Page 19 of Cage of Starlight
The thud of pain in his shoulder, the lingering aches from healing, the weight of his limbs, this man’swords—they’re all easier to bear because he has a plan. He’ll cut the tracker out and escape tonight.
“Legion?” he tries, forcing his voice to sound conversational.
The man says, “Hmm, I’d say medium. You’re almost a small right now, but you’ll fill out some when you’re not killing yourself with healing.”
Humming under his breath, the man pulls a scuffed silver plate—about as long as his thumb, with a length of dense chain on each end—from a box. He places the plate into a bulky metal contraption,fiddling with a few dials before pulling a lever so the top half of the machine slams down. When he lifts the lever, the plate is stamped with a series of letters and numbers: (S-S)WS/2417
He seizes Tory’s wrist again, and Tory barely flinches when the chains close around it.
“Welcome to the Box.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The stolen scalpelwarms between Tory’s fingers as Vantaras leads him to a sterile hall labeledResidence Quarters (C).“You’ll soon have a stellite tab to access your room and other public areas. For today, you’ll need to knock on the door and get your roommate to let you in.”
“Roommate.”
“You’ll be sharing with another Seed. Sword corps—the offensive branch. A Kineticist, I believe.”
Helner said Kineticists are bruiser types. This’ll be great.
“You’ll be in C114, at the end of the hall.”
Tory peers down the short hallway. The space between one gray door and the next doesn’t bode well for the size of the rooms. If he’s going to cut his tracker out tonight, he’ll need someplace more private. The changing room could work. “Then why aren’t we down there?”
Vantaras’ lips thin. “I didn’t wish to make a scene.”
Adrenaline floods Tory. “Make a—?”
The stellite lighting along the walls shifts red before Tory can finish, pulsing in beats like a living heart. Vantaras stiffens and turns to go. “Stay here.”
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Tory grabs his arm before he can walk away.
Vantaras twists out of his grasp, withdrawing a wicked black baton and pressing it against Tory’s chest. The force of his forearm behind it knocks the breath from Tory’s lungs and gives him a terrible close-up of Vantaras’ amber eyes, visceral and vibrant in this light, brighter than flame. “Stayhere. I’ll deal with you later.”
The pressure leaves Tory all at once and Vantaras backs away, the communicator on his chest flickering brilliant blue. A cold voice comes through.“Infiltrators in Intake. Rebel Seeds. I trust you’ll put an end to them.”
Infiltrators.
Therebels. Hasra’s stories swirl in his mind, and terrible joy flickers to life in Tory. If he can get to them, he can free himself. Maybe even join them. The impulses he’s crushed down for years roar back all at once, unstoppable. He has a weapon, meager though it is. Now is no time for keeping his head down, for not making waves. If ever there was a time to fight, it’s now.
He’s following after Vantaras before he knows what he’s doing, scalpel clutched in hand.
Vantaras is already at the end of the hall, cranking a lever as he passes. Some sort of mechanism creaks and clanks, and a thick door begins to close from both sides of the hallway.
Tory barely makes it through before the thing can crush him.
Vantaras is too far ahead—Tory can do little more than chase whispers of his shadow around corners and the taps of his running feet on the polished floor. It doesn’t take long for him to lose Tory entirely, but by then he’s close enough to find the fray by sound.
When Tory first arrived here, there was something eerie about the wide, bright cleanliness, all stark lines and cruel precision. The redlight does no favors to the place, turning the halls dim and nightmarish. Tory misses a step and catches himself on the wall when an ear-piercing boom splits the air, then another.
Gunshots. Someone cries out.
Tory rounds the corner and takes the chaos in.
Arms extended, gun gripped in gloved hands and hair dusting over one eye, Vantaras is something otherworldly in the flare and fade of the light. With everything painted red, it takes Tory a moment too long to recognize the blood—a vivid smear of it on one pale cheek. It pools on the floor ahead of Vantaras and marks the ground with spatters and smears for a few more feet before stopping abruptly. Strange. There’s no one else in the hall, but judging by the blood, they didn’t make it to the door.
Relaxing out of a shooting stance, Vantaras holsters his handgun.
