“Don’t forget the blood they drew!” Rodrigo adds.
This revelation has a sobering effect. “Blood?”
“Yeah, blood,” Arrah hisses.
I can barely look her in the eye and turn away.
Dahlia nudges her chin in the direction of my arm. “From you, too.”
So that’s what the bandage on my elbow’s about.
Leander shoves me again. “Just what the hell have you gotten us mixed up in?”
“Move!” Styles commands, leading us down the corridors.
“I give you… this season’s Recruits!” Cassius announces from his balcony to the cheering crowds below, just as we’re escorted onto the observation deck behind him.
During the whole trek from the prison, I’ve been imagining all of the monstrous forms our punishment can take. Public execution. Private torture. Even being sent back into the Trials to compete against each other.
But that last possibility dissolves the moment I look at the jumbotrons—and see the faces of the five Recruits standing on the dais below.
Cage, Preshea, Boaz, Crowley, and Drusilla.
Tears stream down Arrah’s cheeks and she turns to me, trembling with rage.
Prime Minister Talon steps forward and the crowd goes silent.
“It seems, since our last Recruitment, we have started a trend of firsts,” she says. “Most of you witnessed the attempt on my life yesterday, carried off in part by the insurgents who have just been selected to partake in the Trials. Being the just society that we are, we have given them the chance to redeem themselves and embrace the principles we so cherish.” She braces herself against the lectern, as if in great pain. “But a darker problem has been brought to light. It appears, through the actions of Cadet Lucian Spark, that our trainees also had knowledge of this plot, a fact that has been further corroborated by a blocker that was found in their bloodstreams.”
Rodrigo nudges Leander. “What’s she talking about?” he whispers.
But Leander only glares at me. “You should be asking Spark. Maybe he can offer you another drink while he’s at it.”
Talon extends a hand to Cassius. “Fortunately, Prefect Thorn has suggested a perfect way to deal with this distressing situation.”
Cassius smiles and steps forward again. “Thank you, Prime Minister. Citizens of the Parish, in keeping with our principles and our commitment to instill a sense of justice in all of our citizens, we have decided that the five insurrectionists shall compete in the Trials to redeem themselves, as planned. However, only one of each Recruit’s two Incentives shall be selected from their pool of loved ones.”
My throat tightens.
“Their other Incentives,” Cassius continues, “shall be comprised of the five Imposer trainees: Dahlia Bledsoe, Tyrus Leander, Valdin Rodrigo, Arrah Creed, and Lucian Spark. These former Recruits will now get the chance to experience the Trials from a whole new perspective.”
The crowd erupts.
Leave it to Cassius to think of such an ingenious way to appear benevolent while disposing of his enemies at the same time. Cage and the others will choose my death, and the deaths of my fellow trainees, before their own Incentives’ without hesitation. And whichever of the rebels prevails in the Trials will undoubtedly suffer a little accident.
We’re all doomed.
Thanks to me.
Cassius raises his hands to silence the crowd again. “During the Trials, our new Recruits will learn”—he glances at me—“that there’s always a choice. Which do they value more, their personal relationships or their misguided cause?”
I step forward but am immediately intercepted by the Imps and pulled back. “They’re all innocent. It was all me !” I shout.
Cassius sighs. “You’re making quite a habit of public spectacle, Cadet Spark.”
I sag against the guards.
On the jumbotrons, Cage and the others’ expressions seem to burn right through the crowd, singling me out.
By my side, my fellow trainees stare at me with nothing but hatred and contempt smoldering in their eyes.
I’m going back into the Trials.
Surrounded by former allies who want nothing more than to see me dead.
And this time there’s no way out.
PART II
EXILE
THIRTEEN
The Eel-class submarine shoots through the dark ocean like a bullet searching for its target. I’ve been isolated in this tiny compartment on the berthing deck for days now. The sub has stopped at a few ports along the way, to restock supplies, before zooming onward toward Infiernos and the Trials.
I can’t believe I’m headed back there again. I can still picture the enormous steel dome, the teethlike spires, the jutting pillars of the deadly sonic fence that surrounds the military training base. Last time, I spent a few months in training before being sent underground for the actual Trials, held in the subterranean labyrinth known as the Skein.
I thought that part of my life was over. But as horrible as it was, at least I had some control over my fate then. The idea that whatever happens to me now, as an Incentive, rests purely on someone else’s performance and decisions just emphasizes how powerless I feel.
I never asked Cole what life was like for him as an Incentive, living in fear of the moment when I’d finish last in one of the rounds and have to choose whether to save his life or Digory’s. After Cole’s ordeal was over, he seemed to block out most of what had happened—a defense mechanism I’m sure—and I didn’t press him. Better for him if he didn’t remember.
But during those few days we spent together right after the Trials, I got to witness him waking up in the middle of the night screaming, and zoning out during conversations. Innocuous noises like the shutting of a door could send him into a tantrum. Classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Huddled here in the darkness, my brain is my own worst enemy. It grasps at every possible scenario, trying to focus on anything but the growing claustrophobia smothering me.
I’m not sure how much longer I can take being trapped in this tiny compartment without losing my mind.
What few meals I’ve received have been sent via the vacuum chute on the wall panel, mostly stale ration bars and lukewarm water. At this point, I’d relish the company of anyone, even those bastards Styles or Renquist. That’s how lonely it feels.
The only other sound besides my breathing is the steady hum of the steam-driven turbines and generators of the nuclear reactor that’s powering the sub’s propellers. Then my stomach sinks as the cabin shifts. The air pops in my ears. There’s a distinct change in the thrum as the nose of the craft tilts up. The stern planes in the rudder have been activated.
I press my face against the cool glass of the solitary porthole that separates the inner hull from the outer hull. My head feels like it’s going to implode from all the tension. Up until now, I haven’t been able to make out anything through the blackness of the murky depths that make everything feel like one endless night.
Now I see bubbles. The ballast and trim tanks must be expelling water.
We’re preparing to surface at last.
Rising through the darkness are the remnants of an immense city comprised of massive structures; some look almost perfectly preserved. It’s as if the inhabitants have just fled, never to return, leaving the buildings undisturbed.
This must be the Lady’s city. Or, it was. Before the Ash Wars consigned it to the bottom of the ocean.