60
We all stand in a row, each of us too stunned to speak. My eyes jump around the space as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. The concrete floor. The walls. The wires running up from each tank, then along beams and poles stretching overhead.
It’s then that I recall Edward’s words from when we first broke him out of that cell.
We brushed over it at the time because we were too focused on the cure and we didn’t know what it meant.
A network. A power source.
More wires spiral up and spread across the high ceiling, each one connected back to each glowing tank.
The tanks holding sleeping, floating bodies.
At least . . . I hope they’re sleeping.
“What is this?” someone whispers. Justin. The first one of us to find his voice.
I turn around to find Mowry slowly walking backward, shuffling toward the door.
“Someone stop him!” I shout, and Fisher and Henry are on him in an instant, dragging him toward us.
“Please,” he’s begging. Pleading. His knees sag as we surround him. “I’m so sorry. They made me . . .”
“What is this?” I ask. “What is this?”
When Mowry hesitates, Fisher snags him by his collar and hoists him onto his tiptoes.
The doctor’s feet scrabble against the floor, and he looks so pathetic that I almost feel bad.
Clearly, Fisher harbors no such remorse as he shoves Mowry against a wall and braces an arm across the doctor’s throat.
Having an asshole on your side really can be useful.
“Start talking,” Fisher says, increasing the pressure on Mowry’s windpipe.
Mowry opens his mouth, but all he manages is a groan.
“Ease up!” Henry orders as Fisher tosses him a dirty look, but he backs away a moment later.
The doctor rubs his throat, his shoulders heaving. “This is what has kept Nyxia sane for the last thirty years,” he says. “It’s also how we power New Manhattan.”
“What are you talking about? General Sol powers New Manhattan,” Henry says, though I can hear the uncertainty in his words.
The truth, once immutable, is stretching, thinning, and tipping on its side.
“Yes and no,” Mowry says. “It wasn’t just the cure we studied all those years ago. We also developed a method for gathering Spark to use as a fuel source. When she left me, she took that research, too, though without a Storm Caller, it was useless to us anyway.”
As he speaks, he grits out each word like it’s causing him great pain.
“Armed with the knowledge, she was able to power the city. At first.”
“At first?” Henry asks.
Mowry grunts. “Once she demonstrated what she could do, the chancellors made plans to shift the entire city onto a new power grid, starting with the Citadel and other essential services like the greenhouses, hospitals, and factories. It was a miracle. No more relying on solar power, wind, or other inconsistent fuel. Quickly, New Manhattan grew dependent on it.”
Mowry stops, clutches his chest, and wheezes before he doubles over, like he might be having a heart attack.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Fisher says, once again grabbing Mowry by the collar and pressing him against the wall. “You’re not weaseling out of this, old man. Keep talking.”
Mowry glances up, annoyance flashing over his face.
“Unfortunately, it became too much for one woman to handle.” He gasps. “Please. I can’t breathe. I need some space.”
Henry touches Fisher’s arm. “Back up. He can’t go anywhere.”
Fisher arches a brow and then retreats a few steps as Mowry shuffles away and approaches one of the tanks, peering up at the woman floating inside.
The water and glass distort her features a little, but I estimate that she’s about my age with long hair that billows around her in a purple-stained cloud.
“We needed . . . support,” Mowry whispers as he drops his head and presses a hand to the glass. “I’m not proud of it. I wish I’d never discovered this.”
I scan the room, taking in the slack faces and floating limbs as the picture clears in my mind.
“They’re Keepers,” I whisper, hot tears burning in my eyes.
Mowry heaves out another sigh and nods. “Nyxia became responsible for channeling millions of watts of Spark over decades. Not only was it impossible to gather enough energy on her own, but it was also rapidly affecting her mind. We needed a solution. That’s really why she came to find me all those years ago.
“This is the secret that New Manhattan has tried to hide for so long. Why they cut themselves off from the Tiera Frais, terrified of discovery. They understood how everyone would perceive this, but they also refused to stop.”
“Are they . . . dead?” Navy asks, her face pale in the glow of neon light. I can only imagine how she’s picturing herself floating in one of these hideous tanks.
“No,” Dr. Mowry says. “They’re technically alive, but most are no longer of this world. Only those connected within the last few days can still be woken up.”
“How does it work?” Justin asks.
“We discovered that if Nyxia could dissipate Spark through a host, then not only could she gather and harness more of the energy, but it would also protect her mind. The more we added, the better the outcome.”
“This is . . . horrific,” I whisper. “How could you do this to people?”
