What Tomorrow May Bring: A Tale of Urban Romance
Author: De'Wayne Simpson
Date: 2008-10-08 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Young Adult; Science Fiction; Fantasy; Dystopia
Description: Have you ever been forced to deal with a situation in one of your relationships and wondered if anyone else had ever been through the same thing? If so, were you curious as to how he or she handled that same situation? Have you ever noticed how often you understand more about relationships through witnessing events as opposed to experiencing them? In this story, you can follow the relationships of four interesting individuals. Each of these men is involved in a distinct form of relationship, and none of them can see what their next steps should be. All but one of them are from the DC metropoli
Publisher: iUniverse, Incorporated

What Tomorrow May Bring

The Young Adult Dystopian Boxed Set

––––––––

Susan Kaye Quinn

David Estes

Jenni Merritt

Megan Thomason

Samantha Durante

Tony Bertauski

Cary Caffrey

David J. Normoyle

Joseph A. Turkot

Shelbi Wescott

Deborah Rix

Contents

Book Descriptions

Open Minds, Susan Kaye Quinn

The Moon Dwellers, David Estes

Prison Nation, Jenni Merritt
daynight, Megan Thomason

Stitch, Samantha Durante

The Annihilation of Foreverland, Tony Bertauski

The Girls From Alcyone, Cary Caffrey

The Narrowing Path, David J. Normoyle

The Rain, Joseph A. Turkot

Virulent: The Release, Shelbi Wescott

External Forces, Deborah Rix

* * *

OPEN MINDS, Susan Kaye Quinn

Dystopia, by Susan Kaye Quinn
chapter ONE
chapter TWO
chapter THREE
chapter FOUR
chapter FIVE
chapter SIX
chapter SEVEN
chapter EIGHT
chapter NINE
chapter TEN
chapter ELEVEN
chapter TWELVE
chapter THIRTEEN
chapter FOURTEEN
chapter FIFTEEN
chapter SIXTEEN
chapter SEVENTEEN
chapter EIGHTEEN
chapter NINETEEN
chapter TWENTY
chapter TWENTY-ONE
chapter TWENTY-TWO
chapter TWENTY-THREE
chapter TWENTY-FOUR
chapter TWENTY-FIVE
chapter TWENTY-SIX
chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
chapter TWENTY-NINE
chapter THIRTY
chapter THIRTY-ONE
chapter THIRTY-TWO
chapter THIRTY-THREE
chapter THIRTY-FOUR
chapter THIRTY-FIVE
chapter THIRTY-SIX

* * *

THE MOON DWELLERS, David Estes

Dystopia, by David Estes

Prologue

Tristan

A brief history of the Tri-Realms

Chapter One

Adele

Present day

Chapter Two

Tristan

Chapter Three

Adele

Chapter Four

Tristan

Chapter Five

Adele

Chapter Six

Tristan

Chapter Seven

Adele

Chapter Eight

Tristan

Chapter Nine

Adele

Chapter Ten

Tristan

Chapter Eleven

Adele

Chapter Twelve

Tristan

Chapter Thirteen

Adele

Chapter Fourteen

Tristan

Chapter Fifteen

Adele

Chapter Sixteen

Tristan

Chapter Seventeen

Adele

Chapter Eighteen

Tristan

Chapter Nineteen

Adele

Chapter Twenty

Tristan

Adele

Tristan

Adele

Tristan

Adele

Tristan

Chapter Twenty-One

Adele

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tristan

Chapter Twenty-Three

Adele

Chapter Twenty-Four

Tristan

Chapter Twenty-Five

Adele

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tristan

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Adele

* * *

PRISON NATION, Jenni Merritt

Dystopia, by Jenni Merritt

Part One: LIFE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Part Two: LIBERTY

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Part Three: HAPPINESS

23

24

* * *

DAYNIGHT, Megan Thomason

Dystopia, according to Megan Thomason

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Kira

CHAPTER TWO

Ethan

CHAPTER THREE

Blake

CHAPTER FOUR

Kira

CHAPTER FIVE

Blake

CHAPTER SIX

Kira

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ethan

CHAPTER EIGHT

Blake

CHAPTER NINE

Kira

CHAPTER TEN

Blake

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kira

CHAPTER TWELVE

Blake

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kira

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Blake

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kira

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ethan

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Blake

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kira

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Blake

CHAPTER TWENTY

Kira

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ethan

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Blake

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Kira

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Blake

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Kira

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Blake

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ethan

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Kira

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Blake

CHAPTER THIRTY

Ethan

* * *

STITCH, Samantha Durante

Dystopia, by Samantha Durante

1. DISTRACTION

2. MEMOIR

3. OBJECTIVE

4. RECORDS

5. ENCOUNTER

6. DISSECTION

7. RESEARCH

8. EXPECTATION

9. PREPARATION

10. PREENING

11. REVELRY

12. RESOLUTION

13. CONNECTION

14. REVERSAL

15. FRUSTRATION

16. ANXIETY

17. DESPERATION

18. DILEMMA

19. TRAGEDY

20. FISSURE

21. FORTUNE

22. REVELATION

23. RECONCILIATION

24. RECOLLECTION

25. CONVICTION

26. ELICITATION

27. OPPORTUNITY

28. INTROSPECTION

29. EXECUTION

30. AWAKENING

31. TRUST

32. PURSUIT

33. BETRAYAL

34. DIVERSION

35. DELIVERANCE

36. DUTY

EPILOGUE: FURY

* * *

THE ANNIHILATION OF FOREVERLAND, Tony Bertauski

Dystopia, by Tony Bertauski

ROUND 1

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

ROUND 2

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

ROUND 3

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

ROUND 4

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

LAST ROUND

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

* * *

THE GIRLS FROM ALCYONE, Cary Caffrey

Dystopia, by Cary Caffrey

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

* * *

THE NARROWING PATH, David J. Normoyle

Dystopian, by David J. Normoyle

Prologue

Chapter 1

51 Days Left

Chapter 2

50 Days Left

Chapter 3

49 Days Left

Chapter 4

40 Days Left

Chapter 5

39 Days Left

Chapter 6

38 Days Left

Chapter 7

37 Days Left

Chapter 8

35 Days Left

Chapter 9

33 Days Left

Chapter 10

32 Days Left

Chapter 11

31 Days Left

Chapter 12

26 Days Left

Chapter 13

23 Days Left

Chapter 14

13 Days Left

Chapter 15

10 Days Left

Chapter 16

8 Days Left

Chapter 17

7 Days Left

Chapter 18

6 Days Left

Chapter 19

1 Day Left

Chapter 20

Infernam

* * *

THE RAIN, Joseph A. Turkot

Dystopia, by Joseph A. Turkot

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Part 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Part 3

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part 4

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part 5

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

* * *

VIRULENT: THE RELEASE, Shelbi Wescott

Dystopia, by Shelbi Wescott

PROLOGUE 365 days before The Release

CHAPTER ONE Release Day

CHAPTER TWO 24-hours after the Release

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Five days after The Release

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Six days after The Release

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Seven days after The Release

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Eight days after The Release

END OF BOOK ONE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

* * *

EXTERNAL FORCES, Deborah Rix

Dystopia, by Deborah Rix

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

Get the sister novel, the adult dystopian boxed set with Hugh Howey, David Wright, Sean Platt, and others!

A Taste of Tomorrow

Book Descriptions

Open Minds, Susan Kaye Quinn

Sixteen-year-old Kira Moore is a zero, someone who can’t read thoughts or be read by others. Zeros are outcasts who can’t be trusted, leaving her no chance with Raf, a regular mindreader and the best friend she secretly loves. When she accidentally controls Raf’s mind and nearly kills him, Kira tries to hide her frightening new ability from her family and an increasingly suspicious Raf. But lies tangle around her, and she’s dragged deep into a hidden underworld of mindjackers, where having to mind control everyone she loves is just the beginning of the deadly choices before her.

The Moon Dwellers, David Estes

In a desperate attempt to escape destruction decades earlier, humankind was forced underground, into the depths of the earth, creating a new society called the Tri-Realms.

After her parents and sister are abducted by the Enforcers, seventeen-year-old Adele, a member of the middle-class moon dwellers, is unjustly sentenced to life in prison for her parents’ crimes of treason.

Against all odds, Adele must escape from the Pen and find her family, while being hunted by a deranged, killing machine named Rivet, who works for the President. She is helped by two other inmates, Tawni and Cole, each of whom have dark secrets that are better left undiscovered. Other than her friends, the only thing she has going for her is a wicked roundhouse kick and two fists that have been well-trained for combat by her father.

At the other end of the social spectrum is Tristan, the son of the President and a sun dweller. His mother is gone. He hates his father. Backed by only his servant and best friend, Roc, he leaves his lavish lifestyle in the Sun Realm, seeking to make something good out of his troubled life.

When a war breaks out within the Tri-Realms, Tristan is thrust into the middle of a conflict that seems to mysteriously follow Adele as she seeks to find her family and uncover her parents true past.

In their world, someone must die.

Prison Nation, Jenni Merritt

In the Nation, no one is innocent - not even the children born behind bars. Millie 942B has spent her entire life locked away with her criminal parents and countless other inmates. She believes in the Nation, in its strict laws and harsh punishments.

But when Millie is released on her eighteenth birthday, she finds things are nothing as she was taught. People vanish, never to be seen again. Lies cover every word. Trust is as fragile as ice.

And then there is Reed. Born and raised outside the Prison walls, his dreams and thoughts cause Millie to doubt everything she has ever believed.

What is truly worth fighting for? If she pushes too hard, she could lose her freedom. If she stays silent, she could lose herself. The clock is ticking, and Millie must find the truth before it is too late.

daynight, Megan Thomason

Meet The Second Chance Institute (SCI): Earth’s benevolent non-profit by day, Thera’s totalitarian regime by night. Their motto: Because Everyone Deserves a Second Chance at Life(TM). Reality: the SCI subjects Second Chancers to strict controls and politically motivated science experiments like Cleaving—forced lifetime union between two people who have sex. Punishment for disobeying SCI edicts? Immediate Exile or death.

Meet Kira Donovan. Fiercely loyal, overly optimistic, and ensnared by the promise of a full-ride college scholarship, Kira signs the SCI Recruit contract to escape memories of a tragedy that left her boyfriend and friends dead.

Meet Blake Sundry. Bitter about being raised in Exile and his mother’s death, Blake’s been trained to infiltrate and destroy the SCI. Current barrier to success? His Recruit partner—Miss Goody Two Shoes Kira Donovan.

Meet Ethan Darcton. Born with a defective heart and resulting inferiority complex, Ethan’s forced to do his SCI elite family’s bidding. Cleave-worthy Kira Donovan catches his eye, but the presiding powers give defect-free Blake Sundry first dibs.

Full of competing agendas, romantic entanglements, humor, twists and turns, daynight is an award-winning, bestselling novel and first in thedaynight series.

Stitch, Samantha Durante

Her heart races, her muscles coil, and every impulse in Alessa’s body screams at her to run… but yet she’s powerless to move.

Still struggling to find her footing after the sudden death of her parents, the last thing college freshman Alessa has the strength to deal with is the inexplicable visceral pull drawing her to a handsome ghostly presence. In between grappling with exams and sorority soirees - and disturbing recurring dreams of being captive in a futuristic prison hell - Alessa is determined to unravel the mystery of the apparition who leaves her breathless. But the terrifying secret she uncovers will find her groping desperately through her nightmares for answers.

Because what Alessa hasn’t figured out yet is that she’s not really a student, the object of her obsession is no ghost, and her sneaking suspicions that something sinister is lurking behind the walls of her university’s idyllic campus are only just scratching the surface…

The opening installment in a twist-laden trilogy, Stitch spans the genres of paranormal romance and dystopian sci-fi to explore the challenges of a society in transition, where morality, vision, and pragmatism collide leaving the average citizen to suffer the results.

The Annihilation of Foreverland, Tony Bertauski

When kids awake on an island, they’re told there was an accident. Before they can go home, they will visit Foreverland, an alternate reality that will heal their minds.

Reed dreams of a girl that tells him to resist Foreverland. He doesn’t remember her name, but knows he once loved her. He’ll have to endure great suffering and trust his dream. And trust he’s not insane.

Danny Boy, the new arrival, meets Reed’s dream girl inside Foreverland. She’s stuck in the fantasy land that no kid can resist. Where every heart’s desire is satisfied. Why should anyone care how Foreverland works?

The Girls From Alcyone, Cary Caffrey

Sigrid and Suko are two girls from the impoverished and crime-infested streets of 24th century Earth. Sold into slavery to save their families from financial ruin, the girls are forced to live out their lives in service to the Kimura Corporation, a prestigious mercenary clan with a lineage stretching back long before the formation of the Federated Corporations.

Known only to Kimura, the two girls share startling secret—a rare genetic structure not found in tens of millions of other girls.

But when their secret becomes known, Sigrid and Suko quickly find themselves at the center of a struggle for power. Now, hunted by men who would seek to control them, Sigrid and Suko are forced to fight for their own survival, and for the freedom of the girls from Alcyone.

The Narrowing Path, David J. Normoyle

Only the strongest, smartest and most ruthless will survive.

Every six years, the world draws nearer to the sun. In Arcandis, those who want to live must claim the limited places in the Refuge, a series of underground caverns cooled by the sea.

The teenage boys of noble birth are sent out into the city to demonstrate their wits and strength. Some prove themselves in combat, others display their empire building skills, still others attempt to kill off their rivals. Out of over a hundred, only six will be selected by the leaders of the great families and allowed a place in the Refuge. The rest will perish, one way or another.

Not only is thirteen-year-old Bowe younger and weaker than most of the other boys, he has no family to support him. He is expected to die on the very first day of the narrowing path. Instead he begins a journey no one could have anticipated.

The Rain, Joseph A. Turkot

There are a lot of stories about how the rain started.

The thing that always comes to mind first isn’t the how though, it’s the how much. Russell still does the math too: 15, 5,400, and 8,550. 15 inches a day, 5,400 a year, and 8,550 feet since the start.

We have no idea if it’s accurate. But it’s important to think about it, he says, because it reminds us to keep moving. I’m Tanner. Russell plucked me from the rain when I was two.

Fourteen years ago we left Philadelphia. As the water rose, we moved west, hoping the elevation would keep us warm and dry. Pittsburg, Indianapolis, Sioux Falls, Rapid City. Now we’re stranded on the islands in Wyoming. Russell thinks they used to be the Bighorn mountains. But we can’t go back now. There’s no warm and there’s no dry anymore. Just a rumor about a place where it isn’t raining. So we’re going to try to make it—520 miles south to Leadville. But we can’t drift east, the Great Plains have become waterspout alley, a raging tomb of moving water.

Together we push on, surviving, heading to Leadville. But something is wrong with him now. He says it’s nothing. But his breathing doesn’t sound that way.

Exposure, pruned hands, and infection. But since, Rapid City, it’s the face eaters too. And the crack in the canoe that’s growing. And the ice I think I see on the water. Russell thinks it’s my imagination.

We cling to the last strips of the veneer. And each other.

Virulent: The Release, Shelbi Wescott

Lucy King is only an hour away from embarking on the most incredible vacation of her life: White sandy beaches in a tropical paradise, snorkeling and sunbathing in peaceful tranquility. But as Lucy looks forward to her trip, a sinister plot is unfolding that will demolish the world as she knows it. An unknown bioterrorist group unleashes a virus that virtually wipes out the earth’s population—leaving Lucy, and a small faction of survivors, trapped inside her high school to wait out the apocalypse.

As war, looting, and death wreak havoc outside, inside, the students must contend with a tyrannical and paranoid principal and their own struggles of being orphaned, frightened, and unsure of what the future will bring.

What begins as a basic fight for survival turns into a search for answers that will challenge everything Lucy has ever known about her life and her family.

External Forces, Deborah Rix

A lot can happen to a girl between her first kiss and her first kill: things like treason, betrayal, and heartbreak. It’s been 100 years since the Genetic Integrity Act was passed and America closed its borders to prevent genetic contamination. Now only the dysgenic Deviants remain beyond the heavily guarded border. The Department of Evolution carefully guides the creation of each generation, and deviations from the divine plan are not permitted. So when 16-year-old Jess begins to show signs of deviance, she enlists in the Special Forces with her best friend Jay in a desperate bid to evade detection by the Devotees. Although Jess is good with data, she’s not so good with a knife, causing her to question why the handsome and secretive Sergeant Matt Anderson selects her for his Black Ops squad. As her deviance continues to change her, she is forced to decide who to trust with her deadly secret. Ultimately, she needs to know what’s really out in the Deviant wasteland over the border if she has any hope of making it to her 17th birthday—because if the enemy Deviants don’t kill her first, the Department of Evolution probably will.

* * *

OPEN MINDS, Susan Kaye Quinn

Dystopia, by Susan Kaye Quinn

Dystopias - Forging Hope for Humanity

I’ve always read dystopian novels, although I simply thought of them as “science fiction.” Stories like I, Robot and Foundation filled my spongy adolescent brain with concepts like the Three Laws of Robotics and how utopias couldn’t happen as long as the flawed nature of humanity still existed. This is where I first understood the term dystopia as what happened when humans tried to monkey with society to make it “better.” Not only did I enjoy the mental gymnastics that went with these (usually cautionary) tales, they seemed to be “equipment for living.” They influenced my young adult thoughts about the future—what it should be, and what it should not.

My novel Open Minds a mild dystopia, although, as I wrote it, I thought of it more as a classic SF story. I sought to change one thing—what if everyone really could read minds?—and play it out. That turned into an exploration of how, as much as the world may change, human beings fundamentally remain the same.

I think this is the understructure of the current dystopian trend—classical science fiction retooled for our modern era and sensibilities. Dystopias are more than a simple reflection of our post-911 world, a mirror held up to our fears of environmental disasters, terrorism, and pandemic. Our modern world isn’t solely a bleak place—it also shines with aid flowing to natural disasters, soldiers building schools, and the rejection of hatred as an ideology. Most modern dystopias search through their dark fictional world for those threads of hope. They find someone who will rebel against the wrongness of the world and attempt to set it right, or a third way through two dire world-changing choices. The ever-more complicated world we live in needs more of the thought experiments found in dystopian stories, rather than less. Hope is a fundamental part of being human, and stories that forge hope out of the most difficult situations are always the most compelling.

I write those stories, the ones with that persistent thread of hope, because those are the kind I want to read. And the future I want to live in.

~*~

Open Minds

Susan Kaye Quinn

Text copyright © 2011 by Susan Kaye Quinn

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

www.susankayequinn.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

For information visit http://www.susankayequinn.com

This book also available in print.

Summary: Sixteen-year-old Kira Moore can’t read minds in a telepathic world, but soon discovers she can control them instead and is slowly dragged into an underworld of dangerous mindjackers.

November 2011 Edition

Cover and Interior Design by D. Robert Pease
www.WalkingStickBooks.com

Edited by Anne Victory

For my mom,
who always believed in me more than I did.

And who never once tried to mind control me.

I think.

chapter ONE

A zero like me shouldn’t take public transportation.

The hunched driver wrinkled a frown before I even got on the bus. Her attempt to read my mind would get her nothing but the quiet of the street corner where I stood. I kept my face neutral. Nobody trusted a zero to begin with, but scowling back would only make the driver more suspicious. I gripped my backpack and gym bag tighter and climbed the grime-coated steps. The driver’s mental command whooshed the door closed behind me.

Yeah, junior year was off to a fantastic start already.

Students crammed the bus, which stank of too many bodies baking in the early morning heat. I shuffled past the dead-silent rows, avoiding backpacks and black instrument cases. Two years of being the Invisible Girl had taught me a few things. As long as I didn’t touch an exposed arm or speak out loud, the blank spot of my mind would go unnoticed in the swirling sea of their thoughts. Which was great, until I needed a seat on a crowded bus.

With a soft hiss of water exhaust, the bus lurched forward. I grabbed a sticky seatback to keep from falling on three girls deep in mental conversation.

Two senior boys leered from the back row. The whole bus was within range, so they knew there were no thought waves beaming from my head. Yet, instead of ignoring me, they stared like hungry sharks. Last year, looks like those would have gotten them pummeled by my six-foot-two brother, Seamus. But Seamus had graduated, and the protective shadow he cast over me was gone.

Whatever sims the boys were thinking, students four rows ahead of them turned to watch. Shark Boy tipped his head to his friend, obviously discussing me as they stared. His friend’s lips parted to show a sliver of teeth, and he gestured to the only open seat on the bus.

Right in front of them.

I could complain to the driver, but she wouldn’t believe anything a zero told her. Shark Boy’s thoughts wouldn’t carry over the mental chaos of the bus, and speaking out loud would only get me thrown off.

I turned away from the wide grins on the boys’ faces and slowly sank into the seat. My cheeks burned with the expectant stares from the back half of the bus, but I kept my gaze on the suburban houses ambling past the window. The heat of Shark Boy’s hand reached me just before he brushed my bare skin, right below my t-shirt sleeve. I jerked away and clutched my gym bag like it was a shield.

Shark Boy and his friend rocked back with noiseless laughter, as if touching a zero was the height of funny. I shivered in spite of the heat and decided to take my chances with the unfriendly driver. By the time my shaking hands found handholds to the front, we had rounded the corner to the school parking lot. I ignored the driver’s insistent stare. As soon as the bus stopped, I pounded the button on her dash to manually activate the door and scurried out.

Once inside the main entrance of school, a scuffle of feet warned me to step back as a group of girls sailed past, looking all mesh with their band shirts and synced steps. One—Trina—cut too close and knocked shoulders with me. At first it seemed intentional, but then she acted as though I was something she would never touch on purpose. Heat rose in my face.

Harassment from readers shouldn’t get a rise out of me anymore, but I’d fallen out of practice, sticking close to home over the summer. Trina’s snub wouldn’t have hurt at all if her sweater wasn’t still hanging in my closet, a casualty from a time when we traded clothes and secrets. I guess she didn’t miss it.

I dug my schedule out of my backpack. At least the administration hadn’t put me in Changelings 101 again. As if a class on mindreading etiquette and self-control would help a zero like me. An anger management class would be more useful.

My first-period Latin class beckoned from a dozen yards down the hall, its blue plasma lights gleaming like a lighthouse in a hurricane. I narrowly avoided a pair of students air-kissing and skittered to the classroom door.

The new Latin teacher tried to be mesh with his shiny nove-fiber shirt. A circle of admiring students laughed silently at some mental joke. Seamus had warned me that I would need a hearing aid this year so the teachers could whisper their lectures to me while instructing everyone else via mindtalk. I had put it off, waiting for my brain to finally flip a switch and become normal, and hoping to get by in my classes until then. Meanwhile, to the teacher and his fans, I might as well be a dusty trashcan in the corner. I found a spot in the back, and a knot of certainty tied tight inside me.

I will never be like them.

My chair gained gravity and sank me deep into my seat.

Long ago, everyone used to be zeros. When those first reader kids hit puberty and discovered they could read minds, the world didn’t know what to make of it. That first wave of Reader Freaks grew up to have more Reader Freaks.

Now the only freaks were the few people who never changed. Like me.

I physically shook that thought from my mind. Don’t give up. Just because most kids changed by the time they were thirteen or fourteen didn’t mean everyone did. Seamus didn’t change until he was fifteen. Mom told me over and over she was a late bloomer. I told myself for the hundredth time that the Moores simply changed late, and that I was the slowest of the bunch.

The change could come any day. In the meantime, I would have to keep up in my classes any way I could. If the teachers were all mindtalking this year, then I’d get that hearing aid and make do. If I gave up now, I would have no chance at college, much less medical school.

Students moved to their creaking metal desks, probably motivated by a thought instruction from Mr. Amando. Everyone pulled out their e-slates, and I peeked at my neighbor. We were starting with translations of Aeneid. Again.

Although my thoughts sounded English in my head, I knew thought-waves weren’t a language at all. They could be read by any person over the change age, as well as by mindware interfaces. (Yeah, even the bus was better at reading minds than me.) But until the tech guys created a computer that could mindtalk back, the world would need written words. Latin was quickly becoming mesh, being a root language. All the latest mindware had a Latin option, plus Latin was required for college, so mastering the ancient language wasn’t optional.

I scribbled with my stylus, trying to decode Juno’s wrath against the city of Troy. Even after two years of Latin, my translations were still a literal jumble. Tantaene animis caelestibus irae? It meant Juno was wreaking her goddess anger on the Trojan people, yet the literal translation stuck in my head as vast minds of heavenly wrath. If I changed tantaene to deminutus, it could just as easily describe the small minds of Warren Township High.

I let out a long sigh. At least we weren’t working in groups on the first day of class. I redoubled my efforts to force the translations into something better than gibberish.

The bell gave a soft tone that disturbed the utter quiet of the room. I slipped past the other students, wrapped in their mental conversation. The crowds thinned at the back of school, but I kept to the edges until I reached my locker. By the time I had my gym bag stowed away, the metallic sound of my locker door slamming shut echoed down a nearly empty hallway.

At the far end, a group of readers had formed a tight circle, all facing inward. I cringed, knowing some freshman changeling was in the middle, being harassed by the small minds of heavenly wrath that populated my school.

I dragged myself toward them, not wanting to get involved, but I couldn’t stand to see another kid go demens, driven mad by the change. Some kids fuzzed out on obscura to escape the mental chaos of reading minds. But the three suicides last year were sent spiraling by more than simply the voices in their heads. As a zero, I endured dirty looks and menacing boys. It could get a lot nastier for the changelings.

The girl huddled on the floor inside her ring of tormentors, clutching her head and squeezing her eyes shut, as if that would keep out the sims that surrounded her newly minted reader mind. What they were doing was a misdemeanor thought crime, but I couldn’t exactly turn the pravers in. The administrators might get their true memories under questioning, especially if they brought in a truth magistrate, but they wouldn’t do that based on the word of a zero.

“Hey!” My voice cut through the quiet. “Go be evil somewhere else!”

Their heads swung in unison, lit with astonishment. Of course they hadn’t sensed me. They glanced at each other, then turned as a unit and walked down the hall in the creepy synchronized way that readers sometimes did. Hassling me must not be worth the tardy.

The changeling still sat with her eyes shut, clutching her knees and slowly rocking. I waited until the others disappeared into the chemistry wing before I edged over to her.

I kept my voice soft so it wouldn’t travel. “It’s okay. They’re gone.”

Her eyes snapped open. She scrambled away from me, banging into the locker wall. She braced herself up from the carpet and slowly backed down the hall.

Even the harassed knew who was lowest on the social ladder.

I shook my head. The changeling was on the wrong side of the pravers today, but if she survived the change, she might do something important one day, like heal people or rescue them from burning buildings. It’s still possible, I told myself. The change could still come. But I wasn’t sure I believed it anymore.

And no one would trust a doctor whose mind they couldn’t read.

chapter TWO

Mr. Amando may be mesh, but Mr. Chance was the teacher to have in junior year.

I shuffled past him into second-period English. He was already filling the minds of the students circled around him with the sights, sounds, and smells of exotic sims I would never experience. Mr. Chance looked half-demens with his old-fashioned patched jacket and feathered hat, but his students were clearly entranced.

I had as much chance of passing his class as the chair I was sitting on.

Life wasn’t always this bleak. Back in junior high, Trina and I had talked for endless hours about nothing, everything, and boys. Raf tried for a year to convert me to that screechy synchrony music he likes. Then Trina went through the change and Raf wasn’t far behind. Nearly everyone had their change parties by the end of freshman year.

The longer I remained a zero, the more likely I would be that one-in-a-thousand who would never change. Zeros didn’t attend college—no one trusted them to do real work, so what did they need college for? I’d have to get some low-paying job where I wouldn’t have to mindtalk or be trusted. At least I didn’t live in a country where they sent zeros to asylums. In Chicago New Metro, I’d just be relegated some job that readers couldn’t stand, like guarding the demens ward of a mental hospital.

Raf, in his fitted soccer jersey and oversized shoes, blew into class on the final bell. Female attention swept down the aisle with him, and he glided into the chair next to me. When we won the State Championship last year, Raf became the Portuguese Soccer God, and girls still swarmed around him like bees in a field of clover and honeysuckle. He eased his backpack to the floor and flashed me a grin. I returned it, powerless to resist when he was the only one not treating me like furniture.

“You’re going to wreck your image, sitting next to me,” I said quietly.

He caught two girls ogling him. “I need something to take the shine off.”

I smirked. “I’m just the zero to help you out with that.”

A stormy scowl crossed his face. “Don’t call yourself that, Kira.” His Portuguese accent got stronger when he was riled. I’d missed it while he was away at soccer camp.

I shrugged and traced the non-slip pattern on my desk. The world and I were at a standoff, waiting for me to change, but the world didn’t care. If I never changed, it would move on and leave me trying to catch up in a race I would never win. How long would Raf hang around? How long would I keep hoping, not giving up?

Sooner or later, we would both have to face the truth.

My face must have shown the pity party in my head, because the storm on Raf’s face gentled into a soft flurry of concern. I concentrated on twisting a strand of my hair. Thankfully, some unspoken thought from Mr. Chance commanded everyone’s attention.

He was scribbling on the same wireless board the teachers used last year, when they still taught out loud for the readers who hadn’t mastered their skills. If only he had a mindware board, he could focus his thoughts on that and transmit them straight to our e-slates. Instead, students had to mentally focus to hear his thoughts. Great for them, to increase their mindreading skills, but it wasn’t making my life any easier.

Mr. Chance’s board notes claimed that his grandfather had taught with antique paper books, and he proceeded to walk between the rows and pass some out. I didn’t understand why we weren’t using regular books. I tried not to break my copy when I cracked the pages open. Bits of paper dust floated up from the yellowed pages and smelled musty, like dried grass. I peeked at Raf’s book, and he showed me the pages we were supposed to read. I sped through the opening chapter of The Scarlet Letter, careful not to crumble the pages to dust.

When I finished, Rafael was still bent over his book, dark curls hanging off his forehead as he plumbed the depths of Hester’s pain. A summer of running drills had tanned his light olive skin, and his lips pursed in concentration. I wondered if his thick eyebrows were soft or bristly. His blinding smile sent me scurrying back to my own book.

It wasn’t fair that every other girl in school knew his thoughts better than I did.

If I changed, things might be different. Until then, well, zeroes simply didn’t date. Some pravers like Shark Boy might enjoy feeling up a zero girl, but no normal boy would want a mental-reject with a pre-adolescent brain. It was like dating your friend’s twelve-year-old sister.

If I didn’t change, boyfriends would be like college—an experience other people would have while I figured out my life as a zero. I pushed that thought from my mind.

Students swung their seats around, and I realized we were breaking into groups. I had lucked into having Raf nearby, since no one else would want to pair with me.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We’re supposed to discuss the symbol of the rosebush outside Hester’s prison door.” Raf kept his voice low, but he still gathered annoyed looks from two readers next to us.

“Even the author says he doesn’t know what it means.”

“Well, I guess we’re supposed to be smarter than him.” Raf scooted closer so we could whisper. I flipped through the paper book and tried to ignore the nearness of Raf’s arm on my chair, but it was hard to focus with him so close.

“So what’s your theory, Soccer Cyborg?”

“Hey!” Raf pretended to be affronted. “I’m more than just an athletic machine!”

“Yeah. You have awful taste in music, too.”

“As if you don’t have Cantos Syn on your player.”

“Whatever.” But I smiled. “So, the rosebush?”

He leaned closer and spoke in a mock grave voice. “I think it means she likes flowers.” My strangled laugh didn’t distract Mr. Chance from his animated sims up front. When we were done, we spent the rest of class in more reading, with only the flipping of paper pages and rustling of seats to disturb the silence. Raf smiled his goodbye, and a cluster of girls captured him up front. I didn’t watch, not needing that particular torture, and slipped out the rear classroom door.

My ex-friend Trina and a dark-haired girl hunched over a shared mindware phone by the girls’ bathroom, like it held the answers to the universe’s most pressing questions. If I had the ability they took for granted, I wouldn’t waste my time conjuring holographic unicorn games.

My snort carried across the hall, but didn’t attract their attention. Unfortunately, I did catch the notice of another couple of students. They leaned against the wall five steps down from Trina and smiled at me like I was their next meal.

Shark Boy and his friend, Shark Junior.

chapter THREE

I spun away from Shark Boy and Shark Junior and their leering grins.

Raf and his gaggle of admirers were still working their way down the hall. I scurried up to blend into his group of fans. No one noticed me, not even Raf. Shark Boy’s thoughts must not have carried over the mental clamor of the hall. If he touched me out in the open, he would be violating the No Touching Rule, but that hadn’t stopped him on the bus. If he tried anything now, at least Raf would help me fend him off.

Seamus had explained the No Touching Rule shortly after he changed—how readers shared feelings when they touched. That was all the information I got before my brother had turned red and bolted from the room, but it explained why everyone became bizarre about their personal space after they changed and why air-kissing was as far as things went in public.

Not that I knew much about what happened in private.

I didn’t hazard a look back until our ragtag group had rounded the corner. Shark Boy and his friend seemed to have given up, probably waiting for a time when fewer witnesses would be privy to their nasty thoughts. My heart didn’t stop pounding until I was safely in my seat in biology.

I managed to muddle through the rest of my morning classes. The soaring humidity of the Chicago New Metro suburbs was like an extinct rainforest simulation, and my jeans were sticking to my legs.

All right, wearing jeans in August—that was my fault.

After lunch, I had high hopes for Algebra II. I was Mr. Barkley’s top student in freshman Algebra I, and I managed to pass Geometry. Being all written work, it leveled the playing field.

I strode into class right before the bell and smiled at Mr. Barkley as I passed his desk. His unexpected smile in return distracted me, and I stumbled over a backpack, left like a land mine halfway down the center aisle. Then three things happened in rapid succession: I fell forward, I grabbed the edge of a desk to catch myself, and I pivoted down into Simon Zagan’s lap.

Falling and catching myself: fine. Landing on Simon Zagan: a tragic catastrophe.

Our arms tangled, all sticky from the heat. He jerked back, dumping me off his lap.

“Watch it, zero!”

I scrambled to avoid face-planting on the floor, but my backpack spewed its contents under occupied chairs on either side. I was glad no one could hear the elaborate profanities coursing through my mind. The nearby students stared as though I had gone demens and leaned away as I retrieved the items under their seats.

As if I might jump them next.

When I had finally gathered my scribepads and stylus, my thankfully intact e-slate, and Mr. Chance’s battered paper book, I slung my gaping, empty backpack over my free shoulder.

I paused to shoot a daggered glare at Simon.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have been so bold. With his black, arrow-straight hair and dark, intense eyes, Simon seemed slightly dangerous. He never got in any real trouble that I knew of, but he hung out with the kids voted least likely to graduate.

Unfortunately for Simon, I had reached my quota of self-righteous pravers for the day. So I glared at him, and he glared back like he was trying to drill into my head. Then the strangest look came over him, as if he was puzzled by something I said, although I had been successful in biting my tongue and not saying anything at all.

What was his problem?

Sure, I broke the No Touching Rule, but I was a zero. My accidental encounter with Simon shouldn’t have affected him at all. Unless he was like Shark Boy and liked to prey on girls who hadn’t changed. I turned my glare frosty. Simon slouched in his seat and looked away, which was fortunate for him. I took the seat behind him and hoped he felt the chill of my disgust.

A breathless quiet settled in as we tackled the worksheet Mr. Barkley cast to our scribepads. I straightened out the mess of my stuff and buried myself in sines and cosines.

Mr. Barkley walked between the rows and tapped the tip of his finger to the back of each student’s hand. A few of the rich kids were wearing Second Skin, and Mr. Barkley waited patiently while they tugged off the sheer, elbow-high gloves. The touch-check was new, and it seemed to violate the No Touching Rule. I would have to scrit Seamus to get his true thoughts on that.

When Mr. Barkley reached me, I smiled up at him. His blue-gray eyes matched his crisp blue shirt, and the wintery stripe in his black hair had grown wider since freshman year. Of course, he would have to check my answers the old-fashioned way.

He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to see you in my class again, Ms. Moore.” He spoke softly, but his voice carried over the scratching of styli and creaking of chairs. “How are you doing?”

“Great. Thanks.” The silence closed back in, punctuated only by Mr. Barkley’s footfalls toward the next student.

After math, my legs twitched with the need to run and escape the small minds of heavenly wrath. I had a free period next, so I retrieved my gym bag and changed in the locker room.

The long legs I inherited from my dad flew me down the street, past suburban houses sticking up like skinny fingers and carefully spaced apart to avoid hearing the neighbors’ thoughts. I dodged small yippy dogs and sprinklers trying to revive the rings of dead grass that buffered each Gurnee house from the next. The heat lay like a wet blanket on everything, and the late-blooming day lilies bent under its weight. Sweat coated every inch of my skin and seeped a sense of normal into me.

If I had been born ninety years ago, I would have felt this way every day. Back then, it was the first readers who were different and paid the price for it. Grandma O’Donnell’s stories about the camps where the government held her dad and the other early readers still gave me the creeps.

Only later did they find the pharmaceutical cocktail that had been brewing in the world’s drinking water supply. The mixture of drugs was everywhere, around the world, and by the time anyone understood what was happening, it had already started to activate the part of people’s brains that sensed thought waves. And it was too late to stop it.

Even if I never changed, at least I wasn’t destined for an internment camp simply for being a zero. The world had become more civilized since the experiments on those first reader kids. I would simply struggle along, one step above the demens on the social ladder. I rounded the corner to school, trying to outrun my fate. Even my shoes pounded it out.

Ze-ro. Ze-ro. Ze-ro.

I seriously needed mental help. Maybe I could join one of those positive-thinking cults that were trying to bring peace to the world by thinking good thoughts. That idea made me laugh so hard, I coughed and gasped for air.

They wouldn’t want a zero either.

After a quick shower and an overly long band rehearsal, I hurried out to catch the late bus. Just before I stepped aboard, its darkened windows caught my eye. I couldn’t tell who was on board without actually getting on, and the driver wasn’t looking any friendlier than the one this morning.

I turned and strode down the sidewalk, opting to walk home in the afternoon heat.

chapter FOUR

My mom didn’t have many friends.

Sarah Moore wasn’t quite a heremita, those readers who shut themselves away in their bedrooms to hide from other people’s thoughts. But she came close. She kept up the appearance of normal by baking cookies for PTA functions she never attended, but mostly she stayed home and cleaned.

The sour smell of silver polish wafted from the sink where she attacked an elaborate tea service. With Seamus off at West Point on scholarship and Grandma O’Donnell passing away over the summer, Mom’s cleaning had taken on shades of OCD. She followed me around, scrubbing things and keeping an eye on me, like I was a ticking bomb that would explode at any moment.

I tried to ignore her while I ground through my Latin homework at the kitchen table.

Normally, I encouraged the hands-off approach appropriate for unidentified explosive devices. It was better than the alternative, which might include talking about my dwindling number of friends. But today, her noiseless polishing only echoed the silence at school.

The quiet made my skin itch, and the words tumbled out. “So, today sucked at school.”

She gave a start. I couldn’t read her mind, but her clenched jaw and the abused silver radiated her disappointment. She set down the tortured sugar spoon and leaned against the counter with crossed arms. Her hair, auburn and gray, flew about in wisps.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” The incidents with Simon Zagan and Shark Boy were better left unsaid. “I just decided I’m going to walk this year. And I’ll need that hearing aid after all.”

She nodded slowly, as if moving too quickly would set the bomb off.

“I don’t suppose the hearing aid comes in the color invisible.” I meant it as a joke, but her face fell a tiny amount. I was turning out to be a zero, just like her mom.

“I’m sure I can find one that won’t be…” She struggled for the right word. “…obtrusive.”

“There’s no hiding the fact that I need help, Mom.” It came out snippier than I meant. “But, yeah, something that isn’t neon orange with a giant zero stamped on the side would be good.”

She grimaced at the word zero and opened her mouth, but the front door creaked open and interrupted her. My dad came up the stairs to the kitchen, all spit and polish in his Navy dress uniform. Coming home this early wasn’t a good sign. It usually meant deployment.

He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Hello, baby girl.” I grimaced and pushed him away, even less fond of that nickname today. His flash of grin extinguished when he kissed my mom. They must have exchanged feelings, and Dad couldn’t hide his disappointment like Mom could.

“So, you’re home early,” I said, hoping to cut off any Kira-related questions they might be thinking up. “Going on another secret mission?”

My dad worked for the Office of Naval Intelligence. When we were kids, Dad told us he was a spy, which was quite the joke. Politicians exchanged all key information at the annual Trust Conferences, and spying was a hold-over romantic notion that hadn’t quite died out. Dad probably coddled some high-ranking officials. Mom knew what he did, and my brother found out once he changed, but I still wasn’t sure where the sims ended and the truth began. Whatever he was doing, he would disappear for months at a time.

“Unfortunately, yes. Someone has to stop bad guys.” Merriment shone in his eyes, but he held my mom’s gaze a little too long. I knew they couldn’t help reading each other, but it was not mesh of them to mindtalk in front of me. Especially when I was likely the topic of conversation.

He turned back to me. “I’m leaving in the morning, probably be gone for a month or so.”

I searched for an exit strategy. Doing homework in my bedroom suddenly became very attractive. “Okay, well, send us a postcard.” I pushed back my chair.

My jab didn’t distract him. “So, hard day at school today?” He stared at me in that weird way he often did, as if he could get my brain to change by the force of his will. I only wished that were true. As if my day wasn’t bad enough, his stare was giving me a headache.

“Yeah.” I scooped up my e-slate and stylus. “Um, I think I’ll go study in my room.”

Before I reached the stairs, my mom blurted out, “Kira, wait! Would you like to go with me, to look at the options?” She meant the hearing aid.

“No, you go ahead, Mom. You’ll find something totally mesh.” I managed a weak smile, despite my heart sinking like the Titanic, and sprinted up the two levels to my room.

I dropped onto the pink comforter draped over my bed and willed the world to disappear. It didn’t obey, and I laughed out loud. As if I could do anything so dramatic with my mind.

I fished my phone out of my pocket to scrit Seamus. He was probably doing drills or cleaning guns or whatever they do at a military school before dinner.

Can u touch w/o sharing feelings?

He would scrit me back when he got a chance. I studied the afternoon light painting shadows on the walls. Demens plush creatures jammed the shelves on my bookcase, most of them won at carnivals with Raf. Trina gazed at me from a rose-colored glass frame. The picture faded and was replaced by another friend from the past, for whom I was no longer present. My room was a childish palace of pink fluffy dreams, filled with wishful thinking and childhood relics.

A serious overhaul was needed.

Ode to Joy sang from my phone. Seamus. The rapid call-back wasn’t a good sign.

“Hey.” I propped myself up. “You didn’t have to call. It’s not a national emergency.”

“My little sister scrit me about touching?” His voice rumbled a few notes lower than when he left, only two weeks ago. “Yeah, what did you expect?”

Warmth filled me at hearing his concern. “I just had a question.”

“Is someone bothering you?” I imagined him hovering over the phone, ready to take down whoever might mess with his kid sister. But there was nothing Seamus could do from West Point.

I needed to reel him back in. “Cool it, action hero. It was something I saw in my algebra class.” He huffed out a breath. “My teacher did a touch-check, only a finger touch. What’s that all about? You said it was like sharing feelings.”

“Is that all?” He paused. “Touching isn’t always like that. Your teacher was only checking to see if they understood the lesson.”

“Well, I got that, Sherlock,” I said. “But why is it different than, say, lip-locking with the hot girlfriend you’re keeping there?”

“What?” he asked. “I don’t have a girlfriend here!”

“Matter of time.”

“Can we stick to talking about you?”

“If we have to. You’re much more interesting.”

His snort only reminded me how much I missed him. “A quick touch is just a little more… complete than reading thoughts. Your teacher would sense if they fully understood the problem.”

“So, if you touch for longer, then what happens?”

He paused. “Can’t you talk to Mom about this?”

“Did you really ask that?”

“All right.” His voice hushed. “I’m only saying this once, so don’t ask me to repeat it.”

I sat up and pressed the phone hard against my ear. “Okay.”

“When you touch for longer, you feel what they feel, like you’re joined together into one person. You can explore their emotions. If they like what you’re doing, it can be very… intimate. If they don’t like it, well, you feel that too.”

I waited for more, but it wasn’t coming. “Is that it?”

“What? Yes, that’s it! You’ll understand better when you change.”

I gave a short laugh. “Yeah, well, no change, still strange.”

“It could still happen.”

“Sure.” The silence hung on the line and closed in on my throat. “Hey, I don’t want to keep you from shooting Bambi, or whatever you’re doing for meals there…”

“Kira.” I barely heard him. “Some guys like to take advantage of girls, before they change. Before the effect of touching protects them. You know that, right?”

I swallowed and felt the ghost of Shark Boy’s hand on my arm. “Yeah, I know.”

“So if anyone bothers you, call me right away,” he said. “I want to make them regret it.”

“I can take care of myself, too, you know.” But my voice was small.

“I know. Make sure you do.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant Moore.” He couldn’t see my mock salute, but it still earned a laugh.

“I have to go to mess,” he said. “Scrit me tomorrow. Let me know you’re all right.”

“Okay,” I said. “Bye.” I clicked off the phone. Seamus wanted to pound anyone who might hurt me, but the truth was I didn’t have a big brother lurking the hallways to protect me. And I couldn’t count on Raf being there when I happened to need help. I had to take care of myself.

I tossed the phone on my bed and strode over to my shelves. Anything pink or remotely fluffy was coming down. The few pictures of me and Seamus could stay, along with the ones of my mom and dad. One greenish stuffed monster that Raf had won for me this past summer deserved a spot in between the frames, but the rest had to go.

Time to toughen up.

chapter FIVE

I practiced my tough-girl skills at school the next day.

I glared at anyone who crossed my path and refused to cower on the sides of the hallways. If Shark Boy thought he would get a free feel, I was determined to leave marks on him for trying. But he never showed. In fact, no one noticed but Raf. His wrinkled looks of concern hindered my scrappy new attitude, so I ditched the crowded lunchroom to run.

The blistering noontime sun burnt toughness into me. I flew through the side streets, an invisible ninja warrior in training. There was barely enough time for a shower before class, so lunch was a small, scarfed-down apple. I hurried into algebra and remembered just in time to check for land mines in the aisle.

Preoccupied with skirting backpacks, I didn’t notice Simon until I got close. His dark eyes locked on me like search beams and he frowned. I scowled right back and cast Don’t mess with me! body signals. Simon smirked when I passed him, but I was too busy being hostile to care.

Without the hearing aid, I was completely lost in all my classes, even math. Raf offered to bring his notes to the chem lab during our free period to keep me from getting too far behind. It was a good place to spread out, and people seldom studied there. Which means no one will see him hanging out with me. That thought scratched at the edge of my mind, but I pushed it away.

I arrived first and dropped my backpack onto the black stone benchtop. The lab smelled of acid experiments gone wrong, but had the benefit of plenty of room. Raf sauntered in with one of his Pekingese girlfriends on his tail. Her name was Jessica, or possibly Ashley, and she wore her skirt tight and her hair loose. Her Second Skin gloves had sparkle dust on them, and she swung her arm close to his, as if hoping he might suddenly decide to hold her hand.

“Hey, Kira.” Raf tossed his backpack on the benchtop next to mine. “You know Taylor?”

Okay, Taylor. Whatever. “Hi.” It sounded reasonably polite.

She paused, as if she had forgotten there was a cripple in the room. “Oh, right. Hi.”

“So, we’re going to study,” Raf said to her. “I’ll see you after school?” Raf still talked out loud whenever I was around. Which was very nice of him, but didn’t help the heat rising in my cheeks.

She must have answered him in her thoughts. Then she added, “Right. After school.” She leaned in to air-kiss him, but Raf dipped his head away from her public display of almost affection. At least they didn’t actually touch. I didn’t want that mental image with me for the rest of the day. When she was gone, Raf pulled out his e-slate and scribepads.

I couldn’t hold back. “So the Pekingese are still hot on your trail?”

“You shouldn’t call her that.” He avoided my gaze, arranging his things on the benchtop.

“Well, you didn’t like it when I called your girlfriends Shih-Tzus.”

He threw me a grimace. “What is with you and the little dogs?” His accent transformed little dogs into littal dugs. I had to stop myself from smiling.

“I don’t care for the yippy ones, but you seem to like them, Wolf Boy.” The Portuguese have an excess of names, and Rafael Amaro Lobos Santos was no exception. Wolf Boy was an old nickname, and Raf didn’t seem to appreciate it.

“She’s not my girlfriend, anyway.” He pulled out his ancient Scarlet Letter paper book. “Are we going to study?”

The annoyance in his voice made me soften my tone. “Only if we have to.” We settled on the stools. “So, not your girlfriend? And she knows this?”

He tapped his temple twice. “She knows.”

Huh. Mindreading must leave less room for misunderstandings in the relationship department. “So, why’s she guarding your rear flank?” If a boy wasn’t interested in me, I wouldn’t go sniffing after him. Not that I had any actual experience in this, just as a matter of principle.

“We have a disagreement about the future of our relationship.”

“Sounds complicated.”

He set aside his scribepad and searched my plain blue eyes. “You have no idea. Sometimes I think you have it easier. Not knowing what everyone is thinking all the time.”

“Easier?” My voice soured. “Really? Maybe we can trade places and you can see what a joy it is to be a zero.”

His face softened in a way that made my stomach flutter.

I couldn’t stand the sad looks Raf gave me sometimes, his pity about my bleak future written in the lines on his face. But the look of longing he wore now, as though he wanted to touch me or maybe even kiss me, twisted me into knots. Because he and I couldn’t be that, not while I was still a zero. No decent person would prey upon a mentally impaired freak like me. And Raf was… normal. Perfect. Destined for a life brilliant with possibility.

I ignored Raf’s stare and pretended to scroll through my scribepad. Eventually, he gave up and transferred his class notes. “Thanks,” I mumbled. Quiet had fallen around us. I studied the notes. He read his paper book. We shifted in our seats as the minutes passed, silent and separate. This wasn’t how I wanted to spend the short time I had with Raf. I would rather live vicariously and avoid any actual work, like we normally did. But almost half the period disappeared into a wasteland of studying.

I was absently tapping my stylus against the scribepad when warmth stole over my hand. Raf was touching me. I should have pulled my hand away, but I couldn’t make it move. There was no surge of intimate emotion sharing, like readers apparently had when they touched. But having Raf’s hand on mine was like a drink of cool water after a hundred days in the desert.

My breathing tried to match the pounding of my heart. I searched for something witty or sarcastic to say, but I couldn’t unscramble my brain. I dragged my eyes to his dark brown ones. The longing look was back in force.

A war raged in my mind, a battle between the side that desperately wanted to know what Raf’s lips would feel like pressed to mine, and the better side that knew kissing Raf was something I could only keep if I was normal. If I changed. And if I didn’t, losing it would only tear me apart.

Please stop, my better side begged. Please don’t make me tell you to stop.

But he didn’t stop. He leaned toward me, and I saw as clear as the half-grin on his face that Raf was going to kiss me. Before I could make my lips move, I thought, STOP!

And then my brain exploded. Electric shocks seemed to sizzle through it, and tiny phantom stars flew past my eyes.

Raf crumpled. He folded in on himself like a marionette whose strings had been cut by an evil puppet-master. His head hit the bench, and my arms automatically shot out to catch him as he slid off the high stool. I couldn’t stop him, couldn’t even slow him down as he headed for the floor. I managed to get under him, to cushion his fall and keep his head from hitting the stone tiles of the chem lab floor. Pain stabbed my ankle as it twisted under Raf’s dead weight.

My head swam with dizziness. Had I hit my own head on the way down? Those tiny stars danced in and out of my field of view. I wrestled with Raf’s body, trying to move him without dumping him on the floor. I finally wriggled free and rolled him on his back. His wide-open eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. A chill ran through me like a ghostly wind.

Oh my god. I killed him.

My hands fluttered, useless, over his body. After a terrifying stretch of seconds, it occurred to me to check his breathing. I bent my ear to his mouth, and a warm draft brushed it.

Oh thank god. My hands trembled as I gently shook his shoulders. “Raf! Raf!” He just lay on the floor like a perfectly sculpted mannequin. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes and tried to think. Oh, please, Raf, wake up! I decided I should check his pulse, so I bent over him again, only to find him blinking back at me.

“Raf?” I gaped.

“What happened?” he asked.

Water pooled in my eyes. “Wh… what happened? You almost scared me to death, that’s what happened!” I shook from head to toe. My hands did that fluttering thing again. He struggled to get up, only to press a hand to his head and roll back down again. He made a noise that sounded like “ugh” and closed his eyes.

My panic surged. “Raf! Are you okay?”

“Merda… my head.” He didn’t move.

A rush of relief calmed my hands, and I let out a shaky laugh. If Raf could curse, he would probably live. I gently pried his hand away from his head. The angry red lump on his forehead was turning purple as the blood pooled under his skin.

“You’ve got a serious bump, Raf.” The visible sign of his injury was oddly soothing. He winced when he found the growing bump. “What the… How did I end up on the floor?”

I didn’t know what to say. Sorry, Raf, I nearly killed you with my incredible mind powers? It was ridiculous. No. Stick to the facts. “Well, you took a head-dive into the lab bench.” I gestured behind us to the abandoned homework station. “And then you fell off your stool, and I kind of cushioned your fall.” My right ankle throbbed, but I ignored it.

“Did you say something, right before…” He struggled up to rest on his elbow. I felt the blood rush out of my face. “I think I heard you, Kira. In my mind. You said something, but I know your lips didn’t move, because…” He gave a tiny smile. “Because I was kind of staring at your lips at the time.”

“Wh…” My voice faded away. “What did I say?”

“That’s just it, I can’t remember.” He frowned. “Maybe it’s the bump on the head.”

“Yeah,” I agreed quickly. “I mean, you can’t hear what I’m thinking now, right?”

He peered at me. “Are you thinking I’m some kind of idiot that faints during homework?”

I laughed but it sounded choked. My hand shook again. “Yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking. That, and we need to get you to the hospital. C’mon.” I stood, and my twisted ankle screamed its displeasure. A wave of dizziness made me sway.

“Are you okay?” He tried to find the source of my pain.

“Yes, but you might want to lay off Mama Santos’s desserts.” I groaned dramatically as I pulled him to standing. Cautiously putting weight on my injured foot, I pretended to inspect his strong, lanky form. “I don’t know where you put it, but you weigh as much as Seamus.”

He lit a brilliant smile, then went serious when he saw me favor my right foot. “Maybe you need to go to the hospital with me.”

“Oh, I’m going with you. Someone needs to keep you from taking another header into the pavement.” I limped to the bench and hastily stuffed our things into the backpacks. He took both packs from me and slung them over his shoulder. I slid my hand around his offered elbow to support my treacherous ankle, glad to feel him warm and alive. Everyone was still in class, so our conspicuous bare-armed grip went unnoticed as we hobbled to the nurse’s office.

I clenched my free hand the whole way to keep it from shaking.

chapter SIX

I think Raf’s mom caused him more pain than the lump.

Ana Amaro Santos clicked into the office on her high heels only minutes after the school nurse called. Mrs. Santos hovered over Raf, petting his hair with her manicured hands and mindtalking to him in a way that made the nurse grin and Raf’s face flush deep red.

I couldn’t hear any of their thoughts, like always. I hugged the edges of the cramped nurse’s office, keeping my distance. I tried to think about good things in case my thoughts came to life again, like a nightmarish wish come true. Maybe it was only a coincidence. Maybe Raf happened to faint at the same time that my mind ordered him to stop trying to kiss me. But a quiver had taken hold of my stomach, and I knew it wasn’t simply chance. That electric storm in my brain had done something to Raf. Everyone said that when they changed, they felt different inside their brains. I knew something had shifted inside me, but it wasn’t the change I had been waiting for all these years. I had turned into something dangerous instead.

I was afraid everyone could see the guilt on my face. But no one did.

Mama Santos took Raf to the hospital to make sure the bump was all show and no concussion. His mom would have the doctors run tests until she was satisfied he didn’t have a brain tumor, but I was pretty sure Raf would recover from his encounter with the benchtop. The nurse insisted on bandaging my ankle until I could barely shove on my shoe.

I limped through the heat on the walk home, taking my chances with the ankle rather than risking a ride on the bus. Mom was out, probably dropping Dad off at the base, although he could have taken the autocab. I was thankful she was safely away from whatever was wrong with my brain. I ditched the bandage as soon as I got home, hoping to avoid any questions. It jammed up the kitchen trash bowl, and I had to punch the button three times to flush it away.

My hands still shook from the trauma with Raf, and my stomach grumbled from the lack of lunch. I craved something warm and glared at the mindware interface for the flash oven, wondering why I had never bothered to learn the manual controls. Navigating the touch pad instructions was like translating Latin. After a minute, I gave up and slammed my hand down on the stone counter. The satisfyingly loud smack felt like it would leave a bruise.

“Kira?” My mom’s voice startled me so badly that I nearly tumbled over my weak ankle. I hadn’t heard her come up the stairs, but she hovered in the kitchen doorway, her white shirt rumpled and her face harried, as though she had rushed back to make sure I wasn’t home alone.

Except that it was safer for everyone if I was alone.

“You’re home early.” She had that bomb-squad look again, like she thought I might blow with the slightest jostle. Only this time, it made me shiver. Think good thoughts. I couldn’t let my brain malfunction again.

“Yeah. I skipped band practice.” I edged along the counter away from her. Just in case.

She held still, poised in the doorway. “Why?”

I grabbed a box of cheese crackers to keep my hands from shaking. “Well, um, Raf fell and hit his head and had to go to the hospital.”

A strange mixture of relief and concern warred on her face. “That’s awful.” She seemed to decide it was safe to enter the room. The refrigerator panel sprung open at her mental command.

“Is he okay?” She pulled out a container of milk.

“I think so. His mom came to school and got him. I asked him to scrit me when he gets done with all the tests.”

“Good.” She poured the milk into a glass. “I dropped your father off at the base. He said to say goodbye, and that you could call him if you needed anything.”

A nervous giggle threatened to escape me, and I clamped my teeth tight. Normally, my dad was incommunicado during his deployments. If he was giving me phone privileges, he must really be worried about me starting school as a confirmed zero. If he only knew. Being a zero was the least of my problems now.

My mom stared, still holding the glass of milk. It was probably meant for me, but I didn’t want her coming any closer. I stuffed a handful of stale crackers in my mouth.

“I’m going to the doctor’s office later to look at the hearing aids.” She eyed me, then took a sip of the milk.

“Great,” I said too quickly, glad I had already told her yesterday to go without me. The last thing I needed was a doctor prodding me. I swallowed the dry crackers and scooted along the periphery of the room.

I escaped the kitchen and scurried up the stairs before Mom could question my bizarre behavior. My room looked as though an angry fairy princess had ransacked it to reclaim her things. I curled under the rosy comforter, the only spot of girly left behind. It was only last night that I had decided to be tough, a warrior that no one would mess with. Now it seemed like I was a weapon that might go off at any moment.

It creeped me out.

Returning to school tomorrow seemed like a tragically bad idea. Who knew what might happen? What if Shark Boy found me alone in the hall? Would I strike him down in flash of fear? Mom was running out to get the hearing aid tonight. What if the small minds of heavenly wrath decided to hassle me about it, and I slew the whole lot of them in a fit of anger?

A picture sprung up in my mind—students slumped over their desks in Mr. Chance’s class, staring but unseeing. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think of something else, anything else. I had to believe I wasn’t going to kill everyone simply by going to school. After all, I hadn’t mowed down the nurse or Mama Santos or my mom. It had taken the near epic event of Raf almost kissing me to bring on this brain catastrophe, so an ordinary day at school couldn’t be too hazardous.

Could it?

The trembling of my hand wasn’t very reassuring.

chapter SEVEN

It was after lunch, and no one had died yet, so I took that as a good sign.

Raf was absent from Mr. Chance’s class, but he would be back soon. With Mama Santos clucking over him, he wouldn’t stay home any longer than necessary. His scrit from the hospital verified he would live: Head as thick as it seems. Doing ok.

It was just as well he wasn’t in school. I didn’t need to worry about him while I was concentrating on not knocking out people with my scary mind powers.

My teachers whispered through the new mini-mics that came with my hearing aid, which eased the ringing silence of school. Some could barely whisper and think at the same time, but Mr. Barkley was completely mesh about it in math. He took the mic patch and stuck it smoothly on the back of his ear in one quick motion. Maybe he had another zero in a previous class.

We tried it out as the other students drifted in and took their seats.

“Testing… testing…,” he whispered as he stood by the board a dozen feet away. I smiled to show that it worked fine. “I’m glad you got this, Kira.” His lips barely moved, and I only heard him through the mic. “I expect you to do even better on the exams this year.” The other students were all in range to hear his thoughts, even if they couldn’t hear his whisper. My cheeks ran hot, but if Mr. Barkley whispered everything he was thinking during class, I would finally have an equal footing and might actually pass his class.

The glow of Mr. Barkley’s praise carried me down the aisle. The class had filled, and the only open seat was directly in front of Simon Zagan. His brooding eyes captured me in their tractor beams again. Think good thoughts. Simon didn’t deserve to be the next victim of my uncontrollable brain surges, even if he and Shark Boy could start a Creep Club together.

As I willed my legs to move toward him, his face pinched in. He probably wondered why I wasn’t returning his glare. When I dropped into my seat, his stare burned a hot spot on the back of my head.

Mr. Barkley’s voice whispered in my ear, and once the class got under way, I forgot about the looming force of antagonism behind me. I had missed a lot the past two days and gave silent thanks for Mom and her eagerness. The tiny bud was barely visible once tucked in my ear, although the entire class had to know the zero had a new crutch. Those concerns were buried under my preoccupation with catching up and keeping everyone safe from my thoughts.

Near the end of class, the tap of a warm fingertip seeped through my t-shirt. It had to come from Simon. I seriously debated ignoring him, but then his breath fell on my ear. “I have something to show you.” A shiver ran down my back. Before I thought of something not-hostile to say, he was out of his seat and halfway to the door.

A piece of paper had appeared on my desk. As I unfolded the note, the chill settled into my stomach. In messy handprinting it said: Meet me in the chem lab next period.

I didn’t know what Simon was thinking, but there was no way I was meeting him in the empty chem lab. How did he know I had a free period anyway? Maybe he was stalking me. Maybe he was like Shark Boy and wanted to get me alone in a dark, empty classroom. Well, I might be coming unhinged in thinking I had strange mind powers, but I wasn’t stupid. Simon could find someone else to play with.

I spent my free period in the library, studying the copious notes I had taken through the day. When the workpod with the manual interface was free, I pulled down some research articles for a paper in history. The silence didn’t bother me nearly as much when I had work to do. How could I be a week behind when school had only been in session for three days?

When the final bell sounded, students flowed through the hallway toward the school entrance and their release for the day. I clung to the edges, fighting the current to reach my locker. At least I had survived the day and hadn’t injured anyone. And I had a real chance of doing well this year.

I dug around in my locker and decided to leave my running gear behind, since I needed to bring home my e-slate and all my scribepads. Satisfied I had everything, I slammed the locker door closed. My heart lurched when I saw Simon only a foot away, leaning against the wall of grated metal doors.

I let out an awkward sound.

“Did I scare you?” He seemed to be struggling to keep his face straight.

“No.” It sounded unconvincing, even to me. “You just startled me.” There were no sounds around us, no hints of anyone nearby. The other students must have cleared out while I had been fussing with my locker.

He dipped his head and peered at me through his lashes, which were deep black like his hair. “I was hoping you’d come to the chem lab.” A smile curled up one side of his face.

Spasms roiled through my stomach. “I… I need to get home, so I’ll just be on my way, all right?” I turned slowly, determined not to run. I would simply walk at a measured pace along the shortest possible route to somewhere safe. Somewhere he wouldn’t terrify me into doing something awful. Before I took a step, he grabbed my elbow.

“Let go!” I twisted out of his grasp and restrained the urge to smack him.

He threw up his hands. “Okay!” That he would openly touch my bare arm confirmed my worst thoughts. Maybe I could outrun him, at least to the office. But a strange look of concern on his face overrode any common-sense thoughts I had of running fast and hard.

“I understand why you’re nervous.” He dropped his voice. “Why you’re afraid.”

“I… I’m not a-afraid.” I cursed inwardly and wished I had said nothing at all. I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of Simon or of what my brain might do to him.

“I know you are.” He leaned closer and whispered. “Because I’m the same as you, Kira. And I remember how it felt.”

His words shocked me out of my trance of terror.

“What are you saying?” I glared up and down at his Cantos Syn t-shirt and nove-fiber jeans. He was toying with me. “Did you suddenly turn into a zero?” The acid in my voice was enough to give him third-degree burns.

His lips drew into a thin line that was not quite a grimace. “I’ve always been one.”

I blinked and took a step back. The words fell out of my mouth, “You can’t be. Why would you say that?” Simon wasn’t popular like Raf, but he had a crew of friends and plenty of girls who liked his brand of gritty. It wasn’t possible for him to be a zero.

He searched my face, for what I didn’t know. When he found it, the taut lines of his face softened. “Come with me.” He tilted his head toward the back door of the school. “I’ll show you what I mean.” He clasped his hands behind his back and waited for my answer.

If I ran, I could see he wouldn’t grab me again. Somehow that made a difference. I had to be demens to go anywhere with Simon Zagan, but curiosity burned in me, and the choice dangled like an elixir sparkling in his dark, intense eyes.

“Okay.”

chapter EIGHT

Simon held the door as I slipped out into the soul-crushing heat.

We crossed the parking lot in silence and crunched across the dead, scraggly grass toward the bleachers. Simon kept casting glances at me, as if we were on a secret mission. His mischievous looks made him seem younger, not a nearly eighteen-year-old senior, just a boy about to break the rules and confident he could get away with it.

My sandals and shorts left my skin exposed to the waves of scorching, metallic heat coming from the bleachers. Clusters of students either watched the soccer players practice in the blazing dampness or mindtalked amongst themselves. I quickly scanned the field for Raf, but couldn’t find him in the blur of jerseys skillfully dashing in and out of range of each other.

Of course, no one on the bleachers noticed me. But Simon usually had the same vacuum effect as Raf, sucking in all the female attention in reading range. Yet today we were both invisible as we snuck up the bleachers. Did Simon’s zero status flip on and off? How did that work?

When we reached the top, he motioned for me to sit to his right. Two students sat several rows below us, within thought range, but ignoring us. The girl was reading one of Mr. Chance’s ancient paper books, and the boy pretended to watch the soccer scrimmage, while stealing peeks at her.

Simon scooted close, his lean, bare legs nearly touching mine. He rested his arm on the railing behind us and whispered, “Do you see that couple down there?” I nodded my assent, eyes glued to them, because Simon was entirely too close.

“He likes her, but she’s not very interested. She’s thinking about someone else, although she’s trying not to. She knows it annoys him.”

I leaned away, giving him a skeptical look. “So you are reading their minds.” I kept my accusation low so it wouldn’t carry over the whistles and muscular grunts coming from the field below.

“No.” His mischievous smile had returned. “Now watch. I’m going to tell him to take her book.” The couple seemed too far to hear his whispered voice, but the boy immediately snatched the book and held it aloft out of her reach. She smacked him on his t-shirt-covered shoulder.

I shrugged. “Big deal, so he read your mind. Just proves you’re not a zero.” I wondered why we were playing this stupid game.

“He didn’t read my mind,” he said. “I jacked into his.” My body froze at the word jacked. When I told Raf to stop in his tracks and fall to the ground like a stricken puppet, it had felt like he was obeying my command.

Simon leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Try it. You know you can.”

There was no way I could do that again. I clenched the fire-hot bleacher with my hands to force myself to stay in my seat while crackles of alarm sang through my body.

“It’s not that bad,” he said. “It’s even kind of fun…”

Fun? Simon’s idea of fun made my pulse pound like I had sprinted up the bleachers. What if I hurt them? It was insane.

As if reading my thoughts, he whispered, “It’s okay. You won’t hurt them, not if you go slowly. Reach toward them with your mind.” My head twitched back and forth. The girl below retrieved her book and gave the boy a dirty look. I couldn’t hear her thoughts, like every other day of my life as a zero.

But I wanted to.

I leaned forward, as if I could project my mind by pitching toward them.

Simon encouraged me. “Go on. Tell the girl to give him the book.”

My mind sizzled, like a short circuit pulsing through my brain, only less powerful than before, with Raf. No phantom stars swam before my eyes, but the space between me and the girl narrowed, as if a vacuum had formed and sucked the air out between us. As I got closer, the sizzle strengthened and then I was touching her, pushing through a barrier into her mind.

I heard her thoughts. Think you’re so funny. You’re just making my life difficult, Jeremy. I thought: give him the book. Give him the book, she instantly echoed. Her hand shot out and shoved the book into his chest. He recoiled from her, and I heard his thoughts of surprise only as a faint echo in the thought waves she picked up from his brain. Because I wasn’t in his mind, I was in hers. Her thoughts continued to echo, repeating like a cavern lined with endless tunnels, each a different length. Give him the book, him the book, the book, book.

A smell, rich and flowery, filled the back of my throat and caused me to choke. I drew in a sharp breath and yanked back to my own head. My whole body shook in one violent pulse.

I mindjacked her. And no one got hurt.

The couple was now arguing further about the book. Simon’s smile was a mile wide, but he waited for me to speak.

“All this time… you’ve been doing this?” His grin was his only answer. “Does she know? That I—”

“Shhh!” he said. “She doesn’t know. I’ve been doing this for years, and no one’s known. Until you.”

The idea that Simon had been mindjacking people for years made my stomach turn sideways. The bleachers started to tip, and the heat painted sweat all over my face. Simon caught me right before I fell over.

His dark eyebrows pulled together into a straight line of concern. “Are you okay? I think maybe the heat is too much…”

I nodded. I couldn’t form coherent words if I tried. Maybe I had electrocuted my brain. Maybe I jacked the girl and somehow zapped myself at the same time. A crooked smile broke out on my face, but I tried to stop it, afraid of looking like an idiot. Simon’s frown pulled tighter. He slid his arm under mine, pulled me to standing, and half carried me down the bleachers. My head floated above like a tethered balloon that Simon kept pulling down, jerk by jerk, to the bottom of the steps.

We hobbled across the grass and the parking lot because my legs weren’t working right. They kept getting tangled with the ground. Simon moved faster and when he pulled open the door to the building, a wash of frigid air swept over us. The air-conditioned hall was like a freezer, and my full-body shiver snapped my head back onto my shoulders. I stumbled, then managed to stand upright, bracing my hands against Simon’s chest.

“Are you okay?” He held me as though I were a child that might fall down.

“Y-Yeah.” My jaw chattered with the cold. “Thanks.”

He smiled, and it stole my breath. It wasn’t that annoying smirky thing, but a blaze of happiness. And he was gorgeous when he smiled, his long lashes fighting their way outward from his sparkling black eyes.

I gulped and looked away, needing to sit down. He helped me find a spot, leaned up against the cold, metal lockers. My mind was a complete blank, like I was a computer coming back from a hard reboot.

“I need some time,” I finally said, “to think about this.”

He didn’t say anything, but there was a glint in his eyes.

“How did you know?” I asked. “That I could jack into people’s heads?”

A smile flitted across his face. “I didn’t,” he said. “But you’re the only person that I couldn’t jack, so I figured there was something special about you. Your mind barrier is like nothing I’ve felt before.”

I shrunk away from him. Of course he had tried to jack into my mind. Like he did to that boy on the bleachers. Like he had done to everyone else. For years.

A surge of adrenaline made my hand twitch. I scrambled up from the dingy industrial carpeting, and a shadow crossed Simon’s face as he climbed to his feet.

“Aren’t you afraid,” I said slowly, contemplating how I could escape if I had to, “that I’ll tell someone?”

Simon loomed over me, his dark look solidifying into an icy mask. “No one would believe you, Kira.”

I swallowed. He was right; no one would believe a sim like that, especially from a zero. I hardly believed it myself, and I had just jacked into another girl’s head.

“I won’t, you know,” I said. “Tell anyone.”

My words seemed to erase Simon’s cold look as quickly as it had appeared. “I know.” He touched my hair, smoothing it back from my face. “We’re the same, Kira. Now that we’ve found each other, we’re in this together. Just you and me.” He gently swept his thumb across my forehead. We weren’t readers, so there was no surge of emotions between us when he touched my bare skin. But it still sent a shiver through my body.

When he stepped back, I teetered, not sure if I should run or stay. “Take some time to think,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Without another word, he turned and strode down the hall.

chapter NINE

I stumbled through the walk home, my skin slick with sweat.

I told myself it was only the heat, not the traumatic after-school events with Simon, but I was so distracted thinking about my newfound mindjacking ability that I nearly ran into the garage door. I slid in the passkey, and it opened to reveal our red hydro car. Mom was already home, and I searched my brain for a plausible reason to be late.

As I hiked up the stairs from the ground level, the cool air of the house prickled my skin. Mom shuttled back and forth between the kitchen and the living room in a flurry of activity, and the acrid smell of glass-cleaning solution followed her. She had hauled out Grandma O’Donnell’s crystal plates, the ones Gram claimed were hand-cut by our distant relatives in County Kerry during the potato famine. She also said Big Foot crashed her eighteenth birthday party.

Gram could make up stories like that, and no one could tell if they were true memories or sims because she was a zero, and zeros were liars. Even a truth magistrate couldn’t read her thoughts, in spite of their skin-to-skin questioning.

I wished Gram were still rambling around the house. Given what she had been through—being a zero, having her dad in the camps—she might have understood what I was going through. But my mom… she was always trying to be like everyone else, even with her semi-heremita lifestyle.

And I was about as far from fitting in as possible.

Mom shuffled back from the living room and carefully set another sparkling crystal plate with the others on the kitchen table. “How was school?”

“Um, okay,” I said, stalling. “The, uh, hearing aid worked great.” Her face broke into a picture of relief. She must have expected a heinous story related to the tiny ear bud that still sat in my ear. I popped it out. “See, I forgot to take it out. Hardly noticed it.” That earned me a smile. I edged toward the stairs. “I’ve got a ton of homework to catch up on. I should get started.”

“Why don’t you work here in the kitchen?” she asked. “I made a snack for you.” Snickerdoodles beckoned from one of Gram’s crystal plates on the table. My mom always cooked up a storm whenever my dad was on deployment, as though she could fill the emptiness with baked goods. I longed to eat cookies and spill out the contents of my day so my mom could help me make sense of my life. But I couldn’t tell her that I had mind controlled a girl at school. That I had become a freak even worse than a zero. I wrenched my eyes away from the solace my mom had laid out for me.

“I’m totally beat,” I said. “I’ll just study in my room.” I hitched my backpack on my shoulder and slunk toward the stairs. I cast a parting look at the cookies.

It worked.

“Well, go ahead and take one,” she said. “You can eat it upstairs.” I snagged two cookies and gave her a smile before I trudged up the stairs.

I slung my backpack on the bed. A jitter started in my stomach, and my appetite for the cookies disappeared. After dropping them on the nightstand, I sought refuge from the day under my bedspread. Eventually, the shaking calmed to a quiver.

I jacked into a girl’s head today and told her what to do. And she did it.

My battered silver phone, tucked in the pocket of my backpack, beckoned to me. I could call Seamus, but then he would want to know: why are you asking about mind control, Kira? And I would have to lie, because I couldn’t tell him what happened on the bleachers. Or in the chem lab.

Besides, he would insist that I tell Mom, and she might take me to another doctor, like the one that had wanted to image my brain when I was fourteen. Mom had insisted he use the standard thought-wave cap, but the Cerebrus 3D imager had loomed in the corner like a giant bullet, threatening to illustrate in bold, color images precisely what was wrong with me.

I shivered under the covers, sending a wave of pink sheen down the length of it. If anyone found out I could control thoughts, they’d lock me away in a laboratory. Do experiments. Dissect my brain. I understood why Simon insisted that this had to be a secret. Simon, with his dark eyes and smirky grin. He had passed as a reader for years, and no one knew the truth.

Because he mindjacked everyone to believe the lie.

The image of Raf crumpling like a lifeless doll sprang up, and I pulled the blanket tighter under my chin. I was a dangerous, possibly lethal, weapon. Waves of horror at that thought crashed into an upswelling of hope: maybe I wasn’t doomed to life as a zero. Maybe I could control this thing and pass for a reader like Simon. The feel of Simon’s thumb lingered on my forehead. He knew how it all worked.

Tomorrow I would ask him to teach me.

chapter TEN

I left the house early, hoping to catch Simon before school.

Last night’s condensation steamed up from the streets, leaving my shirt damp by the time I reached the school. Students walked in synchronized groups through the hall, breezing past me and unaware of the danger standing next to them.

I watched them, drawn by the new connection between us. All I had to do was reach out and touch them with my mind…. I pressed closer to the lockers, putting more distance between myself and the bustling crowd. Just to be safe.

There was only one person I wanted to talk to, but he wasn’t in hallways. I sat in the back of first period, as far away from the other students as I could. Between classes, I peered through the crowds, searching for Simon. I fumbled through the things in my locker and grabbed my paper book for English. My hand stopped mid-reach. Raf should be back in class today, and he had an uncanny ability to know what I was thinking, even if he couldn’t read my mind. Would he see the change that was invisible to everyone else?

I realized that the bell had already rung and whirled to join the stragglers hurrying to class. I stopped dead when I saw Raf had saved me a seat. He smiled, but all I saw was the ugly purple bruise on his forehead, which had spread and turned a sickening yellow. The physical reminder of my freakish new power wrenched my stomach. I took the seat in front of him and busied my hands with my backpack.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’ll live.” I involuntarily shot him a glance and then quickly faced forward so Raf wouldn’t see the guilt in my eyes. Mr. Chance had remembered to wear his mini-mic, but it played like a bad phone connection as he only mumbled about half his thoughts.

Raf tapped me on the shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I was the furthest thing from okay, but I couldn’t have Raf asking questions and piecing it together. That I almost killed him. I gave him a short nod and pretended to be fascinated by Mr. Chance’s crackling monologue. Raf didn’t speak again until it was time to break into groups. Of course, no one wanted to be in a discussion group with the zero. Except Raf.

His irresistible smile was back. I considered feigning illness to avoid sitting face-to-face with him, where he might see the difference inside me. The way my stomach was twisting, claiming sickness wouldn’t have been far from the truth. We turned our desks and he searched my face. I focused on my paper book and tried to interpret Mr. Chance’s halting instructions.

“Kira.” Raf’s voice was heavy with patience.

I wondered how long I could avoid looking at him. “Yeah?”

“Kira, what is it?”

“Nothing. I just…” I tried to muster the smile I usually had for him. “What are we supposed to discuss again? Because I’m pretty sure I know nothing about Hester Prynne’s life.”

Raf scowled to show he didn’t appreciate my dodge.

Mr. Chance’s voice was a staccato message, “…Hester …the women…” Raf glanced up front. “We’re supposed to discuss what punishments the women of Hester’s time would have given her.”

A fitting topic. What was the right punishment for almost killing your best friend? The scraping sounds of turning desks faded as the other students silently engaged in their literary discussions via mindtalk.

“Wait.” Raf’s eyes refocused on me. “Didn’t you get the hearing aid?”

“How did you know?”

“Word gets around.”

Of course, the speed-of-thought rumor mill at Warren Township High would be buzzing about my new hearing aid. “Well, yeah, I have it.” I glanced over my shoulder at our hapless English teacher. “But Mr. Chance doesn’t know how to use it.”

“Good thing you still have me to translate.” His eyes captured mine.

“Good thing.” I broke the stare and pretended to concentrate on the book. “So, what do you think would be a proper punishment for Hester?”

“I don’t think Hester deserves any punishment,” he said.

I resisted the urge to glance at him. “I don’t think Mr. Chance will take that for an answer.”

He sighed and I nervously thumbed through the pages of the book. Then he reached across our desks to lay his hand on mine. I flushed at the sideways snickers we were garnering and flashed back to the chem lab. I jerked my hand back. He slowly dragged his away.

“Is this about what happened… before?” he asked. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest and fell dead on the floor. Does he know? I peeked at him, but his face only held frustration.

“N-nothing happened before.” I forced a grin. “People faint all the time during homework. Just thinking about my homework makes me wish I could pass out.”

He had that stubborn look that I knew too well, the one he wore when he insisted I taste Mama Santo’s arroz doce or listen to his new favorite synchrony band. He would press on until he got what he was after. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about before…” Then I finally understood: the near-kiss.

Which was why my brain had exploded in the first place.

Why couldn’t he have left things alone? Waited until I changed? Then maybe none of this would have happened. And why was he bringing it up now, in the middle of English, where everyone could overhear his thoughts? Everyone except me.

I stared at Raf, unable to speak.

“Please, Kira. Say something.”

I gripped my paper book harder. “Nothing happened, okay?” I said. “Just… nothing happened, and I think we need to do our work now.”

Raf’s face fell.

I was tempted to jack into his head and erase the look that was shredding my heart. But I banished that idea in an instant. There was no way I would ever mindjack Raf again. Even if I could do it without hurting him, the idea of forcing Raf to do something against his will creeped me out. It was wrong. And sick.

We concentrated on our work and concocted some lame answer. By the end of class, Raf’s face had transformed into a mask of carved stone, a poor imitation of the true Rafael.

My heart shrank as Raf left English without saying goodbye.

chapter ELEVEN

I skipped lunch again and went for a run in the August heat.

I told myself I needed to get away from the curious eyes and lightning-fast rumors, but I was really avoiding Raf and his stony looks. By the eighth time around the track, sweat drenched me. I headed for the showers, eager for a chance to talk to Simon in math.

I arrived early to find Simon standing two classrooms down the hall, having a pointed silent conversation with a balding, portly man that I vaguely recognized as Mr. Gerek, the shop teacher. I leaned against a wall scarred from rubbed-out graffiti and waited for Simon. Mr. Gerek caught sight of me and Simon turned around. He wore his mesh nove-fiber jeans like the day before, but today he sported a band t-shirt for the Melders. It sounded like something Raf would like.

Simon left Mr. Gerek and quickly strode down the hall. “Hey,” he whispered when he got close.

“Hi,” I said. “I didn’t know you took shop.”

He seemed puzzled. “I don’t.”

I raised my eyebrows, but Mr. Gerek had already disappeared. Then I tried to remember my burning questions, but Simon beat me to it.

“Have you been practicing?” He brushed a lock of hair from my face, and his fingertips swept across the top of my ear. That simple touch seemed to light my ear on fire. I pulled away from him and glanced around to see if anyone saw us. The students down the hall seemed to be averting their eyes.

How did he do that?

Simon’s head-turning trick brought all my questions back in a rush that tangled up in my throat and made my voice disappear into a squeak. “Practicing?”

“Don’t be afraid, Kira.” His hand lingered by my face. “I’ll help you. We’re in this together, remember? We’ll practice in class. I want to see what you can do.”

“I don’t know what I can do,” I protested. He was supposed to help me.

“Time to find out,” he said. “Don’t worry. If anything happens, I’ll fix it.”

My eyes went wide. If anything happens? He only smirked and stepped back. A couple of students walked past us into Mr. Barkley’s class. Simon tilted his head toward the door. I gritted my teeth and filed into class with the others.

Mr. Barkley checked in with me on the mini-mic, because he’s mesh that way. “Good afternoon, Ms. Moore.” I smiled my acknowledgement. I tried to focus on his introduction of tangents, but I was hyperaware of Simon in the seat behind me.

A few minutes later Simon whispered, “I’m waiting.”

The boy sitting in front of me was as tall as a basketball player and had to hunch over his scribepad. Ignoring the soft-spoken math instructions in my ear, I leaned forward and stretched my mind toward him. The distance between us shrunk until I pushed into his mind.

It was like Jell-O that was not quite set—solid, but gooey and on the verge of turning liquid with a few good stirs. I shuddered. His thoughts and an echo of Mr. Barkley’s played at the same time, like a harmony. The tangent is the ratio of the cosine to the sine…

Nathan—his name popped up like a nametag on the back of his head—translated Mr. Barkley’s lessons into magnetic ink on his scribepad. The scent of freshly mowed grass tickled the back of my throat, and I remembered the overpowering flowery mind scent of the girl on the bleachers. I wondered if every person had their own flavor.

For no reason at all, I decided to have Nathan draw a smiley face. Before I could form the words in my head, a crooked face smiled from the middle of his notes like a sinister hiccup in his writing. I pulled back out of his mind, which cut off his thoughts like a switch.

Simon laughed quietly. “Is that all you’ve got?” His words were soft, so they wouldn’t carry over the shuffling sounds of the room. I gave him a dirty look and twisted forward, jacking back into Nathan’s mind. After a moment, the first three verses of Mary Had a Little Lamb scrolled by on his scribepad. While still in his mind, I reached to the student ahead of him. Janice. Soon she was writing nursery rhymes as well. Then I noticed something in both of their minds, a hard presence, like a marble. I pushed at the marble but invisible forces held it firmly embedded in their gelatin brains.

Simon.

I looked back and his face had gone deadly serious. I held Simon’s gaze while I gave the marble another nudge. It didn’t move. The barest smile parted Simon’s lips. I lost my focus, causing Nathan and Janice to return to copying the lesson.

Simon grinned, and my face grew hot.

I turned my back on him and reached into mind after mind. Students twenty feet in every direction had the cold, hard spot of Simon infiltrating them.

He must be jacking all of them. At the same time.

I finally found a girl up front who didn’t have a hard marble suspended in her head. She only half listened to Mr. Barkley and the echoes of the other students, with the rest of her thoughts occupied by a dark-haired boy. Her mind lingered on his curly hair and how she’d like to run her fingers through it. I was about to leave, feeling like a voyeur, when I recognized the boy… Raf!

Taylor. Raf’s Pekingese fangirl. I clenched my teeth and wanted to jack those thoughts out of her head, but her next ones froze me. I wish he’d stop hanging around that pathetic zero. He should just do whatever he wants with that little charity case and get over it…

My fingernails dug into my palms. A tornado swept all thoughts out of my mind and drove them toward the soft jelly of Taylor’s brain. Her head flopped forward and a sudden force shoved me out of her mind. Her head popped up and shook, as though she had nodded off and snapped back awake.

At the same time, Simon launched out of his chair, grabbed me by the arm, and hauled me out of my seat. I sputtered, but couldn’t get any words out as he dragged me past Mr. Barkley’s desk toward the door. Before we left the classroom, Mr. Barkley whispered in my ear bud, “I hope you feel better soon, Ms. Moore.”

In the hallway, I finally had enough wits to resist. I pulled against Simon’s iron grip on my upper arm, but I didn’t even slow him down as he dragged me down the hall. Once we were around the corner, he let me loose. I backed against the lockers, a surge of horror washing over me. I had nearly knocked Taylor out. It was like Raf all over again, only this time Simon was there to save her before I sent her crashing to the floor.

“I… I…” I couldn’t breathe. “I didn’t mean to…” But it was a lie. I did mean to. I wanted to shut her up; I just didn’t mean to hurt her.

Simon leaned on the locker next to me, his arms folded. “Well, it’s a good thing I was there to stop you. Next time we’ll have to be a little more careful.”

No. This was crazy. I was dangerous. I couldn’t do this anymore…

Simon unfolded his arms at the look on my face. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s fine now.” He leaned close. “I took care of it.”

“How…” I stopped to clear the quavering in my voice. “How did you stop me?”

“I pushed you out of her mind.” He ran a finger down my cheek. “You felt it, didn’t you?”

There was no one in the hall, and even if there had been, Simon would have jacked them to avert their eyes. His touch calmed my pounding heart a little.

“But what if next time…”

“Next time I’ll be there,” he said. “We can practice some more before we try the math class again. You just need to work on your self-control.”

A shiver ran up and down my arms. I was definitely not in control. Not like Simon, who seemed unfazed by the whole event. He was right—I had to stick close to him until I figured out this jacking thing.

My shaky nod brought a gentle smile to his face.

“Come on. I’d better take you to the nurse, since you felt so horribly sick in Algebra that you had to leave.” He took my hand and pulled me away from the lockers. “Stick with me, Kira, and everything will be fine.”

I wasn’t so sure.

chapter TWELVE

Simon jacked the nurse into believing I had a math anxiety attack, and she let me go with some instructions on how to meditate.

By the time we reached the library, my shakiness had diminished to a nervous jerkiness. Simon seemed to think the library was the perfect spot to practice my nascent mind control skills. Of course he wanted to know what Taylor had done to bring out my fury—he hadn’t been in her mind when she took the head dive. I only told him that she didn’t think much of zeros. He touched my cheek and said my days as a zero would soon be over. That settled the last of my nerves.

I wanted this to work.

We huddled on the hard, tiled floor by the library door while students filled the hallways between classes. Simon said he regularly skipped his last-period biology class and that he jacked the teacher to believe he had chemo treatments in the afternoon.

I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not.

I kept my legs tucked out of the flow of students filing by while Simon jacked them to ignore us. He made it look so easy, having everyone do as he wished, all the while thinking he was a reader like them. By the time the next period started, I was ready to dive into practicing.

My exuberance pulled a grin out of him. “Easy there, changeling. Don’t want you killing off the library patrons.”

I made a face and reached past the peeling paint of the library wall, searching for the nearest mind. Not seeing my target was tricky, like fumbling in the dark until my hand sunk into a plate full of goo. Kind of gross, but not too bad once I knew to expect it. Of course the hard lump of Simon was already firmly in place.

“That’s, um,” I fished for the name, and it popped into my head. “Anthony. Soccer player, sophomore.” Anthony’s thoughts were focused on summoning historical research from the mindware interface of his workpod. His mind scent hinted of freshly shaven wood chips.

“And what would you like Anthony to do?” Simon asked.

“I suppose the Chicken Dance would be too disruptive?”

My eyes were closed to make it easier to concentrate, but I heard the smile in Simon’s voice. “A little showy.”

“Maybe have him move books around in the stacks?”

“Subtle, yet subversive. I like it.”

Anthony leapt to his feet, determined to carry out the directive I had implanted in his mind. He strode past the multimedia pod and Literature Lab to the librarian’s desk. She gave him the passkey to the climate-controlled paper book pod tucked in the back. Once he was on his way, I searched for another Jell-O to mold. Naturally Simon was already there.

“Okay, she’s, uh…” Names were integral and came unbidden, but with some probing I could call up a lot more. Name? Rank? Serial number? They popped up like displays on a console. “Sheila, junior, has a strange affinity for grape-flavored gum. What should Sheila do?”

“Anthony’s in the stacks, right?”

“Yup. He’s undoing the Dewey Decimal system. Mixing the goldfish with the geraniums.”

“Maybe he and Sheila can be subversive together.”

My eyes popped open at his lowered tone. “What are you saying, Simon Zagan?”

“I’m saying no one will notice them kissing in the paper book pod.”

I leaned away. “You’re not serious.” Jacking two strangers into lip-locking in the library didn’t have much appeal to me.

“I am.” His eyes glinted like obsidian, and I narrowed mine.

“Come on,” Simon said. “Jacking two people to write the same nursery rhyme isn’t much of a stretch. Handling a true interaction between two minds takes more control. I want to see if you can do it.”

“Can’t they just hold hands?” Considering how intimate touching was for readers, even that seemed a bit much.

Simon huffed. “Fine.”

I jacked Sheila to go check out the paper book pod. After getting another passkey and a furrowed look from the librarian, Sheila stepped into the tiny room. She hesitated as the door sealed behind her. I jacked her to make eye contact with Anthony. He flushed, having been caught rearranging the ancient books, and he wondered what possessed him to do such a thing.

Jacking both at once was like seeing double. Plus the commands were reverberating through their minds. With some difficulty, I twisted Anthony’s embarrassment into attraction, while at the same time jacking Sheila to admire Anthony’s soccer physique. Once their mutual appeal took hold, they found their way to each other. It took some additional jacking to get them to breach their personal space and hold hands. As soon as they touched, their thoughts twined together, which helped with the double vision.

“See. Nothing to it.” Then I realized the emotions resonating between Anthony and Sheila were getting out of hand. There would be kissing, if I didn’t stop it. I ordered them to return to their workpods.

“Yes. Just like a pro.” Simon barely kept his laughter from carrying through the open library door. When I resumed my mind control experiments, I stuck to less intrusive things like dropping styli or making unnecessary visits to a different learning pod.

After a while, Simon’s voice interrupted my focused efforts. “Kira.” His touch on my shoulder made my eyes fly open again. “It’s not only about making them do what you want. You need to link your thoughts to theirs.”

“Huh?”

He ran the back of his fingers down my cheek, which completely distracted me. “The only way you can escape being a zero is by convincing them they can read your mind.”

“But, they can’t, right?”

“No.”

“So, how do you…?” This was the one thing I didn’t understand. I knew that Simon could control other people’s thoughts. But the people around him weren’t all puppets on strings. Were they? How did he convince them he was a reader?

“Instead of jacking in to control them, just link in and tell them your thoughts,” he said. “It’s a small difference. You can do it, you just have to practice.”

“But how?” The students in the library were packing up to leave.

“Practice,” he said, standing and moving away. I scrambled to my feet and wondered why he was leaving. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. He leaned casually against the locker wall and gazed down the hall as if we hadn’t spent the last hour hunkered on the floor together.

The final bell rang, and students flowed into the hallway, a silent stream of faces glad for the end of the day. I pressed flat to the wall, trying not to let my heart contract simply because Simon was acting like I didn’t exist. A dark-haired boy greeted him with a head nod, and Simon turned to walk with him. Two steps later, a pretty blonde sidled up to Simon. Close, but not touching, like Raf’s Pekingese fangirl. Simon left me standing outside the library without another glance.

Tears pricked my eyes, and I told myself not to be an idiot. Of course Simon couldn’t admit we had been together. As far as anyone knew, I was a zero and he was a senior reader, too mesh to hang out with the likes of me. I stumbled upstream through the human river, heading toward the band room for practice. Practice. That was what I needed to leave my zero status behind.

I rounded a corner and ran smack into Shark Boy.

He looked as surprised as I was to find himself entangled with me in the hall. That didn’t stop him from running his hands over my bare arms.

“What have we here?”

His fingers curled into my flesh and he dragged me up flush against his chest. I tried to pull out of his grasp, but he just dug in more painfully. I jacked hard into his mind. Let me go!

He dropped my arms like they were red-hot pokers and took a step back. He teetered, uncertain, and his hateful thoughts filled my throat with a burning sensation.

Go to the principal’s office! I ordered him. Turn yourself in and confess to… my mind spun, trying to think of something that would pay back Shark Boy but leave me out of it. Confess to harassing a changeling on the first day of school!

Shark Boy spun and strode purposely toward the principal’s office, my command echoing through his mind. As I pulled back, I caught his name. David. Sickness churned in my stomach. Maybe he would come to his senses before he reached the principal’s office. Maybe my command would fade. If not, he deserved whatever he got there.

I couldn’t bring myself to regret what I’d done.

My shaky legs carried me down the hall, and I made it to band rehearsal before the bell rang. The rich sound of our instruments vibrated through me, soothing out the tension. My fingers found the notes on my saxophone while other students tapped their feet or swayed to the music filling our ears.

Here, I was still a zero. Everyone ignored me, like usual.

Practice. Simon’s instructions rang in my head. The first chair saxophonist trained her eyes on the bandmaster and fluttered her fingers with perfect timing. She was Janice from math, the one that I had jacked to write nursery rhymes. I reached toward her with my mind. I could jack her, make her miss her perfect notes. Make her blow every song for the rest of practice.

I shrank back inside myself. What kind of person does that?

I focused my eyes on the sheet music swimming in front of me and pretended to be a zero, instead of a dangerous freak lurking in the third-chair saxophonist seat.

chapter THIRTEEN

I dragged myself into the house and my insides squirmed, sourness from the day’s events eating me from the inside out. I trudged up the stairs to find Mom in the kitchen. She was digging around a low cabinet and had pots, pans, and strange kitchen gadgets evicted and strewn all over the floor. She backed out of the long-neglected cabinet, her hair spotted with furry dust worms.

A strangled laugh erupted from me.

“Hey,” she said. “Good day at school?”

“Um, yeah.” Part of me wanted to tell her everything—Shark Boy, jacking, Simon. Simon. He would want me to jack into my mom’s mind and control her like the students in the library, but jacking my mom summoned the same internal cringing I felt about controlling Raf.

“How is Raf doing?” she asked, as if she had read my mind.

“Raf?” I repeated. “Uh, yeah, Raf’s fine. Great.”

She smiled and brushed back a strand of dusty hair that had fallen over her face. I could practice like Simon wanted, link in and mindtalk and make her think I had finally changed. But I would have to do it all the time or she would know something was wrong, and I wasn’t sure I could pull it off.

Or wanted to.

I couldn’t decide which was the worse lie—that I was still a zero, or that I could read minds like everyone else. Either one was better than the truth—that I was a mindjacking freak.

“I need to study,” I said and fled to my room before she could ask me anything else. A vision of Raf, with his stony looks, chased me up the stairs.

~*~

The next morning I escaped the house before Mom could grill me, using mouthfuls of breakfast and a manufactured scowl to keep her questions at bay. The empty halls of school smelled of overnight cleaning. I rounded a corner and found Simon leaning against my locker, wearing a Tactus Dura t-shirt. I was starting to think he had a collection.

“Good morning,” I said carefully, opening my locker.

He rained a brilliant smile on me. “Good morning. How’s your practice going? Did you link your thoughts to anyone?”

I bit my lip, pretty sure I didn’t want to tell him about Shark Boy. “Well, no.”

He leaned against the lockers again and studied me. “What about your parents?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right. You know, jacking into my mom’s head.”

He let loose an exaggerated sigh. “Kira, you’ll have to jack into everyone’s head.”

“I… I’m not sure I want to.” I looked away from his disappointment.

“Hey.” His hand tucked under my chin. “I know it’s hard. But you’re going to have to make a choice, Kira. Do you want to be a zero your whole life?” I shook my head, my chin rubbing gently against his fingers. “Then you have to learn how to jack everyone. Even your mom. You’ll make her happy when she thinks you can read minds like everyone else. I promise.”

I nodded, but the uncertainty must have shown in my face. Simon dropped his hand away. “It’s all or nothing, Kira. Because if you pick and choose, someone’s going to figure it out. And you’re not the only one with a secret here.” I nodded more vigorously. What would Simon do if someone found out our secret? I didn’t like the tight feeling that came with that thought.

His voice flipped back to soft and tender. “We’re in this together, right?”

“Right.” It sounded weak, so I backed it up with a tentative smile. I wanted Simon to trust me, and not only because his mood swings set my nerves on edge. I needed his help.

He brushed his fingers against my hair. “I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

As students began to trickle in, he turned away—before anyone saw us together. I ignored the twinge in my chest and headed to Latin with renewed purpose.

Once there, I realized the difficulty of what I was facing. I had only mindjacked two people at the same time before. How could I juggle thirty minds at once? Instead, I stuck in my hearing aid and listened to Mr. Amando conjugate the verb to teach: doceō, docēre, docuī, doctus. I needed Simon to doce me how to jack an entire class before I attempted it on my own.

Latin flew past, which meant English with Raf was next. The class was half full, with no Raf, which gave me a disturbing sense of relief. I took an empty seat between two students, leaving no room for him.

A moment later Raf appeared at the door and paused to say goodbye to someone. The set of Raf’s shoulders told me he was already mad, but his jaw clenched when he saw I hadn’t saved him a seat. He passed by without a word and sat near the back of the class.

I rubbed my face and stared ahead at Mr. Chance. His ineptitude with the mini-mic caused an annoying crackle in my ear. I crept into his mind, slow and gentle. I didn’t want to jack him accidentally, so I lingered at the edge, listening to the ear bud play a halting echo of his thoughts. I took it out, shoved it into my pocket, and focused on my essay about Hester’s thoughts on the scaffold. At the end of class, I was packing my stuff and didn’t notice Raf until he stepped into my view with the oversized sneakers that were fashionable for Portuguese Soccer Gods.

Emotions warred across his face. “Why aren’t you wearing your hearing aid?” he asked. Raf was dangerously observant. Had he seen me take notes without the aid?

I stood and fished the tiny bud out of my pocket to show him. “The battery died.” I wondered how many lies I would have to tell today. And every day.

“Oh.” His face brightened. “Well, you can copy my notes during free period.”

I didn’t need the notes, but now I had to pretend that I did. “Um, that’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

“At least meet me for lunch. I only want to talk.”

Lunch? I was supposed to meet Simon for lunch. “I, um, was going to go for a run at lunch.”

“Kira.” He said my name like he was scolding me. “You can’t keep avoiding me.”

I recognized his Stubborn Portuguese voice, and I felt the same tug as I had with my mom. I longed to tell Raf everything, spill all my secrets. Let him help me figure this crazy thing out before it got any worse.

“Okay. I’ll see you at lunch.”

How I would manage this, I had no idea. Maybe I could catch Simon and change our plans. I shuffled out of English and glimpsed Simon at the far end of the hall, hanging out with two boys and the blond girl from yesterday. As I approached, he studiously ignored me.

An argument raged in my head. If I jacked into his friends’ heads, he couldn’t pretend that I didn’t exist. But there were three of them, and I’d have to jack all of them at once. I stared at Simon. The weight of my zero status hung on me as he refused to look my way.

I spun and stalked off the other direction.

The morning flew by on anxiety-hyped wings. I lingered at the edge of the cafeteria, scanning the room and hoping to flag down Simon before Raf found me. Simon was missing in action, but Raf waved from his seat in the middle of the cafeteria. I would have to explain to Simon later why I ditched him, but he wouldn’t want to be seen with me in the lunch room anyway.

The wide circular lunch table seated ten, with chairs still sticky from last period’s lunch. Two students on the opposite side pretended not to watch as I slid into the seat next to Raf. I did a final check of the cafeteria for Simon and wondered what I could possibly say to Raf that would make any sense. Guess what, Raf? I can control minds!

My fingers drummed the table top. Maybe I should let him go first. “You wanted to talk?” His tortured face only made me jumpier. “What?”

He gripped his knees. “Kira, I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” I said. “Sorry for what?”

He dropped his voice so it wouldn’t carry over the quiet rustlings of the cafeteria. “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you in the chem lab. I thought that maybe… well, I couldn’t tell. I guess you didn’t want me to.” He was biting his lip and his pain was tearing into my heart.

“Raf, it’s not that I didn’t…” His ink-pool eyes filled with hope. I traced the non-slip pattern on the table. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want you to…” This was impossible to say. He leaned closer, so I rushed to get the words out. “If things were different, I mean.”

“Different?” He tipped back, his dark eyebrows knitting a frown. “Different how?”

I looked away from Raf, and caught sight of Simon leaning against the Blue Devil mascot painted on the far wall of the cafeteria. His crossed arms and angry stare brought back his icy words. You’re not the only one with a secret.

All thoughts of telling Raf the truth flew away like birds scattering before an approaching cat. What would Simon do? I couldn’t chance finding out. I fisted my hand on the table and then flattened it, debating which lie to tell Raf. The one where I was a zero? Or the one where I read minds? The truth wasn’t an option, and the lies were all I had. I looked Raf in the eyes and told him the only truth I could. “If I was different, Raf.”

His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Is that what this is all about? Because you haven’t changed? I don’t care about that, Kira!”

His incredulous tone attracted the attention of students two tables away, and his thoughts must have been rippling through their minds as well. I kept my voice quiet, but I couldn’t help being harsh. “Well you should! I’m not like you.” His mouth hung open. I balled my fists and was tempted to pummel the truth into him. Because that was the truth and he had to know it, as much as he wanted to pretend otherwise. Instead, I ground my hands into the tops of my legs. “You’re going to go to college and meet the future Mrs. Lobos Santos and live happily ever after. And I’m not. I’m not normal like you. I’m never going to be.” The bare truth of that burned a hole through my chest and tears stung my eyes.

I tried to blink them back. Simon now stood at attention, his hands clenched at his side. Panic climbed up my back.

“You could still change, Kira,” Raf was saying. “And it doesn’t matter anyway!” A sudden urge to move gripped me. Before Simon could do something worse than glare at us, I had to get away from Raf. I rose so quickly, I stumbled across the chair.

Raf got up to stop me from leaving. He moved close, hovering over me, as if he could impress me with his height or sincerity, but all I saw were the puppet strings that Simon could cut in an instant.

Raf’s voice trembled. “You’re my best friend, Kira.”

I edged away from him. “You’ve always been my best friend, Raf.” Fear made my voice sharp. “But that’s all we can be.” The broken look on Raf’s face was more than I could stand.

I left him standing in the middle of the cafeteria.

chapter FOURTEEN

I tore through the cafeteria door and blindly stumbled down the hallway.

I tried not to run past the few loitering students, but my legs were so strung with tension I could have sprinted all the way home without stopping. I turned a corner, but Simon caught up to me. A sudden tug at my elbow spun me to face him.

“Well.” The glare still chiseled his features. “I understand things a little better now.”

“Understand what?” I jutted my chin out and refused to be intimidated.

“Why you’re so afraid to jack into your boyfriend’s head.”

My stomach did backflips. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Not for lack of trying.” His words were biting, his smile cruel. “But you almost killed him when you jacked him. Didn’t you?”

A tremble ran up my arms. How did he know? “You were in Raf’s head.” The accusation hung between us like a poisoned dagger.

“Of course.” He didn’t quite sneer, but it felt like a slap anyway.

I stifled my anger. He was in Raf’s head. From across the cafeteria. No one read minds that far. “You didn’t… did you jack him?” My mind rewound over Raf’s words. It didn’t make sense for Simon to force Raf to say those things.

“No.” Simon’s dark look was back. “I was waiting for you to do it.”

My shoulders sagged and the fight drained out of me. “I couldn’t.”

The hardness on his face dissolved, and he heaved a heavy sigh. “You’re not like him, Kira. You’re never going to be like him. We’re different. Eventually you’ll have to jack into his head and control him like everyone else. That’s who we are.”

I clamped my eyes shut. What good were crazy mind powers when they forced me to control or lie to the people I loved?

Simon touched my cheek. “I know it’s tough,” he said. “But you need to accept it.” His fingers were warm under my chin. “You’re a mindjacker and that’s not going to change. Jacking is what you’re meant to do.”

I drew in a deep breath. I could feel the rightness of Simon’s words, even if it twisted my insides. All those years of wishing hadn’t changed me into a reader. And Raf would never change into a jacker either. We were stuck with who we were.

Students trickled out of the cafeteria and headed for class. They had normal lives and bright futures like Raf. Simple problems like who to date and how to pass their classes.

I will never be like them. My breath leaked out as I contemplated jacking all of them. Every day.

Simon glanced down the hall. “It’s time for class. Promise me you’ll try. With everyone.”

I hesitated. The last time in math class hadn’t exactly ended well. “What about Taylor?”

“If she starts thinking trash about you again, I’ll knock her out myself.”

I gave a short laugh. “All right. I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl.” He beamed a smile that seemed to lift me. We walked to class, and Simon lingered close this time. We took seats in the back of class, and I knew what he expected.

Mr. Barkley stood at the board in his starched, white shirt. I crept into his mind, just enough to hear his thoughts. Linking in, was what Simon had called it. Mr. Barkley’s mind scent was like crisp apples on a fall day, and his whispering voice in my ear bud spoke a perfect echo of his thoughts.

I always knew he was treating me right.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. You can hear my thoughts, I told him. I’m saying hello. I made the command soft, closer to a suggestion. Mr. Barkley gazed across the rows of chairs and searched for my face. When he found it, I smiled. Good afternoon, Mr. Barkley.

His eyes flew wide and he almost spoke aloud. Then a smile lit his face and filled his thoughts. Good afternoon, Ms. Moore. He continued the lesson without the whispering commentary. I slipped the hearing aid out and stuffed it in my pocket.

I had more important things to do today than review tangents. I slowly linked into every mind in the class, first the ones nearby, then the rest, but still avoiding Taylor. I linked a mild echo of Mr. Barkley, so that each student believed they heard my thoughts. No longer a mental blank spot, I was part of the chorus of background voices that filled the classroom with mental noise.

It became clear why the silence that made my skin itch was so essential. The cacophony of voices was almost too much to bear. Any audible sound would have been a cymbal crashing on top of the discordant symphony reverberating in my head. How much had I missed, how much life had passed me by while I was an unknowing zero?

I garnered a few brief stares. A thought wave rippled through the class, pulsing my name as everyone became aware that I had changed. They think I’m a reader. A rush thrilled my body, a high that made me float in my seat.

I had become visible.

Simon smiled his approval, but then tipped his head toward Taylor. She peered around the other students to find the source of the chatter. I drew in a deep breath and linked into her mind. She thought I was some strange enigma. If she only had any idea. I nudged her mind to let her hear the whisper of my mind’s presence.

I thought you were… she thought.

I changed.

Thoughts of Raf and me flitted through her brain. Then she started mentally humming a song. This earned her frowns and irritated thoughts from her neighbors, who were closer to her and heard it louder. I shot a quizzical look at Simon.

He whispered, “She can’t keep you out if you jack all the way in.”

I had no desire to go deeper into Taylor’s mind. I shook my head, and he just shrugged.

Mr. Barkley finally noticed Taylor’s humming. Without turning around, he had a thought that riveted the class. Is there a problem, Ms. Sampson?

She immediately stopped the noise. No, sir.

Mr. Barkley’s lecture echoed in every mind, but stray thoughts flitted by as well. Random ideas about lunch or homework, and a surprising number of fantasies like Taylor’s, starring the thinker’s most recent crush. Everyone’s thoughts were open to me, with the exception of Simon. His linked thoughts echoed in the other minds, but they were simple repeats of Mr. Barkley.

The mind scents of the class blended like a wild country potpourri.

I spent the rest of class pretending to take notes, while trying to juggle a classroom full of minds. When the bell finally rang, my body ached from the tension of maintaining the illusion that I was a reader. I stretched out the kinks as we gathered our backpacks.

Simon walked me out into the hallway. I withdrew from the minds of the math students as they drifted away into the swarm of people. Simon stopped and tugged me to the side. My eyes flew wide that he would touch me openly. He dropped his hand.

“That was perfect.” He moved toward me, eyes intense, and walked me two steps back to the lockers. “Time to come out and play, Kira.”

I started to ask him what he meant, but his hands were on my cheeks, and he crashed his lips onto mine. My entire body stilled, every sense focused on the contact between us. I wondered if this was how Raf’s lips would have felt if our near-kiss in the chem lab hadn’t ended in catastrophe. I dropped the backpack that had been dangling off one arm as Simon welded my body to the cold, riveted lockers. When he pulled back, I was amazed that one kiss could make it so difficult to breathe.

I knew nothing about first kisses—they belonged with boyfriends and college in the category of things I wouldn’t have as long as I was a zero. But Simon’s kiss made my face burn, and that didn’t seem right.

I sucked in a ragged breath. The hall had gone still, everyone facing us.

“They’re staring,” I whispered. My lips were still singed from our blatant display.

“That’s because I told them you were a changeling,” he whispered back.

“You did what?” As I spoke, the students turned away in unison, as if suddenly moving on cue. Which must be exactly what Simon told them to do. The normal ebb and flow in the hall resumed as though it had never stopped. I sputtered, not knowing what to say, or even what to think. The crowd thinned as students hurried to their final period of the day.

“Welcome to real life, Kira,” Simon said. “Come on, I have some friends for you to meet.”

chapter FIFTEEN

A storm of emotions raged through me, like a changeling being driven demens.

Anger that Simon had outed me as a changeling. Humiliation that he had wantonly kissed me in public. A feeling I didn’t want to name had my body still on fire from that kiss.

Simon led me by the hand toward the bleachers. A few students clustered at the top, the supposed friends he wanted me to meet, but everyone else was in class.

I settled on indignant outrage. “You had no right to do that!” I yanked my hand out of his and stopped in my tracks.

He threw me a playful look. “Worked well, though.”

“What do you mean by that?” Heat radiated from the gravelly surface of the parking lot, but that wasn’t what burned my ears. He could at least admit he shouldn’t have broadcast my supposed change to the entire school, much less kissed me in front of everyone.

“I mean, you can’t come out as a changeling one person at a time, or even a class at a time. If you really were a changeling, everyone would know, Kira.” His patronizing tone made my fists curl. For the second time today, I was tempted to physically strike a large, stupid boy looming over me. Instead, I turned on my heel and strode back to the school building. That he was right only fueled the raging storm inside me.

“Kira, wait!” He was quickly by my side, but I wasn’t slowing down. “I’m sorry?”

“You had no right.” I kept my eyes trained on the back door. Simon tugged at my elbow, and I faced him with clenched fists.

“You’re right, I didn’t,” he said. “But it was the only way. If you’d jacked thirty kids, and no one else, someone would get suspicious. Like your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” The fire inside me blazed anew, having to say those words again.

“So you keep saying.”

I glared at him and then the door, debating my options. I could leave him here in the parking lot, show him what little I thought of him and his stupid comments. But I would have to face the other students inside, and word would have spread like wildfire about my status. Or I could go with Simon and meet his friends. Whoever they were.

Or I could go home and crawl under the covers and never come out.

Simon brushed away a strand of hair that was whipping around my face in the heated breeze. “I’m kind of hoping you mean it.”

I leaned away from his touch. “Mean what?”

“That he’s not your boyfriend.” He stepped closer. “I was hoping that position was open.”

My mouth flopped open but nothing came out, like a fish out of water and drowning in air. Simon smiled, and he seemed to enjoy making me flustered. Before I could muster a scathing retort, he said, “Don’t worry about that now.” He bit his lip in a way that made me want to both kiss him and smack that grin off his face. “Will you come meet my crew?”

I glanced at the students hanging out at the top of the risers.

“No thanks.” I spun and marched away from his waiting friends. My anger slowly seeped out with every hot-soled step across the pavement, but the embarrassment was still hot in my cheeks. I weaved in between faculty cars and headed for the front of school.

Simon caught up to me near a teacher’s sporty black hydro car. “Kira, wait.”

I stopped to give him a withering look.

He held up his hands. “At least let me give you a ride home.”

I stared, uncomprehending for a second, then my eyes flew wide. “That belongs to you?”

He stepped closer to the car and gave me a sheepish smile when it beeped the unlock tone. I didn’t know any students that drove to school, much less had their own car. My family shared the hydro car, but my dad would laugh himself silly if I asked to drive it to school.

I circled slowly around the car. “Is your family made of money?”

He gave a short laugh. “No.”

He held the passenger side door open, beckoning me. I decided that giving me a ride home was the least Simon could do. I climbed into the low seat, which shifted to hug me in a soft embrace. A frosty wind from the vents blasted away the hot outside air, and Simon ran around to slide into the driver’s seat.

“How can you afford this?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I got a great deal.”

I pictured Simon jacking a dealer to sell him this luxury car for a pittance. Simon nudged the joystick, and his too-fast car spun out of the parking lot like a silent black cat.

An empty feeling hollowed out my chest.

I gave Simon directions, and he parked his suspiciously expensive sports car in front of my house. The second floor windows were dimmed against the afternoon light. The drive had me home early, so my mom shouldn’t expect me yet. I hoped like crazy she wouldn’t decide to clean the windows today.

“Give me your phone,” Simon said. I hesitated, then fished it out of my backpack and traded with him. His phone was shiny black, with a mindware interface image floating above the surface. I stared at it while he fussed with mine.

He looked up. “It’s got mindware. Just jack in and program your number.” My eyebrows hiked high on my forehead. I could jack into mindware? I reached forward and a sour metallic taste tinged the back of my tongue, but the holographic matrix display hovering above the phone shifted with my mental touch. I quickly navigated the software and entered my number.

My smile snuck out as we exchanged phones again.

“I’ll scrit you later?” He seemed to be asking permission. I gave him a shrug, not wanting him to think I’d entirely forgiven him yet.

Simon’s outrageous, and probably felonious, car sped away before I reached the front door. I expected to find my mom in the kitchen, but it was empty, so I snagged a banana off the counter and headed to my room.

I had the banana half peeled and was about to take a bite when I swung into my room and stopped short. Mom stood next to my shelves and whirled around when she heard me. My bed was neatly made, which was different than the way I left it, and the sweet stench of furniture polish lingered in the air. My track trophies from junior high were glossier than before, and the flotilla of tiny souvenir sailboats from my dad’s overseas travels had a new shine. I couldn’t imagine what she could find snooping in my room, but I scowled at her anyway.

“I was only… cleaning up,” she said, guilt written on her face. “You’re home early.” She said this like it was some kind of excuse for being in my room. Which it wasn’t.

I slowly dropped my backpack on the bed. I could jack into her head and find out what she was up to, but my stomach still clenched at the idea. I mostly wanted her out so I could retreat under the covers and try to forget the day.

“Did you find anything interesting in my room?” I let my sarcasm drip.

She ignored the bait and pulled down a picture from the shelf. An image of me and my brother mugging in front of a snowman flashed by. “Have you talked to Seamus lately?” she asked.

I blinked at the change in conversation. “Um, no. Did he call?”

“No. I just miss him, you know? Will you tell him, the next time you talk to him?”

Ah. This was mom-speak for whatever is bothering you, call Seamus and he’ll help you work it out. Mom could be pretty tricky when she wanted.

“Yeah, okay.”

She put the picture back on the stripped-down shelf, with only a couple other frames and Raf’s green stuffed monster. I wondered if she noticed the difference. She gave me wide berth on her way out and called back from the hall. “There are snacks if you want them.”

Once she was gone, I flopped down on my bed.

My phone vibrated in my backpack and I dug it out. Maybe Simon had finally decided to come up with a real apology.

It was Raf.

Oh no. I dropped the phone like it might bite me.

Raf must have heard about Simon outing me in the hallway. Like the rest of school, he would think I was a changeling now, right after telling him that I was different and would never change.

The phone buzzed in its crater on my pink comforter. When it stopped, I gingerly picked it up. Raf hadn’t left a message.

I wished I could call Seamus, like Mom hinted in her sneakiness, and tell him all about what had happened. But I knew that would only make things a bigger disaster than they already were.

I scrit Seamus instead. Mom misses you. Tell her we talked and all’s good. Hopefully Seamus would call Mom and have my back, rather than freaking out and calling me. A minute later, he scrit back, U ok?

Just need backup.

Got your six, sis.

Seamus was as mesh as big brothers came, but I was glad he was a thousand miles away at West Point. If he was here, he might try to pound on Simon.

And that wouldn’t be good for anyone.

chapter SIXTEEN

Raf waited until Saturday afternoon to seek me out.

I was lounging on my bed, coincidentally trying to finish my English reading, when I heard Mom answer the door. I knew it was Raf when I heard his footfalls slowly climbing the stairs.

I had hoped he had forgotten, but I should have known that simmering Portuguese temper of his wouldn’t let him stay away. Back in seventh grade, Lenny Johnson had suffered Raf’s wrath when he flung a spitball into my hair. It had taken Raf three days to find someone with the combination to Lenny’s locker, but only a day after that to cover everything in it with purple ooze he had cooked up in chemistry. I only hoped that Raf’s anger wouldn’t result in a locker full of something disgusting. Although I probably deserved it.

Raf’s soccer-trained footfalls pounded a tempo on the last flight of steps. He slowed his pace halfway up, which gave me a few more seconds to get twitchy about what he would say. Kira, why didn’t you tell me you’re a changeling? Kira, why did you lie to me?

I could link into his head and get a preview of his questions. Or I could simply jack in and command him to go away. My shoulders quivered at that thought. I was a liar by necessity. But I didn’t have to be a cheat, too. Besides, I didn’t trust myself in Raf’s head.

He filled my doorway with his broad shoulders. His chest rose and fell underneath his Blue Devil soccer jersey, like he was breathing in the courage to speak.

“Why?” he asked.

I tried to look innocent and failed miserably. “Why what?”

“Why him?”

Oh. My eyes widened a bit. He hadn’t just heard about my coming out as a changeling. Raf had somehow seen the kissing episode with Simon. Of course. Like every other reader in Warren Township High, he had seen it the minds of the rumor-swirling population.

My heart crumpled under Raf’s look of betrayal. I had told him we couldn’t be more than friends because I was different, and now Simon had let everyone know I was the same. And kissing Simon had made the insult a hundred times worse than the injury.

Raf wanted an explanation, but this time I had trapped myself in a box of lies. From Raf’s perspective, nothing could justify my bizarre behavior. I couldn’t explain what Raf couldn’t ever know—that Simon and I were both mindjacking freaks. If Raf discovered our secret, there was no telling what Simon would do.

Keeping Raf in the dark was keeping him safe, but it was tearing my heart into tiny pieces. As I struggled for something to say, Raf’s face shed anger like the tears that were falling off my cheeks. He seemed to want to step into the room, then changed his mind at the last second. He crossed his arms and remained in the doorway, not caving in to my pathetic display.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “About changing,” he clarified.

“I… I…” There was no way out of this hole. “I wasn’t sure it was real. I didn’t expect Simon to tell everyone.” That, at least, was the truth. I wiped away the tears I had no right to have.

Raf drew his thick black eyebrows together and threw his arms out in frustration. “Everyone is uncertain when it happens, Kira. If you had talked to me, I could have told you that.”

“I… I…” Stuttering was worse than not talking at all. “I wanted to wait until I was sure.”

Raf’s face darkened. “Wait. How come I can’t read you?”

I sucked in a quick breath. “Um, it, ah… still doesn’t work all the time. I can’t hear your thoughts either right now.” I bolted off the bed because the agitation in my legs couldn’t be contained any longer. I pressed my fists into my desk while I pretended to look out the window at the thin slices of grass between houses. Should I jack him to stop asking questions? Link in? Could I keep my secret, if I did?

I didn’t realize Raf had crossed the room until he covered one of my hands with his. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear the softness of his hand on mine when I had nothing but lies for him.

“That’s how it is, sometimes,” he said, softly. “Changeling abilities flip on and off for a while. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He tugged my hand, wanting me to turn. It was bad enough to lie from far away. I opened my eyes and stepped back, pulling my hand from his.

He gritted his teeth. “Why won’t you let me help you?” he asked. “I’m your friend, but you turn to this guy Simon, when you’re going through the change? Why?”

There was nothing I could say without hurting Raf even more.

He stepped closer, and I backed away in equal measure. He fisted his hands at his side. “I don’t care if you’ve changed or not,” he said. “If you don’t want to be—whatever—more than friends, then fine. At least let me help you with this. And stay away from Simon.”

My lies and frustration were fueling a fire inside me. “I can hang out with whoever I want!”

“Kira, I promised Seamus I’d look out for you. Guys like Simon are nothing but trouble.”

“What?” I demanded. “You and Seamus don’t get to decide who I date!”

“You’re dating him now?”

“So what if I am?”

Raf’s Portuguese accent tortured his words. “So he is taking advantage of you!”

“How is that any different than you?”

His face blotched red and his jaw worked, but no sounds came out. He unclenched his fists and stalked toward the door. Pausing at the doorway, he gripped the frame and swayed slightly. He turned his head to the side. “I’ll leave you alone, Kira. Since that’s what you want.”

And then he was gone.

I sank to the floor. When the front door banged shut, I wrapped my arms around my chest to keep the sobs from shaking me apart. My mom appeared and her arms lifted me like I was a child. She nearly carried me to the bed, where we huddled and I cried until there were no tears left. Then I only shook. Mom held me and asked no questions, which was just as well.

I had no more lies in me.

chapter SEVENTEEN

Eventually night came.

I was the worst friend that had ever lived. All Raf got from me was lies and insults to his face. I resembled that sludge, the green stuff that forms a slimy coating on the outside of cheese that was so old it had become hazardous waste.

That was me: toxic green ooze.

There was nothing to do with cheese like that but throw it out. And Raf had done exactly that. Good for him. He deserved much better than I gave him today.

Maybe he would find a decent girl now, like Taylor. Sure, she was a yippy dog, but at least dogs were loyal. You could count on them. They didn’t lie, and they licked your face because they were so happy to see you.

I pressed my face into the pillow. I felt like throwing up.

Raf should find someone better than Taylor. Maybe now that I had pushed him away, he would find a girl who wouldn’t lie and wouldn’t yip. One who would stick by him and not insult him to his face. The tears came back and rolled down my nose and off the tip, adding to the growing stain on the pillow.

Eventually, the well of my ridiculous self-pity ran dry. I burrowed under the covers, still dressed in my clothes. Sometime later, Mom switched off the light. I wished I could call Seamus, but I’d have to tell more lies, and I couldn’t stomach the idea.

A jittery buzzing sound started and then ceased. I wondered if a fly had somehow been trapped in my room. My head cleared enough to realize it was my phone. I dragged myself out of bed and retrieved the dancing phone from my backpack. Its blue glow lit the room. Simon.

Look out your window.

My head whipped around to the darkened window above my desk. I stumbled across the room and dialed the window up to clear. Simon stood in the grassy space between our house and the neighbor behind us.

What are you doing? I scrit him.

Come down and find out.

I was debating a nice retort, when the floorboards creaked upstairs, giving me a great excuse. My mom’s still awake.

So jack her to look the other way.

It was a dare. I glared at the dark form below, his face lit up by the blue glow of his phone. I didn’t want Simon to know I still wasn’t jacking my mom. He seemed like a wild thing I should keep as far away from my family as possible.

I could probably sneak out without my mom hearing. I had never done that before, but this week was full of firsts. Besides, sitting in my room and crying over Raf wasn’t making my life any better.

I tiptoed past the stairs to my parents’ bedroom level and stole down the two flights to the ground level. Picking up my shoes on the way, I crept out the front door. Simon’s black panther car waited at the curb. The interior light came on, and I dropped into the passenger seat without a word. As the light faded, Simon’s eyebrows pulled together.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. My eyes must have still been red from the crying.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t press, just pulled up the mindware interface for the car and set an autopath. We slid noiselessly away from the curb. A block from my house, Simon mentally commanded on the headlights.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“We’re meeting my crew, but I have a stop to make first.”

We drove a while in silence, streetlights pulsing by. I suspected that we had left Gurnee. It was hard to tell in Chicago New Metro. One town was the same as the next, a seamless flow of spindly houses as closely packed as range ordinances would allow. We passed the Great Lakes Naval Station where my dad worked and pulled up to a convenience store. It was just this side of dangerous and definitely shady.

Simon climbed out of the car, forcing me to follow or be left behind. It seemed safer to go with him. Plasma lights harshly lit the inside of the store. As we stepped through the door, I linked into the head of the attendant. Even though we were out past curfew on the praver side of town, he barely noticed us, instead watching a late night tru-cast whispering from his hand-held screen.

Simon draped his arm over my shoulder and steered us through aisles of ancient snacks and dusty bags of diapers. The only things not coated in dust were emergency boost canisters of hydrogen for hydro cars on empty and an impressive display of beef jerky. We stopped at a refrigerated case. Simon used a mental command to open it and pulled out a four-pack case of green beer bottles.

“What are you doing?” I hissed under my breath and checked the attendant’s thoughts. He was watching Magnum Magistrate interrogate two neighbors in a range infringement dispute.

“Don’t worry, there aren’t any security cameras here,” said Simon.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. The frosted glass door swung closed. Simon steered us back toward the front and set the beers down with a clinking of glass on glass. The attendant still clutched his screen in his gnarled hands. He let out an elaborate sigh, muted the screen, and set it aside as Magnum Magistrate took a break to consider his judgment.

Simon’s command echoed through the attendant’s mind. We’re going to buy this.

Well, sure you’re going to buy that. But you need some money, friend.

From the tired sound of his thoughts, this wasn’t the first time Simon had jacked him to illegally sell beer. I nervously checked the parking lot. With my luck, one of my dad’s Navy buddies would stroll in to find his friend’s daughter buying alcohol.

Simon handed the man two pieces of white plastic, both small and square. The attendant took the cards and held one up, examining it as if it wasn’t completely blank. In his mind, the card appeared to be a driver’s license with Simon’s picture. He handed that one back to Simon and scanned the other one—which appeared to be a tally card—through the register. It beeped its complaint about swiping a useless bit of plastic, but in the attendant’s mind, a dozen unos were deducted from Simon’s account. He returned the fake tally card to Simon.

Do you want a bag? the attendant thought.

No, thanks. Simon grinned as he picked up the beers and walked me out of the store.

When we were back in the car, I crossed my arms. “I am not drinking that.” If Simon’s grand plan was to take me out for a night of drinking, he was sadly mistaken.

“Neither am I,” he said. “I’m not interested in fuzzing up my mind with beer.”

Sometimes the boy was simply demens. “You committed a misdemeanor to buy beer you’re not going to drink?”

“The beer’s for Martin. We’re just going for the fun.”

I was sure Simon’s idea of fun and mine were not the same.

chapter EIGHTEEN

I held my complaints as we wove though a ramshackle suburb that resembled downtown Chicago. People wandered outside ancient apartments that hadn’t been rehabbed to range codes, fuzzed out on obscura or beer, trying to escape their crowded living conditions with distance or intoxication. I breathed a little easier when we left the slums and drove past a forest preserve turned black by the night. It was closed after dark, but keeping with our law-breaking activities for the evening, Simon pulled into the entrance. The car’s beams sliced white blades through the ash trees lining the forest drive.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Suffering in my room would be better than getting arrested tonight.

“Kira, relax. We’re just meeting some friends to do some dipping.”

“Dipping?”

He didn’t answer and pulled to the side of the main road. About fifty feet from the road, pinpricks of light danced in the meadow. Simon shut off the car, and the moonlight painted his face silver.

“Dipping is something readers do,” he said. “One person does the drinking while the rest dip into their fuzz by touching them somewhere on their bare skin.” He demonstrated by tapping my cheek with his fingertips. “They feel all the effects without the actual intoxication or hangover. Except for the drinker. They’re pretty messed up the next day.”

“I thought… you couldn’t, you know, touch without…”

His smile folded into a smirk. “Without getting a little too close for comfort?”

This entire situation was making me uncomfortable.

“That’s why they only dip for a second,” he said. “Only long enough for the effects to be felt, without all the uncomfortable closeness. Believe me, nobody wants to get that close to Martin.”

Now that my eyes had adjusted to the moonlight, I could see figures attached to the flashlights in the dancing light show. “I don’t know about this.”

“Don’t worry.” He stroked my cheek where he had tapped. “You won’t feel it. You’re not a reader, remember?”

Like I could forget that.

“That’s why you have to fake it.”

I looked askance at him. “Right. Why are we doing this, again?”

He leaned back. “You’re a changeling now. Time to be part of the crowd. Blending in makes you seem less suspicious.” His voice grew serious. “The worst thing is for people to know what we are, Kira. You have to keep the code of silence.”

My eyebrows flew up. “Code of silence?”

“That’s just what I call it. The vow of perpetual silence,” he intoned with mock solemnity. “Trust me; you don’t want people to know what you can do.”

I didn’t trust Simon, but I knew he was right about that. If people knew we could control them, life would be a whole lot worse. In ways I didn’t even want to think about.

The lights in the field had settled low to the ground. Pretending to party with Simon’s friends wouldn’t be my worst lie of the day. Simon retrieved the case of beer, and we tromped through the grassy field, chirping insects falling silent as we invaded their territory. Simon’s merry band huddled on a blanket thrown over the weeds.

I hesitantly linked to them once we were within range. Their chatter roared to life, clamoring in my mind, and I stumbled over a rock hidden in the grass. Their thoughts and mind scents blended together. Bald curiosity rippled through their minds.

The mental volume stepped down as Simon introduced me. This is Kira. His thoughts echoed in their minds.

The girl put a flashlight under her chin and made a face. Hi Kira, I’m Katie. Her dark wiry hair was pulled into a ponytail, which exploded into a puff.

Hi, I linked the thought to her. She looked me up and down and pictured a girl that wouldn’t be happy about how pretty I was. Before I had a chance to respond, the muscle-bound blond who sat next to her rumbled in with, Hey, Kira. His name was Zach and his shirt sleeve was rolled up to reveal pale skin darkened by tattoos. A third boy, Miguel, lounged at the very edge of the blanket, a blade of grass hanging from his mouth. He chimed in with a subdued, Hey. I probed and found he was the artist behind Zach’s tattoos.

In the dead center sat a boy that must be Martin, the designated drinker. His gangly arms seemed too long for his body, and his legs were folded up like a floppy doll.

His eyes were on Simon. Did you get it?

Simon handed him the pack of beers, and Martin tore the paper binding apart. The glass bottles spilled out and clanked together on the blanket. He opened a beer and chugged the entire thing in a long series of gulps. Simon gestured for me to sit near Martin, then sat next to me. He shifted close, nearly touching my leg and earning a raised eyebrow from Katie. An image of Simon pinning me against the lockers flashed through Katie’s mind, and my tangle of emotions flared again. She must have seen the whole thing or caught it in the thought-speed rumor mill. The image of a blond girl stomping off pulsed through her mind. I put two and two together. Simon avoided my gaze.

So, Kira, what are you, a freshman? Zach asked. He thought he was very funny.

I linked my thoughts to all of them at once. No. What are you, a second-year senior?

Then I heard the most amazing thing. Mental laughter. It sounded like tinkling bells and soft sizzling and little breathy snorts. I was pretty sure the last one came from Miguel. None of them laughed out loud.

I see why you like her, Katie thought. Then Simon’s voice rang loud through all their minds, She’s all right. They all echoed it back. She’s all right. All right. Right.

Simon finally met my gaze and gave me a crooked smile.

Martin pitched the empty beer bottle into the darkness, and it landed with a soft swish of prairie grass. He cracked open another and flung the bottle cap after the first.

The five of us mindtalked about nothing: the bugs; the blessed event that was the weekend; the lack of true art in tattooing today. I struggled to keep up with the four simultaneous conversations. Their thoughts were lightning fast and played over each other, like strings on a guitar, harmonizing yet separate. Simon’s linked thoughts played along, subdued in the harmony and not echoing through their minds, unlike his jacked in command before. It was difficult to keep up, and I wondered how readers managed it all day, every day.

As Martin finished the second beer, Katie and Zach shuffled nearer to him, and even Miguel sidled closer. Martin sent the second bottle sailing and cracked open a third, giving a tremendous belch that sent twitters of mental laughter ringing around the blanket. As he chugged the third one, I leaned away from him. If Martin’s stomach rebelled against the onslaught of alcohol, I didn’t want to be in spewing distance. No one else was concerned, so I tried to relax.

Martin burst out singing in his head, some bawdy song I didn’t recognize.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Miguel thought. If you’re going to sing, man, I’m leaving.

No one’s making you stay. Martin sent the third empty flying. With a crash of glass, the bottle met its mates in the weeds. A mental grumble went around the blanket, but no one moved to leave. In fact, they edged closer to Martin, who let his hands fall by his sides. His head flopped forward and his lips moved slightly, as if he’d forgotten that he didn’t need to use them.

Good beer, Simon.

Miguel tapped his finger on Martin’s bare foot, exposed as he sat cross-legged on the blanket. Martin flinched at his touch and then stilled. Katie and Zach rhythmically touched the outstretched fingers of one hand. Simon gestured to Martin’s other hand, a pale silver fish flopped on the blanket. Simon and I each took a different finger. Martin’s skin was as clammy as it looked. As for faking the effect of the beer, I wasn’t sure what to do. Martin was breathing heavily, and Miguel’s eyes were closed. Their thoughts were jumbled.

I glanced at Katie and Zach and was shocked to see them holding tight to each other and kissing. Katie’s dark skin mashed against Zach’s pale face mesmerized me until the brush of Simon’s lips near my ear made me jump.

“This is the fun part.” His whisper sent a shudder down to the spot where his hand pressed the small of my back. I jerked away. He gave me a measured look, then pulled me up from the blanket and led me across the meadow, away from his heavily fuzzed friends.

Halfway to the car, he veered to a glistening boulder sitting lonely in the meadow. He leaned against it and laced his fingers with mine. The moon glazed half his face with light, and his hair fell loose in a frame of darkness.

“Still mad at me?” he asked.

“Yes.” I pulled my hand away and rubbed my eyes, even more tired than when I juggled thirty minds in math. At least in class they weren’t all talking to me at the same time.

“Is it always this hard?” I asked. “This jacking thing is wiping me out.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

I wondered how long it would take for me to pass for a reader easily, like Simon. I gazed at the partiers who were still linked and kissing and drinking. “Did I do okay?”

“You did great.”

I peered up into his dark eyes. “When did you know? That you could mindjack?”

He studied the weeds in the distance. “When I put my sister in a coma over a fight about… something. I can’t really remember what it was. I was twelve.”

I held my breath, not sure what to say. “Simon, I’m sorry…”

He shrugged and leaned back on the rock. “It took me three weeks to figure out I could wake her up again.”

“You were just a kid.” I remembered my panic that first day, when I had knocked Raf out and thought I might slay the whole school if I went to class. What if I hadn’t inadvertently woken Raf up? I placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder, but his face stayed blank.

“You didn’t have anyone to help you,” I said. “You couldn’t have known.”

He ducked his head, examining the prairie grass at our feet. His hair fell forward, masking his face in shadow. I wanted to brush it back.

“Well, she’s off to college now,” he said. “So I guess there was no permanent damage.”

I swallowed. “I’m lucky to have you to help me.” He looked up, and a smile ghosted across his face. He smoothed down some tendrils of my hair floating in the breeze and stopped with his hand behind my head.

He pulled me closer and his kiss was gentle, but the hot liquid feel of it still made my body sing.

When he broke the kiss, he whispered, “What are you thinking?”

I was thinking that I would rather be kissing than talking, but those words were not going to come out of my mouth, if I could help it. I just shook my head.

“Well, that’s new for me,” he added. I didn’t understand. “Usually, I know what a girl thinks about when I kiss her.”

Oh. His smirk drove me to look back to the partiers. Simon had probably kissed a lot of girls before me. Girls that knew what they were doing in the kissing department. I ordered the blood out of my cheeks. Somehow my mind powers didn’t extend to controlling my own bodily reactions.

“Hey. What?” He tipped his head to try to catch my eye.

“I don’t think I blend very well.”

“You’re not like them.” He touched my cheek to bring me back. “You’re much better.”

Considering we lied to everyone about who we were, I didn’t feel much in the way of superiority. “How do you do it?” I asked. “Lying all the time?”

His face hardened into a mask that sent a shiver through me. “You get used to it.” He glanced at his crew, still silently dipping to get their fuzz. “We’ll never be like them, Kira. Besides, we’re just marking time here. We’re meant to do greater things.”

“What do you mean, greater things?” I was only hoping for normal, but somehow normal always escaped me.

He lifted his gaze to the trees in the distance. “My birthday’s in two weeks,” he said with great solemnity, as if that were some fabulous pronouncement. The boy was definitely demens.

“Um, happy birthday?”

“I’ll be eighteen,” he elaborated. I was just as lost. “Then I’m going to walk into the principal’s office and get my diploma. I’m not going to sit around wasting my time in high school.”

Could he really graduate as soon as he had reached the age? Of course. I had yet to hear Simon boast. It made me wonder if there was anything he couldn’t do.

“What will you do? Get a job?”

“I’ve been doing some small jobs. If things work out, I’ll have something lined up by then.”

My suspicions came running out. “Like what?”

“Something better than hanging out here, pretending to be like everyone else.”

“Like what?” I repeated, disentangling from his embrace and stepping away. “More petty larceny at the local convenience store?”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “I’ve been doing that since I was fourteen, Kira. That’s kid stuff. I want to do something more serious.”

“What, serious like grand theft auto?”

He crossed his arms. “I can see you don’t think much of me.”

“Just leave me out of whatever criminal master plan you have.” I threw my hands on my hips and matched his rigid stance.

A two-foot gulf opened between us. “After all I’ve done to help you, this is what I get?” he asked. “Criminal mastermind?” His stare became an ice dagger that plunged into my chest. Echoes of Raf’s departing words rang through my head. I’ll leave you alone, Kira. Since that’s what you want. Simon was the only one that understood the bizarre power unleashed in my brain. And I was insulting him to his face. Driving him away. Just like Raf.

I let my hands drop to my side, and my gaze sank to the prairie weeds surrounding us. I shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry…,” I mumbled. “I just… the whole beer thing kind of threw me.” It sounded lame, even to me.

“I was only trying to help you fit in.”

The sound of breaking glass reminded me that Martin was still pitching beer bottles. “Hmm,” I said. “I’m hoping we are better than that bunch.”

Simon blazed a smile. “You, at least, are better looking.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not too bad yourself.”

His face went serious, his jaw cutting a sharp line in the moonlight.

“I am sorry,” I said. “You know, about calling you a criminal.”

He studied my face. “Do you trust me?”

I didn’t trust Simon, but I knew I needed him, a thought that made my face burn.

I whispered, “I’m not sure what I’d do without you,” and pulled his face down to mine. He gripped my waist and pulled me up so that my toes just kissed the prairie grass. His lips branded mine, and by the time he set me down, I wasn’t sure I could stand straight.

My head rested on his chest. I couldn’t read his mind, or feel his emotions when we touched, but the way his heart pounded, it seemed like our kiss affected him too.

“So, I was wondering…” His words rumbled under my ear.

I lifted my head. “Yes?”

“…if that boyfriend position was still open?”

“I think it’s just been filled.”

chapter NINETEEN

The next week was an endless blur of too many minds.

The first few days, I gripped Simon’s arm to combat the dizziness of the hallways, brought on by having to constantly shift focus and link with dozens of minds. Simon wore Second Skin gloves for a while so we wouldn’t be conspicuous.

The cafeteria was worse.

Ground zero for thought-wave-rumors, people buzzed about the zero-turned-changeling, and why I was dating Simon and not Raf. Our drama was better than the latest big screen sim-cast.

I caught whispers of Raf’s thoughts passed from mind to mind. It was like our childhood game of mindtalk, where we pretended to read minds by whispering messages around a circle. The message had been distorted beyond reason by the time it circled back, which had caused us fits of giggles. Only Raf’s messages of anger and pain were far from making me laugh.

Raf kept his promise and kept his distance. He couldn’t hear my thoughts, unless I jacked other people’s minds and sent my thoughts ringing through the room for everyone to hear.

I kept the mindjacking to a minimum in the cafeteria.

Besides, knowing I was a jacker wouldn’t hurt Raf any less. It would only put him in danger. If he knew my secret, so would the other reader minds. It wasn’t impossible for readers to keep a secret—just very, very difficult. Like trying to not think of pink elephants. The bigger the secret, the harder it was to keep your thoughts away from it.

And Simon and I had a mastodon-sized secret.

Somehow, the thought-rumors hadn’t reached my mom. She must be even more isolated than I knew.

My mom still thought I was a zero, Raf thought I was a changeling, and Simon thought I was jacking them both. It was official: I was lying to everyone I knew.

I didn’t have much choice about being a liar, but I didn’t have to cheat too. In class I could easily pluck the virtual answer key from our teachers’ minds for our take-home tests, but I resisted. Cheating wouldn’t help me catch up in that race for normal that suddenly seemed within reach.

But to Simon, it wasn’t enough for me to pass for a reader. He wanted me to hone my jacking abilities too. Which I did, until I finally was in control—not of other people, but of myself.

Except when Simon kissed me.

There, control eluded me in a fierce way that found me brazenly kissing him at every opportunity, which wasn’t often. Readers did their lip-locking in private or at dipping parties where everyone was doing it. Even kissing in front of the crew would have caught us grief unless we jacked them to look the other way. Which Simon occasionally did, leaving a grin on my face that lasted long after the warmth from his lips had faded.

It was all mesh, but by Friday I was exhausted.

Simon and I waited for the crew to ditch class and join us on the bleachers. All my free periods and after school time had been spent with Simon or his crew or practicing my skills. I wanted to catch up on schoolwork over the weekend. Passing for a reader wouldn’t count for much if I failed my classes.

Simon caught me off guard by asking me out on a date.

“I have a ton of homework.” I whispered so the couple students at the bottom of the bleachers wouldn’t overhear. Simon put his hand over his heart and feigned heartbreak.

“You’re turning me down for homework?”

“And how would I explain being gone on a Saturday night?”

He shifted to serious. “You haven’t told your mom about me?”

I squirmed in my seat. “Well, no.”

“But you are jacking her?”

“Yes.” The lies were getting easier every day.

“So, tell her you have a date.” His eyes sparkled. “Besides, I’d love to meet your mom.”

A warning siren blared in my head. “No, uh, that’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

He wasn’t buying this nonsense. It was time to go big and lie large.

“Because my family is very strict. We’re Catholic, and my dad’s a Navy man, through and through. He always said I could date when I’m, like, thirty.”

“Well, let me meet your dad. I’m sure I can convince him otherwise.”

The gleam in Simon’s eyes made my stomach clench. “My dad’s on deployment right now. If he found out I went on my first date while he was gone, he would skin me alive.”

Simon threw his hands up. “You’re the one in control here. Just jack in and tell them it’s okay. You don’t have to do what they say.”

“I can’t jack my dad over the phone 7,000 miles away! Unless you have some super-secret power you’re holding out on me?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Sneak out.” He was challenging me now. I could probably sneak out of the house, but I had to focus on school or all of the lying would be for nothing. And his order didn’t sit well with me.

“Maybe I’ll tell my mom I’m going out to meet Raf. She’d probably be fine with that.”

“What?” His eyes went wide. “I thought you were staying away from him.” Zach and Katie started hiking up the steps. Simon followed my gaze, but snapped back to stare me down. “Well?”

I dropped my voice. “I’m just saying it would be one way to get out of the house.”

He exhaled a long, low breath, and I was glad I couldn’t read his mind at that moment.

As they came into thought range, Katie frowned at Simon. Trouble in paradise?

Everything’s fine. Simon’s thoughts boomed in her head.

Oh, everything’s fine, she and Zach echoed, serene smiles relaxing their faces. Jacking feelings was the same as jacking thoughts, but my stomach twisted every time Simon made me do it. I nudged the hard presence of Simon in Katie’s mind, a warning. As my skills had improved over the week, I found I could push that marble after all. And I’d push him right out if he kept manipulating Katie.

Simon’s eyes flashed, and he nudged back, but the creepy smiles disappeared.

Tell Simon I need to study this weekend. My command rang loud and clear through Katie’s mind.

Tell Kira she better not sneak out to see someone besides me. As Katie echoed Simon’s words, I threw my hands out in frustration.

Katie, let them fight their own battles, Zach interrupted. You’re killing my fuzz, here.

Simon pulled out his black mindware phone and bent over it. He must have sent a scrit, but when I gave him a questioning look, he pocketed the phone and ignored me.

The four of us chatted idly, pretending the tenseness didn’t exist. Right before the final bell Simon’s phone buzzed and he checked and re-pocketed it. He ignored my questioning look again. When the crew got up to leave, Simon shook his head, indicating I should stay. I seriously debated marching off with Katie, but decided I had already angered Simon enough for one day.

When they were out of mind range, he glared at the bleachers for a moment before speaking. “People like us don’t follow the rules, Kira,” he said. “People like us make them up.”

I had spent an entire week passing for a reader. I was finally getting a taste of normal, and I liked it. A lot. I didn’t want to think about the freaks that we really were.

When I didn’t respond, Simon asked, “What are you thinking?”

“That I’d rather not be a mutant?” I tried to say it with a smile, but it came out sour.

“We’re not, Kira.” He pulled me up from the bleacher seat. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet. If I can’t get you out of the house, then we’ll have to meet him at school.”

“Who is it?” I followed him down the steps.

“Mr. Gerek.”

“The shop teacher?” I vaguely remembered him talking to Mr. Gerek in the hall. But why would Simon want me to sneak out to meet his buddy, the shop teacher?

Simon gave a short laugh. “I wasn’t sure if you’d recognize the name.” His voice had lost its seriousness. “You never took shop, did you?”

“No.” Mr. Gerek’s class was famously popular, second only to Mr. Chance and his animated sims of the past. But I was seriously disinclined toward tools of any kind. I had taken Advanced Topics Biology instead, which was more useful to a doctor anyway.

“I wondered how you had escaped his notice.” The grass crunched under our feet as Simon led me toward the building for our strange after-school meeting with the shop teacher.

“Wait, what?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

“Just come see him?” His voice softened. “He wants to talk to you. It won’t take long.”

I sighed, but kept following him into the building and out of the heat. The shop class was near the back of the school, crammed with tool chests and instruments that seemed designed to torture wood. Mr. Gerek teetered on a stool next to a giant laser saw and swept a thick-fingered hand over his prematurely balding head. He seemed too large for his seat. Everything, including Mr. Gerek, was covered by a thin film of sawdust.

I reached toward his mind, hoping to get a heads up about this bizarre meeting, but I was shoved away before I could even link in. I whirled to Simon, wondering why he was trying to keep me out of Mr. Gerek’s head, but he was busy pulling over a tall stool. I tentatively climbed up, my feet not quite reaching the floor.

“Mr. Gerek, this is Kira Moore,” Simon said with great ceremony. Why was he speaking out loud, when everyone at school thought I had gone through the change?

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Moore,” Mr. Gerek said. A polite smile graced his face, but his stare was intense and kind of creepy, like he was trying to drill a hole into my head.

“Hello,” I said carefully. Something was wrong with this entire situation.

“Simon has some very flattering things to say about you.” I shot a look to Simon. He had already retreated to the shop entrance, like he wasn’t planning on being a part of the conversation.

“Um, okay,” I said. “He hasn’t told me anything about you.”

Mr. Gerek broke his stare to give Simon a short nod. “Well, if he had, I would have been disappointed in him.”

It seemed like I should be asking questions. “What is this is all about?”

“I’m a jacker, Kira,” he said. “Like Simon. There are more of us than you probably realize.”

My jaw dropped. Simon’s face was blank. He had known Mr. Gerek was a jacker all along, but he had let me believe we were the only ones. “Who else?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

My hands clenched the stool. “Why not?” Mr. Gerek appeared about thirty-five, and if he was a jacker, anyone could be. There could be hundreds, maybe thousands of them. “Are there more at our school?”

“No. At least,” he glanced at Simon, “not that I’m aware of. We’re rare. But there are many of us in the New Metro area. I can’t tell you any more until you’ve joined the Clan.”

Clan? Alarm bells started ringing in my head. “What is that, like, your secret club?”

“The Clan is like a family, Kira,” Mr. Gerek said. “We know what it’s like to be different.” He spread his hands wide. “We only want to extend our welcome. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

The alarm in my head cranked to full alert. Simon had lied to me. Mr. Gerek was a jacker, which meant he was a liar too. I didn’t know what this Clan was all about, but I doubted they were only concerned about my loneliness. I slid off the high stool and put it between me and Mr. Gerek. I didn’t know if either of them intended to let me go, but it was definitely time to leave.

“Okay.” I edged away from the chair. “That’s a very nice invitation, and I appreciate it, but I should be going now.” A quaver had found its way into my voice.

Mr. Gerek remained in his seat, which eased my panic a little. I backed into something solid and let out a yelp.

“Kira, it’s okay,” Simon said, his face unreadable. “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

His words didn’t reassure me at all. “I’m leaving!”

“It was nice to meet you, Kira,” Mr. Gerek called from his seat. “That invitation is open, whenever you’re ready for it.”

I slipped around Simon and shoved open the shop door. Simon shuffled behind me.

“Kira, stop.” He tugged at my elbow.

I wheeled on him and pounded my fists into his chest. “You lied to me!” He shrank back from my blow, which certainly didn’t injure him. But he still seemed wounded.

“I didn’t lie,” he said harshly. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”

“What’s the difference?” I held my fists at my side and resisted the urge to hit him again. Of course he lied to me. Simon was an expert liar.

“You know the difference.” His face hardened. “Besides, I couldn’t tell you about the Clan. The code of silence is real, and the Clan takes it very seriously. They don’t let just anyone in. They have to be careful.” He looked me up and down. “I told Mr. Gerek that we could trust you. That you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

I swallowed. What would the Clan do if I said no to their offer? What had Simon gotten me into? “What do they want with me?”

Simon studied the floor for a moment, and then looked into my eyes. “It’s like Mr. Gerek said. It’s a family. We take care of each other. It’s a place where everyone understands what you are.”

What I am? I was just a girl who wanted to be a reader like everyone else. I would take being a zero any day over these layers upon layers of lies. The tears started to tickle my throat, and I clenched my teeth against them. They spilled out anyway.

Simon reached to wipe away a tear that had run down my cheek, but I leaned away before he could touch me. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I don’t want to be like this.” I couldn’t keep the words in. “Why are we like this?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was soft, almost kind. “I know you don’t like it. But in time, you’ll see. We have to stick together. And you know you can’t tell anyone about the Clan, right?”

“Code of silence?” My voice was bitter.

His smile was grim. “Yeah.”

I left him standing in the hallway, unsure if I ever wanted to see him again.

chapter TWENTY

I ignored about a dozen scrits from Simon.

As the weekend lurched along, my anger about his secret society of mindjackers fizzled. Of course Simon and I weren’t the only two jackers in the world. If I hadn’t been adjusting to everything and trying to pass for a reader, I would have figured that out. According to Mr. Gerek, there were jackers all over the Chicago New Metro area, which included half of Illinois and millions of people. Were there hundreds of jackers among those millions? Thousands? Our high school had almost 4,000 students, yet Simon and I were the only jackers. Were we a one-in-two-thousand mutation? Or was it a fluke that we were in the same school? I tried to do the math, but it seemed impossible to know how many jackers were hiding in plain sight, like Mr. Gerek and Simon—and me.

And what was up with this mysterious Clan anyway? Simon claimed they were a family, like some kind of support group for freaks. Did they recruit jackers for their cause, like a band of super-heroes? Shop teacher and secret jacker Mr. Gerek didn’t exactly fit the super-hero stereotype, but he didn’t seem like a super-villain either.

I didn’t know what or who to believe any more.

If I could pass for a reader, college and med school were possible, even if I had to lie to get there. I didn’t see how joining a gang of jackers would help with that.

But I didn’t want them angry at me either.

On Monday, Simon found me before school and pulled me into an empty hallway where we could talk. “You haven’t answered my scrits.” He seemed tense, like he thought I would announce the existence of the Clan over the student council’s morning tru-cast.

“I’ve been thinking about what a fantastic liar you are.” So maybe I hadn’t completely gotten over my annoyance with him.

He set his jaw. “Look, I’m sorry about that, okay? I couldn’t tell you anything until I got clearance from Mr. Gerek.”

“So, he’s the boss of you?” My smile seemed to irritate Simon further.

“No.” He let out a frustrated huff. “But he is my contact with the Clan, and I’d rather not mess that up.”

I couldn’t help being curious. “So what’s this business with Mr. Gerek? I mean, if I was a thirty-five-year-old jacker, I’m not sure I’d be a shop teacher.”

Simon shook his head and leaned against a paint-chipped locker wall. “He’s a great guy. He’s been a recruiter for a long time, and he’s taught me a lot.” He pulled a half-grin. “It still grates on him that I found you first.”

“He recruits jackers for the Clan?”

“Yeah. He watches for changeling jackers as they come through the school.” He gestured at the empty hall. “Most kids pass through his class around the time they change. He would have found you, but you hadn’t changed yet. And you didn’t take shop.”

“But he found you?”

“Actually, I found him. I changed early, before I got to high school. By the time I went through his class, I was already jacking everyone.”

“Show off.” I nudged his chest. Maybe I could forgive him. All of Simon’s lies were somewhat mitigated by my own half truths—about my mom, about Raf. “So, what does the Clan do?”

He glanced at the still-empty hall. “Well, you could join us and find out.” I scowled and he dropped his voice. “It’s a place where you can belong. Where you don’t have to lie about who you are.”

His words pulled at me. I didn’t want to admit how much the lies were wearing on me.

“Who all is in the Clan? Besides shop teachers and their students.” Maybe my dream of being a doctor didn’t have to mean staying away from the Clan. Maybe I could do both.

“There are all kinds of people.” He cracked a grin. “Depends on how good your skills are.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You mean jacking skills. I suppose your skills rock.”

“I’m not bad,” he said with false modesty. “Molloy has a soft spot for the younger jackers and wants the recruits to finish high school, or they would have taken me sooner.” It was the first time I had seen Simon boast about anything.

“Who’s Molloy?” I wrinkled my nose. That name sounded very familiar. “There’s that big building, off the T-41 Metra line, with Molloy Enterprises written on it. Is he related to that?”

His mouth dropped open, but he quickly shut it. “You can’t say anything about that. Look, you’ve got to promise me you’ll keep the code of silence. They’re really serious about that.”

“Who am I going to tell?” My skeptical look made him relax.

“Good.” He shuffled closer to whisper. “Kira, you belong in the Clan. You’ll see, if you just come join us. It’s a place where you can do what you’re meant to do.”

“What exactly does that mean?” If the Clan was all about using their jacking skills, that couldn’t add up to anything good. I doubted they were running around solving crimes or aiding the poor. All the secrecy probably meant they were shady, like Simon’s too-fancy car and stolen beers.

“Just come and see,” he said.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” His face fell.

I walked away.

I avoided Simon at lunch and chewed on the idea of the Clan. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to be part of them. Not having to lie, being with people who understood you. If Simon hadn’t been around to help me, I’m not sure what I would have done. Probably gone a bit demens.

But I was just getting used to passing for a reader and having a normal life.

By the time math rolled around, I was ready for a truce. I didn’t say anything, just sat next to him in class. During free period, we tamped down the swirling rumors about our impending breakup by hanging out in the library. Afterward, I air-kissed Simon in the hall and insisted I needed to go to band. He looked uncertain, but didn’t try to stop me.

At the end of band practice, Trina stood at the door. She was out of range, so I ignored her, but by the time I finished packing my instrument, she was still there.

Trina and I used to be in band together, a zillion years ago, until she quit when it wasn’t mesh anymore. When hanging out with me wasn’t mesh anymore. We hadn’t mindtalked directly since I changed. As I walked into range, I tentatively linked into her mind. Her thoughts were jumbled, like she wasn’t sure what to say. I wasn’t sure what I wanted her to say either. Maybe Sorry for ditching you when you needed a friend most? It would be a start. It was tempting to force an apology, but it wouldn’t mean much if I had to make her say it.

Hey, Trina, I linked to her as coolly as I could.

Her thoughts crystallized as soon as she heard mine. Message, she thought. Give Kira the message. Her thoughts had that hollow, repetitive sound of jacked mind. I scanned the hall for Simon, but found Mr. Gerek instead, staring me down, just out of range.

An icy fear trickled through me. My eyes locked with Mr. Gerek’s as I linked a thought to her. What’s the message, Trina?

We can make your life better, better, or much worse, worse, Trina thought earnestly, like a parrot repeating a phrase it had memorized.

My mouth went dry. Mr. Gerek tipped his head and walked away.

Hey, Trina thought. You’re still here. Still in band, I mean.

It took me a moment to realize that she wasn’t under his control anymore.

I coughed to clear the dryness from my throat. Yeah, well, some things don’t change.

Some of us are going to the Fuse after school, she thought. Would you like to come?

Still tense from the encounter with Gerek, I almost laughed out loud. Being invited to hang out at the gameplex was probably the last thing I expected her to think.

I laughed mentally instead, which wasn’t easy with lots of people shifting by. I don’t exactly have much practice with mindware games. Like none.

She gave me a bright smile. It’s time we got you up to speed then. What’s the point of changing if you can’t waste your skills on mindless games?

She sounded like the old Trina. Only I wasn’t the old me, not even close. But this was what I had wanted all along, right? The way it used to be?

I arrived home late from school. The mindware games’ metallic aftertaste lingered on the back of my tongue. It had been a challenge to run the games while linking my thoughts to the crowded gameplex, but our synchronized Blue Devils team trounced the rival Stevenson High players. It was fun. Really great.

Except for the dread left behind by Gerek’s threat.

He’d obviously controlled Trina to deliver his not-so-subtle message. But did he jack her into inviting me to the Fuse too? She didn’t seem controlled, but maybe he only messed with her emotions. Was that what he meant by making my life better?

It gave me the chills.

Of course Gerek controlled people. He was a jacker. But did he make the threat because he thought I would blow the Clan’s cover? Or did he really want me to join the Clan that badly? Either way, like Simon, it was better to be on Gerek’s good side.

The next day, my gaming at the Fuse had finally killed my changeling status in the thought-rumor mill. I now routinely linked into everyone’s minds, passing for a reader without thinking. This caused a problem at the tail end of Tuesday, when I almost reached into Raf’s mind by accident. He was waiting for me at the school entrance. Simon had already left with Martin, to do something he vaguely explained as business.

Raf’s sudden appearance in Simon’s absence couldn’t be a coincidence.

I slowed my pace as I came into range. Part of me wanted to treat him like everyone else. Simon was right—it would be less suspicious if Raf thought I was a reader. But once I was inside his head, I didn’t know if I could keep from spilling my secrets. I’d had a hard enough time lying to him when he simply held my hand.

Then Gerek came out of the administration office, two doors down from the entrance. Whatever Raf was thinking caught his attention, and he swung his head toward us, narrowing his eyes. I stumbled to a stop, but it was too late—I was in range of Raf, and he was already frowning because he couldn’t read me.

I quickly jacked into Raf’s head.

Just want to talk, Kira, just want to talk. Why can’t I hear her yet? Raf’s thoughts burst into my head.

I put on a big smile, trying not to be obviously weird. Raf! There you are! Come on, let’s go! I breezed past him out the door, praying he would follow without having to jack him.

Hey, Kira, I just wanted to talk, he thought.

I know! I know! My sandals clattered on the stone steps as I hurried down.

You know?

When I reached the bottom, I glanced back. Gerek wasn’t following us, so I slowed and tried to step down my panic. The humidity had finally released its hold on Gurnee, but I was still breaking out in a cold sweat.

I pulled out of Raf’s head before I was tempted to tell him too much.

He matched my pace as I headed away from the school. “I can’t…”

“Still a changeling, I guess.” I gave a jerky laugh. The school had emptied out, so there was no danger of being seen talking out loud. And it was unreasonably good to hear his voice.

“Can I walk you home?” He whispered in that conspiratorial tone we used when I was a zero. I let him stay by me, not knowing what to say. Before, I would have shared anything with Raf. Now that my life was an intricate maze of lies, it seemed there was nothing I could share.

We walked in silence for a while.

“You seem to be doing well. With the change, I mean,” he said. “Well, except for now.” I smothered the part of me that cared that he noticed.

“Yeah, it’s good.”

“Maybe sometime, when you’re able to read, we could hang out. Just mindtalk for a while.”

Well, that wasn’t going to work. At all. “You said you were going to stay away from me.” A lump in my throat cut off anything else I might have said.

“Yeah.” He dropped his eyes to his oversized sneakers. I picked up my pace, to outrun the heartache that loomed ahead. “I’ve messed this whole thing up,” he said. “I don’t want to be that guy that was yelling at you in your room.”

Water pooled in my eyes and blurred the sun-burnt grass and the white concrete together. Raf was killing me with guilt by trying to take the blame for a mess that was completely mine.

When I didn’t say anything, he kept going. “I want to be a better friend than that. And you’re right. You can date whoever you want.” He was making an effort to keep the anger out of his voice, but I still heard it. Raf was trying to be the friend he thought I needed. He couldn’t have found a more lethal way to break my heart. The tears pooling in my eyes crested the dam.

“You are my friend, Raf.” I choked on the words. “You’re a great friend. The best. Ever.” I bit my lip, hard, because the secrets were welling up inside me, threatening to spill out like the tears. I’m a mutant jacker, Raf. Everything is a lie. I bit even harder, welcoming the sharp pain that held the words in. Gerek, I reminded myself. My secret was even more dangerous for Raf now. I stabbed the urge to tell Raf anything, hoping it would die quickly.

“Hey, are you…” He peered at me. “Why are you…?” I was walking so fast I was nearly running. I needed to get to my house before my resolve faltered. Raf kept pace by my side. Within a minute, we had reached my front door.

“Kira.” He stopped me before I could bolt to safety inside. “If you want to talk about anything…” I threw my arms around his broad shoulders and marked his soccer jersey with my tears. Then I dashed in the house and closed the door on him. Leaning against it, I slowly sank to the floor.

“Kira?” my mom called. She peered down the stairs, holding a long silver ladle and a soft cloth. Seeing me slumped against the door, she hurried down. I stared at the floor, unable to get up or muster a lie.

“Raf,” was all I said. She pulled me close with the hand that still clutched the ladle and let me spill my tears on her shoulder.

chapter TWENTY-ONE

The next morning, I complained to Simon about Gerek’s threat.

We were in our daily hushed, early-morning meeting at my locker. I didn’t mention the fact that Gerek nearly caught me not jacking into Raf’s head.

“Gerek was only trying to convince you to join us,” Simon said, but he looked troubled.

“I said I’d keep the Clan’s secret,” I said. “Didn’t you tell him? Why is he harassing me?”

“He’s just worried,” he said. “It would be easier if you joined us, Kira. Then they wouldn’t be concerned about you blowing everyone’s cover.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not interested.” Although I was rethinking that now. If I joined the Clan, maybe they wouldn’t stalk after me and my friends. Or maybe I could convince them I wasn’t worth the trouble. “Besides, my skills aren’t rockin’ like yours. Why do they even want me?”

His eyes grew a little wider. “I told you. Molloy has a soft spot for the younger jackers.”

My occasional glimpses of Gerek made him seem less concerned about young jackers than making sure I didn’t get out of line.

For the rest of the week Gerek kept his distance and didn’t send me any more cryptic messages via friends from the past. Raf kept his distance as well, but I saw him everywhere.

He lingered in the hall or sat nearby at lunch—within sight, but out of thought range. It was reassuring, in a strange way, except for the permanent scowl etched in his forehead. I hoped his dark looks were only for Simon at my side.

The crew gathered at our usual Friday meeting spot on the bleachers, conspiring for the weekend. The next day was Simon’s 18th birthday, so Katie teased him, saying she’d turn him in for touching a minor. Simon declared all activities remotely considered kissing would cease.

I hoped he wasn’t serious. Sometimes it was hard to tell, with him being a consummate liar and me not far behind.

I scoured my brain for a gift for Simon. What do you get a boy who can mindjack to get anything he wants? Then I realized I was the one thing that Simon couldn’t have just by using his wily powers. He couldn’t force me to be with him or his Clan of fellow jackers. He couldn’t jack his way into my heart.

Maybe I could start acting like a real girlfriend.

When Simon asked me out before, it was only an excuse to meet with Gerek. But I could tell the hurt and anger when I brought up Raf was real. A genuine date might make the perfect gift. It was true that I didn’t date, and my dad probably would skin me alive if he found out. Then again, he would have a heart attack if he knew half of the things I’d done in the last three weeks. As I was devising a way to sneak out for a birthday date with Simon, Katie and the boys rose up from the bleachers.

Leaving so soon? I asked Katie.

Leave us. Simon’s voice boomed through their minds, and I flinched. What was the hurry? School hadn’t even let out. He draped his arm across my shoulder, careful not to touch my bare arm.

Leave, Katie echoed. Ok, we’re going, love birds.

I waited until they were out of range before whispering, “What was that all about?”

“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry at all. “I couldn’t wait any longer to show you.” He pulled a rolled sheet of parchment out of his backpack. The official holo-stamp of the high school hovered above a bunch of writing testifying that he had received his diploma.

“Get out!” I said. “But your birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

He bit his lip. “I’m impatient.”

I rolled my eyes. “How many people did you have to jack?”

“It was easy after I convinced Martin to hack into the school system and change all my classes to complete. He has his uses.”

“Wait.” The idea of completed classes sank in. “Aren’t you coming back on Monday?”

He stuffed the diploma into his pack, then captured me with that intense stare of his. “No.”

The word hung in the air. I wouldn’t see him in class or the hallways. No more jacking practice in the library or sneaking up to the bleachers to hang out and sometimes kiss. My stomach looped into a knot. “What are you going to do?”

“You know,” he said. “I’m working for the Clan full time now. I’m giving Molloy my vow tomorrow.”

“Vow?” I said. “Sounds more like a cult than a job.”

He scowled. “It’s my chance to get out of here.”

“But… you’re not leaving Gurnee, are you?” My voice hiked up. Would his work with the Clan take him out of town? Would I not see him again, even outside of school? I didn’t like the panic climbing up my throat.

He searched my eyes. “Come with me, Kira.”

I swallowed down the fear. “Come with you where?”

“Just come to the ceremony. Check it out. There’s a big Clan meeting tomorrow and I’m going to make my vow then.” He lightly brushed my hair back. “I want you to be there.”

My birthday present to Simon crystallized before me. Simon was jacking his way out of high school, and I could help celebrate his acceptance into his Clan of fellow mindjackers. And if I came to the ceremony, maybe pretended to consider joining, Gerek wouldn’t be so suspicious. The Clan might let me hang out until I graduated like Simon, and they’d leave my friends alone.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come see what this Clan of yours is all about.”

He pulled me close and pressed his lips to mine. “Thank you,” he whispered between kisses. “Thank you.”

“Okay, okay.” I laughed lightly, basking in the warmth of his lips.

I seriously hoped the kisses wouldn’t end tomorrow.

chapter TWENTY-TWO

Mom had some demens idea about a Mom-and-Kira night.

The smell of popcorn wafted from a bowl on the couch while she flicked through the sim-cast choices on the screen. My breakdown over Raf on Tuesday had convinced her I needed a girl’s night intervention, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. The Clan ceremony loomed barely an hour away, and my options for escape were disappearing.

“One of these is a romantic comedy,” she said. The scrolling sim-cast list halted for a moment, then continued on. “It has that actor you like, the cute one.”

“They’re all cute, Mom.”

She grinned, as if I was playing along. “Here it is.” She directed the mindware display to start the download. “Seventeen Days. Have you heard of it?”

“No, but I’m sure someone falls in love and lives happily ever after.” I crossed my arms and hovered at the edge of the living room, refusing to come in. “I don’t think a romantic comedy is good for my state of mind right now.” I hoped she would buy my pathetic gambit. It wasn’t too far from the truth, with my worries about Simon leaving school.

“Oh.” She stopped the sim-cast mid-download. “Well, we can watch whatever you like. Come take a look.” She gestured me over to the couch. I stood my ground and contemplated jacking her to watch while I went out. My insides squirmed at the idea, but I couldn’t sneak out, and I had no plausible excuses to leave. Her shoulders dropped and she flicked a glance at the time display on the screen.

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Well, um, Rafael called earlier.”

My mouth fell open. Mom wasn’t usually this underhanded.

“I only told him we were watching a sim-cast tonight.” She stared at the popcorn bowl, like she might find forgiveness there. “He said he might stop by,” she said quietly.

The blood rushed to my face. Through the haze, I realized that Mom had inadvertently given me a way out. “I can’t believe you invited Raf!” I shouted more forcefully than necessary. “I’m so out of here.” My shoes were lying near the stairs. I tugged them on with exaggerated passion and surreptitiously checked my pocket for my phone. I would scrit Simon once I was free of the house.

“Kira, wait!” She spilled popcorn in her haste to rise up from the couch, but I didn’t want to give her a chance to apologize.

“I’ll be back when you’re done having Raf over!” I pounded down the stairs and slammed the front door on my way out, hoping my display was sufficiently violent to keep her from coming after me. I knew she would worry and resolved to scrit her later. But she should have known better than to invite Raf.

I pulled out my phone to scrit Simon. My running shoes whispered down the street, and the late afternoon air seeped heat through my shorts and t-shirt. I didn’t have a chance to dress up for Simon’s big ceremony, but I was lucky to get out of the house at all. It would have to do.

Simon’s black hydro car was waiting when I arrived at the school parking lot. My fortuitous exit plan gave us a little extra time, which we spent making out in the car. His starched white shirt crinkled under my hands, leaving him rumpled for his big event. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely my fault. Simon’s kisses were more enthusiastic than normal.

“Where does your Mom think you’ll go?” he asked between nibbles on my ear.

“I don’t know. Probably figures I’ll walk it off and come home.” I remembered my earlier plan. “Maybe I’ll scrit her and say I’m going to a friend’s.”

“Good idea. Then she won’t call the police when you don’t show up an hour from now.”

I sent her a vague scrit about an unidentified friend, giving me room to conjure a good lie before I came home, and went back to kissing Simon until we had to leave.

Once Simon had programmed an autopath and we glided out of the parking lot, I belatedly asked, “Where’s the Clan meeting?”

He glanced sideways at me. “Molloy owns a warehouse in Glenview, and the Clan holds their big meetings there.”

I shifted in my seat, remembering a Glenview stop along the T-94 line on a rare trip south into the city. My dad had taken us to visit Navy Pier, one of the few museums left when the city depopulated under the range ordinances. The towering downtown skyscrapers filled with commuting workers during the day, but Dad insisted we take the train out before dark.

“Are we taking the Metra?” I checked the sun sinking in the sky, hoping Glenview wasn’t too close to the city.

“It’s only about forty minutes by car.”

It was easier and faster to take the train and an autocab rather than weave through endless suburban streets. Maybe Simon wanted to show off his sporty car to the Clan. Or maybe he didn’t want to leave a record of our trip.

“Does everyone drive?” I asked.

“I don’t really know. The Clan doesn’t usually all gather in the same spot, but this is a special occasion. I think most of the Clan will be there. Only Molloy has met all the members. It’s safer if we don’t all know each other.”

“Safer from what?” What could a band of mindjackers be afraid of? Sure, they didn’t want their cover blown. But was there more than that? “Are there other Clans?”

He paused for a moment. “Not in Chicago New Metro. Clan Molloy is the only one here.” I arched an eyebrow at him, but he ignored me.

We broke out of the forest of housing tracts and wove through a run-down industrial park that reminded me of the area where Simon found the only convenience store in North America without security cameras. Gray metal warehouses lined up like ammo cases and caught the red glow of the setting sun. Jagged shadows made the ramshackle buildings seem ready to collapse. Simon pulled up to a side door and parked between a scattering of cars.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I eyed him. He was the one who should worry about being ready. I was only checking out the Clan and supporting him on his big day. But I nodded anyway.

“All right, once we’re inside, just stick by me and follow my lead.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

His soft gaze turned into a softer kiss, then he stepped out of the car and opened my door. I hadn’t expected him to be a gentleman, so I was already halfway out. He held my hand and shut the car door. The sound echoed off the metal canyon of warehouses.

He paused at the door of the warehouse and took one last look at me before pulling down the handle. About two dozen people milled around the cavernous warehouse. Pallets of goods lined the walls, and giant chains hung by a garage door on the far side. Clutching my hand a little harder, Simon steered us toward the loose crowd gathered in the middle. They orbited a tall, beefy man standing next to a gray metal table and chair. His long red hair flared out from his head, tamed only by a band in back, and he greeted each Clan member as they drifted his way.

Simon whispered, “That’s Molloy,” which I had already figured out. He appeared about thirty-five and stood like a man used to giving orders. Scanning the other jackers, I recognized a couple of faces. A dark-haired Hispanic woman lingered at the periphery of the crowd and looked very much like the reference desk librarian at the Gurnee Public Library. A gangly man with a hook nose stood next to her and appeared to be the ticket guy from the old Marcus Theatre that Raf and I liked to visit. There seemed to be more young jackers than old, with Molloy the oldest, but the Clan members were like anyone you would see at the grocery store or a soccer game.

All jackers hiding in plain sight.

Was this it for the New Metro area—a couple dozen jackers that occasionally met in a rickety warehouse? But Simon said the Clan was careful and didn’t let in just anyone. There had to be more, like me, who would rather simply pass for readers and have a normal life.

A thin, pasty man shadowed Molloy, his face impassive. He was plain in every way except for the steel gray eyes that were trained on me. I glared back at him and wondered what his problem was. His stare was like a force on my head, like he was trying to push on my mind, which didn’t make any sense. Simon had told me he couldn’t get into my head, and I was pretty sure it was simple bad manners to try to jack me as if I were a reader he could control. Pasty Man’s eyes widened slightly and the corner of his mouth turned up as the pressure got worse.

I pushed him hard, away from my head and all the way back to his.

I gasped when I sank deep into the gel of his mind. He was a visitor, not part of Molloy’s regular Clan, and he had special plans for me, if my head was as hard as they thought. Before I could think about what that meant, he pushed me back out. It had all taken less than a moment, but I realized a crucial thing in that tiny slice of time.

I could jack into another jacker’s head, but he couldn’t get into mine.

There’s something different about me.

Simon had missed the entire exchange, intent on working our way toward Molloy. Simon had let me think I couldn’t jack into his mind or even link in.

And I had never questioned it.

My stomach clenched hard. That Simon would lie was no shock, but this was different. Danger seemed to radiate from the crowd circulating around Molloy.

I tried to link into Simon’s mind and slipped in no problem. He better hold up his end of the bargain…. Simon shot me a look. What is she…? He pushed me out his mind and yanked me close to his side with our clasped hands.

“Don’t do that!” Then his head snapped to Molloy, who had locked his emerald-green eyes on us. He resembled an oversized, maniacal leprechaun, and the Clan members parted before his determined stride to meet us. Simon dropped my hand like it was on fire and stepped away as Molloy neared.

Molloy bared his teeth in a simulated smile and loomed over me. Seamus, with his wild red hair and imposing linebacker build, would have disappeared in the shadow of Molloy. He grasped my hand and held it with surprising gentleness, like a giant cradling a kitten. I didn’t dare link into his mind. My voice had fled, and my legs wished they could follow.

“Welcome, Kira. We are so glad you could come.” His teeth glinted in the blue plasma lights of the warehouse, and he stared at me too long. Pressure built on my mind, an echo of the mental force from his pasty minion. I slowly extricated my hand from his grasp.

Molloy arched an eyebrow as I took a small step back so that he wasn’t crushing me with his presence. The pressure on my mind ceased, and Molloy checked with his spook over his shoulder. His nod caused Molloy to break into wide smile.

He showered his approval on Simon and grasped his hand. Molloy must have linked into Simon’s mind and exchanged words mentally, because Simon’s look of horror was replaced by a tentative grin.

Molloy took a step back, dropping Simon’s hand and raising both of his.

“Friends!” he said to the crowd. “We have a new member to welcome to our Clan!” He swept a hand out, encompassing Simon and me. “You all know Simon, Alec Gerek’s young recruit. He wishes to make his vow tonight.” There was a patter of applause and Simon flushed.

I clasped my hands together, trying to stop the quivering and summon my inner ninja.

Molloy was still talking to the crowd. “Simon brings us a new friend, today. Someone to welcome into our Clan as well.” He smiled a row of shark teeth. The eyes of the entire Clan turned to me. I was a minnow in a pool of sharks. Simon sent me reassuring looks, as though he hadn’t just betrayed and abandoned me.

It didn’t seem wise to tell them I planned to run as soon as I could. I took a deep breath so my voice wouldn’t quaver. “Um, yeah. I’m still thinking about that.”

Molloy’s predatory smile grew, but Simon’s grin evaporated with my words. A twitter went around the room. Pasty Man started toward us with silent footfalls.

“I see you and Andre have already met,” Molloy said, ignoring my words.

Andre arrived at his elbow, steely eyes still trained on me. A faint smile turned his plain face menacing. “Hello, Kira.” His voice was bland, his words gone almost before they were spoken. “I think we have much to talk about.”

Talking to Pasty Man was the last thing I planned to do. Top priority was finding a way out of the shark pit that the warehouse had become. I couldn’t possibly outrun them. And besides, I was somewhere in Glenview with only Simon for transportation home. Simon’s face had gone blank.

In one enormous stride, Molloy cut the distance between us and hovered over me again. I tried not to shrink away, although the gesture was no doubt useless. My eyes went wide as he ran his large, rough thumb over my forehead, the way Simon had ages ago when we first met. A chill ran from that touch to my clenched stomach.

“Your mind is indeed a wonder,” he said. “Even my friend Andre says so.”

I didn’t understand exactly what was happening, but one thing had become clear: Simon had not brought me here to watch his ceremony or learn about the Clan, but to sell me out to the Red Giant and Andre the Spook. They wanted something from me that had to do with my hard head. My impenetrable mind.

Which was apparently different from everyone else.

My breath hitched as I realized the depth of my trouble. Simon stood several feet behind Molloy. I was tempted to link into his head and tell him what I thought of his betrayal, but I had to focus on a way out.

Molloy seemed amused. “Kira, my dear, don’t be angry with Simon.” His massive hands clasped around mine. My pounding pulse beat a tempo in my wrists. “He only wants what we all want. For you to join us, your family. Your true family. Whether you realize it or not, Kira, you belong in Clan Molloy.”

I yanked my hands out of his grip. “You’re not my family.”

He shook his head. “I very much hope you change your mind about that. You don’t want your mother or father, or that delightful brother of yours, to be involved in this, do you?”

My lower lip started to tremble. How did he know so much about me? “Leave my family out of it!” The words jerked out of me in gasps.

He stepped back. “Well, now, that’s up to you.” Another Clan member slipped behind him, and they seemed to exchange thoughts. Molloy arched his eyebrows and announced to the crowd, “It appears we have an opportunity for young Simon to prove his loyalty today.” Simon’s impassive face cracked into a frown. “I’m sure he won’t mind,” Molloy continued, staring down Simon.

Molloy swept his hand to the back door as two figures walked in, one blond haired and head held high, the other with dark curls and head hanging as if examining the floor where every foot fell. His hands hung slack at his sides.

My body tensed. Maybe this was the distraction that I needed. I made ready to run and stole another glance at Simon. His face had drained of color. The blond Clan member seemed to be mentally steering the black-haired man to the chair in the center of the room. As he sat down, his arms fell limp down the sides of the chair. He raised his head and gazed unseeing at the table.

No! My heart seized up. Raf. His eyes were glazed, a puppet under the control of the Clan minion, but clearly Raf.

“It seems we have a spy amongst us.” Molloy laughed as though that was some kind of private joke. The Clan’s chuckles echoed around the warehouse, bouncing off the concrete floor and the metallic walls.

The urge to run drained out of my body. What was Raf doing here? And what were they going to do to him? As the laughter died away, Molloy turned to me. “It seems we aren’t the only ones who admire you, lovely Kira,” he said. “Yet we can’t have readers stumbling into our meetings. You understand, I’m sure.” He glanced at Simon and consulted silently with his spooky sidekick. Simon’s face had turned ashen and his jaw worked.

I linked into his head. This is not how I had… He threw me a sharp look.

Simon, what is happening? What’re they going to do to Raf?

Kira, I have to… I don’t have any choice…

Have to what? What?? He ignored me and jacked fast into Raf’s mind. Raf’s head slowly bent down until it rested on his chest. I jacked into Raf’s head, too, and found Simon’s presence had tunneled deep, going past the thoughts that were jacked by Molloy’s guard and into the part that controlled breathing. And heart rate.

No! I reached for the solid marble of Simon’s mind and pushed hard. Simon flew back out of Raf’s head. I kept pushing until Simon was back in his own mind.

And then I jacked hard into Simon’s mind, until he dropped like a stone to the warehouse floor. Back in Raf’s mind, I found the guard and flung him out as well, pounding him back into his own head until he collapsed like Simon into a heap.

A gasp went around the room, and I knew I couldn’t stop.

I slammed into Molloy and Pasty Man with all the force that I could. Stop! I commanded and they fell, collapsing onto a Clan member that had been hovering nearby. I closed my eyes, and one by one, I sought them out and cut them down, a chorus of cries and gasps rising and then falling as they hit the floor with sickening thuds. The last one was trapped under Molloy’s body, but he reached out to me with his mind. I slammed him back into his own head and commanded, Stop.

He was still.

chapter TWENTY-THREE

I opened my eyes.

