands were exhausted in the modification experiments. Many more expire naturally. Besides this rooftop and the Forgotten Garden, there are no more efforts to grow things organically. Even then these plants crossbreed with the wild ones, and the results are often tenuous at best. Do you understand what I’m saying, Aurora?”

  I think I do, but I don’t want to believe it. The Citadel is exhausting its store of viable seeds. It would be laughable it if wasn’t so despicable. “Does this mean we’re running out of food?” I ask. That would explain the wanton destruction of regions like they’re nothing more than parasites.

  “Not at all. There’s no issue with reproducing the crops available now. Whether we should continue to do it is another matter.” I wait and hope he continues, and he does. “Sheila is adamant the Wanderers unleashed the rotting sickness upon us as retaliation for their banishment from the regions.” His demeanour softens when he speaks of the Chief Warden, and I recognise it as sibling affection. I can’t imagine her in any capacity but that of a tyrant. “But I suspect the sickness is a side effect of the produce we consume. Not just seeds, but the meat from the factories. It’s changing us from the inside. As you can see, even I am not immune, and I don’t expect myself to hang on much longer. Even with this fake cure you’re giving me.”

  I glance up swiftly, first at the door and then at Tom. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I haven’t told anyone. Frankly, without your medicine, I would have gone earlier. Interesting mix of chemicals in that plant. Lots of neurological uses. I could do so much with it if I had the time. Now I suppose it’s Bagrov’s problem.” His charity makes me uneasy because Seeders never give anything away for free.

  “What is it you need me for?” I ask, throwing caution to the wind. “And if you’re so worried about the lack of seeds, why were you devouring a whole bag of them just now?”

  He snickers. “One bag of untainted seed isn’t going to change much.”

  Typical Seeder attitude. To a Wanderer or a Farmer, one bag of untainted seeds could mean everything.

  He takes the diary and flips through it with well-read familiarity. When he finds what he’s looking for, he places the diary in my hands again. “Read,” he says. His lips have gone blue, and his misty breath has transformed into a film of moisture around his nose.

  He has flipped to the last thin pages of the diary. The script is more rushed than before and smudged with dirt and black blotches that I hope aren’t blood. There are only a few paragraphs on the page along with a number of scrawled pictures depicting lines and half circles and one that looks like a sausage.

  “It’s clear now they had no intention of permitting us into their valley,” I read. “Sousuke paid for our presence with his life. I believe they blame him for leading us even this close. We have spent weeks draped in cloying mist, unable to see two paces in front of us. The formations are too high in places and too steep in others.

  “In places it’s narrow to the point of enclosure and impossible for an aircraft to fly through. Macey says the area may have been a canyon at one stage, but the quakes after the Famine could have caused a collapse. One thing is abundantly clear: only the Wind Dancers are able to navigate this terrain.”

  I read the last words on the page and go mute. My entire body trembles. Tension builds into pain in the muscles around my jaw, where I’m clenching so tightly I think I’ll crack a tooth. Suddenly, my childhood in the circus makes perfect sense. The Seeders have been moulding me into an instrument. Every aerialist in the circus has been created to fit an image. We are all Wind Dancer sacrifices trained to go where they won’t be able to. I think of Dory’s youthful curiosity and how soon they will strip her of it.

  The true meaning of Papa’s message finally sinks in. Find Thomas Dempsey. Save us all. He had to have known about all of this. How could he not? I’m torn between honouring my father’s dying wish and an uncompromising urge to run. There is nothing to be gained by pointing out how unfair the situation is, so instead, I launch the diary as far away as I can. It cartwheels across the stone path and wedges into one of the beds.

  My turmoil must please him, because Tom claps once and giggles. “Anger is good,” he says. He claps again and then yawns. I recognise the signs of insanity taking over.

  “I won’t do what you want,” I say.

