Sister of Shadows, page 36
A bit of dampness made it to her eyes, but that was it. That was all she’d allow. That ache could be compressed into something else, she knew. She’d been doing it for so long now, she wondered if that was the primary emotion of life.
Anger.
“I’m coming, Livy.”
74
High-Pitched and Full of Fear
Humphrey snapped awake.
Someone was calling his name. It was Summer. She was standing next to him.
Wanda hovered behind her. Eyebrows bunched over her nose.
Something was wrong.
He shook the sleep from his brain. “What it is?”
“It’s working!” Summer said. “I’ve got Vaughan on the holodesk.”
But instead of happy, she seemed panicked.
“Vaughan says he has to speak to you. Alone.”
Humphrey’s brain flashed awake as if she’d dumped cold water on his face. Finally, something was going their way. Wanda and Summer followed as he raced for the stairs to the bridge.
He burst in, breathless. Orson’s man Dickie was in the captain’s chair, which meant Orson was sleeping in his cabin near the engine room. The man was looking at the holodesk.
Vaughan’s holo stood above the mahogany desk. Belle was next to him. And shockingly, so was Vin.
Vaughan held up a finger. “First, you must not go to Elizabeth’s island.”
The lack of greeting from Vaughan—or any expression of joy at being restored to life—made Humphrey blink. “What do you mean? Why?”
Belle shoved Vin forward. “Tell him.”
Humphrey realized this was not the old Vin. This was the backup of Elizabeth’s mind.
Belle had succeeded in getting Vaughan to install her. It was the eyes that gave it away. Vin had never been so sultry. This Vin had her arms crossed, and she threw a slightly fearful glance at Belle before addressing Humphrey. “Captain Wilcox and all his men are based on my island.”
The news hadn’t sunk in before Vaughan raised another finger. “Second, send that man out of here.”
Humphrey jerked his head toward the door. Dickie complied, casting furtive glances back. Tytus—face freshly bandaged—went with him. They crowded on the bridge wing with Wanda and Summer.
Humphrey closed the door and went to the desk.
“What is it, Vaughan?”
“We know who Mr. Justin is.”
Humphrey sighed and rubbed his face. “We do too. It’s Sang. He killed Sensei tonight. Then Horace went all vigilante and killed Mr. Justin.”
Humphrey shook his head, sickened by the memory. “And now Horace is in a coma from the beating he took.”
“Horace? Sang?” Vaughan said. “What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Justin overwrote Sang. And Sang killed Sensei.”
Vaughan looked at Belle, face sagging with distress. Her face had a pinched expression Humphrey had never seen, as if she’d bitten into a lemon.
Humphrey didn’t know what emotions an AI could feel. Apparently all the usual ones, for Vaughan stood in stunned silence. He and Sensei had been very close.
“Humphrey,” Belle said, more gently that she’d ever said anything in her life. “Mr. Justin didn’t overwrite Sang.”
A video rectangle appeared next to her. It showed the door in the wine cellar. Belle froze it as a person entered.
Humphrey recognized the ponytail. The face.
Unmistakable.
Leslie.
Someone on the starboard bridge wing swore. It was Summer. Wanda stood next to her, jaw clenched. Her nostrils flared. The wind stirred her hair around like Medusa’s.
He waved them in. Tytus ushered Dickie in, too.
“Wanda, go get Leslie. Tell her I want to consult her on something or other. Once she’s on the way up, get Bethancy and Dajeet to come back with you. Summer, you go get Elias, Kirk, and Obu.”
“What are you going to do?” Wanda asked.
“We’re going to have a short trial.”
“And then?”
Dajeet stumbled through the bridge door, holding her chest and gasping. Her wise eyes were scrunched from more than exhaustion.
Fear.
“What is it?”
“Horace is dead.”
Wanda looked to the ceiling, shaking her head. “I was worried the concussion was too much.”
Dajeet shook her head and raised her palms. They glistened with blood. “I tried to stop it. I tried!”
