Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1) Page 5

  I try to think of something witty or persuasive to say, but my mind goes blank. I can only stare at him, mutely requesting to live.

  "Stop looking at me like that," he says through his teeth. "I have to do this. If the Vilor get you, they gain the leverage we would have had. And they won't be respectful of you. They'll hurt you."

  "You're going to kill me, so they don't hurt me?" I whisper fiercely. "How is that helpful?"

  "I don't know. Shut up and let me think!"

  "Let you think about whether or not to murder me? Is that really what you want—me, dead? If you do, I'll help you." My hand snakes out, bending his wrist so the gun is pointed directly at my face. "Shoot me, Rak." But my voice wavers.

  "Let go." He pulls my hand off his wrist and lowers the weapon. "You know I can't."

  "Then stop scaring me, and let's get out of here," I whisper.

  He grips my chin suddenly, and I freeze. "I am not on your side," he says. "I hate you."

  "I know."

  "Don't forget it."

  "I won't."

  "We're getting out of here, but you're still my prisoner."

  "Of course."

  He lets go of me. "This was a factory. There's a chute they used to send debris through, leftovers of the manufacturing process. It's in a room, to the left, down the right-hand hallway." He sketches the path in the air. "Big place, full of machinery, and this chute is in the wall, under a big metal table. Got it?"

  "Yes."

  "If we get separated, you go to the chute without me. Get out. Walk west across the desert. Straight west, you hear me? And don't stop."

  "The desert? With no water?"

  "One problem at a time. We have to go now, before anyone else comes down this passage."

  He eases the door open, peering into the hallway, then motioning for me to follow. I run after him on tiptoe, thankful that the shoes I wore on the air transport had lower, chunkier heels than my aesthetic team would have liked.

  The shriek of gun bolts echoes somewhere in the complex behind us as we hurry along the hall. We take the next right turn, and a man blocks the way—one of Rak's people.

  "You have her?" His eyes widen. "We have to shoot her before the Vilor get her!" He's lifting his gun when a blue bolt of energy lances across his arm. He drops the weapon, squealing with pain.

  Rak shot him.

  I barely have time to process the thought before Rak grabs my hand and drags me into the big manufacturing room. Massive machines hunch in rows like metal giants frozen in time. The big table Rak mentioned bears a scattered mess of corroded tools and old parts. We slide underneath it to access the rusty chute.

  "This may hurt," Rak warns. "Keep your arms wrapped around you and your legs together. I'll follow."

  I can't get into that chute. Who knows what sharp shards of metal or starving rats or rancid waste wait for me down there? I look at Rak desperately.

  "Zilara! Go!"

  I swear at him. Then I cross my arms over my body, and I straighten my legs, and I slide.

  Blackness. Terror. Pain slashing my elbow, my calf. A jarring bump against my rear, and another. A whining, squealing, creaking sound that echoes and echoes through the chute.

  Another harsh bump that bruises my tailbone, and I'm out, dumped onto the cold ground.

  I haven't been outside since I was taken. For a second I gape at the stars, sugar-white in the dark blue sky.

  Then Rak slithers out of the chute, cursing. He's bleeding in a couple spots, and so am I—my calf and my elbow.

  "Wrap the wounds, quick," he says. "They'll see the blood and follow."

  "Wrap them how? With what?"

  In answer, he reaches up, knife in hand, and cuts off the short sleeve of my shirt. Within seconds it's sliced into two strips, which he hands back to me. "Quickly."

  I wrap the makeshift bandages around my wounds and tie them in place. He finishes binding his first. "Come on. Walk ahead of me. Straight that way."

  He yanks a generous handful of tall, tough grass out of the ground next to the building, and as we walk he swishes it behind us, smoothing out our footprints. Before long we crest a rise, and the dark desert spreads out ahead, a transitional sprawl of flat sandy earth with a scrubby plant here and there—cold and gray and lifeless under the stars. Far beyond, the bits of vegetation disappear, and there's only trackless sand.

  I can't do this. I can't walk across that much barren wasteland.

