Parched (32 page)

The sound of exploding glass. The mirror matter case. It's been hit by razer fire, causing more squawks of panic from the scientists. Through the smoke, I see the baton of silver liquid hit the ground and begin rolling toward the edge of the building.

“Naz, cover me!” Amid flying rounds of razer fire, I sprint across the roof for the mirror matter. It is almost at the edge. I dive forward onto my stomach,
just
as it goes over,
just
before it starts to fall. My fingers reach out and grab it.
I have it
. I scramble to my feet. With a sudden fierce joy, I realize that we can stop Project Aevum. The power to do it is literally
in my hands
.

“Ling!” I whip around triumphantly.

That's when I see him. Standing at the top of the cargo ship's wide ramp, amid the billowing white steam.

Hunter.

For a second, I just stare. Then a blast of razer fire forces me to take cover behind a large metal container on wheels.

“Tess!” Ling brandishes the enormous flamethrower in my direction. “Drop it! I need a clean shot!”

Risking being hit by a razer, I glance back at Hunter from the edge of the container.

Our eyes lock. His face is frozen in pure shock.

“Rockwood!” Naz picks off another Quick, shooting it over the roof's edge. “What are you waiting for?”

I hold the brilliant silver baton out in front of me, ready to toss it at Ling's feet. But I can't drag my eyes from his.

I can't do it.

I can't kill him.

“Tess!” Ling screams. Her eyes dart wildly between Hunter and me, expression changing from confusion to horrified understanding. “Drop it! Do it now!” Then, in anguish: “
Please!
”

“I'm sorry,” I gasp, dropping to my knees. “I can't.”

“Dammit Rockwood!” yells Naz.

“
Tess!
” Hunter's voice cuts through the chaos. He races down the ship's ramp toward me.

Ling swings the flamethrower at Hunter.

I scream “No!” but it's too late. Hunter runs straight into a giant burst of flame that encapsulates his entire body. “
Hunter!
” He's on fire.

Through the flames, I catch a whirl of yellow robes disappearing into the mouth of the ship.

This is the last thing I see before a razer blast smashes me in the chest, flinging me backward.

Then there is pain.

Then there is darkness.

A
strange, shimmering swirl of blue and green emerges from the fog. Such beautiful, brilliant hues; colors that move. Groggy and weak, I blink, trying to see through the hazy mist. Feathers? My eyes sharpen, and the soft, fuzzy swirl finally comes into focus.

A peacock is looking at me. Its beady black eyes blink curiously. It takes a few unhurried steps toward me, its claws click-clacking on a polished marble floor.

The air is as cold as a crypt and just as silent. I am coming to in a stylish if uncomfortable chair, made of what feels like glass.

As soon as I move my head, I feel an absence. My hair. It's gone. My head has been shaved. I'm dressed in a white shirt and white pants that look and feel clean. My skin is clean; no traces of dried blood or dirt or smoke. My hand flies to my throat and I feel a sharp surge of joy—I still have my mom's necklace.

I scramble for the last thing I remember, and I fight the urge to cry out his name.

Hunter
.

Hunter yelling my name and starting to run for me across Simutech's roof. Running to save me? Or save himself?

Ling setting him on fire, a horrifying beacon burning against a dark sweep of night. Did that kill him? Yes. Of course it did. Not even Hunter's strong skin could've survived that. Had Ling and Naz and Achilles been killed on the roof too?

I remember Lana's body falling almost gracefully at the Quicks' feet. I remember Benji, sacrificing himself to save me. And I remember Ling's gut-wrenching look of betrayal. A wave of shame and guilt crashes over me.

The peacock gazes at me, unafraid. Its long swoop of a tail hangs out
behind its sleek blue body, trailing the floor like a roll of rich, embroidered silk. Beyond the bird is a floor-to-ceiling window. And through the huge window, far, far below, beyond the white walls of the city, is the Badlands. Hard red earth lit by the equally harsh midday sun. It is blinding. I groan a little and have to look away. I know where I am.

“Curtis.” A man's voice echoes around the high ceilings, self-assured and mellifluous. I know that voice. Every Edenite knows that voice. “It sounds like our guest is awake. Now, come here, Curtis.” A rattle, like the sound of dry beans in a can. The peacock blinks in the direction of the sound, glancing between me and the owner of the voice. “Come on.” Another rattle.

