Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

The bodies of those that reject the bio-mechanical synth are broken down for food processing.

Those crackers, passed around and consumed during their religious rites…

Consume the flesh of the Begetter and become one…

I brace myself against the terminal. Bile rises in my throat and I fight the urge to retch. Terror engulfs me. This is even worse than all the horrors I’ve seen combined.

Digory reaches out to me, but I push him out of the way and type a name in the search field.

Lucian Spark.

Instantly, all the data associated with my Recruitment appears onscreen, along with entries for Mrs. Bledsoe.

And Cole.

Beside Mrs. Bledsoe’s name, there’s a notation in red:

Subject Shelved. Interactive Simulation inactive.

I select the entry anyway and her face appears onscreen. The lump in my throat makes it nearly impossible to smile. She’s smiling at me like Arrah’s mother was, and looking the picture of health, so unlike that ghastly apparition I saw deep in the tunnels of the Skein when I was a Recruit.

“Mrs. Bledsoe,” I whisper.

Her eyes light up. “Oh, Lucky! It’s so good to see you, boy!” Even through my tears, I can see how she’s beaming with pride. “You’ve grown into quite the young man. I always knew you would.”

The simulation must be programmed to respond to my voice pattern, which it does— too perfectly. For a second it’s like glimpsing an alternate future, one that might have been if it hadn’t been so cruelly ripped away.

I tap the next selection before I lose my nerve. Mrs. Bledsoe’s face disappears, replaced by Cole’s face.

Cole smiles at me. “When are you gonna come see me, Lucky?” he asks.

Digory’s hands grip my shoulders, steadying me.

“I’m coming home real soon,” I whisper. I toggle through the options, watching Cole age, become a man in seconds before my very eyes, then grow older. The one thing that never seems to change is his eyes, trusting, believing in me.

Unlike Mrs. Bledsoe’s, this is a future that can still happen.

That will happen, if I have anything to say about it.

I scroll further down the menu under my name and see something at the bottom of the list that almost makes my heart stop.

Sowing Protocol initiated on test subject Spark, L.

Digory’s eyes grow wide.

“Digory—you mentioned this Sowing thing in your last transmission to the rebels on Recruitment Day,” I say urgently. “You found out about it while spying on Cassius and you said it was very dangerous. What did you mean? Tell me .”

He grips a fistful of his hair. His eyes narrow and the muscles in his jaw clench. Finally he turns to me, slowly shaking his head.

Whatever they did to him at Infiernos has blocked the memory.

My heart’s racing as I try to access the file, but all I get is the same message.

Highly Classified. Access Restricted.

What have they done to me? And what have they already done to Cole?

Crowley’s groan of pain mirrors my own. Digory and I rush to his side.

“I don’t want to be like them …” His grips tightens and his eyes grow wide. “Kill me, Spark. Please …”

I tear myself from his grasp, backing into Digory.

All these capsules… they’re all people from the Parish. Over the years, countless Recruits have fought for their Incentives’ lives, only to be rewarded by having the people they loved most mutilated and transformed into Fleshers.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out the transceiver and make sure it’s set to the right channel. I’m not sure of its range, but I have to at least try to transmit the files to Arrah and the others. They need to know what’s going on here.

Rifling through the lab, I find a data chip, and in a few anxious minutes have downloaded the information, plugged it into the device and hit transmit. The signal’s weak, and there’s no way of telling if my message was received, but there’s nothing else I can do.

But I don’t send anything related to this Sowing Protocol. Not until I find out what it is and what they’ve done to me.

“Spark, I’m begging you. It hurts so much.” Crowley begins to sob.

His words feel like a knife carving me from side to side. There’s a small part of me that wants to flee. But after everything I’ve been through, all the suffering I’ve seen, I understand what it feels like to want to die. If I turn away, I’ll awaken every night to Crowley’s pleas in my head, knowing I could have stopped his agony and did nothing.

Breathing deep, I take a step toward the capsule.

But Digory beats me to it. He reaches his hands inside and I hear Crowley’s cries become muffled. The cords on Digory’s neck pulse with the effort. His face turns red, even as his eyes well.

Crowley’s gurgling starts to fade. And then it’s gone.

Digory bows his head and I rest my hand on his shoulder.

Then the lights on Crowley’s capsule begin to flash and the blare of an alarm fills the room.

I’m already pulling Digory away, but we’re not quick enough. Shadows descend around us, dropping out of the ceiling like huge arachnids spiraling down invisible webs. Four huge Fleshers land on the ground, surrounding us. The same four that always escort Straton wherever he goes—except for now.

Digory snarls at them. The muscles in his neck and arms pulse under the strobe of the Fleshers’ lights. I assume my own attack stance. Although we’re outnumbered and outmatched, I’m not going to go down without a fight. Maybe we can even inflict some damage before we’re taken.

There’s a series of sharp clicks as flaps of skin on the creatures’ arms burst open. Long, metallic appendages squeeze out from the flesh, dripping that slimy dark ooze that passes for blood. The sharpened probes inch toward us…

Game time.

Digory lunges, grabbing the glistening instrument and twisting it away even as he leaps onto that Flesher’s shoulders. I whirl and strike the Flesher in front of me with a roundhouse kick. My foot throbs with the impact, but the automaton barely stumbles backwards.

The next few seconds are a blur. Flashes of steel strike my body. I roll, kick, punch as these horrors lash out with their hideous tentacles and sharpened pincers, steel teeth chattering like the whirring blades of meat grinders. At one point, Digory somehow manages to twist the instruments of two Fleshers together, forcing them to engage in a screeching bout of tug-of-war to free themselves.

I’m hurled hard onto my back, which sends a flash of pain through my spine. A blade pistons out from the Flesher’s throat. I manage to shove my head aside and, a split second later, the blade smashes into the floor beside me, spraying my face with chunks of cold tile. Before I can roll out of the way, the pincers crash down on either side of my neck, pinning me into position. The cold, slimy metal instrument presses against my throat, making it hard to breathe as it cuts into my skin.

My eyes begin to water. I manage to twist my head to the side, ignoring the pain of the pincers cutting the sides of my neck. It’s taken the three other Fleshers to finally overpower Digory and pin him to the ground. Through the blur I can see the fresh cuts and welts on his heaving torso where his jumpsuit has been torn away, leaving only the gleaming silver of my ID tag over his heart, rising and falling with each breath. He goes out of focus for a moment. Then our eyes meet, and I see the mixture of fury and tenderness there.

Whir .

I shift my gaze to the Flesher holding me down. It’s face is expressionless as the pincers begin to contract, cutting deeper, squeezing out all my air.