False Sight (A False Novel) Page 18

  “Did I squeeze too hard?” Rhys asks me.

  I have no breath to answer. My mind is on fire.

  “This is the best way to help him. We get the Torch and go home and stop them. What could we do from the auditorium?” He spins me around and forces me to look at him. “What could we do? Huh?”

  “Nothing.” He’s right. I know he’s right, but it does little to calm me. I shove him away. “Why did you leave him?” I spit a little when I say it.

  “Level,” the elevator says again.

  “The director’s office,” I say.

  I don’t think it’s going to work until the car is suddenly ascending, smooth as silk. My anger doesn’t ebb, which isn’t a bad thing. It can make me strong if I manage to rein it in.

  “Peter is fine,” Rhys says. “You saw his face.” He knows Peter’s resolve, the complete refusal to fail. I would feel sorry for the eyeless he faced, if I were able to.

  I see now why Peter’s been pulling away from me, why I should be pulling away from him. My feelings for him almost made me charge back into the auditorium. Had it been Rhys, would I have done the same, or would I have kept a cool head and put the mission first? I need to forget about Peter, to trust in his ability.

  In the doors, I see a reflection of Noah standing next to Rhys. When I turn, he’s gone. Rhys has his eyes closed and doesn’t notice my sudden movement.

  Go away, I think. Then, Are you there?

  No response. Great, now I’m seeing things.

  We rise for what feels like minutes, fast enough to put strain on my knees. Then suddenly we stop and the doors open to reveal an office—one identical to Commander Gane’s. The four walls of the pyramid are made of glass. In Mrs. North’s memory, the director had left them tinted, but now I can see the entire golden sky in all directions and, behind her desk, the immense blue sheet of an ocean, as if seen from an airplane.

  Rhys doesn’t care about the view; he only has eyes for one thing—the Torch resting on the desk. The dull crimson globe hangs over the side.

  It’s too easy.

  Unless the director is so confident that the idea of someone taking it is preposterous.

  I step out of the elevator, and Rhys follows.

  “Just grab it,” he says, looking as weary as I feel. He’s right—it’s time to get the hell out of here.

  I cross to the desk and my fingers hover over the Torch. The staff emits some kind of static I feel in the pads of my fingertips, through my suit.

  I hear the elevator doors swish open again.

  “Miranda!” Rhys shouts.

  I snatch the Torch off the desk and spin, feeling it reach out for nearby eyeless. The bulb flares bright red as five Roses clad in golden armor step out of the elevator. They pull their swords off their backs in unison. Miranda, Noah, Peter, Rhys, Olive, from left to right. They aren’t the Originals, just some kind of elite team, I’m guessing.

  The Peter steps forward. “Against royal decree six-one-five, you have entered a Mother’s or Father’s office without express permission. Relinquish the Torch and kneel before us or face the justice of True Earth.” He recites it like he’s bored. Business as usual.

  Rhys looks back at me with raised eyebrows that ask, Do we give it a shot?

  But we don’t get that far. My hand hasn’t yet closed around Beacon’s grip when a strange static crawls over my skin. The static turns solid in the next second, clamping down on me like a vise. I’ve felt this sensation before. The Peter has his hands straight out, fingers curled like he’s holding two invisible eggs. Slowly, he forces us to kneel.

  “We’re special,” the Miranda says with a smile.

  The five encircle us, and then the Noah and Olivia yank my arms back and bind my wrists roughly. The cuffs shrink until my fingers tingle, feeling fat with trapped blood. When the Peter turns for the elevator, I see a bulge between his shoulder blades, under his golden scales. The same power pack Gane used, which has implications I’m not prepared or willing to dissect at the moment.

  No one speaks on the ride back down. No one so much as coughs. I spend the time thinking about how we lost.

  Noah’s voice startles me. “Since when do you quit?”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “You’re definitely not the Miranda I knew then.”

  That stings. My cheeks grow hot. How dare he bring that up when it’s his fault the girl before me died in that alley.

