Terra (23 page)

Altara, Daedryl, Echor, Lexicon
… They’re listed in alphabetical order and look identical, except for one. Intheria’s hangar has been closed off, its entrance turned into a memorial for the Skyfall. A few travelers stand beneath the golden plaque bearing the city’s name, their heads bowed in reverence.

Unsurprisingly, inter-skycity travel seems much more popular than trips to and from the groundworld. Though our shuttle only housed a handful of passengers, plenty of skydwellers roam the terminal. They shoot wary looks in my direction as Akryn and I make our way to the exit.

It’s dark outside, but the air is crisp and clean. I inhale deeply as I take in my surroundings. The stars. From beneath the Transfer terminal’s glass ceiling, they didn’t look too special, but out here… The stars glitter from outside the crystal clear UV filter, like cosmic confetti sprinkled across the night sky. The terminal sits on a hill overlooking most of the colossal city; Korbyllis blazes beneath us with so many lights that it looks like it’s on fire.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Akryn says, chuckling at my awestruck expression. “There’s nothing else quite like it in the world.”

She allows me another moment of enthrallment before hurrying me into the back of a vehicle that’s been waiting at the curb. The transport’s windows are tinted black from the outside, and a dark screen separates us from where I assume the driver sits. The vehicle takes off with a jolt, and we zoom through the streets of Korbyllis. Unlike Sixteen, where hardly anyone stays out too long after dark, people are all over the streets here. We pause at a stoplight and I see women giggling in gaggles of three or four as they wait in line outside a thumping nightclub. Elegant couples exiting a restaurant with a sign written in fancy script. Men wearing suits gathered together at the base of a skyscraper, waving their cigars around animatedly as they chat.

It really is a different world up here. On the face of every beautifully made-up woman and cleanly shaven man is a look of pure, unencumbered delight. A look that makes it very obvious they have never known the hardship of the groundworld. And they never will. Not while we are there to endure it for them.

“Unfair” doesn’t even begin to cover it
, I think.

It’s half an hour before the vehicle finally comes to a stop. We pull up to an intimidating gate with spikes decorating the tips of its tall black bars. A palatial building sits behind the gate at the end of a long, winding driveway. The building’s polished walls are so white that they gleam under the light from the streetlamps framing the driveway.

“The Capital Building,” Akryn informs me as the gate opens and the transport delivers us to the front. The building’s columned facade makes it seem both historic and intimidating at the same time; I’m not sure whether to be impressed or scared.

“So what happens now?” I ask Akryn as I step out of the transport.

She purses her lips and looks me over. “You will be processed,” she says.

I have the distinct feeling that lawbreaker processing up here is not quite the same as it is in Sixteen. Akryn bypasses the set of golden doors at the building’s front, leading me instead to a small entrance to the side. She pulls a black card from the inside of her jacket and swipes it in a slot next to the handle.

“After you,” she says.

We walk through brightly lit halls for several minutes in silence. Finally, we stop in front of an innocuous white door with a frosted window cut into the top. A plate on the wall to the side of the door says “Processing Room A.” I can see someone standing on the other side through the opaque glass.

“This is where I leave you,” Akryn says, rapping on the door three times. In a low voice she adds, “I’m sorry.”

The door flies open. A black-suited guardsman with beady blue eyes looks me up and down with a grin. I turn back to Akryn, but she’s already gone.

“Welcome, little bird,” the new guardsman says, his voice hoarse. He places an arm, gloved in black leather, around my shoulders and shepherds me inside. The room is a windowless box with musty gray walls. Two stiff, un-cushioned chairs face each other in the center of the room. A small, rectangular metal table sits between them.

The guardsman takes a seat and gestures to the chair across from him.

“Please, sit.”

I hesitate, eyeing the chair dubiously.

“Sit,” he insists. It is not a request.

I unobtrusively scoot the chair back a few inches as I take my seat.

“Allow me to take your jacket,” he says, holding his arm out.

I unzip my jacket with trembling fingers. As he takes it from me, he grabs my hand.

“This is very pretty,” he says, tracing a jagged fingernail along the band of my watch.

