Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

I squint through my protective goggles against the maelstrom of swirling sand and blinding neon lights closing in on either side of me, trying to crush me in their rainbow vise.

This is it. The Avenue of Longing. Home of the Pleasure Emporiums, the place where every appetite can be satisfied—for a steep price.

How many thousands—no, hundreds of thousands —of patrons have had their dark fantasies fulfilled behind these brilliantly lit facades, all at the expense of countless kids with no one to care, no one to fight for them?

Until now.

The sandstorm moans in my ears, its winds buffeting my body as if trying to hold me back.

But I won’t be denied. Not after coming so far.

Adrenaline burns through me like lit kerosene. The familiar rush that I’ve nicknamed the crush —a mixture of fear, defiance, and justice, with a heaping dollop of vengeance. After months of sneaking off from my unit and risking execution, you’d think I’d have gotten used to it.

Still, each act of sabotage, each betrayal of the Imposer uniform I wear, seems just as exciting as the first and has made me even more daring. But it never seems to be enough.

Not until I’ve made the very government I serve pay for all the hurt it’s caused.

I pull the chronometer from my pocket. Sand covers its face, obscuring the digital display. I brush it away and study the readout.

Less than an hour left. If I don’t accomplish what I came here to do and get back to my unit, I may never get another chance.

Stuffing the timepiece back in my pocket, I pull my cowl tighter against the sudden chill of the desert night, fully hiding my Imposer uniform. It wouldn’t be good for anyone to recognize Lucian Spark, the Establishment’s newest Recruit and member of the Imposer elite squad. Especially since I’m AWOL.

I push through the gusts and down the paved concourse, leaving the yawning wasteland in my wake.

There are only a few stragglers here and there, lurking in the shadows, ducking down side streets. Probably just servants, valets of the Establishment’s elite, hidden from the public’s gaze. Weaving among the buildings, I pull out a few of the silver discs stuffed in my pocket and make sure to scatter them at random. If anyone sees me, they’ll assume I’ve had one wanderer’s brew too many.

I’ve never been more sober in my life.

I round the corner and spot my target.

Harmony House.

Its vulgar turrets and arches, bathed in the glow of sweeping, multicolored spotlights, are a fitting monument to the Establishment’s corruption. A pathway of red carpet, flanked by golden rails, leads to the arched double doors.

This was the place that ultimately destroyed her. The place that’s destroyed so many.

I stride up the pathway, burning with purpose. A hover carriage, propelled by gravity boosters, nearly collides with me.

“Watch where you’re going,” an electronically modulated voice shouts from behind the tinted windows obscuring the identities of the passengers.

But I ignore it, reaching the entrance at last. Before I can knock, the doors slide apart of their own accord. I enter and they squeal shut, sealing me inside.

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust. Wisps of stale smoke swirl through the shafts of dim gaslight, flickering down from the vaulted ceiling. The cloying stench of incense, sweet perfumes, alcohol, and sweat is suffocating. The sounds of wind instruments weave their way through the chamber.

“Welcome,” a throaty voice croaks from the shadows.

A tall, sinewy figure slinks out of the darkness, wrapped in form-hugging leather. It has short, dyed-blue hair and skin pale as chalk. Even from here I can see the thick concealer caked on that face, drawing attention to the wrinkles and blemishes it’s trying desperately to hide.

My eyes flick to the silver tablet clutched in one of those bony hands—the master control unit. As subtly as I can, I press a notch in my utility belt, activating the computer virus that’ll hack into the security system at Harmony House and reprogram it—that is, if my black market source earned his hefty fee.

I nod. “Evening.”

The figure circles once before sidling up to me, hot breath snaking up my left ear. “Raja Featherbone here, carnal caterer extraordinaire. Your pleasures are my desire.” The proprietor takes a puff of the long cigarette clutched in the other hand, smiles, and exhales a wave of concentric circles that ring my head and throat like a smoky noose. “So tell me. What does it take to make your clock chime, young man, hmmm?”

I smile back, fighting the urge to cough. “I’m looking for something… fresh tonight.” I force a wink to hide my disgust. “I hear that’s your specialty.”

A chuckle bursts from Featherbone’s throat. “Oooh! Yes indeedy! But that will cost you an extra premium. You know, supply and demand and all.”

I wave these concerns away. “Not a problem.” The computer scanner in my belt vibrates once, signaling that the hack is about one third complete. A genuine smile coats my lips this time.

“Oooh, Goody-goody!” Featherbone shoves the cigarette in place between yellowed teeth and presses a hand against the control unit’s screen. There’s a buzz as Featherbone’s fingerprints are scanned. A split second later, a green light on the device blinks.

Featherbone nudges me with a pointy elbow and a lewd glance before tapping the keys with the speed of a scavenger. “We have quite the selection tonight, oh yes we do, yes indeedy!” The music cuts off. A rising hum fills the room, tingling through my ears, rattling my teeth. Panels in the ceiling stretch open with a bone-crushing grind. With the whir of motors, transparent tubes descend, each containing a body. One by one, these capsules rotate just above me, allowing me to get a good look at their cargo.

They’re just children.

I can see the fear in their faces, particularly the younger ones, imploring me with saucered eyes. But what’s even more chilling is the jaded expression of the older ones. They’re maybe fourteen or fifteen years old at most—just a couple of years younger than me. It’s as if they’ve been through this selection process hundreds of times and are almost bored with it. All of them are wearing blinking red bands around their wrists—security restraints. If they try to escape, a remote signal will deliver instant pain and death.

I want to reach out and snap Featherbone’s scrawny neck. But that would be too easy. I’d be taken down by security quickly, and then this whole operation would have been in vain. My belt scanner vibrates twice. The security hack is halfway complete. I just have to hold this scum off a little longer.

“You certainly have a lot to choose from.” I push the words through my mouth even as I struggle to push the bile back down my throat. “I guess you’ve been doing this for quite some time.”

Featherbone’s fingers tiptoe up my back. “I’m not that old, lovie.” He squeezes the words through his cigarette-clenched teeth. “Well? Care to taste any of my treats?”