The Trap (9 page)

Sissy—where is she?

I look directly across to the enclave facing mine, but it is occupied by a boy. As is every other enclave I peer into. No sign of Epap, or David, either. The boys in their enclaves across from
me stare at me with wariness. They’re wondering if I’m the cause for the irregular alarm, curious as to why I’m being shuttled back and forth. Wondering why they’re still
locked in their enclave after so many hours have passed.

They’re about to get even more curious.

Because my enclave starts to hum. Then vibrate. All their eyes snap to my enclave, some eyes widening in surprise, most eyes narrowing with suspicion.

I’m being taken back to the room with the Originators,
I think. But a part of me knows that can’t be right. The chief advisor had said I was supposed to stay in the
catacombs for another day. And though I don’t have an exact handle on how much time has passed, I do know that it hasn’t been a day. Not even close.

I try to rise, but my body is too heavy. An electronic beep sounds from inside the enclave, followed by a hum. Then the enclave starts moving again.

I think to kick at the glass, to try to break through. But I know it’s futile. Instead, I save my breath, conserve my energy for whatever’s coming next. Blood rushes in my ears.
Something like panic begins to rise in me, but I stem it. I breathe in, out, gathering myself.

The enclave suddenly drops into an almost free fall.

A
GAIN
,
I
’
M TOSSED
from side to side as the enclave careens around hidden loops. All I
can do is brace for the next drop or turn. As with every trip thus far, the enclave stops for a brief spell in a centralized location where it is flooded with lights. Then it is once again racing
along the rails.

A minute later, it slows to a crawl, starts ascending. For a long time.

A gap in the darkness above me opens up. The enclave trundles through it and into a darkened space of indeterminate dimension. I hear the gap narrow, then shut beneath me; the enclave comes to a
rest, lying flat on this now-closed floor.

I don’t move.

Everything is very still in this room.

And dark.

And very wrong.

A row of wall sconces on the adjacent wall begins to glow dimly. It’s not the seven-meter-high stucco-decorated ceilings that gives the room away, or the thick, lustrous area carpet, or
even the stately, regal aura of this cavernous room. But it’s the large commissioned portrait painting hanging over me. Of the Ruler, his face inert and pale, his eyes cold and stern.

I’m in the Ruler’s Suite.

The chief advisor had underestimated the Ruler’s ability to restrain himself. The Ruler doesn’t want to wait forty-eight hours. He wants me now.

The lid of the enclave starts to slide open.

This is when I die,
I think, tensing my body.

“You may step out.”

I startle at the voice. Because of its proximity, hidden in the nearby shadows. And because of its familiarity. It’s a voice I’ve heard many times over the years, the silky cadence
instantly recognizable. Over school PA systems. In my bedroom over radio airwaves.

“Please,” the Ruler says, his voice slightly nasal, “step out. It’s safe. You have nothing to fear.”

I squint into the darkness, can only barely make out another shade of black.

“Please, step out. If we meant you harm, you’d be dead now.”

I pull myself out tentatively, planting first my right foot, then my left. And stop. Now I’m standing on the lush royal rug, completely exposed. I’ve never felt more naked, more
vulnerable, in my life.

And what I see next: A crowd of people, standing oddly in a line, facing me. Perhaps as many as a dozen hazy, indistinct silhouettes.

But they don’t move. They are growing restless, I can see that, in their bunching shoulders and flicking heads. I can hear their excitement, too, in the cracking of bones, the
slish-slash
of saliva. But they haven’t moved a step toward me.

Then one of them gives out a wail, shaking, losing control. He leaps toward me, his face distorted with desire.

My guts clench inside.

I hear the thud of a body hitting glass. The dusker has leaped right into a glass wall I’d failed to see earlier. He slides down the wall, his skin screeching, claws scratching against
glass.

“As you can see, my staff are securely barricaded behind that glass partition.” The Ruler’s words slip out with what sounds like a lisp. “It was built decades ago when my
aquarium tanks were constructed. To keep the staffers from, um, breaching them. So don’t worry. My staffers are all safely behind that glass wall. You’re in no danger. No danger at
all.”

