Flame (4 page)

He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were nearly on top of him. He looked up to see black pants and two white hands holding a gun across a robust chest. The guard crouched over Seth, the muzzle of his gun pointed at the ceiling. It was the stocky guard he’d seen before, a man of fifty-some years, with gray hair at his temples, speckled stubble across his jaw, and light brown eyes that seemed somehow kind. “Can you walk?” the guard whispered.

Seth stared at him.

“We have two minutes before my commanding officer figures out I’ve left my post. Can. You. Walk.”

Seth nodded.

“Get up. Keep your head down. And be quiet.”

THE DOCTOR

After a couple days alone with her mother, Waverly wanted to run away from the jumpy way Regina’s hands fluttered when she worked at her small loom, or the way she smiled at Waverly with twitching lips when the two made eye contact. Far into the first night, Waverly had questioned her mother about the conditions of her imprisonment, but she gave only half answers that never added up to why she seemed so hollowed out. Today, Waverly avoided her, spending more time in her room hiding under blankets, trying not to think about Seth, the way he’d kissed her so deeply, so sweetly, and the way he’d left her all alone. Where
was
he? How could he abandon her here after the way she’d risked her life to save him?

It didn’t matter that it seemed relatively safe here; she couldn’t
feel
safe. Something had been done to her mother, something horrible. Waverly knew it.

When someone finally rang the doorbell, Waverly bounded up from her bed. She didn’t know what she hoped for—Seth?—but as she ran into the living room she realized she didn’t want to hide anymore. She had to do something to help her mom.

“Delivery!” her mother said, excited. A roly-poly woman came in pushing a cart full of more chicken, baskets of freshly picked turnips, parsnips, carrots, kale, salad greens, and two loaves of fresh wheat bread.

“Hey!” Waverly said to the small woman. “I want to know what’s been done to my mother!” The guard posted outside the apartment scoffed, and she glanced at him through the open doorway. He was shaking his balding head, grinning. She ignored him, knowing better than to try appealing to one of Mather’s men.

“Please.” Waverly reached for the woman’s plump hand. “Couldn’t you just ask a doctor to come look at her?”

The woman slapped her hand away. “Doubt it.”

“Waverly,” Regina cooed. “I feel fine.”

“You need to see a doctor,” Waverly insisted. To the scowling little woman she said, “Can’t you give the infirmary a message?”

“No messages,” the woman said over her shoulder as she entered the kitchen. She pulled a browned apple pie from the center rack on the cart and set it on the counter.

“Wonderful!” Regina exclaimed and went into the kitchen to help put away the food. Waverly watched them puttering, feeling helpless and lost.

A voice from the doorway made her jump. “Waverly Marshall?”

She turned to see a strikingly handsome man leaning on the doorframe. He had coffee-colored hair, olive-toned skin, and intriguing eyes. At first his irises looked black until he held her gaze, and then she saw they were a deep navy blue. He smiled, showing two rows of gleaming teeth, though one of his incisors was slightly chipped, a defect that only made him more masculine. He was dressed in a plain blue shirt that complemented his eyes, gray pants, and leather boots. Everything about him was composed, careful, and lovely to look at.

She tried to stand up taller. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jared Carver. Feel like going for a walk? Someone wants to meet you.”

“Who?”

“A friend,” he said.

“Someone from the Empyrean?” she asked, hopeful.

“No, but I can give you news of them if you like.”

Waverly glanced back at her mother, who was absorbed in putting away the food.

“Your mother will be quite safe here,” the man said with a sweet smile.

Waverly studied him. His friendly composure didn’t seem completely trustworthy.
If Mather wants to kill me, she could do it anytime,
Waverly thought.
I might as well see if I can find anything out.
She called to her mother, “Mom. I’m going out!”

“All right,” Regina called, not a speck of concern in her voice. The old Regina Marshall would never have let Waverly out of her sight in a place like this.