  “Think of a plan,” Noah says. “Don’t give up. If you’re not worried about me up here, worry about Peter. Not to mention the entire world.”

  Come and go as you please, by all means.

  “I’m trying not to distract you. But I never left. I never would. You need to fight. If not you, then who? Who, Miranda?”

  I feel him recede into some dark corner again. His absence leaves a void in me, like before.

  After a minute, the doors open. The cells are clear plastic cubes with no visible doors and no bars or locks. On the left, two of the walls slide open. Then Noah and Olivia shove me into the first one and Rhys into the second. The doors suck shut behind us; the bindings pop off our wrists and clatter to the floor. I bring my hands around and rub my wrists until the tingling in my fingertips becomes pain. When I turn, the five in gold are gone.

  One person occupies the farthest cube in the row, but he’s sleeping. I think it’s a Noah. Other than him, we’re completely alone. Just stark white walls and clear plastic with no obvious seams.

  In the next cube over, Rhys rubs his wrists and shakes his head slowly. A tendon bulges in his jaw. The next second, he’s at the front of his cube, pounding his fists against the plastic and screaming at the top of his lungs. It’s the sound of primal rage, and I remember we’re not so helpless. Set us free and we’re as deadly as any of the Roses from the auditorium. Maybe more so. We have something to fight for, after all.

  Rhys punches the wall between us. The plastic makes a snapping thud, and he steps back, shaking his hand out.

  “Feel better?” I say.

  He only has to raise his voice a little to be heard. “Not really. But the pain is kind of nice. You should try it.” He throws his hands down, disgust all over his face.

  “Yeah.” Seeing his helplessness mixed with rage makes it easier for me, as terrible as that sounds. Misery loves company, I guess.

  “Does Noah have any ideas?” Rhys says. “He’s still in there, right?”

  “Let me ask him.”

  “No,” Noah says.

  “No,” I say.

  Rhys looks befuddled, and then he laughs. “Did he—did he even think about it?” he says between laughs.

  I’d laugh if I had the energy. Seeing Rhys laugh makes it impossible not to smile, though.

  “Tell him I say hi. Tell him he owes me five bucks from that bet last week. I’ll take it from his sock drawer.”

  “Hi, Rhys. Touch my money and I’ll haunt you.”

  For some reason, that makes my chest seize.

  You’re not a ghost.

  “Not yet.”

  “He says…” I trail off as pressure builds against the back of my eyeballs. I will not cry.

  I will not cry.

  The main door opens behind me, and a pair of visitors comes through. Two Originals, shining golden scales and red cloaks to their heels.

  The director and the Original Rhys.

  Rhys’s Original looks exactly like Rhys, no older or younger. His blond hair is slicked back and longer, curling away from his neck, not the sideways part Rhys prefers. I can see hundreds of my tiny reflections in the golden scales of his armor. His eyes have the same ancient quality as the director’s. It’s hard not to feel awe in the presence of beings who have lived for over a thousand years. I don’t want to be in awe; I want to look down on them. Or I want to feel equal. I know now how they got the auditorium into such a fervor. They seem utterly sure, utterly competent, all in the way they carry themselves. It’s an energy that fills the room. They aren’t q
uite smiling, but they look happy. Content. And they should be, since they’re among the five most powerful people in all the universes.

  They appraise us in silence for thirty seconds. To our credit, we don’t say a word, just return the stare. The back of my neck begins to itch. The director’s hair really is golden, not auburn. I guess the tacky cloak isn’t enough to set her apart from her clones.

  “What do we do with them?” the Original Rhys finally asks.

  Let us free. Give us a chance to fight. I ignore the actual possibilities. But it strikes me that maybe, just maybe, they underestimate us. And maybe I can use that.

  The director watches me with a hint of disappointment on her otherwise blank face. “What were you doing in my office?”

  They don’t know who we are. I could still be Miranda 2407 to them.

  Rhys opens his mouth and utters a syllable, but I interrupt him. “I wanted to see the Torch. I’m sorry.”

