The Cure (The Cure Chronicles #1)

by K.A. Riley

Adulthood has become a death sentence for all but those wealthy enough to afford the treatment the Directorate aptly named the Cure.

she still hadn’t heard a word about her fate…nor had she received the Cure, as family members are supposed to after Seventeens have paid their dues.

People say the Arc’s name is a play on words, given that the impossibly massive building is what’s called an Arcology—a structure three hundred stories high, as broad and thick as twenty city blocks squared, and as densely populated as several major cities combined. Each level is large enough to house thousands of people, and each, they say, is completely different from the next.

Some say the structure is named in part after Noah’s Ark, the large wooden boat used during the Great Flood in the Bible to save the world’s various species from death by drowning. I suppose it is a symbol of salvation. Just not for all of us.

Love—or even lust—aren’t emotions I have time to contemplate.

The Directorate operates completely anonymously, and they run everything.”

“The Aristocracy is more like an assortment of celebrities.

The higher your home in the Arc, the more important you are.

“The people on the very bottom floors are the worker bees,” she replies. “Even though they’re well off financially, the Aristocrats call them the Serfs. They were wealthy enough to move into the Arc, but they still work for the Aristocracy—and the Directorate.

“The Panel is what tells you where you’re getting assigned, where you’ll live. They’re what will determine your fate.

As I step into what looks like a large, luxurious elevator, it hits me for the first time that I’ve just voluntarily marched into a prison. I’m about to serve a twelve-month sentence, my punishment for the crime of being born into a family that wasn’t sufficiently wealthy or influential.

“the Cure took time to develop, and its supply is extremely limited. But if you succeed here, Ashen, take comfort in the knowledge that you and your brother will be looked after.” “And my mother,” I add. “My mother will receive the Cure too, I assume.”

Remember that reality and alternate reality are two different things. You need to learn to tell the difference between them as quickly as possible.

Reality is what I faced in the Mire all those years. Hunger. Fear. Loneliness. The Arc, on the other hand, is all about appearances. Glossy surfaces, masked, featureless strangers. At best, it’s a warped version of reality; a pristine, superficial environment that lives in blissful isolation from all the horror that surrounds it on the outside.

I’ve always feared firearms. They’re such an impersonal, cold means of ending life.

I look down to see what looks like a glowing, bright blue tattoo of a compass on the inside of my wrist. North, South, East, West.

“There’s a species of butterfly called the Cobalt,” Finn tells me. “Very beautiful. Very rare. Some say a chemical produced when they lay eggs is one component of what they call the Cure. I’m no chemist, so I’ll take their word for it. I guess the Cobalt Butterfly is considered good luck around here.”

It seems strange, to say the least, that the Directorate would bring a bunch of Dregs in and immediately teach them how to fight. The Arc is supposed to be a place devoid of conflict or stress, after all.

“Two years ago, the Directorate decided that Patrols will be made up of former Dregs,” Piotr says. “Which is one reason I’m teaching you prawns to fight. You never know when you’ll have to take on some of your own people.”

“Red, yellow, and blue are the three primary colors. It’s probably just a way to identify the Sectors.”

knew your father, you see,” he says. “When we were younger. We went to school together, in fact.” “You went to art school?” “Oh, no. It was during my Masters’ program in Biochemistry and Genetics. Your father was one of the most brilliant scientific minds I’ve ever known.” “My father? Scientific?” I let out a laugh. “But he was a painter.” “Yes. In the end, he was.”

“He and I worked together long ago. I offered him a position at my company—DavenCorp. We’re in charge of medications in the Arc, among other things.”

I…didn’t think any of my father’s artwork had made its way to the Arc.” “It’s hasn’t. Not exactly,” he says,

The only photos I know of this or his other paintings are the ones Rys took on the old smartphone he resurrected in the Mire.

“The Directorate is thorough in its research. That includes looking into the affairs of Candidates’ parents, as well as the affairs of the Candidates themselves.”

My father always signed his paintings the same way. His name, Oliver Spencer, then a small symbol: a circle crossed by two delicate, dark swords, one vertical, one horizontal. “I know he always added it to his signature, like a logo,” I tell him. “He told me once it was an O and a T. O for Oliver, T for…” “Tessa,” the Duke says with a smile. “Yes, of course. Your mother.

