Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) (9 page)

BOOK: Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2)
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It was self-defense. I would have died in the RESCO. If not physically, then mentally and emotionally, like part of Fiere has died from the memory wipe. I tell myself the soldiers knew what they were signing up for—but, no. Not all of them want to be soldiers. Most of the IPF are geneborn bred to be soldiers, as are the Border Security Service officers, but many of the border sentries are conscripted. And just because someone is bred to be a soldier doesn't mean he wants to be one. I think of Saben's story, how he was bred to be a physicist but wanted to be an artist. What if that dead sergeant was as trapped as I was—trapped in a uniform and organization he wanted no part of, but had no way of escaping?

The complexities roil in my mind, dizzying me. I sway. I have to consider Rhedyn’s point. Is the freedom to procreate at will, to live where one wants and to avoid mandatory state service important enough to kill for? To die for? My knuckles are white on the rail and I slowly uncurl my stiff fingers. Am I a hypocrite? My stomach lurches and I lean over the rail, losing my lunch.

I sag, letting the rail catch me under my armpits. I’m a bio-chemist, not a philosopher or a militant. I don’t know what to do. A commotion on the landward side distracts me from my thinking. Glad of it, I pull myself up and cross the deck to see what’s going on.  A familiar figure is hopping out of an ACV and going around to assist the passenger. Wyck! Wyck’s brought Alexander. I spin and hurry to the stairs, half-tumbling down them in my eagerness to get to the main deck. Fiere. Pausing in my headlong rush, I descend another level to Fiere’s cabin and burst through the door.

She’s out of her hammock in one smooth movement, poised to fight. Clearly, her muscles haven’t forgotten her training.

“Alexander,” I say breathlessly. “He’s here.”

She hangs back. “Maybe I should wait until he—”

I realize she’s afraid to put it to the test, afraid that seeing Alexander won’t jog any memories. She’s better off getting it over with. I grab her hand and tug. “No time like the present.”

Jerking her hand free, she crosses to the door. We emerge onto the main deck in time to see Wyck, arm around Alexander’s waist, helping the older man up the gangway. Rhedyn hovers nearby, and a couple of other Defiers look on curiously. “Alexander Ford . . . he’s the one who . . .” I hear one of them whisper to another in the awed tones of one recounting the exploits of a legend.

They reach the deck and Alexander steps away from Wyck’s supporting arm. It’s only been four months since I’ve seen him, but silver is overtaking the brown in his hair and his cheeks seem more sunken, his eye sockets more pronounced. He has the same aquiline nose, but his hand trembles when he lifts it to greet Rhedyn, and a flush on his high cheekbones suggests he’s feverish. The chemical agents he inhaled when saving disabled citizens from an attack years ago are winning. He looks every one and more of his sixty-odd years.

Fiere, standing beside me, stiffens. “I don’t know you.” Her voice, brittle as a locust shell, cuts through Alexander’s conversation with Rhedyn. “I don’t know you.”

Alexander turns with the carefulness of someone not sure of his balance. He acknowledges me with a quick smile, but focuses on Fiere. He studies her for a moment, a warm smile overtaking his face, then reaches out a hand. “No matter.” His voice is the same, rich and smoky with a drawl.

Fiere put her hand in his and he draws her into a hug. His arms tighten around her back. She’s rigid at first, but then relaxes against him, clinging to him, her cheek pressed against his chest. He murmurs to her and strokes her head. The rest of us stand transfixed. After a long two or three minutes, Fiere pulls away. The tension has drained out of her, but she says, “I can
feel
that I know you, but I don’t recognize your features, and your name means nothing to me.”

“No matter,” he says again. “It will come.”

She nods her acceptance of his surety and steps aside so he can greet me. “Well, Everly, what a twisty road you’ve been on, eh? Did you ever think when you left the Kube that you’d end up here?”

I know he means more by his “here” than “on a river boat in the middle of nowhere.” The word encompasses the mental and emotional changes I’ve undergone, the losses I’ve sustained, the growth I’ve attained. I know what he means and I answer simply, “Not in a million years.”

He laughs, the sound deep and alive. After a moment, everyone joins in. My eyes meet Wyck’s; it’s good to have him back. It strikes me that people don’t laugh nearly enough when engaged in insurgent battles and overthrowing the government.

 

Chapter Eleven

Things return to normal the next day. Wyck descends below decks to work on the engine. Alexander and Fiere climb to the observation level and settle down to talk. Rhedyn puts me to work caulking gaps in the deck since I’m confined to the ship. I can see she wants me to object when she gives me the task, but I won’t give her the satisfaction. I merely nod and get to work. I get into a rhythm before long, spreading the caulk into cracks and crevices, letting it dry, and sanding it smooth. Four hours in, I’ve only done half of the main deck. I’m hot and thirsty, my throat raspy with sanded grit, and my knees ache from kneeling on the hard wood when someone’s shadow drapes over me.

“Are you allowed to take a break?”

It’s Alexander, smiling down at me. He looks stronger today after a good night’s rest and he’s holding two glasses. “Of course,” I say, not knowing or caring whether I’m “allowed.” I scramble up and wipe my hands on my jumpsuit.

