Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  I can’t help thinking he looks like a pirate in this setting, with black hair scraped back and tied in a low ponytail, a weapon’s strap bisecting his chest, and his wide-legged stance. He’s tanner than before—probably from living on the boat—and an air of authority has replaced his rebellious manner. We eye each other warily.

  Finally, Idris says, “I’m glad to see the troops carried it off. Red told me they had to change the plan on the fly. Still, you’re here.”

  “Rhedyn says you set up the rescue. Why?”

  “Right to it, huh? No time for ‘You’re looking fit, Idris,’ or ‘Thanks for saving me from a life as a fetus factory.’”

  “You’re-looking-great-thanks.” I stare at him. “Now—?”

  “It’s a huge blow to the Prags, stealing you from them. They’ve been broadcasting bits and pieces from your trial, and the conviction was trumpeted at a special Assembly yesterday. Then the Defiance snatched you out from under their noses.” He thumbs his nose.

  “That’s why—it’s good PR?” The fish works its gills and flaps its tail feebly. I want to toss it back.

  His sly grin tells me there’s more. “That, and your knowledge will come in useful.”

  I regard him distrustfully. “How?”

  “All in good time.”

  The fish makes a heroic leap in my direction, landing near my foot. Its scales glint silvery-blue.

  I’m bending to pick it up and return it to the river when my tummy grumbles loudly.

  Idris laughs. “Hungry?” He stoops to grasp the fish, holds it over the rail, and slices its head off with one quick slash of a knife that suddenly appears in his hand. The head makes a tiny splash falling into the river. “Breakfast will be served shortly.”

  I want to stay on deck, but Idris clearly expects me to follow him, so I trail him down the stairs to a small galley in the bow. It smells like rancid oil used to fry fish. He introduces me to the two people working there, and hands over the fish.

  “Come on,” he says to me. “I’ll give you the tour.”

  He leads me back toward the stairs and uses his palm print to open a door. “Armory,” he says, barely allowing me time to take in the racks of beamers, guns, anti-personnel bomblets and other weapons ranged around the room before shutting the door again.

  Without comment, he leads me through the room with the tables and dance floor. “Dining area. You don’t work—you don’t contribute—you don’t eat. Breakfast this morning is on the house. After that . . .”

  I don’t have a chance to say anything before he’s leading me down another flight of stairs. These are narrow and vertical and I have to descend backwards. I get the feeling he’s staring at my ass, but when I reach the bottom, he’s facing away from me, putting his eye to an iris scanner. The door swings silently inward. “Comms room,” Idris announces.

  A girl sitting in front of a display projected above a computer turns to look at us. He introduces her and tells her to grab some breakfast. She leaves, giving me a curious look. I, meanwhile, am looking around at a wealth of radios, broadcast equipment, computers, and terminals I can’t identify. Radar or sonar? It must take a lot of power to keep all this running. Wyck must be the local hero for fixing the engine. I’ve never seen anything like it. I begin to grasp that there’s more to the Defiance than I realized. They’re clearly better organized, equipped and financed than I’d have thought possible.

  “How many people live here?”

  “Twenty, give or take. We’re one cell—a damned effective one. There are dozens more, hundreds, ready to reclaim Amerada from the geneborns, take back the food and education and opportunities that should be ours.” His intensity singes me.

  I gesture to the equipment. “This is how you receive ‘orders,’ like the one telling you to rescue me?”

  His eyes narrow. “I brought you down here for one reason and one reason only, Jax: to tell you to stay out. I know you—you’ll snoop and pry like you did at Bulrush. You’ll learn things you shouldn’t know and you’ll give it all up. How do I know that? A good man is dead because of you. You remember the station master, the one you and Fiere delivered the pregnant girl to, practically the last mission before we were raided. What was her name? Faline? Fallon? The one with the ears that stuck out, so pregnant she was ready to pop.

  “I can see you remember the mission. The station master was Frode—I don’t know if you got around to introductions, so the name might not mean anything. You remembered where to find him, though, and you gave the IPF very accurate directions.”

