Firstlife Read online

  I want to vomit.

  The door to Vans's office slides open, and cold fingers of dread crawl down my spine.

  I can do this. Whatever "this" is. I remind myself of the three most important facts of life.

  (1) Firstlife, good or bad, is fleeting, even if we live a hundred years. Numbers never lie. A hundred years is nothing compared to thousands of years in the Everlife. So a few hours...days...weeks of pain? Means nothing. Because--

  (2) pain is temporary, just as Bow said. It won't follow me to the other side.

  And (3) what happens after death will be forever, making the afterlife far more important than anything that happens here and now.

  Still, I break out in a sweat as I step inside the spacious office, where everything is ornate and overdone. An arched ceiling with a crystal teardrop chandelier dangles above a desk the same size as the conference table. The walls are made of light stone and dark wood, the two framing multiple bookshelves and a marble fireplace with legs carved to resemble lions. Lions with golden collars clamped around their necks, their heads bowed.

  Gossip claims there's a door to the outside world hidden somewhere in this room.

  Vans is already seated at the conference table, alongside my parents. Yes, my mother is here. A pang of homesickness overtakes me. Homesickness, along with regret and sorrow. The painful deluge nearly chokes me.

  Fat tears stream down my mother's cheeks as she meets my gaze. She's gained at least twenty pounds since last I saw her, yet she used to flip out over a single ounce. Priorities change.

  I cut off a bitter laugh.

  As I stare at her, silent, a sob leaves her. When I was a little girl and someone said an unkind word to me, she would whisper, You don't have haters, sweetheart, you have prefans.

  "Ten--" she begins.

  "Tenley," I correct, my tone cool. "Only my friends call me Ten."

  "Yes, yes, of course." Her chin trembles as she struggles to control her reactions. "I understand."

  I hurt her. Good. She's hurt me.

  Sorrow has marred features that are strikingly similar to mine. We both have pale skin with a smattering of freckles and eyes almost too big for our faces, though hers are a rich chocolate brown. Our cheekbones are high and sharp, our noses small but pert, our lips heart-shaped. She has a shoulder-length crop of auburn hair artfully cut while my last trim came from a butcher knife courtesy of Nurse Ratched.

  "Are you here to take me home?" I ask.

  She looks down at her hands and shakes her head.

  "Not unless you're ready to sign the contract," Senator Lockwood says. He sits rigidly in his chair, his features strained as he looks me over.

  He's aged. There are new frown lines around his eyes and mouth, and his once-olive skin is sallow. His hair, so black it gleams blue in the light--an attribute I inherited from him--is now salted with gray. His mismatched eyes, one green, one blue--another attribute I inherited--watch me with determination.

  Despite his shortcomings, he's still a handsome man. Women everywhere have always thrown themselves at him. Girls, too. My friends would giggle about him behind their hands. So sexy.

  At the table, only one chair is empty, and it's on the opposite side of the others. Their way of saying we're a unit, you're alone.

  I sit with all the dignity I can muster.

  "Tenley." The senator pulls at the collar of his shirt. "It's nice to see you."

  "I wish I could say the same."

  His flinch is slight, but I notice. Does he ever wonder if he made the right decision sending me here?

  Vans pushes a digital pad my way, putting my forced breeziness to shame. "Are you ready to sign with Myriad?"

  "Nope. Now, if we're done here..." I stand.

  "Refuse," he continues as if I haven't spoken, "and I'll be forced to punish Killian for sneaking food to your cell."

  I gasp. The cameras. Or he and Killian planned this, thinking I'd feel so guilty about the boy who caught me when I fell, the boy who fed me when I was hungry, I'd finally cave. "No mention of Sloan?" I grit out.

  "Who is--" my mom begins.

  The senator shakes his head. "We don't need the details."

  Correction: he doesn't want the details.

  I ease into the chair and cross my arms. "You want me to sign, Senator? Convince me."

  His next flinch is more noticeable. He's always hated when I use his title. He reaches up to give his collar another tug but catches himself. "I've tried. Look where we ended up."

  "We?" That's rich!

  My dad pushes out a heavy breath. "You have no idea what it's like to grow up in poverty, the child of Unsigned. I had nothing. Not even friends. Myriad changed everything. I owe them. You owe them."

