Lotus and Thorn (12 page)

She went on. “And I still don’t get a choice because
you’re
the one the Curador is interested in. Do you know what I would give to infiltrate the Dome? To give Tasch justice? But it’s not my choice.”

Lotus stopped pacing and turned to face me. Her anger back under control now, her voice calm and confident as she looked me in the eye.

“So yes. I’ll tell you
exactly
what I want you to do. Despite the fact that all I’ve wanted since you left is to have you back . . . despite the fact I’m going to miss you like hell . . . what I want is for you to leave again. When that Curador comes for you, I want you to smile and flirt and do whatever it takes to get inside that Dome so that you can find out what happened to Taschen. And what the hell is happening to our people.”

Lotus fell silent, her torrent of words hanging in the air between us. I wasn’t sure if she was finished, and she didn’t look sure either. So I let the silence rest for another beat while I figured out what to say.

She was right. All of it was right . . . and there, by the campfire, I told her so. It hurt to admit it and I said that too. But the thing that she was most right about is where I started. “I’ll miss you like hell too.”

HALF ASLEEP,
I thought it was the pup.

The almost silent footfalls. The rustling of the sleeping bag. Then I remembered that they’d shut the pup away somewhere so she wouldn’t bark—in case he came.

I opened my eyes and there, looming over me, was the white isolation suit. Edison.

He looked happy to see me, if a little nervous. And I was surprised when the same bright agitation echoed through me. But now was not the time for that. I put that feeling aside, tucking it away for later. Edison put a finger to his lips—signaling for me to be quiet—then motioned for me to follow him.

For a second, I froze, understanding that I was about to walk away from everything and everyone I knew. Again.

They took Tasch from me.

And with that thought came movement. Blood rushing in my ears. I slipped out of my sleeping bag, shoved my feet into my boots, and glanced back at Lotus. She kept completely still, but she was watching me. Her eyes were wide, her short hair messy from
sleep, giving her a startled look. As if she was truly understanding for the first time what she’d asked me to do. Then Edison took my hand—his heated glove sending a ripple of warmth up my arm—and led me away. Through the Indigno camp.

It was like a dream. We skirted around sleeping bodies and crept along the edge of the still-lit bonfire. Stumbling down the steps in the dark. The whole camp was holding its breath around us. It seemed impossible to me that Edison couldn’t hear it. I thought I heard a faint whine and I got an unexpected pang, thinking I wouldn’t even get to give the pup’s ears a last scratch.

“Where are we going?” I whispered.

Edison pulled me into the shadow of the ruins. His voice was barely a whisper through his microphone. “I’ve been studying this camp. I found a path along the base of the mountains that’s hidden by an overhang. The guards won’t spot us.”

Maybe not the guards,
I thought. But Lotus was tailing us through the camp. Staying ten meters back. For a second, I imagined turning on Edison. Confronting him here and now about the outbreaks and Tasch’s death and his questions about my sisters. Then I could stay here with Lotus.

But that was nothing more than a fantasy. Even if Edison answered me, I’d have no idea if he was telling me the truth. And then it would be over. I’d lose my only way in. I’d lose the Indignos’ only way in. If I wanted to know, if I wanted to stop what was happening to the Citizens, I would have to infiltrate the Dome.

So instead I asked, “What are you doing here?”

The light inside his suit flicked on. “I’m here for the same
reason I was out in Tierra Muerta when we first met. We picked your voice up over our intercoms yesterday.”

“You came for the radio.” I was half relieved, half disappointed. “For Earth.”

“No. That first time, I came to find the radio signal,” Edison said. “
This time
I came to find you.”

“But why?”

There was a combination of hurt and confusion in his eyes. “I thought we . . .”

I’d thought so too. “Then why leave me to the Indignos?”

“Well, you seemed to be doing perfectly well on your own. And I thought I’d be more help to you alive than dead.” His bright teeth flashed against his dark skin. Then his amber eyes caught the light and beneath his bravado, there was real warmth. I still didn’t completely trust Edison, but I wanted to. I looked at his perfect face illuminated by the light. Edison might be one of the Curadores, but maybe he didn’t have to be my enemy.

And I realized that going into the Dome was different than being exiled. This time I was choosing. This time I had a purpose. I’d tried to protect my sisters once, and I’d tried to do it alone. Now I looked at the spot where I knew Lotus was hiding in the shadows and nodded. This time I would do it with allies.

“Okay, then . . . now what?” I said.

“Now we get the radio and get out.” He pulled me back out of the ruins and down toward the workshop.

I helped him load the radio components on the slideboard. Lotus was still following us, and through the doorway, I spotted her. She stepped out of the shadows, the moonlight lighting up her damp face.

