Lotus and Thorn (20 page)

“At first, I imagine it spread out across the roof and down around the building . . .” Nik’s hands traced the outline of the structure. “Its shoots and vines and roots weaving a kind of frame around place. But eventually, the fig would’ve squeezed too hard—breaking the glass—until there was no greenhouse left. Only tree.”

“It’s beautiful.” I looked at the cascade of roots, propping themselves up in the shape of a nonexistent building.

Nik nodded. “It’s so quiet here . . . it got harder and harder to leave. Now I just don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t leave. Not anymore.”

• • •

It was late when I got home and I was overwhelmed with the day. I wished more than anything that I could talk to Lotus about everything. Instead, I turned on the bathtub taps, feeling the water warm as it ran over my hand. Hot water was a luxury that still stunned me—one of a thousand things I hadn’t gotten used to yet. I lay, floating in the scented water, thinking.

I’d been inside the Dome—or at least awake here—for two days. What had I found so far? Jenner and his plan for creating the perfect Curador. Edison and his radio. A hybrid bird. Haywire flys. A Dome that was falling apart and a whole community trying their best to ignore it. And Nik.

I felt his hand running across my body again and the same tremor ran through me. I told myself it was just the water getting cold.

Nik was right, it
was
quiet under all those trees. And knowing that tomorrow I’d have to go back to the Sanctum and play Kisaeng, I’d wanted to stay there too. But I was sure there was more to it than that—Nik was hiding from something under all those branches.

I pulled myself out of the bath. I was loath to, but I did it anyway—stepping out onto the chilly tile. There weren’t many mirrors in Pleiades and I still wasn’t used to them. Infinite Leicas from infinite angles.
Everywhere.

Droplets of water spiked with juniper oil drew lines down my curvy, compact body. I didn’t recognize it anymore. The months in isolation had softened it. My muscles were still strong, but my ribs no longer jutted out at painful angles. My cheeks were no longer rough from the brutal winds of the desert. Even my skin had gone from bronze to brown without the intense sun.

I stepped closer to the mirror, searching for some sign that I was me. Only my hands were the same, twelve fingers so distinctively Leica. But as I ran my fingers over my skin, I knew that wasn’t quite true either. They were smooth now, unmarked by work or the brutal desert. Then my eyes caught on a spot right below my belly button. A tiny pale line marring the surface of my skin. It didn’t feel any different—the skin wasn’t ridged or puckered. But it was there nevertheless.

A scar.

Scars were nothing new . . . I had a whole collection of them. A brown, almost invisible line on my leg from seven years ago—I was ten, training with my dad, and fell on my own knife. A stretched,
pinkish burn on my arm from a boilover in Sarika’s brewery. A stripe on my shoulder from the chafe of the slideboard harness. Those scars were a map to my life and I remembered where I got each and every one of them.

But not this one. Despite the fact it looked healed and faded, this one was
new
. And I had no idea how I’d gotten it.

THE NEXT MORNING,
I was up and dressed before Marisol came for me. I chose a dress that was long enough to cover the hilt of the knife stuck in my boot. There were layers of secrets inside this Dome, and everyone seemed to be keeping some.

Still, as long as I was constantly escorted—by the Kisaengs, by Edison, by Grimm—I had little hope of uncovering the one I was really looking for. Was Jenner playing with Red Death like he was playing with the Curadores’ genetics? Had Tasch been just another of his victims? How many more lives did he plan on taking?

And now, I had a new question . . . a more personal one. What had been done to me while I’d been sedated in isolation? I thought about Jenner’s checkup yesterday, the fly taking my blood, the files flashing up on the screen. There were answers inside this Dome and I was going to find them, before anything else was taken from me. I touched my hidden knife for reassurance as Marisol came through the front door without knocking.

“This morning we’re going hunting!” Marisol announced cheerfully.

“Hunting?” We walked outside and the sisters were there, waiting for us.

Marisol said, “Sure. We want a go at yesterday’s Finds before they break them all down.”

The Salvage Hall was on the opposite side of the Gardens, so we risked taking a magfly. The whole line had been slowed down—in case of any future malfunctions—so I got a good view of the Dome this time. And, because the magfly tracks ran in concentric circles around the Dome with spokes connecting the different rings, I got to see a lot of it. We passed the old church where Edison and I had gone that first night—it looked even more impressive in the daylight.

