Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

“This one’s ready!” Styles barks. He turns and gives us a smirk before slinking out of the chamber after the other Imposers.

Leaving Dahlia and me alone… for the last time.

“Just think of your mother,” I say to her.

She lowers her voice to a whisper. “My jealousy of you wasn’t why I shunned my mother after the Trials. I didn’t want her to go to Haven like the other surviving Incentives.” She fights a sob. “It’s not the paradise that everyone’s been led to believe. It’s—”

The hydraulics grind to life again.

“—Must stop this at once!” a familiar voice commands, out of my field of vision.

Cassius has left the control room he’s been hiding in and is here in the flesh, barreling in with a squadron of Imposers that includes Valerian and Sergeant Slade. His cloak whips behind him as he pushes his way toward us.

When our eyes meet, his face flinches for a moment, but he turns to address the nearest soldier, jabbing a finger in our direction. “We cannot shelve them before we extract useful information from them. Get them down at once!”

“Yes, Sir!” the officer responds, nearly toppling over his companion as they come forward to unlock Dahlia and me from our bonds.

We exchange confused looks as we’re released and dragged down to join the other Incentives. This time, Cassius doesn’t make any eye contact with me.

But Slade does. She reaches out a leather-gloved hand and grips my jaw, her cold fingers digging into my flesh. Stalactite eyes pierce right through me. “Don’t worry, Spark. This is only a brief reprieve. Once you’ve answered our questions, you’ll be shelved.” She leans in until our noses are practically touching. “As a matter of fact, I’ll be pulling the switch myself.”

She shoves me aside.

Styles comes bustling to the forefront with the rest of his squad. He salutes Cassius, Slade, and Valerian. “What’s going on, Sir?”

Cassius turns to him, still avoiding eye contact with me. “It appears we’ve located your companion, Renquist—dead. In one of the vent shafts. Along with a cache of weapons.”

“Renquist… is dead? ” Styles’s stance falters. He looks confused.

But he can’t possibly be as confused as I am.

“I’m afraid it’s true, Styles.” Cassius pats him on the shoulder. “It would appear these Incentives have been busy, possibly working in tandem with the Recruits and a traitor in our midst, right under your noses, in fact.”

He finally turns to me, his eyes bitter with frost.

“And they’re going to provide us with some answers, before they are all executed.”

My aching lungs revolt against the cold water flooding them, cutting off the air. My nails scrape against the metal armrests, cracking, tearing. Can’t take it in. Can’t spit it out. I flail in the chair I’m strapped to. My body convulses as if jolts of electricity are ripping through it. Drowning, struggling for a single breath… nothing but a big blur. Colors. Shapes. A dozen times already and the fear’s worse each time. It’s not going to stop this time—oh, shit. Fuck. No… .

Swoosh!

The water filling the face mask that covers my head is sucked out once again by the vacuum tube.

Dark shapes move into view, blocking out the hot glare of the floodlights trained on me.

Sergeant Slade and Captain Valerian.

Valerian rips the mask from my head, her nose wrinkling from the stench of my throw-up. But other than that, she seems just as bored as she did when this whole interrogation began.

The same can’t be said for Slade. Her eyes are twinkling like fireflies. Her thin lips pull back to her ears in a half-moon grin. She’s relishing every moment of my degradation and suffering.

She leans in conspiratorially. “I am going to ask you for the last time, Spark. Who were your accomplices in the murder of Officer Renquist?”

I clear my throat of the lingering mixture of acid and puke. I lift the burden of my eyes until I’m staring her dead on. “I’ve already told you at least a dozen times, you stupid bitch.” My voice sounds ragged, hoarse. Every syllable hurts. “It was only me. Get it? Me .”

I’m going to die anyway. No sense dragging anyone else down with me if there’s even the remotest of chances—

Smack!

The force of her blow snaps my head back. In seconds, the side of my face is throbbing. My tongue scrapes against my gums, tasting metal. My back molar rattles in its socket.

In spite of the pain, I conjure up a smirk. “You don’t have much to give, huh?”

The words hit her like a seismic surge. Her smile cracks and sinks. Tremors rock her reddened face. She tears the helmet from Valerian’s hands and slams it back over my head. It still reeks of vomit.

“I think we need to try this again.” She marches over to the control panel. Her hand hovers over the release valve.

Buzz!

The sound shatters my already-shredded nerves. A transmission is coming through the com system. The large screen flickers to life.

Slade twists the valve shut. The dark gunk in my mask freezes less than an inch away from the faceplate, sloshing with a sickening wetness.

Cassius appears on the monitor.

Behind him, the others—Cage, Boaz, Drusilla, Arrah, Dahlia, Tristin, and Corin—are barely standing, their faces and exposed parts of their bodies covered in bleeding cuts and bruises. My eyes linger on the kid’s hands. Even from this camera angle, I can see the blood oozing from the tips of his fingers.

They pulled every single nail out.

My hands and feet strain against their restraints.

“Has he confessed the conspiracy to you yet, Sergeant?” Cassius asks Slade.

Is that a squirm? This must be the first time I’ve ever seen Slade this nervous. “Prefect Thorn, Sir. Spark insists on the lie that he was solely responsible for the murder and theft.” Her eyes shoot hate my way, then return to Cassius. “But I can assure you, I was just about—”

Cassius’s tsks silence her as effectively as a shout. He shakes his head. “No, no, no, sergeant. I’m disappointed. I would have thought someone with your expertise would understand that there is only one thing Lucian Spark cares about.” He sighs. “ Others .”

He holds out his hand to Styles, who is standing behind the group. “Give me your sidearm, Officer.”

Styles unclips the gun from its holster. His expression alternates between bloodlust and disappointment, as if he’s being robbed of another opportunity to inflict pain on the innocent. He slides the weapon into Cassius’s palm. The long, gleaming, black eel contrasts against alabaster flesh.

My heart trips over itself as, one by one, Cassius’s long fingers coil around the grip. He holds the gun out and begins to pace along the haphazard line of haggard Recruits and Incentives. They’re sandwiched together, terror and exhaustion spread over their faces, eyes pleading through the cameras at me.

Cassius studies each one as he passes, the barrel of his weapon tracing lines of sweat, blood, and grime across their foreheads. “What is it going to be, Lucian? Are you going to cooperate, or am I going to be forced to motivate you?”

“Don’t bother, Spark.” The sound of Boaz’s voice surprises everyone, like the dead calm of the eye of a storm that rages around it. “They’re going to kill us either way.”

The cock of a trigger cracks loudly, like the sound of splintering bone. Cassius shakes his head. “Our first volunteer.”

Before words can erupt from my throat, Cassius jams the gun against Boaz’s temple. I can almost feel the cold steel pressed against my own head and I flinch—