asks, “When will they attack next?”
“I don’t know,” I reply.
The Brigadet in front of me scowls at the poseur Comantre conscript behind me. “What did you say to me?” The Brigadet shifts the barrel of his harbinger. All the other soldiers on the overup do the same, pointing their weapons away from me and in the direction of the soldier behind me.
A heavy sigh comes from the Comantre impostor. “I told you not to interrupt,” he replies. The air in the chamber becomes supercharged. The harbinger is torn from the Brigadet soldiers’ hand. His eyes widen in surprise as the gunlike weapon floats in the air before him, its barrel pointed at him. All the other soldier’s harbingers follow suit, each doing a one-eighty in the air to levitate in front of its soldier. Even as the shock wears off, no one moves at all.
The soldier claiming to be from Westway says to the Brigadets, “If you speak again without my permission, your harbingers will shoot you. Now, stop the overup.”
“Halt overup, authorization five-nine-alpha-wastern-urtza,” the Brigadet soldier responds with a tight voice.
“Thank you,” the one behind me says politely. “Now, Kricket—”
He knows my name
“—tell me when and where the Alameeda will attack again.”
“You move things with your mind,” I say, slack-jawed.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. Where will the Alameeda strike next?” the man asks with a low snarl.
“Who are you?” I’m breathless.
He lifts my arms behind me in such a way that I think for a second that he intends to break them. I’m forced to bend away from him so that they don’t snap. Driven to my knees, I bend forward more with my face going to the floor. I pant in pain, but bite my lips so that I don’t cry out.
“I’ll ask you again. When’s the next attack? Where? How will they come?”
With my cheek to the floor, I punctuate my answer: “I. Don’t. Know!”
“Then you’re going to have to find out, aren’t you? Open your chakras, meditate—get in touch with your spirit animal,” he says condescendingly, “whatever it is you need to do to find out—do it!” He lifts my arms again and I grind my teeth.
“What are chakras? I don’t do any of those things! I—” I stop speaking when he pulls me up from the floor to my knees again. He kneels down behind me and places one hand on my throat while the other holds a harbinger to my temple. Near my ear he whispers, “Countdown to death commences in three-two-one—”
I breathe the words, “I wish I knew—” As I exhale, my breath curls into the air in a cold, smoky plume from the chill in my lungs. My eyes roll up to the ceiling. The poseur soldier’s hand slides from my neck to my ribs, holding me against him so that I don’t slip to the floor.
I’m violently ripped out of my body to hover above all of them, near the sparkling, teardrop crystals of the chandelier. The man beneath me claiming to be a Comantre soldier is the same one from the gallery balustrade at the rail station. He raises his shamrock-colored eyes to my spirit floating above him, as if he can see me. I realize then that he’s the one who slapped me in my waking dream—or he will slap me in the future, depending on how you look at it. “Hurry, Kricket,” he orders, “before I decide to kill you.” His hand shifts back to my throat, gripping it like he’ll strangle me.
I hope he can see my spirit finger as I flip him off.
The next moment compares to a solar flare or the heat of a thousand stars as I blast out of the chamber, thrown back up the elevatorlike shaft. The galvanized steel beams that construct the maze of overup channels fall away. I eject from the top of the skyscape and into the sea of clouds. And then . . . the real fun begins. I flash-forward; the trap of ordinary things that one gets used to slips away too, by an explosion of time. The fabric of matter is different here: soothing as it is disturbing, with the sense of being whole
“I don’t know,” I reply.
The Brigadet in front of me scowls at the poseur Comantre conscript behind me. “What did you say to me?” The Brigadet shifts the barrel of his harbinger. All the other soldiers on the overup do the same, pointing their weapons away from me and in the direction of the soldier behind me.
A heavy sigh comes from the Comantre impostor. “I told you not to interrupt,” he replies. The air in the chamber becomes supercharged. The harbinger is torn from the Brigadet soldiers’ hand. His eyes widen in surprise as the gunlike weapon floats in the air before him, its barrel pointed at him. All the other soldier’s harbingers follow suit, each doing a one-eighty in the air to levitate in front of its soldier. Even as the shock wears off, no one moves at all.
The soldier claiming to be from Westway says to the Brigadets, “If you speak again without my permission, your harbingers will shoot you. Now, stop the overup.”
“Halt overup, authorization five-nine-alpha-wastern-urtza,” the Brigadet soldier responds with a tight voice.
“Thank you,” the one behind me says politely. “Now, Kricket—”
He knows my name
“—tell me when and where the Alameeda will attack again.”
“You move things with your mind,” I say, slack-jawed.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. Where will the Alameeda strike next?” the man asks with a low snarl.
“Who are you?” I’m breathless.
He lifts my arms behind me in such a way that I think for a second that he intends to break them. I’m forced to bend away from him so that they don’t snap. Driven to my knees, I bend forward more with my face going to the floor. I pant in pain, but bite my lips so that I don’t cry out.
“I’ll ask you again. When’s the next attack? Where? How will they come?”
With my cheek to the floor, I punctuate my answer: “I. Don’t. Know!”
“Then you’re going to have to find out, aren’t you? Open your chakras, meditate—get in touch with your spirit animal,” he says condescendingly, “whatever it is you need to do to find out—do it!” He lifts my arms again and I grind my teeth.
“What are chakras? I don’t do any of those things! I—” I stop speaking when he pulls me up from the floor to my knees again. He kneels down behind me and places one hand on my throat while the other holds a harbinger to my temple. Near my ear he whispers, “Countdown to death commences in three-two-one—”
I breathe the words, “I wish I knew—” As I exhale, my breath curls into the air in a cold, smoky plume from the chill in my lungs. My eyes roll up to the ceiling. The poseur soldier’s hand slides from my neck to my ribs, holding me against him so that I don’t slip to the floor.
I’m violently ripped out of my body to hover above all of them, near the sparkling, teardrop crystals of the chandelier. The man beneath me claiming to be a Comantre soldier is the same one from the gallery balustrade at the rail station. He raises his shamrock-colored eyes to my spirit floating above him, as if he can see me. I realize then that he’s the one who slapped me in my waking dream—or he will slap me in the future, depending on how you look at it. “Hurry, Kricket,” he orders, “before I decide to kill you.” His hand shifts back to my throat, gripping it like he’ll strangle me.
I hope he can see my spirit finger as I flip him off.
The next moment compares to a solar flare or the heat of a thousand stars as I blast out of the chamber, thrown back up the elevatorlike shaft. The galvanized steel beams that construct the maze of overup channels fall away. I eject from the top of the skyscape and into the sea of clouds. And then . . . the real fun begins. I flash-forward; the trap of ordinary things that one gets used to slips away too, by an explosion of time. The fabric of matter is different here: soothing as it is disturbing, with the sense of being whole
Similar Books