  My palm itches where the black square dissolved through my armor. I think about making a fist as hard as I can, but now might be the wrong time.

  The director rolls her eyes. “Please. I know who you are.”

  So I was wrong, but if the director is really so wise, if she’s moved beyond things like hate, maybe I can reason with her. And no matter what, I know she underestimates my resolve.

  I can’t stop myself from the moment of weakness that comes next, because I have to try, no matter how unlikely it is. I was never much for begging, but now I press my hands against the plastic and feel my face contort. “Please,” I say. “Please stop. We can make some agreement. You can close the way to our world. You’ll never hear from us again.”

  Original Rhys says, “The way can never be fully closed. All worlds aggressive and unenlightened are purged before they can grow beyond our control. Your world is aggressive and unenlightened.”

  I pound my fists on the glass, hard and sharp. They don’t flinch. “And you can’t figure out a better way to control us? Monsters? You send animals into our world to eat us. You…” I want to go on, but there is no emotional change in their faces. I might as well be screaming at robots. I guess after doing this for a thousand years, it’s hard to care at all. The end for us is a normal day for them.

  “The eyeless ensure the world is intact for future generations. For repopulation on our terms, with careful control,” Original Rhys says. I catch a peek of Rhys from the corner of my eye. He stares at his progenitor with pure hatred.

  “We pose no threat to you. My world doesn’t even know about the Black.” My voice is smaller than I’d like. The urge to reason with them drains out of me like blood through a thousand cuts. Words won’t change this. Nothing will change until I’m free with a sword in my hand.

  “That’s the point,” the director says softly. “One day it will.”

  “We’re late,” Original Rhys says. Then he smirks at me. “Our monsters have to eat.”

  “Stop,” she tells him, almost playfully. To me she says, “We will speak again upon our return. In the meantime, Dr. Delaney will cull your memories to learn who else stands with you.”

  And just like that, they’re gone. The door hisses shut behind them.

  Things get worse after that. Rhys withdraws to a corner of his cube and rubs his fingers against his temples. I know how he feels—like a trapped animal. I pace the small area of my cube at first, trying to think, shoving emotion aside. A clear mind is an efficient mind, our Dr. Tycast used to say. Actually, I may have made that up, but it sounds like something he would say.

  After a while, Noah appears in the corner and watches me pace. I don’t look at him. His dark eyes will be another reminder of the people I’ve failed.

  I visualize the army of Roses crossing over right now, storming into a confused and terrified world already under attack. They are the insult being added to the injury. This different enemy will emerge from nowhere and march in our streets, aiding the monsters in the extermination. People won’t just die in agony. They’ll die as afraid as they’ve ever been in their lives.

  “Got anything?” Rhys says after an hour.

  An hour has passed.

  How many dead?

  “Got anything?” he says again.

  Is this my fault? Is this on me?

  “No.”

  He doesn’t ask me a third time.

  Dr. Delaney comes in during the second hour. He looks at me like I’ve betrayed him. I almost feel bad about it, since he helped me, but I never quite get there. He still fights for this side, so he’s an enemy.

  The five golden Roses who first captured us come back and open the door to my cell; the sudden freedom strikes something in me I can’t control. A last-ditch effort, I guess. I charge them as the Peter raises a rifle and shoots me with a dart. It pierces my abdomen, and blood wells behind the armor. The drugs work fast. Heat moves through my veins, branching out like tree limbs. It reaches my brain, and my eyes swim. It doesn’t quite put me to sleep, but I’m weak enough for them to drag me back to the infirmary.

  I fade in and out, catching glimpses of the hallway they drag me down. The way is paved in gold. Must be a pretty common element here. Or they have a gold paint surplus. Once I see the bed with straps, I try to kick and punch and bite, but by then the poison has made it through my entire system. The best I can manage is a moan. Rhys is slumped between two Roses on the other side of the room. Don’t strap us down, I want to say. Leave us alone. We’re just like you.

  They get me on the bed and strap my ankles and wrists to the frame.

  “Leave her armor on?” someone says.

