Page 50 of Cage of Starlight
Helner lowers the hand that must have slapped him and curls it into an elegant fist. “Hilarious though your reaction may be, you have work to do.”
He’s outside himself. His lips don’t belong to him. “Work . . .?”
“What do you feel?”
“A lot.”
“Your specialty is in recognizing and handling energies—which accounts for your extreme reaction to proximity. It also increases the likelihood of your ability to help us. You’ve done this before—there were reports of the stellite in Hulven glowing, a clear resonance response.”
“I didn’t . . .” But he remembers the strange, impossible energy that leapt into his hands when he was healing Kelly. It was nothing near so intense as this, though.
“Don’t bother denying it. The color of the glow matched what the analysts saw during your typing. In any case, meet Legion unit #2. Shari here calls itJoe, but we don’t listen to Shari.”
The scientist beside Helner crosses her arms. “Joe is one of onlythreein our possession. We used to have six.” She glares at Sena.
Legion. Isn’t that what those huge things in training are supposed to emulate? This is melon-sized and kind of cute. It hasleaves.It’s a toy compared to what Tory has faced in training. But those bone-crushing spheres are supposed to be the toys? Someone is confused.
“Legion units are the thorns in Westrice’s side. They’re Arlune’s strongest weapons. Their stellite cores are locked to the unique energy signatures of their users, and no standard Seeds have had any luck awakening them. Zero response to proximity or touch. They’reso simple, but we haven’t been able to reverse-engineer them, either. General Renstein put a stop to our attempts after our third potential pilot bit it. Anyway, there’s clearly something they’re doing to the vines or the stellite we can’t replicate.” She sniffs. “We’ve had a hard enough time getting stellite to holdanyenergy for a significant amount of time.” She gestures to the lights along the wall with their milky, cracked crystals. “As you can see, Westrice’s attempts have met with less-than-perfect results. What do those lights feel like to you?”
Tory scowls. “Dead things. They’re wrong.”
“Ha! Wait until I tell the generals they’vekilledthe stuff trying to process it. Anyway. So we discovered—” her eyes flick to Vantaras again, “that the Sources may be able to . . .interactwith the ones in our possession in certain ways, but we still haven’t managed to get anyone to form a proper connection with one and make it move. Your abilities should be well suited to controlling one. If I’m right, those assholes will finally listen to me.”
“It’s . . . cute.”
“It can take many forms. Just hope you don’t have to see them.” Helner extracts a small wooden device with a clock-like hand that swings back and forth. “We’ve exhausted all avenues of research with the lieutenant. Thus, your turn.”
“How do you know I won’t do something worse?”
“I assure you, that’s impossible. Step closer. You’ll need to touch it. It might be overwhelming at first, but once you’ve settled, I’ll provide further instruction.”
He reaches out, and the roots pull back like a curtain, like they’ve been waiting for him.
“That’s new,” Helner breathes.
A huge stellite crystal sits at the center, flaws sparkling like a field of stars in the Compound’s merciless fluorescence. Alive.
Tory’s hand trembles, body throbbing with a beat out of time with his own pulse. If it’s this bad beingnear it . . .
“By the Beast, just touch it.” Helner seizes his wrist and presses his hand to the crystal—
—and Tory breathes for the first time in his life. His blood sings with it. A map of light and texture and sensation unfolds itself across his awareness.
The tang of citrus and the bite of woodsmoke and the brush of silk against his skin fade out, a farewell kiss to every sense. The crystal beneath Tory’s hand glimmers with the same galaxy of blues his blood shed when they typed him, casting light like ocean waves onto its cradle of roots.
The rootsshift, too, like they’re eager to listen.
“Good!” Helner could be outside the room, outside the Compound, for all her voice matters. “Yes, this is—” She gulps. “Try a shape, an easy one. How about . . . a sphere that goes all the way around you.”
“Dr. Helner, I don’t know if that’s—”
“Cork it, Vantaras.”
Tory imagines it—a sphere to embrace him. The roots lift, tentative.
“You have tovisualize it,” Helner says.
He closes his eyes and sinks into the image: the closeness and darkness of it, claustrophobic. A cage of roots to lock him in, each one a bar in a living prison. Adrenaline scorches him, and the crystal sears his palm. He twists away, but it won’t let go.