I recoil, pulling my arm back and instinctively wrapping my other hand around my wrist.

“Here,” he says, pulling a shallow box from under the table. He folds my jacket into a tight square and places it inside. “We wouldn’t want to ruin it.” He holds out the box, and I reluctantly remove the watch and lay it atop my jacket. I start to draw my hand back, but Wolfe snatches it again and clamps a metal cuff around my wrist. He attaches the other end to my chair, pinning me to my seat.

There is a knock at the door. “Enter,” the guardsman says.

A thin, balding man in a white lab coat enters the room, carrying a silver tray. I cringe at the scraping sound the tray makes as the man centers it on the table. He exits wordlessly.

My nostrils flare as I take in the tray’s contents. There is a cup filled with what I assume to be water, a clear plastic bottle filled with round orange pills, and a syringe boasting a murky blue liquid.

I look up at the guardsman in alarm.

“My name is Wolfe,” he says calmly. “I am your Inquisitor. Welcome to your processing, little bird.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” I say.

Wolfe smirks as he glances from me to the tray, and back again. He pulls a small black device—identical to the one Brant used to question me after the Assembly—out of his pocket and sets it on the table.

His voice drips with malice as he picks up the bottle of pills. “Because I am going to make you sing.”

Chapter 21

“Please… stop…” I whimper as Wolfe forces another orange pill between my lips. I don’t know how much more I can take.

The first pill made me relive the memory of my mother’s death. It felt so real. An infant Mica crying in the background. My mother’s limp wrist dangling off the side of her bed. My father, stone-faced and silent, kneeling beside her.

The second pill jerked me back to the day my father left. I walked through the front door into the same empty apartment. I took in the expression on Gran’s face when she returned home with the same confusion. I watched the curve of her mouth as she announced his abandonment with the same outrage.

The visions fade as suddenly as they begin. As soon as I snap back to reality, my body still panging with sadness and fear, Wolfe continues his line of questioning.

“Where did you find the machine?” he says. Despite having already been at this for what I know is quite some time, his voice is as calm and detached as when we first started.

“The Dead Woods,” I say weakly. “You already know that.”

“I meant the second machine.”

“I found them both at the same time.” It’s the explanation I rehearsed during the shuttle ride.

“Do you know what it is?”

“No.”

“Why would you have held onto the second one if you found them together?”

“I—I didn’t know it would be
that
valuable, but I knew it had to be worth a lot. The other scavs, they get so upset when anybody gets a big payout, so I only turned one in at first. When they made such a big deal about it… I got scared. I couldn’t let them know I had another. It wasn’t just the other scavs, either. The Black Traders…” I trail off.

“So what changed? Why bother turning in the second machine at all if that was your concern?”

“I got… selfish.”
At least that much is true
, I think.

“See, that I believe. What I don’t believe is that you were restrained enough to hold back on a sure bet,” Wolfe says condescendingly. “If I were sitting on that much steel, do you think I would be able to resist locking it safely away in my account? Away from the Traders?”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he continues. “I’ve read your report. You lied to us about not crossing the quarantine line, and you’re lying to us now.”

“I told you, I found them together,” I repeat. “I was just scared. Please, there’s no need to—”

Wolfe bangs his fist on the table, causing the bottle of pills to tip over. They clink as the spill out onto the metal tabletop, rolling over the edge and decorating the floor with tiny orange polka dots.

“You’re trying my patience, little bird,” he says. He pinches a pill between his thumb and pointer finger and holds it out to me. “Let’s try again.”

I shake my head.

“I can continue to make you, if you prefer,” he says threateningly.

My free hand instinctively flies up to my face. I rub the still-sore spot on my jaw where Wolfe gripped my face after each former refusal. Where he squeezed until my mouth was forced open, shoved a pill inside, then clamped my jaw shut until I swallowed.

My hand shakes as I reach for the pill. Within seconds of swallowing, another hallucination starts. This time, instead of a memory, it’s a nightmare. Mica, being sworn in as a Black Trader. His smile curves maliciously as he grips the handle of the still-steaming brand he’s just used to mark his forearm with their trademark black T. His familiar voice, hard and cold, laughs at me. “What did you expect, sis?
A fairy tale ending in the sky
?”