  I flash back to the night I heard my parents arguing about my grandparents--my mom's parents. The Troikan loyalists.

  "They just want to spend time with their granddaughter," my mom said.

  "We can't risk it," my dad replied. "They'll fill Ten's head with nonsense, the way they once filled yours."

  "They won't. They only want to make memories with her."

  "Don't be naive, Grace. Everyone has an agenda."

  "You're wrong. And cynical! They're wonderful people."

  "If they're so wonderful, why did you reject everything they taught you?"

  "To be with you," she'd whispered.

  I glance at my mom. She's still crying. Does she ever wish she'd sided with her parents instead of my dad?

  "Myriad will take care of you," he says, his desperation showing. "They'll take care of us all."

  He's deceived, a voice whispers in my ear. I detect a slight English accent and immediately think of Bow. Only the voice belongs to a boy. You'll be used up and thrown away like garbage.

  I jerk my head left, right, then behind. No one stands near me.

  "Are you all right?" My mother reaches across the table to clasp my hand.

  I lurch back, avoiding contact. A single touch will be more than my fragile state of mind can handle.

  She presses her lips into a thin line.

  "Think," Vans says. "Once you agree, there'll be no more pain. No more hardships."

  "And Killian?" I demand.

  "He'll be pardoned."

  Zero! Dr. Vans knows me well. If there's a chance Killian is a victim of his manipulations, I can't allow him to be hurt.

  Trepidation crawls the length of my spine. Am I actually considering doing this? "Give me a minute."

  My dad nods eagerly. "Yes, yes. Of course."

  I swivel my chair and face the door.

  I know this present life is hailed as a simple dress rehearsal. A test, some say. A type of school, others believe. Either way, if I sign with Myriad, I might be able to live for the very first time.

  I'm ready to live.

  My parents believe Myriad is the right choice. As much as I resent them, I admire their confidence. And dang it, I still love them. They're as worried about their future as I am about my own.

  "If you were to sign with Troika," Vans says, "you would be on the opposite side of the war. One day, you might even be tasked with killing your parents."

  I resent the pair, but I could never kill them. Even temporarily.

  I spin back around, finally ready to do it. To say yes. I mean, why not? When I open my mouth, however, no sound emerges. After everything I've endured--physical hunger, weakness and depravation, mental exhaustion and trauma, emotional upheaval--my decision comes down to their needs over my own?

  "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I can't. Not yet."

  My dad closes his eyes, his shoulders hunching in. A position of defeat. He's known among his peers for his indomitable strength and unwillingness to back down. "I only want the best for you. Why can't you see that?"

  "Maybe because there's usually blood in my eyes," I snap, unmoved by his unusual display of emotion. And wow, when did I become so cold and callous?

  Oh, I know. The day I arrived at Prynne.

  H
is nostrils flare. He glares at Vans, unloading a shotgun full of fury. "This is your fault. You promised us results."

  The doctor dons an impassive mask. "I've asked repeatedly to take my efforts to the next level. You refused."

  What? My dad actually prevented certain tortures?

  "I even advised you against the massages and other privileges."

  What!

  "Say the word, and I'll hurt her in ways you can't even imagine--without breaking her, of course."

  I clutch my churning stomach.

  "No," my mom says, shaking her head. "Absolutely not."

  "I won't kill her," Vans assures them. "She won't be violated. But an increase in pain is the only option we have left. All I need is your permission to proceed."

  My father pinches the bridge of his nose.

  I tremble in my seat. Say no, Daddy. Say no.

  "Yes," he croaks, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from screaming. "I don't want to proceed this way, but you've left me with no other choice. One day you might even thank me."

  I don't... I can't...

  I blink rapidly, fighting tears. "Fathers are supposed to protect their little girls."

  "That's what I'm trying to do," he shouts. "I'm trying to protect your future."

  Right words. Only, they are a lie. He's protecting his future. Mine is shattered, just like my heart.

  "You'll be pleased with the results, Senator Lockwood." Vans lifts his famed digital pad. "I'll send you pictures documenting the procedure."