The warehouse looked like a battlefield littered with jackers as still as corpses. They lay motionless, one on top of another, with limbs bent at odd angles. My feet were riveted to the floor. The jackers weren’t dead, but I had erased their conscious thoughts, like words wiped from a scribepad. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t move again unless I told them to wake up.

Something banged against my knees, and the floor rushed at me. My hands flew in front of my face to keep it from smacking into the concrete. I stared at the floor, and air wheezed in and out of my lungs. The fallen bodies haunted the edge of my field of view.

Suddenly hands grabbed my shoulders and lifted me. Raf’s face swam into view. “Kira, are you okay?”

His thick black brows drew together. I reached up and touched them. Soft like feathers. They moved under my hand when he frowned deeper.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he said. He reached his arm around my back and hoisted me from the floor. My legs didn’t work right. I tried to walk, but my toes kept catching on the concrete floor.

Or maybe the bodies.

Raf hauled me across the endless cavern of the warehouse until we reached the door he had come through. He kicked it open, and we stepped out into the clammy night air. The ground disappeared as Raf hooked his arm under my legs and carried me across the street. He set me down by the passenger side of his car and opened the door. The car light spilled out onto the grass and jump-started my brain. I felt sick and bent over, sucking in gulps of night air to stop the queasiness.

“Oh god, Kira, are you okay?” Raf rubbed my back. The sickness climbed up in my throat, but I swallowed it down and straightened. A wave of dizziness swept me. I leaned against him and buried my face in his chest.

“We need to leave,” he said, taking hold of my shoulders and nudging me toward the passenger seat. “Just get in the car, and I’ll get us out of here.” I obeyed, sitting heavily and dragging my legs in after me. He hurried around to the driver’s side, throwing a glance back at the warehouse, as if he expected them to come barreling out at any moment.

He pulled up the mindware to start the car. I touched his shoulder to stop him.

“We need to go.” His voice was soft, like he was talking to a child waking from a nightmare.

“No. Wait. I have to wake them up.” It didn’t seem right to leave them passed out cold on the concrete floor.

“Wake them up?” He peered at the warehouse, draped in shadows. “What happened in there, Kira? I only remember being here in the car. You went in, but I don’t remember anything else until I woke up inside. Then everyone was falling down.”

Words came out of my mouth explaining how I jacked into people’s minds, how Molloy had ordered Raf killed, and how Simon was going to do it. And so, of course, I had to stop Simon. And Molloy. And the others. I watched his eyes go wide as saucers and then shrink with horror and finally settle into pure amazement. I walked him through every step, but it felt like a lecture I was giving to students in a tinny hall far away. Today, students, I will explain how I knocked out a battalion of mindjacking Clan members. There will be a quiz at the end.

Sickness rose up again. I had to stop talking to choke it back down.

Raf brushed my cheeks, and they seemed wet. I blinked to clear away the blurriness.

The amazement on Raf’s face had tempered to concern. “What do we do now?”

“We should call the police,” I said. “No, wait.” I tried to clear the fuzziness in my brain. “If I wake them up while the police are there, they’ll just jack the officers and escape. Or worse. There has to be some way to stop them. Maybe order them to cooperate with the police and turn themselves in?” I wasn’t even sure of that. Somehow I had managed to knock them out, but they weren’t expecting it. I caught them by surprise. If they were all awake… and angry…

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to stay until the police arrive,” Raf said.

“We can’t let them go free,” I said. “They’ll hurt my family.”

Raf pulled his phone out of his pocket. “How about I call the police, and we’ll pull over behind those bushes.” He pointed to a row of hedges large enough to obscure his car and out of reading range of the warehouse. “Can you do your, um, jacking from there?”

“Yes. I think so.” An unreasonable smile broke across my face. Raf gave me a whisper of a smile and then became serious as he focused on his phone. I reached inside the building. The location of each mind was seared into me. They were all still safely unconscious. Raf switched on the car and used the manual joystick to quickly swing the car around and hide us behind the hedge.

The night was still as we waited.

The air was thick with things I needed to say to Raf, but the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. I stared at the green twisting branches of the bush, snarled like all the lies I had told, and searched for the right thing to say. From the corner of my eye, I saw Raf staring at me. It all seemed so silly now, in retrospect. The one person I should have trusted all along was the one I had lied to the most.

“How did you find me?” I asked, stalling while I searched for a way to apologize. Raf gripped the car’s joystick. I wasn’t sure if he was anxious about the police or if he was angry about the insanity that had just occurred. He didn’t look at me.

“I followed you.” His voice was quiet, like he was embarrassed.

“From my house?” I asked, not quite putting it all together.

“No, from the school.” His whisper hung in the air. Heat crept up my neck as I remembered what Simon and I had been doing, for quite some time, in that school parking lot. Had my mom called Raf? Did he just stumble onto that scene? It didn’t matter. Simon’s betrayal just fueled the fire on my cheeks.

“I was worried about you, Kira,” Raf said, still defending himself.

“Raf.” I wanted him to look at me, but he kept staring at the bushes. “I was wrong. About a lot of things. I should have told you the truth.” My hands were white from clenching each other in my lap. “I was trying to protect you,” I mumbled.

His head snapped to me. “Protect me from them?”

“And from me.” The words came out a whisper.

He shook his head. “Kira, you wouldn’t hurt me. You saved my life tonight.”

“I already hurt you once.” My final secret came out before I could stop it.

“You mean, in chem lab?” Knowing I had cut down a warehouse full of jackers, he had to know that I had done the same thing to him. He took a deep breath and gazed through the bushes to the building where the bodies still lay. “I knew there was something going on with you, Kira, I just didn’t know what. And you wouldn’t talk to me. I wish you had let me help you, instead of turning to that guy, Simon.” The hurt in his eyes was clear, even in the dim parking lot lights, and it stabbed me.

“Me too,” I whispered. My face burned with embarrassment and anger—at Simon, at myself for lying, at the universe for giving me this cursed ability. I had messed things up pretty good and almost gotten my best friend killed.

Twice.

And I had lied to everyone I cared about in the process. There must be something worse than green sludge on cheese, because I had sunk to a new low. I stared at my hands and wondered if Raf could ever trust me again. Then his hand found mine. It was warm and soft, and my fingers automatically sought his and held tight.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said. But I already knew that from the safe feeling that pulsed from his hands into mine, from the easy forgiveness he gave me with his touch. Although I didn’t deserve his trust, I desperately needed it.

The right words had abandoned me again.

As I searched for something to say, a black car careened around the corner of the winding industrial row and screeched to a stop in front of the warehouse. It didn’t appear to be a police car, with no lights, siren, or markings. We heard the doors open and hard soled shoes clattering on the pavement. I linked into the two newcomer’s minds to see if they were Clan members coming to rescue their fallen crew.

One pushed me out of his head before I could register a name. The second was distracted, thinking about someone inside the warehouse. His name popped up. Agent Kestrel, FBI. My eyes went wide. Agent Kestrel pushed me out, hard, and kept pushing all the way back to my impenetrable mind. Except maybe it wasn’t. The force of him on my mind was stronger than anything I’d felt before.

“We have to leave!” I said. Raf jumped in his seat. “Now, now, now!”

I closed my eyes in concentration. If we stayed any longer, Agent Kestrel might jack into my head, and I was certain that would be a bad thing. I pressed my hands to my temples, as if I could ward Kestrel off that way. Raf threw the car into reverse and flung me forward into the dash. We hurtled backward across the empty parking lot. The pressure on my head lessened. I opened my eyes and braced myself against the dash right as Raf hit the brakes and flung me back into my seat. I struggled with the seat belt as he screeched out of the parking lot.

A squeal of tires sounded behind us. Even though we were tearing away from the warehouse, the pressure on my mind started to grow again.

“He’s following us…” I whispered.

“Who’s following us?” Raf said hoarsely. “What’s going on?”

“They’re FBI agents. Jacker agents.” The pressure grew stronger. I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. “We have to get farther away, Raf. Go faster!”

“I am!” he said, but then he started to slow down and pull to the side of the road.

He had slumped against the dash.

“Raf!” I grabbed the joystick and tried to keep us from crashing into the trees lining the street, but it wasn’t responding. Agent Kestrel must have jacked into the car’s mindware as well as Raf’s mind. I reached into the mindware controls and wrestled with Kestrel. Somehow he managed to shut down the engine, and our car crawled to a full stop at the curb.

Raf slumped against the window, too groggy to move. I reached for Kestrel’s mind, but he was ready for me and he was too strong. I couldn’t even slow him down.

Tires crunched on the road behind us. Kestrel sprang out of his car and stalked toward ours. I shook Raf, trying to get him to move. Too late, I realized I had to run.

I wrenched the door handle up and stumbled out into the cool night air. The grass was slick under my hands as I caught myself. I got three steps before Agent Kestrel’s hand clamped around my arm. I wrestled with his mind and body in a flurry of hands and feet and thoughts. His bony hand held me fast against him, like a brick wall with an iron claw.

A sharp pain jabbed my arm, and a haze washed through me. My mind went numb, followed by my limbs, and the wet grass rushed to meet my face.

Run, Raf. But my thoughts were a jumble of words scattered on the lawn.

The darkness fell like a trap slamming shut.

chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Metal support bars dug through the thin, cold mattress, prodding my back as I woke up.

I forced my parched throat to swallow and propped myself up. The room smelled of stale sweat. Grime caked the edges of the walls. Other than the cot and a cracked toilet without a seat tucked in the far corner, the pale gray room was bare.

My head was numb, like it had disconnected from my body. I rubbed the heels of my hands on my temples, but it didn’t drive away the fuzziness. An orange aftertaste stung the back of my tongue. I gingerly swung my shaky legs over the edge of the bed and pressed my bare feet to the cold concrete floor. Why don’t I have shoes?

Pictures flashed through my mind: Raf slumped over the wheel, a pinprick in my arm, my face in the cold grass. Raf! I jerked up from the bed and the room spun. Catching myself on the corner of the mattress, I stumbled toward the metallic door.

There was no handle, only a small window I could barely see through, even standing on my tiptoes. The upper half of a concrete hallway was all I could see. I pounded on the door.

“Hey! Let me out!” I fought through the orange haze in my mind. Raf might be in another holding room nearby. I strained my eyes to peer down the featureless corridor. A tall man in a gray uniform lurched into view and strode toward me.

I backed away from the door before the guard pushed it open. He stood with one hand on the knob and the other on a short black stick attached to his belt.

“Don’t get testy, princess,” he said. “You’ll be leaving soon enough.”

I reflexively backed away from him. His dark hair was greasy and slicked to the side, contrasting with his neatly pressed uniform. Something in his sharp blue eyes made it seem like he had seen horrible things and liked it. His lips pulled back in the kind of smile a crocodile gives right before it eats you for lunch.

The backs of my knees hit the bed and I nearly tumbled onto it. I straightened and took a deep breath. It didn’t matter if Reptile Man was big and frightening and kind of smelly, if I jacked him… I reached toward his mind, but my brain was too fuzzed. I could barely form a coherent thought, much less control his brain from across the room.

He snorted. “Not so tough when you’re on the juice, now are you?” Then he leered at me and a shiver convulsed me so hard I almost fell on the bare mattress again.

Abruptly, he swung his head to peer down the hallway. When his eyes returned to me, they had lost their gleam. “Time’s up, princess. Come on.” He stepped back, but I wasn’t so interested in leaving my room anymore.

“Where are we going?” He didn’t answer my question, and his ugly smile returned, like he wanted an excuse to come in the room after me. My legs twitched as I slipped out the door, keeping as much distance as possible between me and Reptile Man.

The long gray hallway was lined with doors identical to mine, perhaps twenty of them before a double door at the end. The small high windows kept me from seeing in. My feet pricked with cold from the concrete floor, and the bracing air of the prison soaked into my thin shorts and t-shirt. I hugged myself to keep the shivering to a minimum. The guard stopped just before the end double doors to open a side cell.

The room was the same size as mine. A battered metal table stood in the center with spindly chairs on either side, facing each other in a silent duel. The guard closed the door with a click that sounded like I would be staying put. My throat was still painfully dry, and a plastic cup of water called to me from the table. I picked it up and sniffed. They had already drugged me with whatever they wanted, so I gulped down the entire cup. The vinyl-cushioned chair clung to my legs when I sat down.

I sank my face into my hands. What had happened to Raf?

They must have taken him into custody as well. My brain was so fuzzed that I had to fight to remember what happened. The FBI had found the warehouse with the unconscious Clan members and captured Raf and me. Were we under arrest? It seemed so.

But we didn’t do anything wrong.

A bubble of anger boiled through the fog in my mind. Why was I being held prisoner, when Simon and his band of jackers were the real criminals?

I jerked when the door of the room swung open. Only my legs sticking to the red plastic cushion kept me from falling off the chair. I steadied myself by clutching the table. The agent who captured us—Kestrel—closed the door behind him. He sat carefully in the seat across from me.

He had seemed like a wall of iron grip and mental force when he wrestled me into custody on the streets of Glenview, but now he was only a man. His piercing blue eyes returned my stare. He appeared about twenty-five, or maybe a little older. His dark hair was cut short, and his cheeks were so hollowed they almost looked scarred. I desperately wished the orange haze would clear from my mind so I could jack into Kestrel’s. For now, I would have to get my answers the old-fashioned way.

“What have you done with Raf?” I asked.

Agent Kestrel drew his thin lips into a line and leaned back in his chair. “Your friend is fine. He’s back home, thinking he shouldn’t have drunk so much last night.”

What is Kestrel talking about? “Did you drug him too?”

“No. We wiped his true memories, and replaced them with a sim of him drowning his sorrows. When he wakes, the last true thing Mr. Lobos Santos will remember is watching you and Mr. Zagan in the parking lot.”

I gaped. He had wiped Raf’s memory? I supposed it was possible—I had swept clean the conscious thoughts of the minds in the warehouse. If I had reached farther into their minds, I probably could have brushed away their true memories as well. And if Kestrel had erased Raf’s memory of last night, everything—my explanation, Raf’s forgiveness—was gone. All Raf would remember was Simon and me making out in the parking lot. My hands clenched my knees.

Kestrel’s face had gone icy cold. “It makes it easier to explain why you and Mr. Zagan both disappeared on the same night.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?”

Kestrel narrowed his eyes. “Surely you don’t think you’re going home now, Kira.”

“You can’t… you can’t just…” I swallowed. “You can’t just hold me here forever.”

“Here?” His eyebrows arched. “No, not here.” His eyes drifted to the empty cup sitting on the table between us. “Are you thirsty? The juice can quickly dehydrate you. Can I get you some more water?”

I blinked at his conversational tone, as though we were two friends having a nice cup of tea. “Uh, okay,” I said slowly. His smile thinned his lips until they almost disappeared. He snatched the cup, and the door opened for him. A guard exchanged the old cup for a new one filled with water. Kestrel returned to the table and carefully set down the cup.

“How did you find us last night?” I asked. “The Clan, I mean. Was it because we called the police?”

“No. We’ve been monitoring the Clan for some time, but they seldom gather all together. They usually launder money for the New Metro mob. This time they had some new corporate espionage scheme in the works. Our agent inside told us they had brought in someone from an international spy ring, to see if their newest recruit was the asset they needed.” He paused. “It was our chance to catch everyone together.”

I knew the Clan was up to no good, but espionage? I shook my head, trying to clear the fuzz. “Wait. You had an agent in the Clan?”

“Yes.” His cold eyes measured me for a moment. “Mrs. Gomez. She’s the—”

“Librarian.” It jarred my orange-misted brain: the librarian wasn’t simply a jacker. She was an undercover FBI jacker, infiltrating the local jacker mafia. She always seemed so nice, when I needed help at the reference desk.

Kestrel waited for me to piece it together. “So I was supposed to be the new recruit?” I asked. “The asset?”

Kestrel leaned forward and laced his fingers. “Yes. We moved in when we lost contact with our agent. When you linked into my head,” he grimaced, “I thought you were just one of the Clan. It wasn’t until after I got inside the warehouse that I realized what you were—and what had happened.”

What I was. I gulped. What was I? A mutant jacker, with an extraordinarily hard head. That much I knew. But I didn’t know if Agent Kestrel knew.

“What am I?”

“Well, that is the question, isn’t it?” He looked me over. “I’ve never seen a jacker lay low an entire Clan at once. Whatever you are, Kira, you are unique.”

My pulse started to beat on my temples. Being unique probably didn’t come with a blue-ribbon prize. “What about the Clan?” I asked, stalling while I figured this out. “Did you arrest them?”

“They’re all in custody now.” His voice was flat, and I imagined Simon juiced up in a smelly holding cell somewhere. I found it hard to muster much sympathy for him. He knew what he was getting into, but he had no right to suck me into it and get Raf caught in the crossfire. The Justice Department could deal with Simon and his law-breaking friends.

Except I stumbled over the idea of Simon standing trial. “Wait, how can you try them?” I asked. “It seems unlikely you could get a jury to convict.”

Kestrel’s face hardened. “There won’t be any trials. We have a special camp for jackers, Kira. You don’t want to go there.”

My jaw dropped. Camp? Images of barbed wire and my Great Grandpa Reilly in the early reader camps flashed through my mind. I shuddered.

Kestrel’s eyes bored into mine. “Kira, the only reason you’re not under sedation now and on your way to jacker camp is because of what you can do and who your father is.”

“My father?” My voice squeaked. “My father works for the Navy…” I stopped because it was getting hard to breathe. My father worked for Naval Intelligence. The Clan had jackers, the FBI had jackers—surely the Navy had jackers too. My father is a jacker.

Kestrel watched calmly as my mouth flopped open. My father was a jacker, and he had never said a word. All this time, he knew. He knew. Why didn’t he warn me?

“Officer Patrick Moore is a very important asset for the government.” Kestrel lowered his voice. “One we would rather not lose to the camp.”

“What are you saying?” Panic crept into my chest. Would Kestrel send my dad to that camp for jackers if I didn’t do what he wanted? And what about me?

“I’m saying that you and your father can both help the government, Kira. It’s a big job, protecting normal citizens.” He arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure you understand how dangerous a jacker can be. We can’t have them running loose in society.”

The sharp edge of his voice scraped against my already panicked nerves. My legs twitched in agitation. I jumped to my feet, startling Kestrel. He jerked back from the table and then deliberately folded his hands in his lap.

I paced the room, my twitchy legs carrying me from the door to the opposite wall, only a half dozen paces. Blood pounded through my head, and it seemed to flush out some of the haze. If only I could think clearly for a minute.

“Kira, sit down.” Kestrel’s voice was harsh, like he could command me to sit. I kept pacing. He wanted something from me. He said I was unique. He had never seen someone take out an entire Clan before…

“Kira. Sit down.” This time his tone was softer. I stopped, frozen halfway across the room at the gentle sound of his voice. Just like Simon, he wanted to talk me into something—something he couldn’t force me to do, because he couldn’t jack me. The Clan wanted me for my hard head, to do some kind of special spy mission. What did the FBI want me for?

The same thing as Kestrel. Catch other jackers.

I tried not to let my eyes go wide. Kestrel gestured encouragingly to the rickety chair. “It’s going to be all right, Kira. Let’s just talk about it. Sit down.”

I slowly sank into the seat.

“Do you want some more water?” he asked. The cup was still full. I shook my head. “It’s not as bad as you think. The FBI is giving you a chance to avoid the camp and work for us.”

The FBI should only send dangerous criminals to that jacker camp, like Molloy and his Clan. I wasn’t a criminal, and neither was my dad. But Kestrel seemed all too happy to send me there—and possibly my dad as well—if I didn’t work for him, catching other jackers and sending them to the camp. I gripped my knees to keep my hands from shaking.

Kestrel leaned forward, his face severe again. “Not everyone gets a choice, Kira.”

There had to be some way out of this. I didn’t want to go to jacker camp, but I didn’t want any part of sending other jackers there either. Maybe I could pretend to go along with what he wanted. At least until I figured a way out. I nodded to keep him talking.

His shoulders relaxed. “Good. You’re making the right choice, Kira.”

He started explaining about the FBI’s jacker recruitment program, but I wasn’t listening any more. I pretended to weigh his words. The pacing had cleared my head a little, but my thoughts were still fuzzed. Maybe this was what obscura felt like, for readers that wanted to dull their thoughts and everyone else’s. Everything in my mind was less distinct, as if parts of my brain had gone numb. As I fought through the haze, I found my brain felt soft…

“Once you go through the training, everything will return to normal,” Kestrel was saying. “You’ll have a regular life, like your father…”

The Jell-O inside my head was exactly like the squishy material of other people’s minds!

I carefully kept my face flat and nodded some more as Kestrel rambled on. The orange mist was infused into the thinking parts of my brain in the front. I could feel it, taste it. Orange and spice, like tea, but it felt like anesthetic.

I told my body to increase the blood flow to that part of my brain. My heart started to race, pumping blood furiously to my head. My face radiated heat as blood coursed through it. I focused momentarily on Kestrel to see if he noticed.

He prattled on. “No one will know you’re a jacker. And you’ll be helping to put dangerous jackers where they belong, where they won’t be able to hurt anyone else…”

The orange mist was clearing, carried away in my bloodstream to some place in my body where it wouldn’t affect my ability to jack. My mental strength was coming back. If I could fight off the juice, maybe I could escape. Catch Kestrel off-guard and jack him hard. I would only have one chance. If he saw it coming, he would be too strong for me. I picked up the glass of water and drained it.

“Do you…” He faltered as I smiled at him. “Do you have any questions?”

“Can I get another glass of water?” I kept my face blank, although the heat from it seemed to scorch the air. Kestrel didn’t notice.

“Sure.”

Whisking the cup off the table, he paused at the door, clearly linking a thought to someone outside. In a moment, it opened for another cup exchange. He returned to the table. “So, what do you think?” He gave me another invisible-lipped smile.

I took a deep breath and jacked into his head with everything I had. The jack felt weak, even as I strained forward and plunged deep into Kestrel’s mind. Stop, I thought, but it had the strength of a suggestion, not a command.

Kestrel’s eyes went wide and he tumbled backward, knocking the chair over and tripping as he scrambled to put distance between us. Stop! Stop! I jumped to my feet and crawled over the table. If I got closer to him the intensity would increase. I leaped off the table, trying to grab him, but he batted my hands away. I managed to latch onto his arm and pull him close. It didn’t matter. I was too weak to knock him out.

The door burst open. A large guard quickly pinned me to the floor, and another followed right behind him. There were too many of them, all trapping me within my own skull again. The second guard already had a needle in my arm.

Kestrel’s stark face loomed over me. “You shouldn’t have done that, Kira.” His voice faded as the orange mist pumped into my brain and clouded my vision.

His cold blue eyes were the last things I saw before oblivion.

chapter TWENTY-FIVE

I swam up out of unconsciousness to the feel of someone’s hands roughly patting me down.

My mind was fuzzed from the orange-mist drug Kestrel’s thugs had injected into me, and my eyelids were a heavy curtain I couldn’t command open. The warm, rough floor shook underneath me, and sounds of crunching tires and creaking metal bounced along with it.

I wondered where on earth I was, but top priority was stopping the praver who was pawing me as if he expected to find weapons hidden in my thin t-shirt and shorts. I beat at his probing hands, but the juice had made my arms quivery and useless. I jacked into his mind, but he immediately threw me out.

Taking a deep breath, I reached inside my own mind to speed up my heart and clear away the mist. I tolerated about ten more seconds of the groping. As soon as the fuzz cleared enough, I jacked deep into his mind and ordered him to stop. His hands left me, and I heard him hit the metal floor.

I forced my eyes open and grimaced against the harsh light that streamed in through the truck’s high windows. My molester lay like a broken puppet on the dusty floor. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen. My stomach curled into a knot. As I contemplated waking him, I heard a sniffle. A girl sat huddled on a metal bench that ran along the wall of the truck. Her face was buried in her arms as they hugged the tops of her knees.

“Are you okay?” My voice rasped with dryness. She didn’t answer. The truck swayed underneath me, and I gripped the metal bench to haul myself to my feet. I stood on my tiptoes to peek out the windows. Nothing but blue sky.

Holding the wall to keep steady, I shuffled to the front where a door looked like it might lead to the driver’s compartment. The knob twisted easily in my hand, and I flung it open, only to find two empty seats. The truck ambled down a hard-packed dirt road, apparently on an autopath, but there was no mindware interface, no entry point where I could jack in and change the preprogrammed course. Ahead, a huge encampment rose out of the desert, covered with sand-colored camouflage netting and surrounded by metal fences fifteen feet high. Barbed razor wire spiraled along the top. It looked like a prison.

Which, of course, it was.

A tremor ran through my hands as the pieces clicked into place, and I gripped the back of the vacant driver seat to steady them. Kestrel had sent me to the jacker camp, along with these two jacker kids. I licked my cracked lips, parched from the drugs and the desert. He had sent me to prison simply for being who I was.

Anger clawed my stomach like an angry beast.

As we approached the camp gate, it swung open with determined mechanical speed. Sunlight pushed through the netting and mottled the ground under the canopy. Another metallic gridded gate and a second fence waited a hundred feet inside the camp. We rumbled past the first fence, and I strained to see beyond the second one.

Whatever was on the other side, I was sure I wasn’t prepared for it.

The truck lurched to a stop, and the girl whimpered. Her dirty face was streaked with tears. She couldn’t be any older than the boy. Straggles of brown hair fell across her wide blue eyes, and dirt marred the pink skirt draped over her knees. Her bright white ankle socks were untouched by the desert. If I wasn’t prepared, she didn’t have a prayer. I found handholds along the truck and crouched down next to her.

“What’s your name?”

She leaned away from me. “Laney.”

“Okay, Laney. You and I are going to stick together.” I tried to smile without cracking my dried lips. She nodded and glanced at the still form of the boy.

“Should we wake him?” I asked, following her gaze.

She shook her head in short, rapid movements. A whining sound came from below the truck, and the view out the front spun until the first gate appeared again. The truck jerked and I almost tumbled over, catching myself on the wall behind Laney’s head. We were backing toward the second gate now, and whatever waited for us would soon be here. I searched the dusty floor for a weapon. The truck was bare.

I tentatively reached through the gate with my mind. Hundreds of people milled around inside the fences. I pulled back from the thrumming of all those thoughts and heard the metallic grinding of the second gate opening. The truck lurched to a stop, and I nearly lost my footing again. The gate rattled shut behind us. An audible murmur rose in the distance.

I gave Laney a quick nod and edged toward the back door, hoping to get the jump on whatever lay beyond it. There was scuffling outside the truck, and something heavy slammed against the door. The entire truck shuddered with the impact.

I backed away, keeping between Laney and the door and hoping I could stop whatever would come through. As I stretched my mind forward, the gray door screeched open and there stood Simon.

My mouth fell open, and he threw his head back, as if I hit him. “You!” The word wheezed out of him. “What the…” His eyes went wide, as though finding me in the truck was the worst possible twist on a very bad day.

Behind him a full-on melee raged in the camp. Desert-brown buildings hemmed a large open area jammed with people. They encircled a dozen fighters in the middle, a scrum of fists flying and bodies dropping. I saw a flash of red hair.

Simon cursed under his breath, pulling my attention back to him. He seemed to resolve some debate in his mind. I was afraid to link in and find out what it was.

“Come on, let’s go!” He spat the words and held the door wide for us. But there was no way I was trusting Simon Zagan, arch-betrayer of girlfriends and unsuspecting jackers.

I stood straighter and clenched my fists at my side. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

His jaw dropped, but it quickly set into a hard grinding of muscles. “I don’t have time to argue. If you want to live, come with me. Now!”

I glanced again at the melee behind him. The ring of onlookers, some as young as Laney, cheered on the fighters, who seemed older and bigger. The brawl was getting uglier, with fighters falling down and not getting up. I didn’t want Laney or myself mixed up in any of that.

My options seemed bad and worse, and bad would have to do.

“Fine. But she’s coming with me.” I took hold of Laney’s hand and pulled her up on shaky legs.

“Okay, okay, let’s go.” Simon checked over his shoulder.

As Laney and I scooted past the slumped figure of the boy, I asked, “What about him?”

“He’s on his own.” Another boy lay motionless in the dirt below the door. My mouth flopped open to ask, then I shut it. Simon hoisted Laney out of the truck and over the body. I ignored Simon’s hand and hopped over the inert boy myself. Simon shut the truck door behind us, glanced over his shoulder again, and hurried us away from the center square.

The hardscrabble dirt reflected the dots of sun that made it through the canopy. I gripped Laney’s hand as Simon weaved us between dizzying arrays of identical sand-weathered barracks. They stood in clustered rows like parked train cars, with large open areas in between. We ran to keep up with him, and he alternated between sprinting and darting looks around corners.

Simon held his arm out to stop us, and I almost crashed into it. Up ahead, between barracks, three girls huddled around a fourth, who was on her knees in the dirt. As we watched, she slumped to the ground. A chill went through me as Simon backed us up, watching the ring of tormenters to see if they noticed us. They were too busy checking the pockets of the fallen girl.

Simon tugged us around another barrack, out of their sight. He dashed across a short alleyway-sized gap and turned down a different row of buildings, each with four doors. At the last building, he pulled open the furthest door. Inside was a space about the size of my living room back home. The air was cooler, but stale. Six cots wrapped tightly with gray blankets lined the bare walls.

He closed the door and pressed against it, listening or maybe reaching for something. Laney dropped my hand and climbed on a bed in the furthest corner. She drew up her knees and clenched them again. Simon exhaled, apparently content that we hadn’t been followed.

I linked into his mind. He whipped his head around and shoved me back out. “Don’t do that here.” His voice was rough and low. “Not if you want to make it through the day.”

I took a step back. Maybe I had made a terrible mistake, letting him secret Laney and me away.

He rubbed his face with both hands. “What are you doing here, Kira?” he demanded.

“I didn’t want to come here!” I shot back.

“It’s your fault we’re all here!”

My jaw dropped. “How is it my fault?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not a mole for the FBI!” He clenched his hands. “Someone had to rat us out, and you and Gomez are the only ones who didn’t come with us to the camp. So, did the Feds give up on you? Couldn’t break into that hard head of yours?” He took several swift steps and made to tap on my forehead. I cringed away from his touch.

“I…” I swallowed and straightened. “I didn’t know anything about the FBI or this place. I didn’t know anything at all until you came along and tried to trick me into joining your stupid Clan!”

Simon rocked back on his heels. “There are a lot of people here who think you betrayed them.”

“I betrayed them?”

“Yes! And they’re going to want your head for it.” His voice was urgent, as though he was trying to shock some sense into me. “Look, just stay hidden here until I can figure this thing out.”

He ran his fingers through his dark hair, which had been lightened with ground-in dust. A smudge ran along his cheek, and his clothes were the same that he wore at the warehouse—except the white starched shirt was mostly wrinkles. A fine layer of grit had colored it the same dull brown as the apartment walls.

“I have to go help out with something. Stay here and don’t make any noise, and whatever you do, don’t jack anyone until I get back.” He started to turn away and then stopped. “Unless you have to.” He quickly crossed the room, but hesitated again at the door and glanced at Laney. “If I don’t come back, stay hidden as long as you can.” He slipped out the door and closed it solidly behind him.

I stared at the door for a long time. Laney’s head was still hidden in her arms as she clutched her folded legs. I sat next to her and linked, very gently, into her mind. Her mind scent was sweet, like raspberries.

I guess we’re going to be here a while. My name is Kira.

She peeked up and wordlessly showed me a stream of pictures: her fighting with her family about homework; them collapsing on the floor around her; her frantic call to 911 only to have the FBI show up; the FBI saying her family would wake up believing she had run away.

The memories made tears flow down Laney’s face again. I wrapped an arm around her, but it didn’t quell the shaking. I borrowed blankets from two other cots and wrapped them around us. Her body quieted as our collective heat fought off the chill of the room and our dire situation.

I hoped like crazy that no one would find us before Simon returned.

chapter TWENTY-SIX

Laney fell asleep on my shoulder.

I wriggled out of our cocoon and eased her down to the thin cot, smoothing the stray hairs back from her face so they wouldn’t tickle and wake her. The peace of sleep made her seem even younger.

That Kestrel would send someone so young to this lawless camp in the desert made me clench my teeth. Not that I belonged here either. I was trying to figure out our options when Simon burst into the barrack. He gulped in ragged breaths and darted looks all around the room, as though he expected an ambush. If he’d brought back an angry mob with him, the flimsy door he was leaning against wouldn’t hold them off.

I put a finger to my lips and slid off the cot, careful not to disturb Laney. If he wouldn’t let me link into his head to mindtalk, at least we could discuss things quietly and not wake her up.

And we definitely needed to talk.

He looked considerably worse than when he left, with dirt ground into his face and a dull smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. I reached up to touch his face.

He smacked my hand away.

I pulled back my stinging hand. “Are you hurt?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m fine.” A purplish bruise was blooming on the side of his face. He must have gone back to the entrance and joined the melee.

I swallowed, my throat still raw from thirst. “What was the fight about?”

“The fight’s over. Clan Molloy is now in control of Block C, which means Molloy and the rest of the Clan will be here soon.” He hesitated. “I might be able to hide you, Kira, because they can’t jack into your head. They won’t sense you from the other barracks. But her,” he said and flicked a glance to Laney, “they’ll notice right away. She’s still a changeling.”

“Well you can’t just turn her over to Molloy!”

Simon grimaced. “She’s safer with Molloy than she is with you,” he said. “And Molloy will be a much better Block chief than that monster Lenny.” I guessed Lenny was on the losing end of the fight, but that didn’t make Molloy worth trusting.

Reading my skeptical look, Simon sighed. “Molloy’s not the bad guy here, Kira. There are a lot worse people out there, and some of them are living in the next Block over.” He gestured to the prefab buildings beyond the walls. “You could have been part of the Clan, you know. Everything would have worked out fine if you hadn’t lost it at the warehouse.”

I gaped. “You were going to kill Raf!”

Anger burst to life on his face. “He was spying on us! I didn’t have any choice! Molloy would have done it, if I hadn’t.”

“What was I supposed to do?” My voice had risen. “Just let you kill him?”

We glared at each other, faces drawn tight and close. A bright red bead of blood formed at the corner of his mouth and trickled down. He wiped it with the back of his hand and turned away, shoulders slumped. With his back to me, voice flat, he said, “Things don’t always turn out the way you’d like them to.”

I stared hard at the back of his head, tempted to jack in and make him sorry for what he had done. Sorry for trying to kill Raf, sorry for luring me into the Clan, sorry for pretending to care about me all that time, only to trick me into working for Molloy. I wanted to make him regret all he had done, but somehow seeing him trapped in a desert camp, fighting to survive—I didn’t have the heart.

After all, he was right. We would all be better off if the FBI hadn’t caught up with the Clan. There had to be some way out of this nightmare. I didn’t trust Simon, but he had already helped us. And I had more than myself to think about.

“If you bring Laney to Molloy, do you promise he’ll keep her safe?” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice.

He hesitated before he turned to me. Weariness dragged his face down. “He will, I promise. His younger brother disappeared a long time ago, when they were trying to escape the Feds. I told you, he has a soft spot for the young ones, and he hates the way no one looks out for them here. He sent me to check the newcomer truck, even though we were taking a thrashing from Lenny’s clan, just to make sure we got to any changelings before the others did.”

I shifted from one foot to the other. “Okay.”

Simon gave me a short nod. His eyes rested on my lips, still chapped from the desert and the drugs. “Look, we should give Molloy some time to get settled.” His face twisted in disgust. “There might be some stragglers from Lenny’s clan that he needs to decide about.”

“Decide what?”

“Well, there’s nowhere for a defeated Clan to go. They either get broken up and absorbed into other Clans, or…”

“Or?”

“I don’t want to know what happens to them, okay!” The fear on Simon’s face sent a chill through me. “Whatever it is, she doesn’t need to see it.” He glanced at Laney. “It’s better if we let the dust settle. In the meantime, I’ll get you some water and food. Water shouldn’t be a problem, but there’s not much food. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be back soon.”

I didn’t want him to leave. It felt like a pack of wild dogs was roaming outside in the brilliant desert heat, and he was the only one that knew how to control them. On his way out the door, he gave me a grim smile and repeated, “I’ll be right back.”

While he was out, Laney tossed and turned in the rough blankets wrapped around her, letting out occasional soft whimpers. The same scene she had played before, where she accidentally knocked out her entire family, repeated over and over in her mind. I slowly nudged her to a new dream, one where no one was hurt. Her tremors stopped, and she slipped into a deeper, dreamless sleep. The quiet sound of her breathing had me straining to hear beyond the barrack walls, in case anyone might be coming for us. But I didn’t reach out with my mind.

A few minutes later, a scuffle of feet outside kicked up my heart rate until Simon pulled open the door and let in a blast of dust and sunshine. He brought bottles of water and dust-coated protein bars. My throat still rasped like sandpaper. He had to stop me from guzzling an entire bottle at once.

“So are you going to tell me how you ended up here?” he asked, when I paused for a breath. I took another swig of water and licked my lips, not sure what to tell him. At this point, there didn’t seem to be any sense in lying.

“The FBI caught up to me.” At the last second, I left Raf out of it. “They wanted to recruit me.” I cocked my head. “Just like you did.”

Simon didn’t seem to take offense at my accusation. “So why didn’t you join them? Why come here?”

“I didn’t plan on doing either. My plan was to escape.”

He snorted. “I guess that didn’t work out for you.” His half-grin was more rueful than cruel, but I still didn’t appreciate it.

“I almost did,” I said. “If I’d had a few more minutes, I could have gotten rid of the last of that orange mist drug, or whatever it was, and taken out Agent Kestrel and his jacker guards.”

Simon’s face went dead still. “You did what?” He stepped closer to me. I held my ground and shifted so I was between him and Laney, where she lay sleeping on the cot. The look in his eyes made me stammer.

“I… I could have taken him out, but the drug…”

“You said you got rid of the drug.” It was a statement, and his eyes bored into mine, daring me to deny it.

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Yes, I did.”

“How?” He leaned toward me, as though our lives hung on the answer to his question.

“I told my brain to pump it out.” It sounded a lot more lame than the reality of manipulating my own mind. He took a step back and his eyes widened, as if he had discovered I had a third arm or maybe an alien brain. Too late, I realized I should have kept that to myself.

He quickly regained his composure. “Can you do it again?”

“I did it on the way here. In the truck.”

A smile flashed across his face. He closed the space between us, like he was about to hug me. Instead, he took hold of my shoulders. I shrank back from his touch and the fervent look in his eyes. “Kira, if you tell Molloy about this ability of yours, he’ll let you stay in the Clan, I’m sure of it.”

I didn’t really want to be in Clan Molloy, but the rest of the camp wasn’t exactly attractive. And Molloy was the devil I knew, so sticking with him seemed smarter than taking my chances with the unknown pravers menacing the camp. Besides, I didn’t really trust any of them, and staying in the Clan meant I could keep an eye on Laney. Just in case.

Laney started to stir, her tranquil look lingering as she propped herself up and licked her dry lips. I twisted out of Simon’s grasp and brought her one of the water bottles. She greedily slurped it down. She hadn’t entirely awoken to our nightmarish situation in the camp, and a surreal look of happiness crossed her face as the water hit its mark.

I met Simon’s expectant look. “Fine. Take us to Molloy.”

chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

Simon led Laney and me back out into the blistering sun.

Our barrack was at the tail end of a row of eight identical buildings. Simon took us toward the front and around a corner, where a hundred-foot space opened between our cluster of barracks and the next group of military-style structures. The gap between blocks had been empty before, but now that the fighting was done, several groups of jackers lounged outside the weathered doors of their barracks.

A knot of four boys my age swung their heads in our direction. Their clothes were frayed and torn, some holes patched and others left gaping. They looked like they’d been wearing the same thing for months. Each had a strip of black cloth tied around their arm.

Their minds pressed on mine. Simon said not to jack in here, but these pravers seemed to have no compunction. Laney’s hand trembled in mine.

“Can they jack from there?” I asked Simon.

“Most can’t bridge the gap between blocks to do more than link in. That’s why they’re set so far apart.” The boys stared like wolves sizing up which sheep to eat first. Simon must have linked some thought to them, because they switched focus to him, and the light pressure on my mind evaporated. They gave Laney and me another lingering look filled with nasty promise, then the apparent leader shoved his hands in his pockets, and they turned their backs on us.

Simon hurried us forward. We quickly reached the center barrack in the block, identical to all the others except the letter C had been etched above the first door.

“Just let me do the talking.” Simon walked in, and we trailed behind him.

The room had been stripped of cots, leaving more space for the two dozen Clan members. Molloy’s red head towered over them as they gathered around him. The Clan was in much the same shape as Simon—dusty, beaten, and faces lit up with their apparent victory. Molloy’s broad smile extended to Simon, but instantly twisted to a snarl when he saw me.

“Wha—?” He growled and parted the crowd of Clan members as he moved more quickly than a giant should. “What is she doing here?” he demanded. I was afraid he would run us over, with the speed he was picking up.

“Wait!” Simon leaped in front of me. “Let me explain.”

Molloy hesitated, but seemed ready to pummel me into the ground like the rival gang of jackers he had destroyed minutes ago. Simon felt like a thin barrier to the wrath that was coming off the Red Giant. His eyes flicked to Simon, back to me, and then finally noticed Laney tucked behind me. Molloy’s eyes narrowed as he took in my protective stance.

“She came in the truck with the newcomers,” Simon was saying. “This changeling was there, and another boy, but I couldn’t help him.”

Molloy’s eyes swung back to Simon. “Why not?”

“He was unconscious.” Simon glanced at me, and I wished he hadn’t. Molloy could probably figure out who had made him that way. “I had to fight off Lenny’s crew just to get to the truck. I didn’t have time to haul the kid out.”

“So you brought her instead.” The intensity of Molloy’s stare on my face was matched by the pressure of him trying to jack into my mind. “A fine choice. Now we can pay her back.” The rest of the Clan members had slowly circled around us. Pasty Man, Molloy’s international spook friend, stood by the door. His face was imprinted with a red boot mark. There was no way we were leaving the room.

I was a match in the middle of a keg of gunpowder.

“That wasn’t her fault!” Simon held up his hands. “She didn’t know anything about the Feds. Gomez must have been the rat. Right? Otherwise why would Kira be here?”

“Perhaps the Feds sent her to spy on us again.” Molloy leaned to the side to peer at Laney. “What about the little one?” He was talking to me now. “Is she a snitch like you, Kira?”

I swallowed. “She’s just a kid. She needs protection.”

Molloy didn’t seem to expect that response from me. Simon cut in. “She’s just a changeling.”

Molloy jutted his chin out to the Clan members hovering behind us. “We’ll take the girl into the Clan. But not the traitor.” Hands reached out of the crowd and tugged Laney away from me. She gasped and gripped my hand with both of hers. Her best chance was probably with the Clan, but I had a hard time convincing myself to let go.

I stood straighter and stared down the hatred on Molloy’s face. “Do you promise to keep her safe?”

“My quarrel isn’t with her.” His shark smile hollowed out my stomach.

Laney’s wide-eyed look stabbed through me.

“Laney, it’s okay. I promise.” I linked into her head. I don’t want you mixed up in my mess, okay? I need you to go with them. To be safe.

Fear gave her mind a bitter aftertaste. She slowly released her death-grip. Her small eyes grew large and round as she was swallowed by the crowd.

Molloy’s meaty hand clamped on my arm and jerked me around. My knees softened as he loomed over me, probably deciding how best to take his revenge. Before I could open my mouth, Simon grabbed Molloy’s wrist. “She can help us.”

“I’ve heard that from you before.” Molloy released me and focused on Simon. Pasty Man appeared by his side.

Simon seemed to stagger under a great weight, and I realized that they must be fighting in his mind. Simon buckled and fell to the floor, landing on his knees but managing to stay upright. A cruel smile curled one side of Pasty Man’s face as Simon swayed under their assault. I remembered the force that Pasty Man had pressed on my mind in the warehouse. With the two of them combined, Simon didn’t have a chance.

“I know how to fight the gas.” I stepped next to Simon. “Let him go, and I’ll tell you how.” I didn’t like Simon. Not even a little bit. But he was trying to help me, and it wasn’t right for him to take Molloy’s wrath.

In the warehouse, Molloy and his Clan had been unprepared. I had caught them by surprise and knocked them out before they knew what was happening. But now, I doubted I could even overpower Molloy, much less a room full of angry Clan members. Maybe I could bargain our way out of this.

Molloy ignored me and fixed his eyes on Simon. His whole body trembled, and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could keep Molloy out by the power of his eyelids. I clenched my hands. If I attacked Molloy, neither of us would likely make it out of the room. But if they didn’t release Simon soon, I would have to at least try to shove Molloy out of Simon’s mind, before he did any permanent damage.

Right as I was about to jack in, Molloy released his mental grip on Simon, and Pasty Man sneered his disgust at some unspoken command. Simon fell forward on his hands and gasped for air. I gingerly pressed into Simon’s mind, afraid of what I would find. There was no sign of Molloy’s presence. Are you okay?

Yes. Simon’s response was weak.

“So,” said Molloy. “Simon here seems to believe you’re telling the truth about this ability to control the effects of the gas.”

“That’s right.” I stood taller.

Molloy eyed me with curiosity, the hatred having vanished with his interrogation of Simon’s mind. “Well, now, little Kira. It seems you may make a useful addition to the Clan yet.” Some of the hardness returned to his face. “But Simon is much more trusting than I am. And much more enamored with you than he should be.”

I refused to look at Simon. He had forfeited the right to any feelings for me the moment we walked into that warehouse. And my feelings for him were closer to hatred than anything else.

“I can tell you how it works.”

“Oh, you’ll need to do much better than that, little Kira. I’ll believe you can defeat the gas when I see you do it.”

Considering I had the Impenetrable Mind, and Molloy couldn’t get into my head for a truth examination, there was a certain logic to proving my newfound talent by demonstration. But I still didn’t like the sound of it.

“Uh, okay.”

Molloy smirked at my discomfort. “According to information from a few, ah, recruits from Lenny’s Clan, we’re due for another supply drop.” Pasty Man seemed like he enjoyed extracting that information from the minds of Lenny’s crew.

“When the Feds come in, they gas the camp first. Everyone goes down and wakes up with fresh food and water supplies to fight over.”

“Why don’t they just send in the truck?” Given that I had been delivered on an autotruck to the camp, gassing everyone seemed like a lot of effort merely to supply food and water.

Molloy’s face turned cold. “Because they take a few volunteers with them when they leave.”

The Feds took people out of the camp? I had assumed it was a one-way trip. Why send us all to jacker camp, only to take us back out again, a few at a time? It didn’t make any sense. “Where do they take them?”

“According to Lenny’s Clan, somewhere worse than here,” Molloy said with dead seriousness. What could possibly be worse than the camp? “If you’re able to fight off the gas, little Kira, then perhaps you could be useful after all.” He loomed over me with his giant frame, but his words were more frightening than his hulking presence. “I don’t want to lose any of my Clan to the Feds and their ghoulish experiments.”

My jaw dropped. The Feds were experimenting on jackers? It was like the early days of the change, when they pushed probes into my Great Grandpa Reilly’s brain like he was a lab rat. How could they possibly justify that? Anger boiled in my stomach.

“Like I said,” Molloy continued, “I’ll believe you can control the gas when I see it. If you can, we’ll talk about putting your ability to good use. Like getting out of the Fed’s cozy prison. But I’m not going to risk any of my Clan members based on your good word,” he said, the words sounding like they tasted bitter, “and Simon’s misplaced trust.” He folded his arms to study me. “If you can fight the gas when the drop comes, you should be able to bring back food from the depot before the rest of the camp awakes. If you can’t do that much, well, you’re not much use to us then, are you? And if the Feds catch you, then we’ll see you when you come back in the newcomer truck with a few pieces missing.” He leaned closer, looming over me. “Either way, I expect you to use that unique head of yours to keep my Clan safe. If there’s anyone missing after the drop, it had better be you.”

I leaned away from him. Either Molloy thought I could fight through the mist and hold off the Feds all on my own, or he was hoping I would get caught trying and end up in one of the Fed’s experiments. I had a chance of fighting off the gas, but I didn’t have much hope of holding the Feds at bay. I hoped like crazy that they wouldn’t come looking for any Clan Molloy members during the next drop.

Because it seemed there was a place worse than the camp after all.

chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

Molloy had learned much from interrogating Lenny’s crew.

Andre, Molloy’s pasty second-in-command, was briefing me and seemed to enjoy talking to me about as much as I liked his beady stares. We each wore the red armband that identified us as Block C now, like the rest of the Clan, but I didn’t make the mistake of assuming we were on the same side. “The supply drops happen randomly,” he said. “Before the drop, the camp is gassed. It comes in through an underground piping system. The barracks, the washrooms, the depot. Even outside.” His grin was filled with evil, and I was sure he hoped I would fail miserably in combating the gas and the Feds.

Only that was exactly what Molloy expected me to do. “How many prisoners do they take?” I tried to not bow under Pasty Man’s antagonism.

“Usually only two or three.”

Maybe luck would be on my side. Block C could hold about 400 people, but it was relatively empty, with most of Lenny’s Clan fleeing after the fight. If the other Blocks were even half full, and with seven Blocks spread around the camp, my rough calculations put the camp at over a thousand inmates. The odds seemed low that any Clan Molloy members would go missing.

The idea of a thousand jackers made my mind fuzz out a bit. There must be many more jackers in the world than I ever imagined. With a thousand in the camp, there had to be many times that amount hiding among the readers of the world.

Andre was distracted by Simon hopping around on one foot and making a squawking noise. I had convinced Simon to let Laney practice her jacking skills on him, since she couldn’t jack into my Impenetrable Mind. I linked a thought to her. Don’t make Simon mad. We’re going to need his help.

She pouted. Can I make him sing?

No.

How about cartwheels?

I threw out my hands. Just practice linking your thoughts.

She rolled her eyes, but Simon stumbled to a stop and glared at me from across the room. I ignored him. “So,” I said to Andre, “as long as no Clan Molloy members go missing and I bring back some food, we’re good. Right?”

Andre hesitated, but gave me a short nod. “As soon as the drop is finished and the camp awakens from the gas, the depot will be overrun. Each Block sends its strongest jackers at harvest time. Some don’t come back.” His evil smile returned. I narrowed my eyes. “If, however, you can remain awake, it should be no problem for you to bring back food for the Clan.” He lifted a dusty pillow from the cot next to us. “A pillowcase full should be enough to convince Mr. Molloy.”

I snatched the pillow from him and started to tug the pillowcase off. “No problem.” But I wasn’t at all sure about any of it. If I could keep the gas at bay, I should be able to get to the depot after the Feds left and before anyone else woke up. But if the FBI agents came after any Clan Molloy members, I was in serious trouble. Maybe I would be able to knock them out, if they weren’t expecting me. And if I was on the losing end of that jack? No, if they came looking for volunteers from Clan Molloy, I’d be better off finding another Clan to join. Which made me realize how little I knew about the rest of the Clans and the layout of the camp, much less where the food was held. “Where’s the depot?”

“I’m sure Simon can help you with that.”

I had a sick feeling that I had stepped into some kind of trap. We both glanced at Simon, who was doing pushups on the floor next to a grinning Laney. I let out a long sigh.

After Andre left and I convinced Laney to apologize to Simon, I planned to check out the rest of the camp, find the depot, and possibly scout out ways to escape and take Laney with me. Simon insisted on coming along. I told him I didn’t want to leave Laney alone, that I was concerned about the less savory members of Clan Molloy, including Andre. Simon insisted she would be fine as long as she stayed in Block C.

I lightly brushed Simon’s mind, just a bare whisper of a link so I could read his thoughts without him being aware of my presence. I had learned how to do this shortly after Molloy gave us temporary sanctuary in the Clan. Jacking into someone’s mind was the same as asking for a fight, but only if they knew you were there. Trusting Simon wasn’t high on my priority list, but he seemed to only be thinking of keeping me safe outside Block C. And I didn’t see a way to leave him behind.

As it turned out, I was glad Simon came with me as soon as we left Block C. A gang of jackers drifted away from Block B to follow us. They were the four guys from before, they knew my head was as hard as a rock, and they had brought more friends with black armbands. They might have figured out I was unique or maybe they wanted to finish whatever praver thoughts they had from before.

Simon didn’t have to tell me to pick up the pace.

We started jogging and then flat out ran to the depot when they kept pace. We avoided territory staked out by other Clans by staying in the wide-open areas between Blocks. The depot was hard to miss. If there hadn’t been a melee when I first arrived, I would have seen it. The sand-colored walls enclosed racks and racks of empty shelving that stood in rows down the warehouse-sized depot. We shut the heavy double doors and locked ourselves inside.

“Do you know those guys?” My voice was strained from the run and the panic.

“Yeah,” Simon said. “They’re some of Lenny’s old crew.” His voice was even more wheezy than mine. “Block B must have taken them in. They’re not very nice.” Simon dragged an empty rack over, metal screeching against concrete, and braced it against the door. I reached out to lightly check on our followers. They were gathered in the open space where the fight had gone down.

“They’re waiting for us to come out,” I said. “They’re planning to attack us then. They want to take us prisoner, not kill us.” They really wanted to take me prisoner, not so much Simon, but I left that part out.

Simon straightened. “How do you know that?”

Oops.

“How do you think?” I retorted. Simon may be on my side for the moment, but I wasn’t on a sharing-secrets basis with him, even if he had saved me from Molloy’s wrath. Simon shook his head and searched for other things to stack against the door. He settled on an empty 55-gallon drum that he wheeled over and shoved against the rack.

“So, are we going to hole up here until they go away?”

Simon brushed the dust from his hands and opened his mouth to answer, then sagged toward the ground. I lunged forward and barely got my arm under him to keep him from cracking his head on the concrete floor.

“Simon!” I jacked fast into his mind. Three of the Block B gang were deep inside and tunneling deeper to slow his heart and breathing. They had a change of plans. Now they decided if they killed Simon, it would be easier to take me without a fight. My quick survey outside the warehouse showed all six had crept up to the door.

I pushed them out of Simon’s head, slamming them back into their own minds and knocking the weakest one out, but the others were too strong for me. When the body hit the dirt outside, the others were momentarily distracted.

I gritted my teeth and dragged Simon away from the door. I needed to put distance between him and the gang to revive him. He groggily squirmed in my arms, which didn’t help much. Then he snapped awake with a gasp and twisted out of my hands altogether. He crouched on the floor, wild-eyed.

Follow me! I ordered his limbs to move while his mind sorted things out. They’re right outside the door!

The back of the warehouse was a good seventy feet from the door, far enough to lessen their ability to jack Simon. I reached back to lightly tap their thoughts. They still didn’t realize I was listening in and couldn’t seem to find the blank spot of my mind. But they could sense Simon. They revived their crewmate and planned to split up, one group going around the side of the warehouse to seek us out, while the others worked on opening the door.

I slammed into the weakened one and sent him collapsing back to the ground again. Their outrage and confusion derailed their plans for a moment, but we were running out of time. I scouted the warehouse for another door. There was only a row of high windows letting in camouflage-dappled light and a bunch of empty shelving. That would have to do.

I flashed a picture of our escape route to Simon. Together we tipped a shelving rack until it banged loudly against the wall and formed a metallic ladder of sorts. I grabbed a discarded coffee can and clambered up the scaffolding with Simon close on my heels. The sharp edge of the can dug into my hand as I slammed it against the window. It made a terrific noise and achieved nothing. Simon climbed up next to me and twisted around so he was balanced on the top shelf with his feet braced on the window. He kicked a hole straight through, sending the shattered pieces of glass flying outward. Several dagger-sized pieces still rimmed the edges. He kept kicking until there was a hole we could climb through without slicing ourselves to shreds.

I reached for the minds of our stalkers. They had heard the sound of the window smashing. Simon’s shoes protected his feet as he perched on the edge of the window, but tiny rivers of blood flowed down from the gashes in his leg. He leaped down to the ground, and I scuttled up to the window to jump after him, wincing as the glass bit into my hands. When I hit the ground, Simon steadied me so I didn’t topple into the glass-littered dirt.

The pravers had heard us, but we had a head start. Simon took my hand, and we ran like our feet were on fire all the way back to Block C.

After that, I crossed Block B off the list of Clans I would seek refuge in if things went south with the Feds during the supply drop. I might not survive joining another Clan, but it had to be better than being taken by the Feds. I was still hoping I’d get lucky and the Feds wouldn’t come looking for any Clan Molloy members. Then maybe, with the help of Clan Molloy, Laney and I could escape. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but wait for the drop to come.

After my nightmarish trip to the depot, I kept to our barrack room, well within the protective zone that surrounded Block C. If the waking periods in the camp were nightmarish, the actual nights weren’t any better.

I was dead asleep when something jabbed me in the stomach. My eyelids dragged open. It was only Laney, rolling around in her restless, dream-haunted sleep again. I gingerly moved her elbow away and linked into her mind.

The last three nights, the same dream had played like a sim-cast on an endless loop. Laney ran through a maze of empty hallways, searching barren white rooms for her mom. At the end of the dream, Laney would find her mom sprawled on the floor next to Laney’s dad and little brother, all motionless like broken dolls. I was pretty sure she had only knocked them out, considering the FBI had told her they wiped her family’s true memories, but Laney didn’t know for sure. The FBI had hauled her off before she saw them wake up.

I intercepted her dream-self and steered her to a park filled with sunshine. I conjured her family waiting at a picnic table. Having seen the pallid versions of their faces in her nightmares, it was easy to create the outline of their features—Laney filled in the rest.

Her body quieted and her features smoothed. She rolled away from me and sighed. A kid like Laney didn’t belong in a place like this. And neither did I.

If I could find a way out, I vowed to go home and set a few things straight—starting with my dad. My dad the jacker. Since Agent Kestrel dropped that little bombshell, a rumbling anger had filled me. Why hadn’t my dad warned me? He must have known it was possible I might be a jacker, not a zero after all. And what did he really do for the Navy, anyway? At some point, he must have taken the option to work for the government, rather than going to the camp. I couldn’t believe he would round up other innocent jackers. He wasn’t like Kestrel. Maybe all those childhood sims my dad told us were true, and he was using his jacker abilities to catch the bad guys.

Except I wasn’t sure who the bad guys were anymore.

If my dad had simply told me the truth, I wouldn’t be lying in a concentration camp, trying to find a way to break out. If I ever did get out, he would have some answering to do.

And I would make things right with Raf as well. No more lies. He deserved to know the truth, and now I knew he would understand. It made me cringe to think his last true memory of me was with Simon, in the car, making out.

Simon wheezed as he pulled air into his lungs. It made me shudder. He’d had been beaten pretty good in the fight with Lenny’s Clan, and the gashes on his leg from yesterday turned out to be pretty deep. I had cleaned and bandaged them as best I could, but there weren’t any doctors or real medical supplies in our little Camp of the Flies. I hoped his injuries could heal on their own.

Simon moaned and then coughed as the sound rumbled through his chest. I linked into his mind to see if he was awake and found him caught in a dream that was all too real. A pack of older jackers crowded around a kid no bigger than Laney, menacing him with their looks and their minds. The boy quickly crumpled under the mental duress. Simon’s arm twitched against the rough blanket of his cot, but in the dream it was Molloy that held him back, saying Too late, too late.

That image was washed away by another where Simon ran past rows of barracks. He threw open every single door, searching for someone he was afraid to find. At the last door, he discovered a girl with brown hair collapsed on the floor. He rushed to her and pulled her into his arms. Her hair fell back from her face.

I jerked out of his head. The shock of seeing my face on that girl—that dead girl in his arms—chilled me to the bone. Simon writhed on the bed again and then curled on his side, a small whimper escaping him. I could jack his nightmare away, like I had Laney’s, but I didn’t relish the idea of seeing myself dead again.

I stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore my racing heart and the quiet sounds of pain from Simon’s cot. Either he was upset about my dream-death or the thrashing around was causing him physical pain. Regardless, I wouldn’t get any sleep with him moaning. I took a deep breath and linked back in.

He was still kneeling in the room where he had found me. Thankfully, my body was gone. Except now his hands were covered in blood, and he was smearing them all over his shirt and pants. He wasn’t getting them clean, just making a disastrous mess.

I needed to pull him out of his wild guilt dream before it drove us both mad. I erased the blood and the room from his mind and replaced it with a meadow in moonlight. Simon filled the meadow in with a giant boulder and his car parked beside it, recreating that night when we snuck out and met his reader friends for some pretend dipping.

These were safe true memories.

The faint smell of wild grass filled me. At first, it seemed like the scent of the meadow, recreated by Simon. Then I realized it was his mind scent. I had been in his mind several times, but always under duress, never quite like this, where I had time to notice it.

Simon leaned against the boulder in his dream and a girl walked up to him. It was me, and when the dream-me reached up to kiss him, I jerked out of his mind again. I wasn’t ready to replay that bit of disaster—the moment when I decided to be Simon Zagan’s girlfriend. Not the best choice I’ve ever made.

Simon’s body calmed, but his legs were still crooked from his earlier trauma. His breathing evened out, and the wheezing seemed less pronounced. My muscles relaxed from the constant tension of the last three days, and I sank deeper into the thin cot. I closed my eyes and tried to summon my own safe dreams to lull me into a peaceful sleep.

Something that didn’t involve someone dying.

I imagined Raf, holding my hand in the car as we hid behind the hedge. In my daydream, Kestrel never came careening around the corner, and Raf slowly leaned toward me. He was going to kiss me, and this time I wouldn’t stop him. This time I would find out if his lips were as soft as they looked.

A hiss whispered in my ear. I cursed inwardly and added snakes to the perils that haunted us in the Camp of the Flies. Then I caught a faint whiff of orange spice and opened my eyes. Mist rose from the floor.

The gas.

I rolled out of the cot I shared with Laney and onto my feet. The mist was already numbing my mind, its tendrils winding through the room and seeming to come from everywhere. I focused inward and sped up my heart rate from jittery panic to full-blown pounding. My head throbbed, but the extra blood pumped out the juice that was clouding my thinking. Unfortunately, each new rasping breath brought another lungful of gas. I ripped off my pillowcase and covered my nose and mouth. It already smelled of orange spice.

I couldn’t hold my breath and make my heart beat out of my chest at the same time. I had to get out of the barrack and dilute the gas somehow. I linked gently into Laney and Simon’s minds. They were well under the influence of the gas, deep in an unconscious state. Hopefully the rest of the camp was as well.

I tore open the barrack door and lurched out into the moonlit gap between the buildings. The gas was less concentrated outside, but it still swirled in an orange fog around my bare feet as I strode toward the common space between Block C and Block B. I kept the pillowcase over my nose and mouth and slinked into the shadows close to the barrack wall. Bodies of the Block B crew lay crumpled on the ground. The gas must have claimed them while they kept watch.

Even through the pillowcase, my gasping breaths sounded loud in the quiet night air. My heart was pounding a pulse in my head that raced to keep the gas at bay. I sprinted down the wide corridors between blocks, and the desert rocks bit into the soles of my feet. I scanned for any movement from jackers who might have eluded the gas. There was nothing but stillness until I arrived at the depot.

Men garbed in black poured from one of the two trucks parked by the gate. Gas masks obscured their faces, making them look like freakish insects. They formed a protective circle around both vehicles. Their rifles glinted in their hands as they scanned for jackers that might be resisting the effects of the gas.

Like me.

I skittered into the shadow of a nearby barrack and lightly probed the minds of the well-armed guards. They were wary, but not overly anxious. No one had overcome the effects of the gas before, yet they were prepared for the unexpected. Although most of them were readers, there was one jacker in the lead. Their thoughts overlapped, like one beast with ten pairs of eyes that could see in every direction. I could easily jack the readers but the jacker guard was like a live-wire waiting to trip. I pulled back in case he sensed me lurking at the edge of his mind.

The second truck pulled up to the depot door, and a thick mechanical tongue extended to where two rifle-less guards stood waiting. Crates about the size of my cot slowly started to travel down the conveyor belt.

A man in a long black coat, face also obscured by a gas mask, stepped around the first truck. He grasped an e-slate in his hand and set off toward the closest barrack, accompanied by two armed guards. No doubt searching for fresh victims for the government’s experiments.

I stayed in the shadows.

Slate Man and his two goons returned with the limp body of a young jacker in their arms. She couldn’t be any more than fourteen. My throat closed up as I watched them load her into the first truck. Then they headed straight toward me.

I scurried back along the wall and around the corner, out of their view. Their boots scuffed the ground nearby, and I muffled my heavy breathing with the pillowcase. The trio’s determined steps faded. What if they were heading to Block C? I huddled out of sight and strained to listen. I didn’t dare brush into their minds in case they were jackers and could sense me so close by.

The pounding of my heart was starting to take a toll. I leaned against the wall as a wave of dizziness swept through me. My chest ached. Was I giving myself a heart attack? I pressed my forehead against the cool wall and focused on slowing my heart a little, enough to keep the dizziness under control. Only each gulping breath brought more gas, and my mind was starting to fuzz out.

I wasn’t going to last until the guards finished unloading.

I edged back around the barrack to check the progress at the depot. Maybe I could jack the guards unloading the crates to look the other way while I slipped inside. I brushed their minds, but pulled back quickly. Jackers.

The rough scraping of boots on dirt sounded to my right, and I flattened myself against the wall. The footsteps shuffled along, and when the guards swung into view, they carried a fresh victim between them, another girl, even younger this time. With dark brown hair.

Laney.

No! I lurched out from the shadows before I could stop myself. My hands twitched with the need to do something, anything, but what? Before they could catch sight of me, I ordered the two guards carrying her to Put her down! I would knock all three of them out as soon as Laney was safely on the ground. They readily obeyed my command, stopping in their tracks and slowly lowering her to the ground. But Slate Man was a jacker. Keep going! he overrode my command and quickly cast his mind out searching for me. I glimpsed two piercing blue eyes behind the mask. Kestrel! I tried to disappear back into the shadows and hoped he wouldn’t detect the blank spot of my mind, but it was the movement that caught his eye and gave me away.

Kestrel grabbed a pistol from the guard’s holster, and the pop of the gun split the quiet air.

A sharp pain stabbed my leg, and I fell to the ground. Two more jabbed my back, but I hardly felt them.

I slipped into a deep orange-colored haze.

chapter TWENTY-NINE

I struggled through the orange-flavored fuzz, but couldn’t pry open my eyes. My dry tongue scraped uselessly against the roof of my mouth. I groaned my frustration and a hand clasped my arm. Instinctively, I gasped and lunged out with my mind.

Hey! It’s just me, Simon thought as I plunged into his mind. I stilled and tried again to force open my eyes.

What happened? I linked the thought to him, unable to form words with my drug-disabled mouth.

I found you by Block E, near the depot, he thought. You must have been some kind of raging elephant, because it took three darts for them to take you down. There was a strange undercurrent of pride in his thoughts that didn’t make any sense to me.

Darts? I recalled Kestrel and his victims. Laney!

I jerked upright, yanked my eyes open, and cringed against the barrack lights and morning sun. Half-blind, I patted the cot next to me, but I knew Laney wasn’t there.

Laney’s gone, Simon thought.

No!

Maybe I distracted them. Maybe they dropped her and left after they shot me. I stretched my mind out, roaming lightly over all the Clan members in Block C. She wasn’t there. Maybe some other Clan had taken her in. I stretched and found I could reach Block B. I skimmed across the dozens of minds packed into the safety of their barracks. Still nothing. I kept stretching. It didn’t seem like I should be able to reach so far, but then I had never really tried before. There had been no reason to. But now I reached and scanned every barrack in the camp, stopping at each of the thousand minds long enough to know they weren’t Laney. They weren’t the little girl who had already suffered too much for the non-crime of being a jacker kid.

No! No. But I couldn’t find her anywhere in the camp.

I’m sorry, thought Simon.

Why? The thought ripped through me and came out as an animal sound in my parched throat. Why did they take her and not me?

I don’t know. Simon’s thoughts were genuinely puzzled, like he knew as well as I did that it was some kind of cruel joke. Some horrible trick to take little Laney, who was too young to have even broken curfew, and yet leave me behind, probably the most mutant jacker of all. I hung my head and tried to swallow down the pain of that thought.

Simon hesitantly put his hand on my shoulder. When I didn’t shove his hand away, he lightly rubbed my back. I’m so sorry, Kira.

It’s not right. I retreated from his mind to my own, where no one could hear the thoughts running through it. Thoughts about how I had failed—failed to conquer the gas, failed to get the food from the depot, failed to stop them from taking Laney.

“None of it’s right,” Simon said softly. He tipped my chin up with his finger. “But you did a pretty good job of convincing Molloy to keep you around.”

“What? But…” The words caught on the dryness of my throat and made me cough.

Simon hopped off my cot and fetched a water bottle from our meager stash of supplies by the door. I gulped it down, washing away the dirt and the orange aftertaste. I wished I could wash away my guilt for losing Laney along with it.

When my mouth could function again, I rasped out, “What are you talking about? I didn’t get the food. And they took Laney!”

Simon rested his hand on mine. “Laney was probably the only other Clan member, besides yourself, that they could have taken and Molloy would have forgiven you for.” He cracked a smile. “Although he probably wouldn’t have missed me much.”

It still didn’t make sense. Laney was new to the Clan, but her disappearance only proved that I had failed. Simon cocked his head. “Molloy’s not a monster,” he said. “Well, not completely a monster. He knows you were trying to protect Laney, and that means something to him. The fact that you made it out to the depot, and they had to stop you with darts, convinced him pretty well that you were the real deal.”

“So.” I had to stop to take another drink of water. “So, he’s letting me stay in Block C?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And Molloy’s put the word out to the Clans seeking to ally with Block C to search for Laney. He thinks one of the others might have taken her in.”

My shoulders sagged. “She’s gone.” Although it was reassuring that Molloy was at least trying to find her. He really did look out for the changelings, as well as the rest of his Clan. I understood a little better what he meant by “family” now.

Simon gently squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t give up hope. They may have forgotten about her, once they had you to contend with.”

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. “I searched the camp. She’s not here.”

He drew back. “You’ve been out for hours, Kira. Ever since I found you near the depot.” His eyes went wide. “Wait. You mean you searched with your mind? How far can you reach?”

“Far enough.” Simon probably saved my life by bringing me back before some praver found me lying in the dirt. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to trust him.

He seemed to think my brain was still fuzzed on juice. “You’re sure she’s not here?” The answer was plain on my face. “You searched the entire camp?” There was a new wonder in his voice. “Kira, that’s…” The gears were turning in his head, but what did it matter? “The camp’s over a thousand feet per side, Kira. Can you really reach that far? How about control? Can you jack that far?”

I looked away from him. It didn’t matter. All it meant was that Laney was gone. And I was an even a bigger freak. Why hadn’t they taken me? Why did Kestrel leave me behind, while taking Laney for some hideous experiment? My body shook with a cold-sweat chill. It wasn’t right.

“Because if you can,” he said, pulling my face back to his, “we might have a way out of here.”

That got my attention. “What do you mean?”

Furious thinking and giddy excitement warred on his face. “The camp is surrounded by electrified fences. They’re buried below the ground level, too. The only way in or out is through the gates.”

“Why doesn’t someone hijack the newcomer truck and ride that back out?”

“The truck and the perimeter are gassed whenever the newcomer truck leaves. Everything’s remote-controlled, and they must have cameras somewhere because if someone tries to escape through the gate, they turn on the gas. But,” he said, his voice rising a notch, “you can defeat the gas. You could get outside the fences.” There was a gleam in his eye.

“Couldn’t someone just hold their breath to get through?” The trip through the gates didn’t seem that long. Mostly, I didn’t want Simon to know my ability to fight off the gas had an upper limit in terms of time.

“No, the gas is too powerful. Even if someone could make it past the electrified fences and the gas, they’d still have to contend with the outer perimeter fence and the guards. Plus they have guns. There are four guard stations around the perimeter, but there’s only one gate, where they bring in the newcomer truck.”

“Maybe they could jack the guards?” I asked, realizing the they we were talking about now was likely me.

“The guard gate is at least a half a mile away, far outside anyone’s range to jack. Except maybe you.” He smirked. “The guards could be readers or jackers or both. If you could jack at a thousand feet away, then maybe… if you could reach the guard gate from here, you could jack them to open the gates. Even if you can’t reach that far, you could fight off the gas in the truck, get close enough, and even if they were jackers, if they didn’t see you coming…”

“I could jack them before they knew what had happened.”

He seemed like he wanted to hug me, but kept his hands to himself, which was a good move on his part. His plan was entirely demens, and the idea that I could jack someone half a mile away was far-fetched at best. Maybe I wouldn’t have to jack that far. Maybe I could ride the truck right to the gate and catch them by surprise.

“Do you think it could work?” I asked.

“I think we need to find out what you can do.” His grin seemed to crack his dust-covered face.

It didn’t take long to discover I had more range than I ever imagined. Not only could I reach people at the other end of camp, but if I concentrated, I could jack them as well. But I couldn’t reach the outer perimeter. Somewhere between a thousand feet and a half mile was the limits of my abilities.

Simon pressed me on. “Focus on the jack. It’s like a muscle—the more you use it, the stronger you get.”

My eyes were closed, but I felt the intensity of his stare. “Yeah. Except when you’re distracting me.”

“Sorry,” he said, his voice hushed.

I reached out and brushed several minds at the far side of the camp. They didn’t sense me, so I could easily knock out the weaker ones before they knew what happened. Some were so weak they could barely push back. I practiced on a few of those first, making sure they were already sitting down. No need for concussions.

“How far out are you?” His voice was impatient.

“I’m in Block D.” I snapped my eyes open. “Is that far enough for you?” Block D was at the farthest corner of the camp from Block C. Whoever had laid out the Camp of the Flies had no respect for alphabetical order.

His laser focus didn’t waver. “Yes, but can you jack there?”

“I just knocked out two inmates.” A smug edge crawled into my voice and it made me queasy. “They weren’t very strong.”

“Some of the jackers here are practically linkers.”

“Linkers?”

“Jackers that aren’t very strong. They can link thoughts but not much else.”

“How did they end up here?”

“How did any of us end up here?” he asked with a snort. “Extreme bad luck. Anyway, did the linkers you jacked know you were there?”

“No.”

“A jacker can only resist you if he knows you’re there. If you catch them unaware and move fast, even the strongest jacker can be knocked out. But if you hesitate or if he’s expecting you… Well, that’s when you end up on the losing side of the jack.”

“I’ve got the Impenetrable Mind, remember?”

He gave a short laugh. “Right. Okay, so maybe it won’t be a problem for you.” He gave me an unexpected soft look that made me close my eyes again.

“Okay,” I said. “What next, Master Zagan?”

“Next, Little One, you need to jack the strongest one you can find.” I killed the smile that threatened to break out on my face. Simon was right—the more I practiced, the stronger I got. Although some jackers seemed naturally stronger than others, regardless of how old they were. I wondered if my dad was a unique like I was—did he have an Impenetrable Mind, too? Could he reach a thousand feet? If he had simply told me the truth, I wouldn’t have to rely on Simon to find out what my abilities were.

As I brushed across the minds in Block D, I could tell which jackers were the strongest by the feel of their brain barriers. It was the difference between Jell-O and cream cheese—the cheese would give, but I had to push harder. Even with all the jacking I had done, it still grossed me out.

I was growing stronger, but I was no match for the strongest ones—plus they more quickly sensed me and pushed me back out. The leader of Block D threw me out after a fraction of a second. His second-in-command was even stronger. I retreated and left them sparring with each other. At least they didn’t know who I was. I kept trying, jacking in and grappling with fairly strong jackers. Unless I caught them completely unprepared, I couldn’t knock them out. And all the strongest jackers in the Camp of the Flies were constantly on edge.

After we had practiced enough to satisfy Simon, he brought me to Molloy.

Molloy verified my long range ability by sending Andre and a couple other members of Clan Molloy to the far side of the camp. Even at that range, Andre had a hard time keeping me out of his head, which brought a smile to my face. But I could only knock out the weaker jackers he had with him. Still, that delighted Molloy to no end and convinced him even more that my skills were worth keeping around.

“Okay, there’s this skinny weasel named Jackson in Block D,” Molloy said, hunched on the cot next to me. “Can you find him?”

I closed my eyes and reached out to Block D. “Does Jackson have dark brown hair and an abiding love of beets?” Jackson was holed up in a corner with a pile of beet cans, his recent booty from the food frenzy. I had been lucky that Simon had found me before the jackers who knew I was a bigger prize than beets.

“That’s the one,” said Molloy, like a kid with a shiny new toy. Only I was the toy. “Can you kill him? Even at this range?”

I popped my eyes open. “We talked about this. No killing.” I had made my terms clear as soon as we came to Molloy with my new skills.

“Okay, okay. Just knock him out for me. Wait, wait!” Molloy held up his hands. “Make him dump out all the beets on the floor first. Then knock him out.” I closed my eyes to block out the smirk on Molloy’s face as he got his thrills at Jackson’s expense. But I did as he asked.

“Okay,” I said. “It will take a while to empty out twenty-three cans.”

“Take your time,” said Molloy, with a self-satisfied tone. I kept my eyes closed as Jackson methodically opened his cans and poured them onto the dirty barrack floor. I did another sweep through Block D and the next Block over, still hoping that I had missed Laney that first time. I didn’t find her, but there were plenty of other horrible things happening.

In Block G, four older boys were tormenting a thirteen-year-old named Daniel by taking turns inflicting phantom pain. Since pain was in the brain, not the body, all they had to do was jack an imaginary broken arm or bruised kidney into his mind. The injuries weren’t real, but the pain was. I gritted my teeth and concentrated on reflecting the miseries back on the senders. Each time a praver jacked into Daniel’s mind to inflict some imagined injury, I recreated the same one in the tormenter’s mind. Daniel wasn’t a linker, but he wasn’t a very strong jacker either. They quickly backed off, confused at this new mind trickery.

They had no idea it was me, which made me smile.

I jacked Daniel to take advantage of their confusion and run. I planted the idea in his head to find his way to Block C. Hopefully, Molloy would take him in.

“Kira!” Molloy’s voice was filled with impatience.

My eyes snapped open. “Huh?”

“Did you get lost there, lassie, counting cans?” He was suspicious. I quickly checked on Jackson and sure enough, he was done. I knocked him out.

“Nope. Jackson is sleeping on his pile of beets now.”

Molloy’s grin sent a buzz through the room. “Well done, lassie!” Molloy slapped Andre’s back, but Andre was far less amused with my parlor tricks. He had been trying to pierce me with his steel-gray eyes the entire time. Probably still sore that I had jacked him into doing the chicken dance earlier. I ignored him.

“So, let’s talk about this plan of yours.” Molloy motioned to Simon, who had been leaning against the far wall. Simon strode over and gave me wink on the way to let me know I had done well. I scowled at him.

Molloy’s face grew serious. “The Clan can give you cover when the next newcomer truck arrives. Blocks E and F are already allied with us, and we may have others by the time the truck comes. Could be any day, we don’t know when. When the truck arrives, we’ll retrieve the newcomers and slip you two in,” Molloy motioned to Simon and me, “before anyone can give serious notice.”

“Wait,” I said, interrupting him. “I thought I was doing this alone.”

Molloy’s face became granite. “Seeing as how I can’t tap into that hard little head of yours, lassie,” he said, reaching over to thump my forehead, “I’ll not be trusting you to do this alone. Simon here will be along to make sure you keep your promise to come back for the rest of us.” Molloy’s shark teeth were back and glinting.

The plan was that I would break out, overpower the guards, and then release the gates so that all the prisoners would be freed, including Molloy and his Clan. If I was lucky enough to make it out, I wasn’t sure letting the rest of them loose was a great idea. The camp held a lot of changelings like Laney that shouldn’t be locked up in a prison, but there were just as many camp-hardened pravers that gave me the creeps. Obviously, I couldn’t let Molloy know my thoughts on that subject, or I’d never get the chance to escape. Having Simon along was a liability.

“What if I don’t agree?”

Molloy stood and loomed over me. “Either you’re a part of the Clan or you’re not, lassie. If you’re in, you stay in. If you betray us again, I won’t stop next time to ask why.”

“I’m in,” I said, without hesitation. I didn’t have any other options.

“Right,” said Molloy. He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t be thinking about letting the gas take Simon, little Kira. If he comes back in the truck alone, I’ll make sure he regrets the day he met you.”

I gulped. I didn’t like Simon, but he didn’t deserve whatever punishment Molloy would dish out. When Simon had tried to kill Raf, he had jacked in deep to slow his heart rate. I should be able to do the opposite and speed up Simon’s heart to keep pace with the gas, like I did my own. It would slow me down, but it would work. I gave Molloy a short nod.

Molloy’s shark teeth receded, replaced by a real smile. “Now, there’s this right nuisance, Samson, a part of Lenny’s old crew.” He settled back into his spot across from me. “I think he’s in Block D now. Can you find him?”

“Sure.” I went hunting for the unfortunate Samson. Simon nodded as though this was all according to plan. He did save my life on more than one occasion, so I didn’t mind breaking him out of the camp. But, like Molloy said, Simon was more likely to come back for the rest of them.

I had no intention of being a part of Clan Molloy once I was free. I yearned to go home and set things right with Raf, maybe get my life back again. My dad was a jacker and a high-ranking Naval Intelligence officer. He had to know how to keep the Feds at bay. If Clan Molloy were stuck in the camp, I wouldn’t have to worry about them menacing my family on top of everything else.

But if I left Clan Molloy behind, I would be dooming all the changelings that were trapped in the camp as well. Changelings that hadn’t done a thing wrong in their lives, like Laney.

I tried not to think about what was happening to her.

My top priority was getting out of the camp. If Simon insisted on opening the gates for Molloy, I wasn’t sure I would stop him. But if he tried to stop me from leaving Clan Molloy behind, I wouldn’t hesitate to overpower him and leave him with his friends in the desert.

chapter THIRTY

It wasn’t long before Daniel-the-changeling found his way to Block C. He was smart enough to shed his armband along the way, but his tattered shirt betrayed that he had been in the camp for a while.

Molloy raised his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you, lassie?”

I shrugged and feigned innocence. Since Molloy couldn’t scrub my mind, he set Andre on Daniel to make sure he wasn’t a spy. I cringed as Daniel suffered through Andre’s interrogation.

“Is that necessary?” Maybe bringing Daniel to Block C had been a mistake. Molloy didn’t answer, and Andre released Daniel after a few more moments.

“He’s just a changeling.” Andre glared at me, but didn’t say any more. If he’d found any evidence that I had been involved, he wouldn’t hesitate to say so.

Molloy offered Daniel a hand up from the floor. “Sorry about that, lad. You understand, don’t you?” The boy nodded so hard, I was afraid his head would fall off. I didn’t care much for Molloy’s methods, but once he had accepted Daniel into the Clan, it seemed like  Molloy would take care of him. And he didn’t raise any more eyebrows when changelings started showing up at Block C after that.

At least, I didn’t think he suspected me.

Nearly a week passed before the newcomer truck brought fresh inmates to the camp. Word traveled fast about the truck’s impending arrival, the linked whispers of the Camp of the Flies rivaling the thought-speed rumor mill of Warren Township High. However, sitting on a rough cot in the middle of Block C, surrounded by anxious members of Clan Molloy, couldn’t have been more different than walking the halls of my school. And Shark Boy could only dream of being as ruthless as the pravers in the camp.

I knew without brushing any minds that the newcomer truck had stopped at the first gate. After a week of practice, my reach easily swept beyond the camp fences to the surrounding desert. I kept checking whether I could extend out to the guards at the outer perimeter (still no) or detect the incoming shipment of new inmates before anyone else (yes).

Molloy gathered his people so we could travel as a group to intercept the truck. The plan included myself and Simon, Molloy, Andre, and a half dozen other Clan members, plus a few strong jackers from Blocks E and F. We needed a large group, partly to ensure our own safety and that of the newcomers, and also so Simon and I would not be missed when we slipped inside the truck. Our Allied Clans were in on the escape effort, but alerting the other inmates to our plans would be problematic at best.

I gave a short nod to Simon, indicating the newcomer truck had passed the first gate. The truck held returnees from whatever government facility was used for the Feds’ heinous experiments. The girls were both fourteen and changelings. So much like Laney, but neither was her. Their thoughts were fuzzed, even though their minds were clear of the juice. I felt the parts of their brains that had been damaged, like soft dead spots where the doctors had targeted their destruction.

A sour taste in the back of my throat threatened to bring up my lunch of protein bars. I hoped that someday Kestrel would suffer a painful payback for what he had done.

Simon signaled Molloy that it was time to leave, and soon we were striding past weathered barracks and wary onlookers. We moved as a pack toward the entrance gate and sported a rainbow of armbands, with me and Simon surrounded by the strongest jackers in the Allied Clans.

No one messed with us.

The inner gate creaked to a metallic stop, and the truck slowly backed into the camp on its autopath. In theory, we could walk straight past the open gates into the hundred-foot gap between the fences. When Molloy scrubbed the minds of several veteran inmates, searching for true memories about escaping the camp, he found out that a few desperate prisoners had tried to escape that way. None had survived. Any movement between the fences triggered a wave of gas and trapped the escapee in that no man’s land until the next drop shipment or newcomer truck.

I shook that mental image out of my head as the truck lurched to a stop. Molloy’s crew formed a brigade at the rear end. Simon and I pulled open the dust-covered doors and climbed inside. The wide-eyed pair of changelings cowered together on the bench, holding hands. Either they were friends, or they had already made an alliance. I cringed when I told them to get out. They were in no state to deal with the camp, but at least Molloy would look out for them. And maybe they wouldn’t be there long. If we were successful.

The door slammed closed behind them.

I took their place on the warm metal bench, and Simon sat next to me. When the gas struck, I would have to speed up his heart to fight it off, in addition to controlling my own heart rate and reaching out to the guards. I preferred that he stayed on the other side of the truck, but it would take less effort to control his heart rate if he was nearby. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind being close.

We waited for the truck to start its autopath out of the camp. Our plan was to survive the gas, ride the truck to the perimeter gate, and knock out the guards. Then we would open the camp gates and release the prisoners. That part was Simon’s job. I planned on being long gone before any jackers reached the perimeter. But Simon didn’t need to know that until the time came.

Simon seemed like he had something to say, only he wouldn’t spit it out. There was nothing left to discuss, but the stifling heat of the truck left me with little patience.

“What?” I asked. I would save linking into his mind until it was necessary.

He studied his hands. “I shouldn’t have lied to you, Kira. I should have told you the truth, about the Clan. About all of it.”

I nodded but didn’t offer any more than that. I wouldn’t be facing a truck full of gas and trying to escape the Camp of the Flies if he hadn’t lied to me almost every step of the way. I still couldn’t figure out when the lies had begun, but they probably ended at the warehouse. By that point, it was a little late for the truth.

Simon stared at the metal riveted floor of the truck. “All of this could have been avoided. If I’d told you the truth, maybe you would have joined the Clan willingly. Maybe I could have convinced you…”

I snorted, causing him to look up. “It would have taken a lot more than kisses from you to convince me join the Clan.”

His face twisted into a pained smile. “Well, at least there was some fun along the way.”

It was my turn to stare at the rivets snaking along the floor and try to order away the blush rising up my face. How could I control my own heart rate, but not keep my cheeks from lighting up every time I was embarrassed? Simon scooted closer, so that our knees brushed. Mine were exposed by the shorts I had on when I was captured. We both had on the same clothes from the last time we kissed, in his car a lifetime ago.

“We can still make this work, Kira.” His voiced dropped to that soft, rich sound he used when he was trying to convince me of something. He ran his fingers along my hair and tucked it behind my ear. “Just the two of us. Once we’re out of here, we can run away. Forget the Clan. We’ll go somewhere no one knows us and start over. We can pass as readers, and no one will ever know the difference.”

His soft, urgent words tugged at me. I didn’t have to link into his head to know that was what he had wanted all along. Pretend to have a normal life, live off our ill-gotten gains, lie to everyone we knew. I dreamed of a normal life once, too, complete with boyfriends and college. Only Simon’s face was never the one that filled those dreams. If we got out of this alive, Simon could make his own way in the world. I was going home and seeing if I could get my life back and put things right with Raf.

Simon took my silence for something else and leaned in to kiss me. I turned my face at the last moment, so that his lips landed on my cheek instead. They were as searing hot as always, even in the desert heat of the truck.

Puffs from his laugh caressed my cheek. “I guess I deserved that.”

The truck lurched and sent me crashing into him. He righted us, holding me gently by the shoulder. I took his hand and linked into his mind. You don’t deserve this. Neither of us does. Just because Simon had lied and betrayed me didn’t mean he deserved the camp. But his thoughts made more of that statement than I intended.

A hiss announced the beginning of the gas, so I jacked in further to step up both our heart rates before the first whiff of orange scent reached us. Adrenaline made me want to pace the tight confines of the truck, but I stayed with Simon, my hand locked with his, and kept tabs on the state of his mind. As the mist surrounded us, I pulled the neck of my t-shirt up to cover my mouth and nose, and Simon did the same. It wasn’t much use. The intensity of the gas was overwhelming.

The truck swayed to a stop and waited for the gates behind us to close and the ones ahead to open. Metal creaked over the hiss of the gas. When the outer gate was fully open, the truck still sat in the perimeter no-man’s-land between the electrified fences. My heart was already trying to pound out of my chest or it would have raced from worry that something had gone wrong. Why isn’t the truck moving?

I reached out and searched again for a mindware interface, but found nothing, like my first trip in the truck. Finally, the truck jerked forward and lumbered through the outer gate. I leaned off the bench and squinted at the desert glare coming through the dusty windows in front. A guard tower shimmered in the heat. A half mile seemed a reasonable estimate.

Simon’s face shone bright red around his dirt-stained shirt. He heaved breaths through the thin fabric, and his eyelids blinked very slowly. Stay with me, Simon. I commanded him to a jittery wakefulness and struggled to keep my own eyes open as the juice seeped into my brain.

The truck bounced and crunched on the dirt path leading away from the camp. I peeked again at the hard-packed line that was hardly a road. The desert was clear ahead of us, but impossibly, the guard tower didn’t seem any closer. The truck trundled along at a maddeningly slow speed. I reached as far as I could. There was nothing but scrub brush ahead of us. If we didn’t pick up the pace, we’d both pass out before we got close enough to knock out the guards.

For a moment I considered letting the gas take Simon. My range was shortened by having to fight the gas for both of us. After I knocked out the guards, reviving Simon from a full juice dose would take time, maybe more time than I would have before the guards from the other perimeter stations reached the gate. Perhaps I could take them all, but it would be tough if they were jackers. I might need Simon’s help. And as much as I didn’t dream of a jacker life with him, I couldn’t leave him behind to face whatever Molloy had in store for him.

Simon’s sweaty hand clenched in mine. I was jacked deep in his mind to control his heart rate and couldn’t help hearing all his thoughts, even the ones he was trying not to think. Thoughts about after the escape. His longing for a normal life. With me. If only he had more time, he might be able to change my mind. Convince me.

I refrained from wiping those thoughts out of his head and concentrated on keeping our hearts pounding fast enough to keep up with the gas. It was a losing battle. Maybe we could crack a window and let some of it out. I pulled him off the bench and we shuffled toward the front. The side windows were sealed tight. Simon climbed into the passenger seat and kicked at the flexiglass with his uninjured leg, but no luck.

I tipped my head to the back, and a wave of dizziness swept over me. Whether it was from the gas or the heart palpitations, we were running out of time. The only way to keep from passing out was to vent the gas out the back doors—or leave the truck altogether.

The guards at the perimeter gate had guns. Big guns. Molloy had scrubbed a true memory about one jacker who had shorted out the fences and cut his way through, somehow sprinting across the gas in the no-man’s-land to saw a hole through the outer fence. He was shot. He died right at the fence line and lay there until the next drop shipment when the Feds took his body away.

I didn’t want to mess with a gun that picked off escaping prisoners half a mile away.

That meant staying in the truck as long as possible. But we had to reduce the intensity of the gas. If we opened the doors a crack, maybe that would vent enough of the gas to keep us awake. If not, we would have to get out. The truck was slow enough that we could follow along behind and use it as a shield. Then we’d be free of the gas, and I could reach farther and knock out the tower guards sooner.

I pulled Simon toward the rear of the truck. He stumbled a bit on the way, but caught himself before he fell. We should open the doors, just a crack, I linked the thought to him. So the guards can’t see, in case they’re watching.

Okay, Simon thought, but the orange mist was fuzzing his brain. Sweat made our hands slippery. I laced my fingers through his for a better grip, and he gave me a smile in return. He was willing to go along with the plan, which was good enough.

Wrapping my fingers around the hot metal handle of the rear door, I slowly pulled it down, careful to only open it a couple of inches and holding tight in case the door went flapping wide and alerted the guards.

A blaring horn startled me into losing my grip on the handle. The truck lurched to a stop, sending Simon and me flying toward the front and banging the door shut again. The alarm reverberated through the truck a second time.

Oh no.

Any element of surprise was gone; the truck was stopped dead in its tracks and screaming in distress. I scrambled to my feet and towed Simon to the back door. As I flung it open, a wave of hot desert air swept into the truck. I leaped down and brought Simon with me, still tethered by our joined hands. Our hearts continued to pound blood through our brains, and each lungful of gas-free desert air brought more relief. My head started to clear and Simon was more alert.

What now? he asked as we crouched behind the open back of the truck. I pulled out of Simon’s mind and let the adrenaline pumping through our systems keep our hearts racing. Free of controlling our heart rates, I stretched forward to the limits of my reach, but I couldn’t sense the guards. The dusty windows of the truck obscured the hard-packed road ahead, so I peeked through the slit between the flung-open door and the truck body. The guard post floated on a shimmering layer of desert-heated air. It was tough to gauge how far it was. A thousand feet? Two? Either way, I had to get closer and the truck wasn’t going to help anymore.

I linked back into Simon’s head. I’ll have to run. I licked away the dryness on my lips from the desert dust and the gas. I’m not close enough yet.

He shook his head. Not without me.

His injured leg was still wrapped with the homemade bandages I had made. Simon was in no condition to run, and he would only slow me down. I’ll come back for you once I knock the guards out. I checked the slit again. We don’t have much time. They know something’s wrong.

Simon shook his head again, and an image of me fleeing the gate without him popped into his mind. I swiped dust out of my eyes. I’m not going to leave you. I promise.

His thoughts switched to the danger from the guns. Of course, it was risky to leave the truck, but there wasn’t much choice. We weren’t going to escape at all if I didn’t get close enough to knock out the guards. Simon tried to push me out of his head. I didn’t understand why, but I pulled out anyway.

“I don’t want you to get shot,” he said. “Ruins my chances for escape, you know?” He gave me a half smile, and I couldn’t help returning it.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to get shot either. If I don’t get moving, we’re never getting out of here.”

He bit his lip and leaned over me to peek through the slit. “Okay. Run back and forth, not straight at the gate. Make it harder for them to target you. And run fast.”

I gave him a cockeyed look.

“Just be careful.” He gave my hand a squeeze before slipping his fingers out from mine.

I shuffled to the end of the open door and curled my fingers around the hot metal edge. I focused my mind forward one more time, but I still couldn’t sense anything. Taking two large gulps of gas-free air, I gave Simon a nod and tore around the corner of the door.

The heat of the sun-baked ground burned through the soles of my shoes as they pounded the dirt. I veered off to the right, then left, trying to change direction as randomly as I could. The running and surge of adrenaline pounded my heart, allowing me to focus on stretching farther and farther forward.

Still nothing.

It seemed as if the guard gate must not be real, an actual mirage floating above the desert. I kept reaching anyway.

A rumbling sound rolled across the hard-baked desert floor, and I checked the clear blue sky above. It seemed demens to have thunder without clouds, but I didn’t have time to think about it. A small cloud of dirt rose from the ground to my left, making me jump, and then a second later another roll of thunder.

I skittered to the right and another puff of dust exploded out of the ground, even closer than before, followed by another rumbling across the desert. My brain finally put it together—they were shooting at me. My legs had new energy down to the soles of my feet, ignoring the burn in my muscles and hopping me back and forth like a crazed jackrabbit. I reached even further forward, until I sensed the barest whisper of the minds of the guards. Still not close enough to jack. Another roll of thunder sounded, but there were no more clouds of dust. The sniper’s aim must be getting worse with my fancy footwork.

I strained to see details of the guard post through the glare of the desert. Maybe if I could see the guards, I could hone in on those phantom whispers.

Two more air-crackling peals of rifle shots split the air before I found the mind of the sniper. I made his eyes cross while I sprinted a few more yards, bringing me just close enough. His mind shut down as I knocked him out.

The thunder booms stopped, but I kept running. I flitted across the minds of the guards, who were now in a full state of panic. Eight. I found one on the radio, calling another guard post for backup. He was a reader, along with the other two guards in the command tower, so I easily knocked them out. That left four more: one wrestling to reload the sniper’s gun, the others manning their own rifles and trying to find me with their scopes.

None of them were jackers. I knocked them all out.

I slowed my pace and scanned again for more guards. There were none, but the others would be on the way, and soon. I braced my hands on my knees, wheezing from the run, and reached back to the truck to tell Simon the coast was clear.

He wasn’t there.

My head snapped up. The truck sat abandoned on the dirt road a few hundred feet behind me. I scanned twice, three times. There was no one there. Had he run? I swept my mind and eyes out, searching for any sign of him. I found him lying motionless in the dirt a hundred feet away. His mind was a shadow of its normal strength.

My legs were carrying me to him before I could think what do to. I stumbled and fell forward, skinning my knees and grinding stones into my hands. I scrambled back to my feet, praying he only tripped and fell. When I reached him, his leg was bent back and his eyes were squeezed shut.

There were no thoughts in his mind. It was hollow like an abandoned room, and when I tried to jack him awake, my efforts only echoed uselessly against the edges. I knelt down to shake him physically as well as mentally, desperate to reach him. “Simon!”

Then a red pool started to spread underneath him. No. My hands fluttered over him, landing where the bullet had gone in. A deep red circle spread from the dark hole. I pressed my hands to the spot and searched through his mind to find a way to fix him. Stop the bleeding! Stop! I commanded his brain, but I couldn’t make it comply. His mind was becoming less substantial with every passing second, as if it was fading away.

Simon, please wake up! His mind was more ghostly with each failing heartbeat. It sucked me in like a vacuum, deeper and deeper into nothingness. I had to pull back or be dragged into that blackness with him.

I was staring at him, hands pressed to his chest, when his last breath escaped him.

A shudder rippled through my arms. I stood and stepped back from Simon’s body. Anger, red and raw, boiled inside me. My hands clenched, sweaty and wet.

They should pay for what they had done.

I reached toward the guard tower, seeking out the sniper, but I was too far away. My legs sprinted forward, my arms pumping and my mind stretching. When I was close enough, I found the guard who had shot Simon. Who killed Simon.

He was still unconscious. I tunneled deep into his mind and slowed his heart. I wondered if he would die slowly like Simon, life leaking out of him, never knowing what happened. The gunman’s heart thudded, a slow gong in his chest, and his mind began to soften and grow empty, like Simon’s. Pictures of a young girl and a woman with brown, shining hair flashed through it. His daughter. His wife. He wanted to keep them safe from the dangerous jackers in the camp.

I jerked back out of his head and stumbled over a rock I couldn’t see through the blur of tears in my eyes. I fell and scraped my hands on the hard-baked ground. The pain raked through my mind like a razor-sharp claw.

What am I doing?

I wanted him to pay for killing Simon. But… those images… I couldn’t. I ground my hands into the fire-hot dirt as I pushed off the ground, standing and rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands. Reaching forward again, I sped up the guard’s heart until it was beating normally.

Simon’s body lay in the dirt behind me. It was wrong that he was dead. Wrong that he was lying in the dust and would never get up again.

My feet were glued to the desert floor.

Simon should be coming with me. To convince me to live a life of lies with him. To start over somewhere new. To pretend that we were normal. He should be next to me, trying to get me to open the gates and free the Clan and the rest of the jackers the Feds had sent here.

The camp was a shrouded, desert-camouflaged mound in the distance. If I jacked the tower guard to open the inner gates, Molloy and his Clan would almost certainly kill the guards. And then the entire camp would be loose, heading to whatever town was closest in this desert wasteland. A thousand camp-hardened jackers descending on a town full of defenseless readers. A chill rippled through me, picturing what some of those jackers might do, then the chill settled into a cold pool in my stomach. Daniel and the other changelings like Laney—how could I leave them behind, stuck in prison full of monsters?

In the distance, a dust cloud trailed from a pair of trucks racing along the periphery of the fence. The other guards. They were coming, and I was still a thousand feet from the gate.

I promised I would let all the prisoners all go.

I lied.

My legs unlocked, and I raced toward the command tower, waking the guard and ordering him to open the outer perimeter gate. The oncoming trucks were much faster than me, but they were stuck hugging the edge of the fence. My legs burned as I ran, but a single thought seared into my head. A promise. I’ll come back for you. Somehow, I would free the changelings I was leaving trapped behind the camp’s fence. Somehow, I would make the Feds pay for killing Simon.

By the time I flew through the outer gates, the approaching trucks still weren’t close enough for me to reach. A truck parked near the gate had a passkey dangling from the dash. I jacked into the mindware interface, and the metallic taste stung the back of my tongue as I switched the truck to manual controls.

I climbed in and gripped the joystick, pulling onto the makeshift dirt road leading away from the guard tower. My hands felt slippery, like the joystick was greased. I glanced down to find it smeared with something dark and red. My stomach lurched, and I used my shirt to hastily wipe away Simon’s blood from the hard, plastic grip. I rubbed my hands on my shirt until the slippery feeling was gone. My chest was so tight that I could barely pull in a breath.

I left the jacker camp behind as fast as the truck would take me.

chapter THIRTY-ONE

It had taken four washings, with soap, to get Simon’s blood off my hands.

The blood had seeped into my cuticles and under my fingernails and dried while I drove like mad away from the camp. I stuffed my blood-smeared t-shirt deep in the trash can of the Navajo Lutheran Thrift Shop bathroom and slipped my arms through the shirt I had stolen. My hands shook so badly, it was difficult to get the hot pink t-shirt over my head. Then I sat on the cold, miniature-tiled floor and hugged myself hard. My teeth chattered from the shaking, so I clamped my hand over my mouth and focused on breathing through my nose.

Simon was dead.

I couldn’t stop the bleeding. I couldn’t even wake him. He died alone on the desert floor. My stomach lurched, as it had countless times since I left the camp.

Simon had run out and gotten himself killed. But why? Why did he leave the truck, where he was safe, when all he had to do was wait for me to jack the guards?

I knew why, but the truth made me want to twist up my pink shirt and scream. He had told me why. “I don’t want you to get shot.” He had tried to draw their fire, by running out after me.

And it worked.

Tears spilled down my face, and I bunched my knees tighter to my chest, rocking back and banging against the tiled wall of the bathroom. He had sacrificed himself to make sure I got out, but it didn’t make sense that he would run out to catch a sniper’s bullet for me. We weren’t Romeo and Juliet in some demens tragedy. Or did he actually love me after all of the lies and betrayals?

Simon had lied to me from the beginning. He knew long before I did that I was different—that my Impenetrable Mind was unique, something he had never seen before. That my hard head and extra range gave me an edge over other jackers and the Feds. That I was something they didn’t expect.

That maybe I was the one who could change things.

Someone needed to free the changelings that were still trapped in the camp. And someone had to stop the experiments the Feds were conducting on kids like Laney. With my Impenetrable Mind and my dad’s help, maybe I could do more than just make things right at home. Maybe I could do something about those horrors. Then Simon’s death would count for something.

I suspected that Simon knew that too.

I angrily brushed the tears away to clear my vision. Simon had paid a huge price to make sure I got out of the camp. I wouldn’t waste that by crying in the bathroom and letting myself get caught again. The Feds were probably tracking me already.

I pushed myself up from the floor, clenching and unclenching my fists. Avoiding the mirror above the sink, I splashed my face several times and then cupped my hands, gulping down water to soothe my gas-ravaged throat. My hand didn’t shake so badly when I pulled open the bathroom door.

When I came into the thrift shop, I made sure the short Navajo woman behind the counter was busy folding scarves and the even shorter Navajo grandma was focused on sorting clothes in the back room, jacking them to ignore me as I left in my new hot pink t-shirt.

As I stepped out of the thrift shop, a blast of dry desert air whipped the tears off my face. When I had left the camp, the truck’s navigator had directed me northeast, across the hard-baked desert to a paved road, and fifteen miles later, I came upon the tiny town of Rock Point, Arizona. The Navajo Lutheran Church complex dominated the town, with a church and school in addition to the thrift shop. The buildings were old and too close together, as if frozen in time and covered with a hundred years of desert dust.

Patches of scrub brush were scattered between a half dozen trailers and a hydrogen charger station. I had left the truck where I had crashed it—smashed into a pole by the charger station that had appeared out of nowhere when I had tried to park under a covered awning. Driving was a lot simpler than parking, it seemed.

Maybe the Feds would come after me once they revived the guards and made sure there wasn’t a full-scale prison break. At the very least, they could track the truck’s navigator. I needed to keep moving, and for that I had to get a new vehicle.

I rounded the corner of the Thrift Shop, and my heart stuttered. A camouflage-colored military-style truck had parked behind my crashed one, half under the awning. I ducked back out of sight and tentatively reached out with my mind. One of the reinforcement guards from the camp was heading toward the charger-station shop. He was a reader, and I almost reflexively knocked him out, but that would only alert the Feds to my presence. And there might be more guards on the way.

I reached into the mind of the shop owner, an older Navajo man, and planted a sim. I made him believe he had seen me come in with the truck. I was driving erratically, as if maybe I had been shot. He saw my bloody hands when I came in, and I forced him to give me some food and water. Then I left out the back, heading out on foot into the scrub brush. When the guard entered his shop, the older man relayed my carefully crafted sim and conjectured that I must be heading out to the nearby sandstone bluffs to hole up in the caves there.

I quieted my gasping breaths while the guard hurried out of the shop, jumped in his truck, and chased my sim across the desert. I had bought myself a little time, but I didn’t know how much.

I reached back into the Thrift Shop to scan the minds of the two ladies. The younger one always left her rusted electric car unlocked and parked in back. I edged around the building and started it up. The manual joystick was difficult to turn, but I managed to quietly slide out onto Highway 191. Her relic of a vehicle didn’t have a navigator, so I lifted from her mind that civilization was to the south. The Feds shouldn’t be searching for me in an ancient electric car. I tried to drive like I hadn’t just broken out of prison.

The laser-straight road went on for an endless hour. I kept glancing behind me, expecting to see a military vehicle bearing down on me, but there were only scrub brush and low sandstone mesas to break up the scenery. At the first micro town, filled with whitewashed trailers and an enormous school in the middle of nowhere, I ditched the electric car and stole another one. I quickly got back on the road, but it seemed like I wasn’t moving at all, only replaying the same bit of dry, desert highway mile after mile. The brilliant blue sky was the same one I had seen overhead for the last two weeks in the camp, only now it wasn’t broken up by camouflage netting and it seemed almost too blue—like it had scared away the clouds with its brilliance.

The car was running out of charge, so I stopped at the next tiny Navajo town and switched vehicles again. The Feds seemed to have been thrown off, at least temporarily. The next car had a navigator and more range with its hydro power. I jacked into the mindware and set an autopath to Route 40 and got back on the road.

Route 40 seemed like a tremendously large highway on the navigator, yet it was only slightly wider than Route 191. Still, I headed west toward Winslow, which the navigator insisted had some decent rail transportation. I wasn’t sure where I was headed, only that I needed to be somewhere with people so I could hide among them until I figured out a plan.

It was one thing to want to take on the Feds and another thing altogether to know what to do. I was sure the Feds would keep looking for me, even if they were delayed by my sim. After all, by escaping their high-security camp, I had just proven I was a dangerous, new breed of jacker that could defeat their security measures.

Simon’s last breath kept playing over and over in my mind. I wished he had said something, or I could have read the remnants of his mind. At least linked in to let him know he wasn’t alone. And to say goodbye.

The afternoon sun blinded me with its glare. An hour later, arriving at Winslow seemed like returning to civilization. Terra-cotta shingle roofs and rows of slender adobe-colored houses spaced to meet the range codes sang of order and normal life. People bustled along the tourist shops and restaurants.

When I switched to manual controls and pulled up to a parking lot at the edge of downtown, I stopped at the entrance. How was I supposed to park in these tiny spaces that seemed barely big enough for a scooter? I was the clear master of preprogrammed autopaths on open stretches of desert road devoid of other cars, but I hadn’t taken any actual driving lessons. That was supposed to happen next summer, before I got my license. The idea of driving lessons seemed to belong to another lifetime. I circled the lot several times until I found three spaces together. I barely made it into the spot without crashing.

Before I left the car, I reached out to all the minds around me to turn their focus elsewhere. The tourist at the parking meter, the t-shirt vendor tending his cart, the waitress taking an order at the café—anyone that could possibly see or hear me. I was about to step out of the car when I realized that one man, the docent at the trading-post-turned-visitor-center, was a jacker.

Even in tiny Winslow, Arizona, there were jackers hiding in plain sight. It made me wonder how many thousands of us there were, all hidden in the reader world.

His mind barrier was weak, and I could have easily jacked in and controlled him. Instead, I slipped out of the car and padded across the parking lot in the opposite direction from the visitors’ center. If I avoided his notice, he wouldn’t detect the blank spot of my mind in the presence of all the readers.

Trinket shops and art galleries lined the main street, which traced old Route 66. I turned people’s heads away as I walked past. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, and an old-fashioned red-and-white diner beckoned from down the street. A bell tinkled as I opened the door. I made sure all seven occupants—including the fry cook—thought their hearing was impaired and kept their eyes away from the door where I stood.

Cherry pie rotated on a display on the counter. I took a slice and sat on one of the red vinyl stools welded to the floor in front of the bar. The waitress passed by without a glance and took a plate to one of the customers that she could see.

I was the Invisible Girl—again.

Maybe someday I would have a normal life, where I could walk into a diner and be served like everyone else. Simon had joined a gang of criminals and lied to everyone he knew, just to have a chance at that. Laney never had the chance to lie, her abilities betraying her before she could even try to pretend.

Now she was in a government medical facility somewhere, and no one knew about it. No one knew Simon was dead. Only the Feds, with their secret jacker camp, had any idea what was going on. And if they caught up to me, I would disappear for real, like Laney and Simon.

They probably had an all-points bulletin out for me already.

Cameras!

I scanned the room wildly for a moment and let out a long low breath when I saw there were no cameras in this tiny diner off Route 66. But that wouldn’t be true everywhere. I needed to be more careful.

I went to find a fork and grabbed a glass of water from the half dozen the busboy had queued up. My throat was still recovering from the gas and the desert and the hours of driving, so I took my time with the bites and sips. When I was done, I stacked my dishes by the busboy’s pile and opened the door slowly to avoid ringing the bell.

Across the street from the diner was the Posada Hotel, which the navigator had told me was also the train station. Crossing the red cobbled road, I ducked into the shaded arches that framed the train station entrance. I shoved open the green dust-covered doors and stepped into the dark polished-wood interior.

The schedule board showed two daily trains out of Winslow—one heading west to Los Angeles, and one heading east to… Chicago. An empty feeling hollowed out my bones.

Chicago.

Home.

It was dangerous to go home. Probably the worst place I could pick. But I needed my dad’s help to figure out a plan. And part of me still wanted to know why he hadn’t told me the truth, leaving me to the mercy of Simon and the Clan.

I focused on the schedule. The eastbound train came once each day at six in the morning. That was more than twelve hours away. The empty train depot had no cameras, only southwestern artwork on the walls. I slipped through the doors connecting the train station to the hotel. As long as there were no cameras, I could persuade the hotel clerk to give me a room. I would hole up until the train came and hope the Feds didn’t find me before morning.

Then I would go home and make things right.

chapter THIRTY-TWO

The rumbling sounded like far-off thunder, but I knew it was only the crack of the rifle.

A changeling zigzagged across the desert, her bare feet kicking up puffs of dust as she ran. I lined up my sights, correcting for the distance, the rippling atmospheric effects of the heat, and the motion of my target: a dangerous mutant jacker escaping from prison. All I had to do was gently squeeze the trigger and her blood would soak into the parched ground…

I gasped and bolted upright on the fold-out sleeper bench. I reflexively reached out to scan the occupants of the train, but there were still no jackers on board. Fields of prairie grass whipped past the window.

I wasn’t a sniper. I didn’t kill anyone. I was heading home.

The night before had been a fitful struggle to sleep as I twisted myself up in the hotel sheets only to wake and untwist them again. Fatigue pulled on me the next morning, so I opted for a sleeper cabin on the train. Jacking an image of my Grandma O’Donnell into the conductor’s mind, along with a postcard I had stolen and ripped into the size of a train ticket, had won me a tip of his hat and an escort to my room. He offered the seventy-five-year-old woman he saw before him a bottle of water and left me in a room that was slightly larger than my closet at home. I locked the thin, metal door and sank deep into the sofa. The motion of the bullet train lulled me into a stupor, while we rocketed toward Chicago. Sleep must have claimed me… until the nightmare had startled me awake.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes to clear the remnants of sleep and swung my feet over the edge of the sofa.

So far, the Feds hadn’t come crashing through the door of my micro-sized cabin. Maybe they had given up looking for me altogether. Or maybe they were waiting at Chicago’s Union Station to arrest me when I disembarked. My luck didn’t go so far as to have no cameras at the guard gate back at the camp. They could probably figure out who had escaped, in spite of not doing a regular attendance roll-call at the camp.

Even if I wasn’t caught on camera, they might piece it together once they found the dead boy in the desert. I wondered what they had done with Simon’s body. My stomach twisted as I pictured him dying under my hands. The true memories of the smiles and kisses were swallowed up by that last moment. At least my memories of Simon were in my mind somewhere and hadn’t been stolen.

Unlike Raf, whose memory had been wiped by Agent Kestrel. Raf remembered nothing of that night at the warehouse when he found out my secret and held my hand and told me that everything would be fine. But that memory was emblazoned in my mind. Someday, I hoped Kestrel would pay for stealing Raf’s true memories. In the meantime, I wanted Raf to know the truth.

About me. About everything.

I lay back on the foam-cushioned bench and imagined the words that I would use to explain. Hours of train ride lay ahead of me, plenty of time to choose my words and plan for station cameras and transportation. I only hoped there wouldn’t be jacker FBI agents waiting.

~*~

I stole a Cubs baseball hat from a poor kid who was coming to Chicago New Metro to visit his grandma. There was no way to make up for it, so I erased the memory of the hat from his mind. I shuffled through the Union Station crowd, clutching a stolen jacket and ducking my head away from potential cameras. Halfway to the transfer station, I changed my mind and reached back to restore the boy’s true memory. Better to think he lost it, than to have a memory stolen from him, no matter how small.

I gave a fake tally card to the station attendant and got a transfer ticket that would take me out on the T-94, with a switch to the T-41 taking me all the way to Gurnee. Ancient brownstones whizzed past my window seat, jammed up against one another. I shuddered at the idea of so many people living so close together. The sun sank below the horizon and transformed the Chicago skyline into jagged glittering teeth. I was glad I would be out of the city before it got dark.

When I finally reached the Gurnee stop on the T-41, I was momentarily confounded. The autocab wouldn’t accept a fake tally card, and I didn’t have any real unos on me, so I ended up walking. The trim, neat yards and equally-spaced, spindly houses of my town looked the same, but my skin prickled as though every darkening shadow held a jacker agent. I reached out and swept the neighboring streets, just to be sure.

I stopped several blocks away from my house at a park where Raf and I used to play as kids. I reached across the suburban houses to scan my home. It was one thing to suspect the Feds might stake out my house, and quite another to find two jacker agents parked outside. I slumped into a swing and pumped my legs. The street lights flickered on to hem the edges of the park with spotlights. The swings and I were hidden in the gloom.

I brushed the agents’ minds, keeping it light so they wouldn’t sense me. They were watching the Cubs game on their phones and not paying much attention to their stakeout. I flitted across the minds inside my house and was surprised to find Seamus home, as well as my mom and dad. Of course they would have recalled my dad back from his overseas duty when this whole thing went down, but Seamus should be at school. Mom seemed to agree, as she was deep in an argument with him about returning to West Point.

The hard marbles of the agents’ presence were jacked into both their minds, yet were strangely absent from my dad’s mind. It wasn’t because he had an Impenetrable Mind like me. I could easily have pushed past his medium-hard mind barrier, if I wanted. My dad wasn’t a linker, but he wasn’t the strongest jacker I’d come across either.

Just average.

My shoulders sagged. Maybe my dad wouldn’t have the answers I needed after all.

The agents probably stayed out of my dad’s mind by the same kind of jacker code that existed in the camp—jacking into a jacker’s mind was asking for a fight. Unless he was working with them. A shiver ran down my back. No. My dad seemed to tolerate the agents’ presence in Mom’s and Seamus’s minds as a condition of staying in our home.

I swallowed. The Feds might arrest my family too.

I couldn’t reach any deeper into Mom’s or Seamus’s minds without alerting the agents. They weren’t very strong jackers, and I could probably knock them out before they suspected my presence. But why wouldn’t the Feds put their strongest jackers on surveillance duty? Maybe it was a trap. If I knocked them out, the Feds would swoop in and capture me. Or worse, take my family, once they knew I was watching. Make me turn myself in.

The park grew darker as the last of the sun’s light disappeared from the day. The agents couldn’t know I was home, but I needed help and answers from my dad. He paced alone in his room, and his thoughts skittered between hatred for Agent Kestrel and ways to convince him to release me from the camp. Well, we had our feelings for Agent Kestrel in common. My dad sat down on the edge of the bed and nervously bounced his leg.

I hesitated, afraid he might inadvertently tip off the surveillance crew outside. I took a deep breath and linked a thought to him. Dad. His mind scent reminded me of early morning dew.

He jerked up from the bed. Kira! The thought was so strong, I was afraid he had said it aloud.

Be quiet! They might hear you. I almost jacked in and made it a command, which made my stomach clench. I wanted answers, but not the way Molloy got them out of Simon.

It’s okay. The agents outside aren’t monitoring my thoughts.

I know. I wanted to explain, yet at the last second, I held back. If my dad knew what I was capable of, Kestrel could drill through his mind to find it. It was dangerous to talk to my dad at all, but I needed his help.

Kira, where are you? he thought. I’ve been trying to get you released. How did you get out? His mind was a jumble of guesses, but I couldn’t tell him anything about that without tipping my hand to Kestrel.

That’s not important. He reached out and searched for me, but he couldn’t sense me three blocks away in the park. His reach was the same as an ordinary jacker. And you should stop reaching for me, in case you alert the agents.

Right. He pulled back and tried to figure out how I reached him if he couldn’t reach me. Then a dread filled him, as he wondered what else I could do that he couldn’t.

This sparked a flare of anger that I threw at him. Why didn’t you tell me you were a jacker?

He cringed under the force of my thoughts, and I pulled back a little. I’m sorry, Kira! We didn’t think… your mom and I thought it would be best if you didn’t know. Until you were older. And then you didn’t change, and we thought maybe…

You thought I would be a zero, like Grandma. I didn’t try to hide my bitterness. No sense letting the family mental reject in on the big family secret: hey Kira, not only aren’t you a reader, you’re not a jacker either! Sorry about your luck. In some twisted way, maybe they were trying to spare my feelings, but it only felt like lies.

Grandma O’Donnell was a jacker, Kira, he thought.

My thoughts turned upside down. What?

She was one of the very first ones, and a strong jacker, too, he thought. But she saw what happened to her dad. You remember the experiments the government did on Great-Grandpa Reilly and the other early readers—she didn’t want that happening to her.

So, she pretended to be a zero? For her whole life?

Yes, he thought. It upset your mom a lot.

Because she was embarrassed. I know. The bitterness came back, a foul taste in my mouth. No one had ever said it out loud, but I had always known. Appearances were important to my mom, even in her semi-heremita lifestyle. I had embarrassed her, just like her mom.

No! Anger colored his thoughts. Because your mom had to keep it a secret from everyone. You know how hard it is for readers to keep secrets.

A dull ache pulled at my chest.

My reader-mom had to keep Grandma O’Donnell’s jacker-secret her entire life. No wonder my mom kept her distance from people outside the family. Grandma’s secret had cost my mom a lot.

The stars peeked through the nighttime haze at the park. If I had known my mom was so good at keeping secrets, I would have trusted her with mine. And if she knew Grandma’s secret, then she must have known Dad’s too.

So when Mom met you…

I knew she could keep my secret as well, he finished.

But you didn’t think I could! Never mind that I had lied to them; they had lied to me first.

You were young, and we thought you might still change, he thought. It’s hard enough for adult readers to keep secrets, but for changelings it’s practically impossible. We couldn’t have your changeling thoughts running around the school.

Well, thanks for nothing! I pulled out of his head, all the way back to my own. The swing had come to a rest, and my feet dragged in the wood chips piled below it. I kicked them, and they flew out and disappeared into the millions of wood chips filling the park. I knew Dad was right, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. I curled my fists around the swing chains and wondered if they had told Seamus. Did he know the big Moore family secret, all this time? That generations of mutant jackers filled our family tree?

My mouth fell open. Family tree.

I reached across the quiet suburban blocks and linked back into my dad’s mind. Dad…

Kira! Oh, thank god! Kira, please, please don’t leave again! His mind was in a full-blown state of panic. I almost lost you before. Please don’t disappear like that. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you the truth. We should have. We should have warned you…

Dad! I cut off his rambling thoughts. Dad, it’s okay. I get it. You didn’t know if I could keep the secret or not. My mind raced ahead. I think I understand now. Why I’m… I didn’t want to say what I was. There were some secrets I had to keep. Why I’m different. Jackers don’t always have jacker parents, right? Laney and Simon’s parents hadn’t been jackers, but apparently my family was filled with them.

Right, he thought. The government’s not sure if it’s genetic or not. It could be the environment changing everyone again, like the first readers. Or maybe both—maybe the genetic component only gets expressed under certain conditions.

But Seamus isn’t a jacker, right? I needed to make sure my miniature theory held up to the facts. And neither is Mom.

That’s true… he thought. What are you getting at, Kira?

I’m the only female in our family that has jackers on both sides of the family.

The same gears were clicking into place in my dad’s head. So, if there was such a thing as a jacker gene, and it was carried on the female X chromosome…

I just got a double dose of it. Finally, something was making sense in the world. Which is why my abilities are… different.

My dad’s mind raced as he agreed it was possible. A picture of Agent Kestrel flashed through his mind, which reminded me I didn’t actually know what my dad did for the Navy.

Don’t tell me you’re working with Agent Kestrel. He’s the one who sent me to the camp in the first place.

Of course not! A wave of disgust flavored his thoughts.

Can’t you do something to stop him? Use some of your Navy connections to keep him from sending jackers to the camp?

Kestrel’s too powerful, he thought. I couldn’t even convince the FBI to release you! Kestrel’s the head of a Task Force conducting experiments on jackers.

Experiments. Maybe my dad knew where Kestrel had sent Laney. Dad, where does Kestrel take the jackers he experiments on?

I don’t know, he thought. All I know is that he’s in charge of the program, and he’s on a personal mission to stop jackers. He’s been searching for a genetic link for some time. The government wants to keep more jackers from being made, or born, or whatever. They want to control it. My dad’s mind filled with horror. Kira, you could be the genetic link he’s looking for.

The temperature around me seemed to drop ten degrees. I had just put the biggest secret of all into my dad’s mind. Right where Kestrel could find it.

Dad… I didn’t want to link what I was thinking to him.

My dad’s mind was cranking to a panicked state again. Kira! he thought. Kira, he can’t find out about this.

Dad, no… I couldn’t do it. My stomach clenched just thinking about it.

You have to erase that idea from my mind. His thoughts were firm, resolute.

My mouth had gone dry in the cool New Metro night air. I didn’t want to do it. Not even a little.

Can you do it, Kira? my dad insisted.

I swallowed down the dryness. Yes.

Then do it. Now.

I tried desperately to find some other way to keep the idea from falling into Kestrel’s hands. My father’s thoughts showed that Kestrel paid him regular visits to see what he knew. Kestrel had too much power over him. There would be no keeping it a secret.

So I did it. My stomach twisted as I unwound our conversation, back to the point where my dad was apologizing profusely about keeping dangerous secrets from his baby girl. The one he had tried so hard to protect. The one he was protecting now, by having me erase part of his mind. A lump rose in my throat.

Kira, please, please don’t leave again! His mind had rewound back into panic. I almost lost you before. Please don’t disappear like that. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you the truth. We should have. We should have warned you…

Dad, it’s okay. You didn’t know if I could keep the secret or not.

The relief in his mind tore at me. That he didn’t know what secret I was keeping. That he couldn’t ever know. I know you can keep these secrets now, Kira, he thought. You could still join the jacker bureau. I’m sure they would take you. It’s the only way; you know that, right? You could even work with me in Naval Intelligence. We need strong jackers there, and you could do good things. Positive things. You would be a tremendous asset to your country, Kira. But you need to turn yourself in.

The tears in my eyes made all the woodchips run together, like one big lumpy mass of destroyed trees lurking outside the spotlights of the street lamps. I can’t do that, Dad. Give Mom my love, okay? Seamus, too. I pulled out of his mind so I wouldn’t have to listen to any more of his impassioned pleas. My heart sank like a stone, and tears rolled off my cheeks onto my dirt-stained shorts.

Going home wasn’t an option for me anymore.

~*~

I wasn’t quite sure how I ended up in front of Raf’s house.

The walk from the park was a haze, as though my mind had been emptied of everything but echoes. Like Simon’s mind before his death. Like I was fading away. I shivered and pulled my oversized cargo jacket tighter around me.

My dad couldn’t help me. I couldn’t go home. I was on my own.

Simon was right after all. The best we could hope for was a life on the run. Go somewhere and disappear. Blend in. Pass for a reader. Hope that the Feds never caught up to me.

Anger boiled some life into me. Maybe I couldn’t go home. Maybe Kestrel had too much power for my dad to stop him. But I was something Kestrel didn’t expect.

I was different.

It was time to make that count. Time to stop the horrors that Kestrel was putting the changelings through. I’d made a promise, and I was going to do everything I could to keep it. I wasn’t at all sure I could find Laney or get the others out of the camp without getting sent back there myself. But I was going to try.

Before I did, I had to make things right with Raf. I might not get another chance.

The brightly lit windows on the top floor of Raf’s house told me he was awake. There were no jacker agents keeping guard over Raf. Maybe they didn’t think Raf meant that much to me.

They were wrong.

I brushed the minds inside Raf’s house. Mrs. Santos was watching a Brazilian soap opera and weeping at some awful love scene. She probably wouldn’t notice me sneaking up the front stairs, even if I didn’t jack her thoughts away. Raf was on the third floor in his room, listening to that crazy synchrony music he likes. Cantos Syn.

I swept the neighborhood as well, finding nothing and no one out of place. Just to be sure, I pulled my hat lower and tucked in my chin as I crossed the empty street. Stymied for a moment by the locked front door, I sighed and jacked Mrs. Santos to come downstairs to unlock it. Once she returned to the star-crossed lovers on the sim-cast, I opened the door and tiptoed up the three flights to Raf’s room.

He hadn’t heard me come up, with his wireless ear buds cranked to eardrum-damage mode. He hummed the song in his mind, some musically tortured thing about loving and losing. The scent of linen and fresh spring air seeped into my mind, and somehow it fit him perfectly. All the words I had conjured on the train had vanished.

I took a deep breath and stepped into his room.

His mouth dropped open. “Kira!” He jumped up from the bed where he had been sprawled and tugged the ear buds out. They stopped buzzing when he tapped them. “What…? How did you…?” He wavered, then stood straighter. “You’re back.” The last part was an accusation. An image sprung up in his mind of me and Simon, kissing and running our hands over each other. Seeing Simon alive again, if only in Raf’s mind, made my throat close up.

There was no point putting off the inevitable, so I linked a thought to him. I’m back.

Raf’s eyes went wide. He took a half step back and bumped into the bed. I can read you now… His thoughts swirled around questions he had been asking himself ever since I had disappeared. Why had I run away with Simon? Why had I picked Simon over him? He tried to push those thoughts aside and directed one thought to me. So, did Simon get tired of you and send you home? His thoughts were like tiny knives stabbing my heart.

Simon’s dead. I blinked back the tears that pricked my eyes. Crying over Simon in front of Raf would be a tragic mistake.

What? Raf took a tentative step toward me, then stopped. I wished he would close the five feet between us and hold me in his arms, but anger and confusion held him back. What happened? Are you okay?

Was I okay? No, I wasn’t. Not in the slightest. I pulled away from the stray daggers of thoughts in his mind and struggled with what to tell him. He frowned like he was trying to hear my thoughts, but of course he couldn’t. He never would unless I wanted him to. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. My mind sputtered, and I tried to summon the right thing to say by staring at the floor.

“Kira, I can’t hear you anymore. What’s wrong? I don’t understand.”

I couldn’t keep the tears from falling in small splats on the wooden floor, and suddenly Raf was wrapping his arms around me. I sobbed into his shirt, bunching it in my fists and pressing it into my eyes. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said softly, holding me tighter. “Whatever’s wrong, we’ll figure it out.”

There were so many things I needed to tell him, I didn’t even know where to begin. I was a jacker. No, I was a mutant jacker. The FBI was after me and I couldn’t go home and the world had gone demens because kids like Laney were being experimented on and jackers like Simon were dead. I sucked in a breath and tried to control the sobs, and slowly the warmth of Raf’s arms calmed me. I laid my head on his chest and pressed my ear over his heart. Its beat was strong and a little too quick.

I linked back into his mind, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess—happiness that he was holding me, anger at whatever trouble Simon had gotten me into, confusion about what to say and do to help me. I ached to soothe his mind, but anything I told him would do the opposite. So I lingered for a moment, resting against his chest and gathering my courage to tell him all the truths I had been hiding for so long.

Finally, I picked my head up and leaned away from him so I could see his face. I’m not really a reader, Raf. I’m something different.

His eyebrows arched slightly. Well, I can read you again now. Does it just fade on and off like that?

No. I don’t read minds at all. I control them. It’s called mindjacking… I stopped at the incredulous look on his face, and then anger flashed across his mind.

Is this some kind of joke? he thought. His arms had loosened their hold on me, and I missed the feeling immediately.

The joke was on me. No. I really can control minds.

Raf dropped his arms away from me. What kind of game is this?

It hadn’t occurred to me that Raf wouldn’t believe me. Before, at the warehouse, he had understood, but then he had seen it in action. I reached down to the living room and jacked Mrs. Santos to bring Raf a glass of water. She jumped up from the sofa and hurried to the kitchen.

This is no game, Raf. I wish it was. I’ll prove it to you.

Okay…

I just told your mom to bring you a glass of water. She’s on her way. Her footsteps were coming lightly up the two flights of stairs. We both turned to the open doorway. She won’t see me, because I control what she sees and hears.

Mrs. Santos’ thin frame appeared in the doorway, and I jacked her to ignore me. She stepped quickly past me to hand Raf the glass of water. Her eyes had the purposeful look of someone whose actions were being commandeered, and her thoughts were the endless loop of a jacked mind. And Raf could hear that. Bring Raf some water. Bring Raf some water. Some water…

Raf stared after her as she left his room. His face had lost some of its color. He backed all the way to the bed again and shakily set the water down on the end table. His fear was a bitter taste on my tongue. All of a sudden, I wasn’t the girl he had always known and loved. I was some kind of monster instead.His thoughts made me cringe. Raf was more right than he knew.

Stay away from me, he thought as he edged around the bed to put even more distance between us.

Raf, I’m not going to hurt you…

He clenched his hands to his head. “Stay out of my head!” The harshness of his voice made me step back. I pulled out of his mind, mostly because his thoughts were slashing through my heart. That he should have known there was something wrong with me. That he should never have trusted me.

“Raf, please…” The words stopped in my throat. He didn’t trust me, and why should he? I had done nothing but lie to him all along. He didn’t remember when I had finally told him the truth and that I was sorry. He didn’t remember any of it.

The shiny wooden floor blurred as the tears returned to my eyes. I shuffled toward the door, but the doorway seemed to sway, so I held on to the doorjamb for a moment. I stumbled over the threshold, and my feet seemed to catch on the hallway carpet. I gripped the stair rail with both hands so my unsteady legs wouldn’t send me tumbling to my death.

When I was halfway down the steps, Raf called out behind me. “Kira, wait!”

I froze and slowly turned to look up at him. Mrs. Santos had heard him, so I commanded her to ignore any sounds from the third floor and redirected her to the soap opera. Raf teetered at the top of the stairs. I held my breath and waited for him to speak.

He bit his lip. “You can control me. Make me do what you want.”

I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“But you’re not, right now, right?” I shook my head, still holding my breath. “You could hurt me. But you’re not. Why?”

I let out an exasperated breath. “Why would I hurt you, Raf?”

His face twisted, and I knew his thoughts without peering into his head. I had already hurt him. By choosing Simon, by not trusting him. By leaving.

“I… I never meant to hurt you, Raf, I swear it.” My voice was cracking but I pushed on. I had to get it all out, while I had the chance. Before he sent me away for good. “I was trying to protect you. There are others jackers, like me, and some of them are dangerous. I didn’t want you to get hurt, so I lied. But I shouldn’t have. I don’t want to.” My voice was rising as the hysteria climbed out of my chest. “All the lies are causing all the problems. I want it all to stop, Raf. That’s why I came back!” I was nearly shouting by the time I was done. I stopped and tried to get control of my ragged breathing.

“Will you tell me truth?” he asked. “All of it? Without that…” He stumbled over the word. “…jacking thing that you do?”

I nodded so hard my brain wobbled inside my head.

“Okay, well, come on up. We can, um, talk in my room.” He backed toward his room, not taking his eyes off me and keeping his distance, like I was a wild animal that might strike at any moment. I didn’t care. I was so elated, I nearly floated up the steps. Back in his room, he carefully sat at the head of his bed. I perched at the end of it, waiting.

“So, how does this jacking thing work?” he asked.

I took a deep breath and told him everything. How I discovered I could jack when I accidentally knocked him out. How Simon found out and convinced me he was the only one I could trust with my secret. How he lured me to the warehouse and tried to get me to join his Clan of criminal jackers.

Raf’s eyes grew wide when I told him how I had saved him from the Clan, but we had been caught by Agent Kestrel. I explained that Kestrel had stolen his true memories, so he didn’t remember any of it. He was looking pretty shaken, so I stopped there.

I edged toward him. He watched me closely, keeping his back braced against the headboard and his legs folded underneath him. I stopped moving. “I can’t give you your true memories back,” I said, “because I wasn’t the one who erased them. But I can show you what happened that night. If you want.”

“You’d have to get into my head to do that, right?” he asked.

“Yes. If you don’t want me to, that’s fine.”

“No. I want to see it.” He tensed, as though it might hurt. I scooted closer and took his hand, relieved when he didn’t flinch. I could have jacked the images into his head from the next street over—I just wanted an excuse to touch him again.

I replayed what I could remember of that night. Knocking out the Clan members was etched in my mind, but Raf pulling me out of the warehouse was kind of fuzzed out. I clearly remembered the warmth of his hand on mine and his forgiveness like a warm blanket after an endless time in the barren cold.

When I was done, I pulled out of his mind. His face pinched in as he puzzled through it. “So, Agent Kestrel erased my true memory of this. Made me think you had run away with Simon?”

“I hope to make him pay for that.” That earned me a smile that filled my entire body with sunshine. I wanted to tell Raf everything—every ability I had and every horror I’d seen. But I needed to be careful. I could only tell him things that Kestrel already knew. Raf would be even more helpless to keep secrets from Kestrel than my dad.

At least I could be honest about the lying.

“Raf, there are some things that I can’t tell you. Not many, but some.” I talked faster. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that Kestrel might find out—and that would be bad. For a lot of people.”

“Okay. I was never any good at keeping secrets anyway.” He smiled again, and I became very aware that my hand still held his. Raf had always told me how he felt, even though he didn’t have to and it probably hurt him when he did. My face ran hot with embarrassment for all the lies I had told, when he had never been anything but honest with me.

I pulled away and twisted my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you before, Raf.”

“Hey.” He edged closer. “Everything’s going to be all right. Just tell me what you can.”

And so I did. All about the horror that was jacker camp and Laney and breaking out. I went light on the details there, so Kestrel wouldn’t learn anything new. I told Raf how Laney had been kidnapped, and they were experimenting on her, and how I hated leaving behind the other changelings like her in the camp. I didn’t tell him how I had vowed to help them, if I could, because I didn’t want Kestrel to know.

I told him how the guard killed Simon, and he died bleeding in the desert, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Raf’s hand stole over mine when I paused and fought through the tears, not wanting to cry over Simon in front of him. When I had composed myself again, I wondered how I had ever doubted that Raf was the one I could trust.

I pressed on and told him how I’d been on the run, trying to stay invisible. The less Kestrel knew about the visit to my family, the better, so I left that out. And I didn’t tell him about my extra range or fighting off the gas—nothing that would show me to be different from any other jacker. Although Kestrel already knew some of it.

Raf was nodding when I finished. I was empty in a good way, like things that I had kept inside too long were finally out.

It made me light-headed.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Raf asked, his face wrinkled with concern. I had an urge to touch his forehead and smooth out the worry lines. But I kept my hand in my lap, not sure if he wanted my touch.

“I’m not sure.” I gave him a sheepish smile. “Actually, I have an idea, but I can’t tell you.” While I was explaining it all to Raf, a plan had slowly formed in my head. I would need some help to get the changelings freed from the camp, but that wasn’t the dangerous part, if you didn’t count the demens idea of going into the city late at night. Finding Laney would be the tricky bit, where things could go south in a hurry.

The less Raf knew about my plans, the better. For his own safety and to have any hope of pulling it off.

He refrained from asking me for more. He trusted me to tell him if I could. It was so much more than I deserved, but it was exactly what I needed.

That, and a change of clothes.

Raf let me use his shower and borrow his mom’s clothes. Mrs. Santos’s frilly red shirt and black skin-tight pants weren’t exactly my style. But they fit and weren’t caked with Arizona dust. Add in the Cubs hat and the oversized jacket, and I looked ridiculous. At least I was clean.

We stood at the top of the stairs to the front door, awkwardly wondering how to say goodbye. Mama Santos had gone to bed, never realizing that I had been in her house. Raf pressed a wad of unos into my hand.

I stuffed the bills in the pocket of his shirt. “I’m good.” There was very little chance I was coming back. Even if all my plans worked out, I couldn’t return home. It was too dangerous—for me and for everyone I loved. After I was through doing what I could for the changelings and Laney, I would go away somewhere. Start over. That was the best possible case—the worst being any number of ways I could get caught and sent back to the camp.

Besides, I owed Raf too much to take his money as well.

His face twisted. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

I decided to smooth away his worry lines this time and hoped he didn’t mind my touch. I wanted to kiss him but was afraid it might be too much. “You’ve already helped me so much.” Just having a plan and spending time with Raf had left me with a strange sense of elation. It was hard to contain my smile.

“Will you come back soon?” The longing in his eyes made my breath catch.

I wanted to say yes, but I didn’t want to lie to him anymore. “If it’s possible. If it’s safe.” At least that much was the truth.

“That’s a lot of ifs.” He gave me an uncertain smile.

“I want to, Raf.”

He nodded, but the worried look was back. I reached up to hug him and then scurried out the door before I lost my nerve to leave him at all.

chapter THIRTY-THREE

The vacant T-94 train car reminded me that the city at night was literally for the demens.

Once I arrived at Union Station, my transfer ticket put me on a bus, but I wished I had taken Raf’s unos so I could pay for an autocab instead. The bus to Tribune Tower was like a Halloween spook ride come to life. It was on autopath, probably because they couldn’t pay anyone to drive it.

Only impoverished fuzzheads or the demens lived in the crowded slums of the city, where the apartments were seldom up to range codes and people heard their neighbors’ thoughts in their sleep. The fuzzheads were usually harmless—the obscura dulled the part of their minds that received thought waves, but it also fuzzed out any other coherent thought. It was the demens that could be dangerous, with their brain chemistry permanently altered by the barrage of thought waves.

The scrawny guy with the backward t-shirt and hollowed-out eyes seemed too fuzzed out to be dangerous. The gnarled guy with the tin foil hat and the baggy coat was almost certainly demens. But he stuck to mumbling in the back of the bus, and I stayed up front. It was the lady in the skin-tight pink pants who kept wandering the length of the bus that had me the most worried. She talked out loud to someone named Freddie and had very colorful names to describe his unfaithfulness.

After about ten minutes, she finally lunged for me, thinking I was her phantom boyfriend, and I had to jack into the craziness inside her head. She dropped to the floor like a stone. The rest of the demens on the bus barely noticed. I pulled out of Pink Pants’s head quickly, but the demens state of her mind left a strange peppermint taste that burned my mouth. I stood up near the door of the bus, as far from the rest of them as I could. I was staying out of their heads, if at all possible.

I gathered my oversized jacket tight around me, warding off the crisp fall air, and skittered off the bus at my stop. The black glass towers of the city still sparkled with the lights of late-night workers. The Tribune Tower’s limestone blocks loomed above me, a grand building from Chicago’s past, with ornate buttresses lit up and garish at the top. Windows on several floors above the arched entryway shone with promise. My plan would only work if one of those late-night workers was a hard-working reporter looking for a tru-cast.

Reaching inside, I found a single guard in the lobby. I jacked his attention firmly on the ball game, which wasn’t hard since the game was in extra innings. The revolving brass doors gave way to a flush of warm air that brushed off the cold of the street.

The guard’s large, black hands clutched a palm screen whispering the game. Security cameras glared at me from three different corners of the lobby. I pulled my cap down as I scurried past the guard, keeping my footfalls quiet through the metal detectors and to the elevators beyond.

The directory was a maze of names I didn’t recognize, but the reporters all seemed to be on the middle floors, in between the ground-level cast station and the executive suites above the 24th floor. I scanned the floors above me and found a couple of journalists on the fifth floor, some maintenance workers on floors seven and eight, and a lone reporter on the tenth floor, researching an article about pollution in the Chicago River. Dealing with one reporter seemed easier, so I punched the button for floor ten.

The tenth floor was only half-lit, in energy-saving mode. I wove through several darkened hallways before I found the reporter in a bright castroom with about two dozen workpods crammed together. She hunched in her chair and gazed at her screen, using mindware to sift through the Tribune’s archives.

I stepped quietly to her desk and skimmed her mind while I waited for her to notice me. Her name was Maria Lopez, and she had been a tru-cast reporter with the Trib for about ten years. When she finally realized I was standing next to her desk, she started so badly that she nearly fell off her chair.

Sweet Mother, you scared me! she thought, and then eyed me warily. Of course, she couldn’t read my thoughts, which instantly pegged me as a not-to-be-trusted zero. I linked into her mind quickly, because I didn’t want to lose her trust before I even got started.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.

Relieved that I wasn’t a zero, she thought, It’s all right. I tasted her sour nervousness. Through her eyes, I looked demens, with my wacky outfit and the Cubs cap. My fellow bus travelers had probably thought I was one of them too. I resisted adding to the effect by laughing and took off my hat instead. Her shoulders relaxed.

Good. Because I have a tru-cast for you. I held back from jacking into her mind and making it a command. I wanted her to help me out, but only if she was willing. Otherwise, I would need to find someone else. It’s about people who can control minds.

Her eyebrows arched. She decided I was definitely demens, and she needed to call security. Well, maybe I could use that to make my point.

I think maybe you should leave, she thought, reaching for her phone.

You can call the security guard, but it won’t matter.

She directed her mindware phone to send a scrit to the security guard that she needed help with a guest on the tenth floor. She decided to keep me calm until he arrived.

Why won’t it matter? If you don’t mind me asking, she thought.

Because I’m one of the people that can control your mind. Her eyes widened slightly. She tried to keep her thoughts and face a calm mask, but her mind couldn’t help flitting around. Mostly wondering what flavor of demens thought they could control minds, and if that made them more or less dangerous. She shoved those thoughts to the back of her mind, still trying to appear calm. Oh? You can control minds? That’s very interesting.

More so than you can imagine. The elevator dinged its arrival in the distance. I lifted the name of the security guard from his mind. When George arrives, he won’t be able to see me.

Are you invisible? She decided I was probably a harmless flavor of demens.

Only when I want to be. It was one thing to misdirect people’s minds so they didn’t see or hear me, but something different to make myself completely invisible. I had changed my appearance before by jacking in a different image, but never made myself disappear altogether. Yet I was pretty sure I could do it. The mind was good at filling in things it thought it saw—or didn’t.

Maria smiled indulgently, waiting for George to take this somewhat entertaining demens off her hands so she could continue her research. As George entered the castroom, I jacked him to ignore me. I stepped to the side, flush against a wall covered with tru-cast awards, hoping that would make it easier for George’s mind to blend me out of existence. I jacked the command to him hard: I was invisible, nothing but air. When he approached the desk, his mind was already compensating for my appearance, like filling in a blind spot.

Did you need something, Ms. Lopez? His large frame filled the short entrance to the workspace, and his dark face glistened with the slight sweat he had worked up in his hurry.

Would you please escort my friend back to the lobby? I think we’re done here. Maria gave me that indulgent smile again and hoped that I would go willingly.

George scanned her workspace quickly. Sure, Ms. Lopez. Where’s your friend?

Maria’s smile died. She’s right there, George. She pointed and George’s eyes followed her finger and looked right at me. Or rather through me. His mind had decided I didn’t exist, so he only saw a wall filled with tru-cast accolades. He peered over the short workpod wall and scanned the rest of the castroom, looking for the mysterious guest.

I’m controlling what he can see. She jerked back from her desk as if I’d shocked her. She tentatively stood, hands rigid at her side.

George, is this a joke? Maria thought, her dark eyebrows pulled tight.

Joke? George echoed, still looking for the supposed intruder. Maria heard his echoing jacked thoughts, no one here, no one here. She unclenched her fists. George was searching her face now, wondering if she was all right.

Maria hastily thought, I must just be tired. I thought I saw someone. It’s okay, George, you can go now.

Are you sure, Ms. Lopez? George was genuinely concerned that she might be working too hard. She smiled in a reassuring way and tried to keep her thoughts focused on her apology.

I’m sorry to drag you all the way up here, she thought. I’m fine. I’ll be going home soon.

Okay, George thought. I’m gonna make sure to call you an autocab when you’re ready, Ms. Lopez. You know a nice lady like you shouldn’t be working late in the city. He slowly made his way out of the castroom, looking around to be sure he hadn’t missed something.

I had Maria’s full attention now. What’s going on? she demanded.

Can we sit down? This might take some time to explain. She narrowed her eyes, and motioned me to a chair in the corner of her workpod, which I dragged over to her desk. I had started the morning in Arizona, and fatigue was making my legs ache.

I settled heavily into the chair and started from the beginning. Somewhere partway through, Maria remembered she was a reporter and started taking notes on her computer. Doubts haunted the edges of her mind, but when I told her about the camp, she stopped writing altogether.

“Do you have any proof this place exists?” We had resorted to spoken language once she realized I was linking thoughts into her head. She didn’t care for that any more than Raf did.

“I know where it’s located.”

Her eyes went wide. “Coordinates?”

“Not exact, but it’s about 15 miles southwest of Rock Point, Arizona.”

Maria used mindware to pull up the latest satellite images of the area. She gaped at the screen. “There’s nothing 15 miles southwest of Rock Point.”

“Well, there’s camouflage netting over the camp. Maybe the satellites can’t see it? You should at least see the perimeter fence.”

She rotated the screen toward me. “No, I mean there’s nothing there.”

A grayed out area of the screen labeled Information Not Available spanned several miles of the desert southwest of Rock Point. I panicked for a moment, wondering if somehow I had it wrong, but Maria was shaking her head in amazement. “You’ve stepped into something serious here, Kira.”

“It’s really there! I know it is.”

“There’s definitely something there,” she said. “This is the satellite blockage that usually pops up over military facilities.”

I leaned back in the chair. She believed me. And while the camp was blocked from view, she knew that meant there was something to hide. I pictured all the trucks that went in and out of the facility. The Feds must not want any evidence of movement in the area.

“I’ll have to get someone out there. Maybe Mack could use that crazy new camera of his with the satellite linkage.” She was thinking out loud now. She was all-in.

“You need to be careful,” I said. “If the Feds find out what you’re doing, they may come in and wipe your mind, not to mention your computer.”

She blanched and pulled her hands back to her lap. “They can do that?”

“Yes.” If I linked into her mind, I could see if the hesitation on her face meant she was going to back out. But I’d promised not to do that, unless she asked.

She nodded to herself. “Then I better make some extra copies.”

She focused on the computer, making backups and sending files off to someone named Haggerty. I didn’t ask and waited a minute before I said, “I also need you to hold off for a couple days before you go public with this.”

She paused in her file manipulations. “Why? You said they were abusing kids in this camp? Don’t you want to stop that?”

I grimaced. “Of course!” The whole point of telling Maria about the camp was so she would blow the Feds’ cover, and they would have to release the changelings trapped inside. “But they’re also experimenting on kids somewhere else, and I need to find out where. That’s where I need your help.” She was still logged in, and I could reach into the mindware to retrieve the information I needed myself. But I didn’t want to abuse Maria’s trust if I didn’t have to.

“What do you need?” Her shoulders tensed again. She had probably been waiting for the other shoe to drop the whole time we were talking.

“I need the home address of Agent Kestrel. He works for the FBI in Chicago New Metro. He knows where the experiments are being conducted, and I need to find out where they’re keeping my friend Laney.”

She bit her lip. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

“I only want the information.” It was a small lie, and I hoped it didn’t show. I wanted much more than information from Kestrel. Some payback for all he’d done would be nice. Maria didn’t need to know about that, and anyway I didn’t have it in me to kill him.

She focused on pulling the information from her system. I was probably asking her to break several laws to get it, but I didn’t care. If there was any chance of finding Laney and getting her out, I was taking it.

“Okay, here it is. He’s in Lincoln Park. Not too far, in fact.” She showed me the address on the screen, and I memorized it, briefly wondering why an FBI agent would live in the city with the demens.

“Thanks,” I said, getting up from my chair.

“Wait, you’re leaving?” she asked. “But I have more questions!”

“I need to go. If you don’t hear back from me in a couple days, it means they caught me. Maybe even sent me back to the camp. Go ahead and cast everything then. If you expose what they’re doing to the jacker kids in the camp, maybe you can even rescue me.” I put on a fake smile. It seemed all too likely that was how things would turn out.

She pulled a tiny ear-mount camera out of the drawer of her desk and clipped it on. “At least let me get you on camera before you go.” She tapped it and a small green light showed it was filming. “Tell me your name first, and then you can give me your true memories about the camp.”

I reached over and gently tapped the camera off. “You can’t show my face, Maria. Or mention my name.” I wanted to free the changelings, but what would the Feds do to my dad if I went public with everything I knew? That was why I needed Maria. Besides, after this was all over, I planned to disappear. If my face was all over the tru-casts, exposing the camp and outing jackers everywhere, there would be nowhere I could hide.

“If I make it,” I said, “I’ll call you and answer all the questions you like.”

She slowly slid me her card. She obviously didn’t approve, but I didn’t need her approval, and I already had Kestrel’s address.

I tucked her card in my pocket and left.

~*~

I didn’t want to deal with another bus ride, but taking an autocab to Lincoln Park would cost real money. An all-night store next door to the Trib Tower made Simon’s beer-stop seem upscale. I stole a disposable phone and jacked the attendant to load a tally card with real unos, hoping the cameras didn’t get a good shot of me. After memorizing Maria’s number, I threw her card away. If I got caught again, I didn’t want them tracking back to her before she had a chance to do the tru-cast.

After hailing an autocab with the small, silver phone, I swiped my tally card to pay for the fare and programmed an autopath to Kestrel’s address. Turned out he lived in one of the rehabbed brownstones that had been brought up to range codes by reducing the number of occupants and restructuring the floors so there was additional space between them. That kind of rebuilt housing didn’t normally come cheap, but then Lincoln Park was still in the city, surrounded by crammed apartments and wacky neighbors. Maybe it was affordable on an FBI salary. I guessed Kestrel didn’t worry about living with the demens since he was a jacker.

I rubbed the fatigue from my eyes and scanned the ten levels of the apartment building. Only five were occupied, and Kestrel was asleep on the top floor in a light, scattered dream state. I was tempted to run a few nasty guilt-inducing dreams through his mind. Instead, I jacked him deep into unconsciousness, so he wouldn’t wake until I was ready. I convinced the bellman to accompany me to the tenth floor and unlock Kestrel’s apartment, erasing the memory from his mind once he was back in the elevator.

I hesitated at the open front door. Since Kestrel couldn’t get into my head, he couldn’t control me mentally. Yet I wasn’t strong enough to simply extract Laney’s location from his mind without help. And physically, I was still a sixteen-year-old girl up against a grown man, and I didn’t like those odds.

I carefully stepped into the tiny apartment. Apparently, an FBI salary didn’t buy you much floor space, even in the city. I checked that Kestrel was safely unconscious in the bedroom as I poked around his apartment. Maybe I could jack into his e-slate for information about Laney, if I could find it.

The apartment was immaculate, and I couldn’t find anything at all related to his work. He must keep his e-slate in his bedroom. And maybe his gun. I edged my way back to the bedroom. He was still breathing the deep, slow breaths of the unconscious. I switched on the light, knowing it wouldn’t wake him.

The bedroom was likewise spotless. I searched the walk-in closet, lined with identical navy G-man jackets and white, collared shirts. I was about to give up when I found his gun holster and cuffs hanging on the door. I took them down. Maybe I could use the gun to threaten him. Make him to tell me where Laney was without fighting him in his head. The hefty gun was cold and simply looking at it was making my hands sweat.

Maybe not. Plus, I didn’t want him to get ahold of it and shoot me.

I searched for a place to hide the gun where he wouldn’t find it, but where I could still grab it if things went badly. I pulled open a dresser drawer and started to stuff it under some t-shirts. Something dark and heavy was buried there.

Another gun.

I pulled the large-muzzled weapon slowly out of the drawer. It was a dart gun.

Kestrel may not be afraid of the demens, but he seemed to fear jackers. Which made sense, given all the ones he had sent to the Camp of the Flies.

I quickly checked all the other drawers and the nightstand by his bed. He didn’t have any more weapons stashed away. I buried his holstered gun deep in the bottom dresser drawer and dragged Kestrel across the bed to handcuff his limp arm to the bedpost. Dart gun in hand, I perched on the edge of the dresser facing him.

Time to wake up.

I jacked into Kestrel’s mind to bring him up from that deep unconscious state. It took him a minute to come to. He squinted at the lights shining behind me. When he realized he was cuffed to the bed, fear pulsed through his mind. He pushed me out of his head, and the pressure of his mind built on mine.

“You!” he hissed, and I wasn’t sure if he was angry or frightened. I didn’t care.

I shot him.

He stared in horror at the dart that had stabbed him in the chest, right through his navy-striped pajamas. It only took a few seconds for the juice to pull him under. Not so fast, Kestrel. I reached into his mind and sped up his heart. As it pounded blood through his system, it cleared out some of the drug. His mind scent was pungent and made me gag on the peppery smell.

He awoke gasping for breath. Mentally hindered by the drug, he gave me a wild-eyed look and clutched his chest. He was convinced that I was giving him a heart attack. I figured now was a good time to ask.

“Where’s Laney?”

He couldn’t catch his breath to answer out loud. Don’t know anyone named Laney, he thought. With the drug inhibiting his brain, I could tunnel in and pull out the information I needed. I remembered the agonized look on Simon’s face when Molloy and Andre scoured his brain for the truth, and it wasn’t pretty. If Kestrel didn’t tell me soon, I’d do exactly that.

“Where are all the inmates you perform experiments on?” I slowed his heart rate a bit, so he didn’t burn through the juice too fast. I needed him impaired if I was going to dig through his mind. Red splotches mottled his face, and his breathing slowed.

He decided I didn’t have the stomach for killing. I’m not telling you anything, Kira. His hatred for me was like an acid stinging the back of my throat, and he struggled to push me out of his head again, but he was too weak. His eyes went wide and fear sped up his heart. I slowed it back down again, and he blinked, confused about what I was doing.

You’re lucky I’m not a monster like you, Kestrel. Although it was surprisingly satisfying to shoot you.

I’m not a monster, he thought. I send the monsters to the camp.

Is that how you justify sending little kids to that place? You’re one of us, Kestrel. How can you think that’s okay? I was wasting time talking to him, but I couldn’t seem to stop. Part of me wanted to know how he could do this to his own kind.

You don’t know what kinds of monsters are out there.

Oh, I have a pretty good idea. And I’m looking at one of them.

Surprisingly, he didn’t disagree, but the drug dose was fuzzing his thoughts. A picture flashed through Kestrel’s mind of his mother and father broken on the floor, eerily like Laney’s nightmares. Only this image was true, and the people were dead. Kestrel struggled to push me out of his mind again, his face twisting from the exertion.

I supposed that image of his family explained something about Kestrel, but I didn’t care. I only wanted to find Laney. Tell me where you keep them, I commanded. A picture of a familiar hospital floated up through his mind. The Great Lakes Naval Hospital, where my brother and I were born. My stomach flipped.

The hospital was enormous, filled with people and probably cameras. Not to mention it was on the base. Getting in would not be easy. I needed to know precisely where the prisoners were, if I had any hope of getting them out. Where? I commanded him again.

Kestrel resisted much harder this time. I jacked deeper into his brain. He let out a moan but couldn’t stop me from sifting through his true memories to find what I needed.

Kestrel walking down the stairs to the basement. There was a secure door, 1B, requiring the wave of a special passring he wore and entering a code. 0309. Someone’s birthday. No biometric IDs, so that would help. A hallway with holding cells and a room with double glass doors at the end. An experiment room. The smell of antiseptic choked me. A tray of needles and a girl strapped to a table. She had dark hair poking out of a cap on her head. Laney! A technician injected her with something. It was the second dose they had given her. She was unconscious and didn’t flinch when the needle went in.

I pulled out of the depths of his mind. They were already experimenting on Laney. I didn’t have any time to waste with Kestrel. I needed to get her out of the hospital now. If she was still there. If it wasn’t already too late.

You can’t stop them, Kira, Kestrel thought. This is bigger than just a few changelings. The people in charge of this… they won’t stop until they get what they’re after, no matter what you do.

Who were these people in charge, and what did they want? My mind flashed to the possibility that what they were after was me, the genetic link. But why? Were they just trying to stop more jackers from being made or born? Or was it something more than that? But Kestrel was stalling and I needed to get to Laney before it was too late.

No? Then maybe I’ll just stop you. I pulled completely out of his mind and waited until he opened his eyes.

Then I shot him again. “That’s for stealing Raf’s true memories,” I said as his mouth dropped open. I shot the final dart into his chest. “And that’s for killing Simon.”

Kestrel’s head lolled to the side as the drug took him.

“It’s better than you deserve.” As he slipped into unconsciousness, I wiped my entire visit from his mind. Part of me wanted him to remember that I had been the one to shoot him, to make him regret what he had done to Simon and Raf. But I needed to buy some time to get Laney out, and it wouldn’t help if he woke up knowing where I was headed.

I tossed the dart gun onto the bed. Dashing into the closet, I grabbed one of Kestrel’s jackets and a white dress shirt. I tugged the silver and blue passring off his limp hand and at the last minute, decided to wipe my prints off the dart gun and the other gun I had buried in the dresser drawer. I sprinted out of his apartment and took the stairs to the basement two at a time.

Laney was running out of time.

chapter THIRTY-FOUR

Cold frosted the air in the basement parking garage.

I used Kestrel’s passring to unlock his tiny blue hydro car, and I slipped inside to change into his clothes, tucking my disposable silver phone into the pocket of his oversized coat. I kept the Cubs hat, wrapping my hair into a knot and tucking it up under the cap. Even with rolling up the sleeves, his coat was still way too big, and of course, I looked nothing like Kestrel. But if I kept the hat low on my face, I might not raise alarms on the base surveillance cameras.

I linked into the mindware and set an autopath to the naval station. The adrenaline from my encounter with Kestrel faded on the way, and my eyelids drooped. The house lights blurred as the car wove through an endless stream of side streets. I forced my eyes wide-open again. Nodding off wasn’t a good idea.

I’d given Kestrel a triple dose of the juice, like I’d gotten in the camp, but his body had already fought off half the first dart. When he woke up, the cuffs and lack of memory would slow him down, but he would surely notice his passring was missing. I cursed myself for forgetting to take his phone. He might piece it together and call ahead to warn them.

In any event, I had to get Laney before they injected her with any more “medicine.” A midnight sneak-and-rescue wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had, but daytime on base property wouldn’t be any better.

The hospital was right off the main drive, easy to find, and my dad had brought us on base a few times, mostly for trips to the hospital for broken bones (my brother) and appendicitis (me). But that was different than spiriting someone out of a secure prison in the basement.

I switched to manual controls as I got close. The front drive looped around and ran past the main gate and a smaller entrance that led to the hospital. I turned into the guard station and hoped that a late-night visit by Kestrel wasn’t enough to draw the portly guard out of his comfortable shack.

Keeping my head down so that the hat shielded my face, I waved Kestrel’s passring at the ID scanner and jacked an image of his smiling face into the guard’s head. The guard gave me an uncertain wave as the scanner flashed green. I reminded myself that Kestrel wasn’t exactly the friendly type and killed the smile. I took the guard’s wave as a pass to move on.

The hospital stood a couple hundred yards past the gate, spotlights lighting up the white bricks and leaving the corners in jagged shadows. I clenched the joystick. The parking lot to the right was nearly empty and I managed to avoid crashing into the few cars there.

The hospital was close enough that I could reach all fifteen levels from the car. I quickly located two guards that knew classified things happened in the basement—a reader at the front desk scanning a bank of camera images and a jacker guarding a corridor in the basement. The jacker’s mind barrier was the hardest I’d ever felt, like granite under my whisper reach. I jerked back when he had a glimmer of awareness of my presence.

I wished I had saved one of those darts I used on Kestrel.

Besides the guard, the basement held two medical personnel and eight inmates. The prisoners were all unconscious, with six sleeping under a light dose of the juice and the other two under heavy sedation. They were all changelings, and I searched each one until I found Laney.

I gently probed for those soft dead spots that I had felt in the returnees to the camp. Only her typical nightmares raged through her head as she slept. Whatever they had injected her with so far hadn’t done any major damage. I sighed in relief and nudged her dreams toward a happy park scene with her family. I projected myself into her dream and told her I was coming for her. Soon. I would check the rest of the changelings after I got them out.

The jacker guard in the basement was going to be a problem. And getting eight kids out unnoticed? I had no idea how that was going to work. Especially when two of them were knocked out. Besides, the eight of them wouldn’t fit into Kestrel’s tiny car.

As I sat in the parking lot, pondering my options, the answer drove past my nose. A linen service truck rumbled by, headed away from the hospital. I jacked into the driver’s mind and ordered him to return to the loading dock, which was deserted. I put him under a command to fold sheets in the back of the truck, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last. All the more reason to get in and out quickly, before our ride remembered he had somewhere else to be. I hustled to the main entrance of the hospital where the camera-watching guard was stationed.

People milled about in the reception area, visitors and patients waiting for their appointments or to see their loved ones. It was surprisingly busy for so late at night, but I guess sickness didn’t have a schedule.

A janitor was cleaning the glass windows of the gift shop, and a guard and receptionist waited at a large, central check-in desk. I easily jacked the dozen people in the lobby to look the other way, but I nearly stumbled over my own feet when I linked into the janitor’s mind and he struggled unsuccessfully to push me back out. We locked stares for a moment before I pulled out of his mind and he slowly turned back to his window and resumed cleaning. I lightly brushed his mind, and it was soft like a changeling’s, even though he looked at least thirty-five.

Linker. That explained why he hadn’t reacted to my feather touch before and I must have missed him. He seemed willing to ignore me, and I certainly didn’t need any extra trouble.

I focused on the guard and receptionist. They needed to believe I was Kestrel, just checking in on the patients in the basement. That way I wouldn’t have to jack the camera guard all the time while I was busy rescuing changelings. If he saw me on camera, traveling through the hospital, and he thought I was Kestrel, he wouldn’t sound any alarms. It might buy me a little time.

I kept my cap low and waved Kestrel’s passring by the scanner. When I jacked Kestrel’s image into the receptionist’s mind, I didn’t smile or wave and planned to brusquely stride past.

But she smiled instead of waving me through. Late night, Agent Kestrel? There was a casual flirtation in her thoughts and a background hope that he might stop for coffee this time. I cringed internally and tried to figure out Kestrel’s most likely response.

A tight smile seemed about right. Yeah. Never ends, does it?

She flashed a brighter smile, not expecting that much. Maybe some coffee when you’re done?

I put some warmth into Kestrel’s smile, but my stomach was a hard knot. Maybe next time. I’ll be a while tonight. She was only mildly disappointed. Luckily, the whole interchange had the effect of making the camera-watching guard avert his eyes and return his attention to the celebrity magazine on his tablet.

I kept my pace measured, but quickly turned the corner to the central elevator bank. There were no stairwells. In the cancer ward next door, the minds of the attendants told me the stairs I needed were in the back corner of the hospital. That would work well for my plan to sneak the inmates out through the loading dock and must be how secret patients were usually transported in and out of the hospital.

I pulled open the ward’s double doors and jacked minds to look the other way as I strode past curtained beds and medical equipment. To have any hope of taking on Granite Guard downstairs, I needed help. A nurse hurried past, making rounds and administering medications. I commandeered her and her tray of meds, but none of them were high-powered sedatives. She had the authority to sign meds out of the lockup, which I directed her to do. She estimated it would take several minutes for a syringe full of sedatives to take effect.

I was really regretting not bringing the dart gun. I decided to commandeer a very large orderly as well.

The three of us—the nurse armed with her syringe, the burly orderly, and me with my Impenetrable Mind—left the ward together. I hoped that Granite Guard wouldn’t sense me coming. The blank spot of my mind should be invisible next to the nurse and orderly, as long as he didn’t detect my presence in their minds. Kestrel’s passring got us past the scanner at the stairwell door, and we descended the metal staircase, our footsteps echoing loudly off the white concrete walls. I reached back to check that the camera-watching guard wasn’t alarmed by my unusual escorts. Then again, maybe Kestrel brought people down here all the time.

Down one flight of stairs was a door labeled 1B. The stairs continued down another level, but this was the door from Kestrel’s forced memories. I very gingerly reached out to brush Granite Guard’s mind and yanked back when he immediately sensed my presence. That might have lost us the element of surprise, which was almost all we had in our favor. I quickly pressed the passring to the door scanner and punched in the code. It opened to a short, gray concrete hallway with Granite Guard sitting in a chair at the far end, propped up against a metal door. His fatigues complemented the military weapons magazine he was reading.

His head snapped up as soon as we stepped through the door.

I needed to get closer before he figured out what was wrong, but it was too late. We’d only gone a few steps down the thirty foot hallway, when he pushed me out of the nurse and orderly’s minds and pressed on mine. I jacked back in, and they stopped in their tracks, while he and I wrestled in their minds. The guard charged toward me. I could barely press on his mind barrier, much less control him.

I grabbed the syringe out of the nurse’s hand. When Granite Guard reached me, I whirled and shoved the syringe into his neck, hoping to get lucky and hit a vein. He roared and yanked out the syringe, and it clattered on the concrete floor. He closed his enormous hand around my throat and pinned me against the wall. All of his attention was focused on trying to jack into my mind. Stars swam before my eyes, but instead of fighting Granite Guard, I jacked the orderly, who grabbed the guard from behind and caused him to lose his grip on me.

I fell hard to the floor and scrambled away. The nurse stood like a frozen mannequin, so I commanded her to grab the guard as well. While the orderly and nurse clung to him like errant children, I sprinted down the corridor to the door. I waved Kestrel’s passring by the control pad and punched in the code as quickly as I could.

Then I saw the gun.

The guard had managed to pull it out while wrestling with the nurse and orderly. I yanked open the door, flung myself inside, and pulled it shut behind me. I didn’t hear any shots.

Safe behind the locked door, I jacked with all my might into the guard’s mind. The sedative must have gone in, because his mind was slowly weakening as it took hold. He kept trying to work himself free of the orderly and nurse’s grip, but it was a losing battle between my jacking and the sedative, and he soon slumped to the floor. I ordered the nurse to take the gun and keep watch over him until I got back.

The next time I infiltrated a jacker prison, I was definitely bringing a dart gun.

My gasping breaths echoed down the hallway, which appeared identical to the image in Kestrel’s mind. Doors with small, high windows lined the corridor, and the smell of antiseptic pervaded the air. A frosted-glass double door loomed at the end.

I ran from door to door, using the passring to unlock them, and threw the doors open. Each room held a changeling, four boys and three girls, except for one with an empty bed. None were Laney. She must be already in the medical room. I swiped Kestrel’s passring to open the glass doors and surprised the two camouflage-clad technicians inside. They were readers, so I froze them, not wanting to knock them out in case I needed them.

Laney lay strapped to a gurney and hooked to an IV. An array of probes was attached to a skullcap on her head, and the med techs had been preparing to inject something into her. I tugged off the cap and shoved the tray of syringes away from her bedside. She was still under the effects of the gas, but it was muted. I slowly jacked her out of her gas-induced sleep while I unhooked the IV and started undoing the straps.

“Kira?” she said when she opened her eyes. “You’re really here? I had a dream about you.”

“Yeah. I’m really here.” My throat choked up, so I didn’t try to explain any further. I gently probed her mind to see if they had injected anything other than the juice. She seemed fine.

I cleared my throat. “Can you walk?” She nodded, and I helped her up from the bed. An alarm blared through the room and startled us both so much we almost toppled over. Keeping my grip on Laney, I reached with my mind up to the main floor. The camera-watching guard had seen a video sweep of the disabled guard in the hallway and sounded a security alert. I jacked him to disable the alarm, but I was sure it was too late. This was a military base, and other security personnel would be on the way soon. I knocked him out.

“What was that?” Laney asked.

“Time for us to go.” I ordered the med techs to come with us as I hurried to the double glass doors. A large sign hung on a refrigerator next to the door: “No Food or Drink.” I remembered Kestrel’s warning that I couldn’t stop them, that they would keep doing their research no matter what. I could save these changelings, but there would always be others to take their place.

I yanked open the refrigerator door, and racks of liquid filled vials clinked together. The labels were covered with medical terms I didn’t understand, but one rack stood separate from the rest on the top shelf. Messy handwriting had scrawled across it: K. Moore.

A chill ran through me. My blood… or something… my DNA for sure. How could they have possibly gotten it? Then I remembered I had already been through a similar gray corridor with doors. Doors with small, high windows.

I had been here before.

When Kestrel interrogated me, I had assumed I was in an FBI building, but I wasn’t. I was here in the hospital. I jacked into the minds of the med techs and found that there was another holding facility—directly below us. The stairwell past door 1B must lead down to another level where they kept prisoners.

I reached down one floor—there wasn’t anyone in the holding rooms below.

The polished steel cabinets and cold, tiled floor of the medical room felt familiar. Had I been in this room? Had they taken me here, unconscious like Laney, and experimented on me? A shiver ran up my back and made my hair stand up. Was I different because Kestrel did something to me?

Someone like me, or even stronger, in Kestrel’s hands… it had to be stopped.

I grabbed the chilled vials with my name on them and slipped them into Kestrel’s coat pocket, trading them for the silver phone I had stolen. I dialed the number I had memorized.

Maria answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“I found them.” My voice squeaked, so I cleared it. “But it’s even worse than I thought.” I switched the phone to video streaming mode and panned the room, so she could see the gurney with the straps, the trays of syringes, the two camouflaged med-techs standing still with their glassy-eyed looks.

“Did you get that?” I spoke quietly.

“What am I looking at?”

“It’s the basement of the Naval hospital, where they’ve been experimenting on the changelings.” I pointed the phone at the still open refrigerator, filled with racks of vials. “You need to stop them, Maria. Make sure everyone knows what’s going on here.”

“I need a witness. Someone to verify this before I can tru-cast it. Turn the camera on your face. Talk to me. Tell me what you’ve found.”

“Are you recording all this?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I imagined what Kestrel would do to my dad if he found out I had exposed his crimes. My plan was to run, hide, make a new life after freeing the changelings. If I went on camera, there would be no hiding after that. And that was assuming we got out alive, which wasn’t going to happen if I stuck around doing an exposé on the medical torment chamber.

I swallowed hard. “I can’t.”

“But…”

I clicked off the phone and then swept my arm through the refrigerator and dumped racks of vials on the floor. Maybe I could slow Kestrel down. Some of them broke on impact, and some went skittering across the floor, making a hazardous mess. I stomped the vials closest to me and ground the glass under the heel of my shoe, but I quickly realized I didn’t have time to destroy them all.

Laney tugged on my arm. “Kira.”

I mind-swept the floors above us. Additional security guards gathered around the camera-watching guard, trying to decipher why he had switched on the alarm, then turned it off, only to pass out. They were all readers, so I knocked them out as well.

That added to the general mayhem and would hopefully keep people busy—and away from the loading dock—for a little while.

I ordered the two med techs to smash the remaining vials and let Laney tug me out of the experiment room. The alarm and the open doors had woken the changelings and drawn them out into the hallway. Two remained in their cots, under heavy sedation. We would need help to get them out, so I redirected the med techs to retrieve the changelings from their cells and linked into the minds of the other six dazed inmates, including Laney.

Follow me, and I’ll get you out of here.

Their bare feet padded behind me as I raced to the exit door. The nurse still held the gun on the downed jacker guard. I took the gun and ordered her and the orderly to help the med techs, struggling with their burden of the heavily sedated changelings. They gripped each of the limp inmates by the shoulders and feet, like dead bodies.

Yeah, not suspicious-looking at all.

The gun was cold and creepy in my hand as I led the small posse of jacker kids, an orderly, a nurse, and two med techs out of the medical prison and up the stairs.

If anyone was watching the cameras, they’d have quite a show.

But chaos reigned above as medical personnel swarmed around the guards. Some had donned gas masks, thinking there had been an attack that caused the mass fainting. Some set up a perimeter to keep patients and visitors away from the security desk.

Our shuffling group neared the loading dock doors, and I peered through the window to see a military police jeep come to a screeching halt behind the linen service van.

Oh no.

Two camouflage-clad guards with large, shiny black guns hopped out of the jeep and stalked toward the loading dock. I didn’t know if they were jackers or not, but I couldn’t take the chance of probing them to find out. I threw my hands out to stop our group in its tracks and edged backward, praying the guards hadn’t seen us. We shuffled down the hall as fast as a group of barefoot kids and two unconscious changelings carried by adults can go. We stuck out like a troupe of clowns at a funeral.

I shoved open the cancer ward’s doors, retracing my steps through the hospital. Maybe we could make it out the front to Kestrel’s car. There was no way I could fit all the changelings into one car, but maybe we could steal another ride. But we had to move fast. The heavy footsteps of the guards pounded in the corridor behind us, but they passed by the cancer ward and kept going.

We stumbled through the double doors and past the elevators out to the lobby. I jammed to a stop again, with changelings bumping and jostling into me. There were a half dozen armed guards and two jacker agents charging through the lobby. Before I had a chance to think, they spotted us, and eight weapons targeted our heads. Their shiny barrels were narrow and lethal. These were not dart guns. I suddenly remembered I had a gun in my hand and reflexively pointed it back at them.

At the same time, an intense pressure pounded my head. The jacker agents had shoved me back into my own head, and the six changelings were struggling to fight them off. The nurse, orderly, and med-techs slowly came out of their daze, and started to put the two changelings they were carrying on the floor.

The agents crept toward us, guns still aimed at our group of barefoot children.

“Stop there!” I held my gun straight out, hoping they couldn’t see the tip of it shaking like a leaf in the fall breeze. They paused, still trying to jack into my head. After a moment, they seemed to realize that they couldn’t, so they switched tactics. The orderly straightened up and lunged toward me. I danced out of the way, and struggled to jack into his mind, ordering him to stay down where he had stumbled to the lobby floor. He staggered and then collapsed on the floor as two changelings grabbed hold of him. I mentally wrestled with the two agents as they jacked into the nurse’s and the med-techs’ minds. The nurse teetered in her white-soled shoes, uncertain whether she should attack me or have a seat, but the med-techs rushed at me. The other four changelings, still struggling under the assault from the jacker agents, latched onto them and pulled them to the floor.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” I screamed across the lobby, still keeping my gun trained on the lead agent’s head. But I wouldn’t shoot, I knew that. And the agent seemed to know it too.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the janitor, still standing by the gift shop. I didn’t have to reach into his mind to know he understood. He knew who we were, and that we were hopelessly outgunned. Outjacked. He held my gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the floor and turned his back on us.

I looked back to the agent and a triumphant smile had crept onto his face. To him, all of this was containable. Once the agents had us under control, they could wipe the minds of everyone here, mop up after they had returned us to the experiment room in the basement prison below. We would disappear, like Simon and all the others in the camp. And no one would come looking for us, because no one would even know that it had happened.

My hand with the gun twitched and a red haze of anger clouded my mind. I wanted to shoot the lead agent before the changelings and I lost the mental and physical wrestling match we were locked in. Make him pay for everything the Feds had done. Pay for the experiments. Pay for killing Simon. If I killed him fast enough, maybe I could shoot the other agent as well. Then it would be easy to jack the reader guards long enough for us to escape. But it was much more likely that I would end up with a bullet in me, like Simon. Bleeding out on the hospital floor was no different than bleeding into desert dust. Dead was dead. Worse, some of the changelings might get shot too. Even the patients and visitors, frozen in fear at the periphery of the lobby where they had shrunk back as far as the room would allow, might be caught in the cross fire.

It was too much. I couldn’t risk getting them all killed.

I turned my gun sideways, my finger off the trigger, and held both hands up in front of me, the universal sign of surrender. The agent’s smile curved higher.

An image of Raf floated through my mind. I should have kissed him when I had the chance. I wondered if his lips were as soft as they looked or if they would sear mine like Simon’s always had.

Now I would never find out.

That’s when I realized I still had the phone in my other hand. With the push of a button, I could expose Kestrel, the Feds, and everything they had done to us. I could stop them from taking me and the changelings back down to the basement, to disappear forever. But if Kestrel knew I had blown the cover on his experiments, he was sure to make my dad pay for it. And I would be spilling the biggest secret of all, the one my family had spent their entire lives keeping. There would be no pretending, no hiding among readers. No normal life for me, for any of us. Ever again.

The lies would stop.

With my eyes still locked on the lead agent, I linked into the phone’s mindware and dialed Maria, giving silent thanks to whoever invented the speakerphone option.

“Thank God, Kira! It’s about time you…” She cut herself off, probably taking in the scene, which I was now streaming to her.

“Are you getting a good signal, Maria?” I asked.

The speakerphone drew the sharp attention of everyone in the room. The smile on the agent’s face died.

“Yes.” Her voice was cautious, slow.

“I have a tru-cast story for the Trib. It’s about an agent of the federal government who threatened to shoot a group of children in a hospital. Are you getting all this?”

“Yes, I have a very good visual on the gun.”

The agent’s gun wavered. I didn’t have to link into his mind to know what he was thinking. Did he want to be on a tru-cast, trying to explain why he was going to shoot down a group of innocent children in a hospital? Did he want to be responsible for that?

“These kids were being held in a basement prison, right here at the Naval hospital,” I continued for the benefit of Maria’s tru-cast and for the agent whose gun was still pointed at my head. “They were being held for no other reason than having a special ability, a new ability to link into other people’s heads. Just because they have an ability we don’t understand, doesn’t mean they deserve to be in prison. To be experimented on. It’s like the old days when the first readers were discovered. What did we do? We put them in prison. We tortured them with experiments. Well, we’re doing it again, to these kids, today.”

I swept the phone around, so it had a good shot of my face, and the changelings sprawled on the floor behind me. I took a jittery breath for courage. “My name’s Kira Moore, and I’m just like them. I was kidnapped by the FBI, brought here, and then sent to a prison with hundreds of other kids just like me. For no other reason than who I am.” I panned across the changelings, slowly. I could only imagine what it must look like to Maria, barefoot changelings in their hospital gowns, still holding onto the med-techs and the orderly to keep them down while mentally wrestling with the agents to control the readers’ minds.

“I’m taking these kids out of here, back home to their families, where they belong.”

I rotated the camera back to the lead agent and I could see the decision had settled into his face. This was above his pay grade. “This is Kestrel’s mess,” he said, loud enough that it could be captured on my phone. I was pretty sure he did that on purpose. “Let him clean it up.” He slowly lowered his gun. Louder, he said, “A simple misunderstanding, I’m sure.” The second agent looked warily at him, but he lowered his weapon, and the guards did the same.

The agents left the changelings’ minds and everyone slowly stood up, faces not quite sure. The guards and agents stepped aside, making a path for us to walk out the front door.

For a moment, I was terrified it was a trap. But if they took us down now, it would all be on camera. I linked into the nurse, orderly, and med-techs’ minds, our unwitting accomplices in the escape. Please. Help us. I would let them decide. If they didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t force them. Somehow, between the changelings and me, we would manage to get the two unconscious kids out the door. I wasn’t exactly sure where we would go from there, but if nothing else, we could walk. We just needed to get off base property before the agent changed his mind about letting us loose.

The orderly lifted one changeling over his shoulder, and the nurse and two changelings managed to pick up the other. The med techs hung back, edging their way back to the elevators. I didn’t envy them when Kestrel found out what had happened.

We shuffled and limped past the crowd of readers and guards and agents. I held my phone out toward them, like the weapon of truth that it was. I didn’t turn my back on them until everyone was through both sliding glass doors at the entrance. Once we were outside, we stood still for a moment, the changelings shivering as the cool night air swept past their bare feet.

I surveyed the few cars in the parking lot, wondering how long it would take us to jack into one and whether any of the changelings knew how to drive. I could barely drive, and we would probably be risking someone’s life by putting any of the changelings behind a joystick. Maybe I could program an autopath for them. At least I knew where we had to go next.

As I was about to step off the curb, a delivery van came careening around the corner of the building, pulling quickly up to the front. The driver was the linker janitor from inside. I don’t know how or when he slipped away, but he must have made it to the loading dock. The linen delivery driver was nowhere to be seen.

“Need a lift?” he said with a grin. Relief flooded into me, and my knees barely held me up.

Maybe we would make it after all.

chapter THIRTY-FIVE

The truth magistrate touched me with his leathery hand and examined me with his watery eyes.

I tried not to shiver.

Maria had cleared out the castroom floor, and half the changelings were passed out while the other half chomped on vending machine food. But Maria wanted me on camera as soon as possible to explain what we were and what we could do. It was the middle of the night, but our story would probably be playing for days.

I linked my thoughts to the camera crew to keep them calm. Demonstrations would only freak people out. The truth magistrate sat across from me, sincerely believing he could get my true thoughts by holding my hand and asking probing questions. The cameras were trained on us, and a boom dangled over our heads to pick up our thought-waves and translate them into a scrolling scrit at the bottom the tru-cast. I linked into the mindware interface to make sure it captured my thought responses.

Is your name Kira Moore? the truth magistrate asked.

Yes.

His brow creased, probably expecting a rush of emotions. Of course he wouldn’t get anything from me unless I jacked it into his head, and I was determined not to do anything but link.

Are you sixteen years old?