  “How—?” My airway is constricted; the word is barely audible.

  “How do we know they found him because of you?” His tone is bitingly scornful. “Because your name came up while they were torturing him, before they cut off his head and left it on a stake outside his home for his wife and son to find.”

  “I couldn’t help—”

  “No one can. The point is, you can’t give up information you don’t have. So, Jax,”—he’s behind me suddenly, the knife he used to decapitate the fish pressed to my throat—“if I ever—ever—find you in here, on any pretext whatsoever—I will kill you dead and toss you overboard like fish guts. This is my cell and I will not have its ops or people compromised because you’re too stupid not to realize that it’s better not to know things sometimes. Do you understand me?”

  I’m enraged with myself that I forgot Fiere’s lesson one, be alert, and let him get the drop on me. His knee digs into the small of my back, arching it so I feel like it’s going to snap, and his other hand grips my chin like a vise. I can smell fish on the hand holding my chin still, and a hint of garlic on his breath. I can’t nod without impaling myself, so I say, “Yes.” I’m trembling with a mix of fury that he would do this, and guilt over the station master’s death. If I drive my elbow back into his solar plexus like Fiere taught me—Before I decide if I want to act, the knife’s point stings below my jaw and blood trickles down my neck.

  Idris releases me, backs up a step, wipes the blade along his leggings, and says, “Good. As long as we understand each other. Oh, and you understand that you can’t leave now, right? No one who has seen a Defiance headquarters gets to leave—can’t run the risk of a security leak like the one that led to Bulrush’s obliteration. Once you’re in, you’re in for life. Till death do us part, as they say. Let’s eat.”

  I blot the blood with my sleeve, glaring at him. While I can see the utility of the policy, it doesn’t make me any happier knowing that I’ve unwittingly exchanged one kind of prison for another, especially since I’m not sure I support the Defiance’s methods or goals.

  He steps aside and gestures elaborately, mockingly, for me to precede him out of the room. I scramble up the ladder while he’s securing the comms room and find my way to the dining room where eight or nine people are eating, including Rhedyn and Wyck. Their heads are close together and she puts a hand on his arm.

  He looks up, sees me, and smiles. “Ev.” He summons me to their table.

  Rhedyn leans back, crossing her arms over her ample chest.

  I sit, my thoughts swirling. Uppermost is grief that I unwittingly betrayed the station master, Frode, to his death. Did he also give up names under torture? Did I unleash a chain of death? It’s a horrifying thought. I picture a giant chain, iron links closing around person after person, squeezing them to death—

  “Ev?”

  From the way Wyck and Rhedyn are looking at me, I know I’ve missed something. “Sorry, what?”

  “Nothing much,” Rhedyn says, shaking back her mane of red hair. “Just wanted to be sure you slept okay. Accommodations adequate? Your bunkmates should be back by tonight.”

  I know better than to ask where they are, and murmur something about sleeping fine. I eat without noticing the food and regain my equilibrium after a few bites. Starvation definitely affects brain function. Feeling more myself, I’m ready when Rhedyn rises, and says, “Debrief.”

  They take me upstairs to
where the sun has warmed the river so that it releases a wet, algal scent. The mist has burned off and the far bank, maybe half a mile across the Chattahoochee, shows no sign of life; it’s a somnolent stretch of mud flat that reminds me too much of the quicksand where Wyck almost died. I turn away. We climb another flight of stairs to the top deck, an open expanse surrounded by a decorative railing, a space where partiers could view the passing scenery, I guess. Or maybe there used to be tables, and wedding guests ate up here. I’ll have to check the brochure Wyck found. There’s a metal framework twined with small lights that probably burned out decades ago; now, it supports the camouflage netting that drapes from it, hiding the boat from surveillance drones. At the far end a pilot house sits, topped with a fancy cupola and gingerbread decorations. It’s bracketed by two smokestacks, also supporting camouflage nets. Rhedyn opens the door to the pilot house, a small room with a spoked captain’s wheel and counters with gauges and screens that are currently blank and still. I can’t tell if they’re functional or not.