“What do you mean?” Wanda demanded. She snatched Dajeet’s wrists and yanked her around. “What did you do?”
“I tried to stop the bleeding. Somebody . . .” She gagged and doubled over. A tendril of spit and bile dangled from her trembling lips. “Somebody cut his throat.”
Wanda and Humphrey exchanged one short glance.
Humphrey nodded. “Dajeet, stay here. Wanda, Tytus, Summer, go.” He spun on Dickie. “If you so much as scratch your nose, I will smash it in. Now sit!”
The Scions scrambled away, except for Dajeet. She went to a corner and slid to the floor and cried into her knees.
Humphrey shoved the holodesk away from the closet door, crawled through the holos of Vaughan and Belle and Vin, and pried open the door. He grabbed an old shirt, probably Orson’s.
He took it to Dajeet. “Wipe your hands. Wipe your face. Get yourself together.”
There was no time for pity or empathy. They would all mourn later.
By the time Leslie appeared, his own anger had congealed around his heart. She took three steps onto the bridge before noticing Vaughan and Belle.
Her lips quirked. An odd sort of disappointed smile.
The boys and other girls started to crowd in behind her.
She tried to shoulder through them, tried to get to one of the wing doors, but Tytus stopped her.
Vaughan and Belle showed the gathering the video.
“That room contained the servers,” Humphrey said. “The only person who knew the code was Mr. Justin.”
Gasps. Cries. Shouts.
Obu had to be restrained. His throat cracked with obscenities and threats as his agony poured out.
Elias held his wounded side and stared daggers at Leslie. They all boiled with anger at the realization she had diverted attention to Sang.
“Mr. Justin, how did it feel when you shot Sensei in the throat?” Humphrey asked her.
A smile curled her mouth into a vulgar gap in her face. “Quite satisfying. I won’t deny it.”
“And when you cut Horace’s throat?”
“Come now. Surely even you are relieved that one is dead.”
“She must die,” Obu said. “She must die in pain!” Tears and rage muddied his face. Several others, especially Dajeet, nodded vigorous agreement.
“He must die,” Humphrey said. “Let’s not forget that Mr. Justin is our enemy. Not Leslie.”
Summer realized what he meant to do. She whispered to Wanda. They both inhaled and let it go. They understood. They approved.
“We’ll be to your island tomorrow night,” Humphrey said to Mr. Justin. “Orson says there are only five men there. Why so few?”
“You’ll see when you get there.”
“Vaughan, can you handle Greta’s job?”
He got a quiet yes from his AI friend. Nothing more was needed.
The others were starting to understand.
“I can wire the controls,” Summer said. “It will be much easier than moving the holodesk down to the deck.”
“Elias, get it set up.”
The boy straightened and sort of saluted. He dragged Kirk and Obu after him.
An hour later, under a black sky, with the incessant tremble of the engines and quiet hiss of the sea breaking on the bow, the Scions all gathered around the transfer machine, now assembled next to the school bus.
Orson had been roused. He stood with Rosales. Mr. Justin’s brother showed little emotion. Maybe his shoulders sagged a bit more than usual.
Mr. Justin, wearing Leslie’s body, was bound to one cot of the transfer machine. A great black bruise darkened one side of her face. No surprise that Mr. Justin had put up a fight. Tytus had been severely efficient in putting at end to that.
Humphrey walked up to the girl. The man.
“Mr. Justin. You murdered Leslie by overwriting her. You murdered Sensei. You encouraged Horace to murder Sang. Which means you murdered Sang. You planned and attempted to steal all Scions with the intent to sell us, thus assuring our murders. You are a despicable human being. You deserve death. Have you anything to say in your defense?”
“I’m not Mr. Justin.”
“Yes he is.” Orson had stepped forward.
Tytus stood next to the lumpy man, ready to deliver a roundhouse kick that would send him into next week. “I have no reason to lie about it,” Orson said.
He had every reason to tell the truth. Orson was thinking about his own skin.
“Et tu, Orson?” Mr. Justin said, spitting. “I should have had Senator Bentilius kill you, too.”
