Exodia (21 page)

“
And why should I be so
obliging? What do you have to show me there?” His eyes flicker to
the case and I help Harmon unclasp the latches. The soldiers move
one step closer.

Harmon takes the first part and, as he
did before, slowly joins the sections. “A revolutionary weapon, Mr.
Executive President.” He clicks the head and the snake-like
apparatus begins its dance.

“
This is what you have to
bribe me with?” Truslow scowls, waves a contingent of officers
forward, and laughs. “Show them.”

Five uniformed men hold
short staffs of ten connected cartridges. They snap them one to
another and their final weapon looks nearly identical to ours. They
set it on the ground and it wiggles its way toward us. Harmon holds
our serpent high above his head and turns a full circle. He
stretches out his arm until the tail waves directly above the head
of the other. Like a magnet the metal ends clip together until he
holds a doubly long twisting eel. An angry Truslow makes a move
forward then halts as Harmon thumbs the snake’s head and it
stiffens, one hundred individual cubes snapping into place. There
is a thunderous boom and a second and third weaker crack and
forty-seven more bangs as each one of the government’s sections
implodes, fizzles, and turns to smoke and ashes. Serpent devours
serpent.
Spurned potent
reserves.

Harmon speaks again, brave words, true
and honest and full of hope, and the crowd hums with delight at
every phrase. Encouraged, expectant. I see the tiniest wrinkle of a
smile on Jamie’s face, but his father boils.

“
Nothing! You get nothing!”
Truslow whips his head to the side and glares at his son. “Have
those two locked up and take that … that weapon to the
arsenal.”

* * *

When Barrett had introduced Harmon and
Mira to Lydia and told her that Dalton was married and the baby was
his, it was all she could do to conceal her feelings. She’d made an
excuse and hid in her room. She heard her mother go down, suspected
an uncomfortable meeting between her and Dalton, then felt the air
pressure in the house change as the door opened and closed. From
her window she’d watched the men leave then sat in a hazy stupor of
depression for an hour. When she returned to the kitchen Mira
handed her the baby then made a rude comment about how pale the
baby looked next to Lydia’s skin. Mira laughed and offered a
pretentious smile, then took charge of making sleeping arrangements
in the living room. Lydia’s throat choked up as she held the baby.
She’d never imagined that Dalton was living a domestic life
somewhere. She examined the tiny features, so perfect, and she
stroked the wisps of black hair on the top of the baby’s head. Then
Gresham cried. Kassandra appeared and with a forced smile took the
baby and introduced herself. She dropped the smile when Lydia said
her name.

The week dragged by in an awkward waltz
of avoidance. Lydia kept her distance from the Luna girls. But her
mother was gracious to the unexpected house guests; she fawned over
the baby and comforted Katie and Kassandra when she came home from
work, though she stood aloof whenever their talk concerned
Dalton.

Lydia’s day job, the one she’d worked
since she was sixteen, was as an En-tech rotating through Exodia’s
seven factory centers. She had always taken advantage of her job
skills, her phenomenal aptitude and speed, to cheat the system. She
could do a week’s worth of tasks in a day and a half, which she
spread over the week, careful to appear at each center twice. This
gave her some flexibility to run missions with Barrett, to spy,
travel, and help plan and execute things like rescues.

Rescue was on her mind when she walked
through the kitchen late one evening and found Mira, her mother,
and the two sisters drinking smuggled coffee by the light of a
single candle and consoling one another on their personal
losses.

“
Join us, dear,” Jenny said.
She scooted to the side of her chair and patted a space for Lydia.
“Would you like some coffee or chocolate?”

Lydia shook her head and squished
herself next to her mother. Mira smiled at her, but Kassandra had a
blank look and Katie’s face held a perpetual scowl, ghoulish in the
flickering light. A fog of silence filled the dreary
room.

Lydia was burdened by having seen
firsthand how Katie was attacked and her family butchered. She
didn’t know what to say or how to comfort Katie and had refrained
from forming any kind of friendship with her.

