Secret Worlds (545 page)

“Chop, chop, we don’t have much time.” Vesper ferries us down to the basement with her long, waving arms.

I exchange uneasy glances with Armonk, as we head downstairs. His fake leg catches on a steep step but he reaches out for the wall and rebalances.

It’s a large space, cooler than the rest of the compound, and full of sports equipment. I see weights and a hoop set up high, for some kind of ball game. The court also has goal nets on each end. My heart aches for my friends back home, what fun we could’ve had here! We could’ve used a gym to stretch and play in. We had nothing like this. Even it its battered state, this array of equipment floors me.

Blane, Jan and Radius begin to boot the scuffed ball into the goal nets, while trying to steal the ball away from each other. Bea and Vesper join in, with giggles and light pushing.

After a few minutes of this, Blane approaches. “Okay, Peg-Leg and Cult Girl are on one team. The little kid sits on the sidelines.” Thorn looks at him blankly, goes over to the side but refuses to sit. “Bea, you join the gimps,” Blane adds with a flick of his hand in our direction.

“Armonk and Ruby,” Armonk corrects.

Bea’s annoyed. “
You
join their team, Blane.”

Blane’s square brow bristles into a flush. “I’m the head coach. Follow my rules.” He wags his head at Radius. “You be on their side too. Otherwise, it’ll be too easy.”

Radius mutters something under his breath but stalks over. He gathers us around him and, in a voice dry with resentment, explains the rules. Armonk nods as if he knows already. Does everyone in the desert know how to play soccer but me?

Even with Bea and Radius on our team we’re no match for the rest. Vesper is a natural athlete, tall and lean with coiled muscles that spring easily into attack. She keeps pace with the boys, and I picture her on a real, varsity team, like in that old college catalog of my father’s. Jan, all angles and elbows, streaks by me time after time and slams the ball in the net. Blane is a beast, and a dirty cheater. He holds out his foot when Armonk runs by and snags his artificial leg. Armonk goes flying, face first.

I hurry over and lend a hand. Armonk must not want to look weak in front of all of these hardheads. He doesn’t take it.

Our next task is to pick Fireseed leaves. We suit up and put on our burn masks, because it’s hot enough to see mirages of sparkling water, even under the tarp. Back at my compound we never went out until nightfall, even under a canopy.

Nevada tells us to pick the leaves and press them under wide rocks she’s set on a shelf so they flatten. It goes against everything I’ve been taught to pluck Fireseed limbs from their stalks, but I do what I’m told, because Blane is keeping a close watch over us. As he said before, he’s clearly Nevada’s henchman. At one point Armonk disappears and Blane asks me where he went. I tell him I have no idea. I have enough trouble trying to keep an eye on Thorn.

Thorn seems as disturbed as I am, to pluck off leaves, and, with a sad grimace, he points out more than a few blotches. The blotches are white and fuzzy. The leaf around each blotch puckers and wilts. It hurts to see it, and I ask Thorn what’s wrong with them. He’s my radar after all. His eyes pool with hurt but he stays silent. No one-word hints this afternoon. Instead, he wanders off and disappears behind a clutch of red leaves. Maybe he needs time alone, I think, as I head off in a different direction.

I’m absorbed in collecting more leaves when heavy footsteps crunch up ahead, and I hear fast, labored breathing. Blane appears through the crimson foliage in front of me with an armful of Fireseed leaves.

He puts them down and brushes off his hands. “So, what’s your story, your real story?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why did you leave your compound for this place?” he asks.

I shrug. There’s no way I’d tell him about Stiles, or any other details of my life. Would he tell me his? “Why did you leave
your
home?”

“That was a long time ago,” he declares.

“Where was it?”

“East Coast Sector, near New York. I went to a reputable school, where the kids had money, good families.” Blane kicks at a stone. When he looks back at me, his gaze radiates the pain of people and things long gone. “You wouldn’t know that kind of thing.”

“Sure I would. I love my folks back at home.”

An unspoken message simmers between us that no matter where we’re from we’re all the same. Or did I misread that because Blane’s voice is suddenly shrill. “Why are you here then?”

“Why are
you
here, if your family is so perfect?” I challenge.

