Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) (21 page)

Saben’s jaw drops. “You think I delivered the prisoners to a lab where they’re going to be experimented on? Like rats? Didn’t the Nazis do something like that during World War I?”

“Two,” I correct his history. “Yes, they did. And they incinerated people.” My mind plays back stuttering images in black and white from the reels the history proctor showed us.

Saben is silent for a moment. Then he says, “That’s not the worst part.”

I look at him apprehensively.

“I knew one of the prisoners. You knew her, too.”

“Who?” I ask, my mind going immediately to Fiere. But she is safe with the Defiance, isn’t she?

“Kareen. Remember?”

I gasp. How could I forget? She was a Bulrush spy married to a government minister who discovered her activities and planned to kill her. Helping her escape the Atlanta area was my first mission for Bulrush. I killed a man. Unbidden, the sound of my knife tearing his windpipe comes back to me. “Did she say anything?”

Shaking his head, Saben says, “We didn’t get a chance to talk except once, briefly. She asked me to let her children know she loved them. I promised.”

“She knows she’s not coming out of there alive,” I whisper. I try not to think about the types of experiments she might be subject to, or visualize her leaving the facility as a wisp of smoke rising from the incinerator vent. She was a brave woman, and a kind one. “How will you get in touch with her children?” It never crosses my mind that Saben won’t fulfill his pledge.

“Minister O’Connell’s still the head of the Ministry of Defense—the IPF falls under him, so I do, too—and he lives not far from the capitol.  I’m sure I can find an opportunity to talk to the kids.”

“They already think she’s dead,” I remind him. After Kareen’s disappearance, her husband put it about that she was murdered so he wouldn’t have to admit his wife was a spy who had deserted him.

“I’ll think of something.”

We sit in silence for long moments, Saben’s arm draped over my shoulder, holding me close to his side. Despite the depressing news he brought and the horrifying implications, I feel safe and loved. As if he hears my thoughts, he tightens his arm around me.

He speaks, his voice low and tortured. “I delivered those people to—”

Putting a finger to his lips, I say. “
Ssh
. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

“We have to do something.”

The resolve in his voice breaks something in me. He’s a good man, a truly good man who doesn’t for one minute think about hiding behind the idea that he was only obeying orders. “I love you.”

He looks into my face, his gold eyes alight, and says, “You do?”

“Yep.” A bubble of happiness rises in me. I love Saben.

His lips graze mine and he whispers against them, “That’s convenient, because I love you and I’m planning to spend the rest of my life showing you how much.”

We kiss for a long time before remembering to eat our picnic. By unspoken agreement, we don’t talk about Kareen or the fate of the other prisoners. There’ll be time for that later. I’m kind of hoping we’ll go back to kissing when we finish eating, but Saben grabs my hand and pulls me up. Opening the neck of his duffle, he shows me a baseball bat. “I’m going to teach you how to hit a baseball,” he says.

He starts down the steps, taking them two at a time, and I follow, laughing and out of breath.

“It’s dark,” I protest when we hit the field. It’s not the dead of night, but the sun has set and the sky is slipping past ash gray to light navy and is quickly closing in on gunmetal.

“We can’t risk the lights, so . . .” Saben pulls a baseball coated with a biolume gel from the bag. “Ta-da.”

I laugh, and acquiesce to his madness.

“You stand here,” he says, “at home plate.” He positions me. “Those”—he points toward slight depressions that mark out the points of a diamond on dirt lanes—“are first base, second base and third base. There’s no actual bases anymore, so just pretend.”

“Okay.”

He hefts the bat and demonstrates how to place my hands. Then he takes a cut at an imaginary ball. “Watch how my hips swivel and the way my hands follow through.”

“Always happy to watch your hips,” I murmur.

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Sorry.” I prim my lips to keep the laughter from escaping.

He wraps my fingers around the bat and helps me position the bat above my right shoulder. Walking out to what he calls the pitcher’s mound, he says, “Keep your eye on the ball. Ready?”

I nod and he lofts the ball in an underhand motion.  I can follow the glowing sphere easily as it arcs toward me. I swing hard and miss. The bat’s momentum carries me around in a half-circle.

“You swung late,” Saben says as I retrieve the ball and hurl it toward him. It drops several feet in front of him and he stoops to scoop it up. “Anticipate where the ball is going to be.”