Yes.

Do you live on Manor Road in Gurnee, Illinois?

Right now, I’m living in a castroom in the Tribune Tower. That got a twitter of mental laughter from everyone in the room.

Were you born in 2090? This question had more edge. If I was born in 2090, I would be twenty years old, not sixteen. I could jack in any answer I wished, and it would seem like a true thought. But that wouldn’t help.

No.

Do you believe you can control other people’s minds?

Yes. This visibly shook him. There were no thoughts or emotional responses from me that would indicate lying.

Have you ever been diagnosed demens? Okay, that one irked me.

No. Although I might be demens for outing myself as a jacker. More laughter.

The magistrate’s glasses rode up. Are you controlling my mind right now?

No. Which was true. I had already explained that I could tell him anything and jack him to believe it, but that I would only link thoughts to him. Whatever he decided was his own choice.

Can you control my mind?

Yes. He paused and contemplated asking for a demonstration. I didn’t want to, but if he asked, I would.

Instead he asked, How long have you been able to control minds?

About six weeks.

I imagined Raf waking up in the morning and seeing me on the tru-cast at home. I was glad I had already told him everything, so he wouldn’t hear how long I had been lying to him on a tru-cast. If only I had trusted Raf from the beginning, maybe I would be with him now, holding hands and looking into those deep brown eyes, instead of crammed into a cubicle with a leathery old man and a camera crew. Which was almost as bad as it sounded.

The truth magistrate’s questioning went on at length, and eventually he was satisfied. Or at least unwilling to admit that he couldn’t tell my true thoughts from my sims.

Maria’s people interviewed each of the changelings as well, and their faces cycled on all the chat-casts and tru-casts. We had nowhere to go, so we stayed in the Trib Tower while we waited for the changelings’ parents to see the tru-casts and come forward. There wasn’t much in the way of beds, so we slept on the floor, the changelings piled up like puppies.

The next morning, a couple of adult jackers came to Maria with their stories. They submitted to the truth magistrate, too, which made me laugh. They must have been hiding in plain sight, like all the jackers that had avoided the camp. After a while, I stopped watching the repeats of the tru-casts, including my video tell-all at the hospital. It creeped me out seeing my face over and over.

For lunch, Maria had some pizza delivered. Thirteen-year-old changelings could eat an unbelievable amount, although twelve-year-old Xander ate more than three of them put together. I was munching on a bite of rapidly cooling pepperoni with extra cheese when pictures of the camp came up on the screen. I stopped mid-chew. I knew Maria had sent a cameraman out to the camp, but I didn’t know they had pictures already.

Breaking Tru-Cast blared in red under a picture of the camp, and Maria’s report scrolled along the bottom of the screen. Open-air trucks, piled with the limp bodies of prisoners, caravanned across the hard-packed desert road. The images were blurred, like they were taken from a long way away, and Maria’s words talked about a new kind of person—a jacker—who could control people’s thoughts.

The inmates weren’t moving. My eyes pricked. I told myself they had to be gassed for transportation or the jacker prisoners would overwhelm the guards. And the Feds wouldn’t kill them, not while they were necessary for Kestrel’s research. But then Kestrel was probably still sleeping off the gas in his apartment.

The pictures made my stomach clench. I set the pizza down. After only a few images flashed by, they started to repeat. The changelings were transfixed by the screen. I didn’t have to link into their minds to know those photos were giving them flashbacks.

I shuffled over to Maria’s desk, where she was busy sending a scrit on her phone.

“You got pictures.” My voice was just a whisper.

Maria faced me. “My photographer only transmitted a few images before they stopped him.” The distress in her voice chewed a hole in my stomach.

“Oh. Maria, I’m so sorry…” What did they do to him?

“He’s okay,” she said quickly. “He woke up in Albuquerque. Until I showed him the pictures, he didn’t know why he was there. He didn’t remember any of it.”

Maria was surprisingly calm, given that my prediction about the mind-wipe had come true. I swallowed. “Do you think they’ll come after us?” The changelings had flopped on the stubbled carpet, entranced by the tru-cast, and a few reporters worked stories at their desks.

“No. They can’t wipe the minds of everyone in North America, Kira. The story is too big for the Feds to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“But the photographer—” I waved at the looping pictures on the screen.

“He’s getting another camera and heading back out there. They’re going to have to release the prisoners, Kira. You did a great thing, coming to me with this.” I hoped she was right. I hoped the Feds couldn’t make all of us simply disappear, that it would be too coincidental to cover up. Her phone vibrated again, and she turned away to mentally answer it. This was probably the tru-cast of her lifetime, but the pictures were making it hard for me to breathe. In all the chaos of rescuing the changelings from the hospital, I had shoved thoughts about the Camp of the Flies aside. But I hadn’t forgotten.

I remembered the stifling heat. Holding hands in the truck with Simon. My feet pounding across the desert. Simon’s blood on my hands. The walls of the castroom pressed in on me. I fled to windows at the far edge of the room.

My hands pressed against the cold window panes, and I breathed clouds of moisture onto the surface. The city of Chicago blurred under my gasping breath. I closed my eyes and touched my forehead to the cool glass until my stomach started to unclench. Footsteps pattered behind me.

“You okay?” asked Laney. She put a small hand on my shoulder.

I managed a smile. “Yeah. Just, you know, hard to see it again.” Some babysitter I was, leaving the changelings to fend for themselves with those images on the screen. I took a deep breath and tipped my head toward them, huddled together. “Let’s go see how everyone else is doing.”

Laney tucked her hand in mine and led me back to the group. The changelings were dealing with it better than I was and they quickly lost interest in favor of the pizza. As the pictures cycled again, I noticed a shock of red hair in one of the trucks. If Molloy was still alive, he was certain to be planning my murder in several painful ways.

With Maria calling for an investigation on the tru-cast, I could see why the Feds would have to shut down the camp. They could keep the dangerous jackers in jail, and I hoped Molloy would be one of them, but there was no reason to hold the jacker kids.

Later that afternoon, Maria’s photographer returned to the camp, but it was empty. The Feds had moved the prisoners, but there was no word on the release of any of them. In fact, there was no word about the camp at all.

Even though Maria tru-cast the pictures of the now-empty camp ringed with barbed wire and covered in camouflage, the Feds were denying that it had been a prison camp. I didn’t understand how a secret camp in the desert could be explained away, but they claimed the pictures were manufactured.

Later that afternoon, the Navy made a great show of opening the basement of the hospital, only to find a warehouse of medical supplies. The scenes they cast, opening each of the cells and showing them filled with boxes of gloves and syringes, made me so angry I had to be alone in one of the cast cubicles for a while. Of course the government would hide what they had been doing. It made me clench my fists and kick the industrial carpet.

I still had Kestrel’s vials of liquid with my name on them, but I couldn’t figure a way to use them to prove the experiments had actually happened. Did Kestrel take my DNA as a routine matter, genetically profiling all the kids that came through the jacker processing center at the hospital, or had he already started experimenting on me? Were the vials only my DNA or some kind of serum he already injected into me and that was why I was different?

No. I was different from other jackers, but I had my Impenetrable Mind before I ever crossed paths with Kestrel.

My video from the basement and my vials weren’t sufficient proof that any experiments had actually occurred. It was only a lab room and some vials of liquid.

Without proof, the jacker kids I left behind at the camp were stuck in whatever new prison the Feds had constructed. No one would go looking for them because no one believed they existed. I’d had my chance to free them and I hadn’t. That I had saved some reader lives in Rock Point, Arizona, wasn’t much consolation when I imagined the horrors the changelings were enduring.

Kestrel seemed to have disappeared as well. Despite the jacker agent’s whispered accusation at the hospital, the Feds were denying that an Agent Kestrel even existed. When Maria’s crew arrived at his apartment in the city, it had been scrubbed clean, as if no one had ever lived there. I didn’t know if he had fled, or the Feds were covering up for him, making him officially disappear so he would be free to continue his heinous experiments.

Either way, Kestrel knew I had liberated the changelings and must have figured out who shot him full of darts and stole his passring and car. He wouldn’t forgive me just because I left his car unharmed in the hospital parking lot. And if he was still doing experiments, he’d want me back for that.

I wished that I had wiped all of Kestrel’s true memories about me when I had the chance.

At least my family seemed safe. I asked Maria to check on them, and she said the agents were no longer parked at my house. My family was also asking about me, wanting me to come home.

I wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. Even if the Feds weren’t harassing my family openly, my dad was probably upset about me revealing the family’s big secret on a national tru-cast.

There certainly were a lot of people angry about it.

By the evening, the protests had started. Outraged readers, some of them demens by the looks of them on the screen, gathered at the entrance to the Trib Tower, protesting the dangerous mind control freaks the Trib was keeping on the 10th floor.

I was having serious doubts about going public until the changelings’ parents started coming forward. Most had been jacked to believe that their children had run away or been snatched and were thrilled to have them back. The changelings couldn’t pretend to be zeroes or even readers, but they could go home. The Feds seemed more concerned with denying their involvement in secret camps and scandalous experiments than harassing kids.

Maria coordinated with the parents, making arrangements for them to come get their children, which went well until Xander’s mom grabbed her fifteen minutes of fame by publicly stating she didn’t want him back. When Xander’s change came, he had accidentally jacked his abusive step-father and knocked him out. Soon after, Xander had been caught on camera jacking a mini-mart clerk to give him ice cream, and the Feds had picked him up. He was only twelve, and his mom was a worthless, raging alcoholic, if her performance on the tru-cast was any indication. Her rant fed the hate-groups protesting outside, and Xander became the poster-child for dangerous jacker kids. The protesters wanted him locked up. Because stealing ice cream definitely made him a danger to society.

I told Xander he could stay with me.

As the night wore on, the changelings got antsy from being hyped on the news all day and being cooped up in the castroom. I kept them busy practicing their jacking skills. They didn’t have much control, and I had to keep a constant eye on them.

“Xander’s turn,” I called out, interrupting an argument that had broken out among the girls. Laney shushed them for me so I didn’t have to reach into their minds to get their attention. I didn’t do that unless it was necessary, trying to set a good example. The grumbles went round our jacker group in the corner, but they dutifully gave their verbal permissions for him to link in.

I brushed their soft, still-forming minds. “Remember,” I said to Xander. “Only link your thoughts.”

Xander linked into all seven minds and tried to gently send a thought to them. Who wants pizza for dessert? His words rang loudly, reverberating through all their heads at once. It was too much command, and they all echoed back, Pizza! Pizza for dessert!

We already had pizza for lunch and dinner, so that wasn’t their free will speaking. I linked a thought to Xander. Easy there, changeling. If they were readers, they’d be hijacking the nearest pizza delivery van.

Xander threw me a smile.

Focus. And gently this time.

Random thoughts about pizza still skittered through their minds. Who wants cheese curls for dessert? Xander linked in. It was almost too soft, only a whisper, but they heard it. Choruses of No! Gah, those are disgusting! overlapped each other. They were getting tired of the vending machine food as well. Xander’s back went rigid as he tried to process the seven different responses.

I didn’t link my thoughts to him, not wanting to add to the cacophony in his mind. Instead, I strode over and put my hand on his shoulder. His eyes were unfocussed as he tried to navigate the raging mental conversation with the other changelings.

At least he didn’t knock anyone out. He would slowly get it.

Xander reminded me of Simon and what he might have been like, if someone had been around to help him when he changed. The memory of Simon lying dead in the desert was seared into my mind, but my other memories of him were starting to return—the kisses and sweet promises, as well as the lies. I still wasn’t sure which ones were which. I wondered if he would approve of me outing jackers to the world.

The next day the changelings’ parents started braving the crowd of protesters to come pick up their kids. Maria made arrangements for them to leave by hydrocopter from the roof, so they didn’t have to run the gauntlet with the changelings in tow.

I explained to the parents what had happened to their children in the hospital. At least, what I could guess. The worst part was the two changelings whose minds weren’t quite the same anymore. They could jack, but they were often confused, as if the true memory part of their brain had been wasted away by whatever Kestrel injected into them. I had to explain to the parents that their children’s brain tissue was damaged, and there was nothing I could do to fix it.

Afterward, I had to be alone for a while. I curled up in a corner cubicle and dreamed of a dozen ways that I could repay Kestrel for what he had done. A dart to the chest was far too good for him.

One by one, the changelings left until only Laney and Xander remained.

When it was time for Laney to leave, I shared her excited smile but I didn’t really want her to go. The sunshine of her smile when she jumped into her dad’s arms made me grin in spite of the small pain in my chest. Her dad shook my hand and her mom gave me a hug, then I beat a hasty retreat. I didn’t need a truth magistrate to see the love they had for her.

She was back where she belonged.

chapter THIRTY-SIX

Now it was just Xander and me.

I wasn’t about to turn him over to Child Protective Services, but the kid couldn’t spend the rest of his life camped out in a castroom. He needed a real home, and I only had one to give. I sent a message home through Maria, to see if it was okay to come to Gurnee. My family sent back two words.

Come home.

Except I wasn’t sure what waited for us there. I had spilled my family’s big secret, the one they had hidden for generations. The Feds were avoiding any obvious harassment of my family, but who knew what other fallout had rained down on my dad. I didn’t know if my family understood the choice that I had made. I only hoped they wouldn’t hold it against Xander.

If they let him stay, Xander should be fine with my family, like the other changelings with theirs. If the Feds openly arrested any of them, it would be proof that they had been sending jackers to camps and experimenting on them all along. The Feds could pretend they hadn’t been hunting down jackers, but they could no longer say that they didn’t exist. Especially now that more and more jackers were coming out every day.

The Feds couldn’t arrest me out in the open either, but that wasn’t the only danger in going home. Tru-casts or no, if Molloy ever escaped the Feds, he would hunt me down, and my home was the first place he’d look. Kestrel might be forced to give up the changelings I’d rescued, but if I was the genetic link he wanted, he would never stop searching for me. He’d have no problem with making me disappear one night without the formality of actually arresting me.

I wasn’t at all sure going home was a good idea. But I could at least drop off Xander and make sure he had a place to stay.

Maria arranged for a hydrocopter to take us to Union Station so we could avoid the protesters. I borrowed a tally card from her to pay for the train and transit fares from there to Gurnee.

The train out of the city was empty, with most commuters already at work. The bus arrived at the train transfer station shortly after we did. As soon as the bus door whooshed open, I linked into the driver’s mind. Does this route go to Gurnee? I need to get to Manor Road.

The driver crinkled a smile on her heavily lined face. Sure does, sweetie. There’s a stop real close to Manor Road. Her smile faltered, thinking she recognized me from somewhere. I hoped we could get through the trip before she realized my face had been all over the news for the last two days.

I gave her a smile and climbed the steps of the bus with Xander behind me. She swiped Maria’s tally card across the scanner and handed it back to me. There are a lot of stops before Manor. Make yourself comfortable, dear. She leaned away from Xander as he passed. He must be hesitating to link into her mind, not quite sure of his skills yet. Which wasn’t a bad idea, but it left the driver thinking he was a zero. She mentally commanded the door shut behind us, and we worked our way to the back of the bus.

Xander fidgeted in the bus seat next to me. He kept spinning a leather bracelet he’d managed to keep through the camp and the hospital. I wasn’t sure what the significance of it was, but I didn’t link in to ask. Privacy was different than secrets.

Fall had come to Illinois, and the leaves were starting to drop. There were splashes of color everywhere. As we wound through the side streets of my hometown, I spied a tree made entirely of gold, except for a single red leaf. A thousand tiny orange leaflets flew past on a gust of air.

It felt like a million years since I had been home.

The bus pulled to a stop a block from my house. I had already swept the neighborhood to make sure there were no jacker agents waiting to capture us, but there were only my normal neighbors doing their normal things. At least I guessed it was normal—I’d never kept tabs on the neighbors before.

As we approached my house, my mom flew out the door and met us halfway across the lawn. She nearly knocked me over when she hugged me.

“Hi, Mom.” I tried to say more, but my throat tightened up at having her close again.

She took my cheeks in her hands. “Kira, you can link with me, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

I linked into her mind and was overwhelmed with the happiness I found there. I’m so glad you’re home, Kira. And I’m so proud of you. She replayed images of me on the tru-cast, and I cringed.

I had to get them out, Mom, I explained, even though she wasn’t asking. I couldn’t let the Feds take them back to the basement.

I know, honey. I understand.

I pulled her hands from my face and peered around to the open front door. Does Dad understand? I had reached into the house when I made my sweep before, but I hadn’t lingered in the minds there, nervous about what thoughts I would find.

I’ll let him explain, she thought.

I motioned to Xander, who was watching us with undisguised longing. “Mom, this is Xander. I was hoping that, maybe, he could stay with you for a while.” She, along with everyone else, had to know what had happened to Xander. His mom had made sure of that on the tru-casts.

My mom beamed a smile at him and switched to speaking aloud without missing a beat. “Of course he’s welcome to stay with us.” She offered her hand, and Xander awkwardly shook it.

I wanted to be up front, so there were no misunderstandings. No more secrets. “There’s just one thing, Mom.” I cleared my throat to get rid of the quaver. “I’m really here to drop Xander off. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for me to stay.” Her face twisted up like I had gone demens right in front of her. “It’s just that it’s not really safe. For me, I mean. Xander will be fine. If he stays with you. If that’s okay.” I stopped my stuttering because my mom seemed like she was about to cry, and that nearly killed me on the spot. “I… I want to stay, it’s just that…” I didn’t even know where to start. She shushed me by patting my arm and blinking back the tears.

“You should talk to your father. He’s waiting to see you.” She looped her arms through Xander’s and mine. I let her tow us toward the house. The second floor window had been broken, and two large boards crossed over it with plastic wrapping hanging from the edges.

I cleared my throat. “What happened to the window?”

“Oh, that. Um, nothing.” It was a wonder my mom had kept our family secret for so long, because she was so fantastically bad at lying.

I linked gently into her head. The truth?

The truth is that some hateful people threw a rock through it. Your father didn’t reach them before they sped off. Her lips made a tight line. No one was hurt.

The hole in my parent’s house gaped at me. My dad was not going to be happy about this. At all.

We stepped through the darkened front doorway and climbed the stairs to the living room. Seamus hovered at the top, all gussied up in his cadet uniform. A grin broke across his face, and he swept me up in a hug.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked while trying to pull in a breath.

“Aren’t you supposed to be staying out of trouble?” he replied. My laugh came out strangled because of his hold on me. He set me down with a thump and cocked a look to Xander. “I see you have a follower.”

Xander froze, scanning up Seamus’s towering height.

“Just ignore him,” I said to Xander. “He’s oversized, but mostly harmless.” Xander kept his distance.

My father was waiting at the far end of the room. I bit my lip. “Hi, Dad.”

He seemed to be fighting to keep control of his features. I didn’t know what he was holding back, but I didn’t want to link in and find out. He unfolded his arms and strode across the room. I wasn’t sure of his intentions until he hugged me harder than Seamus had.

Tears sprang into my eyes. I told myself it was because he was squeezing me so hard. “Kira, I’m so glad you’re home.” His voice was rough.

We didn’t say anything for a while, just held each other.

Then I linked into his mind and asked the question I didn’t want to say out loud, for everyone to hear. You’re not mad at me?

Kira, I was never mad at you. Worried sick. But not mad.

I pulled back. What about the Navy? They have to be upset that you didn’t bring me in. That I went public and embarrassed them, and I thought they might take it out on you and…

“I quit my job, Kira,” he said aloud.

“What?” I asked in horror, finally noticing he was wearing civilian clothes. “They fired you? Because of what I did?”

“No. It wasn’t like that,” he said. “I quit. When I found out what they were doing, in that hospital. I knew it was bad, Kira, but I didn’t know…” He looked pained. “I’m sorry I didn’t quit sooner.”

I linked back into his head. You weren’t part of Kestrel’s Task Force, Dad. It’s not your fault.

No, but I didn’t stop him either, he thought. Not like a certain strong-willed daughter of mine.

My face grew hot. I hadn’t stopped Kestrel. If anything, I had probably just pushed him underground.

My dad smiled. “In any event, no one can hold my position over me anymore. And I needed a new job, anyway. It’s rather difficult to be a spy with a world-famous mindjacker for a daughter.”

“Dad… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s better this way. The government can’t control jackers like they used to, not with more and more of us coming out all the time.”

My shoulders sagged. “Better? I’m not so sure. What about the jackers in the camp? Do you know what happened to them?”

“No.” His face turned hard. “I tried to find out more before I quit, but the Fed’s aren’t owning up to the camp. They must be holding the changelings somewhere new. And if they released them, it would be admitting that they held them in the first place.” He took my hands in his. “You did everything you could, Kira, and I’m proud of you.”

His words brought a queasiness to my stomach. “I didn’t do everything I could, Dad,” I whispered. His hands still held mine, but I had a hard time meeting his questioning look. “When I escaped…” I stopped. Spilling this secret would make him a lot less proud of me. I sucked in a breath. “When I escaped, I could have let them go. All of them. Everyone in the camp. But I didn’t.”

My dad’s face clouded and water started to pool in my eyes. “So, you see,” I said, “it’s my fault they’re trapped…”

“Kira.” My dad wrapped his arms around me and I wilted into him. “It’s not your fault. It’s Kestrel’s fault.” He pulled back to look into my eyes. “He put them there, not you. And… and I did too.”

I blinked. “What? But I thought…”

“I didn’t have anything to do with sending changelings there,” he said quickly. “But there were some bad guys I helped catch. They were jackers and they were dangerous. There was no other place to send them. So I know there were a lot of monsters in there, Kira. That’s why I was so desperate to get you out.” He dropped his voice. “Sometime, you’re going to have to tell me exactly how you did that.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

“I’m just glad you finally came home,” he said.

I swallowed. “Right. Um, about that. I’m not sure I should stay.”

My dad’s face had the same disbelief as my mom. “Kira, it’s safe now. The agents are gone,” he said, gesturing out the broken window, “and the Feds can’t come after you any more, not when you’re the face of their scandal.”

How I wished that were true. “It’s not that simple, Dad.”

His shoulders sagged. He rubbed his chin like he did when he was puzzling something out. Of course, he wouldn’t remember the conversation we had about how I was Kestrel’s genetic link. And he couldn’t know Kestrel woke up with three darts in his chest and me to blame for it. But my dad was right—I was the face of the hidden jackers. Kestrel could make me disappear and have it look like backlash from the hate groups. And if Molloy found me first, well, it probably would be a hate crime.

“If you’re in some kind of trouble, sis,” Seamus said quietly from his spot next to Xander, “we’ll help you get out of it.”

I really didn’t want to cry again.

“What Seamus is saying,” said my dad, “is that family sticks together.”

I put on a bright smile to ward off the tears and stepped over to put my arm around Xander. “Which is exactly why I brought Xander here. If it’s okay with you, maybe he can stay here a while? He can have my room, if he can tolerate the pink bed.”

“Xander’s welcome to stay here as long as he wants,” he said. “But this is your home. It’s where you belong.”

I strode over and threw my arms around him. “I know, Dad.” Then I had to stop because my throat was closing up. I linked my thoughts to him. I’m afraid Kestrel won’t stop looking for me. And there are some other bad guys you should know about.

“Let me help you, Kira.” I could feel his shoulders tense as he held me tighter. “Bad guys are something I know a little about. And I’m not going to let anyone hurt you anymore.”

My tears burned my eyes. I wished my dad could help me, more than anything. I ached to stay here, in my house, with my family, and believe that everything would work out okay. That Kestrel would forget about me. That Molloy would stay in prison forever. I didn’t know if staying was a good idea, but in that moment, I couldn’t force myself to leave.

I took a shaky breath. “Okay.”

My dad’s smile was almost as strong as the hug he wrapped around me, and I could hardly breathe when Seamus and my mom piled on. Their thoughts rang with happiness.

I just prayed my family wouldn’t pay the price for my wishful thinking.

~*~

Later that afternoon, Raf came by.

I knew he was coming before he reached the door, before my mom or anyone else in all the quiet levels of the house had any idea. All day, I had been keeping a nervous watch, periodically scanning down the street, and even around the corner, to the limits of my reach. Just checking. Making sure that no one was coming.

I linked in to Raf’s thoughts before he reached our house. I heard the jumble in his mind as he tried to decide what to say to me. How he was worried about the hate groups and how strange it had been seeing me on the tru-casts, telling the world secrets I had only just told him. How he was a little afraid he wouldn’t have the right words when he saw me.

He rapped softly on the front door.

Hi, Mrs. Moore. Is Kira home?

She’s upstairs, Rafael.

Raf’s soft footfalls padded up the stairs. Partway up, I pulled out of his head, not wanting him to know I had linked in without asking. I busied myself with rearranging the few items left on my shelves, my hands shaking more than they should just for Raf.

He appeared in my doorway, a hand on each side of the frame. “Hi.”

I swallowed. “Hi.”

Raf gazed past me to the near-bare shelf. “You know,” he said, “I could swear I won more of those for you.”

I picked up the green monster that he had won for me over the summer, what felt like a zillion years ago. “You did.” I examined the creature for a moment and put it back on the shelf.

He stared at me from across the room. “Where did they go? Did you not want them anymore?”

I gaped. I had thrown them away in a fit of fury of wanting to be grown up. Tough. Not pitied by the world. Now I would give anything to have them back. “I, um…”

He sauntered into the room, flashing his brilliant smile. “Relax, Kira. I’m kidding.”

“Right.” I tried to regain my composure. “I knew that.”

He reached out and touched my hair, like Simon used to. My heart squeezed, not wanting that thought right here, right now.

“Maybe if you do your jacking trick,” Raf said softly, “you’ll know better what I’m thinking.”

I looked into his dark brown eyes, wanting to know if he was thinking the same thing I was. That I wished I had been honest with him from the beginning. That I hoped he would still want to be with me, now that the entire world knew what I was and what I could do. I linked gently inside, and immediately the scent of his mind filled me. Soft linen and sunshine-warmed air.

I like the way your hair feels when I touch it, he thought. I swallowed as he leaned closer. I wonder if I try to kiss you if you’ll knock me out again.

It depends. How good a kisser are you? My heart thudded erratically.

Maybe you can let me know. He pressed his lips to mine. They were soft like a summer’s breeze, and his kiss reached down to my toes.

Seamus once told me that when readers touched, they shared feelings as if they were joined into one person. He said it was a very intimate experience. I would never be like the normal readers of the world.

But, for the first time, I knew exactly what he meant.

Kira’s journey is just beginning. While she may think she’s safe at home, at last, the consequences of her actions will be nothing short of revolutionary in the mindreading world. You can pick up Closed Hearts next (available in ebook and print) or you can save by getting the entire Mindjack Trilogy at once.

Closed Hearts (Mindjack #2)

When you control minds, only your heart can be used against you.

Eight months ago, Kira Moore revealed to the mindreading world that mindjackers like herself were hidden in their midst. Now she wonders if telling the truth was the right choice after all. As wild rumors spread, a powerful anti-jacker politician capitalizes on mindreaders’ fears and strips jackers of their rights. While some jackers flee to Jackertown—a slum rife with jackworkers who trade mind control favors for cash—Kira and her family hide from the readers who fear her and jackers who hate her. But when a jacker Clan member makes Kira’s boyfriend Raf collapse in her arms, Kira is forced to save the people she loves by facing the thing she fears most: FBI agent Kestrel and his experimental torture chamber for jackers.

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Susan writes speculative fiction all up and down the age spectrum (middle grade, adult future-noir, steampunk romance). She’s always dreaming up something new, so subscribe to her mailing list to be the first to know what’s up! (Oh, and new subscribers get a free short story, too!) Find all of Susan’s works here.

Susan Kaye Quinn is the author of the bestselling Mindjack Trilogy, which is young adult science fiction. Her latest release is a steampunk romance Third Daughter (The Dharian Affairs #1) which is her excuse to dress up in corsets and fight with swords. She also has a dark-and-gritty SF serial called The Debt Collector and a middle grade fantasy called Faery Swap. It’s possible she’s easily distracted. Her business card says, “Author and Rocket Scientist,” and she always has more speculative fiction fun in the works. You can find out what she’s up to by subscribing to her newsletter (hint: new subscribers get a free short story!) or by stopping by her blog (www.susankayequinn.com).

Acknowledgements

Many people, besides the author, are needed to create a novel, and Open Minds is no exception.

The gorgeous cover, which makes me giddy every time I look at it, is due to the artistry of D. Robert Pease. Multiple thanks go to Anne of Victory Editing for catching my typos, fixing my slang, and correcting my hideous comma abuse. Any mistakes that remain are due to things I messed up after she fixed it.

Many talented writers critiqued Open Minds and lent their considerable skills to making the story better. Much appreciation goes to my SCBWI writer’s group for their enthusiastic support, which is an essential nutrient for any writer’s soul. Thanks go to Andi Phillips, Bethany Kaczmarek, Erynn Newman, and Charity Tinnin, for reading chapter after chapter and steering me where I (and the manuscript) needed to go. Thank you to Sherrie Petersen, for feedback on kisses, technology, and endings. And for reading it again. And especially for loving it. Thank you to Stina Lindenblatt for liking Raf even more than Kira does and for being honest about what needed to be changed. Double thanks are due to Rebecca Carlson, fellow science fiction traveler, for reading two completely separate drafts and for the amazing, detailed feedback that always shines up my words. A breezy aye to Adam Heine for slang tutorials and pointing out just where I cheated. A huge thank-you to Terry Lynn Johnson for reading it, loving it, and that other part, even though it didn’t work out. A bucket of gratitude to Michelle Davidson Argyle for her enthusiasm and honesty, the two things I like about her most. And extra special thanks go to Kate Monson and Brandi Pease for being my teen beta readers.

And finally, apologies to my husband and three boys for all the time I spent on the computer, when you probably wished you had socks that matched and something other than macaroni and cheese for dinner. Especially since I’m going to do it again for the next book. Thanks for putting up with me!

About the Author

Susan Kaye Quinn grew up in California, where she wrote snippets of stories and passed them to her friends during class. Her teachers pretended not to notice and only confiscated her notes a couple times. She pursued a bunch of engineering degrees (Aerospace, Mechanical, and Environmental) and worked a lot of geeky jobs, including turns at GE Aircraft Engines, NASA, and NCAR. Now that she writes novels, her business card says “Author and Rocket Scientist” and she doesn’t have to sneak her notes anymore.

Which is too bad.

All that engineering comes in handy when dreaming up paranormal powers in future worlds or mixing science with fantasy to conjure slightly plausible inventions. For her stories, of course. Just ignore that stuff in her basement.

Susan writes from the Chicago suburbs with her three boys, two cats, and one husband. Which, it turns out, is exactly as much as she can handle.

I love to hear from readers! Like my Facebook Page, follow me on Twitter, or visit my author blog. Subscribe to my newsletter to be the first to hear about giveaways and new releases.

* * *

THE MOON DWELLERS, David Estes

Dystopia, by David Estes

I love dystopian novels. And I don’t just mean The Hunger Games, although I love that one, too. I’ve read dozens of dystopian novels and I never seem to get tired of them. For me, dystopian novels capture so much of what makes reading awesome. They explore real social issues and imaginative futures that may be only decades, or even years, from coming to pass. They are dark and suspenseful and funny and interesting, and, most of the time, scary.

But what I love the most is that they almost always contain an element of hope. The characters, who are many times thrust into terrible situations, endure and persevere and usually accomplish what they set out to do, against challenging odds. Hope.

Do I think any of the themes in dystopian novels will actually come to pass? Absolutely. Hopefully not in my lifetime, or my children’s lifetimes, but bad things will happen and new heroes will have to rise to the forefront and meet the challenges of their day.

But for now, I’ll imagine my own futures and the heroes that live them, and do my best to entertain my readers with stories of hope. Starting with my first dystopian novel, The Moon Dwellers. For this series, I’ve created two different societies, one living underground (three books: The Moon Dwellers, The Star Dwellers, The Sun Dwellers), one living aboveground (three books: Fire Country, Ice Country, Water & Storm Country), which then come together in a final epic 7th book, The Earth Dwellers, where the characters and plot lines smash into one story. I hope you enjoy the dystopian world I’ve created!

THE MOON DWELLERS

David Estes

Book One of

The Dwellers Saga

Copyright 2012 David Estes

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Adele. Just for being you.

Prologue

Adele

7 months ago

Hands grope, men shout, boots slap the rock floor.

Clay dishes and pots are smashed to bits as the Enforcers sweep recklessly through our house. There are more bodies in the tiny stone box that I call home than ever before. The walls seem to be closing in.

My mother’s face is stricken with anger, her lips twisted, her eyebrows dark. I’ve never seen her fight like this. I’ve never seen her fight at all.

It takes three bulging Enforcers to subdue her kicking legs, her thrashing arms. For just a moment I am scared of her and not the men. I hate myself for it.

I realize my sister is by my side, watching, like me. I can’t let her see this—can’t let this be her last memory of the ones who raised us. I usher her back into the small room that we share with my parents, and close the door, shutting her inside alone.

When I turn back to the room, my mother is already gone, taken. Undigested beans from our measly supper rise in my throat.

My father is next.

The Enforcers jeer at him, taunt him, spit on him. As he backs his shoulders against the cold, stark, stone wall, five men corner him. Smart. They don’t underestimate him.

He makes eye contact with me; his emerald-green eyes are hard with concentration. Despite the inherent tension in the room, his face is relaxed, calm, the exact opposite of his eyes. Run, he mouths.

My feet are frozen to the floor. My knees lock, stiffen, disobey me and my father. I am ashamed. After all that my father has done for me, when it counts the most, I fail him.

One of the men lifts an arm and a gun. I hold my breath when I hear the shot, a dull thwap! that doesn’t sound like a normal gun. The man moves backwards slightly from the force, but his legs are planted firmly and he maintains his balance.

Father slumps to the floor. I feel my lips trembling, and my hand moves unbidden to my mouth. My frozen feet melt and I try to run to him, but a big body bars my way. I kick him hard, like my father taught me. My heel catches the Enforcer under his chin and his head snaps back. Like most people, he underestimates me.

The next Enforcer doesn’t.

The Taser rips into my neck and tentacles of electricity slam my jaw shut. My teeth nearly snap off my tongue, which is flailing around in my mouth. They don’t take it easy on me just because I’m a kid, or a girl—not after what I did to the first guy. Still stunned by the Taser, I barely feel the thump of their hard boots as they kick me repeatedly in the ribs. My eyes are wet, and through my blurred vision I see the arcing nightstick.

Strangely, it feels like destiny, like it was always going to happen.

I hear my sister’s screams just before I black out.

Tristan

A brief history of the Tri-Realms

They say the meteor was enormous. Any life left on the surface of the earth when it hit was wiped out by either the shockwave caused by the collision, or the resulting tsunamis unleashed across the world’s oceans. Humans were forced to move underground. Or so the story goes.

Secretly, government scientists expected it for years, using covert teams of miners to dig the world’s largest caverns in preparation for the inevitable. But still: There wasn’t room for everyone. It would’ve been terrible: the Lottery. Families ripped apart; friends lost; blossoming relationships cut off at the knees. Of course, key individuals, like politicians, doctors, scientists, and farmers received a free pass, but all others just got a number. The number gave them a one in a hundred chance of getting selected to move into the underground facilities.

All the rest were destroyed.

And that was just the United States. No one knows for sure what happened to the rest of the world. Perhaps they weren’t so prepared. Perhaps they were all dead.

Year Zero would have been difficult for everyone. Losing relatives who didn’t make the cut; eating from the rations of rice and beans and hoping it wouldn’t run out before the leaders and their teams of advisors could come up with a way to grow food underground; most people becoming miners; living in darkness.

Now all of that is just a part of everyday life.

These days, time is measured from the day the meteor hit. It’s 499 PM (Post-Meteor). Time before Armageddon is referred to as Before-Meteor, or BM. The funny thing about Armageddon: we survived. Well, some of us anyway.

Year Zero’s first president was Stafford Hughes. Things were run much like before Armageddon, albeit in a slightly more haphazard manner. The U.S. Constitution was upheld, laws were revised as required for our new living situation, new laws were created.

But it didn’t last. It couldn’t last.

Things were too different. People were too scared. There was too much chaos.

More structure was required.

The first Nailin was elected to president in 126 PM. His name was Wilfred Nailin. He was my great-great (and a lot more greats) grandfather. At that point elections were still held regularly. Congress decided that given the state of America, elections should be held every five years instead of four, with the opportunity for reelection after the first term. But Wilfred wasn’t satisfied with ten years in power, so after his first reelection he pushed a new law through Congress that allowed for a third presidential term, but only if supported by the people, of course.

There were rumors of ballot-rigging.

After his second reelection, he passed a law that allowed him to remain in power indefinitely, assuming he obtained approval from Congress every five years. At the same time he passed a law that also permitted Senators and Representatives to maintain their elected positions indefinitely, unless the president released them from service. It was a circular system, one where bribery and deep pockets ruled. Who you knew meant much more than what you knew.

The people had lost their voice.

That wasn’t the end of it.

Wilfred’s next move was to secure his family’s future. He had one son, Edward Nailin. With the full support of Congress, Wilfred managed to pass a law that allowed positions to be handed down from generation to generation within each family, so long as Congress and the president unanimously approved it. Public elections continued to be held, but they were fixed so that no new contenders could infiltrate the inner circle of the government, which was holding all the cards.

It worked for a while. In fact, people seemed to like the more rigid and consistent structure. Soon, however, the gap started to widen between the classes. The wealthy began to take more and more liberties, much to the middle and lower classes’ frustration. The complaints started pouring in from those who were being disadvantaged, but they were largely ignored. It got to the point where fights were breaking out in the streets. “Elected” officials couldn’t walk down the street without being accosted by the poor and depressed. Something had to be done!

The Tri-Realms were created from 215 PM to 255 PM. First the Moon Realm was excavated, using the advancements in mining technology to create massive caverns deep beneath the original caverns, to build more cities in. Natural caves were used as a starting point, widened and heightened to the extensive size required to house thousands of people. Heavy beams of rock were used to support the caverns’ roofs, which were prone to cave-ins. Middle and lower class citizens were used to do the work, having been convinced by large salaries and the opportunity to “advance our civilization for the good of humankind.”

Once the caverns were complete, the workers were forced to take their families to live in them. Then the work on the Star Realm began, digging even deeper below the earth’s surface. Fewer resources were allocated to excavating the Star Realm, and therefore, the caverns were smaller, more confined, more densely populated. The poorest citizens were sent to live in the deepest caverns.

The top level was given the name of the Sun Realm.

Each of the Tri-Realms was split up into eight chapters, and each chapter into between two and six subchapters depending on its size, each of which was populated by between ten and a hundred thousand people.

Over time, taxes were increased annually for the moon and Star Dwellers, as those living in the Moon and Star Realms were called, until the Sun Realm was receiving significant resources to improve their own caverns. Life was good for the Sun Dwellers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for anyone else.

The U.S. Constitution was legally abolished in 302 PM.

A Nailin has been in power for more than 350 years.

My father told my brother and me the whole story when we turned twelve. I still remember the smug smile on his face when he finished. He’s proud of what Wilfred accomplished.

I’m disgusted by it. Sometimes I think about it, and it makes me sick. Like now, lying in bed and wishing my mother was still around. I don’t know why I’m thinking about history right now, but I am.

Chapter One

Adele

Present day

Something’s happening to my body. There’s a dull ache in my skull and ripples of energy coursing down my spine. It all started when I saw him. I know I should hate him—everyone else around me does.

“Filthy mutt,” I hear one guy growl. “He should’ve stayed above.”

“Yeah,” another guy says. “I’m surprised he’s gettin’ his shoes dirty down ’ere with the rats.”

I’m sitting in the Yard. The Yard is what we call the expansive area outside the Pen’s main building, although I don’t know who came up with the name, because it makes no sense. There’s no yard, just barren rock. Real yards—with grass, bushes, and trees—are magical places that don’t exist in our world.

The high fence surrounding the prison buzzes with electricity and threatens us with barbed wire. Through the fence we can see our town, subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm. And the non-prisoners can also see us, the convicted.

Even as I stare at freedom through the fence, the feeling gets stronger, like a tingling in the back of my scalp; but it really hurts, too—achy and throbbing. I feel…I feel drawn to him, in the most painful of ways. Now wait just a minute before you judge me, it’s not love at first sight if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s something else entirely, but I don’t have a name for it. I’d like to think it’s magic, like in the illegal fantasy books my grandmother used to read me, but there’s no magic in the dark, underground world we live in. Nothing but rocks and electrified fences and pain.

The parade passes the Pen, just outside the fence, so close, making all kinds of noise: people cheering, drums thumping, dogs barking.

And Tristan, smiling and waving.

All the girls in my old school are in love with Tristan. Obviously, none of them know him, but like any male celebrity, he captures the attention of young, naïve females. But I’ve always hated him, because of what he represents.

Now, stuck in the Pen, it seems like an awfully big waste of energy—to hate the son of the president, who I don’t even know. Perhaps if I hadn’t hated him in the past, none of this would’ve happened. Perhaps my family would still be together. Maybe it was bad karma. But no matter how much I try to wish it all away, my past is the zit that you pop, watch bleed, watch heal, only to see poking from your skin again a week later.

Tristan is the polar opposite of a recurring blemish. Blond, curly hair. Seventeen but already over six feet tall. Strong, solid frame. A princely face. Big, navy blue eyes. An addictive smile, with right-sized lips and ivory teeth. My brain is telling me to stop staring at him, but for some reason I can’t, like the pain coursing down my spine is only tolerable if I continue facing him. He flashes a smile.

The throbbing grows duller in my head, the buzzing down my spine sharper. My body is telling me something. The pull toward Tristan is getting stronger and more painful. But why?

There are about a thousand of his adoring fans outside the Pen, lining the streets, screaming his name and throwing flowers at his car. I even see one of them chuck her undergarments at him.

“You like him, don’t you?” a voice says from behind.

I turn, unable to stop the look of surprise that blankets my face. A tall, thin girl stands before me. Her strangely white hair is long and straight, reaching all the way to the small of her back. She has porcelain features, as if her face was drawn on by an artist. I can’t help wondering what a beautiful girl like her is doing in a place like this.

“Can I help you?” I say, somewhat rudely.

“I’m Tawni,” the girl says, sticking out her hand.

I stare at her slender fingers like they’re a nest of snakes, hesitate, and then eventually take them. I shiver at her icy touch, but her handshake feels surprisingly firm for how thin she is.

“Sorry. Poor circulation,” she says.

I chew my lip, considering her. “Have a seat,” I finally say with a slight wave of my arm.

Flashing a grin, she takes a seat next to me on the rock bench. “Thanks,” she says.

I grin back. I can’t believe it. I’m actually smiling. Well, sort of. I think it’s a pathetic attempt, but at least my lips are curled up in a crooked, awkward, I-don’t-know-how-to-smile-for-pictures kind of way. You know, like those kids in Year Three who always end up with the worst yearbook photos? The ones with the crazy eyes and fake smiles. That’s me trying to smile at my new friend, Tawni.

“Are you going to answer my question or what?” she says.

I go back to chewing on my lip. “What question?” I say, feigning ignorance.

“C’mon,” she says. “Do you like Tristan or not?”

“I don’t know him,” I say neutrally, internally considering whether she’s one of his crazed fans, obsessive to the point of throwing underwear.

The parade passes slowly—Tristan will be out of sight in a few minutes, moving down another street, probably heading toward Moon Hall, where the local politicians gather to do whatever it is that they do. Mostly screw us over. I crane my neck, trying to get a final glimpse of his smile.

“I don’t think he’s a bad guy,” Tawni says.

“Mmm, really?” I say, only half listening.

“No. I mean his dad’s a jerk, but I don’t think kids should be judged by what their stupid parents do.”

My ears perk up. I glance at Tawni. Her slight grin has melted. Her lips are pursed and thin. If nothing else, her statement has piqued my interest in her. Where she comes from, who she is, what she’s done to land herself in this hellhole. And why she cares about what Tristan and his father do.

Tawni ignores my look and continues watching the parade, so I turn back, too. The lead car, in which Tristan is standing, is about to turn the corner. He’s waving to his fans, smiling his mesmerizing smile, and then…

…he looks at me.

Right at me, like his eyes are gun sights and I’m their target. Despite the distance, it’s like they pierce my soul, sending waves of energy up my back and through my neck, slamming into my brain like a freaking sledge hammer.

“Arrr!” I cry out, flinching. I tear my eyes away from him and settle my head in my hands, massaging my pounding temples.

“What is it?” Tawni asks, putting an arm on my back.

Ignoring her, I glance up at Tristan, who’s still looking my way. The pounding in my skull comes back in droves, but not quite as strong this time.

As I stare at him, his face changes. Gone is the smile. Gone are his piercing eyes. All swallowed up in a frown. At first I think I was rude, that I’ve stared too long, or too crazy, because of my weird spasm, but then I feel a presence approaching from the side—a dark shadow.

Not good.

Chapter Two

Tristan

It feels like something’s gnawing on my spine.

Then I see her and an agonizing pang rips through me, but I manage to keep the fake smile plastered on my face. She’s just a prisoner—nothing to me. A random, dark-haired prisoner. And yet I can’t pull my eyes away from her. She’s pretty hot, but not train-stopping hot. So why am I staring at her?

And is she staring back at me? No. Not really. Not just her. Everyone’s staring at me.

An ache in my bones, a knife in my back.

The sensation is growing stronger by the second. My jaw clenches as I try to stifle the scream rising from the back of my throat.

She’s still staring.

Something’s different about the way she looks at me. The only way to describe it is intensity. I’m used to people watching me, but they usually only do so in one of three ways. First are the obsessive girls, the stalker types, who want to marry me and have my babies and wait on me hand and foot for the rest of my life. I think I saw one of their undergarments fly past my head during the parade—that would’ve been from one of the obsessives. I tolerate them, but unlike my brother, do not enjoy their affections. Next are the admirers. They think I can do no wrong, and are generally old, gray men who look at me with a respect usually reserved for the dead. Not that I’ve earned it. I haven’t done anything; except be born. Last are the haters. Simply put: they hate me. Want me dead. Stare at me with steely eyes, like they think if they stare at me long enough I’ll spontaneously combust. They’re the ones who sit at home with voodoo dolls of me and my dad and my brother, poking and prodding and twisting with needles. Hoping we can feel what the dolls are feeling.

Is that what this pain is? Is this girl using a voodoo doll on me? I wouldn’t normally believe in that sort of thing, but…

My fists clench at my sides.

Her jet-black hair cascades around her face like a funeral shroud, and I find myself mesmerized. Her skin is a natural pale, the result of living underground her entire life, not like the fake-tanned bodies that parade around the Sun Realm. What the hell? Why do I care? She’s nobody to me!

And yet…yet I have this crazy urge to leap from the parade car and charge the electrified fence to get to her. It’s not love, it’s not lust—it’s something else.

There’s a flash of heat in my head, as my headache intensifies. I raise a startled hand to my scalp at the same time that she does. She’s not looking anymore, her head in her hands.

The parade car starts its slow arc around a bend; soon the Pen, and the girl, will be out of sight.

A big guy approaches the girl. His footsteps are malicious. His demeanor screams violence. Her hands are still covering her face. I have to warn her!

Look up, look up, LOOK UP!

She does, her eyes returning to mine.

Although I know I should make a warning motion of some sort, I don’t. Only my facial expression—a deep frown—alerts her to the impending danger.

Her eyes pull away and she sees the guy. My view is partially blocked by the edge of a building as the float turns the corner. Craning my neck, I see her twist away from the guy, say something to her friend. The guy says something to her. My view is nearly blocked. The headache rages in my skull.

She stands up and pushes him.

No! I scream in my head as subchapter 14 surrounds me. Then she’s gone. Although there’s nothing I can do now, my muscles are twitching, almost urging me to run to her, to save her, to do something crazy. It’s like I’ve lost control of my own body.

I fear for her, a girl I don’t even know.

Chapter Three

Adele

I turn my head and see a guy.

I’ve seen him around the Yard before. A teenager in a man’s body. Six-five, about two hundred and fifty pounds, covered in tats: he’s one of the local gang leaders. Not a good guy.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says.

I ignore him and look at Tawni, hoping he’ll pass straight by me. He doesn’t. Tawni’s wide eyes give away her fear.

“Hey,” he says.

I keep ignoring him.

“I said ‘Hey,’” he repeats.

“I heard you the first time.” I still don’t look at him, not wanting to inadvertently extend an invitation with eye contact. My head’s killing me. I’m really not in the mood.

“You should watch your mouth,” he says.

“And you should keep on walking,” I say.

He doesn’t. “I haven’t seen you around before,” he says.

“You must be blind. I’m here every day.”

“Nah, I would’ve noticed you for sure,” the gang leader says.

Tawni stares at me like I’m crazy. I’m looking at her, but talking to the guy. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Leave me alone.”

I finally swivel my head and make eye contact with him, giving him my iciest stare. I know he’s not scared of me, but I want him to decide I’m not worth the effort.

“Not gonna happen,” he says, moving in close to me.

Something inside me snaps. It probably doesn’t help that I’m in a fair amount of pain, lingering in my head, neck and back. I’m sick of people ruining my life, acting like they own me. He reminds me of the Enforcers who barged into our house and abducted my parents. Arrogant. Selfish.

I stand up, gritting my teeth, my eyes on fire. My fire-eyes barely reach his chest. His gray sweat-stained tunic is right in my face and makes me nauseous. I push him as hard as I can, which doesn’t do much, but moves him back a couple of steps. My hands are knotted into fists. I hold them out in front of me, ready for the guy’s response.

“You’re a real bitch,” he says. “And you smell like filth. See you around.” He slowly turns and saunters off, chuckling to himself.

I take a deep breath, trying to get control of my rage.

“That was amazing,” Tawni whispers from behind me.

I sit back down and try to relax my face as I look at her. Her eyes are still wide and white. “He’s a jerk,” I say through clenched teeth.

“A scary jerk,” she says. “That was awesome how you stood up for yourself.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Tawny shrugs. “Honestly, I probably would’ve tried to run away, or yell for help or something. Not fight—that’s for sure.”

Tawni’s eyes flick back to the fence and I follow her gaze. The parade. Tristan. I forgot all about him when the gang guy approached me.

But now Tristan is gone, the front of the parade having moved out of sight while I was dealing with the thug. With each passing second the throbbing in my head and pulsing in my spine seems to lessen. Weird.

“That was pretty weird.” Tawni echoes my thoughts, still looking past the fence.

“What was?” I say, glancing at her furtively. Did she notice how it hurt me when Tristan looked at me? Did she sense what I had? Had I imagined the look of concern on his face just before the confrontation with the gang guy, or had she seen it, too?

“I didn’t see many photographs being taken of Tristan during the parade. I thought the face-stealers would be out in full force.”

I roll my eyes at myself. Of course Tawni didn’t notice Tristan looking at me, hurting me with his stare. Probably because he didn’t. He’d probably just looked in our general direction, past us. He was probably frowning at all of us—at the criminals. Disgusted by us. Clearly he wasn’t warning me about the approaching gangster. And the pain? More likely a result of lack of sleep. There was another suicide last night, and the awful keening of the death toll cried out for more than two hours, keeping everyone awake.

Yeah, in reality Tristan probably didn’t even look at me. I might have seen his head turn in my direction, perhaps a random glance at best; certainly not the laser-beamed, tethered gaze that I’d obviously imagined.

But still. My body reacted strangely when I saw him, when he was near. It didn’t feel natural though. It’s like my mind knew to stay as far away from him as possible—he’s a Sun Dweller after all, one of the bad guys—but my bones, my skin quivered in his presence.

Very weird.

“Helloooo? Earth to…What’s your name anyway?” Tawni waves her hand across my face—apparently I’ve spaced out, lost in my own random thoughts.

“Adele,” I find myself saying, to my surprise. Giving my name away so easily like that—what am I thinking? Tawni is penetrating my social defenses faster than a mine cave-in swallows a trapped traveler.

“Well, Adele, it’s been a true pleasure meeting you and watching you handle that guy. Truly impressive, really. Would you like to dine with me and my friend Cole tonight?”

Dine? This girl has a funny way of speaking. Like she has no clue that we’re locked up in a juvenile detention center. And that we live underground. And that most of us will never get our freedom back. Certainly not me. Maybe she’s just a few days from being released, which would certainly explain why she seems so cheery. I hope so. If I can’t get out, at least someone I know can.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I say. “Thanks,” I add quickly, realizing how rude I sound.

“Great! Meet us in the northwest corner—we’ll reserve a table.”

There she goes again: speaking as if we’re going out to some fancy restaurant that accepts reservations. I shake my head and realize I’m smiling. Not my normal smile—no, I’m not ready for that yet—but slightly better than the crooked, awkward smile I attempted earlier. Maybe things are looking up for me. I’ve made a friend. At least, the closest thing to a friend I’ve had in a long time.

* * *

There are only two hours to kill before dinner, so I use the time to think. I start with the past—my happiest memories. My father coming home from a long day of work in the mines, filthy and dripping sweat, but bringing my sister and me a treat of some kind. Either a small gemstone that he’d smuggled out or a piece of candy he’d bought in town. He always seemed to have a twinkle in his eye and a bounce in his step, no matter how tired he was. Sometimes he even gave me a piggyback ride before he got cleaned up. My mother hated it when he did that, because then I’d have to take a bath before supper, too.

God, how I love my father.

I love my mother, too, but in a different way. She isn’t as playful as my father, is quicker to punish, and is less rebellious toward the Sun Dwellers. She says that it isn’t our place to tell the wise leaders—who’d gotten us through Year Zero, she likes to remind—how to run the government. I try to see her point, but it’s been nearly five hundred years since Year Zero, and all of the people from back then are long dead.

I shake my head and try to focus on the happy memories of my mom. When we’d cook radish stew together, play games of chess and checkers, watch the late-night news on our beat-up old telebox.

My mother is the most compassionate person I know. If someone in our neighborhood was sick, she was always the first to deliver a meal to them, using our already scant supplies to help out a friend. Sometimes I got mad at her, wished she wouldn’t do things like that, wished she wouldn’t give away our stuff. But I usually felt bad about my thoughts later on. In the deepest recesses of my soul I am always proud of her.

But as usual, my thoughts quickly do a one-eighty. Now I am thinking about all that has gone wrong, all that is bad. About the cruelty of life.

About how I’ve failed my parents. I don’t dare to hope that they’re still alive.

I think about all the waste in the world. Although we live underground now, we still require many of the same basic necessities humans have needed for decades. Toothpaste, for example, produced in a cave somewhere. The point is: we use up the toothpaste and then throw out the container. It is sent to the lava flow for destruction. Have human lives become like a tube of toothpaste? Something to be used up and thrown away? At first the tube seems so big, so full of life. But after just a few uses it becomes dented and lumpy—already life is ebbing away from it—and it’s only a matter of time before the final bit is squeezed out, rendering it an empty vessel, good for nothing.

I feel myself being squeezed out every day.

I try to distract my scattered thoughts, gazing up at the dimly lit cavern ceiling rising more than twenty stories above me. It’s weird being in the Pen, cut off from the town, and yet being able to see everything that the non-prisoners can see. From the Yard, I can see the same massive cavern that houses our town, the Pen, all of us. If I didn’t know it so well, the 14th subchapter might be a stunning sight, with an arcing roof coated by the glossy sheen of the panel lighting that controls our days and nights. The cavern was excavated more than two hundred years ago, and covers more than five square miles. Most of the rough and jagged rocks were smoothed over, huge stone support columns built, stone roads laid, and houses and buildings erected.

There’s a light commercial district, where goods can be bought, sold, and traded. Mostly they’re traded, because the wages are so low that money is short. I remember well the first money I ever had. My father saved for a month so he could give it to me on my tenth birthday. A single Nailin, bright and shiny and round. Printed with the face of the President. I stared at it for hours, trying to imprint its memory in my mind, for I knew it would soon be gone, wasted, on a silly dress I’d coveted for over a year. Every time I passed by the dress shop in town, I stopped to look at the dress. It was black and long, and would sweep the floor as I walked. The sleeves were sheer and translucent, elegant in their simplicity. Simple—that’s the way I like things. There were no frills, no laces, no bows—simple. I bought that dress with my first Nailin.

I outgrew it in three months. Funny the way the world works sometimes.

The pinnacle of the town, however, is the mine. All things considered, we are lucky. Many of the other subchapters in the Realm have mines, but none so valuable as ours. For ours is full of gemstones, raw and uncut—and worth a fortune to the Sun Dwellers. So you’d expect us to be a rich town. We should be, but once the taxes are taken out of the workers’ wages, it’s a pittance, barely enough to survive on.

When my father complained, they took him away. My mother, too, guilty by association. I was sent to the Pen and my sister to a crummy, broken-down orphanage. Yeah, life is good as a Moon Dweller.

Given my dark thoughts, I am glad when the two hours pass. I leave the Yard, weaving my way through the kids who are still lounging about. Some are clustered in groups, speaking in hushed whispers, trading pages of books for cigarettes, and cigarettes for socks, and socks for whatever else will help them forget they are prisoners, that their lives are forfeit. Others are sprawled out on the rock, sleeping their sentences away.

My headache is gone, I realize.

Inside the Pen it’s like a cattle call. Kids are pushing against each other in mob-like fashion, all trying to get to the cafeteria. Feeding time is about the only time any of the kids show any kind of energy. Also when they’re fighting. Interesting how both instances are a matter of survival.

I ease my way into the mash-up of bodies and manage to find a human flow that’s moving swiftly in the right direction, like a strong current in one of the many underground rivers of the Tri-Realms. Soon—after only a few minor collisions—I’m in the cafeteria.

Given the crowds, one might expect that the food is to die for. Perhaps it is a trendy new restaurant, one where you have to make a reservation, like Tawni suggested earlier. However, one bite of the lukewarm mashed potatoes or a spoon of the mystery stew is enough to clinch the notion that the executive chef would be much better suited to some other occupation—any other occupation. Seriously. It’s bad. Tasteless. Like eating a shoe. And not a new one. One that has been worn for years by someone who suffers from severe foot sweating.

But we have no choice. It’s the only show in town, a monopoly—on our stomachs. So we add lots of salt, which by some miracle they provide in plenty.

Once in the food line, I order—by pointing at things and grunting—a gob of something covered in brown gravy, a noodle dish that looks like dead worms, and a plastic cup of brownish water. Yum.

I find Tawni right where she said she’d be—at one of the corner tables. Most every table is already full, so I’m glad she arrived early enough to get it. Usually I just take my food outside, to eat alone in silence.

There’s a guy sitting across from her. He’s naturally dark-skinned, which is the only way to not have pale skin when you live underground; unless, of course, you reside in the Sun Realm, where tanning beds are a staple in every household.

He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off, highlighting his muscular arms. He’s tall, but not as tall as Tristan. Funny how I’m already comparing other guys to Tristan, like I even know him.

Tawni spots me and motions for me to join them. I manage to squeeze through the throng of eaters and slide onto the bench next to her.

“Hi!” she says brightly, like we’re just a bunch of friends going out to eat at our favorite haunt.

“Uh, yeah, hi.” I still can’t seem to remember how to speak like a normal human being. I glance at the black guy. He smiles.

“I’m Cole,” he says, extending a hand.

When he grasps my hand it disappears, as if it’s been swallowed by his enormous paw. I shake his hand firmly, trying to act tough, but to my surprise he doesn’t return my iron grip. Nor does his hand crumple under the raw power of my squeeze. It’s just sort of there. It’s like his hand absorbs my strength, simply by the sheer solidity of his bones. His hand is also somewhat tender and gentle, smooth and well cared for. Somewhat feminine, if I’m being honest. It’s a contradiction, which I’m always intrigued by. Like bittersweet chocolate, which, by the way, I’ve only tried once in my life when my dad gave me a square for my eighth birthday.

By just shaking Cole’s hand I’ve started to like him. Can it be: another friend? Two in one day? It’s like a Christmas miracle.

“I’m Adele,” I say, feeling quite gabby all of a sudden.

“I know,” he says. “Tawni told me. She said you’re a real badass.”

I feel my face flush slightly. “Oh. Not really. It was just some punk who’s all talk.”

“She told me who it was. He’s not all talk. I’ve seen him bust some heads before. You were lucky; you don’t want to mess with that dude.”

“I can take care of myself,” I say. I hear coldness creep into my tone. I grit my teeth and try to relax.

Cole shrugs. “If you say so. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Whatcha in for anyway?” he asks.

Geez, this guy cuts right to the chase. But I tell him anyway. “Mass murder. Got burned by the shallow graves—I knew I should have dug deeper.”

Cole doesn’t flinch. “Oh yeah?” he says. “Me, too. Weird coincidence, huh?”

My jaw drops open.

Cole grins. “Gotcha!” he says proudly.

I realize that, like me, he’s joking. The way he delivers the line, combined with his soft handshake, combined with the fact that I’m actually speaking to real humans for the first time in a long time, makes me completely miss his sarcasm. Me, the queen of sarcastic comments—self-declared—has been outsarcastified.

I grin at Cole. That’s when I notice the strength of his eyes. When I say strength, I mean strength. Most people talk about eye color when they talk about people’s eyes—I certainly do. And yes, Cole’s eyes are a beautifully warm shade of milky chocolate brown. But what I notice is what’s behind his eyes. It’s like he’s wearing steel-plated contacts. There’s no trace of nervousness, or fear, or worry, or any of those other feelings I constantly have; the feelings that lead my eyes to look away, to flutter, to close. Right away I know Cole is someone you can count on in the most dangerous situations.

“Nah, I’m not sarcastic at all,” Cole says. Again, I can’t detect even the slightest trace of sarcasm in his voice. He’s good, that’s for sure. I’ll have to listen closely whenever he speaks.

Despite having only just met these two people, barely spoken three sentences to either of them, I find myself opening up.

“I’m the daughter of a traitor,” I blurt out. “What about you?”

Tawni looks at Cole. Cole looks at Tawni. A thousand words seem to be conveyed by their simple eye contact. Are they considering whether to trust me?

Finally, Tawni turns back to me. “Well, you’ve got us beat,” she says. “I got caught trying to travel interdistrict without a travel card, and Cole here stole a couple of loaves of bread to feed his starving family.” Something about the way she delivers the information, so matter-of-factly, almost makes it sound like a well-rehearsed line. But before I consider it further, Cole plows ahead.

“It was six loaves of bread,” he says, “which, let me tell ya, are hard to carry when you don’t have a bag and you’re in a hurry. When my family didn’t have anything to eat for three nights in a row, I came up with a plan. I was so stressed that sweat was dripping off my forehead and into my eyes. I could barely see when I smashed the bakery window. My hands were sweaty, but somehow I managed to grab the six loaves. Someone shouted at me—an Enforcer, I think—and I started running. Right away one of the loaves slipped out of my fingers. I grabbed for it, but that made another one slip, then another. Soon I was juggling the bread, batting it up in the air over my head. I did pretty well, too, keeping all six up in the air for like five seconds before one fell. My luck didn’t get much better at that point. I slipped on the loaf, which, for your information, was about as slippery as a banana peel, and went down hard. They brought me here.”

I almost want to laugh. Cole has a twinkle in his eyes, so I don’t think he’ll mind. But laughter is still coming hard for me, so I just smile lightly. “Truth,” I say, starting a game that has the potential to last for a long time.

Cole grins. “Correct,” he says. “As stupid a way as that was to end up in the Pen, it’s all true.” I’m starting to get a better read on him, noticing subtle things like the way his bottom lip pouts slightly when he’s being honest. His eyes are always the same, though, like metal, so I won’t be able to use them to read him, like you can with most people.

“How long you in for?” Tawni asks me.

I raise my eyebrows. “How long?” I parrot.

“Yeah, you know,” Tawni says, “a year, two years, what?”

“Try forever,” I say.

Cole stares at me. “Truth,” he says.

“No, that can’t be right,” Tawni says. “Lie. She’s messing with us.”

With tight lips I shake my head. “Not a lie. They told me rebelliousness is passed through blood, genetically, like eye color or being able to snap your fingers. They won’t ever let me out. I mean, when I turn eighteen I’ll move out of this place and into an adult facility—probably the Max, in the Star Realm—but I’ll never have my freedom again.”

Leave it to me to put a damper on my first meal with my two new friends. But they did ask, and I wasn’t about to lie. I expect them to shun me, to get up and leave, like just being in my presence will add years to their own sentences. They don’t.

Cole says, “That’s horse manure. I’ll never go for that.”

He says it in such a way that I know he’s dead serious, as if he’s already made up his mind to do something about it. Not that he can. If he tries anything he’ll just end up with his own life sentence.

“There’s nothing you can do,” I say.

“There has to be something,” Tawni says. The way she emphasizes the word something, I know she isn’t talking about legal methods.

“No, there’s not,” I say adamantly. “You guys barely know me and you’ll just screw up your own chances. When do you get out anyway?”

Cole looks at Tawni and motions with his head. She answers for them both. “I’m out in six months and Cole’s out in a year.”

I nod. Even their sentences seem exceptionally harsh considering their crimes, but they sound a whole lot better than mine. In a year they’ll both be out of the Pen, able to make their own decisions again, even if under the increasingly intolerant oppression of the government.

I’m glad when Tawni changes the subject. She says, “Wasn’t it weird today how Tristan looked at you?” My breath catches in my lungs. So she did notice.

I look at Cole. “Tawni told me about that, too,” he says, “but I want to hear it from you.”

“I thought it was all in my head,” I say, feeling my face go slightly warm again. One negative of having highly pale skin is that a blush stands out like a hairy wart on a nose.

“No—it wasn’t,” Tawni says. “It was like all the crowds and everything else just disappeared, and Adele and Tristan were the only people left. I could almost see his laser eyes touching you, caressing you…”

“Tawni!” I shout, ignoring a couple of strange glances from the other eaters. “It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t feel any…touching.” I say the last word like it’s something disgusting, like moldy bread, crinkling my nose and curling my lip. “But I did notice him looking at me.”

“You see? I told you, Cole. But it hurt you, didn’t it?” she asks. When my eyes widen, she says, “You cried out. You were holding your head.”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just had a headache.”

She shrugs, as if she’s satisfied, but I get the feeling that she and I both know it was much more than just a headache.

Chapter Four

Tristan

My meetings with the leaders of the Moon Realm pass torturously slowly. Although I’m barely listening, by the end of the day I’m so annoyed with the leaders kissing my hind parts that I want to scream.

As the rough gray cavern walls flash past on either side during the train ride back to the Sun Realm, I think about when my next scheduled visit to the Moon Realm is. Not for months, I realize. All the key contracts are signed. The Moon Dwellers will slave away for another year, providing sustenance to the lazy Sun Dwellers, for a measly wage of five Nailins a day; all because of the lopsided contract my father forced their leaders to sign. You’d think that as son of the President there’d be something I could do to help. There’s nothing. I’m merely a puppet, sent across the Tri-Realms to collect signatures and smile for the cameras. All the real negotiations are performed by my father, behind closed doors—and he always gets what he wants.

I have to find an excuse to go back to the Moon Realm. To find out what happened to the mysterious headache-inducing dark-haired girl. I have no choice in the matter; an unseen force drives me. I wonder if I would feel this strongly if she hadn’t been in danger when I saw her. If we’d only looked at each other, would I have simply shrugged her off as just another beautiful girl? I don’t know the answer to my own question, but my every instinct is urging me to find her.

But it’s more than that. It’s not only that she was in danger that interests me. It’s the way she handled herself. With confidence, with strength. Different from the girls in the Sun Realm, who can’t seem to do anything for themselves.

And I need to know why my body reacted the way it did when I saw her. Was it simply a strange seventeen-year-old hormonal response to a pretty face? Seems farfetched given how many pretty girls I see every day, each of whom try to throw themselves at me. But it’s even more farfetched to think of alternative reasons for the stabbing pain in my spine, for the thundering headache in my skull. Both of which, by the way, disappeared soon after she disappeared from sight.

Another question pops into my head: Does she hate me like so many other Moon Dwellers do? Just because I’m the son of the president?

She probably does. Not that I would blame her. We call ourselves a democracy, but rule like a dictatorship. The title of President for my father should’ve been replaced with something else long ago. King, Master, Czar…something. If I lived in the Moon or Star Realms, I would probably rebel against my father, against the Sun Dwellers. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a major rebellion, at least not in my lifetime. The last time it happened was the Uprising in 475 PM, but it was quashed by my father’s troops in less than a year. Another rebellion is my father’s greatest fear, and yet he takes liberties away from the moon and Star Dwellers as easily as he shakes out stones from his shoes. I hate him for it.

“Sir?” I hear someone say. It’s my servant, Roc. He’s staring at me strangely.

I look around and realize the train has stopped. “Oh, we’re here,” I say, jumping up.

Roc escorts me out of the first-class car and onto the palace grounds. Everything’s brighter here, nothing like the gloominess of the Moon Realm. We’re still underground, yes, but the entire roof glows brightly, illuminating the massive cave network. It’s all part of the distinction between the Realms. Electricity is strictly rationed, such that the Sun Realm receives eighty percent of it, of course, with a paltry fifteen percent going to the Moon Realm, and a measly five percent to the Star Dwellers.

At least those are the published figures. In reality, I know that closer to ninety-five percent of all energy goes to the Sun Dwellers, allowing us to live like kings. Not that we are—there are no kings in a democracy.

“Your father requests your presence immediately,” Roc says as we walk.

“Of course he does,” I say. To any other servant, I’d probably sound smug, self-righteous, like I’m pleased my father has requested my audience. But not to Roc. He knows I’m being sarcastic. Roc’s more than just a servant. He’s my friend—maybe my only one. In public I’m forced to treat him as I would any servant, because to my father anything else would be a sign of weakness.

But in private we’re best friends. We’ve grown up together, after all. Before he reached the age of accountability—eight years old—we played every day together. He loved my mother, too. Sadly, Roc’s mother died giving birth to him. But my mom adopted him, treated him just as well as my brother and I. Kissing him goodnight, taking him on our adventures, giving him presents on the day of the Sun Festival: Roc was like a third son to my mom…and is like a second brother to me.

Roc grins. “We’ll try to get out of there fast, sir. If we have time afterwards, can I have another lesson?”

I grin back. A few months prior, Roc requested that I teach him to fight. Swords, guns, battleaxes, knives—that sort of thing. I gladly agreed. It was just another chance to disobey my father. He doesn’t want Roc and me to be friends. The servant/master code is far too important to him. Even Roc’s father, who is my father’s chief servant and has known my father for years, isn’t a friend to him.

“Absolutely,” I say. “We’ll keep focusing on swords—because they’re useful and awesome.”

We reach the palace garden. Creating and maintaining the underground garden costs more in a month than the entire population of Star Dwellers earns in a year. It isn’t possible without the sun-like technology that was invented decades earlier. Not that my father cares. Ignoring the insane cost, the garden is extraordinary. Pillars of perfectly pruned green hedges frame the entrance. Hundreds of varieties of flora and fauna are meticulously maintained by the garden staff, providing splashes of color throughout the garden’s boundaries. The garden looks weird inside the massive cavern.

I always loved the palace garden growing up. Running around in bare feet on the soft, lush lawns, playing hide-and-go-seek around the bushes and trees, Roc and I pretending we were palace guards as we charged through the garden, fighting off marauders with our invisible swords. Now, like most things in the Sun Realm, I hate the garden. For me the garden is just another reminder of how unfair the world that my father governs is. The world that I am meant to inherit, being the eldest son.

Perhaps it’s my mother’s influence, but I can never be the man my father wants me to be.

We walk quickly through the garden, like we always do.

Along the way we pass many people. Most of them are servants, who acknowledge me with a slight bow, which I ignore—another one of my father’s requirements. But some of them are palace guests—Sun Dwellers. Those are the ones I most like to look at. Because they look ridiculous. The current fashion is to wear bright colors, and the Sun Dwellers take it to the extreme, wearing gaudy red and pink tunics with blue and green polka dots. But compared to the hats, the tunics are tame. There are hats of all shapes and sizes, some glittering, some sparkling, some shimmering with diamonds and pearls, or stuck with feathers like a bird. All worth laughing at. Time and time again I’m forced to hide my amusement as I’m greeted by men, women, boys, and girls, all seeking “just a moment of your time.” It’s a wonder we ever make it to the palace.

By the time we do, the sun is waning in the west. Or at least that’s how some of the books my mom used to read to me described the sunset. In the Sun Realm, the artificial sun is just slowly dimmed, to simulate nightfall.

In reality, it’s always night in the caves.

My father is waiting, keeping court in his throne room—I mean meeting room. He’d have to be a king to get a throne.

“You’re late,” he says.

He’s wearing a spotless white tunic with shimmering gold embroidery along the seams. His gray goatee is groomed to perfection, no doubt trimmed twice already that day by a servant. Probably by one of the two pretty little things that stand by his side now, ready for his next command. They’re both blonde and deeply tanned, wearing tight, black tunics cut off well above the knees. The V-necks reveal just how mature they are. It’s all part of my father’s dress code for the female servants. Roc’s father excepted, all of my father’s personal servants are women—as beautiful as they are sleazy. I suspect they do a lot more for him than just iron his tunics and trim his beard.

“I was delayed by some journalists who wanted some quotes for tomorrow’s paper,” I say flatly.

“Sir,” my father says simply.

I sigh. “Sir,” I repeat. Another one of my father’s pet peeves.

“And everything else went according to schedule?” he says.

“Yes. Next year’s contracts with the Moon Realm have been finalized under the terms you stipulated…” I pause…one beat, two. My father drums his fingers on his wooden armrest impatiently. “Sir,” I say finally, enjoying my little game. I don’t dare to openly rebel against my father, but I can still have a bit of fun.

“Good,” my father says. “Is that everything?”

I nod.

Without waiting for his permission, I turn on my heel and march off, with Roc in tow. I hear my father say, “You may go,” as I walk away. It’s his lame attempt to show off his power in front of his Barbie Doll servants.

When we are out of eyesight and earshot, Roc says, “You really shouldn’t push him like that.”

I sigh. “I know, I know.” Roc is usually right. Flashing a grin, I say, “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“It’s the little things in life,” Roc says, smiling. His dark features look even darker as shadows fall upon the palace.

“Like swords?” I say.

“Yes!” Roc says, a bit too loudly. A passing servant woman glares at him. Mrs. Templeton—the palace housekeeper. She’s a nasty one.

We make our way through the business end of the palace and into the residential quarters. The change in décor is like night and day. The government side is stark and official-looking, everything clean-cut, free of clutter, and stamped with the symbol of the Sun Realm—a fiery red and orange sun with wavy heat lines wafting to the sides. The living quarters still feel a bit too posh and sterile, but at least there are a few personal touches, all of which my mother added before she disappeared.

There’s the family portrait on the entry room table. Normally, I wouldn’t have any interest in a family photo. But this one I love, because it presents our family in such an honest light. My brother and I look bored, restless, with tousled hair and cheeky grins. My mother has her arm around the both of us, pulling us into her side. About a foot away, on her other side, is my father, not looking happy at all. The cameraman snapped the photo a split-second before he was able to turn on his friendly-President face, as I like to call it. You know, the one that’s so obviously fake it’s painful to watch. The kind of face you just want to slap.

After that photo was taken, my father’s face went all red and he looked like he was ready to slug the photographer. But my mom managed to soothe him, rubbing her hand on his back and telling him how she liked the photo, how she wanted to keep it. That was back when she still had some power over him.

Somehow she convinced him to display the photo prominently in our home. After she disappeared, I expected him to take it down. But either he’d grown to like it (which I doubt) or he’d forgotten it was even there (more likely). And so it remains, making me smile every time I pass by.

A part of me clings to the hope that my father kept the photo there because he misses her, wants to remember her, but the more grownup part of me knows better. Before my mother vanished, there was no love between them. It was purely another of my father’s business relationships, using my mother for the sole purpose of demonstrating stability at the top of the government.

At some point in my parents’ relationship there must have been love—at least from my mom’s side—but I don’t think it lasted very long. As far back as I can remember he had the young, scantily clad servant girls. As a kid I thought they were just fun little helpers who giggled and helped my dad around the office. Almost like elves. That is one fantasy I wish I hadn’t outgrown. The truth is far too sickening.

Roc is saying something. “Huh?” I say.

He repeats himself. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”

Roc’s words sound cryptic, but I know exactly what he’s talking about. My mother’s disappearance. Two years ago, but still as fresh in my memory as if it was yesterday.

“I wasn’t thinking about that.” Well, not really. But it is on the fringe of my thoughts; it is always there, buzzing around the edge of my consciousness, suffocating my heart.

“It doesn’t matter what you were thinking,” Roc says. “I know you still blame yourself.”

I don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to dredge up the memories again—they’re too painful. I’m fine to just let her memory cling to the edges of my mind where maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to face them. Sometimes talking to Roc is like talking to a shrink, only without the comfy couch to lie on.

“Not now, Roc,” I say.

“Then when?” he asks.

“Maybe never,” I say honestly.

Roc stops, grabs my shoulders with both hands, forces me to look at him. His dark eyes are serious. “Blaming yourself is like a curse eating you from within, a rogue virus, cancerous and poisonous. It will drive you mad if you let it. You’re my friend and I hate to see you like this. And your mother would hate to see her disappearance cause you to self-destruct.”

I expected Roc to say something cliché like Blaming yourself won’t bring her back, Tristan, but instead, his words are like darts embedding themselves in my chest. I don’t want to let him down. Nor my mother. But I can’t help it. The pain is more than I can bear. The what-ifs are a cancer, like Roc said. What if I was a better son? What if I’d stood up to my father? What if I’d been with her on the day she disappeared, refusing to let her out of my sight? Would everything be different then? Would we be a happy little family?

I want to believe the answer is yes, but in my heart I know it isn’t so. Accepting that fact will set me free. But I can’t…or won’t.

Not that it matters. I will hang on to the what-ifs and continue to blame myself regardless of whether I truly believe I had any influence on the events that transpired.

There isn’t much to believe in these days. I once believed in the love of a mother, but then she left me. I used to believe in honor, in chivalry, in the power that one person has to enact real, positive change in the world. My mother taught me all that. It vanished when she did.

Now all I believe in is pain.

Pain is the great equalizer, the cure to mental anguish, the antidote for a hopeful heart. It comes in all different forms—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. Most days I like physical the best, choosing to throw myself into my training with unbridled aggression. I make my challenges impossible, sometimes facing twenty or more opponents simultaneously. And because I’m the President’s son, they have to obey me, have to attack. At first they’re timid, afraid to bruise me, but after taking a whack or two from the broadside of my steel blade they change, becoming more ferocious than attacking lions.

I still have scars from those training sessions.

The beauty of physical pain is that it wipes out the other forms of pain. Not necessarily completely or for an extended period of time, but long enough to grant a reprieve from my tortured mind and soul.

“On guard!” Roc yells, his teeth clenched together like a wild beast. He’s realized I’m not going to speak to him about my mother. I’m glad he’s given up for the time being. His new approach: beat it out of me.

I don’t even have my weapon yet, but it doesn’t matter. Roc’s clumsy swings feel like they’re in slow motion, coming in at awkward angles, without any attempt to hide his intentions: he’s going for my head. He’s probably trying to knock some sense into me.

He knows better than that—I’ve taught him better. Feinting is as important as the actual attack. Disguising one’s intent is the key to fighting. But he’s on a mission. I know it’s because he cares about me—wants better for me—that he’s trying to crack me across the skull.

Not today.

I spin to the left and drop to a roll, hearing Roc’s wooden blade crash thunderously into the wall behind me. When I fight my senses seem to magnify. I’m looking in the other direction, reaching for my own practice blade, grasping it, but I can picture Roc’s blade rebounding off the wall, him repositioning his feet like I’ve taught him, his next swing…

I whirl around just in time, catching the tip of his sword low on my own. Thud! The sound is dull and won’t carry past the walls. We fight with wooden practice swords in the privacy of my room because no one can ever know I’m training my servant to fight. It’s nearly as effective as using metal practice swords out in the yard—I can teach him the proper technique, the footwork, the positions—but I know at some point we’ll need to find a place to practice with real swords. If he’s to get any better, that is.

Instinct takes over. That and years of the highest quality training that money can buy. Without thinking, I bend my knees, straighten my back, keep my hips aligned with my shoulders. Roc attempts to do the same, but in the wall-length mirror I can see that next to me he looks amateurish, awkward.

I’m not being vain. Just realistic. Roc needs lots of work on his posture. I can help with that. But not today. Today is about passionate fighting. At least for Roc. Me, I’m calm, unemotional, businesslike. Just like I’ve been taught.

I easily parry Roc’s next three attempts at taking my head off, and then duck the fourth, moving in close to his body and elbowing him hard in the chest. One of the most important lessons in sword fighting—especially for real, life or death, fight-like-there’s-no-tomorrow sword fighting—is to use all parts of your body. Most people assume that because you have a pointy sword you should use it exclusively. Not so.

With a grunt, Roc goes down hard. Lucky for him he crashes onto my bed, ruffling the perfectly ironed red comforter. One thing Roc has going for him is his athleticism. While not trained in the art of fighting, or of swordplay, he has a natural speed and quickness that is particularly effective on the defensive side. His speed temporarily saves him from another defeat at my hands.

After crushing him with my elbow, I continue surging forward, following him onto the bed and attempting to get the point of my dull wooden blade under his chin and against his neck, which is the requisite for victory.

He recovers beautifully, executing a graceful backwards roll, and manages to maintain his grip on the sword. He lands on his feet on the other side of the bed, grinning slightly. His brown skin is shining with sweat under the soft lantern glow. Outstretching his off-sword hand, he flicks his fingers back toward himself, as if to say, “C’mon, bring it!”

I bring it. I launch myself over the bed, pointing my sword forward like a battering ram. Roc is forced to jump backwards, which allows me to land on my feet and go on the offensive. I feint hard to the left and Roc completely buys it. When I go right he’s left exposed. I connect sharply under his ribs and then whip a leg behind his knees, sweeping him off his feet. He smashes onto his back, losing his sword in the process. When he reaches for it, I step on the wooden blade.

He gives me a wry grin.

I give him my hand.

Big mistake.

He grabs my hand and pulls hard, throwing off my center of gravity and forcing me over the top of him. Although I’ve been trained to maintain a firm grip on my sword at all times, even to the detriment of the rest of my body, it’s difficult to do in real life when every instinct is telling you to release your sword and use your hand to break your fall.

I practically throw my sword across the room. By the time I stop my fall and start moving to recover my sword, Roc’s quickness gives him the advantage. He already has his own sword in one hand, and mine in the other.

“A little cheap, but a victory nonetheless,” I say.

“My first one, sir,” Roc says, laughing.

I hate losing, but I laugh, too. Roc knows I hate it when he calls me sir in private. It’s his way of getting even with me for my unwillingness to talk about my feelings.

“Thanks, Roc,” I say, feeling a stronger bond with him than I’ve felt for anyone in a long time. Without him I’m not sure where I would be. A wreck for sure. Well, at least more of a wreck than I already am.

For no reason at all, an image flashes through my mind: the black-haired girl sitting on the stone bench; her sad, sad eyes; the eternal gulf between us bridged when our eyes meet. Then her fists are out to fight the ogre. Bone-crushing pain surges in my head.

That’s when I pass out.

Chapter Five

Adele

A riot breaks out as I make my way back to my cell. That’s the way things work in the Pen. You’re minding your own business and then you’re in the middle of a brawl. Like the one I’m in now.

A fist the size of a miner’s hammer bashes the side of my skull, forcing my eyes shut and sending stars dancing across my field of vision. When my sight returns, I see what hit me. Wielded by a tattooed mountain, the clenched fingers are like a wrecking ball, colliding with anything and everything in their destructive path. And I’m in the way.

I can fight the guy, but he isn’t even fighting me. He’s just fighting in general, swinging at anything that moves.

Each time I try to push through the human net surrounding us, claw-like hands force me into the center. Ducking under another arc of human flesh and bone, I fire back, aiming my own punch at his ribs. When I connect, tendrils of pain rip through my hand and explode up my forearm. I know how to punch, but for a moment I think I’ve punched the stone wall by mistake. The steroidal teenage mountain looms over me, finally focusing his violence on a single target: me. I’m in way over my head.

His fist is the size of a basketball as it cuts toward my face. There’s no time to move. I close my eyes.

I hear a groan before I’m knocked to the floor by a big body, but my head doesn’t hurt. When I open my eyes I’m surprised to see darkness on top of me. And then I’m pulled to my feet by Cole, who charges through the impenetrable human blockade, tossing surprised bodies to either side as he pulls me to safety.

We race down a hall and pass by guards who are striding in the other direction, their eyes sparkling with excitement, their knuckles white and gripping clubs and Tasers. They like when there are riots. It means they get to satisfy their lust for blood.

We turn a corner and nearly run into Tawni, who’s galloping toward us. Her eyes start on me, but then flick to Cole and widen. “Are you okay?” she says, lifting a hand to his face.

I follow her gaze to Cole’s eye, which is already swollen. I realize that the reason my head isn’t hurting is because Cole’s is. He took the hit for me, and took it well. I’ve been protecting myself for so long it feels weird to have someone else do something for me.

“I’m fine,” Cole says, pulling Tawni’s hand away from his face.

“Thanks, but—” I start to say.

“No problem.”

“I wasn’t finished. Thanks, but I could’ve handled him on my own. I know how to look after myself.” I’m being a brat, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

Cole half-grins, half-grimaces. “Sure,” he says.

“No, really, I was fine,” I say. “I know how to fight.”

“If you say so,” Cole replies. “It just looked like that dude was gonna make mincemeat out of your face, but next time I guess I won’t bother…”

I take a deep breath, try to stop being the cold, isolated person I’ve become. “Sorry…I mean…thanks. Yes, thank you—that’s what I meant to say.”

“No problem,” Cole repeats. “Now we better get into our cells before that riot spills out this way.”

I know he’s right because I can hear the roar of chaos growing louder. I don’t know what else to say, so I leave them and head back to my lonely cell.

* * *

The sunlight retreats along the white windowsill. With each passing minute, the shadows lengthen, until the light gives way to a troubled darkness, gray and soggy. The dark clouds challenge the omniscient sun, and the clouds prevail, like a black-armored army descending upon a shining and pure city of light. Skeins of rain beat upon the panes of glass. Moisture splutters under the base of the barely opened window, leaving the painted sill slick and wet. A few drops gather and push forward to the edge, slipping off and onto the plush brown carpet.

If only.

I wish that’s what I am seeing. Only I’ve never seen sunlight. Or sunshine, or sunbeams, or even a ray of sun. Those are just words in books—not real. Nor have I seen rain—or clouds, for that matter. Like sunlight, those are things of myth and legend. As told by my grandmother, who was told by her mother—a story passed down for generations. Not even my father has seen the sun. Or my father’s father. Or my father’s father’s father. You get the picture.

But no, I’m not seeing rain, or clouds, or much of anything. Just the inside of my pitiful gray cell inside the Pen. The walls are made of stone. And the ceiling. And the floors. Even the bed. Shocking, I know. It seems that everything in my world is made of stone.

Weird that we’re called Moon Dwellers, when none of us have even seen the moon, much less dwelt on it. We’re still stuck on earth. Well, not on earth so much as in it, at least a mile below the deadly surface. I’m not sure who the idiot was who decided to call us Moon Dwellers, but I’d guess he or she was a Sun Dweller. It seems that most of the dumb ideas come from them. In school they told us that the logic behind the names is related to how bright each light source appears in the sky. For example, the sun appears the brightest—at least that’s what we’re told and how it looks in the pictures—and therefore, those nearest to the surface should be called Sun Dwellers. We’re next and are like the moon, second brightest. At the bottom, of course, are the Star Dwellers, miles from the earth’s surface. I also heard that there are some references to this kind of thing in the Bible, too, but I’ve never read it so I’m not sure if it is true. Bottom line: I think the names are stupid.

I’d prefer them to be called Deep, Deeper, and Deepest.

No matter how they spin things, it’s a class system, one predicated on those at the top being worth more than those at the bottom. My grandmother said the distinctions between the classes are more obvious in our world, but that it had been the same when people lived above the earth, only no one talked about it as much.

I’ve also heard stories about how the Sun Realm has buildings made of wood, a substance that comes from the trunks of trees. I’ve only seen pictures of trees. Old pictures saved from up above. Or pictures my grandmother drew for me based on what her mother told her. They have all kinds of plants up there, or so people say. It’s almost like they are living aboveground, with a synthetic sun, fake rain, and artificial stars that come out at night. Why they are so privileged, I may never know. I grit my teeth and try to think about something else.

My thoughts turn to my new friends, Cole and Tawni. With their sudden entrance into my life, I now have puzzles to solve. Clearly they haven’t told me everything. I mean, who would? They’ve just met me, barely know me. I certainly haven’t told them everything about my past, although I’ve told them a lot more than I planned to. Something about the way they looked at each other tells me there’s more to their story than they’ve let on.

An electronic voice blares through the speaker in my ceiling. “All guests are in their rooms. Lights out in exactly five minutes.”

I roll my eyes like I usually do when I hear the announcement. They’re always trying to make us feel better about our situation. It’s like just because we’re juveniles, the so-called adults can’t be honest with us. Guests? Really? We’re locked up, our freedoms restricted beyond recognition. Everyone knows we’re inmates, plain and simple.

And rooms? Come on. I look around my “room” as if I’m seeing it for the first time. No windows. A thin slat in the door is used to let air in and to speak through. It’s a cell. Sometimes I awake from a restless sleep and find the walls closing in on me, threatening to suffocate me, crush me. Sometimes I wish they would.

I’ve heard they named it the Pen after the word playpen, like a young child’s little safety enclosure, full of toys and bright-colored bobbles and trinkets. But it just makes me think of the longer version of the word it’s really short for: penitentiary.

I’m not sure whether they sugarcoat everything to help us sleep at night, or to help them sleep at night. Either way, it’s a waste of time.

The lights go out and I’m thrust into abject darkness.

I learned in school about the biological changes that humans have slowly undergone, generation after generation, since moving underground. We gained improved night vision due to long exposure to dim or no lighting. Our senses of hearing and smell have been heightened, making us less reliant on our slightly improved sight. Our skin has become paler and dustier. Human lungs are now more resistant to the constant intake of rock dust. Evidently, average life expectancies are about twenty years shorter than when humans lived aboveground, but no one really talks about it. Long story short: we’ve adapted, for better or worse.

Having a sudden urge, I manage to half-roll off the thin padding on my stone cot and stumble to the corner, where there’s a small hole in the floor. I squat and manage to relieve myself before collapsing back into bed.

In the dark, I bend my legs and flex them at the knees a few times, trying to get some feeling back. My eyes are quickly adjusting to the dark and I can just make out the faint outline of the slot in the door. I close my eyes but sleep continues to evade me.

Finally, I fall asleep.

* * *

My body’s convulsing, shaking uncontrollably, rattling my teeth as I make an unearthly, high-pitched noise. Tristan’s standing nearby, just watching.

I wake up, not shaking, not screaming. Just a dream. Just a dream.

Once more, I drift off to sleep.

* * *

The lights blink on and the computer voice screeches through the speaker. “Good morning. All guests may now exit their rooms for the day,”—I hear the click of the lock on my door—“breakfast will be served in the cafeteria.” As if it would be served anywhere else.

I lie in bed for a few minutes, blinking, trying to remember the strange dream that woke me in the middle of the night. I can’t. It’s like the dream has been permanently deleted from my memory. Logically, I know what the dream was about—me being in pain, Tristan watching—but I can’t seem to remember the feelings from it.

I sigh, not because I remember the dream, but because I forget it. Swinging my legs over the bed, I force myself up. Some days I feel like staying in bed all day, but that’s not permitted. One of the stewards—their name for prison guards—will eventually come and make me leave my cell, by force if necessary. It isn’t worth the hassle.

I go through my morning routine—use the “bathroom,” do a few stretches, feel sorry for myself—and then exit my “room.” First stop is the washroom. To my surprise, I find myself hoping—almost wishing—that Tawni will be in there. It feels weird looking forward to seeing someone again. Especially someone in the Pen. All the people I usually want to see are on the outside, or more likely, dead. Like my sister, who I hope is still alive.

The washroom has a few toilets, but I prefer the hole in my floor, because none of the stalls have doors. There are no mirrors—no one cares about their appearance in the Pen—and a simple trough-style basin covers one whole wall.

A bunch of girls are already using the trough: washing their faces, combing their hair with their fingers, brushing their teeth. The Pen management provides loads of crappy, gritty toothpaste, but no toothbrushes, so we’re forced to use our fingers. I scan the line of girls, looking for Tawni’s long, white hair.

She isn’t here.

I feel a bump from behind as another girl pushes past me and into the washroom. “Move it,” she says. Evidently I’m standing in the doorway. Even still, a simple “Excuse me” would’ve done the trick.

I go to work on my teeth, rubbing hard with my index finger to clean off the stale saliva still inhabiting my mouth. I rinse my mouth out with a swish of brown water from the rusty faucet. I can never understand why all the water in the Pen is brown. It’s like they purposely add dirt to it. Most of the water in the Moon Realm—or at least our subchapter—is clear, having been filtered naturally as it flows through the rocky tunnels around us. It’s just another way to punish us, I guess.

I skip a shower, because I’m really not in the mood to be naked in front of a bunch of other girls—there are no private showers in this hotel. Plus, we run out of hot water in about two minutes, so unless you’re the first one in, you have to shiver under the cold, drippy showerhead. Needless to say, I’ve reduced my standards on hygiene to about two showers a week, and quick ones at that. No one really notices the smell, though, because we all smell equally nasty. Freshly showered, smelling like soap, you’d actually stick out like a clown at a funeral.

I go to find Tawni, or Cole, or both.

I guess that they’ll be hungry, like me. I find them before I make it to the cafeteria. As I push through the crowds of kids, all zigzagging in different directions, I spot Tawni’s white hair next to Cole’s dark skin. The contrast is stark.

They’re slightly apart from the mob of bodies, against the wall, leaning in close to each other. Their heads are together and their lips are moving, like they’re whispering. It seems like such a funny place to have a secret conversation, but no one seems to notice. I remember something my dad used to say about how sometimes it’s best to hide in plain sight. It’s like that now. If they were further away from the crowds, crouching behind some rock in the Yard, or tucked away behind a door, they probably would’ve drawn everyone’s attention. Instead, they’re invisible.

I move closer, staying behind a really big guy who’s lumbering along in front of me. Next to Tawni is a janitor’s closet. The door is slightly ajar and I manage to slip from behind the big guy and into the closet. Out of the crowded hallway I can hear much better and, because they’re next to the wall, their voices are amplified and projected into my hiding place. I push my hair away from my ear and listen intently, trying to pick up every word.

Tawni says, “I know what I saw. He looked at her—no, it was more than that: he stared at her, right at her. You should’ve seen the way she screamed out in pain.”

Cole’s deep voice grumbles through the door. “What the hell does that even mean? That he’s got some sort of mental powers? Hurts people with his mind?”

“I don’t know,” Tawni says.

“What difference would it make? He’s a creep anyway. Just like his father. He comes down here and parades himself around, flaunts his power, allows his ugly mug to be put on every Sun Dweller magazine.” My nostrils flare suddenly and I feel my face go red, heating up. It’s anger. Directed at Cole for the things he’s saying about Tristan. They haven’t said any names but it’s obvious who they’re talking about. Me and Tristan. I take a deep breath, surprised at wanting to defend a random celebrity.

“He’s not a creep,” Tawni says. “I’ve heard things…”

“Yeah, right.”

“How long have we known each other?” Tawni asks.

There’s a pause, like Cole is trying to remember, or count the days or something. Then he says, “Five years.” Five years? I’m shocked. I expected him to say three months, or maybe six at the most. They’ve known each other since before the Pen. They must’ve met in school. That changes everything. The deepness of their relationship; what level of friendship I can have with them; what I can share with either of them.

“Yeah, five years, Cole. And how many times have I lied to you?”

“Never. At least not that I know of.” Cole sniggers to himself.

“Never—that’s right.”

“You might’ve just misheard, or misunderstood something.”

Tawni’s voice is rising. She’s getting emotional. “No. No, I didn’t. I heard both my mother and father say it before I ran away. I wouldn’t have left if I wasn’t certain. They’re spies for the freaking president. They know things. All I really needed to hear was that they were working for the Sun Dwellers, and then I was ready to leave, run away forever. But they kept talking. They said how Tristan’s different from his father. How they didn’t think he’d carry on the traditions if he became president. They were worried about that. I always wondered why we had so much more money than everyone else. I mean, I went to the same school as you. You couldn’t afford to eat, and I was eating with a silver spoon. Kickbacks for their dirty work. They were afraid the money would stop if Tristan took over. That’s how I know, Cole. That’s how I know!”

She almost shrieks the last bit and I hear Cole shush her, trying to get her to calm down. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I believe you. Maybe Tristan’s all right, but I still don’t get what that has to do with us, with Adele. Just because he looked at her funny…”

“Not funny. Intently, seriously, the way you look at someone you might try to track down at some point in the future. Particularly if you have the resources, which he obviously does.”

“What?” I hear myself say out loud. I mean for it to be a thought, confined to the safety of my own mind, but my wayward lips betray me.

Silence. I slap a hand over my mouth, hold my breath, listen to my heartbeat crunch in my chest like a miner’s axe on a slab of ore.

The door flies open and Cole’s face is silhouetted against the lights in the corridor. Some of the light sneaks past his large frame and spills across my face. One of his eyes is swollen shut, his cheek marbled with black, blue, and greenish yellow.

“Are you spying on us?” he says accusingly.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I just saw you talking and wanted to hear what you were saying.” Insert foot in mouth. Translation: Yes, I am spying. Bye-bye, new friends. Hello, loneliness.

Cole looks like he wants to hit me.

“Why didn’t you just ask us?” The question comes from Tawni, who wedges her way between us.

“Ask you?” Again, the words pop from my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. They sound stupid. Like, Duh, asking would’ve been far easier than sneaking into a broom closet and listening through a door. I try to recover. “I, uh, I just thought you wouldn’t, uh, tell me these kinds of things,” I finish lamely.

“What kinds of things exactly?” Cole says.

Tawni pushes Cole back a bit with one arm. I’m surprised she can move him at all. Her arm looks like a toothpick compared to his armor-like chest. I guess she has hidden strength.

To my surprise, she says, “Cole, we need some girl time. We’ll catch up with you later.” Despite the evenness of her tone, her words sound like a command, and a powerful one at that.

Cole stares at me with one eye for a second, and then melts into the stream of bodies, disappearing in the mob.

When Tawni turns back to me, I say, “Thanks.”

Tawni offers me a hand and I take it. Unlike the previous day in the Yard, her hand is warm. Without another word, she pulls me out of the closet and leads me against the flow of human traffic. Where I’d normally bump and knock into a dozen kids if I tried such a maneuver, Tawni is graceful, able to find the path of least resistance. I stay in her wake, protected. I haven’t felt protected in a long time.

Soon the crowds thin and we are walking alone. I’m surprised to find myself still holding her hand. I feel like I should shake it free, but it feels so good—wonderful actually. I guess I need it. Human contact, that is. Having been deprived of human touch for so long, my body is craving it.

We reach a cell door. Not mine but the one next to it. Tawni’s. Funny that I never knew her and the whole time she was sleeping right next to me, just a rock wall between us. Not that it matters. I’ve lost Cole’s brief friendship and I’m about to lose Tawni’s slightly longer friendship. It’s time for my last-ditch effort to save it.

“Look, Tawni, I’m really sor—”

“It’s okay,” Tawni interrupts.

Huh? This time I manage to keep my stupid remark inside my head, but I’m sure my confusion is written all over my face. I can feel one cheek lifted weirdly, the opposite eyebrow raised, and my mouth contorted beneath my flaring nostrils. If Tawni and I are the lead characters in a magical fairy tale, it’s obvious who the ugly stepsister is. Not Tawni.

I realize Tawni’s back is to me; she’s facing the bed. Thank God, I think. Using my fingers, I manage to mold my face back into what I think is close to its normal shape. Just in time, too. She turns around.

Her eyes blaze with a sort of fire. Not real fire, but determination. It’s unexpected. She just looks so thin, so frail. Although she towers above me, I feel so much bigger than her. At least normally I do. But now she looks strong, like maybe her bones are made of a tougher material than I thought. I wait for her to speak.

“Your father is alive,” she says.

Chapter Six

Tristan

I like calling the Tri-Realms the underworld. For to me, that’s what it is. At times it feels more hellish than if I were at barbecue with a bunch of demons and zombies, roasting the undead on a fiery spit.

I long to feel the wind tousle my hair, the sunlight on my face. Not the fake sun my father’s engineers have created, but the real thing. There’s nothing like it.

The underworld is so different. Dark, gloomy—it feels dead to me. Like it isn’t natural that any form of life other than the spiders and snakes and bats should occupy it. Certainly not humans.

And if we live in the underworld, then my father is the Devil himself, shrewd, evil, self-serving. They say that blood creates an unbreakable bond. If there’s a bond between my father and me—created by blood, DNA, or something else entirely—it’s as brittle as talc, cracking and crumbling while I was still in my mother’s womb.

I see her face again—the Moon Dweller with the shimmering black hair—so beautiful, so strong, so sad, like she’s crying invisible tears. Just seeing her, the pain is back. My brain feels like it’s expanding outward, pushing against my skull, trying to crack it, break it. But still, I want to help her. Reaching out, I try to touch her, to comfort her. But each time I try, she seems further away, as if some unseen force is keeping us apart. I run, pumping my arms and legs harder and harder, trying to keep up with her, but never able to close the gap. Finally, when I think my legs will collapse beneath me, she stops. I approach, my heart fluttering, my head pounding. I hear a slight whirr and feel a whoosh of air as something flies just past my ear. A flaming arrow. No! Already a spot of blood is seeping through her white tunic where the arrowhead has pierced her breast. The flames are licking at her clothes, charring them. I try to run to her, to douse the flames, to pluck the arrow from her skin and stop the bleeding, but my feet won’t move. At first I think I’m in shock, that I’m simply too weak-minded to gain control of my body, but when I look at my feet, they’re encased in stone. He moves past me. The archer. I can’t see his face, but I’d recognize his gait anywhere. My creator. I scream at him to Stop, please stop! but he ignores me, instead blowing softly on the flames, fueling them until they spread. I have to turn away—God, how desperately I want to turn away—but I can’t. Can’t. Can’t even close my eyes. I watch her burn. She’s brave—doesn’t even cry out, but I can hear her screams anyway. When she dies, my head stops hurting.

I wake up sweating and yelling, thrashing about in my bed. And thinking about the underworld.

Roc is by my side. As always. “Shhh,” he says. “Someone will hear.”

My legs stop thrashing, my arms stop flailing. I’m breathing heavily but not screaming anymore. It was just a dream. I’m on my bed; Roc must have carried me.

“What happened?” I say.

“You fainted,” Roc says, his lips curling slightly.

“Does that give you some kind of pleasure?” I snap.

Roc continues grinning. “Given it was brought on by your battle with a ferocious warrior, namely me, I’d say yes, it does bring me a level of pleasure. Especially because it was in the midst of my stunning and heroic victory,” he adds.

Normally I’d laugh. But I feel anything but normal. I feel like I’ve lost someone special to me, someone close. Like my mother—but a different kind of close, a different kind of special. I grunt.

Roc seems to recognize that something is wrong and his smile fades. “Tristan, are you okay?” he asks.

I honestly don’t know. So I swing my legs over the side of the bed and tell him everything. About the girl in the Pen, the pain in my back and head, the big guy who was about to assault her, how I saw her face just before I fainted, and about my dream—what my father did to her. When I finish I look for his reaction. I think he might make fun of me. If the roles were reversed it’s what I might do.

Instead, his lips are tight, his eyes narrow. He says, “I think it means something.”

“You do?” I say, genuinely surprised.

“Yes. A storm is coming. I’ve felt it for some time now. I think you have, too. Why we’ve never spoken of it before, I don’t know. Perhaps we were scared.”

My first instinct is to contradict him. Not the stuff about the storm—whatever that means—but about being scared. He might be, but not me. I’m not scared of anything. Not even my father—not anymore—although I probably should be. But I know I’ve been too reactionary lately—too quick to fire back at Roc if I don’t like something he says. Like a good friend, he’s put up with it, shaking his head and ignoring my outbursts. So, for once, I don’t say the first thing that pops into my head. I actually think about what he said.

A storm? I know he doesn’t mean a physical storm, like the ones that rage on the earth’s surface from time to time. Therefore, a metaphorical one. Like a conflict. A battle maybe. No, more specific than that: a rebellion. I have felt it, too. Have even commented on it. If not out loud, then in my head, to myself. How it’s a wonder that everyone puts up with my father’s tyrannical politics, his cruel and unfair treatment of the people that support his way of life. Not a wonder—a miracle. And miracles simply don’t happen these days. Not anymore. They’re a thing of the past, of legends, of stories. Which means it’s bound to happen eventually. From time to time we hear whisperings of secret groups of radicals, plotting and scheming in hidden caves, using secret handshakes and passwords. My father dismisses them as casually as he swats pesky flies from his shoulder.

I have felt it, too. So why haven’t we talked about it before? I try to open myself to the possibility that I’m scared, like Roc suggested. I know right away that isn’t it. It’s something else: I don’t believe my own feelings. And why would I? Things have been the same my whole life. Things will never change, can never change. Can they?

I feel Roc’s eyes on my face. I look at him. There’s a twinkle in his eye, like he knows I’ve worked it out.

I say, “I’m not scared.” You know, just to set the record straight.

“I know,” he says.

“You what?” I say. “Then why did you—”

“Because I am scared, and I wanted you to think about things seriously.”

I rise to my feet. “What? I do take things ser…What are you suggesting, that I’m not serious enough?” My face is starting to feel hot.

Roc puts his arms out, palms open. “No, I just think that ever since your mom…”—his eyes drift down—“…left, you’ve been in a funk, a haze, not really as engaged as you used to be. The only time I see light in your eyes is when we’re training.”

“What are you, my shrink or something?”

“There you go—not taking things seriously again.”

I grit my teeth. I’m determined not to make another light comment or joke for the rest of the conversation. I hope our talk won’t last too long.

“Fine,” I say. “Okay, so I’ve been in this haze, hating life, no light in my eyes except when I’m beating the snot out of you with a wooden sword…” Blast! A joke—I’ve failed already. Being serious is harder than I thought. Maybe Roc is right, but I’m certainly not going to say that out loud. Pausing, I try to gather my thoughts. Roc lets the joke pass without comment. “So I see this girl, this Moon Dweller. Roc, lemme tell ya, she was pretty hot. Beautiful. Even wearing her gray prisoner’s tunic she was stunning. Her hair fell like a black waterfall around her shoulders. Her eyes were intensely fascinating. And her curves, my God, Roc, were they ever—”

“Get to the point, Tristan,” Roc says.

Right. Serious. My point. What is my point anyway? Ahh, yes. “It’s like she was metal and I was a magnet, Roc. But at the same time it felt like someone had shoved an electric wire into my skin and was frying me from the inside. It hurt like hell. No, worse than hell, man. And yet, somehow across the distance, through the fence, over the mob of people, I felt a pull to her, even though I knew it would hurt me to be closer to her. I probably would’ve just let it go, chalked it up to male hormones, but then when she acted so strong, pushed that guy…I don’t know, since then I can’t get her out of my mind.”

“That’s called a crush, sir.”

Oh, damn you, Roc! He seems intent on making this more difficult than it has to be, even throwing a “sir” in there for good measure. I can feel the grit in my mouth as I shave the enamel off each tooth with my incessant grinding. Yeah, Roc’s like a brother to me, but also like a brother, I wish he’d just go away sometimes.

When I speak again, I’m proud of how even my voice is, pretending like I haven’t even heard Roc’s comment. “It’s weird. I know it’s not just a crush because of all the pain I felt. There’s something more to it. Like…like the pain was a sign. Yeah, maybe that’s what it was. A sign. Like our lives are tied together. Like our destinies are intertwined. I think I have to find her, Roc, if only to know that she survived, that her strength didn’t lead to her death.”

“Is this Moon Dweller girl the only reason you want to go?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I, uh, I think so…” I’m so unsure of my answer that I rub my head to try to think. Yes, I want to know what happened to the Moon Dweller. Yes, I want to meet her, if only to figure out why I feel so much pain when I’m near her, what it means. It hits me. “She’s only part of it,” I say.

“I know,” Roc says.

Of course he does. Roc always seems to be one mental step ahead of me. I sigh. “I want to get out of here, Roc. I’m tired of living like this. There’s no meaning in my life. I hate my father. I hate this place. Finding her is as good a reason as any to get out of here. I just have to get out of here. I can’t deal with my father anymore.”

“We can’t just leave.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you think they’ll notice?”

“Of course they’ll notice, Roc. But who cares?”

“I do. I don’t feel like being chased all over the Tri-Realms by a bunch of your dad’s goons.”

“My father’s goons,” I correct.

“Your dad, your father: What’s the difference?” Roc says through clenched teeth.

I frown. “It’s…different…to…me.” We’re on the verge of another brawl.

“Whatever. In any case, I’m not leaving with you on some half-baked journey all over the Moon Realm, just to chase the first pretty tunic you’ve seen in a while. She’s a prisoner, for God’s sake.”

“Then I’ll go alone. And for the record, I’m not chasing a tunic. Yeah, she was pretty, but who cares? There are lots of pretty girls. And yeah, I’ll try to find her, because I want to know why she makes my head feel like it’s about to explode. But this is not all about her, Roc. Like I told you, I need to do this for me. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

Roc’s hard stare continues for another moment and then his eyes soften. “Tristan, I…”

“What?”

“Never mind. You promise you’re not just doing this to find some silly girl?”

“Yes,” I say, my tone more confident than I feel.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll come with you.”

I can’t hold back my smile. I’ll say it again: Roc is like a brother to me; I’m not sure what I would’ve done if he decided not to come. I’m glad we’ve made it through our serious talk without killing each other.

Roc says, “I’ll help you find your crush.” I spoke too soon. I leap off the bed, tackling him to the ground, pushing his face into the soft carpet. I’m laughing, he’s gasping, trying to take a breath. I release him and stand up, but I’m not done yet. As he turns over I place a foot atop his chest and raise my fists over my head, relishing my small victory.

* * *

We spend the rest of the day making plans. Now that the contract negotiations are finally over, I’ll request a holiday. My father will insist I go to one of the finest Sun Dweller resorts, one that has the brightest fake sunlight and truckloads of synthetic sand. But I’ll tell him I’m tired of those places, tired of the same old scene. It won’t surprise him—he already knows how I feel about the customs of the Sun Dwellers. If I request another trip to the Moon Realm—an unofficial, off-the-books trip—I think he’ll authorize it, as a sort of reward for all my work over the last few months. The first chance we have, Roc and I will ditch my security guards and go find the girl, and hopefully ourselves at the same time.

When we leave my apartment, I’m feeling good. I won’t go so far as to say I’m happy—I haven’t been happy in a long time—but I’m satisfied that I’m finally doing something real. Something I want to do. Cutting another one of my father’s ropes away, so to speak.

* * *

We’re at dinner, the three of us—me, my brother, Killen, and my father, his lordship. Dinner is funny in our palace. The table we sit at is about a mile long, with enough place settings to host the entire forty-third ghetto of the Star Realm (their population is only twenty-three). My father, his majesty (a president, not a king), sits at one end. My mother used to sit at the other head, but now her seat is vacant, like it has been for a long time. My brother and I sit across from each other, in the middle, so far from my father that we can barely see him.

When we were younger, my brother and I would get into all kinds of trouble at dinner, kicking under the table, slinging food across at each other, whispering nasty names so our parents couldn’t hear what we were saying. It was great fun, and we enjoyed the challenge of trying to get away with things while our parents shouted across the length of the table in a ridiculous attempt to have a conversation.

Now it isn’t worth the effort. Day by day, my brother is becoming more and more like a clone of my father. He even sits like him at the table, his back straight, his head held so high I don’t think he’ll be able to get his fork to his mouth without dropping his food. Killen is two years younger than me, but I know he thinks himself to be the older, wiser son. We haven’t had fun together in forever, since before my mother left.

“So I hear the contract negotiations were a success, brother,” Killen says. He’s trying to sound smart. In reality, he’s never so much as negotiated a turd from his butt.

I put on a fake voice and say, “Splendid, my dear brother. Simply splendid. We got an even better deal than last year and the people of the Tri-Realms seem to love us even more!” To my father it’ll sound like we’re having a mature, brotherly conversation. Killen knows better.

“That’s wonderful, Tristan,” he says. Under his breath, he mumbles, “Quit being a dumb arse.”

“I’d never take that title away from you, Brother,” I hiss. I feel his leg swing out as he tries to kick me. He misses, his toe thudding against the leg of my chair. His face turns red and he curses under his breath. It probably hurt, too, because he’s wearing these absurd shoes that look like white ballet slippers and provide zero protection for the foot. They’re just another Sun Dweller fashion trend that my brother has bought into. It’s a hard decision, but I’m sticking with my boots.

“Father,” I say loudly, maintaining my fake voice, “I’d like to take a holiday, now that the negotiations are complete.”

My brother is glaring at me, but I ignore him.

President Nailin shouts, “Of course! Shall I have Lima book a few weeks at the Sandy Oasis like last year?”

Shocking how predictable my father is.

I pretend to consider it. “Hmm, maybe…” I say. “But I’m also considering doing something a little different…something a bit more exotic.”

“What did you have in mind?”

I glance at my brother. His head is cocked to the side. It makes him look even younger than he is.

“I’d like to travel inter-Realm, to the Moon Realm. I think it’ll be a good way to show the Moon Dwellers that we appreciate their support. You know, by having a holiday there, spending some Nailins at their shops.”

“Absolutely not,” my father says.

I really thought he’d go for it, that my lie was a good one, believable, sensible. So I don’t have a backup plan. Killen is snickering, which doesn’t help.

“Why not?” I ask, really wanting to know what has prompted my father’s quick and decisive rejection.

“It’s just not proper,” he says simply.

I’ve never hated him more than I hate him now. It’s the way he says it more than his words. As though such a trip would be like me sleeping with the rats—no, worse, with the cockroaches. He wants me to be all smiles and winks when I’m in the other Realms renegotiating our so-called contracts, and yet I can’t even take a simple holiday there?

Killen’s nodding, wagging his head up and down like a dog. “It wouldn’t be proper, Brother,” he parrots. Now I kick. My aim is true, connecting solidly with my brother’s shinbone. To his credit, he doesn’t cry out, although I know it hurts, can see it all over his face. He winces and holds his breath, trying to stifle a groan of pain.

“You’re right, Father, Brother. How silly of me. Have Lima book my usual.” I’ve lost my appetite. Before standing up I take another shot at Killen under the table, and from the shade of purple his face turns, I know I’ve hit the same spot. It’s the only thing satisfying about the meal.

Chapter Seven

Adele

“What do you know of my father?” I say. It comes out as a croak, because I stop breathing when my heart rises into my throat. I gulp the words back down, trying to clear a passage. I take a deep breath.

“Only that he’s probably alive,” Tawni says.

I don’t think the words will come out right, so I hope she’ll anticipate my next question.

“How much of our conversation did you hear?” Tawni asks.

Damn. I’m hoping for answers, not questions. I’ll have to speak. I try a single word: “Enough.” It comes out better this time, but still isn’t my natural timbre.

“Look,” Tawni says, “I’m sorry I didn’t open up to you before, but we’d only just met. The things I know are dangerous…”

She glances left and right, like the walls might have ears. She’s making me nervous. Although the snippets I’d heard of Tawni and Cole’s whispered conversation intrigue me—particularly the stuff about Tristan—I’m not interested in that now. I only care about one thing.

“It’s okay. Just tell me about my dad.”

Tawni takes a deep breath. She looks stressed, her brow furrowed and eyes narrowed and intense, like something heavy is weighing on her. She says, “As you probably gathered, my parents are traitors. They live amongst the Moon Dwellers, but work for the Sun Dwellers. They’re spies for the president. I heard them talking one night. They thought I was out with my friends, but I’d returned early with a stomachache. They spoke about how Tristan is different from his father, how he cares about the people from the Lower Realms, even if he enjoys the comforts of the Sun Realm.”

Her words are interesting, and typically I’d be hanging on every single one, but I’m still missing the point. “What does that have to do with my father?” I blurt out.

Tawni stops abruptly, her eyebrows rising. “Sorry. Your father first—then the other stuff.”

She sits on the bed and motions for me to join her. I don’t feel like sitting; I’m too wired to do anything but pace around the room, but I don’t want to argue as I’m afraid it’ll delay the conversation further. I sit next to her, tapping my toe rapidly on the stone floor.

Tawni looks at me with sincere blue eyes and says, “My parents were the ones who recommended that your parents be taken away.”

It wouldn’t sting any more if she’d slapped me across the face. My parents dragged away in the middle of the night, out through the kicked-down door; Enforcers swarming through our home, smashing picture frames and tables and chairs and anything they could get their hands on; me, fighting like an animal to defend my family, who were eventually wrenched away anyway. The most disturbing image from that night: my father’s eyes, intense and scared, not fearful for his own life, but for mine and Elsey’s.

All because of Tawni’s parents. I don’t think kids should be judged by what their stupid parents do. Tawni’s words from before suddenly make sense.

I want to walk away from her, to leave her and her evil family behind forever, but I stay. First, because I owe her for sitting down and talking to me in the first place, in the Yard; for not walking away when I was rude and acting like a nutter. Second, because she still hasn’t told me everything she knows about my father—and I have to know. And third, because I want to believe in her words about kids having the potential to be different than their parents. I want to believe it for Tristan’s sake. Because if he isn’t different than his father, then all my thoughts and feelings over the last day have been fake, pure fantasy.

As I try to make sense of my thoughts, of my feelings, I realize Tawni’s crying. Her earlier strength gives way, her body crumples, she tucks her face into her hands. I know she’s been putting on a front—an attempt to be strong, to chase away her sadness with a brave face. She thinks I’m going to leave. She doesn’t know I have three reasons to stay.

I feel warmth in my bones, welling up from beneath my feet, until it reaches the top of my head. The warmth is compassion for Tawni. She didn’t ask for her parents to be traitors. And from what I understand, their treachery caused her to run from them, to leave home all alone, and to eventually be caught and brought to the Pen. No, she isn’t like her parents at all.

The sudden compassion I feel reminds me of my mother. I always think I’m more like my dad, but now I wonder if there isn’t a lot more of my mom in me than I realized. I hope so. My mom is a special soul.

Instinctively, I put my arm around Tawni and pull her close. Her eyes flick open for a moment, red and wet, and then reclose as she buries her head in the nook between my shoulder and chest. “I’m so sorry, Adele,” she moans.

I say nothing—there’s nothing to say. I just hold her while sobs shake her body. I rub her back, smooth her hair—even kiss her forehead. Those were the things my mother used to do to me when I was scared—usually when still stuck in the throes of a waking nightmare about drowning, my greatest fear. Slowly, Tawni’s body stops shaking and her muffled sobs relent. Her choked breaths deepen and grow consistent. For a moment I think she might’ve fallen asleep.

But then she says, “Why are you forgiving me?”

I haven’t said a word to her, certainly haven’t uttered the words I forgive you, but I guess my actions speak louder. But I haven’t forgiven her, not really, because there’s no need.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” I say.

Her puffy eyes look into mine as she sits up straight again. “Thank you,” she says.

“My father?” I say.

Her words come out in a rush, without pause to breathe. “He’s been taken to a camp set up for traitors—my parents called it Camp Blood and Stone—where the prisoners are made to work in some of the most dangerous mines in the Moon Realm. I understand it’s somewhere in one of the Northern subchapters; my parents mentioned subchapter twenty-six, I think.”

“What about my mother?” I say, realizing Tawni hasn’t mentioned her. She was very specific: Your father is alive.

“I don’t know,” Tawni says, “they only mentioned your dad.”

“How did you know they were talking about my dad?” My questions are coming rapidly now, as all of the investigative skills that my father taught me come back.

“They said that the traitors they’d turned over to the authorities had two daughters, Adele and Elsey. Your name isn’t that common, so when I heard it and then later you told us about your parents, I made the connection.” Tawni crinkles her nose, like she knows what my next question will be and is dreading it. But I have to ask it.

“Why didn’t you tell me last night when you realized?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I should have. We’d just met and I usually talk to Cole about stuff before I do anything. He’s my best friend. Has been for a long time.”

I’m not mad at her. She was in a tough position, not knowing how I would react when she told me, and yet she told me anyway. She could’ve just kept it to herself, told me to go stuff it when I eavesdropped on her, but she didn’t. She did the right thing. She’s not like her parents.

“What about the other stuff?” I ask.

“You mean about Tristan?” Tawni says, understanding immediately what I mean.

I nod.

Tawni says, “We should include Cole in the conversation.”

My heart sinks. Cole. For a moment I’ve forgotten about him. He looked so angry at me. I’ve just met the guy, so I shouldn’t care what he thinks about me, but to my surprise, I do. Probably because of what he did for me yesterday during the riot. Or perhaps because he’s Tawni’s best friend, and she seems like a good person, so that must mean he is, too. Or it might just be because I actually like him. Certainly his sarcasm works well with me.

“Will he still be pissed off at me?” I ask, frowning.

Tawni laughs. “Don’t worry about him. Sometimes he has a bit of a temper, but he makes up for it by forgiving and forgetting faster than anyone I know.” Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Tawni rises, offering her hand to help me up. I take it.

I allow her to pull me down the hall. Already some of the juveniles are leaving the cafeteria, looking unsatisfied by their breakfasts, heading outside for another long, boring day spent lounging in the Yard.

When we enter the crowded eatery, I notice Cole right away, sitting alone in the corner. Thankfully, he’s facing away, so he doesn’t stare at us as we approach. When Tawni slides onto the bench across from him and he sees her tearstained face, he nearly knocks over the table as he leaps to his feet.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he says. His eyes flit back and forth between Tawni and me, one minute showing concern for his friend and the other angry and glaring, like how he’d looked at me earlier.

“I’m fine. Please calm down, Cole,” Tawni says, reaching across the table to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. At first his body stiffens at her touch, but then he relaxes and melts back into his seat. For a second I’m jealous of the kind of relationship they have. It’s a true friendship in every sense of the word. I’ve never had that kind of friendship—probably never will. There isn’t room for it in my world.

I tense up, waiting for the next spout of anger from Cole. It doesn’t come.

“I’m sorry,” Cole says.

Never would I have expected those to be his next words. To be honest, I don’t understand.

“What for?” I say.

The corners of Cole’s mouth turn up slightly, a complete one-eighty from his tense expression a moment earlier. The steely twinkle I saw in his eyes the day before is back. “For my temper,” he says. “Tawni tries to help me with it, but it usually gets the better of me. Sneaking around and spying on us wasn’t right, but my reaction was even worse. I should’ve let you explain.”

“Thanks,” I say. Tawni’s crying coupled with Cole’s quick forgiveness makes me feel even worse about what I’ve done. “And I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I won’t do it again.”

Cole dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Even,” he says. The way he says it makes me believe my transgression is like a distant memory to him, soon to be forgotten entirely. Tawni wasn’t kidding about him.

“Can I get you something to eat?” she says.

I nod, sliding out of the booth to let her past. “Anything not green, not slimy, and not still moving,” I say wryly.

Cole chuckles. “Good luck with that,” he says.

Tawni marches off, her hands fisted and her head firm, as if she’s on a mission. Meeting my criteria will be a mission, I think.

When Tawni is gone, Cole says, “How are you feeling?”

“Feeling?” I say absently, trying to decide how to respond. In truth, I have no idea how I’m feeling. In the last twenty-four hours a lot has changed in my life. Two new friends, the strange pain I felt when I saw the president’s eldest son, my dad being alive: it’s all too much to take in, to process. I mean, I’m happy—no, make that extremely happy, ecstatic, over the moon—that my dad might be okay, but it feels weird, too. For one thing I don’t know anything about my mom’s whereabouts. Also, for the last six months I’ve been trying to come to terms with the possibility that my parents are dead, executed as traitors. Now there’s hope that at least one of them is alive…I dunno, it just feels weird. Then again, I’m not sure it really matters that he’s alive. It’s not like I will ever get to see him again. And I’m sure that the conditions for him are awful to the point of complete misery. So that isn’t much to live for either.

I almost shout at myself aloud. Thankfully, I keep it inside, opting to scream in my mind: No, no, no! You’re better than that, better than a quitter! Dad would be ashamed by such thoughts! I know then what I have to do: rescue my father and find out whether my mother is still alive. Oh, and also take a detour to find my sister, too, if I have time. Should be easy, simple, no problemo! Or impossible. It’s definitely one or the other.

I still haven’t answered Cole’s question. I’m not sure how long it’s been since he asked it, but probably awhile, because he’s looking at me strangely, like I have poo on my face. While I’ve been battling with myself in the comfort of my own head, I can only guess at what weird facial expressions I was making.

“I’m guessing you’re not sure how you feel?” Cole says.

Bingo! Give the guy a prize. I am impressed by Cole’s recognition of my feelings without me having said a single word. Maybe he is a mind reader. I hope not. With my muddled thoughts, having a mind reader around will be far too embarrassing.

“Yeah, I’m a bit confused right now.”

“But I bet you want to go rescue your dad,” Cole says.

Crap! He IS a mind reader! Or possibly just very perceptive. I’m hoping for the latter. “Yeah, and my sister and mom, too, while I’m at it. Should be easy,” I say.

“Especially with us around,” Cole says.

“What should be easy?” Tawni says, returning with two plates of gunk that are meant to be food. To her credit, the gunk on my plate isn’t green, slimy, or moving. But it is brownish and gooey. I take a bite, swallowing quickly before my taste buds have much of a chance to linger on the flavor.

“Rescuing Adele’s family,” Cole says. “It shouldn’t be a problem. Only small hurdles to get over, like escaping from the Pen, crossing hundreds of miles of cave networks while avoiding detection by Enforcers, breaking into at least one maximum security prison, and then breaking back out. Piece of cake.”

I groan. “I was trying to be positive,” I say. “In any case, I’m doing it alone, so it’s not your problem.”

“Wrong,” Cole says.

“Right,” I retort.

“Look, whether you like it or not, we’re going to help you,” Cole says.

I stare directly into his strong eyes, trying to get him to back down. About three seconds later I look away. What am I thinking trying to beat Mr. Power Eyes in a staring competition—I can’t even beat myself in the mirror.

“Why would you do that for me?” I ask.

Cole shrugs. “You’re growing on me.” His bottom lip doesn’t pout the way it normally does.

“Lie!” I declare, raising my arm in victory before it’s even confirmed.

Cole laughs and Tawni nearly spews out the spoonful of yellow goop she has in her mouth. “You’re right, Adele, you’re not growing on me. That would be disgusting. Hair grows on me, foot fungus on occasion, too, due to the shameful hygiene of the guys’ bathrooms, but not other people, and most definitely not you.”

His eyes are twinkling even more than before. I grin. “So what’s the real reason for wanting to help me?” I ask.

“I’ve got nothing against you, nor your magical mysterious love affair with the sun prince”—I try to interject, but Cole sees it coming and raises a finger, silencing me—“but I just don’t trust Tridlan one bit.”

“Tristan,” I say, “and there’s no love—”

“What?”

“His name is Tristan. You said Tridlan.”

“Did I?” Cole says, throwing his hands up and feigning ignorance. I realize he’s mocking me. I want to be angry, but his mannerisms make me smile.

“Yes, and I was in pain when I saw him so, trust me, I’m not in any hurry to get near him again.” Although I would like to know what caused it.

“Anyway,” Cole says, “him being the son of the president and all, it’s not easy for me to be as trusting of Triftan as you guys are.”

I ignore his repeated mispronunciation of Tristan’s name and try to focus. It’ll be great to have friends help me—at least to get out of the Pen. But I still don’t understand their motives, which bothers me. At least not Cole’s. Tawni’s probably trying to make up for the actions of her parents—to prove that she’s better than them. Also, she seems to just be a nice person, willing to help a friend in need, even a new friend like me. But Cole’s a mystery. It doesn’t help that he jokes around so much, which makes it even harder to get a read on him. He has no reason to help me.

“Seriously, why do you want to help?” I repeat.

His eyes darken. “Okay, look. I’m just really tired of everyone getting screwed over by the Sun Dwellers. I’ve been in juvie once before, when I was eleven. I had this teacher, Mrs. Witchikata. She was really kind, really pretty, always saying nice things to me. What can I say? I fell for her—head over freakin’ heels.”

“You’re joking,” I say.

“Me? Joke? Never,” Cole says. “Anyway, one day I told her I loved her. Mrs. W would never have reported it, but a nasty little Year Five kid overheard and told the principal, who told the authorities. Unauthorized flirting, they called it. I got six weeks in the Pen. Since then, I’ve always wanted revenge.”

Tawni giggles. I look at her, then back at Cole. “La la lie,” I say.

“Almost, smarty,” Cole says. “It was a half lie. All the stuff about Mrs. W was BS—in fact she was about ninety-five years old, two hundred pounds overweight, covered in warts, with a mean streak a mile wide. I hated her guts. But I did give you the truth about why I want to help you. The Sun Dwellers are creeps, period.”

From experience, I can’t argue with that.

“Okay,” I say. I believe him. It certainly fits with what little I know about the male species. Their motives are generally simple: fun, honor, sex, food, pride, revenge, sex. Pretty basic stuff.

“Okay?” Tawni says, confirming.

“Yeah, we’ll escape together.”

“And then go rescue your family,” she says.

I haven’t thought that far ahead, but I figure I can talk them out of it when the time comes. “Uh, yeah, whatever. So how do we pull it off?” I say, leaning in.

Cole dips his head forward conspiratorially and lowers his voice, half-covering his mouth with one of his hands. “I know a guy who can get one of the guards to turn off the electric fence for a few minutes, maybe ten if we’re lucky,” he says.

I gawk at him like he’s an alien.

“What?” he says. “We were thinking about trying to escape once so I looked into it.”

I don’t have to confirm that he’s telling the truth—his face is dead serious. “Okay. If we get your guy to turn off the fence at say…midnight, two hours after lights out, we can sneak out of our cells and climb the fence,” I say.

“Our cells will be locked,” Tawni points out.

“There’s a trick for that,” I say. “I’ve done it before. Get a small piece of cardboard or plastic from somewhere, anywhere, and when you shut your door for the last time at night, slide the plastic between the door and the frame, blocking the deadbolt. When the door automatically locks, it will still click, but you’ll be able to open it.”

“Nice,” Cole says, nodding. I smile. I’m glad to be able to bring some level of expertise to the table.

“Right,” Tawni says, “so at five minutes to midnight we leave our cells. Adele and I will be together and we’ll see you”—she gestures to Cole—“at the fence. We’ll meet in the shadows in the northeast wing. When the electricity goes out we start climbing.”

Cole’s eyes narrow and he screws up his face. “How do we tell the time?” he asks.

“We’ll have to base it off of the guards’ patrols,” I say. “Start counting from the ten o’clock lights out. Approximately every fifteen minutes a guard will go by—watch through the slot in your doors. Once seven patrols pass we’ll know it’s about quarter to midnight. Then we’ll just have to count in our heads for ten minutes—six hundred seconds. Then we go.” I’m feeling confident—probably too confident—but it’s a good feeling, one I haven’t felt in a while. Anything’s better than just sitting around waiting to turn eighteen and be transferred to a maximum security prison.

“When should we do it?” Tawni asks.

“How about tonight?” I say, feeling eager butterflies in my stomach.

“That’s pretty tight,” Cole says. “I’ll have to check with my guy to see if it’s possible on such short notice.”

“It better be,” I say. Acting in a hurry is better than taking a long time to plan our escape. That way the dirty guard won’t have time to rethink his choice to help us.

“We’ll need money to pay him,” Cole says. “You know, the guard who helps us.”

I knew it sounded too good to be true. I don’t have any money and certainly no way of getting any. But I ask anyway. “How much?”

“At least fifty Nailins I expect.”

My heart sinks. I haven’t seen that much money in my entire life. It might as well be a million. Even if we come up with a way to raise some money, we won’t be able to get that much in ten lifetimes. I close my eyes tightly and clench my teeth, trying to stifle a scream. I need a miracle.

“I can provide the money,” Tawni says.

My eyes flash open and I look at the skinny, white-haired girl beside me. I glance at Cole. He doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, it’s like he expected her response. I realize that when he mentioned the money he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to Tawni the whole time.

I turn back to Tawni. “You have access to fifty Nailins?” I say in disbelief.

“More if we need it,” she says. “When I got caught trying to go interdistrict without a travel permit my parents were all over me, asking me why, why would I do such a thing? So I gave them a BS story about how I really wanted to see the Lantern Caverns of the ninth subchapter and how I never thought they’d let me go.” She pushes a strand of hair out of her face, grinning. “They bought it, and although they couldn’t get me out of doing time in the Pen, they were able to make my stay here as easy as I want it to be. I could have had a plush room on the third floor, five-star meals, access to a telebox, pretty much anything I want.”

“Then why do you sleep in a crappy cell next to me?”

Tawni’s face falls. “Because if I took advantage of what my parents could do for me, then I’d be just as terrible as them. They don’t know where I sleep, and the guards won’t tell them. When they visit, the guards move me upstairs for a few hours. I swear to God, Adele, I’m not like them—never will be.”

“Truth,” I say solemnly.

Tawni nods. “In any case, I still have access to an account they set up for me with the warden…I mean with the concierge.” I chuckle at her little joke. “There are more than two hundred Nailins in it.”

Cole whistles. “I didn’t know you had that much dough. How about sharin’ some with an old friend of yours?”

Tawni smirks. “We’ll need all of it if we’re going to pull this off.” She lowers her voice again. “First to pay off the guard and then to travel across the Moon Realm.”

I nod. “Thanks, Tawni. And you too, Cole. I wouldn’t stand a chance without your help.” I realize then that I don’t have to be alone anymore—can’t be alone, can’t stand it for one more second. I hit a new low the previous day and then everything started moving up again. It all started with a bit of pain. My downward spiral is finally over.

It reminds me of something my dad said one year at Christmas, when we didn’t even have the money for presents, or fancy food, or anything. He said, “Sometimes, girls, you have to hit your lowest low just before you hit your highest high. It makes you appreciate the good things so much more.” Right now is starting to feel like one of those times. Yeah, maybe meeting a couple of friends and coming up with a plan to escape from a juvenile delinquent facility isn’t the best of times in my life, but it isn’t the worst either, and for that I’m thankful.

We leave the cafeteria long after we arrived—we’re the last to go. Although we aren’t satisfied by the food, we’re still satisfied. By other things. More important things. Life-changing things. I am going to rescue my family, and hopefully myself at the same time.

Yeah, things are looking up.

Chapter Eight

Tristan

Ahhh, a holiday at the Sandy Oasis. It has everything anyone could ever want. Soft, plush beds to sleep on. Warm, sandy beaches (they even simulate waves and paint picturesque ocean views). Half-naked girls ready to throw themselves at any celebrity who happens to make eye contact.

I throw up in my mouth when we arrive.

Roc is carrying my bags while my security detail protects me from the girls.

You’re probably thinking that I’m a big wimp to let my father dictate the terms of my holiday so easily. I could’ve pushed back harder, tried to force him to see my point of view. But you see, the thing is, my father doesn’t like being pushed around. And I could tell he was in one of his moods, more stubborn than the lovechild of an ox and a mule. So I played along.

Roc and I aren’t staying in the Oasis. Not for long anyway.

We’re going to the Moon Realm. The back of my head is buzzing in anticipation. I hope the girl’s still alive when we get there. If she is, I’ll demand that she tells me how she did it. How she caused me so much physical pain just by looking at me.

We reach my room with a record low of only three girls offering to have my babies. I guess I’m losing my touch. From the looks in their eyes, I think they were offering to have them, like, right then, immediately. I didn’t make eye contact for fear that they’d rip off their clothes and throw themselves at me and my entourage.

The room isn’t really a room. More like an entire wing of the hotel, comprised of ten distinct rooms, only five of which are bedrooms. The others are sitting rooms, standing rooms, massage rooms, and kitchens. I don’t even count the six bathrooms as rooms. The cost for a single night would feed an entire subchapter of the Moon Realm for a year.

Luckily we aren’t staying long. “Quick and unexpected action is the most effective in battle,” my fighting instructor used to say. I’m about to put his advice to the test. Perhaps not in a traditional battle, but in a battle nonetheless. A battle to take back my life.

I ask my security guards to wait outside, to monitor the four doors for any fake-tanned girls trying to gain access to my suite. When they’re gone, I say, “Is this going to work, Roc?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Roc says.

“Cut the sir crap, Roc, please,” I say. “We’re about to embark on a rogue mission and I want you to be with me as a friend, not as a servant.”

“I’ll try, sir,” Roc says, grinning from ear to ear. I grin back, swatting at him playfully. He punches at me and for a moment there’s a good chance it’s going to escalate into another practice fight, but then there’s a sudden knock at the door.

A guard enters: a giant with no neck and fists the size of boulders. His nose looks like it’s been broken a dozen times—it’s flat and wide. Although I expect to have to translate a series of grunts and hand signals, he surprises me by speaking perfect English in an unexpectedly high voice.

“You have a visitor. He says he’s expected.”

“Name?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Kruger.”

“He’s okay,” I say.

The guard leaves, closing the door behind him, and a minute later the door reopens and another guy walks in. Compared to the guard, this guy looks tiny. He’s about my size. Well, exactly my size actually, both in height, weight, and body type. Athletic build, six-two without shoes, a hundred and eighty five pounds dripping wet. It always amazes me how I can just snap my fingers and make things happen. That’s something I like about being who I am, living where I live. Can I really give it all up that easily? Can I really walk away from it all? Something tells me my jaunt to the Moon Realm will only be temporary. Before long, I’ll be doing my father’s dirty work just like always.

I have no idea how they found someone who so closely resembles me in such a short time, but I don’t really care about the details. His face even kind of looks like mine. If he wears a hat and sunglasses, the guards won’t be able to tell the difference. Although each member of my security team would rank well across the entirety of the Tri-Realms when it comes to muscle, their IQs would likely sit in the bottom quartile.

“My money?” Kruger says. This guy gets right to the point, which is fine with me.

I wave Roc forward. He extracts a paper envelope from his pocket, which clinks as he hands it across. “A hundred Nailins,” he says. “Count it.”

The guy shakes his head and the parcel at the same time. “No need. It’s all there,” he says, as though he’s done so many shady deals that he can count the coins just by the sound of their clinking. Maybe he can. What do I know?

Next, Roc hands him some clothes, identical to the ones I’m wearing. A gold tunic, a silver bracelet, brown moccasins. He even gives him a pair of my blue silk boxer shorts, just to be thorough. “Put those on,” I say.

The guy strips right in front of us—clearly modesty is low on his priority list. I turn away, removing my own clothes and swapping them for a black tunic, black pants, and black boots. While I add a dark hat and sunglasses to my getup, Roc provides Kruger with a similar pair of sunglasses and a floppy, white beach hat. A current edition of a Sun Dweller magazine and a bottle of expensive wine from my father’s personal stash complete the façade.

With a nod, Kruger slides the money into the magazine and heads for the door. Roc trails after him. We’ve agreed that if the fake me leaves without Roc it will raise eyebrows; Roc goes everywhere with me. I hide off to the side, behind the red velvet drapes that provide privacy at the poolside windows. They exit, and just before the door closes, I see the gaggle of guards surround them. Kruger’s head is tilted slightly downward, so there will be even less likelihood he’ll be recognized as anyone but me. The door closes and I hear Roc’s muffled voice as he explains to the guards that my guest will be resting in the suite while I’m at the pool.

I’m not worried. They’ll buy the story. After all, they aren’t really trained to question their masters. Plus, they’re trying to protect me from those who might hurt me, not from escaping. I’m not a prisoner—not technically.

I slip back around the drapes and peek through the window. A few minutes later, the dummy me and my entourage enter the pool area. Because we arrived in the early afternoon, it’s already packed—finding a place to sit would be near impossible for any normal person. But I’m no normal person, at least not to these people. It’s all been prepared ahead of my arrival. A carved-out section of the patio, complete with tables, chairs, a vase of flowers, trays of food. To my disgust I notice a couple of deeply tanned, fake-boobed girls standing ready to fulfill my every desire. No doubt they’re a gift from my father.

I hope I never see him again.

Do I really mean that?

Roc leads the imposter to the reserved area and motions for the guards to stand in a surrounding circle, blocking “me” from view of all the rubberneckers who are already standing up and trying to catch a glimpse of the president’s son. That makes me laugh.

Before leaving, I run my fingers along the hilt of my sword. Although my father insisted that my training include more advanced weaponry, including various types of guns, I’ve never felt fully comfortable with them. For one, the Moon Dwellers and Star Dwellers have very few guns, which is one of the reasons their rebellions have been quashed so easily in the past. Is that fair? They can never hope to fight for equality if the very weapons they have to fight are not equal.

Screw you, Father, I think, sliding my sword back into my belt.

It’s time to go.

I leave the suite, taking a minute to scan the hallway for any guards who might’ve remained behind, or for any hotel staff who might witness my escape.

The hall is empty.

I go the opposite way down the hall from where we entered, intent on using the private exit, specially designed so celebrities can leave without being noticed. It’ll be guarded by one of my men, but that won’t be a problem. He’ll be looking for someone trying to get in, not for someone on their way out.

I tiptoe down the stairs, cognizant that any scuff of my feet or scrape of my toes might echo to the bottom, thus alerting the guard to my presence. I have to maintain the element of surprise if I want to avoid an ugly confrontation.

I reach the bottom without so much as a tap of my feet on the stone steps. The thick security door is bolted shut; I raise the lever gently, hoping it’s been oiled recently. When it doesn’t creak, I breathe a sigh of relief. So far, so good.

I take a deep breath, trying to concentrate. To focus my mind. To prepare myself for swift and decisive violence. To incapacitate, not kill. I have no hatred for my guards, no desire to harm them. They aren’t smart enough to think for themselves. They just follow orders. Maybe that’s not a good excuse, but I let them have it.

Using my shoulder as a battering ram, I burst through the door, bobbing my head left and then right to locate the guard. He’s surprised, but alert, already reaching for his gun. But I already have my sword out and am ready for combat. Before he raises his arm in defense, the point of my sword is at his throat. I’m not sure if he recognizes me beneath my sunglasses, but in a few hours it won’t matter.

As soon as he drops his gun, I swing around behind him and clamp his chin between my forearm and bicep, slowly tightening the force on his neck. At first he fights it, but then his feet stop kicking, his arms stop waving, and he goes to sleep. I wait a few more seconds before releasing him, just in case he’s faking it, and then lay his unconscious body to the ground, kindly propping his head up on his hip bag. Before I leave I steal his sword for Roc. I leave the gun; it’s not really my style.

I slip around the edge of the resort, but no one’s nearby; everyone’s drinking cocktails and splashing around in the pool. In some ways, I envy them. Do I still have time to change my mind? I could go back to the guard, tell him I was testing him—that he failed. In ten minutes I could be enjoying the cool water and cold drinks. Living the life I was born to live. Would that be so wrong?

Gritting my teeth, I slip around the side of the resort.

I make my way back to the arriving and departing visitors’ entrance, and stride confidently past the greeters. They’re too busy welcoming some big shot Sun Dweller and don’t even seem to notice me pass by. The dark clothing probably helps in that regard, too.

I wait for Roc at the mandated location, near the south end of the transporter platform. I hope we’ve timed it right, that Roc will have enough time to meet me. If I have to I’ll leave without him, but I really don’t want to. I tap my toe on the stone platform nervously.

The ground rumbles as the transporter approaches.

Still no Roc.

The transporter bursts through the end of the tunnel.

Still no Roc.

A whoosh of air hits me as the transporter rolls to a stop.

No Roc…and then—

Roc appears at the other end of the platform, running hard toward me, fear radiating from the whites of his eyes.

He crosses half the platform and I’m still wondering why he looks so scared. Yeah, the train will be leaving soon, but he’s made it with plenty of time to board with me. The platform is empty; no one else in their right mind would be traveling from the hottest resort in the Sun Realm to the Moon Realm.

He’s almost to me when his pursuers arrive, charging through the resort entrance and gunning straight for us. Evidently I’ve underestimated my guards, or Roc has done something stupid, or maybe both, but whatever the case, they know they have to stop him. It’s likely they haven’t worked out exactly what’s happening, just that something is going down that isn’t supposed to.

When Roc reaches me I grab his arm and run with him onto the transporter. To his credit, Roc smartly thinks to hit the door close button repeatedly.

“Doors closing,” the speaker says. “Nonstop to subchapter six of the Moon Realm.”

The doors begin closing and we peer through the tinted windows to catch a glimpse of our pursuers. When the doors are halfway closed I think we’ll make it. The guards realize they’re too late and intelligently veer off toward one of the front sections of the transporter, but they’re still at least five long strides away.

They’ll never make it.

One of them dives headfirst at the rapidly closing door, thrusting his arms in the tiny crack and using his elbows like a wedge to pry it open.

“Damn,” I mutter, as they board the train. “What happened?”

Roc’s eyes are wild, flitting from side to side, unable to focus on mine. “I don’t know—I just freaked. I tried to sneak away, made some excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. One of your guards said he’d escort me, that he was bored anyway. When I said I’d be fine on my own, he started asking questions and I got flustered and just started running. That’s when they came after me.”

“Damn,” I say again. I should’ve known Roc wasn’t cut out for this type of work.

“What are we going to do?” Roc says. His face is as white as a ghost’s. He’s probably been under more stress in the last five minutes than in the last five years combined.

I glance through the small window in the door at the end of our car. Two cars ahead I can see the guards making their way toward us, transferring cars swiftly, methodically.

The doors close and the transporter silently leaves the station.

“Remember all that training we’ve been doing?” Roc’s eyes don’t light up the way they usually do when I mention training. Not this time. He isn’t ready for this. But he’ll have to be anyway.

I put both my hands on his shoulders, look him in the eyes. “This is gonna be okay, man. I promise. We’ll do this together.”

I hand him the stolen sword and raise my own.

The guards enter our car.

I’m not sure whether they know who I am yet, so I can’t depend on my true identity to protect me from the sharp swords they’re brandishing. After all, they’ve just left the pool, where they think I’m wasting away the afternoon, getting drunk and looking to score with one of my desperate admirers. Not that I ever do that. But they might think there’s a first time for everything. They probably think Roc has stolen something and I’m his accomplice.

They’ve got guns, too, but they’ve left them holstered for now. One of them is chuckling to himself, like this is a chance for a little fun.

Anyway, they come at us with blood in their eyes, swinging to kill, or at least maim. I know these guys are out of Roc’s league, accomplished fighters, but I also know I’ll need his help if we’re going to survive the next five minutes—or even the next five seconds.

I block both their swords with my own, feeling their collective strength as I’m thrown back against Roc. Pushing Roc hard against the side of the car, which is moving faster and faster, already nearing its top speed of two hundred miles an hour, I spin hard to the left, ducking under another sword that wants to lop my head from my shoulders.

Roc cries out as he slams into the wall, which draws the attention of one of the guards. The distraction provides a short reprieve, as now I’m only facing one guard. I deftly slip under his attempt to gut me like a fish, simultaneously launching my own attack, slashing him hard across both legs. I avoid his chest and head—I still don’t want to kill anyone.

He goes down like a sack of potatoes, dropping his sword and screaming in agony.

I turn back toward Roc, who’s also crying out. The other guard has him cornered, slashing at him with short, flashing strikes. Roc’s doing his best to maintain his swordfighter’s stance, but each time he parries a blow, it seems even less likely he’ll be able to block the next one.

I charge the guard from behind, dropping my sword and tackling him hard to the floor. His sword clatters to the ground next to Roc, who kicks it out of range of the guard’s scrabbling fingers. I swing my elbow hard, crashing it into the back of his head. He slumps, unconscious.

Turning back to the other guard, who is writhing on the floor in the fetal position clutching his legs, I pick up my sword.

“No!” Roc cries, when he thinks I’m going to run him through.

But I’m not going to kill him. I spin the sword around and use the long handle to give the guard a major headache. He stops flopping about, stops yelling. Lies there, silent.

Roc’s face is even whiter now, like it’s powdered with chalk. “You okay?” I ask.

Roc seems unable to speak, taking short and uneven breaths, his fists balled and legs stuck firmly shoulder-width apart, slightly bent at the knees—just like I’ve taught him. He’s going into shock. I need to snap him out of it.

“Roc, stay with me, man. It’s going to be okay, we’re safe now.” I know I have to secure the guards—they’ve probably taken a lot of collective hits to the head over their lifetimes and their recovery time will be shorter than most—but I’m worried about Roc, so I take care of him first.

I put an arm around Roc’s shoulder and the other on his elbow and lead him to a seat. He’s trembling slightly, his body reacting to the sudden decline in stress. Once he’s seated, I look him in the eyes. “All okay,” I say. He’s staring at his feet, refusing to meet my eyes.

I try to make casual conversation to snap him out of his funk. “Remember the last time we were in the sixth subchapter, Roc?” He continues to stare at the floor. “We were riding on that float, trumpets playing, people cheering—when it tipped over. You remember that? It was chaos, Roc. A mob of bodies, mashed up against each other, nearly getting trampled to death. But we survived it. And we just survived an attack by two highly trained guards, Roc. We’re just fine. You did great.”

Finally, his chin rises ever so slightly, and he manages a grin. “You’re talking to me like I’m a child,” he says.

I laugh. Good old Roc. “I thought you were in shock,” I say.

“I think I was…or nearly was,” Roc says. “Thanks,” he adds.

“Hey, what are friends for?” I say lightly. I don’t want him getting all emotional on me. There will be time for that later.

Luckily, in his haste, Roc didn’t forget the pack that we prepared together. In it is a long coil of rope. Using my sword, I cut off four small sections and use them to bind each guard’s hands and feet. I stuff the bodies under the seats at the other end of the car, as far away from Roc as I can get. Their swords and guns clatter onto the tracks beneath the transporter when I throw them out the door. Roc watches me do all this with interest.

When I come back and sit next to him, he turns to me and says, “That was my first real fight.”

“You did great,” I repeat.

He laughs. “How do you figure? I was screaming like a banshee and on the verge of sudden death throughout the entire thing.”

“You didn’t die,” I say. “That’s why. And everyone is on the verge of sudden death in a swordfight. All that matters is who doesn’t die.”

The guards stir halfway through the trip and start yelling. I wrap cloth around their mouths to shut them up.

Roc is better for the rest of the transporter ride, telling upbeat stories about when we were little, the trouble we used to get into. He might be overcompensating for the way he’s really feeling, but I’m not about to stop him; it’s better than listening to him talk about near-death experiences.

At some point along the way, the well-lit tunnel dims, as we cross over the border into the Moon Realm. Less electricity is provided to the commoners. Their leaders have signed a contract so it’s okay. Yeah, right.

An hour or so later the transporter begins to slow, pulling into a dead Moon Realm station. Moon Dwellers don’t travel much; they’re too busy trying to survive. I’m somewhat concerned there will be a welcoming party waiting for us: either Moon Dweller soldiers acting on my father’s orders, or Sun Dweller soldiers who somehow managed to get there in front of us. But there’s no one waiting with guns, or swords, or handcuffs. I dare to hope that perhaps the only guards who know what is happening are tied up in the last car on the train. Despite the low traffic, they’ll eventually be found. We need to be as far away from the sixth subchapter as possible when they’re discovered.

We exit, our swords tucked under our clothing, and Roc carrying the pack. I scan the platform for any signs of trouble. There are only three people in sight. A cleaner scoops rubbish into a long-handled dust pan. An old woman steps onto the transporter a few cars in front of us. There’s no way she is going to the Sandy Oasis. More likely the transporter is headed deeper into the Moon Realm, sending our tied-up pursuers far away from us. The third person is a platform attendant, who eyes us warily—he probably isn’t used to many Sun Dwellers stepping onto his platform.

I approach him, keeping the cap of my hat low to shield my face. I’m still wearing sunglasses. Although it’s unlikely he’ll recognize me, I still need to take precautions. So I change the tone of my voice slightly, making it gruffer and deeper. I say, “Where can I catch the first transporter to the fourteenth subchapter?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, like he’s never heard such a request in all his life. But then he says, “Platform seven. Just around the corner.” He motions in the direction we need to go. He doesn’t offer any information on when the next transporter will arrive, but Roc already checked the schedule. It’s due only ten minutes after our arrival.

“Thanks,” I growl.

We round the corner and my eyes widen when I see the next platform. Based on the noise level—which is almost nonexistent—I expected to find another empty platform. Not so. Instead, the platform is packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, back to front, most of them staring straight ahead. No one speaks. They’re like statues.

I check my watch. We’ve arrived eight minutes late, which means the train will arrive any second. It’s early evening—quitting time. I’ve heard that jobs are becoming so scarce in many of the Moon Realm subchapters that some people commute to other subchapters to work, and then return home at the end of the day. That must be what these people are doing.

We join the crowd, wedging ourselves between a fat guy and an even fatter lady, trying to blend in. We get more than a few suspicious glances—it doesn’t help that I’m wearing dark sunglasses.

I hear a rumble in the distance and the crowd pushes forward, anticipating the train’s arrival, anxious to get home. The train arrives and the doors open. It’s empty; apparently subchapter 6 has a lot more jobs than subchapter 14. By the time we push, jostle, and elbow our way onto the car, all the seats are taken. We fight our way to the wall and lean against it, trying to get some breathing space. No luck. The biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life stands right next to us and raises his gigantic arm so his sausage-like fingers can grasp the handrail. Out of his exposed armpit wafts the smell of dried sweat and too many days without a shower. He burps, letting out an even worse odor, one I can’t easily identify, but which reminds me of rotten onions.

It should be a terrible ride, but it isn’t. After all, I’m doing something for myself, making my own choices. For once in my life.

Chapter Nine

Adele

It has all been arranged. The greedy guard has been paid. Tawni has withdrawn all of the money from her account. We’ve broken three pieces of thin plastic off of a cheap food container that we stole from the cafeteria. We’re ready.

All we have to do is wait.

Sometimes in the Pen waiting is dangerous. Although a lot of the kids are wrongly convicted—screwed by the system, like me, I guess, and probably Tawni and Cole, too—there are plenty of bad kids in here as well. Real bad kids. Kids that’ll knock an old lady over on the road, steal her walker, and then break it down and sell the parts. Like the giant tattooed guys I’d been dealing with in the last couple of days.

There’s also a lot of violence in the Pen. Kids form gangs, fight over turf that doesn’t belong to anyone, try to control the cigarette and booze trade.

I am no stranger to violence.

I remember my first week in the Pen. I was scared, didn’t know anyone—which didn’t change much in six months—didn’t know what to expect. I was sitting in the Yard, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, working on my leave-me-the-hell-alone vibe, when I saw a fight break out. I’m still not sure what it was about—one guy looked at the other guy’s girlfriend maybe. Anyway, all of a sudden the punches started flying. And I don’t mean like a schoolyard fistfight, where one kid gets a bloody nose and it’s over. This was a no-holds-barred, savage, kick-him-when-he’s-down kind of fight. And neither guy would relent. They were both twice as big as me and had clearly fought before. By the end of it they were both covered in blood, staggering around like they were drunk, probably suffering from concussions, or worse. Eventually one of them went down for good, but that didn’t stop the other guy from stomping him into the ground until the guards finally came to break it up. I never saw either of the kids again. For all I know the guy on the ground is dead and the other guy is now an Enforcer for the Sun Dwellers. Bottom line: the Pen isn’t a friendly place.

Early on, I had a little trouble from one of the guys. I can promise you he wasn’t bothering me because of my brains. He wanted something else, something I wasn’t about to give him. His legs are still broken more than four months later.

No one messed with me after that—at least not until that day with Tawni. I’m not sure if it’s because of the message I sent with my fighting ability, or simply because my lack of hygiene makes me less and less attractive with each passing day, but whichever it is, I’m thankful for it.

I don’t have a problem with violence. I’ve grown up in a violent world, where miners are killed every day by cave-ins, and Sun Dweller Enforcers roam the streets cracking the knees of anyone unwilling to cooperate with them. My dad taught me to only use violence when provoked.

Today is one of those times.

I’m sitting in the Yard by myself. We’ve just finished going over the plans one final time and now Cole and Tawni are walking along the perimeter of the fence, doing what Cole likes to call “his zoo thing,” staring at any people passing by on the outside, growling and carrying on like a caged animal. I guess he does it for kicks.

I showered after breakfast for the first time in weeks. I did a way better job than usual, scrubbing all the nooks and crannies, even rubbing the bar of soap through my hair. The water was freezing, but I suffered through it. I smell good for the first time since entering the Pen. I want to be as clean when I leave as when I arrived. Call it a symbolic cleansing of sorts.

No one, besides Tawni and Cole (and a few obnoxious girls in the bathroom), have spoken to me in months, but now a gang guy saunters up, staring at me the whole way. It’s the guy who approached me before, when I first met Tawni, when I first saw Tristan. The tatted-up gang leader with the big muscles and the small brain.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, in the exact same way he did before. Like I said, no brains. My dad used to say the definition of stupidity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Or maybe that’s the definition of crazy. Either way, it sprang to mind when the guy spoke.

“Like I told you before, leave me alone,” I say.

“Not gonna happen,” he says. “Not this time. You see, you’re looking even better today, and there’s something I want. And when I want something, I get it.” I’m trying to act tough, but inside I’m trembling, scared shitless, but I learned a long time ago that inside the Pen you can’t show your fear. The others thrive on it, smell it, gravitate toward it, like bats to blood.

I could run from him, try to hide, perhaps avoid him for the rest of the day until we escape, but that’s not how I was raised.

My father taught me to fight.

I stand up, finally making eye contact with him. His dark eyes are vicious and uncaring.

“You ready to play,” he says, licking his lips, eyeing me from top to bottom and back up again. I don’t wait for him to make the first move, which is another thing my father taught me. Especially not when your opponent is bigger than you.

I kick him hard and below the belt. Then I follow it up with a roundhouse kick to his head, which has dropped to waist level as he clutches his groin, groaning in agony.

I hear a yell, which likely comes from one of his mates, who are surely watching the exchange with interest, getting a good laugh up until the point I’d kicked him. Then I hear shoes pounding on the barren rock. Coming toward me. But I’m not worried about the footsteps, because strangely enough the Pen has a code of sorts. With the exception of multiple gang member brawls, fighting is limited to those involved in the fight. There is no jumping in, no ganging up. You can watch, but not intervene. The code won’t protect me the following day or the next week, when, had I been staying in the Pen, I would most definitely have to fight the rest of the gang members in succession, but I’m relying on it now.

“Get up, boss,” I hear one of them say. I almost smile. Verbal encouragement is permitted. The guy he refers to as boss is a tough guy, and he would get up despite the brutality of the wounds I’ve already inflicted on him, but I’m not about to let him, not about to underestimate him like he has me.

So as soon as he pushes up to his knees I kick him in the face again. He spins away from me, lifting slightly off the ground before crashing onto his back. I think his skull bounces off the rock because blood starts seeping from the back of his head where I didn’t kick him. This time he isn’t getting back up.

And then Cole and Tawni are at my side, grabbing a shoulder each, backing me away from the semi-circle of gawkers who have formed to watch the painfully lopsided fight. It is over before it ever really starts. A fast fight is a good fight, my father always used to remind me during my training.

Tawni takes my hand and pulls me over to my stoop. I close my eyes, dip my head into my hands, start trembling. My whole body is shaking, like a virulent flu has attacked my insides all of a sudden, giving me a bad case of the shakes. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the rush of adrenaline that comes with extreme violence. I’m no kind of adrenaline junkie, am not addicted to it, don’t crave it. Although I’m prepared to engage in violence when I’m forced to, I don’t particularly like confrontation. Unfortunately, confrontation seems to like me quite a lot.

The last time I fought in the Yard—when I victimized that guy’s legs and sent a message to the rest of the inmates—I’d cried afterwards, in my cell, alone. I’d never wished more to have my parents with me, to comfort me like a child, to hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay.

This time, however, I have Tawni. I’m not crying this time, but I’m distraught, exhausted, both mentally and physically. She wraps an arm around me, pulls me close, holds me. Normally it would be a bad idea to show such weakness in front of the rest of the “guests,” but I don’t care. We’re leaving and I’ll never look back.

My thoughts are interrupted by Cole. “How’d you do that?” he says.

“Preemptive strike,” I say simply, my voice muffled through my hands.

“No. I mean, where’d you learn to fight like that?” he persists.

“I told you I know how to fight.”

“But where’d you learn it?”

“My father taught me,” I say, opening my hands and raising my head. Tawni is still holding me, and where it had felt good a second earlier, it now feels weird, I think because it’s such a public place and Cole is watching. I give her an awkward look and she seems to get the message, withdrawing her arms.

Cole’s looking at me with those strong eyes of his. Clearly he’s perplexed by me, like I’m a puzzle. But I’m not really. It’s simple: my father was taught how to fight by his father, my grandfather, and he taught me. Growing up, he never let me rest on the fact that I’m a girl. Not in the world we live in. He said everyone will need to know how to fight eventually given what’s coming. I’m not sure what he meant by that.

I was a good student and loved our training sessions together. From hand-to-hand combat to shooting slingshots, to fighting with a staff, I relished every new lesson. He was hard on me, but I didn’t mind. I just knew I wanted to spend time with him and it was as good a way as any to do it. I remember the day he told me I was ready. I didn’t understand. He said he’d taught me everything I needed to know. I didn’t feel ready.

My father is not a violent man. He told me never to use my training except to defend myself or others. “Never be the initiator, never the aggressor.” Including my most recent fight in the Pen, I’ve only fought three times in my life, outside of training. I haven’t lost yet, unless you include the skirmish with the man-giant that Cole pulled me out of. But I don’t, that was hardly fair.

Although I had a good teacher in my father, he said I have a natural talent for fighting. I would tell him I got it from him, but he always countered that I inherited my talent from my mom. I never understood that. My mom is the least violent person I know. With the exception of the night she was taken, I’ve never seen her so much as lift a foot to squash a bug. When I asked her about it, she just shook her head and said, “Your father has a big mouth sometimes, Adele. He’s the fighter, not me.” I never really believed her, but that’s all she’d say.

Cole looks like he’s about to ask another question about my fighting, but I wave him off with a hand. “I’d really rather not talk about it right now,” I say. I’m glad when he doesn’t push it any further.

To his credit, he doesn’t so much as mention fighting the rest of the afternoon, or the evening for that matter. The last day in the Pen seems to sprout wings and fly away. I think it’s because I can’t wait to get out of this dump.

Night falls. Not that it makes things look any different. Outside the Pen it’s still the dull gray that it always is. Inside the Pen it’s still fluorescent white, painfully bright in most areas. Tawni and I walk to our cells for what I hope will be the last time. After a quick and knowing sideways glance, we push through our respective doors. As I close the steel barrier, I insert the plastic square between the bolt and its hole.

Ten minutes later the speaker announces lights out and I hear the lock click. It sounds different than most nights—not the hollow click announcing my nightly imprisonment, but a duller thwap! that confirms the plastic has done its job.

The waiting is painful—each fifteen-minute interval drags on until I’m straining to hear the clap of the guard’s footsteps on the gray-painted stone floor. By the third guard, it feels like an hour has passed since the last guard clipped past my cell. That’s when I start worrying.

At first it is just a nagging voice in my head that says something isn’t right. But soon it becomes a shout that says that the guard’s patrol pattern has been altered, that someone knows about our attempted breakout, that even now they’re handcuffing the wayward guard who took our money. Perhaps it’s already past midnight. Perhaps the fence is still charged and ready to shock us into oblivion when we touch it. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

I try to think about my family to take my mind off of my nerves. I desperately want to see them again. For the past few months I’ve done my best to forget them, letting their smiles fade from my memory like a hunting bat drifting into the gloom. Elsey, with her contagious optimism and proper way of speaking. My mom, with the heart of a lion and an abundance of compassion. My dad, the fighter, quick to smile, slow to anger. My rock, my hero.

The fourth guard comes. Eleven o’clock—if the patrol pattern hasn’t changed. My mind is relentless, and soon my heart joins in the fun, hammering in my chest, striving to pound its way through my bones and skin. But I’m handling it. Barely.

Until my lungs decide to join the party.

My breaths start coming in ragged heaves, short and choppy, until I’m gasping for breath. It’s like my whole body—all its parts, internal organs, and nerve endings—decide to mutiny at the exact same time.

That’s when I lose count. I can’t remember if the last guard I heard was the fourth or the fifth. I’m thinking fifth, but I can’t be sure. When the seventh—or is it the sixth?—guard goes by, I know I have to play it conservatively. This is one time I can’t be late.

So I block out all my kooky, mutinying body parts and start counting. I put every last ounce of concentration and brain power into keeping count, maintaining a steady rhythm, treating the act of counting like it’s the most complicated math problem.

Right on six hundred, I pull my door open and step into the dim hallway. Ten seconds pass and Tawni still hasn’t emerged. I think I must be too early. It’s probably eleven-forty and the next guard will be coming soon—the guard that should have triggered my counting. But then I have a very bad thought. What if I’m too late? What if I missed two guards passing and it’s really twelve-ten now? What if Cole and Tawni waited for me, and when I didn’t come, carried on the plan without me?

Tawni’s door creaks open, and, like a shadow, she emerges. I take a deep breath and approach her. “You count slow!” I hiss.

She raises her wrist, displaying the digital numbers on a wristwatch. 11:55. “Sorry, I forgot I had this,” she whispers. “I guess you got excited and counted too fast.”

I don’t know why the twelve o’clock guard chooses to come down the hall at that moment. It’s possible he’s just bored, choosing to start his circuitous route through the complex a few minutes early to pass the time. Or perhaps Tawni’s watch is slow, as well as my counting. Maybe he’s right on-time. Whatever the case, all of a sudden he’s here and we have nowhere to hide.

When he sees us standing in front of our cells, he stops, looking confused. He rubs his eyes, as if he thinks the shadows are playing tricks on him.

We run.

It doesn’t take him long to realize we’re real. He opens fire on us with the big gun he’s hefting. Yeah, he actually shoots at the backs of two defenseless teenage girls who are inside a secure facility, presumably for the petty crime of breaking curfew. I don’t know where the Pen hires these psychos from, but I make a mental note to write a letter to the government about them. The same government that abducted my parents. Yeah right, like they’re going to listen to me.

At first I don’t realize what’s happening. As I flee, I feel a weird rush of air burst past one of my ears, and then see a spark to my right when something glances off the wall. It isn’t until we reach the end of the hall and I see the bullet holes that I know for sure that we’re being shot at.

Somehow we manage to get down that first hall without getting shot, but we aren’t even close to being out of the mines yet. We start to turn right, to take the fastest route to the Yard, but are forced to veer left when we see three more guards charging toward us. A few more bullets whiz past, shot by the original guard. I hope he hits the other guards by mistake.

The three new guards are yelling to the other guard to “Stop freaking shooting!” which gives me hope that perhaps they aren’t all so trigger happy. With a parade of slapping feet behind us, we take the long way around to the Yard.

As we round the next bend, the sweat is dripping into my face and I have to use the sleeve of my gray prisoner’s tunic to wipe it away. I try to stay with Tawni, but her legs are longer than mine and her long graceful strides soon edge her several paces ahead. Just as she passes a corridor on her right, a guard steps out, facing me. He’s holding a thick black nightstick and looks ready to use it.

I leap, aiming a high kick at his face and hoping he’ll get the worst of whatever collision is about to occur. I catch him high, just above his left eye, but not before he’s able to take a half swing with his club. Thank God he doesn’t have time to wind up the entire way. CRACK! I feel the rod slam into my ribs, sending shivers of pain through my stomach and into my chest.

There’s a cringe-worthy crunch! as I land on top of him, one foot on his head and the other on his chest. I think I might’ve broken his sternum. Somehow I manage to keep my footing and stumble off of him, using my momentum to continue moving forward.

Tawni hears the commotion and stops, waiting for me to catch up. I try to yell, “Keep running!” but it comes out as a wheeze—I’m having trouble getting air into my lungs after the hit from the nightstick. I wave Tawni on with my hand and she gets the message. She turns and continues running, but at a slower pace, until I’m able to get alongside her. We run abreast at my slower pace, cutting through the back entrance to the cafeteria, past the benches and long tables, and out the front entrance. Each step sends shockwaves through me, and my stomach heaves, threatening to toss up whatever gunk I ate for dinner.

Once out of the eatery, we cut sharply to the left and push through the outer door in tandem, crashing each of the double doors into the stone wall in the Yard. Compared to the air inside the Pen, the outside air feels fresh and quickly fills my faltering lungs.

A headache starts in my skull, maybe from the exertion or the explosions of gunfire that are still ringing in my ears. Or from something else. It’s the first headache I’ve had since seeing Tristan. But there’s no time to think about all that.

A dull light illuminates us for a moment, before we have a chance to duck against the wall. Cole is waiting just outside, in the shadows.

“Could you be a little quieter!” he hisses. “Someone’s gonna hear us!”

“Too late for that,” I choke out.

“They’re after us,” Tawni says, grabbing Cole’s hand and pulling him toward the fence.

We have no idea whether Cole’s guy came through for us, but by God we’re going to try anyway. Cole finally seems to grasp the urgency and powers ahead, reaching the fence about five seconds before us. He uses the time to rip his prisoner’s tunic over his head and chuck it against the fence.

Nothing. No crackle of electricity, no smell of burning cloth, nothing. The fence’s power is off—but for how long?

We aren’t about to sit around and place bets. Cole already has his tunic on and is a quarter of the way to the top when Tawni and I start climbing. As usual, she gets in front of me immediately, using her long reach to skip as many rungs as possible. I hear a shout from the Yard, but don’t risk looking back. I have to keep climbing. Stretching my arms over my head makes my stomach throb and my crushed ribs grate against each other, but I push through it, even when the pain grows so bad that I start seeing stars.

We’re so close I can practically smell the freedom.

So close.

And yet so far.

Cole is straddling the barbed wire at the top of the fence, trying to avoid getting poked somewhere that will have a permanent impact, when I hear the next shout. It isn’t from the Yard this time, but from the street outside the fence.

This time I look. I don’t even have to turn my head, just have to look down. Half a dozen guards, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons, which are pointed right at us, are shouting for us to get down.

We’re trapped like rats.

My head pounds in rhythm with my heart.

Chapter Ten

Tristan

When we exit the transporter, it’s getting very dark in subchapter 14, but it’s only early evening, perhaps seven o’clock. The day lights on the roof of the cavern—which are already dim to begin with—are nearly extinguished, simulating twilight. I’m glad. It makes it easier to avoid being spotted.

Although most of the time the many subchapters in the Moon Realm blend together in my memory, becoming one continuous subchapter in my mind, I have a pretty good idea of the layout of subchapter 14 because we just visited it. Roc also has a map—he has a map for every place in the Tri-Realms—and we use it, along with our memories, to navigate our way from the transporter station, through the streets past the familiar government buildings, and into the light commercial district, near where the Pen is located.

I still haven’t worked out what to do when we get there.

We emerge from a crowded street, full of people bartering goods and services for their next meal, and see the intimidating fence surrounding the Pen. It’s a formidable obstacle, complete with barbed wire and signs warning of “Electrified Fence—Keep Back!” It certainly makes you appreciate being on the outside of it.

I feel a strange pull toward the Pen, but I resist it, trying to be patient. It feels like someone’s poking me in the back with pins. Not like the stabbing-knife pain from the last time I was here, but a lesser, more prickly pain.

The rock yard beyond the fence is empty. It’s getting late and the inmates are probably in their cells. I’ve never visited the Pen before—never had a reason to—so I don’t know their rules around prisoner visitation.

We have a choice to make. Hole up for the night and wait until morning to try to get inside the Pen, or give it a try now, at a time which will be considerably more suspicious. I manage to tear my eyes from the Pen and we head for a hotel.

The only option in near vicinity to the Pen is a ratty old building across the road. The ancient clerk at the front desk has a wispy white beard and pockmarks covering the whole of his face.

“We’d like a room for the night,” I say gruffly.

The guy doesn’t bother to look up from his newspaper. “Which one would ya like?” he says.

“Do you have anything available that overlooks the Pen?” I ask.

The man starts to chuckle, but then starts coughing—a heaving, wheezing blast of air from his mouth that reeks of disease. When he gets control of his lungs, he says, “We currently have one hundred percent availability.”

I guess I should’ve known, considering the number of people commuting out of the city every day. There’s no reason for travelers to stop in the 14th subchapter.

“Top floor, dead center view of the Pen,” I say.

“Room twelve thirty-five,” the man says, handing me a key. He’d slipped the key from a peg on a board without even looking at it. Roc and I make eye contact; his lips are curled into a smirk that I’m pretty sure mirrors my own.

The room is more like a closet, but is clean at least, with painted-white stone walls and slate floors. A single bed fills most of the room—we’ll have to duke it out for bed rights. There’s a shared bathroom in the hallway, but with no guests other than us, we’ll have it all to ourselves. It’s not the Sandy Oasis, that’s for sure. I could be having a massage right now. Am I crazy?

I close the door.

First we check the view. For someone wanting a view of the Pen—like us—it’s a good one. The Pen is dark and quiet. I can picture the girl sitting on her bed in her cell, wishing to be anywhere but there. I don’t dare to picture her on a slab of rock in the morgue.

But even so, if I can somehow get her out of the Pen, no doubt she’ll be pleased, willing to answer my questions about her use of voodoo dolls. That’s my best theory as to why when I’m near her it feels like I’m being tortured.

I feel the familiar pull toward the Pen, my scalp tingling. No headache yet, but I know it’s there, just below the surface, waiting to come out.

It’s freaking weird.

“I’ve got to find out if she’s alive tonight,” I say suddenly.

Roc glances at me, raising his eyebrows. I’m ready for him to advise me that I should wait until morning, that I should do the responsible thing, be patient, but to my surprise, he says, “I know. Let’s go have a look.”

When we pass the front desk, the same old man is sitting in the same position, reading the same paper, like he’s glued to the seat. Perhaps he has a neck problem, which explains why he again doesn’t bother to look up. Or perhaps he just doesn’t like guests; or more specifically, doesn’t like us. It doesn’t bother me—the fewer questions and looks we get the better.

The security at the front gate of the Pen is light—only a single guard with an automatic weapon mans the station. The prisons are all secured by Sun Realm employees, so they have access to more advanced weapons than most people in the Lower Realms.

I remove my shades, as they’ll make me stick out even more wearing them at night. I hope the low-brimmed hat will be sufficient to hide my face. I approach the guard with my head down, but I can feel him eyeing us.

“Hoping to visit an inmate,” I say casually.

“A guest?” the guard replies.

I almost say what? but then realize we’re talking about the same thing. Funny how they call their prisoners guests. “Uh, yeah, a guest,” I say.

“Visiting hours are over. Come back between ten and two tomorrow.”

The guard doesn’t sound like he’ll easily change his mind, but I have to try anyway. “Is there any chance of an exception?” I say.

“No,” he says simply, his voice sounding tired, like he hates having to constantly have this conversation with people. I consider playing my son-of-the-president card, but decide against it as I don’t really want to give away my identity just yet. There’s a good chance the press will get wind of it and then my father will send guards to bring me back. Plus, I don’t want to rely on my name, or my father, for this mission. I might regret it, but for once I just want to be a random guy. Tomorrow I might change my mind, but not tonight.

“Okay, we’ll be back at ten in the morning,” I say.

The guard doesn’t answer, just stares at us. No, it’s not at us, more like through us, like we aren’t even there. We leave.

I know it isn’t a good idea to roam the city, especially at night, but we have to eat so we go for a walk. The subchapter has seen better days. Although the cavern it’s built in is magnificent, rising hundreds of feet above our heads and extending many miles in each direction, the town itself is deteriorating. Most of the shops and restaurants are boarded up, having insufficient business to exist. When people don’t have money, they can’t buy things—simple as that. I expect it means the remaining restaurants will be crowded, enjoying the benefits of being the only show in town, but I’m wrong.

The buzzing in my scalp lessens with each step away from the Pen.

We pass a tavern. Through the window I can see a lone drinker propped on an elbow, sitting on a stool at the bar. Nursing a drink. And I mean nursing. He’s sipping it like it might be the last drink he’ll ever take. Maybe it is. Maybe things are so bad that he spent the last of his money on the drink, and plans to commit suicide later tonight. I don’t know. Things like that don’t happen in the Sun Realm.

We get to the end of the street without passing another open eatery. Turning left, I hear the distant murmur of music playing. Halfway down the block the soft glow of candlelight drifts through an open doorway. The sign above the door simply says, Pizza. Not seeing any other options, we make for the light.

Entering the pizzeria, I let Roc step in front of me as I see half a dozen heads turn toward us. The music playing is by some Sun Dweller rock band, The Stone Crushers, I think, and has an up-tempo beat that makes you want to get up and dance. No one is dancing tonight. They are, however, eating pizza and it smells pretty good.

There’s no one to greet us so we just take a couple seats and wait for service. None of the other customers pay any attention to us. A few minutes later, a short bald man with horn-rimmed glasses pushes backwards through a set of swinging doors. He’s wearing a red apron and balancing four circular trays of pizza across his outstretched arms.

“Who ’ad the cheese?” he grunts.

Every hand in the place goes up except ours. He quickly dishes out the pizzas and collects a few coins from each party. Then he turns toward us. “What’ll ya have?” he says.

“Whaddya got?” I ask. When the guy’s eyes narrow, I realize I should’ve just said cheese pizza, because I know he has it. Instead, my simple question instantly draws more attention to us than I want. I glance at Roc. He’s chewing his nails off one by one.

“You’re not from around ’ere, are you?” the guy says.

“Just visiting for a day or two,” I say, hoping it will satisfy him and he’ll go back to serving us.

He raises a single bushy eyebrow. “Travelers, huh?” he says. “We don’t get many travelers. Where ya from?”

Now I know we’re in a bit of trouble. I can tell him the truth, tell him we’re Sun Dwellers, but I have no idea what effect that will have. Will he and his patrons be excited that Sun Dwellers are visiting their subchapter? Or will they be angry, ready to have a political discussion that involves their fists and our faces? All it takes is one Moon Dweller with a chip on his shoulder to cause us serious problems. On the other hand, if I lie, tell him we’re from some other subchapter, he might ask questions that I’m not able to answer. I’ll have to keep lying, spinning myself deeper and deeper into a web of deceit.

I opt for truth, for better or worse.

“We’re visiting from the Sun Realm,” I say.

Suddenly, it gets so quiet I can almost hear the sound of one of Roc’s chewed-off nails drop to the floor. It even feels like the music stops playing, although in reality the song just happens to end at the exact same time.

“The Sun Realm, eh?” the pizza man says. I know that everyone inside is listening to our conversation now, slices of pizza dangling from fingertips, some in mid-bite. I know the man isn’t going to let it go in a hurry. I’m glad the restaurant is only lit by candles—it’ll be near impossible for him to identify me.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Never served a Sun Dweller before,” the guy says, his light tone switching to heavy right about the time he says the words Sun Dweller. I sense a hidden meaning behind his words: It’s not that he’s never had a Sun Dweller in his pizzeria, but that he will never serve a Sun Dweller, even if they’re his only customers.

“Fair enough,” I say, standing up. “We’ll take that as our cue to leave.”

The pizza man puts a hand on each of my shoulders and pushes me firmly back into my chair. “There’s a first time for everything,” he says.

I’m not sure what he means. That he’s going to serve us like any other customers? Or that he’s going to head back into the kitchen and cook up the most delectable, hot, gooey, poisoned pizza he’s ever made? Whatever the case, I’m not going to take any chances. As soon as the owner barrels through the swinging doors to the kitchen, I’m back on my feet. Roc’s up at the same time, knowing without asking what our next move will be.

We move toward the door.

Two big men block the exit, standing tall with their arms crossed. Not good. I don’t even know where they’ve come from. I don’t recall seeing them in the restaurant—and if they had been, we would’ve seen them moving across the room to block us. They could’ve come from outside, but I probably would’ve heard them scuffle across the threshold, unless they’re professional sneaks. There’s a staircase that rises up from just to the right of the entrance, however, presumably leading to sleeping quarters for the bald pizza man. Perhaps he has sons who live with him, who, upon overhearing our conversation—key words being sun and dwellers—thought it polite to pop down and say hello. Of course, these men are staring right at us and their lips aren’t exactly moving; if not “hello,” I would take “good evening,” “welcome,” or even “hiya” at this point. No words—just stares. If these guys are his sons, they’re genetic freaks, more than twice the size of their dad.

“Excuse me,” I say, still trying to avoid a confrontation. They don’t move, just stand there staring. I try to squeeze through the middle of them, but they inch closer together, shoulder to shoulder. I attempt to skirt around them, but they move like a single organism, blocking the side. The only option left is through them. So be it.

I take a few steps back and charge.

The feint is as important as the attack itself.

I fake like I’m going to try and club each of them over the head with a different one of my fists. Because all of my activity is aimed high, they counter with high defenses and attacks of their own. The guy on the left covers his head with his arms and hands to block my attack. The guy on the right goes on the offensive, attempting a haymaker punch intended to end the fight quickly, possibly breaking my jaw or giving me a mild concussion.

At the last second I throw my head back and launch both feet forward like torpedoes. Each boot heel hits one of the guy’s knees. I have so much forward momentum that the impact is like getting hit by a concrete block. I feel their knees buckle, crack, bend back the wrong way. And I hear their screams of pain, a harmonized “ARGHHH!” that will surely bring the pizza man running back out of the kitchen.

They tumble backwards out the open doorway and I land on them in a mess of arms and legs, at least two of which contain broken bones. Not mine.

While I attack, Roc is not idle. He’s already out the door, grabbing me under my arms, hoisting me back on my feet. And then we’re running.

The guys with the broken kneecaps won’t be chasing us, but we don’t know who else might come to their rescue. Given our first taste of subchapter 14 hospitality, we aren’t about to stick around and plead our case to the locals. Apparently, all those screaming, cheering girls—the ones chucking underwear—at the parade the day before live outside the town.

We don’t hear anyone pursuing us, but we don’t stop running until we’re back inside our hotel lobby.

The hotel guy should look up, considering the way we burst through the door, panting and sweating and out of control. But he doesn’t. He isn’t reading his paper anymore either. He’s rolled it up and is using it as a pillow, his craggly old cheek resting upon it, smudging the print all over his face. Buzzing snores arise from his vibrating lips. Deep sleeper, I think. Hear no evil, see no evil. The perfect place for us to stay.

I never thought I’d be so happy to see the inside of that tiny shoebox room. Roc and I sit on the bed and look at each other, our eyes wide. Then we’re laughing, in between taking deep, heaving breaths, happy to just be away from that terrible pizzeria.

“What was that all about?” Roc says.

“I dunno. I guess they don’t like us,” I say.

“More like hate us.”

I nod. “Good thing they didn’t recognize me.”

“We can’t stay too much longer in this place,” Roc points out.

“I know. But I have to at least try to see her, to do something, to make sure she’s okay.”

“Then we have to do it tonight. We can’t linger, Tristan.” Roc’s eyes are dark and serious. I value his counsel, even when I don’t want to hear it.

“We’ll go in the middle of the night,” I say. “Two in the morning. Let’s get some sleep.” My stomach is growling, but I ignore it.

It’s only nine, so we’ll get five hours of sleep. I let Roc have the bed. It isn’t often he gets something that I don’t. Roc sets an alarm and goes straight to sleep. I linger, taking the time to brush my teeth and shower in the empty bathroom.

