False Sight (18 page)

he auditorium is larger than anything in my universe. It takes up the entire circumference of the building and looks at least a quarter mile across. At least three

football fields, closer to four. The rows of seats are hundreds of concentric circles that slope down to the very center, like an ancient Greek theater. In the center a raised dais holds five chairs that resemble thrones more than anything. The whole cylinder-shaped room has to be ten stories tall, bigger than the biggest indoor stadium in my world.

And the auditorium is full.
Nearly every seat is occupied by a Rose in black scaled armor. Some of them are armored in gold scales, or silver. A few are the dusky red of old blood or fresh roses. They must be ranks. The majority are black, though, like us. We wear the armor of the lowest rank, I guess.
There have to be thousands of them, all seated in groups of five. Each team has a version of our Alpha team, all with individual lives and wants and needs and thoughts.
Rhys is silent beside me. When I finally glance at him, he closes his hanging jaw, but there’s nothing to say.
In unison, everyone stands. A great cheer rises up, deaf- ening, and some of the Roses stomp their armored feet. I feel the vibration in the scales of my suit, in my bones. I scan the crowd for the impetus—a row of five figures walks down one of the aisles to the dais, just close enough to tell who they are. They wave at the crowd. All five are dressed in gold scales with flowing red capes. It’s another Alpha team, but they aren’t clones—it’s the Originals. Olivia is among them, walking in back with the Original Noah. Seeing her gives me a spark of hope that doesn’t last; she may claim to be helping me, but it doesn’t feel like it from all the way over here. And there’s not much more she can do for me.
I find the director leading the way, side by side with the Original Rhys.
Most importantly, the director isn’t carrying the Torch. I almost smile, but instead sigh with partial relief. We should go looking for it, but there’s no way I can leave, not yet. Rhys was right—something is going down.
“She doesn’t have it,” I tell Rhys.
“I can see that. Let’s wait a minute, yeah?”
They climb stairs behind the dais, move to their thrones, and wave to the Roses, who scream and cheer at them, whis- tling and clapping.
There are a few empty seats in the back row near us. I pull Rhys out of the shadows near the elevator, and we slip into the row. I’m behind an auburn-haired girl—me. Rhys stands behind a version of himself. Farther down the row is another team, but the Peter on the end doesn’t spare us a glance. We’re without a full team, but at least we’re less obvious as part of the group.
“Thank you,” the director says, her voice amplified to the entire room. Under the lights, her hair appears blond, not auburn. Not how I remember it from Mrs. North’s memory.
Eventually the Roses quiet and begin to sit down. The Originals take their seats together. The distance is too great to make out details, but they look just like us. Young, even though they’re impossibly old. Swap their golden armor with black and it would be impossible to tell they’re the ruling body of this world. That comforts me. It makes them like us. And if we can die, so can they.
“Thank you,” the director says again, stopping all chatter at once. Her voice booms through the auditorium, even though she keeps it soft. There is no echo, just this voice in my ears. “You know why you are here,” she says. An auditoriumwide cheer explodes again, and the director has to raise her hands for silence. “You know why you are here, and I thank you, your Mothers and Fathers thank you, for your patience.”
The entire curving wall of the auditorium is black.
Suddenly it changes to red.
Rhys slips his fingers around my hand and squeezes. I squeeze back.
Slowly, the red fades into a video of flames, and it’s not a wall now, but a screen. A massive wraparound screen, all 360 degrees, that shows cities burning, volcanoes exploding, massive waves hundreds of feet tall crashing onto land. I see versions of New York and Los Angeles. I see cities I don’t recognize, gleaming towers taller than anything I’ve seen yet. Entire cities made of glass, sparkling in the sun. Cities in hollowed-out mountains, entire villages cut into the sides of rocks. The camera pans and swoops, showing a hundred alien places. Worlds that have their own histories and people.