  But it’s too late. His eyes gloss over and he swivels around, looking dazed. I lead him back inside by the scuff of his collar, no longer caring what would happen if anyone saw me. When he’s back in bed, I scoop up his robe and then lock the door to the garden. After some wishful consideration of how convenient it would be for him to accidently fall over the chain-link fence, I slip the remainder of his packet of pumpkin seeds into my pocket.

  “Fly away, Wind Dancer!” Tom mumbles as I press the elevator button to go down. “Fly into the red wind.” He says all sorts of rubbish when he’s hallucinating so I hardly pay attention anymore. Papa’s words swirl in my brain, and I find myself asking a question I’ve wanted answered for six years.

  “What did my father do to keep me out of the circus all these years?” I ask as I slip my hand into the paper bag of pumpkin seeds for my daily handful.

  It’s barely a whisper and I don’t expect him to have heard me, but he rolls over onto his side.

  “Skylark and…” He succumbs to exhaustion.

  Thirty-Six

  I’m an idiot for not realising it sooner. The only way the Seeders would have permitted my leave from the circus was if they had a replacement. When I fell that day after my mother was murdered, Papa must have used that and his agreement to continue working for them to persuade the Seeders to replace me with Skylar. My understudy. The girl who, without knowing it, took my place in this hideous experiment. Did she eventually learn the truth? Is that why she hates me? I’ve always thought she held a grudge against me for coming along after her and being just a bit better, but is the truth that she has had to endure something meant for me?

  By upstaging her in the stadium, I’ve managed to put myself right back where Papa didn’t want me to be. Why didn’t he tell me about this? How could he have pulled it off? There’s something else tugging at the recess of my memory, something in the diary’s description of the terrain inhabited by the Wind Dancers. I’m too tired to make the connection, though when I lie down to rest, these are the thoughts that keep me tossing and turning all night. Sleep becomes an adversary I can’t overcome.

  I ring the hotel manager and ask him to send up a bottle of sleeping pills. The bottle’s label says to only take two at a time, but I swallow four with a glass of water. Eventually, I fall into a drug-induced sleep, only to wake with a jolt, covered in sweat. I jump out of the bed, unable to distinguish between the plush mattress and rocky ground. I peel off the covers sure that a mass of scorpions inhabit the sheets, ready to sting me. Only when the bed is stripped bare do I allow myself to peer under it to make sure it’s not infested too.

  That’s where I find the box of Papa’s things. Finding it is like having a bucket of cold water thrown over my head. My nightmare seeps away, and I snatch the box up and crawl back onto the bare bed.

  Inside the box is a stack of photocopied medical reports from some of Papa’s research. I don’t understand much of the medical jargon, and I’m about to put the report aside until I read the patient name. Eli Waverlee. Portia’s first husband. It can’t be a coincidence that one of the clones is named after the man whose DNA was used to create them. How much did Micah know about his origin? Where is Micah now?

  Underneath the medical reports are a dozen open letters. All of them are addressed to me. I recognise Aiden’s messy script as I open the oldest letter, dated six months after my mother was killed.

  Dear Rory,

  I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. This is the first time I’ve had some time on my own since my father was declared an enemy of the Citadel. The apartment is gone. I no longer have access
to a telephone. I can only hope that Henry will be able to pass this on to you and that you don’t hate me too much for not contacting you earlier. I am truly sorry for your mother’s death. I know you will be strong, but I hate that I can’t be there with you.

  Aiden

  The next is dated four months later:

  Dear Rory,

  I hope you’re well. I tried to talk to Henry the last time our paths crossed, but he was running off into a surgery. I waited outside, but it took a long time and I dozed off. When I woke, they told me he had left for the Landing. I’m getting used to life inside the kennels. The Council allows me to look after the animals in exchange for a place to sleep, so I can’t complain. They still play some of your performances in the Arts Centre museum. I go there whenever I’m lonely, and seeing you flying across the stage always makes it better. It’s weird that I won’t see you when the social season opens, but I’m glad you can live a normal life now.