Right
. Rolling my eyes, I resume my position, “choking up” on the bat when directed, and swing ineffectively at several more pitches. Finally, when it’s full dark and I’m about to announce I’m hopeless and quit, the bat nicks the ball and it dribbles toward Saben.

“Run to first, run to first,” he calls, lunging for the ball.

I sprint toward first base and he chases me, holding the ball at arm’s length.  I’m surprised by how good running for fun feels, the contraction and release in my muscles, the way my lungs labor.  I stop where the base used to be and Saben plows into me, his arms going around me to hold us up.

“Safe! We’ll make a baseball player out of you yet,” he says, kissing my sweaty neck. The way he says it makes me think it’s what his father used to say to him, and I think that he’ll be a good father some day. I hug him tightly.

On our way back to my billet half an hour later, I think we’re probably the only two people in the whole country who discussed secret government labs
and
played baseball tonight.  I drift off to sleep thinking of Saben, and my dreams are happy for the first time in ages.

Chapter Twenty Six

The next morning, I’m so nervous before my presentation to the Premier that I’m afraid damp patches will show under my arms.

“Relax,” Torina says, sensing my nerves. “You’re a messenger with good news—no one’s going to shoot you.”

She walks beside me as we hurry through the elevated tunnel that connects the MSFP with the Capitol and approach the Premier’s conference room. The soldiers on either side of the door perform rapid DNA tests to confirm our identity before letting us in. I halt on the threshold, dismayed by the sight of the oval table with the Premier facing me and the ministers arrayed around it, nameplates illuminated in front of them. Minister Alden sits to the Premier’s left and Minister Fonner, looking as praying mantis-ish and inscrutable as ever, on her right. I suspect their proximity to the Premier bodes well for the chances of one of them succeeding her.

“Come, come,” Premier Dubonnet says sharply, beckoning us in. Gray bangs brush her brows, corralling her wide mouth and protuberant eyes into too small a space. Torina takes a seat along the wall. I scan the other ministers, noting varying degrees of interest, mistrust and hostility. My eyes snag on a cadaverous man with a long nose whose nameplate says Minister of Defense. Kareen’s husband. Does he know where his wife is now? I think so. His gold irises swim in slightly yellowed corneas; it looks like the gold of the irises has leaked out.

The Premier snaps her fingers twice. “Don’t keep us waiting. We are eager to hear about the protocol a seventeen-year-old developed for ridding us of the locust plague.”

Her skeptical words prompt me to begin my presentation. By the time I’m done, doubt has turned to hope on most of the faces around the table. I field a few questions and answer them confidently. Can I promise this will totally eradicate all locusts? No. Can I speculate about how long it will be after the locusts die before harvests across the country will be robust enough that we can dismantle the domes? Not my field. How did I come up with the idea? I credit Dr. Ronan, Dr. Allaway and his team, and the whole Ministry of Science and Food Production, mentioning Torina and Keegan Usher by name. I happen to glance at Minister Alden as I’m speaking and am surprised by her proud expression. Not so surprising, I suppose, since it’s her ministry that’s getting the credit.

Premier Dubonnet dismisses me with a nod and a hint that suitable recognition will be forthcoming if my protocol pans out. The ministers rise and begin to talk among themselves while the Premier holds a low-voiced conversation with Minister Alden. A uniformed man with fiercely yellow eyes and gray hair catches up to me before we leave the room. General Bledsoe, commander of the IPF. "Well done, AC Ealy," he says, shaking my hand. His hand is dry, cool, and grips mine painfully. "You've acquitted yourself well for a nat." He nods and returns to the table in response to a summons from the Minister of Defense.

The backhanded compliment doesn't faze me; in fact, it makes me grin. The locusts don't know or care that I'm a nat. They'll be just as dead whether or not my eyes are geneborn gold.

“You’ll be designated a Hero of Amerada,” Torina whispers excitedly as we navigate the hallways to the capitol’s entrance.

“Don’t be silly—” I start to say when a hand falls on my shoulder. The fingers are long and thin and I recognize them.

“You acquitted yourself admirably, AC Ealy,” Minister Fonner says smoothly when I turn. He lifts one eyebrow at Torina and she moves out of earshot.

“Thank you, sir.”
What does he want?

“I’d like to know more,” he says, dark eyes boring into mine, and I know he’s not talking about the locust solution. “We’ll want to broadcast news of your success very soon, so perhaps you could meet me in one of the Ministry of Information’s studios this afternoon. Say, one o’clock?”