“Holographic Masking,” Finn says matter-of-factly. “It’s the same technology that conceals the Arc’s support beams at ground level. The Aristocracy’s personal Conveyors are hidden from public view. They’re not on any map or accessible by most inhabitants of the Arc. The carpet you’re looking at is an illusion.”

“There’s zero tolerance for violence in the Arc. Unless it’s considered ‘necessary.’ Brawling is a felony here.”

“Maybe the problem is that people like me—people considered inferior beings—aren’t allowed to so much as possess a single solitary opinion without fear that we’ll be arrested for it?”

I’m not just a physical prisoner in the Arc. I’m a mental one, as well.

“There was never any risk of bringing the Blight into the Arc,”

“Because before too long, all the kids from down there will be here, in the Arc. And all the adults are already dead.”

“My parents say the Dregs who don’t make it here get sent away. Somewhere out there.” With that, he walks over to stand next to me and points beyond the city’s outer wall toward the foothills in the distance. “Why do you think they send them there?” “They said there are camps where they can work. It’s good, because they all get to be together.” “Camps,” I breathe, staring out into the distance. Is that what happened to Josie Pyke? Is she at some sort of labor camp?

“No one but the Aristocracy, the Directorate, and new Candidates get to attend Trials. They’re considered classified.

In a sudden moment of clarity, I recall the videos we saw each week in the Mire—the ones that told us over and over again for years of our lives what a perfect paradise the Arc was. How pure, how kind, how benevolent the Directorate was. How fortunate we were to be invited to live among their ilk. It was all a lie. It was all a means of recruiting us, of herding us into the Arc so they could pick us off, one by one. We’re nothing to them but prey.

Don’t ever trust anyone with a rose on his chest—even

I think caring is the only thing that separates humanity from mindless drones,”

“It’s a potent drug—one that helps encourage Dregs to be good little soldiers. Think of it as a high-octane energy drink.” I remember with horror what the drug felt like. A blissful lack of care mixed with a hint of bloodlust. Instantly, I was turned into an all too willing foot soldier for the Directorate, invested utterly in fighting for them, even if it meant killing a man who looked far too much like my father.

He presses a finger into the remote and I feel a strange sensation, as though I’ve suddenly become lighter, my shoulders straightening, my sapped energy renewed. My furrowed brow relaxes, and all worries about Luke disappear. I look down at my wrist, at my glowing implant, only to see a swirling pattern of light. Piotr did this. I don’t know how, but he did. He injected us without even touching us.

My mind is an addled, confused jumble. The desire to hunt and kill is brawling inside me against the desire to curl up in fetal position and weep. I feel myself fighting the effects of the drug, hating what it’s doing to me, and savoring the sensation of bliss, all at once.

I can weep later. For now, I’m surviving.

Those micro-drones—the ones you saw in your room and in the Escapa—they don’t just follow anybody around. They’re reserved for people who are considered a high-level threat.

“Finn, tell me the truth—does any Dreg ever get the Cure?” He inhales deep before saying, “I’ve told you before…the Cure isn’t what you think it is.”

“When the Directorate first formed,” Finn says, “when they took over the country, there was secret talk of a rival counter-government. Men and women who didn’t like how much wealth was being amassed by a few high-ranking members of our society, or how badly many of our citizens were being treated by the Directorate. The rival government met only in secret. They were called the Consortium.”

when the Blight hit the population, the Directorate quietly spread the word among the Elite that it was the Consortium’s doing. They said their rivals had created the illness that was killing the Mire’s adults, that it would soon kill the adult population in every city in the country.”

“So there is a Cure,” I say. “That part’s not a lie.” Finn nods. “It exists. But its name is a lie. It’s not a cure for a contagious illness. It’s a pill—an antidote. A treatment, in case of exposure to the biological weapon called the Blight.”

the Directorate wanted some of the population to stay in the Mire and die. So those inside the Arc could see what was happening—the death tolls rising, the poverty, the squalor, the suffering of the Mire’s kids—” “So their loyalty to the Directorate would grow,” I conclude. “Our people died so theirs would stay afraid and submissive.” “Exactly.

all the Chaperons are former Dregs.

“The Cobalt Butterfly—is it used in the Cure?” The man laughs again. “No,” he says. “It’s part of the weapon that killed your father. It’s why the Directorate loves that image so much—the pretty blue butterfly that took down the great Oliver Spencer. It’s an irony that something so lovely can be so deadly.”