“How about the bow? I like looking at the water.”

There’s built-in seating, a wide plank curving with the shape of the ship, and we settle on it. Alexander hands me one of the glasses. I sniff. The fresh, citrusy aroma makes my senses sing.

“Orange juice,” he confirms with a smile. “I brought a few food items with me. The friend I was staying with had access to a dome and she was very generous.”

“Offerings from one potentate to another?” I murmur.

His eyes twinkle. “Exactly. Although I’m not sure Idris would appreciate being called a potentate. ‘Supreme commander’ seems to be more his style.  Soldier, not statesman.”

I drink greedily, liking the pulpy feel in my mouth. I can’t think how long it’s been since I’ve had citrus in any form. “I didn’t know you were his father,” I say.

“I’m proud of him. He’s a strong leader.”

“His style is certainly different from yours.”

Alexander hears the underlying discontent and eyes me without sympathy. “We were leading different kinds of organizations with different missions. His style is right for what he’s doing.”

I decide to leave it alone. “How’s Fiere?”

“I examined her arm. It’s repairable with surgery. She can regain full use of it. Unfortunately”—he holds his hand out flat at arm length to observe its tremble—“I’m not capable of performing the surgery any longer. I’m going to ask Idris to help me get her to a colleague in the Carolinas Canton. He’ll do the procedure—no questions asked.”

“What about her memory?”

Pursing his lips, he says, “I tried to fill in some of the blanks for her. Nothing seemed to connect. She accepted what I told her as true, but I could see it was like listening to a history lecture for her, or someone’s else’s story, not like re-living events that actually happened to her. Neurology was not my field, and my training is long out of date, but I wonder if everyone’s being too nice to her, treating her with kid gloves, keeping her safely here on the ship. She might stand a better chance of recovering her memory if we treated her like we would have before. She’s not an invalid or a child.”

My brow creases as I think about it. He’s right; I am guilty of treading softly around Fiere. We all are. My previous relationship with her was full of edginess and competition, not consideration and kindness. Maybe we need to let Fiere get back in the fight.

"Do you think she'll regain her memory if we take the gloves off?"

"Lord willing and the volcano don't explode, as my aunt used to say."

I nod and change the subject. “Are you going to reestablish Bulrush?” I ask.

He shakes his head slowly. “No. I’m not up to it anymore. The parts of our underground railroad that survived the April attack are still helping women escape to the outposts, but the effort is more fractured. I’m afraid that Bulrush’s time is past. It was always a stop gap measure. The time has come for more concerted action.”

Disappointment wells in me, compressing my lungs so it’s hard to breathe. I would have thought Alexander would be the last person to advocate— “War, you mean. Civil war, rebellion, whatever you want to call it. Overthrowing the government by military action. Killing people.”

“Yes, I think it’s come to that.” Alexander bows his head slightly.

“You lived through the Between—you told me how horrible it was. How can you support the Defiance?”

“You underwent forced implantation at the RESCO—how can you not?”

I would never have thought his warm brown eyes could be so chilly.

“We need to change the laws—make the RESCOs illegal.” I stand and pace, unable to sit still, the turmoil inside me needing release. “And the procreation laws—they need restructuring. People should be able to have children if they’re capable of it, their own biological children. I couldn’t watch Halla and not understand that.” I sadly recall Halla’s desperation to bear and keep Little Loudon. She died because of it.  And her baby was lost, given to a pre-approved family to raise.

“There’s more to it than that,” Alexander says. “We have created a society of haves and have nots, of privilege and exclusion.”

“The geneborn?”

He nods. “Genetic manipulation seemed like the way back to prosperity after the flu and the famine, the way to ensure we had a population with the ‘right’ mix of skills and abilities to bring this country back from the brink. We all bought into the idea of geneborn at first. A little genetic manipulation, splicing DNA from two or three carefully selected ‘parents’ into a single zygote, optimizing it for science or leadership or what have you—it seemed like the perfect solution. I bought into it. God help me, I helped develop the technology.”

I can’t stand to see the sadness drawing down his face. “And Amerada is better off because of it. Look at how far we’ve come with food production, and rebuilding the infrastructure. The factories have started producing again, and—” I tail off in the face of his adamant head shakings.

“We weren’t far-sighted enough. We didn’t look ahead and recognize that the geneborn might consider the natural borns inferior and keep them from comparable education and service opportunities. Indeed, many of the power players from my generation encouraged that, convinced that the geneborn could move us forward farther and faster than the nats could. But we were wrong. What’s the saying? Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. I can’t remember ever even discussing the possibility of engineering a child to be extra compassionate or ethical. It never crossed our minds.” He rubs a thumb over a ropy vein on his hand, compressing the blue-green tube and letting it spring back.

“So, we stop producing geneborn children,” I say, not willing to concede that fighting is the only option. “And, and we open up more opportunities for nats. I’m—”

“Ah, Everly. It takes a rare individual to undermine a system that has brought him or her to power. What motivation does our government have to change its course?”