By the time I get back to the room, Roc’s breathing heavily, twitching slightly on the bed as he dreams about getting chased by angry guards, or perhaps deranged pizza chefs.

I take my place on the floor, using the extra pillow to rest my head on. The stone is hard under my back, a terrible contrast to the plush mattress I’m used to sleeping on.

Before I drift off to sleep, I think about how I fainted when I pictured the Moon Dweller girl. Was it some weird neurological response to a stimuli of some sort? I hope I won’t faint when I meet her—it’d be hard to ask her questions while unconscious.

I sleep, either dreamlessly or without memory of my dreams.

We wake up, not by Roc’s alarm clock, but by the muffled sound of gunshots in the distance. Before I’m fully awake I know where the sounds emanate from: the Pen.

I leap to my feet, reaching the window at the same time as Roc. My back is aching from sleeping on the hard, stone floor. I’m not used to it.

We huddle together, gazing across the road and through the fence. The Pen is dark and quiet—like before. Gunshots ring out once more. Although the sound is stifled, both by walls and distance, neither Roc nor I have any doubt as to the origin: a semi-automatic weapon. Countless times we’ve heard similar sounds tremor through the walls of the palace, a result of army training exercises nearby.

I spot movement along the fence. I point it out to Roc, and we watch as a dark form creeps in the shadows, moving silently toward a door leading inside. The figure reaches the door and waits. A minute passes without gunshots or movement from the ghost.

The hollow door clangs open, ringing like a bell across the outer courtyard, through the fence, and into our ears. Two forms spill from the Pen, momentarily thrust into the glow of a single light illuminating the entranceway. They move quickly out of the light, joining the shadow in the shadows. Although they’re only visible for a split-second, a mere wrinkle in time, I know without a doubt who they are—I suddenly feel dizzy.

Roc seems to recognize that something’s wrong, and manages to thrust an arm behind me, catching me just before I collapse. “Tristan?” he says.

Thankfully, I don’t pass out this time. My legs feel like rubber and the whole room is spinning, my head thudding like a war drum, but I hang on to consciousness. Roc holds me up until the feeling passes, my head settling into a less painful throb.

“It’s her,” I say. “We have to go.” Although she didn’t look at me, I felt the warmth of her eyes hit me, like a blast of hot air from a furnace. She’s alive! Although I’ve been trying to convince myself that she survived the encounter with the big guy the day of the parade, in my heart I believed it had ended in tragedy, that I’d never get to ask her the questions I need to.

Before leaving, I risk a final glance out the window, hoping I won’t be affected by seeing her again. There are a few stabs in my spine, but nothing serious. The threesome reaches the fence and starts to climb. “No electricity?” I say aloud.

A group of guards, at least six, I think, charge out into the courtyard. They’re headed straight for her, toting guns and nightsticks.

Time to go.

Roc’s already in the hall, looking back like he expects me to be right behind him. I cross the room in two long strides. We tear down the hall.

If the twelve flights of stairs have a hundred and forty-four steps, I think my feet touch about thirty-six of them. It’s a wonder I don’t trip and tumble all the way to the bottom, breaking every bone in my body.

We rush past the sleeping deskman and into the cool night.

We freeze on the sidewalk when we see the scene before us.

Chapter Eleven

Adele

The explosion rocks the still night air like a freight train crossing a rickety wooden bridge. I cling to the fence for dear life, as superheated air whooshes past me with the force of a stick of mining TNT.

We’re lucky. Damn lucky.

The bomb blast knocks out a section of fence twenty yards to the left of us, leaving us relatively unscathed. Had we chosen that part of the fence to climb, we would’ve been hurtled to our deaths on the unforgiving rock slabs in the Yard.

The good news: The bomb has also taken out every last guard in the Yard behind us. Evidently they were running along the fence when it hit, trying to get to where we were climbing. Their bodies are scattered throughout the Yard, some quite a distance away from each other, tossed like ragdolls by the power of the explosion. I don’t know if they’re dead. Frankly, I don’t care.

The bad news: The guards on the other side of the fence were as protected as we were. They’re still standing under us, still aiming their guns at us. Given the stress they’re under—what with all their friends out cold on the other side and the bomb going off—I’m afraid they might just open fire and ask questions later.

We’re frozen in place, waiting to be torn apart by hot steel bullets. All watching the guards, waiting. It’s horrible. An eternity in hell wouldn’t be worse than these ten seconds. Or maybe it’s only five. I don’t know—all I know is it’s bad.

My whole body is crackling with a sharp pain in my bones. Did I get hit by one of the bullets back in the Pen and not even realize it? Or maybe shards of shrapnel are all throughout my body, ripping and tearing. I quickly scan my tunic for blood. Nothing.

Dark shadows move along the tops of some of the buildings, running, running, and then stopping, heaving something over the side…

BOOM!

The next bomb hits a building across the street from the Pen, directly beyond our section of fence. A maelstrom of glass and rock rubble rains down upon the guards and they do what any other well-trained officers of a fine juvenile delinquent facility would do when three of their guests are trying to escape: they run. For good measure, they even throw down their guns to allow themselves to run faster. I’ve never understood the expression turned tail and ran until now. If the guards had tails, they most definitely would’ve turned just before they took off.

I glance at the tops of the buildings, scanning for the shadows. There’s movement somewhere in my peripheral vision, but I can’t seem to pinpoint it. Who are the shadows? And why the hell are they blowing up subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm, of all places? My guesses are: 1) Sun Dweller military are attacking our subchapter because we only pay 80 percent taxes instead of 82 percent; 2) fed up, underpaid miners have gone crazy and are determined to destroy everything in sight; or 3) other Pen inmates have managed to get their hands on incendiaries and are shooting them off from the roof.

Cole swings his leg over the top and starts climbing down the other side. I’m still frozen in place, trying to process all that has happened. As I watch Cole shimmy down, I can see the hole in the building in the background. The scorching hole is about three times his size, making him look extremely fragile and exposed all alone on his side of the fence. Not that Tawni or I are any more protected.

I’m glad Tawni is there, because I’m not thinking clearly. I’m ready to continue my ascent to the top of the fence, to finish what we started, carry out the original plan, when she brushes past me, heading back down on the Pen-side of the fence.

“C’mon, this way, Adele,” she says.

Duh. Why fight gravity and barbed wire (and my aching bones) when we can go through the fence? Given a full fifth of the fence has been toppled, it’ll be far easier to just walk straight out.

We make it down without incident and climb over the mangled fence. We fight through a few nests of barbed wire, but it isn’t too difficult. Just as we get on the street side of the fence, we see Cole waving wildly from down the road. Hurry! his body language screams.

Alarms begin whooping in the background, coming from the Pen. Jailbreak alarms. For us. The jailbreakers.

We run. We run because we’re worried about the alarms and the guards that will surely pour from the Pen as a result.

BOOM!

Hot stone shrapnel drills me in the cheek, snapping my head to the side. I see Cole and Tawni get pelted by similar flying projectiles, but none of us so much as considers stopping to check for serious injuries. I think we all know that the only thing to do is keep running, to try to get as far away from the commercial district as possible. Whoever is blasting away—the shadows on the roofs—isn’t showing any signs of stopping anytime soon.

It’s weird—the way the night can be lit up so brightly and quickly and then just as quickly return to darkness, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlights. That’s the way our run goes. Flash! And then dark. BOOM! And then silence. It’s eerie, like we’re in a war, bombs exploding all around us as we literally run for our lives.

The thundering explosions fade and the manufactured lightning grows distant as we escape the city limits, moving into the sparsely populated suburbs.

With each step another aching bone recovers, until I’m left feeling refreshed, like I just took a long nap. My body is strange these days.

None of us speak as we continue running, making our way around the huge stone columns that help support the cavern roof. I’m not sure how far or how long we run, or why we finally stop when we do. I think we all just stop at the same time, like robots, perfectly synchronized, slipping behind a high stone wall that rings one of the houses.

I’m breathing heavily—Tawni is, too. I’m out of shape. There isn’t much use for exercise inside the Pen. My mind is racing; my side is hurting. I feel a twinge of pain on my cheek and I flinch. Pressing a hand to my face, I feel the sticky wetness of drying blood. I guess the rock hit me harder than I thought.

“Do you…think…we’re safe?” I pant, directing the question at whoever has enough energy to listen.

Tawni hunches over, trying to catch her breath. Evidently she’s as out of shape as I am. Cole, on the other hand, has apparently kept up his fitness while on the inside. He doesn’t even seem winded.

“I expect we’re all right,” he says, glancing to his right and left, as if they might be surrounding us any second. “Especially given everything else that’s happening.”

Everything else. If only we knew what everything else is.

“What do you think is happening?” I say.

Cole laughs. “Uh, I think our subchapter is getting bombed to hell and back again.” He laughs again.

“No kidding,” I say. “I meant who do you think is doing it? And why? I saw people on the roofs of some of the buildings—or at least their shadows. They were the ones throwing the bombs.”

“My guys,” he says. “I paid a little extra to get a small diversion to ensure we’d get away.”

A day earlier, before I knew him at all, I might have believed him. Not anymore. “Lie,” I say. “Is now really the time for sarcasm?” Despite myself, I smile. “Are we really free?”

Tawni’s breath is mostly back. She rises to her full height, once more towering over me. “For the moment we are,” she says. “As long as we don’t do anything stupid and get ourselves caught.”

“Or killed,” Cole says.

I cringe. My mind is clearing and already I’m analyzing the situation. It’s like a puzzle. There are certain tasks we need to complete, in a certain order, and wrapped around them all is the requirement that we can’t get caught. The first task is obvious.

“We need to get rid of these tunics,” I say.

Cole smirks. “Yeah, I was thinking going naked was a good idea. They’d never expect it.” He starts to raise his tunic over his head, revealing his strong dark legs and a pair of tight, black briefs.

“That’s more than I wanted to see,” I say, looking away.

When I look back he’s lowered his tunic and is winking at me. I shake my head.

“Where are we going to get different clothes?” Tawni asks. “I mean, I’ve got money, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea to walk into a shop wearing these.”

“Yeah, plus we’ll be public enemy number one after the breakout. Our faces will be plastered all over town,” I say.

“Do you think so?” Tawni says, suddenly looking excited. “I would die to see my parents’ faces when they see me on the news.”

“I knew I should’ve had them retake my mug shot,” Cole says. “I think I blinked during the first one.”

“No amount of retakes would be able to help you,” I say dryly.

Cole stares at me, his eyes widening and his mouth opening wide to form an O. “My gosh, Adele. Was that…was that a joke? Well played.”

I play-punch him in the arm and am surprised when he winces. At first I think he’s kidding, but then I notice the slight tear in his tunic. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

“I think we all are,” he says. “But nothing serious for me. Are you guys all right?”

Tawni glances at me. “Just a few cuts on my arms. I think Adele is hurt the worst.”

I raise a hand to my face, once more feeling the stickiness. “Nah,” I say, “it’s a scratch. Probably looks a lot worse than it is.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tawni says.

Damn, I was hoping not to talk about my crushed ribs—where the prison guard smashed me with his club—just yet. Evidently Tawni saw more than I thought. “It’s not that bad, really,” I say. “I’ll deal with it once we find a better place to hide.” I try to breathe evenly, despite the pain.

Cole looks at me suspiciously, and then at Tawni. I squeeze my fists tight, hoping they’ll both just let it go. Thankfully, they do.

“Okay, where should we go?” Tawni asks.

“First, we need clothes,” I say, bringing our strange conversation full circle.

“I can help with that,” Cole says. “We’ll just go shopping somewhere less visible.”

Tawni frowns, clearly not understanding his meaning, but I get the message. “You want to steal them?” I confirm.

“Not steal, just borrow,” Cole says. When Tawni gives him a look, he adds, “We can even leave some money for them if you want.”

I’m not that comfortable with the idea of stealing from innocent people, especially because things are so tough in our subchapter at the moment, but it’s not like we have much of a choice. Tawni, however, isn’t such an easy sell.

“I’m not stealing from anyone,” she says firmly.

“Shhh, keep your voice down,” I say, glancing at the house for any signs of activity.

“Don’t worry, Tawns, I’ll do the stealing,” Cole volunteers. “Consider the clothes a gift from me and don’t worry about where I get them from.”

“No,” Tawni says, lowering her eyes and putting her hands on her hips. I’m not sure why she has such a big problem with it considering our situation. I guess she’s just a person of principle, unwilling to budge on certain things. It’s probably caused by her parents—her way of proving she isn’t like them, isn’t willing to cross some line in her head. I’m more of a realist.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” I offer.

Tawni’s eyes brighten all of a sudden, like she’s just thought of something. She’s really pretty when she gets excited. Her blue eyes sparkle against the whiteness of her hair. If she’d been born in the Sun Realm, she probably could’ve been a model in one of their fashion magazines. Funny how our lives are so affected by where we’re born.

“What?” I say.

“We’ll get the clothes from my parents’ house…my house,” she says.

“I’m not so sure that’s—” I start to say.

Tawni plows ahead. “My dad’s a big guy, like Cole, I think his clothes will fit perfectly. I can wear my own clothes, of course, and you can wear my mom’s clothes. Don’t worry, she’s shorter than me, about your size, so it should work. C’mon, let’s go,” she says, before either of us has a chance to disagree. “We should be able to make it there in less than an hour. It’ll still be pitch-black when we arrive.” She grabs my hand and starts pulling. She seems to like to do that, and normally it would bother me, but for some reason with Tawni it doesn’t, maybe because of how willing she is to help me.

Cole just grunts and follows us. Given how long he’s known Tawni, I guess he knows how hopeless it is to argue with her when she sets her mind to something.

Stopping to catch our breaths was a bad idea. At least for me. My body is completely frozen up. My thighs and calves burn from the sprint through the Pen, the frantic climb up and then back down the fence, and our distance run across the subchapter. My back is sore and pleading with me to take a break—just rest for a minute, or even thirty seconds, please!—and my bruised side, well, it gave up on pleading long ago and is practically screaming at me to stop. I want to look at it, but am afraid to stop, because I might not be able to start again if I do. Plus, Cole and Tawni will see it then, too, and it might be too hard to convince them I’m okay. Instead, I just ignore my body. I’m sure it will punish me later.

We try to stay off the main roads, sticking to the shadowy fringes of houses and properties. As we walk, we talk, speaking in hushed tones. We can still hear the dull boom of explosions in the distance, can see intermittent flashes of light exposed against the dark backdrop of the giant cavern, but they’re neither loud enough nor bright enough to wake the sleeping Moon Dwellers. Closer to the city, I’m sure it would be pandemonium.

Tawni says, “I think it’s the Sun Dwellers.”

“What reason do they have for attacking?” Cole says. “They’ve got a sweet deal with us, and your boy Tristan”—he motions to me—“was just here shaking hands with the leaders and mugging for the cameras.”

“I don’t think it’s the Sun Dwellers either,” I say, although I’m not sure why.

“Of course not,” Cole says. “Your lover boy and his people could do no wrong.”

My face flushes, but in anger, not embarrassment. “I never said that!” I hiss, a bit too loudly. Tawni gives me a look and I lower my voice. “What’s your problem anyway? We know nothing about Tristan—I know nothing about him. All I have to go on is that seeing him gave me a headache and that Tawni heard he’s an alright guy from her parents. That’s it. For all I know it’s a bunch of crap. He might be a total creep. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably never see him again.”

Even in the shadows I can see that Cole is shocked by my outburst. Maybe he isn’t the only one with a temper. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

I feel bad right away. I really don’t know anything about Tristan, and he’s not here anyway. Cole is. One of my two friends at the moment, willing to risk his life to help me escape. I try Cole’s tactic of forgiving quickly. “It’s okay,” I sigh. “Look, I don’t like the Sun Dwellers any more than you do—that I can promise you—and they did abduct my parents, but seriously, I just don’t think they’d start bombing us all of a sudden. Like you said, they’ve got the leaders in their back pocket. Why would they ruin such a good thing by beating us down even more?”

“Sorry,” Cole says again, hanging his head. Suddenly I feel even worse about snapping at him.

Tawni says, “You guys are probably right. But if not the Sun Dwellers, then who?”

“If I had to guess,” Cole says, “I’d say it’s a Moon Dweller rebellion.” When I frown, Cole explains. “You know, like a civil war. An uprising of Moon Dwellers who are sick of our leaders getting into bed with President Nailin.”

“No way,” I say, without really thinking about it. I don’t even want to consider the possibility that we would destroy our own stuff, our own buildings, the fruits of our labors. Would my father, who’s somewhat of a revolutionary himself, support such tactics? No, I think, more certain of the answer than I’ve ever been of anything in my life. “No way,” I say again.

“Then who?” Cole asks. “Not the Star Dwellers. They don’t even have guns, much less bombs. They’ve got knives and bows and slingshots, and that’s about it. Not bombs.”

I know he’s right, which leaves the Sun Dwellers, the Realm with the greatest resources. I try to think of any other possibility. I have no idea, but something about the timing seems far too coincidental. “Do you think it was someone trying to help us?” Even as I say it, it feels stupid. No one knew we were leaving. And anyway, who would want to help us?

“Not likely,” Cole says.

Eventually, everyone stops talking and we trudge along in silence. It’s probably safer that way anyway. After what feels like miles, Tawni finally says, “We’re here.”

It is a good thing, too, because with every step my legs threaten to topple underneath me. I yearn for a soft bed, for a comfy pillow to rest upon.

“We’ll have to sleep in the shed,” Tawni says. Cole and I groan simultaneously. “We’ll stay there at least until morning, when my parents leave for work, or wherever it is that they go every day.”

I sigh. “Won’t your house be under surveillance?” I say. “We did just escape from prison.”

“Not this quickly,” Tawni says. “With the bombings, they’ll have more important things to worry about. Plus, with my parents’ connections to the Sun Realm, there’s no way they’d allow surveillance of their property.”

I mull it over, hoping she’s right. “Okay,” I say. “Lead the way.”

We steal across the front of the house, which is bigger than most in the Moon Realm, at least five times as big as my house. My eyes have adjusted to the dark (plus there are small night lights along the front walk), so I can make out artsy rock formations littering the landscaping. They’re hand-carved and probably cost a fortune. We easily zigzag our way through them and I guess that Tawni could guide us without injury even if she was blindfolded, such is her familiarity with the landscape.

I can’t see much of the house, except that it looms up like a fortress in front of us. Compared to most homes in the Moon Realm, and particularly in our humble district, it’s as big as a palace. I can’t wait to see it when the dim cavern daylights are illuminated.

We reach a medium-height wall separating the back from the front. Raising one of her long legs, Tawni clambers over it easily, like she’s done it a thousand times. Following her lead, Cole hops over the barrier swiftly and looks back at me, as if he’s considering offering me a hand over. I pretend not to see him and, against my better judgment, place my hands firmly on the top of the wall and push off hard, using it to vault over the top. Although I clear the wall easily, I pay the price on the landing, feeling the jolt of my feet on the stone through my entire body, particularly around my battered ribs.

It hurts like hell, but I grit my teeth and dare myself not to show any discomfort. Cole’s watching and I don’t want to look weak in front of him. I don’t know why. He’s already seen me fight, knows I’m tough, knows I’m strong and capable. Maybe I’m just trying to prove my toughness to myself.

Regardless, I don’t think it works. Cole pretends not to notice that I’m in pain, but I think I see a twinkle in his eyes and a casual smirk on his lips. I brush past him and follow Tawni around the house.

The backyard is even bigger than the front, possibly bigger than my parents’ entire property. In the center of the space is an in-ground pool, probably the only one in the entire subchapter. The still waters glow an eerie blue, lit from beneath by underwater pool lights which evidently stay on all night. I try not to think about how much that would cost—and that it’s funded by the sweat and blood of people like my father.

The shed is past the pool. It isn’t what I expected. When you live in relative poverty, the word shed fosters an image of a tiny stone cubbyhole, crumbling around the edges and filled with rusty tools, spiders, and the occasional bat. Not a four-room building with running water, electricity, bunk beds, and shelves of food. Maybe I’m going to get a bed after all.

Tawni pushes open the door without a key and slips into the darkness. We can’t risk turning on the lights, so she gives us a brief tour using the soft glow of her digital watch. Then she breaks out a can of beans, which we eat at room temperature, a box of salty crackers, and a tube of some kind of mint jelly. Although it shouldn’t be, the food is amazing, and we eat frantically. It’s a good thing there are no lights, because I don’t even stop to wipe the crumbs or juices from my mouth.

We risk turning on the faucet and cupping our hands to drink. My throat is so dry the water burns slightly on the way down. The second gulp goes down better.

No one speaks until we finish all the food.

When the last cracker is gone, Cole says, “Will your parents come in here in the morning?”

“No,” Tawni says. “Never. I’ve never seen either of them in here.” Her voice is thick with distaste. “They think it’s beneath them. These are the servants’ quarters. They used to live with us, but it became too expensive, so now they just come during the day to clean and cook and maintain the place.”

I’m shocked. Disgusted. The rest of us are barely scraping by and Tawni’s family has servants. Seriously! I want to say something but I hold my tongue, because I know she’s uncomfortable with the set-up, too. It isn’t her fault. Like I said before, you have no control over what situation you’re born into.

Cole changes the subject. “What happened to you guys in the Pen?”

I’d almost forgotten that he only saw the butt end of our escape from our cells. It feels like all three of us have lived through the entire thing together.

I give him a taste of his usual sarcasm. “See, Tawni and I were playing poker with a few of the guards, when it came time to meet you. We thought they’d let us go because, by that point, they owed us a bundle of money. Instead, one of them whipped out an Uzi and started firing away. We ran like bats out of hell, leaping bullets and fighting guards the whole way. It was crazy.” Maybe not all true, but it was crazy.

“Mostly lies,” Cole says in the dark. “But a hint of the truth, the crazy part, right? Oh, and I expect you did get shot at, too.” He’s good, all right, but I’m not about to tell him that.

“Okay, the true story is…”

I tell him the full story, downplaying the incident with me and the guard who stepped in front of me, but totally milking the “barrage of bullets whipping past our heads, tearing our clothes—I think I felt one trim off a lock of hair.” I don’t mention the mysterious aching I felt on the fence.

“Let me see where the guard hit you with the stick,” Cole says when I finish.

I don’t want to. Don’t want the sympathy. Don’t want them to worry about me. I know it’s bad, but probably not as bad as it looks.

He won’t leave me alone until I show him.

Even using only Tawni’s watch light to see, my side looks awful when I raise my tunic. Already my skin is marbled with purple and blue at the top and green splotches at the bottom. The shape doesn’t look quite right, like I’m missing a rib or two.

To my surprise, Cole laughs. If I’m expecting sympathy, I don’t get it. “You’ll live,” he says. And then: “I’ve seen worse from a single punch on the schoolyard.”

I thought I didn’t want sympathy, but then when I don’t get it, it makes me mad. It’s probably just lack of sleep, the pain I’m in, the gamut of emotions I’ve felt this night—or I’m just a head case. Probably that, too.

Tawni is nicer, immediately tearing off strips from one of the bed sheets and wrapping them around my stomach and side to support my battered ribs. I grumble about her pampering, but afterwards I’m glad she does it, because my ribs stop hurting temporarily.

The servant’s bed I sleep on is more comfortable than the one I’d slept on growing up. I practically melt into it. Although I’m too tired to be excited about having escaped the Pen, I do smile in celebration just before I fall asleep.

Chapter Twelve

Tristan

I shudder when a flash of blinding pain blurs my vision. Shaking my head and blinking, I try to regain control of my body. When my vision returns, it’s not a pretty sight.

They’re surrounded with no hope of escape. I don’t know why of all nights they’ve chosen this one to attempt to gain their freedom, but I know if we don’t help them they won’t make it. She won’t make it. For all I know, the guards might shoot first, rather than try to apprehend them. For all I know it might be another policy, like no visitors allowed outside of certain hours. The gunshots we heard earlier certainly point to that conclusion. I can see the new guards on the first day of training. Lesson 1: Always shoot guests attempting to escape.

Not a nice way to treat your so-called guests.

I can see her halfway up, frozen in place, eyeing the guards on the outside of the fence. Even between the tightly woven chain links, she looks fierce and strong. If she was a type of energy, she’d definitely be nuclear.

I’m coiled tighter than a snake ready to strike, my muscles tensed and flexed, my fists balled, my feet naturally assuming a runner’s stance. I start to sprint toward them just as the bomb explodes. It’s louder than a cannon in the quiet night, and I can feel the shockwaves from the force so strongly that they stop me dead in my tracks.

Frozen in place, I’m unsure of what just happened, or what to do. The acrid smell of smoke and dust fills the air. I can’t see the guards on the inside, but presumably they’re taking cover or were injured by the bomb blast. The guards on the outside are still pointing their guns at the prisoners, but they’re pacing, nervous, much less sure of themselves than they were a few seconds ago.

Compared to the second bomb, the first was like getting hit by a feather. The incendiary tears through the hotel above us, maybe through the exact room we’re staying in—whether by coincidence or design—sending shivering tremors through the street below our feet. I lose my footing as a crack widens in the stone beneath me. I roll hard, narrowly avoiding falling into the widening tentacle in the street. Instinctively, I cover my head, curling up in the fetal position. Heavy chunks of stone shower down, battering my defenseless body. Some of the rocks are sharp, having splintered off dangerously, piercing my skin. If one penetrates my eyes I’ll be instantly blinded.

When the rubble shower ends a few minutes later, I sit up quickly, scanning my surroundings. Roc hasn’t fared much better than me, although he’s sitting up, too, rubbing a nasty red bump on his head. His clothes and face are covered in gray dust.

“You okay?” I say.

He coughs and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I turn my attention back to the Pen. The guards on the outside are gone, their guns scattered haphazardly on the ground. The escapees are gone, too.

She is gone.

“Tristan!” Roc shouts behind me.

I turn, and then, seeing him gazing at the hotel above us, follow his line of sight. Several columns of heavy stones are wobbling precariously, on the verge of toppling.

“Go, go, go!” I shout, running hard toward the Pen’s fence line. I hear Roc’s footsteps pounding behind me, and then a dull, machine-gunning clatter as the stones collapse.

I whirl around, saying the quickest prayer of my life for Roc. He’s fine, having escaped the impact zone just in time. With Roc safe, my thoughts go to her. But then I remember someone else: the deskman at our motel.

Without explaining to Roc, I rush back to the building, leaping heavy stone slabs and piles of smaller rubble along the way. The doorframe is mangled, but still holding itself up amidst the pressure of the collapsing floors above it. I slip through, rapidly locating the old man. Despite his seemingly innate ability to sleep anywhere and through anything, he finally met his match when the bomb hit, or perhaps when the roof partially collapsed.

I’m not sure what happened to his desk—perhaps it’s splintered beyond recognition—but it isn’t there anymore. In its place: the old man—and a huge slab of stone that has him pinned to the ground. Finally, his head is up, his wild eyes looking at me, scared and helpless, begging me to save him.

The stone slab is far too big for me. Even with the adrenaline cocktail coursing through my veins, my first effort at lifting it is fruitless. It doesn’t budge, not even a little. The task is like trying to lift the very earth on my shoulders, a feat only accomplished by Atlas—and I’m no god. While my mind races, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Roc pushes me gently aside and slides a thick metal pole beneath the stone. I have no idea where it came from, but I know exactly what he’s doing—making a tool, a lever—and so I locate a good-sized roundish stone that I’m able to roll over. Together we push it under the pole. Overall, I’m the bigger of the two of us, so I push down hard on the end of lever, using my entire body weight to force it to the ground. The stone is massive, and even with the lever, it strains against me, trying to thwart my attempt. Eventually the lever moves down an inch, and then two, gaining speed as I gain leverage. I’m straining so hard that I have to close my eyes for fear they’ll pop out of my skull.

I feel the pole drop suddenly beneath me and hear a loud crack and a thundering crash. Even with my eyes closed, I know what happened. The pole snapped in the center like a twig, releasing the stone. The man was crushed, broken beyond repair. I slowly open my eyes.

Roc is holding the man, who is not crushed, not broken—at least not beyond repair. Evidently I raised the stone a sufficient height for Roc to slide him out safely before the lever snapped. For that I thank God.

Roc is smiling, helping the man to his feet. The guy is clearly injured, so we each flop one of his arms over our shoulders and half-carry him out of the cracking building. As we pass through the doorframe, the rest of the roof collapses, kicking up a cloud of dust around us as we escape.

We’re lucky. The old man is even luckier.

I’ve never felt so unsure of what to do next. I guess because I’ve never been in such an unbelievably confusing situation. We hear booms echoing around the town as more bombs hit, presumably destroying other buildings. There are shouts in the distance, both from the Pen and from other streets. Other people, probably just like us, trying to decide what to do, where to go, figure out what’s going on.

“He needs medical attention,” Roc says, looking at the man.

“I’m fine,” he grunts.

“No…you’re not,” I say. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

“It’ll have been bombed, too,” he says gruffly.

He has a point. Nowhere feels safe at the moment. But still, out in the open I feel like we’re too exposed, like at any second another bomb might land at our feet. We have to keep moving.

Roc seems to be thinking the same thing. We both start moving, forcing the injured guy to come with us. We turn the corner, but stop immediately when we see the scene in front of us. Smoke, rubble, buildings collapsed and collapsing. People running. We skip that street and head another block down. The next street is quieter, not yet hit by any explosions, perhaps not a target of the attack by…well, by whoever is attacking—I have no idea who.

We travel another half-block without event and then hear a noise as we’re passing an old building on our right. “Psst,” a voice says.

A woman is waving at us from down a set of stairs, from inside a doorway. “Psst,” she says again.

“Yes?” I say, unsure of how to respond to such a strange greeting.

“Do you need help?” she says.

We do need help—desperately need help—so I say, “Please.”

She beckons to us with one hand. We make our way down the steps awkwardly, trying not to bang the man’s already battered legs on the stonework. The woman turns sideways and shepherds us through the door and onto a small landing. Below us steps descend into darkness.

Once we’re all inside, the woman closes the door and says, “You’ll be safe down here.” She moves past us to the stairs, holding a long candle in a small ceramic bowl high above her head. We follow her down, carrying the old man between us. The stairway is wide enough for us to walk three abreast.

At the bottom is another door, which the woman opens. As she enters, she says, “I’ve got three more.”

We poke our heads through the doorway, into a small cellar. It’s crowded. Not including us and the woman, there are eight others. Four candles identical to the one carried by the woman are positioned in each corner of the space, providing spheres of light that overlap in the center.

“Make yourselves at home,” the woman says, before exiting back the way we came and closing the door behind her. We gingerly lower the old man to the floor, next to a couple of kids who are staring at us with wide eyes. They can’t be more than six years old.

“Thank you,” the man says, his voice cracking. His demeanor has changed slightly, as if he’s been softened by our persistent willingness to go out of our way to help him. I wonder what made him so hard in the first place. Perhaps it was just the cruelties of life—the faltering economy, old age, living in a cave—but I sense it was something more specific. He wears a wedding band but hasn’t once mentioned his wife, out of concern or interest or anything. I guess that he’s lost her already.

Roc sits down next to the man and I follow suit. My back to the rock wall, I take in my surroundings. The place is only about fifteen by fifteen feet. It reminds me of a small wine cellar—perhaps that’s what it is, or used to be. No wine adorns its walls anymore. I’d be surprised if anyone can afford wine in this subchapter these days. Regardless of what it used to be, or could’ve been, it will serve well as a bomb shelter now, deep under the ground-level rock surface.

In addition to the two kids, there are three women and three men. Two of them hold hands and are younger, sitting next to the kids, probably their parents. The young wife looks fearful, maybe not for her own life but surely for her children’s; her eyes dart about nervously, always returning to her young ones. The other four are older, gray around the edges, with serious faces that would fit in perfectly at a funeral. Well, at least three of them look that way. The fourth—a short, frail man with an impressive mop of gray hair—is wearing the biggest grin you could imagine. I wonder if my mother’s threat from my childhood—that if you make a face for too long it will get stuck like that—has cursed this man. Perhaps in the throes of an extremely merry moment, his face was frozen in the biggest smile of his life.

“Crazy weather we’re having out there,” he says, somehow managing to keep his smile unchanged while he speaks. He’s looking right at me so I feel obliged to answer.

“I think we’re under attack, sir,” I say, assuming his comment is made from senility, rather than lighthearted humor.

“Silly child, I know that, just trying to get a little laughter going in this damn dismal place.”

I don’t particularly like him referring to me as a child, but I’m also not going to start a fight with a crazy, big-smiled old man, not after our experience in the pizzeria. Instead I say, “Oh. Ha ha.” My laugh comes out even faker than it is. And it’s pretty fake.

“Geez, it’s like trying to get a nun to laugh in a bar in here,” the guy says, still smiling. “How’d you end up lugging around ol’ Frankie here?”

The hotel deskman suddenly has a name.

“Don’t call me that, Chet. It’s Frank—I’ve told you a million times,” Frankie says.

“We were staying at his hotel,” Roc offers.

“Hotel? Ha! That dump’s more like a dormitory.”

Frankie glares at him, burning a hole through him with his eyes.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” I say, trying to get on Frankie’s good side. Instead, he just shifts his glare to me. I guess the whole saving his life thing has worn off.

“So you’re travelers then? What part of the Moon Realm are ya from?” the funny guy asks.

Probably remembering how well I’d handled a similar question in the pizzeria, Roc answers this time. “Subchapter six,” he says. “We’re just here for the night. So many of your people have come to work in our subchapter that jobs are scarce, so we thought we’d have a look around at what you have to offer.”

I hold my breath, hoping he’ll buy the lie.

“Ha!” the man exclaims, so loudly he makes me jump slightly. “You’re Sun Dwellers if I’m an eternal optimist.” I freeze, waiting for the trouble to start. As if he senses my discomfort, he adds, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us. We won’t give you any trouble. Name’s Chip, ol’ Frankie was just messin’ with me earlier when he called me Chet. He’s always purposely gettin’ my name wrong, callin’ me all kinds of things like Chaz, Chris, and a whole lot of other names I can’t repeat in public. What did your mothers call you, anyway?”

“I’m Tristan,” I blurt out. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Roc glances nervously at me. He probably thinks I’ve lost my mind.

I’m Roc,” he adds quickly.

“Tristy and Rocky…” the man says, moving his tongue in a circle as if he is rolling the names around in his mouth to see how they taste. “They’re good names, boys.”

I should just let it go. But I don’t. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If anything, my mother should have named me Damn Fool. “It’s not Tristy, it’s Tristan,” I say sternly. “And we’re not boys.”

The man chuckles, high and mirthfully. “You’ve been hangin’ out with ol’ buzzkill over here for too long,” Chip says, motioning to Frankie. “But as you wish, Tristan the Man.”

“You can still call me Rocky,” Roc offers unhelpfully.

I think we’re out of the woods—clumsily dodging a bullet. Wrong again.

“Heyyy, wait a minute,” Chip says. I know exactly what the perplexed tone in his voice means. He has another question, probably a lot more questions. Because he’s probably figured something out. “You say your name’s Tristan, eh?”

“Uh, yeah, but you can call me Tristy if you really want to,” I say, backtracking, hoping it will help, even though I know it won’t.

“You’ve got a very famous name, young man,” he says. “What’s your last name?”

I go blank. Not a single real Sun Dweller last name pops into my head. All I can think of is: “Goop…and…no…I…mean…Troop.”

“Tristan Goopandnoimeantroop? What kind of name is that?” Chip says, laughing again.

“Sorry, I’m just a little lightheaded from all the smoke out on the street,” I say, shaking my head and trying to appear confused—not that it’s that hard for me. “My last name is spelled T-R-O-O-P-E, and is pronounced True-Pay. It’s French.” I’m feeling clever all of a sudden.

“Tristan Troop-ay, huh? Are you lyin’ to me again, young man?”

I have the perfect comeback for that. “No,” I say, not even convincing myself.

I get the feeling he may have worked it out already, and is just enjoying himself, watching me flounder in my scummy old pond of lies. I cringe, waiting for him to seal the deal.

“So you’re not Tristan Nailin, the son of President Nailin, the boy wonder who will one day become the most powerful man in the Tri-Realms? You’re not that Tristan?” Chip asks, his smile growing even wider—impossibly wide—spreading from ear to ear.

“I think you have me confused with—”

“Ha! We’ve got a real treat tonight, everyone. Tristan Nailin himself, in the flesh! Well, bless my lucky stars!”

My instinct—especially after our encounter in the pizza shop—is to be ready to fight, but the man’s tone sounds light, friendly even. Either he’s a very good actor or he has nothing against me.

With unexpected swiftness, his tone changes. “Your father is a real piece of work, son,” he says in a low voice.

“And me?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“Eh, I think you’re all right, kid.” I’m so overjoyed by the fact that he doesn’t harbor any ill feelings toward me that I manage to ignore him calling me kid again. He continues: “I have a good sense about people, ya know? Just like I could tell you were lyin’ earlier, I can tell you have a good heart. I think maybe you could be the one to make some positive change when you become president.”

“I’ll never be president,” I say honestly.

“For heaven’s sake, why not?”

I scan the room. The others in the cellar are listening to the exchange in silence. Their dark eyes feel like those of silent executioners. I hope it’s just my imagination.

I know I should stop the conversation now—for God’s sake, shut your big, fat mouth!—but I tell them anyway. “I’ve run away. We’ve run away.” I look at my interlocked fingers in my lap. “I don’t want anything to do with my father or the Sun Realm.” A whirl of energy spins through my stomach as I realize: That’s the first time I’ve said that and truly meant every word.

The guy with the smile winks at me. “You see? I told you I knew you were one of the good guys.”

I change the subject, cutting my losses. “So who do you think is behind the attack?” I ask. Despite his age, the guy does seem perceptive, and I really think he might have some valuable insights. Instead, Roc jumps in.

“I think your love for that girl is so strong that it causes explosions,” he says playfully.

“Roc, no,” I say, but it’s too late. The talker seems to enjoy clamping his mind around whatever topic is on the table.

“What girl?” he says, leaning forward.

I warn Roc off with my eyes. “Just a girl,” I say. “But I don’t even know her.”

“A girlfriend?” he guesses, ignoring my rebuttal.

“No, nothing like that. Just a girl,” I say, hoping that will end the conversation. But Roc isn’t ready to let it go. Good friend.

“Yeah, Tristy and his girlfriend just had their first date,” Roc says, smiling brightly. “They almost even spoke to each other this time.” I want to slug him, but I don’t think a spat of violence will win me any points with the Moon Dwellers.

“A Moon Dweller?” Chip asks, a gleam in his eyes.

I wait for Roc—who’s suddenly feeling talkative—to answer, but instead he puts his palm out to indicate it’s my turn. I wish there was a table I could kick him under.

“Yes, she’s a Moon Dweller,” I say. “I just need to ask her a few questions.”

“Well, why aren’t you with her? ’Specially at a time like this.”

It’s a good question. Now more than ever I want to find her, to figure out why every time I see her I feel ready to pass out. I don’t think the guards recaptured her, but I can’t be sure, as I was a bit busy dodging flaming rubble at the time.

“I don’t know where she is,” I say, dropping my head.

“I might be able to help with that,” Chip says. “I’m somewhat of an amateur private investigator. Where’d you last see her?”

I know I’m approaching a dangerous level of truth, but I’ve told them so much already—hell, they know I’m Tristan, the Tristan—so I decide to just go for it. I need help, and if they can provide it, then I have to accept the risks. “Okay, look. Here’s the thing…” I tell them nearly everything. The sharp pain I felt the first time I saw her; our escape from the Sun Realm; how she was trying to escape from the Pen when the bombs starting blowing up all around us; and, finally, how she was gone when the smoke cleared, like a magician performing a famous disappearing act.

When I finish, I sit back and wait for a response. I’m not sure what to expect.

Everyone starts talking at once, asking questions, making comments. The young mother exclaims, “That’s so romantic!” while her husband says definitively, “You’ve got to go after her.” The older couple, who’ve previously been silent, speak in succession: “I bet they went north,” one says, while the other says, “No, south, she must’ve gone south!” Even the kids get involved. The little girl says, “Tristan, do you think you’re meant to find her?” The boy is more interested in the action than the romance. “Were you scared when the guards pointed their guns at her?” he asks.

When the chatter dies down somewhat, I hear a voice from my right, from the door, which is now slightly ajar. The woman who invited us in is standing there—I didn’t even notice her arrival and have no idea how much she’s heard. “She’ll be laying low for a few days with her friends, until things die down. You might only have one chance to find her, because as soon as she makes a move, she’ll run as fast and as far as she can.” The woman sounds wise beyond her years, like she’s experienced everything that life has to offer. “What do you reckon, Chip? She’ll head for the northeastern suburbs most likely; at least at first, don’t you think?”

I realize that Chip is the only one who hasn’t yet reacted to my story, and I turn to him, hoping he’ll have a revelation, something that will give me some kind of direction.

“Yeah, northeastern suburbs because they extend the furthest from the commercial district, where most of the bombs were hittin’. She won’t stay in one place long, though, and eventually she’ll have to find a way out of the subchapter. Can’t use conventional means, as she don’t have travel approval, unless she can find a forger in a hurry, although I don’t know how she could pay for it. I reckon she’ll try one of the mining tunnels on the subchapter border, up near where she’s probably already hiding.”

The woman adds, “You’ll also want to find out more stuff about who she’s with, the other two escaped prisoners, because it might change what they do.”

I scan the room, looking each person in the eyes, and waiting for any more advice. When silence ensues, I say, “Thanks. Thanks for everything.”

Somehow I know they’ll keep my secrets. I don’t know why they would. I guess maybe they’re just good people. Real good people. The kind you call friend; the kind you stand up for; the kind you fight for. I don’t know what’s happening above me, but I vow in my heart to help these people, somehow, some way, some day. To do whatever it takes to give them a better life.

We leave, Roc and I. Explosions continue to rock the night around us, but they’re less intense and less frequent. The streets are empty, everyone having taken shelter.

We run back to the Pen, where the fence is still destroyed, and the courtyard still strewn with guards’ bodies. No one is around, probably hunkering down until the bombing ends. We stop at the point along the fence line where I last saw the girl. Consulting the map, we identify the best route to take out of the city.

“This way,” Roc says, taking the lead as navigator.

I follow him, hoping and praying that we’re doing the right thing.

Chapter Thirteen

Adele

Sometimes I wonder whether people are inherently good or inherently bad. I’d like to think good, or even neutral, like we can all make the choice for ourselves.

After a quiet morning in the servants’ quarters at Tawni’s parents’ house, we move inside once we’re sure it’s safe. Although we don’t plan to linger much longer, we’re careful to cover our tracks so no one knows we’ve been here. The longer it takes them to find our trail, the colder it will become and the safer we’ll be.

The whole morning I think about Elsey. She’ll be our first rescue, because she’s closest and I know exactly where she is. It’s all I can do to stop myself from running off alone to save her. I need to be patient. One thing at a time.

Tawni’s house is even more impressive than I’d imagined based on my glimpse in the dark. Standing three stories tall, it has more than a dozen rooms. The floors are marble and swirled with illustrious blue and green patterns. Winding staircases rise majestically in at least three places, providing access to the upper floors. The entire place is spotless, a testament to the quality of the servants that work here.

We’ve gotten lucky; it’s one of the servants’ two days off. And, as Tawni expected, no one from the Pen has shown up yet.

We turn on the telly, hoping to find out what’s happening in subchapter 14. There are two major news stories being run over and over again. The headline story is about the bombing. We were all wrong about the culprits. I’m shocked, to be honest.

While we’ve all been hating the Sun Realm—for its unfair policies and outrageous taxes—the Star Realm has been hating us. The whole time I’ve been thinking the Star Dwellers are like a younger sibling to us, different but on the same side—but they’ve taken a different approach. The video from Vice President Meriweather, the leader of the Star Realm, explains things.

He blames us for the oppression by the Sun Realm, says we let them go too far, that we set a precedent that forces the Star Realm to comply with unfair contractual terms. He says our leaders are spineless, gutless—which I tend to agree with—and that until we remove them from power and agree to join their rebellion, they’ll continue to bomb the living sheetrock out of us. Earlier, I assumed subchapter 14 was the first target, and it was, but it was only one of many first targets. Overnight a dozen subchapters were bombed, although none as heavily as ours.

Tawni and Cole are as shocked as I am. “If we kill each other, then where will we be?” Cole says, exasperated. He refuses to sit down while watching the broadcast, and now he’s pacing, throwing his hands around as he rants.

“It will only make the Sun Realm more powerful,” Tawni agrees.

“But the Star Dwellers are right, in a way,” I say. When I see the looks on my friends’ faces, I explain, “I don’t mean in bombing us—not that. Just about our leaders. They’re just puppets for President Nailin, right? He dictates the terms, and they agree to them in exchange for a bit of money on the side.”

“Yeah, true,” Cole says, “but why not just come and talk to us about it, rather than chucking bombs around?”

“Maybe they did,” I say. “Maybe we ignored them.”

I think Cole might blow up, lose his temper again—he’s certainly in one of those moods—but he doesn’t. He chews on the side of his mouth like he’s chewing on my words, trying to understand them, and then says, “If that’s true then they should be removed from power. As far as I’m concerned, there should be a rebellion, but not against us, against the Sun Dwellers, by both us and the Star Dwellers.”

“But so many people will die,” Tawni says.

“People are dying now!” Cole shouts. He lowers his voice, looking around as if the walls might have ears. “Just more slowly. The life is sucked out of us day by day, as the Sun Dwellers take more and more from us. One day they’ll take our souls.”

He has a point, but I’m more interested in something else. “Where the hell did the Star Dwellers get bombs from? They have no money, no resources.”

Cole raises his eyebrows. “Where indeed,” he says.

“Maybe they’ve been planning this for a long time,” Tawni says. “Maybe they’ve been saving for this.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But there were a helluva lot of bombs going off in a helluva lot of subchapters. That would require years of saving to buy or build that many bombs.”

“Not if they had support by a traitor in the Sun Realm,” Cole says.

Before I have a chance to respond, the second breaking news story comes on, so we turn our attention back to the telebox.

The next story is all about us, referred to as “the escaped guests from the Pen,” who are deemed to be “armed and dangerous.” Our photos and names are stuck to the bottom of the screen while they show footage of the destroyed fence, the downed guards, and the dropped guns. Without explicitly saying it, they imply that we’re responsible for the whole mess, rather than admitting it was the Star Dweller bombs that caused the destruction.

Next they give information on who to call if we’re spotted. Security checkpoints are being added to all major subchapter borders, and roadblocks are in place to search vehicles that may be hiding us. The penalty for harboring “the fugitives”—meaning us—is a life sentence in the Max.

The lead investigator, which basically means hunter of humans, is speaking live from the Sun Realm, and will be traveling to subchapter 14 to personally begin the search. His name is Rivet, and his face is what sparks my thoughts about the inherent nature of the human race.

I don’t know where they found this guy, or what hole he’d been hiding in, but he’s the epitome of evil. His face is cold and hard, with black eyes that are so close together they appear beady, like a snake’s. Fierce black eyebrows rim them in a perpetual frown. His mouth is the snarl of an angry dog. A three-inch scar cuts one of his cheeks in half. He has a low-cut Mohawk and multiple piercings in each ear, which fits in perfectly with the dozens of tattoos that litter his muscular frame. Everything about him screams intimidation.

His words are cold, like icicles, and I almost feel like he can see us through the screen, directing his threats right at us. He keeps his comments brief: “I cannot reiterate this enough: We must apprehend the fugitives as quickly as possible. They’re armed and extremely dangerous. Their sentences range from murder to treason, and they deserve to be locked away for the rest of their miserable lives. This office pledges to hunt them down and bring them to justice, to be tried for their new crimes under the law. Thank you for your time.” Cameras flash and reporters yell out questions, but Rivet is gone, having disappeared back inside some government building.

“Murder?” I say. “I was in for treason, but they didn’t even mention your crimes. We didn’t kill anyone, they can’t say that!” I’m angry and flustered. I knew they wouldn’t be fair to us—have never been fair to us—but I don’t want people to think I’m a murderer.

“There’s something I should tell you,” Cole says, finally sitting down on the floor.

I glance at him, but then back to the telly as the next segment begins. It’s a review of each of us—our pasts, our crimes, our sentences, that kind of thing. They start with Tawni and brush past her pretty quickly, saying Cole and I are bad influences on her and that her sentence is much lighter—for the minor charge of illegal interstate traveling.

“My parents are hard at work doing damage control again,” Tawni says sullenly, as if she would prefer to be depicted as a hardened criminal.

They move onto me next, turning my parents’ slight rebelliousness into an act of high treason, framing it like we’re a family of thieves and spies, not satisfied until we destroy everything from the Star Realm to the Sun Realm. They go into a lot of detail about how it makes sense that I’d try to escape, given my life sentence. By the time they’re done with me, I even feel slightly ashamed of myself, although I’ve done nothing wrong.

The broadcast ends with Cole, touting him as the ringleader of our little gang, noting that he is “as cunning as he is dangerous.” I grin at him when they say that, expecting him to take it as a compliment, but he looks away, his lips a straight line, unreadable.

I wait for them to tell Cole’s story about the bakery, his attempted theft of six loaves of bread, his apprehension and short juvie sentence.

I find out the truth.

There was no bakery, no bread, no mild sentence. Cole duped me. The way his eyes sparkled when he told the story, his attention to detail, his effortless laugh: it all made me believe without a doubt that he was telling the truth. The true story paints a much grimmer tale.

According to the reporter, Cole attacked an Enforcer without provocation. The Enforcer was conducting a routine search of Cole’s neighborhood, looking for anything suspicious—they do that from time to time. They don’t need search warrants; just a badge and a uniform authorizes them to go wherever they want, whenever they want. Cole jumped the guy and killed him, broke his neck cleanly. They say it was instant death and that Cole is a murderer. Cole was sentenced to life in prison, just like me.

The segment ends and Tawni clicks off the telebox.

I stare into space in silence. I’m upset that Cole didn’t tell me the truth, but even more upset with the information in the broadcast. Although I haven’t known Cole for long, I know enough about him to realize that he wouldn’t kill someone without a damn good reason. I want to ask, want to know the real story, but also know that Cole has to want to tell me. I don’t want to force something out of him that he prefers to remain buried. So I just wait. A few minutes go by in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Cole still won’t make eye contact with me—his face turned away—although I look at him a few times.

Tawni’s the first to speak. “Cole, she’s one of us. She should know.”

Cole finally turns his head, and I see what he’s been doing in silence. Crying. His cheeks are slick with moisture and his eyelashes beaded with tears. It scares the hell out of me. In the short time I’ve known Cole, I’ve found there to be a strength in him that’s beyond anything I’ve seen in someone before. It makes me want to be his friend, to depend on him, to count on him. But now he looks broken, destroyed, devastated. The pain on his face is utterly complete, cracking his cheeks with jagged lines.

He starts slowly, building momentum as he unloads his pain. “There were three of them,” he says, “but I thought there was only one.”

“Enforcers?” I ask.

He nods. “When I came home from school he was in the house. My younger sister, Liza, had stayed home sick. My parents were both out, working, like always.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. Before he starts again, a fresh stream of tears dribbles from each eye.

“He was on top of her,” he continues, “trying to take everything from her. God, Adele, she was only eleven.” I feel my own batch of tears well up and I fiercely blink them back. If Cole can’t be strong, I need to be strong for him.

“I was like a raging bull, full of anger, and I felt stronger than ten bulls. I was on him before he even knew I was there. Liza’s tunic was half-ripped and he was trying to pull it off of her. She was incredible, Adele, not giving an inch, kicking and clawing and fighting to the bitter end. Eventually he would’ve subdued her, but not before taking a bit of a beating. My sister was strong, like me.” Although his face remains mournful, I detect a hint of pride in his voice. But as much as I want to, I can’t ignore his use of the word was. It’s there in the back of my mind, tormenting me.

“I pulled him off of her with two hands, threw him against the wall. He wasn’t prepared for a fight. His hands and voice were pleading, begging for me to let him go. I wonder if I should’ve.”

“No, Cole,” Tawni says. “If you’d let him go he would’ve just made up a story about you attacking him and the end result would’ve been the same.”

Cole hangs his head and bobs it up and down, like he wants to believe her but knows he never will. He says, “I was in a rage, not to be reasoned with—you know my temper. I grabbed him and slung him into the wall headfirst. I spun him around, cradled his head, and wrenched it hard to the side. I didn’t even know how to do it properly, but I guess brute strength was enough. I can still hear the bones in his neck cracking. I know I should be sickened by it, but I’m not; I relish the memory.”

I relish that part of his memory, too. The Enforcer was pure evil, inherently bad for sure. If anyone was deserving of death, it was him. I want Cole to stop his story there, but I know he can’t.

“The other two Enforcers were upstairs when it happened,” he says. “They were looting our few measly possessions of value. My mother’s gold wedding band. My father’s steel-toed boots. Taking our stuff while their buddy took my sister.” Cole’s face remains tearstained, but there are no new flows. His eyes are strong again, flashing anger. I would’ve pitied any Enforcer who walked into the room at that moment.

“I guess they heard the commotion, because they came down quietly, their guns out and ready to shoot. But I wasn’t ready to fight anymore. I was holding Liza, helping her cover herself with a blanket. She was bawling, kissing my face, begging me to take her far away from that place. Our home, the place where we’d had so many happy memories, grown up together, had become dirty to her, a prison of filthy nightmares. She would’ve cast it off forever, Adele.”

I’m crying. I don’t know when I started, but once the taps are turned on I can’t seem to stop them. I feel ashamed, like I’ve let my friend down in his moment of need. But he doesn’t seem to notice, like crying is the natural thing for me to do.

“They pointed their damn guns at us, screamed for us to ‘Stand up! Stand up!’” He wipes his face with his sleeve. “One of them checked the other Enforcer, realized he was dead. They separated us, moved us apart, kept screaming at us. I didn’t understand what was happening until they shot her, my Liza, oh, my poor sweet Liza!” Cole’s head is tucked in his hands, his entire body shaking with sobs. I’m bawling. Tawni’s crying, too, but more constrained. She moves to Cole’s side and rubs a hand on his back.

I think the story is over, but a few minutes later Cole looks up, dripping tears from his chin. “They waited for my parents to get home. I was in shock, sitting there numbly, waiting to wake up from the horrible nightmare. I almost charged them, daring them to shoot me—preferring if they would—but I didn’t because I knew I had to explain to my parents why their little girl was dead on the floor. They hadn’t even bothered to cover her body with the blanket.”

The only thing I can do for Cole now is to listen, although God knows I don’t want to—don’t want to know the truth—not anymore. Desperately want to believe the comedic story about him juggling the loaves of bread.

“My parents walked through the door like they always did, holding hands, laughing, as happy as anyone in the Moon Realm ever was in those days. I screamed out, tried to tell them everything in a single breath, but I was denied even that. They shot them before they’d even registered what was happening.” No, no, no, no, no! I can’t take any more of the story. I bury my head in my shoulder, sob uncontrollably, like he’s telling me the tale of my own parents’ deaths.

In a strange reversal of roles, he waits patiently for me to get control of my emotions. When I force my head back up, he continues. “I fought like a wild animal, trying to force them to kill me, too. I really thought they would, especially when I started throwing anything I could get my hands on at them. But no. They ran around, dodging the things and laughing, mocking me, enjoying themselves.”

“Cole, I’m…I’m…” I can’t get the right words out—there are no right words.

“I know,” Cole says. “So now maybe you can see why I just can’t trust that Tristan is good, not when he comes from up there.” He motions to the ceiling, like he’s pointing to the heavens.

“I thought…I thought you were jealous or something,” I say, right away wishing I hadn’t.

Thankfully, Cole laughs it off. “Jealous? I mean, you’re not a bad-looking girl, Adele, very pretty actually, but I’m not really into…how do I put this delicately…you.”

Now I laugh, too; it sounds hollow and foreign to me, like it’s something I haven’t experienced in a long time. “Sorry, I realize it was stupid now,” I say.

He waves me off. “So that’s my story. I’m the murderer in the group, I suppose.” His eyes are steely again, but I can still feel a weakness behind them, a vulnerability. I’ve only just met him, but he already feels like a lifelong friend, like I’ve known him forever. Instinctively, I move over and hug him, squeezing so tightly that if he wasn’t as thick as a bear he might pop. It feels so good to be hugged by someone again, even under such awful circumstances. Earlier, I’d gotten a taste of it when Tawni held me close after my fight with the gang leader, and now I’m suddenly addicted to human contact, like I need it to survive. I don’t want to let go, but after a few seconds I do, not wanting to make things awkward between us, or to give him the wrong impression.

He’s smiling. I feel we’ve made a major breakthrough in our relationship, which has seemed somewhat strained at times. Tawni’s smiling, too. She already feels like my sister, after all we’ve been through together in such a short time.

My real sister’s face pops into my mind once more. “It’s time to rescue Elsey,” I say.

“Where did you say she is?” Tawni asks.

“She’s in an orphanage not far from here. It’s just across the border into the slums.”

“We should be leaving soon anyway,” she says. “It’s not safe to linger here.”

“I thought you said they wouldn’t look for us here,” I say, frowning.

“Of course they will,” Tawni says, a twinkle in her eyes. “Just not right away.”

Before leaving, we make sure that everything is put back to how we found it. We “borrow” a couple of old packs that Tawni says her parents will never miss, and fill them with nonperishable food from the storeroom. Unlike most residents of subchapter 14, Tawni’s family has enough supplies to last them for months, if not years. We only take items that are available in plenty, to ensure no one will notice they’re missing. Although we expect to be able to find plenty of water along the way, we fill a couple of jugs from the servants’ quarters with fresh water from the well. Then we nab a few waterproof flashlights before tying our packs shut.

Lastly, Cole and I raid Tawni’s parents’ closets for things to wear. Tawni points out the items that her mom and dad never wear, so they’ll be less likely to realize they’re gone. We stuff our gray prisoner uniforms under a mattress in the shed. Tawni grabs a few old tunics from her own closet and we head out the back door.

Daylight is more dangerous for us. We don’t necessarily expect that if someone spots us that they’ll call the hotline and report us to Rivet, but we also can’t count on silence amongst our people—Tawni’s parents proved that.

The one thing we have going for us is that even during the daytime, so little electricity is provided to our subchapter that the overhead lights don’t provide enough light for someone to recognize us unless they’re practically right next to us.

Still, we stick to the shadows, pausing to look all around before moving across open spaces. Block by block we make our way out of Tawni’s neighborhood. When the houses change from solid stone to crumbling bricks, we know we’ve reached the slums. I think we all feel safer now.

The slums are exactly as you’d expect. All the houses, if you can call them that (they’re more like tiny sheds), are in major disrepair. Kids run barefoot in the streets, playing knights and barbarians with rocks and cardboard swords. Dead, staring faces sit at windows, as if waiting for someone to come save them. No one is coming. Except us, and we aren’t there to save them.

Unfortunately, the orphanage is in the dead center of the slums. Because there’s so much more activity in the slums than in most neighborhoods—none of the people seem to work and none of the kids seem to go to school—we’re especially careful. Despite only covering about ten blocks, it takes us nearly two hours to reach the orphanage. I’m ready to scream when we finally arrive.

The orphanage is probably the best-maintained structure in the slums, but it still isn’t fit to live in. Certainly not for children. I feel my hands squeeze into fists so tight that my knuckles start to ache. Things were bad for me, but they might be worse for Elsey.

The dilapidated door hangs precariously by a single hinge, unable to fully close. At least half the windows are broken, either by old age or a few well-aimed rocks from the neighborhood monsters. There are holes in the roof and cracks in the steps.

We can’t see any activity through the windows in the front. The orphanage is ringed by a crumbling stone wall, high enough to block our view of the rear yard.

When it appears the coast is clear, we take turns climbing the wall while the others cover us—not with guns but with eyes, ready to whisper a warning if someone is coming. We all make it into the side yard safely. We creep toward the back.

As we approach the corner of the building, we can hear voices. Children laughing, children shouting, nursery rhymes: that sort of thing.

I’m leading and am about to peek around the corner when I feel something whiz past my head. I duck and throw myself flat on the ground, suddenly believing that we’ve been discovered and that someone is shooting at us.

Cole chuckles, somewhat loudly. A cloth ball rolls away from us into the side alley—the cause of the whizzing. Just as I regain my feet, a young girl, no more than seven, rounds the corner, nearly colliding with me. She stops like she hit a wall, and prepares to scream, opening her mouth wide and leaning her head back.

Cole grabs her, covering her mouth with his big hand just in time. Her muffled scream sounds no louder than the distant echolocation squeal made by a hunting bat. She starts kicking, so I run to her and start talking in a low, soothing voice, trying to comfort her.

“It’s okay, little one. We’re not going to hurt you,” I promise her. “We’re just looking for someone—my sister.” She still looks scared, her eyes wide and her breathing strained and ragged through her nose, but she’s calmer, no longer struggling so much. “Do you promise not to scream or run away if my friend lets you go?” I ask.

She thinks about it for a minute and then nods slowly. I hope she isn’t lying.

“Let her go, Cole,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow, but complies, releasing the girl and stepping back. She doesn’t run, doesn’t scream, just stands there staring at us. Then she says, “They’re going to wonder where I’ve gone,” she says in a tiny voice, more fit for a butterfly princess than a little girl.

“Okay,” I say. “You can go back. But first, do you know a girl named Elsey?”

The girl’s eyes light up at my sister’s name, and I know we’ve gotten lucky.

“Oh, yes!” she says, twirling her brown curls with one of her fingers. “Elsey and I are the bestest of friends. She’s older than me, but she says I’m old for my age anyways.”

It sounds like something Elsey would say. She’s always liked playing with younger kids, making them feel grown up, special. I used to think she might become a schoolteacher. But that was before my parents were abducted.

“Can you tell her Adele is here to see her?” I say. “And help her find an excuse to come around this corner?”

The girl is even more excited now, flapping her arms as if she’s ready to fly off to find my sister. “You’re her sister! You’re her sister!” she exclaims.

“Yes, now please go tell her.”

The girl starts to race off, but then stops, whirling around to retrieve the ball before scampering back behind the orphanage. Smart girl.

We wait against the wall, expecting an Enforcer to appear at any second, having been ratted on by the sweet little clever girl.

Instead, like a mirage, my sister appears, running so fast her legs are a blur, her jet-black hair swishing around behind her. My day is a rollercoaster of emotions. The demon drop of Cole’s story has given way to a higher high, practically bursting through the cavern roof. My heart is literally soaring, rising out of my body and smiling upon me from above.

Elsey slams into me with such force that she nearly topples me over. Although we’ve only been apart for six months, a mere blip in our lives, it feels like we haven’t seen each other in years. She seems to have grown, both physically and in maturity. Only ten, her pale face looks wizened, young but worn.

“Oh Elsey,” I sigh, holding her tight against my chest, her legs wrapped around my hips. She’s still a child, above all. Forced to endure far more than a child should have to endure. Far more than anyone should.

I want to hold onto her forever, but time is short.

“Let me have a look at you,” I say, gently lowering her to the stone slab alley. My breath catches as I gaze on her face. She’s breathtaking, has always been, with doll-like features that are so perfect they must have been carved by a master sculptor. She’s always been more beautiful than me, but I don’t mind, for she is a pure spirit. I can tell by the way her jaw sticks out now that six months in this place has hardened her, but in her violet eyes I can see the same pure energy she’s always had.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Elsey,” I say, tearing up slightly.

“I’ve missed you so much, Adele,” Elsey says earnestly. “I couldn’t believe it when Ranna said you were here. I ran as fast as I could.” She scrunches up her face, like she’s making a wish. “Are you here to get me out?” she says hopefully.

I nod. “Yeah, but we’re not exactly allowed, so we’re going to have to do it sneakily.”

“I knew you’d come!” Elsey exclaims. “Big John kept telling me I was crazy, that you were stuck in the Pen forever, but I always said he was wrong, even when he called me names. I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Of course, but there’ll be time to talk about all that later. We’ve got to go.”

“But I’ve got to say bye to Ranna!”

“There’s not time, El, I’m sor—”

I’m cut off when Ranna tears around the corner, hissing, “Miss Death is coming!”

Elsey seems to understand the urgency of the situation. With a conviction that has been her trademark for all ten years of her short life, she hugs Ranna, pulling her friend’s head into her heart. “I’ll never forget you, Ranna,” she says. “Our hearts are one.” If you don’t know Elsey you’d think she was crazy. But that’s just Elsey. Everything is dramatic, although in this case it’s probably warranted.

“I’ll never forget you either,” Ranna parrots, like a miniature version of El.

I grab El’s hand and we run back down the alley. Tawni is already over the wall and Cole is waiting to give Elsey a boost. We follow closely, hearing a cry from behind just as we slip over to the other side. Miss Doom, or Death, or whatever, I think.

“Quick, I know a shortcut,” Elsey says, running in the opposite direction we’re planning on going, simply assuming that we’ll follow her. We do.

And it’s a good thing, because at that moment I hear a yell from far back, out on the street where we’d been heading. I half-turn, curious as to who is pursuing us.

I’d recognize that demented face anywhere: Rivet.

Chapter Fourteen

Tristan

Roc and I have been walking for over an hour, making our way to a spot on the map. We hope it will give us a shot at finding her.

It’s the middle of the night. We’re tired. Neither of us speaks as we force ourselves to put one foot in front of the other, time and time again, trudging onwards.

Through the first part of the suburbs, people are out of their houses, wearing sleeping tunics or just undergarments, watching the fireworks in the distance, speaking in hushed voices. They’re so transfixed by the scene before them that they barely pay us any attention. We’re just a couple of wandering nomads.

After a while we see fewer and fewer people, as the explosions dull to a distant rumble, not loud enough to wake the sleeping. We march on, passing through a ritzy neighborhood—at least by Moon Dweller standards—with bigger houses and well-kept streets. Whoever lives in this neighborhood has done something to please my father, that’s for sure.

We transition into a lonely slum, littered with garbage in the streets and cracked sidewalks. It’s a bit scary, to be honest. Even when I visit the Star Realm, I stay in the finest they have to offer, not really witnessing the true living conditions. Without speaking, Roc and I pick up the pace, moving swiftly through the downtrodden neighborhood.

We pass a lonely orphanage, named The Forgotten Kids. True, but a bit pessimistic, especially for the kids. It’s weird to think how different my own childhood was. In a way, I was forgotten, too. Growing up, I was always the last of my father’s priorities. He always had something very important to attend to. I guess no matter what conditions you live in, you always have complaints—your bar is just set at a different height.

We make it through the slums without event. The map shows at least twenty miles of sparsely populated terrain. Within it is a network of caves called the Lonely Caverns. But we’re far too tired to attempt it tonight. We find a couple of large boulders and seek shelter behind them, rolling out our bedrolls and hoping for sleep.

I doze fitfully, having alternating nightmares of explosions rocking the night and the girl’s sad face. Both send shards of glass through my back and head. Even my dreams have become a series of pain and mystery.

I awake to find Roc sitting up, studying the map.

“Morning,” he says, noticing my movement in his peripheral vision.

I notice that he doesn’t add good to the beginning of his greeting. I guess compared to our normal breakfast routine—Roc bringing me fine meats and fruits in bed, and then me sharing it with him—there isn’t much good about this morning. All we have to eat are dried fruits and nuts, and a few blocks of thick wafers, which we managed to steal from the army storehouse before we left. And the change from our soft palace beds—ugh. Splinters of pain shoot through my back, the consequence of the dozens of sharp rocks beneath my bedroll. I shrug it off and focus on the positive.

“Good morning,” I reply cheerfully. For, despite our modest breakfast and sleeping situation, I’m ecstatic. In fact, I’ve never been happier. For the first time in my life I’ve woken up without the weight of my father on my shoulders. And I’m doing something I want to do. I know it’s selfish, but my whole life I’ve been doing whatever my father asks of me, and I desperately need a chance to live my own life. Even if it’s only to find out about…

“A girl?” Roc says into his map.

My head snaps up from our pack, where I’m rummaging through for food. How does he do that? I think. How does he always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking? “Huh?” I say, trying to hide my amazement.

“Are we seriously risking our lives all for a girl? One who you’ve never met?”

Roc’s tone sounds angry. “I’m sorry, Roc. I just have to know why I faint every time I see her. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but—”

“No, it’s fine, Tristan,” Roc says, finally making eye contact with me. “I volunteered, remember? I’m just a little tense, that’s all—not used to all this dangerous stuff. I agree there’s something to it all, I just don’t know what. It’s worth exploring. I just wish she’d stop and let us catch her.” He grins and the tension melts away, but I’m not sure if the discussion is really resolved.

“Thanks,” I say. “Think of it as part of your training. A very real part of your training. How about we practice with the real swords for a while? It might help you to relax.”

“Sure.”

For the next hour I show him the subtleties of using a real sword. By the end, he seems more confident, performing the various maneuvers with ease. It’s just the basics, but it’s a start.

“What time is it?” I ask when there’s a break in the action.

I don’t bother to look at my watch. Usually Roc is responsible for dragging me to anywhere I need to be.

Roc says, “Early afternoon. Why?”

“We should get moving,” I say, worried that we’ve tarried in our hideaway for too long.

“First we need to find out more about our quarry,” Roc says. “Remember Chip’s and Coral’s advice?”

“Who’s Coral?” I ask.

“The lady who led us down to that cellar. Well, I don’t really know her name—she never told us—but I thought she was deserving of a name anyway, so we don’t forget her.”

Funny Roc. But he’s right, of course. We have no idea where she might be headed—we’re just guessing at this point.

“Okay, let’s move along the edge of the caverns. Maybe there will be a shop or something where we can find a telebox.”

We travel for more than two hours before we come to a large cave mouth, near the southern entrance to the Lonely Caverns. Sure enough, there’s a small stone shack with a stand, set up just outside the caves. A middle-aged man with a long, salt-and-pepper beard dozes in a hammock, an unlit pipe dangling from his chapped lips.

All around him are piles of goods, some used, some new. All for sale. It seems a bit out of the way for a shop, but he has plenty of inventory, so I assume he gets some business. There’s also a decent selection of preserved food, like dried meats and fruits.

As we slalom through the piles of stuff, I hear the low murmur of a voice. I head toward the sound. At the very back of the area, sitting on a table, is a small telebox. It’s hard to believe the man has sufficient electricity to operate a telebox, and yet, there it is, broadcasting the news.

I move closer, tilting my ear to pick up the low volume, when I hear a booming voice from behind. “What can I do for ya?”

I spin around to find the man standing close to us, much smaller than his voice suggests. He eyes us warily, as if he thinks we’re thieves looking to capitalize on his midday slumber.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” I say. “We didn’t want to wake you. We were hoping to watch your telebox for a few minutes, if that’s okay? We’ve heard lots of rumors about the bombings, but we wanted to hear it for ourselves.”

“Customers only,” he says, pointing to a sign above the telebox that I hadn’t noticed.

“Of course, of course,” I say. “We have Nailins.” I motion to Roc, who promptly unzips the pack and extracts a handful of gold coins.

The man’s eyes widen. “You look familiar. Who the hell are you?” he asks.

“Customers,” I say simply. “Now, we’ll take ten packs of those dried meats and twenty of the fruit. What will that cost?”

“Usually my customers just barter,” the man says, almost to himself, “but I guess that would be about five Nailins.”

“Give him ten,” I instruct Roc. “For the exemplary service and use of the telebox.”

I turn my attention back to the screen. I massage a knob to raise the volume, not worried about the man’s reaction. He’ll probably let me to do anything I want after the tip he just received.

We’ve already missed the latest report on the bombing, which, not surprisingly, is the lead story. But a close second is the report on the guests who escaped from the Pen. First they show a guy, Cole something, large and dark-skinned. In his mug shot he appears angry, which isn’t that surprising considering he was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. The thought of the Moon Dweller girl traveling with him scares me. The report notes that the Cole character has no family left and therefore, he’ll probably try to get out of the subchapter.

Next they show a girl named Tawni, with stark-white hair and long, thin features. I recognize her immediately as the girl who was sitting next to the dark-haired girl the first time I saw her. Tawni is painted by the media as a good kid who made some bad choices, the latest being her choice of companions in the escape from the Pen. Her parents are prominent, wealthy figures in the subchapter 14 community. They show a photo of her house.

“Oh my gosh,” Roc says, watching over my shoulder, “we passed by there last night!”

I glance at him. “You think they might’ve been hiding out with her parents?”

“Possibly,” Roc says.

“We’ll check it out before we go into the caves.”

Finally they show her. Her sad, green eyes suddenly fill the screen, and then the rest of her features follow as they pan out of the strange choice of close-up.

She’s even prettier than I thought. Her face is flawless. Her lips are in a tight line, but behind them I can feel the warmth of a smile that hasn’t been used in a long time. Her cheeks are pale, but well-constructed. Her hair is radiant black, cascading down from her head and in front of her shoulders. Not only beautiful, she looks capable, a more important trait in the world she lives in. But her beauty is meaningless to me. I need answers. Seeing her on the screen, I don’t feel the pain I did when I twice saw her in person. Curious.

At least now she has a name. For the few days since I’d first seen her, she’s just been a face, an idea, but now the name Adele Rose shivers through my mind and body like the wings on a moth.

She was in the Pen for treason, although the report doesn’t provide any details on what she had done specifically. Her parents are noted as traitors, too, but no information is given on their whereabouts, and one can only assume that they’ve been executed in accordance with the law. But I know differently.

She has a sister, too, ten years old and living out her childhood in an orphanage in a rough part of town. A slum. The slums.

Roc and I look at each other at the same time. “She’s headed for the orphanage,” I say as Roc nods vigorously. “Maybe already there and gone.”

“You don’t know that. We have to check,” Roc says.

“Let’s go.”

Roc settles up with the shop owner and shoves the food into our pack. I’m already halfway down the path, back the way we came. The lights above the majestic cavern are dimming, simulating the impending darker gray of dusk. I feel warmth in my skin, although there’s a chill in the air. I think it’s the warmth of determination. Although I was determined before, now that I know her name, it’s like she’s finally become real to me, more than just a bearer of pain or wielder of psychic power.

Roc catches up with me at a slight jog and I immediately match my pace to his. We make our way back to where we camped, hoping we’ll be able to find safe passage into the slums. The news story motivates us, and we make it back in half the time. Just as the large boulders we’d camped behind appear in the distance, we hear the scurry of frantic footsteps approaching from the path that leads to the slums.

“Down!” I cry, not that either of us need to hear it. We’re both already diving for the rocks, flattening ourselves and crawling behind the biggest stones we can find on the barren landscape.

Just as we hide, a form bursts from behind a large boulder, racing along the track dangerously fast. He’s big, man-size, dark. A second shape emerges, with white, flowing hair and long strides. Big, dark-skinned guy, white-haired girl: it doesn’t take a mining engineer to figure out who they are.

I hold my breath, watching the entrance to the slums, hoping and praying she will emerge. No, not she—Adele. I’m shocked when the third figure scrapes from the path, short legs pumping wildly, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. My first thought is: she’s much shorter in person. But then I realize my mistake when a fourth figure appears.

There’s no mistaking her this time. Athletic strides, fiercely determined expression, piercing green eyes—it’s Adele. Icy tentacles stab at my back, but not as fiercely as the last time.

My mind is a black hole; my heart is a stallion. The stallion in me wants to jump up, say, “Adele, we have to talk,” but thankfully my mind’s black hole implodes upon itself, evaporating and returning clarity of thought.

The orphanage. Her sister. A small girl who resembles Adele. It’s clear what has happened. They’ve broken her out. And the way they’re running—like the wolves of hell have been unchained behind them—means that someone is chasing them. Enforcers perhaps. Or orphanage security, if there even is such thing.

Wrong and wrong.

The Devil himself emerges behind her, running with purpose, perfectly balanced and efficiently functioning, like a machine. A very evil machine. I know that face, that form, all too well. Rivet. The best of my father’s special purpose unit. And the most evil. The most like my father. He’s chasing Adele and her friends.

Behind him is the rest of his unit: half a dozen special purpose personnel with big guns and sharp swords. Death on twelve feet.

Adele and her friends look like they might turn toward us, but then they veer left, up a slight rock hill, heading for the mouth of one of the Lonely Caves.

Rivet is gaining.

Without thinking, I stand up and run hard, cutting the distance between them like a knife, willing my legs to fly. I ignore a blast of thunder in my skull as the headache returns. My hand draws my sword instinctually, using small movements to conserve strength. My heart is pounding, not from the urgency of the run, but because I know Adele is so close, and yet she might never know I’m even here. I hear footsteps behind me and know right away that Roc has my back. He and I both know he’ll be no match for the highly trained soldiers, but he’s my friend—a true friend—and he’ll go down fighting, whether to the grave or to a prison cell. Just like me.

Rivet is like a heat-seeking missile: Such is the intensity in his venomous eyes and the way his stare is locked on Adele that he doesn’t even see me coming. One of his men shouts something as I approach, but he ignores it, thinking it’s just a standard war cry, an adrenaline-induced whoop! of the chase.

When a collision grows imminent, I lower my shoulder and target his chest. The timing is perfect.

I hit Rivet just before he starts up the hill, ensuring his momentum hasn’t lessened whatsoever, creating a human shockwave that sends tremors through both our bones. But I’m the aggressor in the collision, and I’m ready for it, so he takes the worst of it by far. He’s knocked off course, his feet momentarily leaving the rock and his body contorting awkwardly in midflight until he thuds onto a hard slab of rock more than fifteen feet away.

There are people who, if hit that hard, at that speed, might die. Unfortunately, Rivet isn’t one of them. Not even close. He is pure strength, sporting more muscle around his fingers and toes than most people have in their biceps, back, or abdomen. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but not too far from the truth. Plus, he’s wearing a thin layer of moldable body armor. The hit would’ve hurt, but to Rivet, pain is pleasure, all part of the game.

I glance up the slope to see if she’s gotten away okay. To my surprise she’s at the top gazing down, watching my fight with Rivet. I want to run to her, to grab her and shake her, demand answers. But that is madness. Rivet will just kill us both. I need to give her time. It’s the hardest thing in the world to push her away when I’m so close to discovering the truth.

“Adele!” I scream. “Run!” I don’t have a chance to see if she listens to me, because I sense movement to my left.

The sick puppy is on his feet and drawing his sword before I even have a chance to say Bring it! which is probably good because it would just make him even angrier.

As it is, he’s angry enough, charging me like a steamroller. Clang! The impact of his blade on mine jars my teeth, threatening to dislodge each and every one of them. His next swipe nearly takes off my head, but I manage to duck at the last minute.

Roc reaches my side, and I use one of my arms to thrust him behind me, out of danger. He has improved steadily during our training sessions, but he isn’t ready for the big leagues.

Rivet’s men surround us, jeering and taunting as their boss and I circle each other. Roc is like my unattached tail, hovering behind my butt. I look into Rivet’s eyes, hoping for some indication of mercy. I see only death. I’m a good fighter, but it’s too much. There are just too many of them. We’re both going to die, and I haven’t even spoken to Adele, haven’t had a chance to ask her a damn thing. The only satisfaction I have is that I’ve given her a slim chance to escape, although I’m not sure why it’s so important that she goes free.

But I reserve my final thoughts for Roc: how I let him down, how I led him from the safety of the Sun Realm to the dangers of the Lower Realms, how his death is my fault, too.

Ziiiip! Something whirrs through the air, sounding odd next to the raucous cries of Rivet’s men. “ARGH!” one of the men roars. Rivet and I both risk a glance away from each other to see what’s happening. A large guy with a patch over one eye is slumped to his knees and clutching his heart. A sixteen-inch shaft protrudes from his left breast, finned at the end. Blood dribbles from his mouth as he dies.

A chorus of zips and whirrs fills the air as arrows rain down on us. Realizing we’re under attack by a seemingly deadlier foe than Rivet, I grab Roc and thrust him down, falling next to him flat. Cries of pain echo through the cavern as each of Rivet’s guards is taken out by precision targeting. Not one arrow so much as grazes our skin. They aren’t shooting at us—at least not yet.

I hunt for Rivet, but he’s gone, either having lurked off or dove for cover somewhere. It’s too much to hope that he’s been killed along with his men. I scan the bodies anyway, looking for their leader. He isn’t amongst the dead. I finally spot him by pure luck, as a stray beam of dome light catches the tip of his sword as he skulks off, escaping over a rock embankment and back toward the slums.

I stay down, preferring not to be mistaken for one of Rivet’s men.

Our saviors approach, their faces cloaked in shadow by dark-brimmed hats. Most of them clutch bows, cocked and ready to kill, while others have swords, like us.

The leader stands over me, his sword pointed close to my chin.

“I’ll be damned,” he says. “If it ain’t Prince Nailin himself. If I hadn’t heard the news this mornin’, I’d never have believed it. You’ll make a pretty prize for the Star Dwellers indeed.”

Chapter Fifteen

Adele

No beast of reality, or creature of imagination, is as terrible as mankind. Or as loving. It’s a contradiction. I’ve always liked contradictions. Today I see both sides of the coin unveiled in gruesome and beautiful imagery, captured by my eyes and filed away in my mind, like still shots taken by a world-renowned photographer.

First the terrible: Rivet. I can see the bloodthirsty gleam in his eyes at the end of the alley. He shouts something, to his men most likely, and then comes after us.

I’m surprised when I catch up to Elsey first. She was in the lead, but is now falling behind as Cole’s powerful legs and Tawni’s long strides outdistance her. I urge her forward with a soft nudge on her back. I have no idea where her shortcut leads, but I hope it will be to a place we can hide.

Hiding is our only option. Fighting will be futile, as Rivet will have a horde of men with him, armed to the teeth and ready for action.

In the distance I see Cole and Tawni drop out of sight, presumably cresting a rise and banking down a slope. Glancing back, I can see Rivet gaining on us, flanked by his men. They look like robots, rigidly pumping their arms opposite their strides, programmed to obey only one command: kill.

“Go, Elsey, go!” I urge, trying to use my mind to magically lengthen her short legs.

We reach the spot where the others dropped away and feel gravity pull us forward, down a steep slope. Dusk is falling upon us rapidly—the overhead cavern lights dimming—and it’s getting hard to see our feet on the gray stone. A sprained ankle or a slight stumble could cost us our lives.

Thankfully, our steps are true and we reach the bottom of the slope, veering left to where another trail leads up to a cave mouth. Cole and Tawni are waiting for us at the top.

I shouldn’t look back, but I do. Rivet is already halfway down the hill, having silently sped up, moving inhumanly fast, as if sensing that an end to the chase is near.

Elsey and I try to find an extra gear to allow us to reach the top of our slope before Rivet reaches the bottom of his, although I know in my heart the feat is impossible. We’re caught and I know it, but I wasn’t raised to be a quitter. We push on. My thighs burn and my calves ache. My head throbs from the physical and mental stress of the chase.

I glance up to see how close we are to the top. I’ll never forget the look on my friends’ faces. They’re staring past me, toward our pursuers. But their faces aren’t those of helpless prey about to be captured; rather, they look astonished, their eyebrows raised and mouths open.

We reach the top and I look back, blood pumping in my forehead.

I involuntarily imitate their expressions, raising my own eyebrows and opening my own mouth. I’m genuinely shocked by what I see.

Rivet is on the ground, rolling to a stop. Has he fallen? I don’t think so. A simple misstep wouldn’t capture Cole’s and Tawni’s attention so completely.

That’s when I see him.

Despite the dim lighting, I recognize him instantly, both because he’s one of the most famous faces in the Tri-Realms and because my headache is back. He’s carrying a long sword, standing stoically, waiting to fight Rivet. His blond, wavy hair is ruffled although there’s no air moving through the cavern. He looks strong, confident, heroic. Clearly, he’s saved us. So he is a hero of sorts.

He looks at me, locking eyes, like before. Also like before, the pain reaches a fever pitch, so intense it almost brings me to my knees. He screams my name: “Adele!” At first I think he’s beckoning me to him, but his second word clears up any confusion: “Run!”

Despite the urgency in his tone I remain frozen, my heart and head pounding, watching what will happen next.

Rivet attacks, launching himself with an animal frenzy at Tristan. In a manner I can only describe as professional, Tristan blocks the attack and jumps back. I notice someone behind him, also carrying a sword. A friend of Tristan’s most likely, or so I hope.

Protectively, Tristan holds the other guy back with one arm while parrying and dodging Rivet’s strokes. The rest of Rivet’s men arrive, surrounding them. No! I think.

We have to do something. He’s saved us and now he’s going to die for us.

I take a step forward, but a strong arm holds me back. “No,” Cole says firmly. “We have to go. It’s suicide.”

I try to struggle free, but Cole’s grip is iron. Tears spring up as I try to wriggle away. “Let go!” I yell. “Please, they’re going to kill him!”

Tawni’s face appears in front of me. She pulls Elsey beside her. “Think of your sister,” she says.

My body collapses, all fight gone from it. As much as I’m willing to throw my life away in an effort to save Tristan, the causer of pain, I know I can’t abandon Elsey. Not after all she’s been through. Not after all we have been through. I am all she has. And she is all I have.

I let myself get half-dragged, half-carried into the absolute darkness of the cave. I feel numb. Tears continue to well up and stream down my face, but they feel cold, emotionless, a neurological response to a stimulus, nothing more.

I barely notice as we cut a random path through the cave network. In the back of my mind I know we’re in the Lonely Caverns. Although we haven’t necessarily meant to come this way, it is the perfect place to hide from Rivet. I remember the kids at school telling stories of the Lonely Caves, how kids are always getting lost in them, dying of starvation, or falling down bottomless pits. I used to fear the caves, but now they feel like a sanctuary.

I can hear Cole and Tawni whispering, making quick decisions about which side tunnel to take next. They’re taking the most convoluted route possible, almost trying to get us lost in an effort to lose Rivet, who will surely be pursuing us again soon, if not already. But with each twist and turn, they recite the full list of the directional changes we’ve made so far out loud, trying desperately to remember the way back. I try to memorize what they’re saying, as a backup, but get confused halfway through. I’m still not thinking clearly, am still a bit of a mess.

But listening to the sounds of their voices also helps.

Eventually I get control of my body and am able to save Cole a lot of effort by walking on my own again. When I do, Elsey appears by my side, illuminated by the flashlight she’s carrying. I notice that I have one as well—we all do. Funny how I can’t remember them being turned on or even someone giving one to me. We fall back from the others right away.

“Adele,” she says, her violet eyes radiating compassion. “Are you okay?”

I put my arm around her as we walk. What can I say? Actually, Elsey, I’m a complete wreck because a guy I’ve never met, a guy whose very presence brings me immense physical pain, a guy whose father abducted our parents, is dead, all because of me.

Instead, I say, “I’m okay now, Elsey, sorry to scare you like that.”

“I wasn’t scared,” she says. The matter-of-fact way in which she says it makes me believe her. Perhaps my sister is made of a tougher substance than I am. Or maybe she’s just too young to understand the true horror of what has just happened, is just happy to have her big sister back.

“You’re very brave,” I say.

“What happened back there? Who was the guy that saved us? He knew your name, Adele.”

My face tightens and I try to get control of my emotions—take a deep breath. “It was no one,” I say.

“Tell me,” Elsey says. “I’m not a child anymore.”

There’s so much truth in her eyes that I know she’s right. Although she’s only been at the orphanage for six months, she’s changed, matured. Ten years might’ve passed in her mind. I can’t always protect her anymore.

I decide on the truth. “This might sound impossible…in fact, I’m not sure I believe it myself…I might’ve been seeing things…I was probably mistaken, but—”

“Adele, please, just tell me,” Elsey says, interrupting my ramblings.

I take another deep breath. Why is this so hard? Just say it. Say it. Say it! “I think it was Tristan Nailin,” I blurt out, feeling dread wash over me, as if by speaking his name I’ve cemented his fate.

I expect Elsey to giggle, to look at me with knowing eyes, to say Sure it was, Adele, I believe you, using the sarcasm that I taught her. She surprises me by saying, “I thought so.”

“You what?” I say, unable to hide my surprise.

“He looked like Tristan,” she says with a slight nod of her head. “I mean, not as good looking as in the magazines, but…”

“I thought he looked even better,” I say, surprised at my own words.

Elsey eyes me curiously. “Since when did you think Tristan was handsome?” she says, sounding more grown up than ever.

“I don’t. It’s just…never mind.”

Elsey smirks at me. “You can tell me the whole story later.”

It dawns on me. Why was Elsey so easily convinced that it was Tristan? She doesn’t seem to find it strange at all that he appeared out of nowhere in a remote part of the Moon Realm. “Elsey….why’d you think it was Tristan? Was it just because he looked like him?”

Now she giggles, finally sounding her own age. “Because of the news, of course.”

My heart flutters and I know she’s about to tell me something important, so I stop and call to Cole and Tawni, who come jogging back, their eyebrows V’d in concern. “What’s wrong?” Cole says.

I motion to Elsey to speak. “Tell them what you were about to tell me,” I instruct.

Elsey’s eyes widen. “You mean, you don’t know?” she says incredulously.

“We’ve been kind of…busy,” I say.

“Right,” she says, changing her tone to that of a lecturer. “Well, all the kids gathered in the big room to watch the telebox this morning, like we always do. This kid we call Wiz suggested we watch the news, like he always does. He always gets voted down and we watch something else, but this morning he put it on before anyone could say anything. You guys were all on the screen.” She waves her hand across us.

“We saw that,” I say, hoping that isn’t her big news.

She changes course, her voice softening as she says, “I just knew you would come for me, Adele.” Finally, she fully sounds like a little girl again, the little sister I remember, before life’s challenges forced her to grow up before anyone should have to.

I put an arm around her. “I’ll always come for you. Now, what else did you hear on the news?”

Elsey’s eyes light up. “That Tristan ran away from home!” she exclaims.

“What? He…ran away?” I look at Tawni and Cole, who are staring at me.

“Yep. And apparently he was headed for the Moon Realm, subchapter six I think they said.”

“That’s only a single train ride from here,” I say, finally connecting the dots.

“He was coming to find you,” Tawni says.

Cole shakes his head. “C’mon, seriously. These strange feelings and headaches and all that crap again? Coincidence I reckon. If he really was trying to get away for a while, he probably just picked a place where no one would think to look for him.”

Elsey touches my arm. “Why would Tristan have been coming to find you? And what does he mean by headaches?” she asks.

I tell her everything. Cole stalks off and pretends not to listen, but Tawni stays by me, even holds my hand for part of it.

Elsey is ecstatic when I finish. “He did come for you,” she says positively. Under her breath, she says, “No matter what that other guy says.”

It’s then that I realize we haven’t had time for introductions. “Elsey,” I say. “This is Tawni. My friend,” I add.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Elsey,” Tawni says. “Adele’s told us so many nice things about you.”

At that, Elsey beams.

“Cole,” I say, a bit louder to get his attention, “come meet Elsey.”

He saunters over, his dark skin glowing a strange orange color under the illumination of the flashlights. “Hi, Elsey,” he says. “I’m Cole.”

My sis sticks out her hand and shakes Cole’s big paw. “Tristan was looking for my sister,” she says definitively.

“Oh, great. Now it’s three against one,” Cole says, grinning. At least he doesn’t seem frustrated anymore.

“He wasn’t looking for me, El,” I say. And if he was, it means he likes causing me pain, almost like it’s his purpose in life. Although now that he saved us, that doesn’t make sense either.

“Good,” Cole says. “The sooner everyone gets that through their heads the better. We need to keep moving. I think we’ve probably done a good enough job of losing ourselves in here, but they’ll keep searching until they find us.”

We walk for hours. Time seems to stand still inside the caverns. Cole and Tawni give up on trying to remember which route we’ve taken. I think they realize we aren’t going to be going out the way we came in.

The caverns are ominous and scary, and yet beautiful at the same time. Around every bend is another stalactite or stalagmite, some impossibly big, some carved by nature into complex patterns, more intricate than a master carver could ever hope to emulate on a museum statue. We pass under giant stone archways, and cross natural rock bridges, some so thin that we have to crawl across on our stomachs, trying not to look down at the never-ending drops into darkness on either side. The color of the stones darken as the miles pass under our feet, changing from the reddish brown of subchapter 14 to the dark grey of whatever subchapter we’re moving toward.

Much of the time we are able to walk upright, the jagged ceiling rising well above us. But at other times we’re forced to stoop, or even crawl.

I’m beat, so I know Elsey must be tired, too. At first she keeps up a constant chatter, talking about anything and everything. She talks about her time in the orphanage, asks a million questions about the Pen, and tries to get us all to agree that we’re on a fantastic adventure. Eventually, she ceases talking completely, so I know she’s getting tired. We need to stop, but none of us seems to want to make the call. I think we all feel that every additional footstep gives us a greater chance of survival.

As we walk, I notice Elsey’s tunic sagging in the back. “El,” I say, “is there something in your back pocket?”

Not stopping, she reaches behind her and extracts a gleaming metal slingshot, fitted with a thick rubber band. She holds it behind her. “Ranna gave it to me,” she says by way of explanation.

I take it from her, examining the handle. Cut into the wide hilt is a slot, which I flip open with my thumb, holding my breath. Inside is a compartment full of round metal pellets—ammunition. Maybe she’s changed even more than I thought. She’s never been the type to shoot slingshots before. Play with dolls, yeah, but not weapons.

“Take care of this, El. It’s a really nice weapon,” I say, handing it back. She pockets it and we continue trudging along.

Cole, who is leading, finally stops and sits on a flat stone rock that looks like someone has put there as a bench. He says, “I think we’ve gone far enough. It must be the middle of the night. Even Rivet will have to stop for sleep.”

Tawni checks her watch. “It’s after three,” she says.

We’re all too tired to disagree. Or even to eat. Instead, we go straight to bed, four ducks in a row, pressed up close to each other for warmth. Cole and then Tawni and then Elsey and then me.

“He’s not dead, you know,” Elsey whispers.

“Who?” I say, although I know the answer.

“Tristan.”

“Oh.”

“If something’s pulling you together, then he couldn’t have died. He might be captured, tortured even, but somehow he’ll find you.” I can’t tell if her words are wise beyond her years, or simply the vivid imagination of an innocent child. Either way, they comfort me. I don’t remind her that whatever force is at play, it’s more likely pushing us apart.

“G’night, Elsey,” I say

“Love you, Adele.”

“Love you, too.”

Although I’m sure it’s hours later, it feels like I start dreaming the second my eyes close. My dream isn’t of Tristan, for which I’m strangely relieved. It’s like I know that if I dream of him I will only see death. His, not mine. Thankfully, my mind gives me a reprieve from all my questions about him. Of course, the alternative isn’t much better, full of a different pain.

I dream of war. The Star Dweller army is destroying all of the Moon Realm, running rampant across the subchapters. It’s like I’m on the outside of a looking glass, watching the horror unfold before my eyes. For some reason I’m not angry at them. I know they’re just tired of being the scum of the earth, treated like rats by the Sun Dwellers. Used, abused, stepped on.

The Sun Dweller army is coming, their legions of troops marching forward, their red armor polished and gleaming. I can see them, but the Star Dwellers can’t. I scream, try to warn them, but no one can hear me through the mirror. No one except Rivet, that is, who is leading the Sun Dweller army. His black eyes look right at me, challenging me to come down. I don’t want to, but I know I have to.

I swim through the mirror, pushing it to the side and behind me, like it’s made of a strange viscous liquid. Gravity grabs me and pulls me to the ground. Rivet smiles as he tightens his grip on his gun. He pulls the trigger and shoots me through the heart.

You know how they say you can’t die in your dreams? I do. The pain is so intense, so real, that I cry out in my sleep. But still I don’t wake up, clinging to life in my dream by reaching for a sky I have never seen, as life ebbs from my broken body.

I die tonight.

When I do wake, I’m surprised to find myself very much alive with three familiar faces hovering anxiously over me. “We’re here, Adele,” Tawni coos. “It was just a dream.”

“So real,” I murmur. “I died.”

Elsey’s face is clouded with concern. “You’ll never die,” she says.

“You got that right,” I say, trying to put on a strong face for my sister although I feel weak from the nightmare.

“We need to eat something and then keep moving,” Cole says. For all the emotion that Cole displayed when we were at Tawni’s house, he seems equally emotion-free now. Rigid, soldier-like. It doesn’t bother me.

We eat quickly, swallowing the tasteless canned beans in gulps, like it’s a race.

Because of Tawni’s watch, we know we’ve only slept three hours and that it’s still early in the morning. Cole suspects that Rivet and his men have slept even less, so we need to keep moving. When we start out, I’m already dreading the day’s hike. My ribs are sore and tender, but by gritting my teeth and breathing through them, I can control the pain.

Elsey seems to have slept better than me, bouncing along beside me and chattering away. “I’m so glad to be out of that orphanage,” she says. “Some of the kids were nice, and I’ll miss Ranna for all of eternity, but the rest of it was dreadful. We all slept in the same room and ate the same porridge every day. They only let us go outside once a day, and the rest of the time we had to do chores around the place. Once a month they let us take a bath. How was the Pen?”

“About the same,” I say. “Maybe a bit better, to be honest.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find Mum and Dad.”

“Really? You think they’re alive?”

“Tawni thinks that Dad is. And I bet if he is then Mom is, too.”

Elsey’s eyes light up. “We’ll rescue them, won’t we, Adele?”

“Of course,” I say, not sure at all.

It feels good knowing where my father is, even though getting him out will be the equivalent of a suicide mission. Between knowing about my dad and having Elsey around, I feel like I’m at least half a person again, a significant improvement over the empty shell I had become. But there is still a huge part of me missing, because I haven’t saved my dad yet and don’t even know where my mom is. I wonder where she is, what condition she’s in. Despite my assurances to Elsey, I know there’s a good chance she’s dead. I try not to think about it.

Chatting with Elsey makes the day go by so much faster. She’s like our little motivator, constantly saying positive things in her very proper-sounding way. Once she’s done grilling me about what I’ve been doing while we were apart, she focuses on Tawni and Cole, asking them even more questions. They tiptoe around some of the serious things we’ve already discussed, and focus on telling funny stories from their childhoods.

All in all, it isn’t a bad day, and before I know it, we’re stopping again for the evening. We haven’t eaten since the morning, so we’re all famished. We devour our canned food again, except this time I actually enjoy it. I don’t think it’s the taste of the food, though; I think it’s just that being free of the Pen and back with my sister makes the bland food taste better—it’s the taste of freedom, I guess.

When we finish eating, Cole brings up the topic we’ve all been ignoring. “How the hell are we going to get out of these caves?” he says.

“Are we lost?” I say, making a bad joke.

Tawni laughs anyway—snorts actually, because she’s taking a sip of water when I speak. That gets us all laughing, with Elsey’s infectious giggle keeping it going for a long time. Even Mr. Serious joins in, smirking at first, then chuckling, and finally full out laughing. We all need it.

“If we just keep going, we’ll come out somewhere eventually, right?” I say.

“How much do you know about the Lonely Caverns?” Cole asks.

“Not much. They connect three or four subchapters, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Cole says. “For each grouping of subchapters there’s a cavern that acts as a hub to connect them all. The Lonely Caverns are the hub for subchapters fourteen to seventeen. They’re used by miners to travel from mine to mine. The miners stick to the main tunnels, which we left almost immediately. According to the maps I’ve seen, the caverns are a hundred square miles.”

Tawni adds, “And we’ve made so many turns that we don’t have the first clue as to which direction we’re headed. We may have been traveling in circles all day, or we may have cut a path straight across—impossible to say for sure.”

“Best guess?” I ask.

Cole says, “I think we’re going to end up somewhere in subchapter sixteen. We headed straight east when we first entered, and I’m pretty damn sure we haven’t cut back across any of the main tunnels, so that means we’re still headed east, unless we got completely turned around and are now headed south and west again, back the way we came. We should know soon enough, because we’d end up rejoining the main tunnel.”

“Okay,” I say. “So we just keep walking?”

Cole shrugs. “No other choice.”

Chapter Sixteen

Tristan

These days not many people believe in God anymore. I’m not sure I do sometimes. Those above, in the Sun Realm, are enjoying themselves too much to stop to think about whether they’re blessed. And those below, in the Moon and Star Realms, are too jaded. My mom did, though. She believed with all her heart that there’s a greater power out there, one that cares about us, watches over us. She said bad things still have to happen, because they help us learn and grow, but that in the end we’ll be saved.

I could use a little saving.

I wake up with a nasty bump on my head. I don’t even remember getting hit. It throbs like hell.

I try to sit up, but it’s difficult with my arms and legs tied.

It’s dark. Not like a cloudy night with the moon and stars blocked, like I’ve seen in books; dark like the sun, moon, and stars don’t exist, which they don’t in our world. Plus there are no overhead cavern lights, no streetlights, no houselights. I work out that we’re in a cave pretty quickly.

It all comes flashing back. The girl—no, Adele—running, being chased by my father’s demons. My intervention. Rivet’s gleaming eyes. Our salvation by the same men who surely now hold us captive.

You’ll make a pretty prize for the Star Dwellers indeed.

From the man’s words, it doesn’t sound like they’re Star Dwellers, unless he’s talking about them in the third person. I don’t think so.

A light flashes in the dark. It moves closer.

The man holds the torch in front of my face. It burns my eyes while they try to adjust. I shut my eyelids tight, and then slowly open them, squinting for at least a minute. The whole time the man waits patiently for me to get my eyes fully open.

When I do, I gasp. I know he’s the man who spoke to me earlier, the one who killed Rivet’s men. He isn’t wearing his hat this time, and I can see his face, which is what makes me gasp. Half his face is swollen red and bubbling with blisters. Whether a lifelong disease or a fresh scar, I do not know.

“My face got damn near blown off by the heavy artillery,” he growls. “Pretty sight, ain’t it?”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“From you?” he says. “Nothin’. All you gotta do is come with us. I hope I’m not makin’ it sound like you’ve got a choice. ’Cuz ya don’t. Yer comin’. As sure as the sun ain’t shinin’, yer comin’.”

“Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just a guy. A guy fed up with bein’ crapped on by yer kind. For once the damn Star Dwellers got the right idear. Fight back.”

“But they’re killing your own people.”

“Eh. So they’ve got their target a bit mixed up. But it’s workin’, ain’t it? We’re goin’ to join ’em, and others will, too. So the plan worked, eh?”

My head is spinning, half because of what this guy is saying to me, and half because of the blow I took to the head, probably from the butt of this guy’s gun. “Look, man, I’m not the one you want. I’m not like them. I hate my father. I’ve left the Sun Realm and I’m not going back.” The words sound true off the tip of my tongue, but are they? Could I really give up everything? For what? What if Adele’s dead already? What if she’s not, but I never find her? Or what if I find her and she doesn’t have any answers and tells me to leave her the hell alone? It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Would I go back?

I blink away the answer to the last question because it makes me feel weak and pathetic. Spineless.

Yes.

I take a deep breath and continue. “Just let me go and I’ll stay out of the whole thing. Please.” I feel like I’m begging, my voice higher pitched than usual, all toughness stripped from it, leaving just a child’s voice.

“Okay,” the man says.

“Really?”

“Nah, just messing with you. Ha ha ha!” The guy’s laugh is as rough as the chipped stones around us. “Yer my prize, kid. We can use ya. Yer one hell of a bargainin’ chip.”

He leaves the torch nearby and moves off into the darkness. Using my elbows as levers, and by twisting and balancing on one shoulder, I manage to get into a seated position so I can take in my surroundings—or at least what I can see of them.

Roc is sleeping nearby, his forehead marked by a puffy, red welt. They haven’t bothered to give us blankets or pillows or anything, so my body is sore and cold from lying on the hard cavern floor all night.

There are several other men sleeping nearby. I’m sure there are more, at least a dozen, but the light from the torch only extends in a small sphere. I assume we’re somewhere in the Lonely Caverns, most likely not very far in, as the men won’t have wanted to carry our limp bodies for very long.

I have no idea how long we’ve been out, but I hope it wasn’t long, for with each passing minute Adele is traveling further and further away from me.

How twisted is fate? Pretty twisted, I’d say. Mangled and knobby; old and decrepit. Every time you’re granted a stroke of good fortune, it’s offset by a calamity. Like Adele escaping from prison right when the Star Dwellers attacked. Sometimes good luck is even caused by something bad. Like when Adele’s path crossed ours at that exact fateful moment. Had Rivet not been chasing her, perhaps she would have arrived later, and I wouldn’t have seen her. We might’ve missed each other by taking different routes, like two companies of miners passing in the night, unknown to each other.

My father doesn’t believe in fate. He says we make our own fate. So far, he’s been right about that. I sort of believed him until now. But after everything that’s happened, I know there are other forces at play. Forces that want Adele and me to meet, for some reason that I can’t yet grasp.

Roc stirs in his sleep and then opens one eye, clamping it shut again immediately when the light hits it. He raises a hand to his temple, gingerly feeling around the red bump, cringing each time he touches a raw nerve.

“You okay, man?” I whisper, trying not to wake the other guys.

“I think so. You?”

“About the same. Just a knock on the head. I think it was done gently enough to avoid any permanent damage. I think they want us alive to use as hostages.”

“Hostages for what?”

“They’re taking us to the Star Dwellers, who will then try to get to my father through me.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“Not much we can do. Go along for the ride, I suppose.”

A familiar voice echoes through the cave. “That’s right! There’s nothin’ you can do!” Each of the men around us awakes with a start, some of them jumping up and grabbing weapons, looking for someone to fight.

“It’s just me, you idiots,” the voice says, as a figure steps into the light. It is the guy with the burnt face. “Time to move,” he says.

“Move where?” I ask.

“None of yer damn business,” he says.

With impressive speed, the men get packed and move out. I ask for water but am denied. They do, however, unbind our feet so we can walk easily. Our hands remain tied in the front. I smile when they don’t bother to retie them behind our backs. In the front allows us lots more room to maneuver in the event that an opportunity arises.

But no chances for action come up today. Our march feels endless, especially with no water to quench my burning throat. Roc and I are separated—sandwiched in between two guys each—so we aren’t able to talk to each other. When I do risk a question to one of my guards—a simple Can I stop to go to the bathroom?—it’s answered with a rough jab to the abdomen with the end of his rifle.

Not a good day.

Twice we hear echoing voices bouncing off the walls from somewhere in the cavern. We stop suddenly and everyone strains to listen for more sounds, trying to discern who it might be or what direction it’s coming from, but all we get is silence, and it’s near impossible to determine where the sound originates from. I wonder if it’s Adele and her friends, somewhere in front of us in the caverns, moving by some twist of fate in the exact same direction. Or it might be Rivet with a new troop, replacing the men who were killed by our captors. Whoever it is, they stay out of our way and we out of theirs.

I don’t know the Lonely Caverns well, but from studying Roc’s map I know enough to realize we’re sticking to one of the four main tunnels, which intersect at a hub near the middle. We’re essentially using the cavern as a conduit to move to another subchapter.

At the end of the day’s march, my legs are on fire and my wrists rubbed raw by the constant chafing of the tight ropes that bind them together. My mouth and esophagus are so dry I can’t swallow. My head started pounding halfway through the day, and it’s all I can do to ignore the urge to collapse and curl up into a ball. I’m sure Roc’s day hasn’t been much better than mine.

Thankfully, they sit us down together while they prepare the evening meal, probably because we’re easier to guard if we’re in one place. Roc looks like hell, his face pale and his eyes barely open, and I wonder if I look any better. One of the guards finally shows mercy and gives us two gulps each of some kind of liquid that tastes like dirt. It’s the best dirt I’ve ever tasted, and I’d drink the whole bottle if they let me.

Speaking is difficult, but I don’t know whether we’ll get another chance, so I use my recently moistened tongue to lick my chapped lips and attempt a few sentences. “You gonna be all right, Roc?” I say.

Roc manages a tight smile and says, “It’s nothin’ compared to all the chores you make me do around the palace.”

I grin. I know Roc will be all right as long as he keeps cracking jokes. “Speaking of which, I’ve got a few for you this evening if you don’t mind?” I say.

“As long as it involves knocking a guard or two on the head and getting the hell out of here, I’m game.” I’ve never heard Roc say anything that violent before and for some reason I find it really funny. It appears that our little trip away from the Sun Realm is changing him already.

“If you take six, I’ll take the other six,” I say.

“How ’bout I take three and you take nine,” Roc counters.

“Seven and five—that’s my final offer.”

“Deal,” Roc says.

We should probably take the time more seriously, try to come up with a real plan, but I think the little bit of joking helps more than anything else would.

We don’t knock any guards on the head tonight. We’re just too tired. Plus, they keep two watchmen awake at all times, who are charged with guarding us and the camp at the same time.

Despite not having a pillow or blanket for the second night in a row, I sleep like a dead man, nestling my head in the crook between my forearm and bicep.

When I awake, the pain in my head is gone. I struggle to a seated position and look around. Roc smirks at me. “How’s your head?” he says.

“Never felt better,” I say honestly.

“Mine, too. I think there was some kind of medicine in the drink they gave us last night.”

“Probably a slow-acting poison that will kill us in a few days.”

“Probably,” Roc says.

One of the guards is watching our exchange with interest. He’s a stocky guy with a shiny bald head and graying beard. He says, “My daughter thinks she’s in love with you.”

Roc says, “Me?”

I laugh.

Baldy says, “No, you,”—motioning to me—“the one with the good head of hair and pretty-boy smile. She’s got a poster of you up in her bedroom. Cost me a whole week’s pay. She’ll never forgive me if I don’t get an autograph when I have the chance.”

I’ve had some strange requests in my life, but this one takes the cake (if we had any cake, that is). The whole world is exploding, we’ve been captured by a gang of misfits, and one of my captors wants an autograph?

Of course, after he unbinds my hands, I give him one. It’s not like I have a choice. I sign his canteen and he even lets me have a drink from it in exchange. “Thanks. Might be worth somethin’ someday,” he says. Unfortunately he doesn’t repay the favor by leaving my hands untied.

No one else speaks to us this morning. But they do let us walk together this time. I guess they’re feeling more comfortable that we aren’t going to try anything, probably because they can tell we’re getting weaker from the lack of food and water.

I hope we can make them pay for that mistake.

It’s another grueling march, although it’s broken up when we stop for a break upon reaching the hub, a huge cavern that was carved out decades ago. Four gaping tunnels branch off on each side. We sit on manmade stone benches that were erected for travelers. The men seem less serious, joking and laughing as they eat. They give us small chunks of the dried meat we’d bought a couple of days earlier and a swig of water. The food and water, along with whatever medicine they’d given us the previous night, leaves me feeling somewhat refreshed. If we’re going to try something, now is the time.

When no one’s looking, I silently draw Roc’s attention with a quick flick of one of my fingers. Right away I can see the fear in his eyes. He’s right to be scared: the next few minutes could kill us.

I wait patiently for the perfect moment to launch the plan I have in my head. Half the men have wandered off and are doing a bit of sightseeing, checking out the multitude of intricate carvings etched by travelers into the rock walls. They’re spread out, which is bad, but no one is covering the entrance to the tunnel we’ve just come through. That’s good, because I’m hoping to go back the way we’ve come anyway. It’ll make them less likely to pursue us.

Four of the others, including the leader with the deep voice, are engaged in a heated discussion about Tri-Realm politics. That leaves two guys who are sort of paying attention to us, although more and more they’re distracted by their friends—I can see their eyes flicking back and forth between us and them.

One of them turns his back to add a comment to the conversation.

Only one guard now.

His eyes are on me, but it’s a blank stare, like he’s looking without really seeing. I can tell his mind is on the conversation behind him. I rise silently, trusting it will take a few moments for his brain to register what his eyes are seeing. Before he knows what hit him, I…well, I hit him. Club him over the head with my tied-together fists. I hit him hard enough that he won’t be getting up anytime soon. He doesn’t cry out and the others are too distracted to notice.

There’s a knife hanging from his belt and I manage to extract it by the hilt, the blade naturally gravitating toward my wrist ropes. I caress the blade back and forth, keeping one eye on the group of debaters. I saw through one rope and it falls away. I pull my wrists apart sharply, separating the weakened strands of rope.

The knife slips from my fingers.

I’m in a time warp, where seconds tick by like hours. I can see every turn of the knife as it flips end over end to the ground, moving in slow motion. It clatters loudly on the stone floor.

For a second everyone is confused, so I take advantage of the situation, grabbing the guard’s gun—which is conveniently located on the ground between his feet. I point it in the general direction of the cluster of debaters.

I pull the trigger.

The automatic spray of bullets fires wildly above the men, but it has the desired effect. Some drop flat on their stomachs, while others take off running in the opposite direction. Relying on the distraction, I spin and take off the other way. I expect to have to herd Roc in the right direction, but I’m pleasantly surprised to see him halfway to the tunnel entrance, carrying our pack and both swords awkwardly with his bound hands. It’s a good thing, too, because by the time I reach the halfway mark, the bullets and arrows start flying all around me.

Luckily, as perfect as their aim was when they rescued us from Rivet’s men, their aim is equally off the mark this time, probably a result of the frantic nature of the shots coupled with my erratic movement away from them. Plus, I’m firing haphazard bursts of bullets over my shoulder, which surely distracts them. The closest shot is an arrow that catches a loose bit of my tunic, tearing off a tatter of cloth.

A few more bullets rip bits of rock from the ground at my sides, but nothing gets close enough to worry me. I charge into the tunnel, practically knocking Roc, who is waiting just inside, flat on his buttocks. The next problem: it’s freaking dark in the tunnel and I don’t have time to stop and pull a torch from our pack. Even if I did I wouldn’t use it, as it would only draw more attention to our whereabouts.

I loop the gun strap over my shoulder to free up my hands and help Roc sling the pack around his neck. I tuck my sword into its scabbard and use Roc’s sword to cut his hands free. I’m wasting too much time, but it will be easier with neither of us bound. I grab Roc’s hand to ensure we can stay together.

Although I was quite observant as we approached the hub—looking for side passages, dangerous obstacles, etc.—I’m still worried that at any moment we might slam directly into a rock wall or boulder, ending our smooth escape and breaking our Sun Dweller noses.

I count the strides as we run, trying to estimate where the first side tunnel is. I know we’re getting close. “Slow up, Roc,” I say. I pull him to the left until I brush against the tunnel wall. “Stay along the wall.”

I release his hand and feel along the wall, moving more quickly now that I have something to guide me. We hear a cry from behind, as one of our pursuers enters the tunnel. They can’t see us, but we can see them—a half-dozen torches glow behind us.

Suddenly the wall gives way to my left. “This way,” I hiss, turning the corner and continuing to use the wall as a guide. I know our only hope is to make enough turns that they’ll have to continuously split up to ensure they don’t miss us.

“Faster,” I whisper. I pick up the pace, moving rapidly along the wall. Roc is awesome, obeying my commands to perfection and moving noiselessly behind me.

“Switch sides,” I say, pushing off from the wall and wandering blindly until I find the wall on the opposite side.

I hear voices behind us. They aren’t cries from the chase anymore—more like a discussion. Deciding what to do at the side tunnel. Who will search it versus who will continue down the main tunnel. I ignore them and keep feeling for the next gap.

It comes soon, leading off diagonally to the right. “Bear right,” I say, moving into a new tunnel. If the men do what I expect them to do—continue cutting their numbers at each fork in the road—it will mean that six will follow us down the side tunnel, and now only three will pursue us into the angled tunnel tributary.

I move even faster, running now, praying it’s not a dead end. It’s freaking scary running in complete darkness, especially when you have no idea what’s up ahead. At any moment we could fall into a deep pit, crashing onto jagged rock spikes at the bottom. Or we might plunge into the depths of an icy underwater river with a fierce current, sucking us deeper underground where we’ll drown.

Because of fate, or the blessings of a higher power, or just plain old dumb luck, none of those things happen. In fact, the best possible thing happens: we reach a small tunnel hub. The rock wall gives way to my right, but I can tell it isn’t a new tunnel because of the arc of the wall. Typically a tunnel hub links between four and eight other tunnels. I have no idea how many this hub will have, but it doesn’t really matter. As long as the guys behind us don’t guess right.

“Hub,” I say for Roc’s benefit. “Count with me. We’ll take the third side tunnel on the right.”

“Yes, sir,” Roc says, managing to mock me even in the worst situation.

I pass a gap in the hub wall. “One,” I say.

“One,” Roc parrots.

The next gap is almost immediately after the first. “Two.”

“Two.”

The third gap is a bit further, but only by a yard or two. “Three,” I say, cutting sharply to the right.

I barely hear Roc’s muffled, “Three,” as the floor drops away beneath me.

Chapter Seventeen

Adele

Elsey is saying something beside me, but I’m not listening, lost in my thoughts. Then I realize her head is cocked to the side and she’s staring at me as we walk. She’s asked me a question.

“Wha…what?” I say. She gives me a look. “Sorry, I’m just a little…distracted.”

“Have you met Tristan before?”

“No,” I say.

“Then how’d he know your name?”

“From the news I s’pose.”

“Do you think he’s de—”

“No!” I exclaim, louder than I’d planned. My voice echoes dangerously through the caverns. Ahead of us, Cole and Tawni stop and look back—Cole glares at me while Tawni stands with her hands on her hips.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “No more talking for now, El.”

We walk for the next three hours in silence. We don’t take any side tunnels, afraid that we’ll get turned around and end up going in circles. The tunnel gradually gets thinner and the ceiling lower, until we’re forced to march in single file, slightly stooped, Cole then Tawni then Elsey then me. It’s claustrophobic.

When my back begins to ache so badly from the awkward posture that I think I can’t go any further, I hear an elated cry ahead of me. I hasten my steps, realizing I’ve fallen quite far behind. A minute or so later, the tunnel emerges into a small alcove. By small I mean the four of us are barely able to fit. But that’s not what made someone—Tawni, I think—cry out.

I gasp at the wall of water before us. Our path is completely blocked by a waterfall, streaming so effortlessly from above that it appears as smooth as a mirror, the surface marred only by Tawni’s hand, which is stuck into the flow.

“It’s cold,” she announces, cupping her hand and taking a small sip. “And clean, too, I think.”

After our long day of marching, we don’t need further invitation. We line up along the waterfall, drinking until the water is dribbling down our chins, soaking our clothes. It feels wonderful. After we satisfy our thirst, we wash our arms, legs and faces, feeling refreshed for the first since escaping the Pen.

The waterfall alcove is as good a place as any to stop, so we do, rationing the food in our packs, which are feeling lighter and lighter.

“What should we do?” Tawni asks. I dread backtracking, trying to find another tunnel to go down, more of the same rough rock walls and single file marching.

“I’m going to see what’s behind that waterfall,” I say, standing up.

“Be careful,” Tawni cautions, “it might drop into a pit.”

“Cole, hold me back,” I say.

Cole joins me at the waterfall and holds my left arm with two hands, lowering himself into a well-leveraged crouch.

I push my hand into the streaming water. It tickles my skin and splashes me in the face, so I turn my head to avoid getting water in my eyes. I force my arm further in, until the water is hitting my elbow, and then my shoulder. Still my hand hasn’t made it through.

“You got me?” I say.

“Yeah,” Cole grunts, straining a bit. “Not too much further though.”

With a deep breath, I duck my head into the icy stream, gasping slightly when the water hits me. All of my weight is being held by Cole now, as I lean over the edge of whatever abyss the falls empty into.

And then I’m through. Although the water is all around me, I can tell that my fingers aren’t being pelted anymore. Mission accomplished. I try to lean back, but gravity’s hold is too strong. In fact, I feel like I’m being pulled downwards. Behind me I can feel Cole’s fingers slipping off my arm as water pours down my head and shoulder.

I’m going forward, not back, that much I know. If I simply let myself slip from Cole’s grasp, I’ll fall awkwardly, potentially hitting my head on a rock, and will most definitely end up taking a dive to wherever all the water’s going. I have no other choice.

I wrench my arm free from Cole and leap.

The water pummels me from above as I fly through the air, as if the liquid has suddenly grown arms and is grabbing at me, trying to pull me down. For all I know, there might be nothing behind the waterfall, just a big dark void, spiraling downward all the way to the earth’s molten core.

My foot lands on something hard and twists to the side. I let out a slight cry and tumble over, skinning an arm on the unforgiving tunnel floor. Complete darkness surrounds me. I don’t have a light. I lie on the ground for a moment, panting, my heart beating faster than a miner’s in a rock cart race. I can hear water rushing all around me. Not just behind, but in front, too. At first I think it’s just the echo of the waterfall I jumped through, but when I crawl forward a few feet, I find that another waterfall blocks my way.

Suddenly, I have a desire to leap through the next waterfall. And then the one after that, if there is one. Hesitating for a moment, I come to my senses and feel my way back to the original waterfall. Through the tinkling water, I can hear faint voices yelling. I jump back through.

Slam!

I crash into Cole, who’s just on the other side. His reflexes are quick and he manages to half catch me in his big arms, dragging me to the ground with him as I bowl him over.

Cole is on his feet in a second, his face darkening even more than it already is. “Of all the stupid, childish things to do!” he roars, looming over me.

Of course, being me, I’m shocked by the reaction and just stare at him.

I look around slowly and see that Tawni is hugging Elsey, who is crying, tears rolling over her lips. Then it dawns on me. They thought I was dead. I jumped through a mysterious waterfall, let out a scream, and then they didn’t hear anything from me. I hadn’t even thought to—or bothered to—yell back to them that I was okay.

“I was going to fall,” I say dumbly.

“Tawni was about to help me pull you back when you jumped.”

“Oh.”

“You scared your sister half to death. All of us, Adele.”

“Sorry,” I say weakly.

“Not good enough,” Cole says.

“Really sorry?” I say it like a question, which also is not good enough. “Look,” I continue quickly, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. It was really, really stupid. Please forgive me. El?”

Elsey pulls herself away from Tawni and runs to me, throwing her arms around me and holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. By the time she releases me she’s almost as wet as I am. “Of course I forgive you,” she says. “I thought you were gone.”

“I’ll never leave you,” I say.

“You will if you keep doing stupid things like that,” Cole grumbles.

His forgiveness will take longer to earn.

Tawni comes over and puts an arm around me. “Try to be more careful. We’re like family now.”

A wave of emotion wells up unexpectedly. I get choked up, literally trying to swallow her words down as they seem to get stuck a dozen times in my throat. I’m teary-eyed, but not to the point of overflowing. It’s been so long since I’ve had any real friends and now I’ve grown closer to these two in just a couple of days. Wild, thrilling, scary, emotional days, yeah, but still only days.

I realize I love them both. Tawni for her good heart, logical mind, and overflowing compassion for others. Cole for his quiet strength, fierce loyalty, and righteous anger—I don’t even mind his temper.

I wave Cole over, and after a few seconds’ pause, he joins us in a group hug. I’ve never felt more loved in my life.

It only lasts about a minute—a glorious, beautiful minute—before Cole gets embarrassed. He releases us and says, “Uh, what was behind the water anyway?”

“A landing and then another waterfall,” I say.

“This has the makings of a comedy sketch,” he says, managing a slight grin. His face has returned to its normal dark color.

Note to self: group hugs diffuse tempers, I think.

I grin back. “Why don’t you and I go check it out?” When Cole gives me an I-don’t-think-so look, I quickly add, “No more insane leaps of faith, I promise. I just have a good feeling about where this might lead.” And I do. Something about it just feels right. Or at least more right than going back. Plus this tunnel will be safe for us. No one who actually knows their way around the Lonely Caverns would ever think to go down this particular tunnel.

“Fine,” Cole says grudgingly. “How far is the jump?”

“Maybe five feet,” I say.

Cole nods. “Ladies first. When you get across, move back and I’ll jump five seconds after you.”

Elsey looks worried so I give her an extra hug. “It’ll be okay. We’ll be back in just a couple of minutes.”

“I’ll never forget you,” she says dramatically.

“Yeah, you, too, El.”

I grab two of the waterproof flashlights that we stole from Tawni’s parents, hand one to Cole, and then easily leap through the waterfall onto the landing. I flick on the flashlight and move back. A few seconds later Cole splashes through the liquid wall.

The light doesn’t reveal anything unexpected. We’re in a tiny section of nondescript cave that, except for the waterfalls at either end, could have been anywhere in the caverns.

“How are we going to test the next waterfall?” Cole says.

“Simple—we jump through,” I say.

“You said you’d be careful. That doesn’t sound careful.”

“I am going to be careful,” I say, smirking. “You’re going to try it first this time.”

Cole’s reaction confirms that he bought it. His eyes narrow, he looks at the ceiling, and he throws his hands over his head. It’s good to know he’s gullible sometimes. “I’m just kidding, Cole. Temper, temper.”

His face softens and he even manages a smile. “Good one,” he admits. “So what’s the real plan?”

“Chuck a rock and listen for the sound.” Maybe it isn’t a much better plan, but it’s still better.

Cole shrugs and pokes around along the side of the tunnel with his flashlight until he finds a decent-sized rock. “Should make plenty of noise,” he comments.

“Do it.”

Hefting it over his shoulder like a miner, he gets a running start and launches it into the waterfall. We both put our ears close to the streaming water, and are rewarded a second later when we hear the rock crack against something hard. The sound comes so quickly that it’s unlikely the rock fell very far.

“It might’ve hit a sheer wall and dropped straight down,” Cole points out.

“It sounded like it bounced.”

Cole nods. “Ladies first,” he says.

“Wuss.”

Cole suddenly scoops me up and makes like he’s going to throw me through the fall. Yeah—I scream. “No, no, no!”

He puts me down. “You looked really scared,” he says.

“Good one.”

Turning back to the waterfall, I get a running start and plow through it, leading with the waterproof flashlight. I emerge on the other side amidst a spray of water. Surprise, surprise. It’s another mini-tunnel, with yet another waterfall at the end.

“C’mon through!” I yell.

Cole arrives and laughs when he sees the wall of water cascading down from the roof. “How much you wanna bet when we try to go back there’s always another waterfall?” he says.

The thought of being stuck in an endless cycle of waterfalls and sections of cave, coupled with the fact that I’m soaked to the skin, makes me shiver. “No bet, but I hope you’re wrong.”

The rock Cole threw is lying in front of us, slightly chipped but large enough to be effective again. The stone is heavy, but I manage to heft it with both hands, swinging it from side to side once and releasing it through the waterfall. A second later we hear the same telltale clatter.

“Same time?” Cole says, extending his hand.

Corny? Absolutely. But I’ve always wanted to do something like that, so I nod and grab his hand. We mouth a count to three and then jump through simultaneously. This time we’re in for a surprise.

First of all, we don’t need our flashlights anymore. Dull light slides into the tunnel beyond us. There’s another waterfall, but not like before. It isn’t a wall of water blocking our path. Instead, the tunnel ends in a small pool of water, which is fed from underground rivers pouring in on either bank. The pool overflows at the far side, dropping off into the cave where the light is coming from.

I glance at Cole and then we walk forward, perfectly synchronized. Without talking about it, we wade straight into the water. It rises above my waist to my belly button, whereas for Cole it only gets to his hips.

We reach the end of the pool, where the water tumbles over the edge. My heart stops and I gasp. Spectacular! is the word that comes to mind when I see the view. We’re on the edge of a cliff, looking out upon a Moon Dweller city. Like most man-made Moon Dweller cities, thick stone beams rise high above the buildings, from floor to roof, protecting against major cave-ins.

Around the edge of the cliff, numerous waterfalls pour out into a massive reservoir that runs along the edge of the cavern. Each waterfall is different, but equally magnificent. Some are thin, high streams, skimming the edge of the cliff and cascading down in an unpredictable liquid spray, while others are thick, powerful falls, exploding in a thunderous display of power and beauty. And there is everything in between, too.

Our particular waterfall is of average height compared to the others, but still rises at least fifty feet in the air. By peering over the edge we can see that we’re on a rock overhang, which allows the water to pour into the reservoir unobstructed. Although I’m not really afraid of heights, I pull back from the edge, feeling slightly lightheaded.

“Damn,” Cole says. “The good news: we’ve made it to the sixteenth subchapter, also known as Waterfall Cave. The bad news: there’s no way down.”

“Except to jump,” I say.

“If you’re crazy.”

I’m not any keener to launch myself down a waterfall than Cole is, but it does make sense, in a twisted logic sort of way. “We’ve got to get into the sixteenth subchapter, right?” Cole nods, biting back a response. “So, if we find another tunnel that leads there, an easier one, it will likely end at a travel checkpoint and we’ll have to show our papers. We don’t have any papers, Cole. Plus, our faces are all over the news. We’ll be recognized and apprehended immediately. Our only choice is to do something crazy.”

Cole looks over the edge again, biting on his lip as he considers my proposal.

The dull light is coming from the city’s overhead cavern lights. The brightness is about normal for daytime in the Moon Realm, so it might be anytime between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon. “We’ll wait until it starts to get dark so we won’t be seen. It’s a reservoir, I’m sure it’s deep enough.”

At that moment Tawni and Elsey splash into the tunnel, panic written all over their faces.

Chapter Eighteen

Tristan

We awake to a piercing shriek that echoes through the caves. I have no idea where I am or how I got here. It’s becoming a bit of a bad habit for me.

“What…was…that?” Roc says from beside me.

“I don’t know, but I’m not sticking around to find out,” I say. I try to sit up but find it’s impossible. My arms are tied to my sides, my feet together. It feels like I’m in a straitjacket.

“Oh God,” Roc says. “What now?”

We hear another piercing scream and then high-pitched frantic cackling. The cackling continues for a bit, sometimes rising in volume and other times lessening. It makes it hard to tell where and how far away it’s coming from.

“What do we do?” Roc says.

“Wait,” I say. We don’t have much of a choice. We’re lying in the dark, bound as tight as a caterpillar in a cocoon, with no idea where we are. Waiting seems like the only option. “Do you remember what happened?” I ask.

“All I remember is the ground dropping away and then sliding a bit. Then everything went black.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” This is not good. We’ve successfully managed to escape one captor, only to find ourselves at the mercy of another. One that might be much less likely to give us food and water.

“Let us go!” Roc screams suddenly, scaring the bejesus out of me.

“Bloody hell, Roc. What was that?”

“Sorry. I’ve been awake for a while, trying to get you to wake up, too. I guess I’m going a little stir crazy.”

“Ya think?”

“Are my delectable delights ready for tasting?” a shaky woman’s voice calls from somewhere. More cackling.

Now I know we’re in real trouble. Whoever this lady is, she’s madder than a wingless bat. “Roll,” I hiss, turning over and forcing my body to move toward Roc’s voice. I bang into him before he has a chance to get going. He finally gets the hint. Two revolutions, three. Four, five, six. As I come out of my sixth spin, I’m blinded by a light shining directly in my eyes.

“Hee hee hee! Are my scrumptious scamperers scampering again?” the woman’s voice says from right next to me.

When she shifts the light into Roc’s eyes I get a glimpse of her face. I cringe. Her head is mostly bald, with only a few wisps of gray hair protruding from her scalp. She has no eyebrows and a bit of dark stubble on her chin. Her nose is long, overhanging and casting a shadow on her thin white lips. Her blue eyes might be pretty were they not on her face and filled with madness.

“My palettable pretties are awake!” she exclaims, showing off a mouth with only a handful of teeth, perhaps seven or eight total. Her red tongue looks abnormally long, like a serpent’s, glossing over her teeth and lips.

Ignoring us once again, the woman busies herself with something that we can’t see.

“We shouldn’t even be here,” Roc says, a bit of anger entering his voice. It’s unexpected. I’d expect him to sound scared, or at least worried, but no, he sounds angry.

“If you have something to say, Roc, just say it,” I say. Now isn’t the time to pick a fight, but I want to know what’s on Roc’s mind.

“We’re chasing after a girl you’ve never even said two words to,” he spits out.

“Wrong, Roc. I’ve said exactly two words to her,” I snap back, my temperature level rising.

“I don’t think saying Adele! and Run! counts as having spoken to her,” Roc says bitterly, imitating my voice, but making it sound nasally and girly.

“I didn’t make you come!” I growl.

He doesn’t have a response to that, so we both lie in silence, which is worse than arguing, because the old woman is talking to herself. In between speaking to us, she’s saying things like, “A finger for breakfast, a hand for lunch, an ear for dinner, munch, munch, munch!”

That’s when I realize what she’s doing: preparing a fire. And above it is a spit, constructed with a pile of rocks on both ends and a metal bar across them. It’s about the length of a human, I realize.

Roc and I figure it out at the same time. “She’s going to freakin’ eat us, Tristan!” Roc hisses, temporarily forgetting his beef with me.

We can see the flames from the fire casting shadows on the cave walls, and smell the smoke as it blusters off the growing fire.

Suddenly, anger courses through my veins, pumping fresh blood to my extremities. We’ve worked so hard to get this far, taken so many risks, and this woman is going to end our journey before, as Roc pointed out, I’ve had the chance to say more than two words to Adele?

Screw. That.

Pure determination floods my body for the first time in my pampered life. It’s out of my control, my actions those of my body, not my mind.

I spin hard, rolling right at the woman, whose back is still to us. I collide hard with her ankles, tripping her backwards over me. I keep rolling…right into the fire. Like I said: it’s my body doing the thinking, not my mind. It isn’t a great plan, but it’s all I have.

I feel the heat from the flames licking at my torso, trying to penetrate the thick nest of ropes around me, tear through my clothes, scorch my skin. The fire is a cannibal, too. Luckily, the fire is still small enough that my head and legs are outside of its range, although the smoke is choking me. I hold my breath and wait two seconds, three.

When the heat becomes unbearable and I’m sure the ropes must be on fire, I spin backwards and out of the fire. The old woman has staggered to her feet and I collide with her again, once more knocking her over. This time she falls in a heap on top of me, her face coming to rest right in front of my own. Her breath stinks and I can feel her bony knees and elbows poking into my ribs and legs.

“You filthy brat!” she screams, nearly bursting my eardrums and sending a splattering of spit into my eyes.

I can still feel the heat of the flames as they bite at my ropes. I hope the tethers are sufficiently weakened by the fire. They have to be.

I head-butt the woman right between the eyes, causing her to let loose a shriek that should only belong to dark demons from the realm from which nightmares are born. She flops to the side and away from me.

Using every last ounce of strength I can muster, I strain at the bindings, trying to break them. Evidently I lingered in the fire longer than I thought—longer than I probably should have. The ropes break away easily, black and brittle from the flames, which are finally dying.

Scrambling to my feet, I pull away the remaining strands and search for my sword. The old woman is writhing on the cave floor, shrieking and shouting obscenities, clutching at her face. I find the swords crossed on the ground near Roc, next to our pack.

It’s as if I’ve never used my hands before—I’m unable to control them. They’re trembling badly and it takes me more than a minute just to get a grip on my sword. Under normal conditions, cutting the ropes away from Roc would be a simple task, but I feel so shaky I’m afraid I might accidentally amputate an arm or leg.

“Deep breaths,” Roc says, making me realize that I’m breathing in short, ragged huffs. I’m sure my face is wild, probably more crazy-looking than the old woman trying to cook us alive.

I take a deep breath. Then another. It helps. My hands stop shaking, my breathing returns to normal. “Thanks,” I say.

After cutting Roc’s hands free, I hand him the sword, letting him finish the job. The woman has grown surprisingly silent, lying motionless in a heap. When Roc is free, he hands me my sword, which I sheath, retrieves his own sword, and then shoulders the pack.

We’re about to leave when the woman suddenly screams, leaps to her feet with speed and quickness that’s almost supernatural, and charges us, her hands outstretched and curled into clawed hooks.

I scream, and Roc screams even louder. I’m getting pretty sick of the old woman’s antics, and am too tired to consider that she might still be dangerous, which is probably a good thing.

I push her. Hard. Right at the fire. She stumbles and falls into the flames, wailing the whole time. We don’t wait to see what will happen to her.

We run into the darkness, which becomes deeper as we get further from the fire. The space narrows and forms a tunnel, and soon we’re running blind, yet again. Roc manages to get a light out of our pack and flick it on.

We should’ve kept running in the dark. The images that flash into view will forever haunt me, burned into my memory till the day I die.

Skeletons: some fully intact and leaning against the wall; others broken and mangled, scattered on the floor; yet others mounted on the walls like trophies—here a skull, there a foot. It doesn’t take a genius to know they didn’t die from natural causes, that their flesh was bitten off by ragged teeth.

If I hadn’t had so little to eat in the last couple of days I’d throw up all over myself. Instead, I dry heave, as my stomach pulses repeatedly in an attempt to upchuck anything that’s left in it. Roc’s doing the same, bent over his knees, convulsing.

I spit out the little bile that has forced its way into my mouth, steal the light from Roc, and shine it further down the tunnel. The trail of skulls ends just a few feet down the path; nothing blocks our escape.

“C’mon, man,” I say, flicking off the light and tugging at Roc’s elbow. Huddled together, we shuffle through the dark, until I’m sure we’re far enough away from the…the stuff.

I turn the light on just in time to see that the tunnel is curving tight to the left. Roc seems to be recovering, so I release him and let him walk on his own.

It isn’t until we’ve walked for a couple of hours that I feel safe again. Neither of us has spoken, lost in dark thoughts, reliving the horrors we’ve just experienced.

Finally, Roc says, “All those people…” His voice sounds numb, like he still doesn’t really understand what we’ve seen.

“Nothing we can do for them now.”

A few more minutes of silence, and then Roc says, “Tristan, I’m sorry about what I said. I was just scared, that’s all.”

I grit my teeth. As angry as I was when he questioned our pursuit of Adele, I have to admit that there is some truth to it, which makes me even angrier. I feel foolish. Stupid! “No, Roc. You’re right. I dragged you into this mess. And for what? To find some ridiculous Moon Dweller girl who causes me pain every time I get near her. What the hell are we doing out here?”

Roc sighs. “I have thought that at times,” he says. “But then I think how noble it is that you’re taking a risk, defying your father. I don’t know how it’s all going to end, but if we don’t go, we might regret it for the rest of our lives. I feel like maybe we’re meant to be doing this.”

Roc sounds so solemn as he speaks, as if our trek across the Moon Realm is a sacred quest and not just me chasing after some random girl, who happens to be an escaped convict and possibly dangerous. He also makes it sound like we’re in it together. It isn’t my quest, but his, too, and he’s in it to the end. Given the argument we had just before we were about to be roasted on a spit, it’s a complete one-eighty for him.

“So we keep going?” I say.

“I was just trying to make you feel better,” Roc says with a smirk. “It’s not like we have another choice—can’t go back.”

He’s trying to downplay the wisdom in his words, but I know better. He isn’t just trying to make me feel better. He truly believes—like me—that we’re meant to be on the path we’re on, for better or worse. Better would be finding Adele; worse would be falling into the evil clutches of a mad cannibal woman with super strength. My guess: we might end up somewhere in between.

But Roc’s words have more than just cemented my belief that we’re doing the right thing. They also make me think about what we’re doing and why. To this point, it’s been all about finding Adele, keeping her safe, and potentially, if the fake suns and moons and stars of the Sun Realm align, questioning her about why being near her causes me such agony. But now it feels like there’s some deeper purpose to it all, one I want to explore.

“What did you mean when you said you thought we were meant to be doing this?” I ask as we continue walking.

Roc wrinkles up his face, squints his eyes. “I don’t know, it’s probably nothing, but…”

“What?”

“I just feel like we have a chance to make things better. You know, for everyone. I mean, the secrets your father is keeping from the moon and Star Dwellers, people should know that stuff.”

It’s been a while since Roc and I have spoken about my father’s secrets. Well, one particular secret really. I’m one of only a handful of people that know, but I told Roc anyway. At first I was stunned, but later I realized it wasn’t that surprising. It is my father, after all. I don’t see the connection to our current situation, though.

“What’s that got to do with us?” I say.

“I don’t know. It popped into my head just now. It feels like we’re in the middle of something big, or at least something bigger than what we thought.”

“You think Adele’s involved in something?”

“No…I mean, I don’t know, maybe. In any case, that’s not important. What’s important is what we do at the end of all of this, or maybe at the same time, whichever makes more sense. I think we need to tell people about what your father is doing.”

I think about it. I guess I’m not as big a thinker as Roc. I’m so focused on my own little world, my own feelings, that I don’t really consider whether we could—or whether we should—do anything to help other people, particularly the moon and Star Dwellers. I remember during the bombing when the Moon Dwellers helped us, took us in, guided us. People like that deserve a better life.

Despite the plethora of thoughts running through my head, all I reply is, “Maybe you’re right.”

“As usual,” Roc says.

We have no idea where we are, so we just keep walking in a straight line, hoping to emerge from the Lonely Caverns soon. We still have plenty of food in the pack—our Moon Dweller captors hadn’t even bothered to empty it out. Still, if we don’t find our way out soon we’ll have little chance of tracking down Adele.

Thus, I’m ecstatic when we run into one of the main tunnels through the caverns. I’m cautious, too, because I have no idea where our captors were headed—for all I know they might be just in front of or behind us, waiting to pounce. We move swiftly through the main tunnel without incident, meeting no other travelers.

It’s late at night when we reach the entrance to subchapter 16, the land of the waterfall caves. Although we’ve received no authorization to travel within the Moon Realm, we purchased some fake papers before leaving the Sun Realm. As we use them at the border, I keep my head lowered and my hat on to ensure I’m not recognized.

“Mr…Garber…from the Sun Realm,” the border guard says. “It’s a pleasure to have a Sun Dweller in our humble city.” He says something similar to Roc, and lets us both pass straight through. A man wearing miner gear behind us is being patted down for weapons. They’re asking him question after question about his reason for entering subchapter sixteen, whether he’s carrying any weapons, whether he’s received proper authorization to travel intra-Realm, and on and on. Even in his own Realm, being a Moon Dweller hurts this man.

Anger courses through me but I don’t turn around, try to forget about it. Now’s not the time.

At long last we’re back to civilization. Or at least the closest to civilization that my father’s ridiculous taxes allow the Moon Dwellers to be. The subchapter is dark, but has a decent number of street lights. I can’t speak for Roc, but I’m desperate for a real bed.

We head for the commercial district. I can vaguely remember the city zoning—a domed, circular cave with a reservoir around the outside and the city built outwards from the center—from my previous visits, but Roc remembers far better, so I let him lead.

Although we feel relatively safe, we stick to the shadows, avoiding passing directly by any late-night strollers, and choose a deserted street from which to select a hotel. And it’s a good thing we’re careful. We’ve just taken a shortcut through a seedy alley, and are about to turn onto a main street, when we hear a chorus of footsteps moving toward us.

We shrink back into the alley, deep into the shadows, and peer to the street beyond. A group of Sun Dweller troops—at least eight—run past us, moving toward the city center. I only see the leader for a moment as he flashes by, but I’d recognize him anywhere.

Rivet is back in the game.

Chapter Nineteen

Adele

“They’re here!” Tawni exclaims.

“Who?” I ask, above the roar of the waterfall.

Tawni and Elsey splash into the water to join us. They’re breathing hard, already soaked from head to toe like us, a result of jumping through the series of waterfalls.

“Rivet, I think,” Tawni says. “We heard them coming down the tunnel. A man was talking—I think I recognized his voice from the telebox.” Tawni’s eyes are wide and white.

“We don’t know that they’ll come through the waterfalls,” Cole says.

“Yes, they will,” I say. “They’ll have maps. They wouldn’t have wandered down this tunnel by mistake. It’s probably a shortcut.”

“But how will they get down?” Elsey asks. Her eyebrows are raised and her head cocked to the side. She looks more like a child than she has since we rescued her, innocent and naïve.

“They might have ropes,” I say. “But we don’t.”

Finally, Cole agrees with the opinion I’d already voiced. “We’ve got to jump.”

“And it’s got to be fast,” I second. “They could come through any moment.” I glance at the waterfall, expecting Rivet’s scarred face to emerge from the water in slow motion, his teeth replaced with fangs, his fingers sporting daggers for nails.

The waterfall remains untouched.

I feel like the hourglass on our lives is all but empty. We don’t have time to sit around sipping tea and eating muffins and discussing the pros and cons of jumping off a cliff into untested waters. Plus we don’t have any muffins. Or tea.

“Me first, then El, Tawni, and Cole,” I bark. I don’t have time to wait for agreement from the others. Waiting means death.

I step up and jump, not allowing myself any time to chicken out.

I should’ve at least thought about how I would jump. In my mind I’d pictured a perfect swan dive, floating through the air with grace and elegance. But my body instinctively tries to go straight down, feet first. Because of my uncertainty, I end up halfway in between, my body horizontal, chest facing down.

Belly flop time.

My heart is in my throat, and I’m feeling something between utter fear and complete elation. There’s no time to think, but at the last minute I try to turn my body to improve my landing. It doesn’t help.

When my shoulder hits the water I think I might’ve jumped too far and landed on the stone—that’s how hard the impact is. Rather than a splash, I make more of a vicious thwap! when I enter the water. Pain shoots through the nerves in my shoulder, running quickly down my arm and into my hand. When I feel myself sinking, however, I realize it’s the water that has literally put the smack on me.

The water closes in around me and I’m transported into the belly of my childhood nightmares. Falling down the well; thrashing in the water; sinking into oblivion; no way out. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt scared of water. Growing up, my dad forced me to conquer my fear, taught me to swim. Slowly, I grew to love the feeling of water rushing around my body. No! There’s no well—not this time. I can escape this nightmare.

Ignoring the pain and bad memories, I kick upwards. Once, twice, thrice: finally breaking the surface. I want to scream with pain, but I hold it inside me, trying to get through it by punching the water with my uninjured arm.

I look up and realize I’m still directly below the tunnel entrance. By kicking hard, I manage to get far enough away from the landing zone that I won’t accidentally break someone’s fall with my head.

I see Elsey jump. Her launch is more timid than mine was, but far more effective. She drops feet first in a perfect pencil dive, barely making a splash as she cuts through the water. Although I watch closely in case she needs help, I’m not worried about her; like me, El is a strong swimmer, and clearly a better jumper. A few seconds later she bobs up, smiling, like it’s just a normal day down at the swimming hole.

“That was glorious, wasn’t it?” Elsey says, swimming over.

“Not the word I would choose,” I mumble, rubbing my shoulder while treading water using only my feet.

Seconds later, Tawni’s white hair whooshes from above as she executes the perfect swan dive that I’d imagined for myself. “Just great,” I say, my shoulder hurting worse than ever. Or perhaps it’s my pride. It’s definitely one or the other.

At least I did better than Cole, whose big dark body flails down from above like he’s being attacked by an angry horde of flapping bats. In the meantime Tawni has resurfaced, so we all have a good laugh when Cole creates a liquid mountain upon smacking into the water.

My laughter doesn’t last long, however, as twenty seconds pass and Cole has yet to reach the surface. Even under the dim glow provided by the overhead cavern lights, the water looks as black as oil.

I squeal as something grabs me, pulling me under. I kick away from my attacker and come up spluttering. Tawni and Elsey are laughing.

“What the hell was that?” I say.

A deep voice from behind me says, “That was for laughing at me.” It’s Cole.

“How’d you even know I was laughing? You were underwater.”

“I just knew,” Cole says, a twinkle in his dark eyes.

“Well, what about them?” I say, motioning at the other two. “They laughed, too.”

“You were laughing harder,” Cole says, his face as serious as stone.

I shake my head. “Rivet could be right behind us, we shouldn’t be messing around. We’d better keep moving.”

If Rivet and his new gang of men are in the tunnel above us, we never see them, which suits me just fine. I hope I never see his evil mug ever again.

It feels strange being in a Moon Dweller city again. Although we’ve only been out of subchapter 14 for a few days, it’s the longest I’ve ever been away from the place. I know I shouldn’t be nostalgic but I am. Maybe subchapter 14 hasn’t been particularly kind to me as of late, but I still have a ton of happy memories there, before everything got so messed up.

The other weird thing is that we’re just passing through. It feels like after such a long, hard journey through the Lonely Caverns, we should stay awhile, see the sights, try the local fare—I don’t know, something. But that’s not an option. We’re wanted criminals, our faces known across all the Tri-Realms. There are probably plenty of Moon Dwellers who would be willing to help us, but we have no idea who we can trust. Someone pretending to be our friend could turn us in a second later, seeking a reward.

We’re dripping wet, traveling on the outskirts of town, trying to decide what to do next, when Cole says, “I don’t think this city has been bombed, has it? Just normal Moon Realm deterioration.”

We can’t see much from where we are, so I stop, trying to remember the view from above the waterfall. The city had looked pretty amazing, and definitely intact, a far cry from the smoldering wreckage of our subchapter.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“I hope they stop that dreadful bombing soon,” Elsey says.

“Me, too, El. Me, too.”

“I’m simply famished,” Elsey says.

I’ve been ignoring my hunger for three days now, but suddenly at the thought of food, my stomach constricts, groans, twists up.

“I could eat,” Cole says, opening his pack. It seems like he’s always hungry.

“Not that stuff again,” Elsey says. Despite her overdramatic description of the food in the orphanage, she’s already growing tired of our canned beans.

“We could all use some real food,” Tawni notes.

“Sure, let’s just waltz into town, looking like we crawled out of a sewer, pop into a café, shove a fistful of Nailins at the owner, and walk out with a bunch of food,” I say.

“For your information, I was thinking of something a bit more discreet,” Tawni says.

I sense the slightest hint of anger in Tawni’s voice, which is unlike her. If she starts getting mad at my misplaced, ill-timed sarcasm, this is going to turn into a long trip. Perhaps it is time to take a risk—for all our benefit.

“I could go steal some loaves of bread,” Cole offers. “I’m good at that.”

To be honest, I’m shocked. Now that I know the true story—that there was no bread, only heartache and pain—I can’t believe he can still make such a joke. To me it’s more proof of his strength. That he can be such a happy, funny, good person, after all he’s been through, is simply incredible. I even manage to laugh at his joke—because I know he wants me to.

Tawni smirks, quickly snapping out of her rare bad mood. “I was thinking more like we wait until nightfall, sneak into the city, and have Elsey pay someone to get us some food.”

“Why Elsey?” I ask.

“Because her face will be less likely to be recognized,” Tawni says, shrugging. “I’m sure she’s been on the news, too, but she’s not a wanted criminal.”

“I don’t know…” I say.

“I’ll do it,” Elsey says. When I frown, she says, “I can do this, Adele. I know I can. Please let me help.”

I take a deep breath. It makes sense and I’m tired of beans, too. “Okay. On one condition: that we stay close by in case you have any trouble.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Elsey says, waving me off as if my suggestion is the most obvious thing in the world.

The cavern returns to its natural shade of black as night falls and the lights are extinguished. The street lights remain on, but barely cast enough light to highlight the roads. We wait patiently in the dark, slowly drying out, until we’re sure it’s safe. Although I’m anxious to keep moving, I actually enjoy the break, and use it as a chance to speak to Elsey.

“Are you okay, El?” I ask. Cole and Tawni have walked away, on a mission to find the least conspicuous way into the city.

“I am now,” Elsey says.

“But before?”

“I tried to be optimistic, like Father always taught us,” she says, wrinkling her button nose. “But I was depressed sometimes. If it wasn’t for Ranna I would have felt so alone, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Tried to run away?”

“Maybe.” Elsey looks at me with a seriousness that is far older than her age. “Do you miss Mother and Father?”

“Of course, El.”

“Oh, so do I. So much I can hardly breathe sometimes.”

“We’ll find them,” I say, making a promise I intend to keep.

“I’m so glad you made friends, Adele. How long have you known Cole and Tawni?”

After hearing how tough things were for her, the last thing I want to do is depress her with my sad story in the Pen, and how, until a few days ago, I’d felt even more alone than her. But I also can’t lie to my sister—never could. “I’ve known them a little while.”

“And Tristan? I know you told me the story, but have you really only been interested in him for a few days?”

“I’m not interested in him, El. Not really. I just want to know why I get a headache whenever he’s around, that’s all.”

“Mmm,” she says.

I don’t have a chance to ask her what she means by that because the others return, excited.

“We found a route that’s pretty dark the whole way to the center,” Cole says, smiling.

They’re still thinking about getting real food, but I’m thinking about what to do afterwards. We can’t stay in subchapter 16—not with Rivet and his gang roaming somewhere nearby. We need a plan to get to the Northern subchapters, specifically subchapter 26, where my dad might be a prisoner. Camp Blood and Stone.

“Okay, food first,” I concede. “Then what?” I hate asking the question without having some brilliant suggestion, but I can’t seem to think. Sometimes I feel like I’ve only got two brain cells, and even when I rub both of them together nothing seems to happen. This is one of those times.

“We’ve been talking about that, too,” Tawni says. “And I think we’ve got it figured out. Why do we need to keep trekking through the dangerous inter-Realm caverns, being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty men with a license to kill us, when we could ride all the way north?”

“Ride?” I say. “You mean, like on a train?”

“Of course a train, what else? They have night express trains, direct from subchapter to subchapter. We could disguise ourselves as nomads, cover our faces, and buy a ticket. Even if they recognize us, we’ll be long gone before anyone has a chance to do anything about it.”

The thought of saving us hundreds of miles of walking and getting to my dad faster at the same time is tantalizing, but it also screams suicide. “I don’t know…” I say. “Seems a bit risky.”

Cole says, “This whole thing is risky. All I know is we’ve got to do something unexpected or we’re gonna get caught. Let’s give it a try, and if we get caught, I promise to let you say ‘I told you so.’”

“I’ll relish the opportunity,” I say, not mentioning the fact that if we get caught we’ll be dead.

The city is beckoning to us, and the thought of food is making my mouth water. As planned, we pick our way through the city via alleys and small side streets, staying out of sight like ghosts in the night.

Eventually we find a small café that seems to be open and still taking customers.

“Showtime,” Cole says, gesturing to Elsey.

I scowl, still not completely comfortable with my sister’s role in our operation, but I bite my tongue and manage to keep my thoughts to myself. Before I can even consider changing my mind, Elsey gives me a quick hug and sneaks away, sticking to the shadows, moving toward the café, which is conveniently located on the corner of our alley and the main street.

I watch as she spots a Dumpster and moves behind it, peeking out at the road.

A family of four passes her: a mom, a dad, two girls. They remind me of my own family in the old days. The girls look happy, holding hands with their parents and skipping along. It’s good to know that even in the Moon Realm some people are still happy. Of course it helps that their parents haven’t been abducted and their city bombed, but still, happy is happy.

Elsey wisely ignores the family, waits for a better target. An old man with a bad limp and a rickety old cane hobbles past. Perfect. Elsey evidently thinks he’s a perfect candidate, too, because she sticks her head out a bit further and must make a noise, because the man stops and peers into the gloom.

He changes direction and moves toward her, taking ages to reach her behind the Dumpster. I tense slightly, ready to spring into action if needed. I’m not sure what I expect; I guess that maybe the old man is faking his injury and will suddenly smack her over the head with the cane and carry her away. Not surprisingly, he doesn’t.

Apparently, Elsey is able to convince him to help, because he hobbles off a minute later, and Elsey gives us the okay sign using her index finger and thumb. I reply with a thumbs-up.

Waiting for the man is as boring as watching rocks being eroded by the flow of an underground stream. He takes so long. I swear he must be in there negotiating a peace treaty, not just ordering some food. In any event, I manage to keep my eyes open until he reemerges holding big cloth bags. He struggles under the weight of the bags, readjusting his grip and switching arms several times before finally reaching my sister. I see her hand him the pouch of Nailins as payment. As we’d instructed her, she waits until the man limps onto the street and out of sight before tiptoeing back to where we’re hiding.

Her eyes are wide with excitement and her smile gleeful. “How’d I do?” she asks.

“You were perfect,” I say, meaning it.

“You did really well,” Tawni adds.

“Your first solo mission was a complete success,” Cole says.

Elsey beams. By the way she looks at him I think Cole’s compliment makes her the happiest.

It’s amazing what a little money can buy these days. The spread of food is impressive, even with four of us eating. We each get a sourdough roll, two pieces of bacon, a sizable hunk of some kind of cheese we never could’ve afforded growing up, a sort of root we call hyro, a cinnamony potato dish, and a small flask of warm tea. The icing on the cake is literally the icing on the cake. We split two pieces of dark chocolate cake with chocolate icing. Down in the Moon Realm—at least in our subchapter—chocolate is scarce, and very expensive, so the fact that the café had it, that we could afford it, and that the old man thought to ask for it, is a small miracle. My only mistake: eating way too much too fast. By the time I finish eating I’ve crossed the line between pleasantly full and disgustingly stuffed.

“Uhhh,” I groan.

Elsey is nibbling daintily at the corner of her cake. “You okay, sis?”

“Other than being on the verge of throwing up, I’m fine.”

“Here, a little extra cake might help wash it down,” Cole suggests, pushing the chocolate toward my face. I don’t even have a chance to tell him how obnoxious he is, because the food is coming back up.

I barely have time to turn my head before I throw up. Although it’s disgusting and unpleasant, I feel better afterwards. I even let Cole’s antics go without revenge.

When we finish eating, we pack the leftover food (which isn’t much), and begin the second phase of our plan: operation night train.

I’m still not very comfortable with the idea, but I’ve committed to it, which means I’m going to do everything in my power to help us be successful. It’s just the way I am. For me it’s all in or all out—no middle ground, no wishy-washy, no excuses.

Continuing to use back streets, we manage to get pretty close to the rail station. We hide in the shadows, performing reconnaissance, waiting for the right time to make a move. The area around the station looks pretty deserted, although every once and a while someone passes by and goes inside. In the entire subchapter, the lighting is the best in this area, which is good for most travelers. Unfortunately, we aren’t most travelers, and would prefer utter darkness.

After twenty minutes or so of no one passing us, Cole hisses, “We can’t wait here all night.”

“Now or never,” I agree. We each don the hoods attached to our tunics. It’s a cool night, so the hoods are unlikely to draw any special attention to us.

We leave the safety of the dark and stride out into the light. We walk side by side, at a normal but purposeful pace, eyes ahead, ears listening for any signs of discovery. With every footstep I expect to hear a shout, a whistle, alarm bells, something. Something saying We gotcha!

We make it inside the terminal without drama.

The ticket window is straight ahead. As we previously agreed, I take the lead on buying the tickets. I walk up, trying to appear confident, like I buy train tickets all the time, like I belong here. At the same time I keep my head lowered slightly, trying to cast a shadow across at least part of my face.

“Three adults and one child for the next train to subchapter twenty-six,” I say, attempting to keep my voice steady. I lock my knees to stop them from shaking.

At first the guy behind the counter—a short, grumpy-looking fellow with gray stubble and more nose hairs protruding from his nostrils than most people have in their nose—is indifferent to me, his voice monotone, like a robot.

“Three and one to twenty-six,” he repeats. “Next train available…”—he pauses, consults a timetable—“…departs in six minutes. Express train.”

He’s just going through the motions, which is fine by me, but I know the hard part is still to come.

It comes. “I need travel vouchers for all adults,” he says, finally glancing up over his glasses at my face. His boring, emotionless expression changes in an instance. It’s just a slight twitch, a flash of recognition in his eyes, but I can see that he knows who I am. Smartly, he pretends not to. I wonder if he’s got a big red security button somewhere underneath his desk. I can see both his hands, but he might be able to press it with his knees.

“Look, buddy, we don’t have travel vouchers, but you probably already guessed that. But we do have this.” I spill the pouch of shiny gold Nailins out onto his desk. “If you keep quiet you can have them all.”

At the sight of the money, the guy’s eyes light up and his fat lips twist into a greedy grin. “Done deal,” he says without hesitation. He stamps four tickets and hands them to me in a stack.

I know we aren’t out of the woods yet. Because the guy is willing to accept a bribe, he’s also probably prone to dishonesty, like accepting said bribe while still planning to turn us in to the authorities. At least we have tickets.

With only a few minutes until the train’s departure, we don’t have time to bet on whether the guy will stick to our deal. Instead, we hurry through the automatic ticket turnstiles, praying he’s given us real tickets. With each swipe of one of the tickets, the gates open and allow one of us through.

The train has just pulled into the station, its doors open and waiting for us to board. A few passengers straggle off, but they are so haggard from the long journey that they don’t even look up as we pass.

“Last car,” I say, leading the group into a light jog. The last car will ensure we’re away from any other passengers who happen to jump on the train just before it leaves.

We’re halfway to the rear car when an alarm goes off, blaring through the silent station. Red lights flash. There’s maybe a minute before the train departs.

We run.

I hear a shout from behind us and twist my head to see men jumping over the turnstiles. They aren’t looking for a free ride—that’s for sure. They’re after us. And leading the pack: Rivet.

We run harder. Thirty seconds to departure.

We reach the last car and board. I try the manual door levers but they’re jammed. Just in case I’m not strong enough, Cole tries them, too, but reaches the same conclusion. We’re at the mercy of the train being on time.

Pressing our faces against the glass, we watch as Rivet’s group splits into two. One group, led by a big black guy with a wicked barbed-wire tattoo around his exposed bicep, heads straight for us, trying to beat the doors. The other group, led by the demon—also known as Rivet—veers left and boards the train about three cars in front of us, thus ensuring they’re at worst traveling with us.

I’m not worried about the second group at the moment. The first group is closing in, running full speed, their eyes heavy with violence.

The doors start to close.

The guys are so close I think they’ll make it. My instinct is to shrink back toward the back of the car, away from the doors. Cole has a better idea.

“C’mon,” he says, urging me to move up to the closing doors. We inch forward until we’ve created a human barricade. The big guy in the front tries to charge straight through us. Without planning it, Cole and I kick at the same time. I catch him hard in the knee and hear a crunch as it bends backwards the wrong way. Simultaneously, Cole lays into him with a boot in the face, using his foot like a sledgehammer.

“Argh!” the dude roars, falling backwards into his friends.

The doors close.

* * *

I can see them through the glass, several cars back, pacing around, punching the walls, acting like they’re on drugs. Maybe they are. Something to make them even more violent—as if they need that.

At first I think there might be a way for them to get to us while the train is still moving, but now I don’t think so. We’re seemingly safe for the moment. I know it won’t last.

We haven’t spoken since the train started moving. I don’t think any of us has the words, or knows what to say. Even Elsey seems to be lost in her thoughts, perhaps mulling over the flash of violence she witnessed by me at the train doors. Tawni is standing in the corner, leaning against the wall, staring out the window as the rocky tunnel flashes by. Cole is seated, his head down, one foot tapping rapidly on the floor.

According to Cole, who seems to have a pretty good handle on these sorts of matters, the train ride will only take two hours, being an express. Although I know we’re traveling at hundreds of miles per hour, the ride is so smooth it barely feels like we’re moving.

An hour goes by in silence. Typically I’d be comfortable with the quiet, as I grew used to it during the endless hours I spent alone in the Pen, but for some reason I can’t stand it now. With every second that goes by, the screaming in my head gets worse, until I can’t take it anymore.

“Urrrrr!” I grunt, making a weird growling, gurgling noise from the back of my throat.

Everyone looks at me. Elsey grins nervously. Tawni raises an eyebrow. Cole laughs, of course. “Are we there yet?” he asks, purposely sounding as whiny as possible.

I take a deep breath. I need to calm down, try to get a grip on the anxiety I’m feeling. I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack.

“I hope so,” I say, trying to sound tough. I’m secretly dreading our arrival, afraid of not being able to protect my friends, my sister. Afraid of what Rivet will do. Afraid of what Rivet will tell me about Tristan if I get the chance to ask him. At the same time, the waiting might be worse. It’s like pulling a splinter of rock from your foot. Although the pain is minor with it in your skin, over time it becomes more and more uncomfortable, until it’s unbearable, leaving you making weird grunting-gurgling noises like some sick animal. Left untreated, the splinter pushes deeper into the skin, becoming a part of you. The only treatment is to pull it out, swiftly and painfully. When the doors open at the end of the line, we’ll have no choice but to remove our own rock splinter.

“What are they going to do to us?” Elsey says, sounding like a normal kid, instead of my older-than-her-years sister.

I want to reassure her, but I also don’t want to lie to her. I hesitate for a moment, trying to formulate the right words, but Cole answers for me. “Nothing,” he says. “They’re not gonna touch any of you. I’ll make sure of that.”

Coming from Cole, it isn’t just talk. As he cracks his knuckles, I can see a level of determination in his face that exceeds even his normal level of strength. As much as it comforts me, it also scares me, not because of what he might do to Rivet and his gang, but because of what they might do to him. Although I don’t voice it, I vow at that moment to do whatever it takes to protect my friends, even if it costs me my life. There are some things more important than your own life. Like friendship, and love, and trust, and goodness.

We speak very little during the final hour, but for some reason it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’ve made my vow, as has Cole, so there’s nothing else to talk about. We have no strategy, except to run from Rivet until we’re forced to stand and fight. Then we will fight.

I feel the train slowing and my heart skips a beat.

Chapter Twenty

Tristan

“It’s Rivet!” I hiss. “What do you make of it?”

“Exercise,” Roc says.

“Exercise?”

“Yeah. They’re just out for a midnight run. You know, to keep in shape.”

“No chance they’re in pursuit of Adele?” I say sarcastically.

“Nah.”

I’m glad to have the old Roc back, the one who jokes in even the most serious situations. “I think we should join them, I’m feeling a bit out of shape, too.”

Roc nods, grinning.

We steal from the alley and jog along the street, moving silently on only our toes. We probably don’t even need to be as careful as we are, as Rivet and his men are making so much noise they wouldn’t hear the grind of a drilling machine following them.

Our quarry reaches the city center and enters the train terminal. We follow as close as we dare. The moment we enter the station, the emergency sirens go off. I whirl around, half-expecting a squadron of troops to surround us, but there’s no one.

“Hurry,” Roc says, “we’re going to lose ’em.”

I spin around and start chasing Rivet again, who’s doubled his speed, heading straight for the turnstiles to a waiting train. Ticketless, his men hop the barrier. Finally, I can see why they’re in such a hurry.

Four figures are running along the platform, evidently aiming to board the last car. They’re all wearing hoods, so it’s difficult to distinguish individual features, other than height. But still I know. There are four of them, one much shorter than the others. Plus Rivet is chasing them. It’s her. Adele. Her sister. The other two fugitives.

Following Rivet’s lead, we launch ourselves over the ticket machines. There’s no way we’re going to catch Rivet’s men, much less Adele and her friends. I extend an arm to stop Roc.

“Wait, let’s see what happens,” I say.

We watch as Rivet’s men split up, half boarding a car in the middle of the train and the other half zeroing in on the last car. We’re flush with the doors of the first car, which start to close. One of Rivet’s men tries to jump on the rear car but is met by at least two feet, which knock him back.

I slip through the crack in the doors and pull Roc in after me.

My mind is racing. We’re on the train. Rivet and his men are on the train. Adele, her sister, her friends. We couldn’t have coordinated it any better if we’d tried.

“It’s like fate,” Roc says, reading my mind. Maybe my father was wrong about fate after all.

“Where are we going?”

As if in response to my question, the train starts moving and the speaker drones. “Nonstop to subchapter twenty-six.”

“Subchapter twenty-six? But that’s where—”

“Camp Blood and Stone,” Roc finishes. It’s another classified thing I’ve told him.

“But why would Adele go there?” I say, thinking aloud. It hits me like a sucker punch from a one-armed man. “Her parents!” I exclaim.

Roc’s eyes widen. “Yes,” he says. “It has to be. The reporter said they were traitors. There’s nowhere else they would’ve been taken.”

“She’s trying to get her family back. First her sister and now her mom and dad.”

Just then I have a flashback from the last thrilling train ride we had. Waiting in the car. Watching as the two guards switched cars, moving along the train toward us. Slipping onto our train. The fight.

I rush down the car, not bothering to explain to Roc. Reaching the end I tug at the door. It’s either stuck, locked, or not a real door, because it won’t budge. I peer through the glass window, looking into the next car. It’s empty. So is the one after that. I’m not sure how many cars are empty before I spot movement. I can barely make out moving black blobs several cars in front of us.

“It’s an express night train,” Roc says, approaching from behind. “There’s no car-to-car access. The train won’t stop because of the security alarms either. They’re fully automated.”

“How do you now so much about Moon Realm trains?”

“That’s what they pay me the big money for.”

When I turn around, Roc’s grinning. “What’s so funny?” I say.

“Well, besides my witty sense of humor, the fact that we’re on this crazy train headed for sure death brings a bit of a smile to my face.”

“You’re an odd one,” I say.

“That coming from Mr. Pain-at-first-sight-chase-the-girl-who’s-causing-it-all-over-the-Tri-Realms-getting-kidnapped-by-rebels-and-cannibals.”

“Hey, there was only one cannibal, not plural.”

“True,” he says.

With at least a couple of hours of travel ahead of us, I settle into a booth. Roc selects a seat opposite mine. I think about Adele. Why the hell is she causing me so much pain? Is she even aware she’s doing it? I think about what I’ll say to her if I ever catch up to her, how I’ll demand answers, threaten her if necessary. Although I’m not sure threats will work with her. She’s so different than the girls I’m used to. So much stronger, there’s no doubt about that. The proof: escaping prison, navigating through the Lonely Caverns, fighting off Rivet’s men, attempting a suicide mission to rescue her parents from one of my father’s traitor camps. All pretty gutsy.

But I can also tell there’s a tenderness to her. I felt it when she looked back at me when I was fighting Rivet. Like she felt sad that I should have to struggle for her sake. But still:

The pain.

“Tristan?”

I look at Roc. I’ve been staring into space, but that isn’t unusual for me these days. Roc’s staring at my hands. I look down and realize they’re clasped tightly and I’m running them over and over each other, fiercely massaging them. I stop, separate them, place them on my thighs.

“You okay?” Roc says.

“Uh, yeah. Just a little nervous, I guess.”

“About what to do when the train stops?”

“Not what to do,” I say. “How to do it.”

“You’ll do it,” Roc says. “We’re here for a reason. I sense it.”

I search Roc’s brown eyes for the truth. For a moment I sense it, too, try to snatch it out, but then it fades away, disappearing, just like all the good things in my life always seem to do. Sometimes Roc seems so confident and serious, like now, and other times so helpless, like in the midst of a fight, or when we were captured.

I try to turn my philosophical thoughts off and focus on the task at hand. “Right, I’ll need your help, Roc, there are just too many of them for me to handle on my own.”

Roc’s wise eyes turn fearful in an instant.

“We’ll get through it together. I won’t let anything happen to you,” I say, knowing we might both be dead by day’s end.

Roc nods, purses his lips, seems to resign himself to the certain violence that’s headed our way, like a meteor on a collision course with Earth.

“We’ll have the element of surprise,” I continue, “but that will only help us at the very beginning, so we have to take advantage of it. Rivet will head straight for Adele and we’ll just have to hope she and her friends can hold him off until we get there. We’ll pick off his other men from behind, one at a time. We’ll each take a different one until they’re all gone. Yell if you’re in trouble and I’ll do whatever it takes to get to you. Understood?”

“Yes, sire,” he drones, but I can tell he appreciates the direction.

“Once we’ve downed all the men, I’ll head for Rivet while you try to find a safe place for Adele to hide. They may think we’re foes, so you’ll have to convince them otherwise.”

“I’ll convince them,” Roc promises.

* * *

The train slows and I stand. Roc follows suit, looking rather sick. He tries to pull his sword from his sheath, but it gets stuck three times before he can get it out. I know now is the time for a big speech, something to energize him for the battle ahead. My mouth feels sticky and dry, so I take a sip of water. I don’t know what I plan to say, so I just start speaking, hoping my heart will do the rest.

“Roc,” I say, “you’re my brother. Always will be.”

Short, concise, simple; but I mean every word, more than anything I’ve ever said before. And it seems to do the job. Roc’s hand stops trembling and tightens on his sword, his eyes change to a steely brown, his jaw firms up.

“I’m with you, Tristan. I’d die for you.”

Tears fill my eyes but I blink them away. Now is not the time for tears. “And I you,” I say.

The train rolls to a stop. A heavy mist roils outside the window. Subchapter 26 is dark, but not completely. Something is lighting the sky. We’re standing flush against the doors, trying to be the first off—every second will be important in the deadly game we’re playing. The doors open and we step out into the mist.

I feel a thud in my head. She’s near.

It turns out the mist is not mist, but smoke. The air is filled with the suffocating acrid stench of war. The platform trembles as a bomb explodes in the distance. The bombing has reached the northernmost subchapter.

I can’t see through the thick smoke, but I run along the train anyway, hoping that Adele is still alive when I reach the end.

When I see Rivet his back is to me. His men are so focused on what he’s telling them that they don’t see me. I fade backwards into the fog and bump into Roc.

“What is it?” he whispers.

“They seem confused as to what to do. Rivet’s giving them orders, but they’re not rushing the end car like they probably wanted to. The war’s distracted them, I think.”

“Can we get around them?” Roc coughs. His eyes are already red from the smoke. We need to get away from the noxious fumes. They aren’t thick enough to kill us right away, but prolonged exposure surely won’t be good.

“I don’t know, but we have to try.”

We drift right, moving further into the smoke, trying to carve a wide arc around Rivet. Already the smoke is clearing, however, and it won’t be long before we’re able to see them and them us. The bombing hasn’t stopped—we can still hear the rumble of explosions in the distance and intermittent flashes of light—but it’s moving away; hence, the clearing smoke.

Ahead and to the left I see dark figures huddled together. Not Rivet and his men. We’re past them. Adele and her friends—has to be.

As we move toward them something stabs me in the back.

I cringe and almost cry out, but no…I haven’t been stabbed—not exactly. It’s her. Adele.

My head pounds, my back aches.

* * *

Adele

“Something’s not right,” Cole says, gazing out the window as the train pulls into the station.

“There’s so much smoke,” Tawni says.

I try to speak but my voice catches. There’s a lump in my throat. The Star Dwellers are bombing subchapter 26. My father is out there somewhere, unprotected, maybe already a victim.

Older-than-her-age Elsey grabs my hand, squeezes, and says, “He’ll be okay.”

Although I know she doesn’t have any proof for her statement, it’s comforting. The doors open and I feel a shockwave of pain flower in my head.

He’s here. The realization comes as a shock, but I know it’s true. Somehow, someway, Tristan has found us again. Why? I guess I’ll have to ask him if I ever get a chance.

I expected us to race from the train the second the doors opened, but the situation has changed. We can hear booming explosions in the distance. It’s so smoky that we can barely see anything outside.

Cole says, “Elsey should hide in the train. They’ll think we’ve all left.”

I like the idea of hiding Elsey away somewhere, but not leaving her all alone. She isn’t too happy with the idea either. “No! I’m coming with you,” she says.

Cole looks at me, hoping I’ll back him up. “We can’t just leave her here,” I say. My mind is racing. Rivet might already be running down the train line, headed for us, and we’re still in the car, like sitting ducks.

“Move!” I say, pacing to the door and pulling Elsey, who’s still holding my hand, with me.

I step out, turn to face the other end of the train. The smoke—thick and puffy when we pulled into the station—is dissipating already. Likely a bomb exploded near the train station just before we arrived. Although it’s getting easier to see, I don’t see our hunters. I can only see maybe two cars down, and Rivet’s gang is at least three away. Maybe even four or five—it’s hard to tell.

Cole and Tawni step out next to us. “Where the hell are they?” Cole says, thinking out loud.

I feel someone approaching from the left, out of the mist. I quarter-turn to see two dark shapes moving toward us. Rivet—has to be.

“Run!” I hiss.

We take off away from the platform, staying in a group, although Cole and Tawni could easily outdistance Elsey and me anytime they want to. I hear thumping footsteps on the stone behind us, someone chasing us. I don’t look back, don’t want to see Rivet’s bloodthirsty eyes.

As we move away from the platform, the smoke disappears completely. It’s strange how it’s clustered around the train. The bomb must’ve hit really close to the tracks.

Ahead I can see the twinkling lights of subchapter 26. It seems everyone has their lights on, probably because of the bombing, although being able to see won’t protect them from death by explosion.

I hear the footsteps getting closer, hear a shout, but can’t make out what the voice says. It doesn’t sound like Rivet’s snarl, but it might be one of his men. It’s weird. I felt scared when I first started running, but everything changed at some point. It’s like a magic trick, where a magician turns a rock into a bat or something; except it’s my fear turning into anger, to the point where I feel capable of great violence. Even when I fought in the Pen, I never felt capable of anything. I just did what I had to do and hoped for the best. But now I feel strong, like I can fight Rivet, even though he’s a highly trained soldier.

Enough is enough.

I whirl around, my head full of explosions, ready to face him.

They’re right on top of us, having closed most of the distance. I just react, swinging a high kick in self-defense. I catch my pursuer under the chin, knock him off his feet. He rolls onto his stomach. His companion stops dead in his tracks and just stares at me.

He doesn’t look like a trained killer. He’s holding a sword, but it doesn’t look natural; it looks more like he’s holding a bread knife. Brown-skinned with brown eyes, he appears more shocked than anything.

“Who are you?” I say, wondering if I’m making a big mistake.

The guy opens his mouth but no words come out. The other guy, the one I leveled, groans and rolls over, showing his face.

I gasp.

It’s Tristan.

My vision goes black but then returns. Black and then back. It cycles for a few seconds, until my mind seems to make sense of him being so close to me. My vision returns, steady, consistent. But the headache doesn’t fade, keeps ham-ham-hammering away.

At this point it would probably make sense to run to him and apologize profusely for having practically knocked his head off. Like I said earlier: I don’t always do the right thing in social situations.

“Why are you chasing us?” I demand. It’s time for questions and answers. I ask, he answers. Simple.

“Trying…to…help,” Tristan murmurs. Weird. He’s massaging his head although I know for a fact I kicked him in the jaw.

“Oh,” I say. I guess I should’ve guessed that.

“What happened?” Cole says, appearing with Elsey and Tawni beside me. They must’ve stopped when they realized I wasn’t with them.

“It’s him,” Elsey whispers. “Tristan.”

“I know,” I say.

“Why’d you hit him? I thought you wanted to talk to him,” Cole says.

“I didn’t hit him, I kicked him,”—I elbow Cole hard in the stomach—“and shut up about the other thing.” I’m mortified. How could Cole say something so stupid? Tristan’s going to think I’m just another school girl with a crush on the president’s son. Yeah, I want to talk to him, but not like one of his fans. Like a real person with real questions.

“You should probably help him up,” Tawni suggests.

“You help him up,” I retort. My social skills are falling apart at the seams. I’m just shocked, is all. I didn’t expect to see him. Truth be told, I thought he was dead. Thankfully, his friend helps him up.

Tristan approaches me. His midnight blue eyes are hard, like steel. Each time they meet mine I feel a jarring thud of pain and I have to look away. What is he doing? Why is he here? It makes no sense. I’m nobody, and he’s the prince of the Tri-Realms. Why is he causing me such pain? I want to shout at him, shake him, tell him to leave me alone, but my mouth doesn’t seem to work.

He extends his hand and takes mine, which still hangs loosely at my side. When our skin touches daggers slice through my back. “Oww!” I yelp, arching my back and pulling away. I look at him sharply, but I see he’s in a similar position, cringing at some unseen pain. What the hell? Is he feeling what I’m feeling?

He shakes his head, looks at me narrowly. “I’m Tristan,” he says.

Before I have a chance to respond, Cole yells, “Get down!” and tackles us both to the hard ground.

* * *

Tristan

I can’t believe she kicked me! And with a wicked roundhouse no less, powerful and precise. Although I’m in pain—both from the kick and from her very presence—I try to hide it as I reach out to shake her hand. When she doesn’t raise her arm, I reach down and take her hand, lifting it for her. As my fingertips contact her skin, she burns through me, ripping me apart one chunk at a time. I jump back, almost cry out but swallow it down. When I look through suspicious eyes, I see she’s hurting too. Did I do that to her?

I swallow hard, say, “I’m Tristan.”

When the big dark guy yells Get down! and smashes us both to the ground, I think it might just be some kind of a joke. Like maybe that’s how Moon Dweller teenagers have fun; a kick in the jaw to show affection, a hard tackle for a laugh. Of course, my thoughts make no sense considering we’re in a warzone and being tracked by one of my father’s psycho thugs.

Our bodies are so close together and she grabs my arm as we fall. On the ground, she clings to me, her hands warm on my skin. I’m in a trance, unable to tear my gaze from her sparkling, emerald eyes. The pain is there, all around me, but it’s not as strong as before, as if our single touch—our hands brushing against each other—broke the curse. But no, that’s not right either, because the pain is still there.

I hear a yell and Adele looks away from me. I wince, feeling physical pain when our eyes unlock. She pushes off of me, gets up.

Something flashes past my field of vision.

I follow her to a standing position and see why she pushed away so suddenly. Her big friend, the one who tackled us, is charging toward Rivet, who is further down the platform, fitting an arrow into his bow. An arrow—that’s what flew past my head. He has all the resources of the Tri-Realms at his disposal, and he’s shooting arrows. He’s enjoying this, doesn’t want it to be over quickly.

Adele lets out a yell and chases after her friend. “Take El somewhere safe!” she calls over her shoulder to her white-haired friend.

This can’t be happening. I can’t let it happen. Regardless of whether she’s trying to hurt me with her weird stares and fire-hot touch, I have to save her. Rivet will rip them both to shreds. I don’t doubt their fighting ability, but am just being realistic. Rivet is a pro and a sadist. A deadly combination.

I start after her.

* * *

Adele

Why did he touch my hand, hurt me like that? And why did Cole knock us over? Is the whole world going crazy? Something moves behind Tristan. Glancing past him, I see Rivet let loose an arrow. Cole lets out a roar as it pierces his shoulder, the sharp tip exiting through his back. Blood spatters from the wound. His entire body torques hard to the left, forcing his head around toward me.

Those eyes. Dark, serious, strong. I know what he’s going to do.

Despite the excruciating pain he must be in, Cole turns and charges Rivet. This is it. All his pent-up emotions: first and foremost, sadness; then anger; misery, loneliness, and desperation follow; all sprinkled with a lust for revenge, hidden well by sarcasm and joviality in stressful situations.

It’s suicide—I have to stop him.

I push away from Tristan and race after Cole. Rivet’s next arrow zips past us, narrowly missing Cole’s legs, my stomach, and Tristan’s sprawled-out form.

I brush past Tristan’s friend, whose mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water. He looks shocked by the whole situation, unable to cope with what’s happening. I’m probably in shock, too, but I don’t have time to think about it.

So I won’t slip, I avoid stepping directly on the trail of blood that Cole leaves in his wake. Cole’s faster than me, reaching Rivet twenty feet ahead. Lifting his bow, Rivet tries to get off another shot, but Cole plows into him, sending the arrow twanging end over end into the air. The bow flies out of Rivet’s hands and clatters harmlessly to the stone.

On top of Rivet, Cole is in a rage, pummeling him with iron fists. Five other men charge out of the thinning smoke, aiming to help their leader. I’m ten feet away when I hear Rivet yell, “Get the girl!” in between taking punches from Cole.

His men stop just short of him, hesitate, and then follow his order, rushing past him and toward me. I’m running so hard it’s difficult to stop, but I manage to plant one of my feet, only skidding slightly on the stone before stopping.

They’re already right on top of me. The first one has a sword and a gun in his belt, but leaves both hanging, probably in the mood for some hand-to-hand fun against a helpless girl.

Not so helpless.

I duck under his haymaker punch, kneeing him in the groin and then cracking him in the back of the head with my elbow as he flies past. He crumples to the ground. Seeing what I did to the first guy, the other four decide against the idea of fighting fair, and whip out their swords. Still no guns. Are they trying to take us alive?

They’re too close for me to run. I have to dodge their swords and somehow manage to win. I have to do it for Elsey, for my father in Camp Blood and Stone. For my mother wherever she is. For myself, too.

