The Culling by Steven Dos Santos Page A

my private box. There’ll be plenty of food and refreshment for all.”
    Dampness smears his image. I blink him back into clarity. “I’ve missed you so much.”
    His smile is radiant. “Me too. This is going to be a
new beginning, Lucky. A new beginning for the Parish. For the Establishment. But most importantly, a new beginning for us .”

Eight
    The lumbering steam coach transporting Cole, Mrs. Bledsoe, and myself back to the Citadel ebbs to a crawl about twenty feet in front of the tower’s massive iron doors. Rods and pistons screech to a halt. Coughing up a final shroud of vapor, the vehicle stops dead. When the haze clears, I almost buckle under the weight of the stares coming from the crowd jammed into both sides of the street for today’s ceremony. Fear and confusion as to why the three of us have been singled out for this special treatment is plastered on most of their faces. But it’s the piercing glares scattered throughout the pack that force my eyes away in shame.
    Cole springs from the cab. “Hurry, Lucky! We’re gonna be late!” he cries over the clamor of the throng. He tugs my hand with both of his, urging me from the carriage.
    “Take it easy, buddy. We’re just on time. The parade’s about to start. You haven’t missed any of it.” I hop to the ground. “Hey, what say you pretend I’m a caballus and ride me up to the observation box?”
    He claps and jumps up and down a couple of times. “Can I, Lucky? Please ?”
    I scoop him up onto my shoulders, ignoring the pain. “Next stop, the Command Center, Sir!”
    Cole tugs my ears. “Giddy-up!”
    I turn to Mrs. Bledsoe, who’s still sitting in the coach. She looks even paler in the bright afternoon sunshine. “You’re so good with him,” she says. “Reminds me of you and your father.”
    I take her hand and guide her out of the transport, into the hover chair that Cassius has so generously provided.
    She fidgets in her seat, eyes suspicious. “I really don’t need this contraption, dear. I can walk. I’m not an invalid.”
    “Nobody says you are.” I tug the seat belt snug around her. “Think of it as being queen for the day. We’re here to serve your every whim.”
    She coughs into her handkerchief. “If I fall off, you’d better catch me.”
    Our Imposer escort punches a button on one of the armrests. There’s a puff of exhaust from the propulsion unit underneath the chair.
    “Oh!” Mrs. Bledsoe exclaims. The chair rises a few feet off the ground.
    “I wanna ride the flying chair!” Cole’s heels tap against my chest.
    My head twists up. “Hey. Behave yourself, or the ride ends now.”
    He buries his face in my hair.
    I squeeze his foot. “If you’re a good boy, you can ride it on the way back, deal?”
    He bounces on my shoulders. “Deal!”
    My eyes shift between Cole and Mrs. Bledsoe. “Everyone ready?”
    “Yes!” Cole shouts.
    Mrs. Bledsoe wheezes. Her gaze crawls up the tower. “Not really, but let’s go.” She fiddles with the controls of her chair and it swerves toward the Citadel.
    “This way,” the Imposer commands, then swivels on his heels and marches through the iron gates.
    Taking a deep breath, I’m about to follow Mrs. Bledsoe across the threshold when a familiar figure in the crowd catches my eye.
    Digory Tycho. His hair is hanging wildly about his face, framing his clenched jaw. The intensity in his eyes causes my heart to race.
    I squeeze my passenger’s ankles. “Cole, why don’t you go inside? There’s something I need to do first.”
    His heels dig into my chest. “Not fair! I wanna stay with you!”
    I hunch down and pry him off me, setting him gently to the ground. “No whining. Mrs. Bledsoe will be with you. I’ll follow right behind, I promise. Don’t I always keep my promises?”
    His lips thrust into a pout. “Yup.”
    “Okay then. Go on now.”
    I slap him on the butt and he runs toward Mrs. Bledsoe, whose forehead has sprouted more creases as she stares first at me,