Crimson Rising (3 page)

But it’s not a war on Earth that I’m most concerned about. While we fight amongst each other, something’s approaching from the stars. The Authority. I don’t know much about it beyond what Cassius and I heard from my mother’s voice recording last spring. I hope the Drifters can tell me more, but Alkine won’t let me speak to them. And with every Pearl that’s snuffed out, another potential ally disappears.

There are six Drifters on Earth. Well, seven after last night. Not much of an army. And no sign of my parents, if they’re alive at all.

I close my eyes and try to remember their faces. I’ve only seen one picture, revealed to us on an electronic disc just before we heard our mother’s recording. It fizzled out quickly until it was worthless. I can hardly remember what they look like.

The Drifters I’ve freed might be able to tell me more, but Alkine hides them away. He holds them underground, somewhere not far from the Academy. Or so he tells me. It might as well be on the other side of the Earth.

I straighten up as I notice the handle of the far door twist. It opens and in walks Mrs. Dembo, Head of Year Ten. My training year, as of two weeks ago when the new semester started.

She’s a short woman, dark-skinned with bright clothing. Her graying hair’s cut close to her scalp. She holds a drinking glass at her side as she quietly shuts the door and turns to acknowledge me.

I stare up at her. “I expected Alkine.”

She approaches cautiously. “After what happened last night, Jeremiah thought it would be best if somebody else came and talked to you.” Her tone is calm and reasoned. Somehow this makes me angrier.

I rest my elbows on my knees and look at the floor. “He’s scared then?”

“I don’t know what would give you that idea.” She stops. “I brought water. Would you like some?”

“Depends. What’s in it?”

She moves to the couch and takes a seat beside me. I inch away. “It’s just water, Jesse. Straight from the reprocessor. Would you like me to take a sip first?”

“No.” I reach for the glass and hug it with my fingers. “That’s okay.”

She sighs. “You have to learn to trust us.”

I nearly laugh. After all the lies they told me, the fact that they think they deserve my trust is the real kicker. It wasn’t too long ago that I was up in the ship’s air vents, spying on their secret faculty meeting. The entire staff knew I was different. They knew there was something wrong with me. They’d known ever since they brought me onboard, plucking me from the ruins of a destroyed Seattle when I was only three years old.

Mrs. Dembo crosses her hands. “I wanted to give you the opportunity to talk. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I take a sip of water. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. Then I point to the ceiling, to the pair of illuminated panels in the center. “The lights are on.”

“Of course,” she says. “You know the lighting runs on an automated system.”

“It’s sunny outside. Your system’s ridiculous.”

She frowns. “It’s not my decision to make, but I can certainly bring it up at the next meeting.”

I take another sip. It helps to calm me down. Even so, my hands shake. “They’ve got another Pearl going, then?”

“I don’t think this is something we should discuss right no w.”

“If I knew where you were keeping them—”

She holds up a hand to stop me. “They’re secure. Shielded,” her eyes pierce mine, “from those who would steal them.”

I ignore her. “What happened to the one last night? Did anybody find who was inside?”

“No,” she says. “It … er … the Drifter likely escaped through one of the air hatches below the engine works. Nobody saw, Jesse. We don’t know age, gender. No details.” She pauses. “You know, when I was an adolescent—”

I hold the glass in front of me and release it. It plunges to the ground, crashing in a mess of glass and water. I watch the shards dance along the tiles before turning to gauge her reaction.

Her fingers unclasp. Then she smiles. A small, fake one. “Hmm.”

We sit in silence for a moment, watching the water pool along the indentations between tiles. Mrs. Dembo doesn’t make a move to clean it up. Instead, she pulls her arm around my back and squeezes. I resist the urge to fight back. I let her think that she’s comforting me.

Her voice is low and soft this time, like she’s afraid others will hear. “I never liked it. I know that’s easy to say now, but I always felt rotten having to lie to you. We comforted ourselves in the knowledge that it was for your safety, but I’ve always believed that truth is more important than logic.”

These are the types of things they say, now. Sweeping, vague slogans that are supposed to make me feel better. All they’re doing is trying to make themselves feel better. They know they’re screwing up, but they’ve dug a hole so deep that the only way to get out is to keep lying to themselves. They think they have the luxury of doing that.