Edison finished strapping on the harness, then took my hand. He looked down at me, his face uncertain and vulnerable. “You know if you come with me, you can never come back.”

I met his eyes and the lie was harder than I expected. “I’d never want
to.”

WHEN SHE CLIMBED OUT
of the sorcerer’s basket, the middle sister was amazed to find herself in a great house in the heart of the forest.

The sorcerer kissed her cheek and said, “My dear, you will be happy here. I will give you everything your heart yearns for.”

But after a few days had gone by, he said, “I am afraid I must leave you for a while. I will entrust you with the keys to my house and you may wander everywhere and look at everything . . . save for the one room this key unlocks.” And the sorcerer held up the smallest of the keys. “Do not disobey me, or you shall surely perish.”

He gave her an egg as well, saying, “You must carry this egg with you wherever you go and keep it safe . . . for you will suffer a great misfortune should it be lost.”

She promised to do as he said. But as soon as the sorcerer was gone, the cunning sister tucked the egg away safely in a drawer. Then she began to search the great house for clues to the fate of her sisters.

Every room sparkled with gold and silver. Jewels and delicate glass graced every corner. The sister had never seen such splendor. And at last, she found the forbidden door. She took the smallest of the keys, fitted it into the lock, and turned. With a click, the door swung open.

“FITCHER’S BIRD,”
FROM
FAIRY TALES OF THE BROTHERS GRIMM
BY JACOB AND WILHELM GRIMM,
EARTH TEXT, 27
TH
EDITION,
2084.

THERE WERE NOISES
coming from somewhere in the camp. The distant clinks and clatters of someone making breakfast. Maybe Lotus had gotten up early and was bringing me something to eat—hopefully not nettle tea. But I really didn’t care what she brought . . . I was ravenous. Like I hadn’t eaten in weeks.

An idea drifted into my mind . . . or maybe it was more like a memory. Or a voice.

When you wake up, I won’t be there. But don’t be scared.

I opened my eyes. But I wasn’t in my sleeping bag staring at a tarp-covered ceiling. Instead, I was in a wide bed, snuggled up under a gloriously thick purple blanket. There were wide windows at both ends of the room and the light coming through them was the soft yellow of late afternoon.

Another memory-idea floated to the surface.

A white room. Cocooned . . . suspended in a strange sling. The acrid scent of chemicals. I was lost. No.

I’d lost something.

And there was that voice again. Edison’s voice.

Don’t be scared. I’ll see you soon.

But in the memory, I
had
been scared . . . and angry, but I didn’t feel any of that now. Like all those emotions had been left behind in that white room.

Instead, my brain felt like the gauzy curtains draped around the bed. I made myself sit up, perching on the edge of the mattress. Cautiously, I touched the black gown I was wearing—not wanting to snag the fine fabric on my rough skin. But my calluses were gone. I marveled at my hands, all twelve fingers practically as soft as the gown itself. And the cloth felt fantastically cool and delicious against my skin. In fact, I realized that right now
everything
felt good against my skin.

I got up and started touching things. The textured coolness of the wooden bed frame. The shiny metal handles on the ornate dresser. The etched stone fireplace. The perfect crystal-clear smoothness of the glass doors leading out to balconies on either end of the room.

Then a different door swung open, a bedroom door that led out to a staircase, and in came Sarika’s daughter. She was smiling—like it was perfectly normal for her to be there. She carried a mug of something hot, the steam curling the loose hair around her face.

“Marisol?” Though I’d grown up with her, I hadn’t seen Marisol for years. A Curador had noticed her from the window of a magfly one day and she was gone the next—without a word about it to anyone but Tasch.

“The one and only,” she said, doing a little twirl to show herself off—without spilling a drop from her mug. There were mirrors decorating every wall of the room and a hundred Marisols twirled with her.

Giddy laughter spilled out of my mouth without my permission.
I’d never made that high-pitched giggling noise in my whole life. I was sure of it.

“Ah,” she said fondly. “You’ve got a good case of Dome-haze. Enjoy it while you can . . . it’ll wear off by tonight.”

“Dome-haze?”

“It’s just what the girls call the aftereffects of the sedation. Makes you a little loopy. But in a good way.”

Marisol grinned and handed me the mug, making the wispy curtains sway as she sat next to me on the bed. It was surreal seeing her here. She’d barely changed. Sure, her button-faced proportions that’d made her
just too cute
had settled into a more grown-up beauty now. And her orangey-red hair was longer. But that was about it.

