Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1)

  REBEL OF SCARS AND RUIN

  by Veronica Sommers

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Veronica Sommers

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.

  First Edition: November 2019

  1

  "Miss Zilara, you need to put that away. We'll be landing in a few moments."

  At the hostess's words, I nod, detaching the data stick from the skull-port behind my right ear. I flick my finger over the tiny opening to close the port and rearrange my hair over it. Humming the song I was listening to, I slip the data stick into my bag.

  Air transports like this one have no windows. They fly so fast there's nothing to see outside except a white blur—or so I've been told. What would it be like to have a slower airship, with windows, so I could look out and watch the world from this astronomical height? Forests and farms, fields and deserts mapped out in miniature?

  "Please ensure that you're strapped in for descent," says the hostess sweetly.

  I check my lap buckle and fasten the chest strap, too, just in case. We'll be speeding straight down to our destination point, and the jolt when we level out will be intense. Though I've ridden dozens of air transports, my skin prickles and my heartbeat accelerates every time.

  "Ten seconds to descent."

  I count down in my head. Ten, nine, eight—I wonder if we'll land safely. Transports almost never crash. Almost never.

  Four, three, two, one.

  The transport keels over and zooms downward. Even in this windowless tube, I sense the rush of our descent, the power of gravity sucking us to earth. Gravity is kind when we behave as we're supposed to—walking about on the ground. When we dare to fly, it morphs into a jealous monster, dragging us back down with lethal force.

  My stomach has lodged in my esophagus. Somewhere behind me, in the rows of plush seats, one of the vid crew members is gasping, while my stylist Demi chatters about staying calm and focusing on pleasant thoughts.

  To my right sits Vern, chief of my security team, his crisp profile inexpressive as always. He's handsome, with pale blue eyes, flawless skin, and straight features. His blond hair is smoothly combed around the edges of his skull-port device, which constantly sparkles with tiny red lights. Yes, he's perfect. It's a little annoying, actually.

  He notices my attention. "Are you all right, Miss Remay?" Even his voice is smooth, his diction impeccable.

  The first time Vern and I met, I was twelve. When I saw him, a square-shouldered twenty-year-old fresh from the Academy, I collapsed into a crush that lasted two years; but I'm eighteen now, and Vern has never behaved as anything more than a protective robot—polished, efficient, and omnipresent.

  Was he ever exciting, or interesting? I imagine him as a pristinely coiffed three-year-old, and I almost giggle.

  Vern repeats his question. "Are you all right, Miss Remay?"

  "Yes, yes, I'm fine."

  He faces forward again.

  My stomach is definitely queasy now. I focus on breathing deeply, through my nose.

  With a gut-wrenching, stomach-flipping bob, the transport rights itself and levels out, slowing, slowing, until it stops.

  I think I left an internal organ or two up in the sky.

  With a quick whirr and clunk, shiny containers unfold from the backs of the seats. Mine opens up into my lap, ready in case I need to vomit. A couple of passengers do, but I manage to keep everything in. After a minute, the containers withdraw again and disappear into their compartments.

  I'm here. In Emsalis.

  It's been ten years since my country, Ceanna, invaded Emsalis. We stepped in after the civil war in the area became too volatile, threatening to spill over into other nations and draw the whole world into the conflict. Somehow, our troops never left. We keep pulling some soldiers out and sending others in, because Emsalis isn't stable enough to be left on its own. Its people need us.

  Other countries are becoming critical of our long stay there, questioning our methods. How effective can our peace-keeping force really be if there's still unrest, even after a decade?

  My father, the Magnate of Ceanna and possibly the most powerful man in the world, needs to shut down the naysayers. So I'm here to show everyone how well the peace-keeping efforts are succeeding. How secure, how safe everything is, thanks to our presence. How much confidence my father has in the Peace-Keepers, and in General Pregall's hand over the region.

  Of course, the Magnate of Ceanna wouldn't risk his own safety, or that of my elder brother Emret—oh, no. But me, I'm expendable. Recognizable, important, but not essential.

  I've done this sort of diplomatic tour before, always in calm, peaceful nations. A few appearances, a ground-breaking or a ball, some sight-seeing. For me, it's a chance to travel without having to pay for it out of my personal allowance.

  This trip is different. I knew it when they made me sit through several security planning sessions—horribly long, boring meetings packed with details about Emsalis and its factions and our planned events and routes through its cities. I saw it in the tension of Vern's jaw when we took off this morning, and in the anxious eyes of the publicity team that accompanies me on these tours.

  "Thank you to our transport pilot for another safe landing!" says the hostess. "We'll be opening the doors in a few moments, so you may prepare for exit."

  Vern goes into immediate action, summoning my other five security team members with a quick gesture while my aesthetician Demi and the vid crew also rise. Vern and two of the men precede me out the door of the transport, and the other three follow me as the rest of my group falls into place behind us.

  We walk into a long metal passage with a thinly carpeted floor, with me as the skinny meat in a sandwich of tall, muscled men. I forgot to check my hair and makeup. Demi is probably chafing somewhere behind me, her fingers itching to powder my oily zones and refresh my lipstick.

