Threader war, p.11
Threader War, page 11
“Freshen up, get changed into clean clothes. We’ll meet down here in an hour.”
The elevators binged and the troupe got on.
* * *
• • •
An hour later, Baila led Darwin and the rest of the group down a staff hallway until they reached another set of closed doors. A sign on the wall said “backstage” and asked everyone walking in to be quiet. She opened the double doors and ushered the troupe in.
Darwin wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but a simple continuation of the hallway was not it. Sure, the lights were dimmer and the walls painted in a dark gray, but there was really no difference.
She led them deeper and the space opened up. Painted black walls receded into the distance and scaffolding and overhead catwalks reached into the darkness. Thick shadowy curtains hung from the unbelievably high ceiling, and past them he could see a dimly lit stage. Baila swept through the curtains as if she had lived in the space her whole life. As she walked on to the empty stage, her chin lifted and her back straightened. Darwin knew she had come home.
The troupe followed her out and, as one, turned to stare at the empty rows of red chairs that rose to the far wall. He hung back, the sudden openness making him feel exposed and small. From the side of the stage, he could see three balconies wrapped the huge space, and the high domed ceiling glowed a deep blue. All of it felt wrong to him. Not because of the space itself, but—and he struggled to pinpoint what made him uncomfortable—it was the decadence of it all. The plush seats, the lighting that heightened the feeling of openness and the excess that permeated every nook and cranny, the stark contrast between the audience space and backstage. It created a delineation between performer and audience that contradicted the two performances he had seen the troupe do, contradicted the one he had seen in SafeHaven so long ago. He stepped further back from the stage, bumping into the person behind him.
“You don’t like it either?” Teresa asked.
He spun, surprised that she was there, welcoming how close she had been standing to him. “Yeah. It’s . . . it feels so wrong. The people in San Bernardino and Victorville struggle for everything they have, work so hard to put food on the table, and here . . . There’s so much here. Electricity, lights, cars. They have so much, and they hoard it. Keep it for themselves so no one else can get it. It doesn’t feel right. Dammit, it’s not right.”
“I know what you mean, but they couldn’t share it anyway. The infrastructure is gone.”
Baila strode off the stage toward them. “All right, you two. You’ll be working backstage with the rest of the crew. You’ll do what Kyle says when he says it. We have a week to get everything set up. You have a lot to learn.” She turned back to the group on the stage. “We’ve done this one before, so I expect everyone to know their lines. We go in ten minutes, starting with Price and Cunningham arriving in Uganda. That’s you and Peterson,” she said, pointing to a tall blond boy. “Let’s get moving.”
Darwin felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and twisted out of it to face whoever had touched him. It was the cook. The man looked different here than behind a row of fire pits and pots and pans. He was taller, looming almost a foot over Darwin, and his face was pocked and deeply tanned. At least now he knew the man’s name.
“C’mon, ya two,” Kyle said. “We’ve got wagons to unload and durn big curtains to hang. We ain’t got much to set up for props, but it’s best if’n we get it done right away.”
Over the rest of the day, the calluses that had formed over the blisters he’d gotten in San Bernardino and Victorville peeled off, leaving bright red spots of sensitive skin that hurt just to touch. He was a physicist, more comfortable in the classroom or lab than doing any sort of physical labor. Every time he left the hotel to get things from the wagons, the heat weighed him down, and when he returned the cold made him shiver as it wicked the sweat away. They weren’t quite finished when Kyle called for a halt, obviously taking pity on him. Teresa didn’t seem to have as much trouble as he did, but then he always knew she was the tougher one.
Baila called Darwin back as he was leaving. Teresa smiled back at him as he turned to see what Baila wanted, a small laugh on her lips. He shook his head, lingering on the image, and walked out on stage, feeling the same sense of being a very small cog in a big machine. The opulence of the place was drowned out by the lights shining down onto them.
Baila leaned in to him as he got close, whispering in his ear. “You haven’t tried to See, have you? I felt a movement in the Threads a while back, like someone was manipulating them.”
Darwin shook his head, fighting the sudden urge to open his Sight. He knew how sensitive people with latent abilities could be, and there was no way he wanted a red badge to come down on him, or anyone in Baila’s troupe.
“Good. Keep it that way. Something feels off, and I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it.” She pushed him to the side curtains and turned to face the red chairs, lifting her chin again as she scanned the empty seats.
Darwin left the stage, walking through the dim corridors to the doorway leading to the hotel proper. As soon as he opened the door he was met with the constant binging of the slot machines, a noise he hadn’t missed. He blocked out the sound as best as he could and waited for the elevator to take him to his room.
7
Found and Lost
The elevator was blessedly quiet, and when the doors slid open on the seventeenth floor, Darwin walked into an empty hallway. The soft carpet under his feet helped take away some of the pain of standing and working on a hard floor all day. He walked down the long hallway to his room, sliding the key card into the lock, and pushed open the door. Kyle had let him have the bed by the window, a standard double size with an ornate beige headboard against a wall with vertical beige stripes. A hotel room you could find anywhere in his world. It still made him feel out of place here. It was as if he was back in his world instead of in one run by Threads. Then again, that was the whole point of this place, wasn’t it? He wished Teresa was here with him instead of Kyle.