Orson blanched and looked away.
Humphrey waved at Summer. She relayed his command to Vaughan on the bridge.
The wheel of the transfer machine began to spin.
Mr. Justin let out a scream, high-pitched and full of fear.
Humphrey felt absolutely no pity.
The Scions stayed gathered around the machine, a mixture of horror and resolve on their faces. It was the first time they’d seen the machine in operation. What Mr. Justin endured now was the fate awaiting them all, should Dr. Carlhagen get hold of them.
This was what they were fighting to escape.
Except it wasn’t quite the same. Because when the clone did not match the Progenitor being transferred, a backup was made.
When the wheel stopped spinning, Wanda approached the body. She felt at Leslie’s neck.
Tears rolled down Wanda’s face. She bent over her old friend’s face, whispered something.
Then with the gentleness of Mother Tyeesha helping a child take her first steps, Wanda took Leslie’s hand and helped her sit up.
The change was remarkable.
Humphrey wondered why they hadn’t noticed the difference in Leslie before. But how could they, when their suspicions had all been focused on Sang, and when Dr. Carlhagen was escaping, and fleets were chasing them?
Leslie was a mild girl. She wasn’t the brightest. But she wasn’t a complainer. She wasn’t confrontational.
She was like this. Vaguely confused.
“Where am I?” she said.
Every Scion rushed forward, all laughing tearfully. Wanda guided Leslie through the throngs and to the rail of the ship.
There were tears. There were hugs. There was wonder.
The last thing Leslie would have remembered—the last thing her backup had experienced—was Mr. Justin putting her in the transfer machine days and days ago on St. Vitus.
Humphrey turned away and headed for the bridge. There was nothing he could add to the explanations coming at Leslie from all directions.
Summer waited on the bridge, the tip of a grease-smudged finger in her teeth. “It’s over, right? Mr. Justin is dead.”
“Yes. For now.”
“What do you mean, for now?”
“You have a backup?” He was speaking to Vaughan.
“Yes. But don’t ask me to install that man here. It’s getting too crowded.”
Belle stood by Vaughan’s side, arms folded. She nodded in vigorous agreement. Vin was not present.
“I won’t ask unless I have to.”
“You’ve done well, Humphrey,” Vaughan said.
“I couldn’t save Sensei. Or Sang. Or Horace. I couldn’t stop Dr. Carlhagen from taking Livy. I couldn’t keep Jacey safe.”
“Yes. But the rest still live. And they have a better chance now than ever before, no matter how bleak things seem. Because of you.”
Humphrey accepted Vaughan’s point. What choice did he have? Give up?
That was certain death for all of them. The only answer was to keep going.
At least one evil had been righted.
Now for the rest.
“This island Mr. Justin was going to take us to. Orson says we could be there tomorrow night. He claimed there are no guards stationed there, as far as he knows. He says he’s never been there in person.”
“Then let’s get a plan together,” Belle said.
They talked for hours.
Orson was summoned, pumped for more and more details about what they’d find on his and Mr. Justin’s hidden Scion camp.
Wanda showed up with coffee. Leslie came, too, wide-eyed and afraid and confused. Summer slept on the floor, head on Elias’s lap, face looking like a child’s. Elias stroked her hair.
As the eastern horizon began to lighten, there was suddenly nothing left to talk about.
All that remained to do—for now—was wait.
* * *
The End of Book Three of
The Scion Chronicles.
Scions of Sacrifice: The Dreamless
Enjoy the first three chapters of the final book of The Scion Chronicles: Scions of Sacrifice.
The Dreamless is cold, timeless, empty.
No fear. No love. No desire.
Awareness is not aware.
Livy is not Livy here.
Her lungs are still. No need for breath.
The blood moves. Thump.
Thump.
One heartbeat per minute. Growth continues while the brain idles.
Microscopic barbs jut from each of 156 needles piercing her legs, scalp, stomach, arms, throat, feet, fingers. Thousands of fibers twine through her tissue, suffusing her with sensors, nano-injectors, and exo-capillaries.