  "They'll find us easily," I say.

  "They will if you just stand there. Go!"

  I keep walking, down the rise, out into the desert.

  "We have a head start," he says. "I'll keep erasing our prints for a while, until we're some distance away, and then we'll move faster. With any luck they'll think we went east."

  "What's east?"

  "People. Towns."

  "Why aren't we going that way?"

  "If we go that way, we'll get caught for sure. This way, maybe they won't find us. Anyone who comes out here with no food or water is insane."

  I snort. "Good to know."

  He gives me an odd look, maybe the hint of a smile. "Move."

  We walk. And we walk. And walk.

  It's so cold. I start to shiver, and then I remember my ability. I've been afraid to use it since I nearly burned Mav to a crisp; but now I release it, vibrating the molecules of the air over my skin, creating a cocoon of comfort around myself.

  Rak catches up to me after a while—apparently he has decided we're far enough away that he doesn't have to worry about our prints. Besides, the sand in this area of the desert is packed hard, with a faint haze of wind-kicked dust swirling over its surface, smoothing out our tracks.

  A sidelong glance at Rak tells me he's freezing. He's rubbing his arms as he walks, and his breath steams faintly in the chilly air.

  I reach toward him, but he swerves away from my touch.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," I say. "Give me your hand."

  In the darkness, the whites of his eyes gleam. After a second, he reaches out his hand, and I take it. His fingers are longer and thicker than mine, the skin of them rough and callused. I focus on extending the layer of warmth to him. Not too much heat—just enough for comfort.

  He sighs with relief. "That feels good."

  A moment passes, and then I say, "I'm sorry about your friend. The one who—the one they—"

  The one who had his head blasted off by the Vilor. No one deserves to die like that.

  His hand tightens around mine for a spare second. "We weren't friends."

  "Fellow rebels, though."

  "Yes."

  We don't speak for a while after that. Though I'm fairly fit from playing aeroball, I'm not used to walking long distances; so after the first couple of hours I'm gasping for breath, my lungs are burning, and my feet are starting to ache inside my low-heeled yet impractical shoes. I've never used my ability for this long, either, and it's flaking in and out as my concentration falters. The flashes of cold between the warmth startle me.

  "Can we rest?" I ask.

  He glances back at the shadowed expanse of desert behind us. "They could send out seekers."

  Seekers—heat-seeking drones equipped with cameras. "Do the Vilor have those?"

  "They have access to unique technologies, things I've never seen. Like those guns that blew Than's head off. I'm sure they have seekers, or something similar."

  I look back, too, scanning the gray and black horizon, and the night sky. "We can keep moving. But first, I have to take care of—some business."

  "Business?"

  I sigh. "No bathrooms out here, but the same needs exist."

  "Oh."

  "Turn around. And don't look or I'll scorch your skin until it's blacker than your boss's soul."

  He turns his back to me. "He's not pure evil, like you think. I've seen him carry a Maraj child to safety, give a beggar his rations. But he's a soldier, and a leader. It's his job to do the harsh things, too, the things that ma
ke a difference."

  I wrestle the too-tight pants back into place and straighten my shirt. "Like kidnapping, or shooting innocent people?" I say, walking around to stand in front of him.

  "You have to understand that in our eyes, you're not innocent," he says. "You've been at your father's side, supporting his activities, for a few years now. Your coming here was all about politics—you know that."

  "It's just traveling—showing up where he wants me to be. Smiling, and nodding, and making small talk with dignitaries. Taking vids and images for the newsfeeds. It doesn't mean anything." But I can't look at him as I say it, because I know that's not true. My presence on these tours implies support for my father's policies. Before, I never had a problem with the implication, and I'm not sure when that started to change.

  His lip curls derisively. "If you believe it doesn't mean anything, you're more foolish than I thought."

  He marches ahead, and I trudge after him.

  All night we walk, my pace growing slower and slower. Finally the east edge of the world grows pale, yellow light washing upward, gradually painting the sky gold and pink and blue.

