I’m tempted to ask him if he’s ever killed anyone, but I’m not sure I could handle the answer. With his massive biceps, trunk-like limbs and giant’s hands he could squeeze the life out of someone without even trying.
By the time we travel almost the whole quadrant I’m thirsty and my belly’s growling because Nevada had us work before breakfast. I’m sweating hard under my suit. I hate to admit that the flex and release of Blane’s substantial shoulders under his burn suit is mesmerizing me. So much so, that when he stops in mid-step I hurtle right into him. With a half-grin, he steadies me, while at the same time raising an ear and tapping a finger to his lips. What?
Why didn’t I hear it before? A distinct sawing reverberates off of the tarp and echoes dully through the leaf cover. Then it stops. Blane gives me one of his brooding stares, and then mouths Stay Here.
Before I know it, he’s forging madly ahead, destroying leaves and stalks as he goes. I almost scold him again, but he’s warned me to stay quiet, and something about him warrants attention, no matter how off-putting he is.
Huzzah, Fireseeders! booms the Stream implant in my head. It scares the living day out of me. I forgot all about that implant. It blares on.
The Axiom contest is heating up! A high schooler from Baronland South has already finished his project. He’s keeping it under wraps but suffice it to say that colossal projects win colossal prizes. So keep those projects moving along. Only two weeks before we pick the finalists who will travel to Vegas-by-the-Sea.
Brought to you by Crab House Delights, where a Faux-Crab feast is only a melted butter dish away. Children eat half-price on Fridays.
It’s daunting enough hanging out in this dense jungle alone without being startled by the darn Stream. In vain, I peer through the leaf canopy for a glimpse of Blane. All I see are star-shaped flower heads and arching stalks, like a forest of red mirrors, until I’m disoriented. What if Blane runs off and leaves me here? Would I find my way back through this rustling labyrinth? Reaching in my pocket, I palm my compass, thankful for small, simple things.
It’s been a long ten minutes, when out of the morass, Blane shouts in great, accusing blasts, “I caught you, crazy! You’re in for it.” My heart thunders with a terrible sense of dread. “Ruby, get over here now,” Blane commands. Shocking, he’s used my actual name. I bound toward him blindly.
Coming to a small clearing, I witness a horrifying sight. My brother Thorn has climbed high in the branches of a thick Fireseed stalk. He’s brandishing one of Nevada’s carving knives, and the shards of another clumsy gash in the tarp dangle down from above, clearly and utterly Thorn’s own handiwork. Blane has trapped him by the ankles, and is keeping him there.
I’m as speechless as Thorn ever was. I wish we’d never come to The Greening. Clearly, it’s driven my brother insane.
“Thorn, what are you doing up there?” I ask stupidly.
“Speak up, bastard!” Blane yanks on Thorn’s legs. Still Thorn makes no sound, but I see from his contorted red face and mouth pressed flat that he’s in pain, yet stubbornly and determinedly holding his own. Why is he cutting these holes in the tarp? He’s always had a reason for his various irrational behaviors before, like the time he stayed out in the Fireagar caves until sundown. Using one word—“guard” he explained that he needed to protect them. It made no sense until the next day when a poacher tried to steal half an acre.
“Stop pulling at my brother,” I yell. Blane doesn’t listen. Instead, he wrenches Thorn from the branches and grips him tightly around the waist. “You’re ruining our chances of winning the contest,” Blane shouts at him. “Destroying our livelihood. I should strangle your—”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare!” Running over, I try my best to pry Blane’s monstrous hands from Thorn’s waist. Blane’s eyes are distant, bulging, frightening. “Let him go. Stop!” My face is up against his, no doubt I’m spitting on him in my fury.
Blane snaps into focus long enough to loosen his grip. Thorn falls to the ground, wheezing.
Now that I know my brother is safe, my own rage is released. “Thorn, you’re ruining things!” I exclaim. Rushing forward, I kneel down next to him. “Why are you doing this? Tell me, right now. Give me a signal.” His eyes are shut and he’s rolling back and forth the way that he does to comfort himself.
“Give you a signal?” Blane bellows. “Give you a flipping signal? What kind of nuts are you people? I’ll force the destructive cretin to talk.” With that, he scoops Thorn up like an oversized sports ball, and plunges him headfirst through the field, with me struggling to keep up.
The punishment is swift and clear. Thorn is no longer allowed out in the Fireseed field. He is under house arrest, quarantined on second tier until we head up to class in the morning, which was when he apparently made his slashing forays. Not only that, Nevada is planning to boot us out of here.