“Enough!” Nevada finally demands order. Though I get the distinct impression that her sentiments lie at least in part with the others.
The image of Thorn with Radius scares me. Normally he’s the mildest of the guys, but tonight he’s surely angry at Thorn. I dare not pass by their room though. So that night, I toss under the covers, worrying. My various stash bags are attached to my belt because I don’t trust anything to the Project Room right now. In her bed across from mine, Bea is already snoring lightly. I’m thoroughly exhausted too, from all of that fieldwork. As disturbed as I am by Thorn’s actions I might even be able to sleep on my own tonight. I need to try. I’ve got to stop taking Oblivion powder, deal with my nightmares some other way.
Sinking gratefully into my pillow, I brush my flyaway hair behind me and curl up into a comfy ball. My eyes drift lower, lower, and I fall into a dark reverie.
I’m back under the tarp. Through the holes that Thorn cut, sneak men in pearl blue ships. They hover in the Fireseed fields, waiting, waiting for someone to steal. They don’t say this, but somehow I know. Dozens of them hover in great ships that drone—
Someone grabs me and clamps a firm hand over my mouth. Presses down to the point where I choke. “Rggh!” I gargle, dry-mouthed. “Arghh.” I might’ve been dreaming before but this is as real as it gets. Thrashing around, I try to free myself, but whoever it is, has me in a firm wrestler’s hold.
“Get the powder,” a guy’s voice hisses. “Hurry! What’s wrong with you, idiots!”
Just as I start to focus my eyes in the dark, a smaller hand pushes against them, blocking any sight. I gasp for air as the hand widens to cover my nose. My heart is pounding at a breakneck pace.
“Here,” says a girl. “Suck on this!” It’s Vesper’s voice. The fingers over my nose lift as my head is forced upward, and a dry substance is dumped into my nostrils. I choke and struggle for breath. “Sniff it up, Drug Girl, sniff up your red powder. Every last bit.”
Red powder? That’s not the Oblivion! I’m frantic to tell her she’s got the wrong powder. This is the Fireseed pollen for my project. I haven’t yet tested it, so I have no idea what it does. It could be toxic, even fatal at this dose. I close up my throat, work hard not to inhale. God only knows what the stuff will do to me. I’m familiar enough with herbs and lichen and varieties of shale to know that what’s so-called “natural” when ingested can have very unnatural results. But I need to open my throat to breathe, and my voice is too coated with thick powder to work. I’m choking and gagging and inhaling all at once.
Sparks start to explode in the back of my eyes. A burning sensation hits my throat and spreads wildfire to my lungs and windpipe. Oh, how it stings, it stings!
“Give her more,” Vesper’s saying. “The whole forsaken pouch.”
“No, save some for her brother.” Jan’s voice.
Oh, lord, not my brother! I raise my arms to fight them off and shove their hands from my face, but someone has clamped my arms at my sides. Blane? Bea? My hope sinks as I struggle to breathe.
More sparks play behind my eyes—exploding ones that leap like hot oil in a pan. The hovercraft from my nightmares lowers itself down and down, and a horde of hairy men climb out, their tongues wagging and grinning mouths yelling, “Druggie, get your fix, get it all! High as a hovercraft set for the moon.”
My brain, in a cacophony of popping, crackling bubbles, short-circuits to black.
Chapter 12
Flitting open, my eyes cycle in on a wall drawing with purple lines and curves. What is it? It’s hard to focus. My eyes won’t work right. They won’t steady. I try again to center in, study the paper on the wall. Eddies and swirls—in a whirling pattern of purple. Close my lids once more to stabilize myself from the dizzying sensation. Breathe in, breathe out, heavily, with lungs stinging. They sting so badly I need to scream. Instead I fade out.
A warm rag touches my brow, slides across it, back and forth, up and down, over and over. It feels so fresh. It coaxes me back to the living. I try to open my mouth. It willfully disobeys me by staying closed. I will it to open again, and it creaks open in stages, like the ancient roll-top desk at the Fireseed compound, but no noise comes out.
The Fireseed compound, that was years ago, wasn’t it? Whoosh, goes the warm rag, whoosh. With all of my strength I raise my lids to the halfway point, and make out a young man’s deeply tanned face with leaf tattoos on high cheekbones, a resolute chin. Ah, yes! It’s Armonk. And I’m lying in a bed of wrinkled sheets smelling of sour sweat. I start to raise myself on my elbows. God, the deep ache in my throat and lungs!
With a gentle hand, he guides me back down. “Shh, you’ve been sick, take it easy, Ruby.”
My voice creaks out. “Sick? How long have I been out? Tell me … Armonk.”
“A week and a day,” he says, as he sweeps across my brow with the warm, damp rag.