Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) (8 page)

Chapter Ten

The next morning finds me alone on deck with Idris again. None of the others are early risers, or if they are, they’ve got duties to attend to in other parts of the ship. It rained hard overnight and the deck is slick. Water drops bead on the metal railing and the air smells clean.  Idris slants me a look when I appear and eases over to make room for me at the rail. There’s an extra fishing rod lying at his feet and he nods at it. “Help yourself.”

I inspect the glittering silver and red lure and figure out the casting mechanism. Sort of. I’ve seen people fishing before, old men on bridges in Jacksonville, dangling their lines in the water as the Kube train went by, but I’ve never held a rod. Watching Idris cast twice, I think I’ve got the hang of it. I angle the tip of the rod back and then jerk it forward. The line unspools and the lure drops at my feet. Idris laughs. I look up, startled. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Idris laugh. He throws his head back so his tanned throat is exposed. He looks younger.

“Here, let me show you,” he says.

He demonstrates, and then stands behind me and maneuvers my arm and shoulder. His touch is impersonal, reminding me of when he taught me to use a variety of weapons during the Bulrush days. I’m constantly amazed by how long ago that feels; it was only half a year ago. I try casting again and almost lose the rod overboard. Idris springs forward and grabs it.

“You’re no better at this than you were with a beamer,” he says. He sounds amused, though, and I wonder why he’s in such a good mood.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to net the fish?” I grumble.

“Fishing is not about catching fish,” he says, moving a safe distance away from me and casting his line so it arcs perfectly, the lure dropping a long way out.

“What?”

“We’ve got a series of nets strung across the river we use when we need to replenish our protein supply. This”—he nods toward the rod—“is
fishing.
”

I don’t pretend to understand the distinction he’s making. “Where did you learn to fish?”

“My father taught me. As a young man, he lived in the north, near what used to be the US-Canadian border, and when we were on the run, that’s where we went. We lived off the land. Well, we had a cabin, but we got our own food. No dome. He taught me to fish, and hunt, and find wild rice and other edible plants, when the locusts didn’t get them first. Even when we had plenty of food, we’d sit for hours on a lake bank, side by side, not saying much usually, fishing. He told me once that there used to be water birds called loons that lived on the lakes and had a haunting call. He used to imitate it, but I can’t do it. Maybe because I’ve never heard the real thing.”

He lapses into silence and I study his profile from the corner of my eye. He’s got a straight nose that hooks a bit at the tip, thin lips, and a chin that is rounded without being in any way effeminate. His black hair is loose today, blurring his jaw line.  I wait a beat, waiting for him to say more, and then ask, “What about your mom?”

“I never knew my mom. She died when I was born.”

There’s nothing to say to that except, “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “You can’t miss what you’ve never had, right?”

He is so wrong. I miss my parents every day, even though I’ve never met either of them.  I’m certainly not sharing that with Idris, though. “How did you end up here?”

His lips thin and for a moment I think he’s not going to answer. “When I was eight or nine, my father decided it was time for us to move east, for him to take an active role in undermining the Prags. We were on our own, but we still heard stuff. There were a fair number of people living like we were, and outlaws or travelers headed north—they mostly didn’t understand about the cold—so we heard about what was going on in the southern and eastern cantons, although it was old news by the time we got it. He felt guilty about not using his skills to benefit more people so we made our way south, mostly by boat down the Mississippi. Most of the mines had been cleared by then, although once we were only a couple hours behind a ferry that hit one. There were still bodies floating on the water by the time we got there. Body parts. There was one head that—. Enough that if you lined them end to end, you could walk across them from one side of the river to the other without getting your feet wet.”

He was only a little boy; he must have heard someone use that phrase. I can’t imagine how gory the scene must have been, how traumatizing for an eight-year old.

“He thought about us going west, becoming pioneers, because those communities need doctors, too, but then in Memphis he ran into someone he used to know, back in his med school days, and she had a grown daughter who was pregnant without a procreation license. She was trying to get to an outpost so she could keep the baby. My father came up with a plan to help them, and the next thing you know, Bulrush is up and running.”

