“Trigger!” I whisper again, and finally his eyelids stay up. His eyes focus on me, then they widen. I can practically see the past half hour coming back to him as memories sift into place.
“I’m so sorry, Dahlia.” His speech is slurred. That happened to Violet once, when her head got between a soccer ball and the goal. She was fine within the hour.
I’m not sure Trigger and I can afford that hour.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
I nod at the building approaching through the windshield. “Back to the mansion.”
“Back to the mansion?” Gladius 27 twists in his seat to look at us.
Trigger chuckles, and I think that means he’s feeling better. “We caught a ride with Ford 45 from the Defense Academy.”
Both soldiers mumble harsh syllables I don’t recognize, and I realize that neither wants to be the bearer of that bit of intelligence.
Following the cruise strip, the car turns before we reach the front of the mansion and circles the building to the very lot where we snuck out of Ford’s car less than an hour ago. Everything looks a little different now that the sun is going down. The shadows are deeper and darker. The light is redder.
I wonder how much easier it would be to sneak around the city in the dark. I’m pretty sure I won’t get the chance to find out.
The car slows to a stop, and Trigger lets Gladius 27 pull him from the vehicle. I step out on my own before Pike can haul me out, but he grabs my arm the moment I’m on my feet.
The soldiers lead us through the rear entrance of the mansion, then down a narrow back hallway into a large cell containing nothing except a concrete bench built into the wall. Both soldiers station themselves outside the open door, effectively blocking our escape, and warn us that they were told to bring us in alive but not necessarily conscious.
The threat is clear.
Trigger studies the room in narrow-eyed concentration. If he’s been taught to assess his opponents at a glance, I’m pretty sure he’s also been taught to assess his surroundings, and I’m hopeful that he sees some point of vulnerability I do not. But the tight line of his jaw and his pressed-together lips argue otherwise.
“Where are we?” I whisper as I scoot closer to him, taking comfort from the warmth of his skin even as cold fear washes over me.
“We’re in a holding cell. This first floor is the Administrator’s business headquarters. The living quarters are upstairs, but we cadets were never allowed up there.” His eyes narrow as he studies our guards’ backs. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find Ford 45 in here with us very soon.”
I have to admit, that would be the icing on top of a very bitter cupcake.
“Can you reach the knife in my pocket?” Trigger whispers, twisting to give me access.
I shake my head. “They took it while you were unconscious.”
Trigger mumbles several angry words I’ve never heard before.
Several minutes later, I hear footsteps descending a set of stairs. A young woman appears outside our cell, holding a tray full of food. Several hunks of cheese are surrounded by a ring of thin crackers and accompanied by a knife. I have no idea what the smooth brown lumps drizzled in various glazes and frostings are. But they smell amazing.
“The chef prepared way too much for the party,” the young woman says, holding the tray out to Gladius and Pike without even a glance at me or Trigger. The name embroidered over her chest is Aida 22. Her name and her familiar face tell me she’s a member of the Service Industry division, from a class that graduated several years ago. “Please help yourselves!”
The soldiers glance at each other in obvious hesitation, then Pike speaks for them both. “We couldn’t. It’s against—”
“The Administrator doesn’t tolerate waste.” Aida smiles and sets the entire tray on a small table against the wall, only the edge of which is visible from my vantage point. A moment later her steps ascend an unseen staircase.
“Should we?” Pike eyes the tray.
Gladius shrugs. “The Administrator doesn’t tolerate waste. I think we have to.” He uses the small knife to slice a bit of cheese from one of the blocks, then stuffs it into his mouth.
Pike picks up one of the smooth brown lumps and bites off half of it. The inside is gooey, and what looks like a strand of caramel dangles from his lower lip. He groans as he chews. “You have to try the chocolates.”
Chocolates? I know chocolate as a flavor of cake or frosting, and on cold winter afternoons, when our class has attained victory on field day, as a flavor of warm milk. But I’ve never heard the word chocolate used as a noun.
I turn to Trigger, expecting to see my confusion mirrored on his features, but he’s staring at our guards and their food so intently I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head, powering thoughts and ideas I can’t even begin to imagine.
“What’s a party?” I ask.
Trigger glances at me in obvious surprise. “It’s an event where people eat, drink, and play games.”
“Like field day?”
“No. It’s not athletic. It’s more…social.”
I frown, trying to understand. “To what purpose?”
“To no purpose. It’s…celebratory. I think. But then I also thought it was an archaic tradition long out of practice. Like celebrating the anniversary of one’s birth.”
The idea does seem lavish and excessive. And evidently wasteful. People standing around eating and drinking outside of the prescribed mealtime? And playing games for no reason, on a non-recreation day? What for?
But before I can press Trigger for more information, he stands and walks toward the hall.
Pike steps into the doorway, still chewing a gooey brown mouthful. “Stop,” he orders. “Sit down.”
“I need to use the restroom,” Trigger says.
“You’ll have to wait.” Gladius gestures toward the bench with a sesame-seed-sprinkled cracker in one hand.
“Either take me to the bathroom or get ready to clean up the mess.”
Gladius groans and stuffs the cracker into his mouth. Then he grabs Trigger’s arm and pulls him down the narrow hallway. I hear a soft snap as his bindings are cut free. A door closes softly and the soldier growls for him to hurry up.
When the door opens again, Trigger’s hands are rebound with the soft zip of plastic restraints.
On his way back, while Pike chews another chunk of chocolate, Trigger trips over his own foot and bumps into the tray of food. Gladius yells at him for being clumsy, then shoves him into the cell. When Trigger sits next to me on the bench again, he’s wearing an odd smile. His arm brushes mine once, then once again, and I realize he’s doing something behind his back.
I lift one eyebrow at him in silent question, and he twists away from me to give me a view of the cheese knife he’s using to saw through the plastic zip tie binding his wrists.