“Idris and his team are back,” someone yells.

I see the light of anticipation in Alexander’s eyes and help him up. He makes it clear he doesn’t need my assistance any further and I return to my caulking as he hurries toward the gangway to meet his son. I work until the sun is low on the horizon, then clean up and join the others for a late dinner which features many of the fresh fruits and vegetables Alexander brought with him from the dome. It’s an almost raucous gathering, with Idris and his team celebrating success at capturing a train laden with cutting edge military gear. Idris's desire to impress his father makes it impossible for him to relax, and he alternates between telling the story of the mission too loudly, and eating too rapidly. The way he watches Alexander, alert to the slightest signs of approval or reservation, is almost endearing. I had thought Idris beyond caring what others thought of him, interested only in results.

I slip away early, and curl up in my hammock, wishing I had my
Little House
book to read. I recite the opening paragraphs in my head, but it’s not the same as holding the book in my hands, turning the worn pages. A book is more than the story it tells. That thought gets me thinking about Fiere and her belief that her body carries the story of who she is, and I get an idea. I roll out of the hammock and pad to her bunk to leave a note telling her to meet me on the observation deck the next morning. Returning to my room, I drift into a fitful sleep plagued by nightmares of the station master’s gargling when I drove my knife into his throat.

 

I’m on the top deck, stretching, as the first pale fingers of dawn reach out the next morning. I hope Idris will sleep in after a days-long combat mission and a late night; I don’t need him interrupting what I’ve got planned. I’m barefoot. I crouch and spring up, crouch and spring up, landing lightly each time. When I hear Fiere’s footsteps on the stairs, I position myself. She steps onto the deck and takes two steps toward the stern, calling my name tentatively.

Emerging from behind a smokestack, I sweep her feet out from under her with a low sideways kick. She falls. Struggling up on one elbow, she says, “What are you—?”

Standing over her, I say, “Lesson one: Be alert.”

I reach down, grab her good hand, and haul her up. Her injured arm flops awkwardly. I stomp on the twinge of remorse that threatens to overcome my resolve. “It’s time you remember what you’re capable of, even if you can’t remember who you are.” I launch a punch at her solar plexus, pulling it slightly. She’s less solid than I remember.

“Oof.” She bends forward, arm wrapped around her middle.

“Solar plexus, groin, throat, nose. Those are the spots you go for, the weak spots. You taught me that. Your hands, heels, knees and elbows are your weapons.”

“You might have noticed I’m down to only one hand and elbow, singular,” she says, straightening. Her voice hovers on the edge of self-pity.

That is so un-Fiereish it makes me growl. “You used to tell me you could put me down with one hand tied behind your back. Prove it.” I launch a palm strike at her nose and her forearm comes up automatically to block it. “Excellent!” I crow.

By the rising sun’s light, I see a hint of confidence return to her eyes. I lead her onto the open deck where we’ll have more room. She gives the hard wood a disparaging look. “At least I put down mattresses for you.”

It takes a beat for each of us to recognize what just happened. I’m filled with a ferocious sense of victory and I see an identical gleam in Fiere’s eyes. “In the ballroom at the brothel,” I say. “They didn’t help much.” Before she can prepare, I slip behind her and get her in a choke-hold.

Her elbow jabs toward me, but then she stops herself.

“Go with it,” I urge. “Listen to your body. It knows who you are.”

I regret that advice immediately as her elbow slams into my still-tender ribs. She breaks away and faces me, panting. We spar and scrabble, with Fiere gaining confidence with every successful block and strike. Before long, I’m grateful she’s only got one usable arm.

“Is anything coming back?” I ask when we pause for a moment, breathing heavily, assessing each other.

“Some. I used to be stronger and quicker.”

“You’ve been in prison and you’re injured.” Plus, you were tortured, I think but don’t say.  “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“I should leave that to you, right?”

I make like I’m going for a roundhouse to her head, then switch targets and take her down at the knee.  “Lesson two: Reflex,” I chirp in the annoying voice she used when training me.

She crawls toward me and latches her good hand around my ankle, pulling me off-balance. I hop backward, wheeling my arms, and break away before she can bring me to the deck. She lunges for the rail, grabs a life-preserver, and slings it at me, low. I jump over it and land hard, tilting left. She rushes me, but I tackle her low. As we’re going down, her feet come up beneath my hipbones and thrust. I save myself by going with the motion and somersaulting over her head. I spring up and turn in one motion, but she’s tiring and gets to her feet more slowly.

I say, “Enough for today. Let’s call it a draw.” I lean in and offer my hand.

She grabs my wrist, uses my momentum to pull me closer, and sweeps my legs out from under me. I land with a thud and a curse. My body is going to hate me in the morning.

She looks down at me, hand on her hips, a quintessentially Fiereish look of superiority on her face. “That one time, when you were mad about the tea, I let you win.”

A grin splits her face as the realization hits me. She remembers! I scramble up, prepared to hug her, but the ship’s klaxon rends the air. We freeze. The sentries must have sounded the alert. We must be under attack.

 

BOOK: Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2)
10.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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