Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I don’t sleep at all. When I sense morning approaching, I go up on deck, carrying my light knapsack. I expect Idris to emerge soon, to indulge in his solitary fishing, and I’m going to ask him for transportation to Atlanta. It’s not Idris who comes up first, though, but Fiere. She joins me on the deck where I’m sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees, staring inland.

“Idris told us,” she says.

I nod.

“Bits and pieces are coming back. Ever since we fought—Anyway, thank you. I owe you.”

I brush that aside. “I only gave you back what you gave me.”

Footsteps approach. We look up to see Alexander standing over us, a faint smile etching his face. “Time to be going if you’re going to catch the train.”

Fiere and I stand. “Train?”

He slips a disc on a chain over my head. I know it’s got travel documents embedded on it, readable by scanner. “Your travel pass and ticket,” he confirms. “Idris arranged them. He’s tied up in the comms center, or he’d be up here to see you off. For the moment, you’re Derikka Ealy. But first, Idris told me you agreed to—” He gives me a questioning look.

I nod, ignoring Fiere’s puzzled frown. “You’ve got it?”

He withdraws a syringe-type gadget from his pocket. “Come into the light.” At his command, I open my mouth. Sliding the syringe between my teeth, he presses it against the lining of my cheek. There’s a sting, the taste of blood, and then it’s done. “You’ll need to chomp down hard, if it comes to it,” he says. “It won’t explode accidentally. When—if you activate it, it will only take seconds. Painless.”

I nod. My tongue probes the very slight ridge by my molars. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

“It won’t,” he says with confidence.

“Come on,” Fiere says. “I’m your chauffeur to the train station. As if I don’t have better things to do.”

She tries to sound disgruntled, but I can tell she doesn’t mind. I hug Alexander. His arms come around me and he hugs me hard. He smells vaguely of the licorice-scented medicine he takes. I’m grateful that he doesn’t try to talk me out of going. “Rain death on those locusts and come back soon,” he says, releasing me.

“Will do.” I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. “Say goodbye and thanks to Idris for me, will you?”

“Of course.”

Fiere heads down the gangway and I follow with a last look over my shoulder. Alexander lifts one hand and smiles somberly. There’s no sign of Wyck. Just as well. We get into a two-seater ACV and Fiere points it downriver.

“Where’s the station?” I ask.

“There’s a water purification plant five miles south at West Point Lake. Trains stop there to add on tanker cars full of water bound for the capital. They take on the occasional passenger, as well. Not as much security as at a larger station.”

“Sounds easy enough.”
Not really
. I look over my shoulder, but the
Chattahoochee Belle
is already out of sight behind a bend in the river.

As I face forward, Fiere cuts me a look. “How are you going to pull this off—get into the Ministry, I mean?”

I’ve given this a lot of thought. Being a fugitive makes the whole thing a lot harder than it has to be. “I’m not exactly sure,” I say slowly. “I think my best bet is to approach Loránd Vestor, my lawyer, and see what he recommends.”

“Isn’t he the one who sold you out to the RESCO?” Fiere shoots me a doubtful look.

I nod. “Yes, but I think he might also have been the one who gave the Defiance the intelligence on my route. Who else could have done it? So maybe the RESCO was a ruse all along.”

“Any other options?” Fiere doesn’t sound as if she’s in favor of trusting Vestor.

“There’s Proctor Fonner . . . Minister Fonner, now.” I explain who he is.

“You think he would help you?”

I chew on my lip. “I don’t think he would turn me in, at any rate. On the plus side, he knows my capabilities and my training. On the negative side, he’s a stickler for following the rules and he never liked me much. Still, he spoke in my favor at the trial.”

A lake appears in the distance, and I know we’re almost there. I fall silent. In minutes, Fiere pulls up alongside a stretch of track. A hundred yards away, workers are remotely linking tankers to a lengthy train, activating the magnetic couplings.  Fiere and I look at each other awkwardly for a moment.

“I guess this is it,” I say, unsealing the door which rises like a wing.

Fiere stays in the cockpit, probably to avoid a hug. There are all sorts of things I want to say to her, like thank you, and I wish you were my sister, and I hope I can make you proud, but I don’t say any of them, of course. “Don’t let them do anything stupid,” I say instead, meaning Idris and Wyck and the whole lot of them.