Waverly walked past Mather’s guard, who stood at attention now, his mocking grin wiped from his fleshy face. The handsome man—what had he called himself? Jared Carver?—led Waverly down empty, quiet corridors. She looked around, listening for signs of life, but there was no one around. On the Empyrean, people were always complaining about noise. She remembered the near constant classical music her neighbors, the Moreaus, used to play, blaring Brahms or Mahler so that the entire hallway buzzed with it. They’d been childless, and with a pang she realized they must be dead with no one to mourn them. She ducked her head, overcome with sadness, but quickly straightened up when she noticed the man looking at her.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“It’s so quiet here,” she said. “Like no one lives here.”

“Pastor Mather is keeping you and your mother isolated for the time being,” the man said. “You’re restricted to uninhabited areas of the ship.”

“What did she do with the people who lived here?”

“This wing has always been empty. Due to our infertility we have a much smaller population than the ship designers anticipated.”

She nodded, looking at her shoes and their slow, plodding steps. Of course. Even the Empyrean had many empty apartments.

“Where are the other kids?” she asked.

“They’re safe, I assure you,” he said. They turned a corner, passing a maintenance closet with the door hanging open. A cloud of ammonia hovered around the doorway, and Waverly rubbed at her stinging nose. “The Pastor wants to move forward to a peaceful future for all,” Jared was saying. “Right now she’s concentrating on healing wounds. At least,” he added with a smirk, “that’s the story.”

“When can I see my friends?” she asked, choosing to ignore his odd slip.

“Not right away. After what happened the last time, I’m sure the Pastor is going to be cautious. Especially with a fugitive on board.”

“Fugitive?” Waverly asked, her heart leaping.
Seth! He’d made it!

The man hesitated. “A young man came aboard in a OneMan. Any idea who?”

She shrugged. “No.”

The man gave a half turn but said nothing as he pressed the call button for the elevator.

In silence, they rode to the administrative level of the ship, and when the doors opened, Waverly was surrounded by people. Men and women in the uniforms of deck officers, guards, engineers, horticulturalists—all the different types of workers needed to keep the New Horizon running. Most of them brushed right by Waverly and Jared without a glance, but a few looked at her with surprise, and one woman glared at her. Jared passed what would be the Central Council chamber. The door hung open and she could see the domed glass ceiling of the chamber, just like on the Empyrean, and the same oval table, the same cushioned chairs around it. Until several days ago, she’d been a member of the Central Council on the Empyrean, steering straight for disaster without even knowing it. Jared walked two doors past the chamber, knocked on an office door, and waited until a rattling voice called, “Enter.”

Jared opened the door to a cavelike room, long and narrow, swathed in shadows. At the end of it, sitting in a dim circle of light, was a small, decrepit person, fingers woven together on top of a leather blotter resting on an ornate oak desk. Waverly couldn’t be sure if this was a man or a woman—age had stripped away all signs of gender. The back of the leather chair hovered over the tiny person like a pair of dark wings, and when … she? he? it?… smiled, wrinkles rearranged themselves to make room for an overwide mouth and unnaturally white, square teeth, giving the impression of an otherworldly creature.

“Dr. Wesley Carver,” Jared said with a bow, “I present Waverly Marshall.”

So he was a man. Waverly recognized what was so strange about him: He was far, far older than anyone she’d ever met. The oldest person on the Empyrean had been Captain Jones, and he’d been sixty-five at the time of the attack. When the mission launched, no one older than twenty-five had been allowed to board the ships, or at least that’s what everyone had said. For the sake of the mission, the crews had been chosen for their robust health, intelligence, skills, and a capacity for longevity. Yet this person, this man, might have been eighty, he might have been one hundred. Waverly had no experience from which to judge.

Tentatively, Waverly stepped into the room. The walls were lined with hundreds of leather-bound volumes. She glanced at some of the titles:
The Prince
by Machiavelli,
The Art of War
by Sun Tzu,
Histories
by Herodotus,
Thus Spake Zarathustra
by Nietzsche.

“Are you a reader?” the doctor asked with a smile.

Waverly stood before the desk, watchful. “Novels,” she said breathlessly.

He rubbed a hand over sparse white hair and indicated the overstuffed leather chair to Waverly’s left. “Sit.”

Waverly lowered herself into it. She glanced behind her, expecting to see Jared standing there, but he’d silently left the room.