He phrases it like a question, but I know there’s no “perhaps” about it. “Certainly, sir.”

He glides away. Torina returns to my side, whispering, “He makes me think of a praying mantis.”

“Me, too!”

We grin at each other and return to the lab. Despite the exhilaration of success and the stress of today’s presentation, there’s still a lot of work to do. I desperately want to look up Kareen in the DNA registry, and Anton Karzov, to discover if their profiles are still there, but I can’t risk it.  What excuse could I offer for knowing those names, for trying to extract their data? I’d be sacrificing myself for what might turn out to be nothing. If their records are there, intact, then I’ve accomplished nothing. I make myself bypass my workstation and enter the locust lab. I tell the beady-eyed critters that they will be the instruments of death for their entire species. They seem unimpressed.

At quarter to one, I hike over to the MOI where I’m stopped in the lobby and asked my business. When I mention the appointment with Minister Fonner, the guards check with someone and Zestina Pye appears after a few minutes, a broad smile on her thin face, rust-colored curls brushing her shoulders. The sight of her brings back the trial, and I freeze. She hugs me like we’re old friends and I smell melons.

“Derrika, such splendid news. I can’t believe you’ve found a way to get rid of the locusts. And you’re so young!” She hugs me again and I wiggle away. “And I get the honor of interviewing you for broadcast at Assembly. The whole country will know your name. Maybe they’ll name a science center after you, or proclaim a ‘Derrika Ealy Day.’ Sometime in June would be nice. There are no good holidays in June.”

Her effusion is making me uncomfortable, and I’m worried she’ll recognize me. “I don’t expect any recognition. I was only doing my job—using my gifts for the good of the nation.”

She claps her hands. “Oh, perfect! Say it
exactly
like that when we’re recording.”

She leads me up two flights of stairs to a small room with baffles and special lighting and sound engineering equipment. Everything is in shades of camel and brown and cream. To complement Zestina’s coloring? The words “Studio 2” glow on the back wall.

“I thought I was meeting with Minister Fonner,” I say as Zestina directs me to sit on a curved sofa surrounded by imagers. She sits on the sofa’s far end, angled to face me.

“After the interview,” she says. She leans in. “I can tell he thinks very highly of you. Very highly.” Her curious gaze invites me to share details of my relationship with Minister Fonner, but I’m not going there.

When I don’t respond, she leans back. “Well, let’s get started.” When she pushes a button on a panel at her elbow, the imagers whir to life and lights snap on. I blink. Unfazed, she smiles and says, “I’m Zestina Pye and I’m here today with Derrika Ealy, a young scientist from the Ministry of Science and Food Production. Don’t know the name? Don’t worry—you will. Would you believe me if I told you this natural born seventeen-year-old has found a formula to eradicate the locusts? Well, it’s true. Let’s have her tell us about it.”

Facing me with a look of exaggerated interest, Zestina says, “AC Ealy, can you tell Amerada how you came to make this breath-taking and life-saving discovery? What in your background prepared you to be Amerada’s scientist-savior?”

My brain suddenly springs into gear and I realize this publicity is a very, very bad idea. Yes, I’ve altered my appearance, but that doesn’t mean someone out there won’t recognize me. And talking off the top of my head about my background—not a good idea; I’ll betray myself for sure. “I’m not ready—I mean, is this live?”

Annoyance flits across Zestina’s face and she punches another button. The lights and whirring fade out. “No, dear. We’ll record it, edit it, and broadcast it later, when the Premier and Minister Fonner deem appropriate. If you’re concerned you don’t look your best because this is spur of the moment, don’t worry about it. We prefer the natural look. It helps people connect with you. However, we have make-up—”

I stand. “My supervisor ought to be here. I ought to discuss what I’m going to say with him first.”

Zestina’s lips purse. She’s irritated. “Minister Fonner directed me to—”

I wonder about that. What game is Fonner playing? Surely he can recognize the danger of broadcasting images of me nation-wide. “I hadn’t planned on being away from the lab for so long,” I improvise. “My experiments are at a crucial state . . . time critical . . . if we can reschedule this—”

The door pushes inward.

“Minister Fonner!” Zestina all but salaams the tall figure in the doorway. “AC Ealy is reluctant—”

“As always,” he inserts sardonically. “You can do your interview later, Zestina.”  When she doesn’t budge, he lifts a brow. “Later.”

“Oh, oh yes.” Shooting me a poisonous look, she leaves the studio, closing the door behind her. Her melon scent lingers.