The revelation that Idris's father is a doctor made me suspect, but I’m still stunned. “Wait—Alexander is your
father
?”

He turns to face me, one eyebrow lifted. “You didn’t know? I mean, it’s no secret.”

I didn’t know. No one had mentioned it. It explains a lot, though, like why Alexander tolerated Idris's outbursts and challenges to his authority, and why it felt like Idris was secretly pleased to have a reason to bring Alexander to the ship. “I didn’t know.”

He scowls. “It doesn’t make a difference. Everything I said yesterday still stands. If Alexander poses any kind of threat to this cell, he’ll get the same treatment anyone else would.”

I nod, but can’t help wondering if Idris could really bring himself to execute his father. I decide I wouldn’t want to bet on it either way.

He reels in his line with quick wrist snaps that jerk the lure in hops toward the ship. I sense he regrets sharing so much with me, so I say nothing. Finished securing the hook, he says, “Better get something to eat—you and Fiere are pulling the first sentry shift today, at Point Alpha.”

Sentry duty is boring. Beyond boring. So boring it defies description. Point Alpha is the spot half a mile from the ship where sentries challenge people headed toward the river or raise the alarm if they spot something threatening. With our radios and weapons, Fiere and I mount a tree to an old hunting hide and settle down in our intelli-textile camouflaged jumpsuits to watch. We lay our beamers on the floor. I try to start a conversation, but Fiere is morose today, mono-syllabic and then totally non-responsive. I take the hint and shut up. There is no one to challenge and no reason to sound the alarm.  Eight hours after we climbed the tree, we climb down when another pair reports for the next shift.

We repeat the process the next day. About noon, Idris and the four people I saw him with in the armory glide up on ACVs. They pause beneath our hide and Idris calls up, “We’ll be gone a couple of days. Red is in charge. Don’t screw up while I’m gone, and we’ll discuss your first mission when I get back.” The ACVs pull away and I wonder where they’re going.

When they’re out of range, quiet descends again, until Fiere rouses me from a half-dozing state. “I remember pretty much everything up until I was sixteen,” she says. “I’ve been writing at night, doing a timeline, and it feels like my memories are intact to that point. Then, they’re mostly gone, or spotty, like the one I told you about.”

“So you’re missing—what?  Four years?”

She nods, rubbing one ear. “About that.” She hesitates and licks her lips. “Look, this is going to sound weird, but—”

“Go on.”

“It feels like my brain isn’t the only repository of memories. My body is full of memories. I mean, there are scars. They’re like a record of events, things that happened to me that must have been”—she searches for a word—“powerful. But I can’t read the record.” Her fingers work at a spot below her clavicle. It’s covered by the jumpsuit, but I can tell she’s kneading a scar.

“That’s from when the IPF attacked us at the bordello,” I tell her. “You were trying to get me, me and Halla, out of the kitchen and into the tunnels when a soldier beamed you. It caught you right there and knocked you onto your back.” I try describing the scene, thinking that images of the smoke and chaos, the shouting and the painful keening of a sonic device might bring the memory to life.

Fiere unseals the top of her jumpsuit and bares the scar. It’s only four and a half months old, so it’s still a slick, red mass of puckered tissue the diameter of a fist. She probes it gently, as if trying to force the memory free, like coaxing pus from an infection. “I don’t remember.”

“And the one on your abdomen.”  I put a hand to my side. “You were shot trying to help a woman named Kareen escape from her husband. You were a decoy—the soldiers followed you and shot at you. Cas got you back to the tunnels and Kareen operated on you, removed your spleen.” I remember carrying the small organ away and burying it in the kitchen compost pile. I wrinkle my nose. Not one of my favorite memories.

She scrunches her eyes closed for a long moment. They pop open. “Nothing. What about the one—”

I know the scar she’s hesitant to mention. I saw it when Kareen operated on her. “That’s a hysterectomy scar,” I say matter-of-factly. “You had your womb removed after—”

“Alexander did it.” She exhales the words.

“Yes.” I punch my fist in the air.

“I was worried about the surgery, afraid it was wrong. He told me it was okay, that it was my body, my choice. He said, ‘You will be free to be more you.’” Her brow wrinkles. “I can’t see his face.”