Or with Kassandra, whose every word,
every look, every gesture claimed title to Dalton.

This night was only the second time all
five women had been in the same room at the same time. All eyes
were on Lydia and she knew they were waiting for the latest
news.

“
We’re planning a
rescue.”

“
You’re going to rescue our
father?” Kassandra’s face changed, brightening in the candle
glow.

Lydia took a moment to process the
question. She expected Kassandra to be more concerned about her
husband’s welfare–he’d been imprisoned for a week now. She looked
down her nose at the young wife and answered. “No, we don’t know
where they took your townspeople yet. Bear is working on that.
Rather, we’re planning a rescue of Dalton and Harmon. I thought
you’d want to know that.” She felt her mother shift in the chair at
the mention of Dalton’s name. She took a fleeting look at her,
sensed the iciness from the tightly pursed lips. Lydia’s words had
changed the mood in the room for everyone. She rose up, went to a
cupboard for a glass and poured herself some water.

Katie spoke to Lydia’s back. “We need
to find our father. We need to go home.”

Lydia leaned against the counter and
took a slow sip, ignoring the sharp flavor of the rusty water.
“Both of you? You’d just leave Dalton behind?”

The sisters shared a quick glance.
Kassandra looked at her coffee mug and answered, “We had two years.
That’s all it was destined to be. My father read the stars.” Her
voice tapered off and she kept her eyes down.

Mira patted her hand.

An electrifying shiver rippled across
Lydia’s skin. She couldn’t absorb all the implications of this
young mother’s declaration. She stared at Kassandra’s lowered head.
No one said another word.

The silent spell broke with a gust of
air as Barrett opened the side door and hurried into the room. The
candle went out but Lydia hit a light switch and they all blinked
in the brighter light from the ceiling.

“
I’ve got news,” Barrett
said. He nodded to the other women, but spoke to Lydia. “Truslow’s
taking Harmon and Dalton to the river tomorrow.”

“
What? Why?”

“
We’re not sure. A
demonstration of some sort. He’s ordered all people in leadership
positions to be there. At first light.”

Lydia’s thoughts raced to an awful
conclusion: an execution. She refused to consider it. “Is that
all?”

“
Well,” Barrett frowned,
settled a cautious gaze on one of the sisters, “I did hear
something else. Truslow sent for those loony fortune tellers that
used to work for Battista’s government.”

“
Fortune tellers?” Katie
asked. “You mean like witches?”

Barrett shrugged. “Yeah, I guess
they’ve been called that, too.”

Katie turned to Kassandra.
“Remember that first night with Dalton? At dinner?” A nod and she
resumed, “Sana gave a bunch of prophecies. One of them really
bothered me and I thought about it for a long time. It was
witch let doom, amen
.”

* * *

The Mourners were a secret group of
Reds who held the stubborn conviction that the single child who
survived the Culling Mandate nearly two decades ago needed to
sacrifice his own life as restitution for their horrific loss.
Jenny Sroka had belonged to the group since its early days, and
though she had subscribed to their vengeful beliefs at first she no
longer saw the point of merciless actions. Still, if it hadn’t been
for that one prophecy about that one particular child, Bryer
Battista would never have instituted the order. And to think that
Battista didn’t die at the hand of a Red after all, but from a
heart attack.

She wondered if, since the prophecy did
not come to fruition as expected, maybe it was misinterpreted.
Maybe Dalton was destined to kill another, someone who was not yet
in power. It was difficult to decipher all the ramifications of
such a supposition. She met with the other Mourners and voiced her
concerns as much to convince herself as to save Dalton from the
mortal end they proposed. And also because she knew her daughter
loved him.

But she failed to sway the Mourners.
After they voted to continue with their preparations, they made her
leave the meeting.