  I check my clothing for wrinkles. Not too bad. At least I convinced them to let me wear pants instead of the prim little skirt suit they planned to put me in. I much prefer these gray slacks and the silky, sleeveless purple shirt I'm wearing. I refused to wear the blazer Demi tried to add. Emsalis is blistering hot, from what I've seen on the vid reports, and I won't boil in a blazer for propriety's sake.

  Besides, I'm already sweating enough from the nerves, anticipating the crowd of dignitaries, newsfeed runners, and guards at the end of this tunnel. Calm down, Zilara, I tell myself. You've done this before. Smile, nod, wave, repeat.

  Vern lags behind the other two guards, turning to speak to me, probably to prepare me for the onslaught of questions, vid lenses, and recording drones that will greet us as soon as we exit the passage.

  He doesn't get the chance to form the words.

  An explosion shatters the world—concussive shock and ear-blasting thunder. The force tears through the metal chute just ahead, ripping the two leading security guards into bloody fragments. A chunk of one of them hits me in the face with a wet splat.

  Screams echo through the chute. Vern's hands push me backward, and the guards from the r
ear surge forward to form a barrier in front of me.

  Gas rolls into the passage through the gaping wound in the wall. The three guards crumple in seconds, and I suck in a breath and hold it as the first wave of the gas envelops me. Vern forces me to the floor, under the cloud.

  "Crawl," he hisses.

  But I can't. Demi and the rest of my team are blocking my way back to the transport, their bodies already folding from the effects of the gas. My lungs are tightening; I can't hold my breath much longer.

  Vern points his gun at the hole in the passage. Shapes are coming through it, and he fires at them, each shot a bolt of blue light through the smoky gloom. Two of the bolts strike home, bringing down a pair of the oncoming figures. But there are more, too many, and I have to breathe. Vern gasps in a breath too, and says foggily, "They planned this well."

  I collapse, and he falls beside me.

  I'm not unconscious, only disoriented, and my vision is blurry. Figures wearing silver mouth filters lean over me, scooping my body roughly from the ground, carrying me through the hole in the passageway. There's a flash of brilliant light, harsh voices urging, the whine of an engine. I'm dumped onto a hard floor with grid marks on it. The entire vehicle rattles as it moves, jarring my skull against the rough metal.

  This isn't fair. There wasn't supposed to be any risk until I got into the transport center, until we were seeing people and visiting places around Emsalis. I knew all the protocols for that. I'd been briefed on possible scenarios. This—an explosion, a kidnapping while we were still inside the transport chute—it shouldn't have been possible.

  I squint, trying to distinguish faces, uniforms, colors; but everything is hopelessly blurred, even the voices. What kind of gas did they use on me?

  I can't see or hear clearly, but I can still think. Maybe I can figure this out.

  Three major factions exist in Emsalis. The ruling faction, the one that partners relatively well with my father's troops, call themselves Unity. They've dominated Emsalis for generations, and they don't want to lose their power, so they cooperate with the Ceannan forces.

  Threatening Unity's control are the Fray and the Vilor, two radical groups with different agendas. I was briefed on them, of course, before coming here; but I'm not quite clear on what their agendas are. The creators of the vid reports I watched didn't seem to understand the issues either.

  I have no idea which faction has me, or what they want from my father. I'm probably going to be held for ransom. Or possibly killed to send a message—as proof that nothing Ceanna has done here is having any lasting effect.

  Why am I not at university right now? Or better yet, at the beach, where my friends are spending their spring break? No, I had to play the part of the Magnate's dutiful daughter and come to this forsaken piece of crap country to show off his skills as a world leader.

  When my father asked me to do this, he made it sound like such an honor. Like he was finally trusting me with something massively important. I said yes immediately; but if I could do it over again, I would tell him to go screw himself.

  He would cut my allowance off for a month, but at least I wouldn't be kidnapped.

  What if they plan to kill me? Flashes of things I still want to do flicker through my mind—get free of my family, become the world's best aeroball player, lead a team to the global championships, and then attend dazzling after-parties in a scintillating dress, escorted by gorgeous men. I suppose those aren't very lofty goals, but I don't care. They're mine. Mine to keep, not to be stolen by radicals trying to make a point.

  I don't want to die.

  Fear swells in my head, and my heart thunders so fast it scares me. I need to calm down.

  The whining and groaning of the vehicle's engine, the reverberation through my skull, the blurriness—it's swallowing my consciousness and my reason. I close my eyes and try to breathe slowly, calmly. I try to move, but every muscle is limp and lax, like wet noodles. Is that dampness between my legs? I must have wet myself. It's not my fault; it's the paralytic gas they used on me. Still, it's humiliating.

  Drawing a deep breath, I tap into something few people know I have.