  "Where are we going?" I ask. "I know we've been trying to put distance between us and the Vilor; but shouldn't we turn back? We could skirt around the compound, find a town."

  "At this point, we may as well keep going. We'll come to Ankerja in a couple days. We can get food and water there."

  "You're insane. I can't walk for two days in the desert."

  "No? Being taken hostage and having a man shot in front of you, you can handle, but not a little walk in the desert?"

  He's baiting me. Trying to rouse my stubborn nature and spur me on with ridicule. He doesn't realize how bone-weary I am.

  "I don't do this," I gasp. "I don't trek through wilderness for hours. I sit at a desk and I learn, and then I get up and I walk through a few halls. I eat lunch, and then I sit through more classes. At night I play aeroball, or talk to friends."

  "Sounds boring."

  "You'd think so, but when you're doing it, it feels like living. It feels important."

  "This is important, Zilara. This is survival, what we're doing now."

  I stop and stare at him. "Why aren't you taking me back to your faction? Surely you know how to contact them, or where to reach them."

  "I don't have a skull-port, remember? And my communicator was in my personal pack, which I don't have." He gestured to the bag he's carrying. "This is a pack I grabbed on the way out. And who says I'm not taking you to the Fray right now?"

  "Are you? Are there Fray in Ankerja?"

  "Some."

  "But no leaders. No base of operations."

  "No."

  I sigh, closing my eyes. "So we're going to a town in the middle of a desert for no reason."

  "Oh, I have a reason. I need time to figure out what I'm going to do with you."

  "You can let me go back to my people. It's over, Rak. The hostage thing didn't work."

  He doesn't answer, just keeps walking, occasionally consulting the chunky timepiece on his wrist.

  "What is that?" I ask, pointing.

  "It tells me the time."

  "Obviously. What else does it do? There must be a reason you keep looking at it."

  "It has an untraceable Global Grid link," he says. "Tells me which direction we're headed, and our coordinates."

  "Oh."

  He walks faster, and I follow, because I'm sure I'd get lost if I tried to go back. Using my ability on him isn't going to work; I'd have to be holding on to him, and by the time I got the temperature up high enough to do any damage, he'd have already set his gun to my head and pulled the trigger. I imagine various ways to disarm him, to hurt him, to convince him—but in the end I discard them all.

  He's probably right about going back; who knows if the Vilor have left the base or not? If they're still around, and we cut too close to it, our escape will have been all for nothing. Better to keep going to this desert town, Ankerja, and try to contact my father from there. Once Rak gets me safely to the town, I won't need his guidance or protection anymore. I can disable him then, or kill him—whatever I need to do.

  If I'm going to escape him, I need to observe everything. He acted solemn and subservient in the Fray base, when I was the hostage and his buddies were around. Now that we're out here, just the two of us, he's more confident, stronger. But caution tenses the muscles of his arms, and his right hand never strays far from the handle of his gun. His fingers curl, ready to grip the weapon, or ready to punch someone. Sweat glues locks of hair to the back of his neck, the beaded strand of his hair swings in time with each step, and his head swivels back and forth as he checks our surroundings. His long, easy stride eats up the ground, while I stumble after him, jogging every so often to catch up.

  "You're Maraj, right?" I say. "The beads—that's a sign of your tribe."

  He glances back, surprised. "Yes. It's called the ayila."

  "You have a sister, you said. Any other siblings?"

  "My father died years ago, so it's only my mother and sister. I don't see them much—I've been with the Fray for the last five years. Joined shortly after the Vilor attacked my village."

  "That was when your mother and your sister were—they were assaulted?"

  "Yes." His mouth tightens, and I instantly regret bringing it up. But I'm not sure how to turn the conversation, so I say nothing.

  "You have your parents and a brother, yes?" he asks.

  "I do. Although sometimes I feel like my friends are closer to me than my family. There's Vissa, my best friend—she's smart and funny; and then Reya—she's a singer. How about you? Do you have friends? A special girl, or guy?" The instant the words leave my lips, they sound horribly stupid, and I flush.