The director says, “For one thousand years, the eyeless have been our protectors. We’ve guided them through count- less realms. Realms that would do True Earth harm. They have been tireless and efficient. But they will work alone no more.”
She waits. Nervous chatter ripples across the audito- rium.
One thousand years,
she said....It can’t be. The Roses are practically buzzing in their seats. “For as many years, the Roses have guarded this world from those who would destroy it from within. You have been as tireless as the eyeless. As time went on, and our enemies died, your function as protectors of this realm from internal threats became more ceremonial. In short, there are no more enemies to fight. Not here at home.”
The Original Peter cuts in, voice booming. “That’s what happens when the Roses are given a task. May I remind our lovely director that the Prime rebellion was crushed in
four days
.”
That gets laughter from some, hoots and cheering from many. A few nearby Peters slap one another on the chest, charged up from the praise of their Original. The dread in my stomach spreads. Our enemy is ancient and has succeeded against greater worlds. It was easier to know that when the visual proof wasn’t on a ten-story-tall screen.
“Yes,” the director says, smiling, “thank you for that, Peter. Let us never forget where we came from. Remember we were once like the enemy we nowfight. Before us, there waschaos.”
Meanwhile the images continue. They show the eyeless swarming into the cities of different worlds.
Rhys hasn’t let go of my hand. He gives it a squeeze and whispers in my ear. “I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s find the Torch.”
I look at the dais again. The Originals are weaponless, save for their bodies. I try to imagine them being alive for over a thousand years, and my brain can’t process it.
“We should check her office now,” he says, squeezing harder.
I feel rooted in place. Seeing all of this—
us
—rejoicing in the destruction of so many lives. Of so many worlds. For what?
For what?
Rhys almost stands up, but I clench my fingers around his hand. “Wait.” I don’t know why I want to see this. I think I have to. Maybe once the dread evaporates it will leave strength behind.
The director continues. “Not all of you can join us in the fight against this new world. Some will need to remain here to guard the realm, at least for now, until we can rotate teams. So we will ask for volunteers to stay behind. You’ve all worked very hard for this day, and those who stay behind will be rewarded. We don’t want to have to choose.” She looks left and right at the others seated on the dais. I wish I were closer. I wish I could see their faces, the expressions they make. “We haven’t settled on a reward yet, but I promise it will be worth it.”
“Do you know where the director’s office is?” Rhys’s voice sounds different. He wants to leave, and badly.
I don’t look at him, not wanting to see my fear reflected in his eyes. “No. Wait. Just wait.”
The formality seems to have drained from the place. It’s like the pep rally at school, when the teachers would speak to the students and the students were restless in their seats, ready to move. But it’s not a joyous occasion. They aren’t really pumping themselves up to take on a rival team, though it seems that way. No, the smiles and subtle laughter and back-patting are because they’re about to end an entire world.
“I’ll go without you. I’ll probably get lost,” he says.
“No you won’t.” I wouldn’t let him go without me.
“I’m getting up right now.”
“Just wait, please.” I should’ve left when Rhys wanted to; something is coming that I don’t want to see, I know it. Yet I can’t move.
Thedirectorisn’tfinished.Her voice booms,
“Now look upon your enemy!”
My heart stops as Rhys finally stands up and pulls me out of my seat. I follow him, eyes up on the big screen, as Rhys palm-strikes the elevator button. The doors open and he yanks me inside and pins my arms to the back of the elevator. “Stay put,” he says.
Before the doors shut, I catch a glimpse of my world over his shoulder.
The Rose on-screen appears several stories tall. The White House behind him is taller. I know it’s him. No doubt in my mind. And it shatters any strength I had left.
Peter is on one knee, covered in blood, surrounded by three eyeless. His sword is blood-soaked and unsteady. They circle him like wolves, claws clicking on concrete.
The doors shut.

