Secret Worlds (544 page)

She’s tried to make her space cheery, with drawings she’s done of rock formations. They’re not regular ones, but fairytale rock shapes with wings, and female beings in flowing gowns. I rather like them and I tell her so.

“Thanks.” She rolls over toward the wall. “But don’t try to butter me up. You and that guy with the bow and arrow are cons. You conned Nevada into staying here.”

“How do you know?” I ask as sweetly as possible under a newly simmering anger.

“He used connections. Said his mother knew her. That’s a lie, that’s cheating.”

The possibility that Armonk was lying about who his mother is never occurred to me. Who would do that? Maybe someone as desperate as me to gain asylum I conclude with a shiver. I want to ask Bea why it matters so much, and why it’s any of her business. But I know from my own experience that I get more information from playing a charm game and holding back from putting my cards on the table. If that makes me a con, so be it. It’s helped me survive. “His skill might come in handy,” I reason, and then change the subject entirely. “How did Nevada come upon the Fireseed plants?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Bea laughs. “That’s your god, right? I guess your god flew down from the sky and planted itself right in our garden. It favored us, not your people. Now, please, no more talking, I need my sleep.”

Turning onto my back, I gaze out at the bowl of stars and the blood moon, finally waning. It seems like years since I ran from Stiles, yet it’s only been hours. In so short a time so much can change.

I wonder how Thorn is, in Radius’ room? Radius seems the mildest of the three guys, and all I can hope is that he’s not torturing Thorn like Blane did Armonk. Blinking away mist from my eyes, I think of my mother back home. She must be frantic with worry for me, for Thorn. Mist spills over into tears as I think about how I miss my friends, Freeblossom and Petal who I’ll never see again. I imagine what they went through on Founders’ Day, with their partners, too old to be any good match.

Rape.

Jan’s ugly word swills around in me like toxic liquor, making me queasy. I need to get Freeblossom and Petal away from there too, but how?

Despite my worry, my eyelids flutter lower, and I slip into a waking stupor. I’m back at the ceremony, with Stiles holding me down. I’m screaming for help, seeing his eyes bulge out. Like a toad’s tongue his eyes lick my cheeks. Suddenly, it is no longer Stiles’ pinning me down. It’s Blane and then Jan and then a giant, monstrous toad whose tongue wraps around me and sucks me into his warty mouth. He swallows me in one drooling motion and hacks my bones onto the hot sand.

I bolt upright. Looking over at Bea, I listen for her steady breaths. She’s asleep. I wish I could sleep, even rest without my dangerous visions. Tiptoeing out of bed, I check on Thorn. He and Radius have both nodded off, thankfully. I creep back to my room, and reach for my hip bag, which I hid in my folded cloak. Pull out the vial of Oblivion Powder. Visions of Depot Man’s leer and Stile’s greedy stare still plague my mind. The other elders too; how they pinched and tickled me on their way by, how they gave me secret, unwelcome winks. And now, the handsome bullies here who used their clubs and fists on Armonk; what might they do to me next? I shake a generous dose onto the top of my hand, and snuffle it in. Inhale hard until the pile is gone.

Immediately, its treacherous medicine streaks into my nerves, soothing them to a mindless lull.

Oblivion. I’ll need it to survive this mean place, is my last thought before I wilt down to the cot.

My bleary eyes open to a wall drawing of a glorious being with sandy wings and a long, flowing skirt. Where am I, still in the Founders’ Day gazebo? If so, this drawing wasn’t there before. I look below the drawing to an empty bed and its wrinkled bedclothes. Bea. I’m sharing Bea’s room, this is her wall drawing and she’s already up. The sun is afire outside the window. It takes up the whole zenith in its fury.

In a jumble of cascading images, yesterday’s events crash along the ridges of my memory. Stiles, the escape on the broken glider, the depot man’s clumsy groping, the crash landing, Armonk’s arrow glancing my forehead, Blane beating him up, the other mean kids, Thorn warning me that the Fireseed plants are sick.

The Fireseed plants! The crop. The Greening!

When I stand up my head pounds. The Oblivion Powder,
ack
, I took way too much last night. Fighting off a wave of dizziness I reach in my cloak for my flask and take a gulp of restorative water. There are only a few dribbles left. I remember the pitcher of water we had at dinner, and make a mental note to replenish my own flask the first chance I get. Who knows how long I’ll be able to stay here, or even if I dare, among these horrid people? At least I’m protected from the elements.