* * *

If brothers bond better under harsh
conditions then Harmon and I are closer than most. The cell is damp
and dark. They bring us one meal a day and barely enough water to
keep hydrated. For warmth we sleep close together on the tile floor
with our feet near the drain. Late last night four guards came and
took us to a shower, made us shave our beards and heads, and gave
us fresh, clean clothes. Then it was back to the tile floor for a
fitful night of restless sleep. I dreamed of someone I shouldn’t
think about.

“
Hey, you,” a guard shouts.
“Get up. Follow us.”

We follow between the guardsmen. We’re
not tied up or chained and Harmon whispers something to me about
running, but I shake him off. We’re too weak.

They march us out of the building and
into the early morning daybreak. We follow a caravan of vehicles
that moves no faster than our sluggish feet. I hear the faraway
voices of excited people. Close by there’s a hushed gathering of
solemn Reds escorting us through the streets.

We reach Exodia’s crystal clear river.
It sparkles black and silver from the headlights. We stop and wait.
The air is void of the putrid smells of the slum; the scent of
flowers neither lifts my spirit or gives me hope. The sun rises
behind us pushing our shadows to the river’s edge. The shadows are
a more truthful sign. I’m doomed if I must swim. I wonder if Harmon
has learned the skill.

A horn sounds and soldiers push us to
the sandy bank. Executive President Truslow exits his vehicle with
a cadre of important looking men. Their hushed whispers add a
troubling alarm to this apprehension. A military man hands him a
staff–the weapon they took from us. Truslow uses it like a cane and
walks straight up to us. He jams the end into the soft earth and
for an instant I expect it to explode or at least to burrow away,
but that doesn’t happen.

I never speak first, but the words are
on the tip of my tongue and I can’t seem to stop them. “David Ronel
has sent us to say to you: Let the Reds go. Let us go meet him
three days journey to the north. If you don’t let us go I’ll take
that rod you’ve stuck in the mud and I’ll change the fresh water of
this river into a polluted cesspool and all of Exodia, all Blues,
will suffer.”

Truslow’s laughter echoes
loud and dark over our heads and is not at all genuine. He snorts
out two of my words,
polluted
cesspool
, amid his howls of humorless
mirth. His visage changes in an instant. Pure anger and evil
replace the fake amusement. He pushes the rod until it tilts and
strikes me on the shoulder, daring me. Harmon puts his hand up to
steady it.

“
I will not let the Reds go
anywhere.” Truslow’s voice booms loudly, carried by the water. He
is close enough to spit on, in fact he seems to be goading us to
make a hostile move and yet his guards keep their weapons
lax.

I brush Harmon’s arm away and pull up
the rod. I have limited knowledge of its workings, but Harmon has
told me enough of its secret design. I hold the rod motionless and
try to detect Truslow’s motives. If only I could touch his skin I
could determine what he expects to accomplish by this show. I
rearrange the letters of his last statement, hoping for a clue, but
there is none.

“
Well?” he says, crossing
his arms and glancing at the crowds. I look at them, too. I read
their hope, their anxiety, their fear. Their faces tell me exactly
what I need to do. No doubt Truslow has had his experts examine the
rod, disarm it, or maybe it’s not even the same rod.

Harmon whispers two words, “Have
faith,” and I strike the end of the rod on the water and there’s an
electrical spark and volts of energy that arc and spit.

I see Sana’s sweet face for
half a second. Polluted cesspool.
People
scold louts
.

The crowd erupts in fury and
rebuke.

They do in fact scold Truslow and his
soldiers. And as the sun’s red and orange rays brighten the morning
and gleam upon the water the people change their cries to ones of
awe and triumph and then fear because the river is turning dark
red. Dead fish float to the surface.

Truslow directs his army to
point their guns at the crowd and silence follows. He waves toward
the second vehicle and four people emerge. Their clothes look more
like costumes, old and ragged, but of a uniform style, robe-like.
They walk forward with long strides, waving their arms with
exaggerated flourishes, and producing objects from their sleeves
and pockets. Whispers spread through the crowd.
The Krona
: seducers, magicians,
witches, conjurers.