“You ought to try philosophy,” the old man said. “Nothing excites the mind like a good bit of logic.”

Waverly didn’t reply. She felt too out of her element. There was nothing this decrepit person could do to hurt her physically, yet she felt afraid.

“You’re not one for small talk,” the man said, nodding approvingly as he pressed a button at the edge of his desk. “Let me get you something to drink.”

The door opened behind her and Jared carried in a silver tea service. Ornate scrollwork covered the teacups in the twisting shapes of grapevines. The teapot looked to be made from ancient porcelain, and it was painted with a scene from antiquity—water nymphs lazing by a pool, centaurs carving their arrows.

“Regency period, I believe,” the doctor said, watching her. “Quite rare.”

The guard, if that’s what he was, poured a cup of tea for her. She accepted it quietly and watched as he dunked a biscuit into the old man’s tea and handed it to him before padding back out the door.

“You have an appreciation for old Earth things, judging from what we were able to learn from your mother,” said the old man. “You like historical novels, isn’t that so?”

She squirmed to have this person know anything about her. “I suppose.”

“Don’t say ‘I suppose.’ It makes you sound wishy-washy. ‘Yes’ or ‘no’ is best.”

Waverly took a slow sip of tea, then set the cup and saucer on his desk.

“I’ve called you here, Waverly, because you have shown mettle. I am a person who appreciates mettle. It is so rare a thing. Most people are simpering heaps of nerves.” He smacked his lips distastefully. “You’re a smart girl. But I wonder if you’ve noticed that Anne Mather’s light is fading.”

This got her attention. She looked at the man, tried to read him, but he was inscrutable in the way he grinned, one eye larger than the other, lips glistening with spittle.

“Few people know instinctively how to wield power,” he said, tenting his fingertips together. “I saw that quality in Anne, and I must admit, she was able to sustain it much longer than I’d foreseen. But you…” He settled his elbows on his chair, making his shoulders into points. “You, Waverly, show promise.”

Waverly’s mouth went dry, and she picked up her teacup to wet her tongue.

“I saw the way you seized control of the room during services before you made your escape. That speech you made? You turned the tables on Anne in about four minutes, do you realize that?” He laughed gleefully. “She’s had to defend herself ever since. You have made things difficult, but that was a master stroke.”

“All I did was tell your crew how she’d attacked the Empyrean, how she was lying to them about it.”

“I wonder if you’d indulge me, young lady?”

“What do I have that you could possibly want?” Waverly said, pulling her cardigan closer around her.

He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “I want what everyone wants: peace.”

“Seems to me everyone wants power,” Waverly shot back.

He tossed his head back. At first Waverly thought he was choking, but his eyes sparkled, and she realized that he was laughing—a desiccated rasp tore out of him. “Quite right! Quite right!” he said, clapping.

“What do you want
from me
?” she asked, trying not to show her apprehension.

His eyes glistened like beads pushed into cracked clay. Slowly he pushed his chair away from his desk, picked up a cane, and began to walk around the desk toward her. She drew away from him.

“Saint Anne has been discredited. Surely you must comprehend the position that puts her in, not to mention the rest of the crew. And the church elders.”

“What position is that?”

“We’re vulnerable now. To chaos. To unpredictability.”

“So?”

“Predictability is what ensures the continuance of civilized behavior.
Un
predictability is the enemy of progress. Of productivity. Of wealth.”

Waverly didn’t know what he was getting at, but something about him was strangely fascinating. He looked utterly at home in this dark room, surrounded by what must be a priceless library. Behind him hung a gloomy landscape painting, nineteenth century, Waverly guessed, showing rolling hills under a cloudy sky.

“I think you might be the key we’re looking for to make the future more … sustainable,” Dr. Carver was saying.

“Who’s we?”

“The church elders. They’d be known as the Central Council on the Empyrean.”

“Are you one of them?”

“I am.” He nodded humbly.

“What do you want with me?”

“Haven’t I made myself clear?” the man said, amused. “We want you to help us destroy Anne Mather.”

The room suddenly felt very still, very quiet. “What?” she whispered.