As best I can, I freshen up in the tiny bathroom. It’s cluttered with the towels and discarded clothes of the other girls. Their chatter filters upstairs, so they must be already down for the morning meal. My eyes move back to a shirt made with that sheer, iguana fabric, worn, but still shiny, with curious octagonal patterns, like cells. Gathering a section of a sleeve in my fingers, I rub it to determine more closely what it’s made of. No clue, but it changes color with every glint of light. Uneven footsteps in the hall startle me, so I quickly drop the shirt back on its hook.

It’s Armonk. His cheeks are so swelled and darkened from yesterday’s punches I hardly recognize him, and he’s limping badly. My first thought is that Blane and company landed extra punishment after lights went out. I have no time to ask him because Jan blazes past us.

“Class started,” he warns. “Peg Leg and Cult Girl, you’re late.”

I’m not in a mood to protest the stupid names right now. What class and where? I don’t even bother to ask. It’ll only give Jan another chance to put us down.

It turns out that a real teacher has flown in from somewhere to give us lessons in math and astronomy. She’s older than Nevada, with gray hair but the same leaf tattoos on her cheeks that Nevada has. Her name is Irina. I have no clue as to what calculus is, but I understand astronomy—the sky, the stars, the swirling purples and blood oranges of the heavens. Except that Irina insists there’s no Fireseed God up there. Not even one lousy Fireseed star. Really? We learned that Fireseed exists in our hearts, but also up on its own star, a reddish, five-pointed one like the blossom. Irina’s fairly convincing with all of her charts and calculations, but wrong. Our teachers at home couldn’t have been that off the mark, I’m sure.

After Irina’s class, Nevada teaches us history. She talks about the Border Wars at the middle of the 21st century, and how the northerners built a robotic wall to keep us desert folk from crowding out their great, advanced cities—northern cities like Restavik in Land Dominion and Vostok Station in Ocean Dominion. I’ve heard of these. Land Dominion is where we get our food shipments. But how advanced could they be? The elders taught us that the fiends in these cities would think nothing of killing us. Eating us even. But this class has got me wondering, why would a dominion that ships us food be out to kill us? My head reels with confusion.

Nevada pauses at the mention of Vostok, as if it hurts her heart, and she and Armonk exchange knowing glances. What all did they discuss behind the locked doors of her study? I make a note to ask Armonk as soon as the time is right.

Why didn’t my own teachers ever speak more of science, of the politics behind the Border Wars? I search Nevada’s face for lies, and study how her blond brow raises when she makes a point; the way her voice takes on speed when she’s dropping a gem of obsidian at our feet. She seems too genuinely impassioned to be spinning lies. Or is this whole Greening Institute a place of lies? Myths? The images of Bea’s mythical beast drawings flit into mind. I wish I could simply turn to Thorn to get his reaction. He would sense the truth. But he’s too young for these classes, and has been set up in the parlor with some ancient jigsaw puzzles. I won’t be able to ask him later about this either, because he’s the kind of sensitive who has to feel it in the moment.

At lunch, in the dining room, Nevada serves a spicy-sour juice of some kind, and steamed Fireagar. I’ve already eaten two big meals and it’s not even dinner. Back home, we ate only once a day. My belly feels like an overblown balloon.

Again, I sit with Armonk on one side, Thorn on my other. Blane, Jan and Radius keep to themselves and I hear more than one giggle and mention of Cult Girl and Peg Leg. Bea and Vesper join them, followed by more loud whispers. Armonk sends them occasional scowls and I worry that he’ll incite another brawl. If this happens, his swelled up face will break wide open.

“So, what did Nevada talk with you about?” I ask, as we help clean up from lunch. It’s our turn. The others have wandered to the parlor and are busy playing some card game.

“She spoke about Dr. Varik.” Armonk puts a dried food pack on the shelf. “How she met him a long time ago and helped save him. He’d crashed through a rock formation—a mimetolith shaped like a cup—and was almost dead. He …” Armonk stops there and lowers his head until his black bangs curtain his face. I guess he’s not sure how much he wants to tell me.

