Page 16 of Cage of Starlight
“When,” he rasps, and Vantaras’ strides slow to even the distance between them. “When can I get rid of this thing?”
“Never.” A pause. “We will arrive shortly in the changing room.”
The changing room is as clinical as everywhere else: slate-gray lockers, slate-gray walls, floors tiled in white and the by-now-familiar powder blue. No windows. Vantaras leads him to a locker numbered #2417.
“You may change into the clothes inside. The things you’re wearing will be incinerated. Any items on your person deemed dangerous will be disposed of.”
Tory tugs out a pair of slate-blue drawstring pants and a loose, short-sleeved shirt of a slightly lighter shade. He crosses his arms, tugs at his long sleeves to dip his closed fists inside. “They’re too short.”
“Excuse me?”
“The sleeves.”
“All detainees in the Compound wear this.”
Don’t make waves. Hide the tattoos.His mother never told him what to do if following one rule broke another. Tory dangles the shirt by a fistful of the coarse cloth. He forces air into the reed-thin tube of his throat. It’s a big shirt. The sleeves will be long enough, surely. “Privacy?”
“Transition upon arrival must be monitored.”
Tory turns so his marked arm faces away, pulls his clothes off, and tugs the ugly shirt and pants on. The shirt dwarfs him, yet the sleeves are barely long enough to cover the tattoo. Tory ties the strings on the pants into a tight knot to keep them up.
“Those markings.” Tory flinches at Vantaras’ cold voice. “You’re the child of an interned laborer.”
Tory bites his lip almost hard enough to taste blood and keeps his silence.
Vantaras looks away as Tory tugs at the shirtsleeves. “You won’t have time to shower, but there’s a bag of supplies in your locker, replenished monthly.”
Next, Vantaras takes him to another room with a sad slit of a window at the back and a dull metal table and chairs, bolted down. Tory sits; Vantaras retreats to stand against the wall as red-headed Dr. Helner strides in, heels clicking. A younger man, mousy and unarmed, half-asleep, stumbles after her with a notepad.
Tory shifts in his chair as they settle. “What is this?”
“Standard protocol.” Helner offers a sharp smile. “Told you I’d see you soon.” She waves a slender hand, and a silver bracelet swings with the motion. Its centerpiece is a flat plate with a series of letters and numbers stamped into it. “We don’t get so many inductees that I install Cores full-time. I also supervise dietary and lifestyle requirements for unique Seeds and advise the Grand General on arranging training regimens to best suit them. Not that the rancid meatheadlistens.” She smiles at the young man with the notepad. “Tell the General I said that, and I’ll pull your kidney into your throat and leave it there.”
The young man makes a pathetic noise.
Helner laughs. “The skittish little turd over there is filling out your file and will generate your ID number. Let’s get started. State your full name and birthplace for the record.”
“Tory Arknett.”
The man in the corner scratches out notes on his pad.
“And?”
Tory resists the urge to pull at his too-short sleeves.
“Yourbirthplace.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Fine. We heard you were performing healing in the southwestern mining town of Hulven. Is that true?”
They think he’ll just admit to a crime? Tory raises an eyebrow.
“Doesn’t matter. It was stupid, considering your abilities, but we can move on. I’m sure you’ve suspected by now that you’re one of the Sources.”
“The what?”
“No need to play coy. We have first-hand testimony of that kinetic energy redirection incident. Witnesses say you stopped a rampaging carriage. And what a performance! The concussive force you stole off it wiped out a copse of trees in the forest nearby. You been practicing for long?”