One of the guys swipes at my arm and I dance away. He wasn’t really going for me, though. It was a fake, a feint, a trick maneuver to get me moving in the direction he really wants. A highly trained swordfighter’s move. Mid-swing, he reverses his blade and sends it slicing in the opposite direction, right into where I’m moving. There’s no way he can miss.

I close my eyes.

* * *

Tristan

I’m impressed by the big guy. He’s manhandling Rivet like a rock cutting machine on a boulder. Then the other guys show up and go straight for Adele. I sprint so hard that I don’t really see how she takes the first guy down, but it looks quick…and impressive. The others pull out their swords.

Adrenaline is a weird thing. I’ve heard of miners who are able to lift massive boulders off of their friends who’ve been trapped by a cave-in. Boulders they have no business lifting and which, after the fact, they can’t budge even an inch. Well, the adrenaline makes me run faster than I’ve ever run before. There are a few steps where I swear I don’t feel my feet touch the ground, as if I’m running on air alone.

One of the guys fakes a move and then attacks in the other direction. It’s a professional move, but he’s so focused on her that he doesn’t see me coming. Clang! I barely get my sword in front of the stroke before it cuts Adele in half.

I shove her out of the way and jam my sword into my surprised opponent, whose eyes roll back into his head before he topples to the ground. The other three swing at me simultaneously, two getting in each other’s way and missing completely. I parry the third’s stroke and slip my sword between two of his ribs, thrusting upwards for good measure. As he falls, blood bubbles from his lips.

The other two improve their communication in a hurry, circling to opposite sides of me and closing in. One goes for my head while the other aims for my legs. I hop over one sword while blocking the headshot with my blade. Using my off hand, I backhand the guy that tried to cut off my legs, stunning him and knocking him backwards.

The guy that wants my head on a platter continues taking aggressive strokes at my neck, but I block them all, and manage to slash his hand, causing him to drop his sword. He throws his hands up in a request for mercy, but I’m not in the mood so I stab him in the heart.

Searing pain rips through my body as the final guy slashes me across the back. A cheap shot but this is a fight for life or death. I’m rooting for both life and death. Life for me; death for Rivet’s guys.

I spin around and block his next attack—a jab at my midsection. My back is on fire and starting to spasm, making it hard to hold myself up. I need to end the fight or I’m toast. I swing desperately for the guy’s head, but I’m not as fast as before, my energy waning as the adrenaline burst expires.

He easily ducks my attempt and slashes at my leg, splitting my thigh open and forcing me to the ground. He looms over me, his sword black and ominous under the night sky. Raising the hilt above his head, he prepares to thrust the point through my chest.

Goodbye, Adele, I think, I hope my death isn’t what you wanted all along.

* * *

Adele

My death is painless. For that I’m thankful. The sword makes a weird clanging sound when it contacts my body, like I’m made of metal. Weird. I feel myself being shoved back, tripping, falling to the ground.

I feel fine.

I open my eyes, wanting to see what really happens when you die.

I hear the shriek of metal on metal so I turn my head to see what’s happening. Tristan! I’m not dead. He saved me and is battling my attackers, cutting them down, defeating them one by one. I watch in awe until there’s only one left, who takes a cheap shot at Tristan’s back. It looks bad, but Tristan reacts well, getting back in the fight.

Then suddenly he’s down, on the verge of death, a fish about to be shot in a barrel. “No!” I manage to scream.

Out of nowhere his friend appears, holding a sword in front of himself awkwardly, like a jouster with a long spear. Although the maneuver appears amateurish, it gets the job done. His sword pierces the guy through the back, causing him to drop his sword, which is pointed tip down, right over Tristan’s fallen body.

The sword falls like a guillotine. At the last second Tristan roars and rolls sharply to the side, the sword thudding dully on the stone. His friend kneels beside him, his face pale, despite his naturally brownish skin.

I scramble to my feet and head for Tristan, but stop when I see movement out of the corner of my eye.

Amidst my own battle, I forgot about Cole, who was winning against Rivet when I last saw him. I don’t know what happened since then, but the tables have turned, and Cole is on his back, getting smacked around by Rivet pretty badly. With a roar, Cole pushes Rivet off of him and staggers to his feet. Rivet snaps to a standing position with a karate move, and launches himself fearlessly at Cole, whose nose is bleeding profusely over his lips.

Cole hits him in midair, but Rivet’s forward motion is too powerful, knocking him to the ground.

I want to help—have to help; to freaking do something, anything—but I’m frozen in place, shocked by what’s happening.

In one swift motion, Rivet swings around Cole’s back, clamps his arms around his head, and jerks it violently to the side.

I’ll never forget the image, never forget the crunch of breaking bones. Precious, life-giving bones.

“Oh God, please no,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. Not him. Please not him. Take me. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s had enough. Oh, Cole. Not Cole. Beautiful Cole. Please come back.

I hear a wailing, an eerie, awful pealing, that sounds more animal than human. I realize it’s me. The sound is coming from my throat, unrequested, but appropriate.

I know I’ll never get over this moment, will never cope with the loss I’m feeling, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do something about it. For him. For Cole.

No plan, tears streaming down my cheeks, I stride toward Rivet, whose bloodied face is filled with satisfaction, his eyes gleaming, his lips twisted into a deranged smile. With both arms outstretched, he flicks his fingers back to himself, as if to say C’mon! It’s unnecessary. I’m coming.

He could use one of the weapons hanging from his belt: his sword, his gun, his razor-sharp dagger. But that isn’t Rivet. He lives for the challenge. He stands with his fists clenched, snarling as I approach.

The few times I’ve fought before, I’ve used fast, powerful strikes, ending the fight as quickly as possible. This time I try the same tactic.

I aim a kick at Rivet’s groin, but he dodges it with unexpected speed, catching my leg in midair and swinging a kick of his own toward my head. I try to duck, but it’s difficult with him holding my leg. Adjusting the arc of his attack in mid-kick, Rivet’s foot slams into my ear. Fierce pain shoots through my skull as Rivet releases my leg and lets me tumble to the ground. My head is ringing and I’m seeing stars.

I look up, and between the flashes of light that disturb my vision, I see Rivet standing over me.

Now he has his knife out.

* * *

Tristan

My attacker is a strange creature, growing a sword from his stomach. At least that’s what my mixed up mind thinks. That is, until I see the spot of blood widening around the blade. He drops his sword.

It’s headed straight for my head—my eye, to be more specific—but I’m so shocked I just watch it fall. In my distorted mind it looks beautiful, like a falling star, sprinkling magical stardust on everything in its path. Subconsciously, I know it’s a deadly sword, and the stardust is just the reflection of distant lights on the broad side of its steely blade.

Awe battles reason.

At the last second, reason makes a surge and I spin away, narrowly avoiding being impaled by the star, which, of course, is really a sword.

A rough hand pushes my attacker to the side and he falls away. A face appears. My friend—my beautiful friend. Although he looks as white as a ghost, Roc is grinning.

“You look injured,” he says, kneeling down and inspecting the gash on my leg.

“A minor wound. Not deep,” I say. “Where is she?”

Roc cranes his neck and then moves aside, points at a fleeing figure, moving quickly away from us. Adele, her long, black hair billowing behind her, runs like the hounds of Hell pursue her. With my eyes, I follow her path to its likely destination and see Rivet watching Adele charge right at him, goading her with his hands, standing overtop a fallen figure. The big, dark guy. Adele’s friend. Oh no.

Based on the crumpled body, the sneer on Rivet’s face, and Adele’s mad dash toward Rivet, I suspect her friend is dead. She isn’t running away from Hell, she’s streaking toward it, without regard for her own life.

I hope her friend isn’t dead, but if he is, I certainly don’t want to add Adele to the list of casualties piling up. Ignoring the intense pain that courses through my leg and back, I push to my feet and chase after her, limping badly.

Adele is like a raging beast, attacking Rivet immediately with a kick similar to the one she used to knock me down. He’s more ready for it than I was and easily catches her leg and punishes her with a vicious kick to the head. Dread fills my heart as I see Rivet remove a knife from his belt.

I swat away the dread like a pesky mosquito. Nothing can stop me. No amount of pain, no distance, no obstacle can prevent me from getting to her, killing Rivet, saving her.

Or so I think.

My brother appears from the side, seemingly arriving out of thin air, traveling through some crack between dimensions. He’s flanked by a dozen men. There isn’t time to ask questions. The whys and whos and whats can come later. I lower my head and charge between two of the men, but they’re big and strong. It’s like hitting a stone block. My feet keep moving, churning, trying to push them out of my way. I’m screaming something—I have no idea what—but they won’t move, won’t relinquish their grip.

One of the guys twists around behind me and locks my arms behind my back.

Adele is already dead. Too much time has passed since Rivet pulled out the blade.

It’s over, all over. All is lost. My mother. Adele. Roc will be imprisoned—maybe worse. My life is over.

Killen’s in front of me, saying something. I can’t hear, don’t care to hear. Nothing he can say will matter to me. All of our childish kicks under the table, our childhood fights, were nothing compared to this. He’s no longer my brother in any sense of the word, blood included.

Adele is already dead.

I lunge forward and head-butt his moving lips.

He goes down hard, but is on his feet in seconds, kicking me in the ribs, punching me in the face, spitting and snarling at me. Screaming at me. I still can’t hear him and don’t react to his physical abuse, which makes him even angrier. There’s no physical pain that can eclipse the emotional anguish I feel. The only antidote to how I’m feeling is death. I hope Killen will finish me off.

Although I’m sure Killen wants to kill me, he doesn’t. But only because he fears my father more than anyone. Bringing home a dead brother won’t sit well with my father, not because he values my life, but because of what I know. He needs to know who, if anyone, I’ve told his secrets to. I could’ve told half the Moon Realm by now. Yeah, me dying will create far too much damage control, which is a headache the president won’t want.

Eventually he stops beating me. Through my bloody, swollen eyes, I see them drag Roc forward. He’s badly beaten, too. They sit us next to each other, back to back so that we stay up.

My hearing finally returns in a blast of noise. Bombs are still thundering around the subchapter. Roc is groaning. My brother is speaking. “Why, my dear brother, were you following this filthy traitor all over the Moon Realm? Answer me, or she dies.”

Huh? My head is throbbing so badly and my mind is so muddled that I don’t really understand what’s happening. My brother is asking me about Adele, I think, but he’s threatening me with her life, which is meaningless. He can’t take something away that’s already gone. “Already dead,” I manage to whisper.

“No, brother—not dead. You can add Rivet’s murder to her list of offenses.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Adele

I’m not going to die until Rivet does. If we both die, that will still be a victory. A way for me to honor Cole.

Using my legs like scissors, I clamp them around one of Rivet’s legs and roll, forcing his knee to buckle to the side. He lets out a cry of pain as his cartilage twists. I move faster than I’ve ever moved, kicking to my feet in one swift motion, a move my dad showed me countless times, but which I’d never been able to master.

Rivet’s knife falls out of his hand and to the side. I scoop it up and attack, plunging the blade deep into his chest before he has a chance to react. His eyes widen and his lips let out a strange groan, a ghoulish gurgle usually reserved for the damned. Which he is. Or is about to be. Blood trickles from his lips and his life ebbs away. Justice is served.

I’d hoped my revenge would lessen the pain of the loss, but it doesn’t. Now that Rivet is dead, the pain resurfaces, flowing out of my eyes in rivers of tears. My breaths shorten and I find myself gasping and sobbing. The urge to wrench the knife from Rivet’s chest and stab it into my own is so strong I see my hands clench around the hilt.

An image of my sister fills my mind. Then my father. My mother. Tawni, my only friend. Tristan. Tristan is last, his very presence so full of questions.

At the moment my grip loosens on the knife, strong hands pull me up and away from Rivet. I don’t know what is happening, but am powerless to stop it. On both sides of me are gargantuans, guys so big they could’ve only been manufactured by a steroidal experiment. They drag me to a cluster of similar-sized giants.

As they pull me into the circle of bodies, I gasp when I see who’s in the center. First I see Tristan’s friend, the scared one, the hero. He’s beaten to a pulp, his face puffy and red. Next to him is Tristan, equally battered.

A young boy, no older than fifteen, is talking to Tristan. “…answer me or she dies,” he says.

I hear Tristan mumble, “Already dead,” through bloodied teeth and swollen lips.

“No, brother—not dead. You can add Rivet’s murder to her list of offenses.”

They dump me in front of him. Although his eyes are too puffy to widen, I see a spark of recognition flash across the blue orbs. He really believed I was dead. He must’ve seen Rivet hovering over me with the knife, just before he was captured by these goons. He didn’t see me kill him.

The teenager called him brother. Then that must mean… I pry my eyes from Tristan to take another look at the brat. From the different angle I can see the family resemblance immediately. To Tristan; to the president. Tristan’s brother—his name is Killen, I remember. Clearly not the same type of guy as Tristan. Or at least I hope they’re different. Very different. Opposites would be good.

The fierce sound of bombs detonating resonates all around us. It’s a full-scale attack on the city.

Tristan is still staring at me, almost smiling—if that’s possible in his current state.

“ANSWER MY QUESTION!” Killen roars, kicking Tristan in the stomach with the heel of his boot.

Tristan grunts, drops his head to his knees, spits out a chunk of blood. Lifts his head and speaks through gritted teeth: “I’ll tell you everything once Adele is safe.”

Even in his condition, the way he says it sends pulses along my skin. He’s trying to save me again. The Why? question again. Does he want to hurt me or help me? He needs to make up his mind.

The bomb explodes so close that the shrapnel should rip us apart. Only it doesn’t because of the wall of burly Sun Dwellers ringing us.

They take the worst of it.

The men who aren’t killed by the sharp blades of metal spinning in every direction are knocked off their feet by the shockwave that follows. I am, too, getting blasted into Tristan, landing on him hard, kneeing him in the chest and elbowing him in the head. I feel so bad when I see the look of pain flash across his face.

But there isn’t time for sympathy. We might only have one chance to get away. I start to pull him to his feet, when suddenly another set of arms is helping me.

“Tawni!” I practically shriek when I see my friend next to me. “Where’s—” I start to say.

“Elsey’s safe. We have to move.”

Tawni helps me get Tristan to his feet, and I’m about to rope one of his arms around my shoulders when I hear a shout. “You’re not going anywhere!” Killen roars, striding toward me. He probably thinks I’m just a normal, weak girl.

I forearm him in the face and use a sweep kick to trip him up. Still full of rage because of everything that’s happened, I add a couple of kicks to the skull for good measure and to ensure he doesn’t come after us.

I turn my attention back to Tristan, who’s swaying and looks like he might collapse, or vomit, or both, at any second. Tawni is helping Tristan’s friend get to his feet.

The guards that weren’t killed by the bomb are pushing to their knees, trying to regain their feet. I have the urge to pick up one of their dropped weapons, blast them to pieces.

I take a deep breath and the urge passes. I settle on kicking each of them in the ribs so they collapse back on their stomachs.

We hobble away in tandem, just a couple of four-legged, four-armed, two-headed beasts. Me and Tristan. Tawni and Tristan’s friend. As Tawni leads, I remember. “What about Cole?” I say, my eyes welling up once more. I choke, trying to get the words out. “I mean—his body.”

“Adele, we can’t,” Tawni says, her eyes full of compassion. Unlike me, she isn’t crying, isn’t emotional. I don’t understand how she can be so strong when her best friend has been brutally murdered right in front of us.

“But how are you—”

“I’m not okay, Adele. Not even close. I just can’t think about it right now. Please.”

I understand. Somehow she’s blocking out the pain, the anguish, everything. I wish I could do the same.

We get to the stairs and descend from the train platform. Thick, chemically smoke stings my eyes and the smell of fire burns my nose. The station is on the edge of the city, so we’re able to slip down a deserted street and get lost in the maze of intersections. Well, I’m lost. Tawni seems to know exactly where we’re going.

Thankfully, it’s a short trip, because Tristan and his friend are moving painfully slow and getting slower by the minute. We reach a nondescript building with a black door. Bodies are strewn on the street outside. The stone road is all torn up in chunks.

Tawni stops.

“What is this place?” I ask, eyeing the bodies, my stomach threatening to heave.

Tawni shrugs. “Don’t know. The door was wide open. No one was inside. I think…” She doesn’t have to say the rest. They’re all dead. They must’ve been outside when the bombing started, got caught with nothing to protect them. Why are the Star Dwellers doing this?

She helps Tristan’s friend limp up to the door, and knocks firmly three times. A second later the door opens.

“Adele!” Elsey wails, seeing my disheveled appearance and bruised skull. It probably doesn’t help that I’m covered in blood from the cuts on Tristan’s head, which is slumped on my shoulder. I’m a mess.

“I’m fine, El, but these guys need medical attention.”

“I found supplies,” Elsey says, holding the door and letting us pass. When we’re all in, she says, “There’s a basement. We should be safe from the bombing there. Follow me.”

We follow my stalwart sister down a hall to a landing, where crumbling steps lead downwards. She lights a thick candle, which is good, because otherwise we’ll surely break our necks on the crooked, uneven staircase.

The room at the bottom is like a tomb, surrounded by heavy stone block walls. Another candle sits in the corner, shedding soft yellow light on the room.

I’m not sure how she did it all so fast, but Elsey has managed to prepare for our arrival. She has almost everything we need: towels, a bowl of water, some kind of paint-on antiseptic in a black jar, long, thick bandages, crispy wafers for eating, more jugs of water. She’s even managed to find a couple of pillows and two thin mattresses to make things more comfortable for the wounded.

I help Tristan lie on his back and Tawni does the same for his friend. They both groan as they settle in. I know nothing about first aid, but Tawni seems to have it covered.

Inspecting their wounds, she says, “You’re going to be just fine.”

She begins working with what Elsey has provided, wetting a couple of towels and handing one to me. I try to mimic her gentle cleaning motions. Tristan’s friend almost seems soothed by the wet towel, but when I touch Tristan he stiffens. My arm stiffens, too, as pressure builds in my head. It’s different now, though, less intense, as if my body is adjusting to whatever force Tristan is using against me.

I go about cleaning his face first. He has a deep cut above his right eye, which has bled all down his face. Although I’m cleaning all around his eyes, he keeps them open, watching me. His gaze is electric, powerful, and although I try to focus on what I’m doing, my gaze keeps flitting back to his royal blue eyes. Each time they do, I feel more and more drawn to him. It’s the weirdest thing: although neither of us says a word, it feels like we’re getting to know each other, getting comfortable together.

Every time I touch him, even through the wet cloth, bursts and zings of pain shoot up my spine.

The swelling in his face is getting worse, his cheeks puffy, his eyes half-closed. Nothing I can do about that. Time will have to heal his wounds.

I finish with his face and move on to his leg. I’m not sure how to go about it. He’s wearing filthy black pants that look like they’ve been through a war. There’s a long slice in the fabric from his upper thigh to his knee. Between the shredded flaps of cloth I can see a wicked red gash. If I clean the wound through the hole in his pants, it will be too hard to bandage it. There’s really no choice. My face warms as I feel Tristan watching me examine him. I can sense that he’s reading my mind, coming to the same conclusion as me.

I don’t say anything, continuing to “get to know him” without words. I tug at his pants, but they won’t budge because he’s lying on them. Kindly, he lifts his hips, grimacing slightly, and I’m able to pull them off. Thankfully, his dark tunic is reasonably long, covering his undergarments. His legs are long and strong—sinewy muscles run down them. I’m no expert, but I’d say he has really good legs.

Ignoring the flush I feel in my cheeks, and hoping Tristan can’t see it in the dim lighting, I focus on cleaning out the wound. Fresh red blood wells from his skin as I wipe away the dark blood that has congealed on the surface, but I manage to stop the bleeding by applying pressure for a few minutes.

“I’ll do your back after we bandage everything on the front,” I say.

He dips his head in a slight nod, still staring at me. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Tawni is already finished with Tristan’s friend, whose face is as bad as Tristan’s, but who doesn’t have the added leg and back wounds. She shows me how to apply the antiseptic and helps me bandage his leg. I might’ve felt somewhat jealous when she touches him, but her movements are so professional that it doesn’t bother me at all.

Time for more embarrassment.

“Sit up,” Tawni says, putting an arm behind Tristan’s back. I follow suit, helping to push him forward from the other side. “Arms over your head.”

Obediently, Tristan raises both arms. Robotically, she pulls his shirt off.

I do everything in my power to maintain an indifferent expression when I see his body. Inside I’m thinking wowowowow! His chest and shoulders are sculpted from years of training, his stomach flat and hard—his back looks as if it’s been chiseled from stone, but is mottled with scars—from training I guess. A vicious slash runs diagonally across it, from his right shoulder to his left hip. It’s deeper than the cut on his leg, but not bleeding as much.

He flips over onto his stomach with a grunt, and we get to work cleaning the wound. After applying a generous coating of antiseptic, we bandage his skin, wrapping the cloth around his entire chest to provide support as it heals.

I notice a thumb-size, crescent scar toward the top of his back, directly on his spine. It looks different than the others, more fresh, more interesting. I want to ask how he got it, but my mouth won’t open.

Finished, Tawni says, “You’ll need to change these every couple of days.”

Finally, Tristan’s friend speaks. “Oh, I don’t think he’ll mind that at all,” he says with a wink. Or at least I think it’s a wink—it’s hard to tell on his battered face.

“Shut it, Roc!” Tristan hisses. Beneath the purple and black of his deeply bruised face, I think I detect a hint of pink added to the palette of colors. I wonder what the son of the president has to be embarrassed about. Not much, I expect.

“Roc—is that your name?” Tawni asks.

“It’s what my mother called me,” Tristan’s friend replies. “I’m Tristan’s best friend, I mean, servant, I mean, only friend.” Roc half-laughs and then cringes from the pain.

“Thank you for your input, Roc,” Tristan says.

“My pleasure, your majesty.”

I find their banter enjoyable, especially after the events of the day being so dark and heavy. It’s a welcome break from it all. But it can’t last.

“Where’s Cole?” Elsey says suddenly.

Everything flashes back into my mind. Rivet’s snarl; the violent way in which he broke Cole’s neck; the sickening crunch of bones; leaving our friend’s body out there, not giving him the respectful burial he deserves. Tears well up again. I’m really getting tired of all the crying.

My reaction is nothing compared to Tawni’s, though. She bursts into tears, throws herself on the floor, weeps into her hands, her body shuddering and shaking. I want to cry, too, to let it all out—or whatever is left of it—one more time. But I know I have to be strong for my friend, like she was for me earlier. It’s her turn to grieve.

I crawl over to her side, sit by her, rub her back tenderly, stroke my hand through her hair. “Shhh. It’ll be okay, Tawni. He’s in a better place now—with his family again.” I don’t know why I say it—I’m not even sure I believe it—but I guess I want to believe it. It’s what Cole deserves: relief from all his subearthly pain.

I glance at Elsey, whose face is stricken, her mouth contorted and her eyes sharp, and say, “El, I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it.”

She looks like she wants to cry but she doesn’t, not so much as a single tear. Even growing up, she was never much of a crier. If she got hurt or disappointed she’d always just go silent, preferring to keep her emotions on the inside. That’s what she does now, shifting to the corner, hugging her knees, staring into empty space.

“Thank you for your help, and I’m so sorry about your friend,” Tristan says. “If we hadn’t chased after you, maybe he would have survived. I feel responsible.”

“No!” I say fiercely. Tristan isn’t going to take the blame for this. Rivet’s the one to blame, and whoever sent him after us—the president, or his advisors, or whoever. “It wasn’t your fault. You tried to help us.”

“We just got in the way,” Tristan says softly, lowering his head.

I shake my head. “This is our life,” I say. “As Moon Dwellers it doesn’t seem to matter who does what, it always ends in tragedy.” Even I am surprised by my words. They sound so defeatist. Perhaps because I feel defeated.

“Maybe we can change things,” Roc says.

“How?” I say blankly. Change is so far from my mind I can barely even focus on it; I’m just trying to survive.

Tristan says, “Use my reach. I might not act like my father, but I’m well known across the Tri-Realms. If I can convince others to join the cause, maybe we can change things.”

“The cause?” I say. “What cause? All I see are Star Dwellers blowing up Moon Dwellers, Moon Dwellers acting like sheep, Sun Dwellers ruling over all. There is no cause.” I am starting to annoy even myself with my pessimism. Snap out of it! I scream in my head.

“We are the cause,” Tristan says. “That is, if we want to be.”

“We?” I say. My mind is racing. My sister is in a faraway place, Tawni is a mess, and I’m talking to two guys, who’ve been beaten to a pulp, about a revolution. This is not at all how I expected things to go with Tristan. I haven’t even had a chance to ask him about why I’ve got a headache again—a headache caused by him.

“Well, I don’t know, we haven’t really thought much about it yet,” Tristan says.

Great, I think. I’m joining an ill-planned revolution now.

“Look, guys, I appreciate what you want to do, but I’m just trying to find my parents.”

“In Camp Blood and Stone?” Tristan asks.

I freeze. “Yes, how do you know that?”

“I know a lot of things. You know, because I’m the president’s son and all.”

“Well, we’re going to be leaving soon to rescue my dad, so…”

“We’re coming with you,” Tristan says.

Coming with me? Why would he do that? Why would he even offer? Here he is talking about revolutions and changing the world, and he’s willing to risk his life to help a random Moon Dweller, who happens to be an escaped convict, rescue her father from a secure prison where he’s being held on charges of treason? I just don’t understand.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because…because…”

“Because he’s been chasing you all over the Moon Realm—of course he’s gonna do it!” Roc exclaims.

“Chasing me? But…but…” I’m about to ask why, but I already know the answer. I’ve known it the whole time, but chose to ignore it.

He feels pain when he’s near me, too.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tristan

Things get pretty awkward after that. No one really speaks, and I barely make eye contact with anyone. Adele’s friend, Tawni, eventually stops crying and we all agree that we need to sleep. Adele and her sister go and find a few more thin pads to sleep on.

My leg and back are throbbing, but their pain is nothing compared to the endless thudding in my head. I can’t help wondering whether it’s from the beating my brother’s goons gave me, or from being near Adele.

When Adele and Elsey return with the sleeping pads, her embarrassment is clear and red on her face. There isn’t much space to stretch out, so we’ll have to cram tightly together.

Does she want to sleep next to me? I hope so. Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not thinking about trying anything with her—I’m not that kind of guy, plus the room is like a sardine can and I’m in no condition to do more than lie in one place. Consider it more of an experiment. I want to see if my body can handle being near her for an extended period of time.

Tawni seems to know it, too, which only seems to redden Adele’s face further, as Tawni lays her mat near the edge of the room, against the wall. Roc seems to sense the unspoken plan, too, pulling his mattress to the opposing wall, leaving plenty of space. The bastard smirks the whole time he’s doing it.

That leaves Adele, me, and Elsey. Adele could position Elsey in the middle, between Adele and I.

She doesn’t.

“Here you go, El,” she says, helping her sister lay out her pad next to Tawni. She places hers next to mine, while I fill the gap between Roc and her. She leaves the candle to burn itself out.

She sits down slowly and cautiously, as if taking significant care not to accidentally brush past me. She stretches out stiffly, lowering her knees and head to the floor in jerky motions. I lie like a dead person, staring at the ceiling. I’m acutely aware when Adele sprawls out next to me, mere inches from my body. The pain builds in my head and I rub at my temples absently.

Everyone else seems to fall asleep immediately, exhausted from one of the longest days of our lives. I can hear heavy breathing on all sides. I can’t sleep, though. Not with her so close to me. I can’t manage to deepen my breaths, or relax my body, or even close my eyes: all the standard requirements for sleep. The throbbing is still too intense for sleep. So I just lie as still as a stone, my eyes glued to the ceiling, which is getting dimmer by the minute as the candle’s wax melts away.

After an hour I’m getting worried I’ll be up the whole night. A lot of good that will do me when my body’s trying to recover so we can break Adele’s father out of jail. So I try to sleep, try to forget who’s sleeping next to me, try to blink away the pain in my skull. Close my eyes. The headache starts to subside, fading into the night. It’s replaced by a buzzing in my scalp, not painful, but not pleasing either. Just there. Something tingles in my spine. Not the icy stabs from before, but a constant shiver. Again, not bad, not good. Just present.

My eyes snap open when I feel something touch my hand, shooting pins and needles up my arm. I jerk my head to the right and stare through the deepening gloom at my hand, which is resting lightly on my hip. I hold my breath when I see what touched it.

Adele’s hand.

Her hand is resting gently on top of mine, her fingers sitting in the cracks between my fingers. It hurts, but like with my head and back, the longer we touch, the more the pain lessens. It’s like our nearness is the antidote to our nearness. Does that make any sense?

I glance over at her. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slow and even. She appears to be sleeping. Is she faking it? Or did she simply move in her sleep, her hand randomly slipping onto mine, a mere fluke of nature?

I feel her fingers push their way between mine, curling inside so they’re touching my palm. My heart leaps to the ceiling and tries to rip out of my chest. It settles back into place and demonstrates its enthusiasm by beating rapidly, sending shivers through my nervous system.

She’s awake, I can sense it. It’s no mistake that her hand found mine. She’s doing exactly what I wanted to do. Experiment.

My instinct is confirmed when I feel her thumb, the only finger not nestled under my palm, start to stroke the top of my hand. Gently sliding back and forth across it, sometimes making circles. Each motion sends shards, then slivers, then pinpricks of pain into my hand. Lessening pain. After a few minutes it starts to feel okay, then kind of good.

It’s weird how good it feels. It’s such a simple thing, the mere sliding of a finger across skin, but it sends tingles through my whole body. I close my eyes, like Adele, and begin slowly running my own fingers across hers. We carry on like that for a long time, at least an hour—maybe hours, I’m not sure; I lose track of time.

Is she expressing her feelings for me, her attraction? Or is she just experimenting, like me? I’m lying to myself again. As much as I want to believe we’re just experimenting with the pain, I know that’s not true. I’m enjoying this.

This is not what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to ask her questions and have her answer them. And then once I was satisfied, I would leave, maybe even go back to the Sun Realm, where I actually feel comfortable. Story over.

Why did I shoot my mouth off earlier, start talking about “a cause” and insinuating I could do anything to help the people of the Lower Realms? Can I really just walk away now? Is that really what I want? Already my brother will be telling my father what happened, what I did. There’s no going back. I’ll be shunned, maybe even thrown in prison, even if only a minimum security one in the Sun Realm, where I could live out the rest of my days in luxurious conditions.

But what if my father forgave me, said I was welcome back? Would that change anything?

I blink in the dark, try to answer at least one of the dozens of questions spinning through my mind.

I can’t answer any of them.

Eventually I fall asleep, still holding hands with Adele.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Adele

I wake up when Tawni says, “Hey, sleepyhead.”

I yawn and rub my eyes, opening them to look at my friend. She looks like her normal, perky self—not the devastated girl from the day before. I wish I could cope with things the way she can.

That’s when I remember the position I was in when I fell asleep: holding hands with Tristan. I sneak a glance down at my hand. It’s alone—safe. Whew, I think. It isn’t like I’m embarrassed that Tristan seems to have feelings for me—ecstatic would be a better word—but I’m not keen to have everyone know about it just yet. Am I getting ahead of myself? Did he really hold my hand because he wanted to or because he felt he had to?

I turn my head to see what Tristan looks like when he’s sleeping, but he isn’t there. Roc is gone, too.

“Gone with Elsey to do some recon,” Tawni says, guessing my question.

“Elsey?” I say, suddenly worried.

“It’ll be okay,” Tawni says. “They promised to be very careful and look after her.”

I nod, still worried.

I hear quick feet on the steps and then Elsey bounds through the doorway, practically crashing into me. “The bombing finally stopped!” she says excitedly. “We can go rescue Father.” Her smile is a mile wide. I’m amazed at her ability to bounce back from the horrific events of the previous day.

Slower steps thud down the stairs. I raise my head in anticipation of seeing him, hoping it won’t be awkward after our night together.

Roc’s head pops out. He’s wearing a wide smile, too, grinning like a banshee through the cover of his bruised face. I’m not sure what everyone’s been smoking, but I want some—clearly it’s good stuff.

Tristan follows behind him and my breath catches in my lungs. Despite his injuries—although the swelling has lessened, his face is varying shades of black, blue, and purple—he’s a sight, right out of the magazines. My vision blurs as a headache forms. Not a bad one though. They’re getting better each time I see him.

Really, really, freaking weird.

He looks at Elsey. “Did you tell them?”

Elsey grins at him. “Mission complete,” she says, standing at attention, her hand perpendicular to her forehead in a rigid salute. “Ready for your next order.”

“At ease, soldier,” Tristan says, laughing. “She really likes this role-playing stuff,” he says, explaining to me.

“She always has,” I say, “but she’s no soldier and you’re not a general.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m just kidding—lighten up,” I say, grinning.

“Oh, sorry,” he says again.

“And enough of the apologies,” I say. I’m trying to act normal, but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding. I’m also trying to avoid making direct eye contact with him, for fear of worse pain coming back.

“Fair enough,” he says. “If I’m not the general, then who is?”

“I nominate myself,” Roc says.

“I second it,” Elsey says.

“Hey, don’t I get any votes?” I say.

“Nah, Tristan and Roc are really fun,” Elsey says.

“And I’m not?”

“Not as fun as them,” she says, grinning.

“Thanks a lot!” I exclaim, grabbing her and whirling her around.

“As general,” Roc says, “our first order of business is to eat breakfast. Then we’ll head over to the Camp of Death and Skulls and Crossbones and all that.”

“Camp Blood and Stone,” I correct.

“I think that’s what I said,” Roc says, chuckling.

Tawni hands each of us one of the wafers Elsey found the night before. It isn’t a very appetizing breakfast, but it’s better than going hungry. And it’s quick, which I like. I’m anxious to find my dad. He’s done so much for me in my life and now I have the chance to do something for him. I can’t fail him.

I also need the distraction. Although I try to keep up my side of the constant bantering that has begun ever since Tristan and Roc joined us, inside I’m still a wreck. I can’t block my emotions out like the rest of them seem to do. I feel bad that my heart ballooned the night before, when Tristan held my hand, feeling more alive than it has in months. I feel bad because Cole is dead, and yet I’m experimenting with my weird feelings. My heart feels as shriveled as a raisin one minute and then as big as a balloon the next.

We leave our little hideaway without seeing anyone. People are staying indoors after the previous night’s bombing. The smoke has cleared, revealing the extent of the destruction. It’s bad, but not irreparable, if only the Star Dwellers will let us rebuild.

Although the dusty streets are deserted, we walk single file, sticking to the edges of buildings, ready to dive for cover if any Sun Dwellers appear. Or any Star Dwellers. Probably any Moon Dwellers, too. We don’t know who we can trust.

Tristan is just in front of me, which I would know even if my eyes were closed. It’s like an invisible tether connects us now whenever we’re close. Not just the pain, which is still there; duller maybe, but there. The tether has low-voltage electricity surging through it, leaving me tingling. His strides look awkward, ginger, like he’s walking on eggshells, trying not to crack them. Each step is likely sending splinters of pain through his injured leg and back.

We speak in hushed voices.

“Where did your brother come from?” I ask.

“Although I’d like to say he was adopted, I’m pretty sure he came from my mom’s stomach, same as me,” Tristan says, grinning.

I shake my head and grin back. “No, I mean yesterday. How’d he know we were here?”

“I’ve been wondering that, too,” Tristan says, his smile fading. “If I had to guess, I’d say my father sent him as soon as Rivet reported that you were headed here on the train.”

I nod slowly. “But why’d he attack you like that?” I ask.

Tristan glances back and says, “We haven’t been getting along lately.”

That doesn’t really answer my question. “But why—”

“He’s not like me, Adele. He’s different—like my father. Not good.”

“So you mean bad, right?”

“Yeah, bad.”

“Which makes you good then?”

He sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t believe what my father believes, does that make me good? Or maybe I’m not good, because it doesn’t seem like anyone is these days. I’d rather classify myself as not bad.” He turns his head and manages a sideways grin, but I can tell that talking about his family is hard for him.

But I plow ahead anyway. Questions and answers, just like I planned.

“So you’re not like your dad or brother…”

“My father or brother,” he clarifies. It seems the distinction between dad and father is important to him. I wonder if it’s a sign of respect for the president or a lack of closeness with the man who helped create him.

“Okay—father. So if you’re not like them, does that mean you are like your mother?”

“I hope I’m like my mom was,” he says, once more changing my word slightly.

“Was?” I say, hoping I’m not probing too much.

Tristan goes silent for a moment and I worry I’ve offended him. We tiptoe across an empty intersection and duck behind another building. Roc is leading—he said he knows the way.

Finally, Tristan says, “My mom disappeared a while ago.” Although he says it calmly, evenly, I can feel a weight behind his words. The same kind of weight I feel in my own voice when I speak about my parents.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I heard about that on the news.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “It was better that she went. For her. I’ll find her someday,” he adds.

“I’ll help you,” I find myself saying.

He glances back. “I’d like that.”

The tingling in my body, which I’ve started to get used to, increases suddenly, like a surge of electricity, and I find myself giddy with excitement. I have the urge to rush to his side, grab his hand and walk with him. I restrain myself.

“Why is this happening?” It’s a cryptic question, but when he turns and I see his eyes I know he understands what I mean.

“I was hoping you’d know,” he says. He faces forwards once more. “I came after you hoping you’d know. That I’d be able to get answers out of you.”

I could be saying the same thing to him. Crap. Something is happening that’s outside of both our control.

Roc says, “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re approaching the boundary to the camp.”

I look around—all I can see are buildings. For a second I think Roc might’ve gotten confused, but when we turn the next corner, the buildings suddenly disappear and are replaced by a high stone wall. The wall is gray and sheer and would’ve appeared ominous, an impossible barrier between me and my dad, except there’s a gaping hole in it.

Scorch marks are burned along the edges of the breach, the result of a force so powerful it could’ve only been from an incendiary. Three times, I think. Three times we’ve been effectively saved by the Star Dweller bombs. At some point I’m really going to have to write the Star Dweller leaders a letter thanking them.

I chuckle under my breath at my own joke.

“What?” Tristan says.

“Nothing. I was just thinking how strange it is that I’d still be stuck in the Pen if not for the Star Dweller bombs. Or worse, I might be dead. They always seem to explode when and where I need them the most, like a guardian angel is helping me.”

“You think there’s something to it?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. More likely it’s just a coincidence. They seem to be bombing everything,” I say. Despite my nonchalant response, something tells me there is more to it. But it doesn’t make sense—can’t make sense. Why would the Star Dwellers be trying to help me do anything? They don’t even know who I am. They have much bigger problems to deal with now. Like how to win a war.

“I’m wondering where they’re getting all the weapons,” Tristan says.

My eyes jerk to his. We’d discussed the same thing, when the bombing first started. “You agree that it would be hard for them to get their hands on such advanced weaponry?” I ask.

“Yeah. Near impossible. At least, without help.”

My mind is whirling. Someone is helping them. And it would have to be someone from the Sun Realm. Could there really be traitors in the president’s midst?

I shrug off my thoughts and try to focus on our present situation.

We have a way in now, but I’m afraid to take it, afraid that the entire camp is destroyed, the prisoners left to die while the guards evacuated.

“It’ll be okay,” Tristan says, as if reading my mind.

“I know,” I lie.

The first bomb hits just as we’re creeping through the hole. Another day of bombing has begun. If we weren’t so used the sound of distant bombs, we might have mistaken it for something else, a piece of machinery firing up maybe, but by now we can identify the roar of thunder as not a fluke underground storm, but as the mirthful cry of pointless destruction.

Elsey cries out, but I manage to quickly slap a hand over her mouth, silencing her. We huddle together, hoping there isn’t a guard just inside the wall, close enough to hear the noise. Warmth and shivers flow through my skin as my arm brushes against Tristan’s.

He looks at me, his eyes serious. “Wait here,” he says.

I start to object, but he’s already gone, slipping inside the wall and around the corner. I see the hilt of his drawn sword flash before he moves out of sight. He moves remarkably fast considering his wounds. He’s still not moving normally, but his limp has lessened.

Roc must see the concern on my face, because he says, “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. I taught him everything he knows.”

I laugh. It’s high pitched and nervous, but a laugh nonetheless. It helps to calm my nerves.

We hear a quick yell and then a groan, followed by a thud. I’ve had enough of waiting and rush through the hole, expecting violence of some sort.

Instead, there’s only Tristan, grinning, standing over his fallen adversary.

I approach him, feeling my heart beat faster as the distance between us lessens. “Is he…dead?” I ask.

“Just unconscious,” Tristan says. His grin fades and he raises a finger in the air. “We have to hurry.”

I can hear a dull commotion further into the camp. Something’s happening. Something big, by the sound of it. Inside the wall we can see all the way to the main buildings, where the prisoners are probably kept. But the sound arises from further to the left, past a cluster of massive stone blocks stacked in a pyramidal structure.

I don’t know how I know, but I do: my father is here. Admittedly, being this close after not seeing him for so long makes me go a bit crazy. Okay, really crazy. I take off, leaving my friends behind, envisioning a joyous reunion with him, jumping into his arms, holding him to me.

It’s a long run, and my initial burst of speed wanes, forcing me to drop into well-measured, paced strides. Tristan catches up halfway to the pyramids, pulling alongside me, galloping in a strange limp-run, his breathing heavy, but not as heavy as mine. To his credit, he doesn’t try to stop me, to reason with me, like so many other guys would do. He seems to understand that I have to do what I’m about to do.

Whatever that is.

“What’s the plan?” he says as we run together.

Plan? Huh? The word sounds as meaningless to me as a phrase uttered in an ancient language by someone who forms words by clicking their tongue against the roof of their mouth. “I…uh…well…” I stammer. Finally, I say, “Get my dad?” What a plan! I even say it like a question, as if I’m not sure that’s why we’re sprinting across a barren prison camp. Good one, Adele.

Tristan deserves a medal for patience. “So go and kick some butt then?” he says. He tries to grin, but the pain of running with his injuries turns it into a grimace.

“Exactly,” I say. His assured tone gives me strength, and I feel like we have a plan, even though we don’t. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“Never felt better,” he says.

“Liar.”

The pyramids loom closer. They’re a lot bigger now that we’re close to them, rising hundreds of feet into the air. I veer right, heading for the outer edge of the first one in the line of three. Tristan follows, keeping pace and sticking close to my side. As we pass the corner, my eyes widen at the sight before me.

Dozens of other giant, gray pyramids dot the landscape, rising majestically above us.

The commotion we heard from a distance is getting louder and soon we can make out individuals yells. It sounds like a battle.

I continue to steer us in the direction of the sound, but we still can’t see anything except the pyramids, which are staggered in such a way that they block the view in every direction once you’re in their midst.

“We’re close,” Tristan says. “Get ready.”

Ready for what? I have no idea, but I nod anyway. We pass a final pyramid and abruptly our vision opens to a wide open rock slab plain. A half-constructed pyramid stands a ways off. In front of the pyramid: chaos—the source of the noise.

A mob of prisoners are fighting the guards, who are using long whips and Tasers to hold them off. None of them have guns. Clearly the intention is to hurt, not to kill.

But the guards aren’t doing so well. We pull to a stop, and as we watch, one of the guards is bashed over the head by a shirtless guy wielding a rock. A prisoner. His body is covered in scars, some dark and ancient, and others fresh—some even ooze bright red blood.

There are hundreds of prisoners, all of whom are in a similar condition. None of the men wear shirts and they all have various injuries, likely caused by the sting of the guards’ whips. The women wear ratty tank tops and sport similar welts and gashes. But they’ve had enough.

The revolt is ultraviolent and for a few minutes we watch in awe as the prisoners start to gain an advantage. Although the inmates are taking a beating, the guards are dropping fast, being pelted with stones or bludgeoned by bare fists, a result of the overwhelming force that’s gathered to defy them.

The camp name suddenly makes sense. The Stones: the massive stone blocks used to construct the pyramids—they were likely constructed off the backs of the prisoners, a pointless exercise that appears to have no purpose other than to inflict pain. The Blood: the prisoners provide that when abused by the guards.

Now the guards’ blood is mixed with the prisoners.

Our timing is remarkable. That we arrive during such an event is incredible, to say the least. The timing is no mistake: the Star Dwellers’ rebellion has encouraged the prisoners to revolt, too.

“Do you see him?” Tristan asks.

“Who?” I say, watching the brutality with morbid curiosity.

“I don’t know, your dad maybe?”

Duh. The whole purpose of our being here. I scan the mob, hoping to see his dark mop of hair and neatly trimmed mustache amongst the prisoners. I don’t think about what it might mean if he’s not amongst the fighters.

I think my eyes sweep past him three or four times before I recognize him. Subconsciously, I know it’s him, because my gaze keeps returning to one spot, but my mind fails to believe what my brain registers. His black hair is long and disheveled, down to his shoulders; his mustache is accompanied by a thick, black beard, covering the better half of his face; his uncovered body, always strong from his work in the mines, glistens with sweat and blood and is as hard as the stones he’s forced to work with.

But there’s no mistaking his eyes. Emerald green and piercing, like mine. Exactly like mine. Looking into them has always been like looking into a mirror for me.

When he happens to turn toward me, searching for a guard to fight, he spots me and our eyes lock. I don’t know if he thinks I’m a mirage, a misfire of one of the thousands of synapses in his brain, but he just stands there staring at me. His shoulders slump as if even seeing a mirage of me is too painful for him to bear.

I wave at him.

His head perks up and his head cocks to the side. I guess maybe he doesn’t think a mirage can wave. Whatever the case, he takes off running to me. I charge toward him, wild with excitement. My legs feel as light as air. I’m giddy, gleefully childlike. A few of the guards see him break away and race after him, one of them snapping a whip at his heels.

Ignoring the crackle of the whip, my dad thunders toward me with reckless abandon. The gap between us disappears. Forty feet. Thirty. Twenty.

Crack! The guard slings the whip with practiced precision and this time it connects, wrapping around my father’s legs and tripping him up. He manages to brace his fall with his arms and skids to a stop ten feet from me, his arms immediately sheening with fresh blood from new scrapes.

We go for the guards. One for me; one for Tristan.

I choose the one with the whip. I’m not sure where this sudden need for revenge comes from, but I can’t seem to control it. First Rivet, because of Cole. Now the whip-carrying guard, because of my father.

The guard pulls the strap back and snaps it at me. I see it coming, ducking so low I’m forced into a roll, clunky and painful on the stone. I emerge from the roll on my feet and still moving at full force. I’m not sure a train could stop me at this point. It’s like I’m possessed by a demon, only observing my crazed self from afar.

When the guard sees the look on my face, his own face flashes fear, cheeks turning white and mouth contorting. I lead with an elbow, spearing him in the mouth with it and likely jarring a few teeth loose. Maintaining my momentum, I follow through with a shoulder to his sternum, flattening him onto his back and trampling overtop his chest.

I screech to a stop and look back. Tristan has the other guard at sword point, but then switches the blade to his left hand and punches the guy hard in the head twice. His head lolls to the side like he’s unconscious.

The guard I battered is groaning and writhing in pain. I don’t think he’s going to be a threat anytime soon, so I leave him and run to my dad, who’s pulling himself to his feet. Despite his aches and pains, he’s smiling, his arms outstretched.

Although it isn’t exactly as I planned in my mind, I jump on him, wrap my arms and legs around him, hugging him harder than I ever have before, not caring that he’s covered in a mixture of dirt and blood. “Dad…oh, Dad,” I murmur into his chest.

“My precious daughter,” he says, rubbing my back.

I hear Tristan say, “Not trying to spoil the reunion here, but we’ve got to go.” Reluctantly, I release my dad and turn to Tristan, who’s watching us with one black eye; the other is trained on the continuing battle between the guards and prisoners. I see what he’s worried about. A few of the guards have broken away from the fray and are gesturing at us wildly.

“C’mon,” I say, grabbing my dad’s hand and pulling him toward the closest pyramid. “I’ll take you to Elsey.”

“El’s here?” my dad says, following me.

“Yeah, I figured I’d pick her up on the way over. You know, right after we broke out of prison.”

“What!?”

“It’s a long story.”

Tristan limp-runs past us. I can tell he’s fighting through the pain.

“Follow me,” he says.

I’m not sure why I do it. I guess because I want to show my dad that I’m tough, that I’ve survived, that I’m the strong girl he raised. In any case, it’s probably just childish. “No, follow me!” I exclaim. I take off, sprinting past Tristan and around the first pyramid.

I glance back and see Tristan half-grinning, half-cringing, trying to catch up. My dad isn’t far behind him, looking lean and fast. Further back still is the group of guards, who have started chasing us. Great. Can’t they just leave us alone? Haven’t we been through enough?

To make it more difficult for the guards to follow us, I weave through the pyramids, cutting a random path toward the open flats that lead to the outer wall. I emerge from between two pyramids and into the open. Adrenaline is rushing through my veins, pushing me to fly, fly! I don’t sprout wings and take off, but I do run pretty fast—so fast that Tristan doesn’t catch me until we’re halfway across the empty space.

I look back to see where my dad is. He’s fallen behind a bit, unable to keep up with our younger legs. Or it might not be age that hinders him. It might be the weight of the abuse he’s been subjected to in the camp, rendering his body tired and weakened. Whatever the case, the guards are gaining on him—five of them, closing in like a net.

“My dad,” I say, pulling to a stop. Tristan stops, too, and we reverse our course. My dad sees us coming and slows up. He isn’t about to let us do all the fighting for him.

He turns just as we reach him. The guards are upon us. Five on three. Tasers and whips again fists and feet and spirit—oh, and Tristan’s sword, too.

A Taser lances out toward my father’s legs, but is blocked by a quick thrust of Tristan’s sword. A whip snaps at my head, but I duck and charge. I’m not full of rage anymore, but I do feel confident. Next to my father I feel invincible. He’s my teacher. The best fighter I’ve ever known. Although I’ve never seen him fight anyone for real, I’ve always believed he’s unbeatable.

I leap at the guard who missed me with the whip, kick him in the head, knock him over. Glance to my right.

My dad clotheslines two of the other guards, his heavy arms catching them in the neck and forcing them to the stone. Flopping on the ground, they gasp for air. Tristan has another one at sword point. Rather than finishing him off, he uses his forearm to send a shiver through the guy’s skull, knocking him senseless.

There’s only one guard on his feet. The new odds: three on one. He runs, dropping his whip and Taser and pride in a heap on the stone.

We run in the other direction. I let Tristan lead this time. I want to keep an eye on my dad. I can’t believe it was that easy—almost too easy.

A barrage of bullets keens past us and, instinctively, I duck and throw my arms over my head, as if mere flesh and bone will stop the hot metal pellets from hurting me. In front, Tristan yells out sharply and stumbles, clutching at his leg, which is slick and red. He’s been hit. The rest of us will be soon. It must not be bad, because Tristan manages to keep running, albeit less gracefully, with us in tow.

We reach the gap in the wall. The air is thick and heavy and smells of war. The bullets have stopped temporarily, presumably as our pursuers reload.

Tawni, Roc, and Elsey are waiting for us. We’ve led the danger right to them.

I look back, expecting a dozen guards armed to the teeth. One guy is running toward us, frantically trying to release an expired clip from his automatic weapon. It’s the guy who ran away before. He had time to get his gun but not the rest of his friends.

“Anyonegotanythingwecanshoot?” I ask in one breath. The guy’s gun will be loaded soon and we’ll be dead.

Tristan, cringing in pain, says, “Roc, did we pack anything other than swords?”

“Sorry, no,” Roc says. “You specifically said no guns.” He glances warily at the guy with the gun. He’s getting closer. The old clip falls away behind him and he pulls a new one from his pocket.

Then I remember: “Your slingshot, El,” I say.

Without hesitation, she extracts it and I reach for it.

“No,” she says. “I can do it.”

My instinct is to grab it from her, to whirl and shoot the guard. To take care of my family and end his pursuit. But there’s no time to argue. “Do it, El. Hurry,” I say.

My sister, who never trained with me and our father before, grasps the slingshot handle firmly. Surely, she’s never shot a human before, but it won’t be any different than a tin can or a rock post or whatever else she’s practiced on. In one swift motion she extends her arm, loads a pellet, and stretches the band back toward her chin. Rotating her torso, she locates our pursuer in the sights.

Despite all his bumbling, he’s finally managed to snap the new clip into his gun, and he’s just bringing the nozzle up to a firing position. El has maybe two seconds to get him before he gets us. Even as I stop breathing, she makes an incremental adjustment to her aim, as if she wants to hit him higher, in the head. A smaller target. No, I think.

The guard stops and aims his gun right at us. One second.

El fires, releasing the band with a dull thwap! To the human eye, the pellet moves as fast as any bullet, disappearing into the empty air as if it never existed at all. The only evidence of my sister’s shot is the groan from the guy as his head snaps back and he crumples to the ground, his gun landing on top of him, having not been fired.

“Yes!” I shout. “Well done.” Elsey’s face is hard and strong, and I couldn’t be prouder of her in that moment.

In a flash, her easy grin is back. Stoic Elsey is a little girl again, running toward my dad. “Oh, Father!” she exclaims, jumping into his arms, not unlike the way I did earlier.

“Are you okay?” Tawni says, directing the question at all of us.

“Fine,” I say quickly. “But Tristan’s been hit.”

“It’s nothing,” he says. “It grazed me—looks worse than it is.” The red blood is swarming over his leg and we’ll have to stop the bleeding, but not here, not now.

“We’ve got to keep moving,” I say.

“The bombs are hitting everywhere,” Tawni says. “They’re very close.”

“We have no choice. We’ll be caught if we stay here.”

My dad puts Elsey down, but she continues to cling to his waist. “Adele’s right,” he says. “Reinforcements will be sent to subdue the prisoners. Believe me, they will. Then they’ll search for us—plenty of guards witnessed our escape.”

“We’ll make it,” Tristan says. “We have to make it.” There’s a strange confidence in his voice. Not cockiness—he doesn’t seem like that kind of guy. Nor is it a statement made by someone who’s gotten everything he ever wanted since the day he was born—although he has. It sounds almost like a prediction. Sort of philosophical; sort of mystical. And the way Tristan glances at Roc—intense, knowing—it’s like there’s something they know, or think they know, that they aren’t telling us. Something important. Something life changing.

When I became a mind reader, I don’t know. I’m probably just imagining things.

My dad pulls away from Elsey’s grip and holds her hand, pulls her toward the exit. “Let’s go,” he says.

We creep through the rubble together. An explosion erupts somewhere nearby, sending dust and chunks of stone into the air. Another bomb hits further down the street, blasting the middle of a tall building. Weakened, the upper half teeters, leans, and then tumbles away, crashing across the road and into the next building, which crumbles under the weight. Beneath the buildings, people run out, frantically trying to escape the world that’s caving in on them.

None of them make it. Not a single one. There are at least ten souls destroyed—five crushed under the weight of the massive hunks of rock falling from above, the other five killed by a second missile landing in the center of their escape route. Like so many others from the last few days, the memory of our horrific flight through the subchapter 26 warzone is being tattooed into my brain.

We flee down a street that hasn’t been hit yet. Bombs are going off all around us. The smell of death is in the air. The smoke chokes my lungs and burns my eyes. Elsey is screaming so much that my dad eventually picks her up and carries her in his strong arms.

We pass through a deserted intersection filled with rubble. My mouth is dry from running and shouting and fighting. My legs are burning. I stumble on a broken stone, feel myself falling. And then a strong arm is there, grabbing me, keeping me on my feet. An electric touch: Tristan. Not grinning anymore. Lips pursed, serious. But also determined. I feel safe with him. He’s badly injured, but still strong.

Roc, who seems to have a good idea of the city layout, leads us to the left, down a side street that’s relatively unscathed. In fact, all the streets in this direction haven’t been bombed.

We soon find out why.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Tristan

Abruptly, Roc ducks into an alley. We follow him, mimicking his movements, flattening ourselves against the wall. I want to ask what we’re doing, but Roc’s finger is on his lips—for some reason, complete silence is important now.

Roc has good hearing, because I don’t hear anything for at least another minute. But then I hear it: the sound of marching feet. Hundreds of them, maybe more. It sounds like a parade. If the thumping feet are the beat of the snare drums, the periodic bomb blasts are the bass drums. The feet are getting closer. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Directly in sync with the beating of my heart.

When the first line of troops passes us I hold my breath. When I realize the soldiers are so focused straight ahead that they aren’t going to see us, I slowly release the air in my lungs.

At least a thousand soldiers march by, each wearing a star patch on their shoulders. Star Dweller troops. Although their sky-blue uniforms are old and frayed, they seem to be professionals, well-organized and confident. And they’re carrying shiny new guns, just another piece of evidence that someone from the Sun Realm is helping them. They look a little ragtag, yes, but deadly. Pissed off to the point of killing anyone who gets in their way.

When the last line of soldiers tramps past us and the drumbeat fades into the distance, we finally relax. Shoulders slump, deep breaths are taken, hearts slow.

“What’s going on?” Adele’s father asks. Other than hearing the bombs and listening to prisoner gossip, he wouldn’t have any idea what’s been happening while he’s been stuck in prison.

“Soon,” Adele says. “Let’s make for the reservoir.”

Once more, Roc leads the way. Although the bombing has finally stopped, I don’t feel safe. At any moment another contingent of rebels could happen upon us. They’ll shoot first, ask questions later.

Despite my fears, we reach the stream safely. Out of the city it’s darker, but much less scary. There won’t be soldiers or bombs here.

“We need to talk,” Adele’s father says.

“I know,” Adele replies. “But first his leg.” She motions to my gunshot wound.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“All over it,” Tawni says, removing a spare tunic from her bag. “You talk while I do this.”

“As quickly as you can, tell me everything,” Adele’s father says.

While Tawni tears off strips of cloth and bandages my leg, Adele tells her father her story. Some of it I know, some I don’t, which I listen to with wide eyes. Meeting Tawni and Cole. Their escape amidst the bombing. The news stories. Rivet. Their flight through the caves. The train ride. Cole’s death. By the end her hands are shaking so hard she has to clasp them together behind her back.

Her father folds her into his arms and I expect her to weaken, to cry. She doesn’t. She looks numb, like she’s in shock from everything that happened. To some degree, we all must be. There are so many emotions inside me that I don’t know which to focus on, which is the most important.

“Adele, it’s okay now. You’ve done so well,” her father says. He releases her, holds her out so he can look at her. “You said something about how the three bombings didn’t make sense to you?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “The timing was too perfect. Without those bombs we might not have made it, none of us.”

He nods back at her, stroking a thoughtful hand across his chin. “Things aren’t always what they seem,” he says cryptically.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Adele’s dad looks up, as if he forgot the rest of us were here. I noticed that when Adele told her story, she left out me and Roc, didn’t mention our injuries, which are written all over our faces. Was she trying to protect us in some way? I wonder how her father will react to having Sun Dwellers in their midst.

“Why are you here, Tristan?” he asks.

He recognizes me. I wasn’t sure if he did. In some ways I hoped he wouldn’t. When he asks the question, his voice is even, unreadable, but I sense he’s asking the question only because he thinks he has to.

Adele half-turns, still in her father’s arms, making eye contact with me. Electricity crackles down my spine. I take a deep breath, trying to figure out what the hell to say, how to explain something that has no explanation—at least none that I’m aware of.

“Something drew me to Adele,” I say. A breath whooshes out of Adele’s lungs. And is that a…a smile?

Adele’s father doesn’t look surprised. “She’s always been as beautiful as her mother,” he says.

“No, not that,” I say, flushing. Adele’s smile fades. “I mean, I’m not saying she’s not…I mean, she is…but that’s not what I meant.”

“What do you mean, Tristan,” her father asks, scowling slightly.

I take a deep breath, start again. “When I saw her—Adele—In the Moon Realm, it was as if just being close to her caused me pain.” I shake my head, wishing I had a more plausible story to tell. “I’m not talking emotional, mental, or spiritual pain, nothing so vague. It was real physical pain. And now I think Adele felt it too. Is that right?” I look at her.

She nods. “I did.”

Hearing her say it out loud sends anxious bats through my stomach. I don’t know what else to say. This is all too crazy.

Adele’s father’s frown deepens and he raises a hand to his beard, strokes it gently, as if thinking. “I wonder…” he says.

“Wonder what?” Adele asks.

He looks at his daughter, startled, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Nothing,” he says. “Look, I don’t know why we’re all here, or about all this pain stuff, but we have to make some decisions. Tristan, are you only here because you felt drawn to my daughter in the strange way you say?”

Before I can answer, Roc looks at Tawni. “Tell ’em,” he says.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Adele

I stare at Tawni. Why does she know something I don’t? Tristan is looking at Roc the same way—evidently he isn’t in the loop either.

“Roc and I talked while you were rescuing your dad,” Tawni says. “Elsey, too,” she adds, which makes Elsey smile. “Although Tristan and Roc ran away to find you, Adele, to ask you questions, there’s more to it. They’re different from other Sun Dwellers.”

“We’ve had enough of it all,” Roc says. Tristan nods in agreement.

“They don’t want to be a part of it anymore. They’ve decided to help do something about it.”

“We have?” Tristan says, smirking.

“Yes, we have,” Roc says, grinning back. “I just haven’t told you yet. Tristan’s going to use whatever influence he has to convince the Moon Dwellers to join the Star Dwellers, not fight them.”

Mine and Tristan’s eyebrows rise at the same time. Roc plows on. “Everything is such a mess. The Moon and Star Realms are going to destroy each other, making the Sun Realm even more powerful. We have to do this. It’s the only option.”

I look at Tristan. He looks at me. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I want to make a difference. Do the right thing. Stop my father.”

“What about me?” I say.

“You’ll come, too. We could use a bit of muscle on our side,” he says, smiling.

I smile back, excited about something for the first time in a long time. Traveling with Tristan, figuring out what the hell it all means, by his side, fighting for good—

But wait. “What about Mother?” I ask. “What if she’s alive?”

My father’s eyes are dark, and not because of the dim lighting. “I don’t want to get your hopes up…” he says, his statement as wispy as smoke, trailing away into the dark.

“You know where she is,” I say. It’s not a question.

“The Star Realm.”

“But how…?”

“Typically all convicted traitors are sent to Camp Blood and Stone, but they wanted to separate us, so they took her below,” he says, pointing down at the ground. “There’s only one place they would’ve taken her.”

“The Max,” I say, understanding now. The maximum security prison in the Star Realm. The same Max that I would’ve been transferred to on my eighteenth birthday had we not escaped. Unbelievable to think how different things could have gone. That I would have found my mom had I just left things alone. But then my dad would still be in prison. And Elsey still in that awful orphanage.

I’m so tired. Emotionally, physically, mentally. All I want is to go with Tristan, to help him, to maybe get to know him, possibly hold his hand some more, learn more about our almost preternatural connection. And yet I say, “I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” Father asks.

“Go to the Star Realm. Find her,” I say. The words stick in my throat, but I push them out.

“No,” Father says. And again. “No. We’ll get you and Elsey to safety, and then I’ll go after her.”

“I can do this,” I say. “I’m not the girl I was a year ago. Or even a month ago.”

“I know you’re not,” Father says, “but it’s too dangerous. You’ve done enough.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve only just brought us together again.”

I lean into the warmth of his arms and he wraps himself around me. But I’m not giving in. While he thinks he’s comforting me, I’m comforting him. “I have to do this,” I whisper into his chest.

He pulls back sharply, his face paling. “Adele, I can’t let—”

“You trained me,” I say. “I always thought it was just for fun. I enjoyed it. But it was more, wasn’t it? You were preparing me. This is what you were training me for. In case our family ever needed help. So I wouldn’t be helpless.”

I hold his gaze, daring him to lie to me. He doesn’t. “Yes,” he says, his eyes cloudy.

I continue before he can pull his thoughts into a cohesive argument. “You have to protect Elsey. And you have to help mend the wounds between the Lower Realms. And I have to find Mother.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Tristan says immediately.

“Me too,” Elsey chimes in.

“No,” I say, not wanting to say it. “Elsey, you need to stay with Dad. He needs you now.” She scrunches up her face, but then nods firmly and grabs Dad’s hand.

“And you…” I say, turning to Tristan.

He cuts me off. “We’ll find your mother first, then we can talk to the Moon Dwellers.”

“There isn’t time,” I say. “Plus, the Star Dwellers will kill you if they catch you down there.”

“They’ll kill…you, too,” Tristan says, his words catching in his throat slightly as he says kill.

“No, they won’t. Not if I tell them I’m joining their rebellion. That’s what they want, isn’t it? For all the Moon Dwellers to join them? But they won’t accept that a Sun Dweller wants to betray his own people. Especially not you.” My words are firm, my logic sound. Inside, my stomach is in knots, my heart crumbling beneath the power of my brain’s logic. Why are you saying this? Let him come with you! Someone else can talk to the Moon Dwellers.

Tristan is shaking his head, his mouth tight and grim. His eyes look misty. When he looks away from me I feel tears well up. I barely know him, and yet…my soul aches for him. I blink away the tears.

“Adele…” my dad says slowly, his eyes tired and apologetic, “you’ve been through so much, I can’t even imagine…”

“It’s okay,” I say, feeling a surge of strength in the very marrow of my bones.

My dad leans in close to me again. His voice is hoarse, merely a whisper, so the others can’t hear it. “I’m so sorry, honey. I want to come with you, want to protect you, but I…”

I already know he can’t. Elsey needs a father now more than ever. Plus, he can help open up lines of communication between the Moon Dweller leaders and Tristan.

Selfishly, I want him to come with me. I’ve been on my own for so long now, I just want my dad to be there, to tell me what to do, to protect me, to be my rock, like he’s always been. I’ve come so far. So far.

I see my dad’s face. I’ve never seen such pain in his eyes before. They’re wet and red and tired. I have to be strong for him.

I hug him again. “I’m strong, Dad,” I find myself saying. At first I think I’m just trying to act tough again. Then I realize it isn’t an act. The last six months, though hard, have chiseled me into a different person. I’m the same, but different. I’m no longer reliant on my father to protect me. I’m tough. A survivor. “I’ll be fine,” I say firmly.

My dad tilts my chin to look at me. His eyes are blurry. “I know you will, Adele. You’re an incredible young woman, courageous and strong. I’m so proud of you. Be safe.”

“Do you have any advice?” I ask, hoping for some of my dad’s usual pearls of wisdom.

“Remember the three bombings when you’re down there. Look for answers. You have good instincts and I think you’re right. Someone’s looking out for you and I have a feeling you’ll find out who while you’re in the Star Realm. Do what’s in your heart. And please, come back to me.” He kisses my forehead, holds his lips to my skin for a moment, his dark and tangled beard blocking my vision.

After all the crying I’ve done lately, I expect to be bawling now. But I’m not. Other than the few tears I blinked away, I feel strong and resilient. The fighter my father raised me to be. I’m about to turn away from him when, almost as an afterthought, he reaches into his shoe and extracts a slip of paper, shoving it into my hand.

“Dad, what—”

“Don’t read it now. Your mom asked me to give it to you if I ever saw you again. She said it’s important. I’ve pondered its meaning many times, but never got anywhere. Maybe it will mean more to you.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice catching slightly. A message from my mother. I want nothing more than to unfold it and read it right now, but I listen to my dad and hold it tight in my hand.

I release my dad and turn to Elsey. “You were so incredible back there,” I say. “You saved us. Take care of Dad for me, okay?”

Elsey’s eyes widen. “I will,” she says solemnly. “Thank you for rescuing me.” She rushes to me and throws her arms around me. She’s not being overly dramatic this time—the situation warrants it. I hold her fiercely.

“I will never forget you, Elsey,” I say, speaking her language.

“Nor I you,” she replies. I kiss both her cheeks and then turn to Tawni.

Although I desperately want to, I can’t ask her to come with me. She’s done too much already, and the road ahead will be too dangerous. “Goodb—”

“I’m coming with you,” she says, interrupting my farewell speech before it ever really gets started. I burst into a huge smile, hug her. I don’t argue. Like before, I know she won’t take no for an answer, and I don’t want her to.

I go to shake Roc’s hand, but he gives me a hug instead. I don’t know him that well, but he seems like a good person. “Take care,” I say.

“Till we meet again,” he says.

Finally, I turn toward Tristan. He’s still frowning, his lips still tight.

“I’m going with you,” he says. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

I bite my lip, and realize my head is throbbing. “Tristan, believe me, I want you to. It’s just…”

“I’m going with you,” he repeats.

“They need you up here. The world needs you,” I say.

“You make me feel important,” he says wryly, allowing himself a tight smile.

It’s the funniest thing in the world for him to say, and I have to hold back a laugh. I make the son of the president feel important? “You are,” I say. “I mean, you could be. You have that kind of potential.”

“Potential…” he says wistfully, “that’s what my father always said.”

“Not like that,” I say. “You know what I mean.”

I can see the tension in the hard lines of his arms, the same arms that have saved me more than once, that have fought beside me for no reason other than that he feels pain when he’s near me. “We’ll meet again,” I say, wishing it was a promise I knew I could keep.

“You don’t know that,” he says.

Thud, thud, thud. My heart, not my head, although both are pounding away. “Father?” I say, looking at my dad in hopes of something…an answer to an unspoken question perhaps. Can Tristan come with us?

“I won’t tell either of you what to do,” Father says. “You’ve both proven you’re more than capable of making your own decisions…”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” Tristan says, quirking the corner of his mouth.

Father laughs and I love the sound, even if I don’t like what it means. “You have good senses too,” he says. “But we could really use Tristan here. If we have any hope of steering the Star Dweller violence away from the Moon Realm, that is.”

Tristan’s face twitches slightly. He knows what that means. He can’t walk away when people are dying. It’s not in him. “There are so many unanswered questions,” he says, moving a step closer to me. The pain in my head rises, but I don’t care, almost want it to. It’s worth it.

I take half-step forward, thinking about what he said. He’s right. I want to explore those questions with him, but I have to be strong, have to stand on my own two feet. He’s close enough to touch now. My body shivering slightly, I circle my arms around him, hug him. Something drew me to Adele. If he’s right, then we’ll be drawn together again, in time, won’t we?

And then, as I hold him, I realize I don’t feel any pain: just warmth, a faint buzzing in my scalp, a tingling in my spine.

I raise my chin and look up at him. A single tear creeps from his eye and meanders down his cheek. I wipe it away with the edge of my hand. Emotions are running through me, but I don’t trust them, not under the circumstances. I have the urge to kiss him. I grit my teeth and ignore the feeling, pull him close for a final squeeze.

He stops me, entwines his fingers in mine, like the night before, a magical moment of soft touches and finger grazes and so many feelings. The gray of the caves and the smell of smoke and the fierce, fierce weariness from fighting and running and running—they fade away.

And Tristan leans in, dipping his chin, so close, so close…and his lips find mine.

A shockwave of pain surges through me and I almost cry out, but then it’s gone. It’s gone and all I feel is the tenderness and moisture of Tristan’s lips, lingering on my mouth even as he pulls away far too soon.

I release Tristan and immediately feel the electricity leave my body. I feel numb again, unfeeling. I might be mistaken, but I notice a slight twitch on Tristan’s face when we pull apart, as if it hurt him.

My father clears his throat and my face reddens, but the embarrassment was worth it. Roc chuckles, says, “That was unexpected,” while Tawni and Elsey just beam at me. My gaze settles on my feet.

“Uh, where will you go?” Tristan says, also avoiding eye contact with my dad.

Honestly, I don’t know, can barely think. I’ve never been to the Star Realm, have no idea how to get there. I bore a hole through the dirt on my shoes with my stare, before finally looking up at Tawni, who only shrugs, a big smile still plastered across her face. A good team we’re going to be.

Roc chuckles again as he unzips his pack. “Here, take these,” he says, handing me a packet of maps. “Your complete guide to the Star Realm. I recommend following the reservoir around the city to the north”—he points in the direction we should take—“and then hang a right through the inter-realm tunnel. Typically you’d need clearance to get through it, but I expect no one is manning it because of everything that’s happening.”

I nod. “Thank you. For everything.”

I can’t bear to drag out the goodbyes any longer. I’ve just kissed Tristan—like really, really kissed him—and yet now we have to part ways. And I’ve just brought three-quarters of my family back together, and yet I have to leave them, too, to find my mom. The last quarter.

If she’s alive, I will find her—of that I’m certain.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tristan

She’s gone. I watch her long, black hair fade into obscurity, becoming one with the dark cavern walls. With each step further from me, I feel the pull toward her lessen, the energy leaving my neck and spine. When I turn away, I find her father looking at me seriously.

“She’s my little girl,” he says. I sense a protective undercurrent to his words, no doubt brought on by him witnessing our first kiss. Did I really just do that?

“I’m not like my father.”

“You already told me that,” he says. “Now you have to show me.”

“I will,” I promise. I stride to him, extend my hand. “I’m Tristan. Tristan Nailin.”

He takes my hand, squeezes hard, crushes my fingers. A test, maybe. Although it hurts like hell, I control my face, don’t cry out. “I’m Adele’s father,” he says sternly. I raise my eyebrows, intimidated by the serious man before me. My judge. My jury. Without his approval, I surely won’t get Adele’s.

He surprises me by breaking into a huge smile, chuckling under his beard. “Just kidding,” he says. “I’m not really that tough. Unless you do something to hurt my daughter, of course. Then I’m your worst nightmare. Name’s Ben. Ben Rose.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rose,” I say.

“Just Ben is fine.”

“Thanks. And I won’t do anything to hurt your daughter—that’s a promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, leaving me and going to Roc and Elsey, who are dangling their feet in the reservoir.

I crouch down, put a hand on the stone. I imagine that I can feel small vibrations through the ground, the soft patter of her footsteps in the distance. I close my eyes and picture her green eyes looking up at me, her soft lips slightly parted. It had felt like she was about to kiss me, but then when she didn’t, I couldn’t stop myself, like I didn’t have a choice. Was it because of the pain? Did I subconsciously know it would relieve it? And why did it help?

I hope I’ll get the chance to ask her what she thinks.

I fear for her. The caverns are a dangerous place, and they get more dangerous the deeper you go. Cannibals, marauding gangs of thieves, and now legions of Star Dweller troops roam the depths, preying on the weak. Adele is not weak—she’s proved that every step of the way with her fighting, with the slingshot—but she’s also not invincible. Like when I started this adventure, I hope I’ll see her again.

I still don’t know what our feelings are for each other, or why they’re so strong, or even why they started with so much pain, but I want to find out. She’s like no one I’ve ever met before. So strong and capable—but tender and compassionate, too. At least that’s my first impression.

My only regret: I didn’t tell her what I know; about the Dwellers living on the surface of the Earth, the first of our people in almost five-hundred years to leave the Tri-Realms. It just never felt like the right time, and it’s not something you just blurt out, like a confession. I vow to tell her the next chance I get. Until then, she’ll live in my dreams, like my mom.

I gulp down a deep breath as I realize it’s true. I have no regrets about leaving the Sun Realm, even though now I know it’s probably for good. No regrets at all. I’ve changed. I’m no longer reliant on a soft mattress and a fluffy pillow and servants waiting on me hand and foot. I’m not addicted to the wealth and the power like my father. I’m the person my mother wanted me to be, the person I hope Adele needs me to be.

I kiss the tips of my fingers, touch them to the ground. “Farewell, Adele Rose,” I whisper.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Adele

The tunnel is right where Roc said it would be. He’s wrong about there not being any guards, though, but they’re both dead, lying awkwardly at the bottom of the stone staircase leading to the tunnel entrance. They’ve been shot and thrown down the stairs. I try not to look at their faces as we step over them.

We reach the top of the steps and I pause, looking back over the city. Thick smoke roils over the crumbling rooftops. A cheer rises up in the distance. The Star Dwellers have taken subchapter 26.

“My father gave me a note from my mom,” I say, my hand clenched tightly around the paper, crumpling it slightly.

“You should read it.”

“I’m afraid it will hurt too much.”

“Sometimes a little pain is good,” she says.

She’s right. After all, it was a little pain—okay, a lot of pain—that started everything with Tristan. I untighten my fingers, watching as red splotches replace the whiteness of my knuckles. I fold back the note, one corner at a time.

My mom’s faded handwriting is smudged in the center of the half-page.

You’ll know him when you see him, it says. And together you can save us all.

My heart sinks. I show it to Tawni. “A riddle,” I say. “I guess I was hoping for something more personal.”

Tawni scans the single line, says, “Maybe it is personal.”

I look at her. Think hard. “You mean…”

“Yeah,” she says. “Maybe she’s talking about Tristan.”

It can’t be. My mom doesn’t know Tristan any more than I do. She doesn’t know about the pain his presence caused me, how he saved me, how the pain is mostly gone now. She knows none of it. And yet, something tells me Tawni’s right. The note is about Tristan. And me. But who are we meant to be saving, and how? My family? We’re almost there—all that’s left is to find her, but now Tristan’s not coming with us, so does that screw everything up? Although I can’t even begin to understand what she means, it gives me a small measure of comfort knowing that there’s someone out there who gets what I’m going through and why. My mother.

I fold the note and tuck it in my pack. “Thanks for coming with me,” I say to Tawni.

“I didn’t have anything better to do,” she says.

I laugh. “You know, you’re not like your parents at all.”

Her face lights up, her gray eyes shining slightly under the glow of the overhead cavern lights. “That means a lot,” she says, tearing up. “Cole said the same…” She can’t get the rest of the words out as she stifles a sob with the back of her hand.

“I know,” I say. “Cole said the same thing. Because it’s true. He would’ve come with us, too. I know it.”

Tawni hugs me once, still afraid to speak, and turns to the cave mouth. A year ago it would’ve looked ominous, like the mouth of a monster, the stalactites hanging from above its teeth, ready to eat us alive. But now it just looks like a cave. Another challenge.

And I am ready.

Discover other exciting titles by David Estes available through the author’s official website:

http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com
or through select online retailers.

Young-Adult Books by David Estes

The Dwellers Saga:

Book One—The Moon Dwellers

Book Two—The Star Dwellers

Book Three—The Sun Dwellers

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers

The Country Saga (A Dwellers Saga sister series):

Book One—Fire Country

Book Two—Ice Country

Book Three—Water and Storm Country

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers

The Evolution Trilogy:

Book One—Angel Evolution

Book Two—Demon Evolution

Book Three—Archangel Evolution

Children’s Books by David Estes

The Adventures of Nikki Powergloves:

Nikki Powergloves—A Hero Is Born

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Council

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Trappers

Nikki Powergloves and the Great Adventure

Nikki Powergloves vs. the Power Outlaws (Coming soon!)

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PRISON NATION, Jenni Merritt

Dystopia, by Jenni Merritt

We, as such beautifully imperfect creatures, crave perfection.  We long for that perfect existence where everything is ideal and fair and safe.  So we try.  We create laws.  We enforce rules.  We embrace change, fight change, dream of change.  Then, when the bad things still happen, we question everything.  Can we make utopia?  Who knows if the answer will ever be found.  That is why we create dystopian stories.  To read, work out, understand and even enjoy the idea of society gone wrong.  Perfection would be too boring.  We need imperfection to fight, to live, to learn and grow.

Dystopians are not only about society gone wrong.  They are about the people living in that society who choose to stand up and do something about their existence.  They are beautiful.  And imperfect.  Some fight and fail.  Others rise to the top and succeed.  And in the end, we all learn that even at its worse, life is worth living.  That is a dystopian.  And I love it.

PRISON NATION was inspired from one little moment that grew into an entire world.  Many say this story is frightening in the sense that so much of it is already happening.  Laws are intense and getting more strict every day.  Prisons are overfilled and growing.  We fear we have all lost control.  In PRISON NATION, that is the world.  Prisons and control and laws, all the way to the point that children are raised behind bars and freedom is just a dream.  So what would you do?  How would you survive in a world where near everything is illegal?  From an inspiration to a project to a debut novel, PRISON NATION is a journey I fell in love with every word of the way.  I hope you do too.

PRISON NATION

Jenni Merritt

For my Mom, for teaching me to create

For my Dad, for teaching me to dream

Copyright © 2011 Jenni Merritt
www.JenniMerritt.com

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.No part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, without written consent of the author.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is fictitious.  Any similarity or resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

“Wehold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

The Declaration of Independence

July 4, 1776

Part One: LIFE

1

My name is Millie 942B.

Next week is my eighteenth birthday.  And I dread it with every fiber of my body.

I guess my name might seem pretty strange to someone who doesn’t know the world I live in.  ‘942’ is the cell number I was born and raised in.  ‘B’ is the floor level of which my little cubicle resides.  It is a symbol of my existence.  I have no brothers.  No sisters.  Only a silent father and a state-proclaimed unstable mother.  And it is because of them that I am here.

My handwriting darted across the yellowed page.  Something about the words I had written seemed strange to me.  Something I wanted to hide.  Scanning over the writing again, my stomach twisted into a painful knot.

“Millie?”

The voice jarred me from my thoughts.  Forcing my eyes to lift from the page, I looked up at the woman sitting across from me.  Shadows cut long and harsh across her thin, pale face.  My eyes trailed to her lips.  They pursed tightly together, small wrinkles spraying out in every direction like an angry sun.  With eyes bearing into me, she readjusted the glasses that sat perched on her nose.

“Millie, I asked you if you had finished your journal entry.”

“Yes,” I replied softly.  I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes off of her pursed lips.

“Are you going to share today?” she asked, impatience tugging at her voice.

Finally prying my eyes away, I glanced back down at the paper in my hands.  The words still yelled at me, seeming to spring off the page in desperation.  Something about them needed to be changed.  The woman sitting across from me never let me make changes though. Whenever I would try to go back and scribble at something, she would stop me, reminding me that it was her job to correct, not mine.

She had been my psychiatrist since I was a small child.  Something about this place that made the people in charge assume that, no matter who you were, you would eventually need help.  In all honesty, I couldn’t disagree.

I blinked my eyes, forcing my mind to focus.  For a moment the name of the woman sitting in front of me became muddy in my memory.  I blinked again, searching frantically in my mind until her name finally emerged, as if creeping out from a lost game of hide and seek.  Marta Eriks.  That was her name.

“Not today, Dr. Eriks.”

It felt as if my mind had gone numb.  At times a mental fog would envelope me, people who I saw daily disappearing into a thick haze that denied me all my senses.  I would disappear into the fog, letting it carry me away from everything I knew.  It was lonesome.  It was freedom.  Then suddenly, the fog would always lift, leaving me alone to recall everything around me in blinding light.

I relished my private release.  Yet, at the same time, I feared it.  I was not afraid of being alone in the fog.  The momentary solitude was usually a sweet release from the world that surrounded me.  The fear that gripped me was that someday I would be freed from one of my fogs and find that I was still utterly alone.

This was something I never told Dr. Eriks.

I blinked harder, fighting the fog at the corner of my vision as I forced myself to stay.

“Millie, your eighteenth birthday is just around the corner, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“How do you feel about it?”

I shrugged.

Dr. Eriks sighed, rubbing the bridge of her sharp nose as she let her eyes flutter shut.  “Millie, you do realize that they require a recommendation from me before you can be discharged, don’t you?”

I looked back down at the paper, now crumpled in my hands.  “I know.”  My voice came out soft, submissive.  I rubbed my eyes angrily, chasing away the last remnants of my fog that still fought to cloud my vision.

“Well then, Millie, you need to talk.  I need to know that you will be an asset to the Nation.”

Dr. Eriks’ voice hissed out of her mouth, accusing me of things I could never imagine doing.  There were times when I felt the urge to confess to anything, just to get the hiss to disappear.  Then deeper, hidden underneath the hated hiss, I could hear the rhythmic strum of something else.  Something that made me want to listen.  Something that made me want to believe anything she said.

“The Nation needs you, Millie,” she continued, the strum intensifying. I felt my mind softening, willing itself to listen to whatever the strum played next.  “We need the strong, the good, to keep us going.  This,” she motioned with her hand, waving it in a loose circle, “this is not how we want our great Nation to be.  We want everyone to be free and secure.”  Dr. Eriks leaned in, her bony elbows resting on her dull brown skirt.  “It isn’t your fault, Millie.”

My eyes shot up to meet hers.  “My fault?”

“It isn’t your fault that you are here.  In Spokane.  Who’s fault is it, Millie?”

I swallowed the dry lump that had suddenly grown in my throat.  “My parents.”

“Exactly.  They are the criminals.  You are not.  You want your chance to prove that, don’t you?”

I nodded, my throat too dry to allow my voice to break free.

A thin smile spread on Dr. Eriks’ lips.  “Very good, Millie.  You can trust me.  You know that right?”

“Of course, Dr. Eriks.”

The smile widened, foreign and strange on her usually stern face. Whenever that smile cut across her face, my skin always went cold.  Frozen goose bumps would spring up in quick lines along my flesh, a shiver taking me over as they spread.  I could feel them beginning their rise on my arms as she watched me a moment longer. I waited.  Letting out a sharp breath, Dr. Eriks finally broke her gaze and picked her notebook up from the small table next to her.

The room fell into an almost tangible silence.  All I could hear was her pen as she scratched words onto the white pages.  She seemed to cut into the paper, writing that I had never been given permission to read filling up the neat lines, permanently.

My stomach tightened.  My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and no matter how many times I swallowed, I couldn’t chase away the dryness that had taken me over.  Closing my eyes, I let my head hang slightly, the knots finally loosening their deathly grip in my stomach.  Dr. Eriks’ pen ticked like a pendant of a clock, scratching away the seconds as my mind wandered in the near silence.

Scratch.  Scratch scratch.  Scratch.

The clip of Dr. Eriks’ notepad shutting made me jump.  I snapped my eyes open, the sleep that had started to tug at my mind quickly chased away.  Glancing down at my crumpled paper, I licked my lips. My throat was still too dry.  I needed a drink.  Squirming in my seat, I kept my head down and waited.

“Well, Millie.”  My head jerked up as her voice cut through the air once again.  “It looks as if our time for today is over.”  The muscles in my tightened shoulders relaxed at her words.  “I believe we made a small bit of progress, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“I encourage you to write in your journal tonight.  Finish what you started here today.  We will talk again at your next meeting.”  I started to stand, but Dr. Eriks stopped me with a slight clearing of her throat.

She leaned forward, setting her notepad gingerly on the table as she pulled her glasses off her thin nose.  Her eyes watched me, crinkling at the corners in thought.

“Millie, upon release – if you do get released – you will be free.  Do you want to be free?”

I swallowed against the dry lump in my throat.  I managed to nod, my eyes locked once again on her pursed lips.  I knew if I spoke, my voice would come out raspy and harsh.

“Then I shouldn’t have to remind you, Millie, that if you fail to follow our great Nation’s laws once you are set free, you will be sent right back here.  No trial, no pleas.  And,” she added, slipping her glasses back onto her face as she stood, “that would not be a good thing.  At all.”

Dr. Eriks watched me a moment, then turned and walked towards her desk.  Keeping her back to me, she curtly tapped her wristwatch, her nails clicking on its glass face. “You can go now, Millie.”

I stood, the ache from sitting for so long throbbing as I stretched my legs.  Without another word I hurried out the door, shoving my journal page into the back pocket of my jeans.  Dr. Eriks’ receptionist didn’t even look up as I passed her small desk.  She had worked there for years now, and all I knew about her was the nasally drawl of her voice as she ushered me into my appointments.

The hallway echoed slightly as I made my way down it, away from Dr. Eriks.  Made mostly of cement, the walls were a light gray, cracking in places from the years of wear and abuse.  No color.  A door occasionally appeared along its stretch, a black blip with unknown offices hidden behind.  My footsteps were the only sound that echoed off the hallway’s lonely walls.

I slowed as a couple appeared in front of me.  They were meandering slowly down the hall, their hands loosely intertwined.  Obviously, they were in no hurry.

I was about to duck around them when something crashed up ahead.

Stopping, I looked down the hall past the couple.  We were almost to the entrance of the Commons, but I couldn’t see the door.  Any view of it was blocked by a mass of bodies, arms swinging and legs kicking as they pummeled into one another.  People started shouting, a mix of angry growls and taunting jests.  The two fighting inmates dove harder into each other.  Spit and blood flew into the air.  The blood splattered across the walls, its deep red an angry contrast to the dull gray cement.

I backed up as boots suddenly sounded down the hall behind me. Just as I pressed my back into the cool wall, three guards ran past, their batons already held in their meaty fists.  The couple in front of me leaned against the wall a few feet away, watching the fight as they chatted casually with each other, as if nothing was wrong.

My mind raced.  A few doorways back was a hallway that would lead around the fight.  I could take that.

I took a step back toward the doorway, intent on avoiding the growing mass of cheering onlookers.  Just as I started to turn away, something the man in the couple said stopped my feet mid-step.  He had said Dr. Eriks’ name.  The tone of his voice, slightly shaking and tinged with anger, pulled me in.  I clenched my eyes shut, his voice still ringing low under the rumbling fight.

Eavesdropping was something you did not do, especially here in the Prison. The secrets your ears might pick up were the kind that could haunt you for the rest of your life.  I knew I should walk away, but I couldn’t seem to move my feet.  Letting out a sigh, I leaned back against the wall, shoving my hands in my pockets and trying to seem invisible as I resigned to my curiosity.

“…just another one of the stupid shrinks.” The man grumbled.

Shrink?  I had never heard that word used before when talking about another person.  It was typically only associated with clothing that no longer fit properly, or gross anatomy.  I turned my head ever so slightly toward the couple and held my breath.

“Dr. Eriks is the head psychiatrist here,” the woman said, her head leaning back on the wall as she looked up toward the ceiling.  “She is the queen of the damned.”

The man chuckled.  “Yeah well, lucky for me, I don’t have to sit through her mind melting sessions anymore.  Still…” he stood and stretched, watching the fight for a moment.

The guards had finally pried the two inmates apart, the men still fighting to get back to each other regardless of the guards’ strong arms. Blood sprayed across everyone.  Bruises, long and growing dark, stretched across the inmates’ bodies where the guards had battered them.

The man let out a slow breath, his head shaking slightly.  “I don’t trust them.  All they do is try to brain wash us. Every single session, it’s just the same old brainwashing.  The same hypnotic voices and indoctrinating crap.”  The man stared at the dying fight a few seconds longer before lowering his eyes to the ground, his face clouding over in sudden emotion.  “I don’t trust them,” he repeated, his voice now soft and barely audible.

“I don’t either,” the woman said, her eyes still watching the ceiling above.  “None of us do.”  She lifted a hand and softly stroked the man’s arm.  His jaw clenched a moment.  Then his eyes flicked over to me.

I pretended to watch the fight, the inmates still yelling obscenities at each other as the guards struggled to keep them apart.  The crowd that had gathered around the two inmates broke apart, leaving them with just the guards and the blood.  I could feel the man’s eyes look away from me.

Thinking back to the session I had just had with Dr. Eriks, I let an image of her fill my mind.  As her smile flashed across my memory, I felt the same chilling goose bumps as before start to prickle along my arms and down my spine.  I shifted my weight, pushing slightly away from the wall in anticipation.  I wanted out of that hall.

The guards finally got cuffs on the two inmates and started to drag them down the hall away from us.  I could hear the guards threatening the inmates.  Their voices were harsh and angry, and loud.  One of the inmates limped roughly, the other barely walking as he leaned heavily on the guard that shoved him into the shadows.

The couple watched the bloodied group walk away.  Pushing from the wall, the woman pulled the man against her, giving him a small smile as she ran her fingers along his arm.

“Hey, no worries,” she purred at him.  “Never any worries.  Remember?”  The man watched her for a moment, then smiled back.  Letting out a slow breath between her lips, the woman pulled him beside her as she started a slow walk down the hall.  They barely glanced at the blood splattered walls as they passed.

The goose bumps were still thick on my arms, the knots tighter than ever in my stomach.  I licked my lips, then carefully stood back up and followed the now disappearing couple.

I had always known there was something more to the goose bumps and dislike of Dr. Eriks’ smile that left me so rattled after each session.  I had thought it was just me, that I was reading into everything too much.  Now I knew better.

Now I knew others felt it too.

There was something about Dr. Eriks that I could not trust.

2

Low voices rumbled ahead of me.  Lifting my eyes, I saw three men leaning casually against a wall.  Their arms and necks were covered in tattoos, rising above the matching white shirts like snakes trying to find their way out.  One of the men saw me and nudged the other two, a crooked smile spreading on his unshaved face.

Lowering my eyes quickly, I scurried past, trying hard to block out their guttural laughter and disgusting remarks.  One called out to me, but his words blurred in my mind. I could hear the rumble of laughter erupt again.

The laughter and taunts faded behind me as I rounded a corner and emerged into a room full of people.

The large Commons echoed with voices, bouncing off the high ceiling that always seemed to disappear in the floating dust.  I didn’t have to look up to know that the fist-dented walls were covered in plain white paper, the rules of the prison listed in solid black words on each flattened poster.

A few inmates grumbled angrily as I pushed my way past their small groups.  In the middle of the day the Commons was always packed, leaving me with no other option but to push my way through the groups.  I hated having to push, to touch, most of the people surrounding me.  But stopping to ask them politely to let you pass usually got an answer you were not looking for.  To get through the crowds, to live in Spokane, you had to be tough, even if it was just on the surface.

I placed my hand on someone’s back, felt his low laugh as I shoved my way past.  Hair pricked out of his worn white shirt and scratch against my palm.  Everything about him ranked of musky sweat.  Cringing, I scurried away.  The man called to me, inviting me to join his group with another low laugh.  I didn’t even turn to respond, the feel of his scratchy hair still fresh on my sweating palm.

I hated this walk.

Emerging from the crowd, I glanced up to the wall in front of me. A new sign, still clean and smooth, hung carefully taped over a dent in the plastered wall.  I moved closer, curiosity leading my feet.

In thick, black typeset, it read:

Spokane Prison

Plans to expand facilities
set for coming year.

Sign up now available
for labor workers.

Ask Warden

“Spokane Prison,” a woman’s voice huffed next to me.

I turned my head slightly to take in the owner of the voice.  A woman, old and bent almost double, stood a few feet away, her eyes still riveted on the sign.  Her hands shook slightly as they dangled limply at her side, her white shirt hanging off of her frail looking shoulders like wet laundry.

“I remember when this was a city.  Just a city,” she said, turning her eyes to me.

I cleared my still dry throat and looked back at the poster.  “That was a long time ago,” I replied, willing my voice to stay even.

I didn’t want the sudden butterflies in my stomach to make themselves known.  Though I would casually talk to others when the need arose, I preferred the mostly antisocial life.  I had never been in any sort of fight or dispute, and I owed it all to my willingness to not make lasting friends.  Or, most times, to even speak.

“Yes, well, if you can’t tell, I am pretty old.” Her voice cracked as she let out a snicker.  “I barely remember that city.  Only went there myself once.  But it wasn’t a bad one.  Then they plowed it through and made this… prison.”  The old woman sighed and slowly shook her head.  Her eyes, sunk under wrinkles, turned to look at me.  “Are you a convict or a Jail Baby?”

I clenched my jaw at the name.  Without answering, I turned my eyes back to the poster.  It was hard to believe that Spokane was once a city.  I tried to imagine it: skyscrapers touching the clouds, sunshine beating on tourists, sprawling parks full of green grass and laughter.  I had seen the photos enough in my lesson books, snapped at their peak of majesty.  It shouldn’t have been that hard to picture one more city.  As hard as I tried, all I could see was the endless gray walls.

The old woman cleared her throat.

“Been here forty years now myself.  Ten more and I might finally be allowed that parole hearing of mine.  If I am still breathing by then.”  She lightly chuckled.  I could feel her eyes watching me.  It took all my control to stay calm, breathing steady with my face slack.  Turning and running off now wouldn’t look good.

“Not much of a talker, huh?” She asked, her voice slightly cracking.  “Must be a Jail Baby then.  We convicts, we’re the criminals, the evil-doers.  And boy do we know it.  No need for us to keep all clammed up and goody-goody.  We have already been screwed.  Jail-babies are different.  Born here and cursed with the unlucky sentence of being stuck with us until you turn eighteen.  Unluckiest of all draws if you ask me.  Though maybe…”  The woman suddenly started to cough.  I let my eyes glance over to watch her, her frail shoulders shaking as a thin hand reached up to pound on her nearly flat chest.

My hand twitched at my side.  Something made me want to reach out and comfort this old woman.  I could feel my fingers lifting, and forced them back down against my leg.

A moment of quiet passed.  The old woman licked her lips, her eyes darting to the poster before glancing back to me.  They were dull, swimming with a milky white that made me wonder exactly how much of me she actually saw.

“If this prison gets any bigger, there won’t be anyone left out there for you to be released to, you know.”

I couldn’t break my gaze from hers.  The milky clouds in her eyes drew me in, my eyes searching hers for any sign of actual sight.

“So?” she asked, her voice low and rough.

I blinked.  “So?”

“Convict. Or Jail Baby?”

I looked away, my throat strangely tightening for a second.

“I was born here,” I said curtly.

The woman went quiet, her eyes studying me.  I felt my stomach tighten.  Her eyes had turned sad, her lips twisting down at the corners slightly as she took me in.  The moment passed.  Shaking her head, the woman glanced at the wall once more.

“Pity.  What a pity,” she muttered, then limped away.  Her left foot dragged slightly along the ground, her hands still hanging limply at her sides.

I stood frozen for a moment, watching the old woman walk into the Commons crowd.  My eyes stared at the spot her bent back had disappeared into, my stomach still dancing with the angry butterflies that were desperately trying to break free.

Tearing my eyes away, I turned and ducked into the nearby door.  The hallway beyond was long and dim.  And empty.  I hurried into the corridor, letting the noisy chatter of the Commons disappear behind me.  My feet wobbled and my head spun as I tried to regain my bearings on the world around me.

There was no real reason for this uneasy feeling that had taken me over.  She had just been a lonely old woman, looking for conversation.  I kept repeating that to myself, willing the words to stop the jittery feel that radiated through my entire body.

The hallway opened up into a small enclave, a single metal door waiting on the opposite end of where I stood.  A guard stood near the door, his arms crossed lazily over his chest and his face clearly bored.  As he saw me approach, he grumbled something under his breath then pushed away from the wall to block my path.

Out of reflex, I lifted my left hand.  The small bracelet I had worn my entire life dangled from my wrist, my name inscribed onto its dull metal surface.  It was locked on, given just enough room to spin. Sometimes the metal dug into the skin around my bones, scraping it raw.  I rarely noticed anymore.

The guard yawned, then pulled a small boxy device from his utility belt.  Holding it up to my wrist, he pressed a button and waited.  The enclave fell silent.  I tried to swallow, but my throat was still dry.  A beep finally cut through the air, a small green light flashing on the black box.  The guard slid the device back into his belt and pushed open the door behind him.  He didn’t even glance at me again as he went back to his bored leaning, his eyes slightly drooping shut.

I stepped through and quickly turned to the left, making my way down the narrow, fenced in walkway.  People moved about inside their cells, the doors still open for the daytime hours.  The occasional shuffle of feet mixed with the low murmur of voices echoed down the stretch of floor B.

Most inmates preferred the Commons during day hours.  Some had assigned work, others chose the fenced-in exercise yard.  The rest packed inside the Commons, the only social place inside Spokane.  Things were different on my floor.  Inmates here, on floor B, tended to stay in their cells.  Solitude had become the best companion for the convicted.

I had heard the stories, ever since I had started school and my teachers drilled the images into my head, of what these criminals were capable of.  We were told of detailed, horrible crimes, the images from the stories frightening us awake at night.  A few times I had tried to ask why those born inside, the Jail Babies, were kept in here if the people surrounding us were so dangerous.  The teachers always would look at me the same way.  Their face would go cold, lacking any sympathy, as if angry at me for even thinking the question. Then they would repeat the same reason: That it was our parents’ faults.  Their explanation always ended at that.  Finally, I had stopped asking.

In their unspoken words, they told me this was something I just had to accept.  And so, I had.

The old woman’s parting words echoed in my mind.  Pity.  What a pity.  I shook my head, chasing the words away, and pushed myself forward.

As I made my way to my cell, I barely had to look up.  I had made this walk my entire life.  It was as trained into me as breathing or blinking.  The voices of other inmates filled the air around me.  I could feel it pulse.  Beds rustled, pacing footsteps shuffled back and forth in cells as I passed.  Someone called to me.  The world seemed to swim around me, the sounds of life growing stronger in my ears until it dulled into an angry roar.  I paused only a moment before moving on.  I never looked up.

My feet finally stopped.  I could see the open doorway out of the corner of my eye, the light of the walkway disappearing into the dimly lit cell within.  I let my eyes trail up, locking them onto the number “942” that was painted above the cell door.  Without another pause, I ducked inside.

Even though the cell door sat open during the day, allowing any one passing to easily look in, I always felt safe inside.  I had been raised in this cell since the day my mother bore me into this condemned life.  I knew every inch of it.

The same dull gray walls rose on all four sides, the only change in them being the open cell door on one end and the window on the other.  During the day, a haze of sunlight would illuminate the thick plastic window, giving us our only sign it was no longer night.  Daytime it glowed, nighttime it was dead black.  If we wanted to actually see outside, we had to dare the exercise yard.  Something that I rarely did.  The yard was run by gangs and sweaty men, and always patrolled by heavily armored officers.  It was better to avoid it.

The cell was just large enough for the bunk bed that was screwed against one wall, and the toilet and sink under the window.  A small bookshelf that held our dismal stack of folded clothing and worn books was the only other furniture in the room.

This was home.

My mother sat quietly on the bottom bunk.  She had cuffed up her jeans to her knees, her pale legs tucked up underneath her.  Her white shirt was dirty from the lack of washing, creased and stained in spots as it draped across her thin frame.  My eyes trailed down, landing on her shoes that had been kicked carelessly to the ground.

“Mom, you have to line them up,” I said with a sigh.

My mother didn’t respond.  I sighed once more, then bent down and picked up her shoes.  I tucked her dirty socks inside, then carefully lined the shoes along the bottom of the bunk.  A stale scent of sweat wafted up from the socks.  Sniffing, I realized the entire room smelled like dirty socks.  The rumpled stack of clothes on the shelf behind me only added to the moldy reek.  I noted in my head that I would need to do laundry duty.  Again.

“Mom, if the guard comes in and sees your shoes like that, they will put you in solitary again.”  I looked up at her, my hands still resting on her old shoes.

She didn’t return my glance.  Her eyes were dancing around, loftily taking in the room around her. “They’re just shoes, Mills.”

“It’s a tripping hazard.  And against the rules.  If something happened and we tripped and got hurt, they would have to hospitalize us.  And that will cost us.  Remember?”

“If, if, if.  The rules are too strict here.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mom. They are the rules. The Prison’s rules. Always have been.  They will throw you in the Hole if you break the rules, just like last time.  I don’t want them to…” I rubbed my hand down my face.  Standing up, I let a slow breath escape through my lips.  “Please, just line your shoes up.  Okay?”

My head still felt the remains of the fog.  The fear of my mother disappearing again into the Hole threatened to bring the fog back in full force.  She always came back worse.  Blinking angrily, I turned away from her and walked toward the sink.

My mother finally looked up and met my eyes.  Her brown eyes glittered.  “Okay Mills.  Okay.”  A smile spread on her face.  “So, where have you been?”

I cranked on the faucet.  Luke warm water drizzled out.  Letting it run over my hands, I closed my eyes a moment in exasperation.  “My bi-weekly meeting with Dr. Eriks, Mom.”  I splashed some water on my face, running my wet fingers back through my short hair.

A sheet of metal hung over the sink.  It barely reflected anything, showing just enough to let you see a dented, dim reflection of your face. I had heard that they once had real mirrors in the cells.  That was, until too many inmates smashed in the shiny glass to use as weapons.  Against others.Or against themselves.  After too many ‘incidences,’ the mirrors had been taken out. They were permanently replaced with the barely reflective sheets of metal that hung firmly mounted and screwed to the gray wall.  I barely knew what I looked like.

Squinting my eyes, I tried to see the face that stared back at me.  In the dim evening light of the cell I could barely make out my short, pale brown hair.  It hung close to my chin.  I ran my fingers through it again, hating the fact of how quickly they came to the cropped ends.  Pursing my lips, I could feel the tight lines spray out across my face.  I ran a finger along them, feeling their dips and rises crinkle along my lips.  They were nothing compared to Dr. Eriks’.

“You are beautiful, Millie.”

Startled out of my mindless staring contest with myself, I turned back to my mother.  She still sat on the bed, legs crossed, hands resting on knees.  A smile spread on her face as she watched me.  Unlike Dr. Eriks’ smile, my mother’s smile always warmed me.  Every time she smiled it was as if she had some secret brimming on her lips, wanting to explode out and be shared with the world.

“My pretty, pretty baby.”

“Mom, I am turning eighteen in a week.  I am far from a baby now.”

“Oh Millie-Millie, you are my pretty baby.”  My mother held out her arms, her fingers wiggling as she begged for me to come closer.  I could hear her muttering ‘pretty baby’ over and over softly to herself.

The warm feeling that had just a moment ago flowed over me at the sight of her smile went suddenly cold.

She was lapsing again.  My mother’s psychiatrist had declared her as ‘unstable.’  She would be completely lucid one moment, then would suddenly disappear into some distant world of her own the next.  I had been told that if we lived out in the Nation, I would have been taken from her long ago, but because we were in Spokane I was ‘allowed’ to stay in her ‘care.’

Most times the lapses seemed to consist of me being a baby again.  I used to love these moments, relishing in the deep hugs she would wrap around me.  I could never seem to get enough.  Until one day I realized the truth.  That when these moments happened, she didn’t seem to know it was me.  She would call me by my name and talk to me, but her eyes were always glazed over by some hidden ghost.  I didn’t exist.  Since then, I never let her hug me when she was ‘gone.’

I watched her a moment.  Her smile was contagious on her face.  It must have been beautiful once.  Under the wrinkles of prison-ran life and the dirt smudges that never seemed to wash off, she held a beauty that refused to disappear.

The strange glaze that now covered her eyes tried hard to chase the beauty away.  It brought to light the stray hairs that stood on end, the greasy blonde twists that hung in clumps on her shoulders.  I saw the shadows under her eyes.  The deep gulps she took as she gasped in frenzied breaths and wiggled her fingers, begging to hold her baby.

Without a word, I darted out of the cell.

Choking back a sob, I leaned against the thin slice of wall that separated our door from our neighbor’s.  I let the weight of my body pull me down until I slid onto the floor. My hands shook as I ran them through my hair, still damp with the water I had just splashed onto my face.  After eighteen years of living in the same cell with the same woman, I should have been used to those moments.  But I hated them.  I hated how I had to be the adult in this crazy, locked up world.

Lifting my chin I looked around.  My father.  He hadn’t been in the cell.

Typically a silent shadow that followed my mother around wherever she went, I rarely even noticed him.  He would mumble to me sometimes, asking how my day was and if I had any plans for tomorrow.  I tried to answer and start a conversation, but it always failed and left us sitting in silence.  What is there to talk about, when every day is the same?

To me, my father was only one thing: a silent reflection of my mother.  I wanted to feel a connection to him, but it was impossible to feel connected to someone who barely seemed connected to life.

Looking down the walkway, I strained my eyes to see if I could spot his familiar stooped figure.  A few other inmates leaned against the railing or sat on the ground outside their cell.  I saw one man reading a tattered book, another man carelessly bouncing a ball over and over again on the ground.  A girl walked past me, carrying a handful of papers.  As she passed a pencil rolled off the stack and fell with a clatter to the ground.

It rolled and bumped into my foot.  I reached out and picked it up, my fingers wrapping around its thin wooden surface.  Before I even thought about it, I lifted my eyes to the girl and held the pencil out.

“Th-Thanks,” she stuttered.

Squinting my eyes, I looked harder at her.  She looked like she was just a year or two younger than me.  I knew this girl.  Fighting against the persistent fog in my mind, I tried to place her face and stutter.  It slowly came to me.  She had sat next to me in my classes, before I had opted out into independent study.  She had always been mumbling to herself, her stutter causing her to slightly twitch when it got too intense.  Her name was… I couldn’t remember it.

“942B?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah.  How are you?”  The words felt thick in my mouth, obviously forced.

“G-Good.”  She forced a smile, one side of her mouth drooping slightly under a healing bruise.  “H-How about you?”

I nodded, pulling my eyes away from the bruise.  “Doing alright.”

“Sh-shouldn’t you have b-been let out b-b-by now?” the fellow Jail Baby asked.

“Next week.  I turn eighteen next week.”

“Oh. Well.  G-Good luck th-then.  I hope t-t-to never see you again.”

I let a tiny smile spread on my face as I watched her shuffle away down the walk, her shoulder slightly twitching as she mumbled to herself.  Her parting words weren’t meant to be harsh.  Everyone in Spokane hoped to never see each other again.  It wasn’t a hostile wish.  It was the wish that you might never again be locked up inside these walls.

I banged my head softly against the wall, trying hard to remember the girl’s name, but it never came to me.  I could only remember the bruise on her drooping lip and the twitch of her thin shoulder.

My back started to ache.  I must have been sitting for at least an hour.  Losing track of time was too easy in a place where every day, every minute, everything was the same.  Standing up, I rubbed my back, stretching my other arm up over my head.

The groan that escaped my lips came to a quick halt as I heard something echo down the walk.  Footsteps.Heavy footsteps.  They weren’t the usual padding of worn out sneakers.  These echoes were sharp, precise.  Timed.

They were the echo of boots.

3

Pushing my back against the wall, I looked up to see two guards making their way slowly down the walk. They glanced into each cell as they passed, occasionally pausing a moment longer to stare inside before moving on.

Inspections.

I silently thanked myself that I had lined up my mother’s shoes.  Glancing inside, I saw she had fallen asleep on the bed, one hand hanging over the edge, her fingers occasionally twitching as she dreamed.  I let myself relax a bit, my back leaning once more against the cool wall.

I had known the older of the two guards for most of my life.  Saying that I knew him might have been an overstatement.  He had patrolled this walk for as long as I could remember, yet I could never remember his name.  Still, just the fact that I easily recognized his casual walk and drawling voice made me feel as if I did know him, in some small, pathetic way.  His eyes were always hooded, a yawn always trying to break through on his chubby face.  He was never angry or rough like the other guards.  He just seemed… indifferent.

My eyes trailed to the second guard.  He was new.  Tall and lean, his muscular arms and shoulders were evident through his armored uniform.  His short cropped hair shone in sandy blonde waves.  I could smell his hair gel and the hint of cologne from where I stood.  He looked as if he were made for the prison guard uniform.  As the old guard waddled along, glancing inside each cell as he passed, the new one walked beside him, looking down the walkway instead.

Looking at me.

His blue eyes locked onto me, watching.  As a slow grin spread on his chiseled face, I felt a lump form in my throat.  It was never good when a guard noticed you.  Noticing you meant that they had something on you.  And having something was never good.

My mind reeled, retracing all of my steps.  Appointments, exercise yard, laundry, schoolwork.  I had done nothing out of the ordinary.  I could feel the guard’s locked gaze out of the corner of his eyes.  Even though he glanced away to take in the rest of the walk, the guard watched me.

“Hello 942B,” the chubby guard muttered.

He squeezed past me to lean into my family’s cell.  I watched as he stared a moment at my sleeping mother, then as his eyes swept down to scan the ground.  They paused on the shoes a moment before I heard him let out his usual grunt of approval.  He backed out of the cell, rubbing his eyes with his chubby hand.

The new guard gazed into my cell, occasionally letting his eyes flick back to look at me.  I shifted my weight to my other foot, glancing at the new guard whenever he looked away.

“Good morning sirs,” I said stiffly.

The chubby old guard stifled a yawn, his hooded eyes closing for a moment.  Letting them droop back open, he caught me glancing tentatively at the new guard.  “This is the new replacement day guard for Floor B,” he offered, his voice sleepy.

“Replacement?” I asked quickly, my voice squeaking slightly.  Embarrassed, I pursed my lips shut, feeling the Dr. Eriks lines spread out.

“The Nation is finally letting me retire.  Got a notice saying that I successfully completed my service and am now allowed to relax.”  The chubby guard chuckled.  “Relax meaning moving onto some desk job,” he mumbled under his breath.  Stretching his arms in front of him, he added, “It’s alright though.  I have had about enough of this walk.”

“Oh. Okay,” I replied softly, my eyes glancing over to the new guard.

He smiled at me, his arms folding across his solid chest as it rose and fell in perfect rhythmic breathing.  The chubby guard motioned to the new one.  “Carl GF4 gets to have this exciting job now.”

“Oh yes, very exciting,” the new guard, Carl, replied.  He winked at me.  I felt a chill go down my spine, but managed to keep my face calm as I looked back at him.

“Well, come on Carl.  Gotta finish the line, then I can finally clock out for good.”  The chubby guard glanced at me.  “Be good, 942B.”  With that, he moved on to the next cell, leaning his chubby frame inside.  Carl watched me a moment longer, then silently followed.

Swallowing the lump that was still solid in my tight throat, I ducked back into my cell.  I had suddenly remembered the dry thirst that had been growing and stretching through me all day.  Cranking on the faucet, I grabbed my old metal cup from the shelf and filled it with the warm water that poured out, then tilted my head back and swallowed a large gulp.  The water tasted like metal, stale and too warm to fully quench my thirst.  I didn’t care.  It felt good to fill my stomach with something other than butterflies.

Something stirred behind me.  I let my eyes lift to glance into the metal mirror.  A dark figure was standing there, the familiar stoop of the shoulders relaxing my nerves.  I didn’t say anything.  Turning away, I tilted the cup to take another mouthful of the metallic water.

“Hi Millie,” he said, his voice slow and distant like always.

“Where have you been?” I asked, not bothering to reply to his greeting.

“Huh?  Oh.  My appointment.”

“Your appointment?” I turned, my brow furrowing in confusion. “You didn’t have an appointment today. Your appointment is always at the same time as Mom’s.”

My father sat gently on the edge of the lower bunk, barely squeezing on as he tried to not stir my mother.  With a grunt he pulled off his shoes, carefully lining them alongside the bottom of the bunk.  “They, uh, they changed it.  They want to see us separate now.”

For the last eighteen years my parents had been going to all of their appointments together.  My mind reeled, wondering why they suddenly were being forced to be seen apart.  Then something in my mind clicked.  Moving toward my father, I waited until he looked up then locked my eyes onto his.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

He offered a sleepy grin.  “Of course it is, Millie.  You are about to turn eighteen.  Of course it is.”  His words faded out.  Licking his dry lips, he laid down next to my mother.  “They said dinner is in cell again tonight.”

I nodded.  I had heard that too.  “Don’t sleep too long then, okay?  I don’t want you missing dinner again.”

“If I do, just have mine, Millie.  No use letting it go to waste.”

His eyes fluttered shut.  I knew the conversation was over.

When I was younger, I would always jump at that offer.  I would wait and see if he fell asleep early, then eagerly devour his small share of food.  It wasn’t until recently that I realized those nights that I ate his offered ration, he didn’t eat at all.  Once, while chomping down on a stale roll, I caught his eyes fluttering, watching me eat as he pretended to sleep.  That had been the last night I let myself eat my father’s food.

Letting out a slow breath between my teeth, I pulled the thin blanket over both of my parents.  When they slept, they looked so happy and peaceful.  My father always draped his arm over my mother, pulling her in protectively against his body, shielding her from any sleep demons that may have tried to snatch her away.

“Why can’t you be that protective when you’re awake?” I whispered, the words barely passing my lips before they disappeared.

The sound of metal grating across cement echoed in the cell.  Turning, I saw the tray with three covered plates waiting in the doorway. Knowing that in a few minutes the inmate who was on food delivery duty would be back for the tray, I snatched the plates up and moved them to balance on top of the sink.  I could smell the usual aroma of a tuna sandwich and a cup of some sort of sliced fruit.  Variety wasn’t something the prison cared much for.

Lifting the lid to one plate, I saw I was right.  Apples, browned and wrinkling from the time they had sat in the open air before being delivered to our cell, filled a small bowl.  Along with the sandwich and fruit, there was a small carton of milk.  That was it.  My stomach growled, hungrily reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Carefully stacking my parent’s plates under the sink, I grabbed mine and climbed up to the top bunk.  The pad was all but flat underneath me.  My back already hurt at the idea of having to sleep on it tonight.  We were already six months past due for new bedding, with no word about the hopeful change.  I didn’t even hold my breath anymore.

Picking up half of the sandwich, I tentatively took a bite.  There was always too much mayonnaise, leaving the sandwich mushy and wet.  Even though I didn’t need to, I sat and chewed the mush, letting my eyes close as I leaned my head against the wall.

I felt something crinkle as I settled down.  Reaching under my leg, I found the piece of yellow paper from my session, still wadded into a tight ball.  It must have fallen out of my pocket when I climbed up.  Sitting back again, I took another bite of my sandwich and flattened out the paper.

My name is Millie 942B.

Next week is my eighteenth birthday. And I dread it with every fiber in my body…

Something still nagged at me when I read it.  I almost felt ashamed as the words sunk in.  Like I should have never written them to begin with.

Shoving the last bite of the sandwich into my mouth, I pulled out my old notebook.  Dr. Eriks had given it to me a year ago for my journaling assignments.  I could tell it had already been used by someone before me.  The cover was ragged.  The pages hung limp, dog-eared, the spine giving away how many sheets were already missing.  Still, it was mine.  Few things in here actually belonged to me, so I couldn’t complain about this one used notebook.  It was mine.

Pulling my pencil out of the spine, I flipped it open to a new page.  As soon as the pencil touched the paper though, my mind froze.  I couldn’t think of anything to write.  For some reason, writing a journal entry about my mushy sandwich or my still unstable mother seemed useless.  I had written about it all one too many times.

The face of the new guard, Carl, flashed in front of my eyes.  I pushed the pencil against the paper, then stopped myself before the first word could form.  My body started to shake.  For some reason, I suddenly felt uneasy.  The thought of writing my thoughts about him had stopped my pencil dead.

Giving up, I flipped the notebook shut and leaned back against the wall again.  I looked over at the browned apples, my mouth twisting into a frown. I had never been a fan of apples.  There was something about their texture that just bugged me.  Seeing them sliced in the bowl, browning and already bad, didn’t entice me to take a bite.

I pushed the tray aside, then swung my legs over the edge of the bunk and slid to the ground.  My parents were fast asleep.  My father softly snored, his mouth hanging open in his sleep, a thin line of saliva already trickling down his rough cheek.  There was no doubt about whether or not he was faking.  I quietly crept over and divided my apple slices into each of their bowls.  Then I sat back on the ground, the coolness of the cement helping to keep me awake.

Something buzzed, loud and harsh.  I barely twitched as the sound cut through the night.  I could hear the sudden rush of feet hurrying down the walkway.  The inmates were all returning to their cells for the night, the buzz warning them that it was five minutes until the doors shut and locked, leaving those locked out to be sent straight to the Hole.

The footsteps died down.  I could hear the murmuring rise of the inmates as they crowded into their cells.  The few that still passed were the older ones, unable to move as fast.  On floor B, there were a lot of older inmates.

Floor B was the floor of Lifers.

The buzz cut through the air again.  I could hear the familiar crank of gears rev up, then the slide of doors as they snapped shut, one after the other down the walk.  Our cell’s turn finally arrived.  The door slid out from the wall, slow at first, then suddenly snapping shut tight as if it had been kicked awake.  It was solid, with a small grating along the top and about three inches shy of meeting the ground.  Just enough room was left along the bottom for the medicine that was slid in each night.

Right on time, I heard the matching footsteps of the two nurses as they made their way down the walk.  They stopped before each cell, asked if everything was alright, then promptly passed along any prescribed medicine.  Occasionally, during some nights, you would hear an inmate demand medicine that he wasn’t prescribed.  Usually a quick ‘no’ would suffice, but sometimes the inmate wouldn’t let up.  The quick, heavy footfalls of a guard as he approached the cell would echo down the walk to calm the situation.  There had been a few times I had heard the door grate back open, then the demanding would abruptly be silenced.  I hated those nights.  Tonight, luckily, all was calm.

The nurses stopped in front of my cell.

“942B, is everything alright tonight?”

Not bothering to stand, I answered, “Everything is fine.  My parents are asleep.”

“Very well.”  With that, three small paper cups were slid under the door and the sound of the nurses moving on to the next cell disappeared into the night.

I picked up the cups and carefully lined them along the back of the sink.  My mother’s cup always had four pills in it.  My father’s held three.  Mine held only one.  They told me it was a vitamin supplement, something needed to keep me strong.  I didn’t really care what it was.  Filling the cup with water, I threw the pill in my mouth and chased it down with the warm liquid.

The buzz sounded once more.  This was the longest one.  It cut through the prison for a good minute, making sure that every inmate had a chance to hear it.  Then, as the last echoes of the buzz died out, the lights suddenly went dead.  In each cell a small light glowed near the door along the floor.  It cast eerie shadows along the walls of the cell that never moved or danced, the glow the only lighting we would have until five in the morning when they would snap all of the lights back on at once.

I blinked a few times, the darkness of the cell refusing to adjust to my eyes.  Finally giving up, I forced them wider and leaned against the sink.  My stomach still rolled with hunger.  I thought for a moment about taking a half of my father’s sandwich, but stopped myself as my hand hovered above the lid to his plate.  I knew he would wake up hungry.  I didn’t want to be the one to cause that hunger to stay, again.

I slid my hand up onto the top bunk, feeling around until my fingers found the binding of my notebook.  Pulling it down, I moved to sit near the glowing light on the floor.  I quickly tore out a page, closed the book and laid the page down on the cover.  Pulling my shoes off, I carefully unstrung the shoelaces, knotting them together to make one long rope.

What is blue?

I scribbled on the paper.  Folding it until it wouldn’t bend anymore, I tied the end of my shoelace rope around the paper ball and pulled it tight, then flattened myself to the ground. Sprawled out on my stomach, I laid my face close to the opening at the bottom of the door, and waited.

The sound of a night patrol’s boots thumped past.  I waited until it died into the distance, then slid my hand under the door.  Holding tightly onto the end of the shoelace, I flicked my wrist, throwing the paper bundle far to the left.  I could hear it as it hit the ground, barely audible above the rumble of whispers bouncing down the walk.

My eyes closed, enjoying the coolness of the floor against my cheek.  Time passed.  I could feel my fingers cramping as they held tightly onto my end of the shoelace.  It was almost time to give up for the night.  Just as I propped myself up onto my elbows, the shoelace suddenly tugged.

A smile spread on my lips.  I yanked on the shoelace, reeling it back into my cell, then sat up.  The note crinkled as I unfolded it.  I glanced to my parents, but they hadn’t even stirred.  Smiling again, I leaned against the dim light and started to read.

Blue is water.  Isn’t it a bit early to be fishing?

My smile broadened.

Fishing was the one way to have hidden conversations with the other inmates, while never having to know exactly who you were writing to.  Using my shoelace as the fishing line and the note as the bait, I had slowly captured and gotten to know the inmates along my walk.  A few nights every week, I fished.  In my own way I had found how to be the silent socialite of the prison.

Even in my extreme anti-social style, I couldn’t resist fishing.

One night, about a year ago, I had tossed my note to the left and gotten a response almost immediately.  His name was Orrin.  I never asked for his state assigned last name, and he never had given it to me.  The inmate directly to the left of our cell, along with the one just past him, were both male.  I had no idea which one was Orrin.  He said he was old enough to be my father, which didn’t help slim down the choices.  To be honest, I didn’t even care.  Orrin was good company to fish with.

Every time I threw a note his way, I would always start it with a simple question.  One that any other inmate would either disregard or try too hard to answer.  Orrin’s answers were always obvious.  I never doubted it was he who had answered.

Can’t sleep.  Have you met the new GF?

I tossed the note and waited.  It didn’t take long to feel the tug this time.

I have.  He has worked here for some time.  Don’t know why he wanted to transfer to the day watch though.  Used to be in charge higher up in Spokane.

I pursed my lips, then scribbled back.

He wanted to be here?  Something must be wrong with him.

I could hear a low chuckle down the walk.  Smiling to myself, I waited for the tug.

That’s what I heard. Guessing they think the Lifers are more fun to annoy.  Since we aren’t going anywhere. Except up.

I never liked it when Orrin wrote like that.  He was convinced that the only way out of floor B, out of Spokane, was death.  I had tried a few times in the past to encourage him to file for parole.  Orrin always said no, and left it simply at that.

Orrin, why are you here?

I paused a moment before tossing the note out the door.

There was an unspoken rule here.  You didn’t ask about the crimes that had locked the people in.  Someone could seem like the world’s most decent human being.  You would sit there and wonder why they ever found themselves locked away inside this place.  Then, when you found out the reason, you would want to smash their skulls in for the atrocities they had committed.

It was better to know the person that was locked in now, not the person they had been before.  I had never even asked my own parents what their crime had been.

It was a long time before the shoelace tugged again.

Do you believe that not everyone in here is guilty, Millie?

I don’t know, I wrote back.

I was living in a small town.  Orrin wrote.  Had a beautiful wife and two little boys.  Then some bad things started to happen in the town.  People were being killed, brutally.  There was one man who I had said some nasty stuff about, who later turned up dead.  Everyone decided then and there that I was the murderer.

I had no alibi, so they took me in.  And that was the end of it.  They stopped looking for the killer, decided it easier to declare that I was him because of some careless things I had said.  I was sentenced, and locked away without a second glance.  That is why I am here.

Do you believe me?

I read the note over again, taking in everything he had carefully written.  His handwriting was perfect, curved and clear.  Every “i” was dotted.  Every single “t” perfectly crossed.  Something in the back of my mind told me to not believe him.  There had to be a reason why the Nation had sentenced him.  They wouldn’t have locked him away if he were innocent.  There was always a reason.

I waited for the butterflies to take me over.  For the fog to lick at my vision and dull my thoughts.  Nothing happened.  As I stared at his writing, I only felt my steady heart beat and heard my even breaths.

I believed him.  I wanted to believe him.  For some reason, I needed to.

Of course I do, Orrin. I wrote.

Remember that when you are out, Millie.  Orrin wrote back.  Watch what you say.  I never want to see you again.

A small smile spread on my lips.  Carefully, in the clearest handwriting I could muster, I wrote back.

I never want to see you again either.

4

The lights flashed on.  I jerked my hand over my eyes, groaning at the pain of the sudden flood of light.  Outside my cell I could hear similar responses as the declaration of day jostled everyone awake.

Rolling to my side, I looked down over the edge of the bunk.  Both of my parents’ plates were sitting on the floor, the lids pulled off and the food gone.  Letting my head hang lower, I saw they had both already left for the day.  My mother always had her appointments early in the morning.  Usually the sound of the doors sliding open woke me up, but I must have slept deep enough to stay in my dead dreams, for once.

My body hurt.  I could see the pad had completely flattened where my body had slept for the night.  I stretched my stiff arms above my head and brushed my fingers against the low ceiling.  Shaking my legs out, I dropped to the ground, landing hard on the cement.  Pain shot up my legs, but I just shook it off.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the pile of clothes folded messily on the shelf, the unmistakable smell of dirty socks and sweat saturating the air of the small cell.  Sighing, I walked over to my parents’ flat bed and pulled one of the pillowcases off the thin pillow.  I quickly shoved all of the dirty clothes into the case then twisted it shut as I made my way out of the cell.

Others were walking down the walkway, obviously still half awake as their feet shuffled and dragged them along.  I saw a few in the passing crowd carrying pillowcases heavy with clothes.  I could smell their sweat, already permeating the morning air.  At the last minute, I remembered my towel.  Ducking back into the cell, I snatched it from the shelf, then joined the crowd as it moved toward the single doorway at the end of the walkway.  Below and above me I could hear the same hustle of sleepy footsteps.

The prison was awake.

I made my way to the women’s showers.  It was still early enough that the line hadn’t grown too long.  I quickly walked in, making my way back to one of the changing stations closest to the shower stalls.  Shoving the pillowcase into the cubby hole, I peeled off my clothes and folded them neatly then placed them on top of my little pile.  They smelled of sweat and dirt, but would have to wait to be washed until the next laundry day.

I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around my naked body, shivering in the morning air.  They never seemed to keep any room warm enough here.  Even in the dead of summer, a strange chill hung in every corner of the prison.

A female guard waited at the entrance to the showers.  Opening my towel, I spun in a circle.  She half watched, obviously not wanting to be on naked shower duty.  After proving that I hadn’t tried to sneak anything in with me, she let me pass.  I hurried to the back stall and hung my towel on the small hook.  It always ended up damp by the end of the shower.  At least in the very back of the shower room the towel avoided most of the water as it danced off of the bodies and walls.

I cranked on the water then braced myself.  The water gushed out.  It hit my skin hard, already warm as it beat into my tightened muscles.  Most times the water shot out so hot it felt as if it had come straight from the boiler, heated in Hell.  Other times it was ice cold, instantly locking your body up as it froze every inch of your exposed flesh.  It was rare to have it come out warm in the shower.  Just warm.  Relaxing, I let a smile spread on my face as the water covered me.

The guard impatiently cleared her throat.  Cracking my eyes open, I saw she was looking directly at me, a scowl on her thin face. I snapped out of it, grabbing the soap and quickly rubbing it all over my body and through my short hair.  I hated my hair.  Most women in here kept their hair short.  It was easier to manage and harder to pull.  Even though it seemed practical, I hated how short the barber always cropped it.  It barely reached my chin, and rarely stayed when I tucked it behind my ears.

I rinsed off, then wrapped the damp towel around myself and scurried back to my cubby.  Modesty wasn’t a luxury.  Naked women stood around me, some waiting in line, others drying themselves off.  A few younger girls stood nervously away from the others, casting their eyes down as they tried to avoid the crowd of nakedness that pressed around them.

I toweled off, then threw my dirty clothes back on and shoved the towel inside the bag.  Without pausing a moment longer, I made my way through the crowd and out the door.

The Commons already teemed with inmates, most leaning against walls or slumped in chairs as they waited for their assignments for the day.  There had once been a time when there were limits on how large a gathering could get before a guard rushed in to break it up, or site them for an unauthorized assembly.  In the last few years, crowds had been getting larger, and the guards rarely broke them up.  It was pointless.  There were too many people.  The doorway across the room finally came into view, and I ducked inside.

Just past the door a narrow staircase shot down into the shadows below.  Its steps were cracked from years of disrepair.  The handrail, always grimy from the hundreds of unwashed hands that grasped it each day, hung from the dark wall.  I carefully positioned myself in the middle of the stairs and made my way down.

Nearing the bottom, I could hear the bustle of the laundry room.  I pulled open the door and was instantly overcome with the distinct smell of soap and wet clothes.  The room was already packed with people, most of them women, casually talking as they scrubbed clothes in the large bins full of water or waited in line to use the worn-out drying machines that always left your garments damp.

Nodding politely at the few women who smiled limply at me, I pushed through to a free spot along one of the bins.  Here in the washroom, women who would usually glare and yell always seemed to mellow down.  It was as if the act of scrubbing and washing the dirty clothes brought back traditions of old, and the women escaped into those adopted memories.  The laundry room was one of the only places inside Spokane where you could hear women laugh and sing, with no intermission of anger.

A woman, her face blank as if lost in another dream, mindlessly passed me a bar of soap then went back to her slow rhythmic scrubbing.  I watched a moment as she scrubbed over and over at a spot on the white shirt in her hands.  I couldn’t see anything on it, but she didn’t seem to notice as she bore her weight into scrubbing.

Pulling a shirt out of my pillowcase, I dunked it in the warm water and quickly rubbed the soap through it.  I hated this soap.  The smell stung my nose, and it always left my hands red and chapped.  Over the years I had become the only one in my family who remembered to wash our laundry.  Occasionally my mother would seem to snap out of her strange world, gather everything, and wash it until it shone.  But those days were getting fewer and fewer.  If it weren’t for me, our clothes would be stiff with stink.  Gritting my teeth, I rubbed the soap harder into the dirty shirt.

I let my mind relax, settling into the mindless task of dunking the clothes: rubbing the rank soap across their surface, scrubbing, then squeezing out as much of the soap as I could manage before draping them in a pile on the edge of the bin.  If I made it a point to not think, this chore didn’t seem too tedious.  I had heard there were worse assignments out there.  I never bothered to ask what they might be.  I didn’t want to find out what could be worse than soap that rubbed your flesh off and burned your sense of smell until tears stung your eyes.

Finally ringing out the last sock, I quickly dunked the pillowcase into the sudsy water, scrubbed it, then gathered the soaking pile in my arms and hurried to join the line for the drying machines.

The machines were ancient.  A single row of them lined one wall, their circular metal doors rusted and cracking.  As they spun, they banged against each other and the wall, giving the laundry room a steady washing rhythm that would continue the entire day.  The beat of the machines sounded like the heart of the prison, steadily keeping it alive with every thud.

The line inched forward, one inmate at a time being allowed to find a free machine and throw their contents inside to hopefully dry.  My pile of wet clothes pressed against my body.  I could feel the dampness saturating my still dirty set of clothes that I wore.  A shiver ran down my body, the air suddenly feeling even colder as I wrapped my arms around my wet load of worn laundry.

My turn finally came.  A guard standing near the front of the line pulled out the small device and scanned my bracelet.  After it lightly beeped, he waved his hand, motioning me forward.  I ducked my head and scurried to a machine, its rusted door still swinging from the last load that had been pulled out.

Throwing my armload in, I slammed the door shut and pressed my thumb down hard on the button.  The machine seemed to gag, then slowly spun up until it joined the others in beating itself against the wall.  I watched intently as my load of clothes began its spin behind the thick glass.

The smell of smoke drifted into my nose.  Startled, I jerked my eyes from the load and looked around.  Down the row, a line of smoke flowed out of a machine.  The inmate standing in front of it started to panic, her eyes wide as she watched more and more smoke billow out.  Desperately she yanked on the handle of the door, but it didn’t even budge, locked shut in mid-cycle.

The guard who had scanned my bracelet just a moment before pushed his way through the stunned crowd, shoving the woman aside to jam a key into a small hole hidden near the top of the drying machine.  The machine came to a dead halt.  Smoke streamed out of the cracks and joints, its mass seeming to groan in pain.  The guard yanked the door open.  As it swung on its rusty hinge, a large cloud of black smoke rolled out.

The guard reached in with one hand and shoveled out the contents of the dryer.  Everything was burned; the shirts a dark brown, the jeans patchy with ash.  The woman started to bawl as she watched all of her clothing hit the ground, completely useless.

“Another machine backfire,” the guard said into a small mouthpiece positioned on his shoulder.

“My… my clothes!” the woman sobbed.

The guard quickly scanned the woman’s bracelet, then checked the device.  “821A, you will be charged for a new reimbursement set of clothes and partial fixture of machine.”

“What?!” The woman’s eyes filled with more tears.  “It wasn’t my fault.  These machines break all the time.  You should be reimbursing me!”  Her head whipped around, taking in everyone who had frozen to watch.  “It wasn’t my fault!”

The guard let out a low chuckle.  “Nothing is ever anyone’s fault it seems.  But I guess you’re wrong, huh?  Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, Inmate.” He spat out the last word as if disgusted, then uttered a ‘clean this up’ and made his way back to the start of the line.

The woman, still sobbing, gathered her ruined clothes in her arms and backed away from the machine.  Smoke leaked out of it, curling into thin tendrils as it snaked its way toward the ceiling.  As the woman walked slowly past me, I could hear her mumbling incoherently under her shuddering breath.

My fingers twitched at my side.  I felt the urge to reach up and stroke her arm, to pat her back as she hurried past, anything.  Just like with the old woman the day before.  I lifted my hand.  Just as I moved to place it on the woman’s shoulder, a series of grumbled curse words escaped her mouth.  My hand fell to my side, my mouth slightly agape at the angry words that fell from her lips in a manic rush.

The woman disappeared into the crowd, a hiccup of a cry echoing behind her.

I turned back and intently watched my machine, terrified that I would see smoke pouring out.  My load still tumbled over and over, flecks of water splashing against the glass door.  I refused to pull my eyes off of the machine.

More and more machines had been breaking down lately.  Instead of ordering new ones, a mechanic would occasionally come down and slap the broken machine back together.  It always broke again.  I heard people muttering about where the replacement money was going, but I didn’t care.  All I cared about was that my clothing came out mostly dry and still intact.

The machine chirped once, then shut itself off.  I pulled the door open, relieved to smell the familiar aroma of dried soap.  Shoving the clothes into the still damp pillowcase, I threw it over my shoulder and hurried to the stairs.  Behind me I could still hear the sobbing of the destitute woman.

| | |

The cell was still empty when I got back.  Normally my parents were back, casually talking or napping the day away.  My father had a job in the mailroom, but it had been decreased to only two days a week.  It was strange to see the cell completely empty.

I dumped out the clothes onto the bottom bunk and loosely folded them, leaving out a clean set of clothing for myself.  Even though I had taken a shower that morning, I felt sticky and dirty.  Peeling the clothes off that I had been wearing for the last week didn’t help.  I wished I could go back and wash them.  But we were only allowed two laundry days a week.  The clothes would have to wait.

I shivered as I tugged the clean shirt on over my head.  It was still damp, the drying machine obviously petering on its last leg.  I silently thanked it for not burning my clothing.  The crying of the woman still rang painfully in my head.  Pulling on my worn jeans, stiff with dried soap, I wadded my dirty clothes into a tight ball and tucked them onto the bottom shelf.

Finally feeling clean, or as clean as I could ever feel, I climbed up onto my bunk and pulled out my notebook, flipping to the back.  Conversations with varying inmates were stacked in a pile, the pages crumpled from the many times they had been folded and unfolded.  I pulled out the most recent page, looking at the careful curves of Orrin’s writing.  Whenever he wanted me to pay more attention to something he wrote, he wrote in perfect penmanship.  The letters arched and curved at just the right places.  My writing next to his was ugly, a foreign language.

I found the yellow paper from my last visit with Dr. Eriks and carefully tucked it in behind my conversation with Orrin.  My eyes grazed the words, still trying to find what seemed wrong with them.  Shaking my head, I closed the notebook and sat back against the wall.

The prison was fully awake now.

I could hear the nonstop chatter of inmates.  The shuffle of worn out shoes. The occasional angry shout.  I let my eyes shut, the sounds enveloping me.  Someone shouted louder, their voice full of anger.  I could hear a body slam into something solid.  The gasps of people standing by.  Then, right on cue, the heavy thump of boots as the guards ran to join the fight.  Inmates shouted, some cheering on the fighters, some scared and trying to get away from the crowd.  Then suddenly it fell quiet, everything quieting back to the shuffle and murmur of the usual rhythm.

This was the music my life consisted of.  The beat of the laundry room, the strum of the shuffling feet, the occasional solo of a frenzied fight, always ending with the finale buzz declaring lights out.  I had only heard true music a handful of times in my life.  It was beautiful.  Every note was clear and lacking chaos.

I longed to hear it more, but in Spokane, only the privileged got any kind of actual music.  I didn’t have a job, and my parents rarely worked.  This meant we had no points, and no special treatment.  The only music I was allowed were the daily songs of the prison walk.

My mind drifted more.

I felt my lips vibrating as they hummed an uneven rhythm that swayed and moved with the sounds of the prison.  Occasionally a small snatch of one of the unnamed random songs I had heard before mixed in, giving my melody a strange, haunting sound.  I let a small smile spread on my lips.  It felt good to be alone in the cell.  No chattering.  No need to check in and make sure my mother was clean or my father awake.

In my mind I watched as a green field took form.  I let myself fall into the daydream.  The field was one I had seen many times in my schoolbooks.  Rolling hills, green with occasional patches of white flowers.  The sky blue with light fluffy clouds floating by.  I could hear the songs of the birds in the distance.  The lap of unseen water.

Laying down in the grass, I let the sun bake my soft skin.  My clothes were clean, smelling of flowers instead of the usual stink of rank soap and dirty sweat.  No one was around.  Aside from the crash of the waters and the singing of the birds, I was completely alone.  My smile grew wider.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped me from my day-dreaming.  Blinking my eyes open, I leaned forward and looked down at the open cell door.  Carl GF4 leaned in the opening, his arms folded across his uniform chest, a sly grin smugly spread on his face.  From how settled he looked against the door frame, he must have been standing there for longer than I dared to think.

“Nice humming,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

I licked my lips, the heated flush of embarrassment racing to my face.

“What song was it?” he asked, taking a step inside.

“It was… it was nothing.  I didn’t know I was humming.”

Carl chuckled, his eyes sweeping the cell.  “Nice and tidy in here.  Good to see.”

“Uh… thanks.”  My mind reeled, wondering why he was here.  Wondering, more so, why he was talking to me.

“I hear you turn eighteen in a few days.”  Carl stepped back to lean in the doorway again.  “How does it feel?”

“Feel?”

“You know.  Finally getting away from the crazies.”  He swept his eyes around the cell.  “Your parents.”

A sudden flush of anger swelled in my chest.  Forcing it down, I licked my lips again and looked away.  “I haven’t thought much about it.”

“Hm,” Carl said, humor hinting his voice.  Lifting my eyes, I saw him taking me in.  He smiled as my eyes met his, a silent chuckle evident on his lips.  “I came to get you.  Dr. Eriks says you have a meeting.”

I knew I didn’t.  My meeting wasn’t for another two days.  Worried I had noted it wrong, I grabbed my notebook and flipped it open to the page where I jotted my daily schedules.

“It’s not in there,” he said.  “She is changing some of the releasing policies.  Guess you are one of the lucky first for her new interviews.”

“Oh,” I said softly.

Climbing down from the bunk, I swept my hands over my jeans, flattening out the wrinkles.  I walked out of the cell, pushing quickly past Carl.  His body remained firm and unmoving.

“I will escort you,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Something fluttered angrily in my stomach.

“No.”  Catching myself, I softened my tone.  “I go there every week.  I know the way.  It’s… it’s ok.  Thank you for getting me, sir.”

Carl opened his mouth as if ready to say something, then slowly pulled it closed.  He was close enough that I could hear the clink of his teeth as they met.  He let his eyes flick down me again, then nodded.  “Alright, Millie.”  His voice came out low, almost seductive.  “Have a good day then.”

Turning, he walked away, occasionally glancing into an open cell as he passed.  I watched him a moment, my mouth dry and my stomach nervously flipping.  Fog threatened my mind.  Blinking madly, I forced it away, then turned and hurried down the hall.

I didn’t like how Carl had looked at me.  Each time his eyes scanned my body, I felt naked and vulnerable.  I didn’t like the sly smile that crossed his face, covering whatever thoughts were hidden behind it.  This new guard was strange, different from all the others I had known my entire life.

Guards were paid to watch us.  Their job was to keep us in check and to keep order.  I had never second-guessed their gazes or questions.  For eighteen years, I had never felt my stomach tighten and body jitter the way it did when Carl watched me.  I felt as if I should have ducked into my bunk and hid under my blanket like I used to when I was little and a fight broke out in the dark night.

There was something else.

Something my mind fought to place as I made my way down the hallways towards Dr. Eriks’ office.  I barely noticed when I had to pause to let a guard scan my bracelet, or when I had to skirt around the random groupings of inmates.  There was something more than how Carl had looked at me, or how he had taken the time to talk to me, that made me this jumpy and nervous.

As I rounded the last corner and approached the desk of Dr. Eriks’ secretary, it finally hit me.  Guards always addressed us by our cell number.  That was all we were to them: inmates.  Numbers.

It wasn’t strange that Carl knew my name.  It was printed on all my paperwork, even on my bracelet that I now nervously spun around my wrist.  But guards rarely remembered more than our numbered last names.  Carl knew my first name.  And he had used it without hesitation.  That was what sent the shivers racing one after another down my back.

He had spoken to me like an old friend.  As if he knew me.

And something inside me did not like that.  At all.

5

The secretary glanced up at me.  Her dull hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few stray strands curling around her lean face.  Nodding toward a chair, she let her eyes drift back to the old book propped up in front of her on the worn wooden desk.

I moved toward the chair, letting my weight drag me down onto its cold metal seat.  The realization that Carl GF4 had called me by my name really shook me.  I couldn’t stop the nauseous twist of my stomach, the shake that had taken over my usually steady hands.  Something about me felt invaded.  Most things were not private here.  We showered together.  Ate together. Died together.  But few things, like our names, were rarely shared.

Why did he even bother with knowing mine?

My thoughts stopped as I saw the door crack open.  The secretary glanced up, then lazily said the standard “Dr. Eriks is ready to see you now” before gluing her eyes back to the book in front of her nose.

Standing, I brushed my jeans smooth again, then moved to push the door open.  The room sat dim and cold, as usual.  One wall held a wooden bookshelf, full of books I had never been allowed to look at.  There was no window.  Just a framed painting of dull swirled colors hanging alone on the gray wall.  A desk rested against the last wall, everything on it neatly organized in perfect stacks.  Even the pens were laid in order, perfectly lined and ready to grab at any needed time.

Dr. Eriks sat in her usual chair, her legs neatly crossed.  Her hair was in a perfect bun as always, her glasses perched carefully on her nose.  I could see the lines spraying out around her pursed lips from across the room.

There were three chairs lined up in front of her.  To my shock, I saw the backs of two other people sitting nervously in the chairs.  As I stepped closer, I felt my breath catch in my throat.  I knew the balding patch on the back of the man’s head.  The messy, unwashed mane of hair on the fidgeting woman.

Snapping my eyes up to Dr. Eriks, I let my voice shoot out, more forceful than I had ever let it be in this office.  “What are my parent’s doing here?” I demanded.

Dr. Eriks barely reacted to my question.  Motioning one hand toward the empty chair, she said evenly, “Have a seat, Millie.”

I sat down, looking over at my parents.  They both sat with their hands clenched tightly in their laps.  I could see my mother’s leg shaking.  My father kept his eyes glued to his worn sneakers.  Looking up, my mother offered me a weak smile.

“As you can see, Millie, we are changing some procedures.  We have found that,” Dr. Eriks paused to clear her throat, “that those born in the incarcerated world, have an unusually harder time adjusting to true life.  I am attempting to weed out those issues.  We want you to be an asset to the Nation.  You are the good, the strong.”

I silently recited the last sentence with her.  Dr. Eriks repeated it often to me I had memorized it.  Nodding slightly, I felt my eyes fasten themselves to the lines around her mouth.

“Part of the change is doing one of your last sessions with the parental units present.  I would like to better know your relationship with them.  Ask them some questions.  I need to observe items that, well, I was never able to get you to open up about before.  We need to be fully honest to make our Nation strong, Millie.”  Dr. Eriks settled back in her seat, opening the notepad and setting it neatly on her lap.  “Shall we begin?”

I nodded.

“Millie, have you been keeping up your journal?”

I thought back to the pages still to be written in.  The moments that my pencil froze as it hit paper.  I hadn’t written a word in the journal for months now, aside from my daily schedules.  I was about to admit to that, when the image of the small stack of fishing papers appeared in my head.

“I have,” I said.

Dr. Eriks watched me a moment, then forced a small nod.  “Very good.  It is important to never keep your issues locked inside.  Unaddressed problems can lead to undesired outcomes.  Isn’t that right, Leann?”

The sound of my mother’s name shocked me.  I had rarely heard her first name used.  Even my father addressed her simply as ‘Mom.’  Letting my eyes trail over to her now, I could see her nodding.

“Tell me, Millie, are you looking forward to your release?” Dr. Eriks asked.

My tongue suddenly felt thick and dry.  “I… I don’t know.”

“Why are you unsure?”

The words of my journal entry appeared in my mind.  I had read them over and over, trying to find what was wrong.  Trying to find what I was afraid to admit.  The words seemed to slow, allowing me finally to see what they were actually saying.

And I dread it with every fiber in my body.

I looked over at my huddled parents, then in a weak voice answered, “There will be no one left to take care of my parents.”  I could feel the choke of a sob softly escape my mother’s lips.  “If I am not here −”

“The Nation takes care of all of its convicts, Millie.” Dr. Eriks voice cut into me.

“I know.  But… my parents… they need me.  For all the small things, you know?  I just, I don’t know, I just don’t want them to…”

I didn’t add the other reason.  The fear that I knew nothing outside these walls.  I had learned the history, I knew the laws.  I knew the prison rules.  Outside these walls though, I didn’t know that life.  I didn’t know its rules.

Dr. Eriks leaned back, locking her fingers together in front of her almost flat chest.  I felt my voice trail out as I watched her.  A strange expression crossed her face.  It almost seemed… smug.

“Leann,” she said, her voice clipped and clear, “I think it is time you tell your daughter why you are here.”

My heart felt as if it had stopped.  I had never been able to bring myself to ask my parents what crime had sentenced them to life in Spokane.  Every time I let the question form on my lips, I found myself fearing I would hate them after the truth was finally told.  That I would see the true monsters they were, the true criminals who deserved this punishment.  I knew my parents were odd.  But in my own strange way, I did love them.  Would that love leave once I knew the truth?

My mother nodded again, then in a soft voice, barely audible, started.  “There were three men.  I didn’t like them.  So, I jumped them. Knocked one out. The second I stabbed with a knife. Over. And over.”  My mother’s eyes were glued to her shaking hands.  “It… it felt so good.  Over.  And over.”

I could hear the crack in her voice.  She paused a moment, then went on.  “I couldn’t stop stabbing.  I wanted to keep stabbing.”

“And the third man?” Dr. Eriks asked, her voice cool and expecting.

My mother glanced at my father, then looked back to her hands.  “The third man… the third died.  Your father killed him.  With his hands.”

She started to rock back and forth, muttering unknown words under her breath.  I couldn’t breathe.  The words sat on the surface, trying hard to sink in as I battled to fight them away.  I let my dry eyes trail over to my father.  I searched his face for some hint of denial.  There was only pain.  A tear trailed down his unshaved face.

Dr. Eriks bore her dull eyes into my mother, the hint of a satisfied grin on her tight face.  “And do you regret it at all, Leann?  Would you take it back?”

My mother shook her head, her hands shaking in her lap.  Though her body shook, her voice came out firm and angry.  “No.”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the shake that started to grow inside.  Dr. Eriks had always taught me that I needed to be the good and the strong.  The Nation needed me.  Criminals were what destroyed it, criminals like my parents, and it needed the good to make it strong once again.

At that moment, I didn’t feel strong at all.

My mother’s words still repeated over and over in my mind.  I didn’t want to believe them.  I couldn’t see my gentle mother stabbing a man until he was dead.  I couldn’t let myself accept that she enjoyed it.  I couldn’t picture my shadow of a father strangling a man with his own hands.  But now, as I let my eyes settle on my parents, that was the only picture that formed in my racing mind.  My parents were gone.

I felt Dr. Eriks watching me, a small smile spread on her thin lips.  She looked almost amused.  At that moment, I hated her.

“Is it true?” I begged, hoping it was a lie, a test of some twisted sort.

Lifting her chin, my mother tightened her jaw and fastened her eyes to the ceiling.  I could see the glaze threatening to engulf her.  Reaching over, my father laid a hand gently on her shoulder.  In a soft voice, cracking with tears, he answered with the two words I did not want to hear.  “It is.”

“Why?” I whispered.

My mother let her eyes finally meet mine.  I could see the glaze taking her over.  “Because,” she said, her voice slightly shaking.  “I wanted to.  I needed to.  I didn’t like them.  I would have killed the third man too, if he hadn’t woken back up and ran away.”  A small smile curled on her lips a moment, then disappeared as she tore her eyes from mine and leaned her head back again, staring intently at the ceiling.

Nausea boiled through me.  The taste of bile rose in my throat and my vision started to blur.  I suddenly felt hot.  As if someone had lit me on fire then sat back to laugh as I flailed, trying to survive the murderous heat.

“Millie, why do you look angry?”

I slowly rolled my eyes to Dr. Eriks, the hint of a smile still present on her ugly face.  I couldn’t form words.  For some reason, I had always hoped that my parents were here by mistake.  Like Orrin. I had hoped they had been wrongly charged and convicted and someday the truth would let out.  Then we would all be set free, finally given the chance to live a normal life for the Nation.

That day disappeared before my eyes.

“Millie, do you feel prepared to be released?” Dr. Eriks voice grated at me.  It cut through me, the bile still rising in my dry throat.

I let my eyes look back at my parents.  My father’s eyes were red, his cheeks shining from the tears that now dried in the graying stubble.  My mother still had her eyes glued to the ceiling, her body rocking back and forth.  I could see her lips moving, muttering something over and over.  In the silence of the room, the words floated towards me.

“My baby. My little baby.”

Feeling the heat rise, I turned back to Dr. Eriks.  “I am ready.”

“Very good,” she clipped, then let the room fall back to silence as she scribbled notes into her book.

I could see the fog drifting into my vision.  My mind started to feel heavy and thick.  Instead of fighting it, I welcomed it.  I let the fog cover the images that still re-enacted before my tired eyes.  The final glimpse of my mother stabbing the man, a smile on her face, faded to nothing as the fog took over.  I knew I still sat in the chair.  I could feel it firmly holding me to my existence.  But my mind, my memories, were now filled with my only release.

I slowly became aware of the creak of my parent’s chairs as they rose to leave.  I could hear their footsteps as they moved toward the door, the creak as the door opened, the pause as they both waited for something, then reluctantly disappeared.

“…you can leave now.” Dr. Eriks’ voice bled into my head, nagging and bored.

Without looking at her, I stood and made my way to the door.  I felt strange.  As if I had no true tie to this place I had called home my entire life.  I floated in a numbing limbo, hiding from the hate and questions that hid in the dark corners of my mind.

As soon as I reached the door, I could feel my stomach twist sharply, bile suddenly shooting into my mouth.  Gagging, I ran for the small trashcan that the secretary always kept empty next to her desk.  My body heaved, emptying the scarce contents of what they called a breakfast into the bottom of the can.

I could hear the protest of the secretary, but ignored it.  I didn’t care.  Heaving again, I fell on my knees and watched the swirls of liquid in the bottom of the now soiled can.  I could feel the heat from the vomit drift up to my face, carrying the strong reek of bile and regurgitated food.

Before I could heave again, I pulled my head back and wiped the corner of my mouth with a shaking finger.  The secretary stared at me in sheer disgust.  I tried to utter an apology, but my throat was too raw.

Please, I thought, please stop looking at me like I am a monster too.  I could feel my face burning in embarrassment, the smell inside the can reminding me of what I had just done.

The secretary’s face strangely softened.  Spinning in her chair, she grabbed something, then stood and moved around the desk to bend down next to me.

I realized she was holding out a thin paper tissue and a small cup of water.  My hands shook as I took them from her, gratefully swishing my mouth with the cool water.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said in a hushed voice.  “Not the first or the last time that will happen.  Dr. Eriks has… she has a way with people.”

I wiped my mouth with the tissue, then let it drop into the trash can.  Drinking the last gulp of water, I placed the plastic cup back into the secretary’s waiting hand.  “Thank you,” I managed, my voice coming out tired and rough.

“Here’s a mint.  Don’t want to smell like puke all day.”  I could feel one hand softly rest on my back.  The other held out a small mint, its surface white and speckled with blue.  Placing it in my mouth, I felt the rush of spearmint spread over my tongue.  “You will be alright.  I’m sure of it.”

Someone approached from down the hall.  The secretary glanced up for a moment before turning back to me.  “Here, I called someone to escort you back.” The secretary held out a hand and helped me back up to me feet.  I wobbled slightly, her hand on my back holding me upright until I had control of my balance again.  “You know.  Until you are steady.  Take it easy, okay?”

I nodded, confused at the sudden kindness of this secretary who had all but ignored me for years.  I self-consciously brushed my jeans smooth as I watched her return to her seat.  She didn’t look at me.  She only sighed, then picked up the used book and flipped it back open.  It was as if she had never moved.

As I turned, I saw Carl standing in the center of the hallway, a small smile on his face.  “Intense session?” he asked.

“You could say that.”  I started to walk, careful to not bump into him.  He quickly spun and joined me.  I could feel his body a mere inch away, the heat threatening to brush against me at any moment.  “I’m okay.  You don’t need to escort me.”

“I think I do,” he said, his voice closer to me than I liked.

The hallway had more people in it than before.  It had to be almost noon now.  It was the time of day when inmates flooded the offices for their appointments and treatments.  They walked in both directions, some disappearing into random doors while others appeared and joined the lines of white t-shirts.  I melted into the line, Carl still close to my side.

“Three more days I hear.”

“Yeah.”

“Excited?”

The image of my mother briefly flashed before my eyes.  Blinking it away, I quickly answered, “More like ready.”

Carl chuckled.  Something in me flared.  I didn’t like how he kept staring at me.  How he seemed to know too much about me.  How he kept grinning and chuckling, as if I were some cute form of entertainment for him.  I tried to speed up my pace, but the crowd in front of me blocked my path, keeping Carl glued to my side.

“You know, you can get a job in here.”

I almost laughed.  “Why would I want to work in here?”

“Oh trust me, there are perks.”  Carl scanned the crowd around him, his hand resting lightly on the holstered gun.  “You don’t have to work in the blocks.  There are office jobs.  Higher up.”

“Isn’t that where you worked?”

Carl turned his eyes to me, the hint of alarm flashing on his face before it was covered with his usual coolness.  “I got bored.  There is more incentive down here.  For me.  But for you…” He scanned me again with those eyes.  I suddenly felt naked and vulnerable.  “There are many positions that would work for you.”

Wrapping my arms tightly around myself, I turned my head forward, focusing on the crowd ahead.  I wished it would move faster.  It seemed like the harder I wished, the more it slowed. I could feel Carl watching me, his eyes searing me with their mocking stare.

“I think it would be good for you,” he said.  I didn’t answer, keeping my eyes fastened ahead.  “I think you should take a job here.”

We finally got to the walkway for my block.  The crowd dissipated enough to let me quicken my step.  Carl sped up, keeping up in stride with me.  He waved his hand slightly at the guard waiting by the door.  The guard, his hand gripping the scanning device, slowly nodded as we passed.

I began to count the cells, my eyes glued to the ground as I pushed toward to my cell.  I felt Carl’s hand grip my elbow, holding it in a firm clamp.  The urge to shake him off grew.  I tensed my arm, ready to pull it away from his grasp.  Then I remembered: Carl was a guard.  If I shook him off, he could take that as resistance to authority.  I couldn’t risk that.

Carl pulled me to a stop.  He stepped behind me, leaning his face close.  Keeping my eyes on my cell, now in view, I tried to ignore the feel of his breath on my neck.  “Why don’t you like me, Millie?”

“What?” I turned my face slightly to look at him.  He was leaning close, too close, his breath now on my cheek.  “You’re a GF.  A Guard.  I −”

“And?” His voice was soft and low, rolling into my ear.  I locked eyes with him a moment, his blue eyes chilling my soul.  They cut into me, demanding an answer.

I shrugged.

Carl glanced behind us a moment.  There were no other people on the walk, the path oddly empty.  Moving closer, I felt his body brush mine.  “I’m not all that bad, Millie.  You just need to let me show you that.”  Lifting a finger, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

I sucked in a deep breath and turned my head back toward my cell.  It called to me, offering me a momentary escape from Carl’s warm breath and piercing eyes.  I inched forward.  A couple, their chatter low and casual, passed on the walk.  Carl moved away a few feet, standing behind me where I couldn’t see him.

“I want to get to know you better,” Carl said, his voice rumbling in his throat.

It felt as if the very blood in my veins ran cold.  Even those passing nearby wouldn’t be able to hear him.  To them, he was just a guard assisting me into my cell.

Without lifting my eyes, I muttered a quick “Thank you” and stepped inside.  I didn’t want him to see the terror in my eyes or the sudden paleness of my face.

“Just think about it, Millie,” he said to my back.  I didn’t move.  After a time, I dared a glance over my shoulder.  I slowly turned my chin, my back still rigid, my feet still cemented to the ground.

Carl was gone.

6

I couldn’t sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother.  Blood dripped down her arms, her eyes strangely sharp and focused as the blade glinted in her trembling hands.  My eyes would snap open, then slowly drift back shut, only to see Carl’s grinning face, his focused eyes as they watched me.

I had already been lying in my bunk when my parents finally crept back into the cell that night.  Turning my head slightly, I saw my mother glance up at my bunk.  My father moved a step closer, his mouth opening as if he had something to say.  Then they both looked away together, my father’s shoulders sinking.

Dinner slid under the door.  I still didn’t move.  I listened as my parent’s ate in silence.  The crunch of the stale bread and slurp of applesauce didn’t entice me to ask for my plate.  After they rinsed the plates they crawled onto their thin mattress.  No one spoke the entire night.  Time passed and I could hear the light snore of my father as he finally drifted into sleep.  A soft, stifled sob escaped my mother, then she too fell silent as night claimed her.

The darkness of the cell didn’t help to ease my tense body.  As I lay on my back, staring into the dark ceiling above me, I felt completely alone.  It wasn’t the alone I longed for, the alone that I relished as I dreamed of the open field and blue skies.  I felt betrayed.  Forgotten.  All the years of my parents acting meek and gentle were washed away as I realized, somewhere inside of each of them, they truly were the monsters I had been in denial of.  They had killed people, and didn’t even regret it.

My eyes burned from staring at the ceiling.  I felt as if I were searching for a hole to suck me in and let my disappearance become complete.  It never happened.  I could still feel the hard bunk beneath me.  I could still hear the murmur of the block settling down for another night in this hell.

The final buzz of the night cut through the air and the door to the cell quickly snapped shut.

I gave up.

Quietly, I climbed down from the bunk.  I knew my parents were asleep, but I didn’t want to chance accidentally waking one up.  The idea of facing them right now made my stomach churn.

“942, is everything alright?”

I didn’t answer.  I could hear the shift of feet outside the cell door as the nurses moved closer.  Someone wrapped their knuckles on the metal.

“942B?”

“Yeah, we are fine.”  I glanced at my parents, their snores already rolling from their parted lips.  “Just tired.”

The pills, nestled in their small cups, were pushed under the door.  I could hear the nurses hurry away without another word.

Lying down next to the door, I let the soft glow of the light envelope me.  The coolness of the ground felt good on my almost fevered body.  I pushed the pill cups away, watching as one tipped over and spilled its two pills across the ground.  I didn’t move to clean it up.  Opening my notebook to a blank page, I froze, staring at its empty lines.  The idea of fishing tonight suddenly drained me of any energy I had thought I had.

Footsteps sounded down the walk.  I listened to the boots click on the ground, gradually growing louder as they neared my cell.  Then the footsteps stopped.  I froze, holding my breath.  It wasn’t against the rules to be out of bed after lights out.  That didn’t stop the guards from insisting though.

“Millie?”

Letting out my breath in a gush, I felt a smile spread on my face for the first time in hours.  “Jude GF4, is that you?” I whispered.

Out of the slit at the bottom of the door I saw a shadow move, then suddenly a face appeared.  He smiled at me, his white teeth glowing in the dim light.  “Hey there, jail-bird.”

Jude was a few years older than me.  He had been working night shift at the jail three years now, ever since they had allowed him to don the vest and boots.  I had never seen him work day.  And to be honest, I was happy about it.  Jude didn’t seem like a guard to me.  He always stopped near the cells where people cried inside, and asked if everything was alright. His smile was real, never full of a hidden agenda.

He was, in my own twisted, strange way, a friend.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

He settled himself on the ground outside my cell, looking in both directions first to make sure no one was approaching.  “Vacation.”  He smiled and winked.  “Just wait ‘till you get to discover that perk.”

I felt a laugh escape my lips.  It felt good to feel it tickle my throat and chest.  “Where did you go?”

“Absolutely nowhere.  I sat in my house, slept when I wanted to, ate when I wanted to, and read way too many books.  It was awesome.”  I didn’t admit it to Jude, but that sounded too much like heaven to me to believe it could be real.  “So, you ready for the big day?”

I rolled my eyes.  “I am ready for everyone to stop asking me that.”

“Well, you better bite the bullet and stay good.  I want to see you outside these walls, not locked in a cell of your own.”

I chuckled again.  “Hey, Jude…”  I stopped when I heard him laugh.  “Okay, really, why do you laugh every time I say that?”

“Right, I guess you don’t get the joke.  Here.”  I could hear Jude roll to his side for a moment, wrestling something from a pocket.  Flipping on his flashlight, I could suddenly see his face clearly.  His eyes were big, always seeming to smile, his face smooth and clean.  Shaggy light brown hair hung on his forehead, moving back and forth as he fidgeted with something in his hands.  With a smile on his face, he held a small ball out to me, a thin spike of metal sticking from its side.

I looked at it doubtfully.

“You put it in your ear, Millie.  It’s called a headphone.”  Taking it delicately between my thumb and index finger, I pulled it up and placed it in my ear.  It felt strange to lie so close to the opening of the door, the earphone in my ear, Jude’s face only inches away.  I watched as he shoved the other small headphone into his ear, then fiddled with a little box that he held in his hands.  I started to giggle at the sight of the metal spike sticking out from his ear, but stopped as my own ear suddenly vibrated.

Something crackled in my ear.  I heard Jude mumble something, the crackling getting louder as he fiddled with the small box.  “Scoot closer, Millie.  Reception in here sucks.”

I inched forward, my head pressing against the bottom of the door.

Snips of music suddenly vibrated in my ear.  A few seconds of a song played, then Jude hit a button and it skipped to another melody.  My eyes shot open, my mouth watering for the music to continue.  Finally a song started and Jude smiled, letting his thumb rest on the side of the little box.

“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad.  Sing this sad song and make it better…”

I could hear the sound of a man’s voice softly singing.  About Jude.  Amazed, I shoved the headphone deeper into my ear, taking in the words, the strum of music, the gentle rolling rhythms.  Rolling onto my back, I let the music envelope me and carry me away.  It was beautiful.

Jude didn’t move.  I could see him smiling, his eyes closed as he listened to the song.  It finally came to an end, the music fading out into nothingness.  Jude hit a button on the box and let his eyes open to look at me.

“The group is called The Beatles.  They were real big, popular, way back in the day.  My mom still loves them.  I guess her mom listened to them a whole heck of ton.  So when I was born… she named me Jude.”

I smiled.  “I like it.”  Catching myself, I licked my lips.  “The song.  I like the song.”

“Me too.” Jude rolled to his side, part of his face disappearing into the walkway’s shadows.  “Listening to it makes me think of her.  I miss her.”

“Where is she?” I asked tentatively.

“My mom? Last I heard, it was Canada.”

I could feel my body stiffen.  “Canada?”

Jude let out a chuckle, his face still hidden in the shadows.  I could see his eyes, the smile still glittering on their surface.  “A few years back, just before I joined up in the Guard Force, my family decided to leave.  They didn’t agree with the Nation.  With the Wall.

“I grew up in a beach house.”  Jude rolled back toward me.  His face lit up in the dim light.  “Well, it was supposed to be a beach house.  It was big, with a wrap-around porch, even a whale that spun up on the roof with the wind.  The Wall though… they had to build it right behind the house.  I could hear the beach every day, but I never saw it.  My mom said we had a door we could use to go to the beach… but it just seemed useless.  I guess it got useless enough that they decided to leave.”

Jude fiddled with the little music box, spinning it between his fingers.  I inched closer to the door again, the cool metal pressing against my forehead.  “Why didn’t you go with them?  Why didn’t you leave the Nation?”

“Couldn’t.”  Jude smiled at me.  “My family definitely had the money to get anywhere they wanted.  There was never an issue there.  But I have always had this feeling that I needed to do something.  I know I can do some good, I just need the chance.”

“So you became a GF?”

Jude chuckled.  I could see the shadow of his hand sweep across his face, as if painting his words in the air.  “Guard Force, prison number 4.  A permanent name change and a high risk job, with all the perks that low pay can offer you.”  I heard his hand drop back to his chest.  He let out a soft sigh.  “Can you believe that there are three more prisons out there in the Nation, just like this one?”

I didn’t answer.  Spokane was huge, with its constantly expanding walls and packed cells.  It was too hard to believe that there were three other prisons just like it.  Each corner of the Nation, stamped with a prison.  I slowly shook my head, trying to chase the thought away.  Something about it caused my stomach to tighten.

We lay on the ground in silence for a moment.  I could hear Jude’s steady breathing, his finger as it aimlessly tapped against his armored vest.

“Do you hear from them?  From your family?” I finally asked.

Jude didn’t respond right away.  I thought I could see a shadow pass over his face.  His lips seemed to tighten, his eyes blinking faster.  Then it passed as quickly as it had come.  “No.”

“What is the Wall like?”

Jude chuckled.  “It’s a wall, Millie.  A very large, very cold wall.  You can see it stretch into the distance in both directions, and you never see the beach. You just hear it.”  Jude let out a sigh, rolling onto his back.  His face disappeared into shadows.  “But it protects us.  Our great Nation built it to keep the good in and the evil out.  We are in our sanctuary.”

I recognized the words.  They were the exact words that were printed in all of my school books.  Dr. Eriks repeated those words to me in almost every session.  I felt my lips moving along with his, silently reciting them.

“We are the good,” Jude said softly.

“And the strong,” I whispered back, tears trying to sting my eyes.

Jude let out a sharp breath of air, then rolled back to face me.  “What were you going to ask me?  Before I interrupted you and corrupted you with music?”

I didn’t respond.

Jude spun the music player in his fingers again, then waved it at me.  He smiled.  “Want to hear more?”

“Really?”  My voice came out too loud and I quickly glanced up to my parents.  My mother stirred, then settled back into sleep.

Jude glanced at a watch on his wrist.  “Yeah, I have some time.  Think of it as an early birthday present.”  With that, he hit the button.  Music flooded into my ears again.  I laid my cheek on the ground, letting the sounds envelope me as my eyes closed.  I was floating, carried away once more by the music.

I could hear Jude humming along, and I let my voice quietly join his.  My smile felt warm and welcome. I couldn’t imagine it leaving my face in that moment, even if I wanted it to.  My eyes grew heavy, my breathing calming as the songs lulled me to sleep.  I didn’t feel it as Jude tugged the piece out of my ear and disappeared to rejoin his shift.  I didn’t notice the cold floor or the dim light.  In my head, I listened to the endless music as sleep finally claimed me and whisked me away into empty dreams.

| | |

The pool of drool under my cheek woke me up.  Blinking my eyes, I lifted my head and looked around.  Every inch of my body hurt.  Pulling myself up, I felt the pain in my hips flare from sleeping on the hard ground.  My hand wiped the drool off my cheek as I moved to stand in front of the metal mirror.

The music still played in my head.  I could see Jude smiling as his song played over and over.  I found myself wishing that more people could be like Jude.  Somehow, even though we hadn’t seen each other for weeks, he knew the exact gift to give me to chase away the nightmares that had stayed fastened before my eyes.

Shaking my head, I turned on the water and splashed my face.  The air was warm, leaving a sheen of sweat on my body regardless of the fact that I had been sleeping on the always cold ground.  The heat would be dying out soon, quickly erasing into a chill that blankets and jackets would never chase away as autumn crept in.  Wiping the water from my face, I crawled up onto my bunk and slumped against the wall.

The buzz cut through the air, announcing morning.  The doors suddenly clicked, then slid open.  I could hear my parents stirring in their bunk below me.  Before they stood, I quickly curled onto my side and closed my eyes into slits.  I could see my father stand and look at me, his shoulders sagging.  He moved to the sink and let the water run over his hands before splashing it on his scruffy face.

My mother stood, moved to the center of the room, then suddenly spun and looked straight at me.  I was sure she knew that I was awake.  I didn’t move. I slowed my breathing to even, long draws and stared at her out of the slits of my eyelids.  She just stood and watched me, a strange mix of confusion and pain painted across her tired face.

“942B,” a voice suddenly cut into the air.

Both of my parents jumped in fright, then quickly spun to face the guard who stood in the door.  I didn’t need to sit up to know who it was.  I could hear the smirk in his voice.  The pierce of his gaze sent strange shivers down my entire body.

“Alan 942B,” Carl continued.  “As of today, you have been reassigned to Assembly.  You will be expected to work five days per week.  If you accomplish this, your points will be increased per week as well.  You begin today.”

I could see my father nod, trying to mask the sudden confusion that flooded his face.  “Leann 942B, when not in your therapy course, classes, or on assigned cell rest, you have been assigned laundry room duty.  You begin today as well.”

My mother started to stammer, the words mixing together in confused chaos under her suddenly thick tongue.  My father stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.  As if drawing peace from his touch, my mother calmed and nodded.  “Thank you, GF,” she said, her voice lacking any of its often distant loftiness.  “It will be grand to work again.”

Carl chuckled.  “We must make sure that all of our inmates are properly taken care of.  As you both are.”  I could feel him look at me, his words slow and meaningful.  I swallowed the lump in my throat.  Clenching my eyes shut, I tried to keep my breathing even.  Dr. Eriks must have done this.  She was telling me that my parents weren’t my responsibility anymore.

I should have been relieved.  Instead, I suddenly felt sick.

I could hear the rustle of paper.  “Alan 942B, when your daughter wakes up from her sleep, would you please make sure she gets her agenda.  It is needed to prepare for the Finals.”

My father must have nodded his acknowledgement.  I could hear Carl’s clipped boot falls as he left the cell, joining with the morning flow.  Creeping my eyes open just enough to see my parents again through my hooded eyelashes, I watched as my father glanced over the paper then softly laid it on my bunk next to me.  His hand lingered a moment, then he curled his fingers up and pulled them away.

“Alan, Alan!  You got a new job!” my mother chirped happily.  In a very dramatic voice, her hand painting the word out in front of her in the air, she proudly announced, “Assembly.”

My father just nodded again, falling back into his usual shadow existence.  Smiling, my mother bounced past him and turned on the sink, splashing the water on her face and into her hair.  She paused to look at her face in the mirror, pulling back the wrinkles in her forehead with a finger.  “And it is about time they gave me a job.  I am just stir crazy!”

You are something crazy, I thought.

My mother tried to run her fingers through her matted hair.  Disgruntled, she let out a huff, her face wrinkling up like a child’s.  “I think I will go take a shower before my new day begins!” she chirped.

Grabbing her rarely used towel and a stack of clean clothing, which I had washed and folded and never been thanked for, she bounced toward the cell door.  Just before she passed through the door I saw her pause, her chin turning slightly towards me, her back stiff in anticipation.  I didn’t move.  Her shoulders sagged, a heavy sigh escaping through her lips.  She paused a moment longer, then suddenly perked up again and bounced away down the walk towards the showers.  My father grabbed his own stack of clothing and quickly followed, not even bothering to pause.

As soon as I was sure they were gone, I sat up and snatched the paper.  I wished that I didn’t feel so secluded from them.  I could feel myself longing for the ability to let the fog permanently take away the newfound memory of my mother’s unremorseful words.  But I couldn’t.  When I saw her face, I saw a murderer.

I blinked my eyes then looked down, forcing them to focus on the white page in my hands.

Discharge Procedures

Spokane

Nation Prison No.4

0500 – Lights on

0530 – Breakfast

0800 – Report to Exam Room

0830 – Begin Exam

0930 – End Exam, Dismiss

1300 – Report for Parole Board

TBD

Reminder: Exam will be delivered orally and
before the five listed parole board members.

Be prompt and prepared.

Warden Frank Binns

Honorable Judge Albert Wood

Reverend RolanSmitson

Dr. Marta Eriks

Oscar Ramos

I read the list again.  I hated seeing Dr. Eriks’ listed, but I knew there was no way they wouldn’t include her in this decision.  The Judge and Reverend meant nothing to me, and the Warden was to be expected.  I had no idea who Oscar Ramos was.

I had heard that many times they would pull in a random citizen from one of the nearby farms to sit in.  They thought it helped the inmate feel like the decision was fair, being as one of the five was of no power.  That must be who Oscar was.  A powerless nobody.

I laid the paper aside and pulled out my textbook.  With nothing better to do for the next two days, I figured I might as well brush up on the material that my brain needed to remember in order to pass.  Before standing in front of the parole board, it was required for all Jail Babies to take an oral exam.  I would need to prove that I had the history of our Nation drilled so well into my head that I could recite it in my sleep.

Which I could.

I cracked the book open and began to read the same pages I had been reading my entire life.

I knew every word before I even read it.  When I had turned six, this exact book had been assigned to me.  Ever since then, I had read it, cover to cover, at least twice a week.  The pages were full of the history of the great Nation.  Why the Nation had to do what it did to save itself.  How we needed to be the good, the strong, to bring the Nation back to its greatness.  I hated reading it.  The words were dull and boring, often repeating themselves every few pages.  But twice a week, while I still attended school, we had to sit quietly in the cold schoolroom and read the book cover to cover.

No one ever failed the exam.  And no Jail Baby was ever denied parole.

That knowledge only made me even more nervous.

The nerves I felt twisting in my stomach at the thought of the coming Exam wasn’t only fear of the test itself.  It was of the results.  How I did on the test would put a stamp on me.  It would decide where I would be placed after my release.  It decided who I would become.

If they liked me, and if I proved to be a promising citizen, then my life outside would be easy.  But if I got a bad label, one bad note, I would be watched.  I would be doubted.  And, as many of the younger convicts here, I would finally wind right back up where I did not want to be.  I had seen it happen, too many times.  I needed to prove that I was the good, the strong.

Realizing my mind had drifted, yet again, I slammed the book open until the spine cracked and started reading from the beginning.

7

I finished reading my textbook, then flipped it back to the first page and began again.  By now I wasn’t actually reading.  My mind had become a thick mess of solid fog.  I could feel my eyes swimming uselessly, barely focused on the pages.  They seemed to be moving more out of memorized motion than out of actual need.

Every time I heard someone pass outside my cell, my entire body tensed.  Their shuffled steps, soft from the same worn sneakers that we all wore, would finally calm me.  Then I would hear movement again, and tense back up.  I felt completely ridiculous.  I hadn’t been this uneasy since I was little.

I felt on edge, and no matter what I tried, I couldn’t seem to calm myself down.

A few times I heard the clipped, heavy steps of boots as the patrolling guards passed.  They wouldn’t even pause as they walked past my quiet cell.  As the day wore on, that changed.  Every time I heard the heavy boot falls, I would glance out of the corner of my eye at the open door.  The boots would slow as they approached my cell, pausing a fraction of a second in the light of the opening before moving on down the walk.

Each time, I could see Carl’s darkly smiling face take me in.

The boots approached again.  Even though I already knew who I would see, I still found my eyes trailing over to the door, my breath freezing in my lungs.

Carl stood in the door, grinning at me.

“Good day, Millie,” he said coolly.  “Studying hard?”

I didn’t answer.  Carl chuckled to himself, eyeing my entire cell before taking me in once more.  Nodding his head, he disappeared back to his patrol.

I licked my lips, forcing myself to take a deep breath.  My fingers shook as they turned the page of my worn book.  The next time the heavy sound of boots approached, I didn’t look up.

My parents didn’t reappear all day.  The glow of our window started to dim, and they still didn’t return.  I should have felt worried.  I knew I should have been peeking outside the cell, looking for their familiar faces.  Instead, in my mind, I found myself hoping that they had done something wrong and were sitting alone in the Hole.  I didn’t want to face them.

My internal clock told me that lights out was only minutes away.  I finally gave in and sat up, leaning over the edge of the bunk to peer out the door.  Inmates were shuffling by, pushing to get to their cells before the series of buzzers screamed at them.

The first buzz sounded.  Just as it died into the static noise, I saw my mother duck into the doorway, my father close behind her.  They walked straight to the shelf, jamming their dirty clothes onto the bottom shelf next to mine.  My father washed his hands, running one over his tired face.  I could see his hands shaking.

I stayed hanging over the edge of the bunk, carefully watching them. They always wound down the same way.  Aside from the days where they just gave up and crashed into bed, there was a routine my parents did that never changed.

After turning off the water, my father drank a sip out of the metal cup, swishing it in his mouth and spitting it into the sink.  Then he backed out of the way, hand coming to rest on the small of my mother’s back as he beckoned her forward.  She repeated exactly what he had done, first rinsing her hands, then her face, then swishing the water and spitting it back out.

My father followed my mother to the bed.  The bunk underneath creaked as they both sank their weight into it.  I could barely see them from where I leaned over the edge.  They slowly untied their shoes and pulled them off, my father letting out a soft grunt. Tucking their socks deep down into the toes, they carefully lined the shoes along the bottom of the bunk.  I could hear my father groan as they laid down, side by side, on the flat mat.  Without having to look, I knew he had his arm draped over my mother, her body nestled against him.

The only thing different today was the silence.  Usually my mother would chatter about trees or dinner or, when the moments took over, her swaying repetition of ‘baby.’  It was a wind-down noise I had grown used to.  I had heard it my entire life.  My father would grunt and mutter single words occasionally as my mother went on and on.  Then they would fall silent together, drifting into sleep.

I don’t know if it was because of work, or because of me, but tonight the cell was silent.

I sat back, realizing for the first time that my father wasn’t as inexistent as I always had seen him to be.  He rarely spoke.  His body was always stooped and I had seen one too many guards and inmates push him around.  Those were the only things I had ever noticed before.

Tonight I saw what I had always missed.  His constant following of my mother wasn’t because he was a shadow.  He was a guard.  His hand rested on the small of her back, calmed her shoulder, held her close against the nightmares I never knew.  He let her talk instead of shutting her up, as much as that would have been appreciated.

There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that my father loved my mother.

And, I suppose, he was the perfect one to love her.  For he was just as much of a murderer as she was.

The strange softness for my father that had overcome me quickly disappeared as I remembered the truth about him.  I could see him, his large hands clamped around a defenseless man’s throat, squeezing tighter and tighter.  The man fought, then finally slowed as his lips turned blue and his eyes bulged.  Did my father ever think of stopping?  Did he hate the feeling of draining life one second at a time from another living, struggling to breathe human being?

Or had he been like my mother, enjoying every second of it.

I slammed my head back against my pillow, trying to chase away the thoughts.  I hated the anger that boiled inside.  I wanted to hurt them.  I wanted them to stop pretending.  I wanted to see the true monsters they were.

Was I a monster too, for wanting that?

I could hear the snoring of my father rise up from the bunk beneath.  Climbing down, I silently paced the floor.  My bare feet softly slapped the concrete, becoming more ice-cold with every step.

They created me.  I was a part of them.  Was I doomed to the same insanity I saw engulf my mother and shroud my father?  The thoughts hurt my head.  I could feel the headache grow, banging angrily on the inside of my throbbing head.  Laying down flat on my back, I let the coolness of the floor chill me.  I welcomed the shivers that fought against the always present sweat.

“942B, is everything alright?”

I blinked my eyes.  The nurse’s voice sounded harsh and loud, causing me to crinkle my face up in pain.

“Uh, headache,” I said, barely loud enough.

I heard the nurse shuffle some papers.  Her foot tapped the ground impatiently as the papers flipped.  “I’m sorry 942B, but you are not approved for any sort of pain medication.”

“It’s just a headache, can’t you just −”

“I am sorry 942B, but you are not −”

“Okay, I get it.”  I wiped my hand over my face, my headache flaring.

I heard the nurse shuffle outside.  “Is everything else alright tonight?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled.  “It’s just great.”

The three cups were shoved under the door.  Before I could even look, the nurse hurried away, her shadow disappearing down the walk.  Angry, I swiped at the cups, spilling all three across the ground.  The pills rolled into the shadows, scattering across the cell floor.  Laying one hand across my eyes, I let the darkness engulf me.

“Millie?  You awake?”

Without moving, I reached and wiggled my fingers underneath the door.  I could hear Jude crouch down outside.  The light of his flashlight shot into my cell.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, his voice suddenly panicked.

Rolling onto my side, I looked through the opening.  Jude’s face was lit by the light, his eyes searching and worried.

