Crimson Rising (6 page)

So much for gaining intel.

Cassius pushed through crowds of startled onlookers as more and more of the black-clad figures shot from alleyways and side streets like a flurry of blow darts. Sneak attack. They’d all been waiting for him to move.

He cursed himself for staying back. He should have left the city when he’d had the chance.

The thickness of the crowd kept the soldiers at bay, giving Cassius the few seconds he needed to change direction.

He barreled down a twisting corridor. Shacks and hobbles were arranged like a mixed-up jigsaw puzzle around him. At times the path required stepping through someone’s house, but in this area it was hard to distinguish shelter from trash heap. His pursuers didn’t know the slums like he did. It was the only advantage he had.

Arriving on another crowded street, he paused for a moment and surveyed the surroundings, searching for hiding places. The breath caught in his throat.

A tattered flag hung high above him on a crooked pole, a sign that he had entered the southeastern corner. Locust Territory. That was all he needed.

He paused to decide on a course of action. Mistake.

The crowd scattered in front of him. He turned to see the entire fleet of dark soldiers move into the street, spilling from the city block with impossible speed and coordination. Ten of them, he thought. They were moving too fast to get an accurate count.

Slum dwellers retreated into buildings and alleys until Cassius stood alone in the center of the street, surrounded by a half-circle of silent Government Agents. They approached as one unit. He didn’t have time. Running wasn’t going to cut it. He needed to act.

He sunk to the ground and lay his right hand on the dirt, closing his eyes. He’d have one good chance, one opportunity to blow them away in a single motion.

He felt his insides boil. This had to be big. Even bigger than back in the park.

The heat spread to his shoulders, then down his arms until it reached his fingers. Focus, he told himself. Focus on the pathway, the arc. It’s got to be just right.

Fire exploded where his hand met the ground and arced around him in a half-circle before spreading outward like a deadly scythe, tearing through the figures on its way to the wall of shacks beyond. He prayed it would cut off before catching on any of the buildings, but once it had left his body, there was no controlling it. The old wood went up instantly. The fire spread through the city block with dangerous speed.

Worse yet, the figures remained standing, completely immune to the flames. Cassius stumbled to his feet and stepped back, realizing with horror the true nature of their black bodysuits. Fireproof. Of course. If they had been sent to capture him, why wouldn’t they take the necessary precautions?

Now he’d started a blaze in the most dangerous part of the city for nothing. People would lose their homes. There would be fatalities. It was the Washington Chute all over again. He’d killed. He’d been stupid and he’d killed.

The figures approached with ferocity now, surging at him like one multi-limbed monster. Two grabbed his arms and pulled him to the ground. Others restrained his legs. He struggled, but they were too strong. There were too many. Fire didn’t hurt them. Fire was all he had.

One remained standing. Cassius watched as the soldier removed a tube from somewhere at his hip. As the object neared closer, he recognized it as a syringe filled with a paleblue liquid. Cassius’s eyes widened as the figure crouched low, straddled his legs, and brought the point of the needle to his neck.

Then, with his free hand, the figure ripped off his mask.

Cassius’s mouth dropped. For a moment the horror and futility of the situation melted as he stared at the face of Avery Wicksen. Fisher’s girl. The same one who had disappeared in Seattle, who had been captured and brought to Unified Party quarters. She’d helped Fisher run away from Madame. She was one of Alkine’s good guys. Or at least, she was supposed to be.

“What are you doing—” He managed to speak, then coughed as a knee rammed his diaphragm.

She didn’t smile or frown or show that she recognized him at all. Instead, she pushed down on the end of the syringe, sending sharp metal through his skin.

Immediately, he felt a surge of cool liquid into his blood stream. His legs and arms went limp, then numb. Avery stared down at him, her soft brown hair glowing in the sunlight, a hint of fading freckles on either side of her nose. Cassius could tell why Fisher had been so infatuated with her. She was beautiful, even now.

His eyelids became heavy and he found it harder and harder to stay conscious. Soon it wasn’t even worth fighting anymore. The figures released their hold on him. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Red. Water. Rocks.

Something’s wrong, I’m sure of that, but it’s too vague a feeling to act on.