She rolls her eyes. “Men.” She smiles so the corners of her eyes crinkle, but then she grows serious. “Rule number one, Jax, rule one.”

Be alert
.

“Always,” I promise.

She gives a curt nod, pushes the button to seal the door, and glides away. I’m on my own. I’m alert as I approach the sleek black train, alert and poised to run as I present my disc to the guard, alert and on edge as I find a seat. No sooner do I sit than the train lurches forward.

“Sixty-four minutes to Atlanta,” a robotic voice announces.

Sixty-four minutes to decide what to do, who to trust. Either choice could mean death or imprisonment. My tongue pokes at the micro-capsule. Sixty-three minutes and counting.

Part Two

Chapter Fifteen

When I get off the train at the Atlanta station, I look around, trying to spot the Defier Idris said would meet me. No one is craning their neck as if looking for someone. Most people walk staring straight ahead or down at the ground. A man jostles me on the platform, hurrying toward a distant track. A baby cries but is quickly hushed. The smells of hot metal and fermenting mud from half-dried puddles left by a rainstorm permeate the air. No one approaches me, even though I stand still for several minutes, as long as I can make myself not move. Finally, slowly, I make my way off the platform and into the station, its roof inexplicably caved in at one corner and covered with wire mesh.

I glance around casually. If only Idris had given me some clue about who to look for. Could it be the raven-haired woman studying a train schedule? The elderly man sitting on a bench, clenching and unclenching his hands on his knees? The young man rushing toward me, eyes darting, searching for someone? Hope blooms in me, but he passes me, and greets a woman behind me.  I straighten my spine and start walking like I know where I’m going. If I’m on my own, I’m on my own. I still don’t know if I’m going to seek out Vestor or Minister Fonner. I join a group of five or six and let them sweep me toward the exit. Outside, in the muggy air, I look up and down the street, still hoping to see Idris's contact. No one approaches. I can’t stay here, looking out of place. I begin to walk. Vestor or Minister Fonner? Sheer practicality makes the decision for me: I have no idea where to find Vestor, but the Ministry of Information is in a yellow brick building behind the capitol whose golden spire can be seen from almost anywhere in the city.  I see it rising above the lower buildings. It’s close, no more than half a mile from the train station. I head for it, like the Magi toward the star in Halla’s Bible story.

Being on my own in Atlanta is both exciting and terrifying. I try to walk normally, but my shoulders keep hunching forward because I’m afraid everyone I pass is going to recognize me and sound the alarm. I’m not being egotistical, I tell a mental Wyck. My trial was widely broadcast; it’s not an unreasonable fear. No one seems to be looking at me though, or indeed, at anyone else, so I relax incrementally. Although the walk is short, I’m damp with sweat—from the heat or nerves—by the time I reach the Ministry of Information. It’s in the shadow of the capitol; indeed, the spire’s shadow points to it.  Elevated, enclosed walkways, much like the tubes our lab rats scurried through, connect an upper floor of the capitol to the MOI and two other ministry buildings . . . so the ministers can come and go unseen, I speculate. At just after nine o’clock, there’s a steady trickle of people reporting for service. There are more people milling about this section of Atlanta than I’ve ever seen outside an Assembly. They’re a mix of men and women, young and old, but geneborns predominate. Two men pass me, arguing. A middle-aged woman brushes against me as she hurries past, leaving the scent of lilacs.

I’m caught up in people-watching when two IPF scooters round the corner, lights flashing, and I go numb, certain that they’re here for me. I edge toward the corner, thinking that if I can get around it, I can run. A larger ACV with an Amerada seal on the side appears, however, with two more IPF scooters behind it. They all hover in front of the capitol and guards stream from inside, forming a corridor by facing outward, blasters at the ready. Whoever was in the ACV gets out, head bowed, and disappears into the capitol surrounded by the protection detail. I suspect I’ve just witnessed the Premier’s arrival. My breathing slowly returns to normal as the IPF vehicles pull away again.

Knowing that I can’t just pop into the MOI building and ask for Minister Fonner, I stroll the neighborhood, trying to get a feel for it and dissipate the adrenaline which is making me jumpy. The area is largely devoted to government buildings with a few imposing homes on side streets. I suspect the ministers and other important government officials live here. I turn down one. I’m astonished to see grass in the yards, squares of brilliant emerald, but I realize on closer inspection that it’s fake. This strikes me as humorous and I squat to run my palm across the fake blades. They tickle. There’s a joke here, something about government, and appearance being more important than substance, but my frazzled mind can’t make it coalesce.