Her recall of Alexander’s compassion has me near tears. I gulp them back and say, “He’ll be here soon. Wyck’s bringing him. You’ll remember.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then we’ll find another way.” The words trigger a thought. I remember reading that memories can be closely associated with sensory triggers. My hand lands on the beamer beside me. Maybe the sound, the distinctive smell of a beamer blast will help Fiere grab onto some memories. “Want to try an experiment?”

She eyes me with some of the old Fiere skepticism. “What kind of experiment?”

I explain.

“Okay. Can’t hurt.”

I stand, grasp the beamer with both hands like Idris taught me, aim it at a tree limb across the road, and say, “Ready?”

Fiere stands beside me and nods.

I depress the trigger sensor and a beam sizzles from the muzzle with an odor of hot metal. The limb splinters with a
cr-rack
and crashes to the ground.

“You hit it,” Fiere says, sounding surprised.

“See? You remember—I’m a lousy shot.”

She shakes her head angrily. “It didn’t help. It’s not bringing back anything new.”

I’m disappointed that my idea didn’t work, but I don’t show it. Laying the beamer down, I say, “Don’t worry about it. Getting anxious and stressed probably makes it harder to free the memories. It’s early days yet.”

“I’ve been here almost two months,” she says, “and—”

The whine of an ACV traveling fast cuts her off.  It slews around so the front-mounted beamer is pointed our way and continues to hover.
Whoa.
Fiere and I stand, instinctively holding our hands up and out. A mass of red hair tell me it’s Rhedyn in the passenger seat. I can’t see who’s driving. After a long moment, the ACV settles to the ground and Rhedyn gets out, weapon at the ready.

“What happened?” she asks tersely. “We heard the beamer blast.”

Uh-oh
. Sheepishly, I explain. Rhedyn makes a disgusted sound and rolls her eyes. “Don’t ever—Don’t fire weapons for frivolous reasons. What if there’s an IPF patrol within hearing? We’re trying to keep a low profile here, in case you hadn’t realized. Someone may be headed here right now, attracted by your carelessness. Zoah, Henley—take over here. Keep alert.” Two camo-jumpsuited Defiers jump from the back of the ACV.

Fiere and I climb down from the hide. I don’t know about Fiere, but I’m feeling like the world’s biggest idiot, and even though I know it’s deserved, I’m annoyed by Red’s contemptuous chastising. She eyes us for a moment, and then gets back in the ACV, saying, “We’ll discuss this further back at the
Belle
.”

The ACV elevates and glides away with a puff of dust. Clearly, Fiere and I are supposed to walk back. We do so in silence. Onboard, Red dismisses Fiere and chews me out some more in the privacy of the pilot’s cabin. I endure it for several minutes, but then burst out, “I didn’t sign up for this! I’m willing to pull my weight while I’m here, but I’m not a Defier. I appreciate that you and everyone rescued me, but that doesn’t make me one of you.”

Rhedyn narrows her eyes to slits and pauses a moment before saying, “You are so right. It doesn’t.” Taking a step forward so she’s looming over me, she adds, “Those who aren’t with us are against us.”

I eye her uneasily. “I didn’t say that. I’m not going to betray you—you know that. I even agree with some of your goals. I’m just not sure about your methods. The sabotage, the killing—”

“Oh, I see. Killing a soldier or two to gain your freedom is okay, but killing to gain freedom for everyone is wrong? You turn my stomach. Consider yourself confined to ship until Idris gets back. He can decide what to do with you.”

I start to say “That’s different,” but stop myself. Is it different? Rhedyn dismisses me with a head jerk and I walk out of the pilot’s cabin like a sleep walker, too caught up in my thoughts to heed where I’m going. I find myself looking out over the river, hands gripping the rail. I don’t see the water or the far bank. I’m staring into the recent past, at the IPF sergeant dead in the prison transport. I know he died, as did the two soldiers in the cockpit, I suspect. I kept Chavez from burning to death, but I don’t know his fate after that. What punishment does the IPF levy on guards who let prisoners escape? I can’t evade the hard question burning in my mind: Was it justified to kill—or let others kill—to gain my freedom?