“I remember when you first came to us,” she continues. “You were a confused little boy, always staring off into the distance like you needed to be somewhere else. Our nurturing staff took good care of socializing you, but you were terrified of loud noises. I guess every child is, to some degree. We didn’t know what trauma you’d been through before we found you. We didn’t want to make things worse, so we invented a story. We explained your parents away in the most respectful, honorable manner we could think up. It was only ever meant to keep you safe. Everything we do is meant to keep you safe.” She extends her hand toward my knee. I pull away.

“You lied.”

She brings her hand back to her lap, sighing. “It … wasn’t my decision.”

“Yeah, it was Alkine’s.”

“Jeremiah Alkine is a good man.”

“I don’t care how—”

“And more importantly,” she continues. “He’s your commander. Don’t tell me that all the training we’ve given you thus far has amounted to nothing.” She pauses. “Look, you and I both know that things would be different if we could make it so. In a perfect world, Pearl Power wouldn’t be an issue. We could focus on what’s happening to you without consequence. But the climate out there, especially after our rescue operation in Seattle … we broke laws to help you. Important ones, to the Tribunal at least. I know it isn’t easy to hear, Jesse, but we can’t help the Drifters until we know that we’re safe ourselves. It’s a horrible choice to make, I understand that. We all do. But it’s the logical approach.”

I keep my eyes pinned to the broken glass, unwilling to look at her. “I thought you said truth is more important than logic.”

“I am telling the truth,” she responds almost immediately. “And that’s why it’s so difficult.”

I close my eyes, wishing I could rewind time about six months. To think I used to be worried about scoring well on exams or passing skill courses. “Aren’t you scared of being my teacher?”

“Why? Should I be?”

I open my eyes. “My last head teacher died, you know.”

She scoots closer. “Mr. Wilson died protecting you. It’s not something he would have been ashamed of and it’s not something you should feel guilty about. So, no. I’m not scared.” She stands, narrowly missing the broken glass, and crouches next to me. She tries to catch a glimpse of my face. I make it hard for her. “Jeremiah wants confirmation that you understand the repercussions of what you did last night. He runs a tight ship, Jesse. You know that. Nobody’s interested in holding you prisoner. We don’t want to confine you or restrict access to your friends. We want you to continue your training. We want you to be a vital part of this team. You’re important. We have a great deal of respect and … fondness for you. And we haven’t forgotten. We know what you’re going through. We have to make it right. It’s just going to take some time.”

Somehow this sounds even worse coming from her. I’ve always liked Mrs. Dembo. I always thought she had my back, even when Alkine was less than cheery about my training progress. Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach. Or maybe it’s hunger. I haven’t eaten since dinner last night.

So this is the choice I have. It’s always the same. Play by their rules and wait, or become their enemy—work against the only family I’ve ever known, even if they’re not the real one. Skyship Academy used to mean safety. Now I’m not sure.

Mrs. Dembo stands. “The Sophomore Tour is tomorrow afternoon. I’d like you to be able to participate. These types of activities are helpful to take your mind off of things you’re unable to control.” She paces to the center of the room. “Of course, we can’t let you out of here consequence free, but we’re giving you another chance. I know I can’t speak for the others, but you’ve always been very special to us. We hate to see you like this.”

I glance up at her. I know she expects a response, a declaration of loyalty or something, but I can’t stomach the thought of it. It’s all about them, like always. But the bottom line is, I’ve gotta get out of this room. I can’t do anything in here. So I make the only move I can. I nod.

Mrs. Dembo returns the gesture. “I’m going to give you just a little more time to think about it. Should I grab you some more water?”

“No,” I whisper. “Sorry about the mess.”

She smiles. “Don’t you worry.” She turns to leave, but stops before grabbing the handle. “Things are going to be alright, Jesse. I hope you know that. Days might seem dark now, but I’m confident that your turning point isn’t as far away as you expect it might be.”

I don’t know what she means by that. It sounds like a mild threat, even coming from her. But maybe that’s just me being paranoid.