Marisol’s hair was a much kinder version of my anomaly. Like my extra fingers, red hair cropped up in Pleiades once every few generations—a legacy of our ancestors. It was still considered a Corruption, a reminder that we had not yet been absolved of the Colonist’s sins. But at least Marisol’s red curls were a beautiful aberration. And, in Pleiades, she’d always been careful to tamp them down, braiding them firmly behind her back so they wouldn’t stand out.

Not anymore. Now Marisol’s hair spread out into a kind of fan around her head, jutting high into the air, showing off the unusual color. It was a strange look, but it suited her, accentuating her perfectly turned-up nose and her huge hazel eyes.

She’d been sixteen when she’d left Pleiades over four years ago—a year younger than I was now. Lotus’s age.

That’s what I’d lost. Lotus. And Taschen. Home.

But there was no pain when I thought of my sisters. No emotion at all. Like someone had stolen the most essential parts of me.
I couldn’t even mourn the loss. I could barely even focus on the reason I’d come here.
Tasch’s death was wrong. The Curadores were wrong.
I hoped what Marisol said was true, that this vague euphoria would wear off fast.

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug for comfort, blowing on the creamy-looking liquid. A toasty, nutty scent hit my nose.

“You’re gonna
love it
,” Marisol said. “It’s coffee. I can get the food synthesizer to put in more milk if it’s too strong.” Then she sighed dramatically. “I envy you, ya know? You’re about to experience all these delicious, lovely things for the first time. It’s wonderful being new.”

I could tell that Marisol meant what she said, but there was a glitter in her eye too. I recognized it. Marisol had a few years on my sisters and me—but between our mutual outcast status and our mothers’ friendship, we’d all been stuck with each other. More family than friends. The look she had now was the same one she’d had when she talked me into stealing a precious raspberry out of the garden and then tattled on me. Or when she told me a secret she knew would be torturous to keep.

I took a sip of the coffee and let the rich flavors roll over me. Roasted sesame seeds. Caramely agave. And the bitter bite of dandelion greens. But it was none of these things either. Marisol was right. I did love it.

Best of all, the coffee seemed to be clearing away some of the giddiness. And the question I should’ve asked first thing made its way to the surface. “How did I get here?”

“They took out your last IV this morning and moved you from the isolation room . . . to make your transition more comfortable.”

I looked down at my wrist and there was a bandage tied around it. I pulled off the cloth and saw a purplish bruise around my veins.

Sharp pain. Needles pushing through my skin. Plastic tubes, so many of them. Like spider legs stretching out to bags of ruby-red blood. And Edison leaning over me while people in isolation suits scurried around the room, pressing buttons.

“We have to keep you here so we can filter your blood and run some tests . . . eradicate any germs you might bring into the Dome with you.”

“How long?”

“Just a few months.”

“Months!”

“Yes. But you’ll be sleeping the whole time. You won’t even know the days are passing. When you wake up, I won’t be there. But don’t be scared. I’ll see you soon.”

Edison had been wrong. When I forced my fuzzy brain to focus, I did remember a vague sense of time passing.
Men in white suits coming in and out of the room. Bright overhead lights. A tiny silver knife. And my own voice, crying out.

“Months.” I said the word out loud without meaning to. What had been happening out in Tierra Muerta while I’d been sleeping? And memories surfaced through layers of dust and sand—as if they were being uncovered by a desert storm. My crew dying. Being trapped in the shuttle with Edison. Finding Lotus. Only to lose her again. But they were just
facts
. I still couldn’t feel anything attached to those memories.

“Three months. Standard quarantine procedure. All Kisaengs go through it when we arrive from Pleiades,” Marisol said. “I know the sedation thing is disorienting, but don’t worry about
it. Time feels different here. Not so . . .” And she searched for the right word. “Relevant.”

Then she changed the subject. “Are you hungry yet?” She pointed to a bowl of red fruit on the dresser. They were like the tiny strawberries that Sarika nursed and coddled in her garden, only these were enormous. My mouth watered.

“Evidently. You look like a feral animal. You can eat them while we get started.” Marisol grabbed the bowl with one hand and me with the other and pulled me into a pristine bathroom. She’d been one of the only people in Pleiades—besides my sisters—who hadn’t shied away from my extra fingers.

“Tonight there’s a dinner in your honor and
everyone
is going to be there.” Then she gave me a scathing once-over and said, “Looks like we have a
lot
of work ahead of us.”

I’d known Marisol for too long to let her barbs get under my skin. In fact, I was always more comfortable with a prickly Marisol. It was when she was sweet—when she wanted something from you—that you had to watch out.

Marisol twisted the gilded metal taps on the tub and steaming water poured out. I just stared at it. There was no hot water in Pleiades, there
never
had been, as far back as anyone could remember. Though on winter mornings I’d often stared at the
H
on the water taps and willed them to work.

