Nick James - Crimson rising

I watch August Bergmann emerge from the darkness, flanked on either side by a pair of Year Eleven boys, each blockier and less-friendly looking than the other. August himself is the blockiest of all the blocky. His broad, smarmy face is impossibly to stomach.

For a few weeks after Seattle he left me alone. I’m not sure if he was afraid of what I could do, or if he just needed time to reload. Whatever the case, he’s back to throw dirt in my face.

I struggle to my feet. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be up at Lookout, cheering us on?” He crosses his arms, blocking our path. “I was at Lookout, but you’re taking so long that I figured I’d have time to come down here, run a few laps, and make my way back before you were done.”

Manjeet freezes beside me. He stares at the floor. I’m sure he’s had his fair share of run-ins with people like August.

“That’s a lot of stickers, Fisher.” August points his finger at me like a gun, cocks it, and shoots. “Blam blam blam blam blam blam blam.”

“You’re gonna be in trouble when they find out you’re on the course.”

An eyebrow raises. “Not as much as you. That was you two nights ago, yeah? With the Pearl?”

I shrug.

He grabs the shoulder of the guy to his right. “Jensen here was in the showers after a late-night training run.” Jensen frowns. “The lights went out.” His voice is an almost incomprehensible, deep mumble. “Water turned cold.”

I nearly laugh, but if I do it’ll send August’s fist flying right into my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

August steps forward. “I’m not stupid. I didn’t suit up and head to Seattle last spring just so I could rescue a traitor.”

The fact that he thinks that he rescued me is beyond hilarious. Yeah, he was one of dozens of soldiers sent down to fight the Unified Party, but as far as I’m concerned, he was lucky not to get himself killed in all of the commotion. “Me and the Year Elevens,” he continues, as if he speaks for all Year Elevens, “we’re not happy with what you’re doing. Destroying Pearls-whatever’s going on-that’s Unified Party stuff. That’s Pearlhound work. And the fact that the teachers let you carry on like normal makes me sick.

Just admit it. You’re a traitor. Everything since Seattle has been planned. You’ve been working with the Unified Party behind our backs. Some of the guys are even saying you’re related to one of them.”

I bite my lip. “People say a lot of things.”

“It’s sabotage,” he continues. “Alkine’s keeping you onboard, but he’s gotta know.”

Manjeet’s hands quiver. “Maybe you shouldn’t rush to judgment until you’ve got all of the facts. Dr. Hemming would want you to-”

“Did I ask you a question?” August fumes.

His head goes down. “No.”

August continues to approach until he’s within striking distance. He could do anything. He could trip me and push me off the platform altogether if he wanted to. “You know,” he whispers, “if I were to knock you out and drag you outside the ship… leave you in the middle of nowhere so that you couldn’t find your way back, there are plenty of people onboard that would call me a hero, including some of the adults.”

My back tenses. I inch away from him, but I can’t go far. A few more steps and I’ll be falling back to the mats. If I had a Pearl right now, I’d show him what I can really do. I’d wipe the smug look from his face.

My lip quivers. I try not to let it, but I can’t help it. My voice is small, retreated somewhere inside of me. “So what are you gonna do?”

His eyes narrow. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about it, you know… the consequences. Weighing the good and the bad. I always knew there was something different about you, Fisher, but I never gave you enough credit. That’s my mistake. It all fits together now.”

“You’re an idiot.” I refuse to meet his eyes.

“What did you say?”

“An idiot,” I repeat, louder. “A moron. You know… stupid.”

He shakes his head, visibly distressed.

“You’re jealous,” I continue. “Aren’t you? That’s what it really is. You’re just upset that all of Alkine’s attention is on me. You’re

… you’re not the important one for once.” Manjeet grabs my shoulder. “Jesse… ”

August stands still for a moment, shoulders tense. Then, before I can react, his fist connects with my stomach. I bend forward, then stagger to the side. The heel of my shoe hangs off the edge of the platform for a split second before I stumble back to safety. I can’t talk. Can barely breathe.

He’s about to punch me again when a voice rings across the ceiling, emanating from speakers all around us. It’s Mrs. Dembo. “Year Elevens!” she bellows. “Get off my course!” August’s friends scatter. August sneers at me for a moment longer, unwilling to move. But I barely see him. Something else happens.

My vision goes red. I don’t know if it was triggered by the force of his punch or not. I topple onto my side. Manjeet panics. “You’ve killed him!”

August prods my leg with his foot before stepping away. “No, I haven’t. He’s just a freak, doing what freaks do.” I barely hear him. The heavy red begins to fade. Then, clear as a photograph, the coastline pulls into view again.

Only this time it’s different. I can manipulate it now, like I’m a bird staring down at the land. I pull away and steal a wider view. I twist in the air and see the pathway to the Academy-every last inch of it, all at once. Coordinates flash in my mind, exact crosshairs targeting the destination. I see everything, and in such detail that it’s almost too much. I imagine the Drifters sending the information to me. They’ve got to be doing it. They’re reaching out. They’re helping me.

My eyes snap open. The ceiling tiles of the training room blur into view, but the memory of the coastline remains. It’s burned into me.

“Jesse.” Manjeet crouches by my side. “Are you okay?” I nod. Never been better.

I’ve got it. I know where to find them.

Cassius woke with a start. His head jerked back and banged against a wall, sending a jolt of shock through his skull. His hands were pulled unnaturally to his sides, his legs bundled together and secured to the metal behind him.

He smelled it instantly, like coming home. Even after the fire he had conjured destroyed much of the main floor last spring, the sterile, scrubbed-down smell lingered-the hint of lavender that she insisted must always hang around. Memories flooded his barely conscious brain. Training courses, conversations, faces. He had no doubt. He was in the Lodge.

He took note of his surroundings, trying to discern what wing he was in. He knew the building inside and out, yet this room was unfamiliar. It was no bigger that the infirmary he’d woken in after his first explosion, and empty. A wall of cabinets hung to his right, each door shut and locked. Temperature-controlled air seeped in through the ceiling, pristine and cool.

He struggled against the restraints. No use. He was trapped.

His mind rocketed back to the slum lands of Providence-Avery Wicksen’s cold, emotionless face staring back at him as she injected the fluid into his neck. If he was truly in the Lodge now, they’d have traveled thousands of miles past the border and into New York State. He’d been unconscious the entire time, unable to remember any of it. Helpless for hours. They could have done anything to him.

He nearly lost it for a moment. It was the smell, mostly. He knew all of the officials at the Lodge on a first-name basis. He’d had friends here. Not real ones, but acquaintances nonetheless. Had they watched him being carried in? The murderer who had double-crossed their leader and left her for dead? If Cassius had been in their position five months ago, he would’ve wanted revenge. They’d be right to hate him.