He snorts, rubs his hands on his burn suit. “I saw my parents drown, if you must know. I saw my brother, Percy drown, and our dog, Cloud. They went under in a cold, black wave of death that washed over the sector, if you really need to know. I clung to a roof for two days, watching bloated bodies float by—dead dogs, cats, little children, their mouths still open, as if they were ready to scream. What do
you
bring to this equation, girl?” Blane’s voice is hardboiled, bitter. I imagine tears spilling down underneath his mask.

“I’m sorry to hear that. No one should see those things.” I think of the tiny ones at the branding ceremonies back home, how they screamed when the brands crackled and bubbled star-shapes into their flesh. But that was for the cause. Blane saw meaningless death. “Is that why you’re so tough on people?” I make the mistake of asking. Because Blane’s face immediately snaps closed.

A mask of armor over a jaded soldier. “Where’s Peg-leg?” he growls.

“I have no idea, and that’s not his name.” Here we are, back to battle. And I thought we’d made some human progress.

“Find him, Cult Girl.” Through the slits in his mask, Blane’s cold eyes fix on me like crosshairs on a rifle. He treads closer. His breath on my face is as hot as the scorching air. A heavy bodily threat presses in on me. I know it from Stiles, and the other men. It’s hate and sex and power, all mixed together like snakes circling my waist, their sharp scales scraping my flesh.

“I’ll do my best.” I turn away to dislodge his gaze.

Blane spins around to the front of me, even closer, demanding my attention. “Do your best at what?” he teases.

“At ignoring you,” I say, backing up. I’m scared, more for Armonk than myself.

Blane lunges for my arm. At that moment, a high whiz and burst of wind flies by.

With a dull ripping sound Armonk’s arrow tears through Blane’s pack that sits between his muscled shoulder blades.

“You …” Blane is temporarily speechless, and then madly sprinting after Armonk, who has miraculously melted into the red jungle. Armonk reminds me of an ancient savage from a myth, with sticks through his earlobes and a fusty spear in hand; one who knows the crests of rock, the sheltering caves, and every cliff switchback.

I gather up Blane’s pile of red leaves and add them to mine. Then I go find Thorn.

At dinner, I see that Armonk’s face is no worse off. The mottled purple of his bruise seems a shade lighter. Blane must not yet have caught up to him. I smile inside. Never mind that Armonk’s leg is two or three sizes to short for him. The supposed gimp has found a way to humiliate Blane. And protect me. I’m grateful for that. Armonk will pay for it though. He might need my help after all.

That night, I crawl into bed exhausted in a good way. I’ve eaten, I’ve gotten exercise, and I’ve managed to fend off Blane. I’ve checked on Thorn and Radius seems to be leaving him alone. Bea hasn’t said anything truly nasty to me today, though she’s rolled toward the wall again without a word. Now she’s breathing steadily with a soft snore.

Progress, I may not even need Oblivion tonight.

But as I lay there, staring out at the orange-streaked sky and the distant, blinking stars, my mind sinks to a dreadful reverie. I’m standing in front of the garden shelf where the red leaves are trapped under those wide stones. The Fireseed seems to be emitting a high-pitched wail. Blane is there too and he’s pressing his face into mine, his lips biting at my own lips. His meaty arms trap me. He shoves me down on top of Fireseed stalks that crack and split, sending out more high-pitched
whees
. As Blane’s weight pushes hard against my chest, his face becomes Stiles’—the flared nostrils, bloodshot eyes and accusing stare. “You are mine,” Stiles says. “How dare you …”

I bolt upright, sending such a flurry of fearful energy into the air that Bea chokes in her sleep. Coughing, she turns my way and returns to her steady breathing.

Her eyes could snap open at any second. She could steal my bag of Oblivion or knock it from my hands, scattering the powder over the floor. It would be lost forever. I hold my breath as I pad across the room, reach for the velvety sack in my cloak and feel the reassuring give of the powder. It’s diminishing with every dose, and I won’t be able to make more here. I need to ration it carefully. My heart hammering, I flutter into the bathroom, inch open the drawstring and shake a line onto my wrist. I inhale greedily, desperately.

Stumbling back to bed, there’s only enough time to thrust the precious bag inside my pillowcase before sweat erupts on my upper lip and my eyes roll up.

Then I bump off swollen ridges of pain as I fall deeply into never.