pound on the button to open the door, but we’re already rising. So I kick the door, screaming, and Rhys wraps his arms around me in a bear hug until I stop struggling.

He squeezes tight, and I have no breath to scream or room to inhale. Then he lets go and I slump against the door, struggling to breathe. The metal is cold against my forehead.

“Level,” the elevator says.
“Did I squeeze too hard?” Rhys asks me.
I have no breath to answer. My mind is on fire. “This is the best way to help him. We get the Torch and go

home and stop them. What could we do from the auditorium?” He spins me around and forces me to look at him. “What could we do? Huh?”
“Nothing.” He’s right. I know he’s right, but it does little to

calm me. I shove him away. “Why did you leave him?” I spit a little when I say it.
“Level,” the elevator says again.
“The director’s office,” I say.
I don’t think it’s going to work until the car is suddenly ascending, smooth as silk. My anger doesn’t ebb, which isn’t a bad thing. It can make me strong if I manage to rein it in.
“Peter is fine,” Rhys says. “You saw his face.” He knows Peter’s resolve, the complete refusal to fail. I would feel sorry for the eyeless he faced, if I were able to.
I see now why Peter’s been pulling away from me, why I should be pulling away from him. My feelings for him almost made me charge back into the auditorium. Had it been Rhys, would I have done the same, or would I have kept a cool head and put the mission first? I need to forget about Peter, to trust in his ability.
In the doors, I see a reflection of Noah standing next to Rhys. When I turn, he’s gone. Rhys has his eyes closed and doesn’t notice my sudden movement.
Go away,
I think. Then,
Are you there?
No response. Great, now I’m seeing things.
We rise for what feels like minutes, fast enough to put strain on my knees. Then suddenly we stop and the doors open to reveal an office—one identical to Commander Gane’s. The four walls of the pyramid are made of glass. In Mrs. North’s memory, the director had left them tinted, but now I can see the entire golden sky in all directions and, behind her desk, the immense blue sheet of an ocean, as if seen from an airplane.
Rhys doesn’t care about the view; he only has eyes for one thing—the Torch resting on the desk. The dull crimson globe hangs over the side.
It’s too easy.
Unless the director is so confident that the idea of someone taking it is preposterous.
I step out of the elevator, and Rhys follows.
“Just grab it,” he says, looking as weary as I feel. He’s right; it’s time to get the hell out of here.
I cross to the desk and my fingers hover over the Torch. The staff emits some kind of static I feel in the pads of my fingertips, through my suit.
I hear the elevator doors swish open again.
“Miranda!” Rhys shouts.
I snatch the Torch off the desk and spin, feeling it reach out for nearby eyeless. The bulb flares bright red as five Roses clad in golden armor step out of the elevator. They pull their swords off their backs in unison. Miranda, Noah, Peter, Rhys, Olive, from left to right. They aren’t the Originals, just some kind of elite team, I’m guessing.
The Peter steps forward. “Against royal decree six-one-five, you have entered a Mother’s or Father’s office without express permission. Relinquish the Torch and kneel before us or face the justice of True Earth.” He recites it like he’s bored. Busi- ness as usual.
Rhys looks back at me with raised eyebrows that ask,
Do we give it a shot?
But we don’t get that far. My hand hasn’t closed around Beacon’s grip when a strange static crawls over my skin. The static turns solid in the next second, clamping down on me like a vise. I’ve felt this sensation before. The Peter has his hands straight out, fingers curled like he’s holding two invisible eggs. Slowly, he forces us to kneel.
“We’re special,” the Miranda says with a smile.
The five encircle us, and then the Noah and Olivia yank my arms back and bind my wrists roughly. The cuffs shrink until my fingers tingle, feeling fat with trapped blood. When the Peter turns for the elevator, I see a bulge between his shoulder blades, under his golden scales. The same power pack Gane used, which has implications I’m not prepared or willing to dissect at the moment.
No one speaks on the ride back down. No one so much as coughs. I spend the time thinking about how we lost.
Noah’s voice startles me. “Since when do you quit?”
I don’t know what to say.
“You’re definitely not the Miranda I knew, then.”
That stings. My cheeks grow hot. How dare he bring that up when it’s
his
fault the girl before me died in that alley.
“Think of a plan,” Noah says. “Don’t give up. If you’re not worried about me up here, worry about Peter. Not to mention the entire world.”
Come and go as you please, by all means.
“I’m trying not to distract you. But I never left. I never would. You need to fight. If not you, then who? Who, Miranda?”
I feel him recede into some dark corner again. His absence leaves a void in me, like before.
After a minute, the doors open. The cells are clear plastic cubes with no visible doors and no bars or locks. On the left, two of the walls slide open. They shove me into the first one and Rhys into the second. The doors suck shut behind us; the bindings pop off our wrists and clatter on the floor. I bring my hands around and rub my wrists until the tingling in my fingertips becomes pain. When I turn, the five in gold are gone.
One person occupies the farthest cube in the row, but he’s sleeping. I think it’s a Noah. Other than him, we’re completely alone. Just stark white walls and clear plastic with no obvious seams.
In the next cube over, Rhys rubs his wrists and shakes his head slowly. A tendon bulges in his jaw. The next second, he’s at the front of his cube, pounding his fists against the plastic and screaming at the top of his lungs. It’s the sound of primal rage, and I remember we’re not so helpless. Set us free and we’re as deadly as any of the Roses from the auditorium. Maybe more so. We have something to fight for, after all.
He punches the wall between us. The plastic makes a snap- ping thud, and he steps back, shaking his hand out.
“Feel better?” I say.
He only has to raise his voice a little to be heard. “Not really. But the pain is kind of nice. You should try it.” He throws his hands down with disgust all over his face.
“Yeah.” Seeing his helplessness mixed with rage makes it easier for me, as terrible as that sounds. Misery loves company, I guess.
“Does Noah have any ideas? He’s still in there, right?”
“Let me ask him.”
“No,” Noah says.
“No,” I say.
Rhys looks befuddled, and then he laughs. “Did he—did he even think about it?” he says between laughs.
I’d laugh if I had the energy. Seeing Rhys laugh makes it impossible not to smile, though.
“Tell him I say hi. Tell him he owes me five bucks from that bet last week. I’ll take it from his sock drawer.”
“Hi, Rhys. Touch my money and I’ll haunt you.”
For some reason, that makes my chest seize.
You’re not a ghost.

“He says...” I trail off as pressure builds against the back of my eyeballs. I will not cry.
I will not cry.
The main door opens behind me, and a pair of visitors comes through. Two Originals, shining golden scales and red cloaks to their heels.
The director and the Original Rhys.