  “I only need her from the neck up. It’s fine.”

  Delaney’s face comes into view, blocking the light from the ceiling. “Hello, Miranda. I’m going to take your memories from you now. If you could relax your mind, that would be ideal. I don’t want this to hurt.”

  Olivia’s words echo in my mind. If you find yourself against uneven odds…

  I’d say this is pretty uneven.

  Make a fist, she said, as hard as you can.

  I make a fist as hard as I can.

  The result is instantaneous. The heat that courses up my arm is different from the poison. This is a lightning strike, hot and electric. At first I wonder why I didn’t do this sooner. My heart pounds so hard I feel it thumping against the inside of my ribs. Each breath gives me strength, until I feel like I’m bursting out of my suit. My vision flickers red with every heartbeat.

  I lift my arms and the straps around my wrists break like strings. I sit up and pull the ones off my ankles. Delaney spins around and drops his tray of instruments. The five golden Roses pull the swords off their backs and hold them high. The Peter is just lifting his arm, but he’s slow, so slow.

  I pick up the bed and throw it at them.

  It knocks three of them over. They skid all the way across the floor, toppling more beds. The remaining two come at me swinging, but their strikes are in slow motion. The one overhand chop from the Noah is laughable. I step around him before his chop is finished, then punch him at the base of his skull. The crunch travels up my forearm. The Miranda stabs at my belly, but I bend out of the way and backhand her so hard it snaps her neck. She collapses, and I catch her sword before it hits the ground.

  The Peter and the Olive are unconscious. But the Rhys shoves the twisted bed off himself and stands up, sword raised.

  “Drop it,” I tell him. He doesn’t. I sidestep his thrust and run past his right, dragging my blade across his throat.

  When it’s over, I stand in the middle of the infirmary, heaving, searching for a new target. The other clones occupying beds watch me with wide eyes, waiting to see what I’ll do next, but they aren’t my concern. Delaney is hiding behind one of the overturned beds. My strength fades, and I’m left sick on wobbly feet.

  Rhys is strapped to a bed, like I was. His stares at me, mouth hanging open.

  I don’t feel a thing besides my amped blood. The people in my world are dyi
ng in much worse ways right now.

  “Cut me free,” Rhys says. His voice is hoarse.

  I tug at his straps, but my artificial strength is gone. I have to use the bloody sword to cut him out. He slips off the bed and checks pulses, then appropriates weapons.

  “You’ll have to tell me how you did that,” he says.

  Suddenly I can barely stand. The strength leaving me seems to take some of my natural strength too. I lean against the bed, and Rhys puts his hand on my back.

  “Thank you for saving me,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  No, I’m not. I look at the mess I’ve made and begin to feel. I can’t know if they were evil or if they were raised to do this one job, like we were, until we knew better. But if they had good in them, they would have known better. Their upbringing and superiority is no excuse for planet-wide extermination. Not even close.

  “Don’t think about it,” Rhys says. “We’ll think later, yeah?” He tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear, then cups my face until I look into his eyes. They burn bright now.

  “We have a world to save,” he says.

  I summon what strength I have left and renew it with hope. We are free, and nothing is going to stop us.

  We ride back to the auditorium. The Roses are funneling out through an exit at the far end. The Originals are gone. Rhys and I hover near the back of the Roses lining up to leave. No one really looks at us. The teams of five seem to stick to themselves, chatting in excited tones about what lies ahead. I know what lies ahead; I’ve seen it.

  You there? My strength ebbs like a tide, leaving my balance unsteady. My vision flickers black every few minutes, like I lose consciousness for a thousandth of a second. I wonder if using that disk thing Olivia gave me has long-term side effects. I wonder if I’ll live long enough to experience them.

  “I’m here,” Noah says.

  Are you still with me? Till the end?

  “I am, but it’s hard. You aren’t doing it on purpose, but your mind doesn’t like me in here. It feels like…trying not to drown with someone tugging your legs from underwater.”

  He must feel the horror that rises up in me. “Not your fault, I said. Don’t make this about you.”