“Class, we have a very special visitor today,” Nevada announces after breakfast. “He’s multitalented: the governor of Vegas-by-the-Sea, a businessman and a philanthropist, helping many in the sectors. He has an exciting offer for all of you, and for The Greening,” she adds with evident pride. Nevada shakes out her hair, freshly adorned with an array of tiny braids. Her leaf earrings are carved from a stunning green stone and her matching green chameleon suit clings to her lean curves. High beige boots with a brushed finish show off her coltish legs. I’m curious about this man she seems dressed to impress.

Blane, Jan, Radius, Bea and Vesper push their way into the parlor and grab the best seats. Thorn has managed to scramble in too, but he’s saved me half a seat in the stuffed armchair that we fell asleep in together on that first day here. I offer Armonk a magnetic grin. His eyes dart quickly away. It hurts that he’s immune to my charms. I’m confused too; I thought that his shooting that arrow at Blane meant that Armonk liked me, at least as a friend. I need an ally here, and how else can I get close, but to smile and play coy? That’s how it worked at home. Guys, bah. I don’t get them. The pleasant memory of talking with Freeblossom and Petal tugs at me. Of us fixing each other’s hair and making gemstone necklaces. Of us piling up pots and spoons in my mother’s kitchen when we cooked a special beetle cake on Petal’s birthday, of us scribbling goofy desert critters on each other’s notebooks.

I consider offering Armonk my seat, but Nevada offers her first. More points against him I worry, as I glance over at Blane’s jealous stare. Blane might be Nevada’s henchman but Armonk is clearly her pet.

As I’m wondering how long it will take for our guest to arrive, a deeply tanned man emerges from Nevada’s private study and steps up to a podium. He looks like no man I’ve ever set eyes on. Running a hand through his teased up platinum hair, he beams out at us with a perfect row of teeth and a diamond earring that winks. With his spotless white shoes, gossamer white shirt and gleaming shell buttons running down its front it’s almost as if he rocketed down from an entirely alien planet. He’s spotless and breathes wealth, enough to buy all the feasts he needs to last a lifetime.

“I’m George Axiom,” he starts, “of Axiom Coastal.” My classmates gasp. Should I know about Axiom? Sounds vaguely familiar. Is he famous around here? I feel a surge of resentment toward the elders for keeping so many things from us. Was there a reason?

And then I remember the poster. I turn to it on the far wall. It’s still there, except that a hovercraft levitating over pretty turquoise waves still doesn’t explain much of anything. I turn back to Mr. Axiom.

“Call me George,” he’s saying. “I hail from a long line of Texas drillers, who drilled for oil before the Border Wars. I studied geology too, I know these desert buttes and mesas like the lines in my palm,” he brags.

What does this have to do with The Greening, or us?

“We built up Vegas after the mega-quakes destroyed California, may she rest in peace. Now, since I’ve taken on the role of governor, Vegas-by-the-Sea has become the most prosperous sector ever. We have new agar skyscrapers and hovercraft, new bridges and tunnels.” My classmates shift restlessly. Sounds like one of the elders back home, bragging. Clearly they’re also wondering what this has to do with them.

“In the last five years, we’ve acquired Stream embed technology from the north. We’re fast developing new genetic reorg, and ways to change this desert into a Mecca that will far overshadow Ocean and Land Dominion’s progress. This is where you people come in.”

At this, Blane and the others’ snouts prick up like hungry lizards at a plump spider.

“As you know, we’ve secured Fireagar from the north, and it’s feeding our people as never before.” Everyone nods, and he pauses to let this sink in.

Does this mean there are no more hungry hordes—no more starving beggars who would trap a lost soul for food down here, I wonder. If so, there goes another warped myth that my elders need to answer to if I ever set eyes on them again.

From his case, George extracts and opens out a magical glimmer screen that hovers in midair—at least it’s magical to me. On it is a revolving 3D image of tall, red Fireseed stalks on the left. In the center are the scrunched, scalloped leaves of olive-green Fireagar bleeding crimson, and a tube of emerald-bright agar spins alluringly on the right. How does this guy, George do this?

He points to the middle plants. “Everyone knows that Fireagar is a hybrid of Fireseed and agar. Then he points to the Fireseed. “You all know that Nevada has a special, secret crop of the original Fireseed growing inside the protective border of the Fireagar.” He waves a generous hand her way as if she herself is an enticing product. She tips her head, setting her leaf earrings to jingling. “Now we need to discover what Fireseed can
really
do,” he says, “above and beyond just feeding us as Fireagar does. Because Fireseed is destined for greater things than food.”