But as bad as the other three look, Crowley’s fairing the worst. His flesh is leached of color, a sickly whitish yellow. His features are contorted, his cheeks and jaw clenched. Unlike the others, who are bracing themselves against the pillars with both hands, one of Crowley’s hands is grabbing his leg, just above the bloodied bandage that covers his torn flesh. Every time he teeters, I hold my breath, expecting him to lose his grip, tumble off, and plunge down the twenty feet or so to the surface.
Dahlia is standing in the shadows of the common room with the rest of us. Her eyes remind me of the carcharian’s—cold, empty sockets reflecting the dark emptiness within. I can’t even imagine what she must be feeling—if she’s even feeling anything right now. Maybe it’s better if she isn’t.
Welcome to your third trial, Recruits!
The lights in the chamber dim even further, until I can barely make out that the other Incentives are standing here with me.
Spotlights capture the four Recruits, washing out their features in a flood of cold light.
This next Trial is a test of endurance, requiring strength, balance, and the ability to withstand any natural threats you may encounter in hostile territory. Be the last Recruit to remain on your pedestal and you will be the victor. The winning Recruit must then select which one of their failed competitors must choose between their Incentives. However, if the victor is too weak to make this choice, then he or she will be deemed unworthy and immediately be shelved, along with any remaining Incentives.
My stomach knots. I remember how, during my own Trials, I was faced with the terrible burden of making a blind choice. The horror I felt when I found I’d selected Cypress—and watched her die alongside her two young children.
The choice is always yours. Good luck.
My eyes dart through the darkness, toward my cell. Now. While this Trial is going on. I have to risk going back into those ducts to look for more weapons.
The signal blares through the chamber.
A low hum fills the room, vibrating through my teeth. Cage, Boaz, Drusilla, and Crowley are braced against their pillars, which have begun to shake as if they’re suffering the aftershocks of an earthquake. Drusilla and Boaz’s eyes are shut as they struggle to retain their balance. Crowley’s face is a concoction of fear and pain. On the opposite end, Cage is staring straight ahead, stone-faced, as if he’s a sculpture etched out of his pillar.
Something brushes against my arm and I whirl. It’s Leander. In the dimness, I can barely make out his silhouette as he nudges his chin toward my cell, then back at the holos. But there’s no mistaking the nod he gives me.
He moves off to the center of the room.
“Boaz!” he shouts at the images. “You can do this! Don’t punk out on me!” He shouts obscenities at Boaz’s holo that would make even the most hardened Imps blush.
The perfect diversion to keep the focus off me.
None of the others seem to notice, their eyes glued to the three-dimensional projections as they agonize over whether or not they’re about to receive their own death sentences.
Now’s my chance. I sink deeper into the shadows, melding into the darkness until I’m feeling my way back into my cell. Once inside, I waste no time springing onto the cot, pushing the grate aside, and wedging myself up and through, ignoring the cold metal clawing at my skin.
After groping through Renquist’s things near Dahlia’s cell, I grab his flashlight and flick it on the dimmest setting, careful to keep it pointed away from the cell below. Good. This makes it much easier to pull on his uniform over the rags I’m wearing. Though I’ve packed on a lot of muscle during my Imposer training, Renquist’s uniform is still too big—I hope whoever spots me won’t look too closely.
Checking the weapon to make sure it’s loaded and ready, I holster it to my belt. I wedge the earpiece of Renquist’s hand-held holo in my ear and flick on the device. I adjust the audio level so it’s loud enough to hear, but not so loud that it would drown out any other warning sounds I might encounter. Then I start to crawl, keeping the hand-held in front of me so I can monitor the Trial as I slither through the twisting maze of ducts.
Crowley is shaking so bad, it’s like he’s having a seizure.
“Hang on!” Cage shouts at him. The veins on his forehead are pulsing from his own effort to stay aloft. “You got this. Don’t give up now, mate!”
But it’s useless, and I can tell Cage knows this by the panicked look plastered on his own face. Crowley is teetering like a top sputtering out of control.
I creep along faster, pushing myself to the limits.
Crowley turns to Cage. His wide eyes are coated with fear. “I… I can’t…”
He drops off the pedestal like a felled bird.
“Crowley!” Cage cries.
Even through the earpiece I can hear the thud of his body as it slams onto the floor. Then he just lies there, his body twitching.
They’re just going to leave him there like garbage until it’s all over.
I hurry along faster.
Recruit Crowley has been eliminated in this Trial. But for those of you that are left, the test of endurance has just begun. Out in the wilderness during actual combat conditions, you never know what types of natural elements you may encounter.
I whip around a corner as fast as I can. The duct leading into the locker room is just ahead. I pause to get my bearings and study the images projected on my palm.
“What’s going on now?” Drusilla screeches, echoing my own thoughts. She and Boaz are barely hanging on, alongside Cage, but now have their eyes pried open.
Boaz nudges his chin toward the side of her pillar. “Your pedestal’s opening!”
“So’s yours!” She whips her head around to Cage. “That goes for you too, Cage.”
I reach the duct and fumble with my utility belt, whipping out the compact blow torch and aiming it at the slats in the grate. There isn’t time to twist open screws. But even as I turn it on and the wavering tongue of blue fire casts flickering shadows down the shaft, I can’t help but glance at my hand-held.
Things are crawling out of the openings on the pedestals.
Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Twisting, wormlike insects, like rotting grains of rice, wriggling and headless, engulfing the three Recruits. Some form of mutated maggots.
“What the hell?” Boaz tries to flick them away, but he almost loses his balance and manages to steady himself at the last moment. “Get them off of me!” His shriek pierces my eardrum.
“Stop it!” Drusilla cries. “Just hold still. They only eat dead tissue!”
I cut through the slats as quickly as I can, hoping no one below can hear them as they clatter onto the floor. Then I kick in the last of the slats and drop down.
Getting my bearings, I check my gear and look around, making sure no one’s seen me. But the chamber is clear and I spring to my feet, straightening out my uniform, my belt, my helmet, and trying to look as presentable as I can. Once I’m done, I kick the melted pieces of the grate into a corner and hope no one will discover them.
I have no choice but to deactivate the com unit.
Then I make my way to the door, take a deep breath, and open it, emerging into the corridor. The control center should be to the right. No sooner do I start out in that direction than two Imps round the corner and head my way.