His backpack was on the foot of the bed, and he lifted it off to place it on the floor before remembering he hadn’t put it there. He’d gone through it for a cleaner shirt before he left the room, and he was pretty sure he’d thrown it closer to the pillows.
Settling on the edge of the bed, he noticed Kyle’s backpack wasn’t in sight. Someone had been in the room. Cleaning staff? Who else could it have been? It was then that he heard the shower turning off in the bathroom, answering the question of the location of Kyle’s bag. He’d obviously taken it in the bathroom with him. He must have moved pretty fast to get up here and into the shower so quick.
The bathroom door opened and Darwin glanced up. Teresa stood in the short hallway just outside the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel that ended well above mid-thigh. He lurched to his feet, staring at her as if she was some sort of apparition.
“I switched rooms with Kyle. I . . .” She hesitated. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
He felt his face get hot and he tried to stammer out a reply. Of course he didn’t mind. Only a fool would think he would, and she was no fool. He wanted to move toward her, to swoop her up in his arms, but his legs refused to respond and he ended up just standing there, his face red, unable to stutter out a coherent word.
“Why don’t you take a shower?” she asked. “Backstage was filthy. I’ll still be here when you get out.”
His legs finally responded, though his voice still didn’t. He moved too fast in the small room, rushing toward Teresa like a dog greeting its owner at the door. Teresa took a small step back, her eyes dancing in the light from the windows, and he swallowed hard, squeezing past her into the bathroom before closing the door gently behind him, his heart beating a million miles a minute.
She was here, in his hotel room, and he hadn’t been able to speak, acting like a moron, like a stupid teenager. He leaned his head back against the closed door and breathed for a minute, willing his racing heart to calm down before turning on the shower and stripping down. He was an idiot.
The running water was wonderful, and though he was still shaking like a schoolboy, the warmth of it running over his head and down his torso helped to calm him. Showers were one of the things he missed the most here. They were next to impossible on the road, and in SafeHaven with no running water.
He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of being immersed in the warm liquid.
His eyes shot open, his heart skipping a beat. Did he just hear the bathroom door close? Was that shadow across the shower curtain a person? He held his breath again, waiting. A tanned hand moved the shower curtain aside, and Teresa stepped in. His eyes locked with hers and he returned her smile. At least he hoped he had. Slowly, his gaze dropped, past the smooth curve of her neck to her breasts, pausing for a moment before dropping lower to her stomach. He could see the faint ripples of muscle just under the skin. His body responded, and he lifted his gaze at the same time she did, flushing hot once again.
“Why don’t you turn around, I’ll wash your back.” Her voice was soft and throaty.
He turned, almost slipping in the tub. Her fingers touched his shoulder blades and his skin twitched in response. He felt a bar of soap in her hand as it slid down to his lower back. He leaned forward, both hands against the wall as the pressure of her hands increased.
Her touch was soft and warm, blending with the flow of water across his skin. At every contact, he pushed back a little, wanting to feel her more, suddenly empty when she lifted her hand to move it back to his shoulders.
She stepped forward, her breasts pressing into his back, her body conforming to his, spreading a warmth through him that he never wanted to end. Her hands reached around his chest, slowly lowering to his stomach. His skin quivered under her touch as her fingers traced circles around his belly button. One hand moved lower and cupped him, and a primal groan escaped his throat, his body shuddering out of control. A flash of gold blossomed inside his chest, straining against his ribs before subsiding back into itself.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
He could feel her soft laughter, her body still pressed into his.
“That’s okay,” she said. “We have time.” She reached for the tap, turning off the shower. When she turned to open the shower curtain, he immediately missed her warmth and the velvety feel of her skin against his. She handed him a towel and grabbed hers from the floor.
With their skin still damp, she reached for his hand and led him to the bed furthest from the window. She showed him where to caress her, where to kiss her, swirling his tongue in soft circles on her warm skin until he was ready again.
They fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, tired and content. Darwin held on to her as if everything that had happened could disappear in a puff of wind. As if when he let go, she would disappear and he would wake up in the bed alone, the same Darwin he had always been. She had seen him at his worst, and arguably, at his best. As a healer, she had seen the scars that lay hidden below his skin, hidden by years of plastic surgeries, and still wanted to be with him.
She was his angel.
They woke late in the day, their bodies still entwined on the bed, the sheets in a puddle on the floor. She jumped from the bed, looking out the window at the sun that was far too high in the sky.
“Get up! We’re late. We were supposed to meet everyone for breakfast and finish off the props.”
Darwin groaned and rolled over.
“Oh, come on. Get up, sleepyhead. There’s work to be done.”
He sat up to find her half-dressed and sprinting for the bathroom.
“My clothes are in there,” he said. They were thrown out in a heap before the door was slammed shut. He got dressed, waiting patiently for the one sock that still remained inside.