His voice sounds too close, almost intimate. He can’t be on the other side of the glass partition. He must be on my side. I squint in his direction, trying to see.

“You can’t see me, I’ve just realized. Forgive me, I should have been more considerate. Turn on the aquarium lights,” he orders.

Immediately five large floor-to-ceiling cylindrical aquariums, stout as columns, begin to glow. These aquariums, located on this side of the glass, encircle me. Dark, murky shapes float within
them. But something steals my attention away from them.

The Ruler. Standing a mere five meters away.

He’s strapped to a tall, X-shaped steel beam. His arms are lifted up and secured to the beam with metal bracelets around his wrists, elbows, and biceps. Almost in perfect symmetry, his
legs are spread apart and similarly restrained by bracelets around his ankles, knees, and upper thighs. Thus constrained, the Ruler takes on the near-perfect formation of an X. He’s even been
secured around his chest by what looks like an expanded metal rib cage. A metal peg is pinched over the bridge of his nose.

“As you can see,” he says nasally, “I’ve been securely fastened. You have nothing to fear.” It’s not a lisp affecting his speech but saliva accumulating in
his mouth. And splattering out of his mouth like hot spit out of a boiling kettle.

“You’d think after a steady lifelong diet of hepers, my salivary glands wouldn’t be quite so sensitive,” he says, his voice unaccountably sweet and tender.

The five cylindrical aquariums continue to glow brighter. Now I’m seeing other things, inside them. Things that, as frightening as the sight of the Ruler is, are even more chilling.

“I’ve placed pinchers over my nose so as not be quite so . . . distracted.” His eyes squint with pain as he speaks, a pair of crow’s-feet fanning out from the corners.
It’s the light: though dim for me, it’s too bright for him. And because he’s tied up, he can’t put on his shades.

The glow from the tanks has transformed the glass partition into a mirror that veils the many staffers standing behind it. The overall effect is to render this half of the Ruler’s chamber
into an intimate private setting. Just the two of us.

“Now that I’ve placated your fears,” he says, “perhaps now would be an appropriate time to put to rest some, er-r, ideas that might be cropping up in your head.” He
breaks his gaze, shifting his eyes downward. I realize, with a shock, that the Ruler is, of all things, shy.

“I’m truly sorry for having to mention this, but my advisors were quite insistent. You might notice in my right hand a control. It’s a simple control, one fat button, easy to
depress with my thumb. One push and instantly the glass wall separating us from my staffers will lift. They will be on you in less than a second should I find myself . . . jeopardized.” His
nose crinkles in distaste. “Forgive me for bringing up such an awkward topic, but we really did have to get that unpleasantry out of the way.”

“What do you want with me?” I say, taking in more of the chamber. No exit doors. No windows, either, at least not on this side of the glass partition. My eyes, like reluctant
magnets, keep getting drawn to the tanks. To the dark shapes floating inside, in particular.

In the nearest tank, a gray blur gains size and definition as it drifts slowly toward me. And even as my mind is telling me to look away, I see. The dark mass sharpens into the shape of a body.
The emergence of an ear, strands of hair, then the side of a face, pressing against the curved glass.

I flinch, almost cry out.

“The truth is,” the Ruler says again with an apologetic tone, “my love for the taste of hepers is so insatiable that I have to keep a few accessible at all times. For a midday
snack to munch on, when insomnia once again claims this overburdened and overtaxed ruler. The taste of heper on my tongue relaxes me. I don’t need a full feasting, mind you, just something to
tide me over to the next devouring.”

The body inside the tank slowly rotates. Distorted by the curvature of the glass tank, its features stretch sideways, smeared into an oblong. It is a girl. Her eyes are half-lidded, vacant,
lifeless, arms drifting by her sides like useless, sodden rolls of paper. Cords dangle down, connected to her elbows. A face mask of some kind is attached over her mouth and nose, covering almost
her entire lower half of her face.

“The liquid in these tanks is a technological marvel,” the Ruler intones with quiet awe. “It acts as a preservative—hepers remain edible for upward of three months. The
liquid also functions, as you can see, as a source of light, illuminating this room evenly, and, in the right setting, quite seductively. And take a look at the base of the tanks. You might have
already noticed the keg taps. I give myself a sip at least a few times during the daytime. I have to tell you, the natural secretions of the heper mixed with this liquid render an exquisite taste.
Delectable, really.”