“I’m fine,” I said, trying to smile.  “Killer headache.”

“Here,” Jude said, fishing into his pocket.  He pulled out a little plastic container, dumping a white pill into the palm of his hand.  I reached out and took it.  Without asking, I threw it into my mouth and swallowed.

“Jude.” My voice came out even and solid.  “My parents are criminals.”

I could hear Jude laugh.  “And you just realized this?”

“No, Jude, really.  They are crazy.  They should be in here, and they should never leave.”  I swallowed hard.  “They are monsters.”

No response.  I could hear Jude breathing, so I knew he was still there.  I let the silence grow between us.  I wanted so badly to voice the fears that now ran rampant in my mind.  I wanted to scream out my anger.  I wanted to cry in heavy tears my utter disappointment.

Instead, I just lay there.

Jude finally cleared his throat.  In a weak voice, he tentatively asked, “So… have you been studying?”

I nodded, then realized that he couldn’t see me.  “Yes,” I said simply.

“Good.” I could hear him squirm in his spot.  Something was wrong.  He cleared his throat again.  “Millie, they changed my schedule.  This is my last night on night patrol.  I had been hoping… you know… to catch up a bit before you disappear into the Nation.  But, well, it looks like tonight is it.”

“Oh.” I suddenly felt empty again. My headache was disappearing thanks to the pill Jude had given me.  Now I just felt numb.

“You be good, okay?”

“I will.”

“And you better pass that test with some crazy flying colors.”

I felt a chuckle tickle my lips.  “You know I will.”

Jude took in a deep breath, leaning his head against the door.  “I’m going to miss you, Millie.  You’re a good friend you know… Jail Baby and all.”

“I’ll miss you too, Jude.  GF and all.”

In the distance I could hear the sound of boots.  Jude sighed, then sat up.  I could hear him part his lips to say something, then snap them back shut.  Without another word, he stood and began to walk away.  I pushed up against the door, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the small opening along the bottom.  I only saw the beam of his flashlight as he swung it back and forth, pausing at each cell to shine it in.

Just as he disappeared from sight, I faintly heard his voice, lightly humming.

I crawled back into my bunk, my eyes suddenly heavy and burning.

I begged for the fog to take me.  As if to spite me, it hid out of my reach.  Everything was messed up now.  I should be feeling elated to be so close to my release day.  Instead, I had found that my entire life I had been sleeping above monsters.  I would never talk to Jude again.  Orrin was only a cell or two away, but always unreachable.  Every one of the people I had let in as friends I had always kept at an untouchable distance, and now they were about to disappear.

Tears stung my eyes and I angrily wiped them away, turning on my side to face the dark wall.  Crying wouldn’t get to get me anywhere.  Letting out a shuddering sigh, I felt the words of Jude’s song form on my lips.

“And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain.  Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders…” I softly sang into the wall.  I could feel my voice crack, but kept going, the words burned into my head from the time Jude and I had laid on the ground just the other night and played it over and over.

Before I knew it, I was asleep.

| | |

I wish I could say I was strong.  In the world I grew up in, a person had to know how to act strong.  I knew how to throw on the tough face, how to push through the crowds, how to put the glare in my eyes that warned others to leave me alone.  But inside, every time I found myself forced to act strong, I shook in utter fright.  My heart sped and my eyes threatened at any moment to leak the tears that built so strong behind them.  I could only act for so long.

The next day, I decided that acting strong was the last thing I wanted to do.

I could see the worried looks on my parent’s faces as they got ready for their new jobs that morning.  I still hadn’t spoken a word to them.  As they dressed and prepared to go, I just laid in my bed and stared at the ceiling.  They kept glancing at me, obviously trying to decide if talking was even worth the try.  I hoped that my cold presence gave them the answer.

Maybe I was acting immature.  I was sure that is what Dr. Eriks would have said.  She would say that even though they were convicted criminals, they were my parents, and blocking them out mere days before I would leave was causing more damage than good.  I didn’t care about damage.  At that moment, as I lay frozen on my bunk, I didn’t care about anything.

That was my day.  I didn’t bother to eat.  Or even stand.  I just laid on my bed and listened to the prison.  Everything was ticking, every footstep and thud another second gone.  There was no music.  Just the clock of prison life ticking slowly until I was finally gone.

I fell back asleep before my parents even returned.  No dreams came to me, nothing but blackness and silence.  When I woke up again, the prison was already awake and moving.  My body hurt worse than ever before, the entire day spent laying on my back on the cement bunk causing my muscles to lock up in pain.

I slowly climbed down off the bunk, willing my knees to bend and my back to straighten.  Standing in the center of my cell, I squatted up and down a few times, feeling the joints pop and protest with every bend.  My neck felt stiff, my eyes suddenly throbbing.

Realizing that my only other set of clothing was still dirty, I pulled on my old sneakers and bent down to the bottom of the bookshelf with a groan.  All of the dirty clothes were gone.  My mother hadn’t done the laundry at all for the last year, if not longer.  My breath caught in my throat.  I knew I should have felt relieved.  The woman really didn’t need me.  Instead, I felt a sudden sting of tears threaten my eyes.

My notebook sat near the edge of my bunk, its worn pages hanging over, threatening to fall out and scatter across the cell floor.  I grabbed it and flipped it open to my schedule.

“Crap,” I hissed, looking at the scribble of writing telling me that today was my last appointment with Dr. Eriks.  And it was about to begin.

I shoved my journal under my pillow, ran my fingers quickly through my mess of hair, then booked it down the walkway.  A few inmates, lounging along the walls or in their open cells, glanced up at me as I hurried past.  No one ever hurried here.  There was nothing ever worth hurrying for, aside from the lock of your cell door at lights out.

Luckily the hallway was empty as I ran toward Dr. Eriks’ office.  I paused just long enough for the guard at the hallway door to scan my bracelet.  It felt like it took forever for the little device to beep.

I had no idea what time it actually was.  I usually timed my day mentally from the moment the lights flashed on.  When I missed that one event, I always felt off for the rest of the day.  I silently begged that I wasn’t late this time.  Nothing would look worse than showing up late for the last appointment.

I should have known better.

I abruptly drew to a stop in front of the secretary’s desk.  She didn’t even bother to look up at me, just waved her hand to motion me to go ahead in.  I thought I could see her glance briefly out of the corner of her eye at me as I passed, but I never looked back to see.

“You are late, Millie.”

My heart sank.  I could feel my pulse racing, throbbing in my head and chest.  Every muscle in my body screamed in protest at the sudden burst of movement and I could hear a distant ringing in the back of my head.  Clenching my eyes shut a moment, I nodded.  “I’m sorry Dr. Eriks.  I overslept.”

I slowly peeked my eyes back open.  Dr. Eriks was eyeing me.  “I told you to bring your journal today.  Where is it?”

“I…uh…” It was my last session, and I was already messing up.  I bit the inside of my cheek before looking down to the ground.  “I forgot it.”

“Sit down.”

I ducked into my usual seat, thankful to see that there were no added chairs today.  Dr. Eriks deftly picked up her notepad then took her usual seat across from me, crossing her legs under her stiff brown skirt.  I found myself wondering if she owned anything else in her wardrobe other than that brown skirt.  In every meeting I had with her, she always wore the same type of dull brown skirt that fit just tight enough to show her lack of hips.  Looking down at my own clothes, I took in my worn jeans and crumpled white shirt, dirty from wear.  They were the same items of clothing I wore every single day, without choice.  I suddenly longed for the choice, the feeling sweeping over me in a way I had never felt before.  As I looked back up at her skirt, I made a mental note to never buy a white t-shirt for myself again.

“How are you doing today, Millie?”

I shrugged.  “Alright I guess.”

“I see that you failed to attend any meals yesterday.”

My mouth went dry.  “I… I wasn’t hungry.”  As if denying my statement, my stomach growled loudly.  Dr. Eriks raised an eyebrow, watching me closely with her lips pursed.  I lowered my head.  “I wasn’t hungry,” I repeated softly.

“Millie, are you angry at your parents?”

I stared at my hands.  I already knew what she would say.  I had already repeated it over and over to myself the last day, and it still didn’t make any difference.  Without saying anything, I let my head slowly nod.

“Good.  You should be.”

I wondered if I had heard her correctly.  Lifting my eyes, I saw no humor on her face.  Just a perfect mask of stern seriousness.

“Your parents are criminals, Millie.  They killed two men and attempted to murder the last.  If he hadn’t been able to get away and find authorities, they may have gotten away with it.  You have watched your parents.  You know they are… strange.”  Dr. Eriks flipped open her notepad.  “You have told me that you are the only one who does the laundry; that you must remind your own mother to bathe herself.  Your father rarely speaks.  At our last meeting, you stated you were ‘needed here.’  Do you still feel this way?”

I couldn’t answer.  I could sense the fog creeping in, and I wanted so badly to dive into it and disappear from this sudden interrogation.  Dr. Eriks watched me a moment, then picked up a slim folder that sat on the table next to her.  She pulled out a paper, skimming it for a moment with her eyes before looking back at me.  With one hand, her eyes still locked on me, she pulled the table around, setting it between us.

“Your mother is unstable. She suffers from self-imposed ‘amnesia,’ psychosis, and bi-polar disorder.  I am sure that you have seen the moments, where her reality slips.”  She paused.  When her voice spoke again, it came out gentle, almost soothing.  “This is the only safe place for her, Millie.  Spokane sees to all her needs, while guaranteeing that her crimes cannot be repeated out in the Nation.”

Dr. Eriks reached into the folder and pulled out a small stack of photos.  She laid them out in front of me on the small table, one at a time.  The first was my father’s mug shot.  His hair looked as disheveled as ever, but his face was young and barely hinted with stubble.  His eyes were bloodshot, heavy with dark bags.  The next was my mother’s mug shot.  She was beautiful.  Her skin glowed.  Even though it was knotted with twigs, her hair somehow managed to still flow in honey waves around her slim face.  Her eyes, though focused and intense, were blood shot, the stain of tears still evident on her cheeks.

Dr. Eriks watched me carefully as she laid down the next photo.  A shot of a knife laying on the ground, a number propped next to it.  Dark blood covered the dirty knife.  I could feel my stomach twist, but I couldn’t close my eyes.

Another photo.  This one of a man, his face a chalky blue, bruises dark and painful around his swollen throat.  Dr. Eriks carefully laid down the last photo, her hand resting on it a moment before uncovering it for my eyes to see.

A man lay sprawled on the ground, dirt smudged over his body, twigs stuck in his hair.  His face was frozen in a grimace, his eyes wide open.  The rest of his body was red.  Dark, blood red.  I tore my eyes away, biting hard against the nausea that fought to take me over.

“Your parents are criminals, Millie,” Dr. Eriks said slowly, carefully emphasizing each word.  “But you are not.  You owe these criminals nothing.  You owe the Nation everything.  The Nation needs you.  You are good and strong and loyal.  Aren’t you, Millie?”

I still clenched my eyes shut.  My lips pressed harder together, biting back the waves of nausea that beat against every inch of my body.  I barely managed a nod.  The soft shuffle of papers let me know that Dr. Eriks had put away the photos.  I found myself silently grateful that I hadn’t eaten for the last day.  I inched my eyes open.

“I hope you have studied hard for the Exam tomorrow, Millie.  It would be a shame to find my assessment of you has been wrong.”  Dr. Eriks sat back and watched me, the smile growing on her face.  She looked so smug, so strangely content.

“Is there anything you would like to discuss, Millie?”

I shook my head.

“Anything about the fogs?”

My eyes shot up to meet hers.  I had never told her about the moments the fog took me over.

Dr. Eriks leaned forward in her chair, her thin wrists dangling loosely off her knees.  “Your mother experiences moments where, as she says, a ‘fog’ takes over and sets her free.  It would be natural for you to notice.  Maybe even experience them yourself.  It is simply your subconscious, in its untrained way, trying to ‘protect’ you.  But you know you need no protection, from us, don’t you Millie?”

Her eyes pierced into me, as if daring me to argue.

I nodded.

Fogs.  My mother had fogs.  My crazy mother, who murdered a man with her own hands and now escaped into her own world in a snap, had fogs.  And so did I.  My mouth went dry.

Dr. Eriks grinned once more, then settled back in her chair.  “You may go, Millie.”

Without a pause, I stood and hurried out the door.  I could feel those photos behind me.  They taunted me, screaming at me to look them in the face.  I needed to get as far away from them as possible.  As I walked through the door, I looked up to see Carl standing in my path.

“What…” I could feel my tongue freeze stupidly in my mouth.

The secretary glanced up at me, then over to Carl.  “I called for escort again.  The last session is always the hardest.”  Her voice sounded doubtful.  I could see her watching Carl, her brows slowly knitting together.  “But maybe −”

“No,” Carl cut off her.  “Procedure is procedure.  Besides, I’m already here.”  He grinned at me, then moved aside and beckoned me forward.  “Well, let’s get going.”

The secretary watched me walk past her desk, her face still knotted in sudden anxiety.  I looked away from her, walking quickly past and headed down the hall without pausing.  I had always thought that walking away from this office for the last time would be liberating.  But now as I moved down the hall I felt thicker and slower than ever before.

Carl hurried to walk next to me.  As we rounded a corner and finally disappeared from the secretary’s stare, Carl grabbed my arm and slammed me hard into the nearest doorway.

8

My faced smacked hard into the metal door before I even had time to throw my hands up.  I blinked.  A small grunt escaped my lips as my head spun madly, my cheek already throbbing in instant pain.  Carl grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around, driving my back into the wall of the doorway.

“So,” he hissed in a low voice, “this is what I am thinking.  I think you should apply for a job here.  I think it would be a very good choice on your part.”

He held me tight by my shoulders.  I cringed in pain as his fingers clamped harder into my flesh.  I could feel the wall behind me, grinding against my spine as he shoved me harder against its cold surface.

A few inmates walked by, glancing a moment into the doorway.  As soon as they saw us, they quickly lowered their eyes and scurried away.  To them it looked like a guard punishing a fellow inmate who had acted up, nothing more.  They didn’t want to chance their own actions becoming noticed as well.

“Wh-why?” I forced out, my lungs still gasping for breath.  I could feel the headache throbbing behind my eyes and the burn of pain flaring on my cheek.

Carl chuckled.  He leaned in closer.  I could feel his hot touch as it grazed my flesh.  He rose up slowly, his breath on my neck, my cheek, my ear.  Stopping at my hair, he slowly drew a breath in.  I could see his lips part in a grin.

“I like you, Millie.”

My body tightened, chills running down my raked spine.

“Carl…”

Carl slammed me again against the wall.  I couldn’t breathe.  My head threw back, the back of it smacking dully against the wall.  Foggy patches swam in front of my eyes.  Trying to blink them away, I felt the sting of painful tears.  Carl’s eyes bore into mine, something unstable and dangerous floating across their icy blue.

“Don’t. Interrupt. Me.” he said, his voice low and growling.  I could see the anger in his eyes flare.  Then, as quickly as it grew, it disappeared.  He smiled again, so close I could see the hint of stubble on his upper lip.  “I said I like you.  I have for some time.  Why the hell else would I volunteer to come work down here?  I needed to be near you, Millie.  I needed to make sure that you…” He breathed me in again.  “I needed to guarantee I would get you.  I get what I want Millie.  And I like you.”

He pressed harder against me.  “Please, Carl, you’re hurting me,” I managed to force out.

He just ignored me.  “So, I think you need to ask for a job here.  In the upper blocks, where I will be transferring back to very soon.  I have tried to suggest it nicely.  But obviously nice just didn’t get my point across.”  He pushed harder against me.  “If you don’t accept… well… I really, really think you should accept.”  He looked into my eyes, his eyes dark and icy.

“Carl GF4, what is the issue here?”  The sound of another man’s voice startled both of us.  Carl loosened his iron grip as he backed away a few inches.  Another guard stood in the center of the hall, watching us.

“Inmate was being resistant,” Carl said coolly.  “I was just reminding her to stay in place.”

The other guard watched him a moment, then let his eyes slide over to me.  I knew my cheek was red and I couldn’t calm my gasps for air.  “Well, it looks like she got it.  Cool it a bit, GF.”

“Yes sir,” Carl said, his voice oddly submissive.

“Well, come on then.  You can help me with patrols.”  The guard glanced at me again, his face bored.  “I recommend you find your way to your cell, Inmate.”

I couldn’t even bring myself to nod.

Carl looked at me once more.  His eyes screamed a million words to me, all of which managed to only make me shake worse.  Then the grin spread on his lips again.  A second later he turned away, joining the guard as they made their way down the hall.

I couldn’t move.  I sucked in air in ragged gasps, colors swimming before my eyes.  A few inmates walked by.  I could see them glance at me, taking me in.  My face must have been white.  I could feel the cool perspiration on my cheeks, contrasting the hot pain that throbbed in my tender cheek.

Finally shaking away the shock enough to shuffle my feet, I made my way back to my cell.  Crawling into my bunk, I pulled my thin blanket over my shoulders.  I would have given anything at that moment to see the door slam shut, locking me safely inside my cell.  Alone.  I had never been handled that way in my life.  The sight of the wall flying at my face made me flinch again, even as I huddled under my blanket in the dark cell.

I didn’t realize I was crying until a sudden shuddering gasp wretched out of my throat.  Tears streamed down my face.  Carl’s words replayed in my head.  He liked me.  I had always thought that someone liking you would make you feel warm, comfortable.  Happy.  But the low rumble of his voice, the grasp he had as he clenched my shoulders tight against the wall, I knew this wasn’t right.  I wasn’t liked.  He didn’t want me for who I was.

He wanted me for something else. Something I couldn’t fathom.

| | |

My parents returned to the cell just before the buzz of lights out.  I stared numbly at the ceiling, my face still throbbing.  A few times I had thought to climb down and look to see if there was a bruise, but the thought of standing in the open doorway where anyone could see me glued me immediately back onto the bunk.

There was no talking, again.  Along the walk the mumble of the Lifers echoed as they prepared for yet another night in the prison that had claimed them.  But here, in my family’s cell, it was silent.

My parents looked exhausted.  My mother’s eyes were glazed, giving away that she was already lost in a distant trance.  Her hair stood in every direction, parts still sudsy from the vile laundry room soap.  I could see her hands as she shakily took off her shoes.  They were red and raw, small cracks in the worn flesh still lightly bleeding.

My father barely moved.  He came into the cell far enough to pull off his shoes and line them along the bunk.  Then I heard the thud and gush of breath as he landed hard onto the bunk.  Everything fell completely silent.  I almost leaned over to check on him, wondering if he still was still breathing, but stopped myself.

My mother stood in the center of the cell, swaying back and forth.  I could see the side of her face, the exhausted droop of her lips tugging her face down.  With my father asleep, no one would guide to her to bed now.  When I was young, I would sometimes wake in the night to her standing just as she was now, mechanically swaying back and forth, for hours.  I would lay and watch her, mesmerized by the clockwork of her movement.  I thought it was beautiful.  Like a dance to hidden music I had never been allowed to hear.

This time I could only see one thing: Insanity.

I felt oddly awake, as if someone had finally opened my eyes to the nut job my mother truly was.  Her hands were gripped in tight fists at her side, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms.  A drop of blood, squeezed out from one of the open cracks on her hand, dropped with a tiny splash to the ground.  As I watched, I realized that she wasn’t just swaying.  She was moving.  Her hands would slightly lift, then drop.  Her head would lean to one side, turn to the other.  Her eyes widened, then drooped.

Even though I knew better, I let my eyes glance to look at the space in front of her.  Something in me expected to see another person standing there, silently joining her in this strange, silent conversation.  Only the cold wall stood in front of her.

An hour passed.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.  She looked exhausted.  Even in the darkness of the cell I could see the bags grow darker under her eyes.  Her shoulders slumped, her wrists heavy at her sides as if weights had been tied to them and forgotten.  Her lips quivered as she mouthed words.  She whispered the hushed words over and over, sound never escaping her dry lips.

A sob suddenly escaped her throat.  It was barely audible, easily missed if I hadn’t been watching her so intently.  A choked cry of utter pain. Loss. Agony.  It ended in a low growl of deep anger that continued for a solid minute.  Then she stopped.  Stopped moving, stopping talking, even stopped breathing as her entire body seemed to freeze into dead stone.

As if someone had slapped her across the face, my mother suddenly came to.  Turning her head sharply, her eyes met mine.  I could see the shine of tears in her tired eyes, glowing in the dim light of the cell.  We didn’t speak.  I just watched as she finally up-rooted her bare feet from the cold ground and crawled into bed next to my father.

Snatching up my notebook, I crawled down as soon as I heard her breathing even out into the slow, long draws of sleep.  I crept across to the door then flopped down on my stomach.  My shoe laces were already knotted together, the note already tied securely to the end.  Without waiting, I threw the note out the door.

A minute later I felt the tug.

Reeling it in, I nearly ripped the paper as I pulled the note open, barely scanning my question that I had scribbled on the page.

What is a bird?

In careful curves, the returned note simply read:

Free.

I read the word again.  I let myself whisper it, carefully pronounce it.  It rolled off of my tongue, tickling my lips and disappearing into the murmur of the prison night.  Something inside me longed for that word.  I had never felt this way before.  Now I couldn’t seem to feel anything else.

Orrin, what if I inherit this madness?  They are both mad.  Will I be too?

Orrin wrote back quickly, his hand-writing slurred as if he too felt the need for the answer that was pounding inside of me.

You are who you are, Millie.  No one decides who you are but yourself.  If you want to be mad like them, then be mad. But if you want to be different, please, be different.

But what will I become? I wrote.  What is going to happen to me?

I swore I could hear the sigh of someone just down the walk.  Then the echo of a light chuckle.  The shoelace tugged.

Dear, that is a question every child your age has asked since the dawn of time.  Life is ahead of you.  What this Nation is doing…  Something was scribbled out, impossible to read past the angry dark slashes. They lock away the people and make them become the criminals they so fear.  I do not know what you will become.  But I pray to God that you don’t allow them to decide your fate.

I felt confused suddenly.  What do you mean?  What is the Nation doing?

There is a lot you don’t know yet, Millie. Orrin’s handwriting slowed, curving carefully as he emphasized his words.  There is a lot to learn. Remember everything your schooling has taught you.  But remember: To every truth, there are a million untold truths.

Do I get to meet you before I leave?  I wrote it carefully, trying to copy his perfect curving letters.  I hoped that he understood the emphasis, the meaningful question of my words.

It took longer this time to feel the tug.  Pulling it in, I carefully opened the note, my breath held.

Millie, believe me, I would love to meet you.  You have become like a daughter to me in here.  I lost my boys, and now I am losing you. But I would rather you leave with the memory of me as this fishing pseudo father of yours than the balding old man with nothing memorable about him.  Can you do that?

I could feel sudden tears of disappointment sting my eyes.  I had hoped that Orrin would instantly say yes.  I could see us in my mind, finally meeting just as I left to take my Exam, his eyes proud, his smile broad and reassuring.  It was true what he had written.  Orrin truly had become like a father to me in this prison.

I could look.  I could find him.  He was only a cell or two away.  It wouldn’t be hard to discover which man he was.  I just needed to see him, to know he was real.  To know that even after I left, Orrin would exist.  I knew though, even as the desperate thoughts flooded my mind, that it wouldn’t happen.

His words, speaking in my mind, repeated over and over.  Was his sentencing all truly just a big mistake?  Or was he lying, knowing that the truth of him also being a monster would only chase away this young girl he had mentally adopted as his own?  I forced the thoughts away.  Orrin had never written anything to me that seemed like a lie.  I believed him.

I needed to believe him.

I had to.

Orrin, I wrote carefully, Why don’t you fight it?  Why don’t you try to prove your innocence?

I tried, once. He wrote back.  I had found out that after my sentencing, there were more murders in the town. The handwriting suddenly smudged.  I stared at it a moment, confused at the strange spray of wet pencil scratch.  My finger lightly touched it, its surface still warm.  It was a tear.  My wife had been killed.  My older son too.  They had been killed the same way as all the other murders and I was miles away, locked in this cell, unable to protect them.  I tried to use it as evidence that I was innocent.  But the authorities didn’t care.  They deemed it as a copy-cat killing, and denied my appeal request.  I search the archives but I never could find my youngest boy who had survived.  He had vanished.  He was gone.  I had to give up.

Seeing that Orrin had given up felt like a slap across my face.  My cheek began to throb, suddenly reminding me of Carl.

But it is the truth. They have to listen to the truth.  I wrote back.  I felt feverish, my hand pressing the pencil so hard into the page that it tore through and scratched loudly against the ground.  Glancing up to my parents, I caught my breath.  They didn’t even stir.

Orrin seemed to tug on the shoelace as soon as it landed.  I pulled it back in and read the scribbled words, spotted with more tears.

I had no truth to return to.  Here is your first lesson outside of the books, Millie: In Prison Nation, the truth can’t set you free.

| | |

Orrin hadn’t responded any more to me that night.  I tried.  I threw the note out and waited, but no tug responded.  I read his last message over and over, after finally climbing into my bunk.  My eyes ached from squinting in the dark.  Whether it was the intense slant of his painful writing, the splattering of tears, or something else, I couldn’t bring myself to stop reading.

I must have fallen asleep.  When I woke up, my hands still painfully clutched the paper.  The doors hadn’t opened yet.  Grateful that my inner clock was finally working again, I tucked the note tightly into my notebook then climbed down, stretching my fingers out painfully.  Stepping in front of the mirror, I threw on my clean clothes, breathing in the smell of the soap I hated so much.  I finally stopped to look at my cheek.

It was still red, but luckily had not bruised.  I raised a fingertip to lightly touch it and winced as a sharp bolt of pain shot through my cheek and down my jaw.  Cranking on the water, I felt the sudden sting of ice cold water pelt out of the tap.  I bent down and splashed it over and over on my face, grateful for the coldness that shocked me awake.  Before long, my face was numb.  My entire face was red as I looked back into the mirror, the sting on my cheek masked by the cold shock of water.

I felt fully awake for the first time in days.  Moving to stand near the door, I let my body lean against the wall as I waited for the buzz and the door to slide open.  It seemed to take forever.  I could see the glow of morning light shining in the thick window.  Inmates in cells nearby moved around, prepping themselves for the day ahead.

My parents were still asleep.  Frozen in time, always in the same position, they looked like stone etched statues.  Monuments left to lie forever in that small bunk as a cold reminder that they did, in fact, exist.  I turned away, focusing my eyes on the door.

It finally slid open.

As I hurried down the walk, I could feel my stomach growl in hunger.  I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten.  I didn’t have time to go to the cafeteria though.  Luckily, most days a cart was left along the wall in the Commons, equipped with a small pile of old fruit and stale rolls.  Someone would roll it in before lights on, and its stale stockpile quickly disappeared before the first rush of inmates emptied the Commons.

Pushing my way toward the cart, I grabbed a crusty roll and ducked away as those behind me reached for their share.  The roll was stale, obviously left over from some meal the day before.  I forced myself to swallow it, feeling it stick in my throat.  After a few hard swallows, I finally felt it move down.

As I hurried away, angry voices started to rise behind me.  Someone shouted something about the food.  Followed quickly with the dull thud as a fist made contact with a body.  Before I knew it, more voices rose, screaming at each other as the sound of bodies slamming into each other grew louder.  The pound of heavy boots was the last thing I heard as I ducked into the doorway and disappeared down the hall.

I didn’t pause to look back.

I had only been down this hall one other time in my life.  One year ago, almost exactly to the date.  I had requested to pull out of the schooling program and continue as an independent study.  Before they could grant me the request though, I had to meet with the Warden.

His office tucked neatly away at the end of this hall.  My parents had come with me that time.  Sitting before the man, his large body barely tucked behind the small wooden desk, had been intimidating.  I had been grateful that my parents sat on either side of me, feeling as if their presence had been some sort of protection against the unknown.

It seemed that most of the citizens who worked in this prison were bored, their eyes almost always hooded, a yawn always present on their face.  That was the Warden.  I had heard he was once a Marine.  Special Ops.  Whatever that meant.  Once the Nation had built the Wall, the push for Marines diminished.  The rest of the world had decided to leave the Nation alone.  The need for armored grunt men became almost inexistent.  I had always wondered if the bored look on the Warden’s chiseled face was regret.

He had carelessly warned me that if I failed to accomplish the schooling, I might not be allowed out on my eighteenth birthday.  Then, without waiting for a promise or any questions, he had stamped my request and sent me away.

My eyes trailed down the hall into the darkness, knowing his office waited beyond.  That day, a year ago, I had walked away with my parents on either side.  My mother had jabbered excitedly about my future, my father silently smiling as he kept his eyes glued ahead.

No one else stood in the hall today.

I finally reached the door.

As I stood in front of it, I felt my stomach tangle up.  This was the test that would help decide the rest of my life.  Would I go free?  Would I fail and be labeled?  My hand hovered over the metal handle, suddenly scared to twist it and walk in.  My confidence had fled me, hiding away in a place I knew I would never dare to go and retrieve it.

A feeling rose inside me, longing for my mother’s laughter and my father’s presence.  It had always been there.  Gritting my teeth, I shook my head.  The feeling disappeared, escaping into the fog hiding in the corners of my mind until it was gone.

Knees shaking, throat tight, I finally twisted the handle.

9

“Millicent 942B?”

I stood in the doorway, my hands clasped tightly together. “Yes.” My voice shook.  I cleared my throat, trying to chase away the shake that spread like fire over my entire body.  It wouldn’t leave.

“Come in and stand on the line.”

I watched my feet as I quickly walked in and made my way to the yellow line painted on the cement floor.  The door swung shut behind me, clicking loudly.  With my toes carefully touching the line, I finally dared to look up.

In front of me, sitting in a row behind a simple metal table, five people stared back.  A single light hung from the center of the ceiling, casting strange shadows across the room and darkening the faces of the panel.  Letting my eyes adjust, I watched them nervously as they took me in.

Reverend Smitson sat at the left end of the table.  My family never attended church, but I had seen him before when I walked down the prison hallways.  He had his own small chapel near the psychiatric wing.  Sometimes I would slow as I passed, listening to his booming voice as he preached about God’s love and mercy to his small congregation.  Barely anyone, it seemed, bothered to publicly practice religion in here anymore.  The few who chose to attend always had to travel in tight groups, protecting themselves from the many inmates who were intolerant of faith.

Faith, it seemed, was a dying trend.

Reverend Smitson watched me, his brow knitted and his lips parted as if ready to launch into another ‘Praise the Lord and God’s great Nation’ tirade.  His skin was dark, nearly black in the dim light of the exam room.  It shone as if polished.  He was dressed in his usual black, a strip of white tightly wrapped around his slim neck.

Next to the Reverend sat Dr. Eriks.  Her lips were pursed, the spray of lines drawing my eyes in.  Even though I hated seeing her sit there, her dull eyes smugly watching my every move, I felt a strange comfort in seeing those lines.

Warden Binns sat in the center.  His stomach had loosened since the last time I had seen him and his dark hair, neatly cropped, had new sprinkles of gray.  The Warden’s hat sat neatly on the table, his fingers occasionally reaching out to lightly stroke its worn rim.  Crammed awkwardly in his chair, his face echoed the angst of being forced to sit.

To his right sat Judge Wood.  I had never seen him before.  I only knew it was him because of his nose.

A few years back there had been a large commotion in the Commons.  It was so loud, roaring so thoroughly through the cement walls and closed doors of the prison, that I had heard it clear in my cell.  Out of dumb curiosity I had crept down the hall and peeked into the crowded Commons.  Inmates were standing around, laughing and cheering as they happily clapped one another on the shoulder.  It was a strange sight to see.

One standing near the door was talking rather loudly.  I barely had to lean in to hear what had happened.  A man had been in court, fighting against a charge of Arson 1.  Even though he had evidence proving his non-guilty plea, there had been one small stipulation that had managed to sentence him.  Judge Wood had slapped him with a fifteen year sentence.

In rage, the man had jumped the table and reached the Judge before the guards had a chance to react.  In one swift swing, his fist made contact with the Judge’s nose.  It had shattered instantly.  Everyone in the Commons cheered on the man, who was now sentenced to life with no parole.

Judge Wood’s nose now sat severely crooked on his chubby face.  I could hear the soft wheeze of breath as he sucked air in and out.  Everything about him was chubby.  His sausage fingers tapped the table mindlessly, dimpled knuckles bending and popping.  He licked his bloated lips, his bulging eyes blinking slowly.

The last person at the table had to be Oscar Ramos.  He was small, his shaggy brown hair oiled down in an obvious attempt to better his dirty appearance.  Everything about him seemed oddly dusty.  Even though his clothes were cleaned and pressed, they still held the worn look of a farmer.  One hand nervously brushed across his mouth, his knuckles pressing hard into his thin lips.

The Warden cleared his throat.  “942B, are you ready?”

Licking my lips, I forced myself to nod.  The Warden glanced at the others, then looked back to me.  “Begin.”

I shut my eyes a moment, focusing on the memorized words I had practiced over and over the last few days.  Looking them in the face was too intimidating.  I could feel their focus on me, waiting.  Flicking my eyes back open, I focused on the table.  I hoped they would accept this as a fair trade.

“In the late 20th century, the United States of America stood as a strong force in the modern world.  With allies scattered across the globe, the U.S. held a power that other nations could only dream of.  But within the country, they were weak.  National debt was rising.  The very citizens tore at each other worse than any war ever could.”  I took a deep breath.  My voice was coming out strong, clear and sure of its words.  Inside, I shook harder than ever.

“Crime rates were rising on a crazy upward climb.  Law offices sprouted up, taking advantage of the accused to rake in money that should have been going back to the government.  By the dawn of the 21st century, it became the norm to sue instead of settle.  And crimes still kept climbing.  The country was bankrupt.

“The U.S. government finally realized that their nation was crumbling.  They formed a plan to save it.  Discarding the cursed name, our country renamed itself the Nation.  A strong, powerful name, lacking any shame of the past.

“Changes began with simple measures: guaranteeing harsher punishment for crime.  The Nation hoped this would deter potential criminals.  It worked for a short time, but soon that plan showed its weakness.  Lawyers and juries still leant a soft ear to the lies of the criminals.  Twisting the truth and playing on the selected jurors’ weaknesses still enabled the criminals to go free.

“That was when the final laws were put into motion.  The Nation discarded the practice of law offices.  Along with that, all trials were only conducted as bench trials, leaving the well-trained and fair Judge to determine the sentence without having to deal with simple-minded jury members and lawyers.”

I paused.  My eyes flicked up to the panel.  Their gazes were locked on me, waiting for me to continue.  Judge Wood had straightened in his chair, a proud look crossing his chubby face at the mention of his job.

“Twenty-five years ago, the UN accused our great Nation of crimes against its people.” I went on, steadying my breath.  “The Nation realized it no longer required the allies of the world.  All it required was itself.  Our Nation withdrew from the UN.  And the UN threatened war.

“That was when our great Nation built the Wall.  It stretches along each coast, and through the land that borders between Mexico, and Canada.  No one without clearance is allowed in, or out.  It is our protection.  Within our Wall, we can now keep in our justice, and shut out the world’s threats.

“We are safe now.  We are secure now.  The good, the strong, walk free in our great land.  And those who commit crimes are justly punished.  We need not fear evil, for the only evil is that which we lock away.”

I stopped.  Something inside me twisted.  I could see my mother’s face, looking at me with the glazed look of insanity.  My father leaving his dinner out for me to eat.The fishing paper, with Orrin’s perfect handwriting carefully lined across it.  The memorized textbook words twisted in my mind.  My head started to spin.

I could hear someone clear their throat.  Looking up, I saw all five were staring intently at me, leaned forward slightly in their chairs as if waiting for something.  I mentally shook my head, forcing the twisted knot to hide away.

“I… I am proud to be part of our great Nation.”  I said.  “I look forward to my release, where I can prove that I am good and strong.  I will work for our Nation to keep it strong.  Those in the Prisons deserve their sentences.  Criminals are liars, and we cannot trust them.  I hope to be trusted, as I prove that I have been cleansed of the evil that brought me into this world.”

For some reason, I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes.  I tried desperately to push it away.  To show weakness now, at the end of my exam, would be a catastrophe.

The panel was quiet, watching me.  I could see Oscar running his clenched hand across his lips, glancing occasionally at the others who sat down the table from him.  Dr. Eriks had the smug smile spread on her lips.  The Reverend was nodding, the Judge bearing into me with his disheartening gaze.

The Warden stifled a yawn.  “Thank you, 942B.  You may be excused.”

That was it.  The Exam was over.  I realized I had finished it too soon.  I had heard that the Exam could take hours.  Mine took mere minutes.  Panic raced in my mind, worrying that I had left out something.  Replaying my words in my head, they all seemed perfect.  But why had I finished so early?

I didn’t realize that I was walking down the hall until I hit the Commons.  Inmates sat in small groups, barely noticing me as I passed.  I could only see the tattooed bodies, the angry faces, the shaded eyes, the occasional flitting eyes of a hiding Jail Baby.  I could only see danger.  I couldn’t wait to get away from this place.

With hours to kill, I did the only thing I could think of.  I crawled into my bunk, and fell asleep.

| | |

The sound of someone washing their hands pulled me from my empty dreams.  My father leaned at the sink, scrubbing at his hands vigorously.  I could see a stream of red mixing with the water that flushed away down the rusted drain.

“What happened?” I asked before I could stop myself.

My father jumped at the sound of my voice.  I could see his shoulders sag as he let out a heavy sigh.  “Just a cut.At work.  They said I don’t even need stitches.”  I saw him wince in pain as he scrubbed at it again.  “Don’t worry.”  Still wincing, my father pulled a small sliver of metal out of the cut on his hand, dropping it to wash away down the drain.

I climbed down from my bunk and crossed over to him.  Unrolling some of the rough toilet paper, I waited for him to turn off the water, then handed him the wad.  “Thanks,” he muttered, taking it carefully from me and pressing it to the cut.  I could see dark red already soaking through the thick paper.

“You should go to the Infirmary.  You need to get that checked again.”

My father stared at his hand, pressing harder against the bleeding.  “No, they said I’m fine.  Don’t worry, Millie.”  He looked up at me, forcing a small smile to pass on his face before he winced again in pain.

Moving past me, he sat heavily on the edge of the bunk.  Unrolling more toilet paper, I walked over to his side and waited.  He kept his head down, carefully pulling the now blood saturated ball of toilet paper off his hand.  As he moved to cover it with the new bundle, I caught a glimpse of the wound.

The side of his left hand, right along his thumb, was sliced cleanly open.  I could see the bulge of white fat and gleam of bone clearly, all covered in the thick red of flowing blood.  It clearly needed stitches.

My father pressed the clean ball of toilet paper to the wound, shamefully handing me the dirty one.  Without pausing, I moved over to the toilet and dropped it in.  I watched as the red toilet paper soaked up the water, already tearing apart and disintegrating.  I hit the flush handle and the red mess disappeared.

He didn’t need me.  He was my father, but he was also an adult.  I had been told that the prison would take care of him.  I almost turned to walk away, to let him lie down and rest.  They had told him he would be fine, so who was I to argue?

I looked back to my father’s face.  It was losing color fast, his lip quivering as he pressed harder on his bloody hand.  His eyes were focused on the ground beneath him, drops of blood splattering onto the cold cement.

“Dad…”

I stepped closer, my hand rising to softly touch his shoulder.  He lifted his eyes too look at me.  They were watery, floating in the pain he tried so hard to bite back.  My fingers snagged on the rough fabric of his shirt.  I felt something in my chest heave.

I parted my lips.  I wanted to say I forgave him.  I wanted to feel him cradle me in his arms like he had when I was small, chasing away the shadows of this world.  I wanted him to protect me like he protected my mother.

As if hearing my thoughts, my father tore his eyes away, glancing out the cell door.  “Where is your mother?” he asked, his voice suddenly anxious.

“What…”  I felt the heave in my chest snap.  Jerking my hand off his shoulder, I took a step back.  My father was still staring out the door.  His hand shook, blood dripping into the deep red pool on the ground.  “Who cares.  You need to take care of yourself right now, Dad.”

He shook his head, his eyes swimming dangerously in his head.  I could see his cheeks losing color.  “No, they said I am fine.  Where is your…”  His voice slurred.  Licking his lips, he forced his eyes to the ground.  His face paled even more.

“I’m getting a Medic,” I announced.

“Millie, I said that I’m −”

“I said, I’m getting a Medic.”

With that, I stormed out of the cell.  The Medic room was just down the walk, positioned to be nearby for a reason.  There were a lot of injuries here.  I banged roughly on the door then waited.  After some time a woman finally peeked out.  I could tell she wasn’t a convict.  The scared look on her face, the long wavy hair pulled back into a clean pony tail, the neatly trimmed nails with white tips only served to give her away.  There was no way she had ever served time.

“My father is injured.”

“Name?” she asked, pulling out a small plastic box that fit into the palm of her hand.

“Alan 942B.”

She typed in the name then waited.  The machine sat silent a moment, then beeped.  “It says he was examined at the site and deemed fit to return to cell for rest.”

“I can see fat,” I snarled through clenched teeth.  “And bone.  He won’t stop bleeding.  Does that sound ‘fit’ to you?”

The nurse’s eyes widened for a moment at the hiss of my voice.  Checking the device again, she added nervously, “And his points amount only allows −”

“Take it from my points.”  As she opened her mouth to protest, I cut her off again.  “Yes, you can.  I am given points as an allowance until I leave.  Take the amount you need and fix his damn hand.”

The nurse looked at me a moment, her eyes wide in fear.  Then she nodded once, picked up a small bag, and pushed past me.  I watched as she made her way toward my block, then I let my body slump heavily against the now closed door.

I felt strangely exhausted.  Even though I had just woken up, my eyes were now heavy, my body laboring for breath.  I didn’t know what had come over me.  The sudden rage that had driven me was something I had never felt before.  It scared me.  Yet, at the same time, I felt oddly powerful.  The look the nurse had given me as I hissed my words at her seemed oddly fulfilling.  And that feeling, the feeling of enjoying the innocent woman’s fear, was what scared me the most.

A clock hung on the wall above the nurse’s station, covered in strips of metal.  Looking up at it, I saw that it was almost 1300.  I had just enough time to make it to the Parole room.  Cursing at myself for pushing time again, I started to run.

10

My toes lined along the yellow line once again.  The Parole room looked nearly identical to the Exam room.  The only change was the small desk set up in the corner, an old typewriter waiting on its worn surface.  I was alone in the room.  In my rush, I had arrived there early and was told by the guard in the hall to go in and wait.

So I waited.

I heard the door swing open.  Keeping my eyes glued to my toes, I could hear the shuffle of feet as the Panel made their way to their seats.  I could hear Dr. Eriks sigh, the groan of Judge Wood as he lowered himself into his seat.  Another light shuffle of feet sounded as the typist made her way to the waiting typewriter.

Someone cleared his throat, loud and demanding.  I jerked my eyes up.

There, sitting in the Warden’s spot, was Carl.

“Hello 942B,” he said, his voice cool and relaxed.  I could see the hint of a grin on his lips.  My whole body went ice cold.  “Warden Binns was unexpectedly called away to other duties.  I have been asked to sit in for him at this hearing.”  He bore his eyes into me.  “Are there any objections to this decision?”

I could hear the quick typing as the woman in the corner recorded every word he said.  I licked my lips, feeling their sudden dryness crack under my quivering tongue.  “No.” I barely managed to speak.

Carl smiled, leaning back in his chair.  “Then let it be on record that the release hearing for Millicent 942B has begun.”  He turned slightly to Dr. Eriks.  “Doctor, would you care to begin?”

Dr. Eriks flipped open a folder that laid on the metal table.  I could see my photo taped to the inside, my black and white face staring intently out.  Swallowing hard, I tried to calm the shaking that threatened to take over my body.

“Patient, casually addressed as ‘Millie,’ has been seeing me weekly for the past fifteen years.  Her mother has been incarcerated for life, Murder 1 and Assault 1.  Her father has been incarcerated for life, Murder 1 and Aiding.  Medical evaluations have found Millie’s mother, Leann 942B, suffers from self-imposed amnesia, psychosis, and bi-polar disorder.  Medications have worked to an extent to calm violent episodes.”

Violent episodes?  In my entire life, I had never seen my mother lift a finger to any person.  When stress or fear or anger came up, she would just disappear into her strange trance.  I found myself wondering suddenly if those trances were just drug-induced controls.  My mind started to swim in questions, and I tried desperately to suppress them as Dr. Eriks went on.

“Neither parent shows remorse for their crimes.  They have insisted that the men ‘deserved it.’  Upon their entry into Spokane Prison, inmates Alan and Leann found that they were pregnant.  Abortion was strongly urged, but they refused.”

I couldn’t understand why Dr. Eriks was talking about my parents.  I had come in there expecting a review on myself, on who I was.  Instead, she sat stiffly in her chair, her dull eyes reading the words printed permanently in my folder.  Words about my parents.

Something she said slowly sank in.  I had always thought I was conceived and born inside this prison.  That wasn’t true.  My parents were already pregnant with me before they were committed.  And they had refused to abort me when urged to.  Something tugged at my mind, but I forced it away, realizing that Dr. Eriks still had not stopped.

“…always seemed indifferent to parents’ crimes.  In most sessions, has been calm, aloof, and quiet.  Millie has stepped up to her parents’ responsibilities.  Millie withdrew from school a year early to proceed in independent study.”

Pausing a moment, Dr. Eriks dug through the folder, finally finding a sheet of paper.  She took a moment to read it, then proceeded.  “Her final exam showed extreme knowledge in the greatness of our Nation.  Millie has been awarded an A, thus securely passing.”

I felt my shoulders relax slightly.  Moving my eyes from Dr. Eriks, I took in the rest of the room.  The others at the table were all watching me.  Reverend Smitson had a soft look on his dark-skinned face, as if ready to offer me the salvation of the Lord at any moment.  Judge Woods looked bored.  Oscar still had a fist up to his lips, his eyes watching me almost in fear.  I lingered on him a moment, confused.  Then I finally let my eyes trail to Carl.

He was smiling.

Dr. Eriks closed the folder, knitting her fingers and resting them neatly on top.  “Millie has never proclaimed any affiliation to any gang, group, religion, or faction.  She has proven her loyalty to the Nation.  She has never been in any confrontation and has never been accused of any crime.  Her submissiveness and humbleness are appreciated by the Nation. I -”

“Yes, but do you recommend release?” Carl asked, leaning toward the doctor.

Dr. Eriks’ eyes widened for a moment.  Turning her face towards Carl, she stared at him as if in disbelief.  “Excuse me, GF?”

Carl leaned back, knitting his fingers across his chest as he glanced at me.  “You say she is an asset, you tell us about her parents and her exam results.  But we already know all of this.”  Carl looked back toward Dr. Eriks.  His eyes were squinted, bearing into her.

Her lips parted a moment.  I could see her brow knit together, anger flaring behind her narrowed eyes.  Dr. Eriks was not a person accustomed to being interrupted.  “I was getting there, GF.”  She spat out the last word, her lips tightening into angry lines.  “I was −”

Carl looked away from Dr. Eriks.  His eyes locked back onto me, a smirk passing his lips before he cut her off again.  “Then I suggest you get there already.”

Dr. Eriks paused, her eyes locking onto mine for a moment.  I could have sworn I saw contempt flash across them, but it vanished as fast as it had appeared.  “I give my approval for release.”

I couldn’t speak.  It seemed so sudden, so simple.  I had expected Dr. Eriks to tear me apart.  I had thought she would reveal all the secrets she must have discovered and written in that notepad of hers.  Instead, I had just been awarded her approval without hesitation.

Looking over to her, I saw the hate radiating from her eyes.  Then, slowly, a thin smile spread on her pale face.  I felt sick.

Carl leaned forward.  “Millie 942B, due to your shining report and passing grade, you will be given the option to accept a job for the great Nation and work here in Spokane.  All your needs will be taken care of as you work to better our Nation as we reform its criminals.  You must announce your decision now.  Have you decided?”

His eyes suddenly turned cold.  I felt them bear into me, cutting through my very being like jagged knives.  No one else seemed to notice his intense stare.  The slight parting of his lips.  His fists as he clenched them tight.  I could feel his hot breath on my neck as he had pressed me against the wall.  His words echoed suddenly in my head, angry and distant.

“So, I think you need to ask for a job here.  In the upper blocks, where I will be transferring back to very soon.  I have tried to suggest it nicely.  But obviously nice just didn’t get my point across.”

“I −”

“Might I remind you, 942B,” Carl interrupted, his voice coming out business-like and indifferent.  As if he had never spoken to me before.  “Accepting a job within the Prison is a great honor.  You will be compensated well, and offered the ultimate protection from the… unjust.”  His eyes scanned me a moment, so quick I knew no one else could have caught it.  “Have you decided?”

I knew then, as sure as my blood now ran like ice through my body, that I did not want to be anywhere near this man.

“I have,” I said, my voice obviously shaking.

Carl let out an exasperated sigh, his lips slightly smiling as he awaited his expected answer.  “What is your decision?”

I swallowed hard.  When I finally spoke, my voice surprised me by coming out clear and strong.  “I wish to be released.  To work and earn my freedom within the Nation as I better the land and people around me.”

Carl’s face turned dark.  I could see his muscles tighten as he clenched his jaw in anger.  Dr. Eriks’ eyes flicked to look at him, her lips tightening into a thin line before looking back to me.  Her eyes focused on my shirt, refusing to look me in the face.  In a level voice, his eyes still bearing into me, Carl coolly asked, “All in favor of Millicent 942B’s release?”

The four others raised their hands, muttering “Aye.”  Carl watched me a moment.  The vote had to be unanimous.  If it failed, I would be detained until a consensus was decided.  I suddenly realized that Carl could make that indefinite.

In a low voice, he finally answered, “Aye.”

Judge Wood cleared his throat.  His bored eyes rose to look at me, barely taking me in.  “Millicent 942B, by permission from our great Nation, I am proud to be the first to announce your release from Spokane Prison.  As is practiced, you will be on watch for the first month.  Your job will be assigned, and you will be expected to earn your living.  Spokane will release you come midnight of your birthday, with any points earned and any belongings thus acquired.  Are there any questions?”

I shook my head.

Judge Wood nodded. Without another word, he pushed himself up from his seat, breathing hard against the weight that tried to keep him down.  Oscar rose, his eyes nervously watching me.  I could hear the paper shuffle as the typist gathered the records and left the room.  The others followed close behind.

Carl stayed in his seat, watching me.  He looked about ready to launch himself over the table at me.  Then he suddenly smiled, standing smoothly.

“Remember, Millie,” he said, his voice an unsettling calm.  He smoothed his hands over his vest, glancing coolly at the empty doorway.  “I get what I want.  Enjoy your release.  I will see you around.”

With that, he excused himself from the room.

| | |

That was it.  I was going to be released.  Even though I always knew I would be, it still felt strange to stand there, knowing that tomorrow I would leave the only place I had ever known.  I was finally going to be set free.

When I got back to my cell, both my parents were standing near the bunk.  I could tell they were nervous.  My mother kept trying to flatten her knotted hair.  My father shifted from foot to foot, watching her every move, one hand resting lightly on her back.  He cradled his other hand across his stomach, the bright white gauze that covered it a stark contrast against his dirty shirt.  As I walked in, my mother saw me and jumped, clapping her hands together.

“So?  So, so, so?”  She sounded like a young child, bouncing up and down and repeatedly clamping and unclamping her hands.

“I passed,” I said simply.

“Oh, Millie!  I am so proud of you!  I am so, so, so proud!”  My mother moved to wrap her arms around me.  I threw my hands up, stopping her mid-step.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

My father sat down on the edge of the bed, his tired eyes watching my mother.  Wondering what he was looking at, I turned my eyes to her.  She stood where I had stopped her, her hands hanging limp at her sides.  Tears were flooding down her face, her lower lip quivering as she sucked in a sharp breath.

“M-Millie.  I just wanted to hug you.  Can’t I just hug my baby?”

The thought of her wrapping her arms around me caused my stomach to tighten.  I could see her, covered in blood.  I could see the photo of the man lying dead on the ground.  I didn’t want to be touched anymore, by her, by anyone.

“Is it true?” I blurted out, my voice suddenly full of anger.  “Is it true that you don’t even regret it?”

“It?” she asked innocently, genuinely confused.

“The men you killed!  Remember that!  The whole reason our family has been locked in this God awful place instead of living a normal life, free in the Nation!  God Mom!  You killed someone!  Don’t you regret it?”

My mother watched me, the tears still streaming down her face.  Regardless of her quivering lip and sniffing nose, her voice came out strong and sure.  “I don’t regret a single stab.”

I wanted to scream.  I wanted to shake her until her stupid crying stopped and she finally admitted that what she had done was wrong.  My nails dug into my palms, the pain a welcome release from the thoughts that ran like angry fire through my mind.

“You have to understand, Millie.  Those men, they needed to die.”

“Why, Mom?  Why did they need to die?”

She snapped her mouth shut, her eyes widening as she stared at me.

“Because,” her voice was low, trembling slightly.  “Because I didn’t like them.”

“Mom,” I said, my voice barely audible.  “My entire life I have known you were strange.  But I loved you.  I believed you were normal, somewhere deep down inside.  But now I know.”  I took a deep breath.  “You really are the crazy monster everyone in here sees.”

My mother choked on her tears.  I could see my father lower his head, his hand rising to wipe at his face.  He should have yelled at me.  He should have leapt forward and slapped his insolent daughter who stood there and insulted his wife.  But I knew he wouldn’t.  He was just her shadow, her silent watch dog.

My mother raised her arms, her fingers reaching for me as a strangled squeak escaped her lips.  I could see her retreating into her own world, the glaze taking over her tear-filled eyes.  “Oh, my baby… my baby…” she took a step for me, her fingers pleading to let her hold me one last time.

I looked straight into her eyes.  She stopped talking, her glazed eyes watching mine.

“I never want to see you again.”  My voice was barely audible.  It held no humor, no side smile at the irony of the statement.  I meant it with every inch of who I was.

My mother began to shake, raking sobs taking over her entire body as she started to crumple to the ground.  Darting forward, my father wrapped his arms around her and dragged her back to the bunk, laying her gently down.  He cooed softly to her, whispering things I could not hear.  She finally calmed, passing into a dead sleep.

I just stood there and watched.  I wanted my last sight of my parents to be one of who they truly were.  I felt like I didn’t know them.  They were just a pair of crazy, random inmates who I had been forced to live with for the last eighteen years.

My father glanced at me, his eyes full of pain.  I felt something in me reach for him, hating the look of betrayal in those tired eyes.  But I forced it away, locking it behind a door deep inside of me.  Without a word, he laid down next to my mother and closed his eyes, his bandaged arm wrapped tighter around her than usual.

The buzz cut through the air.  I hadn’t even heard the first two warning buzzes.  Behind me I could hear the door slide shut, locking me in for my last night.

I didn’t climb into my bunk.  I walked just close enough to inch my notebook out from under my pillow, then settled down next to the door.  Guards walked by, their boots pounding the ground as they checked each cell.  The med cart rolled by, pushing the three cups under our door as soon as I answered their usual question.  I stared at the cups, frozen in time, waiting for the walk to die down into night.  Before long it fell into the usual nighttime murmur.

What is life? I scribbled.  Tying it to my shoelace, I threw it out from under the door and waited.  As soon as I felt the tug, I reeled it back in.

It isn’t death. Did you pass?

I did.  I wrote.  This is my last night.

I am so proud of you, Millie. Orrin wrote, his handwriting clean and smooth.  You better be careful out there.  I really mean it.  I don’t want to see you rot away in a place like this.

You haven’t ever seen me.  I wrote back.

As soon as I threw it, I regretted the words.  They were harsh.  Orrin didn’t deserve my hostility.  He had always been open with me.  He had listened to me like a father should have, and had given me advice when I needed it the most.

Yet he had still refused to ever meet me.

I have.  It’s hard to miss one of the only young women in this block, Millie.  You stand out.  I read the words over again.  Orrin knew who I was.  He had seen me.  And still he never had stopped to introduce himself.

Why haven’t you told me that before?

Because you would ask why I didn’t say hello.  I smiled.  He did know me.  You are magnetizing, Millie.  A true beauty.  Somehow this ruined life hasn’t affected you.  I fear that others will see that, and try to ruin you.  Please.  Protect yourself.

I remembered Carl.  His broad grin, his hungry eyes.  My pencil hovered above the paper, ready to tell Orrin about my encounters.  But then I stopped myself.  There was something about Carl.  Something that made me scared to even mention him to Orrin.  I didn’t want to put him at a risk that he could otherwise avoid.  My throbbing cheek agreed.

I know.  I will.  I finally wrote.  Tell me about the world.  Where is your favorite place?  Maybe I can go there?

It took a while to feel the tug on the shoelace again.  It was slow, meaningful.

It was the beach.  I had a home on the beach, with my wife and boys.  At night we would sit out on our porch and listen to the waves crash against the sandy shore.  My sons would cuddle on my lap, their heads on my shoulders as they fell asleep, safe in my arms.  I remember the smile on my wife’s face as she sat curled up in a blanket, hot cocoa in a warm mug in her delicate hands.  She was beautiful.

When you walk along the beach, you feel a strange peace with the world.  The ocean waves wash away your thoughts, letting you feel the sun on your back and the sand between your toes.  It is truly a beautiful, breathtaking sight.  I could sit for hours on the beach, watching the world disappear over the watery horizon, and never regret a single moment of the wasted time.

It sounds amazing.  I wrote.

I already knew though.  I knew I would never get to see that sight.  The Wall stretched along both coasts, blocking out the beach from everyone but the guards who patrolled.  And the wealthy privileged with beach access.  I felt a pang of sadness for Orrin.  He knew this too.  Even though he would spend the rest of his life behind these locked doors, the knowledge that the beauty of the beach was locked away even from the free must kill him.

I felt a tug on the shoelace.  When I started to pull it back toward my cell, it felt oddly heavier than usual.  As I pulled it into the dim light, I saw a strange lump in the folded paper.

I carefully lifted the edges of the note.  There, sitting on top of Orrin’s neat handwriting, was a piece of glass.  It was a soft green, looking almost frosted.  Its edges were worn smooth, its surface almost sandy to the touch.  I held it in the palm of my hand and stared at it.  I had never seen anything like it.  It was beautiful.

This is sea glass.  Orrin wrote.  When glass falls into the ocean, it gets tossed and beaten by the waves.  After some time, all of the rolling and roughing smooths its surface.  It loses its sharp, deadly edges, and becomes a thing of beauty.  I used to spend hours scouring the beach for sea glass.  I would bring it home to my wife, who would turn it into jewelry and centerpieces on tables.  Her face lit up every time I would come in the door with my small handful of sea glass.

This was the last piece I found.  The day they locked me away.  I never even had time to give it to her, to my wife.  I have held onto it since.  It has been my only connection back to the life I lost.  And now, Millie, I want you to have it.  Think of it as my birthday present for you.

I can’t take this, Orrin. I wrote.

I waited for his agreement, the glass now held softly in my hand.  I couldn’t stop looking at it.  It was so beautiful.  It looked almost like a small rock, except for its clear green surface that glowed in the light.

You can’t give back presents, Millie.  I want you to remember what I said about that glass.  Can you do that?  The world has a way of making even the most deadly, jagged shards into something beautiful.  Let’s hope that someday it may do it to this Nation.

I could hear footsteps sounding down the walk.  Tears stung my eyes as I realized I didn’t have time to send him one last note.  Sitting back against the wall, I let the tears hit my cheek.  The footsteps slowed, checking every cell as they passed.  It almost felt as if they were taunting me, reminding me that I would never speak to Orrin again.

I was about to leave everything I ever knew.  Everyone I knew.  My life would be wiped clean and I would start new, in a world I didn’t know.  I would never meet Orrin now.  I might never see Jude again.  I found myself weakly questioning my decision to leave.

Down the walk, in a loud whisper, I heard someone say my name.  I crushed my face against the opening of the door, holding my breath.

“Happy birthday, Millie,” the voice roughly whispered.  The words carried down the quieting walk to my anxiously waiting ears.  “I hope I never see you again.”

Then it fell silent.  I stood up, wiping the tears off my face with a shaking hand.

“Goodbye Orrin,” I whispered.

Part Two: LIBERTY

11

I finally stopped the tears.

Climbing up onto my bunk, my head hit the pillow, hard.  I could hear my parents breathing below me, soft and even.  Outside the cell, the murmur of the block nightlife continued.  Occasionally the heavy stomp of guards passing in the dark echoed down the walk, only to disappear once again into the dull murmur.  I held the sea glass firmly in my fist, letting it press hard against my palm.  Every so often I would creep my fingers open, gently rubbing a fingertip along its smoothed surface.  I could almost feel the sand and waves as they rolled over the glass.  Then I would snap my fingers back shut, locking it away in the safety of my palm.

I heard the clink of the door unlocking.  Sitting up, I turned and watched as the door slid all the way open.  Light from a flashlight flooded the cell.

“Millicent 942B?”

I nodded, feeling the bright flashlight flood my face.

“It is ten minutes until midnight.  Midnight marks the start of your eighteenth birthday.  You have been cleared for release.  Please gather your belongings and come with us.”  I squinted, barely making out the silhouette of the deep-voiced guard.  He tapped his foot.

I had thought I would leave when the lights came on.  I had always assumed I would get one last glimpse of the prison waking up before I escaped to my freedom.  But here they were, whisking me away in the dead of the night.  I climbed down, pulling my notebook with me.  As I reached up to grab my blanket and pillow, the hand of the officer firmly stopped me.

“Those are prison property, 942B.”

“But, they have been mine since −”

“Those items are prison property,” he repeated.  Motioning behind him, another officer stepped forward.  The second officer stepped held out a small canvas bag.  The first officer turned back to me as he grabbed the bag from his comrade and put it in my hands.

“You are to only gather your clothing and personal items.”  He watched me a moment as I stared dumbly at him.  In exasperation, he tapped his wrist, his short nail clicking on his metal watch.

I spun and faced our small shelf.  Pulling open the bag, I shoved my small pile of clothes inside.  I glanced over my shoulder at the guards standing behind me.  They were barely watching, their eyes tired and bored.  Shielding my hands from their view, I tucked the sea glass into a sock then shoved it into the bag.  Though it was not against the rules to have this small present, I felt a strange urge to keep it a secret.  I wanted it to be only mine.  For it to be all to myself.  I stuff the remaining sock on top, then pushed my thinned notebook into the bag and cinched it shut.

That was all I had.

A small bundle of clothing, a piece of sea glass, and the notebook.  I slipped the bag over my shoulder then turned to face the waiting officers.

“Would you like a moment to say goodbye?” he asked, motioning to my sleeping parents.

I looked down at them.  My father’s breathing was uneven, his eyes quivering slightly.  I knew he was awake.  “No,” I said simply.

“Very well,” the officer said.  He moved out of the cell, motioning for me to follow.  I tore my eyes away from my parents.  As I walked out of the cell, I heard my father softly hush my mother.  I didn’t look back.  As soon as I stepped out in the dark walkway the cell door slid back closed behind me, locking shut.

I followed the officers down the walk, out into the Commons, and finally down a dark hallway.  We paused at a sealed door long enough for them to scan my metal bracelet, then each of their badges.  The door slid open, and we passed through before it locked itself back closed.

The first officer clicked off his flashlight.  The room we had stepped into was bright.  The lights hurt my eyes.  As I adjusted to the new lighting, I took in the room.  The walls were painted white, framed images and flyers hanging neatly on their clean surface.

We walked through the strange white room quickly and passed through another door.  This time there were more chairs, a small television set in one corner.  Its screen glowed blue, still waiting to be turned off for the night.  I could see magazines scattered across the surface of the many side tables.

The officers made me sit as they walked over to a desk and started to type on a buzzing computer.  I gripped the bag in my hands, trying to calm the strange nervous shaking that kept crawling up my legs and into my hands.

A sign hanging on the wall across from me caught my attention.

Visiting hours:  9 AM to 7 PM

Please leave all personal belongings
in the provided lockers.

Photo ID required.

No items may be passed to inmates.

All visits are monitored and recorded.

This was a waiting room. A waiting room for visits.

No one inside had ever mentioned receiving visitors.  I had always assumed that once you were locked away, that was it.  The world disappeared from you.  And you from it.  I couldn’t pull my eyes off of the sign.  It seemed odd to me, that this waiting room still sat here.  It was empty, the magazines looking brand new, the layer of dust hiding on top of the TV a sign that it this room was rarely used.

“942B, come with us.”

I stood numbly, following the voice.  The two officers were holding open a door across the room.  The door opened to a glassed-in room, a white bench screwed along all four walls the only thing inside.

“You will wait in here until discharge.”

“In here?” I asked, shocked.  The lights were blazing bright, the benches solid wood.  I knew I stood no chance of sleeping tonight.

The officer tightened his lips, obviously not wanting to repeat himself.  I moved past him, avoiding eye contact as I entered the glassed-in room.  Sitting down, I let the bag rest on the ground by my feet.  The officer watched me until I had settled, then shut the door.  I could hear the click of the lock as it sealed me in.

I waited.

Occasionally I could see an officer walk past.  No one paused to check in on me.  I would see their eyes flit to look in my direction, then quickly look away as they continued their uninterrupted walk.  I felt invisible.  Forgotten.  My butt hurt and my back was stiff from leaning against the low wall.  I could feel my eyes burning.

Hours passed.  I could feel time ticking away.

My head finally drooped, my eyes too heavy to stay open any longer.  In the darkness behind my closed eyelids I could see my father, his hand bleeding, his eyes lowered.  He went to work, lining up along the other assembly line workers.  Nobody seemed to notice the blood dripping from his hand as he set to work, silently clicking sharp metal sheets together into something I couldn’t recognize.  I tried to see what he was making, but could only see the gash on his hand, blood dripping in a stream like a dying waterfall.

My father disappeared.  In his place stood my mother.  She was frozen.  Alone.  The room she stood in was empty, no windows, not even a door.  I could see her face, still as stone.  Only her eyes moved.  They darted back and forth, searching every corner in sheer fright.  Then I finally saw it.  Her arms were bound tightly around her, her legs tied tight together.  She couldn’t move if she wanted.

I thought about stepping forward to help her.  Just as my hand reached out, she started to scream.  Her body thrashed in seizure-like jerks, her lips distorted and twisted.  Spit flew from her mouth as she bared her teeth, her eyes manic.  I didn’t know this woman.  She was a wild animal.  I backed against the solid wall, trying to get away from her as her scream died into a low chuckle.

Just as fast as her attack started, it ended.  She went back to her frozen stance, twigs and dirt falling from her hair, her lips slightly quivering as she whispered over and over, “My baby.  My baby.”

Everything went dark.  Through my lids, I could see the faint glow of the white room that surrounded me.  But here, hidden behind my closed eyelids, it was dark.  I sighed a breath of relief, my head nodding down slightly as I welcomed the solitude.

Then I saw his face.  It slowly appeared in the dark, barely visible.  Shards of light hit his cheekbones, his furrowed brow, his straight nose.  As he moved forward, my breath froze in my screaming lungs.  His grin spread menacingly on his hungry face.

I snapped my eyes open.  Gasping in a painful breath, I looked up to the ceiling.  My heart beat hard in my chest, threatening to burst out.  Breathing in deep again, I felt it finally slow.  I was exhausted.  But the need for sleep had been chased away by the fear of my dreams.

Lowering my eyes, I saw I wasn’t alone in the room any more.  A woman sat across from me, her hands cuffed tightly behind her back.  The reek of beer stained her dirty clothing.  Her hair was long and blonde, muddy at the tips with something dark.  I watched her, her eyes glazed as she stared past me into the window behind my back.

“In or out?”

The sound of her slightly slurred voice jarred me.  “What?” I asked.

“Going in or coming out?” she asked, her glazed eyes focusing onto me.

“Oh, uh, going out.”

She scanned me with her eyes, a small hiccup escaping her chapped lips.  “First release, huh?”

“How did you know?”

She laughed, her arms struggling a moment against the metal cuffs.  “You scream it, hon. Just you wait.  Prison Nation will chew you up and spit you right back out.  It don’t care.”

That was the second time I had heard it called Prison Nation in the last day.  It was a name I had never heard before.  Everyone always reverently, respectfully called it The Nation.  It was the great Nation.  The good, the strong.  This new name made no sense to me.

“Why did you call it that?” I asked.  I stopped myself, surprised that I had asked this woman, who I had never met before, a question like that.  Biting my lip, I nervously watched her.

“You kidding me?”  She scanned me again, her lips curling in humor.  “Well, ‘course you ain’t.  You don’t know.  You’re a Jail Baby huh?  Born and raised in this great institution.  Proud of this Nation with its correcting, righteous ways.”  She let out a rough laugh, the end of it breaking into a cough.  “Let me tell you something, hon.  Whether you are in these walls, or out of them, you are still in this prison.  Get it?  They got you.  They got all of us.  And we ain’t going nowhere.”

The woman let out a chuckle, low and angry.  Something else hinted it though.  Something light, barely there.  As the angry chuckle died out, I could hear the hint of desperation on every breath she gasped in.

I watched her.  She squirmed in her seat, her head lolling back a moment.  I didn’t know if I could believe a single word she was saying.  It was obvious she was under more influence than just the alcohol whose stink had infiltrated the once clean air in this room.  Her body was too skinny, bones sticking out where her bulky coat and baggy jeans didn’t cover.  She began to shake.

In a soft voice, distant as if talking to someone long gone, the woman whispered, “At least in here I can sleep.”

The door swung open.

“942B.”  A new officer, a woman this time, stood at the door.  Her bulky body fit tightly into her uniform, showing off her pudgy rolls.  I stood up, grabbing my pack in a shaky hand.  “Come on then.”  She glanced over at the handcuffed woman, then ushered me out and slammed the door.  I could hear the woman chuckle lightly as the door clicked shut.

The officer led me to a new room, filled only with a bench and a small desk.  A woman sat behind the desk, her clothing neatly pressed and clean.  I took in her deep purple shirt, squirming in my own worn white t-shirt.  It seemed to scratch me even more, reminding me that it would never be as smooth or soft as that woman’s top.  The officer led me to the bench, motioning for me to sit.

The woman at the desk looked up and offered me a small smile.  “First off, let me congratulate you on your coming release into our great Nation.”  She glanced again at the screen of the computer that sat on her desk.  “Millicent.Quite a name.  Is there a story behind it?”

No one ever called me Millicent except when they looked at my paper work.  I hated that name.  It felt ugly on my tongue.  I had no idea why my mother chose that name, but in the last few days I had come to realize she probably didn’t have any reason.  She didn’t need one.

“My mother is crazy.  She probably was told she needed a name and picked the first lame one that came to mind.”  I bit my lip.  I didn’t know why I kept saying things like that.  I never had before.  Looking at the woman, I saw her chuckle to herself.

“I’m a name buff myself.  Every name has a meaning, did you know that?”  She smiled at me.  I could feel the tension as she tried to keep up the casual conversation.  “Your name means ‘mild strength.’  Maybe your mother was trying to bless you.”

I shrugged.  I suddenly just wanted this woman in the deep purple shirt to stop trying.  “Yeah. Maybe.” I muttered.

The woman cleared her throat, glancing down at my paperwork.  When she looked back up, I could see the attempted warmth had fizzled in her eyes.  “Do you prefer Millicent or Millie?” she carefully asked.

“Millie,” I answered softly.

“Very well.  Your official ID will now read Millie 942B.”  A machine buzzed behind her.  Something heavy dropped into a small tray.  Without looking, she reached behind her and picked it up.  Holding it out, she waited for the guard to come grab it from her.  The guard looked at it a moment, then handed it to me.

It was small plastic card, my black and white photo printed on its surface. My face stared blankly back at me.  Next to my photo was my name, printed in plain block letters.  Under that was my birthday, eye color, and height.  The only other thing on the card was a barcode.

The woman was typing.  I could hear her fingers picking out the letters quickly, obviously well practiced at whatever she was doing.  As she typed, she casually spoke to me.  “That is your ID.  Do not lose it.  If you do, you will be charged for a reprint.  You must have it on you at all times.  You will not be paid if you do not have it.  You cannot purchase food or other items if you do not have it.”  She stopped a moment and smiled at me.  “So don’t lose it, okay?”

I nodded.

Something in her smile made me want to apologize for my brashness before.  I couldn’t form the words.  Instead, I just watched her.

The woman glanced at the computer screen.  “According to your records, you have enough points for a total of two hundred dollars, after we have deducted your discharge fees.  Would you like that in credit or cash?”

I had never held money in my life.  I had heard others talk about it, but in prison, currency wasn’t needed.  Out of sheer curiosity, I answered, “Cash, please.”

“Very well,” she said.  She nodded to the officer, who disappeared out the door.  A moment later she returned, carrying an envelope and a small box.  Handing the two items to me, she backed away again to her silent post.

“Inside the envelope is your cash,” the woman continued, still typing.  “The box contains one extra change of clothes, a razor, a bar of soap, a towel, and one box of sanitary napkins.”  I peeked inside the box while she spoke, pushing around the contents.  The envelope sat fat in my hand.  I felt myself strangely afraid to lose it and gripped my fingers tighter around its thin paper.  Maybe I should have asked for it in credit.

“Do you have any questions?”

I shook my head.

“Very good.”  The woman looked at the screen again.  “You have been assigned your probationary job.  The Nation looks forward to your steady and loyal work.  Your employer is waiting outside to pick you up and bring you to your new residence until your probationary month is over.”  Leaning back, she looked at me again.  Her eyes flitted down to the metal bracelet on my wrist.  “The ID bracelet will remain on until the month is over.  If there are no more questions, then this is it.”  The woman stood, flattening her black pencil skirt against her toned legs.  She smiled and held out a hand.

I stood, slinging the pack over my shoulder and tucking the envelope and box under one arm.  I took a step toward her, my hand shaking as I held it out to her.  She firmly gripped it a moment, watching me before offering one last warm smile.  “Welcome to the Nation, citizen.”

The officer placed a hand on my back, softly pushing me toward the door at the other end of the room.  My feet stumbled underneath me as I made my way over to it.  The officer pulled the small hand held device out of her pocket, scanned my wrist, and waited for the beep.  As soon as the small beep sounded, she swiped a card across a panel near the door.

The door buzzed once, then swung open.

Sunlight spilled in, crisp with the fresh morning air.  I squinted as we stepped out, taking in the pale blue sky dotted with drifting white clouds.  In front of me stretched a parking lot.  No razor wire topped fences.  No guards patrolling.  Just a normal parking lot with a few scattered cars resting in the morning light.

The guard walked me around the corner.  Beds of neatly trimmed flowers lined the walk, their buds opening with dew.  I could almost taste the dew on my tongue, full of the morning sun.  We walked until we got to a small covered area.  The guard stopped, motioning to someone in the distance.

I could hear the rumble of an engine.  Looking around, I saw an old truck making its way toward us.  Its paint was chipped, rust splattered across its once bright yellow surface.  I could see a large dent on one side, bending the metal in at a strange, striking angle.

The truck pulled in under the covered waiting area.  Without a word, the officer pulled open the passenger door, nodding once at me.  I tightened my grip on my small bag and took a step forward.  Still squinting from the bright light, I looked into the cab.

There, sitting behind the wheel, fist held tightly to lips, was Oscar Ramos.

12

I had never been in a vehicle before.  My fingers gripped the worn handle on the door, nails digging into the soft plastic.  My whole body bounced up and down as the truck pulled out of the lot and onto the worn road beyond.

The outside world was amazing.  I had stood outside before, as near to the fence as I dared.  I would stand and look at the world outside the fence, trying to forget the men up on the walks who always watched with guns held tight, making sure I didn’t attempt an escape.  Beyond the prison’s fence, there was nothing else.  Just a rolling expanse of tall grass.  It would sway in the light breeze, always dried and crisp in the ever heated air.  For miles I could see the waves of grass, only interrupted occasionally by a lone, shriveled tree.

As we drove down the road, the grass rising on either side, I felt sick.  I turned my head, looking out the dusty window to my right.  The prison was huge.  I had always known it was large, but seeing it now from the outside took my breath away.  It stretched away on either side, disappearing with the grass into the horizon.  Spokane had no beginning, and no end.

I felt strange, knowing that hidden somewhere inside those dark rising walls and razor wire topped fences were the people I had known my entire life.  They were at work, or sleeping in cells, or standing alone in the yard watching the grass bend and sway.  My eyes suddenly stung, unexpected tears trying hard to find their way out.

I pulled my eyes away from the prison, turning in my seat to face forward again.

Oscar glanced over to me, both of his hands firmly gripping the steering wheel.  “Buckle up,” he said, his accent so strong I could barely understand his words.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Buckle up.  Uh, there.”  He pointed to a strap hanging at my right, then to a small metal buckle down by my left hip.  I reached and grabbed the strap, pulling it across my body and toward the buckle.  Glancing up at him, I raised my eyebrows in question.  Oscar nodded.

I pushed the buckles together until they let out a light click.  The strap tightened against me, pulling me firmly against the seat.  I stared at the buckle a moment.  I didn’t like the feel of the strap confining me, pulling me tight into the worn seat.  My lap was full with my box, bag, and envelope carefully balanced on top and I struggled to keep it all together as the truck bounced down the road.  Glancing over to Oscar, I shoved the envelope of money into the bag, cinched it tightly shut then wrapped one arm securely around the small pile.

The car rumbled loudly down the road.  Small buildings started to appear.  Paint chipped off of their wooden walls, the windows boarded tightly shut against the empty air.  Soon they grew closer together, their worn paint becoming nicer looking and their windows gradually opening.  Glass panes shone in the sunlight, curtains on the inside masking whatever lay beyond.  I saw people walking down the street along a thin concrete walk, casually talking or glancing into shops.

My eyes burned as I refused to blink.  I felt the fear of the rumbling truck disappear with amazement at the life that now appeared before my eyes.  Small children gripped parent’s hands, tugging and laughing.  A store passed, toys propped carefully in its clean window.  An old man sitting on a wooden chair outside a shop raised his hand and waved.

Oscar nodded to him, passing without a pause.  We soon were out of the small strip of buildings, turning onto a dirt road.  The truck bounced haphazardly as it hit the deep potholes that were scattered everywhere.  I felt my stomach churning with nausea.  Focusing my eyes out of the dusty windshield, I worked hard to bite it back as I dug my nails harder into the plastic handle.

Ahead of us rose a tall building.  In the distance, just beyond the building, were perfectly matching smaller buildings, neatly lined and carefully painted.  Oscar pulled up in front of the large building and turned the truck off.  Its engine sputtered once, then went silent.  He glanced at me a moment, then pushed open his door and climbed out.

I figured he wanted me to do the same.  My legs shook as I climbed out.  I threw the pack over my shoulder, then wrapped my arms tightly around the small box and hurried to catch up to Oscar, who was already making his way down a cobble lined path.

We passed the large building.  I gazed up at it, taking in its tall white walls and neatly cleaned windows lined with white lace curtains.  The front door was a bright red, an apple neatly carved into its wooden surface.

Oscar made his way to the smaller buildings around back.  People ambled by, their clothing dusty but neat.  A few sat in the entrances to the buildings, casually talking as they ate food or whittled at pieces of wood.  Oscar nodded to people as they passed, occasionally mumbling something I couldn’t understand.

We finally reached one of the small buildings.  Oscar stopped, pulled out a paper from his shirt pocket and glanced at it.  Nodding to himself, he looked back at me and motioned me forward.

I stepped up to the small building.  “This is your… uh… living space,” Oscar said, obviously searching for words in his thick accent.

A woman walked out.  Her skin was the same golden tone as Oscar’s, her dark hair pulled into a single loose braid that hung down her back.  She seemed to be only a few years older than me, her face still young and vibrant.  Seeing Oscar, she let a bright white smile spread on her suntanned face.

“Hola Oscar,” she said, leaning against the open doorway.

“Hola Maria,” he answered quickly.  “Este es Millie.  La chicanueva.”  Maria looked over at me, then nodded and smiled at Oscar again.

“Hola Millie,” she said, still smiling.  Her teeth seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.

“Um. Hi.”  I knew that they were speaking Spanish.  There were gangs of inmates who only spoke Spanish in the prison.  I had always avoided them.  They would watch me with slitted eyes every time I had to pass, murmuring even more strange words in their language I could never understand.  Standing here now, in front of Maria and Oscar, I found myself wishing they would speak English.  Not knowing what they were saying as they stood watching me sent my stomach into knots.

“¿Dónde este Reed?” Oscar asked Maria.

Maria shrugged.  Oscar sighed, glancing over at me again.  I could tell he wanted to pass me on to someone else and be done with the job of my escort.  His hands clenched into fists, one twitching as he fought it from rising to his lips.

“¿Te da miedo la bonita chica nueva?” Maria asked, her lips curling into a smile at the corners.

Oscar glanced at me, his fingers twitching again as they fought to rub against to his lips.  “Uh, Maria… No sé…”

Maria sighed and took a step forward.

“Go on Oscar.  I got her.”  Oscar glanced to Maria, then back to me.  Maria shooed at him with her hands.  “Si, Oscar.  Ándale.”

Oscar nodded, letting out a relieved sigh.  Turning to me, he nodded again, then took off to the large building.  Maria motioned me forward.  Wrapping my arms tighter around my small box, I stepped up the small building, following her inside.  She carelessly swished her hips as she walked down the narrow hall, her tight shirt showing off her figure underneath.

“Don’t mind Oscar,” she called behind her.  Her voice was hinted with the same accent, though not nearly as thick as Oscar’s.  “He is always nervous when new ones move in.  We have had trouble, in the past you know.  But you won’t be trouble, I can tell.”  She stopped and smiled at me, tapping her head.  “I can see you are a good girl.”

I nodded.  Something about Maria made me like her.  I didn’t know if it was her smile, or the how she so comfortably spoke to me.  There was something there though.

“Okay, this is your room.”

She pushed open a curtain.  Inside rested a small bed, blankets folded neatly on its padded mattress.  It barely stood off the ground, propped up on a few thick boards.  A small table with a single drawer sat wedged in next to the bed, an old lamp sitting on its rough surface.  At the other end of the bed stood a small set of drawers.  Aside from that, the room was empty.  Everything was crowded close together, the only remaining floor space barely big enough to spin on.  Everything in the room seemed to be embraced in the deep brown of the wooden walls.

“It isn’t much,” Maria said, watching me take in the room.  “But hey, it is home, sí?”

Maria couldn’t see the relief that was flowing through me.  I scanned the room again, taking in the one thing that made a smile finally creep across my face.  There was no bunk.  No other bed.  I had never slept in a room all to myself in my life.  It seemed too good to be true.

Walking in, I set my box and bag on the bed.  “No, it’s perfect,” I said softly.

“Okay.  Well, unpack then come outside.  Sí?”

I nodded.

Maria turned to leave.  Before she could duck through the curtain, I stopped her.  “What did you ask him?  Oscar.”  Maria turned and looked at me, a smile still on her full lips.  “Out there… I was just curious.”

“Don’t know much Español, huh?”  Maria leaned against the doorway, her smile easy and welcoming.  “I asked him if he was afraid of the pretty new girl.”

“Oh.”  I looked away, staring at her feet instead of her laughing smile.  “Is he?”

Maria laughed. “Millie, don’t worry.  Oscar is afraid of everything.  Even his own shadow.”  I glanced back up at her.  She winked playfully, pushing her body away from the door frame.  “Just relax.  Everyone is loco at first.  We get used to it though.  Most of the time.  See you outside, chica.”

Maria watched a moment longer, then turned and left.  As soon as she disappeared through the curtain, I dumped out the contents of my small bag onto the bed and set to work sifting through them.  Picking up the sock that held my sea glass, I paused a moment.  I could feel the lump of the glass in the toe.  I wanted to look at it again.  To roll it between my fingers and try to hear the soft waves that had created it years before.

Sighing, I grabbed the envelope of cash and pushed it into the sock on top of the glass.  Rolling the top of the sock shut tightly, I gathered my used clothes and walked over to the small dresser.  I carefully laid out my clothing in the first drawer, making sure it was folded neatly and organized.

I walked back to my bed and ripped the top of the box open, then pulled out the new set of clothing. The shirt was a dark blue, the pants a light khaki covered in pockets.  I stared at them a moment, my fingers trailing over the new fabric that almost seemed to crunch under my touch, then carefully folded them and laid them in their place in the open dresser drawer.  I gathered up the extra socks and underwear and toiletries and tucked them all away too, then pushed the drawer shut.

All that was left on the bed now was my notebook and the empty cardboard box.  I fiddled with the box a moment, then finally found a way to collapse it.  Not knowing what to do with it, I kicked it under my bed.  The cardboard scraped across the wood floor, then fell silent as it found its place in the shadows and dust.

I walked over to the head of the bed and finally let myself sit.  The springs in the bed bounced back at me.  I could feel them under my body, jabbing and poking, but it didn’t matter.  The bed felt like complete luxury.  I took in a deep breath, letting my eyes scan the tiny room once more.

My room.

Without pausing to flip through the ratty pages, I slipped my notebook into the drawer on the bedside table, then rose and walked out of the room.  The hallway was narrow, barely big enough for two people to stand side by side.  I could see Maria leaning in the doorway, and made my way to her.

As I drew closer I could hear her talking to someone.  Maria was laughing, her shoulders rising and falling happily.  I reached her, unsure of whether I should wait or let her know I was there.  I ended up standing awkwardly in the shadows, shifting my weight from foot to foot like a nervous child.  I could hear the rumble of a man talking to her, his voice light and joking.

Maria laughed again.  “Señor Reed, really.  You will be kicked out of here faster than you know if you keep that up.”

“Keep what up?” he asked, his voice pure and innocent.  Maria chuckled again.  “Um, you have someone.  There.  Behind you,”  Reed added, his voice still soft.

Maria looked over her shoulder, smiling at me.  “Come on out, Millie.  Come on.  Rapído.”

Stepping down out of the doorway, she motioned with her hands for me to follow.  I took a step out, blinking in the bright sunlight.  It took me a moment to adjust.  I wasn’t used to being out in the sun this much in one day.

I finally stopped blinking.  A young man stood in front of me, leaning against the wall of my living quarters.  He was tall, his body lean and his skin tanned a rich brown.  Dark brown hair hung slightly shaggy on his smooth forehead.  He smiled at me, his deep brown eyes light and happy.

“Hey there,” he said.  Taking a step forward, he held out a hand and waited.  I watched him a moment, then I held out my hand and let him take a hold of it, gently shaking.  “I’m Reed.  Looks like I get you.”

“Get me?” I asked, alarmed.

Reed furrowed his brows together a moment, then suddenly shot his eyes open in realization.  “Oh, no.No, not like that.”  He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head as he kept his eyes on me.  They had lost a bit of their humor, now studying me closely instead.  “No, I get to show you the ropes.  You know, the job.”

I lowered my eyes, my cheeks suddenly burning.  “Oh,” I said simply.

Reed said a few more words to Maria, but I didn’t bother to listen.  I felt young and naïve.  As if I shouldn’t be there at all.  Everyone seemed so relaxed and comfortable as they joked and walked past in the warm sunlight.  Meanwhile I stood there, waiting for a fight to break out at any moment and for the thump of heavy boots as guards ran in from the shadows to break up the chaos.

“Hey?”  I snapped out of my thoughts, seeing Reed watching me.  His brows were still slightly furrowed, barely wrinkling his smooth forehead.  “Ready?”  He must have asked me already.  The tone of his voice sounded repeated, almost exhausted.

“I am.  I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be sorry.  You’re new here.  You’re allowed to get lost in the fog a bit.”

I paused again, staring at him.  I had never told anyone about the fog that clouded my mind and memories.  My mouth hung open, my thoughts racing to think of what to say.  It was probably coincidence, that Reed had mentioned fog.  But the way he looked back into my eyes didn’t settle my suddenly racing heart.

Reed smiled, then started to walk away down the dirt path.  I hurried to follow.  We passed the small buildings, most empty now as the other workers made their way to their jobs.  I found myself curious about what I would be doing for the next month, if not longer, of my life.

We finally left the gathering of small houses.  Ahead of us stretched an orchard.  Trees, full of bright green leaves, stretched up to the sky, casting shifting shadows on the grass below.  As we got closer I saw that the branches of the trees were heavy with dark red apples.

Apples.  I sighed.  Of course it was apples.

Reed bent and picked up two baskets from a stack near the entrance to the orchard.  Handing me one, he continued to walk, ducking under a few low hanging branches.  I tucked the basket under my arm and hurried to keep up.

A few workers nearby called greetings to Reed as we passed, then went back to their work.  They stood tiptoe on step ladders, reaching into the branches to pluck the apples and drop them into their baskets.  A few were high in the branches, the only sign of their existence being a random flash of arms and legs as the leaves moved in the breeze.

Reed grabbed a step-ladder and leaned it up against a tree trunk.  Slinging a strap from the basket around his shoulders, he jumped up into the tree, disappearing into the branches.  I watched him climb up, my mouth slightly gaping in awe at how fearless he seemed as he scaled the tree.

I carefully stepped up on the ladder, feeling it wobble beneath my feet.  Placing my hand against the tree trunk, I waited for the shaking to calm.  The bark was cool under my hand.  I caressed my fingers along its rough divots, feeling the bumps and curves of the wood press back against my skin.  My fingers inched along the bark. They carefully explored the dips and rough edges, a small smile spreading on my face as the sun-warmed bark snagged on my fingertips.  I had never touched a tree before.

“The tree feels loved.”

I jumped.  Looking up, I could barely see Reed’s face through the branches.  He smiled at me.  The thump of apples echoed down to me as he dropped them into his basket.

My cheeks burned again in embarrassment.

I stepped up to the top step.  Reaching up, I plucked an apple from a low hanging branch and tossed it into my basket.  It rolled around, finally coming to a stop as it settled.  I picked another one, throwing it in to begin its circle of rolling.

My stomach growled.  I hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before.  I could feel my head swim as my mouth started to water.  I plucked another apple, then leaned against the trunk to look at its red surface.  It shone in the sun light.  The apple seemed to taunt me, daring me to bite into its red flesh.  I thought of the mealy apples the prison always served, the dry taste on my tongue as the browned meat crunched in my mouth.  I hated apples.

My stomach growled again.

Gritting my teeth, I lifted the apple to my mouth.

Before I could take a bite, a hand clamped down on my wrist.  I looked up.  Reed was hanging in front of me, his body wrapped around the branches to keep from falling.  One hand gripped my wrist, his eyes bearing into me in alarm as his grasp tightened.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice strangely scared.

“I’m… I’m hungry.  I was just going to eat an apple.”

Reed jumped down from his perch, landing with a thump on the grassy ground.  He reached up and took the apple from my hand, letting it drop into my nearly empty basket.  Leaning in close to me, he looked around once before bearing his eyes into mine.

“You can’t do that, Millie,” he said, his voice soft and low.  “These apples are property of whoever is buying them.  They are owned.  There are tons of contracts wrapped around these apples.  None of which are signed by you.”

“So?” I asked.  “It’s an apple.  There are hundreds in the tree.”  I looked up as if to reassure myself.  The tree seemed to answer me by shaking in the breeze, its branches hung heavy with the red apples.

“Theft.  Have you heard of that?”  Reed leaned closer, his voice low.  “Well, that’s what you will get slapped with if you decide to eat these apples.  Along with whatever else they decide to add to the charge.  This is serious, Millie.  Take some notes, got it?”

I looked down in the basket.  “But…”

Reed rubbed a hand across his face.  “You grew up in the prison.  How many people in there did you hear claim they were not guilty?  That what they did wasn’t wrong?”  He raised his eyebrows to me.  I parted my lips to answer, but no words came out.  Reed motioned to the basket of apples.  “Those are owned.  By someone.  I don’t know who but I know it’s not you or me.  All we are supposed to do is pick the apples and put them in these baskets.  Eat one, and you will go right back to Spokane.”

I couldn’t believe what I heard.  Eating an apple wasn’t a crime.  The trees were full with the apples, waiting to be plucked and sold and eaten by others with growling stomachs.  The dead cool seriousness of Reed’s face let me know he was telling the truth.

I had almost broken the law.  A law I never even knew existed.

13

Reed climbed back into the tree. I could feel him occasionally glancing at me, and I tried to focus on my apple picking as if I couldn’t feel his eyes checking in on my every move.  I knew he was just worried, but I wished he would stop checking.  I wasn’t going to eat an apple, at all.  All his constant checking only set me further on edge.  Reaching up, I plucked forbidden apple after apple, dropping them into my basket.

People in nearby trees casually talked and laughed.  It was strange to see how relaxed they all were, sitting in trees in the sunshine and filling baskets as if they never had a fear or care in the world.  I could hear the rhythmic thumping of the apples as Reed tossed them into his basket high above me.  Letting out a breath, I leaned against the tree, one hand mindlessly stroking the bark as I watched the sunlight trickle down through the leaves.

“Well now, Reed. It looks like our tree is needing a room of its own with this new young lady here.” Someone walked around the tree, leaning casually against it.  He smiled at me, then winked.  “Pity.Wouldn’t mind a room of our own.”  I suddenly felt my throat tighten as Carl’s face flashed before my eyes.

“With her, or the tree?”  Reed called from the branches, his voice light with laughter.

“The tree, of course!”  The new man winked at me again.  “I like them sturdy.”

Reed jumped down from the tree, landing heavily on his feet.  He stumbled forward a step, his hands reaching forward to brace himself.  The man jumped forward and caught Reed just before he face planted.

“Whoa there man.  Don’t wanna push the Insurance.”  The man said, laughing as he hauled Reed to his feet.  He stood a few inches taller than Reed, his bright red hair a startling contrast to Reed’s deep brown.  He was slim like Reed, but his shoulders and chest were broader, thick with muscles.  The man slapped a hand on Reed’s back.

Reed slapped him back, chuckling.  “Thanks Eddie.”  He paused, glancing at me, then back to Eddie.  “Eddie, this is Millie.”

Eddie looked at me, an amused smile creeping across his lips.  “Millie.”  He leaned forward, his voice suddenly coming out in a loud, mocking whisper.  “Need some alone time?” Eddie flitted his eyes back to the apple tree, then winked at me.

I could feel my cheeks burning.  Opening my mouth to answer, I suddenly felt tongue-tied, unsure of how to answer his remark.  Reed looked at my face a moment, then slapped his friend upside the head.

“Eddie, come on man.  Millie is a recent Out.”

“Really?”  Eddie took a step forward, his eyes wide as he took me in.

“Yeah.  Give her a break, okay?  Probably the first time she has seen a real tree.”

Eddie’s eyes widened even more, if that was possible.  “Is that true?”

I glanced at Reed.  He was shaking his head at Eddie, his eyes rolling in mock annoyance.  Meeting eyes with me, Reed shook his head and shrugged in apology.  “Well, no.  I’ve seen them,” I answered.  “I’ve just never… touched one.”

My cheeks still burned.  I was in awe of a tree, as everyone else around me walked past through the Orchard without a second glance.  How much more obviously different could I get?  Eddie opened his mouth to say something else, but Reed suddenly smacked him again, hard enough this time to cause Eddie to let out a choked cough.  Reed smiled at me, then shot a look to Eddie.  Sighing, Eddie rolled his eyes and slumped against the tree.

“It’s alright, Millie,” Reed said, taking a step closer to me.  I could smell his light sweat on his body and something like peppermint every time he opened his mouth.  “We get Outs here pretty often.  They all do what you are doing.  It’s normal.”  Reed offered me a smile, lifting a hand to softly touch my arm.  I tried to smile back, but only managed a weak grin.

“I feel so out of place,” I admitted, shocked at the words as they tumbled from my lips.

“Don’t feel that way,” Reed said.  “You belong here.”

“Yeah you do.”  Eddie stepped up to us, a smile on his freckled face.  Reed lowered his hand from my arm, the spot he had touched still warm as he took a step back.  “And the tree knows it!”

“Eddie, honestly man.”  Reed couldn’t help but laugh.  I watched as his shoulders shook up and down, his white teeth flashing in honest laughter.  A small chuckle escaped my lips.  Reed reached over and playfully smacked Eddie on the arm again.

“So, Millie, care to have chow with us?”  Eddie casually asked, rubbing at his shoulder where Reed had hit him.  He folded his thick arms across his chest.  “I hear it’s gonna be the oh-so-delicious usual of veggie stew and baked rolls.”

My mouth started to water, my stomach growling in anxious agreement.  Hoping that Reed and Eddie hadn’t heard, I quickly picked up my basket and held it tight against my demanding stomach.  “Sure,” I said, the smile still on my lips.

“Awesome,” Eddie said, winking his eye at me again before jumping up and clamping a hand on Reed’s shoulder.  “Shall we?”

| | |

The flames of the fire rose and licked the air, dancing as they grew and shrank in the light breeze.  I couldn’t stop staring.  The countless nights of sitting huddled on the cold prison floor in front of the barely glowing light dimmed in my memory as I stared into the dancing flames.  It was mesmerizing.  Others around me casually lounged on the ground or on stools.  I could hear the clink of spoons against metal bowls, and my stomach growled again.

“Here you go,” Reed said as he sat beside me.

He held a small metal bowl, full to the brim with soup.  I could see chunks of potatoes and carrots floating in the thick broth.  Gratefully taking it from his hand, I held it in my lap, feeling the warmth from the bowl throb in my chilled hands.  It had become cold very fast as soon as the sun began to set.

Eddie plopped down next to Reed.  In one hand he had his bowl, in the other a plate piled high with rolls.  I could smell their fresh baked dough drifting through the air.  Steam still rose off of their golden crusts.

Seeing me eye the rolls, Reed picked one up and offered it to me.  I smiled at him, taking it carefully from his hand and setting it on my lap.  I was almost afraid to eat the food.  It seemed too good.  Too warm and delicious smelling.

“Don’t get used to it,” Eddie said, his mouth already full.  “Da rolls are usually cold.”  He shoved another roll in his mouth, an audible groan of happiness escaping his lips as he shut his eyes and loudly chewed.  I couldn’t help but smile.

“And the carrots aren’t always available,” Reed added.  “It’s been a good season on the other farms.”

I nodded.  I looked at the soup again.  Stirring my spoon slowly, I watched the carrots and potatoes spin.  “At least it isn’t apples.”

Both of the men laughed.  “What, not an apple fan?”  Eddie asked.

I shook my head and shrugged.  “I never have been.  Something about their texture. Or something.”

“Bad luck,” Eddie said, obviously amused.  Reed shot him a look, then let a chuckle escape his own lips as Eddie innocently batted his eyelashes in mock apology.

“So Reed, any news on the new buyer?” Eddie asked.

Reed shook his head.  “Not much.  Just some huge company or something.  At least we have a buyer.”  Reed scooped up a spoonful of soup, blowing on it for a moment.  “I hear other farms are losing business.  Being shut down.  They are giving more of the work to the prisons now.”

Reed and Eddie both glanced at me.  I just looked back at them, unsure of what to say.  Reed ate the spoonful of soup, thinking for a moment as he carefully swallowed.  “Maria said she heard that the inmates are being assigned more jobs.  Working longer hours for the same low pay.  Soon, the only work most of us will be able to find will be behind those walls.”

“Awesome,” Eddie sarcastically said, biting into another roll as he stared into the fire.  “Before we know it, we will all be out of work.”

“Or out of a country,” Reed quietly mumbled.  He glanced at me and I quickly looked back to the fire.  I could feel him watch a moment before he too looked away.  Reed fell silent as Eddie started to jammer on about something random.  Drifting out of the conversation, I looked down at the warm bowl in my hands.

Lifting my spoon, I finally took a sip of the soup.  It was thick and full of flavor, the warmth spreading over my tongue and down my dry throat. Shutting my eyes, I relished it, spooning in another mouthful.  I could still feel the hot roll on my lap, but wanted to save it for later.  After some time, I realized that Reed and Eddie had fallen quiet.

Opening my eyes, I glanced in their direction.  Reed was watching me, his face soft, his lips in a calm smile.  I could see the firelight twinkle in his eyes.  Beyond him Eddie had a huge grin on his freckled face, his red head nodding and his eye winking at me in exaggerated happiness.

“Good isn’t it?” Eddie asked in a cheery voice.

I couldn’t help it.  I laughed.  It felt good to feel the laugh explode from my chest, my stomach tightening in the laughter that fell out of me in a gush.  Reed’s smile grew.  He took a bite of his roll, watching me a moment longer, then turned to face the fire.

“Can I ask you something?”  I asked, not sure which of the two I was questioning.

Reed turned back to me.  “Of course.”  Eddie didn’t answer, oblivious to the two of us as he tore into another roll hungrily.

“Why do people call this Prison Nation?”

I could see the muscles in Reed’s jaw clench for a moment.  He took in a deep breath, then looked back at the fire.  “It must be hard for you.  I mean, I saw the way you were looking at that tree.  Just a tree.  Was life hard? In there?”

“I don’t know.  I mean, it was… life.”

Reed nodded.  “You know that life.  Life out here, it’s different.  I’m pretty sure you went to school in there.”  He glanced at me.  I nodded.  “Well, you will come to find out that what the Nation teaches is… missing some things.”

“Missing?”

Reed picked at the remains of his rolls, staring back into the fire.  “There used to be a quote, an unwritten law that people followed before the Nation took over.  ‘Innocent until proven guilty.’  It’s long gone now.  We all live in the knowledge that most everything we do is now illegal, and wait for the day that someone decides to push that fact and throw us into the prison.”

“But you get your trial.  You can fight any charge.  Not everyone goes to prison,” I insisted.

Reed took in another deep breath.  “You can fight all you want, Millie.  But once they get it in their heads that you are guilty, that is it.  It’s all just words after that.  We are all already guilty.”  Reed looked back at the fire.  “That’s why people call it Prison Nation.  We are all already locked up.”

He picked more at his roll, tossing the bits into the fire.  It sputtered as the crumbs burned, casting up small sparks that danced in the night sky.  He finally glanced down, realizing he had thrown all that had been left of his roll into the fire.  I could see his lips tighten.

I looked at my roll, then held it out to him.  Reed looked at it a moment, then shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “You haven’t even tried it yet.  You should.  They aren’t nearly this good cold.”

“I’m full.” Reed raised his eyebrows at me, obviously not believing my lie.  “Really.  That was a lot of soup.  In Spokane we were rarely given that much.”

“There wasn’t much in that bowl,” Reed glanced at the bowl in my lap.  “You still have some.”

I followed his gaze.  I hadn’t realized I still had soup to finish.  My stomach growled again, followed by a pang of pain from being stretched.  “Meals in the prison have been getting smaller.  I didn’t even realize it, until recently.  I guess my stomach just shrank, or something.”  I looked back at Reed and shrugged.

Reed pressed his lips together in thought.  Reaching out, he softly took the roll from me.  I could feel his fingertips brush mine gently.  Gripping the roll in his hands, he tore it in half, then passed one half back to me.

“You still need to try it.  It’s good.”  With that, he took a bite of his half.  His knees were drawn up to his chest, his free arm wrapped around them as he leaned forward against his legs.

I took a bite of the roll.  It almost seemed to melt in my mouth, the light hint of butter teasing my tongue.  It really was good.  I chewed slowly, trying to not show how badly I wanted to devour the half of roll in my hands.  From the way Reed watched me, I knew he would give the other half back if I let on how good it really was.

“Did you leave anyone, Millie?”

I stared into the fire, swallowing the last bit of roll.  “My mother.  And father.”

“Any friends?”

I thought of Orrin.  My mind drifted to the small piece of sea glass that was nestled safely in my drawer.  Then I thought of Jude, his smile through the slit at the bottom of the door, the music that he would let me fall asleep to echoing in my mind.  I looked at Reed and nodded.

“Do you miss them?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” Reed asked.

I sighed, lowering my eyes to the trampled grass under my feet.  “You try to not make too strong of ties, in there.  People are always coming and going.  Most of the time, you never know who they truly are.  Some are murderers, some druggies, some petty thieves.  You end up making friendships just long enough to make it to the next day, you know?”

“But do you miss them?”

“I don’t know,” I said softly.  I thought for a moment, remembering the few people I had left behind.  “I guess I do.”

Reed watched me a moment, then softly asked, “And your parents?”

I stared at the grass, trying to bore holes into the earth with my eyes.  “I don’t think I will miss them.”  The sudden hardness of my voice caused Reed to stare back at the fire.  I felt bad for how it had come out.  But it was true.

We sat in silence.  Eddie had disappeared at some point during our conversation.  I could hear his laughter echoing in the night.  “What about your parents?” I finally asked into the silence.

Reed didn’t look at me.  “They’re gone,” he said, barely audible above the hiss of the fire and the chatter of the other diners.

I shivered.  Though the fire was warm against my feet, the rest of my body had grown cold in the night chill.  Reed looked over at me.  He watched a moment, thoughts crossing his eyes.  Then he sighed and offered me a gentle smile.

“You look cold,” he said.  “And pretty tired.  I bet it’s been a long day for you.  Come on, I’ll take you to your quarters.”

He stood and offered me his hand.  I took it, letting him pull me to my feet.  We left the gathering, the heat of the fire disappearing as we stepped into the cold of the night.  I started to shiver more.  Reed offered me another smile, then put an arm casually around me.  I could feel the warmth of his body press against me.

The memory of Carl’s body pressing hard against mine made me suddenly stumble.  Reed held out a hand, grabbing my arm to brace me.  I could feel Carl’s grip on my arm, tight and lethal.  I tore my arm away in sudden defense.

Reed pulled his arms away from me, holding them palm out near his head.  I felt horrible.  He was just trying to be kind, and I had literally just pushed him away.  I stared at him a moment, then turned and started walking again, my pace quicker than before.  We walked the rest of the way in silence.  I wanted to apologize, to explain to him why I had suddenly treated him as if his touch had burned me.  But the thought of explaining Carl to him sealed my lips shut.

We stopped in front of my quarters.  Reed turned to face me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.  My mind raced, trying to think of something to say.  The hurt on his face that he was trying to mask drove me crazy.  Our eyes met, watching each other in the near dark a moment before I tore mine away to look at the door.

“Thanks,” I said simply.

I could hear Reed shuffle his feet.  “Yeah, no problem.”

I stepped up to the door, cracking it open.  “Hey Millie?” Reed asked.  I turned back to look at him.  Reed was looking up at me.  I could barely see his face, but I knew his eyes were searching for mine.

“Yeah?” I asked, my voice barely cracking out.

I could hear his mouth open, then shut again.  “Sleep well.”

With that, he turned and walked away.  I could hear his footsteps as he disappeared in the night, heading back to the fire glowing in the distance.  Biting my lip, I tried to focus on him, but he was gone.  With a sigh, I pushed open the door and ducked inside.

| | |

The bed was soft.  I didn’t mind that springs poked at my back and legs and that certain spots sagged into hidden holes.  Every time I turned or moved the bed would creak loudly.  Then I would have to spend time finding a comfortable spot again amidst the springs. None of that bothered me.  The fact that I couldn’t feel hard concrete flat against my body was all that mattered.

Regardless of the new bed, I couldn’t sleep.  I lay flat on my back, the blankets pulled tight around me, and stared out the small window above my bed.  I had tried to open it earlier, wanting to breathe in the cool night air.  Regardless of how hard I pushed, the thick layers of paint gluing the window shut didn’t even crack.

I could see a small square of sky.  Stars twinkled in the black.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.  In my life I had only seen the stars a small handful of times.  Each time consisted of mandatory searches and emergency drills that marched us out into the exercise yard to wait in the night.  I never had a chance to stop and stare.  Tonight, I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.

Three small, blinking lights passed across the stars.  I knew it was an airplane.  I had read about them, heard other inmates talk about them.  Watching the lights, I couldn’t bring myself to believe there were people, miles above the surface, flying past.  I could barely handle the ride in Oscar’s truck.

Tears stung my eyes.  I didn’t know they were falling until I felt the warm streak trailing down my cheek.  I felt so out of place.  So confused.  Everything around me was normal to the people who still sat outside around the warm fire.  They didn’t even look twice at the trees or the fire, or the stars.

I had seen how they had watched me out of the corners of their eyes.  They were unsure of me.  I was the strange new worker, just released from prison.  Even though I had never committed a crime, I felt dirty.  I felt less than them.

Reed didn’t look at me that way though.  I don’t know why, but he had gone out of his way to make me feel normal.  I felt oddly safe with him.  Every time he left my side during the day, I felt cold and insecure until he reappeared and offered me his easy smile.  It was a feeling I wasn’t used to.  A feeling I wasn’t sure I wanted.

The horrible memory of the flash of pain in Reed’s eyes as I shoved him away made my stomach knot up.  I hated how I had caused that look.  More than that though, I hated Carl.  The memories of him still hung at the edges of my mind, the pain in my arms and back flaring as the memories fought to take me over. I angrily wiped at the tears that had started to trickle down my cheek.  Fog teased my vision.

“I think he likes you.”

Startled, I sat up and looked over at the doorway.  Maria leaned against it, her arms folded across her as she leaned against the old wood.

“What?  Who…”

Maria smiled.  “Can I?”  She nodded to the bed.

I nodded, tucking my legs under me.  Maria stepped over to the bed and sat down, the old springs squeaking as she settled into her spot.

“Reed.  I think he likes you.  You can tell, with how he hovers.”  Maria leaned back against the wall, smiling at how my eyebrows knitted together.  “It’s a good thing, Millie.  He is a good guy.  Muybien, sí?”  With a light laugh she patted my leg.

“Where are you from?”  I quickly asked, suddenly wanting to change the topic away from Reed.  I could still see his hurt eyes.

“Me?  Mexico.  Mazatlan, but I was born in Guatemala.”

“Mexico?  But how did you −”

“How am I in el Nation Grande?”  Maria sighed, the smile never leaving her face.  I found myself wondering if this woman knew how to frown.  “Once or twice a year, the Nation just so happens to have security gaps along the Mexican wall.  They say it is an accident, but during those times Transplants cross and find work inside the Nation, no problemo.”

“Transplants?”

“Sí. Refugees. Immigrants. Illegal aliens.  You know?”  Maria glanced at me, and I nodded.  I still didn’t get it, but didn’t say anything.  “We are Transplants.  The Nation needs us workers to keep it going.  With so many locked away the farms were dying out.  And in my country… living is almost impossible.  Since the Wall went up, Mexico has gone loco.”

“So, you are illegal?”

“Who isn’t?”  Maria chuckled, patting my leg again lightly.  “Sí, I am.  Oscar too.  And most every other Latino you see.  The Nation will go around soon and gather a group up and send them back.  As if they are sending a message.  But a few weeks after that happens, there is always a lapse on the border and more are let back in.  I have a brother and my parents still in Mazatlan.  Last I heard, they are hoping to Transplant soon too.”  Maria paused, as if she was about to say something else, then sighed and offered me a smile instead.

It didn’t seem right to me.  The Nation wouldn’t break its own laws.  I fiddled with a loose string on my blanket, unsure of what to say.

Maria’s voice came out soft.  “When a body is dying, when it needs to be fixed but can’t fix itself, sometimes it needs a transplant to keep it going.  We are the Transplants.”  The room was quiet.  I could hear Maria breathing, feel her eyes on me, but didn’t look up.  Maria let out a light laugh, breaking the silence.  “Muy loco, sí?”

I nodded.  “Yeah.  Loco.”

Maria patted my leg again, then stood and walked to the doorway.  The curtain parted as she ducked out, leaning just her head back in.  I looked up to see her smiling warmly at me.  “Get some sleep, Millie.  Buenos noche.”

The curtain fell back into place, Maria’s smile disappearing into the shadows beyond.  I laid my head back down on my pillow, my eyes searching the stars outside my small window.  My mind felt thick and slow, full of too many new facts that I couldn’t process, that I didn’t want to accept.

The fog rolled in.  My mind welcomed it.  It wrapped its arms around me, asking why I had chased it away.  I embraced the release from my feelings as it clouded me and let me float away into silent dreams of beating hearts and sun-kissed apples.

14

Two weeks went by in a blur.  When every day is the same, it becomes harder to keep track of time.  Every morning I woke up to the hustle of the other women in my quarters throwing on their clothing and hurrying out the door, eager to pick their perch for the day of picking.  To my dismay, I realized that most wore the same dark blue shirt and khaki pants that sat tucked away in my dresser drawer.

Breakfast was always fast, usually a stuffed roll or a random fruit.  Water jugs waited, lined carefully along benches and filled to the brim with cool hose water.  Hands would snatch up the food and water, rarely pausing as they made their way to the Orchard.

They never gave us apples.

Then we would enter to Orchards, the paths between trees still masked in the leaves’ shadows as the morning sun struggled to rise on the distant horizon.  The workers would find a basket, pick a tree, and spend the next few hours plucking apples.  The Orchard fell into a rhythm of dropping apples, touched with the chime of casual chatter and hinted with the rustle of leaves always moving in the light breeze.  As the day drew to a close, people would gather their baskets in tired arms and trudge back to the campfires, ready to eat amidst laughter and fall dead asleep on their worn beds.

Reed and Eddie always found me.  No matter what tree I chose, they would come wandering over, then proceed to pick the waiting apples and joke the entire day.  I found myself looking forward to their company.  They made me feel special.  They made me feel welcome.  Even though Eddie’s constant jabber and joke cracking could get old by the end of the day, I always found myself smiling when he winked or cracked his big toothy smile.

Then there was Reed.  After the night where I had pushed him away, he had made sure to keep a slight distance between us, physically.  Regardless of the forced physical distance, Reed still found a way to stay close to me during the day hours.  His arm would almost graze my arm, his fingers almost meet mine when handing me my basket.  It would never get further than almost.  He seemed magnetized to me, always finding me, and never leaving until it was time for bed.

Back in Spokane, I would have been scared.  Worried that he had a hidden agenda or plan behind his soft smile.  Spokane wasn’t completely full of horrible people.  There were those who were gently doing their time and genuinely decent.  That didn’t matter much.  The majority were out for themselves and nothing else.  And those who were assigned to safe-guard us only yawned and ignored.

Or became Carl.

The thought of Carl would send my skin prickling and I would always find myself looking over my shoulder.  It was pointless, I knew that.  Carl was in Spokane, patrolling the walk.  The walk my parents and Orrin lived on.  The walk that Jude once patrolled.  I was far away from Carl and his smirk and iron grip, even if they were not.  Realizing that even a guard, a protector from the Nation, could send this fear down my spine, reminded me that anyone could hide their true intentions.  Or desires.

When I thought of Reed, when I saw his face in my mind, I somehow knew that couldn’t be true for him.

Those feelings were what scared me the most.

People don’t stay.  That was one thing I had for sure learned in my life.  Everything was temporary, and you had to always be prepared for the change.  I always knew that I would leave behind everything I had ever known.  The people in the cells were constantly changing, the children coming and going.  My parents were lies and Orrin a distant phantom in the night.  And someday, I would leave them behind.

During those two weeks at the Orchard, I realized that the prison wasn’t the only place people disappeared.  The happy, familiar faces I would see throughout the day in the trees kept changing.  Occasionally one would go missing, and would never reappear.

The happy red head, her hair always in two thick braids and whose voice carried too loud into the Orchard paths.

The short, squat Hispanic man who had to hold baskets on the ground for other pickers because he was too short to reach into the branches, even with a ladder.

The quiet brunette who would hide away in the taller trees to read her books.

They disappeared.  Just… gone.  And no one ever mentioned them again.

I found I had grown dreadfully terrified that one morning I would show up to work and smiling Eddie would never show.  That I would wait by the tree to start the day and would never see Reed’s easy walk towards me, his face already smiling before our eyes met.

My heart would almost go dead in my chest at thought of Reed disappearing.

I forced a painful distance between us.  Though I still laughed and talked during work, as soon as dinner came I would quickly eat then excuse myself to bed.  I had already started to become too attached.  Too close.  I had become too happy.

| | |

I sat on the thick branch, my legs wrapped tightly around it as I reached for an apple.  I had become more daring, leaving behind the stepladder and venturing higher into the tree every day.  I wasn’t nearly as nimble in the branches as Reed. I was content with sitting on the thicker branches instead of teetering in the sun near the top.  Every day I ventured one limb higher, one foot further from the ground.  My breath always caught in my throat.  My hands trembled and my heart pounded.  Then I would calm and look around, viewing the world around me each day as if it were the first time I had ever seen it.  The freedom of climbing was amazing, always facing the risk of falling frighteningly exhilarating.

I let out a sigh and leaned back against the trunk of the tree.  I could hear Eddie lumbering around in the lower branches.  He was like a bulldozer in the tree, always snapping branches and knocking down loose apples.  I shook my head, lightly laughing, and reached for another apple.  Something rustled above me.  Looking up, I could barely see Reed leaning back against the trunk.

“Millie, can I ask you something?” he asked, his voice drifting softly through the leaves.

My stomach knotted, but I quickly sucked in a deep breath, forcing away the strange feeling.  “Yeah, sure.”

“Who hurt you?”

My mind seemed to run into a solid wall, shattering into a million pieces in an instant.  His question was completely not what I had expected.  I had thought he would ask why I kept him at a distance.  Why I disappeared every night as soon as I could.  Instead, he dove straight in and found the hidden question that I thought I had safe guarded against.

“What…” My tongue had gone thick, unable to form any words.

“You are always looking over your shoulder.  Always… keeping your distance.”

I didn’t say anything.  I just stared at the bottom of his foot, barely visible in the thick branches.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice obviously mad at himself.  “That was way too personal.  Forget it.”

“No, no it’s okay.”  I took in a deep breath, feeling a lump form in my throat.  “It was a guard.”  I could hear the sharp intake of Reed’s breath, sucking in through his clenched teeth.  “Reed, it wasn’t like that.  He just… he wanted me to stay there.  I guess he had come to like me, in some way.  One day he decided to tell me with a little more force than needed.”  My voice trailed off.  I clenched my eyes a moment, my nails digging into the bark as I tried to force away the memory.

It shouldn’t have bothered me that much.  It had shaken me, yes, but the fact that it haunted me every time I was near another man, especially Reed, drove deep into my core.

I was happy that I couldn’t see Reed.  I didn’t want to have to look into his eyes and see his sorrow for what I had gone through.  It would only have made it worse.  I could hear him breathing above me.  Looking up, I could only see his feet, frozen mid swing, his hands gripping the branch he sat on.  His knuckles were white.

“A guard,” he said, his voice carefully low.  “A guard should never do that.  Even if it wasn’t… wasn’t…” He sighed.  “They are supposed to protect us.”  He spat out the last words, the anger almost tangible in the air.

The branches above me rustled.  Reed dropped down in front of me, grabbing onto the branch and righting his body in one quick swing.  He sat a foot away, staring into my eyes.

“Millie, I will never hurt you.  Never.”  He stared into my eyes, his own swimming with emotions I couldn’t even fathom.  “I promise.”

I found myself staring back, never wanting to look away.  “I believe you.”

Time could have frozen there and I would have been content.  Even perched high up in the tree, teetering slightly every time a breeze blew past, I had never felt safer in my life.

All of my resolve to stay distant, to safe-guard against this potential threat, dwindled as I looked back into Reed’s eyes.  I tried to grasp it.  I tried to make it stay.  Everyone had a potential of being bad, of betraying, of hurting.  I couldn’t risk letting Reed do that to me.  But I couldn’t fight this pull.  Inside I twisted in confusion as I finally loosened on the self-imposed distance I had been holding so tight.  Reed parted his lips to say something.

“Hey, you two!”  I jumped, looking down wide-eyed at Eddie who stood on the ground now, gazing up into the branches.  “I am way done with apple plucking for the day.  How’s about we get into town?”

I looked back at Reed.  His lips were still parted, his eyes watching me as if he still wanted to say more.  Then he glanced down to Eddie and nodded.  “Yeah, coming down.”

Reed swung down, landing on his feet neatly.  I carefully climbed down after him, not daring to jump until I had reached the last branch.  As I landed on the ground, I saw Reed holding a hand out, ready to catch me if I fell.  I straightened myself, watching him tuck his hand self-consciously into his jeans pocket.

We started to walk back, our baskets held tightly in our arms.  Reaching the end of the Orchard, we set the baskets down carefully, then made our way down the dirt path toward the cluster of buildings.

“Been in town yet, Millie?”  Eddie asked, waving at a group of girls as we passed.  The girls watched him a moment, then huddled in a circle and started to whisper to each other.  I saw one girl glance back up, giggling and watching Eddie as we walked away.

“Um, no.  I didn’t know we could go.”

Eddie laughed, smacking me lightly on the back.  “Millie, you’re not in prison anymore, remember?  You can go to the town if you wanna go to the town.”

I could see Reed watching Eddie, his lips suddenly tight.  Whatever thought had taken hold of him passed and he let out a sigh.  “Eddie, Millie is on her month long parole.  She needs to check out.”

“I need to what?”  I was suddenly aware of how little I had found out about my parole rules.  I should have known more, should have asked for more details on the rules.

“Don’t worry, Millie,” Reed said, moving to walk closer to me.  “You just have to sign out.  I’ll show you where.”

Eddie clapped his hands together.  “Alright!  You two get Mills permission to hit the town, and I will snag the outing goodies.  Meet you by the gate.”  With that, Eddie bounded off, disappearing into a nearby house.

Reed just shook his head, a small laugh escaping his lips.  “Eddie.  What would we do without Eddie?”  I felt myself laughing with him.  We walked along the path, barely noticing that our shoulders were brushing as we laughed.

The large house rose ahead of us.  I had yet to step foot inside of it.  In fact, since I had arrived two weeks ago, I hadn’t even walked near this large white house with perfect windows.  I stared at it as we approached.  It seemed almost too clean and perfect to be surrounded by the smaller, more run-down living quarters.

Reed walked up to a side door, not even pausing as he pulled it open and walked inside.  I stayed close behind.  The entryway was well lit, the walls just as white inside as they were outside.  He turned down a hallway to the left and walked through another doorway, the white door propped open.

Inside the small room stood a desk, its surface covered in papers, plastic wrappers, and other loose ends.  Every inch of the wall was covered in framed photographs.  I slowed, taking in the images.  Most were of the Orchard over the years, the first few so old that the black and white had faded to almost nothing.  By the time I reached the end of the wall, I noticed that most of the images had Oscar standing off to one side, his hands nervously tucked at his side.

Noticing my eyes glued to the photographs, Reed stepped closer.  Our shoulders barely brushed.  Lifting a finger, he pointed at Oscar.  “That’s Oscar Ramos.”

“I know,” I said.  “He was on my parole board.”

Reed looked at me a moment, then nodded.  “Makes sense.  I have heard of them doing that before.”

“So, who is Oscar?” I asked.

“He runs this farm.  Not the owner mind you, but has been hired to make sure it keeps going.”  Reed looked at Oscar in one of the photos, then turned to me and smiled.  “He’s a good guy.  Probably scared the crap out of him to have to sit in that prison.”

Reed caught himself, his face suddenly full of apology.  I hadn’t even realized what he said until he looked at me with his eyes wide.  “It’s fine,” I said softly.  “I can’t blame him.  For being scared.”

He started to walk toward a back room I hadn’t noticed before.  I followed him, glancing once more at the photograph of Oscar before turning away.  Reed spoke to me over his shoulder.  “Oscar is a Transplant.  So his English is a bit rough.  And he prefers to still speak in his foreign tongue, which is cool and all, unless you have no idea what he is saying.”

Pausing, Reed turned to me, his face slightly embarrassed.  “Transplant.  I bet you have no idea what Transplant is.”

“No, it’s alright,” I interrupted, watching his face lighten a bit at my intrusion to his apology.  “Maria told me about them.  She’s one too.”

Reed smiled.  “Maria.”  The way he said her name, his lips curled still into that smile, suddenly made my face heat.  Reed looked at me a moment, the smile softening.  “Maria is a good person.  Did you know she has a husband?”

“She does?”  I asked.  Reed nodded.  “Where is he?  In Mexico still?”

His lips clenched tight for a moment before he turned and continued to the back room again, shaking his head.  “He’s in prison.”

I hurried after him, wanting suddenly to hold his arm, to reassure him that Maria’s husband was alright.  That he was safe.  I couldn’t get myself to actually lift my hand to comfort him.  I couldn’t form the words.  A few weeks ago I would have said them without pause.  Now, I found myself newly wondering how true they would be once they passed my lips.

Reed rapped his knuckles on the open door’s frame.

“Hey Lou,” Reed said casually.

The man, Lou, nodded at Reed.  “What can I do you for, Reed?  Haven’t had to see you in here for some time now.”

“Yeah, I know.”  Reed motioned to me.  Taking his cue, I walked forward and stood in front of Lou.  “This is Millie.  She was released two weeks ago.  Eddie and I were hoping to take her into town today.  Can you sign her out?”

Lou spun in his chair and opened a cabinet behind him.  I watched as he flipped through some folders before finally finding the one he wanted.  As he flopped it open, I saw my black and white photo plastered onto the first page.  Did everyone have a file on me?

Lou read through a few pages, glancing at me occasionally, then leaned back and nodded.  “Good marks.  Looks like you passed with flying colors.”

“Uh, yeah,” I answered.

“You just have to sign here.” Lou slid a clipboard to me, a paper stuck on it with columns carefully drawn out.  I signed my name where he pointed.  Lou turned to Reed.  “You’re taking responsibility for her then?”  Reed nodded.  Lou slid the board to him and Reed signed next to my name.  “Got your ID card on you, Millie?”

I reached into my pocket, grabbed the small plastic card and handed it over to Lou.  He glanced at it a moment, his eyes quickly flicking up to take in my face once, then handed it back to me.

“One more thing.”  Lou stood and reached into a cupboard above his head.  I watched as he pulled down the small device that every guard in the prison carried.  “New procedures.  I guess they want to keep a better watch on their releases.”

Out of reflex, I held out my wrist, twisting my hand so the carved code on my bracelet was easy for him to scan.  Reed watched me, his brows knotted together.  Lou quickly scanned the bracelet, waited for the device to beep, then nodded again.

“Alright, that’s it.  Have fun in town.”

Reed thanked him quickly then motioned for me to head out of the room.  He walked close behind me, causing me to hurry as we headed out the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath.

“For what?”  I had no idea what he would need to apologize for.

“I didn’t know they would have to scan you.”

“Reed, really, it’s fine.  I have had my wrist scanned pretty much daily for my entire life.”

Reed shook his head, hands shoved into pockets as we made our way to the gate.  “No, it’s not fine.  You aren’t in there anymore.  They shouldn’t make you feel like you are.”

“I don’t –”

“You didn’t see your face, Millie.  You looked so… you looked like a prisoner waiting for your rations.”

I didn’t know what to say.  Reed seemed genuinely angry.  I couldn’t tell if it was more at himself, or at the Prison.  Either way, he had clammed up, keeping his mouth shut as he stared into the distance.  I leaned against the post of the gate, watching him.

The sound of Eddie’s heavy footsteps bounding towards us relieved the tension that hung in the air like thick smoke.  I smiled at him, welcoming his playful wink.  Eddie didn’t seem to notice the mood Reed had fallen into.  He playfully slapped his friend on the back, then made his way through the gate.

“Well, come on then!” Eddie said happily.  “Let’s get away from this apple picking prison already.”

15

The town was just as I remembered it.  People ambled down the walk, couples held hands, children laughed as they skipped and jumped in dizzy circles.  Two weeks ago, the drive from the small town to the Orchard had been long and bumpy as I sat next to silent Oscar.  Walking with always talking Eddie made time fly.  Even with Reed still in his oddly quiet mood, I barely noticed the walk until we arrived at the first building.

We slowed as we passed.  I turned to look in the windows, gazing in awe at the clothing that draped across display racks behind the clear glass.  It was so colorful.  Vibrant.Alive.  Though I had on the dark blue shirt that had been given to me in my release box, I still wore the white t-shirt much too often for my liking.  Peeking through the shop’s shining window, I couldn’t see a white shirt anywhere.

I reluctantly kept walking, my eyes still trailing the shop window.  In the reflection I caught Reed watching me, a soft smile spreading on his face.  I warmed inside.  It was good to see that smile again.  As his smile grew, I could see the humor that tinged his lips, amusement as he watched me, and I felt my cheeks flush with heat.

Eddie took his place walking in front of us, hands tucked loosely in his pockets of his jacket, back straight as he coolly glanced around.  I realized for the first time that he had grabbed a backpack, which now hung from one shoulder, swinging back and forth as he ambled down the sidewalk.

We passed other shops, some showing food, some posters for travel or houses for sale.  I couldn’t get enough.  The sun kissed my face, the stirred dirt of the road tickled my nose.  I took in a deep breath, tasting life.

Eddie steered to the left and twisted the shiny handle of a clear glass door.  The door swung open smoothly.  Eddie flashed me a cheesy smile, his chin held strangely high as he ushered Reed and me through the waiting doorway.  I glanced at Reed.  He was smiling, his head shaking slightly in humor at his friend.

Walking into the open entry, I was hit with the warm, amazing aromas of cooking food.  The mixed smells of meat, baked bread, and fresh vegetables mixed to completely intoxicate the air.  I had eaten more in the last two weeks than I could remember, and yet I still felt hungry.  Eddie pushed ahead of me, hurrying to merge into a line that waited in front of a low counter.

We had just joined the line when a couple entered and moved to cut in front of us.  They were young, most likely our age.  Judging from the crispness of their clothing and sparkle of their jewelry, they did not work at the Orchard.  Or anywhere remotely similar.

“Hey,” Eddie said, his voice low and menacing.  “Get in line like the rest of us have to.”

The man turned to look at Eddie.  He took his time to scan Eddie, his lips pursed, jagged lines radiating out in an angry sun.  Instantly an image of Dr. Eriks flooded my mind, her perfect spray of lines oddly detailed and focused.  I didn’t like thinking of her.  I hadn’t since my release.  Instantly I knew I didn’t like this man who looked down at Eddie from his much too perfect nose, even though Eddie towered over him.

The man chuckled.  “Calm down, Ginger.  You will get your grub.”

The man reached out and roughly patted Eddie on the arm.  I could see Eddie’s shoulders suddenly bunch up, his fists tightening at his sides.  Taking a step forward, Eddie seemed to grow even taller as he glowered down at the man.

“What are you going to do, apple picker?” the man asked.  His voice sounded like it had been greased with oil, smooth and reeking of money.  Eddie took another step forward, his hands rising at his sides into tight fists.

“Get. In. Line.” Eddie growled.  His face turned a deep red.

The man chuckled, his voice sounding slightly worried as he let his eyes flick down to Eddie’s fists.  “Hit me, Ginger, and I will see to it that this is the last hot meal you get.  I hear the Prison needs more workers.”  He laughed again, his confidence regaining as his arrogance took over.  “I bet you are just the type they would kill for.”

Eddie growled, unable to make words as he pushed his body up against the man.  The man’s date took a step back, tightening her grasp on her small purse as her wide, heavily made-up eyes stared at Eddie.

Reed glanced at me a moment, then stepped forward and rested a hand firmly on Eddie’s back.  The woman laughed nervously.  Reaching up, she rubbed her date’s shoulder seductively before turning her back to us.  She glanced over her shoulder once more at Eddie before coolly smiling, her eyes still alive with fear.  Her hips swayed just enough under her tight skirt to distract her date.  The man looked back to Eddie then over to Reed, whose hand still rested firmly on Eddie’s back.  Without another word, he smirked then turned away.

I could hear Reed speaking in a low voice, leaning in close to Eddie’s ear.  “Cool it man,” he said, his other hand moving to hold Eddie’s flexed arm.  “You don’t wanna get killed, do you?  Or worse?”

Eddie took in a few heavy breaths, his hands still clenched in tight balls.  Then he nodded, letting his shoulders relax, slightly.  He remained on edge, constantly staring into the back of the man’s head.  I waited for a hole to appear at any moment in the man’s finely smoothed hair.

The line moved forward, the couple finally being ushered off to find a table.  I was happy to see them leave.  I hated the way the woman stroked the man’s back.  The way the man kept leaning in to whisper dripping words into her ear made my skin crawl.  As they walked away, the man glanced behind him at Eddie, winking with a sly grin before disappearing around the corner.

“Stupid pricks,” Eddie muttered.  His arms were folded across his chest, his chin tucked down angrily.

I felt strange on my feet.  My mind kept trying to fog over and I fought it madly.  I didn’t want to disappear right now.  It licked at the corners of my mind.  It begged to embrace me and carry me away into my escape from reality.  The man’s sly smile as he passed out of sight sent the fog into a frenzy.  I felt my body sway.

Reed moved closer.  Carefully, so lightly I barely noticed, he laid his hand on the small of my back.  I gratefully leaned against it.  I could hear him breathing next to me, his eyes watching me as I let him support my weight.  The fog backed away, barely visible now in the corner of my vision.

We moved forward.  Reed kept his hand on my back, guiding me to a table sitting next to a large window.  I sat down.  I hadn’t realized how tired my legs were.  Reed waited until he saw me settle, then took the seat next to me.  Eddie plopped down across from me, still glowering.

A car rolled by outside on the road, its wheels crunching on the paved road.  We all paused and looked out the window.  I could feel as we collectively held out breaths, watching the dusty police car creep past.  The driver, a star pinned to his armored vest, looked through the glass back at us and nodded a short greeting before rolling on.  Eddie watched the car a moment longer before letting a smile take over his darkened face.

“Well, like the prick said, time to get our grub on,” Eddie said lightly.  He opened a menu and started scanning the lists of food.

I had no money on me.  I hadn’t planned on coming into town, most likely ever, and when we had randomly decided to make the trip I had completely forgotten to grab any cash.  In Spokane, we never used money, at all.  I hadn’t even thought to grab any before we headed into town.  Resting my hand on top of the menu, I stared at the down, wanting desperately to order one of the delicious smelling foods that wafted through the air.  But with no money, I knew I couldn’t.

“What’s wrong?”  Reed asked, glancing over to me.  My hand still rested on the closed menu.

“I forgot my money,” I said, feeling stupid.  My eyes tried to fog over, and I blinked it away angrily.

“Don’t worry.  I got it.”  Reed smiled at me.  Reaching over, he picked up the menu, sliding it out from under my hand, and opened it.  “You need to eat.  I don’t like how you were swaying back there.”

“Reed…”

“It’s just a few bucks.  No problem.”  He smiled again and tapped the menu, encouraging me to choose something.

I scanned the menu, trying to find something cheap.  I felt horrible for making Reed pay.  He smiled easily at me, still trying to reassure me that it was alright.  I finally settled on a bowl of pumpkin soup, its description hinted with spices and warm French bread causing my stomach to growl.  I had never had pumpkin before.

It didn’t take long for the food to arrive.  The soup smelled amazing, and before I knew it I was spooning it into my mouth, letting it envelope my tongue in its sweet silky flavor.  Eddie pounded down a burger, topped with almost every option listed.  I had no idea how he could eat so much, but somehow wasn’t surprised when he called the waitress back to order a second burger.

Reed carefully ate his sandwich.  He joined in Eddie’s playful banter, but something obviously still nagged at his mind.

The meal went fast.  The waitress came by once more, slipping a black folder onto the table.

“Here you go, handsome,” she said, winking shamelessly at Eddie.

Eddie beamed a toothy smile, running his fingers through his red hair.  “Why thank you, ma’am.  Might I say, those burgers were delicious.”

“Oh hon, they aren’t the only delicious things here,” the waitress replied, her voice dripping.  The waitress glanced over at Reed and me.  “Looks like the restaurant is full of delicious today.”  She winked at Reed.

Reed politely smiled back to the waitress, then reached into his pocket for some money, averting his eyes from her overly made-up ones.  “Don’t mind him,” Eddie said, chuckling.  “He’s on a first date, and I’m just intruding.”

“First… Eddie, honestly.”  Reed shook his head, forcing a nervous laugh.  I could see him glance out of the corner of his eye in my direction, his cheeks looking more red than usual.  I could feel my own cheeks reflecting his heat.

The waitress smiled at Eddie again, then turned and walked away.  “See you later, Eddie,” she called over her shoulder.

“Bye Rhonda,” Eddie called back to her, pretending to blow a kiss to her back.

Reed raised an eyebrow at Eddie, his fingers counting out a few bills from his wallet.

“What?”  Eddie asked innocently.  “We went on a date.  Once.  I think.”  A bashful smile crept across his face as he ran his fingers through his hair again.  “She said she liked my red curls.”

The boys both chuckled, slipping their money into the black folder before standing.  Eddie snatched a handful of fries from his almost empty plate, stuffing some into his mouth as he took a step away from the table.  I glanced at the folder.  Leaving it there on the table, full of money, did not seem like a good idea.

“It’s okay,” Reed said, leaning toward me.  “They got it.”  He pointed to the waitress, who waited politely a few tables away.  She nodded at me, flashing a brilliant smile before wiggling her fingers at Eddie.

Reed placed his hand on my back.  I melted against his hand’s gentle pressure.  It felt strange to relish the touch of him.  I no longer recoiled or pushed him away.  Instead, against all my thoughts and will, I found myself looking forward to his next touch.

It confused me like nothing else.

We walked back out onto the sidewalk.  Across the street there was an office that I hadn’t noticed before, its windows blocked with thick white paper.  On a board hung above the closed door, painted in fading black, it read: Records.

“What’s that?”  I asked, pointed at the office.

Reed’s eyes followed the direction of my finger.  “Records?  It’s a place where you can find out about the records of any newspaper, arrest, court sessions, sentencings… you know.  All of that.  Right in there.”  Reed clenched his jaw, nodding toward the office.

“Why would you want to do that?” I asked, shocked.

“Some people like to know the truth.  Looking up records seems to be the only way to dig some of it up.”

The truth.  Everyone lately seemed to be more and more obsessed with that.  Being a criminal, committing crimes, and being punished for them, that was the truth.  I couldn’t see what else they could look for.

Reed was watching my face, his own deep in thought.  As if reading my mind, he leaned in closer, his voice soft.  “There is a gray zone in life, Millie.  People say everything is black and white.  But sometimes… sometimes there is more to the story than what he said or she said.  There is always some sort of gray zone.”

Eddie stepped up beside me.  He was munching on the fries he had snatched up from his plate, casually wiping his greasy hand on his jeans.  “So Millie, what got your folks locked up?” he asked through the mouthful of fries.

I felt the knot rise in my throat.  “Murder,” I said, barely audible.

“Murder?  Really?”  Eddie laughed, choking on his fries as he tried to swallow the mouthful.  “How awesome is that!”  He moved to slap me on the back, but Reed suddenly intersected his hand, pushing it away sharply.

“Eddie.  Really?”

Eddie stopped, lowering his hand to his side.  He looked back and forth between us before a smile hinted at the corners of his mouth.  “You know, I think I’m going to go mingle.  Meet back up in an hour?”

Reed nodded.  Eddie winked at me then wandered off down the sidewalk, his backpack swinging with his loose swagger.

“Sorry.  About Eddie.”  Reed put his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot.  “What he said in the restaurant, about it being a date, I didn’t mean for it to seem like it was a –”

“It’s fine,” I interrupted, offering Reed a soft smile.  “I didn’t mind.  I really don’t.”

Reed returned my smile.  Together, we turned and looked at the Records office in silence.  The sign swung slightly in the growing breeze, its hinges creaking.  I read the sign over and over, my eyes tracing each letter as if searching for what truth the sign might hold.

“Have you ever thought of looking them up?”  Reed asked.

“My parents?”  I stopped, thinking.  I had honestly never thought about it.  Up until that moment, I had never even known that it was possible.  “No, I guess not.”

“You are mad at them, aren’t you?”

I turned to Reed.  “Wouldn’t you be?  If you were me, wouldn’t you be mad?” I asked, my voice slicing through the air.  I hung in mid breath, almost begging for his answer.

Reed lightly shrugged.  “They would still be my parents,” he said softly.

“They murdered people, Reed.”  My voice hissed, but I didn’t care to stop it.  I felt desperate, like I was suddenly drowning and my words were the only thing that could save me.  “And what’s even worse, they told me they didn’t regret it.  They said the men deserved it.  The men deserved to be killed because my parents ‘didn’t like them.’  What kind of monsters –”

“Monsters.  They do sound like monsters.”  Reed looked me in the eyes, watching me.  He leaned in closer, bending down to make sure I could see his face as he studied me.  “But have you ever wondered if there could be more to the story?”

I felt my head nodding.  I couldn’t speak.  Before my parents had told me their crime, I had always hoped there might be a loophole.  Some sort of forgotten truth that would set them free.  Some mistake that had happened that could prove they never deserved the life they had lived for the last eighteen years.  Could it be possible that hope could still live?

“Maybe.  Not right now though.  I just…” I trailed out, letting my eyes drift back to the sign.

“Hey, no rush.  That office isn’t going anywhere.”

Reed put his hand on my back again, guiding me down the sidewalk.  We walked slowly, enjoying the still warm sun.  It was nice to get away from the apple picking for the day.  I hadn’t realized how dull the routine at the Orchard had gotten until now. Walking down the side of the street, with nothing planned or expected turned out to be a welcome change.

I took a deep breath, the feeling of drowning disappearing with each step we took away from the office.  The fog teased me, but I blinked it away.

“Reed,” I asked, finally venturing into a question that had been on my mind.  “You said your parents are gone… where are they?”

Reed stared ahead, his hand still light on my back.  “Dead.”

“Oh,” I said, unable to think of a better response.  “Do you know… who…”

“The Nation killed my parents.”  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Reed clench his eyes shut a moment, swallowing hard.

We stopped at a street corner.  A few cars passed, followed by the same rolling police car.  The man with the star pin, the Sheriff no doubt, drove slowly by.  His eyes fastened on mine a moment before he looked away.  I could barely see him through the tinted glass, talking into a small radio before driving on.  Reed watched the car disappear around the corner.  His eyes suddenly glittered, his breath coming quick as he grabbed my hand and held it tightly in his.

“Come on,” he said.  “I want to get you something.”

He pulled me across the street, his mood suddenly light and happy.  I tried to protest.  I already felt strange that he had bought me food.  I knew I would have to repay him.  Now he wanted to get me something else.  It didn’t feel right.  Reed shouldn’t be spending anything on me.  He barely knew me.

Reed ignored my silent protest.  His hand, firmly holding mine, pulled me along behind him.  I looked down to see his fingers wrapped around mine, tiny scars from working at the Orchard in the trees scattered across his tan knuckles.  My hand looked so small and pale in his, but something that seemed right about their stark contrast.

I looked up in time to see he had pulled me to a stop in front of the clothing store we had first passed.  The mannequins in the windows smiled at me, beckoning me in.  I looked down at my dirty blue shirt, my used prison jeans.  The loose seams, the dirt stains and tears made me very aware of Reed’s other hand on my back, touching the worn-out shirt.

Reed opened the door and pulled me in.  Inside it smelled of flowers and clean linen, light music playing from hidden speakers.  I stopped for a moment, letting the music flow over me.  Reed gently tugged on my hand, pulling me towards a stack on a clean white table

It seemed to hold a shirt in every color I could ever imagine, simple button downs made to fit snug against the body.  I reached forward and touched one lightly.  The fabric was soft, so soft.

“Well, pick one.”

I glanced at Reed then looked back at the waiting shirts.  I didn’t know where to start.  Slowly walking down the length of the rack, I took in every color.  Then I saw it.  A dark purple shirt, the same shade as the shirt of the woman who had released me, sat neatly folded at the edge of the rack.

I picked it up, running my fingers over it.  The fabric felt so smooth under my touch, like warm summer water.  I could barely imagine how it would feel wrapped around me.  Reed smiled at me then pulled me to a small room at the back.

“Go in there and put it on,” he said, opening the door for me.

I walked in, Reed shutting the door behind me, and quickly did as he told.  Pulling off my blue shirt, I carefully put on the purple top, taking my time to button each button as delicately as I could.  The fabric hugged tightly against my body, wrapping me in the silky smooth bliss.

Cracking the door open, I waited until I saw Reed’s face smiling at me.  “Well, do I get to see?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

I stepped out tentatively.  In front of me stretched a large mirror, my entire body reflecting back at me.  I stared at the mirror, realizing I had never seen a clear reflection of myself before.  My reflection had always been flits I saw in windows or the hammered metal mirrors, splashes in puddles of water, glimpses in the truck’s side mirrors.  This mirror was smooth and perfect, shining as my mirrored self stared back at me.

The top fit snug around my body, showing the curves of my hips and bust.  Its vibrant purple made my skin seem to almost glow, my cheeks rosy above the crisp collar.  I took a step closer, barely able to believe that the person staring back at me could actually be me.  Even with the same jagged cropped hair, the same full lips and pale skin, I looked… different.  It wasn’t the light red always present on my cheeks from the long hours spent out in the sun.  Or the always present layer of dirt under my short finger nails.  There was something else, something new and very different, that I couldn’t place.

In the reflection I could see Reed standing behind me.  His hand slowly combed back through his dark hair.  His eyes glittered, lips slightly parted as he took me in.

“Yup, that’s a keeper,” Reed said softly.

I turned to face him.  He stood off to the side, arms folded loosely across his chest, smiling at me.  His eyes were soft, his smile hiding something gentle.  I wanted so bad to know the thoughts that caused that strange but oddly comforting look to grow on his face.

Reed took a step closer.  He trailed a finger down my arm, taking in the smooth fabric.  I could feel him breathing.  Even with the space between us, I could feel the intake of breath, the slight pause, then the exhale as the air passed his parted lips.  Reed let his eyes trail up to mine.

“You are beautiful, Millie.  Do you know that?”

I couldn’t answer.  A small smile touched my lips.

Reed moved in closer.  His eyes seemed to be searching mine for something.  Hand still resting on my arm, he raised the other to tuck a loose strand of my still short hair behind my ear.  He parted his lips to say something, then stopped.  A moment later, he asked the question that hinted at his lips.  “Do I know you?”

I felt myself laugh.  “Of course you do, Reed.”

Reed shook his head.  “No, I mean.  Have we met?  Before?”

“How could you know me, before?”  I could feel my brow wrinkle together.

“I don’t know.”  Reed shook his head, his hand that had touched my hair just a moment ago now resting on my other arm.  I heard him take a deep breath, the air rumbling in his chest.  “You just seem familiar.  There is something about you, something I can’t place my finger on, that makes me swear I knew you before you came to the Orchard.  I bet that sounds crazy, huh?”

I shook my head.  “Doesn’t sound crazy to me.”

A smile spread on Reed’s face.  He seemed to glow.  His hands tightened softly on my arms for a moment before he let go and took a step away.  My arms felt cold without him.

“Come on, let’s get it,” he said.  I moved to go and change out of the shirt, but Reed stopped me.  “Nope.  You are wearing that out.  Millie, this is a new life.  You are finally starting.  It’s about time to stop with the prison garb.”  He looked at me, his eyes still softened with that strange emotion.  “You look beautiful.”

My cheeks threatened to burn.  I didn’t say anything.  How could I respond to that?  I quickly snatched up my blue shirt and hurried to follow Reed.  By the time I caught up to him, he was already handing a wrinkled bill to the woman standing behind the front counter.  She smiled and nodded at him, wishing for him to have a good day.

Exiting out onto the sidewalk, I grew strangely self-conscience.  My hands flattened the shirt over and over, trying in vain to smooth every wrinkle out of its purple fabric.

“Relax,” Reed said in my ear, putting an arm around my waist.  I was very aware of the way he was holding me closer, my body tingling at his touch.  The strange distance between us still lingered, but he acted like nothing was wrong as he guided me back toward where we had split from Eddie.

I could feel eyes on me.  People glanced at me as they walked past.  Mostly men.  Then the eyes got stronger.  I could feel them bearing into me, watching my every move with hunger.  Chills ran down my spine.  I had felt that feeling before.  In another life.

Stopping in my tracks, I spun around.  Behind me, barely hidden around the corner of the building, I could see his blue eyes watching, the smirk plastered on his strong face.

“What is it?”  Reed asked, his voice full of concern.

I glanced at Reed, my eyes wide.  My breath had frozen in my chest, my bottom lip quivering as my stomach tightened into the old familiar knot.  Fog teased at the corner of my vision.  Turning my head back to where I had seen him, I found no one was there.  A small child happily ran by, ducking around the corner to disappear after a rolling ball.

“Nothing.”  I smiled at Reed, forcing myself to turn away and walk again.

Reed nodded, pulling me back into stride.  Behind me I could still feel the burn of Carl’s hidden eyes on my stiff back.

16

I sat at the fire, the flames causing the shadows beyond to flicker in a dance that kept my skin prickling in goose bumps.  I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes watching me.  We had been back at the Orchard for hours now and I could still feel the penetrating gaze bearing into my back, no matter where I turned.  I felt twitchy, constantly jerking to look behind me, so sure I would see Carl smirking at me, lunging for me.  Even Reed’s reassuring touch didn’t calm the strange paranoia that had taken me over.

The fire glowed warm on my face.  It felt good to sit around the flickering fire again, regardless of the distant shadows, Reed so close that I could feel his body heat hot against my chilled flesh.  Every so often he would turn to talk to someone, his arm brushing mine.  I felt tingles run up and down my body each time.  As the night wore on, I found myself longing for more of those moments.

“Are you alright, Millie?” Reed asked.  I had been sitting silent, knees tucked up to my chest, staring intensely into the fire for most of the evening.  The feeling of eyes watching me bore into my soul, freezing me in fright.  Staring into the fire was all I could manage to do.

Forcing a smile, I finally tore my eyes from the fire and looked into Reed’s.  “I’m fine.  Tired.  It was a long day.”

Reed nodded.  “Was it a good day?”

The smile became real on my lips.

“It was,” I answered softly.

Reed smiled back.  Inching closer, he carefully put an arm around me.  I felt his hand mindlessly stroke the silky smoothness of my new shirt as he got lost in watching the flames.  Occasionally a small group of men would wander by.  Reed would glance up at them, watching as they whispered to each other and scanned me.  I could see his face darken, his eyes bear into them until they finally moved on.

I had dealt with men like that my entire life.  I knew they were there, I knew what was running through their minds when they cracked those sly smiles my way.  But I couldn’t seem to get myself to reassure Reed of this.  I instead found myself melting into his protective arms, relishing the fact that, for once, I didn’t have to be the only one on guard.

I wished he could make the eerie feeling of eyes watching my soul disappear.

I felt a shiver run down my spine.  Shaking it away, I could feel Reed pull back enough to look at me.  “Are you sure you are alright, Millie?”

“I’m tired,” I said.  It wasn’t a lie.  I could feel sleep tugging at my heavy eyes, my limbs heavy with needed rest.  The exhaustion ran deeper than our busy day in town, but something about the fear in the pit of my stomach kept me from telling that to Reed.  “I think I should get to bed.”

Reed nodded, rising to his feet and helping me up.  Without asking, he moved in closer, silently guarding me as we walked toward my quarters.  He walked stiffly, constantly looking over his shoulder as the fire grew smaller behind us.  I finally let out a heavy breath and turned my face to him.

“Reed, you can relax.  I know they are watching me.”

Reed glanced at me, then looked over his shoulder again.  The group of men were watching, laughter boiling from their loose huddle.  “You have no idea what those guys are like, Millie.  They are trouble.”

“I don’t?” I asked, stopping in my tracks.  “I really don’t?  Reed, those are the guys I have spent my entire life around.  Rapists, pedophiles, thieves, murderers.  Have you forgotten that little fact?  I had to walk past those guys every single day.  I have felt them watching me every time I dared to venture out of my cell.”

Reed clenched his eyes shut, a hand reaching to rub the bridge of his nose.  Something inside me flared.  I took another step away from him.  My breath shuddered as I sharply drew it in.

“Yes Reed, I lived in a cell.  And do you know why?  Because my parents are murderers.  The Nation locked me in a cell for the first eighteen years of my life, because my parents decided to kill.  That’s the truth.  It really happened.  I am not some stupid little town girl who only wants to flirt and cuddle in your arms!”  I could feel my face getting hot with anger.  The words were spilling out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Reed slowly opened his eyes, his finger still gripping the bridge of his nose.  He didn’t move.  He didn’t even speak.  He just stood there, his eyes watching me.

A moment ago I had been content in his arms.  I relished his protection.  Now I couldn’t stand it.  My body felt itchy, like my skin had grown too small for my bursting spirit.  I didn’t like how I kept snapping at Reed.  He didn’t deserve it.  But I couldn’t seem to stop myself.  In some way, I didn’t want to.

I let out another angry breath.  My hands were clenching into fists at my side.  “I have had to protect myself from those guys since the day I could remember.”  I pointed at the group of men, emphasizing who I was talking about.  The men stopped their laughter as they saw me look their way.  Without a word, they quickly moved off into the dark.

“The guards didn’t protect me from them.  My parents sure as hell didn’t protect me from them.  I did.”  My voice faltered.  I could feel the lump rising in my throat.

I felt so angry.  A helpless anger, aimed at no one in particular, and aimed at everyone in the world.

Reed lowered his hand from his face.  I could see his body sway, as if wanting to move closer to me, then stopping itself before it had a chance to move an inch.

“I think your parents were protecting you more than you know, Millie,” he said gently.

I couldn’t speak.  My lips refused to form words, my mind reeling at what he had said.

“Millie,” he continued, his hands tucking into his pockets.  “I know where you came from.  But you aren’t there anymore.  I know you had to protect yourself your entire life.  You might not need me, but it’s about time you need someone.  It’s about time you let someone else do the protecting.”

His eyes looked heavy.  They searched mine a moment, almost begging for me to argue or consent, to say anything.  When I didn’t answer, he let his eyes blink, looking away back towards the fire.  He nodded once, then started back down the path away from me.  I wanted to stop him.  I willed my voice to call his name.  But nothing happened.  I just watched as he disappeared into the night, then ran into my quarters.

| | |

I pulled open the dresser drawer, shoving my clothes aside as I dug for the sock.  My fingers finally brushed it and I snatched it up, slamming the drawer shut.  I flopped onto the bed, feeling the springs bend around my body.  The envelope of cash dumped out first.  It landed on the mattress next to me, a few bills sliding out.  I snatched up the sea glass, shoved the money back in, then pushed the sock aside.

I let the sea glass roll out into my palm.  The light from the small lamp hit it, causing the green to glow slightly against my flesh.  Rubbing a finger over it, I felt the small cracks and sandy rough spots, broken up by the wave-smoothed patches of time.  The memory of Orrin crept into my mind.

For the first time since I had left the prison, I pulled open the drawer next to my bed and lifted out my notebook.  Still clutching the glass in my hand, I cracked the book open and started to flip through the pages.

Every page held a different conversation.  The scribbled words brought back memories.  Some were angry, some goofy, some so boring I caught myself yawning as I turned past them.  I flipped through the pages faster, working my way to the end of the stack.

Finally, I found what I was looking for.  I pulled it out quickly, almost tearing the corner that I held too tightly between my fingers.  Orrin’s handwriting was perfect on the lined surface.  I tucked up my knees, laying the page gently against them as I reread some of his final words.

You are who you are Millie.  No one decides who you are but yourself.  If you want to be mad like them, then be mad like them. But if you want to be different, please, be different.

… Dear, that is a question every child your age has asked since the dawn of time.  Life is ahead of you.  What this Nation is doing… they lock away the people and make them become the criminals they so fear.  I do not know what you will become.  But I pray to God that you don’t allow them to decide your fate.

There is a lot you don’t know yet Millie. There is a lot to learn. Remember everything your schooling has taught you.  But remember:  To every truth, there are a million untold truths.

I laid my head back, rolling the sea glass through my fingers.  The stars twinkled in the sky outside my small window.  I imagined Orrin sitting at the beach, watching the stars in their nightly guard.  The waves crashed against the shore, the wind bent the grass in the night air.  I found myself wondering if my parents ever laid under the same stars, taking in their beauty as they held hands in young love.  Had life always been mad for them?  Had it once been beautiful?

“Always a gray zone,” I muttered to myself, my eyes searching the sky.

I wished Reed could meet Orrin.  Deep inside of me, I knew they would somehow understand each other at a level most people never knew.  They were so much alike.  I felt a smile touch my lips at the thought of Reed, my hand brushing the purple shirt that I still wore.  Then I remembered his final words that night, and the smile faltered.

Reed was right.  There was always a gray zone.  I sat up, shoving the notebook back into the drawer.  A paper fell from it and I picked it.  It was the entry I had written in one of my last meetings with Dr. Eriks.  I read it, the same strange feeling that something about it was wrong rising in my stomach.  My eyes traced the words, trying to place it.

It clicked.  I finally realized what it was.

“Only a silent father and a state-proclaimed unstable mother.  And it is because of them that I live in this cell,” I read out loud, slowly pronouncing each word.  “Because of them,” I repeated, looking out the window again, the paper wrinkling in my tightened hand.

I had always thought the unease from that journal entry had been because I admitted my fear.  I had thought it was because I somehow felt unworthy to be set free, unable to leave behind my criminal parents.  But it had always been something deeper.  Something hinted at in every conversation with Orrin, with Jude, even with Dr. Eriks.

I had been born into the Prison.  I had been raised in the Prison.  I had always assumed and been told that my condemned life was my parents’ fault.  And I had believed it.  Now I sat, paper wrinkled in my shaking hand, tears stinging my eyes, and finally let the thought surface:

Was it?

| | |

“I decided,” I said aloud, sitting high in the tree.  I could hear both guys pause at my words.

“What have you decided?” Reed asked, his voice strangely cautious.

“I want to know.  I want to know the whole story of what my parents did.”  My voice softened.  “I need to know.”

I could hear Reed adjust himself on his branch, the plunk of an apple dropping into his basket echoing through our silence.  “Are you sure, Millie?”

I nodded, knowing no one could see me.  I needed to nod.  I needed a physical reassurance that I did in fact want this.  “I am.”

Reed didn’t answer.  I could hear his apples dropping into his basket above me.  Clenching my lips tight, I grabbed the branch above my head and pulled myself up.  Reed balanced carefully on a branch just through the leaves.  His legs were hanging limply around the limb, the basket nestled in a clustered of branches next to him.

His face was twisted up, as if in pain.  His eyes were glued to an apple in his hand, staring intensely at it as his face tightened even more.  The look of pure torment on his face stabbed my heart.

“Reed?” I asked softly.

His eyes snapped up from the apple.  He let them waver unfocused a moment, then looked down at me.  I reached up and grabbed another branch, pushing off with my feet and hauling myself up closer to him.  He looked away from me, watching the apple again.

“Reed, about last night −”

“I don’t even know how my parents died,” he said, cutting me off.  His voice sounded distant.  “After they died, I was put into foster care.  The Nation… it likes to keep children in their care.  Every year, they make money off of the kids.  They rip the child out of the home they had finally settled into and move them, then bill the family that had been assigned them for back pay.  The family has to pay back everything the Nation had loaned them to take care of the foster child, plus interest.  I was hated.”

Reed spun the apple in his hand, watching its surface thoughtfully.  “Eddie’s family finally took me in and adopted me.  Kind of.  I had to keep my last name, and they had to pay the Nation a yearly fee for having me.  But they did it.”

“What happened to them?” I asked carefully.

“Eddie’s family?”  Reed spun the apple in his hand, a sigh escaping his lips.  “His older brother got arrested and thrown in prison for theft.  Twenty years.  Eddie’s mom had a panic attack, which turned into a stroke that killed her.  His father is still alive… somewhere.  We don’t know where he went.”

I thought of Eddie, light-hearted happy Eddie.  It was hard to believe that something like that had happened to his family.  It was nearly impossible to believe anything bad had ever happened to Eddie.

“After that, Eddie and I came here.  We had nowhere else to go.  Being homeless wasn’t an option.  Becoming a GF was… We couldn’t do that.”

Reed finally looked over to me.  His eyes were heavy, as if he hadn’t slept at all.  “When you said you didn’t want to know the truth about your parents, I hated you, for that moment.  I hated how you had your parents, had a chance to know the truth, and refused to take it.  While I am here, wanting so badly to know and…” His voice trailed off.  He stared at the apple again, then said roughly, “What if you find out more of the truth?  Will you push me away, again?  Will you close those doors in your mind and shut me out, expecting me to be here waiting once you feel like creaking them back open?”  Reed let out a frustrated breath, staring up into the branches.  “I can’t… I am so sick of this.”

I felt my body sway in the breeze and clutched the branch beneath me.  “Sick of this?” I asked.  I felt myself panic at the thought of what his answer would be.

Reed waved his hand around in the air, motioning to everything around him.  “This.  The Nation.The constant fear of breaking the law.  The need to always work, never knowing what you are working for.  Never being in control.”  He looked at me, his eyes heavy again.  “Fearing that the goodbye you refused to say might have been your last.”

I could only watch him, the memory of last night flowing in my mind.

Reed tossed the apple to me.  I shot a hand out and caught it before it could fly past.  Reed plucked another apple from the tree and stared at it a moment.  The dark red skin shone in the bright daylight.  Then, slowly, he took a huge bite.  Juice sprayed from the apple, the meat bright white as he took a second bite into the crunchy surface.

“Reed…” I said, alarmed.  My eyes scanned the ground beneath me, afraid someone passing would see what he had done.  Reed wiped a stream of juice from his chin, carefully chewing and swallowing before looking back into my eyes.

“Millie, I am sick of not knowing who owns this delicious apple that I am never allowed to eat.  I am sick of seeing the people I finally let myself grow close to disappear.  I am sick of this fear that sticks to us every single day. There has to be more than this Nation.  There has to be.”

“Like what?”  I asked.

“I don’t know.”  He took another bite.  I could hear him chewing the apple, his head leaned back against the trunk of the tree.  I looked at the apple in my hand.  Then looked back over at Reed.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

Reed sighed and looked over at me.  “I don’t know, Millie.  I don’t know if I even can do anything.”  His eyes searched mine.  “I don’t want to risk losing the few things I do have.  But there has to be something.”  He took another bite, watching me as he chewed.  “First thing I know I am going to do.  We are going to find out what really happened with your parents.”

He looked at the remains of the apple in his hand, then let out a slow sigh.  Leaning his head back again, I watched as he disappeared into his thoughts, his mouth mindlessly chewing the last bite he had taken of the apple.

“You were right.  Last night.”  My voice was almost a whisper.  I saw Reed’s eyebrows slightly raise, his eyes watching me.  “I do need you.”

Reed slowly chewed the bite of apple.  He let his eyes wander away from mine, deep breaths causing his chest to rise and fall in perfect rhythm.

“Reed, about last night −”

“Millie, stop” he said, cutting me short again.  “This life we have been doomed to is much too short to hold grudges against friends.”

I looked again at the apple in my hand then raised it to my lips.  The skin was cool and smooth, smelling rich as it pressed against my teeth.  I glanced up to Reed once more.  Clenched my eyes shut.  I took a bite.  The apple was crisp, its juices spraying into my mouth and down my chin as I carefully chewed.  I didn’t feel myself cringe as I took another careful bite.  This apple was different than the ones I had always known.

Maybe it was because it had been fresh picked off the tree that I sat in.  It had never had the chance to soften and brown in its over-filled basket.  Captivity and the end never loomed in front of it, stealing away its deep red and sweet juices.  All it had ever known was the sun and the breeze and the song of the birds.

All it had ever known was freedom.

I leaned heavy against the trunk, finishing my apple alongside Reed.  We didn’t talk.  We didn’t need to.  We knew without saying a word that something had just changed.  Something deeper than eating an illegal apple.  Something that was about to ignite a change that would landslide our entire lives.

17

“You sure?”

We stood in front of Records, the blocked windows menacing as they loomed in front of us.  I stared at them a moment before slowly nodding.  Reed reached out and gently took my hand, giving it a squeeze.  I felt the spark jump into my body at his touch, his warmth racing up my arm to take me over.  A moment later he let go.  My hand felt cold and alone where he had just touched it. I folded my arms across my chest, trying to seal in the last spark of warmth from his touch.

Reed pulled the door open and stepped inside.  A bell hanging on the door rang, cutting through the quiet air inside.  I paused a moment, listening to its soft lilt in the air before following Reed inside.  The door swung shut behind me.  I jumped as it slammed back into place, killing the sound of the bell in one swift click.

Just a few feet away from the door stood a desk.  We stepped closer, watching the man behind it motion for us to wait.  He was talking to someone on the phone, his voice lowering as we pulled to a stop in front of the desk.  He wrinkled up his nose in thought, his dark brown skin stretching across his full cheeks.  On his wide nose sat a thick-rimmed pair of glasses, the glass so thick it magnified his eyes to an almost comical size.

Waiting for his conversation to end, I let myself look around the room.  A long table lined the wall to my right, its surface layered messily with old computers and loose papers.  The other wall was solid window, all covered with the thick white paper.  Nothing hung on the walls.  No art, not even color.  Just the solid white of a temporary life.

The white of the Prison.

The man clicked the phone back onto its base.  “How can I help you?”  He glanced up at us as he spoke, his words relaxed and easy.

Reed stepped closer.  “I’m Reed Taylor.  This is Millie 942B.  We were hoping you could help us find records on a past crime?”

The man took us in slowly.  Then he stood, pulling his pants up as his round belly tried to push them down.  “Reed Taylor.  I’ve heard your name around.  Been here some time, eh?”

Reed nodded.

“Congrats on that,” the man said.  He looked over at me.  “I’m figuring you’re the one wanting to know the facts.”  He moved forward, a finger pushing his glasses up his nose.  Holding out a hand, he waited for me to shake it.  I held out my hand and he gripped it tightly, cranking it up and down.  “Call me Rick.  My mom named me Ricardo, which I always found stupid, being as Ricardo is a Mexi name and I’m a black man.”  He smiled at me, his teeth a startling white against his dark skin.

Moving away, Rick walked over to one of the computers and jammed a thumb down on the monitor button.  The computer blinked to life.  He motioned for us to sit in the plastic chairs on either side of him, then drummed his thick fingers on the computer keyboard.

“Crime date?” he asked.

“Crime date?  I… uh… ”

“Don’t know it?  Hmm, okay.  Name of the victim or criminals?”

“Leann and Alan 942B.”  My mouth was fighting to go dry.  “Criminals.”

Rick glanced at me a moment, then turned and typed in the names.  The computer buzzed indignantly, still waking from sleep mode.  After a moment a list appeared on the screen.  Rick muttered to himself as he read down cases on the list, finally clicking on one.  Another list came up, small paragraphs appearing below each link.  Rick opened the first and read it.

“Let’s see.  Leann Summers was charged with Murder 1 and Assault.  Alan Summers with Murder 1 and Aiding.  Both sentenced with Life.  Looks like…” He clicked his tongue, scanning the text that rolled down the screen.  “Two men were murdered, deadly intent.  The third escaped and was able to retrieve authorities.  The accused were appointed their representative, and finally entered a plea of guilty.  The surviving man pushed for death penalty, but they were sentenced life with no parole.”  Rick paused a moment, thinking.  “942B. The Life sentence walk.  I thought so.  Sound about right?”

I could only nod.

“Alright,” Rick said, wiggling his fingers before bending over the keyboard again.  “This is where the fun comes in.  I don’t do this for everyone, but being as I hear nothing but good about Mr. Taylor here, and you,” he looked at me and smiled, “you just look like you need it, I won’t charge you extra.”

“How much?” Reed asked.

“One-fifty.  That’s the going rate.” Reed started to reach into his pocket, but before he could grab his money I slammed the cash down on the table next to the keyboard.  Reed lowered his hand, his eyes taking in the small pile of bills.

“It’s alright, Reed,” I said softly.  “This is something I need to do.”

Reed nodded at me, offering me a small smile before turning his face back to the screen.  Rick shoved the money into his pocket then clicked on another link on the page.

“This is weird,” he said, scanning the text.

I leaned in closer.  Most of what appeared on the screen was strange legal wording.  I had no idea what it actually said.  “What is weird?” I asked.

“There’s usually a recorded copy of the accused side of the story.  Even if they settle, as these two did, there will still be a copy.  It looks like they never even made one.”  He clicked on other links, his thick lips puckered up in thought as he read the files that popped up.  “The copy is nowhere.  That’s just… weird.”

“What’s that mean?”  Reed asked, his voice on edge.

“It means we get to talk to Lady Justice.”  Rick smiled again, his fingers already typing fast.  Reed glanced at me.  I raised my eyebrows at him in question but he just shrugged and shook his head, obviously having no idea what Rick was talking about.

A box popped up on the screen, asking for a password.  Rick glanced at us, then leaned in over the keyboard and quickly began to type in a long password.  I wondered if it was ever going to end.  Finally hitting the send button, he leaned back and waited.  A little clock appeared, its hands quickly spinning.  Then the screen went black.

Rick didn’t seem worried.  A moment later, it came back to life, a bright white box popping up.  A photo of a woman, her gown flowing over her curved body, a blindfold fastened tight over her eyes, stared back at us.  In one hand she tightly gripped a sword.  The other held out a set of hanging scales, perfectly balanced.

“That, my friends, is Lady Justice.”  Rick sat a moment, looking at the picture, then happily grunted to himself and started to type again.  I had never seen her before.  Yet there was something familiar about this woman, something that I knew I should know.

The computer buzzed.

Rick mumbled to himself, his fingers drumming on the desktop as he waited.

“Who is Lady Justice?”  Reed finally asked.

“Lady Justice?”  Rick perked up, his eyes focusing again on the black and white drawing on the computer screen.  “She used to be a symbol for the justice system.  You know: lawyers, judges, courts, all of that. It was the idea that justice is balanced.  Those scales are truth and fairness, always balanced and always even.”  Rick pointed to the blindfold.  “Justice is blind.  It is objective.”  He pointed to the curved hips of the drawing, winking at Reed.  “And man, this justice was hot.”

Chuckling to himself, Rick leaned back and folded his chubby fingers across his round belly.  “Naturally, when the Nation took over, Lady Justice was the first to go.  There used to be statues and paintings of her in every courthouse, but now there are none.  Pity.

“Anyway, a while back someone started printing a paper.  She called herself Lady Justice.  Made it her job to find out the truth about some of the court cases that seemed too simple.  Then she would print it for everyone to read.  The Nation has been trying to find her for years.  Thing is, if you go by dates, this Lady Justice must be over one hundred years old now.  Makes some think she is a phantom.  Or a saint.

“When I can’t find information on a case, such as yours, I pretty much know Lady here will have it.”  Rick eyed the image again, smiling wide.  “Man, what I would give to meet her.”

The machine finally stopped buzzing, a box popping up on the small screen.

An image of an old newspaper page had been scanned, framed now in the pop-up window.  Across the top a smaller image of Lady Justice appeared, her name printed in block lettering next to her perfect form.  Below it, in black and white, was a fading photograph of my parents.

I felt tears sting my eyes as I looked into their young faces.  Though they were disheveled and strange looking, something still healthy clung to the young faces of Alan and Leann Summers.  I felt a tear break free, running down my cheek.

“Whoa. Are you alright?” Rick asked, his eyes wide as he looked over to me.

I tried to nod, but couldn’t move.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of my parents.  “She’s fine,” Reed said in a soft voice.  “Those are her parents.”

Rick’s eyes shot to the photograph then back to me.  Realization slowly spread on his face, his eyes softening in understanding.  “Oh. Okay.”  He licked his lips, scrolling the mouse down.  “On we go.  942B, right?”

I nodded, my eyes never leaving the glowing screen.

Under the image was the same information Rick had already read to us.  Their charges, their pleas, then their sentences.  It all seemed so cold.  As if they were just a number listed, a product waiting to be bought and used up.

Rick scrolled more.  Another image appeared.

It seemed like a simple photograph of a pile of leaves.  A tree trunk framed one side of the shot, a bush filling the other.  The dirt had been kicked and turned, footsteps evident around the dried leaves.  A number rested in the corner, propped up just like the numbers in the photographs Dr. Eriks had forced me to see before my release.

All three of us leaned closer.  Something seemed strange.  The leaves and dirt seemed staged, unnatural.  They didn’t flow with the rise and fall of the land.  The leaves were pushed into a pile, lines left in the dirt from the fingers that had moved them carefully together.

We all saw it at once.  Reed let out a groan.  Rick gasped.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t blink.  I desperately wanted to look away, to be anywhere but sitting there in that white office.

Barely visible to the uncaring eye, a little hand reached through the leaves, its young chubby fingers limply clutching the ripped remains of a dirty, torn blanket.

| | |

Getting the pass to visit the prison turned out to be easier than I thought it would be.  I didn’t need to fill out any paper work.  They already had everything about me on file, including a daily report of my work in the Orchard.  It seemed strange that someone, somewhere, was filling out all of that information about me.  At that moment though, I didn’t have the time or energy to care.

While I sat with Lou and learned the rules about visiting, Reed hurried off to find Eddie and Oscar.  My mind barely grasped anything Lou said to me.  I nodded when I felt I needed to, answered with a word or two at other times.  Inside I felt like a tornado had just torn me apart into pieces.

Lou finally held out a paper for me to sign.  His face looked concerned, carefully watching me as I picked up the pen and signed my name along the dotted line.  I forced a smile at him.  He nodded once, then motioned that I could go.  Picking up my copy of the signed paper, I quickly walked out of the house.

It wasn’t until the door to the house closed behind me that I realized Lou hadn’t scanned my bracelet.  I turned back to the door, then stopped.  He had been staring directly at it.  Lou knew he hadn’t scanned my bracelet.  Glancing at the door one more time, I turned and hurried toward the front gate of the Orchard.

Reed stood next to Oscar’s yellow truck, his hands shoved into his pockets.  As soon as he saw me walk around the corner, he straightened.  I walked closer and held out the paper.  Without a word, he climbed into the driver seat and reached across to open the passenger door for me.

I climbed in and slammed it shut.  Without pausing, I pulled the seat belt across my body and clicked it into place.  Reed buckled himself in then cranked the key in the ignition.  The engine turned over once then sputtered out.

“Stupid Dodge,” he growled under his breath.  Pumping the gas pedal, he cranked the key again.  The engine roared to life, the entire truck rumbling.

I finally looked around.  “No Eddie?”

Reed shook his head as he backed the truck out of the dirt drive way.  “He thinks this is something you need to do.  Said he will be waiting for us at dinner with extra rolls.”

A smile tried to tug at the corners of my lips, but quickly died away.  I looked down at the small stack of papers in my hand, my fingers nervously rubbing the top sheet.  My legs were shaking, my heart racing nonstop.  Nothing I did could calm me.

We rolled through the town.  The same people as always ambled around.  I saw them differently now though.  Through their smiles and laughter, I could see their eyes watching each other warily.  They glanced over their shoulders.  The mothers always remained close to the carefree children.  Every person wandering the sidewalks walked in the same path that they had the day before, just barely avoiding each other until they finally saw someone they could smile at and greet.  It was all rehearsed, all well practiced and careful.

It was all fake.

We rolled by the Records office.  Rick watched us from his door, his magnified eyes barely blinking as we passed.  Locking eyes a moment, he nodded at me, his lips set in a tight line.  Then we pulled out of the town and turned onto the road that led back to Spokane, leaving the town in our rumbling dust.

I tried to watch the countryside roll by.  The swaying grass used to intrigue me.  Now it just looked dead, left to become forgotten in this abyss of a land that led to nothing good.  I tore my eyes away and stared at my shaking hands.

Reed’s hand softly touched mine.  His fingers stroked mine a moment then gently intertwined, locking our hands together.  I stared at his hand holding mine.  He gave me a soft squeeze, and I knew he was trying to offer me a smile, if I would just look back.  I only seemed able to stare at his hand.

I didn’t let go.

Before I expected it, Spokane rose up in front of us.  I could have sworn the ride away from the Prison two weeks ago had been much longer than that.  My legs were barely cramped, my back still not fully settled into the worn seat.  I looked over to the dash and saw the speedometer ticking over the speed limit.  Seeing that I had noticed, Reed offered me a small smile and slowed the truck down.  Slightly.

Reed rolled past the entry gate and pulled to a stop in a marked parking spot.  We were in the same parking lot Oscar had picked me up in when I had been released.  I could see the covered area he had pulled into just a few weeks earlier.  The flowers still grew perfectly groomed along the edge of the building, bright and fake like the people wandering in the distant town.  It truly seemed like only yesterday when I had been passed off into Oscar’s nervous hands.

The truck engine choked once then turned off.  Reed moved to open the door, then stopped.  He looked down at our hands, still clasped tightly together.  My eyes were already glued to them.  He squeezed my hand once more then reluctantly let go.  Reed pulled the keys out of the ignition and shoved them into his pocket, then pushed his door open and climbed out.  I followed, the sound of our doors slamming shut echoing in the near empty parking lot.

The same woman sat working at the desk as we entered.  She wore the same purple shirt I had admired the first day we were there.  I glanced down at my own purple shirt, the feeling of embarrassment trying to boil inside me, but I brushed it aside and stepped up to her desk.

The woman looked up at us, her eyes widening in surprise for a moment as she saw me.  Blinking once, she composed herself and smiled.  “How may I help you?”

“I am here for a visit,” I said, my voice coming out strong regardless of the way my stomach churned in anxiety.  I passed her the copy of the paper I had signed in Lou’s office.  The woman read it over, nodded, and turned to type on her computer.

She glanced at the small stack of papers held tightly in my hands.  “I will need to see those before −”

“Why?” I asked.  I shot her a look that froze her in her place.  The woman glanced to my face then back at the papers.  Something seemed to cross her mind and her face suddenly relaxed into what almost seemed like sympathy.

She pressed a button and a tag dropped out of a machine.

“Wear this at all times,” she said, handing the tag to me.

Reed glanced at the tag, then back to the woman.  I could see the question growing on his lips.  Before he could ask, I turned to him, my hand coming to rest on his firm chest.

“You weren’t approved for the visit,” I said carefully.  “Since I am their daughter, I am already on the approved list.  I didn’t have time to apply for you to be added.  Anyway, I need to do this on my own.”

Reed let out a slow breath, then nodded.

The woman sighed, obviously happy that I had handled this for her.  “You may wait in the waiting room, sir.”  She turned her head to me.  “The officer in the waiting room will let you through.”

I nodded to her.  Hitting a button on her desk, the door buzzed once then clicked open.  I led the way, Reed close behind as we passed through into the waiting room I remembered from my release night.

I led Reed to a gathering of chairs.  Without pausing, he sat down, his eyes watching me.

“Will you be alright?” he asked.

I nodded, my hands gripping the remaining papers.  “I don’t know how long it will be.”

“That’s fine,” Reed said.  He picked up a nearby magazine then motioned to the others scattered around the room.  “I have lots of reading here.”

A smile touched my lips for a moment.  “Thank you Reed.”

Reed looked at me again, his eyes soft.  “Anytime.”

“Ma’am?” The officer’s voice behind me was soft, almost familiar.  “Millie 942B?”

I took in a deep breath and slowly turned.

There, standing in crisp uniform, smile spreading on his young face, was Jude.

18

“Jude?”

“Hey there, Millie,” he said, the smile growing on his face.  He motioned for me to follow as he made his way to a locked door across the room.  I glanced back at Reed.  He was watching me, a question evident on his concerned face.  I offered him a small smile, then turned away to follow Jude.

Jude stopped at the door and pulled out the small hand held device.  Without hesitating, I lifted my wrist and let him quickly scan it.  The device beeped once.  Jude scanned the card that had been clipped to my shirt, waited for the device to beep once more, then opened the door and motioned me through.

We entered into a long hallway, the mortared cement blocks that made up the walls painted a solid white.  I had almost forgotten how white these walls were.  There were no doors or windows, just the long empty stretch of the wide hallway.

“Is this where they transferred you?”  I asked as we started down the hall.

“Yep.  I guess it beats trying to see by flashlight.  But it sure can get boring.”  Jude smiled at me, then turned to watch ahead.  “Not too many people visit the prison.  Even if they have loved ones in here.  It’s almost as if people just don’t care anymore.  Once someone gets locked away, it’s as if that person is now dead.  Kind of sad if you ask me.”

I nodded, watching the hallway ahead.  Doors were starting to appear on either side.  Solid metal doors, a window cut out of each one and covered in crisscrossed wire.  We passed the first few without pause, then finally came to a stop in front of the door labeled with the number 5.

Jude turned to look at me.  This was the first time I had ever seen him fully in the light, with no door between us.  He was tall and thin, the gun hanging on his hip looking bulky and awkward.  His tousled hair seemed longer than I remembered, brushing past his ears in waves.  Jude stood straight, strong, his head held high and sure.  His eyes watched me, concern flashing across them.

“Millie, are you sure about this?”  His voice had lost its casual humor.  He kept watching me carefully.  “They have gone downhill since you left.  I don’t know how much you will get out of them.”

“It hasn’t even been a month,” I said, my voice threatening to crack.  “What happened?”

Jude glanced at the door then looked back to me.  “It seems like your leaving did more damage than good to them.  You’re a hard one to let go.”  He let out a long breath.  “I just need to make sure you are sure about this.”

I looked down at the papers held tightly in my hands, then looked back into Jude’s eyes. “Positive.”

“Alright.”  He put a hand on the metal handle.  “I will be the guard on duty right outside this door.  The cameras… They have suddenly come down with some issues.  It looks like, well…” He smiled at me, making an exaggerated innocent face.  “It looks like this visit will accidentally fail to be recorded or fully monitored.  Stupid technology.”  Jude winked at me then twisted the handle, the door swinging open a few inches.  “It doesn’t hurt to have privacy every so often.  Especially with family.  Have a good visit.”

I took a deep breath, then stepped through the door.  It closed silently behind me.  In front of me I saw a metal stool, fastened firmly to the cement ground.  A metal counter stretched from wall to wall, a sheet of glass firmly secured above it.  The glass sandwiched a grid of thin metal wire inside.

I stepped closer.  The icy coldness of the metal cut through my pants as I sat down.  My hands, still clutching the papers, began to tremble.  I could feel the pages bending and wrinkling in my nervous grip.  I tried to lay them flat on the counter, but my fingers refused to let go of their tight grasp to the only thing remotely mine in this sterile room.

A door beyond the glass creaked open, two sets of unsteady footsteps drawing closer as the door clicked shut.  I could hear the shuffle as they sat down.  The gasp of breath.

I finally gathered the courage I had been searching desperately for and lifted my head.  Staring back at me through the thick glass were my mother and father.

“Millie?” My father sounded confused.  He looked somehow thinner, as if some piece of him had suddenly gone missing.  His face was covered in scruff, his eyes heavy with dark bags.  I could see a dirty bandage wrapped tightly around his hand.

“Hi Dad,” I said.

I looked over at my mother.  Her hair hung in a dirty mess off her head. Her face seemed even more tired, her body rocking back and forth slightly as she perched on her metal stool.  Everything about her seemed distant and lost, a bird who had been caged too long and was unable to remember that it had wings.  Except her eyes.  Her eyes were watching me, not even blinking.

“Millie, how are you?” my father carefully asked.

“I’m sorry Dad.”  I took a deep breath, my hands finally stopping their nervous shaking.  “I didn’t come here to catch up.  I need to know the truth.”

My father looked at me, confusion evident on his exhausted face.  I could still feel my mother’s eyes bearing into me.  Through the grating I could hear her whispering.

“My baby, my baby.”

Her words gently cut through the air, over and over.  I couldn’t bring my eyes to look at her.  Locking eyes with my father, I nodded slowly.

“It’s time you both tell me the real story.  I need to know… I need to know from you.”

“Baby, my baby.”  My mother’s voice rose.

Finally drifting my eyes over to her, I watched her a moment.  She had started to rock back and forth harder, her fingers twitching as she sat limp on the metal counter.  I could see that I was losing her.  Her hidden world was engulfing her, faster than I had ever seen before.

I picked up the sheet of paper and slammed it against the glass.  The image of the small pile of leaves pressed hard into the glass, my hand wrinkling the paper as I pushed.  I stared into my mother’s clouding vision.

