Dreadlock-man watches us move to the palatial staircase that leads to the main concourse below. My skin prickles with goose bumps as I begin my descent on the stairs, feeling an eerie sense of déjà vu. I’ve read some things regarding quantum physics: how everyone and everything is made up of energy. It’s as if I feel the energy between this soldier at the gallery railing and me. Taking the first few steps down, the hard foam securing my hands behind me cracks, loosening to allow my fingers to move.
My breathing quickens and my heartbeat thunders even faster than it had in the last few minutes. For a moment, I’m unable to look away from the man at the railing above. When I reach the main concourse of the station, the pull between us is broken. The soldier steps back from the railing so I can no longer see him, disappearing behind a column.
I inhale deeply, as if coming back to myself. Wiggling my fingers, the pressure that made them numb is gone. Did he do that? I wonder. I try to track where Dreadlock-man went, but it’s impossible to see behind me as my upper arm is tugged forward and I’m hustled across the crowded room.
A wave of citizens parts for us as the soldiers in front usher them to the sides. Some of the onlookers we pass have starstruck expressions. When we reach the center of the room, a life-size holographic projection captures my attention. It’s a newsreel playing out events. I almost trip over my own feet when I recognize one of the realistic images as mine. Dressed in the torn, lavender ball gown from the swank last night, I’m made of light, looking pale and fragile as I’m carried from the palace ballroom in Trey’s arms. It also shows light images of Wayra and Jax flanking us with their guns up, braced against their shoulders. That clip isn’t long, lasting only a few moments before the camera pans to the chaos of artillery fire and mortar blasts. There’s a heart-stopping shot of a hovering, ferocious-looking Alameeda E-One crouching over the palace.
Citizens in the station crowd around the hologram news clip, murmuring to one another in agitation over the events they’re witnessing. In a few moments, the newsreel changes again and an image of me is back, descending the elegant palace staircase at my debut, smiling a plastic smile to the crowd below before the fighting began. As I look around, I realize that there are more life-size holograms displaying the events of last night.
People near us begin to lose some of the shock our presence seemed to instill. There’s confusion as we continue on. Those who were watching the holograms now trail behind us, hoping to get a longer look. Ahead of us, three dronelike orbs the size of basketballs fly around us. One darts in close to me, crowding me like a hungry seagull at the beach. A black camera lens protrudes from the front of the white-metal orb, making blink-click noises. The other two have lenses, as well, that survey everything, circling us with the speed of hummingbirds to capture three-dimensional images.
Trey gestures with his head to the drone cameras. “The media are here.”
“What do they want?” I ask as I’m jostled from the pushback of the crowd.
“They want to see you,” he replies. His lips thin in a grim line.
The Brigadet soldiers are shoving everyone back, but members of the press keep trying to get to me. Flashes of light strobe us as the reporters shout above the aggressive crowd. A beautiful, dark-haired girl with a small star embossed above the arch of her eyebrow yells to me, “Fay Kricket, is it true you knew about the Alameeda attack before the event last night?” The camera drone swoops near to my face, blink-clicking as the black lens focuses in. “Whose side are you on, Rafe or Alameeda?” I drop my chin, confused by the frenzy that surrounds me. “Do you know what the Alameeda are planning?” “Is it true you tried to kill the Regent at the swank last night?” “Is that why you’re being restrained?”
The Brigadets are funneling me ahead toward a niche in the wall. It contains a larger overup than the others. This lift is also different because whereas the other overups have embedded video screens in their smaller doors that stream the same newsreels we saw in the holograms, these much larger doors are inlayed with iridescent mother-of-pearl. Etched within the double doors are two Art Deco saers. The saber-toothed tigers are on their hind legs, breathing shiny gray, lavender, and blue flames as they face each other in mirrored symmetry.
I’m pulled away from Trey’s side by a yank on my arm and herded toward the enormous elevator with the saers on the front of it. Trey, Wayra, and Jax are taken in the opposite direction, toward the smaller overup doors.
“Trey!” I call his name, twisting as I try to see him being led away from me.
Trey fights the soldiers pulling us apart. “I need to stay with her! We have to stay together.” He head-butts the soldier holding his arm. Camera drones hover above him, capturing the fight as Trey roundhouse kicks another soldier who tries to grasp his arm. Wayra and Jax fight the soldiers near them too. Wayra lowers his head and uses it rampaging-bull style as he forces it into a soldier’s stomach. The crowd around us begins screaming, as soldiers try to push them back by force. The AFA arms again, focusing its lethal gun barrels on Trey.
I wrench my arm away from the soldier holding me. The cracks that have formed in the foam shackles shatter the restraint, allowing my hands to go free. I stumble into the middle of the fight. Pushing past Raspin with an elbow to his face, the Comantre Brigadet holds his bloody mouth. I run to Trey, throwing myself against him. My arms wrap around his neck as I plead near his ear, “Don’t fight them! They’ll kill you! I’ll be okay; I’m stone, remember? Nothing touches me.” It’s not true. I have a paper heart and he has written notes all over it.
“Kricket,” Trey whispers against my neck. I tilt my face so I can see him. He kisses me hard on the lips. It’s a desperate kiss—a last kiss.
My arm is seized and I’m forced away from Trey once more. Behind me, I hear them beating on him. I stumble and try to tear myself away from the soldier holding me again, but he forces me into the ornate conveyance in front of us.
Inside, the chamber is much larger and grander than a standard elevator. A low-lit crystal chandelier hangs down from the center of the twenty-foot-high ceiling. High-back cushioned benches line three walls with dove gray velvet upholstery. The large velvet-covered buttons in the benches make diamond patterns in the fabric. The glass above the benches is antiqued and smoky, reflecting our images in blurred impressions.
When the doors slide closed, I feel the overup move laterally before it begins to rise at a stomach-dropping rate. I’m still panting from the struggle. The soldier beside me lets go of my arm, since there’s nowhere for me to run in here. Every part of me wants to sink onto one of the soft gray benches, rest my cheek against the cushion, and cry my heart out, but I refuse to give in to it. Instead, I stand among the handful of soldiers, watch the doors in front of me, and wait.
CHAPTER 2
DON’T MESS WITH ME
None of us move when the doors glide open. I stare ahead into the dim room. The sliver of light from the overup’s chandelier falls on a round, dark wood table ahead. In the center of the table is an enormous vase, dripping with a vibrant arrangement of znous, the deadly killer-insect-carrying, turbine-boring-worm flowers. Their scent and stunning color make the blood drain away from my face as I stare at them.