Sovereign (Sovereign Series) Read online

  SOVEREIGN

  E.R. Arroyo

  SOVEREIGN

  Copyright © 2012 E.R. Arroyo

  Cover by Dustin Pierce

  Cover Model - Nicole Fancher

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  “Afternoon On A Hill” - by Edna St. Vincent Millay

  From RENASCENCE AND OTHER POEMS,

  Copyright © 1917 by Edna St. Vincent Millay

  “Ruth 1:16”

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter One

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I swipe the bag from Dylan’s hands under the table. Like always, he keeps his shoulders hunched, and I wish he would sit up straight. Around the room, everyone carries on as usual. I shovel in a few mouthfuls of food--it’s bland to say the least.

  This is my favorite room in the Underage building. It’s essentially a cafeteria, housing long tables with chairs down either side. There’s an opening between this room and the kitchen, an exit on the far right, and another door to my left.

  It’s the most well-lit room in the building, and sharing meals with my friends is one of the few things I enjoy here. Across the room, Alyssa smiles at me.

  It isn’t a prison but often feels like one. We live here, all of the kids under eighteen. They teach us, feed us, give us beds. We’re the only civilized people left in our country--maybe even the whole world--so they keep us here to protect us. Or so they say, but I don’t believe them.

  I slip the bag onto my shoulder like it belongs to me as a guard passes our table. Already pacing my breaths, I wait.

  Dylan wipes his neck to brush away clippings from his haircut today. His hair looks black but it’s hard to tell with it cropped so close to his scalp. I wonder if it would be lighter if it grew out a little. But that isn’t an option for the males of our colony. Options are luxuries we don’t have.

  “I’m an accomplice, you know,” he says, almost too quietly.

  He’s right. For that reason, I sit by someone different almost every mealtime. I wouldn’t want them to punish my friends for my crimes, so I acquaint with everyone. They can’t punish them all.

  “An enabler, really,” I say, thankful Dylan has a sense of humor. Sometimes I forget he’s only seventeen like me. By the things he says--and the lines in his swarthy skin when he furrows his brow--he seems years older.

  I can tell from Dylan’s eyes that the guard is almost at the door to my left. “Besides.” I smile. “Who else would test your inventions?”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “You know the rules. The less you know the better,” I tell him.

  “Right.”

  I smile at the irritation in his sonorous voice.

  I hear the door open, and I fly into motion. Before it shuts, I catch it with my fingertips, lingering there to give the guard more time to put distance between us. None of the others seems to care. They all enable me.

  A peek through the crack in the door lets me know the coast is clear for sixty seconds. Exactly sixty seconds, just like every other time I’ve done this.

  As quietly as I can, I slip into the hall, which leads to the Underage fitness facilities and classrooms. It’s really more like a breezeway, with side-by-side windows and openings above each one. All of the openings have screen coverings, save one. I creep into the shadowy corner, where the camera can’t see me. Deep breath.

  Don’t get caught. Not yet.

  I pull myself onto the window sill, my hands pressed cold against the blackened glass. It’s probably below freezing out there. I balance myself on the bricks on either side of the window and shimmy up. I can already feel cold air from above.

  When I reach the opening, I toss the bag outside, careful not to upset my balance. I hoist myself onto the frame of the opening, and with the most acrobatic maneuver I’m capable of, I slide through.

  I flip over myself and hang by my hands two stories above ground like a gymnast on an uneven bar. Except I can’t swing out with my back against the window.

  I brace my legs like I’d done on the inside, and gather my strength. My hands release, and my legs push me out into the dark night. I somersault, and right on cue, my hands find a trusty tree limb in the darkness.

  I look back and see the faint light inside. I would think they’d have fixed that window by now. It’s been the aid in my escape sixteen times.

  As I slide down the tree, I will my eyes to adjust. Ginny told me the moon used to light the night here, but these days, night is pitch dark except for the lighting around the compound borders where the guards keep watch at the fence.

  Ginny raised me, though there’s no relation. She’s worked at the Underage center since before I got here. I made the mistake of calling her “mom” once, and she scolded me, asking where I’d even heard that word. Unlike most of the kids here, I was born on the outside, and taken in as a refugee when I was seven. I had a mom of my own before the world fell apart.

  Leaping from a low limb, I land swiftly and assess my surroundings. Behind me is the Underage center where I live with all the other minors. Far to the left of me is the Women’s Center, and even farther to the right, the Men’s. In front of me is a guarded tower with a periodic, roaming spotlight. There are towers like it on each side of the compound. One north, one south, one east, one west, though I can’t tell which is which.

  My first step falters, slipping on ice. I was right about the temperature. I slide the pack onto my back, an arm under each strap while I glue myself to the building’s shadow, in case the spotlights sweep in my direction.

  Don’t get caught, I remind myself again.

  Sliding along the building seems to take an eternity. I dip across an opening and cling to the supply building. It has heavier doors, and sturdier locks than any that house people. Supplies are scarce--control the food, control the population. Not me, I think with a grin.