  About a hundredth of our world's population is Evolved, gifted with a modicum of power. My ability isn't anything flashy. I can make things warmer—myself, the floor, a friend's skin, a piece of pie. I can't produce flames or anything—I've tried—but I can warm physical objects to about the temperature of a hot bath or a fairly serious fever. It's all about moving the molecules faster, or something. One of my professors tried to explain the science to me, but I wasn't interested. The only time I use my ability is to warm up food, heat my tea, or keep myself toasty in cold weather, even when I'm not wearing a jacket.

  Where the edge of my hand touches the floor of the vehicle, warmth spreads, flowing out of me. At least my ability still works—not that it will do me much good.

  Two blurry figures kneel beside me. Rough hands push my head to one side and brace it, while a second pair of hands fiddles with the skull-port device behind my ear. The skull-port is my communication system, my link to the world, and the dock for a dozen different attachments, all providing entertainment, interest, and knowledge.

  A wrenching sensation, a bolt of lightning-sharp pain searing into my brain. Unbearable pressure.

  They're prying the tiny skull port out of my head, so my father can't track me down.

  I want to scream, I need to scream—the agony builds and it must burst out somehow—but the paralysis means I can't make a sound. No release. I curse in my head, over and over, with the worst words I know—and then the port pops out, and the pain is still there, but not as sharp.

  A warm trickle of blood flows behind my ear, down my neck. Someone rips a packet open and slaps something cold over the space where the port was. Probably a nano-patch, to sterilize the wound and protect it. At least they're not going to kill me, or they wouldn't have bothered to seal the hole in my head.

  I'm having trouble holding onto thoughts. The world seems to tilt up, then curve down. Clouds, pale and puffy, crowd my vision, and I can't blink them away.

  I drift out of consciousness, then back in again. How long have I been lying here? Nausea rolls through my stomach, and between the jarring of the metal floor and the throbbing gap where my skull-port was, my head aches worse than it ever has in my life.

  If I vomit, I won't have the muscle control to sit up and expel it. I'll choke to death.

  The paralytic must be wearing off, because I manage a single soft moan.

  Boots clump against the metal floor beside me. A hand, holding an injector. A pinprick of pain in the flesh of my useless right arm. My eyes grow heavy, closing against my will.

  If I ever see my father again, I might punch him in the face.

  2

  I jerk awake, with the distinct impression that someone just slapped me. I'm sitting in a large concrete room, my wrists sealed in bio-cuffs on either arm of a metal chair.

  A quick glance down reveals I'm still in the outfit I wore on the plane. My pants are streaked with dirt and debris, and they smell of urine. The flimsy purple shirt is torn, twisted, hanging off my shoulder.

  There are three men in the room with me.

  One is maybe in his forties, with a calm, friendly face. Sandy brown hair, light blue eyes. An easy smile that delves deep creases into his cheeks.

  "Hello there, Miss Zilara Remay," he says, his voice warm and casual. "Good to see you're feeling better." He speaks to me in flawless Global, the language all children learn in addition to our native tongues.

  Strolling over to me, he crouches before the chair. "Are you comfortable? Need anything?"

  "I could use a fresh pair of pants."

  He clucks his tongue. "Yes, the gas does tend to have that effect. I'll see what we can do. Anything else?"

  He's smiling, but there's no kindness in his eyes.

  Instead of answering, I inspect the other two men, both dressed in plain khaki clothing, with a drama
tic fist emblem on their chests—the symbol of the Fray rebels, the less violent of Emsalis's two renegade factions.

  One of the men is balding, his stringy remnants of hair roped back into a ponytail. Over his scraggly graying beard hangs a ponderous nose, and he glares at me from beneath a heavy brow-bone. Hulking shoulders, ropy muscled arms, thick knuckles—this guy could break me up into little pieces.

  The third man is maybe a couple years older than me. Tall. Hard, from his narrowed eyes to the bared muscles of his forearms. A creature of steel and whipcord, not an ounce of softness anywhere. Even his mouth, which might have been pretty, is marred, thanks to a scar that runs at an angle through his upper and lower lips. The pale line of the scar, the slight lump of the flesh there, gives his mouth a cruel twist. His dark hair hangs in shaggy waves down to his chin; he's constantly pushing back greasy strands of it.

  Repulsive as he is, there's a ferocious intensity about him that keeps my attention. He's staring at me like we've met before, like I did something atrocious to him and he has hated me ever since. Like he wants to do something unspeakably evil to me.

  I shudder, and then I try to cover the motion by shifting in the chair. "Why am I here?"

  The sandy-haired man smiles. "If you have to ask, you're not as smart as they say you are."

  "Ransom? Leverage?"

  "Both, actually. You'll be our guest for a while, so settle in, make yourself at home. But first, a little vid report for your dear father, the Magnate."

  "Standard kidnapping protocol," I say, shrugging; but panic is fighting to break through my veneer of nonchalance. "Do you want me to cry and beg my father to save me?"

  "That would be helpful."

  I sigh. "Not really in the pleading and crying zone right now, sorry."

  His hand slams into the side of my face before I can blink. Pain ricochets through my jaw and cheekbone. It was an open-handed smack, intended to humiliate me.

  "How about now?" he says, his tone helpful. "Are you finding your zone? Or do you need more help with your method acting?"