  I miss you and Sully every day.

  Aiden

  I can’t help but notice in both letters he never reveals what the Seeders have done to him. Probably because if the Seeders ever found the letters, he would be killed. Yet there’s a part of me that is starting to believe he doesn’t want to frighten me with the truth. In both, his main concern is for me. Each letter that I read becomes increasingly frantic about my lack of response. He wrote to me sporadically but always, it appeared, whenever he could steal some time away from training. It breaks my heart to think he went months without any opportunity to write a simple letter, and I was safe in the Landing, hating him.

  The last of his letters, dated over two years ago, is so crumpled I have to spend a few minutes smoothing it out. There are rough splotches from where the paper has gotten wet and then dried stiff.

  Dear Rory,

  I was inducted into the Citadel Guard today. The youngest guard in history. I can tell the others aren’t happy about that, but there’s nothing they can do because the sabres won’t listen to them without me. I asked to be stationed in the Landing, and for a while, I had hope the Council would grant my request, but it in the end I was denied.

  Tomorrow I’m leaving for Dante’s Reserve, which I dread because it means I will be even farther away. Henry says you are well, but that’s all I can get from him, as they keep him so busy. I barely have time myself to check when we will both be in the Citadel.

  I often wonder if I would recognise you if we were to meet again. I think I would because I doubt you’ve grown very much. I’m taller than Gideon was now. I guess none of this really matters anymore.

  Aiden

  Finally, at the bottom of the pile, is a piece of paper with Aiden’s name repeatedly scrawled over it. I know right away the first few names are in Papa’s writing because the loops in the script are so wide. Increasingly, though, the names get neater and neater until at the very end, the handwriting could be mistaken for mine.

  All I can think as I wipe away my tears is, Why? Why would Papa not pass Aiden’s letters on to me? Why would he falsify my response? I can’t come up with a single answer, and it is with these questions swirling around in my head that I fall into a shallow sleep.

  A knock on the bedroom door wakes me. I fling the door open groggily and come face to chest with Gage. He’s dressed up in full waiter uniform, even though the wan angle of light from the balcony tells me it’s still well before noon.

  “Apparently, it’s your birthday today,” Gage says. It’s the last thing I imagine him ever saying to me. I check the date using my watch and see he’s right. It’s my birthday. I’ve turned seventeen in the Citadel, and Gage is the closest thing to a friend I have.

  Sadness washes over me as suddenly as a summer storm. My lips quiver uncontrollably, and Gage catches me into a bear hug. His belt buckle mashes against my ribcage. I can’t help but notice he seems to have gained weight around his midsection. A rich Citadel diet will do that to you.

  “Happy birthday,” he says. There’s a hint of something I can’t quite decipher in his tone. It is something akin to melancholy, but not as benign. It scares me more than a little and reminds me I can’t let my guard down. Not even for a second. Somebody clears their throat, and it’s the first time I notice we’re not alone.

  Gage breaks the embrace, and behind him, I spot Ace reclining on the couch, flipping channels and then poring over my schedule for the day. My attention is drawn to the flashing silver calendar entry across the top of the screen, and I groan. Six o’clock, birthday dinner with Harlan, it reads. I can’t think of anyone I would like to spend my birthday with less.

  “Cheer up,” Ace says when she sees the grimace on my face. “Aiden and I will be there!” This does cheer me up.

  Gage appears to want to say something to me, but then his pager beeps and he curses.

  “Back to work,” Ace says, peeling herself off the couch. She slings a brown paper parcel tied in kitchen string at me.

  “Happy birthday,” she says.

  Gage sweeps me up into another quick hug and places a small pink envelope in my hands. “Don’t open it until just before you leave for the party,” he whispers into my ear. Then they’re both striding out the door as unexpectedly as they came.