  Idris enters after us and closes the door. I glower at him and move to the farthest corner, hiking myself onto a counter. They take turns grilling me on everything I remember about the Central Detention Facility: routines, guards’ names, layout, interrogation techniques, and more. Under their questioning, I remember far more than I realized I knew. They move on to questions about the trial, the judge and jury, Zestina Pye, the courtroom’s security measures, my transportation to and from the judicial building. I’m exhausted by the time Idris gets up from the captain’s chair and announces, “Well, I guess you’ve earned your dinner. Tomorrow’s soon enough to get started planning the op.” He leaves and we can hear him calling for Luz.

  The other two linger and I ask, “What op?”

  They exchange a look, and Wyck says, “Best to let Idris explain it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. How far are we from Atlanta?”

  “An hour by fast ACV,” Rhedyn says. “Close enough to launch missions, far enough to be relatively secure. The surrounding area is deserted. There was a fertilizer plant here that got blown up during the Between—I’d say the locals stay away because of the contamination, but there are no locals. You can go for a walk, if you want, get the lay of the land. I wouldn’t advise swimming—you’ll glow blue for a couple of days if you do.”

  I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not.

  “The password changes daily. Today’s is 'quartz.' You’ll need it to get back to the ship.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Wyck says.

  Rhedyn hesitates, gives a curt nod, and leaves. I wonder about their relationship.

  “Let’s get you some new gear first,” Wyck says, gesturing to my blood-streaked white costume.

  For that’s what it is—a costume. Vestor picked it to turn me into a character in his play. I’ll be happy to leave the pretense of innocence behind. I’m not innocent. Station master Frode’s death testifies to that.

  Twenty minutes later, clad in an olive green jumpsuit Wyck dug up from somewhere and calf-high boots, we descend the gangplank. Wyck tosses a mock-salute at the sentries and we walk east. By daylight, the area has a strange beauty. Trees line the riverside, willows and oaks and magnolias, some dead, but some leafed out, taking advantage of the locusts’ current absence to drink in the sun and fulfill their treely destiny. Chartreuse kudzu twines around some of the trunks. In the distance, the burned out hulk of the fertilizer factory rises, a smokestack or two still spearing the sky. Imploded buildings, the curve of an industrial-sized vat, and scraps of fence a blot the horizon. The sky is a brilliant blue today, cloudless, and it lends its color to the river. A closer scrutiny makes me think the river water is actually an unnatural blue from who knows what chemicals, and I keep a careful distance from the edge.

  “Pretty but scary,” Wyck says, observing my reaction.

  “Is the fish really edible?” I try to remember if I had fish for breakfast.

  “Seems to be okay after boiling. Hasn’t killed us yet anyway.”

  I let it go. We’re a hundred yards from the paddle boat now, hidden by a screen of trees. Suddenly, Wyck grabs my hands, yanks me behind a tree, and slams me up against the trunk. Then he’s kissing me, pressing my back against the rough bark, his hands tangling in my hair. I’m kissing him back, hungry for his familiar touch. He’s stronger than before, his muscles ropier. His kiss tastes of desperation and sadness.

  I turn my head aside after a moment so his lips slide across my cheek. “You don’t mean it, do you?” I’m not sure I do, either. Saben . . .

  He bows his head so his forehead rests against my collarbone. “I want to,” he says. “I thought you were dead. Then, when I heard you were alive, on trial, I thought they’d execute you.” He raises his head and searches my eyes. “I was scared, so scared.”

  And Cas was dead. I don’t say his name.

  “They told me you were dead, too,” I say, gripping both his hands tightly. “All of you.”

  “They hurt you, didn’t they?”

  There’s no hiding this truth; he already knows the answer. “Yes.”

  He shifts his weight and presses against my ribs. I let out a stifled yelp and he pulls back immediately. “What?”

  “Ribs. Don’t worry—they’re almost healed. They stopped—interrogating—me a few weeks back. After I told them everything,” I add bitterly. “I couldn’t help it, Wyck, I couldn’t. The drugs, the electricity . . .” I feel again the jagged bolts of lightning burning through me, shredding every nerve ending, leaving me gasping and flopping like Idris's poor fish. I shudder.