  Another few inches put me around the corner from my target, the center tower. It’s the tallest of the five, and it contains a spot just like the rest. It has armed guards, too, but this is the tower I want. I hear a faint siren from the building I’ve just departed. Soon, the sirens out here will join it, and the spots will come out.

  I have to reach the base of the center tower quickly. None of the towers’ spotlights reach any other tower’s base. If I get there first, I can hide and carry on with what I came to do.

  I try to take a deep breath, but it’s cold and shaky. With a sharp inhale, I make my move, but I stop cold as my foot falls on dirt, and another foot falls that isn’t mine. My breath catches in my throat. I crouch, my eyes scanning every direction, waiti
ng for more movement. Then I spot her. The only female in the entire Guard, making a round in her patrol. These patrols are so random, I almost forget they do them.

  Something catches her attention and she returns the way she came. As the outdoor sirens begin to blare, I make my move into the open, my least favorite place to be. Thankfully, the sirens cover my cold, heavy footsteps. I’m three yards from the tower when I see the perimeter spotlights fire up. In a moment, the one I’m running toward will crank up, too. I hear angry shouts, heavy footfalls, wailing sirens, and my beating heart.

  Two more yards. I think I see several guards, flashlights and weapons in hand. They would never shoot me.

  One yard and my foot catches a fallen tree limb. I stumble forward and land on my face. My right knee aches, as do my hands. I look up, realizing I’m inches from the tower’s corner post. Reaching forward, I grab the post and slide my body to the underside of it, just as the spotlight above me swoops across the branch where my foot had been.

  Don’t get caught.

  Crouching in the shadow, I zip open the bag and pull out a jacket. I roll my eyes as a shudder ripples through me, tiny bumps standing on my bare arms. If I’d known there was a coat, I would certainly have put it on sooner. Thoughtful of him to include it.

  Next, there’s a thick pair of black gloves with grooved padding on the palms. When I slide the first one on, I’m thrilled to find it fits...like a glove. Never understood that expression until now. Not many of our ancestors’ colloquialisms stayed with us through the war.

  It fits like a custom glove, crafted especially for my hand, all the way down to the very length of my pinky finger, which is normally a tad too long for the gloves they give us when we scrub floors or pull weeds. Dylan is an incredible craftsman. And I can’t wait to put these gloves to the test, and even more so the gem that’s ready in my bag. Time to move.

  I zip the bag, strap it back on, but this time buckle a strap around my waist, and another that comes under both arms and across my chest. They are tight, secure, perfect.

  The chaos continues on the grounds as I ascend the tower post. If it was made of metal, I could do this with my bare hands and a good pair of shoes, but it’s wooden, ancient. And it splinters. My thin cotton pants give the least protection, but my shoes grip well, and especially my gloves. The angles of the post actually make it easier to scale, so perhaps a round metal one wouldn’t be better after all. At least, that’s what I think until a splinter wedges into my chin. I ignore it.

  I’m halfway up when I hear guards’ voices below me. I remember tripping, but force myself not to think of the pain in my knee. Another splinter, cheek this time. This is harder than I expected--it’s the tallest thing I’ve climbed. I’m breathing heavier than I’d like, but I’m thankful for the pandemonium all around as it conceals my every sound.

  Finally, I reach the top and I get a backwards hold on the boards of the tower deck. Above my fingers is a rail I’m not sure is strong enough to hold me. In the deck’s center sits a covered room that is probably more sophisticated than the wooden tower legs suggest. My next movements will need to be precise, and I can tell the gloves aren’t having it.

  I shift my weight to my right arm, and use my teeth to pull the velcro holding my left glove on. As the fabric releases, boots walk across the deck, probably not two feet from my tired hand. I bite the fabric on the middle finger and slide my left hand out. I already love these gloves, and hate what I’m about to do. I drop the glove, hoping it won’t land on a soldier’s head. From what I can tell, it doesn’t.

  I switch hands as a voice says, “She’s not at the fence, so she’s probably near. Stand by.” I hear scuffling inside the little room and know I’m running out of time. With the right glove still on, and both arms threatening to give out, I hoist myself up. My feet land only for a moment on the edge of the deck between the railings before I propel myself onto the rail itself. A guard spots me, and barks, “Here!”

  Don’t get caught.

  With four of them running toward me, I leap forward, catching the roof with my midsection. I feel a hand around my ankle, and I thrash against it. The touch gives me a much needed burst of adrenaline that explodes through me--I hate being touched. With my new-found strength, I’m onto the roof in seconds, standing at the apex.

  Gritting my teeth, I groan the word, “Dylan.” This better work. Then I run to the edge of the roof and leap as high into the open air as I can. In a swift motion, I pull the string at the top of my pack and two custom wings expand from it. The metal and fabric carry me with ease as I glide. It’s a glorious flight in the cold, winter air, and I swear I just felt a snowflake on my face. Perfect, thrilling, and exciting. But mostly perfect.

