Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

And then Dahlia plunges the makeshift blade of bone into his chest, once, twice, three times…

Renquist’s body spasms. Then his struggles begin to subside, until he finally stirs no more.

I fling his lifeless husk to the floor, staring at his glazed eyes, the puffy tongue poking out from between purplish lips. Kneeling by Dahlia, I try to arrange her torn clothing to cover her, but she flinches.

“ D-don’t… touch… me .” She covers herself.

“I’m sorry.” I move away, not knowing what to do or say.

She’s trembling, her eyes fixed on Renquist’s body. “What are we going to do about that .”

Pulling away from her, I stare back up at the grate. “We have to get him out of view, up inside the shaft.”

She looks confused. “Won’t they notice he’s missing?”

I shake my head. “Not for forty-eight hours.”

I scramble up into the shaft. As she helps me pull and wedge him through the duct, I explain about Renquist’s furlough.

Once he’s hidden away, I rummage through his uniform and utility belt. Aside from his security clearance card and flashlight, he’s got infrared goggles, a chronometer, and a compact, hand-held version of a holocam that can be worn around the wrist and will be great for monitoring the facility’s transmissions. He’s also got a gun. I take these, and then help Dahlia secure the grate cover enough that no one will be able to tell it’s been opened.

I check the time and stare down at her. “It’s almost 0600 hours. The morning shift will be arriving soon. Gotta get back to my own cell. You going to be okay?”

She nods. “Thank you. I just need to get cleaned up.” Plopping back down on the cot, she stares at the wall, humming some unrecognizable tune to herself as if I’m no longer there.

All the lights come on in the holding cells.

“Rise and shine, maggots!” an Imp croaks down the cell block.

I scramble away from the grating, squeeze past Renquist’s body, and scurry along the maze of ducts like a rat, my heart racing, my breaths rapid-firing. I’m breathless by the time I get back to the grate above my cell.

Tristin’s anxious eyes find mine—just as Styles opens the cell door. He stares at the lump on my cot. Apparently, Tristin’s bundled the sheet to make it look like I’m there.

He reaches for it. “Get your ass up, Sparky!”

Before he can touch it, Tristin bolts past him out the cell door. Styles turns and grabs her, and they begin to tussle.

“I have to see my brother!” she screeches.

She’s positioned her body so that Styles has his back to the cell… to me …

Not wasting a precious moment, I move the grate aside and slip through, moving it back in place just as Styles tosses Tristin back into the room, where she collides against me.

“No ration privileges for you today!” he shouts.

Then he glares at both of us. “Now hit the showers. Both of you. Today’s Trial is about to start.”

I nod at Tristin as we join the others lined up outside their cells.

As anxious as I am about what they have in store for us today, I can’t help but smile.

Things have changed.

The next Trial is about to begin.

Cage, Boaz, Drusilla, and Crowley are perched on the ledges of long cylindrical columns, which gleam like silver missiles ready to launch them into oblivion. Even through the unnatural flicker of the holo-projection, there’s no mistaking the new lines carved into their haggard faces. Their arms and legs tremble as they struggle to keep their balance, their backs pressed against the smooth steel.

But as bad as the other three look, Crowley’s fairing the worst. His flesh is leached of color, a sickly whitish yellow. His features are contorted, his cheeks and jaw clenched. Unlike the others, who are bracing themselves against the pillars with both hands, one of Crowley’s hands is grabbing his leg, just above the bloodied bandage that covers his torn flesh. Every time he teeters, I hold my breath, expecting him to lose his grip, tumble off, and plunge down the twenty feet or so to the surface.

Dahlia is standing in the shadows of the common room with the rest of us. Her eyes remind me of the carcharian’s—cold, empty sockets reflecting the dark emptiness within. I can’t even imagine what she must be feeling—if she’s even feeling anything right now. Maybe it’s better if she isn’t.

Welcome to your third trial, Recruits!

The lights in the chamber dim even further, until I can barely make out that the other Incentives are standing here with me.

Spotlights capture the four Recruits, washing out their features in a flood of cold light.

This next Trial is a test of endurance, requiring strength, balance, and the ability to withstand any natural threats you may encounter in hostile territory. Be the last Recruit to remain on your pedestal and you will be the victor. The winning Recruit must then select which one of their failed competitors must choose between their Incentives. However, if the victor is too weak to make this choice, then he or she will be deemed unworthy and immediately be shelved, along with any remaining Incentives.

My stomach knots. I remember how, during my own Trials, I was faced with the terrible burden of making a blind choice. The horror I felt when I found I’d selected Cypress—and watched her die alongside her two young children.

The choice is always yours. Good luck.

My eyes dart through the darkness, toward my cell. Now . While this Trial is going on. I have to risk going back into those ducts to look for more weapons.

The signal blares through the chamber.

A low hum fills the room, vibrating through my teeth. Cage, Boaz, Drusilla, and Crowley are braced against their pillars, which have begun to shake as if they’re suffering the aftershocks of an earthquake. Drusilla and Boaz’s eyes are shut as they struggle to retain their balance. Crowley’s face is a concoction of fear and pain. On the opposite end, Cage is staring straight ahead, stone-faced, as if he’s a sculpture etched out of his pillar.

Something brushes against my arm and I whirl. It’s Leander. In the dimness, I can barely make out his silhouette as he nudges his chin toward my cell, then back at the holos. But there’s no mistaking the nod he gives me.

He moves off to the center of the room.

“Boaz!” he shouts at the images. “You can do this! Don’t punk out on me!” He shouts obscenities at Boaz’s holo that would make even the most hardened Imps blush.

The perfect diversion to keep the focus off me.

None of the others seem to notice, their eyes glued to the three-dimensional projections as they agonize over whether or not they’re about to receive their own death sentences.

Now’s my chance. I sink deeper into the shadows, melding into the darkness until I’m feeling my way back into my cell. Once inside, I waste no time springing onto the cot, pushing the grate aside, and wedging myself up and through, ignoring the cold metal clawing at my skin.

After groping through Renquist’s things near Dahlia’s cell, I grab his flashlight and flick it on the dimmest setting, careful to keep it pointed away from the cell below. Good. This makes it much easier to pull on his uniform over the rags I’m wearing. Though I’ve packed on a lot of muscle during my Imposer training, Renquist’s uniform is still too big—I hope whoever spots me won’t look too closely.

Checking the weapon to make sure it’s loaded and ready, I holster it to my belt. I wedge the earpiece of Renquist’s hand-held holo in my ear and flick on the device. I adjust the audio level so it’s loud enough to hear, but not so loud that it would drown out any other warning sounds I might encounter. Then I start to crawl, keeping the hand-held in front of me so I can monitor the Trial as I slither through the twisting maze of ducts.