I return to the main street. Finding a shady spot across from the MOI building, I study it. The roof bristles with satellite dishes and antennas, which look anachronistic above the mellow brick and mullioned windows of a past century. When a man emerges from the Ministry, I glimpse uniforms inside. Security. I finger the disc at my neck, doubting that my Derrika Ealy identity will stand up to their scrutiny. It’s bound to fail if they want to scan my microchip—cut out when I left the Kube—or if they do a DNA check. I don’t know how thoroughly they vet visitors, but I can’t chance it. I’m not going to be able to talk to Minister Fonner in his office.

On the thought, I spot micro-drones patrolling the area outside the Ministry, from street level to the top floor. They have imaging capability, I bet, and I realize I should have disguised myself somehow before showing up here.
Stupid, stupid
. Trying to seem casual, I put a hand to the side of my face like I’m scratching an itch, and hurry away. I force myself to slow, not wanting to attract attention. I need to change up my appearance, but how?

I walk for fifteen minutes, turning several times at random, anxious to put distance between me and the surveillance drones. I’m paying little attention to where I’m going, when I suddenly hear Fiere’s voice in my head:
Lesson number one
. I force myself to slow and take a deep breath. I need to remain alert, aware of my surroundings. Otherwise, I’m dead. I turn my head casually to scan my surroundings. Houses. Smaller, more run down than the ones near the capitol, but still habitable. Before I can form any conclusions about the neighborhood, a voice calls, “Derrika!”

It takes me a moment. That’s me. How—? Who—? I turn involuntarily and see a woman coming toward me, a broad smile on her face. Brown hair sprinkled with white and gray, a hitching motion in her gait. She waves. I half-lift my hand, my brain racing. Friend or foe? Stay or run? Only Idris, and maybe Fiere or Alexander, know I’m traveling as Derrika Ealy. I stand my ground.

“Derrika, dear, so glad I finally caught up with you.” The woman arrives in a cloud of lilac and I realize she bumped into me earlier. She’s my height, but fuller of hip and bosom. Light wrinkles crinkle at the corners of her hazel eyes and bracket her mouth. Her lips smile, but her eyes remain watchful. Defiance watchful. This is the contact Idris promised me.

“You’ve been following me.”

She tucks her arm through mine like we’re old friends and urges me forward, saying, “Indeed. I had to make sure you weren’t really a Prag spy. Our mutual friend assured me you were trustworthy, but I had my doubts when you headed straight for the MOI from the train station. Can’t be too careful.”

“Did Id—”

“
Ssh
.” She shakes her head. “Our friend asked me to assist you as much as I could without placing myself in jeopardy. He told me what train you’d be on and I picked you up at the terminal. What’s your mission?”

I don’t know this woman, and even though I suspect she means Idris or maybe Alexander when she refers to “our friend,” I’m loathe to trust her too far. “I’d rather not say.”

She chuckles. “Good girl. You’re right—I don’t need to know. You can call me Griselda. It’s from the German. Means ‘gray woman warrior.’ I like to think it’s appropriate.” She draws a hank of hair out straight over her forehead, seemingly studying the gray strands. “In my younger years, I could have been ‘brunette woman warrior,’ or ‘woman warrior with great boobs,’ but those days are past.” She grips her bra straps beneath her tunic and hitches her breasts higher for a moment before letting them return to their mid-chest resting point.

I’m drawn to her frankness and humor. “You think of yourself as a warrior?”

“My dear, anyone who isn’t a warrior, who isn’t fighting in one way or another for a cause or something important to them, is abdicating his or her responsibilities.”

Her philosophy strikes a chord. I’m still fighting, I realize, even though I’m not using the kinds of weapons Idris and Wyck choose. I do my fighting in a lab. Perhaps there’s a name that means ‘scientist warrior woman.’ “I need a way to disguise myself.”

“Easy.”