Statues perched high on the stone spires and I wished I was flying with Grimm again so I could get a closer look at them. The rush of last night’s flight was still buzzing inside me. And like the betrayer my mind was, it flickered back to the feel of Nik’s hand across my body. I reminded myself,
Focus. Eyes open. Knife ready.

The magfly passed a double line of women walking through the streets near the church. They all wore the same long cream tunic dress and every single one of them was pregnant. A line of children walked single file between the rows of women.

“The Mothers,” I said. Edison had talked about this . . . children being raised by the group, not the individual. Now I remembered the huge compound we’d passed the day before, filled with shouting, playing children. And I remembered the tall wall enclosing the whole place. I’d barely noticed it at the time because
all
the apartment buildings in Pleiades were surrounded by walls. But those were to isolate the populations, keep them separate so outbreaks wouldn’t spread.

So in a city with no disease, what were the walls protecting?

“Yeah. They’re always out parading around. Noses up, looking down at us.” Marisol said it with a shrug, but her voice was bitter. “I try my best to avoid them and their little brats.”

But her eyes followed them as our magfly glided away.

Soon we entered a totally different section of the Dome. Old magflys and machinery littered the ground alongside the track. There was a long windowless building, labeled the Meat Brewery, where, according to the Ellas, the chiken and beeph was grown in huge vats.

Then, finally, we arrived at the Salvage Hall. We got out and descended down a steep moving staircase into a huge underground room. It was like being in a vast reclamation pit. Only louder.

Flys buzzed in massive swarms, descending on stacks of old appliances and corroded metal scraps, assessing their worth. Giant machines sorted the scrap into more stacks and more piles while simultaneously Kisaengs picked over them—snagging tendrils of bright, plastic-coated wire or bits of pretty glass, checking them against the colors of their dresses. As we descended into the room, I looked for Olivia again, hoping she’d recovered from the magfly accident. I wished I’d gotten more than a glimpse at her file yesterday in the Lab.

Marisol swept into the room like she owned it. As we walked, Kisaengs stepped out of the way for her. Curadores bowed and smiled. Actually, they did the same for me too. It was a strange feeling—the world making way for me—but one I could get used to.

“Exquisite!” Marisol gushed over a trinket another girl had found.

“Thank you.” The girl looked unsure whether to be flattered or cautious.

“Just look at how it catches the light, will you, Aaliyah?” Marisol said.

Aaliyah knew her part well. She raised a painted eyebrow, which swirled up to join the rest of the spirals on her head, perfect in its enigmatic amusement. “Marisol! It would look spectacular against your hair.”

No one spoke for a moment, and there was an awkward silence before the girl realized she’d missed her cue. The Kisaeng scrambled to catch up with the scene unfolding around her. “Oh! I’d be honored to give it to you.”

Marisol took the item, scrutinized it for a moment and then said, “On second thought, maybe it’s not quite as special as I thought.” And Marisol threw it back on the pile. Her aim was perfect, so the treasure spun around for a moment before falling down into a crack—lost among the salvage again.

I hung back, watching Marisol and the sisters repeat the performance again and again. Sometimes Marisol took the gift. Sometimes she handed it over to June or the Ellas or one the others in her circle. I didn’t know what her system was, but it wasn’t random. It was clear to me that
everything
Marisol did was deliberate.

I cringed as Marisol zeroed in on Riya. The Kisaeng had been absorbed in the salvage piles, collecting a basket full of bright toys—tiny cars, dolls’ legs, plastic bracelets. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I watched the sisters cluster around Riya like circling vultures. Marisol began admiring Riya’s Finds, carefully picking up and examining every object, before plucking the whole basket from her grip.

In a final insult, Marisol reached up and snagged a beautiful ornament from Riya’s hair—an intricate creation made of plastic
gears and brass screws. Riya started to take it back, half reaching out a hand before dropping it again. With a smug smile, Marisol put the decoration in her own hair, punishment for Riya’s boldness the day before.

Riya’s face was thunderous and I was afraid, after our lesson yesterday, that she might punch Marisol. But instead, Riya calmly unfastened the necklace of bright plastic knitting needles from around her own throat. Then her bracelet. She surprised both Marisol and myself by dropping them in the basket as well—castoffs for Marisol.