  Sign with Troika. The voice hits my awareness again, so distinct that I can't pass it off as my imagination. Swear allegiance right now, and I'll get you out of here. No one will hurt you.

  "Who are you?" I demand.

  Vans frowns at me. "Is someone speaking to you, Ms. Lockwood?"

  My parents share a look of shock. Well, the senator is shocked. My mother is almost...hopeful.

  "Is there a Laborer in the room?" My father looks around.

  A Laborer? But--wait! A memory sparks. Laborers are sometimes allowed to visit a human while in spirit form.

  Please, the voice says. End this travesty before it starts.

  "Does no one else hear him?"

  A chorus of "No" rings out, each individual negation tinged with a different emotion. Irritation, relief and confusion.

  So. A TL is here to help me. And all I have to do is hand over my eternity.

  To Dr. Vans I say, "What are we waiting for?" I clap my hands, as though overcome with excitement. "Stop the unnecessary chitchat and get this party started."

  chapter six

  "What you know and feel matters, but what you do matters more."

  --Troika

  There are days a smart mouth gets you into trouble, and you wish you could travel back in time to glue your stupid lips shut. For me, this is one of those days.

  The sad thing? Even if I'd remained silent during the meeting, I would have ended up in this position.

  My parents are escorted out of Vans's office. In the doorway, my mom stops to glance back at me. Her cheeks are stained with tears, several droplets caught in her lashes.

  Stay strong, she mouths.

  Help me, I mouth back. I'm not too proud or foolish to ask while I have the chance.

  Eyes welling, she ducks her head and leaves. As her sob drifts through the quiet of the room, my heart crumbles. My one chance for no-strings aid is gone.

  Comrade Douche and Titball enter the room. Without speaking a word, they grab my arms and drag me into the hall. I offer no protest. I catch a glimpse of my parents slipping through the door in the opposite direction. Are they headed to a nice hotel? Going to stop for a delicious brunch?

  I'm taken to a small sterile room devoid of furniture. Two chains hang from the ceiling, and both have fetters at the ends...just big enough for my wrists. I can deal with anything except chains.

  At last I begin my struggle for freedom, but it hardly matters. I'm malnourished and weak, and I'm subdued easily, my wrists soon encased. The outside of the fetters begin to glow as little needles extend from the inside, drilling past skin and into bone in seconds. I hiss. The pain is substantial but nothing I haven't endured before. The problem is the mental anguish.

  Trapped! No way out!

  The guards pull the chains taut, lifting me off my feet. My shoulders scream in protest, the pressure more and more agonizing. Finally, all I can do is breathe...in...out...in...

  Comrade Douche whispers, his accent thicker than usual, "You need strong man to take you in hand. I come for you tonight and prove, yes?"

  Now I want to vomit again.

  Vans discards his lab coat and rolls up his shirtsleeves, displaying a patchwork of scars from one of Sloan's attempts to kill him. The impassive, even affable, mask he'd donned for my parents' benefit is stripped away, revealing the monster I've come to despise.

  "You know," he says as the guards march out of the room--Douche pauses to blow me a kiss. "I've always admired your spirit, Ms. Lockwood. It's a shame I have to damage it."

  I can't give him the pleasure. Get it together. Stay strong. "Go ahead. Do your worst."

  Common sense shouts, What? Take that back!

  "Your best has only ever tickled," I add. Common sense and I are currently bitter enemies.

  Anger flickers in the depths of his eyes, and I know his overinflated pride has been injured.

  My satisfaction is minimal, considering the circumstances.

  Nurse Ratched wheels a large silver tray inside the room and the door closes behind her, sealing the three of us inside.

  Stay calm. Think. Stall, stall, stall. "You don't have to do this. You said there are no other options, but that's not true. You can give me the time I asked for."

  "Time is running out." He smiles. "No, we're going to do this. Money buys happiness, and anyone who says otherwise is lying. I want my money."

  "Aren't you afraid of what awaits you in the Everlife?"

  He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "I've never cared about tomorrow. Only today."

  "Is that why you're Unsigned?"

  "In part. Troika's benefits aren't worth my time, and Myriad hasn't offered me enough."

  "So you want to wait for a better deal, but I'm supposed to accept the scraps thrown my way?"