  Curious but obedient, I stow the pink envelope under my pillow to be opened later, but I waste no time untying Ace’s parcel, and in it I find a bodysuit made from a flexible, camouflage fabric woven so finely I imagine it would make light of wind resistance. This must be the glider suit Ace so proudly spoke about. An extra section of material spans between the sleeve and torso and from the juncture where my knees would be. Attached to the shoulder of the suit is a small cargo pocket that appears to hold more material, which I’m guessing from the paracord is the parachute itself. The design of the suit reminds me of the glider possums I’ve seen in the forest.

  There’s no time to try the suit on, but Ace must have measured it against one of my Wind Dancer costumes because I can already tell it’s going to be a perfect fit. I see an image of myself gliding through a valley of mist at dawn. Suddenly, I’m overcome with rage because a tiny part of me is considering the possibility of finding the seed bank. After everything the Seeders have done, even the frailest of them is able to sow guilt inside my heart. But wasn’t this Papa’s wish too? And Aiden’s and Yuri’s? For the first time, I feel something besides grief when I think of my father, and it’s resentment. I have a lot of it to spread around too. Their hope that I may be some kind of saviour reeks of desperation. They seem to have forgotten that I’m just one girl.

  The weight of expectation is so heavy and I’m so livid that I spend all day snapping at Yuri and the lab assistants. By midday, I’m unbearable, and Yuri takes me aside into the supply room. His expression is grave, and he reminds me so much of Papa just before I’d get a lecture. But instead of yelling at me, he put his hands in his pockets and says, “Break something if you want.”

  I’m so surprised I don’t respond. My eyes sweep over the walls lined with all the lab instruments, and it’s so tempting to push something over that I clutch my hands behind my back. Yuri regards me with what I think is a mix of annoyance and understanding. It makes me wonder if he ever had unruly children to deal with, and if so, what happened to them. Suddenly, my mouth is open and I say things I know I shouldn’t.

  “Do you know the Seeders have almost exhausted their own supply of viable seeds?” I say. I’m not shocked when Yuri simply nods.

  “It explains a lot. Like the reason they’re so lenient towards you. Even the most cynical in their ranks will be hoping the seed bank exists. They’re not the only ones who could do with more seeds. Why do they put me… why do they put all the aerialists in such danger with these performances if they need us to find this seed bank?”

  “They only need one of you to succeed,” Yuri says. His eyes flick to the wall, and it makes me feel like he’s not telling me everything. “And they only want the best.”

  “They’re training others, aren’t
they?” I guess. It would only make sense. The Seeders current aerialist recruitment methods aren’t enough. Somewhere in this vast land, they must be training others. Yuri pulls back in surprise, but then his shoulders slump.

  “You’re too clever for your own good, Rory,” Yuri says. “It’s only a rumour, but there’s meant to be a training ground in one of the aeroplane bunkers in the industrial sector. All Citadel born and trained from an early age.”

  “Surely some of them must be better than I am?”

  “In technique, perhaps. But it takes more than practice to be good at something so unnatural.” I raise my eyebrow quizzically, but I don’t question him further. My head hurts and I already know too much.

  I pick up a test tube and peer inside the open end like it’s a telescope. “I have some seeds,” I say nonchalantly. “Enough to keep a few dozen people fed for a while. Tom goes through a bag every night. He’s seriously not right in the head.”

  Yuri shakes his head slowly, as though he’s trying to suppress his exasperation. “If they catch you, even your aerialist skills won’t be able to save you.”

  I give him a wolfish grin. “Then they better not catch me. But just in case they do, I keep them in the false bottom of the potted plant in my dressing room at the Arts Centre.” Yuri nods again, and I feel like we’ve come to a mutual understanding that we will trust each other. It’s a relief to let go of the shroud of suspicion. Even for a while.

  “What about the other seeds?” Yuri says, sticking his hands in his pockets. I know he’s talking about the ones in the seed bank. It’s my turn to stay tight-lipped because I can’t even let myself consider helping the Seeders with this thing they want.