Thump.
Lazarus is satisfied. The subject is healthy. Perfect growth hibernation. Cryopod operational status is nominal.
The Dreamless is
Cold.
Thump.
Timeless.
Empty.
Scions of Sacrifice: Paid for in Chips
Current fashion in Casino San Juan was very short skirts exposing tat-painted legs, low necklines, and half-veils. It was that last item that made the casino city such a useful hideout for Jacey and her companions.
The lacy, semi-transparent veils covered the nose and mouth, leaving the eyes exposed. Jacey liked this because she could see without being recognized. The fashion was due—Meow Meow said—to pervasive camera surveillance. People in the casino city valued anonymity, and the Republic of Puerto Rico—reliant on the cash shed by the gambling tourist trade—tolerated veils, which were illegal everywhere else in North America.
Unfortunately, the fabric was too gauzy to filter the rancid mixture of cigar smoke, the stink of frying chicken, and the liters of cologne and perfume the casino guests used to mask the stench of their sweat.
Jacey waved to a cocktail waiter, a shirtless man with sculpted muscles. He wore only a loincloth. “Water, please.” He smirked and walked off.
The smells hung in a thick haze over the gambling hall occupying the ground floor of The Ratz, a dilapidated hotel several blocks from the heart of the city. But Dante had favored this dump of a place for the very reasons it disgusted Jacey. The clientele were always drunk, and the proprietors didn’t ask questions.
The smells assaulted Jacey’s nose and the back of her throat. She struggled not to cough, which was seen as bad manners. According to Dante, the veils had come into fashion during the early days of the plague.
A slurring woman of about eighty years, with yellow lipstick and false eyelashes two centimeters long, had overheard Dante’s explanation and tugged Jacey aside. “Don’t listen to him. Veils are for modesty.” When Jacey asked why she wasn’t wearing one, the woman had cackled. “I ain’t modest, sweetheart. My motto is if you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
Jacey found the modesty theory rather dubious, for it seemed that the veiled ladies wore the scantiest clothing. She sure wished her dress covered more skin. Meow Meow had selected everything, of course. The dress was a sleeveless tube of stretchy black material that stopped mid-thigh. The Scion shoes Jacey loved had been tossed in the closet. Now her feet were clamped in ridiculous torture devices made of leather straps and a heel that forced her onto tippy toes. Meow Meow said they elongated Jacey’s calves.
Dante had eyed the whole getup with that lascivious smile of his. So far, he’d kept his mouth shut about it. Mostly.
Letting Meow Meow pick out Jacey’s clothes had been a mistake. But when you’re newly arrived in a foreign land and wearing the most famous face in the world—that of the actress and philanthropist Jacqueline Buchanan—you can’t go shopping without attracting undue notice.
And notice was what Jacey needed to avoid at all costs. They had eluded Captain Wilcox, so far. But Dr. Carlhagen’s mercenary thug had enormous resources at his disposal.
A serving girl wearing little more than two bands of gold lamé across her chest and nether regions handed Jacey a drink she hadn’t ordered. “I told the naked guy I wanted water,” Jacey said.
“Honey, at The Ratz, this is water.” It was more of the silver liquor called KT that was so popular in the casino city.
Jacey sipped and sighed.
It was good, sweet and spicy—but more than a few swallows and she’d be lying under the craps table. And what an odd table it was. Covered with green felt, it stretched before her with all of its incomprehensible markings and lines and boxes drawn in white. People crowded around it, throwing down cash and rolling dice. It seemed pointless, but they all loved it.
Jacey didn’t know the first thing about gambling, which in Casino San Juan was the same as not knowing anything at all. Dante seemed to know enough for both of them.
Five men in shiny, ill-fitting suits stood around the table, all vaping and occasionally whispering in the ears of their much younger companions. These thin and sultry-faced women were called “good time amigas,” or “amigo,” in one case. Hired lovers. Jacey found the idea equal parts appalling and fascinating.