The truth of the situation flies at me like knives I am too weak to dodge. I am alive. I am in the Three Towers, in Gyan's private quarters. I touch the cut on my forehead and feel an inch of stitches, bumpy and foreign under my fingertips. The thought of the Trust operating on me without my knowledge induces a spike of terror.

Another sharp rattle makes me jump. The peacock decides the noise is more interesting than I am. With a slow, relaxed stalk, it begins walking toward it. The chair suddenly swivels a full 180 degrees, revealing the head of the Trust, the most powerful man in all of Eden: Gyan. He is feeding a peacock.

In his trademark yellow robes and flat straw sandals, Gyan is standing in front of a polished wooden desk, twice the size of Abel's dining room table. As I glance around, I see everything about this space is large and airy and impressive. I try to take it all in without looking like I'm scoping it out for potential weapons or an exit, which, of course, I am. It doesn't give me much hope.

The walls are high and white and hung with artwork: loops of snow melting on black rock, a pretty painting of colorful dancers swirling through a plaza. A large handblown glass vase sits on a low coffee table, filled with fresh flowers.

Various plants of all shapes and sizes are scattered throughout the room, hanging from the ceiling or arranged on polished wooden shelves. It all feels sophisticated and alive and completely terrifying.

“Good boy,” Gyan murmurs appreciatively, dropping a few pieces of grain on the floor. The peacock pecks at them, its beak hitting the floor with short, precise clicks. Gyan addresses me casually, as if talking to an old friend. “Aren't they magnificent? They can live up to forty years, you know. Obviously, I could have clones modified to live longer,
but there's something much more satisfying about raising a real peacock from birth.” A pause as he scatters more pieces of grain onto the floor. “Would you believe they come from the same family of birds as
chickens
?”

Beyond Gyan, on the wall opposite the windows overlooking the Badlands, is another floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Eden. I'm sure I'd think it was beautiful if I were here as a sightseer: the impressive white-walled city visible in its entirety from our high vantage point. We are at the highest peak of the Smoking Mountains. My heart sinks. The only way in or out of Three Towers is by air. The treacherously steep, snowy mountains offer no pass for even the most experienced climbers.

Both windows stretch all the way to the far end of the room, where there is a large piece of light gold scratch on the wall, and next to it, a single unmarked door. No handle. No lock. Nothing.

“All right, that's enough fun for one day,” Gyan says to the bird fondly. “Papa has work to do.” He looks up, voice suddenly booming. “Enter!”

The door at the far end of the room disappears with a soft
shick
. Two pale silicon substitutes appear. They are surreally lifelike in appearance, with two arms and two legs, but their oval faces are inhuman: blank except for the slightest indents for a nose, mouth, and eye sockets. They wheel a large, empty cage. For a horrifying moment, I think the cage is for me, but then the two placid subs make their way toward the peacock.

“Back to the aviary for you, old friend,” Gyan says, taking a seat in the huge chair behind his desk. The subs gently shoo the bird into the cage. Once it's inside, they wheel it back toward the door. “Not too fast!” Gyan calls after them. “He doesn't like it.”

Obediently, the subs slow down. The door reappears after they leave.

“Has the feeling returned to your legs?”

I run a quick physical check. Yes, I am pretty sure I have feeling in all of my limbs. I frown a little at the tops of my knees, like I'm willing something to happen, before giving them a few punches with my fists. With a curt shake of my head, I indicate no.

“It will in time. Are you hungry?”

I definitely am, but the food could be poisoned, although that wouldn't make much sense if some doctors had gone to the trouble of fixing me up. Food will make me mentally and physically stronger. But the thought of taking anything from the Trust feels wrong. I go to shake my head no, but then a half-formed plan emerges. Slowly, I nod.

“Bring in some food for Miss Rockwood,” Gyan announces. He has both elbows on his desk, fingers meeting each other lightly to form a triangle. “You are a very interesting girl, Tessendra Rockwood. You intrigue me.” He gazes at me with dark eyes that are almost black. “I am not easily intrigued.”

“Tess,” I spit out.