I watch her leave in silence and kick the heels of my feet against the couch. When she’s gone, I bend forward and pick up the largest shard of glass I can find. I run it across my finger, not strong enough to cut, but firm enough to feel. Then I chuck it at the door, hoping that maybe it’ll stick. It doesn’t. I watch it fall to the ground. Everything’s silent.

Cassius pulled his head from the water and took a gasp of breath. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and used the splash to cleanse his shoulder. The bullet had only grazed his skin, leaving a shallow wound. Still, he couldn’t afford an infection. The worst of it had closed throughout the evening. Even so, the cool saltwater stung.

He sat with his bare, calloused feet dipped into the Arctic. He’d found a sheltered area, a secluded grassy outstretch from one of the city’s lesser-known waterfront parks. Trees surrounded him on all sides, save for a narrow walkway behind him that offered a brief snapshot of the city skyline.

The sunrise beamed a shocking orange, lifting from the edge of the skyline so close that it seemed like its fire could reach out and touch him. Back home, the chemicals in the Fringes obscured much of the sky’s color, dulling sunsets and sunrises. The Polar Cities were lucky that way. By the time the chemicals from the Scarlet Bombings made their way up north, they were so dilute that they had little impact. A ten-degree climate increase, fifteen at the most.

He stared at his reflection in the ocean, trying to understand the face before him. Beyond the scratches and bruises, he’d lost close to fifteen pounds since running from New York. He looked more like Fisher now. Skinny. Or skinnier, at least.

It was just after three in the morning. The sun had been down for exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes. He’d been keeping track. This time of year it was light almost all day and night in the Polar Cities. He’d tried getting some rest, but every time he closed his eyes, the thought of that Unified Party gas bomb shocked him awake. It killed him not to know who threw it. They’d done him a favor, finishing off those slum assassins. They could have easily killed him, too. Instead, they sent gas. They wanted him unconscious, but not dead.

And they hadn’t followed him into the city. He wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or petrified.

He snapped his fingers and ignited a tiny flame that hovered above his hand and evaporated what beads of water were left. He played with it for a minute, quivering it sideways, expanding it, adding heat. Then he clenched his fist and extinguished it altogether.

There was a time, not too long ago, when the fire controlled him—built inside until it tore through his skin, triggering an explosion capable of destroying a room, a train car, a building. Now he could snuff it out with his bare hands, not that it had done much for him back in the slum building.

Madame had called it a sickness, tried to convince him that there was something wrong, that he needed to shoot and kill to fix it. And in the end, that’s exactly what he’d done. Maybe it hadn’t been with a gun. Maybe it hadn’t been by his hands directly, but he’d left her in Seattle, buried under the rubble. His mother, or the closest thing to it for twelve years, dead because he hadn’t come back to save her. He couldn’t face the thought of the murder he’d aided, even if it had been to save his own brother, so he remained up north. But even that had its dangers.

Providence was one of twenty-five Polar Cities the U.N. had nestled along the Arctic Circle decades ago in preparation for intense global warming. They all had fancy, quasireligious names like Arcadia and Assumption. Most were in Canada and Northern Europe and functioned as normal cities had before the bombings. No Bio-Nets constantly stabilizing the environment. Rent was expensive and real estate even more so. The North Coast was incredibly desirable, and with a Unified Party ID socket carved into his wrist, finding legitimate work had been impossible. He’d managed to find shelter in the basement of a condemned building on the outskirts of town, dead in the middle of slum territory. Hardly beach-front property, but it had been hardwon regardless. Of course, the problems far outweighed the perks. Cassius didn’t search out trouble, but it was difficult to walk through the slum lands without finding it. Narrow escapes, arguments that intensified to fistfights—they had all become part of the norm these past few months.

He didn’t spend much time indoors. Most days he roamed the city, familiarizing himself with every nook and cranny. Boredom compelled him, as well as the need to erase the past. And then there was his brother. Fisher.

Cassius carried his communicator with him everywhere he went. It was an older model, the last before the new line of com-pads made long-range contact more convenient. But it was untraceable. He and Fisher could talk candidly, and Fisher certainly had a lot to talk about.