Wolfe bangs the table, and I gasp back to the present. Over and over, the cycle repeats. The lines of my memories and the nightmares start to blur, until I’m no longer sure what’s real and what’s imaginary.

Gran’s death.

Our home burning to the ground.

Ryk and the raiders, catching me before I escape.

Adam, being shot in front of me.

I know it’s not real. I
know
that. But it feels so…

“Please,” I beg again. “I’ve already told you everything I know. Please let me go.”

Hours pass. Or it could be minutes. It feels like days, years, decades. We stop only twice. Once, when there’s another knock on the door and a meal is brought in. Wolfe consumes it greedily, watching me as I try to stifle my rumbling stomach. The other interruption comes when I vomit and I am taken to the restroom to clean myself up.

“When did you find the crash site?” Wolfe yells at me, ripping me back to the present. I am shaking; the image of Mica’s broken and bleeding body is still branded in my vision. I clutch my unshackled arm around myself tightly, trying to control my trembling, and I realize I am drenched with sweat. “How long have you been helping them?”

For the fifteenth—or maybe the fiftieth—time, I scream back, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“And I don’t know why you won’t cooperate with me,” Wolfe says.

I whimper. Every question he asks makes less sense than the last. He asks me about things that I honestly don’t know the answer to—people I’ve never heard of, places I’ve never been—and I stop needing to lie. Finally, he walks over and crouches next to me.

“Who are you protecting?” he asks, softening his voice. “And why? I think you need to ask yourself, little bird, if it’s worth it.”

I jerk my head away as he reaches out to push aside the hair sticking to my sweaty forehead.

I hold in another whimper, my lip quivering with the effort.

“It’s time to come clean,” he continues, forcing kindness into his eyes. “Help us, and we’ll help you.”

Whatever it is they think I know, it’s clear that Brant was wrong. The Tribunal is not going to let me go. I muster what small amount of defiance I have left in me, and spit it directly into Wolfe’s face.

He sighs as he wipes my saliva from his cheekbone. Slowly, he pulls the black gloves off his hands, finger by finger, and lays them carefully on the table.

“Fine,” he says. “If that’s how you want it, that’s how we’ll play it. Just remember, I tried to go easy on you.”

I gasp as his fingers curl into a fist. His eyes narrow. He rears his arm back, and I grip the underside of my chair with white knuckles, bracing myself for the bone-crushing impact.

I don’t look away.

Wolfe slams his fist into the left side of my face with such force that it actually blinds me. I hear a beeping noise, and the table vibrates. When my vision returns half a second later, it is dotted with white spots. Tears pool in my eyes. I feel them run down my free hand as I cradle my cheek, and I pray that tears are the only thing making my face wet.

Wolfe shakes out his hand, walking back around the table to retrieve the beeping device. He reads the screen and curses under his breath.

“Looks like you’re off the hook, little bird. Your processing is over.” He shoots me an inquisitive glance before adding, “You must really be something special.”

I want to ask him what he means, to demand an explanation, but I know if I open my mouth, all that will come out are the sobs I am struggling to contain.

Wolfe slips the device into his pocket and grabs the syringe. I should be terrified of the blue liquid, but more fear won’t stop it from happening. Instead, I almost feel… relieved.

At least this part is over,
I think.

Wolfe rubs a piece of wet cloth on the side of my neck. I don’t remember seeing the cloth on the tray, but it has the burning smell of alcohol and makes my skin tingle as it dries.

“This might hurt a little,” he says. The irony of that statement coming from the man who just punched me in the face is not lost on me. I gasp as he pushes the needle into my skin. Within moments the throbbing in my cheek begins to fade. My eyelids droop lazily and, before they close completely, I see Wolfe reaching for me.

* * *

When I awaken, I am in a completely different place. This room is bright and stark white. Aside from the two black-suited guardsmen standing near a door on the opposite wall, the room is pretty much empty. There are a few cabinets—also white—lining the walls, and a table piled high with electronics off to the side.