“Pardon me?”

“Just Tess,” I mutter, my voice croaky and hoarse. I cough and clear my throat. “Only my family calls me Tessendra.”

“All right.” He permits himself a small, amused smile. “Just Tess. Now, Tess, I have a feeling you're under the impression that I am your enemy. Is that correct?”

I say nothing.

“Because that is absolutely untrue.” The edges of his eyes crinkle as he smiles warmly at me. “We have a lot in common, you and I. We both share concerns—deep concerns—for the well-being of Aevum. But you see, Tess,” he continues, rising to wander around his desk, “it's very important for a person in my position to have all the facts, to be in control of everything. Otherwise, it's very difficult for me to make the right decisions and to properly care for everyone.” He casually leans against the edge of his desk. “I'm going to ask you some questions. And I'm sure if you're honest with me, then whatever happened before today can be forgotten, and you can go home to your uncle. How does that sound?”

It sounds like a load of crap.

Shick
. The door disappears and one of the blank-faced subs reappears with a small cart. On it is a tall glass of water and a plate of food: some artfully arranged raw vegetables, a hunk of white cheese, and a sprig of crimson berries.

The food appeared sooner than I'd expected; I wanted more time to work out my plan. As the cart wheels closer, I see—just as I'd hoped—real silver cutlery. A fork. A
knife
. That makes the decision for me. This might be my only chance for escape.

The blank-faced sub is halfway across the room. And like before, the door is still open. I focus on taking slow, deep breaths. In. Out. Stay. Calm.

“So, Tess—” Gyan is beginning to talk to me but I am so focused on what I am about to do, I can't hear him properly. I clench and unclench the muscles in my arms and legs.

The substitute is almost here. Gyan's voice throbs around the cavernous space.

Not yet.

Not yet.

The sub positions the cart next to me.

Now
.

In one swift movement, I spring to my feet, grabbing the silver knife, then shoving the cart into the sub. After an initial stumble, I find my footing and start running for the door. I hear a thud and a splintered crash behind me—the plate, glass, and cart hitting the ground. My legs are weak but they work. Feet pounding the cold marble, adrenaline pumping through me—and yes, the door is still open! The knife feels good and solid in my hand; it'll work as a weapon. I am almost there, almost out—

Suddenly and from nowhere, pain explodes inside my head. With a gasp, I fall to the ground, knife clattering out of my hand. My head is in a vise, being squeezed until it will pop. I cry out, rolling into a ball. Pain is behind my eyeballs, squeezing them, wringing me out like a washcloth. I want to scream but I can't speak. I can't see or move except to make animalistic, choked noises. After what seems like an age, but is probably only a few seconds, the pain starts to subside.

Nausea billows up inside me. I vomit yellow bile on the clean marble floor.

“Well,” Gyan says calmly. “Evidently the chip works.”

In the same unhurried voice, he orders the sub to pick up the cart and the food, then clean up “Miss Rockwood's . . . mess.”

Evidently the chip works
.

There's a chip
inside
me? Something the Trust put there when I was under?

The pain is subsiding. Within a minute it is gone, just leaving a dull, throbbing ache. I claw the floor, stunned, useless.

“Miss Rockwood.
Miss Rockwood
.” I force myself to look up at Gyan, hate radiating from every pore. “I wish you hadn't done that. It makes it very hard for me to be your friend, if you're not going to be mine.”

“I am not,” I wheeze, “your friend.”

He shrugs, scratching his beard absentmindedly. “As you wish.” Then he indicates the chair I'd been sitting in. “If you please.”

The substitute pauses by me to clean up my small pool of vomit
with a napkin. It offers me a hand, which I swat away. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I slowly stalk to the chair.

“You said the feeling in your legs hadn't returned,” he murmurs as I sit down again.

I shrug, eyes hard. “I lied.”

This time, there is no amused smile. “I wouldn't recommend doing that again,” he says softly. “We have inserted a chip into your brain that can be activated with this.” He holds up a sleek rectangular device with a single red button. “Obviously, it is not the only one, so there is no point attempting to steal it. I am going to ask you some questions. They are very important questions, so I would encourage you to answer them as comprehensively and honestly as you can. Is that clear?”