  But Rak's mouth quirks with that now-familiar little smile. "I'm not interested in anyone right now, but if I were, it would be a girl. Like I said—five years with the Fray. Not much time for a social life. I'm sure you're much more active—socially—than I am."

  The way he says "socially" in that significant way—as though he's hinting at something else—I flush again. I've been featured in more than my fair share of trashy newsfeeds, and most of the stories they tell have less than ten words of truth in them. "I'm not a slut, if that's what you're saying. I've had a couple of boyfriends, but they turned out to be power-hungry elitists with stone-cold hearts."

  Gareth's exquisite face appears in my mind as I say it. My boyfriend of a year, the one I broke up with six months before this tour. The one who crushed my heart more thoroughly than any of the others.

  Thinking about him is enough to shut me up, and Rak doesn't pry. Whatever momentary interest he had in my life is gone.

  As the sun climbs, the air warms rapidly, as if someone turned on the heat lamp in a terrarium—except instead of warming us, the invisible controller of the lamp intends to cook us alive. The burning light overhead is so intense I can't widen my eyes beyond a squint.

  By the time we're halfway through the morning, I'm sweating from every pore, perspiration coursing in rivulets between my breasts and down my spine. I hate this. So much. What I wouldn't give for a pool, or a shower, or even a puddle.

  Rak glances back at me and stops. Opening the pack we brought, he rifles through it and pulls out a nearly empty water bottle. He drinks first, a single swallow, and hands me the rest, which disappears down my throat in two sips. My captors didn't give me nearly enough to drink while I was their prisoner, and I'm pretty sure I was already dehydrated. The desert is making it worse.

  I throw the empty bottle at him. "We shouldn't have tried to cross the desert without supplies."

  His eyes narrow and he crosses his arms. "You'd rather be a prisoner of the Vilor? Do you know what they do to their prisoners?"

  "Can't be much worse than being out here with you."

  "You're an idiot if you believe that. But I'd expect nothing less from a spoiled Ceannan girl."

  Fury rises in me, hot and ac
rid. Rak isn't the first to conclude that because I'm from a rich and powerful family, I must also be spoiled and silly, without any acumen beyond what's required for fashion parties and fancy dinners. People tend to assume that I have limited life experience, minimal cleverness, and no personal pain—that I wouldn't be any great loss if evolution or fate decided to eliminate me from the universe.

  So many words crowd behind my lips that I can't make a coherent response. As he moves on, I stalk behind him, seething and sweating, bending my head so my hair partly curtains my face from the burning sun.

  By the time the sun passes the pinnacle of the sky and dips toward the west, my anger has morphed into feverish exhaustion. The sand isn't hard-packed now—it's loose and thick, hard to walk through. My calves ache from slogging along, step after slow step. My sweat has dried, and my body doesn't seem to be producing any more.

  No water since the tiny sips this morning. My tongue feels like an enormous wad of thick cloth in my mouth, and my lips are shriveling like earthworms in the sun.

  One foot moves forward. Then the other. My will forces them.

  Until I can't anymore. I need to lie down, to sleep. I need to drink—I want water so badly that I would cry for it, but I have no tears.

  I sink to my knees on the hot, sandy ground, bowing over as the sun pounds my body.

  "Zilara." Rak turns and comes back to me. "Zilara, get up." He kicks the ground near me, scuffing a puff of fine sand into my face. The grains sting my eyes and itch in my nostrils.

  I shake my head, leaning forward, palms to the sand. This is the end. I'm going to die out here.

  "We can rest a minute, but then we have to go."

  "Water," I whisper.

  "What?" He goes down on one knee and leans toward me.

  "Water, you horrible bastard." I can barely pronounce the words around my swollen tongue.

  Pain in my head, behind my eyes. Pain low in my abdomen, pain all over my blistered feet. The world is pain, and thirst, and it's wavering and darkening around me.

  "Zilara, don't make me do this."

  What is he talking about? I don't really care. I lie down on my side on the hot ground, my arm curled under my head, trying to ignore the painful sear of the burning sand against my skin.