I need to break through Armonk’s hesitation. He’s the only friendly one around, so as soon as he looks up I send him a winning smile. That’s always worked before. “What happened after she rescued him?” I ask. “And did you ever meet his father, the professor?”

Armonk looks surprised that I don’t know the story. He explains that Varik’s father was murdered up north by terrorists who wanted access to his research on Fireseed. He tells me how Varik found the Fireseed plants inside the cup-shaped rock formation, all those years ago where he crashed in the desert, and that he dug a few of them up north to breed with the last known agar seeds. He says that the last three Fireseed plants died when he got them up north, but a few days before they withered, they bred like crazy with the last agar seedlings.

And that’s how Varik saved the world with the new hybrid, Fireagar.

My jaw hangs open. This is such a different story than the elders told us. They said Varik was a false prophet, a good-for-nothing who didn’t deserve to be called a Teitur. And no word was ever uttered about the Professor being murdered, or how Fireagar came into being. We still worship by that cup mimetolith! And all of that time, Fireseed was hiding inside it? The world as I know is becoming a weak, faded fabric that first the teachers, and now Armonk are shredding into irreparable rags. It makes me shake with anger.

“But Fireseed is here, at The Greening!” I exclaim. “How did it get here then?”

Armonk peers around to see if anyone else has come in.

I check outside the door to make sure no one’s in the adjoining room. “Coast is clear, come on, you can tell me,” I wheedle.

He looks unconvinced, but continues in a hushed voice. “Nevada went back to the cup mimetolith and dug up the rest of those plants. Kept them hidden. No one knew.”

“That’s impossible!” I hiss. “That rock face is near our compound. Our elders would’ve known it. They would’ve gone down inside and dug up every last plant.” I pause. “Besides,
Fireseed
would’ve told us.”

Armonk studies me with that sad pity as before. I don’t need to hear him say it. It’s clear that he doesn’t believe in a Fireseed god. No one does around here, except for Thorn and me.

I don’t want Armonk’s pity. I want information. I offer another melting smile that shrouds my anger and confusion. It’s the only reliable way I know to keep a guy talking. “But why would Varik want to come down here again, when he has everything he needs up north?”

Armonk doesn’t return the smile, yet he goes on. “He doesn’t have everything he needs up north. He needs us.”

“Why?”

“He wants to be a doctor down here. Help the desert people.”

“Is that what you were talking about with Nevada?”

“Partly.” He reaches down and touches his alien leg. “He made this for me when he stayed with us in Black Hills Sector, on his way south.”

I nod wistfully. “I never spoke to him but I waved to him, at our compound.” I slowly raise my right hand with its three missing fingers. “He saw this. Maybe he can fix me too.”

“What happened to you?” Armonk’s voice shows his alarm.

Now it’s my turn to be silent. It happened soon after Stiles first picked me. I was little then, but I already hated his burning eyes, his smelly breath, the way he’d come up to me at mealtimes and tell me that I was his special girl. The second or third time he said this, my mother told me that I spat a wad of my chewed up food on his boot. That he lost his temper and took his knife to me, catching my three middle fingers and slicing them half off. I ran to my mother, screaming, and she hurried me to the nurse. The nurse sewed them on, but infection set in, and they had to be removed. My father pleaded with the elders to have me paired with someone,
anyone
else. But things like that are set—set from way back. The elders threatened to put my father out. My parents had seen others put out. Found their curled up corpses in the shadow of the mimetoliths, like newborns exposed to the sun’s wrath. But I can’t tell Armonk this. The words catch in my throat and my eyes glaze over. I yearn for a lengthy draw of Oblivion Powder to deaden the humiliation my father must’ve felt. I’ve never thought about that much before but I feel its rawness now—a father unable to defend his own daughter.

“S’okay,” says Armonk, and I focus again on his dark, understanding eyes. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” Something in his voice makes my arms erupt in gooseflesh so I hug them to my chest. He says, “I’m sure Dr. Varik could fix them.”

“Fix what?” In stampede of feet, Blane suddenly crowds into the dining room with his troop. They’re loud and sweaty and handsome.

“His jacked up face,” laughs Jan.

“We’re going to play soccer,” Radius claps Armonk on the back. “You be our goalie.”

“I don’t play,” says Armonk.

“Me neither,” I add.

“It’s mandatory,” Blane states.