My bracelet hummed for about twenty minutes yesterday afternoon, then again last night. It’s trying to tell me something, just like it did four months ago after it first fused to my wrist. Back then, it was a message from my mother about the Authority. Now it’s far less clear. Today’s the Sophomore Tour—an unnecessary distraction from the mysteries I really need to be solving. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Dembo was so keen on me participating.

It’s a bizarre shift, coming from the gray room yesterday morning to the training room now. Agent Morse escorted me to breakfast this morning, and then to the locker room to get suited up. He’s probably waiting at Lookout Park to watch me finish the Tour. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had monitors tracking my every move. That way, if I step out of line, they can charge in here and restrain me. The Sophomore Tour. They say it’s a tradition for us Year Tens. I hear public beheading used to be a tradition hundreds of years ago. It doesn’t mean that it’s okay. It’s the first Friday of the training year, a soul-draining

obstacle course from the bottom of the Skyship to Lookout Park on the top level. The rules are simple: start at the entrance to the docking bay and “survive” until you reach Lookout. No elevators or stairs. That’d be too easy. The Tour’s a mass big deal here, even for the adults. Even in these trying times, there are hoards of them up at the park now, sitting on the sidelines waiting to cheer on their favorite students like it’s some sick parade.

Maybe it would be better if it was just an endurance thing, but it’s not. Hiding within the Academy’s nooks and crannies are Agents waiting to get you. They’ve got these guns—not loaded, though in my case who knows—that shoot sticker tags. Each tag’s a penalty, and the more you have on your body by the time you get to Lookout, the crappier you get to feel about yourself. We’re ranked by time and number of penalties. My back is covered with the stupid stickers, so I guess I gotta count on speed. Too bad, because I’ve already seen half my class pass by, including Eva and Skandar.

I shift my grip and wrap my blistered fingers around the width of a sweat-dampened rope until I’m stable again.

I hang in the center of one of the Academy’s gym-sized training rooms, halfway between the battlefield and the balcony. No, not even halfway.

They usually use this place for games like Bunker Ball, outfitted with projected battlefields and skills courses.

Today it’s empty, except for the ropes.

I glance above me. With every second I hesitate, the thought of pulling myself up to the balcony seems more impossible. After that, I’ve got to navigate the catacombs above the training room on my way to the secret underground exit leading to the park.

One hand in front of the other. One hand in front of the other.

I repeat the mantra in my head, willing my body to follow through. The alternative is letting go and hitting the mats below, but then I’d have to start all over. Not only that, but I bet an Agent would pop around the corner and tag me with another sticker. They’re heartless like that. I grit my teeth and pull, wrapping my feet around the swaying rope. My muscles strain and heat up like I’m about to break a Pearl. I’ll be feeling this for days. I manage to move a foot closer to the ledge. Seems like nothing, but I’d kill to do it again. Across the length of the balcony hang a dozen other ropes, each separated by a narrow gap. Most are empty. Manjeet Rajah, another Year Ten, struggles four ropes over. I can tell he’s hating this as much as I am. He’s a science guy, not a soldier. But seeing him fight with his rope strengthens my motivation. This whole thing’s meant to be a race anyway. At least I have someone to race against.

With that in mind, I yank up, ignoring my trembling, about-to-burst arms. Three more pulls and my muscles give out. I press my toes inward and weave my fingers together. I grip on for life as the rope wobbles, sending me in rapid, nauseous circles.

I close my eyes and try to recharge myself. I pretend I’m holding a Pearl, that it’s covering me in its healing green glow. As the rope becomes still again, I take a deep breath and prepare for the final assault. One more strong pull ought to do it. The ledge is only a foot above me now. I can practically reach out and grab it. 

Distracted by my own little struggle, I don’t hear the footsteps above me until a dark-skinned hand reaches over the lip of the balcony.

I glance up and meet Manjeet’s eyes. An exhausted smile spreads along his sweat-dampened face.

“C’mon, man,” he wheezes.

I cautiously release my right hand and grab onto his wrist, letting him supply the extra strength to get me up over the ledge and onto the balcony. I take a look down at the empty gym before sinking to my knees, panting.

“How’d you get up here so fast?”