“One of the many perks of living here. Now come on.” She grabbed at my gown and started yanking it up over my head.

I jerked away. “I can get it.”

I turned my back to her and pulled the gown off, feeling exposed.

“Turn around,” she ordered.

I didn’t have many other options, so I did. Like in the bedroom, there were mirrors everywhere, reflecting every inch of my body back to me at every angle. I shivered in the chilly bathroom.

“You didn’t turn out half bad.” She nodded approvingly, staring at my curvy hips, then moving up to my breasts. “Yes . . . those will come in quite handy. I always knew you were gifted.”

Feeling awkward, I crossed my arms over my chest. Marisol slapped them down, hard—leaving a red mark on my wrist. “Don’t ever do that again. Your body is power. It is the food you eat. It is the roof over your head. Don’t do anything that will lessen its value.”

My Corrupted body. I looked down at my hands.

Marisol misread my self-consciousness for coyness. “Don’t pretend to be naive; it doesn’t suit you. You
chose
to come here. What did you think you’d be doing?”

The truth was, I
didn’t
think. The idea that the Curadores had killed Tasch . . . that I had to leave Lotus again . . . that I would finally find out what was beneath the glittering Dome—those things had left little room for the reality of becoming a Kisaeng. That night in the Indigno camp, I’d forgotten Suji’s most important rule. Survival is in the details.

So now I looked closely. As I saw it, I had two problems. One: I was here to find answers about Taschen’s death, but didn’t know where to start. Two: I needed to play a convincing Kisaeng—Edison’s Kisaeng—but I had no idea what the rules were.

I could only hope that if I kept my eyes open, the first problem would fix itself. But the solution to the second problem was standing right in front of me. Marisol.

“Now. You’re going to get in the bath and I’m going to do what
I can for you. Then you’re going to wear what I tell you to and do what I tell you to. And you’re going to be grateful for my help.”

There was an undercurrent of bitterness in Marisol’s words that made me alert. But I nodded and climbed into the hot water.

“Now! Tell me everything about Pleiades.” And Marisol was back to her chatty self. “Tell me everything I’ve missed.”

She knew nothing about my exile or the Indignos or the recent outbreaks of Red Death. And nothing would be served by telling her any of it. Despite the fact that Marisol was playing nice (or because of it), I didn’t trust her. But I had to give her
something
.

“Sarika is well.” I hesitated—thinking of the hurt that’d shadowed Sarika ever since Marisol left—then added, “She misses you.”

Marisol snorted. “I bet she does.”

But I saw the bruise behind the flippancy. Marisol and Sarika had always been opposites; they’d spent more time bickering than anything else. Marisol was difficult on a good day. But, I realized, so was Sarika.

I’d always been too caught up in being annoyed with Marisol, or envious of her, to see the reality of it. It couldn’t have been easy growing up as Sarika’s daughter, and a Corrupted one at that. And Marisol had never known her father. He and Sarika had chosen to enter into a Reproductive Pact—fulfilling a requirement, nothing more. It must have been a lonely, cheerless upbringing. It suddenly seemed obvious why Marisol had left as soon as the opportunity had presented itself.

Marisol was still silent, scrubbing my head a bit harder than necessary. Finally, pouring a pitcher of water over my hair to rinse it, she said, “Now then. What about the gossip?”

So—while Marisol washed my hair and scrubbed my skin raw
and complained about my cracked nails—I dredged up bits of things I remembered from before I was exiled. I told her about which boys had become worth looking at and who had gotten married or had kids. But the truth was, I’d never really been part of Pleiades. Tasch and Lotus had been my community. So when I ran out of real gossip, I started making stuff up—elaborate stories about who’d jilted who. Family rifts. Illicit love affairs. Anything I thought Marisol would care about.

I was just starting to enjoy myself when she interrupted me. “And . . . Tasch? Did she marry that handsome boy from Building Four?”

I forced myself to look at Marisol when I broke the news. “Taschen is gone.”

Marisol’s face went slack. But she nodded, accepting what she must’ve already guessed from my avoidance. “Red Death?”

“Yes.”

And finally, I could feel it again—the weight of grief just under the surface. My sisters. Taschen, who made up beautiful stories and beautiful dresses, never doubting that somehow she’d escape this dreary desert. And Lotus, who was still alive, but who might as well be on another planet. The loss of both crushed my lungs so I could barely breathe.

But I was grateful for the pain.

“I wondered what you were running away from. Now it makes sense.” Marisol sniffed and splashed some of the tepid bathwater on her face.

“Enough. This bath is turning us into old ladies.” And she held up her water-wrinkled hands for me to see. “Let’s get you dressed.”