“Who is Charlie?” I softly demanded.

My mother froze.  Her mouth hung open, stopped in mid-word.  I could see her eyes glued to the image, wide in sudden fear and memories.  I watched her a moment longer, then turned slowly to my father.  Tears were streaming down his face.

“Charlie,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Dad, is it true.  Is what this article says true?”  I leaned closer.  I wished so much that this glass wasn’t there.  I needed to feel connected to them.  I needed this moment of truth to be fully real.  But my parents were Lifers, and Lifers didn’t get physical contact visits.  “Please, Dad,” I whispered, my lips close to the metal grating at the edge of the glass.  “I need to know.”

My father stared at the image a moment longer, then tore his glistening eyes away and looked at me.  “We were traveling,” he began, his voice coming out strange and distant, as if watching the past play before his eyes.  “Your mother and I didn’t have a car.  So we had to walk.  We were trying… we were trying to get out of the Nation before the Wall went up.

“Charlie was three.  He was such a beautiful baby boy.  Chubby and always happy, always wanting to wrestle and play.  I loved him, so much.”  My father choked back a sob, fighting the urge to look again at the image.  I slowly lowered it.  As the paper crumpled into the counter, my father let his eyes trail to my face.  He looked at me intensely, determination gritting his jaw tight.  I had never seen this look in his eyes before.

“We had stopped to camp for the night near a small town.  Your mother was making dinner, Charlie playing some cute make believe game a few feet away.  Then the three men appeared.  They told us that we were trespassing.  I apologized and told your mother to gather our belongings, I told them we would leave.  But they… they said it was too late.”  My father closed his eyes a moment, swallowing hard.

“I could see the way they were watching your mother.  And how they watched Charlie.  Charlie… he had no idea what was going on.  Until one of the men grabbed him.”  My father suddenly slammed a fist down on the metal table, causing me to jump.  “I tried to stop them,” he sobbed.  “The second one bashed me upside the head then followed the first as they dragged Charlie off.  The third grabbed your mother.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t get my bearings.

“We listened as our baby cried.  He cried so loud for us.  Then… it was quiet.”

My father let out a heart-wrenching sob.  I couldn’t blink.  I could feel my lungs burning for air, but I couldn’t breathe.  He tried to form words, but every time he opened his mouth, another sob broke out.

“That’s when I snapped,” my mother said softly.

I looked over to her.  She looked so calm.  As if there had never been a care or worry in the world.  Her eyes took me in, full of emotions I knew I would never fully understand.  “When a momma’s baby gets hurt, it’s amazing what adrenaline will do to her.  The man holding me said that according to the law, we were guilty.  And that they could do with the guilty as ‘justice’ allowed.  I snapped.  I somehow threw the man to the ground.  Then I hit him with a stone.

“The other two came back.  They were monsters, Millie.  They were the monsters.  They were laughing.  One grabbed me, saying things I could never repeat to you.  Then he saw the man on the ground.  He raised a hand to hit me, but I saw his knife and, and I took it.  And stabbed.”

My mother sucked in a shuddering breath.  After a moment of silence, she continued, her voice slightly shaking.  “With every stab I could hear Charlie’s screams for his mommy less and less.  With every stab I was pulled into the fog that took away this pain.”

My mother gasped in another breath, her face cracking as a tear streamed down it.  “That’s when I saw your father drop the third man.”

My father reached over and laid a hand on my mother’s now shaking fingers.  They looked into each other’s eyes, sharing a memory long since buried.  Then my father turned to me.  “Charlie was already gone when we got to him.  They had just left him there, lying alone behind the bush.  We buried him.  We didn’t want the other monsters of the world to find our baby.

“While we were doing that, the man your mother knocked out must have come to and ran off.  He brought back the authorities, and told him we had jumped him and his ‘pals’ for no reason.  That’s when we were arrested.”

I could feel the cold metal of the table digging into my stomach as I leaned as close as I could to the glass.  Pulling away a few inches, I looked back and forth between the two of them.  “But why didn’t you tell them the truth?”

“I tried,” my mother whispered.  “I tried and tried.  But they classified me as unstable.  I was crazy.”  She took a deep breath.  “Everything I said was thrown out on grounds of insanity.”

My eyes darted to my father.  “Why didn’t you try?”

He looked at my mother a moment, then shook his head.  “I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t?”  I asked, my voice rising.  “You couldn’t?  You couldn’t defend your wife and murdered child?  God, Dad! Really?”  My fists slammed on the metal table, louder and harder than my father’s had.  My shadow of a father, who barely lifted a finger of any emotion, couldn’t even defend his family at the worst of times.  Anger flooded me, and I didn’t try to calm it down.

“Millie,” he said evenly.  “Your mother needed me.”

“You’re right, Dad.  She did.  And you did nothing!”

“Nothing?”  His voice cracked.  I could see the pain flood his face as my words hit him.  “I killed a man who had been intent on hurting her.  I buried our little boy so that her last memory of touching him would be when he was warm and alive.”  He leaned in, tears flowing once again from his blood shot eyes.  “I didn’t tell the truth, Millie, because I was the only hope your mother had of staying with me and away from a mental house.  If I stayed quiet, they let us stay together.  I was told to keep her calm.  If I did that, then we would stay together.”

My mother turned her face to him, shock breaking through her own tears.  “Alan…” By the haunted tone of her breaking voice, I realized she had never known what my father had just told me.

He reached over and gently stroked her wet cheek.  “I couldn’t let them do that you to you, Leann.  They had taken away our baby, our future, our freedom… I couldn’t let them take away our love.”

I had never seen this affection between my parents.  My father seemed so strong.  My mother became tender in his outreached fingers, her face leaning against his protecting hand.  This was the image I had always dreamed of my parents.  Two people, madly in love.  Two people who would do anything for each other.  I had never realized they had already done everything for each other.

My father closed his eyes, his hand still holding my mother’s face.  “It was just after we were finally incarcerated here that we found out we were pregnant with you.  They wanted us to abort you.”  He clenched his eyes shut tighter.  “But one of our babies had already died.  We couldn’t let them kill you too.”

My mother turned her face to me.  The clarity in her eyes, the lack of any fog licking at her mind amazed me.  “Charlie was my first baby.  I see him sometimes, Millie.  I see him as the baby he was, as the man he should be.  I let myself fall into those fantasies of him.  I know I shouldn’t.  But I can’t control it.  I need it.  I know I look insane, that I haven’t been the mother for you I should have been.” She wiped the tears from her face and leaned to the glass.  “But Millie, you are my baby too.  You are my baby who saved me.  Without you…” Her eyes became haunted.  She blinked it away, but never finished the sentence.

I stared at them a moment.  Then the words gently slipped from my lips.  “I am so sorry.”

I would have given anything right then for that glass to be gone.  I needed my parents.  I needed to feel their arms around me, holding me, protecting me from this dangerous world I thought I knew.  I had thought I knew so much.  Everything had been turned upside down though.  I needed them, now, but the thick glass between us stood as a cold reminder that they were forever locked away from me.

“There has to be a way,” I said, trying to let hope fill my choked voice.  “There has to be a way to clear you.  I will find it.”

“No Millie,” my father said forcefully.

“What?  Why Dad?  Do you really want to stay in there?”  I couldn’t believe my ears.

My father sighed.  “This is our life now.  In here, I can protect your mother.  She gets the medicine she needs.  We are… safe.”  He locked eyes with my mother a moment, then looked back to me.  “We need to stay here.”

“Mom…” I could feel my voice begging, searching for her to disagree with what my father had said.

“He’s right, Millie.”  I could see her hand creep forward, reaching to me.  Her fingers touched the glass.  I could see her eyes cringe, her breath gasp as she let her fingers drop to the counter.  “You need to stay free, Millie.  For us.  Please, there is so much you can do with your life.  We will always be here.  Don’t let us hold you back.”

I could see the pain killing her.  My mother was saying goodbye to her baby.  I was her only baby left, and she had to sit on the other side of glass and metal and say goodbye.  It felt almost as bad as death.  Ice cold and unforgiving.  It held no love, no warmth, no final farewell.  Just the taunt of the see-through wall.

I nodded, slowly.

Lifting a hand to the glass, I let its cold press against my palm.  My fingers spread apart as I pressed harder.  In my mind I could see my hand sinking through, reaching for my parents and holding them one last time.  It didn’t sink though.  The glass pressed firmly back at me, denying me.

My mother lifted her hand.  Her fingers shook as she slowly moved toward mine.  She carefully laid her hand on mine, flattening her fingers on the icy glass.  Her lips quivered as she looked at me, her eyes wide.  I pressed harder, hoping that some warmth would find its way to her small palm

She stroked the glass, her eyes achingly full of pain and love.  “My baby,” she barely whispered.

Leaning in close, I spoke carefully through the grating.  “Mom, I love you.  Do you believe me?”  She nodded, her head barely moving as if afraid she would lose eye contact with me at any moment.  “I love you too, Dad.”  I glanced at him.  He nodded to me, his eyes streaming still with the flood of tears.  I looked back to my mother, locking my eyes to hers.  “I will always love you Mom.  Always.  I will… I will always be your baby.”

I could feel the sting of tears at my eyes.  My mother let out a soft sob, her lips still quivering, and offered me a small smile.  I watched my parents one last time.  They were different now in my eyes.  The monsters weren’t sitting there across the glass.  No, the monsters were waiting everywhere else in the outside world.  I pressed my hand against the glass once more, then nodded and stood.

There were no more words.

We didn’t need any more words.

I turned the handle, and walked out of the room.

19

Jude was waiting for me as I stepped back into the hall.

I knew he had heard every word.  I could see it in his eyes, in the way he nervously reached for me, then lowered his hand before his fingers could brush my arm.  I offered him a smile, lips quivering.  A tear broke free and I quickly wiped it away with my fingertips.

“Millie… are you going to be alright?”

“I am,” I said without hesitation.  For a reason I could not understand, I knew that it was true.  Something inside had clicked.

Jude smiled softly at me then motioned for me to walk down the hall.  I took my place next to him and joined his slow pace as we headed to the waiting room door.

“How are things?” His voice sounded careful, as if trying to find the right question to ask.

I nodded.  “They are good.  Work is good.  I like the trees.”  The smile on my face warmed.

“That’s good.  I was worried for a bit.”

“Why?”

Jude stopped walking.  I stopped beside him, just close enough to hear him take in a deep breath.  “After you left,” he said slowly, glancing toward the camera at the end of the hall.  Its light was still dead. “Carl GF4 started to act strange.  He tried to find a way to call you back.  Said you shouldn’t have been released.  We all almost believed him.  But I knew you deserved it.  Your parents vouched for you.  Another prisoner did too, named Orrin.  Did you know him?”

At the sound of Orrin’s name I felt my breath catch in my throat.  I looked at Jude, my cheeks warming.  “Um, yeah.  We talked sometimes.”  Casting my eyes down, I added, “You know… Fishing.”

Jude let out a laugh.  “You fished?  Oh, that’s great.”  Jude shook his head, smiling.

The smile faltered as he went on.  “They dismissed his petition.  Carl made life hell around here.  He started to overly discipline inmates.  He became dark, moody… even other guards were scared.  Your parents were forced to work longer hours by the staff, in hopes that Carl would leave them alone.”  Jude let out a clipped breath.  “He was ‘encouraged’ to take some leave.  Clear his head you know.  Suddenly he was back to normal Carl.  We all assumed the strange mood had passed.  Guards… they get those moods sometimes.  I don’t know why.”

Jude looked over to me, his eyes studying my face a moment, his lips tense.  “I was worried, Millie.  But if you say things are good, then I can stop worrying.  That’s great.”  Jude squinted his eyes a moment, thinking.  “Why would he do that, Millie?”

I swallowed hard.  “I don’t know,” I said.  “I barely knew him.”

“Strange.”

Jude kept looking at me.  I nervously shifted my weight, my eyes flitting to look back at the dead camera.

“You’re different, Millie.”  He moved slightly closer.  “You’re not the Jail Baby that would lie on the floor late at night anymore.  I don’t know what it is, but something in you has changed.”

“Oh.”  I couldn’t think of anything better to say.  I couldn’t tell if he was upset, if he was happy.  I knew his voice.  I knew his laugh and his sigh.  But seeing him there now, standing in front of me, seemed to change things.  I couldn’t read him.

“Remember what I told you about my family?  Why I didn’t go with them?”  I nodded as he asked.  “I think you were my reason.  I knew there was something good I would need to do here.  I think I waited for you.”

Jude reached up and pulled a necklace out from under his uniform shirt.  Lifting it over his head, he looked at it with a softly then held it out to me.  It was a black leather cord.  Something swung from it.  Looking closer, I saw a small key, just big enough to fit in the palm of my hand, tied to the cord.  Its smudged silver surface shone dully in the dim light.

I reached forward and took the key in my hand.  It was very simple.  No elaborate designs.  Just the hole at one end with the leather tied through it, and the teeth on the other.  The end of the teeth stopped abruptly, leaving the tip of the key flat and smooth.  I ran my fingertip along the glassy tip.  Smooth as ice.

“I don’t know why my family was given access to the Wall.  I guess we had high enough standing.  That, or we had enough money.”  Jude started walking forward again and I followed, my eyes still fastened onto the small key.  “My parents never used the key.  They never let me set foot on the beach that I could hear day and night.  I would see that key hanging around my father’s neck, and wanted so badly to use it and escape to the ocean.  When they left, he gave me the key.  And now… I can’t get myself to use it.” He glanced at me, his eyes heavy with memories.  “I want you to have it.”

“Why are you giving me this?” I asked.

“I can see something in your eyes, Millie.  You may not know it yet, but that key is what you need.  The end has a small chip in it with my families DNA stored on file.  The lock will only recognize that key, and that key alone.  No one can pick it or fake it.  Remember that.”

I rolled the key between my fingers.  Doubt tugged at my mind.  I couldn’t do anything else.  I had found out the truth.  Now I would return to the Orchard and finish my parole.  Even with this key, the beach was just a distant dream, a hope I could never reach.  My life had already been laid out for me.  A tight knot formed in my throat.

Jude touched my arm.  He carefully picked up the dangling leather cord and draped it around my neck.  The key hung off of it, so light I could barely feel it until it bounced against my chest.

“Jude.  I feel so lost.”  My voice was small.

Jude tucked a finger under my chin, lifting my face to look at him.

“Millie, I know you.  You are the good, and the strong.”

I nodded to him, tears stinging my eyes as a smile formed on my lips.  Patting my arm, Jude started walking again.

We finally reached the door.  Jude turned to me and offered his soft smile that had kept me awake and happy through to many lonely prison nights.  “I’m going to miss you Millie.  But I am happy I got to see you again.  This one last time.”

“Maybe… Maybe it won’t be the last time.”

Jude’s smile didn’t fade.  “Maybe, maybe not.  One thing life teaches you is that it is unpredictable.  If we wait for something to happen, and it never happens, we will just waste our lives waiting.  If I see you again Millie, I would love it.  Believe me.  But if I never see you again,” he glanced at the camera.  The red light suddenly flicked back on, glaring down at us.  Jude lowered his eyes and looked at me once more.  “Then I will be happy too.”

Turning the handle, he motioned me through the door, then clicked it closed it behind me.

| | |

Reed drove slowly.  I could tell his mind was somewhere else.  His brow furrowed, his jaw clenched and unclenched over and over.  I reached over and gently touched his shoulder.  Reed jumped, then let out a sigh and reached his hand up to hold mine.  I could see his other hand tighten around the steering wheel.

“Reed, what’s wrong?”

Reed stared at the road.  Silence filled the small truck cab, and I started to think he didn’t plan on responding.

“I can’t do this anymore Millie,” he said in a barely audible whisper.  He glanced over to me, then focused his eyes back on the road.  His voice came out stronger.  “Being in there, knowing that there were all those people who were locked away just on the other side of those walls, knowing this Nation could so easily claim me, or you, I just… I need out.”

“Out?”

“Millie, I need to leave the Nation.”  His voice suddenly came out rushed, as if afraid I would stop him at any moment.  “I know Eddie will go with me.  He has already talked about it.  Every time we go into town he fills that bag of his with supplies.  Food, maps, all that.  We have everything we need.”  Reed pausing, sucking in a deep breath.  “Millie, I need… I want you to come too.”

I lowered my hand to the worn out seat, his fingers clinging to me as I let it go limp.  “You want me to leave, leave the Nation, with you?”

Reed let out a heavy breath, glancing out the side window then looking back to me quickly.  “When you know something Millie, you know it.  I have spent my entire life not knowing too much.  I don’t know my parents.  I don’t know what happened to them.  All I have is one name and some fading memories and those haven’t gotten me anywhere.”  Reed wiped at his eyes, his fingers dragging along as if trying to pull out lost memories.  Blinking once, he let his eyes trail to me.  “But then I saw you.  There was something familiar, and I had to know it more.  I couldn’t take my eyes off you, and not only because of how you look.  You are… you are something I know.”

Reed looked over to me.  “I need you, Millie, because you make me feel needed.”

His eyes stared into mine, his face soft.  A fire burned in his eyes that begged for my answer, but my mouth couldn’t move.  I couldn’t think.  I could feel his fingers holding mine, but my body suddenly felt like it had lost gravity and was floating far away from me.

Reed pulled over to the side of the road.  He pulled the brake, leaving the engine to rumble in the silent air.  Unlocking his buckle, he moved closer to me.  His hand rose to stroke my face, slowly cupping my cheek in a tender hold.

“I need you, Millie,” he whispered.  “I am falling in love with you, and I can’t lose you now.”  He leaned in closer, his breath warm on my face.  I closed my eyes, feeling his presence envelope me.  Softly, gently, his lips pressed against mine.

Before I had time to react, he pulled back again.  My lips were cold without his against them.  I bit my lower lip, feeling the odd tingle that still ran over it.  Reed looked me in the eyes, his face barely an inch from mine.

“Imagine living in happiness,” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine.  “Imagine eating all the apples you ever wanted, and knowing that at the end of the day, you would still be free.  You would still be in my arms.”  He paused, swallowing hard.  He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes again.  “Think about it.”

I nodded.

Reed watched me, his face not moving.  I found myself hoping he would lean in to press his lips against mine again.  That we would share the same breath again, leaving my lips cold and tingling again.  Instead, he let out a slow breath then backed away and buckled himself back in.  Throwing the break, he steered the truck back onto the road.

I turned my eyes away from him, focusing on the road ahead.  My mind felt strange.  The fog had come back, tickling at the edges.  It taunted me.  It wanted to envelope me, to take away this tingle on my lips and decisions on my mind.  So much had happened in just the last day.  I felt myself tempted to give in and disappear.

The fog.

My mother had said the fog took her over.  She said she let it take away her pain.  My mind drifted back to the last visit I had just had with my parents.  How could any pain I thought I felt compare to theirs?  I had a brother.  His name was Charlie.  Disgusting monsters had killed him, and when my parents acted to protect what had been left of their lives, the Nation sided with the monsters.

What was right?  My parents had killed two men.  That was an undisputed fact.  Men who had killed their baby, then were about to turn on them as well.  The thoughts of what those men had running through their minds sent a sick shiver down my spine.

The Nation should have locked the remaining monster away.

Instead, it had sided with him.

I felt sick.  The jostling of the truck didn’t help at all.  With every bounce and jerk, I could feel my stomach roll.  I reached out and clenched my fingers around the handle on the door, hoping that it would make the world stop spinning.  The fog laughed at me, readying itself to take me away from my reality.  Looking over at Reed, I became suddenly afraid that I would never come back.  I couldn’t let it take me.  I would not disappear.

Reed glanced over at me, his eyes growing wide as he took me in.  We had just entered the town.  Reed quickly pulled the truck into a parking spot along the road and killed the engine.

“Millie, you look sick.”

I swallowed hard.  “I feel sick.  I… I need some air.”

Reed nodded and climbed out of the car.  Hurrying to my door, he pulled it open and let me out.  I heard the door slam shut behind me, but didn’t jump.  I was numb.

I didn’t want to make this decision.  I didn’t want to admit that the one thing I had always seen as my protection was, in truth, the enemy I had always feared.  Reed had his hand on my back, directing me as we walked down the near empty sidewalk.  I barely felt him there.

We finally got to a bench.  It sat around the corner, hidden in a small alley against a brick building.  A window sat open above it, the sound of a radio playing muffled music floating into the alley.  Reed helped me sit down then sat himself down next to me, never taking a worried hand off of me.

“I am so sorry, Millie,” he said, his voice almost sounding scared, “I shouldn’t have −”

“It’s okay, Reed.”  I said, forcing a thin smile.  “It’s just been a long day.  I have… alot to process.”

Someone screamed.

Jumping to his feet, Reed pushed me back into my seat when I tried to stand.  The screaming grew louder.  Frozen in our places, we waited.  Down the street we saw a small group making its way toward us.  As they neared, I felt my breath catch in my throat.

A tangle of men approached.  Some I didn’t recognize, but most were unmistakable.  I could see the same sneering looks that they wore when they watched me at night around the fire now plastered on their scruffy faces.  The men moved down the street, the screaming growing louder as they got closer.

I leaned forward, looking around Reed.  In the center of their group, they were dragging someone.  A few men broke away to jog ahead, disappearing into the building we were sitting against.  As they left, I got a better look at the person being hauled.

Maria.

She screamed again, tears streaming down her face.  The men held her arms tightly, dragging her as they walked.  She fought against their grip, her feet searching for purchase but constantly being knocked out from under her.  Another man jogged ahead into the building, and I finally got a full shot of her.

Her clothes were torn.  As she flailed and fought, I could see the flaps of clothing swing around, showing her flesh underneath.  I felt sudden embarrassment as I watched, her breasts flashing in the low sunlight before being covered again by a stray piece of her remaining shirt.  Her skin was covered in bruises.  Even from where I sat I could see the gashes that cut across her flesh, blood gushing to run in trails down her thin body.

The group pushed into the building.  Without saying a word, Reed and I kneeled on the bench, peeking our eyes barely over the open windowsill.  Inside, the music died with a click.

Along one wall stretched a row of metal bars.  An officer stood and opened one of the cell doors.  The group of men moved forward and threw Maria in.  She landed hard on the ground, smacking her head before her hands were able to reach out and catch her fall.  A sob broke free from her bleeding mouth.  Maria scrambled into the corner furthest from the group of men, trying desperately to gather the shreds of the remaining clothing around her.

Standing near the window were the few men who had run ahead.  They leaned against the wall, quietly speaking with a stiff police officer.  I could see a star pinned to his chest, shining in the dusty air.  He stood with his arms crossed against his proud chest, eyes occasionally flicking to Maria before returning to the men who stood in front of him.

“Tell me what happened again,” he said, his voice husky.

One of the men let out an aggravated breath then shoved his hands into his pockets.  I could see blood on his knuckles.

“I told you, Sheriff.  This woman came across us when we were having our break.  Offered herself to us.  Well, we couldn’t resist that, could we?”  He flashed a smile at Maria.  I could see her shoulders heave as she let out another sob.  “Well, we were about done with the fun when the slut said we had to pay.  We follow the law, Sheriff.  And prostitution and pimping are major felonies.  We had no idea that she had planned to trap us like that.  I swear.”

I recognized the man.  Searching my thoughts, I finally placed his smug face.  The man in the restaurant.  The one who had taunted Eddie, who had draped the woman across him like a cheap accessory.  I stared at him in shock as he leaned close to the Sheriff.  The innocent look on his face made me want to scream.  It was obviously forced, almost mocking as he watched Maria.  I looked over to the Sheriff and saw him nodding in agreement.

The man went on.  “Some of the fellows here had to detain her.  She is a strong little whore.  That’s what’s up with the…”  He looked back at her a moment, his nose wrinkling up, “the revealing attire.  We apologize for the way we brought her in, but the law is the law, right, Sheriff?”

The Sheriff, still nodding, cracked a smile at the man.  “It is Paul.  That it is.”

Maria, crammed in the corner, started to shake.  I could see her balled tight, her shoulders shuddering uncontrollably.  Pure terror ran through her eyes.  The Sheriff looked over to her again, then nodded at the officer who stood next to the cell.  The officer nodded back and turned to Maria

“You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you do say can and will be used against you −”

“No!”  Maria cried.  “Please, don’t do this!”

Without pausing, the officer continued.

The man, Paul, leaned in to the Sheriff.  “What are you going to book her on?”

“Oh, the standard,” the Sheriff answered, ignoring the pleading of the bloodied woman.  “Prostitution 1.Pimping.  I bet there is some burglary or breaking and entering we can dig up.”

Paul nodded, a disgusting smile spreading on his face.  The other men in his group made their way out of the building.  I could hear them chuckling and clapping each other on the back as they disappeared.

The Sheriff leaned closer, his hand resting casually on Paul’s shoulder.  I could see a splash of drying blood on the back of Paul’s arm.  I swallowed hard, forcing down the churning in my stomach.  “A bit excessive on the force, don’t you think Paul?”

Paul’s shoulders shuddered as he let out a laugh.  “I am proud of our oh-so-great Nation.  I must do what I can, to prove that I am the good, the strong.”  His voice came out sharp, spitting the words as he laughed again.

The Sheriff shifted on his feet, smoothing his shirt as he made a point to avoid eye contact with Maria.  “Any news on the apple contract?” he asked.

Paul shrugged.  “Nothing has changed.  We managed to get it signed and stamped, now it’s processing.  How ironic is it, that the apple pickers are sent to Spokane, then fed the very apples they picked?  I’m telling you, that’s justice.”

The Sheriff chuckled lightly.  “See you tonight Paul?  Eight o’clock?”

“Yeah Dad, I wouldn’t miss dinner for nothing.”

The Sheriff clapped Paul on the shoulder, chuckling.

“Sheriff!”  Maria cried.  “Por favor.  They… they raped me.”  Her voice broke, choking sobs sending her body in convulsions again.  “Please believe me.  They raped…”

The Sheriff let out a bored sigh, then followed Paul out the door as if Maria weren’t there at all.

20

“Okay,” I choked out, my body slamming back down onto the wooden bench.

Reed stared into the window a moment longer, his lips so tight they were white.  His breaths came in ragged gasps, uneven beats of loss and desperation.  I could hear Maria sobbing, her voice carrying into the alley air where just moments ago there had been music.  Her sobs mixed with Reed’s gasps became a haunting duet that brought stinging tears to my eyes.

Reed turned and sank back onto the bench.  He shut his eyes, his fingers rubbing over his clenched lids as if trying to smear out what we had just seen.

Lifting his head, he finally seemed to remember that I sat there next to him.  “Okay?” he asked, his voice sounding lost and distant.

Maria’s sobs finally quieted.  Through the window I only heard a soft whimper, her begging quieted and long since forgotten.

“Reed, those men… that story they told the sheriff −”

“I know, Millie.”

“They never even let Maria speak!  Just looking at her, you can tell she was…” My voice caught in my throat.  Fog tempted me.  I shut my eyes, forcing it to clear.  This was Maria.  Happy, welcoming, gentle Maria.  It could so easily have been me.  “He believed his son.  Without a question.”

“Family,” Reed’s voice sounded choked.  “They like to believe lies more than truth, when it comes to those they love.  It would be too much to admit your son is a monster.  It is so much easier to see him as a hero.”

I opened my eyes and turned to Reed, searching his own pain filled eyes.  “What will happen to her?”

Reed licked his lips, obviously trying to find a soft way to answer my searching question.  “You already know, Millie.  You grew up surrounded by women just like Maria.”

“The women?  They were prostitutes.  They sold their own bodies for money, so they could buy drugs and who knows what else.  They ruined the Nation.”

Reed raised his eyebrows at me, his eyes almost begging.  Could it be true?  It was so easy to believe that they were all the criminals.  Those women in the prison who strutted around, pushed themselves at the men, taunted the girls.  I could see them now in my mind, walking in their tight groups, hands protectively holding each other, eyes always carefully watching every passing man even as their mouths said otherwise.  Could they all be Marias, living to get by but always scared that their nightmare would just begin again?

Orrin’s words crept into my mind.  They lock away the people and make them become the criminals they so fear.  Hearing Maria’s lost sobs behind me, I finally understood what he meant.

“But, can’t we… couldn’t we just −”

“No,” Reed said, stopping me.  “We can’t.  The law has already decided what the truth is.  We can’t.”

“In Prison Nation, the truth can’t set you free,” I muttered to myself.  I thought back to my parents.  To Orrin.  To the workers who disappeared from the Orchard, the inmates who wandered lost and tear-streaked in Spokane.  How many had a truth that would never be listened to?

I reached over and grabbed Reed’s hand, my fingers lacing with his.  “Okay,” I said firmly.  “Let’s go.”

“Go?”  Reed asked cautiously.

“I will go with you, Reed.  Away from here.From the Nation.”  I took a deep breath.  “What just happened to Maria, that was a crime.  And those men will do it over and over.  How many more men are there in the Nation like that?  And women?  I thought… I thought the law protected me.”  I lowered my eyes a moment, then looked back at him.  “I don’t know if that’s true anymore.  I don’t feel safe.  And if you were to leave, I know I wouldn’t be safe.”

Reed lifted his hand, letting mine fall into my lap as he cupped my cheek.  Leaning close, I could feel his breath on my skin.  It sent tingles down my body.  “If I had to live without you, Millie.  If for some reason you were gone…  I would never have to think twice.  I would miss you with every fiber of who I am.”

A tear broke free from my eye.  It trailed down my cheek, stopping to rest on Reed’s hand.  In a soft flick, he wiped it away.

“I will never leave you, Millie,” Reed said softly.

“I know.  Because I am going with you.”

Reed let a soft smile spread on his lips.  Without another word, he pulled me to my feet and rushed back to the truck.  I was more than eager to leave behind Maria’s lost whimpers as she huddled locked and nearly naked in the cell behind us.

It seemed like the town had barely faded away when I saw the white house loom in front of us.  Reed pulled the truck to a stop, dirt still flying behind it as he jumped out.  I followed.  We quickly made our way to my living quarters.  I moved to step inside, when Reed grabbed my wrist.

He turned it and lifted my sleeve.  My metal bracelet dropped down into sight.

“I forgot about this,” he said, his voice tense.

“Can we take it off?” I asked.

Reed shook his head.  “You have to have a certain machine to take it off.  They only keep them at the prisons or under lock and key.  We don’t have time.”

I stepped down off the step, peeling Reed’s fingers off my wrist and lowering my sleeve to cover the bracelet again.  “It’s just an ID bracelet, Reed.  It can stay on.”

He opened his mouth to protest then stopped himself.  “Okay,” he said.  “Get your stuff.  Quickly.  I will go get Eddie and our stuff.  Meet back at the truck.”  I nodded to Reed then watched as he ran down the walk to his own living quarters.  As soon as he disappeared inside, I turned and hurried down the hall.

My room was just as I had left it.  For some reason I had expected it to be different.  To be torn apart, to see a roommate waiting to take over my space.  Something.  It hadn’t changed, yet things felt different.  Something was missing.  As I stepped inside, letting the curtain drape shut behind me, I could feel it.

Maria didn’t lean against the door, welcoming me home with her English-Spanish mix.  Maria, her entire presence, was suddenly gone from this room.  It was gone from the building, from the Orchard.  I felt a shudder go down my spine, realizing that she had just joined the horde of workers to disappear, never to be mentioned again.

Without another pause, I snatched up my bag and hurried to the dresser.  I shoveled my clothes into the bag, not taking the time to pack them neatly.  The sock, filled with my remaining money and the small piece of sea glass, fell out of the pile.  It hit the ground, its contents spilling out.  Setting the bag on my bed, I knelt down on the ground.

I had barely any money left.  Even with my small pay I had received from the Orchard, the sock was nearly empty.  After my discharge fees, and the research into my parent’s case, I barely had one hundred.  Folding the money, I shoved it into my back pocket of my jeans.  The piece of glass peeked out of the sock, its soft green glowing in the dim light.

I let it drop into the palm of my hand.  I didn’t know what Reed’s plan was.  If he even had one.  As I stared at the glass, I found myself hoping that we would somehow find our way to the beach.  I wanted to see it.  I wanted to feel what Orrin had felt that last time before his freedom had been taken away.  That would never happen.  The Wall was protected, built high and strong, the only ways through heavily guarded.

We were all locked in.

We were prisoners.  This was Prison Nation.

A tear broke free from my eye, streaming down my cheek.  Orrin.  I would never see him again.  He would never see freedom again.  He was forever locked away, charged for a crime he didn’t commit and knowing his family was slaughtered.  The glass was all I had left.

I wiped the tear from my cheek.  As I moved to tuck the glass back into the sock, I felt the cool key brush against my chest under my shirt.  I pulled it out, laying it in my hand next to the glass.  The key was barely larger than the glass.  I sat there, staring at the two small pieces.

The fog crept in.  It wanted to take over.  It wanted to claim me.

Bending down, I ran my fingers under the bed, searching.  They finally ran over a small piece of wire that had fallen free from the springs.  I stood back up, the wire pinched in my fingers.  The fog taunted me as I carefully wrapped the wire around Orrin’s glass then fastened it to Jude’s key.  I stared at the necklace in my hand, the green glow of the glass now reflecting off of the rusted key, my only reminders I had left of the life I had lived.

I stared harder at the contents in my hand.  Then something struck home.

The key.

I threw the necklace back around my neck and tucked it into my shirt, then quickly snatched up the last of my belongings.  Ducking through the curtain, I left the small room without a second look.  I didn’t need to say goodbye.  This wasn’t home.  It could never be home.  It had been a temporary existence, a monitored life.  This had been the second prison they had sentenced me to, and I was going to break free.

| | |

Reed and Eddie were standing next to the truck, leaned in close together as they talked in hushed voices.  I hurried towards them, watching as they glanced once more at each other before separating and smiling at me.

“Alright!” Eddie said, rubbing his hands together.  “Let’s get this adventure going!”

Reed grabbed the handle of the driver side door, pulling it open.

“Reed, what are you doing?” I asked.  “This is Oscar’s truck.”

Reed glanced at Eddie, his hand flexing on the handle of the car.  I could tell from the way they looked at each other that this is exactly what they had been discussing when I had hurried over.

“Reed,” I stepped closer to him.  “We can’t take Oscar’s truck.”

Reed pushed the door shut, then fell against it.  He leaned his head forward, running his fingers through his shaggy hair.  “I know,” he said.  “I know, I know.”

“Are you kidding me?”  Eddie said, his voice coming out shockingly angry.  “Really, Reed?  Are you going to care about that right now?”

“Eddie, it’s not ours!”  Reed said back, his voice rising.

“Yeah.  You’re right.  It’s theft.  Grand theft auto right?Punishable by up to thirty.”  He motioned to me, his eyes flared with anger.  “And you want her to come with us?  She is on probation!  If she is caught, she goes right back to Spokane, no more chances!  And what about us?  We are bailing out on our work contracts.  That is against the blasted law too, Reed!  Are you really caring about that crap right now?”

Eddie’s voice was getting too loud.  Reed stood up, looking around with wide eyes.  Luckily no one looked to be in earshot of us.  Yet.  “Eddie, calm down.  We just need to…”

Eddie took a step toward Reed.  I wanted to step in to stop him.  I could see his fists clenching at his sides, his cheeks reddening with anger.  I managed to utter a wimpy, “Eddie, please…”

Eddie didn’t hear me.  He was focused on Reed.  “You come and get me, finally tell me we can get out of this Nation.  And now you want us to what, walk?  Hitch hike?  Hell, why don’t we just go kindly ask them to let us out?”

“Eddie!  Will you shut up!”  Reed yelled.  I saw Eddie jump as the sudden boom of Reed’s voice.  My own body tensed in surprise.  Reed ran a hand through his hair again then turned to me.  “How much cash do you have?”

“One hundred. Barely.”

“Okay.”  He fished into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills.  Flipping through it, he pulled out a good chunk and handed it to me.  “Add fifty to that.”  Without asking, I pulled out fifty from my pocket and added it to the stack.  “Eddie, you too.”

Eddie opened his mouth to protest.

“Eddie, just do it will you?”  Reed shot at him before he could speak.  Eddie huffed an angry breath, then pulled some money from his jacket pocket and slapped it onto the pile in my hands.

Reed pulled open the truck door and crawled inside.  I could hear him shuffle things around before he backed out.  He held out a wrinkled envelope, partly torn open and obviously stepped on.  “Let me see that,” he said, holding his hand out to me.

I handed him the stack.  He shoved it into the envelope, then pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket.  He quickly scribbled ‘Oscar Ramos’ on the front of it, scratching out the other writing that was jotted all over the envelope.

Mumbling something under his breath, Reed pushed past both of us and hurried to the house.  He stopped by a door, its surface dirtier than the rest of the house.  The doors around it looked new.  This door was obviously used much more often.  He stood for a moment, looking at it, then tucked the envelope under its stop and hurried back to us.

Reed looked at me, his eyebrows raised in question.  I nodded to him, shifting my bag on my shoulder.  Sighing, he opened the passenger door for me then hurried back to the driver side.

I climbed in, Eddie close behind me.  Both men slammed the doors shut at the same time, the truck shaking as if afraid.

We sat for a moment, looking at the large house in front of us.  “Why did you do that?” Eddie asked, his voice finally cooling.

“Oscar has been good to us, Eddie.  The least we can do for taking his truck is leave him a little cash to find another one.”  Reed looked down at the key in his hand, staring at it a moment before pushing it into the ignition.  “We aren’t the criminals.”

Eddie nodded.

Reed turned the key, the engine rumbling to life.  We backed out of the driveway and turned onto the old road.  Silence took over the cab, the air tense and apprehensive.  The truck bounced down the dirt road, past the town, and finally turned onto the old paved highway.  There was no one else on the road.  Nothing but dirt, dead grass, and the occasional lonely bird.

“Hey man,” Eddie muttered finally.  “I’m sorry.”

Reed grunted, his lips tight.  “You really need to learn to cool it, Eddie.  That temper is going to get you killed someday.”

Eddie chuckled, then playfully elbowed me.  “Blame it on the hair,” he said, pointing to his messy red locks.  “You know what they say.  I have fire for hair, so must have fire for a temper.  Stupid hair, huh?”  I smiled at him, relieved to see the twinkle in his eyes.  Eddie scared me when he lost his temper.  He leaned past me, smacking Reed on the arm.  “So, where to Captain?”

I could hear Reed let out a slow breath.  “I’m not really sure.”

“Awesome.”  Eddie slammed back against the seat again, turning to look out his window.

“By night they will know we are gone,” Reed went on calmly.  “They probably won’t care too much about you and me.  Just put a warrant on our records and call it good.  Millie though… they seem more protective of their prison born.  I don’t know why.”

“What does that mean?”  I asked.

Reed glanced at me.  Offering me a small smile, he reached down and held my hand gently.  “It’s just something some of us have noticed.  Those like you, who were born in the Prison, the Nation seems more protective of.  They keep a closer eye on you, even when the parole is over.

“You haven’t been out long,” Reed went on, his eyes focused back on the road.  “For those of us who have always been out, we’ve noticed that most of the people convicted lately are the ones who are dirt born.  Those born in the prison are staying free more.”

Eddie turned away from the window.  “Tell me, little Jail Baby, what the heck are they preaching to you in there?”  He smiled as he asked, but I still cringed at the title.

I licked my lips.  “The same things they teach in school for you.  The history of the great Nation.  Why it is important that the Nation keeps its criminals locked away.”  I lowered my eyes, letting them settle on Reed’s hand as he held mine.  “That the Nation needs the good and the strong.”

Eddie snorted.  Snapping my eyes up, I looked over at him.  “Sounds like some grade-A brainwashing,” Eddie said, his voice suppressing another laugh.  “Or more like some grade-A −”

“Eddie, come on,” Reed interrupted.  I could hear the hint of laughter on his voice.

“Hey man, we are in a truck heading somewhere we don’t even know.  I don’t think there is any Big Brother in here.”

“Big brother?”  I asked.

Eddie looked at me, his mouth curled at the corners.  “Yeah, you know.  1984.”

I shook my head.

“Aw, come on!  They preach to you about being all good and strong for the Nation, but they don’t even let you read classics like that?”

“I read my school books.  They let me read other books, sometimes… but that had been a treat.  We were taught that we needed to learn the truth.  That the criminals believed in lies because they were taught lies.  The Nation was the strong, and those of us who learned the truth became the good.  Didn’t they teach you −”

Reed shook his head.  “You learn something different, Millie, when you’re living the truth.”  His face turned thoughtful for a moment.  “Makes sense though.”

“What does?”  I asked.

“Why they lock us up, the ones born on the outside.  They don’t want us being out here.  They want you.”

“Me?”

“Jail Babies. The ones who actually believe in the Nation. The ones who love it.”

“It’s a Jail Baby apocalypse!” Eddie said, waving his hands in the air as he laughed.

I looked over to Reed.  He smiled, lifted my hand and kissed my fingers.  His lips were warm and soft, pressing gently for a second then lifting just enough that I could barely feel his skin brushing mine.  I could feel his breath on my fingers, moist in the cool air.  Reed held my hand there a moment, then let it drop into my lap as he gripped the steering wheel with both hands.  The smile still rested lightly on his lips.

Eddie leaned in toward me again.  “And for the record: we were home schooled.  We learned useful things.  Like the square root of x.”  Eddie laughed and moved to look back out his window at the passing land.

We let the truck settle into a calm quiet.  The engine rumbled, the sound of the tires rolling down the road becoming a constant hum.  I let my mind drift to the sounds.  Leaning my head against Reed’s shoulder, I closed my eyes.  My fingers lightly played with my metal bracelet, spinning it around and around.

It was cold against my wrist.  I could feel the etching of my name under my fingertips as it spun.  The image of the small devices used to scan the bracelets trickled into my mind.  I had never even bothered to learn what it was called.  My entire life my bracelet had been scanned, and I didn’t even know how.  I felt something stir in my thoughts.  There was something I should know, but no matter how hard I tried to grasp it, it escaped me.  There had been so much I had never asked.

I finally gave up.  Sighing, I let my bracelet drop to hang heavy against my wrist as I lifted my hand to touch the key through my thin shirt.  I could feel the sea glass tied to it, a small lump under my shirt.  My fingers carefully pushed it against my chest.  I hadn’t mentioned the key yet.  I found myself wishing I could keep it to myself, keep it safe and perfect, the memories of Orrin and Jude secured safely near my heart.

Reed mumbled to himself, reading the road signs as they passed.  A few times he slowed, almost taking an exit, then shook his head and sped past.  He didn’t have a plan.  He wanted to be free, but didn’t know which direction freedom waited.  My heart ached, pressing the key harder against my skin.  Sitting up, I glanced at Eddie who snored lightly next to me, then looked over to Reed.

“I know.”

Reed glanced at me, his brow furrowed in question.  “What?”

I could hear Eddie lift his head drowsily.  “What do you know, Mills?”

I focused my eyes ahead of us.  The road was still empty.  Shadows stretched long and lonely as the sun began to set in the distance.  I carefully pulled the key out from under my shirt, holding it out in my open palm so the glass glowed in the warm sunlight.

“I know how we can escape.”

21

Reed didn’t want to stop for the night.  After I had told him about the door in the Wall, and the key Jude had given me, he insisted we needed to get there as soon as we could.  The sky had darkened to a thick black, only a few hints of the sun’s rays glowing faintly in the distance.  Memories of the life we were leaving behind pushed us forward.

Eddie was asleep again.  His head leaned against the cool glass of the window.  Occasionally Reed would hit a bump in the road and I could hear the dull smack of Eddie’s head as it bounced against the glass.  A few times he woke up enough to mutter something angrily to Reed.  Reed would just chuckle without responding, and Eddie would drift back to sleep.

I felt safe.

Sitting between Reed and Eddie, even as the truck barreled down the deserted highway, I finally felt like I could breathe.  Reed’s hand had found its way to my knee, his fingers mindlessly tapping and rubbing as he drove in silence.  His touch felt good.

Ever since I had told them about Jude and the key, Reed had sunk into his thoughts.  The decision to head to Cannon Beach had been easy.  I knew he wasn’t worrying about that.  Something else ate at his mind.

“Millie?” His voice was quiet, his eyes glancing to make sure Eddie was still asleep.  Eddie confirmed with a light snore.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Reed cleared his throat.  I could barely see his silhouette in the darkness.  The headlights cast a dim glow on his face, though not enough to make out any expressions he might have been making.  “Jude.  Were you two −”

“No!”  I shook my head.  This had been the thought eating at Reed the entire ride?  “Jude was a guard.”

“Was he…” Reed swallowed hard.  “Was he the guard that −”

“No, Reed.  No.”  I reached over and laid my hand on top of his.  “Jude is… was a friend.  The first time I ever even met him face to face in the light was at the prison today.”

“I thought guards weren’t supposed to be friends with the inmates.”  I didn’t like the sound of Reed’s voice.  It sounded too much like he didn’t believe me.

“You’re right.”  I reached my hand up to his face, turning it enough to look at me.  I couldn’t see him, but I knew he watched me in the dark.  “But I am telling the truth.  Jude was a friend.  Almost like a brother.  He may have broken some rules by talking to me as much as he did, but there wasn’t anything more.  I promise.”

I couldn’t understand why Reed was acting so strange.

Reed squeezed my hand.  “Okay,” he sighed.  “Okay.  I’m sorry.  I just… I can’t shake what you had said, about that other guard.  I hate the idea that he wanted to hurt you.  That he… that he even did what he did.  People get busted for a lot less than that every day.  And he didn’t even get a wrist slap.  What kind of justice is that?”

“From what I have been learning,” I said quietly, “it’s the exact kind of justice the Nation wants.”

Reed lifted my hand and kissed it again.  “Try to sleep,” he said, resting his hand back on my knee.  I nodded, more to myself than to him.  Leaning my head on his shoulder, I let my eyes shut and carry me off into sleep.

| | |

I watched the Prison.  Its dark stone walls rose high into the overcast sky.  There was no one around.  I stood alone, staring up at the menacing walls topped with razor wire.  Something inside me made me want to run away, to get as far from the Prison as I possibly could.  I tried to turn.  I tried to run.  Instead, I felt my body pulled towards the waiting door.

I didn’t want to go in.  The walls darkened, angry at me for rejecting them.  The sky rolled with clouds.  I held my breath.  In the silence I faintly began to hear the rhythm of the life I had left.  The heavy beat of the laundry room throbbed slow and deep, rumbling the earth with every throb.  The faint shuffled feet of life inside. The perfectly timed angry shout, the dull thump of a fist making contact, the matching crescendo of guard’s boots.  The light sobs like a descant of a broken woman.

Tears stung my eyes as the music of the prison enveloped me.  It called to me.  It reminded me of where I had come from, of who I truly was.  It beckoned the fog to return me to my coming insanity.

I tried to wipe the tears from my cold cheeks, but my hands wouldn’t respond.  They hung limply at my side, my fingertips tapping along with the music.  My parents were in there.  Orrin was in there.  Maria.  So many people, all were locked away inside those walls.  Why did I deserve to be outside?

The music suddenly stopped.  Silence suffocated me for a moment before the air was filled with the ear shattering alarm of lights out.  It seemed to ring forever, filling the air around me in its engulfing vibrations.

As it died out, I heard someone move behind me.  The feel of cold metal on my wrists froze my breath mid gasp.  The cuffs locked into place, painfully pulling my arms behind my body.

He laughed.  Stepping around me, I could see his face, smugly smiling.

“Welcome home,” he said in a voice too smooth.  He leaned in, his hot breath on my face.  I felt tears sting my eyes.  “I got you.”  His lips closed the gap, painfully crushing down on mine before I could scream.

The fog swallowed me alive.

| | |

My eyes snapped open.

I could feel the sting of tears still in my tired eyes.  Reaching up, I lightly wiped away the stray tear that had trickled down my cheek.  My head still rested on Reed’s shoulder, his hand still lightly holding my knee.

I covered the tears, pretending to rub sleep from my eyes.  As I sat up, I could see the rays of sun that were rising over the earth.  Carl was behind me.  He was lost somewhere in his own insanity, without any idea that I was gone.  Though he haunted my dreams, I knew I would never see him again.  I still shook, regardless.  The feel of his lips crushing against mine left a lingering sting.

I looked out the window.  We were driving past a city, its tall buildings glittering in the dawn.

“Where are we?” I asked.

Reed glanced over to the city.  A river ran past it, reflecting the sun and the truck’s headlights in its slow moving surface.  There were barely any lights on in the city.  It looked fast asleep, as if it never planned to wake back up.

“Portland,” he said, his voice distant.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Yeah, it is.  But we don’t want to stop in it.  The cities… most aren’t safe now.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.  Of all places, the cities were supposed to be the safest.  They were supposed to be filled with loyal citizens, patrols of the Nation’s officers keeping the roads clean and safe as life continued and thrived.  My stomach tightened at the words that had been hammered into my mind my entire life.

Reed lifted his hand from my leg and rubbed his eyes.  He had been driving all night, with no break, and the exhaustion was obvious on his face.  “The cities are where the people are.  Too many people.Too many… enforcers.”

“Too many arrests,” Eddie muttered.

I turned and looked at him.  His head leaned against the window, his eyes barely cracked open as they watched the passing city.  He didn’t say anything else.

We rumbled down the road, leaving Portland behind us.  Cars would pass occasionally, always covered in rust and rumbling as if any moment they planned to give up and crumble.  Every time one would pass, we held our breath.  We shared the unspoken fear that one of the passing cars would turn on hidden flashing lights and pull us over.  We didn’t need to share the fear out loud.  The cab would just fall silent until the passing car disappeared into the dark.

The truck started to sputter.  Mumbling to himself, Reed glanced down at the gas gauge.  It sat flat on the red line.

“We need some gas, and quick,” he said.  I could hear the rising nerves in his voice.

At that moment, as if called into existence, a gas station emerged from behind a thick gathering of trees.  Eddie sat up, his eyes scanning the surroundings as Reed pulled the truck alongside the gas pump.  With a single nod to each other, they both climbed out before the engine had even quieted.  I followed Reed, staying close to his side as we all scanned the station.

A man stood inside at the cash register, carefully watching us.  Trying to act casual, Eddie leaned against the hood as Reed started to pump gas into the old truck.  Just as the gas pump clicked alive, the sound of tires crunching on pavement cut into the quiet air.  We snapped our heads toward the source.

A police car had just pulled in to a parking space in front of the station.  The officer stepped out, hand on gun as he made his way inside.  Eddie looked over to Reed, his eyes alert.  “Let’s speed up that pumping a bit?”

Reed heaved a sigh.  “It’s going as fast as it will go, Eddie.”

Eddie watched the pump a moment then looked back to the officer.  He had walked out of the station, a soda held in one hand.  The other hand still rested on his gun.  He was about to turn to his car when he saw us and meandered in our direction instead.

“Everything good over here?” The officer’s voice was low and clear.

I could see Reed’s shoulders stiffen a moment before he let them relax, his easy gaze turning to the officer.  “Just fine, Officer,” he said, a smile on his lips.  “Just getting a fill up.”

The officer nodded, still watching us carefully.  “Can you believe these prices?  Nine dollars a gallon.  Seems a bit high, ya think?”

Reed just shrugged.  “Anything that betters the Nation betters us.”

A thin smile spread on the Officers stubble covered face.  His eyes wandered to Eddie.  Recognition flashed across his eyes.  Taking a step closer, he studied Eddie’s reddening face.  “Do I know you?”

Eddie shook his head.  “Can’t say you do.First time in these parts for me.”

“I swear I have met you before.”

“Well, you know us redheads.  We all look alike.”  Eddie smiled and winked at the officer.  I could see the forced lines of his smile.  The lines seemed strange and foreign on Eddie’s face.  His smile had always come so easy to him.

The officer watched him a moment longer, then shrugged and turned his eyes to me.  I could feel Reed tense beside me.  The Officer just watched a moment, his eyes flicking down to the metal bracelet on my wrist.  He smiled, tipping his head in my direction.  “Well then, have a good day.  Ma’am.  Boys.”  With that, he wandered back to his car and drove away.  I thought I saw him speaking into his small radio, but the sun shone into the tinted windows and blocked even his silhouette as he disappeared around the corner.

Eddie ran in to pay.  Reed, his hand on the small of my back, led me back into the truck.  The engine was already rumbling as Eddie climbed back in.

We drove in silence.  Reed kept glancing at Eddie.  Eddie’s face had darkened, his eyes piercing as he stared out the window.  “He knew me,” Eddie finally said into the quiet.

“That’s impossible, Eddie.” Reed answered, his voice sounding like he already doubted what he said.

Eddie shook his head.  “My mom always told me that my brother Bill and I looked like twins.  Two years apart in age, twins in looks.  Even in temper.”  Eddie sighed, his breath shuddering.  “That officer knew Bill.  So, he knew me.”

I glanced at Reed before looking back to Eddie.  “Bill.  He is in prison now, right?”  I asked carefully.

“My brother Bill was living in Portland when he got busted.”  Eddie answered.  “He had sniped a pack of cigarettes.  In the old days, he would have been slapped with a fine and maybe a few days in jail.”

I remembered what Reed had told me.  Eddie’s brother had been sentenced to twenty years.  Eddie finally looked away from the window, rubbing his eyes.  I thought I saw the glitter of a tear, but it vanished before I could look again.

“I guess there had been some prostituting on the nearby street corner.  The cop that busted Bill reported that he had seen Bill interacting with the prostitutes.  Turns out the group had just stolen a whole lot more than a pack of smokes.  And Bill had had the luck of passing the group when they got caught.  So he got locked away for twenty.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that cop back there was the one who busted Bill.  Wouldn’t be able to tell anyway.  They all are the same.”  Eddie tore his eyes from the city.  “I hate cities.”

“Stupid Po,” Reed said, smiling to Eddie.

“Stupid Po,” Eddie answered, a smile cracking on his face.  A quiet moment passed, they both chuckled.  “Let’s get away from this place.  How much longer, sir Captain?”

“I don’t know,” Reed said.  “Guess we just stay on this road.  That’s what the signs say at least.”

Eddie nodded, leaning his head back.  “Want me to take a turn at the wheel?”

“Are you kidding?”  Reed laughed.  “I’ve seen how you drive.  We won’t even make it a few miles before you crash.”

Eddie snorted, then leaned his head back against the torn headrest.  The last glimmer of the city disappeared behind us.

| | |

I found myself getting lost in watching the tall green trees that grew thick around the road.  I had never seen trees like this before.  Eddie told me they were evergreens.  Their branches were full of deep green needles, heavy and dropping over the worn road.  I could smell them as we passed.  Their musky aroma filled the truck’s cab.  It was intoxicating.

I wanted to wander through the dense trees.  The bark of the trunks looked rough and thick, small bushes and grasses rising high around the roots.  I imagined what it would be like, to sit in the shade of these towering giants, completely covered by their shadows.  To hear the birds lightly singing, the breeze rustling the pine needles as the drip of last night’s rain fell to the forest floor.

I wanted to hear the music of the free world.

My thoughts carried me away.  I lost track of time.  The smell of the trees, the rumble of the old truck, and Reed’s warm hand on my knee wrapped around and pulled me away into a sweet, safe world of my own.

The trees disappeared.  Buildings appeared, old and falling apart.  We turned on a small two-lane road, and slowed as we made our way into the town.  Everything looked dead.  I felt a chill as the ghosts of the town covered it in a strange forgotten dust.  Windows on the buildings were boarded over, a few which hadn’t been covered now shattered into jagged shards.  The entire town had a cold, gray tinge to it.  A memory long abandoned, and long forgotten.

Ahead, in the distance just past the town, was the Wall.

It rose high, reaching the tips of the few evergreens that still managed to grow.  Razor wire was twisted along its top, casting a web-like shadow down to the dirt below.  Eddie rolled his window down.  Muffled behind the Wall, we could hear the rolling crash of water.

“Shit,” Reed suddenly hissed, hitting the breaks hard.  The truck jerked to a stop, throwing all three of us forward as its wheels dug into the asphalt.

Parked in the road, blocking our passing, were three cars.  Their lights flashed, illuminating the three police officers that stood, aiming their guns in our direction.

“Get out of the truck, slowly, with your hands up!” one of the offers yelled.

I looked at Reed.  His eyes bore into me, heavy with sorrow.  I swallowed, my throat dry, then reached down and squeezed his hand.

“We tried,” I said.

“No,” Reed said in a low voice, his lips barely moving.  “This is not it.  This is not how it is going to end.”

“Damn right!”  Eddie yelled.  Before we could stop him, he swung open the door and jumped out.

“I said slowly with your hands up!” the officer called again, his gun now aimed at Eddie.

Reed pushed his door open and climbed out.  He lifted his hands above his head, his eyes glued to the second officer who carefully watched him.  Motioning for me to follow, Reed stepped away from the truck.  I climbed out after him, my hands shaking in the air.

Keeping my face forward, I searched with my eyes for Eddie.  He stood on the other side of the truck, his hands clenched into fists at his side.  The first officer had his gun locked on Eddie’s chest.

“I will not say it again.  Put your hands.  In the air.Now.”

Eddie suddenly barreled forward.  The officer shot a hand down to his hip, pulled out a smaller gun and aimed it at Eddie’s chest.  As Eddie ran towards him, the officer pulled the trigger.  Eddie jerked and fell to the ground, his body twitching.  I could see two small metal claws dig into his chest, a long wire attaching them to the gun held in the officer’s hand.

The officer watched Eddie twitch on the ground, then took a step towards us.  My eyes focused on the officer, watching out of the corner of my eyes as Eddie’s jerking finally stopped.

“Millie 942B, you are in violation of your probationary period.  You are now hereby under arrest.”  He turned his face to Reed.  “Reed Taylor, you have been charged for grand theft auto, breaking of Nation Contract, plotting against the Nation, and kidnapping.  You are hereby under arrest.”

The two remaining officers were slowly making their way toward us.  I could hear the clink of their handcuffs as they pulled them off of their bulky utility belts.  My mouth went dry, my eyes burned against growing tears.  Had he just said kidnapping?

Reed moved closer to me.  I could feel his raised arm press against mine.  I knew he was trying to comfort me, but at that moment his touch only reminded me that somehow I had become responsible for his doom.  Reed pressed his arm harder against mine.  I could feel it tense.

Perplexed, I looked away from the officer’s cold face.  As my vision focused, I saw Eddie.  He stood rigidly behind the three officers.  Blood dripped down his chest where he had ripped out the metal prongs.  His face contorted in rage.

Before I could even gasp, Eddie launched himself at the guards.  He tackled both at once, his arms wrapping around their necks as he hauled them to the ground.  Never giving them a chance to recover, he started slamming his fists into both of them, screaming in a coarse voice, “Reed, get out of here!”

Reed wrapped his arms around me, his fingers digging into my skin like iron clamps.

“Come on,” he urged in my ear.

I couldn’t move.  My feet were cemented to the ground, my eyes glued to Eddie as he pummeled his fists into the two dazed officers.  Reed managed to drag me back a few steps, then stopped.

The third officer had aimed his gun at Eddie, and fired.  The air cracked with the echo of the bullet shooting out of the small metal barrel.  Everything seemed silent for a moment before we heard the dull thud of Eddie dropping to the ground.  He clutched at his chest, his shirt deepening in dark red at a sickening rate.

The two officers Eddie had been pummeling stood up, bracing each other as they rubbed their swelling and bruised faces.  The one who had shot the gun stepped closer, his sidearm still carefully aimed at Eddie.

Eddie gasped for breath.  He squeezed his eyes shut a moment, then turned his head enough to look at us.  Cracking a painful smile, he raised a finger and pointed at his matted hair that gleamed like copper in the rising sun.

“S-Stupid… red hair…” he forced out.  I could see blood covering his teeth.  The officer stood over him now, glaring down at Eddie.

Without another pause, he spun his gun around and bashed the handle hard against Eddie’s head.  Eddie flailed once then went limp, his head rolling awkwardly to the side.

The feeling of ice-cold metal shook me from my daze.  While we had watched Eddie die, the two battered officers had made their way behind us.  My arms were pulled painfully behind me, the handcuffs locking together.  I could heard Reed choke a sob next to me, his eyes still watching Eddie as if he hoped his best friend would suddenly sit back up and smile.

The officer who stood over Eddie wiped the butt of his gun off on his pant leg then turned to us.  His eyes smoldered in anger, but a smug smile spread on his chubby face.

“You have the right to remain silent,” he said, his voice booming out the dreaded words.  “Anything you say can and will be used against you −”

“I will take it from here.”

My body went ice cold.  My eyes slowly turned toward the source of the voice that had just cut off the officer’s memorized words.

He emerged from the shadows of a nearby building.  His short blonde hair shone in the sunlight, his smile wide as he stepped closer.

“You three are excused,” he said smoothly.

The officer’s eyes widened.  “But −”

“I am a Prison GF, officer.  I outrank you.  And 942B is under probation from my prison.  Do I need to cite you on jurisdictional arguments?”

The officer shook his head.

“I will call if I need back-up.” Carl shot the officer a dark look, his jaw clenching.  The officer still hadn’t moved.  “I said, you three are excused.”

The officer gritted his teeth together, then nodded and quickly headed back to his parked patrol car.  The two behind us joined him.  We watched as they pulled away down the road, their lights still flashing as they disappeared into the distance.

My eyes slowly moved back.

Carl was smiling at me.

“Hello, Millie,” he said in a mockingly sweet voice.

Carl walked up to us, hands resting lightly on his utility belt.  His eyes trailed over to Reed, taking him in with a smirk.  I could hear Reed suck in an angry breath.  He knew.  He knew this was the guard.  There was no way he could doubt it.

Carl chuckled, then suddenly raised his gun and smacked the butt hard on Reed’s head.  A small groan escaped Reed’s throat before he toppled down to the paved road.

“No!” I screamed.  I fought against the cuffs, but they were holding my arms too tightly behind my back.  “No, no, no!”

“Come on, Millie,” Carl said, his fingers locking down on my tensed arm.  “Let’s go catch up.”

22

The shadows of the alley loomed ahead.

Carl dragged me toward the alley where his white patrol car waited, my feet constantly stumbling and tripping beneath me.  As we passed Eddie, my nose filled with the coppery smell of his blood.  It stung my senses, bringing tears to my eyes.  I watched him, hoping to see his fingers twitch or eyelids flutter.  He didn’t move.

The world had gone quiet.  There was no laughter.  No happy sighs.  No soft voices.  All that echoed now was the crunch of our feet on the littered street, Carl’s lofty breath, my grunt as he shoved me into the car and slammed the door shut.  Most patrol cars had some sort of barrier between the officers and the criminals.  Carl’s didn’t.  As he climbed into the driver seat, he reached back and patted my leg, smirking at me before revving the engine and backing out of the alley into the sun.

I felt my head try to turn to look behind us.  I knew Eddie lay there, motionless and gone.  That just beyond him, motionless in a crumpled mess on the ground, lay Reed.  I couldn’t turn my head to look.  I couldn’t bear the thought that he too wouldn’t be moving, that he too may be gone to a place I couldn’t free him.  All I could do was stare ahead.

“Oh Millie, what trouble you have caused,” Carl said, his voice casual and teasing.  “There I was, keeping my eye on you as you picked those stupid apples and bought pretty new clothes, then suddenly you decide it wasn’t good enough for you.  You just had to try and leave.  You really don’t like to follow orders, do you.”

It didn’t sound like a question.  His voice had turned hard and cold, the laughter slowly bleeding away.  I didn’t answer.  Squirming in my seat, I tried to ease the pain in my shoulders from the cuffs that held my wrists tight behind me.

“If it wasn’t for those inmates sticking up for you, and that stupid young night guard, you would be back where you belong and I would have my way.  But no,” Carl spat toward the empty passenger seat.  “No, I was the one over-reacting.  I was the one who ‘needed a break.’  Even that Dr. Eriks stopped helping me.  She thinks I have lost it.”  An angry laugh rumbled from his lips, his shoulders barely shaking.  “And there you are, picking apples and falling for the first dirt born brat you run across.  It is disgusting.”

The car rolled slowly down the old road, passing each boarded up building and hanging street sign without pausing.  Carl stared straight ahead, his shoulders stiff.  I could see his face in the small rearview mirror, his eyes intense as they stared at the road ahead of us.

“I get what I want,” he continued, his voice growing more intense.  “You can’t run away in the night and expect that to change.  I have my plans, Millie, and you will not mess them up.  That piece of crap lying in the road back there sure as hell won’t mess them up.”  Carl finally glanced into the mirror, his eyes locking onto mine.  “If only you knew what I have planned for him.  Life in prison isn’t good enough.  No, I have great plans for your little love back there, Millie.”

I didn’t think.  I didn’t pause or question what I was doing.  I lunged forward.  My body flew over the seat, my shoulder slamming into Carl with all of my weight.  Carl yelled out, his hands suddenly cranking the wheel to the right.

The car veered roughly.  Our bodies slammed into each other again, my shoulder flaring in pain as it hit the front dash.  I could hear the crash before I felt it.  The unmistakable crunch of metal as it bent in, meeting with the concrete wall of the old building in front of us, followed by the slow hiss of leaking air.

The impact threw me back, my body slamming roughly into the worn seat.  All of the air knocked out of me, leaving me to gasp in ragged breaths.  I could hear the crunch as Carl’s body slammed into the door.  Chancing a look over, I saw his shoulder pushed up against the door at a bad angle, his head bleeding where it had hit the glass.  Carl blinked, the blood dripping into his dazed eyes.

I turned my back to the door and anxiously felt for the metal handle.  My fingers groped along the plastic, desperation building inside as I watched Carl blink harder.  Finally my fingers slid along the handle’s cool surface.  I pulled.  The door swung open and my body toppled out, landing painfully on the ground.

Struggling to my feet, I blinked the dirt out of my eyes and tried to get my bearings.  My whole body ached.  Nothing felt broken, but I could feel the pain of deep bruises along my arm and back.  I finally cleared my vision and took a shaky step forward.

A hand clamped down on my bruised arm.  I cried out in pain, my knees buckling underneath me as Carl dragged me backwards across the road.  I tried to dig my heels into the ground to slow him.  It didn’t help.

Carl pulled me up a few cement steps.  He stopped long enough to kick in an old wooden door, then pushed me inside and slammed the broken door behind us. My eyes took a moment to adjust in the now dim light.  The windows were all carefully boarded over, only letting thin streams of the sunlight to filter in.

To my left was a desk, its surface covered in dust and cracks.  Behind it leaned a row of old metal filing cabinets.  Everything was covered in the same thick dust.  My eyes scanned the rest of the room, coming to a rest on the only remaining wall.

The opposite wall was lined with bars.

Carl turned a key in my handcuffs.  They fell to the ground, clanging loudly.  Without saying anything, he shoved me into the nearest open cell.  I stumbled forward, barely catching myself as I fell to the ground.  As I turned, I saw him wipe a stream of blood from his face, the open gash on his forehead still dripping.  His chest heaved with angry gasps.

“Amazing little building, don’t you think?”  Carl hissed, standing in the small opening of the cell.  “Once the Nation rose, they put these all over the place.  Holding houses they called them.  There was no need for small jails anymore.  All those criminals were going to the same place.”  Carl ran a finger down the rusted bars.  “All they needed were these holding houses, until prison transport could come and whisk away the evil doers.”

I scooted myself back against the cold wall.  An image of Maria, battered and almost naked as she huddled in the corner, flashed through my mind.  I drew my knees up to my chest.

“Don’t worry, Millie,” Carl said.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”  A thin smile spread on his face.  He straightened his back, wincing in pain as he tried to roll his injured shoulder back.  His arm hanged limply at his side, fingers barely moving.

“How did you find me?”  I managed to ask.

Carl’s smile widened.  “I never lost you.”  He leaned on the bars, his arms crossing loosely over his armored chest.  “You didn’t think that that bracelet was just for looks, did you?”

I glanced down at the metal bracelet that hung loosely from my wrist.  Carl pulled the small device from his belt, the same one all of the guards carried, and casually tossed it from hand to hand.  “This is called an ELIS.  Electronic Location and Identity Scanner.  Your pretty little bracelet there has a chip in it with all of your information on it.  This,” he said, tapping the ELIS, “not only knows exactly who you are, but can find you too.  You should have listened to your boyfriend when he said he didn’t like it.”

I felt like an idiot.  I should have known there was more to this bracelet than my name scratched into its surface.  All those years of it being scanned daily, and it had never registered in my mind.

I had given us away.  We had been stopped because of me.  Eddie had died, because of me.  Reed… I shut my eyes tight, trying to breath.

Carl hit a button on the ELIS.  A small orange light started to blink.  “This will notify my back up.  They will be here soon, to gather the criminal and his dead accomplice outside, and escort them to their sentences.”  He let out a low growl.  “I cannot wait to be at that hearing.”

Carl tucked the ELIS back into his belt.

“Now, Millie, we need to talk.” He crossed his arms loosely across his chest, wincing again in pain. “I gave you some advice, and you didn’t listen, did you.”

I shook my head.

“Do you think that made me happy?” he asked.

I shook my head again.

“I like you, Millie.  I like your spirit.  Your brains.  Your…”  His eyes scanned me a moment.  “I like your looks.  And I have told you before:  I get what I want.”

Carl moved closer.  “I like Prison Babies.  The best citizens are those born afraid.  And boy, are those babies afraid.  They will do anything to be the good and the strong.  Anything.”  He took another step.  I could smell his sweat, tinged with hot blood.  “So tell me, my little Jail Baby, are you scared?”

I clenched my eyes shut again, my body aching. I could feel his breath near me.  The heat of his body was oppressing as it burned too close.  I tried to scoot away, but the wall held me where I crouched.  Carl chuckled in my ear.

“I believe in this Nation,” he whispered.  “I like this Nation.  It gives the good what they deserve.  And the scum what they have coming to them.  Scum like your parents, Millie.  And that stupid, stupid guard who tried to help you escape.”

My eyes flicked open.  Carl had knelt right next to me, his face only a few inches away from mine.  I could smell the sweat on his skin.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, the smile spreading once again on his face.  “He won’t have any trouble from me.  He’s not worth my time.  I know he gave you something.  What was it?”  I clenched my jaw, refusing to answer.  Carl chuckled, his voice low and too close.  “Doesn’t matter.  I will figure it out.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“What do I want?”  Carl sat back in mock shock, his hand rising to cup my cheek.  “I have already told you Millie.  I want you.”

“Why?”  My voice shook, despite my effort to keep it even.

“Think of it as… an obsession.  I just can’t keep my eyes off of you.”  He leaned close again, barely brushing his lips against my cheek.  “Just like my uncles and father just couldn’t keep their eyes off your mother. So, so long ago.”

“My…” The realization struck me, churning my stomach and freezing my breath.

Carl nodded slowly, his hand tightening around my cheek.  Fire lit dangerously behind his blue eyes.  “Your crazy mother killed my father.  She killed him!  And now she plays the part of the poor, insane criminal who was only defending herself.  And your father…” Carl sighed, patting my cheek.  “When I found out they were in Spokane, I had to transfer there.  I had to find the scum that had killed my family.  Little did I expect you.”

Carl tightened his hand down around my chin.  A gasp of pain escaped my lips.  With a grunt, he lifted me up and slammed me against the bars of the small cell.  Pain shot up my back as the bars dug into me.  His hand tightly held my chin, keeping me standing on my toes.

“It is all so perfect,” he hissed out.  “Your stupid parents take away my family.  And now, now I get to have theirs.”  Carl pushed close, his lips almost brushing my cheek again.  “It helps that you are already such a catch as it is.  Would have been a pity if you were ugly.”

“Your… uncles…” I squeezed out, trying to bite back the pain that now shot through my entire body.  “Your father.  They were monsters.  You don’t even know what they −”

“Shut up!”  Carl yelled.  “Do you think I haven’t heard those rumors?  Do you really think I am that ignorant, Millie?” He pushed me against the bars again.  I could feel tears sting my eyes.  “Lies.  Those are all lies.  The Nation captured the criminals.  Alan and Leann Summers.The criminals that gave birth to you.”

He pushed me once more before backing away a step.  I gasped for breath.  My entire body shook.  I could feel the bars still imprinted on my back, the spots where they had dug in now tender and throbbing.  Carl swayed a moment, his hand reaching up to hold his forehead.  New blood ran down his face, his anger boiling it to the surface in deep red gushes.

“I will have you,” Carl hissed.  “That boy out there won’t.  That stupid, naïve guard won’t.  No one else will.  I own you!  Do you understand?”

I felt my head beginning to nod.

I stopped.

Carl stepped close again.  I could see the glitter of the handcuffs as he picked them up from the ground.  He watched me intently, brutal desire flickering across his eyes.  “I will enjoy it, so much, letting your parents know that you are now mine.  I will relish the look on their faces.  They are nothing,” he spat.  “Nothing.  They are crazed, blood thirsty criminals and the great Nation must be rid of them.  They are scum.  And you…” Carl pressed against me again, his mouth finding mine.  His lips pushed painfully against mine, crushing them hard against my teeth.  I could feel him smiling against my lips.  I couldn’t breathe.  My lips throbbed as he pulled away.  “You are mine.”

“No,” I said softly.

Carl’s eyebrows knitted darkly together.  “What did you just say?”

Something surged inside me.  I could feel it tingle as it coursed through my body, igniting a flame somewhere deep inside that I never knew existed.  I straightened my back, standing up tall as my fists clenched at my side.

“No,” I repeated.

“How.  Dare.  You.”  Carl spat.  He lunged forward, swinging his fist at me.  I felt myself jump to the side.  It was as if someone else were controlling my body, directing me where to dive and jump as he swung again.

Carl screamed in rage and lunged into me.  I dove to the side again, my body screaming in pain as I hit the ground.  I could hear Carl slam into the bars above me.  Looking up, I watched as he spun around, spitting blood from his mouth.  I gritted my teeth, hoping the fire inside would keep burning as I lunged toward him.  Without knowing why, I threw out my hand, grabbing his injured shoulder and shoving it back.

It ground under my hand, the injury popping hard as my hand forced further back.  Carl screamed, his eyes shutting just long enough for me to reach forward with my other hand and slam the side of his head into the bars.  His body went limp.  I let go.  Stepping back, I watched him slide to the ground, fresh blood pouring from his head.  He blinked his eyes in a daze, his hands flailing to find me.

I bent down and picked up the handcuffs.  Carl mumbled something, but I tuned it out as I grabbed his wrist and slapped the cuff around it.  Stringing the cuffs through the bar above his head, I slapped the remaining one around his other hand.  Before backing away, I pulled the ELIS from his belt and tucked it into my pocket.  I paused for a moment, my hand resting over Carl’s gun, then removed it from his belt, my fingers wrapped tightly around its handle.

I looked down at him.  Carl shook his head, his eyes finally clearing.  He jerked his arms hard against the bars, grunting in pain.  The bars barely shook.  He struggled harder.  Finally giving up, he flopped back against the bars, heaving an angry breath.

“You idiot,” he said coolly, his eyes shut.  “You stupid, ignorant Jail Baby.  You have no idea what you are doing.”

I stood there, looking down at him.  My body shook, the adrenaline that had just coursed through me fading fast.  I could feel my head swimming, and clenched my fists harder in the effort to keep my balance.  I couldn’t look weak, not now.

Carl shook his head slowly, creeping his eyes open.  They hesitated a moment on his gun, now held tightly in my hand, before rising to meet mine.  His eyes were full of nothing but hate.  “Look at you.  You were stupid Dr. Eriks’ pride and joy.  So good, so perfectly perfect. A perfect example for the future.  She had it all planned… Now, look at you.”  He spat, blood splattering across the ground near my feet.  “You are just like them.  You are scum, just like them.”

“No, I am not,” I said, carefully and slowly.  “I am no one but me.  My parents didn’t decide who I am.  This Nation didn’t decide who I am.  And you, you sure as hell will never decide who I am.”  I bore my eyes into his, making sure he heard every word I said.

“I am free.”

I turned and walked to the door.  Carl started struggling against the cuffs again.  I could hear him behind me, screaming so loud it vibrated the walls around me.  I didn’t look back.  I didn’t even pause.  Opening the door, I stepped out and pulled it tightly shut behind me.

The door clicked shut, and Carl disappeared.

Part Three: HAPPINESS

23

I stood with my back against the door, the gun cool in my hand. I should have been shaking.  Tears should have been streaming down my still sore cheeks.  Instead, I stood tall, my body calm and still.  For a moment, just a moment as I had stared into Carl’s eyes, I had thought of pulling the trigger.  I could feel the hunger for the satisfaction of the crack of ammunition, the shock on his face, the end of his hunt.  Even now, standing outside with the ocean air in my lungs, I could taste that hunger.

I didn’t pull the trigger.  I didn’t even aim.  I was better than that.  The gun remained cold in my hand, barely held by my steady fingers.

I breathed in deep, tasting the light salt in the air.  In the distance, behind the menacing Wall, I could hear the crash of the waves on the hidden shore.  It beat back and forth, life’s rhythm writing a new song in my mind.  My head felt clear.  I felt like the only person left in this locked away world, mere steps away from the freedom I never thought could exist.

I knew I shouldn’t be alone.  I knew someone should be standing next to me, his hand protectively holding mind.  Something was missing… My mind kicked into overdrive, suddenly remembering everything that had just taken place.

“Reed!”  I yelled, pushing off from the door.

I turned down the street, running as fast as I could.  The air was still crisp, stinging my lungs with the taunt of morning as I gasped in desperate breaths.  My feet pounded the pavement, barely noticing the rocks and rubble that they stomped as I sped forward.

I ran forever.  In my mind, I thought I would never stop running.  I would forever be gasping in the chilling air, my legs and feet forever pounding the earth, and I would never reach Reed.  I could feel panic burn in my mind, the urgency pushing my feet harder than before.

Ahead of me, I saw Oscar’s yellow truck.

“Reed!”  I screamed again, my voice raw from the desperate gasps of air.  I could see him lying near the truck, still slumped to the ground where we had left him.  He wasn’t moving.  “Reed!  Reed, Reed, Reed!”  I called his name over and over, my voice beating with the waves of the hidden ocean.

He groaned.

I skidded to a stop next to him, falling to my knees.

Reed stirred again, another groan escaping his lips.  He blinked his eyes open, shooting a hand up to cradle his head.  Scooping my arms around him, I pulled him into a sitting position.  He leaned heavy against me, blinking his eyes over and over as if unable to believe that he was actually awake.

“Reed, are you alright?” I asked, running my hands over his head.  I could feel a large lump where Carl’s gun had made contact.  As my fingers brushed it, Reed let out a sharp gasp.

“I’m… I’m okay,” he answered.

He pushed himself away from me, just enough to spin and look at my face.  I saw his eyes widen as he took me in.  “Millie, what happened?”  Reed tried to push himself to his feet, but as he started to rise he suddenly gripped his head again and fell back down.  “What did he do to you?” he asked through clenched teeth.

I opened my mouth to answer, then stopped myself.  I could only imagine how I looked.  My entire body throbbed, the blood now coursing through me pounding at my bruises.  I wanted to tell Reed everything that had just happened.  But something deeper surfaced in my mind.

“He set me free.”

“He… what?”  Reed squinted his eyes at me.  I could see his eyes focusing more.  They weren’t swimming around anymore, blinking for desperate focus.

A small smile spread on my lips.  “I will explain it later.”

Standing up, I pulled the ELIS from my pocket.  I had never looked at one up close before.  Smaller than a gun, the scanner consisted of a flat box with a small screen on top and a thin handle underneath.  Around the screen were tiny black buttons.  I stared at the buttons, hoping one would jump out and give me the answer I needed.

I finally saw it.

I held the scanner up to my metal bracelet then hit the button simply labeled ‘Detach.’  The machine stayed silent a moment before it let out one long beep.  I could feel the bracelet vibrate, as if fighting the command.  It clicked loudly, and fell to the ground.

I picked it up, tenderly holding it between my thumb and index finger.  My name, etched in the metal surface, almost seemed to glitter in the sun.  I had worn this bracelet my entire life.  It had always been with me, had always been a part of who I was.  Now I knew the truth: It wasn’t a part of me.  It was a part of the Nation.

With all my strength, I heaved the bracelet into the air.  It soared over the rooftops, glittering in the sun once more before diving out of sight.  I stood in silence, staring at the last spot I had seen it.

“Millie?”  Reed had moved to stand closer to me, his hand still holding his head tenderly.  He wobbled slightly on his feet, but seemed to have most of his bearings back.  Rubbing his head, he looked down at the ground.  His eyes stared at the gun I had dropped when I dove for him.  “What’s going on?”

I glanced at the ELIS.  The light still blinked.  Finding the button I had seen Carl push, I pressed it and watched as the light blinked once more then went dead.  “We need to get out of here.  Those cops will be back. Soon.”

Reed gave me a single nod and hurried over to the truck.  Reaching into the back, he pulled out our bags and hefted them over his shoulder.  I bent down and picked up the gun.  It suddenly felt heavier in my hands, foreign and deadly.  I watched as Reed stared into the bed, then slowly reached in and pulled out Eddie’s bag.

Eddie.

My eyes trailed over to Eddie.  Deep inside, I had been hoping he would somehow be alright.  That what I had seen earlier had been a nightmare. A messed-up memory. Anything.  As my eyes settled on Eddie, I knew I wouldn’t get that wish.

Reed lightly touched my shoulder as he passed.  He had pulled a blanket from Eddie’s bag and carefully laid it over his friend’s now cold body.  He knelt there, watching Eddie’s face, his hands hovering above Eddie’s still body as if they were afraid to touch him.  Reed let out a sigh, the sound of a choked sob obvious in his tired voice, and pulled the blanket over Eddie’s head.

Turning to me, he held out his hand.  I saw the glint of tears in his eyes.  “You shouldn’t be holding that.  I hate seeing it in your hands.”  I looked down at the gun, my own eyes blurred with tears.  Reed stepped forward, gently taking it from me.  “It’s okay.” His voice was soft.  He lifted a hand and gently touched my face, running his fingers along my cheek and back through my hair as a stray tear escaped and trailed down his tan cheek.  “It will be alright.”

Looking down at Eddie’s covered body, I felt my stomach knot.  “We can’t just leave him here,” I said, my voice almost begging.

“We have to,” Reed answered softly, tucking the gun into the back of his pants.  “We don’t have time to take him with us, or bury him.”  Reed glanced up at the sky a moment, then looked back to me and smiled.  “Eddie would understand.”

I nodded. Took Reed’s hand.  He squeezed my fingers gently, then pulled me to his side as we started down the deserted road.

| | |

We walked for a good hour.  The town had disappeared some time ago, turning slowly into houses that lined the road, covered in forgotten dust.  I expected at any moment to hear the wail of police cars, the shots of guns as they found us.  I glanced over my shoulder, anticipating the flash of the lights as they bore us down.  Everything remained calm and quiet.  No one was anywhere in sight except for Reed and me.

The whale on top of the house spun slightly in the breeze.  Reed and I stopped at the open gate, staring up at the house.  Though it didn’t seem nearly as huge as the house back at the Orchard, it was still large.  A porch wrapped around the entire house, the corners covered in spider webs and debris.  All of the windows were tightly boarded over.  Even the door had nails driven into its hinges.  No one was going in.

I pictured Jude as a young boy, his smile huge on his face, as he jumped around on the open deck.  I could almost see him as he laughed and sang, disappearing around the corner to run down to the beach.  I imagined him standing in front of the huge Wall, his young eyes following it up to the sky, the sound of the waves on the other side singing to him.

Following the ghost of a memory, I stepped up onto the deck.  The boards creaked under my feet.  With Reed close at my side, I made my way around the corner.  Every window we passed had been boarded tight some time ago.  Though the outside of the house had been worn and damaged from weather, I knew that inside was a tomb of a life long since abandoned.

I reached forward and trailed my fingers along one of the boarded windows, paint chipping away under my touch.  Memories of Jude flashed in my mind.  He had been my friend.  One of my only friends.  I knew he was safe, his job and money protecting him in this dangerous world.  Still, something inside ached strangely for his easy smile and musical voice.

“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad.  Take a sad song and make it better…”  I softly sang the words to the song lost in my memory, my voice cracking with the paint that fell to the old porch below.

Reed softly laid his hand on my shoulder.  I leaned into it, letting his warmth fill me.  I stared at the window a moment longer.  Then, nodding once, I let Reed lead me around the last corner of the house.

We stopped dead in our tracks.  There, only a few steps from the back porch, rose the Wall.  Bushes and over grown flower beds covered what remained of the yard, scattered with weeds and fallen leaves.  A cobbled path wound away from the steps, leading straight to the Wall.

Reed carefully walked down the steps, his hand lowering to wrap around mine.  I followed him, glad to let someone else lead.  I felt as if I were in a trance.  No fog taunted me.  No angry noise filled my ears.  Instead, everything seemed as if a window had finally been opened.  The light glittered, the edges of every object now detailed and sharp.

We walked down the cobbled path, our eyes glued to the Wall.  The path ended abruptly, disappearing into the Wall.  There was nothing there.  Just the solid wall, not a crack or dent in sight.

“Where’s the door?”  Reed asked, his voice low.

I pulled the key from my shirt and stared at it.  The sea glass glowed in the morning light. “It has to be here.”

Reed nodded.  Adjusting the bags on his shoulders, he let go of my hand and pushed into the bushes to his left.  I followed his lead, making my way to the right.  I inched along, the branches and thorns stabbing at my back and legs.  Letting my eyes shut, my fingers guided me, feeling the wall as I pushed further into the brush.

The tips of my fingers curled around an edge.  Opening my eyes, I pushed forward to look.  It was the doorway, the entry a few feet deep before ending at a locked door.

“Reed!”  I shouted.  “I found it!”

Branches snapped and crashed as Reed pushed himself through to find me.  We stepped into the doorway together.  The door was solid metal.  It had no handle, just a slot barely big enough for the key.

I pulled the necklace over my head and moved closer to the door.  Carefully, almost afraid it would suddenly shatter to dust, I pressed the key into the slot.  The door hummed.  Gears whizzed inside, occasionally joined with a beep or soft buzz.

Creaking against layers of rust and time, the door swung open.

I looked over at Reed.  His eyes were wide, his lips clenched so tight they were white.  He was staring at the door.  He let his eyes slide away, locking onto me instead.  His face softened, his lips relaxing as he took me in.

“I love you, Millie.”  His voice was a breath.

My heart fluttered.  My body inched back toward him, wanting to feel his warmth.  His safety. His love.  “I love you too,” I whispered back.

Reed wrapped his arms around me, pulling me tight against his body.  I could feel his lips press against mine, softly at first then pressing harder as he melted against me.  I pushed back, breathing him in.  There truly was no one else in the world.  There was only Reed, his arms holding me safe.  I could have lived the rest of my life in that moment, and never looked back.

A wave crashing against the shore pulled us out of our kiss.  We turned our heads towards the door.  Another wave crashed, calling to us.  Hand in hand, we pushed the door open and stepped through.

| | |

It was beautiful.

We stepped down from the doorway, our eyes wide as the beach filled our vision.  I pulled the key from the door as we walked away, the door swinging on its hinges as if unsure whether it should close or stay open to the salt air that breathed around us.

The sand sunk under our feet as we slowly made our way down to the water.  We had to carefully step over large pieces of wood, their surfaces covered in dried sea foam and green algae.  It seemed to take forever to get past the piles of driftwood.  Then, as if a line had been drawn in the sandy shore, they suddenly disappeared.

The beach before us glittered.  Waves rolled against the shore, catching the light and reflecting it in prisms that took my breath away.  I couldn’t see anything beyond the waves.  They stretched on, disappearing into the distant horizon.  Everything glowed green and blue and perfect.

Reed wasn’t looking at the waves.  He instead stared down at the sandy ground.  Following his gaze, I looked down.  Sea glass, scattered across the entire shore, shone in the dimming light.  I lifted the key, letting the sun’s rays shine through Orrin’s sea glass.  Its green glow mixed perfectly with the blues and whites and greens of the glass that covered the shore.

Reed glanced up to the key then lowered his eyes back to the shore.  Letting out a slow breath, he sat down in the sand.  He scooped up a handful of sea glass, sand pouring out through his fingers.

“It’s just how he told me it would be,” I said softly.

“Who?” Reed’s voice sounded distant, his thoughts taking over.

“A friend. Back in Spokane.  He gave me this piece of sea glass I have, as my birthday present.”  I sat down next to Reed.  He glanced at me then looked away again, his fingers trailing over a small pile of sea glass in the sand.  “He told me that the beach was beautiful.  It really is.”

Reed didn’t respond.  Looking over to him, I watched as he picked up a small piece of white glass, turning it between his fingers.  His face had gone blank, only his eyes showing emotion as they stared at the glowing glass.  “Reed, what’s wrong?”

Reed, his eyes still fastened to the handful of glowing glass, let out another heavy sigh.  “This is beautiful.”

I nodded.  “Yes, it is.”

“When I was little, I think I lived near a beach.  I can’t really remember.”  Reed dropped the white piece of sea glass.  It fell back into the sand, barely making a sound.  “I can remember the sea glass though.  There was never this much.  It was a treasure hunt, just to find one piece.”

Reed turned to me and softly smiled.  “My mom loved this glass,” he went on, lost in the memory.  “My last memory, of my parents, of my family… I can remember being with my father and brother.  We had been scouring the beach all day for some glass for my mother.  We were so happy.  I can still hear my father’s booming laugh as he chased us down the beach.  But… as hard as I try, I can’t remember his face.

“We finally found a piece.  Small.  And green.”  Reed’s eyes trailed down the key dangling from my hand.  He reached forward and lightly touched the sea glass tied to it.  “Just like that one you have, actually.  We were so excited.  But when we got back to the house, the police were waiting.  They took away my father.  And then the memory just stops.  I can’t remember anything else until I was put into my first foster home.”

I couldn’t breathe.

I swung the key into my hand.  My fingers clutched Orrin’s sea glass, the wire cutting into my flesh.  I didn’t feel it though.  My mind had frozen at Reed’s words, disbelief washing over me.

“Reed, you said once that you could remember a name.”  Reed nodded.  I swallowed hard, my throat dry.  “Was it your father’s name?”  As he opened his mouth to answer me, I slowly asked, “Is it Orrin?”

Reed dropped the piece of glass and turned to me.  “How did you know that?” he demanded.

I held out the glass, gleaming against Jude’s key. Reed’s eyes trailed to it, then widened as he realized what I knew.  Reed reached out, carefully, and took the key from my hand.  He held it in his palm, his eyes searching the small piece of green glass.

“But… I was told he was gone,” he whispered.

I swallowed hard.  I could feel the sting of tears at my eyes.  I didn’t know why they were there, why I felt this choke inside.  Looking at Reed, I could see the same shock mirrored on his own face.

Reed clenched the key in his hand.  For a moment, I thought he would to throw it in to the crashing ocean.  I saw his muscles tighten, his fingers whitening as they gripped it tightly.  Then he sighed and opened his hand again.  The key had pressed so hard into his palm that I could see a clear outline, bright red, imprinted on his flesh.

“I can’t leave him,” Reed said, his voice shaking.

24

“Reed, he is in Spokane.  On a life sentence.”

“He is innocent.”

“How do you know?  You can’t remember anything about him.”

Reed looked at me.  His eyes looked strangely calm, a stark contrast to the waves that were now pounding on the shore.  “I know because you trusted him.”

My throat tightened again.  I barely managed to nod.

Reed looked down the coastline.  It wound away into the distance, curving around a small rocky cliff.  I followed his gaze.  Past that cliff, miles away, was our escape.

“Eddie died for this,” I whispered.

Reed stood, brushing the sand from his pants.  “Eddie…” Reed’s voice choked off.  He shut his eyes, swallowing hard.  When he spoke again, his voice came out rough.  “Eddie died for freedom.”  Offering me a hand, he waited until I reached up and let him pull me to my feet.  He rested a finger under my chin, raising my face to look into his.  “Your parents have chosen to stay locked away.  But my father −”

“He wants to be free,” I said, reassuring Reed.

I knew what he was thinking.  I could feel it in the tenseness of his body, in the strong gaze of his eyes.  I turned and looked back at the rocky cliff in the distance.  A fog had rolled in, covering it in a thick white.  The fog thickened, the cliff slowly disappearing behind it like a lost memory.

“This Nation,” Reed said, his face now watching the crashing waves, “it needs to be stopped.  It needs to be freed.  We… we need to be freed.”

“But what can we do?  We barely made it, Reed.  Eddie died.  Carl…”

Reed stopped me.  His hand held mine, his eyes sweeping out to the ocean.  “We made it though, Millie.  If all we can do is show others how to do that, than we have done something.”  Reed looked out to the waves, his eyes shimmering in the sun.  “I can’t leave him”

I moved in closer to Reed.  He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his warm body.  I watched the waves roll in the horizon.  One wave grew, rising high before suddenly crashing to the shore.  The water sprayed high.  I heard the soft thud as new pieces of sea glass fell with the water spray, landing to join the others on the glittering beach.

The ocean had made clean and beautiful another once sharp piece of glass.  It now rested with its brothers and sisters, glowing in the sun.  Clean.  Beautiful.  Perfect.

Life as we knew it was over.  Life, as we knew it, was brand new and promising.  Everything was about to change.  From the moment I had scribbled my final journal entry, what seemed like a century ago, life had changed.  Now, as I stood on the abandoned beach, Reed holding me, the wind teasing my hair, I did not dread life.

I welcomed it.

We turned and made our way back to the still swinging door.  I could hear the waves crashing behind me, calling me back.  They roared and rolled, reminding me that escape waited just over the horizon.

“Wait,” I said.

I reached into my bag, pulling out my old journal.  The edges were tattered, the pages loose and trying to fall free.  I carefully pulled out the piece I wanted then shoved the notebook back into my bag.

It was wrinkled and worn, the penciled words barely readable now from the many times I had crumpled the page.  I read the entry again, remembering the unsettled and unknown feelings that had made me afraid to leave the Prison.  I remembered Dr. Eriks’ sun sprays, the glares of the inmates.  Carl’s stare. The loving gaze of my mother.

Tearing up the page, I opened my fingers.  A breeze, light off of the ocean, tickled my skin.  It kissed my fingers, easing the throbbing in my body before it caught the torn pieces and carried them away into the distant fog.

I had thought that the freedom would be there in the waves.  That it hid beyond the fog and diving birds, beyond the Nation’s Wall.  As we stepped into the dark doorway, I knew better now.  I could feel the waves inside me, crashing against my soul.

I had always been free.

“My name is Millie Summers,” I said, the words, sweet and true.  “And I am free.”

Closing my eyes, I let Reed pull me into the shadows of the doorway.  The metal door swung once more, then slammed shut.

“Man is free at the moment he wishes to be.”

– Voltaire

To learn more about Jenni, visit her at:

www.JenniMerritt.com

Blog:

jennimerritt.blogspot.com

Twitter:

www.twitter.com/JMWriting

Facebook:

www.facebook.com/jennimerrittwriting

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Acknowledgements

Thank you to my amazing husband Shane, for all the support, patience and love you show me every single day.  You are so amazing.  I love you, always.  Sweet nothings.

My children, for remembering mommy loves you even when her make-believe worlds claim her.  Your dreams can happen kiddos, remember that.

My parents, for always believing in me, no matter what.

Zach, for giving me the inspiration and strength to create this world.

Kimmel, for pushing me on and rooting for me every step of the crazy way.Keary, for all your advice, tips, and mutual crazy writer mama moments.  I love you both.

My beta readers: Kimmel, Keary, Teri, Jessie, Nick, Megan and Kelsey.  Thank you for reading this in all its rawness and still pushing me to finish.  Honestly, I couldn’t have done it without you.

Allie, for sharing your natural beauty with my cover.

Vince James Photography, for creating my first every author photo.  You made this even more real for me!

NaNoWriMo, for finally giving me that incentive I needed to get this thing done.  Thanks to you, I am no longer a “one day” novelist, but a true blue author.  What a ride!

My blogging community, for following me along the way amidst all my rants and raves.

My friends and family, who never let me live my “I will be an author” boast down.  You all keep me going.

My Heavenly Father, for giving me this priceless gift in my life.

And last but most definitely not least –

ThankYOU: For giving my book, and me, a chance.

Jenni Merritt was born and raised on a small island in the Puget Sound.  From a young age she discovered and fell in love with the world of writing and has been happily obsessed ever since.  She is now married to the love of her life, and has two crazy but amazing little boys.  When not busying herself with being a stay-at-home mom, writing books, keeping her blog, and diving into photography, Jenni sometimes manages to snag some much needed sleep.

* * *

DAYNIGHT, Megan Thomason

Dystopia, according to Megan Thomason

I a huge fan of the dystopian genre and love to spend a lot of time thinking about societal extremes. The themes indaynight, many of which are very dark, are all designed to have readers think about parallels to our own society and where we need to draw lines.

The dystopia category is pretty broad these days. By definition a dystopian world must have  deprivation, oppression, orterror. I prefer dystopias that explore interesting societal and moral dilemmas to catastrophic conditions/survival stories.

The very best dystopias most often have a well formed government enforcing extremes. I’m fascinated by these entities, and in particular:

- What events drove them to shift the way they governed? For example, in The Hunger Games the government instituted the games to punish and remind the districts of their former rebellion (and failure to succeed).

- What results are they looking to achieve? In 1984, the desired result was control over every action and thought. In Brave New World the government desired peaceful coexistence and happiness for its citizens.

- What methods do the governments use to achieve the desired result? The Capital in Hunger Games uses the games to terrorize its citizens into subservience, and tightly controls resources by segregating districts and limiting what each could produce. In 1984 the Inner Party uses surveillance (telescreens, microphones everywhere), controls information (rewriting history to support claims is the ultimate form of censorship), and all citizens are indoctrinated to be whistle-blowers on those committing ‘thought crimes’ (any thought contrary to the governmen). In Brave New World, the government breeds and then conditions (through their sleep) citizens to be in (and only desire to be in) a certain caste, to be sexually promiscuous, hate solitude, and to take the drug ‘soma’ if any contrary thought occurs.

Equally interesting is how the characters in the novel react to the dystopian government. Do they acquiesce? Do they rebel and in what ways? Outwardly? Inwardly? Each well done dystopia will have characters that question the status quo. Their actions will cause us to reflect upon our own, and how we would act in a similar situation. Katniss in The Hunger Gamesdefies authority by bringing out a handful of berries and threatening to deprive the Capital of a winner and ultimately forcing them to back down and lose face. Winston and Julia in 1984 both commit thought crimes and engage in an illicit affair, but are outed by an informant and tortured into both subservience to Big Brother and betraying each other. John(the Savage) in Brave New World is so disgusted when he caves to societal immorality that he takes extreme measures to escape.

daynight came about as I hiked the canyons of San Diego on a particularly hot day and pondered what would happen if temperatures were so extreme that days and nights had to be switched. This became the impetus for Thera, the main setting for daynight. I mentally brewed the concepts of dark and light, and what kind of government would rule the dark, and The Second Chance Institute (SCI) was born.

The SCI is an interesting entity. They are in the business of providing second chances. But instead of nurturing and fostering the downtrodden, they use the Second Chancers as science experiments for new political ideas they want to push on Earth. One such idea, Cleaving is an extreme enforcement of morality. If two people have sex, they’re automatically Cleaved, a forced lifetime union. Violation of Cleaving results in exile or death.

Some of the things that went through my mind that I intended readers to think about while reading daynight were:

- Freedom of being able to do whatever we want vs. consequences of our choices

- When is it appropriate for the government to intervene in moral issues?

- How should the government enforce rules? What is acceptable/not acceptable for enforcement?

- When does ‘research’ cross the line? Is it ever okay to have test groups, when subjects don’t know they are a part of the research? Does our government “use” certain segments of our population to press their agendas?

- Can altruistic purposes get so skewed they are no longer altruistic? The SCI claims to be giving people a second chance at life. Despite this being true and seemingly noble, is it okay if they are only do it to further their own agenda, and not to truly benefit the Second Chancers?

- Is there ever an appropriate time for a government to play Big Brother (as in 1984)? Does our government do this to us? Where’s the line between societal protection and personal violation?

Don’t worry…the daynight series is not all serious. There is plenty of entertainment with highly flawed main characters, compelling love interests, despicable antagonists, lots of action, surprises, twists and turns.

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daynight

Megan Thomason

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Dedicated to my muses/twenty-four seven comedic entertainment

Husband: Jon

Children: Ashley, Breanna, Ryan, Alyssa, and Christopher

Copyright information

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, entities, events, portals, alternate worlds and the like in the daynight series are fictional and products of the author’s overly active imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (c) 2012 by Megan Thomason

Professional editing by Angelique Bodine.

Professional proofreading by Angelique Bodine and Sher A. Hart.

Cover art by Jon Thomason

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

ISBN-13: 978-1480226555

ISBN-10: 1480226556

PROLOGUE

The moment the perfectly styled, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl awoke to the sight of her own dead body, she swore and slapped her corpse across the face. The gesture made no impact. She checked her hands. Not a lick of vomit, despite the fact that “dead her” was covered with it.

“Stupid.” She yelled at her dead-self. “If we were going to go, it should have been in grand fashion. A high speed car chase or skydiving or getting blown to bits by a terrorist. Not by some fluke. Not at my own party!” Someone will find us and fix this, she thought.

She caught a glimpse of her animated self in the mirror. No longer dressed in her tailored Dolce & Gabbana dress or to-die for Prada jeweled satin 5 1/2 inch heel pumps, a simple and quite ugly grey shift hung loosely from her body. An ear piercing scream left her lips. No, no, no. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a nightmare. There was no way she’d ever wear such an insult to the fashion gods. She attempted to remove the shoes from her corpse as they’d easily make her top 100 pairs, but they wouldn’t budge. Nor would the Tiffany necklace adorned with a most sentimental ring. Frustrated, she pummeled “dead her” with well-placed kicks, but the stiff didn’t flinch an inch.

“This isn’t a dream, and we generally advise against beating oneself up,” a voice boomed behind her. A tall man with white hair appeared next to the girl in her parent’s locked master bathroom. His somber tone and white, pristinely pressed suit signaled “all business.” “Sit down.” He gestured to a small metal table and chairs that weren’t there a minute ago. The girl’s mother would fall down and die right next to the girl if she saw warehouse quality furniture adorning the special-ordered Italian floor and Louis XVI-era commode.

“Tell me what happened,” the man instructed.

“Am I really dead?” the girl asked, ignoring his request and pointing to the lifeless figure on the floor.

“I think that’s quite self-explanatory,” he responded. “Determining the how and why will help me place you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Place me? As in, Heaven vs. Hell? Let’s see. I don’t pray, and I don’t worship anyone other than my personal shopper and tailor. I haven’t been to church in more than a decade. So, I’m thinking I’m headed downward. And if that doesn’t seal the deal, drinking myself to death at my own party should do it. But maybe you take pity on entitled kids left to their own devices by jet-setting parents?”

He opened a notebook and jotted down a few notes. “You took some pain killers earlier this evening?”

She snorted. “Yeah. I had some pain.”

“From the tattoo you got after partying with your friends last night? A single black rose between your shoulder blades?”

“Uh, yeah. How’d you know about that?” She wondered if the tattoo was still present. The nagging itch and twinge of discomfort that were there yesterday had disappeared.

“Did you know your tattoo was infected?” he asked, not even looking up.

“Serious? No.” She knew she shouldn’t have trusted that grimy Mission Beach tattoo parlor.

“You had fourteen drinks over the past six hours? Six shots, three vodka-tonics, and five glasses of punch?” He pushed his reading glasses farther up the bridge of his nose.

“Something like that.” She sneered. “As I said, it was a party. My party.”

“Did you know some of your male house guests supplemented the punch with an additive meant to loosen inhibitions?”

“Nope. Sounds like something the idiots would do, though.”

“Were you depressed at all? Did you have a desire to die?”

“It was a mistake,” she responded. “It wasn’t about depression. It was about fun. Ever heard of it? It’s ridiculous I had to die over it. Everyone else seems to get a second chance. Why not me?” The man took his time reviewing his notes and seemed to make some sort of decision as he closed his notebook.

“I know just the place for you, Ms. Goodington. Follow me.”

“Ms. Goodington is my mother,” she scoffed. “Call me Bailey.”

“And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.”

—Genesis 1:3-5

If light is good, what does the dark bring?

CHAPTER ONE

Kira

Escape, I remind myself. That’s why I’m here…on a speedboat…with a creepy escort who looks like the human incarnation of Mr. Potatohead…heading into the open ocean towards an unknown destination. I’d eagerly signed the dotted line of The Second Chance Institute Recruit year-long contract, agreeing to leave all my earthly possessions in San Diego. It seemed easier to run than face my demons. I do regret abandoning my brother, Jared. He’s a year younger, and it has always been us versus them, and by them, I mean the judgmental, self-centered beings who gave us life. My parents couldn’t shove me out the door fast enough as my distress infringed upon their illusion of a perfect, carefree existence.

Just the thought of escaping reminds me of the events that led to my decision. I close my eyes and let fragments in, fighting the tears away. The horror-filled incident happened two months ago. My SCI Recruit Test preceded my senior year Winter Formal and after-party which I attended with my boyfriend, Tristan and best friend, Briella. At the party, they ditched me after having tormented me all evening for considering a “do-gooder stint” with the SCI. I figured they’d drink it off and get over it. In their absence, I met the perfect(ly unattainable) guy, Ethan who had me fantasizing about marriage, babies, and growing old together. But we were both taken and, regrettably, parted ways.

The turning point of the fateful evening and reason I’m still alive: catching my boyfriend and best friend groping each other in a steamy make-out session. Refusing to discuss or forgive, I fled the posh Rancho Santa Fe estate out into the darkness. Eerie silence was followed by ear-splitting, bomb-like thunder. Whatever the source, it leveled the house in seconds, raining fire and debris in every direction. I remember being hit by shrapnel and the resulting blood and pain. I also remember being dragged from the wreckage, and then medical personnel, police, and the press all hounding me to know how I escaped the tragedy that left 110 of my classmates—including my boyfriend and all my close friends—dead.

I push the memories aside and lean back on the vinyl cushions of the boat, listening to the whir of the motor. The spray of the boat’s wake cools the effects of the glorious Southern California sun and dampens my long, more-strawberry-than-blonde curls. Cutting through the waves at a high speed rocks me into a trance. My SCI Recruiter, Ted Rosenberg—the Mr. Potatohead clone, who I’ve nicknamed “Spud”—encourages me to “enjoy the nice weather while it lasts,” but I don’t respond. He yaps about Unit 27, my final destination, warning of “extreme temperature variations.” Dump me at the North Pole. I don’t care. I need distance between me and my memories.

According to their brochure, The Second Chance Institute places Recruits worldwide with many prime locations throughout Europe, Asia, Africa, and South America. Unfortunately, Recruits don’t get to choose where they serve, and you can’t take anything with you other than the clothes on your back. The SCI provides “everything needed” to adapt to one’s assignment. I sincerely doubt they can anticipate my every need but don’t really care. I just want to get there and learn the wheres/whats/whys about this mysterious Unit 27.

My blood apparently contains some random marker called DNT that made me an “excellent candidate” for one of the SCI’s more “remote” and quite classified locations. So other than knowing that 50,000 residents make their home in Unit 27, I’m going in blind. I’ll help “those in need of a second chance at life” but in what capacity? I’m clueless. Does it matter what I do? In return for my year of service, the SCI will grant me a full-ride scholarship to the college of my choice. Since I’m shooting for Ivy League or equivalent, I could use the help. My parents firmly believe in “supporting one’s self once one turns 18” or in other words, not depleting my mother’s jewelry and vacation fund.

The boat slows, and my stomach pitches up and down with the waves. I sit up and scan the horizon. What the—? Impossible. A dilapidated warehouse-like building, no larger than a two-car garage sits atop the ocean water. Other than squawking seagulls lining the roof, there’s no other sign of life. Spud easily maneuvers the boat up alongside the building and ties it down.

“Where are we?” I ask Spud. “Are we transferring to a larger boat here or something?” I spent the morning badgering him about our method of transportation to Unit 27. An airplane I’d understand. A speedboat, not so much. No land mass off the coast of San Diego could house 50,000 people.

Spud bobbles his head and in a harsh tone says, “Ms. Donovan, please follow me. There is no time to waste if you are to adjust properly and start your training on time. We’re the last to arrive.” He offers me a hand and helps me to my feet. We both leave the boat, though that does nothing to make me feel like I’m back on solid ground. The building sways with the waves. All directions offer no view of land or ships. Not good. We may be stuck here a while. Perhaps they’ll have a comfortable couch and food for the wait. I trail Spud into the dark and musty building. Disappointment strikes. The space we enter has a single dim lightbulb which illuminates the small room enough to see peeling drywall and dark patches that look and smell like mold. A single arched doorway mirrors the door we entered on the opposite side of the room.

“OK,” Spud continues, “Ms. Donovan, go straight ahead to the end of the long corridor and into the large room. I will follow you.”

My brain won’t accept the thought of the small building containing a long corridor, much less a large room, but I’m eager to exit. I stumble forward through the dark, tunnel-like hallway for the equivalent of a city block before seeing a light ahead. My skin itches from small pinprick-like sensations from head to toe, and I am parched beyond comprehension. I feel dizzy and ill, and have to stop to catch my breath as I enter the lighted room, an immense domed space as wide as a school cafeteria with pebbled walls and slate floor. Spud enters the room after me and vomits so violently into a receptacle that his body convulses. He motions a small group across the room to join us before collapsing on the floor.

I notice that the wave-like motions have ceased. As I canvass the cavern-like room with my eyes, I’m positive that I am farther than the hundred feet from the boat I should be.

“Mr. Rosenberg, where on God’s green earth have you brought me?” I gasp.

“Technically, Ms. Donovan,” Spud grunts between spasms, “we are no longer on God’s green earth.”

“Say what?” I demand. I could have sworn I heard something to the effect of “not on” and “earth” in the same sentence, which isn’t possible.

A tall man with wavy hair and glasses smiles widely and says, “Ah, our last Recruit has finally arrived. Ms. Donovan, welcome to Garden City, Thera, otherwise known as Unit 27 of the SCI. And here,” he says motioning to the rest of the group with him, “are some of the other SCI Recruits.” I immediately recognize the Recruit at the end of the row, arms crossed across his chest, smug look and bright green eyes rolling back in a dismissive fashion. He is the classmate who took the SCI Test with me and saved my life that night—Blake Sundry.

I don’t hesitate. Too ill to care about the mind games being played and hyperventilating at the absurd claim we’ve left earth, I turn to head back into the tunnel and to the boat. Such a seemingly easy task, however, proves impossible. As I reach the tunnel entrance, I’m flung ten feet backwards, head whacking the pebble floor, air expelled from my lungs. In my blacked out state, I fully relive the fateful day that set me on this path.

Two months prior—SCI Test Day

Seven a.m. I met Tristan and Briella for breakfast at the bleak iHop within power walk distance of Carmel Valley High. Bri sported a bright blue scalloped sweater that matched her eyes, although her eyes were hard to see behind all her makeup. Even in the wee early hours of the morning, she went for the night club look, a look she pulled off beautifully. Her long, dark hair fell mid-way down her back, although that day she didn’t bother to flat iron it, a sure sign she woke up late. Tristan was unusually quiet, his chocolate-colored eyes sullen. I raked my hand through his blonde curls, happy his hair had grown out from his football season buzz cut. Other than the dour expression on his face, he looked amazingly handsome in his yellow, long-sleeved tee and jeans.

Our Formica-topped table reeked of harsh chemicals from just being wiped which caused my nose to twitch. My tummy sloshed over nerves about the Test. Bri, who enjoyed lovingly meddling in my life, railed on me for agreeing to take the Test, given I’d be ditching my senior year if I got chosen. Tristan’s grim expression echoed Bri’s sentiments. Why was I taking it? Right—the scholarship and a future free of student loans. I tried to assure both Bri and Tristan that I’d never be selected so they shouldn’t worry, but no optimistic sentiments on my part could improve the mood.

My body lurched upward as our waitress dropped a hot plate of eggs, sausage, and pancakes all over the floor next to us. The stench of the greasy eggs made me want to retch. So, I excused myself to leave for the testing center early. Tristan gave me a half-hearted peck goodbye. He tasted like mint toothpaste and Coke— which don’t mix well. After whispering a monotone, ritual “I love you” into my ear, he reminded me he’d pick me up at six for dinner and the Winter Formal. I returned the sentiment with more enthusiasm before waving and winking to Bri. She barely managed a smile before turning her attention to Tristan. They appeared to be deeply embroiled in conversation by the time I exited the iHop doors—ganging up on me I suspect. I felt terrible disappointing them, so I disappeared around the corner, head drooped, mood soured.

Seven-thirty a.m. A hooded classmate on a skateboard clipped me as he screeched to a stop in front of the testing center, bruising my shin. He offered no apology, and worse, slammed the door in my face. Blake Sundry from English. What was his hurry, and why did he wear the same hooded, black and white flannel every day? I had never seen him hoodless which made me wonder what he was hiding. Rumor had it, a serious drug problem. I was quickly distracted when a fat man who looked like his head was fifty percent too large for his body—and who was most unfortunately shaped like Mr. Potatohead—droned on about test instructions for thirty minutes. I imagined sticking different eye-nose-mouth-ear combinations on his face to improve his somber look as an entertaining distraction. His bug eyes and patch of bushy black hair atop his head worked well for the Mr. Potatohead look, but the rest of his features lacked flair.

Noon lunch break. I nibbled on stale goldfish crackers and yogurt for lunch since we couldn’t leave the testing center to get real food. My head throbbed from a migraine that started during the third hour, where I had to label more than a hundred ink blobs. The pain worsened during the blood test and physical given the fourth hour. I explained to them that I fear needles and the smell of blood, yet the nurse took several vials with enough force to cause bruising.

The extreme nature of the testing bothered me, and I wanted to leave. I couldn’t really consider leaving my senior year for their yearlong program despite the attractive incentives, could I? Wouldn’t leaving Tristan and Bri destroy me? Or was I just feeling guilty for agreeing to be tested, knowing how upset they were about it? Had they distanced themselves from me, or had I already distanced myself from them just in case I got offered a position with the SCI? Things had been strained for sure, and neither of them had been kind to me. I begged to step outside for fresh air, but the fat lady who stank of cheap perfume guarding the door commanded me to sit down. Entry and exit during testing was prohibited. Period.

Four p.m. The testing room smelled like the boy’s locker room after a lost football game—a rancid combination of sweat and fear. All the kids took the test seriously to the point of hyperventilating like they’d have no future if not offered a spot in the program. Actually, a few of the kids mentioned that their parents as much as told them so. I wished they could see the multitude of options on their horizons. When a door closes, a window opens, right?

The potato-headed man finally summoned me into a cramped, windowed interrogation room off the main room to interview me. “Spud” quickly demanded my attention and rattled off inappropriate question after question about my home, activities, school, friends, personal life, and any obstacles that’d prevent me from participating in their program. My head felt like shards of glass were being thrust inward, fueled by his voice and the harsh fluorescent lights. At first, I answered his questions fully and politely until he asked me if I was sexually active. That pushed me over the edge. It wasn’t any of his business, and was a very creepy question to be asked by an old guy who smelled like a perspiration and Old Spice cocktail. He acted like he assumed I was which wasn’t the case much to my boyfriend’s dismay.

I hated confrontation which was the real reason I’d left iHop that morning. Furthermore, my mom taught me to perfect my “fake smile” poker face early on. “Never let them know what you’re really thinking,” she had implored. But after nine hours of pure nonsense, I was done being subjected to a process worse than any college or job application. I stood up, sending my chair flying backwards, and told Mr. Potatohead I didn’t give a crap about his test, his program, or the scholarship and that he had a room full of kids who did give a crap to choose from, and that they probably didn’t care that he’s a perverted sexual predator. Or perhaps I didn’t say that last part, but I did think it.

Everyone stared at me, the thin walls being no barrier for my raised voice. Regret over my outburst assailed me. Most of the kids had known me for years and never heard my voice rise other than to shout a cheer at a football game. The man’s wispy lips curled into a smirk and he dismissed me to return to my seat.

Mr. Potatohead then called in Blake who chuckled at my tirade. I watched them through the window and doodled unhappy faces on the last test form I’d been asked to complete. Blake looked relaxed, almost chummy with the man, two peas in a pod, but then I noticed his body language change as the conversation progressed. By the end he looked angry too. Maybe he didn’t like discussing his sex life or lack thereof either. He glanced at me every so often as if I was the subject of their conversation which made me even more eager to escape.

Six p.m. Tristan, Bri, and Bri’s boyfriend, Lucas, pulled up in a stretch Hummer limo, complete overkill for our small group. Thrilled to see friendly faces, I ran to give Tristan a hug. He looked nice in his black tux with green and gold cummerbund and tie to match my green dress. Unfortunately, his breath stank of vodka which did not bode well for a happy ending to my day. I smiled anyway and refrained from criticizing him. He placed an orchid on my wrist and I pinned a rose on his tux lapel. The limo ride provided my friends with further opportunity to party, while I abstained and enjoyed the scenery as the limo driver took “the long way” to the restaurant.

At dinner, Tristan ordered me steak and lobster—his favorite—but I could only eat a few bites. He ate the rest. I felt like I was on trial, and my friends were playing the parts of judge, juror, and prosecutor. They interrogated, criticized, and berated me for taking the test and considering ditching senior year. Besides, the test was over. I’m the one who had time I wanted back, a backlog of homework, and a lingering headache. My friends continued to taunt me until I left to use the restroom to adjust my makeup, take a few deep breaths, plaster my happy face back on, and return to shift the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

Ten-thirty p.m. The dance got too crowded, so we headed to an after party at the home of Bailey Goodington, a spoiled, wild, fellow cheerleader who lived in a ten thousand plus square foot castle in the Ranch. The spread of food and alcohol could’ve beat out most wedding receptions. Tristan and Lucas dove into a game of beer pong while Bri hit the champagne in earnest. I grabbed a closed soda bottle and avoided any alcoholic additives. My bloodletting earlier had me still feeling queasy. I didn’t trust I would be able to keep my cool under the influence. No one else did. Plus, I promised my parents to stay sober and be a good girl. They’d check compliance by home breathalyzer. Failure meant consequences. Painful ones.

The other girls on my cheer squad performed a new number in dresses and heels which I captured on phone video and uploaded while waiting in line for the bathroom. Tristan was so wasted, he attempted to undress me in front of the entire line. “Ha ha, sweetheart, you wish,” I told him. He signed me “no worries, forgive me,” one of the many endearing things we’d learned in the sign language class we took together, and then he left with Lucas to find another drink.

Eleven-thirty p.m. I found Bri and a dozen other girls fighting over who’d make the best vampire bait. Back and forth they shouted out ridiculous lures for hot-bodied bloodsuckers before downing shots of tequila. Bailey, our party host, mocked me for saying I didn’t find the thought of being with a cold, hard, dead guy the least bit interesting, since, apparently, if the guy’s a cold, hard, hot, dead guy it’s worth it. She’d never been very discriminating, so I left in search of a higher concentration of working brain cells.

Twelve forty a.m. Classmate after classmate accosted me with slurred speech, inappropriate advances, and unstable drinks. What had been amusing at stage one of their inebriation—the flirty, uninhibited conversations—quickly got old by stage three or four when my friends started making some poor choices. Anna and Sadie stripped Gina Barton down to her underwear and body-painted her with sundae toppings on what was clearly a Goodington family heirloom, Oriental carpet. Brooke, poster child for teen abstinence, hooked up with Ben, class sexual indiscriminate, and made haste to the master. Naive freshman Leila Sundry, Blake’s sister, ended her table dance early as she puked the supposed non-alcoholic punch all over the male audience that fed it to her.

Stale beer, Doritos-filled vomit, and a nasty mixture of perfume and extreme body odor made for a seriously repelling combination. Okay, it was time for me to leave—past time to leave. City curfew had been in force for hours, and, with a long history of deaths recorded on the dangerous, windy roads, the Rancho Santa Fe cops would be trolling for inebriated teens.

Despite my determination to exit, I couldn’t find Tristan, Bri, or Lucas. Our limo had left an hour prior, our reserved time depleted. In my search for my friends, I avoided the upstairs and the soft porn displays I would find there. Drunken girls filled the kitchen, forcing food down in a feeble effort to sober up before they got in their cars. Hookups abounded in the pool house and, similarly, the family room, rec room, dining room, office, library, craft room, and media room had couples paired in every dark nook and cranny.

I started asking everyone I encountered. “Have you seen Tristan or Briella?” I got dozens of shrugs and negative responses from people who likely didn’t remember their own names, so I gave up and sat down on the plush hall carpet. Perhaps if I stayed put, they’d find me. I admired the impressionist artwork on the brown faux-painted walls for a while. That got old, and I buried my head in my knees. Couldn’t someone, anyone, help me?

When I finally looked up, I saw a startlingly striking face across from me with dark hair, blue eyes, and a five o’clock shadow. He wore a black suit, white on white pinstriped shirt, and a yellow power tie. Man he was drop-dead gorgeous. Why hadn’t someone lured him into a dark corner?

“Hey, I’m Ethan,” he said. “You look kind of bummed. Can I help?” His voice was deep and alluring. I liked him already just for reading my mind and knowing I needed assistance. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He shifted uncomfortably, as if he wasn’t quite certain he wanted to be there.

It took me a moment to compose myself, disarmed by his out-of-context presence and stunningly unique and quite beautiful eyes. They were a deep sapphire blue but sparkled with topaz-colored specks and framed by dark, curly lashes. His dark-brown hair was cut above the ear but on the long side, disheveled, and had a slight wave. That combined with the stubble along his perfectly carved jaw line made for sheer perfection.

“It’s just this entire day. I’m done with it.” I finally composed myself enough to speak.

“I don’t blame you. It’s pretty late. So why are you still here?”

“I can’t find my boyfriend, Tristan. Or my best friend, Briella. And everyone’s had so much to drink that I’m not getting a lot of help locating them,” I responded.

“Your best friend and boyfriend—they ditched you?”

“Yeah, Bri has been my best friend for ten years. And, Tristan and I have been dating for a year. But, I did something that really upset him today, so he was drunk by the time he picked me up for the dance, and it has gone downhill from there.”

“Do tell.” His smile spread from the right side of his mouth to the left. “I love a story about a rotten day.”

“Why’s that?” I returned his smile. “You like to see strange girls miserable?”

“Hardly. It’s a matter of perspective. If your day sucked enough, it’ll make mine seem tolerable.” He laughed, although his laugh had a nervous twitch to it. Hot guy with a sense of humor and a tinge of shyness—as if he needed more appeal.

“Why was your day sucky?” I asked.

“Hmmm. My parents and uncle want to control every aspect of my life, including who I date. I got forced to do a ridiculous job that I didn’t want to do. And then I saw some stuff tonight that I never wanted to see. Your turn.” I wonder what he saw tonight that bugged him? Maybe he toured the upstairs by mistake. Or maybe he got a glimpse of Gina Barton’s whole body being painted on the Oriental carpet.

I needed to talk things through with someone, so I unloaded about the SCI Test and how terrible I felt for letting down my friends. Given how well he listened and how supportive he was, it was the one time I regretted being tied down to Tristan. But, I would have never acted on it. Despite how much I wanted to. If I had to rate how attractive Ethan was on a scale of one to a hundred, I’d give him a billion. No guy’s ever had such a strong effect on me, and it wasn’t just because of his looks. The only way I could describe it is that he felt right—as if he were the finishing touch I didn’t know was missing on my masterpiece.

Ethan was sweet, flirty, sober, soft-spoken, shy, kind, smart, and he gave me a serious case of the butterflies. Talking to him was effortless and made me happier than I’d been in months. He asked me about my life and my interests for what seemed like hours, even though the conversation lasted less than forty minutes.

Mid-way through our discussion he shifted over to sit directly next to me—so close that we rubbed shoulders. “Let me see your hands,” he said. “I’m a bit of an expert on life lines.”

“Are you? Where do you pick up such a skill? Did they cover that in Bad Pickup Lines 101?” I asked with a chuckle. He took my hands in his and ran his fingers along my palms which sent shock waves through my body and made my heart race. His fingers were long and soft—silky, almost.

“I must have missed that class. To be honest, I’ve never had occasion to, uh, use a pickup line.” He looked embarrassed. “I learned palm reading from my mom. She’s a little quirky. I don’t believe in any of this life line stuff, of course. If I did, this would show that you’ll have a long and happy life full of passion with the man of your dreams and that you’ll have a whole host of children.” He pointed out the various lines that were supposed to validate his theory. So, if I considered Ethan to be dreamy, did that mean I got to have his host of children?

“You’ve never used a pickup line?” He gave me a puzzled look. I giggled. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? You probably have to fight girls off with a stick.” I cringed and then blushed not having meant to say that last bit aloud.

“Something like that.” He chuckled.

In an effort to change the subject, I grabbed his hand and turned it over. “And what do your lines say?”

“That my mom taught me how to get a pretty girl to hold my hand?” he joked, the nervous twitch in his laugh appearing again. I bit my lip as he looked up at me through his impossibly long lashes. Why couldn’t I have met this guy a year ago? Of course, Tristan had been sweet and kind at first, too.

“I thought you were beating girls off with a stick, not having to get pointers from your mom.” I gave him a flirty smirk. He grinned from the right side of his mouth again. Wow. Sexy.

He took a deep breath before saying, “Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you in my lame effort to continue to make conversation.” He paused a long moment. I watched as he rubbed his fingers along his thumb in a fidgety manner and then said, “So, is it a forever kind of thing with your boyfriend?”

“Uh, well, I mean, I don’t know,” I replied, tripping over my words. “I’m seventeen. I’m not thinking about forever quite yet.”

“Really? I’m surprised. I guess that I think you just know if you’re meant to be with someone. Or that a person should know after a year,” he said, a sober look on his face as he did the whole hand fidgeting thing again. He was right and I knew the answer but didn’t feel comfortable dissing Tristan in front of a guy I was so attracted to.

“So you’re telling me that you can tell off the bat if a girl you meet is perfect enough to spend a lifetime with? You believe in the whole love at first sight thing?” I asked, turning his question back at him. I was a little curious if he had a “forever someone” since I was starting to think there was something to the whole love at first meet thing myself.

“Definitely. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ve found my better half.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure I’ll ever recover after meeting her. Over the course of our very first conversation, I went from being an avowed bachelor to wanting marriage, kids, growing old together…the works…” Not fair. Of course. The good ones are always taken.

“So, are you going to marry her? Did she feel the same way when she met you? The whole thing’s so romantic.” And so unfair. Because over the course of my conversation with Ethan, I went from being Tristan’s girlfriend and not thinking about forever to imagining marrying Ethan, having his kids, and growing old together. But, Ethan was already planning that life with someone else.

“Hmmm…” He stared into my eyes in such close proximity that I could smell the hint of cinnamon on his breath. “I surely hope so on both fronts, but I guess I’ll have to wait and find out.”

“Lucky girl.” I meant to say it under my breath, but he obviously heard it, and I turned crimson.

“On the contrary, I’d be the lucky one.” He took another deep breath. I watched as his eyelashes fluttered as he thought about the girl. Then he checked his watch, the moment having turned quite awkward. “Perhaps I better help you find your friends. What do they look like?” To be honest, I forgot that I was at a party, had come with my boyfriend, and had been searching for him. I flushed an embarrassed red and then gave him detailed descriptions of Bri and Tristan. His face went dark as I finished.

“Maybe it’d be better if I gave you a ride home. I think I saw them, and they were in pretty bad shape. You might want to let them sleep it off and talk to them tomorrow.” I paused because I was tempted to accept the ride and avoid dealing with my drunken friends. Plus, I wanted to spend more time with Ethan.

“Where were they?” I jumped up and realizing that I couldn’t leave Tristan and Bri behind without making sure they were okay. Ethan hesitated and then stood, stuck his hands in his pockets, and rocked back and forth for a while. Staring at his feet, he mumbled his response.

“Last I saw, they were in the game room down the hall and to the left…back of the basement,” he said, biting the side of his lip and giving me a look of sheer pity.

“Thanks. I should go deal with them…mop up their puke or whatever.” I hesitated. I wasn’t ready for our conversation to end but felt guilty about talking to him, especially after I’d been thinking of having his babies after just meeting him.

“Yeah, of course. I shouldn’t have kept you so long. It was selfish of me, but I can’t help it. It was really, really nice to meet you. Would you mind if I took your picture to remember you by?” he asked. “You look…out of this world.” Me, otherworldly? Hardly. Him? Definitely.

“Sure.” I blushed at his compliment. He came close to brush my hair out of my eyes and my knees buckled at his touch. He paused as he stared into my eyes and then trailed his gaze to my lips. In that moment, I lost my senses and wanted him to kiss me. Or perhaps I wanted that later—given what came after—but instead, he was a perfect gentleman; perfectly loyal to his girlfriend as he should be. My cheeks burned when he took a quick picture with his phone. After, I wished I’d taken a shot of him, but at the time I didn’t want to have to explain to Tristan why I had a picture of a hot college guy on my phone.

“Kira, I hope to see you again soon. Good luck with your friends.” He waved goodbye and slowly walked away, turning back a couple times to look at me. I watched him leave, taking note that he looked as good from the back as he did from the front. I should have gotten a last name to make it easier to stalk him online and scout out the lucky girl that scored big time. All that conversation, and I realized I knew almost nothing about him.

Oh well. Time to locate and detox my friends. I followed the directions Ethan had given me and opened the door to the game room. The sight sickened me.

Tristan and Bri were making out smack dab center of a large circle of kids, and the two seemed to be enjoying it because my mental clock clanged thirty notches of no-holds-barred tongue action, groping, and body grinding before they stopped. Lucas had rolled to his side he was laughing so hard over the spectacle.

Tristan caught my eye and panicked. “It’s not what you think. It’s just a stupid game of truth or dare. Lucas dared us. Go ahead and kiss Lucas if you want to get even.” He signed another “forgive me.” Reflexively, I shook my head to the side. Not cool, not cool at all, I thought. Tristan and I supposedly loved each other, despite the recent awkwardness. Bri was my best friend. I couldn’t handle it, so I bolted. I figured I would deal with them when they were sober, and I hurt less. Neither followed me. Were they too drunk to walk or understand what they’d done? Too ashamed? Or were they waiting for me to cool off? Anyway, who was I to talk, given I just flirted with a guy who embodied everything I wanted in one single gorgeous package? But I didn’t act. That’s the difference. Loyal me. And, apparently, stupid me.

One thirty-three a.m. With the front door behind me, I ran down the long driveway into complete blackness. My cell phone had zero bars in the house, so I kept moving in an effort to get a signal to call and beg my brother or parents to rescue me. The only sober soul I encountered—and thus only candidate to drive me home—was college boy, and I couldn’t find him after he pointed me to Tristan and Bri’s location.

No bars on my cell. I started pleading with my phone to behave and make the call. Then I thought I heard someone call my name. I looked around to see the source, hoping my brain properly registered what I heard as Ethan’s voice—the perfect knight in shining armor to rescue me.

Suddenly lights blinded me. A pickup truck turned into the driveway, coming inches from hitting me, swerving just in time.

I stood shaking from the near miss. A boy jumped out of the truck to make sure I was okay. I was shocked to see Blake Sundry. I hadn’t seen him at the dance, nor was he dressed for it. He wore the same flannel and jeans as earlier. Why was he here? Right, his drunken sister was inside and she’d probably asked him to bring her home. At least she’d had the sense to call him. Maybe they could drop me off on their way back?

“Trying to get yourself killed? You about gave me a heart attack!” He didn’t apologize for almost running me over.

“Not at all. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get a signal on my cell phone to call my parents for a ride and wasn’t paying attention to where I was standing,” I said, although he made that turn at a pretty high speed.

“Well, I didn’t see you until the last second. You were right in the middle of the…” He didn’t finish. His eyes went wide.

A gush of hot air blasted me into Blake.

BOOM.

The sound was so loud that my ears rang in pain.

Subsequent explosions sent us flying. Glass and shrapnel rained down around us.

Covering our heads, we both turned towards the house to see the source of the explosion.

The house is gone. Where the house once stood, sat what looked like an apocalyptic graveyard.

Walls of fire descended the hills in every direction. Panic paralyzed me. I’m going to die.

I could see their faces. Tristan. Bri. Lucas. Ethan.

What happened? Are they still alive?

I wanted to help, but my muscles failed me. Moments passed before my brain registered physical pain radiating throughout my body. Glass fragments embedded in my arms and legs, burns from flying debris, my dress shredded, blood everywhere. How could we help our friends escape as the fires of hell bore down upon us with no visible path through?

Blake scooped me up and shoved me into the truck, ratcheting it into reverse and accelerating to beat the fire. I choked on smoke that smelled of burning oranges while trying to stop the worst of my bleeds without driving the glass farther beneath my skin.

One forty-three a.m. Firefighters had surrounded the scene in an attempt to battle the blaze. They evacuated Blake and me by force to a “safe” zone—a neighborhood grocery store parking lot a couple miles from the Goodington estate. Paramedics patched our cuts and burns while police officers tried to take a statement. I nearly passed out when they removed a chunk of shrapnel from Blake’s wrist. I stared at the swirling lights on the police cars, and growing fire in the background with periodic bouts of fireworks-like displays. “How many kids were in that house?” I heard the police officer ask. “A lot,” I eked out before my sobbing prevented me from further communication. In an attempt to calm me, the paramedic drew a needle, the second I’d seen in twenty-four hours. I became hysterical, and it took three people to hold me down.

The bottom line—Tristan never showed. Nor did Bri or Lucas or Blake’s sister. And the other fifty? Seventy-five? One hundred? More? I struggled to get a handle on the magnitude of the tragedy. The firefighters confirmed our worst fears. No one survived other than Blake and me. Every one of my friends died in an instant. And I couldn’t bear the thought of life without them.

The only mystery that remained was the fate of Ethan. He wasn’t on the list of “confirmed deceased,” but, then again, there were dozens at the party who never showed up back home and whose remains were never found. In my fantasies, I imagined he was still alive and that we’d meet again. I remembered him stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his feet, running his fingers across his thumbs, taking deep breaths before answering my questions, and nervously laughing…and his smile that spread from right to left. Sometimes, I would think I saw him and my stomach fluttered as it did the first time I met him, but then the image disappeared. The glimmer of hope was too minuscule to compete against the mass of loss and despair. And guilt. Tristan and Bri, my two best friends in the world died, and I still couldn’t get Ethan out of my mind. Even two months of therapy was no help. No wonder the universe hated me.

Present

My eyes and limbs feel like concrete as I feel myself being gently set onto a soft surface. “Where am I?” I mumble. I vaguely remember trying to leave SCI’s Unit 27 and being knocked to the floor.

“Shhh, Kira,” I hear. The voice sounds eerily familiar, and I swear I smell a hint of cinnamon. “You were given a sedative to allow you to adjust to the schedule here. But you’re in your room.”

I try to open my eyes. My vision is hazy, the room is dark, and the shadow leaning over me fits the voice. But I’ve been prone the last two months to attributing every shadow, every voice, and every face to him. “Ethan? Is that you?”

“I’m sorry. So sorry. I wish things were different. Sleep well.” My benefactor leans over and gives me a kiss on my forehead. I feel the drugs pull me under, and I succumb to an imagined deep sleep in Ethan’s arms.

CHAPTER TWO

Ethan

Two months prior

I receive the call I never expected.

“Ted found a pure-bred Light…not too far from you. Carmel Valley High,” the familiar voice purrs. “Her blood work was a work of art. I suggest you high tail it over there and check her out.”

“A female pure Light? Impossible. Even if that’s true, what’s the hurry? Why not wait until she’s there? I assume she’s headed your way at least,” I say, hardly jumping for joy. There is nothing less romantic than a blood panel preceding every date. Thus, I have resisted my father’s archaic Cleaving process my entire life and don’t see any reason to succumb just because he has finally dredged up a suitable candidate two years post-deadline.

“Two reasons. One, she’s reluctant to go—has a boyfriend tying her down or something. She’s going to need some motivation which I’ve already got in motion. And two, you have competition. Ted also found a pure-bred Dark male with a cleaner medical history than yours. A classmate of hers.” I hear worry in his voice. Despite my father’s immense power in my hometown’s political climate, the rules are pretty clear. It is unlikely I have a shot with her, even if I want one.

“I don’t see any reason to bother if there’s another heir apparent,” I state. “If I wasn’t suitable for anyone there, why would I be trusted with a pure-bred Light, the likes of which haven’t been seen in centuries?”

“I have yet to be convinced that either is suitable for our needs. You are the only eyes and ears there I fully trust. Watch them.” He follows with very specific instructions as to my assignment. His tone belies his mistruth. He doesn’t trust anyone, much less me.

Disappointment looms. Either she’ll be dreadful and forced my way or spectacular and forced the other guy’s way. There has yet to be a situation that weighs in my favor.

The moment I see her, my faulty heart swells with misplaced hope. She’s stunning. Why can’t the other Dark have been born with a defective heart? My childhood was nothing less than pathetic. I spent my first dozen years locked in a one hundred-fifty square foot, sterile room to “protect my health,” or realistically to hide the extent of my abnormality from the rest of my parents’ colleagues. As a result, I am horribly claustrophobic.

Most of the human contact I had during my youth was with my parents and the medical staff. I spent a hundred times more time with Doctor Christo, my heart specialist, than I did with my father. A wise, white-haired man, Dr. Christo augmented my standard-fare “home studies” schooling with curriculum designed “for the very elite.” My parents wanted me well versed in the family business, and Dr. Christo wanted me well versed in “the great universal truths.” This filled eight to ten hours a day.

My early years conspicuously lacked affection, playtime, supervision, or fun. From the age of twelve to fifteen, my interactions with other kids were sparse, leaving me shy and awkward. My one consistent “friend” aka forced playmate and classmate had been Jax, Dr. Christo’s son, a know-it-all boy with a superiority complex. As a kid, he forced me to call him King Jax and bossed me around incessantly. Still does. He is infuriating, but he is all I have.

Eventually, after a dozen-odd surgeries, my health improved, and my parents chose to foist me on my Uncle Henry, to “further my education and prepare me for my destiny.” Forget free will. Forget personal choice. My parents assume their agenda trumps my agenda. This is the first and only day I’ve seen our agendas so much as overlap, much less align. Every memory serves as a reminder of this important truth.

Eleven years prior

I woke up post surgery number nine at the age of eight to the rare sight of my parents and an all too familiar heavily sanitized hospital smell. My dad flanked my left and appeared to be frazzled with worry. My mother sat on the edge to my right looking weary with dark smudges detracting from her typically bright green eyes.

“Ethan, it’s about time.” My father tapped on his watch. “You took 37 minutes longer than anticipated to come out of the anesthesia.” I felt guilty for causing them such consternation. They’d surely been stressed that I wouldn’t wake up at all.

“I…I…I’m sorry, Father,” I whispered. “It hurts,” I said, referring to the incision in my chest. Dozens of tubes protruded from my frail body, and machines whirred in the background.

“That’s what pain killers are for, Ethan.” He arose and rounded the end of my bed to grab my mother’s hand. “You’ve made us late for a Council meeting. We expect you to follow every order from the doctors and nurses and recover in a more timely fashion than your waking,” as if I had control over either.

“Dr. Christo’s the very best.” My mother patted me on my arm before standing. “We are investing in you. You are important. If we can just get past these little medical hiccups, you’ll be a major player in the future of our civilization. The doctors will keep us posted on your progress, and, time permitting, we’ll check in on you later this week.”

They never checked on me. Time rarely permitted where my parents were concerned. My doctors assured me that my parents were intimately involved in my medical decisions. I’m sure they considered it a medical necessity to keep me alive lest their political aspirations suffer.

Two months prior

My father gives me crystal clear instructions about the girl, none of which involve speaking to her, but I choose to selectively ignore the mandate to keep my distance. A pretty girl does not necessarily a suitable match make, and if she is at all deficient on the personality front, I will happily let the medically sanctioned boy pursue her. I am determined to undermine my father and manipulate the situation to my benefit if only in some small way. Plus, the beauty has the whole damsel in distress thing going on, and, as a frequent victim myself, I can’t keep from offering her the compassion I was never afforded in my youth.

“Hey, I’m Ethan. You look kind of bummed. Can I help?”

CHAPTER THREE

Blake

Two months prior

“She’s the one.” The words and the image of her face ripple through my head. My life, and the life of my family, depend on some shallow cheerleader who isn’t even interested in the program. She refuses to ditch her senior year because she is in love with a boneheaded jock whose future is sure to be closely tied to AA meeting schedules. Why am I worrying? They will never persuade her to go. Thank goodness for that because the chick hates me just like everyone else. After all, I almost ran her over with my skateboard this morning in my hurry to get to the SCI Test, and I didn’t apologize, not out loud anyway.

Why am I so nervous anyway? I’ve been preparing for this forever and with my dad’s connections, I am a shoo-in. It isn’t the test but the pressure of what’s coming, and the thought that I have to go back. My dad’s words haunt me, “We’re counting on you, son. All of us are counting on you.” Getting in won’t be the hard part. Getting what they need and getting back out alive, that is another story.

Kira Donovan. As much as I can’t stand Kira on paper, I have to admit that I loved watching Miss Goodie Two-Shoes go off on Ted Rosenberg today. I mean wow—she told him she didn’t give a crap about his Test in front of everyone. Classic. Maybe she does have it in her. Man, though, I wish I didn’t have to depend on her, wish I could do it alone.

Kira is probably right where I am headed, partying it up with the rest of the losers from Carmel Valley High. Or worse, hooking up with her jerk boyfriend somewhere in Bailey Goodington’s freakishly big house. I vowed to never enter Bailey’s hallowed grounds again. When I first started at Carmel Valley High, Bailey lured me over to her house for a “study date,” and I temporarily fell prey to her ice blue eyes, stick straight platinum blonde hair, and model-esque figure. She particularly liked to “study” by her pool in a very tiny bikini that probably cost enough to feed a small country, and, to my benefit, her suit often “accidentally” dislodged when she entered the pool. She gave me my first kiss (or two or hundred—I lost count) and a real education in baseball. I was head over heels. In a young love bout of insanity, I even gave her a promise ring. There weren’t just sparks with Bailey, it was a full-blown atomic detonation when we were together.

When my dear daddy caught wind that I had a girlfriend, however, he forced me to end things. I tried to fight him on it, but he used his fists to persuade me. The relationship-ending “why” I gave to Bailey was lame, so I came across as a real dick. No one broke up with Bailey Goodington. To gain vengeance, she spread every possible rumor to turn me into a social pariah. It worked for me, allowing me to drop off the radar and avoid my dad’s ire. Through the Baileyvine, I found out I am currently a meth addict who prostitutes myself to kinky old men to support my habit. Ironic, given Bailey regularly partakes of mind-altering substances and has a reputation for being easier than a first grade math test. I hear Karma’s real vindictive and is coming for you, Bailey. I just hope that I am there to witness your downfall.

My thoughts revert to my current predicament. I am pissed. I can’t believe my sister, Leila, agreed to go to the dance, much less this particular after-party. Now she is tanked, and I have to come pick up the pieces. If only she could better remember our previous circumstances and the sacrifice made to bring her into the world. Even though I was only three, I’ll never forget Leila’s birth.

Fourteen years prior

We moved seaside when Mom bellied to make it more comfortable for her as it was so freaking hot inland that she couldn’t function. We’d traded caves with an Interceptor who’d been injured trying to procure supplies from an Industrial City ship. I missed playing in the canyons and resented the confinement of the cliff residences, accessible one to another solely by rope ladders.

My dad taught me how to climb the ladders for safety, but playing on them was strictly forbidden. Even my father panicked at the thought of maneuvering them at night and, no one could get far during the day without getting fried. I didn’t have much energy, given kids in third world countries likely ate more often, and I had the protruded belly and skeletal figure to prove it. Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration. We either had plenty or none based on the pirating success-rate. Fresh food didn’t last long without refrigeration, and even the non-perishables perished in the heat.

I awoke to my mother’s screams and my father’s panicked pleas for help from our neighbors. Unfortunately, they’d all left on a supply run as it was shipment night, and the community rations would be lucky to last another week. From the light streaming through the makeshift sunscreen woven of canyon brush, I could tell it was mid-afternoon.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” I asked.

“The baby is coming.” Sweat streamed down her face, and blood covered her garments. Even though I had little sense of time, I knew it was too early for the baby to arrive. Scared, I climbed upon her matting and burrowed up to her, caring little that her long black hair was slippery with perspiration and that the water my dad had sponged over her steamed into a stinky mist. I picked bed bugs from her face, squeezing them to their death before they could get to her mouth. My dad paced furiously and cursed loudly as he tried to figure out how to handle our predicament.

“Blakie…” He bowed his head in defeat. “I need you to go get Doc Daryn.” It took a lot for my dad to admit he needed help. He looked more exhausted than usual. I could tell because his hazel eyes usually sparkled but looked cloudy and dull. I wondered if he had dared to swim in the ocean or if his bushy brown hair and beard were wet from sweat.

“But Daddy.” I protested. “Sun’s out.” I knew the way to Doc’s but had never attempted it without my parents or during the heat of the midday sun. The thought of the ascent up the rope ladders alone scared the crap out of me. I’d done it before, but only with my father right behind me.

“You’re big now. You can do it. I have to stay with your mom, and we need Doc to help your mommy with the baby,” he said. My mom pulled me closer to her and hugged me tight. Then she reached over to retrieve a rare piece of cloth she’d been saving for the baby and wrapped it around my head.

“This will protect you” She kissed my forehead. I nodded, believing her words because the alternative was unthinkable. My oversized shoes couldn’t be used on the ropes, but my long sleeves and pants would cover my body. Only my hands and feet would be exposed. She whispered, “I love you, little one.”

“I love you too, Mama. I’ll get Doc Daryn, don’t worry.”

“Be careful and be fast, my good boy.” My dad draped a satchel of water over my shoulder before lifting my small body onto the rope ladder directly outside our cave. I choked on the heat, but spray from the waves below cooled me and gave me courage to press upward.

I climbed as fast as my tiny muscles could, the ropes and sun singeing my hands and feet. The one time I glanced down and saw the dizzying distance between me and the rocky shore of the ocean below, I lost my footing. As I hung by one hand, something kept me from releasing my grip. Whether it was love for my mother and baby sister, survival instinct, divine intervention, or the wind, I somehow swung my feet back towards the cliffs, looped them into a rung, and grabbed hold of the ropes with my other hand. The contact ripped open the blisters on my hands and watery fluid and blood dripped downward, but I kept going with renewed energy and focus.

Once atop the cliffs, I collapsed from exhaustion face down into the dirt and rocks, making myself an instant target for fire ants. After several minutes of being stung, inhaling dust into my lungs and coughing it back up, I remembered my water satchel and thirstily drained it. I rose, batting away the ants and ran as fast as I could across the rocky path towards the canyon. The ground was hot as coals on my feet. My back was ablaze from the sun. But I went down another ladder and across a thin ledge to the doctor’s comparatively lush accommodations in the canyon.

“Doc Daryn,” I yelled. “My mama’s having the baby. She needs help!” Doc’s Cleave, Linda, snatched me from the ledge, letting out a cry at the sight of me. The Doc knew it must have been bad for my dad to have sent me and quickly gathered his supply bag, tying it around his waist. He tried to leave me with his Cleave, but I kept screaming that I wanted my mama and daddy, so he slathered an ointment on my hands and feet before wrapping them with gauze. A minty cream I recognized as toothpaste—a rarity in our community—was caked on my face in effort to ease the burning sensation and swelling from the ant stings. At his urging, I clutched to his neck and twisted my legs above his belly bag. His Cleave secured me to him with a belt, doused us both with water, and then we reversed the path I’d just taken, passing several men guiding mules packed with newly procured supplies for our community.

By the time we descended to our cave, the sun looked like a giant orange resting upon the water, the sparse clouds glowing crimson. The heat had subsided, making the air slightly more breathable. Poor Doc was panting from the extra weight of his supplies and me. My daddy broke down with tears of relief to see the two of us. Mom looked so pale and weak that I wondered if she was dead. But within moments she screamed bloody murder as she tried to eject the baby with a long contraction.

“She has been pushing for an hour, but something’s wrong. The baby’s not coming,” my dad said. Doc put me down and dug into his bag. My dad attempted to shield me from seeing the events of the next hour as the doctor used tools to remove the baby and try to stop my mom’s bleeding. Doc tied the baby’s cord, cut her from my mom, and then swaddled her in an old rag from his bag. He handed me the crying, writhing little girl, so my dad could help him save my mom. Ten tiny fingers and toes, a black patch of hair and creamy skin, and facial expressions that shifted continually helped distract me.

Thanks to the Gads, my mom lived for eight months following Leila’s birth. Long enough to nurse the life out of her, saving her baby girl, a gift she’d willingly given. Doc didn’t think she would make it through that night, so the extra time was a blessing. My mom was too weak to leave the cave, but my dad filled the time with stories of a fantastical place of plentiful food, beautiful trees and flowers, luxurious homes, and daylight play without being scorched or burned. On her deathbed my mom had my dad promise to deliver us safely to the place of his stories and never let us return.

Two months prior

My dad honored half that promise, but, by forcing my participation in his plans of revenge, we are both about to dishonor the other half. I shudder and whisper a plea for my mother’s forgiveness. No, my sister will never understand the sacrifices, including the one I will be undertaking shortly to avenge my mother’s death. Leila remembers living in a “really hot place,” but that is the extent of it. She adapted quickly to life in San Diego and our favorable circumstances here.

I have too much to do to deal with her crap, too much to prepare, but I wind my truck through the Ranch, at ease in the darkness of the hour. I slow as I approach my destination and turn into the Goodington’s driveway.

My brain catches sight of someone in my path, causing my body to react before I can fully process, and I swerve out of the way and slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a eucalyptus tree. Shaking from the near hit, I yank my hood up over my head and get out of the car. My averted victim is none other than Kira Donovan, who appears sober, dateless, and is yelling at her cell phone. She looks like a freaking Disney princess with her hair up in curly-qs and body perfectly shaped in a long green dress.

“Trying to get yourself killed? You about gave me a heart attack!” I yell.

“Not at all. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get a signal on my cell phone to call my parents for a ride and wasn’t paying attention to where I was standing,” she replies. Then pay attention. You’re no good to me dead.

“Well, I didn’t see you until the last second. You were right in the middle of the…”

I stop mid-lecture as I see a series of bright flashes and then watch the Goodington house explode into flames—there one second and completely gone the next. The force of the blasts knocks Kira into me and then both of us to the ground.

Oh my Gads, that hurt.

My next thought, wrongfully so, is Bye-bye Bailey. Karma found you after all. But then I realize that it isn’t as satisfying as I thought it’d be, and that I am a victim to Karma’s whims myself. Painful hunks of crap penetrate my skin, some of them burning. I know all about burns. It takes a couple days for the burns to “set,” the skin still cooking like a Thanksgiving turkey removed from the oven. I think about the ointments, the searing pain, the oozing of the wounds—is that what my sister will have to experience if she makes it out?

I want to go in and save my little sister from the fiery inferno, but my survival instinct tells me that isn’t an option as the wind pushes the fire directly towards us. Kira is in shock, so I load her thin body into the truck and snap the gears into reverse while dialing 911. Once back on the main road, I hit the accelerator, retracing the path from whence I came, begging for help from the 911 operator. I pull into a parking lot and suck in a deep mouthful of air.

As I look at Kira and the overwhelming grief I see on her face, a single thought races through my mind: What has the SCI done?

“I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.”

—Vincent Van Gogh

CHAPTER FOUR

Kira

Present

An unfamiliar female voice urges me to wake up and be ready in 30 minutes, and I startle, searching for the source to no avail. There must be some sort of built-in speaker system. Barely conscious, I look around my room, something I wasn’t able to properly do in my drugged state last night. It’s larger than the average dorm room and has a twin bed, desk, dresser, closet, and private bathroom. I undress, locate what I assume to be my Recruit uniform and get in the shower. The hot water helps pull me out of my sleepy haze and I reflexively reach for my travel shower pack before realizing that I didn’t bring it, or anything else for that matter. Thankfully, a corner shelf in the shower has shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and a razor. I note that each product has an “Industrial City” label, and the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash have an unfamiliar “Theranberry” scent, which reminds me of a lemon-strawberry-passion fruit combination, a suitable replacement for my Hawaiian products.

After drying off and dressing in the white, short-sleeved, tight-fitting, silky top, and shimmery, yet soft, silver-toned pants provided, I stare at myself in the mirror to see that the dark circles under my eyes have Saturn-like rings. “Awful. I need makeup!” I say to myself. I survey the drawers and find lotions, makeup, and everything I might need, all with the telltale Industrial City markings I found in the shower. Everything sparkles as I apply it, making me feel like I’m preparing for a night at a disco, not an evening in a training center. I don’t bother to dry or straighten the curls from my hair, and instead pull them back into a ponytail, not wanting to be late.

A knock at my door makes me think I’m tardy, but I check the clock and have fifteen minutes to spare. If I could just find my shoes, that is. The clothing I arrived in, including my shoes, has disappeared. This in itself would be fine if it didn’t imply someone had entered my room to remove the items. Creepy. Really creepy. I shudder at the thought of a stranger watching me sleep. With some effort, I finally find the standard issue socks and shoes, put them on, and answer the second knock on my door.

“What are you doing here?” I grumble at a surprisingly hoodless Blake Sundry. Wasn’t his hair long before? It isn’t now. Instead, his face is framed with dark, straight hair that has streaks of platinum highlights. His green eyes are flanked by dark eyelashes. He looks better hoodless and well groomed too. But he’s not quite normal, his shimmery ivory skin being an anomaly, given we both came from such a sunny climate. Not that my slightly freckled skin tans easily, but his skin appears porcelain. I watch as he runs his hands through his hair. His hands are marred, as if they were transplanted off a burn victim. Abruptly, he pulls them into his long sleeved shirt and I realize I must have been staring.

“I’m your flatmate,” he says as he motions for me to step into a small living and kitchen area. “We each have our own room but share the kitchen and living room.”

“We are sharing this place? This is where we’ll be spending a year?” I ask in a harsh tone. I don’t mean to sound snotty, given it’s pretty nice, but I’m just surprised and somewhat horrified that they have me sharing a suite with a guy. Particularly this guy. I hope the SCI drug-tested him and checked his background to make sure he’s not dangerous. Sure, he saved my life, but I hardly need a constant reminder of that night, and I can’t see Blake without seeing fire, flying debris, and dead bodies.

I must have allowed a nasty look onto my face because Blake grimaces at my reaction and says, “Just the first week, apparently, while we are in training. They plan to transfer us to our long-term residences Saturnight.”

“Saturnight?” I ask. “You mean Saturday night?”

“Whatever, uh yeah, just repeating what they said while you were passed out.” He looks at me like I missed a couple-hour briefing that he doesn’t intend to fill me in on. “Anyway, I made some breakfast if you are hungry.”

“Awesome.” I figure he must have popped some pre-made waffles in a toaster or something. “How long have you been up?”

“Our wake-up call was at the same time, but I’m a guy so it only took me 5 minutes to get ready. And I was starving, so yeah, I made eggs.”

“Cool, thanks. I’m hungry too though, honestly, it feels like we should be eating dinner, not breakfast.”

“Maybe because it is 1850 hours? 6:50pm.” He reminds me that for some reason our training is happening in the evening.

“What’s up with evening schedule, anyway?” I ask. “And what else did they mention while I was passed out?”

He shrugs. “Nothing they won’t cover again in training, I assume,” and then walks over to the small table to eat his own breakfast.

“They didn’t mention anything about interplanetary travel?” I say. He rolls his eyes, and I join him and marvel at the simply executed ham and cheese omelet before me. It’s a little rubbery, but I quickly inhale it. In the last 24 hours I’ve only had a stale bagel and cup of juice.

“Do you also do dishes, cleaning, and laundry?” I joke when I’m done.

“Don’t push your luck, gorgeous.” I grimace. The compliment makes me feel uncomfortable, since the last person to call me gorgeous was Tristan. I don’t like being stuck in a suite with Blake or being around any guy for that matter. It makes me feel like I’m cheating on Tristan, even though I can’t cheat on a dead boyfriend. Not that he was a great boyfriend in the end, but it’s not like I got to resolve the whole cheating issue before he died.

Blake must see the displeasure on my face and adds, “Give me a break. It’s not like I’m trying to hit on you, Kira. I don’t even know you. We’ve been assigned partners for training, that’s it. But don’t ask me to pretend like you aren’t beautiful and probably used to having everyone bend over backwards to cater to you—which, by the way, I was not trying to do by making your stupid breakfast.”

Pompous much? I plaster on a fake smile, get up from the table and, without response to his insult, take his plate and mine, and hand wash them in the sink with some Industrial City dish soap. That insult was so uncalled for, but I’m going to ignore it. Once done with the dishes, I slip past Blake and try to leave through the door to our suite which won’t budge and has no apparent way to unlock it. They locked us in. I wonder why? Don’t want the new Recruits exploring? That sucks since exploring seems appropriate for our arrival on supposed alien land.

“It’s locked,” Blake tells me. I continue to smile but in my head roll my eyes and give a sarcastic thanks. Couldn’t have figured that out on my own. Still upset by Blake’s inflammatory comments, I retreat to my room to look for my watch, which I swear I was wearing when I went to sleep. Mine has vanished, but an “Industrial City” issue has been placed atop the dresser. I put it on and notice it is 18:59. As the time changes to 1900 hours I hear a click, and our escort arrives to release us from captivity.

We follow the man—who doesn’t even bother to introduce himself, exchange pleasantries, or respond to questions—through a winding maze of hallways painted in different bright neon colors to a door marked UNIT 27 TRAINING CLINIC. We’re ushered inside and greeted by two nurses who separate Blake and me into separate white-walled examination rooms.

The nurse asks me a series of questions about any unusual symptoms or issues I might have had since our arrival. Other than feeling ill and parched when I first entered, and finding the lump on my head I got while trying to leave, I haven’t had much time to experience any issues as I was drugged and forced to sleep for hours, I tell them. Yes, I was able to get breakfast down. No, I never vomited. Yes, I feel fine now. No breathing issues, no rapid heartbeat, no intestinal distress, no seizures or convulsions, no skin lesions, no dizziness, seeing spots, or fainting. Seriously, people, what were you expecting?

Once they’re done with the invasive interrogation, they check my eyes, ears, nose, heart, lungs, and skin, and palpate my abdomen to make sure I’m not lying. Then the parasites drain my blood. I ask why, but they claim it is “standard procedure and will occur often,” like I should know what their standard procedure is. Making sure my high DNT levels are still intact? The nurses then leave me to confer with the doctors before returning to give me shots “to help me further acclimate to my surroundings.” The needle hurts going in, and the sting lasts for several minutes after. When the nurse tells me she’ll see me tomorrow, I am too upset to speak.

To reach our training room, we head out a set of double doors to a dimly lit outdoor walkway, illuminated by soft up-lights in the path and the occasional wall light. I lean over the walkway railing and it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once I adapt to the new lighting, my senses overload.

I am indeed in an unknown place, albeit not enough different from Earth to think I’ve left it. Although it’s late evening, the temperature is hotter than any record-setting San Diego day but the heat is very arid and desert-like. Despite it being dry, sweat immediately beads and starts to drip down my back. It won’t take long outdoors to be drenched in a sticky stench, but I try to ignore the fact that my bra strap is uncomfortably soaking up all the mess and focus on what little I can see in the poor lighting.

The walkway runs along the top edge of a very steep and deep canyon that is lit with the full spectrum of colors, making it look both eerie and majestic, if that’s possible. Sparse, dry, treeless vegetation in the form of cacti and brush is scattered between what appears to be paved paths and a concrete floor. I look up at the sky, but the lights of the canyon obscure any view of a moon or stars. Long cables crisscross the canyons between platforms, and I swear I see someone zipping across by pulley. Two enclosed bridges are nearby and from the whooshing noise emanating from them—some sort of train, perhaps?

As we approach one of the spotlights shining into the canyon, I see it is covered with a variety of large, nasty-looking bugs—beetles with long antennae, jumbo cockroaches, and fuzzy spiders. Remind me to stay away from the lights. Or maybe it’d be safer to know where and what the creatures are. I wonder what’s hiding in the brush, thinking of all the fun stuff I encountered or could’ve encountered on canyon hikes in San Diego. Snakes? Lizards? Scorpions? Coyotes and mountain lions? Hopefully most of the wildlife has chosen to live outside the city borders.

I screech when a cockroach at least four inches long lands on my shirt. It is no use to try to shake it off, as it has no intention of relocating without encouragement. “Please get it off me.” I beg our escort. “I hate bugs. Especially really large ones.” The escort keeps walking, but Blake plucks it off my shirt and flicks it a few feet away.

“That was a waste of some good protein,” he jokes. The multi-colored lights and shadows make him look like a maniacal clown or an extra in a purposefully deranged music video.

“Disgusting. The moment we’re expected to eat bugs will be the moment I head home.” I speed up my walk to catch up with our escort. I can hear Blake laughing behind me, likely remembering my last attempt to jump ship.

The sight of several men herding a pack of mules up the canyon all loaded with boxes reminds me of my parents’ pictures of their trip to Santorini, Greece. My parents had ridden donkeys up a switchback trail cut into the cliffs and told us the donkeys were used to not only transport people but supplies. I always envied their trips, but it’s my turn for an adventure.

Blake appears to also be taking in the new landscape with awe, particularly when he sees a figure whooshing along one of the paths at high speed on a skateboard. “Suh-weet!” he says. “Can I try?” he signals to our escort.

“Later. It’s time to move along. Your training room is up ahead on the right.”

“Where are all the people, and where is the city center?” I ask our escort. From my count, I’ve seen a few dozen people at most.

“This is a restricted area solely used for training,” he explains. “And since you showed up off-season, you won’t encounter the masses until you transfer to Garden City High.”

I continue questioning the man. “How many Recruits come during the peak season?”

“More,” he says. Helpful.

“What about the other Recruits who greeted me when I arrived yesterday?”

“They already finished their training and are en-route to their final destination assignments.” He then rushes ahead, signaling our conversation is over.

Blake and I walk as slowly as allowed until we’re pushed into a large room the size of a school gymnasium with its ceiling several stories high. The room’s walls are a sunny yellow, except for the one hundred-eighty degree curved screen directly ahead of us. We’re motioned to sit in two chairs at the center of the first row made up of what looks like massage chairs on steroids. Each row of chairs is suspended from the ceiling by heavy cables. Twenty seats per row times five rows equals a hundred seats. Do they really usually have that many Recruits?

“This is sick,” Blake says to signify his approval of our training room, even though upon sitting down, we’re both strapped into the chairs like death row inmates. My chair is attached to Blake’s, the center armrest shared. The seats are so close together, I can’t help but brush my arm and shoulder against Blake’s much like you’d experience on an airplane. I lean away from him since I’m still irked that he called me the equivalent of a pampered princess. Why couldn’t he be a perfect gentleman like Ethan was? I sigh just thinking about Ethan and my fantasy that he carried me to my room and tucked me in upon my arrival.

We’re each given a tablet computer device and simple instructions on how to use it. Although it seems powerful, the function has been limited to serve for training purposes. We can ask questions about each subject, and the answers are immediately pasted into the notes program. I test the claim by typing in “Where is Thera?” I get a response saying, “Please post your inquiries during training sessions relevant to the subject at hand,” which isn’t very helpful.

I’m less interested in the functions of the simple computer and more interested in the fact that it has the now familiar “Industrial City” logo on it. I haven’t met a product or device yet that didn’t have those markings—a telltale sign that capitalism isn’t alive and well here, and, thus, I’m betting democracy isn’t either. When I signed the SCI paperwork, Spud had mentioned that I would be subject to the rules and regulations of the Institute. Well, get on with it then. I want to know what the rules are, folks. How stupid was I to sign those papers without knowing anything other than the SCI is a philanthropic organization on Earth? My bet—off-the-charts.

“Have you noticed that everything is manufactured in Industrial City?” I whisper to Blake.

“Yeah, hard to miss the logos.” He smirks. “So, are you talking to me now?” His eyes brighten. While my eyes are gold-rimmed green, his are a bright emerald color that are so pure they look manufactured.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t not talking to you. I just wasn’t talking while I dealt with some…bad memories…about the night of the explosion.” I might as well be honest with him so he realizes that he’s not to blame for my mood. He did say some things that were pretty nasty, but I decide to forgive, forget and give him my patented “all is right” smile.

“Of course,” he responds. “I’m sorry, too—for the things I said. They were rude.” He maintains his gaze, and I imagine him thinking, “but probably justified.” What can I expect given how people perceive I was raised? My parents have money. They just choose not to spend it on or share it with their children in an overblown effort to make sure we are anything but pampered. “You need to earn your own way in this world, not leech off us,” my father always says.

I continue to stare at Blake’s eyes. The last time I saw eyes this pretty was when I met Ethan. Ethan’s sparkly sapphire eyes had blown me away. Blake’s eyes have a similar brightness and glimmer. “Do you wear contacts?” I ask. Maybe they have some new line of contacts that gives cute guys an alien, jeweled feel.

“Nope. These—” He points at his eyes, “—are all natural. I’ve got perfect vision, even at night. I’m like a cat,” he jokes.

Predatory cats come to mind. Lions, tigers, panthers, cheetahs…Blake simply does not give off the warm and fuzzy vibe of your average house cat. He radiates the bad boy vibe. Best to be wary of my flatmate. I sink back in my chair, trying to remember where the conversation started anyway. Oh yeah, Industrial City products and lack of democratic process here.

“Think our training will cover the uh, expectations or rules of wherever the heck we are? Garden City? Thera, was it? Do you really believe we’re no longer on Earth?”

“We were in the middle of the ocean one minute.” He raises his eyebrows. “And then the next, we were on solid ground. So unless they figured out how to hide a giant island behind a floating barge, I’m thinking they’re onto something about the having left Earth thing.”

“I guess.” I grumble, his condescending tone annoying me.

Could it really be that easy? Our government spends billions of dollars on space programs, and all it really takes is a short boat ride followed by an uncomfortable stroll down the hall of an abandoned building to hit intergalactic soil? If someone had discovered a way to leave Earth so easily, why wouldn’t it be publicized? People cash in on lesser exploits everyday, and this one would be akin to winning the lottery a thousand times over. Forget finding new Egyptian treasure, Biblical documents, or a new species of monkey. Proof of human life beyond Earth? Now that’s huge. Front-page headlines and preempt-all-your-scheduled-TV-programming kind of huge.

As I ponder, the screen lights up and the image of the tall man who’d greeted us this morning appears.

“Welcome to Thera, Recruits. I’m sure you have many questions, and I’m confident we’ll get them answered for you. Our first unit will describe Thera and its city and unit structure. The second will describe the rules and regulations each inhabitant need know for their assigned unit.”

To the contrary, I doubt they’ll make a dent in my questions.

Mandatory exercise time is enforced at 2230 hours. Wouldn’t want the Recruits going soft. I’m happy to get out of that chair, though. As comfortable as they are, especially during the periodic massages, I was going insane at the content of the training sessions and at the proximity to Blake who despite the strong declaration of platonic intentions couldn’t help but brush his hand and arm against mine. And also because I nodded off and woke to my head on his shoulder. He looked all too amused at my unconscious attempt to be cozy. Ugh.

I change into standard issue workout clothes in the ladies’ changing area, and get on the treadmill, working up to a light jog. Skimpy I think, about the clothes, which consist of a “barely there” tank and short shorts. Wonder what they have the guys wear?

Any questions I had about Blake’s relative strength to Tristan’s are answered when he enters, shirtless, into the gym and gets on the treadmill next to me. He barely glances my way before doubling my speed. The boy is slender but muscular, like a marathon runner or triathlete. Stunned that his physique is not one of an emaciated meth addict, I awkwardly stumble and have to catch myself on the treadmill’s sidebars, lower my speed, and start up again. If he reacts to my blunder he doesn’t show it.

I want and need to digest the material presented this evening and the terrifyingly cool way they presented some of it, but I’m too distracted by the figure next to me. All he would have had to do at Carmel Valley High was take off that flannel, flash his smile, and join the track or swim team, and he could have had the pick of most any girl in our school. However, he chose, and that’s what intrigues me—that he chose—to become invisible, hiding beneath the façade of a delinquent board-loving loser. I scour my memories of English class, searching for a single time he spoke up to participate and can’t think of one. Most of us thought he was probably strung out, too dumb to form a coherent comment, or asleep. But instead, not only does he score top two percent of California test takers and get selected to take the Second Chance Institute Test, but he snags the coveted spot. The boy is a mystery, and, apparently, a genius.

After a half-hour of jogging, I can’t take it anymore. I’ve been watching beads of sweat careen down his muscular back like a pinball game and the effect destabilizes me. Thankfully, his personality repels me since his body surely doesn’t. I turn off the treadmill and go practice some meditative yoga moves I learned in gym class on the mat, facing the mirror. Blake, too, leaves the treadmill and heads to the corner behind me to lift weights. Needing to concentrate, I close my eyes. I left everything behind to become an SCI Recruit and need to understand what my next year will entail. My parents’ belief that my life will always revolve around a man will only become a self-fulfilling prophecy if I let it. And I refuse to let them be right. So, I block my past and present men from my mind and focus on Thera.

The entire first training session focused on the planet we’d purportedly traveled to in less than five minutes time. Our host described Thera as an “inverse” or “polar” Earth. Due to lack of satellite technology they’ve had to explore it by “old-fashioned” methods but believe Thera is the exact size and shape of Earth. However, as our instructor described, it would be like viewing a negative in a dark room. Where land exists on Earth, there is sea on Thera; and vice versa for sea on Earth and land for Thera. That’s why we left Earth by sea and arrived on land. Even days and nights and the direction of the sun are supposedly inverted between Earth and Thera. The whole thing makes zero sense.

How’d it work? We went through a “magic” portal. Uh huh, because those exist. If I’m to drink their hopped-up Kool-Aid, Thera is largely unpopulated, with exception of SCI unit-built cities in various habitable locations near Earth’s portals. We entered a Pacific Ocean portal, one of a couple dozen or so access points.

I started to barrage my tablet with questions. Where’s the closest exit portal and can you please provide directions? Why does no one on Earth know about the portals? If it’s true we’re on a different planet, why’s it being kept a big secret? How many earthlings have randomly wandered into a portal and ended up on Thera? Do you feel guilty about the overpopulation problems in India and elsewhere when you’ve found a perfectly habitable world that has plenty of room? I pounded on the worthless piece of electronic garbage when it offered up crap like, “Only select people can pass through the portals, limiting entry numbers.” Blake took my device and refused to return it until I promised not to break it.

Apparently, the Bermuda Triangle is the largest of the portals and has both entry and exit points, and is the locale of Import/Export City. They rattled off the names of dozens of cities too fast to write down, but I did catch Industrial City, Military City, Farm City, Food City, and Fashion City. I wonder why the naming conventions are so provincial. Must be that the same not-so-enterprising guy who discovered Thera and decided not to cash in named everything with his simpleton vocabulary.

As the session continued, I got more upset, at one point demanding that they “prove it.” Particularly about the claim that on Thera the sun rises in the West, and settles in the East. I asked as nicely as possible, “Give me a compass then,” but neither the guy on the screen or my tablet complied with the request. How can they possibly expect us to believe such extreme statements just because they claim it to be true?

After the substandard geography lesson, we’d moved onto meteorology. Our resident expert on all things alien explained that the weather is much more extreme on Thera, and “more suitable to exchanging days and nights.” Thus, all activity on Thera happens at night with sleeping done during the day. Extreme temperature variations dictate the shift, with the high reaching upwards of 150 degrees during the day and down to eighty or ninety degrees at night.

Garden City dates back to ancient times and is believed to be the original city on Thera. Excavations done to build modern residences have found old murals thousands of years old which depict small residences surrounded by lush gardens, thus the name. Hmmm, can you say global warming? Despite the lack of greenery now, the residents of the city have continued the tradition and painted life-sized murals of gardens throughout the city’s buildings and homes.

Thera Headquarters is located in Garden City, as are all scientific studies related to the phenomenon behind Earth’s sister world. And although the “management” for the SCI resides here, locally instituted “governing bodies” oversee the night-to-night operation of each city. Thousands of scientists and doctors reside in the city and manage hundreds of research projects, including “Cleaving” which would be covered in a future training session.

Two things I did find fascinating were the fact that there is no monetary system and no paper in Garden City. Citizens are issued “everything needed,” so money is “not required.” This means no stores, no shopping, and, most disturbingly, no choices.

The government issues each resident a portable tablet like the ones given to us for training. Despite applauding the lack of waste and destroying natural resources, I wonder whether the impetus for a paperless system is central control. I bet every tablet device is monitored.

Solar energy fuels most of Thera and, given the temperatures, most of the water is processed at desalinization plants, one of which is in Garden City, and through purification plants that recycle used water. I nodded off during a detailed explanation of the water collection process. I’m hoping Blake can fill me in on the missing details.

My nap ended abruptly as our chairs hurtled upward, and the screen filled with an aerial view of Garden City by day. Our chairs moved with the scenery to create the impression that we were flying overhead, reminding me of Soarin’ Over California at California Adventures Theme Park. Though this was more lifelike. I felt like I was outside, feeling wind rush against my face. We first flew the city boundaries, seeing the entire border of dead man’s land surrounding it. Then we soared low through the miles of canyons stretching towards the East coast of the unnamed continent.

Our instructor narrated our journey, pointing out everything from government buildings, to the solar power fields, to water purification facilities, to the school we will attend. Residents used cables to quickly get from one side of a canyon to the other. I’ve done that. My grandparents once hosted a family reunion on a short cruise. We all zip lined in Puerto Vallarta, each getting harnessed and then attached to a pulley that allowed us to ride from platform to platform. Its fun and exciting, if not a little scary but appears to be a quick and relatively efficient form of travel here.

A crashing sound yanks me back to the present. I open my eyes to see that the interruption was the sound of clanking of weights. I catch Blake’s reflection in the mirror. He’s doing bicep curls with some free weights that I would be lucky to pick up with both hands, but his eyes are transfixed on me. Perhaps switching planets brought out his predatory side since I never saw him show an interest in the female race back on Earth. I shift my yoga position to better stretch and re-close my eyes, trying to edge out his image.

It takes a minute to refocus and remember what the training video said about Theran inhabitants. They said two very interesting things. First, that “There are two types of residents: Second Chancers, and those who have the ability to pass between Earth and Thera.” Second, “That which exists on one planet cannot exist on the other, with some exceptions,” which they chose not to expand upon. I’m guessing those that can pass between Earth and Thera have everything to do with those high DNT levels. What I don’t understand is how the Second Chancers get here and who they are.

The conundrum eats away at the fringes of my consciousness until I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Blake, and he offers me a hand and a towel, both of which I accept.

“Sorry to interrupt that sweet display of flexibility.” He smiles. “We’ve got to go learn the rules of the place.”

“Our hour is already up?” I say, my eyes scanning him up and down. I still can’t get over the fact that he hid a near perfect physique underneath that nasty flannel. His only imperfections are his scarred hands, a few small scars on his back, and a barely noticeable bump on his nose as if it was once broken. His body actually gives his eyes a run for a lottery-sized jackpot of beauty. Despite the good looks, he doesn’t make my heart flutter the way Ethan did—and still does when I think of him.

“Over an hour…they give us some time to shower. We’re due back at midnight,” he says. Focus Kira. Who cares if he’s good looking? He’s a jerk, and I’m hardly ready to start dating again. “Showers are in the locker rooms,” he adds, pointing to mine. “Something wrong?”

“I’m having difficulty adjusting to our new wardrobes,” I say, blood rushing to my cheeks. I immediately wish I hadn’t said it out loud. He laughs and strokes my chin with his fingers. I recoil a bit from his touch, surprised that he’s capable of making a kind gesture. This is the same guy who insulted my upbringing mere hours ago. And there’s something about him that I just don’t trust, though I haven’t been able to pinpoint why I feel that way.

“Likewise, my lovely friend and partner,” he says, with emphasis on the friend and partner. “See you back in there?” He winks and starts to walk towards the men’s locker room.

“Can’t wait,” I say but then realize he might take it the wrong way, so I add, “I’m awfully curious about all those rules.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Blake

Crap, crap, crap. I pound my head on the side of the shower. I don’t know how to do this and am quite sure I’m going about it all wrong. Kira seems to be intrigued by me, which I need her to be. This is exactly what the SCI wants—they want us to hook up and make the Cleaving automatic. I need them to think that it’s going to happen, so I can cover my tracks on my real mission here.

I was a complete dick to Kira at breakfast because I just know that she has been waited on hand and foot and that trend’s got to stop, so I tell her I’m not after her. Guys always get accused of going after the challenge, but chicks can’t resist the unattainable either.

The medical pit stop went fine and I think I managed to act surprised at the outdoor landscape but then we went to training. I could tell right off the chairs were biometric. This means the SCI’s tracking every single heartbeat, so they can observe how we respond to the smelly load of crap they’re feeding us. They want to make sure the info is new and fresh coming in and that we’re not plants. Kira aces her reaction, pummeling them with questions and pounding on her tablet when the answers aren’t to her satisfaction.

I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to pull it off, and then it occurs to me that if I can get them to think that any abnormalities in my feed are because they stuffed me in close quarters to this incredibly hot chick then I’ll pass with flying colors. She’s all up in my face and asking me about my eyes, staring at me all lovey-dovey, so then I start “accidentally” brushing her with my hands and arms, and next thing I know she’s asleep on my shoulder. My mind starts wandering places it shouldn’t go, but there’s only so much involvement I’m willing to have with this girl. Maybe Kira’s not the airhead cheerleader I originally thought, but she’s not relationship material either. As if I could allow anyone to become relationship material. Been there, been burned.

The workout was physically great, mentally brutal. I’ve been trained to focus, so that’s the only thing that got me through. Because, when I walked in and saw her dressed in the standard issue close-to-naked workout fare, I started thinking maybe I could mix a little pleasure with business. But then I think, no way, I’m not her type anyway. She likes big, burly, stupid dudes who pretend to respect her by burying themselves in a bottle. Then she sees me shirtless, about falls off her treadmill, and I think she just may be able to adapt to someone slimmer and smarter. I don’t react though. I’ve been taught well, and that gives me the upper hand.

Now what do I do? I pound my head a few more times, letting the cold water wash over me, trying to figure out my next play. I know what’s coming when training finishes, and she’s going to lose it. That’s a certainty. And when she finds out I knew about it ahead of time and didn’t warn her, she’s going to hate me. But she’d want me dead if I started something with her now before she finds out. Didn’t I learn my lesson about how psychotic girls get when you betray them? Kira could turn me in for revenge. And I have too many people counting on me to die over a hormonal reaction to a hot chick. I back off or come clean with her, the latter being pretty impossible when we’re being watched 24/7 and when I still don’t know if I can trust her. Plus, I’m counting on her reaction to what’s on deck to be genuine, and if I give her a heads-up, we could both end up dead by week’s end.

I get out of the shower, and wrap myself in a towel. As I walk to my locker, I hear Ted’s voice coming from the steam room. As I approach, I see he’s not alone, so I stop in my tracks and strain to listen instead. The man speaking with Ted has his back to me, so all I can see is the remains of his thinning dark hair and a few extra rolls of fat. I crouch down to stay unseen, creating a pool of water below me as I drip onto the floor.

“What brings you to the Recruit gym, Ted? I thought you’d still be recovering from your entry.”

“I came to see how my new Recruits are faring—to make sure they’re adjusting well to things,” he responds, “but then I started to feel some heaves coming on and decided to step into the steamer for a bit.”

“Getting the girl was a major coup. Promotion material. We’d all thought pure Lights were extinct. And to get both Light and Dark Originals, a perfectly Cleavable set, even, is nothing short of miraculous. They came through without a scratch, too, which has the geneticists celebrating. Amazing. The specifics are above my pay grade, but rumor has it we’re witnessing history in the making.” My father didn’t instruct me about any “Originals,” although the term does sound familiar. I can’t retrieve the memory, so I focus on what I do know which is that I don’t like hearing that Kira and I are central to the future of the Second Chance Institute.

“It’s confirmed, then? I hadn’t heard the final DNA tests were back.” I wish I could look at his face because Ted told me that he didn’t know what they wanted us for, and I would like to know if he’s bluffing to get the information or if he has known all along.

“Confirmed, though with DNT levels that high they had to be. They are very special, those two. And there seems to be chemistry there, as least that’s what their feeds are showing. Think they’ll Cleave on their own, or will they need help?” he asks.

“I guess that will depend on how they react to meeting the Second Chancers,” Ted replies. “The girl may not take it well.”

“I don’t think that will be an issue. He’ll likely be Cleaved before they’re training is complete. And if not, we’ll force the issue by showing her the footage.” He thinks we’ll be Cleaved before training is complete? Or is he even talking about me? I’m not sure. Not after that reference to Second Chancers which may mean they’re playing with some serious fire. And what “footage” will they show Kira?

“That sounds like a solid plan.”

“It will be if we can get Brad Darcton to agree. He has other ideas for the girl that are resonating with several members of the Ten.”

“I thought this whole thing was his plan?” Ted asks.

“Getting the girl was his idea but not the duo. He doesn’t think the boy’s right for her, even though he has got a cleaner health record than the alternative,” the stranger says, confusing me further about what boy he’s referencing. He pauses before adding, “But, I’m here because I have a more pressing concern. The girl has been asking a lot of questions through her tablet, some of them pretty derogatory. We tallied over seventy-five this evening alone. Should we be worried? Her Test results didn’t paint her as rebellious.”

“Nothing to fret over. Everything is a puzzle to her and this one is incomplete. Just give her some pieces that’ll fit. Be creative.” Great, Ted. Encourage them to tell us more lies because I haven’t heard enough already.

I want to stay to hear the rest but can’t risk being caught eavesdropping or being late to the next training session. Things can go downhill quickly here if you start skirting the rules. I momentarily unhitch my towel to sop up the puddle of water below before heading to get dressed as I commit the conversation to memory.

Nine years prior

After my mother’s death, my father obsessed over finding a way to get my sister and me off Thera. He couldn’t be sure we’d have the ability even if a portal were found, but he’d promised my mother. So he joined every search party for nearly four years before the Exilers located and secured one. The problem with discovering new portals was that any portal exiting on land in Thera would enter in water on Earth and vice versa, making the passage extremely dangerous.

A couple Exiled Daynighter men lost their lives as they happened on a portal by accident, landing in ocean water with no boats in sight to provide rescue. Usually, Second Chancers led search parties, as they’d bounce if they hit a portal, not being able to go through. After the Daynighters disappeared from view but didn’t return by way of the entrance portal later, the Exilers decided to send the next men through with crudely made rafts. The plan worked, and these men then arranged to have a more permanent, albeit primitive, structure erected, anchored to the ocean floor.

My father dumped us in Doc Daryn’s care for six months after the find while he went to secure us a new home and identities on Earth. He hooked up with my “Aunt Jennifer,” a childless distant relative of another Daynighter who’d been Exiled. She owned (and still owns) a modest house with a beautiful garden in a pleasant area of San Diego with good schools, and she’d inherited enough from her grandfather to support our family. Her location proved strategic for my father, being equidistant between the Exiler-controlled entrance and exit portals to the Garden City area of Thera.