The girl’s eyes suddenly blink.

I cry out, an unintelligible gasp.

She blinks again, and consciousness and awareness seep into her. Her head drifts up; her fingers press white against the glass.

“What? . . . How?”

“Oh, I assumed . . .” He blinks in confusion. “They’re
alive,
of course they’re still alive; how else would they be able to produce the natural secretions
I just mentioned? We pipeline oxygen to them. And transfuse liquefied foods. After they die—usually they stay alive a couple of weeks—we keep their bodies afloat in the liquid. During
that time, their dead flesh ferments rather nicely. Preserved, pickled heper flesh—quite a delicacy, actually.” His eyes light up with an idea. “Would you like a sip? Go ahead,
just use the keg taps. I’d serve you myself if I weren’t so . . . tied up.” His fingers scratch air, unable to reach his wrists. “Or how about a little bite? I could
instruct you on how to use the pincers. The tanks are really tricked up. Really, try some; go ahead. It’s wonderfully soggy, simply melts on your tongue—” His mouth drops open,
then closes. Opens again, flabbergasted. He’s trying to find the next words. “Oh dear. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I just didn’t; I mean I kind of forgot that
you’re . . .” he says with genuine self-reproach.

The girl in the tank rotates slowly around, floats thankfully out of focus.

“Tell me why I’m here,” I spit out. “I know you didn’t bring me here just to gloat about these tanks.”

“Why, yes, of course,” he says, relieved to move past the awkward moment. “Why you’re here.” He starts to speak, pauses, trying to find the right words.
“Well, you see . . . it’s just that . . . Well, there’s no other way to put it.” And still he pauses.

“What?”

“We need your help,” he says. His fingers scratch empty air again, trembling slightly with nervousness.

Y
OU NEED
MY
help?” I say, certain I must have misheard.

His fingers continue to scratch air, only faster now. “Do you mind,” he asks, “if I have the lights dimmed down? It’s rather painful. . . . Why, yes, thank you. Lights
down, please.” Within seconds the tank lights dim. The glass partition loses its mirror quality, and the group of staffers emerges from behind the glass. Only now, the group has doubled in
number. And standing in front, with a look of mild panic that is evident even with shades covering half his face, is the chief advisor.

“I like you,” the Ruler says with gentleness. “Can I just say that first off, before we get down to business? And if I ever do eat you one day, know it’s nothing
personal, because I really do like you. You’ve got ingenuity and pluck, loads of it. Would we all shared your qualities.” Shadows pool into his eye sockets, hiding his deep-set
eyes.

“What do you want with me?”

“What I
want
with you and what I
need
from you are, unfortunately, two very different things. What I
want
is your flesh, to devour it. What I
need
from
you, however, is quite entirely different.”

I nervously glance at the crowd of staffers, at the tanks that are now thankfully too dim to reveal their interior. “Go ahead.”

He pauses. It is a pause tinged with embarrassment. “Quite simply,” the Ruler says, “we have a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

His face remains bland, but his chest expands, pressing against the metal constraint. “First some background. During the Heper Hunt, we know you got away by boat. We know you were followed
down the Nede River by the HiSS organization. You are familiar with the HiSS organization, yes?”

I nod. HiSS stands for the
Heper Search Society,
an underground grassroots organization that seeks to root out hepers rumored to have infiltrated society. Despite the Ruler’s best
efforts to snuff out this group (its very existence was an affront to the Palace’s position that hepers were extinct), it had in recent years not only survived but also thrived. I remember
Ashley June telling me she had joined the HiSS in order to both escape suspicion and keep tabs on suspected heper activity.

Seeing me nod, the Ruler continues. “Now, judging from the fact that you were forced to beat a quick escape by train, we can safely assume that the HiSSers hunted you down in the
mountains, yes?”

The girl’s body inside the tank rotates slowly toward me again. Her face, her eyes, turning round as if to look at me. I turn my gaze from her.