  “Ssh.” He gathers me ever so gently into his arms, my face hidden against his shoulder. “You are the strongest person I know, Ev. You survived and—”

  “The station master I betrayed didn’t.”

  “Don’t.” He gives me a little shake. “Don’t. You couldn’t help it. He knew the risks. We all do.”

  We certainly do now.

  We walk on. He shows me the dockside factory warehouse only partially damaged in the explosion where the Defiance hides their ACVs. “There’ve only been one or two surveillance drones down this way, but we can’t be too careful,” he says. “I’ll say this for Idris: he’s a brilliant tactician and his paranoia about security has made this cell one of the most effective in the Defiance.”

  I hear reservations. “But—?”

  “But, he’s too single-minded. Hell, he’s a ruthless bastard. He doesn’t just want to overthrow the Prags and the geneborns—he wants to kill every last one of them.”

  “So that’s the Defiance agenda—get rid of the Prags? Turn back the progress they’ve made in restoring our country? Bring back the hunger like before the Prags established the domes?”

  He stares at me incredulously. “Ev, you were in a RESCO. How can you condone what the Prags are doing?”

  “I don’t support that part of it.” I kick a clod and it explodes in a shower of dirt. “But you can’t deny we need to rebuild the population. And we need food and infrastructure—the Prags have given us that. We need scientists to invent more efficient growing processes and find a way to destroy the locusts. We need engineers to build transportation and communications networks, launch more satellites.”

  “None of that matters if we’re not free. I want to pick my own career. I want to have children someday, maybe, and not have to beg the government’s permission. The whole damn country needs to get over its fear of disease so we can explore beyond our borders. Who knows what’s out there?” He turns and looks east, as if he can see across the far off Atlantic to whatever’s left of Europe and the continents beyond.

  “Is this about you not wanting to be a border sentry?” I stare at him with disbelief and anger. “You don’t see the irony here? You ran away from the Kube to get out of military service and now you’re a soldier anyway, just without a uniform.”

  He turns to me with a pleading expression. “Don’t be like this, Ev. Don’t spoil it.”
/>   I don’t want to fight with him. “You’re right about some of it, the RESCOs. But I can’t think that more fighting is the way to go. Think what happened to this country during the Between.” I gesture to the wasteland around us. “How does this help anything? The dead people, the poisoned people, the homeless people—what freedoms or options did they have? Fighting isn’t the answer.”

  He observes me, head cocked. “Then what is?”

  I don’t know.

  We walk back to the Chattahoochee Belle in silence, responding automatically to sentries’ queries, lost in our own thoughts. “I love you,” I whisper before we step on the gangplank. Now that Halla’s gone, he’s my oldest and dearest friend, and I do love him. I’m not sure how I love him—sometimes I think it’s romantic and sometimes it’s brotherly, but I need to say it. The past months have taught me to say what I feel when I feel it and not to wait because there might not be another chance.

  “Ditto.” He smiles briefly and hugs me. When we break apart, I see Rhedyn watching us from above, her face set and expressionless.

  I’m wondering if anything happened between Wyck and Rhedyn—Does she know about Cas?— when I spot movement on the top deck. I make a visor of my hand to shade my eyes. It’s a woman, I’m almost sure, with short black hair spiking up around her head. I gasp. Fiere.

  I don’t realize I’ve said the name aloud until Wyck follows my line of sight and puts a hand on my arm. “She’s not—”

  I pull away from him, race up the gangplank, and circle the cabin until I reach the narrow stairs that lead to the top deck. I pound up them, breathing hard. The woman’s at the stern rail, looking out past the paddle wheel. I can’t believe I cut Wyck off yesterday, fearing that he was going to tell me Fiere had died in the IPF attack on Bulrush headquarters. I saw her get shot. I should have known better than to underestimate Fiere. It would take more than a beamer blast to the shoulder to stop her.