I nod.
The whine of feedback pierces my clogged ears:
Recruit Cage, you have rescued your second Incentive and completed this Trial in Third Place. Unfortunately, Recruit Crowley has finished last and his Incentive has been shelved accordingly.
On the platform above us, Drusilla and Boaz stand, anxious looks plastered on their faces.
“Crowley… needs… help!” I gasp.
Boaz pushes forward. “We got him!”
Then they’re crouching at the edge, helping Cage and me haul Crowley onto the platform. Blood oozes from the wound in his leg, puddling at our feet.
Crowley’s eyes are wide open and glazed, all the color drained from his flesh. “Jorgen…” he mutters through clenched teeth.
Drusilla cradles his head in her lap. “Is he even breathing?”
Cage rubs Crowley’s forehead. “He’s in bloody shock.”
I’m gripping Crowley’s leg, trying to apply as much pressure as I can. “He’s losing too much blood.”
“We need a medic here!” Boaz shouts at the spherical drones hovering above us like insects.
I lean in close to Crowley’s ear. “Hang in there. It’s going to be okay. Help’s coming.”
He moans and clutches my arm. “Please tell me I didn’t just kill Jorg—oh, hell… what have I done…?”
“Stay away from him!” Boaz shoves me so hard I nearly fall back into the sea.
Cage grabs me and keeps me from going over. He springs up and shoves Boaz away. “Rack off! It’s nobody’s fault except the mongrels running this show.”
Boaz ogles him. “How can you take this traitor’s side? Crowley’s one of us. And now he’s going to die because of—”
“He’s not going to die, you whacker!”
But even as he says the words, Cage’s jaw clenches, his expression hardening like dried clay.
He turns to gaze at the recovered Bio-Pods, which are being picked up by metal claws descending from a conveyor belt in the maze of girders and beams above. “Tristin okay?” he mutters.
“She’s hanging in there. Better than most.” I try to crack a smile. “Why didn’t you just leave when you saw who was in your other pod?”
He nods toward the drones. “Is that what you’d do, mate?”
Two Imposers appear and lift Crowley into a hovering med capsule, disappearing with him.
I can’t help but think of that image I saw of Digory on that grainy surveillance footage.
Styles and Renquist emerge out of a side door and approach me with weapons drawn.
Drusilla touches my hand. “Tell Arrah… tell her… I love her…”
I nod. “I will.”
“Let’s go, Spark.” Renquist grunts.
Then they’re hauling me away, and I’m wondering if it’s Dahlia or Jorgen who won’t be there when I get back.
NINETEEN
I’m standing in the middle of a long corridor of arched black stone. Something’s swaying back and forth, something metallic like dangling chains…
A Bio-Pod, torn and smeared with blood.
I grab hold and rip the faceplate away.
It’s Digory. His skin’s mottled gray, once-full lips shriveled and torn. His eyes pop open. Instead of that brilliant blue, they’re white as eggshells. Tears of blood pool and drip from the corners down his hollow cheeks. His mouth opens with a sickening pop, as if his lips have been stuck together for a long time.
“You never came back for me like you promised.” His voice is a throaty gurgle. His skin tears as his mouth stretches into a smile, oozing pus. “But soon you’ll be dead, too.”
I bolt upright.
“Lucian, are you okay?” a voice whispers in my ear.
I can’t see anything but the thick cloak of blackness that smothers me. Panic jolts through me like a live wire. What have they done to me? I’m blind. Instinctively, my fingers grope my face to make sure my eyes are still in their sockets.
Then consciousness tears through the tattered vestiges of my nightmare. It was a dream. I’m in my cell. Must be after lights-out.
I sense breathing and my hands find the face near me, cupping the smooth, cool cheeks.
“Tristin?” I whisper back.
“Yes, it’s me.” Her hand touches mine. “When I got brought back, you were already passed out. Then they turned off the lights for the night. Looks like you were having some kind of bad dream. Heard you calling for ‘Digory.’”
I let go of her face and grab her hands, anxious to change the subject. “The others, did you see them? Are they okay? Who did we lose? Was it Dahlia?”
She sighs. “I’m not sure. I only caught a glimpse of some of the others—Corin, your friends Leander and Arrah. That’s about all I remember seeing before they switched off the juice. Sorry.”
I nod, forgetting for an instant that she can’t see me. The last image of Cage’s face on the platform hovers into my memory. “Your brother. I’ve seen him.”
“Cage? Is he okay? I couldn’t tell from those monitors, and then they went blank, and—”
“He’s okay. Asked how you’re doing,” I try to inject a little levity into my words. “How long was I out for?”
“Maybe an hour, hour and a half. Why?”
Good. That means I still have several hours before the morning guard shift arrives.
“Tristin, I’m going to need your help. There’s something I have to do if we’re all going to get to see the people we care about again.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need to get out of this cell and find a way out of this complex. If we don’t get out of here soon, we’re all dead—you, me, your brother, everyone. That’s the Establishment’s endgame. No survivors this time.”
There’s nothing but silence for a few moments. I feel the weight on the cot shift. If she doesn’t cooperate, there’s no way I’m going to be able to pull this off.
“I’m in. What’s your plan?” she finally whispers back.
“I’m going to try and get through one of the ducts.”
Groping against the wall to orient myself, I reach into the crevice where I’ve hidden the bone fragment and pull it out. I climb back onto the cot and feel my way up the corner wall until I can feel the rim of the ventilation grate. My fingertips probe the metal slats on one side of it, finally finding the grooves.
From the mental blueprint I’ve been able to piece together, it seems our holding cells move vertically and horizontally on some type of gear system, so this grate must lead to a ventilation or maintenance shaft that runs parallel to the track system, at least when our cells are locked in their default ground-level position, as they are now.
Unless my theory’s totally wrong.
I guess I’m about to find out. That is, if the bone fragment is thin enough to fit into the screw head. The fabric wrapped around my makeshift tool rustles as I unfurl it.
“What’re you doing?” Tristin whispers into my ear.
“It’s just a little gizmo Leander slipped me to help loosen these bolts.”
The next couple of hours are an exercise in frustration and jangled nerves. While I’m able to wedge the bone fragment into the screws without being able to see, actually turning the heads to loosen them requires repeated attempts. I’m only able to turn them a millimeter at a time before my tool pops out and I have to repeat the process over again.
I’m all too conscious of every single creak from the grinding bolts, which pierce the muffled sounds of our breathing and the thudding of my pulse in my ears.
Twice, Tristin and I are forced to abandon the project and fling ourselves into our bunks when Imps making their rounds approach and shine a light into our cell.