They opened the door to the hallway and stepped out. Darwin saw a blur of black running from the elevators toward him just before he was slammed into the wall. Dazed by the impact, he still recognized the dark shoulder badges and uniforms.
“Darwin Lloyd, you’re under arrest for being a Threader and infiltrating Las Vegas.”
His only thought was of Teresa, and he couldn’t see her.
* * *
• • •
Darwin was pushed to the floor, a knee pressed into the small of his back, and he felt something cold and hard wrapped around his wrists. Handcuffs. The black badges pulled him roughly to his feet and marched him down the long hall to the elevators. He risked a quick look over his shoulder, receiving a slap across the back of his head for the effort. It was worth it, though. He’d seen Teresa standing with two red badges. It was obvious they were questioning her, but she wasn’t in handcuffs.
He tried reaching for a few Threads to get himself out of his predicament, but quickly pulled back remembering Baila’s warning before they’d entered Las Vegas. The red badges were the anti-Threader brigade, the ones that made sure no Threaders got into the city. They were also supposedly sensitive to Thread use. He didn’t know if the black badges were the same, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Not while Teresa was in range of them.
How did they find him, then? He hadn’t so much as used or monitored the Threads since he’d gotten here. Could it be when the Source in his chest reacted last night? Had it sent something out into the world without his knowing? Something he hadn’t been able to control? Or maybe they’d detected the Source itself? He’d also given his real name when he’d entered the city. Did they have a database of Threaders?
He didn’t have any more time to think about it.
They threw him in the elevator, their backs to the closing doors. The one on the left, a large woman with shockingly red hair, started talking before the elevator even started moving.
“Darwin Lloyd. You have been charged and found guilty of using Threads in Las Vegas. Your sentence is five years in detention with forced labor. You have no chance of parole or early release. Do you understand the charges and resulting verdict?”
His stomach clenched into a knot.
“Answer yes or no. Failure to comply will be taken as defiance against authority and you will be punished under the Las Vegas Anti-Threader Amendments. Do you understand the charges and the resulting verdict?”
Darwin shook his head. “No. I’m not a Threader. I don’t use Threads at all. I’m here with the dance troupe that’s putting on The Book of Mormon next week. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
The redhead backhanded him and he felt his lip split open. She wiped the blood off the back of her hand on his shirt. “You’ve already been tried and found guilty. There’s no point in lying to us now.”
Darwin fell back against the tinted mirror on the back wall of the elevator, cracking one with his shoulder. Fuck this, he was getting out. He opened his Sight to look for Threads, expanding beyond the elevator. The Threads that came into view responded as well as they had anywhere else, moving sluggishly to his will before just drifting away. He reached for the Source imprisoned in his chest. The golden wisp grew, and he could feel it responding to his request.
A meaty fist slammed into the side of his head. The last thing he saw was the tiled floor before a foot kicked his chin and the world went black.
* * *
• • •
Darwin came to lying in the back of a car. A cage that looked like it had been made out of scraps of angle iron and rebar had been welded around the windows and between him and driver. Through the rusted bars he saw open desert with the occasional scrub brush.
The road was surprisingly smooth. The car moved along the highway without a sound.
He struggled to sit up, the motion sending spikes of pain into his head. He noticed there was blood on the seat where his head had been. The sight of it brought an onslaught of memories, and his stomach twisted.
Suddenly, he was in the driver’s seat, his mother beside him, the guard rail he’d hit twisted and sharp, stabbing into his leg. Into his mother’s chest. The window frame pressed into the side of his face and blood half-blinded him.
He heaved, bringing up the remains of last night’s supper. The car jerked as the driver looked back, yelling at him as he heaved again. The sound of wheels on gravel pulled the driver’s attention back to the road, and he jerked the wheel, forcing Darwin’s body to slide on the seat. His shoulders slipped, unable to hold him up against the sharp motion, and his face smeared vomit over the seat. The pain tripled and he groaned, breathing in the fetid stench.
Despite his position and the smell, he didn’t dare move. His head felt like it had been split wide open, and when he dry heaved again, he felt a pop in his jaw and couldn’t close his mouth, a fresh stab of pain running up the side of his face. He knew he was hurt bad.
The car left the main road, turning up a twisty stretch of concrete that felt as though it rose higher as it continued. The tires rolled across gravel again as the car coasted to a stop. The driver opened the window, letting in a blast of dry desert heat. Despite that, Darwin heard the harsh cry of a gull.
“Prisoner transfer from Las Vegas.”
Darwin didn’t hear the reply, but the window closed and the car moved smoothly forward again.
They only drove for another ten minutes before they slowed once more. This time when they stopped, the back door was opened from the outside.
“Jesus Christ, Dan. Why you gotta deliver them like this?” The shadow that had blocked the sun from Darwin’s eyes pulled away and he could hear heavy breathing.
“Don’t blame me. Those damn Black Badges hurt him so bad, I’m surprised he lived through the drive as it was. Now get him out so I can rinse out the damn car.”