Without my realizing it, she’s steered me almost back to the area around the train station. People come and go, intent on their own business, paying us no attention. The buildings look like old warehouses, from when freight flowed through the train station at a rate I can’t even imagine. We turn down an alley and come up behind a series of four connected buildings. Their exteriors are grimy, the gutters sag, and the loading dock doors are striped with rust. Roll down doors bar the openings where freight would have moved in and out of the warehouses, but each building has a regular door set off to the side. Griselda slides aside a segment of loose siding and holds her eye to an iris scanner beside the first door on the right. The door inches inward.

“Do you live here?”

“No.” She offers no other explanation, but motions me in. I enter. “You can wait here. I won’t be long.” She pulls the door shut before I can object. It latches with the sound of a mousetrap being sprung. I try the knob, panicky butterflies suddenly fluttering in my stomach, but it’s locked. Am I a prisoner? Has Griselda gone to summon the IPF? I need to get out.

The ground floor is one cavernous room, empty. Not a stick of furniture, not an appliance, not a rug. Probably looted during the Between. I dash up the single flight of stairs, making the metal treads clang and shake, but the second story is as barren as the ground floor, although it’s divided into a series of small offices. Peering from a dirt-spattered window, I see train tracks snaking in all directions and a corner of the terminal. Turning away, I force myself to breathe deeply and think. Idris clearly gave Griselda a head’s up about me; I have no reason to think she’s going to betray me.
And little reason to think she’s not
, the pessimist in my head says. I tell it to shut up. Further, there’s got to be more to this building than meets the eye—no one would bother with iris scanner security for an empty warehouse.

With nothing else to do, I take a vegeprote bar from my knapsack and munch on it as I descend the rickety stairs and begin to inspect the ground level. The flooring is a patterned blue-gray vinyl, and I take off my boots to slide the ball of my foot across it in sweeping arcs, feeling for an anomaly that might indicate a trap door. I net nothing from this exercise but a disgustingly grimy sock. I turn my attention to the walls. Two seconds of thought tells me that the best bet is the wall connecting this building with the next one. Starting in one corner, I use my fingertips to explore every inch of the wall, feeing for a seam. I’m a third of the way along the wall when I feel something at about knee height. Aha!

Excited, I drop to my knees and crab my fingernails around the seam which turns out to be a rectangle about three feet high by two feet wide. It’s small, but it’s a door—I know it’s a door. I press my ear to it and listen for thirty seconds, but hear nothing. I push on the corners one at a time and then in various combinations, but it doesn’t budge. Rocking back on my heels, I decide to hell with finesse. I sit and brace my hands behind me. Drawing my knees to my chest, I wham my legs forward so my feet strike the rectangle. It pops free and skitters across the floor in the next building.

Triumphant, I crawl forward and stick my head through the hole.

“What took you so long?”

The voice startles me and I jerk up, banging my head. Griselda stoops and offers me a hand, helping me wriggle through the opening. Putting her hands on her hips, she regards me from narrowed eyes. “Actually, you did very well. I just got back myself.”

The knot on my head makes me crabby. “I’m leaving. I don’t know what this is about, but—”

“Don’t go. I’ve brought some items to change your appearance. I apologize for my little game, but I like to know what kind of person I’m dealing with when someone gets sent to me. Now I know you’re resourceful, quick-witted, and somewhat impatient.” She picks up the rectangle of mangled wallboard and looks at it ruefully. “Even better, now you know this about yourself.”

“I’m not in the mood for personality assessments.”

She ignores my petulance. “Sit.”

I move to the chair she indicates, and watch as she pulls items from a cabinet. This room is much like the one next door, except there are four chairs, a table, counters, shelves, and a sink. “Used to be a bakery,” Griselda says, following my gaze to gaping holes where a walk-in cooler and stoves might have been. “I worked here when I was about your age. Had to be in at three in the morning to start the donuts for the morning rush. I hated getting out of bed in the dark, dressing in the dark so I wouldn’t wake my sisters, biking over here, but it was worth it. The smell of baking donuts—there’s nothing like it.” She inhales deeply through her nose, eyes closed, and for a moment I think I can smell the yeasty, sugary aroma. “The owners were among the first to succumb to the flu.”

She shakes off the memories. “Let’s get to work. That platinum hair has got to go—much too noticeable.”

I give myself up to her overhaul. The not unpleasant odor of chemicals soon fills the room as she dyes my hair, including my brows and lashes, with a product that penetrates my scalp to infiltrate the root bulb; imparts a permanent curl via bio-ionic retexturizing; and cuts it.