“Fast?” He laughs. “I think we’re the last two.” 

“No.” I run my hand through my wet hair. “I swear I saw Allison and Bernice down there.”

He frowns. “The last two guys, then.”

I fall on my back and stare at the maze of dark catacombs above us.

Manjeet sits beside me, breathing hard. “Hey, wanna help each other out?”

“Isn’t that against the rules?”

“Not technically.”

I rub my biceps, hoping they’ll stop going all psycho on me. “I’ve been up there before, in the catacombs. Just once, with—” I catch myself before her name escapes my lips. Avery.

I can’t say it out loud.

“If we hug the left side there’s rungs fastened into the walls,” I continue. “We can make it halfway using those before we have to do some jumping.”

“Jumping?” Manjeet’s expression wavers. After the Rope of Hell, I understand where he’s coming from. “There’re these big panels up top. The gap’s only a couple of feet at most. They’ll hold us.”

Manjeet sighs. “This is not how I wanted to spend my afternoon. Can’t you just, y’know, fly us up there or something?”

I pull myself to my feet and take a deep breath while stretching. “What do you mean?”

“You know … some of the guys told me they saw you floating through the level three corridor a couple of nights ago. Like a ghost.”

This is the worst thing. Captain Alkine’s been vague with the student body about what’s really going on. Rumors are bouncing around everywhere. Maybe it would be better to get it all out in the open. But I don’t even know everything yet, and I’m not sure I could explain it to someone like Manjeet anyway. Part of me wouldn’t want to see his reaction when he learned how different I am.

“They’re making it up,” I say. “If I could fly, don’t you think I would’ve zipped up here instead of doing all this climbing?”

He’s about to reply when a voice rings out from the entrance to the catacombs. “Fisher!”

I watch August Bergmann emerge from the darkness, flanked on either side by a pair of Year Eleven boys, each blockier and less-friendly looking than the other. August himself is the blockiest of all the blocky. His broad, smarmy face is impossibly to stomach. 

For a few weeks after Seattle he left me alone. I’m not sure if he was afraid of what I could do, or if he just needed time to reload. Whatever the case, he’s back to throw dirt in my face.

I struggle to my feet. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be up at Lookout, cheering us on?” He crosses his arms, blocking our path. “I was at Lookout, but you’re taking so long that I figured I’d have time to come down here, run a few laps, and make my way back before you were done.”

Manjeet freezes beside me. He stares at the floor. I’m sure he’s had his fair share of run-ins with people like August.

“That’s a lot of stickers, Fisher.” August points his finger at me like a gun, cocks it, and shoots. “Blam blam blam blam blam blam blam.”

“You’re gonna be in trouble when they find out you’re on the course.”

An eyebrow raises. “Not as much as you. That was you two nights ago, yeah? With the Pearl?”

I shrug.

He grabs the shoulder of the guy to his right. “Jensen here was in the showers after a late-night training run.” Jensen frowns. “The lights went out.” His voice is an almost incomprehensible, deep mumble. “Water turned cold.”

I nearly laugh, but if I do it’ll send August’s fist flying right into my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking

about.”

August steps forward. “I’m not stupid. I didn’t suit up and head to Seattle last spring just so I could rescue a traitor.”

The fact that he thinks that he rescued me is beyond hilarious. Yeah, he was one of dozens of soldiers sent down to fight the Unified Party, but as far as I’m concerned, he was lucky not to get himself killed in all of the commotion. “Me and the Year Elevens,” he continues, as if he speaks for all Year Elevens, “we’re not happy with what you’re doing. Destroying Pearls—whatever’s going on—that’s Unified Party stuff. That’s Pearlhound work. And the fact that the teachers let you carry on like normal makes me sick.

Just admit it. You’re a traitor. Everything since Seattle has been planned. You’ve been working with the Unified Party behind our backs. Some of the guys are even saying you’re related to one of them.”

I bite my lip. “People say a lot of things.”

“It’s sabotage,” he continues. “Alkine’s keeping you onboard, but he’s gotta know.”

Manjeet’s hands quiver. “Maybe you shouldn’t rush to judgment until you’ve got all of the facts. Dr. Hemming would want you to—”