  "Yes. Exactly." He slants his head in my direction. "As your father said, one day you'll thank him for this. One day you'll even thank me."

  Never! "You're lying or deluded."

  "I believe the word you're searching for is right. I've been where you are, Ms. Lockwood. My father ran this institution, and his father before him. Everything I've done to you has been done to me. And look at me now. I'm strong, unbreakable. Drop me in any situation--war, famine, plague--and I can survive."

  "Living shouldn't be synonymous with surviving."

  He pops on a pair of gloves. "You have my permission to scream as loudly as you'd like. These walls are soundproofed."

  I swallow the lump growing in my throat. There will be no more stalling, then.

  "You have my permission to scream," I tell him. Looking past the pain in my shoulders, I arch my back for momentum and naturally rock forward, kicking both my legs as high as they'll go and nailing the good doctor in the jaw. His head whips to the side, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

  He grunts. His eyes narrow as he licks the crimson from his lips. "You'll regret that." The words are filled with promise...and anticipation.

  I raise my chin with as much dignity as I can muster. "I only regret your birth."

  He slaps me across the cheek, and the taste of copper trickles over my tongue.

  We are nose to nose a moment later, his hot breath fanning my split lip, burning me. "Say another word. I dare you. Your parents have given me permission to do anything I wish to you. You heard them. I can even cut out your tongue, if I so desire."

  He's just cruel enough to do it.

  I glare at him, but I don't speak another word.


  Triumphant, he backs away from me and nods to Nurse Ratched.

  She lifts a syringe and thumps its belly, only to freeze as the room--the entire building?--begins to shake. The walls rumble, and dust plumes the air. Both Vans and Ratched stumble and fall, and if not for my chains, I would have gone down, too.

  The shaking stops as suddenly as it started, and the pair climb to their feet.

  "The realms must battle nearby," Nurse Ratched says, dusting off her pants.

  She's probably right. Whenever Troika and Myriad engage in battle, the violence spills into the Land of the Harvest through earthquakes, tornadoes, tsunamis and, during the worst of the confrontations, asteroids.

  Nurse Ratched swipes up the needle she dropped and approaches me, her dark eyes glittering. "Adrenaline and others goodies to enhance your experience."

  I struggle against my bonds, trying yet again to ignore the pain shooting through me, but I'm already sluggish, and with my limited range of motion, it isn't long before she's able to shove the needle deep into my arm. A sharp sting registers--minimal to everything else--followed by a wash of cold...then heat, such horrible heat. Sweat beads over my brow and upper lip, igniting a fire inside me. When the flames reach my heart, the organ bursts into a raging gallop, knocking so hard against my ribs I'm certain they'll break.

  Only momentary, I remind myself. It doesn't help.

  Vans waves a thick metal syringe in front of my face. "You've heard of the poison the realms use to kill humans, I'm sure. This little concoction is a variation of it. Baiser de la mort, it's called. The kiss of death. You'll want to die, but you won't."

  Fear courses through me--beg, plead--but still I manage to smile. "Is the big, bad doctor afraid to get his hands dirty? Don't think you're strong enough?" If he wants to take my tongue, fine. Do it. It's only ever gotten me into trouble. "You're a little bitch, aren't you? That's why you use poison."

  "Hold her," he snaps.

  While Nurse Ratched cradles me against her body, effectively caging my head and arms, he sticks me in the neck.

  I tense, expecting an immediate reaction. The injection hurts, but I've experienced worse. I relax; I even offer the pair another smile. "Aw. Looks like you're destined for another failure."

  He offers no reaction, but then, he knows what I do not: I've spoken too soon. My blood begins to boil, every cell in my body becoming a flame, my veins close to total disintegration.

  My skin bubbles, melting like cheese on a pizza. Surely.

  "This is only the beginning," he gloats.

  I open my mouth to reply--but I scream. All at once, I feel a thousand razor-sharp pinpricks in my veins, my head, as if bugs are crawling through me, their dagger-tipped legs tap, tap, tapping where they don't belong. My muscles knot. I think my bones crack. Pressure builds in my temples, and when it becomes too much, warm liquid leaks from my eyes, ears and nose.