  I glide about a hundred yards before my feet drop softly on the ground. I’m not off balance, but I let myself fall anyway. When the guards surround me, I smile. It’s the most exciting feat I’ve ever braved. I see the woman guard near the back of the group, and I think she suppresses a grin.

  Before I can blink, I’m yanked to my feet. “Silly girl,” the man says, agitated. “You sure can’t keep yourself out of trouble.” Silly girl was almost exactly the reaction I’d wanted when I chose to flub my landing. A perfect landing after a daring flight would mean far more than a thrill-seeking teenager. It would equal a threat to the ways of this establishment. It would mean bravery. Defiance.

  Moments later, I’m whisked into the underground prison, which isn’t very large--doesn’t need to be, few of us break the law. The guard dragging me to my cell seems happy I’m not resisting.

  “What’d you do this time?” a familiar voice chimes from the next cell we pass. They got my buddy Pete again. Poor kid.

  “Flew off the central tower.” I’m proud to share it; I can’t hide that. I never can.

  “Exciting. Was it worth it?”

  My escort pushes me a little harder than necessary into my cell. The door bangs closed behind me. I slump onto the cold, moist mattress and settle in for the night. I’ve spent many nights in this cell, and my crime is often the same, bravery. Bravery leads to war, to violence, to rebellion. Strictly illegal.

  “Absolutely,” I mumble.

  Of all the times I’ve been arrested and detained overnight, this night has been my favorite. With everything replaying in my mind, rushing through like pictures on the school computers, I’m calm. Elated but calm, because now I know the wings work. Dylan will have to make another pair, as I’m sure the ones they took will be destroyed. But next time I jump, it won’t be from the center tower. It will be the tower closest to the fence where I will make my escape. Then I can finally be free.

  The morning comes quickly, and, though I wake up cold, I’ve slept like a baby. I sit up, stretch, crack my neck.

  “Good morning, 1206.”

  I nearly jump out of my skin. “Uh, good morning, Nathan,” I respond in a cavalier tone. “Sorry. I don’t remember your number.” I’m lying, his number is 0002. He knows I know, but I enjoy pissing him off. Nathan Burke is the smarmy, creep of a man who’ll be in charge of our colony, Antius, once his father, Cornelius, has passed.

  “You know my number.”

  “You know my name,” I retort. “You really want me to call you zero, zero, zero, two?”

  “I want you to call me sir.”

  He rises from the chair he’s been sitting in for who knows how long. His fingers slither around the bars on my cell door. His every appendage reminds me of snakes. I know more about him than I should, but then again, I spy on people more than I should. Plus, I get arrested a lot.

  “The sooner you accept things...”

  “What things?”

  “Rules, Cori. My rules.”

  Despite the general sense of revulsion I get when he’s near, I’m having fun with this conversation. He’d never admit how much I torment him with my blatant disrespect for his authority. I can see by the vein in his forehead and the tightness of his jaw, he’s about to flip out.

&nbs
p; “Is this about last night?” Of course it’s about the jump. If his father didn’t love me so much, I would have been punished far worse than a night in jail for last night’s stunt.

  “The old country used to have special punishments for repeat offenders.” The “old country” was the United States of America. Today, it’s next to nothing. It doesn’t even have a name anymore--doesn’t need one.

  “I’d really think you would admire my bravery. Shouldn’t a soldier be brave?” I ask with the expected sarcasm, but I really mean this part. Soldiers should be brave.

  “My soldiers don’t need to be brave, only obedient.”

  “Well, I’m not your soldier.”

  “Not yet.” He smiles a little, and I can only imagine what morbid thing is floating in his mind causing him joy when I know he wants to reach through these bars and wrap his snaky hands around my throat. If I get too close, he might.

  “I can’t have you jumping off towers. You’re valuable in one piece. Once you’ve injured yourself...you know the drill.”

  “Disposable, I know. Never again, I promise.” I lay my hand gingerly over my heart--I think I read this in a book once--and give my most remorseful frown to make it convincing. “Scout’s honor.” I have no idea what that means, but it sounds right.

  “You don’t know what a scout is.”

  He’s got me.

  I wish I didn’t have to ask, but I’m getting hungry. “Can I go now?”

  “Not today.” He slides to the control panel on my cell door, scans his index finger. He stares at me with some kind of madness brewing in his eyes. Then turns his head and a red light reads the chip implanted in his neck, nestled in the crevice below his ear, at the corner of his jaw. My cell door opens and for the first time in a long time, I’m nervous.

  Nathan slips into my cell and steps toward me. I feel my heart beating faster, but I don’t let it show. I can’t let it show. The fact that he isn’t speaking terrifies me and I don’t know what to expect. The way he’s looking at me...

  He closes the gap between us and grabs my jaw with one hand. I’m freaking out, but so completely stunned I can’t move. He leans close to my ear and whispers, “You don’t even know how close you are to being mine.” There must be terror in my eyes because he looks pleased and lets me go.