Minister Fonner takes her place on the sofa and gestures for me to resume my seat. I stay standing. He sighs. “There’s really no need to be obstructive,” he says.

“I won’t do an interview,” I say. “It would be foolish.” I don’t spell out why, but I give him a meaning look.

“I didn’t invite you here to talk about your discovery, as significant as it is. I heard you visited Dome 2 with Emilia Alden yesterday.” He shoots me a look from shuttered eyes.

“She was kind enough to invite me to accompany her.” What’s he getting at?

His hand strokes the sofa’s back, roughing the nap and then smoothing it. “You and she had a heated discussion. What about?” The question is gentle, almost offhand, and he seems to be engrossed with stroking the sofa, but then his gaze lands on my face and I know he’s intensely interested in my answer.

I mentally sift through the ways he could know about the conversation. The aide, or the IPF driver, or imaging devices installed in the minister’s ACV. All in all, my money’s on Eunice, the aide. “None of your business.”

Throwing back his head, he laughs long and hard. “You’re growing up, Ealy, and it’s been amusing to watch you transition from rebellious child to a young woman with a mind of her own. But. But . . .” He leans forward and skewers me with his dark eyes. “Lest you forget,
I’m
the reason you’re alive.
I’m
the reason you were able to make your break-through. You owe me and it’s time to make a down payment. Now, what were you and Emilia Alden discussing?”

“Why do you want to know?”

His eyes narrow. “To give you your own again, ‘None of your business.’ You can’t be so naïve or oblivious that you don’t know that either Emilia or I is going to be selected as the next premier. Emilia is too weak, too focused on science to be an effective leader. I am the premier this country needs when Fabienne steps down. Just between us”—he waggles a finger from himself to me and back again—“I’m not above a little espionage to discredit the lovely Emilia. In fact, I meant for you—. But that backfired. Her star shines more brightly now that you’ve come up with a way to eradicate the locusts. I warn you, though, it would be unwise to hitch your wagon to that particular star. Because it’s going supernova very soon. Now, tell me what you talked about.” He leans back against the sofa, not feeling the need for physical intimidation, obviously, confident I’ll do as he asks.

“Lettuce. We talked about lettuce.”

His brows snap together. “Don’t lie. No one gets heated about lettuce.”

“She thought the dome’s new lettuce tasted fine and I thought it was nasty.” My gaze dares him to prove I’m lying. I’m not sure why I don’t want to mention the real subject of our conversation—Alexander—but I don’t. I realize with surprise that I feel more loyalty to Minister Alden, a woman I’ve known only a short time, than I do to the man in front of me, whom I’ve known all my life. Maybe it’s because Alden and I are both scientists.

Apparently Fonner recognizes that my allegiance might be in doubt because his lips curl back to show a flash of white teeth. “I hope you don’t imagine you’re an asset in Emilia’s arsenal, Jax, because your very presence in her ministry is enough to bring her down. Despite your locust solution, how do you think Ameradans will feel if—when?—it’s revealed that you’re a convicted murderer, that Emilia Alden engineered your freedom—oh, yes, I know she was on the jury and that she paid Loránd Vestor’s exorbitant fee for your defense—and then hid you in plain sight after feeding the Defiance intelligence on your location so they could help you escape?”

I gape at him. “She didn’t! You helped me—”

He shakes his head lazily. “I don’t think so. There’s no proof that I had a hand in it. Emilia, on the other hand . . . well, she’s the one that manipulated the DNA registry to match Everly Jax’s genetic fingerprint with the Ealy identity. She’s the one who concocted a new DNA fingerprint for Jax, who inserted you into one of the MSFP labs. She’ll certainly say I brought you to her, and you’ll say I harbored you, but where’s the proof? I don’t have access—I couldn’t have changed the DNA registry.” He gives the sofa nap one last flick and stands.

“They’ll quarantine you for a month, and without access to eye color changing tablets, hair dye, and the rest, you’ll begin to look like you again. The public may be happy about the locusts, but I guarantee you Fabienne Dubonnet hates being played for a fool. Emilia goes to prison, you go to the RESCO to serve your sentence, and I become premier.” He steps within arm’s length and stares down at me. “It doesn’t have to play out that way, however.”

I’m standing rigid, shocked by how thoroughly he’s planned this. From the moment I showed up on his doorstep, he was planning to use me to discredit Minister Alden. I lick my dry lips. “What do you mean?”