The craft are piloted by specially trained agents called Imposers. Imps, as us locals like to call them. The military’s elite.
And today, five more of us will bypass the regular draft and be recruited for a chance to enter their ranks-at a terrible price.
Given the aircrafts’ current flight formation, they must be on Recruitment Day recon patrol, no doubt surveying the quadrant for signs of what the Establishment considers suspect activity. The problem is, everything from three or more people enjoying the night air in public to someone just taking an early morning stroll, like I’m doing now, is considered suspect.
If these Squawkers spot a violator, they radio their findings to Establishment officials, and before you know it a team is dispatched to apprehend the offending party for questioning. Must be some pretty mind-scrambling questions, though, ’cause anyone who’s been asked them never seems to remember their way home. Ever.
It would be so easy to let the Squawkers spot me and do their thing. Only there’s no guarantee this particular unit will transport me where I want to go. Better to be detained by a ground patrol before the Recruitment gets underway. Then, with any luck, I’ll be taken right inside the Citadel’s detention area, taken before him, at last. Excitement and fear tangle in my veins.
What will it be like, seeing him after more than two years? Has he changed?
Just ahead, Liberty Boulevard slices through the alleyways. Crisscrossing wooden beams are set up at the intersection to cordon off the area for today’s procession.
Creeping forward, I crouch beside one of the planks and stare up the street toward City Central. Tall, tarnished lampposts line either side of the boulevard, their flickering gas lights powered by the lungs of those unfortunate enough to slave away in the mines, like my parents and the Bledsoes. Under the veil of morning fog, the posts resemble grave markers, the muted light of each lost soul within winding and fading away under the shadow of the hulking stone mausoleum looming in the town’s core, watching … listening … knowing all.
The Citadel of Truth. The nerve center of the Establishment’s presence in the Parish. The place anyone in their right mind avoids.
I’m not feeling in my right mind this morning.
I spy my opportunity for an escort into the Citadel’s walls in the form of two Imps clad in their signature black jumpsuits and helmets, patrolling the alley on the opposite side of the street. Something hanging on the rear wall of one of the buildings has them in a stir. The shorter of the two is pointing a rigid finger at it, then turns his head to mutter something to his companion.
The taller Imp, a female, reaches for the wall and rips some kind of poster from it. Then she unclips a radio from her belt and mutters something into its mic.
The response from the radio’s speaker cuts through the quiet. “Suspect activity confirmed … crack … hiss … Sending in a Canid backup.”
They’re sending in Canids? Looks like I’m not the only one teasing danger this morning.
Filling my lungs as if for the last time, I stand. Better to get it over with quick. For Cole’s sake.
A dark blur soars over the barricade and plows into me, squeezing the air from my chest. Then I’m tumbling over hard cobblestones and slamming to a stop, pinned under the heavy weight of my attacker.
My mouth tries in vain to find some spit to swallow before giving up. Forcing my eyes open, I face my captor.
Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. The figure straddling my chest is not an Imp, but … just a guy … a guy not much older than me. My eyes focus on long, tawny hair and chiseled features carved into a pale, smooth if somewhat smudged, face. His frame is large and muscled, the body of someone whose survival hinges on physical labor. No wonder I can’t breathe with this giant pinning me down.
He glances up, reflecting the orange sky in the blue of his eyes. The heavens aren’t the only thing dawning. I recognize this face, though it’s been several years since I’ve seen it up close.
Digory Tycho, one of the two most popular and handsome boys in the Instructional Facility’s recent history. The boy who everyone in the Parish says is a shining example of the core values of the Establishment, who will someday make a great Imposer and a fine husband to anyone lucky enough to catch his eye.
Yep, the great Digory Tycho himself, who never ack-nowledged my existence all through primary and secondary instructional levels, is sitting on top of me in a grimy alleyway, unkempt and reeking of Dumpster, in violation of Recruitment Day curfew no less.
Amusing, if not for the pain wracking my body … or the fear engraved on his face.
He leans in close. “You okay?” he whispers.
I squirm beneath him. “Can’t … can’t breathe … ”
“Oh, sorry!” He shifts his weight off and squats beside me. “Let me help.” He cradles me into a sitting position.
“Thanks,” I mumble, massaging my still-throbbing right arm. Warmth trickles down my cheek. Sweat? I rub my hand against my face and raise my fingers, which are now coated a bright red. The alley starts to swim.
“Here, let me see that.” Digory nestles me in the crook of his arm and fumbles in his tattered coat. I catch a glimpse of two rolled-up sheets with yellow ties stuffed into a pocket. He tugs his coat over them quickly, pulls out a handkerchief from the other side, and dabs it against my cheek. “What’re you doing out during curfew?”
I crane my neck to look up at him. “You do realize that question works both ways, don’t you?”
He half-smiles, a sparkle of white amidst all the gray. “Right, Lucian.”
My name. He actually knows my name …
The sizzle and pop of radio static snuffs the twinkle from his face. “Proceeding to check for violators in Quadrant Seven.”
The Imps I’d spotted across the street are at the mouth of the alley. I need to get away from Digory now. No need to drag him into my mess.
But his arms tighten around me before I can move. He hauls me up. “We have to get out of here,” he whispers in my ear. “If they find us, I’ll be shelved.”
I twist around to face him. “They wouldn’t shelve you for curfew violation. Imprisonment, hard labor, yes, but not-”
He grabs my shoulders. “It’s got nothing to do with curfew, Lucian. It’s about treason. And there’s only one punishment for that.”
“Treason? What’re you-?”
“Sssh!”
Before I realize what’s happening, Digory drapes me over his shoulder as easily as if I were a scarf. Suddenly the alley is upside down and I catch a glimpse of two pairs of shiny black boots, then a patch of rusty metal, before the ground swallows me and I’m thrust into darkness.
Four
My nose tells me where I am before my eyes do. The cloying stench of human waste mingles with the stale air of rodent droppings. It’s a combination I’ve smelled ever since I could crawl, especially on those muggy summer nights where you welcome any breeze that accidentally detours into an open window, no matter what scent it might carry. Digory’s brought us into the sewers. Only now, so close to the source, the odor is overpowering, threatening to coax the stale roll of bread posing as last night’s dinner ration from my stomach.
I wriggle out of Digory’s hold, and he steadies me against the ladder he’s clinging to until I’m securely perched on a rung opposite him. With our faces so close, his warm honey breath almost conquers the sewer’s stink. I start to feel lightheaded again. Must be all the blood rushing to and from my head. Forcing my gaze from him, I squint at the daylight tearing into the sewer’s perpetual night through a slit in the manhole cover a foot above.
The Imposers are standing just where we were moments ago, stepping over the sewer entrance, pacing, searching. My heart sneaks in a few extra beats. All I’d have to do is reach up, slide the grate aside, and turn myself in.