And I was reminded of what Oksun had said. That the others see something unique in Riya.
You’d think they’d want to understand it, but no. They either want to own it or crush it.
Clearly Marisol wanted to do both. I smiled at Riya’s perfect revenge—no one can steal something if you’re willing to simply give it away.

Then a loaded magfly pulled into the Hall, blocking my view. Flys descended on the fresh scrap, till it was completely covered with twitching black bodies.

“The trick is to get to it before they do.”

I practically jumped at the sudden voice in my ear. June hovered next to me up on her silver seat.

“Sorry, sometimes I forget to make noise. Let me try again.” And straight-faced she said, “Clomp-clomp-clomp-clomp. Ahem!”

“Much better,” I said, matching her faux seriousness, and I was surprised to find I was glad to see her. But it was impossible to imagine her doing anything as gauche as clomping. June commanded a certain grace, her torso balanced on her board, her skirts flowing as she moved. “What happens to all these Finds?”

“Reprocessing.”

And I remembered Edison talking about the reprocessors making new flys when the old ones broke.

June elaborated. “Most stuff gets shredded or melted down into raw materials and reformed into things we need. There’s a whole complex of machinery farther underground that deals with that.”

“Machines underground?”

“Sure. Or perhaps you think this place runs off pure love?” June made ridiculous kissing noises.

It was amazing to think there was a whole level to the Dome I wasn’t even seeing. As it was, the piles of scrap and machines and noise went on and on. Clusters of flys were everywhere. They carried items off the magflys, over the Kisaengs’ heads, and to the conveyor belts along the walls. Or to one of the many piles. And sometimes they seemed to be doing the whole maneuver in reverse—loading things back onto the magflys.

The smash of breaking glass cut across the din. One of the clusters of flys had literally dropped out of the air along with a pane of solar glass they’d been carrying. There was shrill scream and I saw the three Ellas standing, terrified but unharmed, in a puddle of blue shards.

I had flashbacks of the magfly accident the day before, wondering if we were all about to get “fixed” by the flys. But there was another clatter as more flys dropped—sending spools of copper wire rolling in every direction. Then another
crash
. And another.

Kisaengs were screaming and running for cover as flys went dead, midair and midjob. June was on the floor now too, her board having inexplicably dropped to the ground like dead weight. She tried to maneuver herself out of the way, heavy skirts dragging
behind her. But between falling debris and trampling feet there was nowhere to go.

I reached down to help just as her board mysteriously came back to life. June pulled herself onto it and shot out of the room. I was right behind her when I caught a flash of white out of the corner of my eye.

One of the Mothers was crouched behind a pile of old computers, her hand reaching for a fallen circuit board. The Curadores often had unusual looks, but this Mother was a study in contrasts. Her freckle-dusted brown skin was set off by white-blond hair that was twisted into a bun. Her face was long and elegant, but her nose had a slight bump to the bridge. And in the middle of it was a pair of immense, wide-set eyes. The whole combination should’ve looked odd, but instead, it was breathtaking.

While the other Kisaengs ran back up the stairs to safety, I dodged behind a pile of styrofoam insulation, watching her. What was even more unusual than the Mother’s appearance was that she was perfectly calm—we were the only two people not running away from the chaos. She moved low and stealthy, despite her very pregnant belly, and I moved with her, slipping from scrap heap to scrap heap. Watching.

She picked up a shiny data storage drive and fiddled with her tunic—tucking the drive into her dress in such a way that it completely disappeared behind the bulge of her stomach. Then just as a conveyor belt on the other side of the room went haywire, speeding up, flinging metal scraps in every direction, she darted out of her hiding place and grabbed a spool of copper.

I darted too, trying to get closer, and my foot sideswiped a pile
of aluminum cans. They went clanging in her direction and the woman’s head snapped up. I was surprised to see that she was just a few years older than me, and we stared at each other across the deserted Salvage Hall, still going mad around us. What was the protocol was for this situation?

I settled on “Hello?”

She looked startled by my voice. Maybe she was stunned that I would dare to talk to her. Maybe there were rules against that sort of thing. She glared at me, freckles popping dark against her tawny skin. Vivid against her white-blond hair.

The Mother did not scurry away. She stood tall . . . almost defiant. Slipping the spool into the pocket of her white dress. Then I noticed a small device, half hidden in her other hand. She pressed a blinking button and a cluster of nearby flys jettisoned their haul. A collection of plastic bottles rained down on me. I ducked, shielding my head.

When I looked up again, she was gone.