“This is why you wanted to leave New Manhattan so desperately?” Henry demands. “You thought you could run from this? Keep it a secret until you’re long gone?”
Dr. Mowry is trembling from head to toe, his lower lip quivering. Maybe he does regret this, but it doesn’t change what he’s done. “I was given no choice. The city would have lost everything. It was the perfect solution for everyone.”
“Everyone but these people,” Justin says.
“Yes,” Dr. Mowry says. “The true reason the Extinguishers were created was to seek out more people to add to the network. A little bit of fearmongering to ensure neighbor turned on neighbor and everyone was more than willing to fall in line.”
I swallow thickly and take a few steps closer to a row of tanks.
“Poet,” my father says, reaching for me, but I shuffle away from his touch.
“Did you know?” I ask. “As a scion, did you know about this?”
He shakes his head. “I . . . didn’t.”
I study his face, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth. Does it matter anymore?
I turn away and slowly begin walking.
“For it to work, we need to find them before the infection sets in,” Dr. Mowry says.
Most of the people I pass appear young—under thirty years of age or so—lending credence to his statement. I want to smash every tank and free them all. I want to scream. I want to throw up.
All my life, I’ve feared discovery. I thought they’d kill me. I thought they’d do tests on me. I thought they’d subject me to all kinds of “rehabilitation,” trying to fix me. But I never imagined this.
“There are so many,” I whisper.
“The more power needed, the more hosts are required,” Mowry says. “When one dies, they’re replaced.”
“Is this why they’re hiding the cure?” Henry asks. “They don’t actually want people to be cured?”
Mowry tips his head. “Yes . . .”
He hesitates, making it obvious there’s something else he wants to add.
“Then why go to the trouble of creating one at all?” Navy this time.
Another flash of contrition passes over Mowry’s face.
Despite the depravity we’ve already witnessed, he still hasn’t finished revealing everything yet.
“The shift into madness produces the greatest energy surge,” he says, gesturing to the closest tank, where a man with a shaved head bobs slowly up and down. “The effect lasts anywhere from a few months to a year while they succumb.”
He stops, leaving us to put the pieces together.
“You’re curing them,” Justin says. “Over and over. Just so you can use them again.”
“Yes,” Mowry says with a nod. “Most people will tolerate it about three or four cycles before their body simply gives out.”
Skies. How does this keep getting worse and worse?
Bile rises in my throat.
“This is another reason she needed a Caller,” he adds.
“What do you mean?” I ask, spinning around.
“I mean this is no longer enough. We reached a critical point about a year ago, and adding more Keepers only yields diminishing results. She’s been forced to channel too much Spark, and it’s causing her mind to deteriorate too quickly.”
“She wants to connect Rook to the . . . network?” I ask, another churn of acid burning in my gut.
“It’s our working theory that a single Storm Caller could take the place of over a thousand Keepers . . .”
Suddenly, my head swims, and I stumble several steps, my hand landing on a tank to catch myself.
It’s warm to the touch, like it’s filled with blood.
I recoil because it looks like the woman inside is suddenly alive.
Her lips move, and her fingers twitch. I grow lightheaded with terror, then realize it’s only an effect of the water.
My knees stop working as I sink to the concrete floor, cold seeping up my legs.
I’m hyperventilating. I can’t get enough air. I think I’m having a panic attack.
“Poet,” my dad says, dropping down beside me. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I say. “I just . . . I need a minute.”
Everyone is silent as I gather myself, all of us lost in our own thoughts.
“So, where’s our brother?” Navy asks as I glance up at Mowry.
“Is he in here?” I jump up and start scanning the tanks. “I swear if you . . .”
“He’s not in here,” Dr. Mowry says.
“Then where?”
He blinks watery eyes. “I will show you.”
Dr. Mowry leads us through the room to the far end, where we pass through another secure door and then turn down a few more hallways. A staircase leads deeper into the earth, and as we wind down, I try to ignore the sensation that I’m being buried alive.
Part of me wonders if Mowry is just leading us into a trap, but he’s unarmed and outnumbered—I don’t think there’s much he can do.
A few more corridors, and then we arrive at a door also guarded with a lock. Mowry scans his face again, and it beeps before revealing another room, much smaller than the one we just left.
We pass various pieces of medical equipment, dominated by a massive white tube attached to a sliding table.
“What’s that?” Justin asks.
“The brain scanner where I monitor Nyxia,” Mowry says.
Then we turn a corner into a square room, and I gasp.
Standing in the center is another cylindrical tank, glowing with purple light.
And floating in the center . . . is Rook.