The four-night journey to the exit portal on foot sucked for my father with a five-year-old and eight-year-old in tow. He carried my sister most of the fifteen-mile hike each night. We scrambled to reach Exiler-hosted shelters by sunrise, but the inland heat made sleep during the day uncomfortable. My sister begged to return to Doc Daryn’s house. I whimpered with every step, my undersized shoes blistering and bloodying my feet.

The first night, we passed the Eco barrier of Garden City, the canyon lights aglow in the distance. I’d only seen them once prior. Leila squealed and clapped at the spectacle, the only lights she’d previously seen being flashlights, cooking fires, and the sun. Upon visiting the outskirts of the city before, I envied the lights and seeming comfort of city life, but my dad’s stories and a near death experience soured my opinion. That day, bad dreams haunted my sleep, making me slow and weary the following evening.

Two bands of gypsies shared shelter with us on our trip. The first were workers in Farm City who had been Exiled for resisting the extreme work conditions that included daytime harvests. Their leathery skin cracked and scaled like a desert lizard’s. I was shocked to see the unhealthy looking collection of “escaped” farm animals that accompanied the party, including a horse, milk cow, goat, and mule. Since their Exile, the workers had traveled south in search of other Exiler communities, trying to rally support for a full-scale external revolt against the Theran cities. My dad pointed them in the direction of the other extremists in our home community.

The second group hailed from Military City, twenty-five men and women marching in perfect unison. Their tales of the dictatorship regime, expected blind obedience, and execution of unwanted Second Chance citizens made my father’s description of Garden City sound like paradise. Well, organized, they had a plan to train an army and overthrow Garden City Headquarters that piqued my father’s interest, but they’d been Exiled without their weapons. Without the right arsenal, any attack would be fruitless. At nightfall, the Militants were sent along to join my father’s band of Exilers with promises that my father would return soon to hear more of their plans to shift the balance of power on Thera.

I see how that chance encounter with the Militants turned my father towards extremism. Had we taken an alternate route to the portal, left a different night, or slept in different caves, my father might never have gotten on the Militants’ bandwagon of revolt. Sure, the Exilers had always looked for ways to improve their situation or make changes in the status quo on Thera, but their ideas and methods were tame compared to the Military City men and women’s brute force approach. But, my father readily drank their poison and sent them to infect the rest of the Exilers. They were received with open arms by my father’s cohorts who’d resorted to extreme measures to protect our band of misfits in the past.

On our final night’s travel to the portal, we got a late start. Leila staged a dramatic temper tantrum. I dragged, slowing us further. The bugs swarmed more than usual, and as I required more oxygen and had to suck in air by mouth, I consumed bug chunks all night. My dad welcomed the “extra protein,” but chewing on the crunchy creatures made me gag. I forced myself to swallow, knowing the roots we’d had for breakfast couldn’t provide the sustenance to take me the distance.

At sunrise, we had five miles left to go, and my dad chose to press on. Two and a half hours later we’d arrived at a small hut, dehydrated and severely sunburned. An aged lady, horrified by our condition, insisted she minister to our wounds before she would allow us to attempt passage. She covered us with a silvery-green paste and poured water into us until we felt bloated. The delay irritated my father, as our boat ride on the other side could decide we’d failed to pass through and return to shore, leaving us stranded.

“We must leave now.” He pulled Leila from the lady’s arms.

“How can you be sure they won’t bounce?” the woman asked.

“They are special,” my father responded.

“Originals?”

“It’d be hard to prove that without a DNA test out here, wouldn’t it?” he quipped.

“Blake, you go first. Just walk down that dark corridor. Leila, you’ll follow your brother, and I’ll follow you.” Energized by the water, ointment, and visions of food and bounties in the “promised land,” I bounded forth. The shock-like sensations I felt couldn’t touch the pain of my burns and blisters, so they barely registered.

Once through, the motion of the uncovered barge amplified an already queasy stomach, and I vomited what little water remained in my system. My sister did the same, although her reaction was more violent than mine. My father convulsed and heaved more heavily than Leila and me combined. I sat on the platform and let the ocean breeze wash over me. In two minutes time the temperature had dropped more than fifty degrees. The fact that the sun shone brightly but the air felt cool floored me. I shivered as my body adjusted.

A shiny object on the horizon grew in size as it neared, eventually revealing a man and a woman aboard a small boat.

“Hank,” the woman exclaimed to my father. “Thank goodness you’re back. And these must be Blake and Leila. They are beautiful, just beautiful. You were right. They made it through. They are special!”

“Leila, Blake, meet your new mom, Jennifer.” A sad look washed across his face. Too young to understand then, I now know that although Jennifer took on the role of main parental caretaker, she never replaced my mother as my father’s Cleave, nor became my true mom—just Aunt Jen.

The other man aboard the boat that day was Ted Rosenberg. It was on the trip back to shore that my father and Ted hatched the plans to send me back to Thera. The Militants knew we’d need “insiders” to pull off their plan. Ted procured Recruits for the West Coast, and after seeing how easily we’d come through, he knew we’d be assets the Second Chance Institute would desire. My father refused to subject Leila, but he’d willingly agreed to transform me into a trained mole. This new plan of revenge was something my father could really sink his teeth into. In deciding this, he ceased to be a father to me altogether—instructor, trainer, dictator, yes, but loving father, no.

––––––––

Present

The Second Chance Institute has taken everyone I care about and will continue to wreak havoc unless stopped. There’s no reason I can’t do a little digging about the Originals while proceeding with daddy’s plan. He knew and kept it from me. I need to understand why. Despite what will happen when Kira finds out what I know, I need her to sort this mess out with me. And I believe I know a safe way to suck her in.

“Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!”

—Lord Byron

CHAPTER SIX

Kira

Embarrassed to the brink of humiliation, I decide to avoid acting like a twelve-year-old desperate for attention and focus on staying awake for the next session. Rules are rules—regardless of what planet I’m on. Since a swift exit isn’t possible, I’m forced to be a law-abiding citizen. A jet lag-like fog has descended, and my body fights the graveyard shift with vigor. The box “lunch” they served raised my blood sugar a hair but not enough to keep me lucid for long. It would help if we had an actual instructor in the room with rather than a pre-recorded video. Would it kill him to use some inflection in his voice—this dude could bore another bore to death.

The SCI encourages strict adherence to rules, or as they call them “Canons” through a merit/demerit system called the “Circle of Compliance,” though, the system is linear, not circular in the slightest. Everyone starts at neutral and ascends towards inclusion in the “Grand Council” through compliance, and descends towards Exile through disobedience, a typical carrot and stick system. The Grand Council is the governing body of the city, composed of the most obedient citizens, and is able to add new rules to the Canon for everyone else to abide by.

Exile, from what I can read between the lines, is akin to a death sentence, or at least that’s what they want you to think. When exiled, a citizen is forced to leave Garden City wearing Exile-identifying orange clothing, taking with them no possessions save a night’s worth of food. They are placed outside the “Eco Barrier” that surrounds the city and left to fend for themselves against the harsh elements of Thera. The barrier, a 50-foot strip of barren land surrounding the city, emits plague-like biological elements strong enough to melt the skin off a person’s body, preventing re-entry. And escape, I infer.

The most serious offense in Garden City is treason. Those guilty face Exile or execution, with the decision as to the offender’s fate left to the presiding Ten of the Grand Council. Several offenses lead to immediate Exile, including murder, aggravated assault, grand theft, inciting rebellion, discussing the past with Second Chancers, and violating the terms of Cleaving. Huh? Those last two seem a little extreme.

The man drones on for ten minutes about the sanctity of life for Second Chancers: the importance of having the opportunity to live without re-experiencing mistakes or painful instances from the past. He says there is a high probability Recruits will encounter Second Chancers we know—but that under no circumstances can we reveal that we know them. Nor can we discuss the Second Chancer’s past acquaintances, relationships, or situations that led them to becoming a Second Chancer.

I can’t imagine I would ever run into someone I knew here on Thera. It’s not like I know many people who have majorly screwed up. Maybe some of the kids from school who ended up in rehab and never returned? And there were those three girls that had some sort of pregnancy pact and went off the deep end when they couldn’t handle being moms. They ended up foisting their kids on the foster care system. Sure, I can totally understand why they wouldn’t want to be reminded of stuff like that. However, none of that really meshes with what Spud told me about the people “accidentally” happening upon their misery.

Then the man starts to talk about Cleaving. Despite my exhaustion, I perk up, sitting up straight in my seat. I sense Blake does too but don’t look his way. Our trainer begins by explaining that Second Chancers arrive at Garden City at all different ages, and that the SCI’s goal is to make sure everyone has a loving support system. The population of each Theran city has limits, due to housing and resource constraints. These parameters (at least in Garden City) led to the institution of Cleaving. He posts a list of Cleaving “rules” which I furiously type into my tablet.

On the eighteenth birthnight of each male Theran, he must Cleave to a suitable mate if he has not already Cleaved.

Cleaving is for life and cannot be undone under any circumstances.

Cleaved couples must apply to be Endowed with a Theran child entrant under the age of fifteen OR to enter the lottery for an Assisted Pregnancy.

Maximum children per household through Endowment or Assisted Pregnancy is two.

Non-Assisted Pregnancies are not allowed; violators subject to Exile. All women sixteen and older are required to take birth control.

New Theran entrants over sixteen and under eighteen will be placed in monitored student housing to allow opportunities for self Cleaving.

Young adults over sixteen and under eighteen who engage in sexual activity are automatically Cleaved for life.

The last point makes me start laughing so hard tears spring from my eyes. The video halts, as if it knows I need a moment.

“What is so funny?” Blake finally asks me.

“Sorry. I’m just thinking about how many people in our high school would be married off by sixteen with that rule. And how pissed the guys would be to be limited to the first girl they snagged. Just think of how much time we spent in health class hearing about all of it when the solution was so freaking simple.”

“So, you think it’s a good idea?” he asks, looking at me like I’m insane. I don’t know. An arranged marriage at eighteen—or before—is more than a little sketchy, but I do like that it’s for life. The thought of ever being with more than one guy disgusts me. Something does bug me about it, and then it finally occurs to me.

“We don’t have to do it, do we? Be Cleaved? They can’t make us do that, can they? I turn eighteen in December. Hey, when’s your birthday—or I guess it’s birthnight here?” I joke.

“In sixty-five nights,” he responds, sounding a little panicked. “That would be seriously messed up if we signed up for a year gig and they forced us to get hitched. My parents would freak. No, I’d freak.” I’m jealous at how quickly he has picked up the “nighttime” lingo. I constantly mix up my day and night terms, although I’m starting to get the hang of it.

“Really? It’s not appealing to get married at eighteen and be handed a fifteen year old to parent?” I try to get a rise out of him. It works too. He has to wipe the sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve.

“So. Funny. Keep talking like that, and I’m gonna root for you to get sexed up by some Second Chancer and get your own gaggle of rugrats.” If he thinks his parents would freak, he hasn’t met my parents. My dad and his buddies would hunt down Spud Rosenberg without mercy.

“Yeah right. If I didn’t go there with Tristan, I can assure you I’m not going there with some random dude who made a bad enough mistake to land here.” I roll my eyes at him and sit back in my seat, waiting for the video to resume. Within moments, it does.

The man finishes out the list.

Recruits who engage in sexual activity—with other Recruits, or with Second Chancers—will be Cleaved and become automatic citizens of Thera.

Special circumstances may allow additional Cleaving to occur, subject to direction of the Senior Ten of the Grand Council.

Blake and I both become rigid. As if I needed new reasons to stay celibate, my resolve cements instantly. Any physical appeal Blake had in that gym has disappeared. The consequences for letting things “go a little too far” on Thera are too severe to ignore: a lifetime sentence of darkness and bizarre rules Cleaved to someone whom you may or may not actually be compatible. If they manage to rustle up Ethan and bring him to Thera, I might reconsider, but short of that, consider me unavailable.

The rest of the session covers hundreds of rules, from major to menial. A few stand out, and I type them into my tablet while I share my impressions out loud with Blake. I figure that if I keep talking I’ll stay awake.

Don’t leave the city without official permission. “How could we with the Eco barrier blocking our way?”

“I don’t know,” Blake responds.

Never speak about the possibility of a Supreme Being. Native Therans use the term “Gads” frequently, but it is a slang expression for power and authority, not an acknowledgment of deity. “So, how do they enforce that? Are all the Second Chancers atheists?”

“How would I know?”

No more than twenty minutes during daylight hours in direct sunlight. “When they thought that Unit 27 was the ‘perfect fit’ for me did they not realize that I require hours of sunlight a day to function?”

Blake rolls his eyes. “Did you tell them that, or did you expect them to be psychic?”

Keep off the board tracks during storms. “Does this place even get rain? I didn’t see a single thing that was green.”

“Neither did I. Although I did see some variations of brown. Do you have questions about everything?”

“Well, yeah, duh,” I reply. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about the how’s and why’s? I like to know how everything works.”

“Clearly. Just don’t expect me to be your resident expert when your tablet can’t answer all your questions.” He is definitely irritated now.

“Geez,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting you to answer. Haven’t you ever heard of rhetorical questions?”

“No, I lived such a sheltered life that I’m afraid not. What is a rhetorical question? And what is the meaning of life? My parents never told me that, either.”

I give him a little shove, which may or may not have come across as more violent than playful. “Sarcastic much?”

“Inquisitive much?” he responds with a smirk.

“Fine, I’ll keep my questions up here,” I point to my head. “I will figure it all out. That’s the benefit of inquisitive minds.”

“I bet you will” He laughs.

I return my focus to the rules and try hard to stay awake. Water conservation is a big deal, so we need to stick to the rules about shower length, turning off water while brushing teeth, and limiting our toilet flushing. Canons for garbage disposal, recycling, garden maintenance, regular doctor visits, and transportation all run together as I become more and more tired. My head starts bobbing and I’m thrilled to catch that the full set of rules are now available on my tablet because it’s nap time.

I close my eyes, lean back deep into my chair, and wonder if there are consequences for sleeping during dull training sessions before I drift into frightening images of darkness, menacing computers that arrange Cleavings, and being dumped into Exile for throwing something into the trash rather than a recycle receptacle.

“Have a nice nap?” Blake asks. “You missed all the juicy stuff about the proper way to wear your uniform and lather yourself with sunscreen nightly. They even showed some disgusting clips of a dude with leathery skin and some lady with skin cancer on her face.” Nasty, I think, wiping my mouth to check for drool and rubbing underneath my eyes to remove my mascara bleed-out.

“Sorry. I tried to stay awake, I really did, but that guy’s voice could be used as a safer alternative to sleep drugs,” I respond.

“You’re in luck, then, because we are done for the day—or night or whatever it is. We have free time, and they said we could explore the canyon and watch the sunrise. Up for it? Or you want to head back to our digs for another nap?” I avoid looking directly at him, not wanting to give him any further impression that I’m a bit infatuated.

“Sure.” Despite my continued exhaustion, he had me at the mention of “explore” and “sun.” I realize it has only been a day without the sun, but it seems like an eternity, and I’m having major withdrawal. Somehow the thought of blistering in 150-degree heat is preferable to no sun at all.

“They even gave us boards.” He points at two identical Industrial City issue skateboards. I grimace at the sight, hoping that I didn’t miss some rule about being required to travel by one, given there are no cars here.

“No, thanks. I choose life.”

“I can teach you,” he offers, raising his eyebrows. “Boarding is killer.”

“Exactly. You said it yourself—boarding is a killer.” I revise his words slightly. “I look at that thing, and I see cuts, bruises, broken bones, more trips to the evil doctors, needles, comas, being buried in soil that would cook me and turn me to dust in seconds because it’s so hot here…I’m sorry. It just isn’t happening. You go. I’ll watch.”

“Wimp.” He teases. “Okay, fine, prepare to be blown away. Those skate tracks are calling my name.”

“Whatever, showoff.” I take up residence on a bench overlooking the canyon, pulling my knees to discourage any creepy crawlers or fliers from hiking up to or landing on my shirt.

Blake’s right—I am blown away. I alternate between watching Blake’s unreal ability to maneuver the narrow tracks provided and marveling at the bizarre landscape and lighting of the canyon. While Blake’s board seems a natural attachment of his legs, I’m the polar opposite. I never made it past the bunny ski slopes or my first surf lesson, and I never showed any promise on skates—street or ice. Landing a dozen back handsprings or doing a flip on cement is my domain and is the aspect of cheer I’ve enjoyed the most all these years.

It finally hits me what the glowing colors of the canyon remind me of—the Northern Lights—from the pictures I’ve seen anyway. Our journey “by air” during the earlier session went too fast to get the full experience, but looking at it from a stationary position is hypnotic. The temperature, while still hot, is much more comfortable than earlier, and I prefer hot fresh air to the stale, over air-conditioned air of the training room that was present the entire time, with exception of the warm air blown in for our “flight.”

Without warning, the light show disappears, and I can see the sky for the first time due to the quickening brightness of the dawn. Blake joins me to watch the sky change colors from a dark blue, to lighter blue, to shades of pink, and then finally orange and red as the sun rises above the horizon. I have to shield my eyes for a few minutes until they adjust to the influx of light. We ooh and ah as an intricate patchwork of clouds makes the colors particularly intense and spectacular but otherwise remain silent.

By the time the sun visibly appears in the sky the temperature has notched up at least ten to fifteen degrees. I have to brush the sweat beading on my forehead. It’s then I notice a line of nasty-looking red ants marching inches from the bench and jump up, shaking myself of any potential intruders. Blake chuckles at my ants-on-the-pants dance.

“Now that sun’s up we get twenty minutes to get our nightly dose of vitamin D.” Blake stands up and grabs my hand. “Want to take a walk down the canyon and back up?”

“If I can stand to be out here that long,” I respond, trying to pull my hand away from him. Instead, he intertwines his fingers with mine and pulls me alongside him and down a windy trail unsuitable for skateboards, and, from the sticky piles of stench, I would guess one frequented by mules. “I promise I can handle the trail myself.” I try to pull away my hand again. Why’s he being so pushy when we barely know each other?

“Kira, I don’t know what you think,” he whispers in my ear, “but I swear that we’re being watched and listened to. I figure the canyon is probably safe to really talk, you know. So pretend you’re into me and let’s take a walk and chat. Given how obsessed they all seem to be with people hooking up, it’s a great cover.” I laugh about the way he suggests that I pretend I’m into him, as if he doesn’t think I already am. While I may have given that impression, I’m hardly sold on his hot/cold routine.

“Ha ha, yeah sure, sounds good.” I watch the corner of his mouth curl upward in response. We quickly chat about the subjects cover in training and then I ask, “What’s up with the whole Cleaving thing?”

He gives me his theory. “They pair up members of the opposite sex because they want them to Cleave and become permanent members of their happy-go-lucky society. If I’m right, that means they want us to hook up. We give them the illusion we’re heading down that path, and they’ll want us to have some private time to move things along.” I stop, yanking him backwards.

“So, that’s what all the flirting has been about tonight?” I ask. His eyes sparkle, and his lips form into a smile.

“What flirting?” He runs each hand down his opposite arm as if to deflect the accusation. “You were the one flirting with me, and that started before they told us about Cleaving, which is what gave me the idea.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. Barraging him with questions equals flirting? Maybe it was the falling asleep on his shoulder? If anything, he has been doing the flirting. Not me. Though I can tell no amount of discussion would be sufficient for him to admit the effort was lopsided in his direction.

“Whatever,” I respond. “Fine, I’ll go along with your little charade, but only because I want answers, and you’re the only person I can talk to about it. I don’t care how much they want it to happen. I’m not Cleaving anyone, much less someone as clearly full of themselves as you are.” He chuckles, and then looks at his watch before tapping on it.

“Five minutes,” he says. “Race you. Last one to the top has to initiate the first kiss.” Kiss? Dream on, buddy. He then sprints up the hill, leaving me behind. I march slowly and steadily, reaching the top with a minute to spare, amazed at the number of lizards that appear to sunbathe in the morning light.

“You lose,” he quips.

“Works for me. That way a kiss will never happen,” I whisper in his ear, and then skip to the double doors where our escort awaits, probably to return us to our suite and lock us in. I say to the man, “Thanks for the free time. The nighttime lights and the sunrise were just incredible. What’s next?”

“Ms. Donovan, here’s a compass, as requested.” I look at him, wondering how he knew I wanted one. “Go ahead, check for yourself,” he says. I grimace but return to the railing and look at the sun in relation to the direction noted on the compass. Indeed, I’m facing south and the sun just rose to my right, which is west. “No way. Maybe they rigged the compass?”

“It’s not rigged. You are no longer on Earth, Ms. Donovan. So perhaps you can focus less on disproving the assertion that you’ve left Earth and more on learning about Thera?” If I had any doubt my device was monitored, I no longer do.

“Okay, fine.” I throw up my arms. “We’re not on Earth. We’re on Thera. We traveled here through a magic portal.”

“It’s not magic,” he refutes. “There’s just not an explanation that can be outlined by conventional science.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Thanks for the compass.” I don’t want to discuss it any further.

“Let me show you back to your suite, and the two of you can have dinner before retiring to bed,” he says. “We have left some sleep aids on your kitchen counter to help you adjust to the time and prevent further napping during sessions.”

His pace is quick, and I struggle to keep up. We’re ushered into our suite, and the man departs, locking us in. What a friendly guy. I stare at the locked door.

Blake interrupts, “So, princess, you making dinner?”

“I’m happy to.” Despite his ridiculous impression I’m incapable of manual labor, I took a year of cooking, and I typically made dinner for my family. I turn to hide the hurt I feel from his comment and check out the contents of the refrigerator, trying to decide what I can make without a recipe given what’s in there. “You like teriyaki chicken?” I ask without looking at him.

“Sounds perfect,” he says, his voice coming from the living area. He’s relaxing, I’m sure.

“Anything for my fake boyfriend,” I mumble incoherently under my breath. Where’s that gorgeous, sweet, humble, gracious guy, Ethan, I met at the party again? Dead, missing, gone, who knows. I sigh and get to work.

As the week progresses, the training sessions blur together. Every night starts with a trip to the clinic, where we’re invaded in every possible way, physically and mentally. The nurses claim my nightly shot will help me adjust better, but I swear it’s just making me crankier and more hormonal than usual. And bloated if that’s possible, or maybe it’s just the food here that’s a little off taste and digestion-wise. They take my blood every other night and even have the gall to do an ultrasound of my entire abdomen, this purportedly to ensure my digestive system is functioning and no “lesions” are forming on my reproductive organs. The doctor claims a fraction of previous Recruits have had abdominal and reproductive issues and that he’s just trying to “stay ahead of any problems.”

In class we review the Canon of rules to really hammer them in and then learn about exciting new topics like “Befriending Your Second Chance Classmates,” “How to Deal with Stress Appropriately,” and “Focusing On The Future.” All of them emphasize the same thing: don’t you dare screw up and mention anything from the past to a Second Chancer, even if you have issues, because you’ll ruin their “second” life and, in consequence, will be Exiled. Let me just meet them already and maybe all your dumb rules will make sense.

After our workouts, Blake and I hike the few canyon trails that are well-lit and well-marked, traveling as far as possible in an attempt to explore our surroundings better. Each time we approach the perimeter of the “Recruit” facilities, we are nicely but firmly encouraged to turn back. Feeling a little claustrophobic, I try to escape our Recruit quarters a few times, but the locks prove impenetrable. Why won’t they let us explore the city? The simulated tour by air was cool but insufficient to really get to know the place.

Two field trips break up the monotony. On the first, we tour two Garden City “model homes” across the canyon from our training room. It’s a thirteen hundred foot zip—the longest zip of the city, and one that I’ve avoided. The high-speed ride through darkness terrifies me, and I do a poor job braking and come into the platform going a little fast, knocking Blake over. I apologize profusely for using him as a human domino, but part of me thinks he deserves it for his constant jabbing and inconsistent behavior towards me.

Once he shakes off my assault, my fake boyfriend grabs my hand and escorts me to the first house, which is roughly a hundred yards towards the ocean from the zip-line platform. We pass several other homes on the way. They all look disturbingly similar. Our guide informs us that, in fact, Garden City residences are constructed cookie cutter—the only difference being that Cleaved Couples get an extra bedroom to house their children, as well as an extra bathroom.

They build each house into the top of one of the dozens of canyons in the city out of cement and with a porch overlooking the canyon area. The layouts are identical, with the rooms of each home circling a “sun room” and “filtered garden.” Residents can get their twenty minutes of recommended daily sun in the sunroom without having to venture into the canyon. The garden room, while outdoors, has some special ultraviolet ray and heat filters to allow certain fruits and vegetables to grow. Each resident is required to maintain their garden and even the garden layout and crops are prescribed.

The interior rooms consist of a kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom and full bathroom, and powder room for guests—all stocked with “everything needed.” Besides the bedroom variation of the houses we visit, the murals depicted on the walls differ, though each one is spectacular.

Blake and I flit through the houses, being complete goofballs as we pretend to be an old Cleaved couple, ordering kids around and doing chores. We invite trouble as we do a little “gardening” at one of the homes. Blake “accidentally” throws a tomato to me without warning—claiming poor visibility—and it splatters across my white shirt. I return the favor and then it’s an all out fruit and veggie war, and I smell like “citrus surprise” by the end. Our escort informs us that lunch is served, and that, if we are hungry, we can suck the pulp off our clothing. I about pass out working out on an empty stomach after that, but seeing Blake so covered with fruit that he had to take off his shirt made it worthwhile.

After our behavior during our first field trip, they nearly cancel the next, but I sweet-talk our escort, promising that we’ll be on our very best behavior. Our escort takes us by private train, only accessible by key card, to an unlabeled destination. We exit our train cars, and the man uses his access card again to enter an extremely long but well lit tunnel with doors on either side, each located at least fifty to a hundred feet apart. We travel the great length by moving sidewalk, and after having counted five doors on each side, we dismount the sidewalk, and our escort punches a long code into a keypad to grant us access. As the door opens, both Blake and I say, “Wow” simultaneously.

A perfect scale model of Garden City lays before us—residences, canyons, plants, Headquarters, and all. Despite being completely indoors, even the nighttime lighting has been recreated. Very cool, but again, why not let us explore the real thing? A bridge takes us over the simulated “Eco barrier” and into the city. Dozens of representatives from the city’s industries are on hand to discuss career options in Garden City. I find it crazy they went to the expense of modeling the entire city just to host a career fair. But, it is better than watching training videos, so I keep my mouth shut. Even if it is a little disconcerting to try to find our way around in the dim lighting, relying on path lights and the hundreds of workers on site to point us in the right direction. Thankfully our “target destinations” are well lit with spotlights illuminating outdoor classroom seating areas.

Solar technicians show us the vast fields of panels and how they convert the sun’s energy to raw power for the city. The small-scale desalination plant magically transforms salt water to drinkable water, and we taste the before and after to confirm it. The salt water reminds me of swimming and snorkeling at the beautiful San Diego beaches with my brother, Jared.

Artists share mural technique and styles and let us try our hand at sponge painting a tulip patch using stencils. One of the artists reminds me of a guy who used to live in our neighborhood, the resemblance striking, but I dismiss it as coincidence and faulty memory, not having seen him for years after his family moved.

Teachers show off the latest technology for interactive online classes. Doctors expound upon their advanced screening techniques that allow them to catch problems, including cancer and other diseases, in early stages. Members of the Grand Council, Garden City’s politicians, vaguely discuss how rules and regulations are proposed and passed using a simple majority. Business Importers handle trade with other Theran cities to insure Garden City residents are provided with everything needed.

I tarry with the DNT scientists, who let me see “native” DNT—fish-like organisms—under a microscope and then their attempts at “artificial” DNT, which looked like finless fish. Despite the fact I despise having my blood taken, I allow them to prick my finger, so that I can see my own blood under the microscope and confirm that my DNT is, indeed, “native.” The scientists hem and haw about the reason for their focus on DNT but do confirm that the higher the levels, the easier travel between Thera and Earth becomes.

I search for Blake, who lost interest in the scientists’ spiel quickly. Given the poor lighting, I scan for a white and silver Recruit uniform amongst the sea of blue and tan city employee uniforms. While hunting unsuccessfully, I happen upon the dockworkers. They’re unloading food and supplies off boats at the fake ocean mouth of the center canyon and onto distribution trains which run through tunnels to warehouse delivery locations. From there, distributors manually deliver to residences and workplaces with the help of pack mules. It’s weird to imagine a world without FedEx or UPS, semi-trucks, or cross-country trains, but Thera has no equivalents to any of these. I’m glad it all gets delivered in a timely fashion, and they do give out samples which quell my appetite, but given I have zero interest in the supply chain, I move on.

After wandering past the waste and recycling and cistern management centers without stopping—careers equally as dull as food distribution—I finally find Blake, who is embroiled in conversation with a “Foreign Relations” specialist, dubbed a “Daynighter.” The man handles relations between Garden City and the Second Chance Institute offices on Earth. Blake asks seemingly innocent questions like, “So how far do you have to travel to get to the exit portal?”, “Do you get to work directly with the Grand Council?”, and “How much time do you spend on either side?” He feigns great interest in the man’s work and likely learns more than he was supposed to, such as the fact the man works within the Council Headquarters building, presents to them once a month, and splits his time equally between the two sides. The guy grandstands his job like it’s the second coming for both worlds’ political landscapes. I listen to the exchange while enjoying the view out past the Eco barrier and towards the “ocean.”

Once burned out on foreign affairs, Blake drags me past the City Center Medical Clinic and directly to Grand Council Headquarters—a building at the far end of a huge plaza. Unlike any other building in town, it stands apart with its stone edifice and multistory height. Tiny lights embedded into the mortar wash the building with stunning color and brightness that would win any Christmas light competition. If its scaled-down counterpart is any indication, the real Headquarters building must be spectacular. Given that it was built on the highest point of the highest canyon top, I imagine it can be seen for miles in every direction.

The same man who greeted us upon entry to Thera does so again. This time, he introduces himself as Brad Darcton, a member of the presiding Ten of the Grand Council. Or, in other terms, Theran bigwig.

Whereas we’d been allowed to question the other representatives, Brad grills us for twenty minutes about our experiences to date and our areas of career interest based on what we’ve seen so far. He then explains in broad generalities about the work done within the Headquarters building, including Cleave contracts, Council sessions, additions of new Canons to the Circle of Compliance, and rulings on adjustment to resident status in the Circle. When I dare ask how the government structure differs between Garden City and the other Theran cities, he suddenly has an urgent meeting to attend and directs us towards the Weather Center for final instruction. Blake takes me by my hand, ready to move on.

I hesitate, dragging as I watch Brad Darcton enter the model Headquarter’s building and see a young man with dark hair and a five o’clock shadow greet Brad. I freeze in my tracks and yank my hand away from Blake. The guy looks a whole lot like Ethan, but I can’t get a good enough look. So, I briskly walk towards the building. Brad sees me and motions the man away.

Blake follows me and asks, “What are you doing, Kira?”

“That guy that Brad Darcton was talking to in there. I swear I know him,” I respond. Perhaps I need psychiatric help. Every single time I see a dark haired guy, I think it’s Ethan and my stomach goes haywire, I want it to be him so much.

“Doubtful,” Blake says. “Come on, we’re due at the Weather Center.”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” I stare back at the Headquarters building. It’s the not knowing that gets to me. Ethan was never confirmed dead. The continual “what ifs” are a killer.

Brad steps back out of the building. “Ms. Donovan, can I help you with something? Mr. Sundry, go ahead to the Weather Center. I’ll send her along shortly.” Blake looks concerned but slowly walks away.

I ignore Blake and turn to Brad Darcton. “That guy you were talking to. Is his name Ethan? He looks so much like a guy I met on Earth.”

“Under what circumstances did you meet this…Ethan?” he asks.

“Oh, I met him at a party, and we talked for a long time. Then he disappeared, and I’ve been wondering what happened to him,” I say. I don’t bring up the explosion or the fact that Ethan may very well be dead, not wanting to sound crazy and all.

“I believe that you were warned in your training that you’d likely run into people on Thera that you’d known previously,” he reminds me. “Need I remind you about our Rules concerning discussing past relationships or acknowledging to a Second Chancer that you might know them? It’s important not to run up to any person you think you might know and try to figure out if you have some sort of shared past.”

“Was that man a Second Chancer?” Ethan didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who would do something where he’d need a second chance.

“We really try to make every citizen of Garden City feel important and not thrust labels on them,” he responds. “Now run along, and I’ll expect you to be more careful in the future.” I shiver, as his stern warning sounds more like a threat. Discussing the past with a Second Chancer is cause for immediate Exile, I remind myself. It’s a five minute walk to the Weather Center, and I chastise myself the entire way for irking a member of the Ten.

“What was that about?” Blake asks.

“Brad was just refreshing me on the rules concerning Second Chancers. I really don’t get what it would hurt to acknowledge you knew someone before, but I would prefer to avoid making a member of the Ten angry again.”

“No kidding. Don’t beat yourself up about it, though. I’m sure he was just trying to protect you from getting into trouble.” Blake pats me on the back. “Let’s go learn about weather and get your mind off of it.”

“Let’s,” I agree, although my attention is still back at what I saw transpire at Headquarters.

The Weather Center sits atop an ocean cliff and monitors incoming storms, as hurricane-level rains and flash floods threaten the community every few months. Ah, so there is rain here. They tell us they’re going to run us through a training drill that simulates the experience of being in the canyons during a storm, the description of which terrifies me and will likely give me nightmares for years. I’m so busy wondering whether it was Ethan I saw and what reason he could have to be on Thera, that I completely miss the whole part about “how to survive a flash flood in the canyons.” I make a mental note to avoid it so that my non-existent skills will never be put to the test.

We hike down the mini canyon towards the cement floor, as directed, with some difficulty. Although the canyon lights create a spectacular show from afar, they don’t provide the best lighting to keep steady footing, alternating between blinding when close to the lights and barely visible away from them. Once close to the bottom of the canyon, we hear a warning siren.

Torrents of water and mud attack us from every angle.

I have no idea what to do. I can barely see, and the slope is too slick to climb.

Blake grabs a rope ladder, and pulls us up toward safety as if he is some sort of pro. I cling to him and let him carry me up to dry ground.

He just saved my life.

They wouldn’t have let us die in a training exercise, would they? Thankfully, Blake only had to pull me up a fraction of the way he’d have had to if we’d been out in a real canyon.

Our escort arrives to shuttle us to the gym—to shower off the mud and then to exercise. As we mount the moving sidewalk to return to the train, both Blake and I notice another door open and get a glimpse inward before our escort shields our view. From the slice I saw, it had to be a scaled down version of Farm City, and, although neither of us comments, we both know that behind each door lays each of the settled Theran cities and a wealth of knowledge only obtainable by reaching the Grand Council inner circles. Our escort attempts a cover up by saying, “That’s a test farm to see if Garden City soil will work for growing food.”

Even he knows his explanation falls short.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ethan

“So I talked to her that night. What’s the big deal? She couldn’t find her slimeball boyfriend or best friend, and I helped her out.” I pace the floor of the scaled down administration building. She’d been less than fifty feet away and recognized me, and my father refused to let me talk to her. He ushered me away and then went out to scare her off. For two months, I’ve felt like a freaking peeping Tom, watching her from afar, banned from getting anywhere near her. The only time I’d been allowed in spitting distance was upon her arrival when they drugged her, and I’d been asked to transport her to her room.

“Your orders were clear. Observe only,” my father says. “She says the two of you talked ‘for a long time.’ That’s a far cry from observation.”

“For years you searched for the perfect female specimen to Cleave to me. You find a pure Light, send me to watch her, and expect me not to see for myself whether she’s cleavable material?” I respond. “What better way to observe than to have a conversation? I don’t remember you specifying that I couldn’t talk to her.” What does he expect from a law student? I’m hard-wired to find loopholes.

“I told you there was competition. The Grand Council voted to partner the two of them and see how things progressed given Blake’s clean health record.”

I run my hands through my hair. All my life, I’ve listened to my parents complain ad nauseum about my heart defect. Even though I have a completely clean bill of health now, it still haunts me, and if Kira ends up with Blake, it always will. “I’m not okay with this. I plan to talk to Dr. Christo and see what the real odds are for my heart defect being passed along. All I want is a shot…to date her and see where things go.”

“Patience…I have a plan. And you’re an integral part. I’ve got a way to satisfy the Ten’s desires for the girl and make sure you fulfill your destiny. If you go screw it up by pursuing the girl, then the Grand Council will know we’re making a play. We are but can’t let them know we are.”

“I don’t want anything forced on her. Not Blake. Not me.”

“It’s not up to you. Or even up to me. Remember that we all answer to someone. Even the Council. And a purebred Light Original…well, she’s a game changer, Son. You’re just going to have to let it all play out. And, well, if it doesn’t work, your Uncle Henry can find you a suitable mate on Earth.”

Ethan’s college years

My Uncle Henry’s a well-known, well-liked politician with a bright future. Law degree. Wealthy. Extensive social circle. His life is one giant fundraiser. And Uncle Henry likes to show off his family. There are a lot of people who want to be in Uncle Henry’s good graces. A lot of obnoxious campaign donators with agendas. And they have sons and daughters. The sons get foisted on my cousins (Uncle Henry has two daughters, both older than me). The donors’ daughters, however, get flung my way. Uncle Henry brokers dates like he would business deals. If he wants Joe CEO to be his Next Big Donor, then Joe’s daughter is my next date to a critical fundraiser.

FBD (Fundraiser Blind Date) usually boils down to the following…on the physical side we’ve got bleach blonde, nose job, boob job, expensive clothes, even more expensive shoes, and corresponding purse. She’s usually fairly attractive if you go for the half human/half plastic thing which I don’t. On the personality side we have entitled, whiny, slutty, lazy, pushy, and downright annoying because they talk incessantly about absolutely nothing of importance. Once we go on our date to the critical fundraiser, FBD tries to blackmail me into a MBR (Mutually Beneficial Relationship) e.g. her daddy will make a huge donation to my Uncle if I agree to become her sex slave (or make her my sex slave, depending on the girl and her particular set of preferences).

When Jax visits, Uncle Henry arranges for the ultimate bimbo double dates. These, I actually enjoy. As annoying and meddling as I find Jax, he’s pure entertainment when placed around dumb and dumber barbies. They’re so charmed by his dimpled smile and double speak that they leave me alone and don’t even realize he’s insulting and demeaning them in every possible way. “You are so charitable, Mandy. The fabric saved on making your dress could clothe an entire orphanage. And as an added bonus, all the hard-up men here tonight won’t even have to spend money on porn tonight.” “Vivs, you’re a shoo-in for Miss America and for our future Secretary of State. Your idea to drop signed love notes and chocolate hearts instead of bombs throughout the Middle East and Africa would definitely get the attention of every misguided soul. I’m sure they’d want to become your BFF online and maybe even pay you a most personal visit.” Unfortunately, Jax pops by infrequently and thus, I have to endure most of my dates without his help.

Sarah was the most recent Uncle Henry Setup and she won the award for Owning Most Raincoats to Show Up at Door With Nothing On Under. And it hardly ever rained in San Diego. My Uncle forced me to take her to two separate events and she assumed that meant a marriage proposal was on the horizon. Holy freaking psycho, this girl made it her mission to try to seduce me. If I saw one more of her artificially enhanced body parts on display by text, email or in person, I would have gouged out my eyes with her high priced stilettos. I heard her talking once to a friend on the phone about “when he gets me pregnant, he’ll have to marry me.” For the first time in ages, I looked forward to leaving for a summer on Thera just to escape her.

Beth had a rare attribute that most of the others didn’t—a brain. She’d been studying to get her MBA and planned to be a CEO like her daddy (who was honestly named Joe). She thought we would make the perfect power couple. I didn’t hate her but wasn’t the least bit attracted to her, and, man, she bored me to death. Sure, it’s great you can use calculus to price stock options, but a decent dinner conversation that does not make.

Courtney creeped me out big time. She paid the photographer at Bigwig Local Fundraiser for all pictures taken of us separately and together and had a book made and delivered to me. She even used one of those photomerge baby makers to show me how lovely our 2.5 children would be (yes, she had a half a baby in our “family photo.”) Enough said.

Aliya believed in mixing alcohol and pharmaceutical drugs. She had major daddy issues and felt the best way to address said issues was to embarrass the heck out of daddy in public and, I do say, found great success in this endeavor. She once stripped down to a sheer corset, thong, and heels, and then table danced…very memorable for all in attendance, including the San Diego Police Department.

I’m sure there are lots of guys who’d have been thrilled to have girls throwing themselves at them. But nothing interested me less than abject desperation. And given that my father threatened early on to put a bullet in my brain if I had sex with any girl before he found me a “proper Cleave”…well, there wasn’t a whole lot these girls could offer.

Present

I will not let my Uncle Henry “find me a suitable mate.” I want to choose someone compatible. That’s why meeting Kira felt so different. She was naturally beautiful without any plastic parts. She was brilliant, funny, caring, loyal, flirty but not pushy, and sweet. I know that I did not imagine the connection with her, but there was no way I was going to act on it at the time. She had a boyfriend, and I was on assignment. She clearly didn’t have a great impression about the SCI after taking the Test, so I didn’t point out my ties to it.

Loopholes…there has to be a way around my father and the rest of the Ten on this. It’s just so unfair that this Blake guy’s been given unlimited access to her. The Ten even has them as partners and roommates. The Ten wants the two of them to Cleave? I wonder how Blake feels about permanent cohabitation with a girl he barely knows on this nightmare rock called Thera? Given I haven’t been banned from spending time with Blake, perhaps I should remind him about the consequences of getting too close to my Cleave interest?

It’s time to put myself back in the game.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Blake

My head will freaking explode if they shove any more crap in it. There’s the propaganda, the Canon, the questions, stuff I learned about the city’s layout, and then there are the plans—mine to help my father, and the Theran rulers’ plans for Kira and me. I use my workouts to sort the data into the appropriate list and file it away because I know I’m going to need it all at some point to get out of this mess.

Masterminding the bogus relationship was genius and has given Kira and me time to try to sort the truths from the used car salesman spiel. Kira’s often able to spot the missing pixels from the picture better than I can, so I process data twice as fast with her around. The problem with my grand plan is that I sometimes find it hard to remember that our “relationship” is all for show. Touching her face and holding her hand has me feeling stuff I haven’t felt in a long time, distracting stuff that could lead to mistakes.

Kira has been staring at me the entire workout like I’m the sole food supply on a deserted island. It helps our cover I guess but kills my concentration. It’s not like we can act on the physical attraction to get it out of our system. We would end up Cleaved, and there’s no way I’m being saddled down with that baggage. So, I pretend to pull a muscle lifting and make the excuse that I’m going to go soak it off in the locker room whirlpool.

Once settled into the whirlpool’s water, I hike the jet and bubble action to max and relax for the first time in a week, though the feel of the water reminds me of our flash flood training. We only had ten minutes training before the flash flood exercise, and yet I got us out of danger as if I’d had years’ training. I hope they assumed my survival instinct kicked in and didn’t guess the truth which is that I experienced a horrifying and quite real flash flood when I was six.

Twelve years prior

My dad’s sulking took a lot of time. So after Doc Daryn’s Cleave gave us nightly school lessons, Leila and I played in the canyon until sunup when the heat forced us back into the cave. Leila ran up and down the hills, giggling wildly until her legs gave out. Or she rolled down barren patches of canyon that I helped my dad clear.

By the age of three, Leila had long dark hair like my mother, but she had my father’s hazel eyes. I must have gotten my bright green eyes from a more distant relative. We both had pale ivory skin which Leila tanned by way of a good dirt covering. This infuriated my father as baths wasted precious water reserves, so we often went weeks without a good washing. “You rolled in it, so you can sleep in it,” he would say to us.

There were no storm warning systems in the canyons. So we were told to stay close to home. One day though, Leila and I ventured farther into the canyon than normal with headlamps strapped to our heads.

It was dry one moment, and there was a torrential downpour the next. The hills turned to mud, sliding us towards a raging river at the bottom of the canyon. I yelled at Leila to grab my ankles. I reached for the branch of a bush, but it broke, and we kept sliding.

Cacti and brush along the riverbank kept us from sliding into the river. Neither Leila or I knew how to swim. Sharp thorns were embedded into my back, but that was preferable to drowning.

“Help,” I yelled, but the clatter of the storm overpowered my voice.

No one can hear. I must save us.

I pulled away from the cacti and searched for the familiar rope ladders that litter the canyons, hoping to find one nearby. The rain and mud—coming down with the force of a waterfall—obscured my view. I buried my hands into the nasty slop and dug around, starting to my left a few feet and working to the right. I continued to shift our location, staying in front of the brush until I gripped a familiar twined feel of the ladder.

Leila mounted my back, gripping my neck so tightly I could hardly breathe. I struggled to make progress up the ladder, one rung at a time.

The rain abated for a time, which slowed the rush of mud and water. We managed to ascend to a wide plateau, still well below and west of the caves that served as our home. I found us shelter below a rock outcropping where I intended to stay until the deluge ended.

Wet, muddy, and exhausted from the climb, I clutched Leila in my arms, and we waited it out. For what seemed like hours the downpour resumed, even past sunrise. And then, as quickly as it had started, it ended, and we dared step out into the sunlight to view the carnage.

Carcasses of dead lizards, bugs, and animals blanketed the landscape, including the one community milk cow. I circled the area to get my bearings, watching as the canyon fossilized into its new dried form. Everything looked different.

Knowing my father would be panicked, I used the sun to get a fix on our location and we traversed the plateau. Somehow we ended up more than a mile west of our caves. Finally, we scrambled up the hill to our home. The lookout team exclaimed shouts of relief upon seeing us. As Doc Daryn scrubbed us, removing thorns and hunting for wounds, my father gave his men instructions to round up the search party.

Later that morning, unable to sleep, I watched from the mouth of my cave as two lifeless bodies were carried up the hill, blue, bloated, and ravaged by fire ants and scorpions. The bodies belonged to men I’d known since birth and who had wives and children of their own. The entire community of Exilers mourned their loss. Both were found in the riverbed, drowned. I’m certain those men died trying to find and save Leila and me during the storm.

Whenever I question my loyalty to my father and his plan to save the Exilers and free the Second Chancers from oppression, I think of those two good men, and how they willingly put themselves in harms way for me.

Present

“Mr. Sundry,” I hear from a familiar voice, yanking me back to my more comfortable spa-like surroundings. “So good to see you. I’ve wanted to catch up with you and Ms. Donovan to see how you’re enjoying training. Mind if I join you?” It’s about time Ted made an appearance. He has some explaining to do, as I struggle to reengage and leave the memories of my childhood behind.

“It’s pretty awesome,” I lie. “This place is incredible. I mean, we’re still trying to take it all in—being somewhere other than Earth. That’s huge.” Ted plops his bulging body into the water and we talk training sessions, skate tracks, and upcoming school and sports for a few minutes.

“You and Kira are really lucky to be able to experience it. Not many people can make the journey, you know. It has taken me all week to recover. But since you’re so young and adaptable, I hear you’ve had no issues.” I try to read between the lines to see what he’s getting at. With the noise of the jets it’s very unlikely our conversation can be heard, but I know to be careful anyway.

“Well, the doctors and nurses have been all over us trying to manage any side effects. They seem pretty invested in making sure we’re a hundred percent healthy.” I can tell by his expression I’ve hit the jackpot.

“Of course they are. How often are you seeing them?” he asks.

“Nightly. They’ve been pretty worried about abdominal issues and some sort of lesions that muck with our reproductive systems, so they have checked our blood and given us vitamin shots. They even gave Kira a full abdominal ultrasound because she was complaining…about female stuff probably. I think she said bloating or something. They, uh, made me do some awkward tests too to make sure my fertility’s intact, but I guess the doctors don’t want my future wife showing up here one night accusing them of making me sterile, eh?” I laugh for effect.

“That’s assuming you don’t fall in love with someone here on Thera,” he says. “You and Kira have been pretty cozy, I understand. I just knew you’d like her once you got to know her.”

“What’s not to like? She is smart, hotter than hot, and actually pretty sweet to me. I mean, she wouldn’t have given me the time of night back home, but I don’t have a lot of competition here,” I say. “If it wasn’t for the whole Cleaving weirdness I think we could really be an item. But we’re both a little freaked about being stuck here and never being able to see our families again.” It would be only natural for us to feel this way, so I don’t stress over saying it. He knows I have no family back home except “Aunt Jennifer,” and I’m sure she’s relieved to have me far away. I’d heard her label me “Unabomber clone” more than once when I’d chosen to be anti-social with the family.

Ted addresses my Cleaving comment with, “You guys shouldn’t be worrying about that! Of course you’ll see your families again.” Under his breath he adds, without moving his lips, “They do not plan to ever let you go. You both are pure descendants of the Original Theran settlers. I don’t know how this makes you so important yet, but I’m going to try to find out. They’re saying you are the ‘future of Thera’ and that scares me.” Ted’s words send chills up my spine, despite being immersed in hot water. We’re stuck here on Thera, with our only way out of Garden City being Exile. He adds, in a regular voice, “The only way you stay is if you Cleave Kira or any other girl here.”

“Uh, yeah, I don’t think Cleaving is on my near term to-do list.” I use an irritated tone. “What’s the whole Assisted Pregnancy thing anyway? Did people forget how to get pregnant the old-fashioned way?”

“All pregnancies are done in-vitro here to ensure only healthy babies are born,” he explains. I wish I knew more about in-vitro but reproductive technologies never hit my list of things to become an expert on.

“So, when are you heading back to Earth?” I ask, my implication being, “when will I be on my own?”

“Actually, change of plans,” he says. “The Grand Council promoted me, so I’ll be working right here at the SCI Headquarters in Garden City. I’m excited. I love it here. I really think the place will grow on you and Ms. Donovan, too.”

“Wow, congratulations.” He gives me a wide grin. This has been his hope—to get stationed here so that he can help me succeed from the inside.

“Well, I have to be getting back,” Ted tells me. “I’m so glad you and Ms. Donovan are enjoying your stay. I think you’ll really enjoy working alongside the Second Chancers. Give my best to Ms. Donovan and I’ll keep in touch.”

I wave goodbye and sink back into the bubbles for a few minutes. Future of Thera? There’s something I’m missing, but it’s eluding me. All that focus on Kira has really messed up my concentration.

As I’m about to get up, another guy joins me in the hot tub. He looks a couple years older than me. Dark hair. Blue eyes. The kind of guy that girls would kill their best friend to get near, and the kind of guy I want nowhere near Kira. Unless he’s a total oaf, he could get a girl to Cleave him just by smiling her way. His only flaw is a shimmery scar on his chest, but I’m sure the war story to go with it would just endear him to the ladies even more. I wonder what he’s doing here and why he went under the knife.

“I didn’t know there were any other Recruits right now,” I say to him. “I’m Blake Sundry.” I offer my hand, which he shakes.

“My name’s Ethan. And, technically, I’m not a Recruit. I’m an Intern,” he responds.

“What’s the difference between a Recruit and an Intern?”

“Probably not much.” He laughs. “Except, I don’t work with the Second Chancers. Instead, I’m bogged down in tabletwork hundreds of files long. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Are you from here?” I ask, interested to know whether he’s an Earthling or Theran.

“That’s a long and complicated story. Let’s just say that my parents live in the city, and I spend my summers here,” he says with a tone that leads me to believe he doesn’t love the arrangement. He takes a couple deep breaths and adds, “How are you enjoying the program? Being treated well? Did you get a decent partner?”

“So far, so good,” I reply. “It’s a lot to take in. And I got a fabulous partner—Kira. She’s amazing. Smart, organized, fun—and beautiful.” Have to keep up the illusion that Kira and I are an item for anyone who might be listening in. I blush, and I stop myself from bragging too much. He looks unhappy, seems to be clenching his teeth. Maybe he got a not-so-perfect partner.

“It wouldn’t be the first time that a guy has fallen in love with his female counterpart.” In a hushed tone, he adds, “Just be careful. If you Cleave her, your placement here becomes permanent.”

“I know that, and I never said I was in love with her,” I object, grimacing at the “L” word that I decided never to use again after my Bailey ordeal. Gads. Why would he assume that? So I occasionally have unclean thoughts about her—who wouldn’t? The girl’s gorgeous. Her strawberry blond hair falls into curls without electronic help, although she’s equally pretty when she straightens her hair. Her green and gold eyes are large and widespread. She has lush, full lips. Distinct cheekbones with a sprinkling of freckles give her a touch of the “all-American girl” image. Her body is fabulous with plenty of curve and muscle but zero fat. She’s neither too short nor too tall. And that’s just her looks. Her personality’s even better with an incredible combination of smart, flirty, fun, and nice. Almost too nice, in fact. She gets more upset at her tablet than any person. With people, she seems to have an automatic filter that keeps her from saying an unkind word, except where Ted Rosenberg is concerned.

“There are some girls that just have that effect on guys,” he says. “I should know. I fell for a girl like that myself. I met her at a party and knew she was the perfect girl for me. Now I’m ruined for life. I don’t even want to ever look at another girl.” I hear the men of Thera collectively rejoicing, myself included.

I size him up. The men of Thera, Earth, and every other planet in the universe would feel even safer if this boy was Cleaved and off-limits for the eternities. “Shouldn’t you already be Cleaved? You sure look older than eighteen.”

“I fall under a different jurisdiction, although, my parents would love to have me Cleave anyway.” He gets a little fidgety and starts to run his fingers across his thumbs in a nervous manner.

“So why not Cleave this girl you are so madly in love with?” I ask. Maybe he just needs a little push in the right direction. “Does she feel the same way?”

He chokes out the words. “I thought she did…feel the same way, but my parents have forbidden me from seeing her—for now at least—so it’s not like I can even ask her.”

“Why would they do that?” Perhaps I should have a little chit-chat with his parental units—after I barricade the guy in the locker room so that he doesn’t have a chance to come out and meet Kira. I realize I’m being ridiculously territorial over a girl I’ll never have a future with, but I can’t seem to help myself.

“My parents think she has had too much going on and that I would be a distraction,” he explains. “Plus, they’re not sure I’m worthy of her.” Let me get this straight. He’s plenty old enough to make his own decisions but is letting his parents keep him from his one true love? Seriously, dude, grow a backbone.

“Not worthy? That sounds like a bunch of crap.”

“I was born with a heart defect, and the doctors didn’t think I would make it. It took a bunch of surgeries to fix the problem. Now my parents have a bunch of people trying to convince them that I’ll saddle my future mate with bad genes and that all our babies will be born defective like me.” I think back to what Ted said about Assisted Pregnancies being all about making sure only healthy babies get born. Was Ethan the impetus for this rule or an exception to it, I wonder.

“That’s ridiculous,” I respond. “Why do you listen to them?”

“The punishments my parents dish out aren’t worth the rebellion.” He shudders as if he’s picturing being water boarded or having toes chopped off. He’s an adult, and his parents still punish him? Uh, he really needs to get a life. Of course, I’m only two months away from being eighteen, and I’m doing my father’s bidding, so who am I to judge?

“Your parents know her? The girl?”

“My dad does,” he says. “She, uh, kind of works for him. So he thinks he knows what’s best for both of us.” Well, there was your first mistake—falling for one of daddy’s employees.

“I hear you on the father front. My dad is super controlling too.” I try to make him feel like less of a wimp than he clearly is. “Aren’t you worried that the girl might fall for someone else while your parents have their moratorium going on?”

“That’s exactly what keeps me up at day.” He stares off into the distance. “It would kill me if I lost her to another guy.”

I nod at him. Poor guy. I feel for him…kind of. He definitely got himself into a crappy situation. “So you’re ready for the whole deal—commitment, kids, the works?”

He pauses before answering. “Before I met her—no way. But now? Yes, I think I am. If I hadn’t felt that mind-blowing, world-altering connection with her, I wouldn’t even consider it. If I’m going to be with someone forever, she has got to be the one and only, you know. And I’m pretty sure this girl is it for me. She’s all I can think about.” What a sap. But he’s right, if you’re going to be forced to be with someone for freaking decades, that person would have to be pretty perfect.

“Wow. I’m so not there yet. Just the thought scares the crap out of me.” Now it’s my turn to shudder.

“All the more reason to keep your impulses in check, then.” He gives me a half-cocked grin. “All it takes is one slip-up here, and there are no do-overs.”

“Well, hey. I’ve got to go meet back up with Kira. We get to go walk the canyons, and it’s my favorite time of the night,” I tell him.

“I bet. You take care of her—your partner. She sounds pretty incredible.” I give him a slightly evil glare. I don’t want this guy to even be thinking of Kira at all, much less thinking she’s incredible.

“Sure” I get out and shake off the water before grabbing a towel. “Good luck with your girl. I hope it works out between the two of you.”

“Me too. I’ve just got to be patient and trust that it will.” His head and shoulders are slumped, and his body language screams defeat.

Man, I hope I’m never in a situation like his. What if I did fall for Kira? What if I couldn’t be with her, and she fell for another guy? I wince at the thought of being so smitten that I lose sight of the important things in life. Like winning freedom for the Exilers.

“The grave is but a covered bridge leading from light to light, through a brief darkness.”

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

CHAPTER NINE

Kira

I am so frustrated. This whole fake relationship with Blake is getting to me. Right now, I don’t know what to think.

Blake makes me breakfast every night. I make dinner. He flirts constantly. I pretend to pretend to love it, since I actually do relish the idea of someone liking me. And he’s very interesting—well versed in many topics so that we never run out of things to talk about. We walk every night in the canyon, starting well before dawn. All the hand holding, brushing of my cheek with his fingers, kisses on the cheek, and longing looks into my eyes while discussing our conspiracy theories is making me a little psycho.

Is it all for show or does he have feelings for me? I get the strong impression he hasn’t made up his mind either way. Attraction-wise, he falls short of Ethan, but he has grown on me. Personality-wise, I’m less sold. He’s volatile—sweet one minute and snippy the next. This makes me wary. I’m not sure I can trust him.

We take a walk in the canyons at sunrise the morning before our evening transfer to student housing. Things seem particularly awkward between us. Tonight we’ll be meeting the infamous Second Chancers. We have no idea who we’ll be rooming with or what classes we’ll be taking. Despite a full week’s training, I have little idea of what working with the Second Chancers entails. Blake’s super tense, and I’m uber-hormonal and a little too attracted to him after watching him run and lift weights The yoga and meditation didn’t work for me tonight.

We stop near the bottom of the canyon, and to breach the awkward silence, I pipe up with “I’m dying to know who the Second Chancers are.” My thoughts turn to my conversation with Brad Darcton and potential sighting of Ethan. Could he really be one of them? “I mean, do you really think we’ll know some of them.”

“How would I know?” Blake says in a nasty tone, and then, as usual, catches himself and adds, “Sorry. I…uh…am just a little stressed out. I wish I could answer all your questions and put your mind at ease, but I think we just need to let it play out.” He turns his head and looks like he’s in physical pain. I lean in to whisper that it’s okay, I don’t expect him to answer all my questions, when his head snaps back and our lips meet.

What’s worse than a kiss with someone you aren’t quite sure if you like? An accidental where both parties are unsure of their feelings. As soon as the sensation registers in his brain, he takes a full step back and buries his head in his hands. I step back the other way leaving an uncomfortable four foot distance between us. What can I say that will ease the tension? Not much. That unplanned first kiss rates a one on a scale of one to ten.

Before I can get a word in Blake chimes a “Crap, crap, crap. That should not have happened.”

I fold my arms defensively and spit out my response. “Crap? That’s what you have to say about accidentally kissing me? I thought that was next step for our fake relationship. Won’t the watchers be expecting it?”

“Sure, Kira, yeah I’m sure they’re expecting it, wanting it, but I am just pretty worried that you’re going to regret doing it.”

“I already do,” I snap. “But wait a sec. Me? You think I kissed you? Hardly. But whatever. You can pretend like you don’t like me. I’ll pretend like I don’t like you—which will be easy given that I don’t a big chunk of the time. Forget that it ever happened. I already have. It was completely, freaking forgettable.”

He ignores my poor review of the non-kiss. “Yeah, Kira, you like me in the ‘we’ve been thrown together and I’m the only one you can really talk to’ sense. But you love Tristan, not me, and well, I just don’t know if the whole thing is kosher. I can’t compete with your perfect dead boyfriend.” This upsets me, and I raise my voice to respond. He’s going to blame it on my dead boyfriend now? And when did we go from fake relationship to implying it could be real? I swear this guy’s brain damaged.

“Tristan is dead! How I feel or felt about him doesn’t really matter does it? And he was far…no, miles away from perfect. I’ve only met one guy I thought was perfect—ironically the night of the Goodington party. He was some college guy. We instantly clicked, but I stupidly blew him off because of Tristan—who was busy kissing my best friend, Bri, at the time.”

Blake grimaces at my mention of Tristan’s indiscretion. He says, “That sucks. But it doesn’t mean that we’re right for each other or should even contemplate making this whole deal anything other than a cover. I don’t hear you calling me perfect.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned Ethan, even if I didn’t do so by name. He adds, “Why are people always meeting the perfect people at parties, anyway? Gads. That’s the second time tonight I heard that.”

I cock my head and give him a puzzled look, guessing which of the few people we’ve run across would be the type to be at a party. Not seeing it. “Well, with any luck you’ll be rid of me come tonight and will only have to see me at school.” I snarl.

“I’m not trying to avoid you, Kira. We won’t stop being partners just because we’re relocating. Just promise me that no matter what happens you aren’t going to hate me…that you’ll still have my back?”

He’s right. Given he’s the only person I know from home, I’m stuck with him. “Sure. I still have your back.”

I arise before my wakeup call for the first time, reeling from Blake’s psychotic reaction to our happenstance kiss, and longing for Bri who listened to me overanalyze every aspect of my relationship with Tristan for more than a year without complaint. She would have some useful advice or witty thing to say about my situation that would calm my nerves and make me think that there’s still hope. My attempts to imagine what she’d say fall flat and even her image in my memory is faded, ever so slightly. I sob for the remainder of my shower as I realize I’ve let my training and confused feelings about Blake crowd out my memories of Tristan and Bri. And even though I came here to do just that, I hate myself for allowing it to happen so fast.

Today, or I guess tonight—I’m still working on the terminology shift—I get back some sense of normalcy with the return to school. Even though the format will be different and the kids will be strangers, I’ll still be surrounded by teens and have a routine of homework and activities to keep me grounded. It won’t just be Blake and me, and that alone will help me figure out if my “crush” is just situational or something real.

Blake must not have slept well either because he’s already making breakfast when I leave my room. I’m fidgety since I feel like I should be packing, given we are moving, but there’s nothing to take. Our notes from our training sessions have already been transferred to our new tablets, and everything will be provided at our new residences. We both pick at our food and keep conversation to a minimum as we wait to be fetched by our escort. Any light-hearted, joking atmosphere Blake and I had disappeared post accidental kiss. I figure I’m in for a whole lot of awkward.

Our escort arrives promptly at 1900 hours. I am hoping to avoid an evening pit stop at the clinic, but have no such luck. In fact, they do a longer workup than usual, including another full abdominal ultrasound. The technician looks a little worried as he scans my belly and calls in the doctor to confer, who informs me I have a small lesion that will need surgical correction. I freak at the mention of surgery, but the doctor assures me that it’s a very minor procedure done with a local anesthetic, and that I’ll be in and out in an hour. He schedules the procedure to be done at the school clinic a couple evenings from now and sends me on my way. Thank goodness I didn’t eat a big breakfast, or I would’ve lost it all over him.

Our escort takes us on an amusement park-ride style train, traveling eight or nine stops before exiting through a set of tall glass doors at the GARDEN CITY HIGH stop. Two rights and three lefts later, we’re through a set of double doors and at an outdoor walkway similar to the one at the training center, though this one has periodic ramps and staircases up to another level above. I lean over the rail and note that this canyon looks the same as the last one. We walk the equivalent of three city blocks and are motioned up a ramp to our right onto a lovely porch overlooking the canyon below which at this hour is a sea of dazzling lights.

“This is your new home,” our escort informs us.

“Wait a second.” I’m confused. “Mine or Blake’s?”

“You are partners, so, of course, you will be sharing housing.”

“Who are our roommates? A couple other students?” I ask hopefully.

“Just the two of you, as you are the only two Recruits serving at Garden City High right now, and we never mix Recruits with Second Chancers,” he explains. “But you are surrounded by other students who you’ll meet shortly.” I shove a finger in my mouth and start chewing my nail as I contemplate a year of unsupervised cohabitation. Now I’m positive they want us to Cleave and be stuck here forever.

“Sweet.” Blake tries to diffuse the tension and maintain our cover. “Let’s take a look.” He grabs my hand and pulls me inside, and then whispers in my ear. “Chill. It’ll be fine.” I nod at him, and we proceed to walk through the rooms of our new home. No way it will be fine. A whole year of awkward? You’ve got to be kidding me.

The house is identical to the Cleaved housing residence we’d toured and in immaculate condition. Elaborate tromp l’oeil three-dimensional garden paintings cover every wall and, like the other paintings we’d seen, do not resemble the landscape of Garden City. Where on Thera do they get their inspiration?

“The previous occupants had the murals commissioned. If you prefer to paint your own, we’ll have them painted over immediately,” our escort advises.

“No, no. Don’t do that.” I run my fingers across to feel the uneven surface. “I love them.”

“Me too, and I’m definitely no artist,” Blake adds.

I’m surprised to find we have two bedrooms and bathrooms, since the Cleaved training implied the only way to get one of these was to be a Cleaved couple with children. The man senses my surprise.

“Uncleaved, dissimilar sex recruit partners are given two bedroom homes. Obviously, if the situation ever changes for either of you housing would be reevaluated.” Well, I guess the powers that be do have some semblance of morality. Not much, but at least enough to not want Recruits to get word back home that they’re sharing a bedroom with a member of the opposite sex. That’d be a quick way to destroy the SCI’s unfathomably stellar reputation.

“Thank you. I appreciate that. And my parents will appreciate it, too.” I smile, though unfortunately the man looks as if I’ve just threatened him. Changing the subject, I ask, “So, when do our classes begin?”

“Tomorrow, I believe. You’ll meet with an administrator here shortly to schedule your courses, and then you will meet the other Garden City High students during free time a little later. After exercise time and dinner, you’ll each meet with your assigned Handler to discuss your night.” Mr. Rosenberg told me I would have to do nightly reports, but I forgot until the mention.

“Sounds good.” I hope to sound as amenable as possible. He continues by explaining most of our schooling will be done online from our home, and that the administrator would provide more details.

I’m no expert on square footage, but I’d guess the house is about a third the size of my family home, so somewhere around 2,000 square feet. But because of the layout, central garden, and outdoor sunroom—and the lack of all the junk my parents have accumulated—it feels plenty big for a family of four, and complete overkill for just Blake and me. At the time we visited the model homes, I had no idea we’d be living in one. Somehow I assumed students would be housed in dorms of some sort.

The living area opens to the dining room and kitchen which I like, but the sunroom is my favorite. With the lights off inside, I can sprawl out on the lounge chairs and look up at the night sky, seeing the stars for the first time. The edges of the sky are blurred from the lights of the canyon but not enough to completely obscure the feeling of being in a planetarium.

Blake gets the bedroom with two twins and I’m appointed the one with the queen. He scores two closets, but when we are forced to wear a uniform at all times—even Industrial City issue pajamas—I guess closet space means nothing. Our new clothes are similar fabrics to our training uniforms but are green and gold shimmer, the school colors, rather than white and silver. Thank goodness they picked colors I can pull off. The maroon and gold I had to wear for Carmel Valley High cheer was bad enough, but I didn’t have to wear it 24/7. Several alternative outfits fill my dresser drawers, but I’m clueless as to their purpose. Swimming? Prostitution? There’s some seriously skimpy stuff in there.

The man finally leaves us to change and prepare for our administrative guest. I quickly throw on the new uniform, check the contents of the bathroom to make sure everything needed is present, and freshen up. Then I head back out to the sunroom to do more stargazing. It’s too hot to stay for long but enjoyable nonetheless. I’m starting to get used to the dry heat. I search the skies for the familiar constellations my father taught me such as Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper but don’t see them. Oddly enough the moon looks roughly the same. Although, it has a definite blue-green tinge to it, rather than the white or slightly yellow or orange tints I’m used to.

“You going to be okay with this?” Blake takes up the lounge chair next to mine. “You and me for a year?”

“Sure,” I lie. “You?”

He avoids my gaze. “I’m good. Cool place. I can’t believe they give students their own houses. It’s all seriously crazy, but hey, I can’t complain. Well, except for the fact there are no TV, games, or music that I can find.”

“It is creepy quiet here. I miss my music, especially while working out.”

“Seriously.” He looks ready to add some sort of insult but is interrupted by the chime of the doorbell which he jumps up to answer. The school administrator, a frumpy lady with frizzy gray hair who’d be lucky to top five feet in height, urges our prompt attention to her business.

The next hour and a half is spent going over transcripts, discussing class options, and configuring our new tablets for our class schedules. Our desk area in the living room has headphones, two large monitors to view our lessons on, and our tablets, which will be used for note and test taking. We’ll be taking the same core classes we were taking at CVH but will have electives “more suited to Garden City Living,” like psychology to help us work with Second Chancers, gardening, and art. Turns out you can cover a lot more curriculum when it’s just you and the computer, so we have eight classes instead of six; four each night for an hour and a half each; 1-3-5-7 on M-W-F and 2-4-6-8 on T-Th-Sat. School on Saturnight? I groan at the thought.

Free time doesn’t start until 0200 hours, and it takes us only ten minutes to eat lunch, so I wonder what we’re going to do with two hours of free time. I’m thinking nap? I would read a book, but the options on my tablet look less than interesting. Alas, the same voice that wakes us up each evening appears out of nowhere and urges us to watch the prepared video on our monitors, which will recap our instructions for working with Second Chancers. Boring. I guess I’ll get my nap in, though at a desk instead of my nice new queen bed.

At two o’clock sharp, we receive a knock on our door, which serves as an instant wake up call. I jump up to answer and am surprised to see it’s my buddy Spud Rosenberg.

“Ms. Donovan, I hope Mr. Sundry shared with you the news that I’ll be staying on Thera. In addition to some new responsibilities at Headquarters, I’ve been assigned to be your Handler, which I’m very excited about.” I look at Blake. When did he talk with Spud? He certainly never mentioned it and I wonder what else he has kept hidden.

“Oh, man, I’m really sorry, Kira. I totally spaced. Mr. Rosenberg ran into me in the locker room yesternight and he told me to say, ‘hi,’ but by the time I was out of there—poof—totally gone.” Blake never forgets anything. He has said so himself, but I don’t dare push anything more than a glare in front of our new “Handler.”

“Anyhoo,” Spud says. “It’s an exciting night. You finally get to meet some of our Second Chancers—your fellow classmates. I assume you brushed up on etiquette by watching the video.”

“Uh yeah.” I don’t want to admit I was out cold, drooling on the desk for most of it.

“Really educational.” Blake rolls his eyes. “So, let’s go do this.”

“We can walk or zip,” Spud says. “It’s actually faster to walk, though, as it takes four zips to get there.”

“Walking’s fine,” I respond. The zip lines would be more fun, but I’m eager to get there and see what the big deal is with the Second Chancers. See if Ethan’s one of them.

“And safer,” Blake adds, needling me in my side. I’ve figured out how to brake properly on the zip lines, but Blake still hasn’t let me forget that I ambushed him the one time.

Spud leads us out the door, down the ramp, and then down a walking path in the canyon that leads around a bend to the right. Since the path is new to me, I’m extra careful with my foot placement, as the lights seem more sporadic here than back in the training canyon.

I can see the large flat area ahead we saw by air in our “flyover” and in the scaled city, with dozens of skate paths and trails leading to it. There are tables and chairs, an outdoor basketball court, and a large opening into the side of the canyon. Students are everywhere, gathered under large flood lights, but we’re still too far to get a good look, so I imagine them being animated Ken and Barbie dolls in green and gold casual wear.

“There is an indoor soccer/football field, as well as specialty classrooms for science labs, art clinics, and such inside,” Spud tells us. “The medical clinic is also there.”

“How many students are there?” I ask, trying to get a sense of how the environment will compare to what I’m used to.

“Fifteen hundred, give or take,” Spud responds. Not as big as Carmel Valley High but still a big high school.

The Second Chancers see us coming their way and herd toward the path entrance to greet us. About twenty-five feet out, I start to identify some faces. Most I don’t know, but a few too many are impossibly familiar. I try to scream, but it gets stuck in my throat, and the last thing I hear is Blake saying, “Holy crap” before I stumble headfirst into a thorny bush to the side of the path.

“Gads, the new girl tanked into a Theranberry bush,” I hear a familiar voice say. “She better not have damaged it.”

“Shut up, and give her a break,” Blake responds. “She tripped.”

“Oh, hey, look. She’s waking up.” I open my eyes to confirm what I’d seen wasn’t something out of a horrible nightmare. I scramble off the table they’d put me on and run to a nearby garbage can to vomit up my lunch—a tuna fish sandwich—something I’ll never eat again after re-tasting it upon exit.

Blake rushes to my side and caresses my back, whispering in my ear. “Kira, I know you are seriously tripping. I am too. But, we have to be really careful. We screw this up and we’re Exiled and likely dead within twenty-four hours.” He hands me a towel to wipe my mouth. What I really need is a toothbrush to dislodge the fishy morsels from my teeth. And some tweezers to dislodge Theranberry thorns from my arms.

“I can’t do this,” I respond. I sit down on a bench, hyperventilating, and start to dig the thorns out of my flesh with my fingernails. “I can’t pretend like I don’t know some of these people. I don’t know what kind of sick, twisted trick they’re playing on us or how the heck they pulled it off, but they crossed the line big time.”

“Yeah they did.” He keeps his eyes peeled for eavesdroppers, but the hordes seem to be staying away to allow me time to fully recover, and, also, to stay clear of my vomit repellant.

“I mean—how many times did I hear the term Second Chancers, and not once, not one freaking time did I ever entertain the thought—because it is so not possible.” It does shed some light on many things that Spud said.

“Hey, you can’t keep the new chick all to yourself, buddy.” The boy and a band of do-gooders have joined us, despite the smell, and I take him in, head to toe, looking for something, anything to prove I’m insane. But he looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him, save a change of attire.

“My name’s not buddy. It’s Blake. And this is Kira,” Blake offers, as if it should be news. The two shake hands briefly, but the boy quickly shrugs off Blake and moves forward to address me.

“Hey Kira, good to meet you, gorgeous. I’m Tristan, and we Garden City High kids aren’t all that bad, certainly nothing to puke over. Come meet my girl, Briella, and the others.” He puts his hand out to shake mine. His big brown teddy bear eyes are as entrancing as ever, even if I last saw him kissing “his girl, Briella” a.k.a. my (supposedly dead) best friend.

“Yeah, just a minute. I need a word with Mr. Rosenberg first.” I point towards Spud and ignore Blake’s head shaking. “Excuse me.” I turn and walk across to the tabled area where Spud is taking in the scene.

“Please explain,” I insist. “What are my dead boyfriend, best friend, and classmates doing here? I witnessed the explosion and saw the heaps of incinerated bodies after the fact. So, again, please explain. Now.” Blake has joined me and is listening intently.

“Everything has been explained to you already, dear,” he says. “Your friends are being given a second chance here on Thera. Remember that you were told that ‘what can exist on Earth can’t exist on Thera’ and vice versa? Well, for certain people—those, as I told you before, that were victims of circumstances not of their own making, such as the accident your friends perished in—they are allowed to live out the remainder of what their natural life would have been on Earth here on Thera. I even do recall telling you that my own daughters were happily living out their lives in the next world. The next world has a name. It’s Thera.” He’d told me the story of his daughters’ drowning when he came to my house to offer me a spot with the SCI and have my parents sign the paperwork.

“Yeah, sure, you said all those things, but you left out just enough information for me to be able to put it together. You deceived me.”

He shakes his blubbery chin and asks, “Do you not want your friends to have the opportunity to live out their lives?”

“That’s not it. They don’t even recognize me. How is that? And why did Tristan call Briella his ‘girl’?”

He puts a patronizing hand on my shoulder and uses a hushed tone. “You have to realize that your and Blake’s and my being here is the anomaly—we’ve been given a gift to travel between Earth and Thera. All others who come here must die first, but I can assure you that Second Chancers arrive here in a state of comfort and happiness. They have zero memory of their life on Earth, but their personalities and talents remain intact. They often do become attached to the person they were last with on Earth.” His intimation is clear. How does he know, though, that Tristan and Bri were together?

After allowing a bit of a smile to peek through in recognition that he tweaked me, Spud continues. “The Second Chancers’ welfare is our primary concern, which is why we like to bring in people who know them and can report on their progress from an insider’s perspective. Think of it as an advanced psychology experiment.” My body burns with fury at his arrogance, at the arrogance of the Second Chance Institute. They’re using my friends as lab rats and I’m the mad scientist who gets to push the buttons.

“Mr. Rosenberg, you are a first class psychopath.” Blake grabs my arms to keep me from physically attacking him.

“We can discuss your concerns at our debriefing later. But now, I insist you join your friends and get reacquainted—without discussing the past, of course. The areas beyond Garden City are not very habitable from what I hear.” His tone is threatening. Perhaps he’ll do something worthy of Exile and happen upon the Eco Barrier—which, if there is any justice on Thera, will turn Spud into potato soup.

“Fine,” I respond, gritting my teeth. Despite the Second Chance Institute’s philanthropic claims, I’m convinced that their primary concern is not for my friends or any of the other Second Chancers but for much more selfish reasons. And even though I’m no afterlife believer, if there is a God and a heavenly place we go after death, I’m pretty sure this isn’t it.

I drag my feet as Blake and I head back towards the crowd, jabbing Blake in the side as we do. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He stumbles over his words. “Uh, well, uh, because I’m a little tongue tied and somewhere between being thrilled to see my sister alive, and freaked that the love of your life is standing fifteen feet away from us after you kissed me.” I want to deck him. What’s his obsession with that sucky, accidental kiss anyway? Forget that. Tristan is alive? Tristan and Bri are boyfriend and girlfriend? I have them back, but I don’t since they’re just shells of their former selves. The pain I feel is unbearable, but I’m going to have to wait a couple hours to have the breakdown that must happen. Until then, I’m going to plaster on my cheer smile and make friends with my friends.

As we rejoin Tristan, I say, “Sorry about that. I just needed to talk to Mr. Rosenberg about the medications the doctor shot into me this evening. Clearly they had some major side effects that no one told me about.” They all nod as if they can relate, although I doubt they get the pleasure of nightly clinic visits. Or maybe they do if they’re really lab rats. “Anyway, let’s start over. I’m Kira Donovan. This is Blake Sundry, and we’re obviously new to the school.”

“Where’d they house you?” Tristan asks.

“Around the bend. Nice place. How about you guys? Where are you at?” I point in the general direction of our house but realize all I can see is swirling lights.

“Bri and I are sharing a place that way, too. That’ll be sweet. We can skate over together after classes.” Several others point in the general direction of our house, as well.

“Blake’s an awesome skater, but I can’t quite get the hang of it.” That’s a lie given I’ve never tried, but it is a certainty that I’d suck.

“You guys have a thing going?” Tristan asks as he gestures between Blake and me. I don’t know quite how to answer that. The powers that be assume we have a relationship going. Given the situation now, am I prepared to keep that up? Blake is looking to me to respond, as I can tell there’s no way he’s going there.

“Uh yeah, some sort of thing.” I use enough finality to make it clear I don’t intend to share more. “And you are with—was it Bri or Briella?”

“Yeah, Bri and I are pretty tight. We haven’t Cleaved, but we’re seriously thinking about it. We just had this instant connection, you know?” He motions Bri over. She’s as stunning as ever, her athletic figure adapting well to Theran attire. She seems to be checking out Tristan’s reaction to me before determining whether I’m friend or foe-worthy.

Bailey Goodington joins us but ignores me completely. She seems to be in shock at the sight of Blake, looking him and up and down like he’s a melting popsicle that she wants to lick. Blake, on the other hand, is looking at Bailey like she’s a popsicle that he’d like to take a blow-torch to. I can see Bailey going after fresh meat, but what is Blake’s deal with Bailey? I have to snicker at seeing Bailey, the former queen of fashion, in a standard issue Garden City High uniform, even if she does manage to rock it. Back on Earth Bailey’s wardrobe seemed to self-propagate, and I always imagined her closet to be complete with a personal tailor (actually, I know she had a standing Tuesday afternoon appointment with her tailor so that her weekend wardrobe could be finished by Friday. He, however, worked offsite at his Goodington-funded studio).

“Kira and Blake. Meet Bri and Bailey,” Tristan says. I bite my nail again, still not being able to get my head around Tristan and Bri together. Flashes of that night fill my head which are only made more vivid as Tristan shoves some tongue down Bri’s throat right in front of us. It’s him all right, hasn’t changed a bit.

“So—” Blake finally finds his voice, “—why don’t you guys show us around?” Thank you Blake for getting us off the topic of relationships and Cleaving or I would be doing a lot more heaving. Tristan drags Blake off to show him the sports facilities and I’m left with Bri and Bailey.

“Kira, is it?” Bri asks. Bailey’s busy watching Blake walk away and muttering “unfreakingbelievable.” I guess he made quite the impression on her. I feel a small pang of jealousy over her open gawking at my fake boyfriend.

“Yeah,” I answer Bri as I stare at her. She looks the same. Still tall. Hair’s still dark and wavy. Eyes are still bright blue and surrounded by heavy eyeliner and eyeshadow. But her demeanor has changed a bit. She looks happier, less jaded. The last year before her death she’d been a little withdrawn, always wanting to talk about and meddle in my business but never willing to open up about her own.

She can spew out words faster than anyone I know. “Ignore Tristan. He’s a super competitive showoff. I swear he thinks the next couple to self-Cleave is going to get some sort of prize or something.” I can’t respond to that one without saying something I shouldn’t, so I just nod.

“Your boyfriend is hot,” Bailey pipes up, making conversation. “His name’s Blake? He has got gorgeous eyes and a smokin’ body.”

“Yes, his name’s Blake Sundry. But, we aren’t quite at the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing,” I respond. Bailey shoots me one of her well known “I’m better than you” smiles. I can already see the scheme forming in her head. She’s nothing if not one of the most calculated and manipulative people I know. We always got along as fellow cheer squad members, but those who weren’t on her good side were targeted and tortured. She was particularly vindictive while wasted, and she rarely abstained. If she has got her sights set on Blake and thinks I’m in her way, it could get ugly.

Briella pipes in. “Kira, I bet you and Blake will Cleave. You look right together. There’s no hurry though unless his eighteenth is coming up like Tristan’s,” she says, presumably to irk Bailey. Bailey looks at Briella like she wants to stab her.

Bailey says, “I have to disagree. Kira here looks all ‘what you see, you can’t touch’ and, well, Blake looks like the real touchy-feely sort. And I just know he feels real fine. Someone’s gonna Cleave that, and I’m willing to bet my teebs that it’ll be someone who knows what to do with such exquisite merchandise.”

“I don’t think either of us are thinking about Cleaving.” I try not to let Bailey know she has hit a nerve or three.

Bri swats Bailey in the arm. “Knock it off. You’ve been anti-Cleaving all along. Don’t pretend like you’re suddenly a fan.”

“That’s because I’ve been surrounded by uninteresting dolts…until now.” Bailey flashes her most wicked grin. Yeah, in your past life you seem to have found most of these guys quite interesting at one time or another. “Besides, a girl has a right to change her mind. Cleaving may just be for me after all.”

Bri ignores Bailey, rolls her eyes, and addresses me. “A few of our friends have hooked up and ended up Cleaved. And then there were others who didn’t Cleave before their eighteenth birthday. The government Cleaved them to random people they barely knew. Maybe it’ll work out, but I prefer to choose my Cleave myself.” Gah. They look the same, talk the same, but they’re dead, and I’m having a hard time getting past that critical piece of data. And their obsession with Cleaving? Shut up already about it. I so do not want to be even thinking about it, much less talking about it all the time.

“Yeah, I definitely think choice is a good thing,” I respond. So’s freedom and governmental checks and balances. Those seem to be missing in Garden City, too.

“We’re going to get along, you and me,” Bri tells me. “I’m glad you’re here. I can tell we’re like-minded.” I used to think we were on the same page until I found her groping my boyfriend.

“Thanks. So, what’s there to do around here?” And with that, they show me around what is actually an enormous complex, serving children from preschool through high school depending on the area. Several areas are so crowded it’s almost claustrophobic, but everyone seems to have friends and be generally happy, so I guess that’s good. It all feels old school to me, like it must have been for my parents before everyone got obsessed with TV, the internet, texting, music, and games. The focus appears to be on getting out and staying active, or on exploring one’s artistic talents. Had I come here cold turkey without having my self-imposed mourning period of inactivity, I would have gone nuts, but, by now, I’m plenty used to not being attached to my phone, computer, and music at all times.

We stop by the school clinic to clean and bandage my Theranberry bush wounds before continuing our tour. While walking, I ask Bri and Bailey all kinds of generic questions like where to get my hair done (they come to you), and whether they get to take any trips into the city (they take at least one a week to see various Career options). I’m careful not to ask about anything that they probably don’t have like restaurants or shopping, keeping it to inquiries about free time and school classes.

I want to find out when they got here, how they got here, and where they were prior—but know better than to ask. How can they deal with being seventeen, almost eighteen, not knowing what they did for the first seventeen years? I suspect that’s why the past can never be mentioned. If the seed isn’t planted then they don’t even worry about the existence of the seed. Briella does most of the educating me about the way of things while Bailey peppers me with questions about me and Blake and where we were before we arrived. For someone with no memory of what happened, she seems oddly inquisitive. I was wary of alive-Bailey and surely don’t trust dead-Bailey.

We meet up again with the boys on the interior football field where Tristan is tossing the ball to Blake with the force of a bullet. Tristan’s posse is cheering him on and laughing at Blake’s comparatively inept ball handling skills. Blake looks less than happy about it. Tristan has got his shirt off and is calling plays as if Blake should know the entire high school playbook. Blake sees me and bolts off the field to my side, skirting Bailey who tries to grab him.

“Save me,” he whispers. “You promised to have my back.”

“Then save me,” I whisper back. “Because I’m having a seriously bad nightmare that involves zombies.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Tristan says, getting his sweaty body a little too close for comfort. “You already see some other guys you like better and want to ditch Blakey boy here? You probably never saw him try to catch a football before, eh?” he says—I’m sure as a joke—but it just sounds conceited and makes Bri even more uncomfortable than it does Blake and me.

I roll my eyes at Tristan’s dig at Blake. High school antics really are universal and I guess boys will be boys no matter what planet they are on. To Tristan I say, “Blake and I want to go take a walk in the canyon and check it out.”

“I can show you the best paths,” Tristan offers.

“I think that they’re looking for a little alone time, Tristan,” Bri says, and when I see Tristan sign “Forgive me” to her, I can barely squeak out a response.

“Thanks, but another time. See you guys in a bit.” I grab Blake by the hand and head to the first path I see once leaving the interior. I walk carefully but purposefully, paranoid about tripping into another thorny bush or happening upon some creepy critters. The path I chose isn’t as well lit as most. Every sound makes me jump, and I don’t want to stray so far from the school, but I need distance from the dead kids. So, I wait until we’re at least a hundred yards away from anyone before I speak again.

“Can I scream now?”

CHAPTER TEN

Blake

“I’m not sure screaming is going to help,” I tell her. “It’d just echo through the canyon and then you’d have to go back and explain why you’re having a meltdown over meeting some kids—who we aren’t supposed to know—and who tried to be nice and show us around.” She’s pacing back and forth and flailing her arms like a deranged chicken and I know I need to get her to chill quickly.

“Okay, so those freaking SCI psychopaths stick us in a school with all our dead friends and want us to watch them like a bunch of mice in a cage and report on them nightly. Am I missing anything? What is the punishment for blowing the lid on all of it? Exile? How bad can it be? Maybe I could find shelter, food, and an exit portal out of here. That Daynighter dude implied the exit portal was close,” she says in a hushed but clearly upset voice.

“Or we can both calm down and work on a plan that doesn’t involve immediate Exile. I mean, I have ideas about what to do.” That was a slip. I can’t tell her now, can I? No, no I can’t. Then she’d distrust me as much as she does Ted. I need her to stay on my side.

“Like what?” she asks. I move in close to her, staring into her wide set green and gold eyes that are definitely high on the “Things I find attractive about Kira despite my attempts not to” list. My body betrays me at every possible junction.

“I’m going to hug you now.” I put my arms tightly around her, which sends an electric sensation through my more sensitive areas. I don’t want to let go. “You’re just going to have to trust me. You’ve had enough crud dumped on you tonight and don’t need all my baggage as well. So why don’t we get through this first, and then I can have sharing time, and you can hate me for dragging you into it.”

“That does sound like a plan. How much longer before we get locked in our house, and I can have my meltdown?”

“We’ve got a half hour until our mandatory workout time. Afterwards, we can go back for dinner and meltdown,” I respond.

“Where do we workout exactly?” she asks. “Please tell me we don’t have to work out with the dead kids, please, please, please?!” I grimace, knowing she’s not going to like my answer.

“Sorry. Didn’t you see that monster gym off the back of the fields?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“Well, that’s where we’re required to work out with the zombies.” I chuckle in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. “I don’t think they’re exactly zombies though. They’re a bit too lively.”

“I think I would be better with zombies. Because it’s one thing to imagine decaying bodies digging themselves out of a grave, and quite another to have completely blown to bits bodies suddenly reappear in perfect form. I mean, Humpty Dumpty never got put back together again, and he was just a freaking egg.”

“You seriously never contemplated any sort of life after death? Billions of people in the world believe in it, and we’ve just seen proof. That’s actually pretty cool if you think about it,” I respond. Of course, there are some people who don’t really deserve life after death, mainly Ms. Bailey Goodington. Since she can’t remember squat about our history, I think I may have to make an effort to ensure her “afterlife” is as close to the hell she deserves as possible. The way she looked at me though…eerily like she used to back when we were steaming up her pool (and the pool house). It was hot then and, to be honest, it’s still kind of hot. Scary, but wow. Thank goodness for that “Cleave-axe” positioned over my neck, or I might be tempted to refill my drink so to speak.

Kira answers my life-after death question with, “I mean, I thought it’d be nice, but it’s not like I was raised by born-agains or anything, so God and I aren’t really on a first name basis. And if there is a God, I really doubt he’s only going to give a fraction of the people who die every year a second chance, and send them to some sort of autocratic world where no one’s allowed to mention him.”

“Everything has to make perfect sense to you, doesn’t it? Do you ever take a leap of faith on anything?”

“Ha ha.” She gives me a weak smile. “I’m trusting you, aren’t I? I want to crawl in a hole and die right now, but I’m giving it a go because you asked me to.”

I want to comfort her or somehow say the exact right thing. “How are you about Tristan? And Tristan and Bri?” I ask. That wasn’t the right thing. I can tell by the look on her face. My eyes have adjusted to the low light enough to catch the glare. Her mental wheels are spinning as she tries to place all her feelings in cookie cutter pieces to get the solution to the puzzle.

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s them, but all that shared history we have is gone. Dead Bri and I clicked, but I can tell she’s pretty defensive about Tristan. And they’re supposedly dating, but Tristan was kind of flirty with me yet saying and signing things to her that he usually did with me. Not that it matters. They’re dead and can never exist again on Earth.”

Kira rambles about her confused feelings. The only nugget I pick up on is that she thinks Bailey Goodington has a thing for me. No way I’m telling Kira about my history with Bailey. Kira’s tirade continues for a few minutes, and my brain hurts from her psychoanalysis. Man, I’m so happy I’m not a chick. They think way too much and overcomplicate everything.

“And how do you feel about keeping up our little charade? Or do you want to make a play for Tristan? I mean, you can’t do both, and I know his Cleave date is coming up.” I hate to push on this stuff so soon, but I can trust her unedited thoughts better than the contrived ones she might give me later once she sorts her strains of paranoia.

She pauses before answering, avoiding my gaze and taking a few deep breaths. I brace myself for the inevitable blow to my ego. How could she ever choose to continue with our fake relationship—a guy she has only known a couple weeks—over her long time boyfriend? It’s going to royally screw up my plan, though, if she bails on me. She’s my cover. Finally, she speaks, “As long as you can deal with one overly hormonal, really messed up girl as your pretend girlfriend, I’m good to leave things the way they are for now. In the meantime, I have a lot to work through, so I’m probably not going to be so great to be around. Can we just say I’m cranky about my upcoming surgery?”

What the hell? “Surgery? What surgery? You didn’t mention that.”

“Sorry, the doctor told me this evening that I do have one of those reproductive organ lesions, but the surgery’s apparently just an hour-long deal, and they’ll give me a local for it…though I wish they’d knock me out since I think it involves a really big needle,” she says.

“I don’t want to freak you out any worse, but do you believe them? Could it be something else? Extracting your DNT like you were worried about or something?” I grab her when the blood drains from her face because she looks like she’s going to keel over again.

She fixates her eyes on me, glaring. “I hadn’t thought about that, but I was needing some more fodder for my nightmares, so thanks.”

“Technically, here they’re called daymares—or I think they would be. But sorry. I’m an admitted paranoid.” I shrug my shoulders.

“The doctor seemed sincere, but it’s not like I know how to read an ultrasound. They gave me an extra couple shots and some meds to take to get ready for the surgery and help prevent infection,” she says. I wish I knew for sure what they were doing was legit, but I have absolutely no reason to think they’d be messing with “the future of Thera” unless it was necessary.

“I’m sure I’m just overreacting after everything that has happened tonight. DNT is in the blood, so if they wanted that they wouldn’t stick a needle in your tummy. There may well be medical consequences from passing between Earth and Thera. After all didn’t—” I pause because I was about to say Ted, but I quickly change because Kira isn’t quite on a first name basis with him, “—Mr. Rosenberg tell you that we are anomalies to be able to be here? It probably does muck with our systems, and the doctors are probably trying to help. But, don’t let them put you under, Kira. Watch what they do so we can talk about it and make sure it adds up, okay?”

She looks terrified, my attempt at comforting her being an epic fail. “Yeah, sure, I guess. Or maybe I can beg to have you there, since I’m really not positive I can look at that needle.”

“That’d be even better.” I’m not certain they will go for it, but what teenage girl wouldn’t want her boyfriend at her side holding her hand through something uncomfortable? It’s worth a shot.

“Thanks, Blake. You’re the only thing getting me through this.” She gives me such a sweet look that I’m tempted to brush up on my making out skills. Kira is just as gorgeous as Bailey but with less venom for sure. However, I know I need to remain in control. I’ve kept my hormones tamped down for a long time and need to continue to do so. My one and only job here is to combat evil in its purest form.

Four years prior

My mind reverts to memories of my dad, and my years of no-holds-barred training. When he was home, he worked me for hours after school and every weekend. Some of it required mental prowess. The rest, physical strength and acuity. I didn’t beat him in hand-to-hand combat until my fourteenth birthday, but he had no issue with starting my training at the age of eight. Day after day of having the crap beat out of you takes its toll. So when I finally won, celebration was in order, but the only celebration I got was mental triumph.

On that particular day, we were doing combat in a dumpy shack located an hour into Death Valley. During the fight my dad made a crucial mistake, as I faked a hit to the abdomen but whirled around and chopped him in the kidney from behind. His recovery was quick, but his stamina suffered, and the strength of his blows to my knees and left shoulder weren’t enough to keep me from a blunt kick to his shins, buckling his body and allowing me to pin him to the ground.

My dad never once showed pride in my efforts. That day was no exception. Instead, he pointed out my flaws and weaknesses, each posing a risk to my life, and, by extension, everyone important to him.

“I beat you.”

“Your hits were weak, and I would have been able to break your grip before you’d disabled me,” he responded. Sure, you could have, old man. I watched him wipe the sweat off his receding hairline. He’d long since shaved his beard and wore his hair military style—a stark contrast from the bushy mess he’d kept in my youth, probably due to lack of shears or razors. Although my father had aged as all parents do, he kept a youthful glow about him, or what I like to call the “fire of revenge” within.

“Well then, perhaps you should get someone else to go back to that hellhole.” I turned to storm out of the sauna he chose for our match.

“Don’t you dare walk out on me! We have hours of work left. Once you get past the Eco barrier sim and across miles of desert you can rest. Until then, stop whining and focus, or I’ll leave you here, and you can try to get back to civilization intact,” he said, voice raised so high it cracked.

All kind feelings he’d once displayed vanished the day my mother died, every pore of his body and soul having been devoted to getting us to safety, and then taking down the SCI. I blame the Militants for my dad’s changed demeanor. They took his seeds of disillusionment and blossomed them into a full-out obsession with revenge on the SCI that splintered the Exilers into two factions. Fanatical and practical. Guess where my Dad sided?

“Will I get birthday cake?” I glared at him, not expecting an answer or the cake. “Happy birthday to me.”

“Just be happy you’re even able to have a birthday. Your mother’s not so lucky,” he responded, as if I needed the reminder. I followed him out of the shack. We walked a hundred yards to where my “obstacle course” awaited me. Rather than waste time with further argument, I slipped into a thin white reflective suit and protective mask, and squeezed my toes into the grips of the handmade stilts I’d fashioned from desert brush.

Placement of the stilts through the simulated dead man’s land was crucial. I blocked out everything but the pattern of chemical detonators. This pattern resembled the Milky Way. Any pressure applied on an actual Eco barrier sensor would fog the area with deadly gas. If the gas didn’t kill you immediately, the prolonged reaction to the acid released with the gas would melt the clothes from your body and disintegrate your flesh.

My dad could only simulate the experience. To live once back in my homeland, I must figure out a way to disable all Eco barriers. Short of that, I need to locate and mentally store each city’s Eco barrier pattern, along with all the other data my father and his cohorts need. Had I not been blessed with a photographic memory, the task would be impossible. But I inherited my parents’ brilliant minds, and so the memorization was easy. I just had to master the physical execution.

Failure plagued me the first couple dozen times I attempted the Eco barrier sim exercise. I set off my father’s fake chemical “smoke bombs,” choking on the cloud of fumes generated and having to be dragged off the field. However, I refused defeat on my birthday, and, so, that day I used extra care to maneuver the grid, completing my mission in record time, despite the heat and dry brush littering the desert landscape.

Twelve inches left, eight up, nine kitty corner to the right, back four, sideways to the right fourteen, and so on, three hundred sixty-four steps total.

My legs ached. Thirst consumed me. It’s been twelve freaking hours since he let me have water.

I removed my suit, wrapped it around my head in a makeshift sun hood, and ran the final five miles averaging seven minutes per mile to my destination, a small camp. There I coughed bloody mucous until my father had offered me a meager amount of water and dry biscuits.

He criticized me as he always does. “Your form was terrible. You came within inches of the pressure points more than twenty times.”

“Whatever. I’d like to see you try,” I replied as I attempted to dislodge hot sand from my sweaty clothes. “I finished, and I want to go home now.”

“Survive the night without being killed by scorpions or rattlers, and you can return to your cushy life at Aunt Jennifer’s.”

Present

Why has my father bemoaned me the life he’d promised my mother I would have? But, ultimately, he’s not really responsible, is he? The Second Chance Institute and their benefactors shoulder that burden. And what is that saying about burdens being lifted off shoulders? That day will truly be a day for celebration. Not just for me—for every Exiler and Second Chancer.

“Night is the blotting paper for many sorrows.”

—Author Unknown

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kira

Whatever uncharacteristic sweetness Blake had offered in the canyon quickly disappears the moment we enter the gym in our workout clothes and find Tristan and Bailey waiting for us.

“Welcome back,” Tristan says. “Hey Blake, want to lift with me? Think you can bench more?”

“Uh, no thanks, I’m going to run,” Blake responds. Thinking this must give him license to address me, Tristan wedges his way between us, pushing Blake aside with his right arm, and putting his left arm around me.

Tristan licks his lips. “I missed you while you were off canoodling with what’s his name in the canyon. We haven’t really had a chance to get to know each other.” He looks me up and down like I’m a slab of beef at the local steak house. I check him out in return like he’s some sort of dead guy brought back to life. Oh wait…

Bailey wastes no time, grabs Blake’s arm. “You run. I’ll follow. I love a good chase.” Looks like it’ll be a long night for both of us.

“Look,” I respond, staring into the big brown eyes I once loved so much which don’t have the same glisten for me they used to have. “Tristan is it? I got a chance to know your girlfriend, and she seems pretty cool. And, I’ve got a mandatory workout to get to, so…”

“I’ve got a killer circuit I can show you.” He ignores my hints. “I’ve whipped every girl here into shape.” He starts to point at several girls and I note that he seems to only point out the exceptionally pretty ones, certainly not every girl. My eyes turn to plead for Blake to interfere, but he’s already up to full speed on one treadmill, while Bailey’s slowly walking on the next one.

“I love Tristan’s circuit. Give it a try,” Bri says, appearing out of nowhere. Of course you do. When I was forced to take cheer, gymnastics, and dance as my mom’s clone-in-training, Briella played soccer and softball. In sixth grade, she grew from five-foot-two to five-foot-eight and took up basketball and volleyball. Her skills in both only improved as she grew another couple inches by eighth grade. She has the height and looks to be a model, though she could easily crush one. In contrast, I was all toothpick until ninth grade when I finally sprouted and curved. This secured me a coveted spot on the Carmel Valley High varsity cheer squad my sophomore year—or maybe my tumbling skills secured me the spot, I’ll never know. But I never topped five-foot-six.

“Yeah, okay, fine. Circuits it is.” Tristan leads me over to an area by the free weights and weight equipment. I follow along as he takes me through a routine of squats, chest presses and flies, tricep and bicep curls, lunges, leg extensions, crunches, and more. He’s shocked that I pick it up so quickly, and use the right form. Of course, I can’t mention that I watched him do the same circuit dozens of times and suffered through it with him just as many. Every expression and grunt he makes rings familiar, not to mention his obsession with form, and resting no more than thirty seconds between sets, and the way he slides his hands over his stomach ripples after doing crunches as if there’d be an immediate improvement. The only thing missing to complete the déjà vu is the kisses between sets, and the thing added to create maximum awkwardness is periodic glares from Bri and Blake.

“What do you think?” Tristan interrupts my thoughts.

“About what?” I mumble. I’m not sure I’m ready to make small talk with him.

“About all of it. Your new digs, the school, the people, the workout, me,” he says. That all?

“Oh,” I respond. “It’s a bit early to make judgments on anything a few hours in.”

“You are an amazingly beautiful girl.” He looks like a used-car salesman as he dishes the compliment. “There’s something about you that is really…familiar and appealing. I can’t decide what it is, but I’m going to figure it out.” Could it be possible that some part of him remembers me, too? That he still feels a connection? Spud said that the Second Chancers often feel connected to the person they were last with…Well, Tristan, in his stupidly drunken state that night, kissed both Bri and me. I’m not sure how to respond to the flirting, though. A shower comes to mind, as the thought of kissing a dead guy still oozes creeper vibes from head to toe, just as I told Bailey and her vamp-seeking friends the night of her party.

“Thanks, I guess, for the inappropriate compliment and the workout. I’m going to go do some stretching so I don’t feel like a pretzel tomorrow.” And so I can shake off the willies.

“What’s inappropriate about calling you beautiful?” He gets his sweaty, shirtless body a little too close for comfort, and reminds me how much taller he is than me. If I expected to see scars from where he’d been stitched back together, I’d be disappointed. There are none, just the same swathe of chest hair he has always had.

“Well, uh, you have a girlfriend, and I’m with Blake,” I explain. His eyes narrow and he shakes his blonde curls.

“Until I Cleave, I’m not tied down to anyone. I still have a month before I’m eighteen, and, until then, I have time to convince any girl, including Bri and you, to Cleave me before someone else decides for me.” I shake at the thought. I’m speechless and just motion that I’m going over to stretch, leaving before he has the chance to say anything else. I quickly get into a yoga pose, eyes closed.

“It’s okay, you know.” I hear Bri’s voice. “I don’t blame him for being interested.”

I stare at her incredulously. “No, it’s not okay. At least, I’m not okay with it. I think if you’re with someone, you’re with them and only them. From experience, I can assure you that anything else just leads to disaster and heartache.” I may sound a little bitter, still burned by their stunt the eve of Winter Formal. It’s hardly fair since she has no memory of that night. For me, I only have one positive memory of that night and I would like him to be the one to reappear. Every other person I remember being blown to smithereens at that party is here but not Ethan. In some ways, it’s worse to think that he lived and never contacted me, than that he died and is resurrected here on Thera. He probably left the party, went straight to his girlfriend, and never looked back.

Bri cocks her head and gives me a look of pity. “Soon enough we’re going to be Cleaved for life, so I guess I want to make sure it’s right. And it wouldn’t be right for Tristan and me if he’s into someone else. He’d just be miserable. I knew the moment I first saw him that he was the guy for me, but it doesn’t happen that way for everyone. Last day I thought we would Cleave but Tristan was pretty teebed so I let him sleep it off,” she says. This conversation sucks. How did I get to a place where I’m defending her relationship with Tristan and mine with Blake? And what exactly is “teebed?” I went through all our cupboards and didn’t see a drop of alcohol anywhere.

“Any guy would be crazy to not be into you. You’re gorgeous,” I say with all honesty. “And given Blake and I have only been here a few hours, it’s pure craziness to even be talking about Cleaving or anything of the sort. I’m just trying to get through the first night, you know?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she responds, though I can tell she’s still concerned about it. I dare to look around and can see both Tristan and Blake’s eyes focused my way, though Bailey’s over there trying hard to distract Blake. My feelings are a jumbled mess. How can I ever make sense of dead people made alive, impending lifetime Cleavings and the implications thereof, my fake relationship with Blake, and back-to-life Tristan hitting on me? I rub my temples and fight off a migraine.

I continue my stretching and my situation analysis until Blake shrugs off Bailey and comes to offer me a towel. He stayed shirted tonight as if he’s embarrassed to be seen shirtless in the same vicinity as Tristan’s bodybuilder physique.

“Thanks. How was your workout?” If I expected an answer, he disappoints, shrugging his shoulders as he winces. “Nothing’s changed,” I add, trying to reassure him. Why’s he so worried about our stupid, fake relationship anyway?

He leans in to give me a light kiss on the cheek and whispers. “Sure it has. I’ll walk you back after showers.” I open my mouth to object, but he puts two fingers against my lips. His defeatist attitude irks me big time.

Can he really think I’ll give up my entire life back on earth, as pathetic as it has been recently, to live with my dead high school boyfriend here on rule-heavy Thera? Sure, I still have feelings for Tristan. How could I not? My life revolved around him before he died but not always in a positive way. If I wasn’t sure Tristan was the one after more than a year, how could I hope to decide that before his eighteenth birthnight? Those last few weeks before Tristan died had been a lot more negative than positive. If Blake should have any concerns about competition with our fake relationship, it’s with Ethan, not Tristan. A perfect fantasy boy’s way more dangerous than a very imperfect, two-timing ex. Just thinking about Ethan makes my heart ache in a way that neither Blake nor Tristan can. With some effort, I re-bury the memory.

After Blake vanishes from sight, I scurry to the girls’ locker area. Tristan heads my way. I pretend not to hear him call my name and close the door behind me. A shower soothes my sore muscles before I change back into my school uniform. I find Blake waiting for me outside the complex and, for the first time, I wish I knew how to skateboard, as our travel time “home” would be cut dramatically. We walk silently past the spot where I passed out earlier, and I curse Spud under my breath.

“So, you’re not talking to me?” I ask him finally. “It kind of seems like we should have more than ever to talk about.”

“Not now, Kira.” I jump ahead and turn to face him all in one step, so that he has to stop. “What?” he demands.

“What has you so upset? So I worked out with Tristan. I felt stuck because Bri told me to, and as you said, it’s not like they know the history, so I was trying to do my job and be nice.”

“You looked like you were having a real nice time.” I guess this is Blake jealous, and I really don’t want to fight with him about it given I hate fighting under any circumstance. His emerald eyes and body language are fiery. It breaks my heart that he’s mad, and my heart can’t stand any more destruction tonight. I motion him towards me as if I want to whisper something to him and I kiss him lightly on the cheek. He smells like Theranberry soap and shampoo.

“What was that for?” The whoosh of skateboards behind us interrupts my thoughts, as I turn to see them screech to a sharp stop. My silent wish for instant teleportation goes unfulfilled, and we are left face-to-face with Bri and Tristan yet again. Tristan looks ridiculous on a skateboard. He just doesn’t have the body type for it.

“Wow, you’re only getting cheek? You’ve got to go for the tongue action,” Tristan tells Blake. I chuckle since I never had the guts to tell Tristan how much I hated his throat-seeking “tongue action.”

“Uh, gee, thanks for the advice,” Blake mumbles.

“Want to join us for dinner?” Tristan offers.

“Thanks, but not this morning,” I say quickly. “Can we get a rain check? We’re still getting settled and have someone stopping by later to make sure everything is well stocked and in order.”

“Sure.” He gives a smile that tells me he’ll keep asking until we say yes. “We’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Uh huh.” I think of how many tomorrows of this I’m going to have to endure before I get to go home. I wave to Bri as the two of them push off their boards and distance themselves within seconds.

“Promise me something.” Blake mesmerizes me with his eyes.

“What?” I ask not being willing to make a promise I can’t keep.

“We need to talk. There’s stuff about me you don’t know…that might make you hate me.” He avoids eye contact.

“Why would I hate you?” I knew it. I knew there was stuff he wasn’t telling me, and that I couldn’t completely trust him. It must be bad if he thinks I’ll hate him.

He leans his forehead into mine and stares at me. His eyes look a little watery.

“Spill.”

“Not now. But soon. We’ve got to get back. It’s time for your mental breakdown.” I know that our sunlight quota is nearly up. Blake jogs up the hill. As I contemplate our “date” with Spud and my pending meltdown, my feet feel heavy. I struggle to finish the climb to the top of the hill, falling well behind Blake. He patiently waits for me.

“Hey neighbors,” I hear and look up to see Tristan and Bri, which quickly snaps me back to reality. You’ve got to be kidding me. They put us next door to them? Blake looks as thrilled as I do to see them watching us from their balcony, separated only by a half wall to ours. “How awesome is it that you guys are right next door?”

“So awesome. Bastards are going to pay,” Blake mutters. He then says, more pleasantly, to our neighbors, “We’ll see you guys tomorrow. I think I’m going to go cook this beautiful lady some dinner.” He grabs my hand and pulls me up the ramp to our house.

“What? Doesn’t she know how to cook?” I hear Tristan saying. Neither of us responds, and I’m relieved when the door shuts securely behind me. I stumble into the living room. Blake pulls me down onto the couch and into his arms. The tears start streaming and I release the emotions I’ve been holding in all night.

How the heck can this not be a dream? Is it possible I was actually injured in the blast at the Goodington’s? Am in a coma and my brain has fabricated all of this? Didn’t I see a TV show like that once? Isn’t that more possible than traveling through a portal in the ocean to Earth’s sister world where dead people live again and some sick and twisted, faceless rulers force their loved ones to attend to them?

Do I still love Tristan? Or is that chapter of my life closed? Could I allow myself to develop feelings for Blake? Can he ever live up to the memory of Ethan, who I felt sure could be the one? Or will I turn on Blake when I learn his secrets? What has he done anyway? Did he spend time in juvie or something? Was he abused? Raised by meth dealers? What could explain those scars on his hands? Although I need to know his deep dark secret, I first need to deal with the existence of the Second Chancers.

The thing that I get stuck on over and over again is the “how”? How can my friends be alive? They were dead. Vaporized. Well, not quite given the number of body parts I saw in the post-disaster news coverage. But mangled beyond repair, certainly. So, how did they get here? They weren’t reborn since they showed up here at the same age they were when they died on Earth. Someone needs to explain the science behind it because nothing I’ve learned in school or training here can account for it.

Amidst the grief and anger, I also feel something for Blake that I can’t quite define. He infuriates me most of the time but occasionally shows me a tender side that tugs at my heart. By the time the doorbell rings, I realize we’ve completely missed our window for dinner. That mystery will have to be left for another day as we’re due to be debriefed by the man whom I consider to be my captor. The doorbell rings again, and I close my eyes to collect myself and let Blake pull away, though he whispers, “It’ll be okay, Kira,” before jumping up to get the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Sundry,” I hear Spud say.

“Mr. Rosenberg,” Blake responds. “Come on in. And, please, call us Blake and Kira. The whole formal thing’s annoying. Sorry I was slow. We’ve just been, uh, working through the massiveness of the night.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Spud enters the room and sees me in shambles on the couch. I don’t bother to say hello, trying to wipe the evidence of my meltdown from my face. He helps himself to a seat, and I watch Blake retreat to the kitchen.

“Ms. Donovan, or Kira, rough night?”

“I got to hang out with all my dead friends. It was great,” I say with the deadpan delivery I reserve for the man.

“As shocking as it must have been for you to see them, can you appreciate the miracle of the situation? You do understand that they are not dead here, right?”

“I’m not really a ‘believe in miracles’ kind of person…but, true to your advertising, the Second Chance Institute has managed to find a way to give people a second lease on life.” I then add under my breath, “however disturbing it is.”

“Well, I think it’s a miracle,” Spud says.

I look at him incredulously. How long did the SCI have to brainwash him? Deep down, does he understand that all of this isn’t okay? I ask him, “How does it work? How do they get here? How do they get through the portals? I need to understand it.”

“Sorry, even with my promotion I’m not privy to the details.” Spud avoids eye contact. He just won’t share the details.

“I don’t believe you,” I respond, full of indignation.

“Does it really matter? They are real. They are here. You are here. Deal with it.” I hate this man; truly despise him—his ridiculous looks, his condescending attitude, his inappropriate questions, and his pathetically insufficient answers.

“It matters to me.” I pound my fists on the couch, frustrated and upset.

“I assume you were careful not to discuss the past?” He ignores my temper tantrum. I take some deep breaths to calm myself as I don’t do angry well, being rather unversed at it.

“I assume you already know the answer to that?” I put him back on the defensive. He glares at me with his signature, “be careful, you are pushing it” look. “But yes, to answer your question, I made no mention of the past. So all is safe, unless dead kids became psychic upon resurrection.” This gets me a smirk and a nervous wiggling of his chin fat.

“Excellent. How did Tristan and Briella react to you?” he asks.

“How do you mean? I chatted with them. Bri and I hit it off, and Tristan hit on me.”

“Did that make you feel uncomfortable given his current relationship with Briella?” Why is it so important for him to know this? I try to read him and my best guess would be concern that I may be a spoiler in some evil being’s Cleaving plans.

I roll my eyes. “Yes, it was uncomfortable and awkward for everyone.”

“Because of your feelings for Tristan or your feelings for Blake?” he probes. It takes a moment for me to realize that the SCI thinks my relationship with Blake is real and progressing much faster than in reality.

“Both, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders. I wonder what’s taking Blake so long in the kitchen but realize he’s probably scrounging for food since we missed dinner. Blake doesn’t have quite the appetite Tristan had when we dated but pretty close. My eating habits more closely mirror my stress than hunger level. And since my stress level is at an all time high, I could use some munchies.

Spud continues his interrogation. “Did you get a sense that either Briella or Tristan had any memories from before?” Odd, given he said that isn’t possible.

“Hmmm. No not really memories per se but more like feelings, if that makes any sense. Tristan said he was drawn to me, and he was going to figure out why, and Bri immediately felt like we’d be friends,” I say. He jots down some notes on his tablet.

“Do you have any intention of pursuing a relationship with Tristan?” My eyes go wide. I let out a puff of imaginary steam and dig my fingernails into the couch.

“Mr. Rosenberg,” I respond, trying to keep my voice as calm and steady as possible, “I’m a little overwhelmed by the fact that my dead friends are here and reanimated, and even more overwhelmed by the fact that you knew this and did not tell me ahead of time. So no, I’m not really planning some dream wedding with Tristan. Or I guess that doesn’t even happen here since people either have premarital sex and get Cleaved for life, or get matched up by some random computer or whatever. Neither of which I’ll allow to happen to me.”

“You have been pursuing a relationship with Blake?” His blubbery cheeks wobble as he laughs over his intrusions. Not a real one. Or maybe? I don’t know. But, for Spud, it has got to seem real.

“Yeah. As far as I know, he’s not dead.” I bite my lip as Blake enters to hand me a plate of food. “Thanks,” I say to Blake and then shove a bite of food into my mouth so I can avoid further discussion.

“Okay,” Spud says. “You can eat while I talk with Blake, and then I highly recommend you get a good day’s sleep. Your doctor decided to move your surgery up to tomorrow evening after reviewing your test results, so I’m afraid you won’t be able to eat or drink after dinner and won’t be able to have breakfast in the evening. And here’s a medication you’re to take right away,” he says, handing me a couple of pills which he waits for me to swallow. The mention of the surgery makes me feel ill. Blake grabs my hand to comfort me. I run my fingers across his scars, eagerly anticipating the moment he tells me what happened to cause such injury.

“Can Blake be there?” I ask. “I just can’t deal with those needles on my own.”

Spud shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. Given your test results, they’re concerned about Blake as well, so they’ll be running additional tests on him at the same time. I’ll mention your concern about the needles to the doctor.” The way he says it and the reaction on Blake’s face makes me think that it’s a set-up to keep Blake out.

“Can’t they wait to run tests on me until after Kira’s surgery is done?” Blake asks.

“No, I’m afraid not. You have classes to start. Kira will start her classes a night or two later as I suspect she’ll need some recovery time.”

“I thought the surgery was no big deal. Should I be worried?” I’m even more wary about it than before and suddenly not so hungry. In fact, I’m very woozy and incredibly sleepy.

“It’s not a big deal and no, you shouldn’t be worried. Some people experience a little discomfort afterwards, but the doctor will give you some pain medication, and with a little rest you’ll be just fine,” he explains.

“What were those pills? I’m not feeling so hot,” I put my head down on the nearest surface, which happens to be Blake’s lap. I’m sure to keep the ruse going. He runs his fingers through my hair and away from my face. The garden images on the walls relax me, and before long I close my eyes, comforted by his touch and the silky feel of the couch.

“Yeah, what’d you give her?” Blake asks Spud.

“I believe it’s just something to relax her and help her sleep. After the stress of the night, it’s important she be well rested for her procedure.” I’m too tired to speak, but those pills did not resemble those they gave us to sleep when we first arrived.

“I would like to understand her surgery better.” Blake’s tone is angry.

“She asleep?” Spud asks.

“I think so.”

“As the doctors explained to her there are some side effects Recruits face by going through Thera’s portals. Often small lesions form on the female’s reproductive organs that, if left unchecked, can cause long-term infertility.”

“And so that’s what the doctor is fixing tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course,” Spud replies.

“So then why are they messing with me?” Blake asks.

“Oh, well, for males there can be issues will sperm motility, which can make it difficult to fertilize a female’s egg.”

“Seriously, stop right there. Don’t ever talk to me about sperm again, okay? Besides, I’m not sure children will be in my future.” Does he hate kids or something? And why’d he stop stroking my hair?

“Of course they will be,” Spud says. “Which is why these tests and procedures are so important.”

“What exact tests are they running on me?”

“I’m sure they’re just going to take some samples and make sure all is well,” Spud responds. I can feel Blake shaking beneath me. Perhaps he hates needles as much as I do.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” Spud’s tone indicates that the conversation is over. “So, tell me how the night went. Was it hard to see your sister? Or harder to see your girlfriend meet up with her old boyfriend?”

“Well, it’s not like I got to chat with Leila since she’s a freshman. And the whole Tristan thing sucked. What did you expect? That Kira would thank you? That I would thank you?” Blake asks.

“No, I imagined it would go as it did,” Spud replies. “She needs to get past it.”

“I don’t know,” Blake says. “Can she?” He’s back to playing with my hair, which feels amazingly soothing.

“I thought you’d like her. You’ve got a thing for her, haven’t you?” Spud pauses which makes me think Blake gave a non-verbal answer to his question. “She’d make an excellent Cleave for you, you know. Just remember that you came here to do a job, not just to find the love of your life.”

“I know. I got it. I won’t let you down.” And then almost as an afterthought Blake adds, “As creepy as it is working with the Second Chancers, we’ll do as instructed.”

“Excellent. Well, I’ll be going. I’ll let myself out. I assume you’ll see to it that Kira gets to bed?”

“I’ve got it covered, Ted.” Ted? Since when are they on a first name basis?

I hear footsteps, and then the door shuts. Blake silently sits there for several minutes before sliding out from under my head so that he can scoop me off the couch and carry me to my room. He pulls the covers up over me and kisses me on the forehead before I drift off to sleep.

I’m barely showered and dressed before the doorbell rings and an all-too chipper Spud Rosenberg is at the door and ready to usher me to the clinic. Blake insists on accompanying me, but Spud says no, “His appointment isn’t for a half hour.” There’s no chance to interrogate Blake about his debriefing with Spud. That will have to wait for later when we can take a walk in the canyon, assuming I’ll even be up to it. Actually, I don’t care how I feel. My need for information will have to trump any pain or discomfort.

We traverse the path to the clinic through the glowing lights in the canyon, and I congratulate myself for my improved skills at avoiding the spiky brush lining the path. I try to start up a conversation with Spud, but he’s clearly not an early evening person. He happily hands me off to the doctor who informs me that due to my “fear of needles” they’ve decided to put me under for the procedure, although it will be a “twilight” anesthetic, so I’ll wake up immediately following just like when I got my wisdom teeth out a year ago. I remember Blake’s clear instructions to not let them do this, so I know exactly what’s being done to me, but the doctor refuses to relent, and I’m out like a light within moments.

My watch reads 20:10 when I come around, so I was under less than forty minutes. My abdomen feels sore and bloated, and there’s a little bleeding, but, other than that, I appear to be functional. The doctor confirms that I’ll likely have some discomfort and pain for a couple nights but should be back to a hundred percent thereafter. He gives me a bottle of pain medication to help me deal before forcing me into a wheelchair and turning me over to a nurse.

As we’re wheeling out to the clinic lobby, I hear a heated exchange coming from an examination room. One of the voices is my doctor and the other rings so familiar it hits me like a wrecking ball to the gut as he says, “What did you do to her? If you hurt her, I’ll make sure you suffer.” Ethan. That’s impossible, right? Or not. I saw him at the scale model at Headquarters. At the time, I was certain. But Brad Darcton scared me off. Why wouldn’t Ethan come see me if he was here? Unless he’s a Second Chancer and doesn’t remember me which would suck. Although, wouldn’t that mean he couldn’t remember his girlfriend, either? What is wrong with me? I’m horrible and need to get a grip. Ethan’s not mine to pursue, even if he is on Thera. Regardless, I want to know his fate.

“Who’s in there?” I ask the nurse as I get out of the chair and attempt to open the door which is locked. Thankfully, she catches me when I collapse from standing up too fast. “I know that voice. I need to talk to him. I really, really need to. I’ve been looking for him. Please open up,” I beg through the door. “If it’s you, please stop avoiding me.” The voices in the room go silent.

“I’m afraid that information is privileged, Ms. Donovan,” she says. “We take patient confidentiality seriously here. Should I get a member of the Ten or Council to address your concerns?” That’s all the reminder I need to stand down. In my loopy state, I’d ignored Brad Darcton’s admonition to not go looking for people I knew previously.

“No, no, never mind. I’m sorry. I think I’m just hallucinating or something,” I say. She shakes her head and delivers me to Blake who is, apparently, supposed to push me all the way home. I’m surprised he’s waiting but don’t address him as I’m still muttering about the voice I heard. I want to stay and see the mystery patient come out of the room, but Blake’s eager to get me out of there. The anesthetic they used has me in a bit of a fog which I blame for my delusions. Finally, Blake breaks the silence once we’re in the open canyon.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so. Doesn’t look like they removed anything life sustaining,” I respond with a weak smile.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he mumbles.

“Huh?” I say.

“What did they do? What did you see? Tell me exactly?” he asks, his tone fearful.

“Sorry, I didn’t see anything. They decided to put me out because of my needle issues. Why, what do you think you know? I heard you and ‘Ted’ last night, Blake. You seemed to be on quite the paranoia trip. You going to share?”

“Oh. I thought you were asleep.”

“Come on, isn’t it time you tell me what your story is?” I turn in my chair to look at him, which wrenches my abdomen enough to cause extreme agony. “Ugh. My stomach hurts.”

“I’ve got to get back to start my classes on time, and you have to get some rest. Later, during free time I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I promise.”

As much as it pains me, I stop our forward progress with my legs and stand up out of the wheelchair to face him. Since he’s still pushing, he whacks me in the knees with the chair, and I almost fall over.

“You’ll tell me now or I’m not going anywhere.” I feel weak. If my shakiness doesn’t make me tank, the heat may. It feels unusually hot, and I can barely breathe. The relative darkness of the spot we stopped unnerves me, but I press on with my interrogation. “I have to know what happened to you that was so crappy that you think I’m going to hate you for it. I just can’t hang out all night imagining up crazy scenarios while I watch you do a bunch of boring online classes. I won’t do it. So, please tell me. Now.” The discomfort I’m causing Blake is apparent in his eyes and body language, but I refuse to back down. Although, I may not be able to stay upright for long. The combination of anesthesia and pain medications has me swaying.

“Fine, but please sit so you don’t keel over.” He gently helps me back into the chair. He kneels in front of me, trembling, putting his hands on top of mine.

“I’m sitting. Go ahead.”

His eyes don’t leave mine as he speaks. “I’m just going to spew it out. Kira, the deal is that I was born here on Thera. My parents were Exiled for stealing government secrets. My dad was a Daynighter—just like that guy from Foreign Affairs we met—so he traveled back and forth between Earth and Thera doing business between the governments. He discovered some things he shouldn’t have and shared them with my mom not realizing everything they discussed was monitored. So they were both Exiled, despite the fact my mom was pregnant with me.

“My parents hooked up with a colony of Exilers in some caves outside the city. That’s where I was born. I lived there until I was eight and it was no picnic—the kind of stuff that still gives me nightmares like watching my Mom slowly die after giving birth to Leila. Eventually, the Exilers took control of an entry portal and found a new exit portal, and so my dad made good on a promise he’d made to my mom to get us out of here, and placed me with ‘Jennifer,’ his trophy wife on Earth.”

My eyes grow wide, and I shake at the implications. He was born here? In Exile? I don’t know him at all, I realize. “Keep going,” I say. One swirling canyon light keeps illuminating and then darkening Blake’s face—a creepy effect to accompany his equally disturbing tale.

“The thing is that I’ve been trained since I was eight to do what we’re doing right now—to come back here as a Recruit and get information my dad and the other Exilers need to take control from the dictators who run this place. They’re not good guys, Kira. They’re seriously evil, and the cities here are really just some large-scale experiments. Worse, the Second Chancers are just a bunch of pawns. Those in charge would kill me in a second if they knew who I was or what I was doing.” He stops, letting me absorb the information, though he can no longer look me in the eye. His whole life has been one big training exercise.

“Ted Rosenberg hatched the plan with my dad and helped me prepare for the Test, even though I was pretty much a shoo-in with my DNA. He’s my dad’s mole within the SCI organization, but, until now, he was stationed on Earth, not Thera. Ted knew that I couldn’t get in and pull off the scam alone. Since Recruits are always partnered so that the SCI can try to Cleave them off and keep them on Thera, he had to find me a suitable match that we could trust not to blow my cover,” he says, pausing. The pained look on his face tells me I’m not going to like what I hear next.

“So that’s where I come into play? This has all been about getting me on board?” I ask, seething as the pieces start falling into place: the “pact” we made, the trust building, and the fake relationship. Blake pretending the fake could become real. He’s the plant, and I’m the pawn.

“I swear I didn’t know about the partner thing until the day of the Test, and I wasn’t happy. I mean, they’d trained me to trust no one, and then tell me that I can’t do it alone, and that I’m going to be responsible for another life. A girl’s life. Your life. Ted told me it was going to be you that afternoon after you insulted him in the interview. But he was worried you weren’t going to be cooperative. So after the whole disaster unfolded at the Goodington’s, I knew they were behind it.”

“What do you mean ‘they’ were behind it? So who are the ‘they’? What are you saying?” Deep down, I already know the answer and can feel my bones frost over before he even responds.

“The SCI killed your friends and my sister to make sure we’d commit—you’d commit. They caused the blast that night and engineered every single thing that followed,” he says. He pauses to allow me to process and respond. It takes me a full minute to do so. I saw him at school every day for two months following the accident, and he never said a word. He knew we’d end up here together and my life would be in danger.

“And you knew, and you let me come.” The last puzzle piece ratchets into place, and I understand why he thinks I’m going to hate him.

“I didn’t know if I could trust you, didn’t think you’d believe me, and was selfish because I needed you. Without you reacting to Thera the way you did it would’ve been obvious I knew too much. So yeah, I knew, and I let you come to preserve both our lives,” he explains.

There’s nothing more he can say, or, at least, nothing more that I want to hear until I can process what he has already told me. He removes his hands from mine and proceeds to roll me up the path towards our home in dreary silence.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Blake

Earlier that evening

Kudos to Ted Rosenberg for scoring the job as our Handler and shedding new light on my deal here. I learned as much in our fifteen-minute debrief last night as I did the entire week of training, with exception of the visit to mini-Garden City which was the equivalent of the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for me.

First, our house is bugged, but there are no cameras—at least not in the living area because Ted’s words didn’t match his non-verbal signals. For one, after he described the so-called surgery for reproductive lesions I asked if that’s what they were doing to Kira. His words said “yes,” but he was shaking his head “no.” When I said children weren’t in my future—because I’m not sure I have a long life expectancy ahead of me—he says they will be, his body language screaming “count on it, whether you want it or not.” And he made sure I knew that my tests have squat to do with making sure my sperm’ll make the swim team cut.

Second, he was all in my face about my deal with Kira—even if it’s a good cover I’ve got to keep trained on my real mission. Like I don’t know that. Though I have to admit, holding her in my arms to comfort her last night had my body going haywire. Nothing a cold shower couldn’t remedy.

Third, the powers that be are totally buying the whole relationship thing.

Four, there are moments where I forget the relationship isn’t real. And that means I’m screwed. The moment I tell her the truth she’s going to turn on me and that’s going to open her up to Tristan’s full court press for a quickie Cleave. I doubt she’d turn me in at this point, but the living situation could get unmanageable fast. And I need her to stay on my side, so she can cover for me when I’m off doing daddy’s bidding.

Five, Bailey’s going to be a real obstacle for my fake relationship, no question. Almost makes me wish she had her memory back. She spent our entire workout educating me on ways to have “fun” without crossing the Cleaving line. If I thought she was pretty creative during our short relationship before…the stuff she whispered to me had me blushing (and otherwise reacting) and I don’t embarrass easily. That conversation required an extra long cold shower post-workout.

Six, I’m pretty sure that my fake relationship with Kira and potential Cleaving has everything to do with Kira and me being the “future of Thera.” I’ve got whacked thoughts like they want us to breed a bunch of super DNT babies which would explain why they’re all about our reproductive systems functioning. I just can’t tell how far they’re taking it.

All I know is the clinic just made me give them a sperm sample. And they’re in there doing who knows what to Kira. With any luck she’ll be able to detail it out for me, but I’m betting they’ll make sure she can’t. Ted told me the pregnancies were all done in-vitro, which screams “lab creations” to me. For all I know, they’re manufacturing a bunch of mini-me’s right now, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Or maybe they’re shoving my goods up her to try to get her pregnant, but that doesn’t really jive either since we’re not Cleaved, so that means any pregnancy, “assisted” or not, and we’d be Exiled. However, it’s equally likely my upbringing has made me overly paranoid, and they’re just trying to grow some DNT in a lab, and the repro deal is a huge red herring.

My dad trained me for just about every scenario, but we never covered reproduction in a whole lot of detail. In fact, I don’t think he ever factored female influence into the equation which was a major oversight on his part. He shut down my relationship with Bailey the moment he found out—beat the crap out of me for getting involved with her. So between his reaction and Bailey’s reaction, I equate girls with pain. Sure, I have a teenage sister. But it’s a heck of a lot different having a girlfriend, fake or not. I could foist my sister on my step-mom when she got touchy and emotional, but I’m expected to shoulder that responsibility with Kira and I am way out of my element. I would give anything for a laptop and an hour of Internet access because a little research is in order. Google would be my best friend about now. I wonder if somewhere deep within the SCI administration buildings if they don’t have some internet cable that runs through a portal.

I realize Kira hasn’t been in for long, but I want to see her, and I find myself pacing the small lobby of the clinic. The receptionist keeps glancing up like I’m an annoying distraction, but I don’t give a crap. I need to know what they’re doing to her and whether they’re hurting her. My sleep suffered as I spent the hours reliving how my body felt holding her. Though, if I’m being honest, I might have been thinking about some of Bailey’s suggestions, too. Bad-news Bailey is the kind of distraction that could blow the mission completely.

The door to the clinic opens, and I’m surprised to see Ethan the Intern stroll in.

“Hey, Ethan,” I say. He looks as shocked to see me as I am to see him.

“Hi. Blake was it? What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for my partner, Kira, to get out of surgery. They’re removing a lesion or something.” I try not to put too much emphasis on the “or something” but fail.

“Is she okay?” His fists are balled and clenched enough that I almost think he might deck me, so I back up a step. What’s got him strung so tight?

“She better be,” I respond. “She’s supposed to be out any moment.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his feet as if he’s trying to figure out what to say. Sounds like he mumbles “Crap, not now” under his breath.

“I better check in for my appointment. I’m late,” he finally says in a nervous tone and then walks over to the desk. After whispering something to the receptionist, he’s immediately motioned to follow her back to a room. I had to wait twenty-five minutes for my appointment. “It was good to see you again, Blake,” he adds before disappearing down the hall.

“You, too,” I mumble. I hear some loud voices coming from the hallway but can’t make out the conversation. One of the voices sounds like Ethan’s, but I can’t be sure.

After Ethan disappears, I hear the fight continue behind closed doors. Then I make out fragments of a conversation between Kira and a nurse in the hall which doesn’t sound pleasant. About a minute later, the nurse wheels Kira out in a wheelchair. As much as I want to question the doctor about what they did to her, I decide to take her home. She’s resisting a bit and mumbling something about hearing the voice of someone she knows and needing to wait to see if it’s really him, but I assume she’s just loopy on the drugs, so I get her out of there. Ethan’s here, and I would still like to avoid the two of them meeting.

She tells me everything’s okay but doesn’t know the details of what they did. But then the chair comes to a halt and Kira’s looking for answers, and refusing to move until I tell her. So I do. I unload the stuff I know, leaving out the nastiness about what I think the SCI has planned, and it doesn’t take her long to cut to the heart of the matter. She was headed for hell, and I didn’t warn her, and that is freaking betrayal with a capital B. Sugar coating it isn’t going to help. I did what I did for good reason, and it’s too late to change it now.

I release my grip on her hands and push her on up the rest of the way to our house, cursing the screwed up situation. Letting them assign me a partner was a mistake. Allowing myself to care about her and what she thinks was an even bigger one. My chances with her were nil from the get-go between my sins of omission, she being way out of my league, her lover boy being brought back from the dead, and my focus needing to be on my mission and not some volatile chick who can’t possibly understand how important my success is.

The truth is that I’m not sorry and I’d do it again. Had I told her at any point before seeing the Second Chancers, we’d have both been exposed as frauds and be dead—and it’s not like we’d have been given another go at life on another planet. I’m done apologizing. It’s time to stop fretting over my fake relationship and for me to get to work. She’s going to have to get over it and help me because neither of us will have a decent future if we don’t deliver. Nor will my dad, the Exilers, or the Second Chancers.

Whatever lust-filled or other feelings I’ve got going for Kira (or my evil-ex) need to be extinguished for the duration.

Ten years prior

My father taught me to turn off my emotions. He’s an expert. He practically worshipped the Grand Council and Presiding Ten until he’d discovered their rap sheet. After that, he axed the relationship cords. It was much easier to plot against them without consideration of the human factor—all the dinners, parties, and stories they’d shared. He figured “screw them all, they deserve what they have coming,” comparing them to the Third Reich during the Holocaust. They were playing God and mucking with the natural order of things.

I knew precious little about Garden City or its inhabitants until my father allowed me to join his band of humanitarians on a stakeout of the Eco barrier as a “teaching exercise,” wanting me to learn survival skills. The group hoped to figure out a way through, over or under the toxic strip so they could steal supplies from an outlying warehouse. Doc Daryn came along to attend to the injuries he was sure the group would suffer, leaving his Cleave as nurse to the rest of the Exiled.

Our humble cave dwellings sat just two canyons away from Garden City, less than a night’s walk. So we left at sundown, traveled the night, and arrived by sunrise to a deep cave west of the city where we setup camp for the day. I was well accustomed to sleeping in sauna-like conditions, so curled in the back of the cave against a cool rock and slept until woken.

The first night, we traversed a three-mile stretch along the barrier, throwing rocks from a distance to see if there were dead spots between the triggers of the deadly gasses. While the men fought to uncover the barrier’s secrets, my father taught me the plants of the canyons, showing me the varieties that were edible, those that were poisonous, and others that stored water. He instructed me how to craft a makeshift rope from canyon brush, tie knots, and chisel foot holds into canyon rock.

I already knew to find shelter from the sun for the day, but he taught me tricks of how to tell which cave ran deepest. And upon our return that first night, he schooled me on ways to build a safe fire pit within the cave to ward off creatures and to cook any available food or sterilize water. He had Doc continue on into the morning, teaching me first aid skills—from burn treatment, to bandaging a sprained ankle, to proper care for cuts, bruises, bites, or gashes. I look back and blame my eagerness to be taught for his later decision to make me a permanent student in his school of Theran life and coup d’état.

Night two had been spent trying to dig under the barrier, with zero success. I was forced to watch the debacle from a distance. The sandy, rocky nature of the canyons caused immediate collapse and ignition of  the gas bombs. The men barely ran to safety before causing permanent damage to their lungs and skin, even while wearing Doc Daryn’s safety masks. This frustrated my father since Garden City had an elaborate tunnel system, but even the engineer in the group couldn’t figure out a safe way to proceed given their limited tools.

The men left me behind the last night as they walked the distance of the barrier all the way to the ocean, trying to determine if there was a way in by sea. I spent the early part of the night at the mouth of my cave, gazing at the city and canyon lights, pondering the words of my father, and wondering if I would ever live in a city such as the one before me, or the fantastical one my father had promised my mother he’d take me to somenight. Things like running water, bathrooms with toilets and showers, kitchens with refrigerators and stoves—not to mention technological gadgets—were absolutely foreign to me, no matter how accurately described.

Bad, evil men were also alien to me. The Exiled men could be characterized as rough, but who wouldn’t be that way given our living conditions? From my father’s tales, those Exiled from Garden City had been exiled for unjust causes. That night, however, I met, face-to-face, two very bad men who’d been Exiled for excellent reason.

I saw two figures scrambling up the canyon face towards me, and thinking they were part of my father’s group, I called out to them. But as they got closer, I realized they weren’t familiar. I immediately recognized their Exile attire, so I knew they’d been in the city recently as every Exiler ditches the orange suit first chance they get.

One man stood at least six and a half feet tall, was at least twice as wide as my father, and had curly black hair covering his head, neck, and arms. His companion had a small build, a bald head, and a scruffy gray beard. At first, they were friendly, and I was taught to be polite, so I invited them into the cave.

“You Exiled like us, boy?” they said.

“My dad was Exiled before I was born, and all our friends are Exiled,” I responded.

“You live here?” the tall man asked.

“Nope, we live a night’s walk from here,” I said, wishing my father would return, so he could answer their questions.

“Then why are you here all alone?” the small man asked.

“My dad and his friends are out but should be back soon,” I said, even though I had no idea when they would return.

“We’ll hang with you and keep you safe, then,” they’d said. And stay, they did, making small talk and asking questions about Exiled life until my father and friends showed up a couple hours later.

As the group entered the cave and my father called out to me, the big guy grabbed me into a chokehold, my legs flailing beneath me. He threatened to snap my neck if my father didn’t do exactly as prescribed. I remember gasping for air but not being able to suck in enough. It felt like a three hundred pound weight was crushing my chest. Despite all the death I’d seen at a young age, it never occurred to me that kids could die. Or that Exilers could or would even want to kill other Exilers.

Exilers always arrived desperate, greedy, and willing to do anything to survive, so my father had been well versed in proper etiquette for diffusing panic. He greeted them warmly and assured them they were among friends and not harsh government dictate. Upon the promise of food, supplies, and lodging for the men, the man released his grip and dropped me to the cave floor. Shaking, I scrambled to my father’s feet, but my father’s eyes stayed trained on the men as his sales pitch continued.

My dad peddled our community as a luxury desert spa, and promised the men they’d have first dibs on the next ship to bring supplies to Garden City that the Interceptors planned to pirate. The men lapped up the vision of freedom and long-term survival and then hiked the distance to our caves with us that night. The large man forced me to ride on his shoulders to ensure my dad kept his end of the bargain. Upon getting there and being offered a meal by Doc’s Cleave, he had let me join my sister as he and his cohort ate and surveyed the area. It’s not like I could run and escape either of the guys, plus we’d led them to a place with hundreds of potential hostages.

During the meal, the men admitted to being Exiled for murdering an innocent family to steal their things. I could see my father digest the information. His band of misfits meant everything to him, and having murderers in the group’s midst meant unacceptable risk. He signaled his colleagues behind his back and one left quietly. When asked where the guy had gone, my father lied and said he’d gone to get the Captain of the Interceptors so the men could discuss the upcoming ship raid. The men continued to eat while keeping an eye on easy prey in case things went sour.

When my father’s friend came back alone, the men got angry and started shouting out threats. My father stepped in front of my sister and me. Leila buried her eyes in my stomach, but I watched the scene unfold. The tall man grabbed my father and dragged him away from us. He began to squeeze my father’s throat.

I looked to my father’s friend to help. The friend nodded to me and pulled a shiny black object from the back of his pants and pointed it at the tall man. I recognized the black object as a gun. A split second later, my dad’s friend pulled the trigger, and a bullet spliced through the bad man’s face, splattering blood and brains everywhere. The unsilenced boom echoed through the cave. The sudden sound scared Leila so much that she peed her pants and dug her fingernails into my skin. I kept my arms wrapped tightly around her to keep her from seeing the mess.

It took several seconds for the small man to realize that his partner was dead, and that he was on his own. He’d likely never seen a gun before. Once his shock faded and he realized the same fate could befall him, the small man tried to run. Several Exilers blocked his exit from the cave. Trapped, he raised his arms to surrender. My father’s friend gave him no mercy, however. He raised his gun again and fired at the small man, hitting him in the chest. Dead on impact, the small man fell into a pool of his own blood.

Thankfully, my father whisked Leila out of the cave before she saw the bodies. I wasn’t so lucky as I’d been tasked with cleanup. I spent hours scooping body fragments and blood-soaked dirt into a bucket by hand. Then, my father forced me to carry the heavy bucket a canyon over to bury alongside the dead bodies. I pushed dirt over the dead men’s bodies in a shallow grave before I was allowed to return to our cave and sleep in my dirty, bloody state. It wasn’t until ten days later that I was able to bathe.

I held Leila tightly each day for months after, recurring daymares haunting me. I woke in pools of sweat as I relived the pressure of the man’s arm against my throat and my inability to breathe, the same man trying to squeeze the life out of my father, and then the executions of the two men by a close family friend. My dad rationalized the killings as self-defense, and, even, had self-defense not been required, he said the executions were necessary for our community’s safety. Judge, juror, and executor. How were my father’s band of Exilers any different from those who’d Exiled them?

Present

I ponder my father’s commitment to the Exiler’s plight and question his tactics. The adage says, “All is fair in love and war,” but should you bank the success of your mission on your seventeen-year-old son? At what point do the rationalizations strip you of your humanity? My hypocrisy slams me in the face. Didn’t I just rationalize my own crazy behavior to Kira? Convince myself it was okay to put her in harm’s way because the cause came first? Although, doesn’t the cause come first? I can’t put one girl’s welfare over the welfare of so many. And it’s not like I knew her at the time I made the decision anyway.

The more I try to figure out a win-win solution, the more confused and unsettled I get. It’s completely messed up that my fake relationship with Kira is as close to normal as I’ve ever come. Do I crave the pull of normality or the girl? Regardless of which drives me to question everything I’ve been raised to believe, I need to reject both and focus. Maybe if I’m still alive when the SCI has been defeated and Exilers and Second Chancers have been freed, I can try to do normal and build a life with someone. Who am I kidding? The thought of being saddled to a Cleave and kids makes my body involuntarily convulse.

“For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art black as hell, and dark as night.”

—William Shakespeare

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kira

I close the door to my bedroom and bury myself underneath the covers, not convinced I can ever face Blake again. My thoughts return to the night of Bailey Goodington’s party. I left without forgiving Tristan and Bri. And look how that turned out. So, I know I need to forgive Blake. But he has a lot to answer for. Blake and Ted Rosenberg used me to get Blake unquestioned access to this hellhole. Worse, Blake manipulated me to trust and like him, all to further his cover.

The Second Chance Institute also needs to answer for their sins. They’re behind both the explosion and Blake’s terrible childhood. Can you give an entire government the death penalty? And, if I’m for that, does it mean I should actively support Blake’s cause? I won’t turn him in, but I’m not ready to be a willing soldier either. Blake was trained for years. How could I possibly help him?

Avoidance is my best strategy for now, and I have reasonable excuse to do so. My abdomen is swollen to five times its normal size, and pain is shooting through my pelvic region as if an untrained acupuncturist assumed it proper to stick the needles in their full length. A gush of blood sends me running into the bathroom and the sight of it causes me to empty my stomach of bile and stomach acid into the sink. Better for the pain meds to take effect quickly. I reach for the bottle and down one. And, in case that won’t knock me out, I swallow a sleeping pill to signal that I’m done with this night.

As my eyes close, my thoughts turn to Ethan and how flawless he seemed. Why do I get attached to the flawed guys, and the one perfect one disappears the moment I meet him? I swear that was his voice I heard in the clinic. I’m starting to think he may actually be here. I allow myself to focus in on what I remember of his smile and the cute way he rocked back and forth on his feet, and I drift off to sleep, imagining meeting him again.

I manage to delay my start of classes for 48 hours to allow myself time to fully heal. The doctor pays house calls and assures me that my side effects, although worse than average, are still within normal ranges, and that it is all worth it since the procedure was a success. The only time I leave my room—not having a huge appetite anyway—is to nibble on the occasional meal when I know Blake is out of the house. I’m such a wimp where confrontation’s concerned.

The rest of the time, I hide away, trying to make sense of the nightmare I’m living. The holes in the information, the inconsistencies, and the deceptions have torn the fabric of my sanity. The hows and the whys may never be answered. I must move forward, fulfill my contract, and then take my scholarship, leave, and never look back. That’s my goal anyway, although I have a growing suspicion that all will not go as smoothly as planned.

I’ve come to accept that Blake did what he did for a reason. His hand was forced as much as mine, his by his father and childhood, mine by the SCI when they decided to blow up my friends to remove my reason for staying my senior year. That doesn’t make it any easier for me to sit down and work through my issues with Blake. Or for me to accept the situation I’m in. Thinking that the explosion had been an accident had certainly been traumatic and terrible. But learning that the SCI caused the accident just to get me here? The guilt is killing me. All that blood on my hands.

My evening’s online classes are dreadfully boring, and I’m antsy to get out into the canyon again, as our sunroom isn’t sufficient to walk off the bundle of nerves I’ve accumulated. Sitting next to Blake all evening has been torture, but I manage to put on my headphones and turn away. When free time starts, I’m the first one out the door. To my disappointment, and in a moment of sheer insanity where I forget that I’m on Thera and expect to see sun, I am greeted by a sea of darkness, swimming bits of artificial light, and Tristan and Bri. I resign myself to my misery and walk forward to greet them.

Bri gives me a hug, being careful to avoid my mid-section.

“So the princess is finally allowed to leave her castle.” Tristan gives me a big grin. “We’ve missed you. Your BFF Blake isn’t as fun to be around as you are, probably because I beat him at everything. And I mean everything! Come on, we’ll walk you down, since I’m assuming you didn’t master boarding on bed rest.” Blake’s behind me and hears every word Tristan says which I’m sure was intentional on Tristan’s part.

“Ha ha. No, I didn’t.” I look over towards Blake, who speeds away on his skateboard without word to any of us.

“Trouble in paradise?” Tristan asks as we start walking.

“Paradise is lost. Or misplaced at least.”

“What happened?” Bri looks shocked and worried.

“Seriously,” Tristan says. “You wanted to Cleave, and he couldn’t deliver?”

I ignore Tristan’s crude remark and address Bri. “I guess I suck as a patient and he wasn’t being very empathetic.” It is as close to honesty as I can muster, since I am a crappy patient, and he showed zero empathy for me when he decided my life was worth less than his. No, that’s not fair. We’d both be dead had he told me the truth up front, and I probably wouldn’t have believed him anyway. Given the rumors about Blake at the time, I assumed he was partaking too liberally of some hallucinogens.

“Well then, next time you need a better caretaker.” Tristan smiles and puts his hand on my shoulder. But he quickly realizes his mistake of doing so in front of Bri and adds, “I’ll send Bri over. Guys are no good at dealing with girl stuff.”

“Girls aren’t good at dealing with girl stuff either.” Bri gives me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry—I tried to stop by a couple times but was rejected by Blake and that odd man with the huge head that seems to be at your house a lot.”

“Thanks for trying. I was pretty much wailing and whining in my room, so you didn’t miss much.”

“Sounds like you need a distraction,” Tristan says. “Good thing we’re hosting a dinner party at our house this morn, and, as our guest of honor, your presence is mandatory.” Huh, I wonder if Tristan found a stash of standard-issue alcohol on Thera after all, or if my friends have taken up Pictionary or some other wholesome form of entertainment. I would bet on a stash. My friends suck at wholesome.

“You’re right. A distraction sounds perfect. I’ll be there. What time?”

“Right after we work out,” Bri tells me. “Can we invite Blake? Or would that be too weird for you?”

“Yeah. Of course you should. I’ll be fine.” I can’t avoid him forever, nor do I think I really want to. He’s my best source of information here, and I plan to suck every last drop from him.

The rest of our walk goes quickly but unpleasantly due to the discomfort of keeping my abs engaged as we climb downhill. I kick a couple lights on the way in disgust at their constant reminder of my sunless prison.

We arrive at the common area in time for Tristan to get talked into an impromptu game of basketball. Bri and I take a seat at the edge of the flat area, overlooking the lights of the canyon, and shortly thereafter, Bailey joins us. She looks like she spent extra time primping today, and that she may have modified her uniform to show more cleavage. Not in the mood for her antics, I watch Blake’s shadowy figure use one of the hilly paths as a makeshift half-pipe, doing various tucks, grabs, and turns that I’ve only ever seen on television. If the powers that be are watching, I wonder how long it’ll take him to get busted for boarding rather than spying on the lab rats.

“So what really happened between you two?” Bri asks me. To Bailey, Bri says, “They had a fight.” Super. Bailey will be all over him. As if she hasn’t been already.

“Blake’s a great guy, but we see things differently, and I’m having a hard time accepting his point of view.”

“So you had a big blowout about it?” Bri asks.

“No. I don’t handle the whole confrontation thing very well. We just stopped talking. I’ve been avoiding him. Which I know is ridiculous.”

Bailey pipes in, “I’m not surprised you’re clueless about how to handle this kind of thing, Kira. You got it part way right with the no talking. But where you failed—you forgot about the more touching. And rubbing. And kissing. Less clothes. I’m thinking shower and soap and some of that Theranberry oil…”

“Stop,” I tell her. “That’s disgusting.”

“And that would be why you are incapable of keeping a boyfriend,” Bailey responds.

“How would you know? And who says I’m not keeping him. We’re just having a small disagreement,” I snap.

“Oh, I know you, Kira,” Bailey sneers. “Or, at least, girls like you. Miss Goody-Freaking-Ugly-Shoes. You’re good at snagging the guys because they all want to taint the whole innocent act you’ve got going on. But when you don’t put out, they go looking elsewhere.” If I didn’t know any better, I would swear she was talking about Tristan. Since, I’m pretty sure Blake hasn’t been getting anything on the side of our fake deal. He’s too freaked about accidentally Cleaving, just like me.

“Get. Your. Own. Boyfriend, why don’t you? Mine is taken.”

“He has always been my boyfriend, Kira. He just doesn’t realize it yet.” Bailey smirks. “He will, though, I assure you.”

“Gads, Bailey. You’re seriously PMSing today,” Bri says. To me, “You sure you can’t talk it through with him and work it out? I still think you guys’d make great Cleaves and would have wicked cute babies.” I know the reason she’s asking. The thought of me being on the market must have her panicked. Little does she have to fear. Tristan’s toast and not so dear. Ha. I crack myself up.

“We’ll eventually work it out, but I wouldn’t start planning any baby showers,” I say. Bailey laughs, but Bri looks at me oddly, and I realize she may no longer know what a baby shower is, so she’s probably picturing babies falling from the sky.

We watch as Blake abruptly screeches to a stop in the canyon, his board flying up and nearly scalloping Spud Rosenberg’s head. They’re too far for me to hear the conversation. But with Spud’s animated arm waving and Blake’s defensive body language, I can imagine the tone. Blake wasn’t sent here to improve his boarding skills but to befriend and spy on the Second Chancers, and his anti-social stance is contrary to the Plan. I see him glance at us before pushing off and heading our way.

“Ladies.” He gives a nod to Bri and Bailey, before taking a left towards a group of guys.

“Hold on, Blake.” Bailey steps forward to stop him. “Not so fast. Come here. I have to ask you something.” Blake looks a little fearful but stops and waits for her to approach him.

Bailey puts her hands on his chest and rubs him up and down suggestively. “We’re having a dinner party at Bri and Tristan’s house this morn. You have to come.” She whispers something in his ear that makes him turn beet red. Before he looks back at Bailey and answers, Blake’s eyes shift first to Bailey’s lips, then to me, and then to Spud Rosenberg who is making his way up the hill. She probably mentioned the oil in the shower thing and he kind of looks like he’s considering her proposition.

“Sure. Sounds, uh, exciting,” he responds. “I’ll see you there,” looking Bailey directly in the eyes which causes a visible swoon to occur. Even Briella looks affected. This isn’t lost on Tristan who caught sight of the exchange from the nearby basketball court and exits to come protect his interests. Not wanting to watch Bailey and Bri ogle Blake any longer, I depart for the gym early, hoping to get changed and on a treadmill before the masses. There’s no way I and my sore body can handle Tristan’s circuit or the subsequent hate that’d be directed towards me if I agreed to a repeat of the other night.

Seeing the density of kids packed into Tristan and Bri’s small home makes me shudder with discomfort, not because I’m unhappy to have plenty of distractions from Blake and Tristan, but because the last party I went to with these same people didn’t end so well. There are only a fraction of the kids that attend Garden City High here. Most the attendees are the kids I knew back on Earth. I guess that isn’t all that surprising. They were all big partiers.

The dining table is heaped with goodies, and the kitchen is filled with bottled waters and soft drinks. Something’s off because it’s only a half hour in and kids are already pairing up and slurring words. What did I miss? I wasn’t that late, only stopping home to take some pain meds, and psych myself up for the event by watching the sunrise from our sunroom.

I must have missed the memo about wearing party attire, probably because I didn’t realize the skimpy stuff in my dresser was earmarked for that purpose and not some sleazy swimsuit photo shoot. The girls’ outfits make our workout attire look modest, consisting of a sparkly gold tube top and an itty-bitty green tube skirt. The boys’ attire is somewhat better, though, still right out of some ‘70s disco movie, with a shirtless gold vest and tight, shimmery, green pants.

Art skills are being put to use painting bodies with, what I hope to be temporary, greenish-blue tattoos. Bri shows me the technique. Then has me practice on her. I’m able to apply a quick Garden Valley High logo to her exposed shoulder blade.

If the Grand Council were to stop by, I’d envision a whole new host of rules would be born, unless they know and look the other way to encourage as many Cleavings to happen as possible.

I head towards the kitchen to find a drink, but when I see Blake practically drooling at Bailey’s cleavage while she whispers more not-so-sweet nothings into his ear, I promptly turn around.

“Darn,” I hear behind me. “I was looking forward to seeing you in…less.” I turn to see Tristan who appears to be imagining me in less than less. “Want a drink?” he says, offering me a glass.

“What is it?” I ask about the drink, studying his face. His eyes betray the fact that he has partaken of some mind-altering substance which I want no part of. My pain meds have already kicked in enough to make me a little loopy.

“Relax.” He hands me the cup. “It’s just Theranberry juice.” I smell it, and it certainly doesn’t smell like alcohol, but I sip it warily regardless. Its flavor is strong but pleasant like its scent, closest to Hawaiian passionfruit with a hint of berry and citrus. Despite my thirst, there’s no way I’m going to down it quickly until I know how Tristan and the others got their “high.” Lucas and a pack of inebriated friends come over to bro-hug Tristan and nod their approval at our conversation before making a kitchen run.

“Thanks for the drink.” I raise my glass and look around. “This is quite the rager. Are all your parties like this?”

“Everyone’s got to eat, right? We might as well have fun doing it. Let me show you around.” He motions me forward as if his house layout isn’t identical to my own.

“Looks familiar.”

“Not the artwork.” He takes my hand and leads me back towards the bedrooms. Crap, I do not want to be alone with my dead ex-boyfriend, particularly when his restraints are loosened. He ushers some kids out and closes the door behind us. “The painting’s incredible, isn’t it?” Not really. Looks like a kindergartner tackled this mural, although I’m sure someone would label it modern art.

“It is different.” I immediately turn around and head towards the door. “I should get back out there and get to know more people.” And make sure Bailey hasn’t convinced Blake to Cleave her yet.

“What’s your hurry? You have yet to get to know me, and I promise you that I’m the person here most interested in getting to know you. Particularly now that you’ve dumped your loser boyfriend.” He pins me with my back to the door. I squirm and grimace at his proximity, but he leans in to try to entrance me. Doesn’t work. Whatever he’s on has sucked the luster right out of his eyes. And his breath is fruity but too strong, reminding me of his drinking days.

“Blake’s not a loser, and this is not the way to get to know me.” I feel woozier than I should.

His eyes are lasered on me. “You must be popping something stronger than TB to think that Blake has any redeeming value. He’s a loner with zero social skills.”

“Ugh. Please back up.” I push him far enough to wedge my way around him. “You don’t know the first thing about him, or me. And the only thing I’ve ‘popped’ is pain meds for my abdominal pain. What’s TB?”

“Fine, defend the boy with the itsy-bitsy cleaver. You’ll come around to my way of thinking when you see what he’s not packing.” He chuckles as he traps me again and pushes my hair away from my eyes. “And TB is chill. Don’t worry about it.”

I ignore the insult to Blake’s manhood since I doubt Tristan has firsthand knowledge. There’s no love lost there. “Did you drug me?” I ask. “What’s in here?” I slosh my drink around my cup before setting it down atop his dresser and vowing to never accept another drink from him that isn’t in a closed container. From his expression, he confirms my worst fears.

“I didn’t drug you—just gave you some of what we’re all having. You just need to loosen up a little and have some fun.” He leans towards me, trying to work the smoldering eyes. “You are so beautiful. Can I kiss you?” I guess he must take my silence as agreement since he closes the distance. The move, altogether too familiar, fails as I turn my head in time for him to suck cheek. Just then, the door opens to a very angry looking Briella and Blake. Bailey’s behind them and looks thrilled to see my tenuous situation.

“In our house? Right under my nose? Really?” Briella says to both of us.

Tristan shifts nervously. “Uh. Well. Uh. She has been all over me.” It comes across as a question instead of a statement. I roll my eyes, push him away again, and shuffle towards the door. My legs move robotically, the drugs hampering with my motor function. As I respond, my words slur together.

“He’s wasted. He gave me some juice that does not mix well with pain medicine. Nothing happened, nor would it have despite the roofie. But you guys can believe whatever you want. I’m going home. Thanks for the party, Bri. Sorry about this whole deal.”

“You drugged her?” Blake pushes Tristan against the wall. Tristan reacts by swinging his right arm towards Blake’s jaw which Blake avoids Matrix-style, before landing a hook of his own in Tristan’s gut. This has little effect on Tristan who charges Blake full throttle, albeit impaired by whatever he imbibed. Blake sidesteps just enough to get the advantage and flip Tristan onto his back, knocking the wind out of him. Blake stands over Tristan and says, “You try it again, and I’ll have no issue facing Exile to make you pay. Understand?”

Tristan doesn’t bother getting up. Still flat on his back and with belabored breath he says, “What’s your problem? Both of you? It was just a little TB juice—not powder—and she barely had any. Besides, everyone gets teebed here, and I had no freaking idea she’d downed pain meds before showing. The juice should have been harmless. I was just trying to get to know her a little better. It’s not like I was going to Cleave her! I just wanted to kiss her and see if we had chemistry.” Yeah, we had chemistry. Past tense. He simultaneously signs and says, “Forgive me, Bri. I was an idiot. I’m so sorry.”

Blake gets in Tristan’s face. “I couldn’t give a crap what everyone else does. We don’t do TB or anything like it, understand? And it’s not harmless when you don’t ask first.” Blake then turns to Bri. “TB, teebed—what is it?”

“It’s not real kosher to talk outside our group, understand?” she tells him.

“Spill.” Blake puts a hand on her shoulder. “I won’t mention it to anyone.”

“The Theranberry bushes in the canyon. The boys figured out the berries and roots give a good buzz. When they’re on it they’re ‘teebed.’ So we always have the juice and root powder on hand for parties. It livens things up, but I’ve never seen someone react the way Kira has—it must be because of her meds,” she says, likely referring to the fact I’ve become as flexible and useful as a wet noodle. “Typically, the juice just relaxes people. The powder’s a whole lot stronger.”

Unable to walk, I slump into a pile on the floor. Blake looks even more furious now that the ruse has been explained. He starts towards Tristan with his leg up as if he’s going to stomp on him, but upon giving me a gander, he thinks the better of it.

“I’m going to take her home. She’ll never get there by herself.” Blake proceeds to scoop me into his arms.

“Sorry,” Bri says. I attempt to wave to her as we leave.

Blake carries me home and promptly dumps me onto my bed. In my uninhibited state, I think he’s looking pretty darn attractive and appealing.

“Don’t leave.”

“What?” He uses an angry tone, though he leans over me to make sure I’m not having a medical issue.

“I want you…to stay…” I slur my words.

“No.” He gets up to leave. Not content to let him go, I try to get out of bed to stop him, and instead I lurch head first towards the floor, forcing him to catch me. We both end up on the floor, and I’m in his arms as intended. I reach my hands up under his shirt to feel his chest, and attempt to deliver a passionate kiss, but he turns his head, and all I get is a mouthful of ear.

“Stop it, Kira,” he says. “This isn’t cool. You don’t get to go from hating me to mauling me, nor would you had Tristan not given you that juice.”

“You saved me.” My words are still slurred. “You’re my hero. Let me give you a proper thank you.” I try to kiss him again, but he pulls away and then hefts me back up onto the bed. I land with a thump.

“Sleep it off. If you still remember when you’re sober, we can discuss things. But my bet’s on you still hating me in the evening.”

“I won’t, I swear. You’re the guy for me, Ethan. I’ve known it from the moment I met you. We could Cleave.” I want him more than ever, though that may be the drugs. I’m not sure. Is it Blake or Ethan that’s here? And did I just call Blake, Ethan? It sure looked like Ethan.

“Good day, Kira.” He slams the door behind him as he leaves. Wow, Tristan wouldn’t have blown me off like that. He’d have Cleaved me. But no, ugh, Tristan was repulsive tonight. Come back, Blake or Ethan or whoever you are. Please come back.

“Holy freaking crap. A suicide bomber just detonated a bomb in my brain,” I say to myself as I rummage through the fridge for some juice. My throat is so dry it could disintegrate at any moment. The orange juice I find doesn’t make a dent in my thirst or headache.

“She speaks.” Blake looks me in the eye for the first time in nights, although he looks a little angry.

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t. At least, not so loudly. What happened last morn? I remember being at that freak show party and then Tristan giving me a drink and a tour.” I pause to try to remember, but the concentration just sets off another blast in my head. “Nope, nothing but pain,” I say to myself.

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” he responds, gritting his teeth. “The good news is you won’t have to play house with me anymore.”

“Say what? Why?” I’m confused as to whether that truly constitutes good news. Despite his betrayal, he’s the only thing here that gives me hope of returning to Earth. And before he betrayed me, I had some semi-positive feelings developing for him.

“Well, that’s where I deliver the bad news—or maybe you won’t see it that way. In your intoxicated state last night, you Cleaved to Tristan, so you’re now a full citizen of Thera and can live happily ever after with him and your to-be-assigned kids. You can teach ‘em how to be self-righteous, and Tristan can whip them into shape with that ‘killer’ circuit of his.”

I got drunk? Cleaved to Tristan? Am stuck here forever? The horror slams me like a pro-boxing knockout punch, and I slump to the floor and curl into a ball, rocking myself back and forth, attempting to sob, but I am too dehydrated to get any tears to flow. How many times did Tristan try to convince me to give in to him back on Earth, where my reply was always “no”? And now, I chose to do it drunk and don’t even remember?

How did I let it happen? And why didn’t Bri or Blake stop me? Or maybe they knew and looked the other way. Since Blake assumes I hate him over his betrayal, he probably figured Tristan and I would hook up sooner or later, so he might as well let me do it sooner. That way, he gets rid of me, so that he won’t have to watch out for me while carrying out his plans.

“Anyway, congratulations, I guess. I’m going to get started on my classes. I made waffles if you’re hungry. And, here is something for your headache.” He hands me a couple pills and a glass of water.

“Thanks for the pills. It’s a great substitute for the pre-Cleaving intervention you should’ve done last morn. I guess you were too busy trying to sail down the Cleaving path with Bailey to notice,” I mumble, but he just chuckles and leaves the room. The situation is so not funny, but he must think I deserve it.

I stay on the floor for twenty minutes, allowing my headache to dull and then grab a waffle and join Blake in the living room to start my classes. But first, I swivel his chair towards me and yank his headphones off.

“How did it happen, Blake? I wouldn’t do something like that, and I don’t even drink. Why can’t I remember anything? What’s going to happen now? How will I explain to my parents that I can never come home? Did Tristan…did he, take advantage?” I ask, staring into his eyes and wondering how I could have possibly fallen subject to Tristan’s charms when Blake was at that house.

“How would I know, Kira? You haven’t exactly been buddy-buddy with me since you uh, dumped me.” Huh? It’s not like we were really dating, but yeah, I guess those listening don’t know that. “I had to find out from Bri what you and Tristan were up to.” His look is some weird combination of angry, sad, and smug.

“Oh no.” I cover my head with my arms. “Bri must hate me. And who could blame her? I certainly hate me right now.” How will I ever face her again? Or Tristan? He’ll be able to tell immediately how disappointed I am and that won’t exactly start things off on the right foot.

“Well, as much as I would love to chitchat all night about this, I’m going to get back to my work, and I suggest you do the same thing if you don’t want to re-consummate your Cleaving on Exiled ground.” He pulls his headphones back over his ears and turns his chair away from me.

Time crawls the next few hours as I attempt to pay attention to my schoolwork, while trying to think of any loophole out of my current predicament. Blake doesn’t glance my way once and retreats to his room at lunch to avoid further conversation. By the time we’re cleared to leave for break, I dread opening the door. Thankfully, neither Tristan nor Bri await me. Blake exits on his board with a terse “see ya there,” and I make my way down the path towards the common area as slowly as possible, not wanting to face anyone. Of course, that’s impossible. Students—some I know from Earth, some I’ve met here, others I still haven’t gotten to know—are everywhere. I dodge engaging in more than some basic pleasantries. As I approach the outdoor hangout spot, Tristan walks down the path to meet me.

“Hey.” He stares at his feet as if he’s embarrassed. “I’m really sorry about last morn. It was a jerk move. I was wasted and just wanted to get to know you a little better but let it go too far. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me somenight. I’m really not that bad of a guy, but I know I’ve come across like it. I just got so caught up in the ‘figuring out the right Cleave before it was done for me thing’ that I screwed up.” He honestly seems as distraught as I am over it.

“I…I just don’t even know what to say Tristan. Can we talk about it later? I am just trying to get a handle on it, you know, and need some time,” I respond. In fact, I’ll need a lot of time—like a decade or two.

“Sure, fine, I totally get it. Thanks for hearing me out. I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk about it.” He continues to look downward at his shuffling feet. I’ve never seen Tristan so humble and penitent about anything. I guess facing a lifetime with someone who doesn’t want to be with you would do that to a guy.

“I know we eventually need to talk it through, but as I said, I just need some time,” I tell him. He looks so hurt, and I feel terrible that I’m causing him pain but can’t help it. I can’t accept what I’ve done and what it means. Cleaved to the former dead guy. How do I explain to our future kids why I look at him like he’s a ghost, zombie, or some other creature from a horror flick?

“Yeah, well okay, bye then.” He walks towards the canyon and not back to the common area. Bri has been viewing our exchange from above, and I can tell she’s not going to let me walk by without a conversation. I approach cautiously, worried that she might just deck me for Cleaving her boyfriend in her own house. She motions me over to her table, and I take a seat.

“Well, have you recovered from your big morning?” She uses a sarcastic tone.

“No, I don’t think I’ll ever recover.” I’m unable to meet her glare.

“I trusted you,” she says. “And yet you followed my boyfriend into his bedroom.” This I vaguely remember. He wanted to show me his wall art, but all I recall is my desire to leave, not stay, and certainly not hook up.

“I’m so sorry. He was giving me a tour. I just never expected…Oh gosh, I’m just horrified Bri.” I shake my head in shame. “You must hate me. Absolutely hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I already told you that I understood why he’d go after you. But what he did still sucks, and I’m not ready to forgive him for it.” Is she honestly letting me off the hook? It takes two to Cleave. Surely, I must have allowed it to happen and should be held equally responsible. When she and Tristan kissed at the Goodington’s party, I was furious. And that was over a kiss! She always was the better friend in our pairing.

“I hate me,” I state. “The whole thing sucks. Just really freaking sucks.”

“How’d Blake take it? He was pretty pissed last morn,” she tells me. “I thought he was going to kill Tristan in that fight. He didn’t. But he sure humiliated him.” Fight? What fight? Blake didn’t tell me they’d fought. He acted like he didn’t care that I Cleaved Tristan this evening, but he must have if he attacked Tristan. Too bad he didn’t do that before the Cleaving.

“He seemed pretty indifferent to it all.” I’m disappointed that it’s the truth and still pissed that he didn’t intervene.

She lets out a high-pitched laugh. “You are insane if you think for one second that Blake’s indifferent to you. If you search for ‘smitten’ on your tablet, you’re going to find his picture.”

“I doubt that’s still the case under the circumstances,” I respond, looking around for Blake, tears coming to my eyes at the thought of losing him forever, despite what he has done. “He was all over Bailey last night.”

“Hardly! Bailey was the one mauling him. Blake bursts into Tristan’s room to save you after Tristan gives you some Theranberry juice, fights for your honor, and then carries you home like a freaking princess, and you think he’s into Bailey and not you? Geez girl, what’s it going to take for you to Cleave to that boy?” Hold on. Did I hear her correctly? I can’t Cleave to Blake if I already Cleaved to Tristan. My mouth’s gaped open, and I might as well have been struck by lightning given the shock I’m feeling.

“Uh, wait. Say again. Last morn’s still a little fuzzy for me.”

“I bet, given the state we found you in. Your painkillers didn’t mix with Tristan’s cocktail. Tristan was trying to kiss you when we came in. Blake decked him and then downed him before telling him if he ever tried it again, he’d gladly risk Exile to get revenge. And then he carried you home and put you to bed. Your boyfriend is the ultimate gentleman, unlike mine.”

Oh my freaking-fake-boyfriend. He was messing with me. I scan for the offender and see him talking to some boys and watching our conversation intently. How should I handle this?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Blake

Well, she doesn’t look pissed. She must not have figured it out yet, though I’m not sure how that’s possible after talking to both Tristan and Bri. I don’t know what possessed me to lie to her and tell her she’d Cleaved to Tristan, but after what she pulled last morn I feel justified. She shunned me for three nights after I confessed my sins without leaving a single chance for me to explain or discuss it. And then she begs me to sleep next to her? Cleave to her? And calls me Ethan? When did she meet him? And fall for him enough to know he was “the one” from the moment they met? Granted, she was on the TB plus pain killer express, but it still messed with me. Kept me up all day. Well, that, and I can’t seem to get some of Bailey’s “offers” out of my mind. But, I’m too smart to cave, since I know what happens after things go sour, and I’m not in the mood to have Bailey’s “punishments” derail my plans for the SCI.

When Kira told me that last night was one big black hole, I filled in the blanks with a little misinformation. A harmless joke, or, okay, maybe it wasn’t so harmless since she looks like hell just froze over, and she’s stuck in the ice. She’ll figure it out soon enough and that should get her blood flowing enough to reignite hell’s fiery furnaces. If she were as evil as Bailey, I’d have to be worried about what Kira would dish back, but she’s too nice to play dirty. Shame, really.

Perhaps, if I could go skate the canyons rather than entertain the dead kids I’d be in better spirits, but Ted banned me from it. Yesternight I was getting some air that would turn a skate pro’s head when Ted interrupted. He told me that my wings were clipped until I learned to be a proper social butterfly. That really fouled my mood, and then to have to go to that whacked party and find Tristan all over Kira, well, I flipped. That jerk has been testing my patience all week. Basketball, baseball, football, lacrosse, weights…it all has to be a freaking contest. When I suggested we go board or do some long distance running, he laughed in my face, saying that it figured I would pick stuff meant for loners with no friends.

Justified or not, I’m feeling guilty for my prank on Kira. Some part of me thought she’d be relieved at the notion of being reunited with her lost true love and being able to ditch me and my mess. Instead, she appears heartbroken and disgusted at the thought of a life with Tristan. Go figure.

Crap, she just looked my way. I’m toast. She’s coming over. Best to just fess up and take the heat. Strangely, though, she’s still wearing the downtrodden body language, head bowed and shaking in disbelief. I clench my teeth as she approaches. I’m going to have to tell her. And there may very well be violence involved when I do.

“Could we walk?” she asks. “I need to talk to you.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, I guess,” I mumble, following her down a steep trail through the strobing lights and to the bottom of the canyon.

“Sit with me,” she says. “I’m still shaky.” I do, and she sits, facing me Indian-style, her knees touching mine.

“I saw you talked to Tristan and Bri. How’d that go?” I’m not sure I want to hear the answer but glance up to peek at her.

“Awkward on both fronts.” She shakes her head. “Tristan apologized. I told him I needed time to get my head around the magnitude of it. And Bri, well, she forgave me which was hard for me to hear. She says you got me out of there afterwards, so thank you for that. It sounds like I was in no state to handle things myself.” To this I can’t respond or lift my eyes to meet hers, my guilt ulcering my gut like Swiss cheese. I definitely took my joke too far.

“Before they make me move in with Tristan, I needed to talk to you to apologize to you for how I reacted the other night. Given the situation it’s a lot to ask, but will you hear me out?” She pulls up my chin and looks into my eyes, and I want to crawl under the cement floor of this canyon and rot. Instead, I nod because I want to hear what she has to say. I need to know how she plans to handle what I told her. If she turns me in, I’m Exiled at best, executed at worst.

“I am so freaked out, Blake.” Her voice is quivering. “The thought of spending the rest of my life with Tristan here is, well, unbearable. I don’t want to get into all the complications of my relationship with him, but I just don’t know if I can do it. How can I spend a lifetime with someone I can’t even be honest with? And who cheated on me back on Earth? I don’t even know what I ever saw in him at this point. He’s such a tool now that it’s hard to remember the good stuff.” She wipes a tear and stares at a line of ants a stone’s throw away.

“But, my real problem and the real reason I can’t do it is you.” She looks back towards me. “My brain’s been going full throttle since you told me everything, and I admit I am angry and betrayed and hurt, but I need you to know that I do understand why you did it. You were stuck. Once they chose me, if you’d given me warning, we’d both be dead. I get that. It would’ve been impossible for me to fake my reaction when I saw Tristan and Bri had I known ahead of time. Besides, I chose to come here.” She pauses. Maybe I haven’t given her enough credit. She understands why I did it and even takes responsibility for her part in it? And I’ve gone and screwed it up worse by telling her yet another lie.

“So, Blake, I forgive you. I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you, that I shut you out, but it always takes me a while to work through stuff in my head.” I never thought she’d forgive me. I expected she’d hate me forever.

“Here’s the most important part. Despite everything you’ve done, I’m going to ask for more. I have no right to ask this, but I need to anyway. Your mission here is now my mission. If you can’t succeed—if you can’t save the Exilers, and everyone here—well, then I’m doomed to an eternity in hell. I need you to get me out of here and preferably sooner, rather than later. If I need to, I’ll get myself Exiled and hope to meet up with the others, but I can’t play Tristan’s life partner under any circumstances.” She pauses and looks me directly in the eye with a look so predatory, I shift uncomfortably. Has Bailey been giving her lessons or what? “I can’t pretend to love him when I’m pretty sure that you’re the only one I have feelings for.”

Her words penetrate me with the force of a cannon ball. Kira Donovan, the girl I once believed to be a vapid cheerleader, the girl who tried to seduce me under the influence last night just told me that she has real feelings for me. What do I say to that? Crap. I don’t do feelings. Not anymore. Especially mushy ones. She senses I’m not going to respond, sighs, and continues.

“Once I figured out I could forgive you, the rest came easy to me. I’d always planned to wait for someone I could see spending my life with, someone I could give every part of myself to without hesitation or regret. I never felt that way with Tristan which is why I never gave in to him back on Earth. In fact, I stayed sober so that I’d never even be tempted. With you, I’m tempted. Really tempted. So when you told me I’d Cleaved Tristan, everything snapped into place. I realized I’d destroyed the only future that could ever make me happy. I vowed to only ever be with one man, but I’m going to have to break that vow because I only want to ever be with you.”

Okay, now I’m really tripping. She looks like she wants to eat me whole. The feelings thing freaked me out. She has decided I’m the only future that will ever make her happy? No expectations there, buddy. I am so freaking screwed. The pressure cooker is going to explode because I can’t take it any more. I inch back a bit and open my mouth to speak, but she closes the gap and puts two fingers to my lips to silence me so she can continue.

“I’m really, really sorry to dump all this on you. I know it’s so unfair given what I did with Tristan last morn, even if I don’t remember it. But I don’t want him. I want you, really, really want you. So badly that I’m not sure I can hold back from kissing you and feeling you in my arms, even if that means they Exile me for Adultery.” She leans forward, pushing me back against the cement, stretches her body atop me and stares at me with those freaking gorgeous eyes before pressing her lips to mine. Stopping her action isn’t possible because my body takes control from my brain. I roll her underneath me and return her kisses with fervor, thankful for the relative darkness of our location. It’s not nuclear bomb action, but, man, it feels good.

After mere moments, she pulls away from me, a fearful look in her eyes. She rolls out from under me and sits up to canvass the scene.

“Why haven’t they come to get me?” She looks panicked. “What I did was cause for immediate Exile. I don’t get it.” She turns to me for answers.

Not quite in control of my faculties, I stand and face her. “Uh, uh, uh.” My heart pounds harder than it would with a fast run up a steep canyon. Suddenly, a huge grin washes across her face.

“Actually, that was a lie.” She chuckles. “As was the majority of the tale I just told you. But, I think I should let you try to sort out what’s fact and what’s fiction. Kind of like you let me do. Then again, your story this evening was all fiction.”

“Oh, gads. You figured it out.” A sheepish gape plasters my face. “Of course you did. You always do.” I pause to let it sink in. “You retaliated. With kissing?”

“All part of the revenge plan.” With a laugh she adds, “And, well, you seemed to rather enjoy that part.”

I can feel the blood rush to my face. “That kiss sure felt real, whether it was part of your wicked plan or not. In fact, it was pretty hot.” I can’t believe I just admitted that to her.

She bites her lip and looks at me through her long eyelashes in a fairly coy fashion that has me wanting to grab her and repeat the act in question. “I’m a very good actress. Anyway, it is time to go work out.” She points to her watch and hops up. “Don’t ever lie to me again, Blake, or we’ll have some real issues. I’m sure you meant it as a joke, but you let it go too far by letting me leave our house thinking I was Cleaved to Tristan.”

“It wasn’t a joke. If you want me to be honest, I’ll be honest. I was trying to hurt you because you hurt me. You promised you’d have my back no matter what but completely cut me off and acted like you hated me. And then after nights of nothing, you freaking tried to seduce me into Cleaving you last morn after I pried that jerk off you. And,” she cuts me off before I can tell her that she called me Ethan. Ethan! How and where did she meet him? We are always together. And yet, somehow she met the guy, and he made enough of an impression that she begs me to Cleave to her thinking I’m him. Her eyes go wide, and she perches her hands on her hips like chicken wings.

“In my drug-induced state, I try to get you to Cleave to me and somehow that warrants you telling me I’m Cleaved to Tristan? That’s seriously deluded thinking. I never said I hated you or didn’t have your back,” she yells.

“You just went all psycho clingy chick on me! You seriously freaked me out,” I mumble. “You told me I was completely freaking responsible for your future happiness.”

“You did tell me I was Cleaved for life to my dead ex-boyfriend and doomed to stay here on Thera. I think a little payback was in order, and I didn’t let you suffer near as long as you let me suffer,” she says, pausing as if to think again. Her lips part slightly, and all I can think about is how I want to part them with my tongue. Get it together, dude. You need her back on your side. And not by using your rusty seduction skills.

“I just need to know if you can get past everything I omitted before we came to Thera.”

She paces back and forth for a minute before answering. “I’m not happy, but I do get why you did what you did, and I can probably even get past it. And I am super grateful to you and Bri for getting me away from Tristan before things did get out of hand—because if what you lied about had come true, I would have done something extreme to get Exiled, whether it meant my death or not. And despite your many, many, many faults, I do have feelings for you, but what are they? Like? Hate? Distrust? Fear? A bit of attraction? All those?” She counts off each one on her fingers, pausing between words. “Heck, I don’t know.” Thank goodness she left “love” off the table.

“Now that is something I can say right back at you.” No need to tell her that I might order the list a bit differently. And I’d replace the attraction with plain old lust and put it at the top of my list. In fact, something Bailey mentioned about whipped cream, cherries, and hot fudge could sweeten things up at home with Kira.

“Okay then. Let’s go exercise.” Not what I had in mind, but I guess we can revisit this particular action-packed conversation later.

“Okay then,” I respond, and we slowly march up the hill towards the gym. “One question, though. Why’d you call me Ethan? How do you even know him?”

“Ethan?” She stops cold and turns towards me. Even in the darkness, I can see her face go pale. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” I mumble.

“Do you know an Ethan?” she asks.

“Well yeah. The Intern dude. I’ve run into him a couple times.”

“There’s an Intern here named Ethan? What does he look like?”

“A little taller than me and a couple years older. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Looks like he could shave multiple times a day and still have stubble. Really into some chick he met at a party.” She looks like she might faint. I narrow my eyes and ask, “So you know him?”

“Huh. I haven’t run into an Intern named Ethan on Thera.” She won’t look me in the eye. Her head is twitching ever so slightly. I can’t tell if she’s shaking it or having some sort of seizure. So she doesn’t know him? I’m so confused.

“So why’d you call me Ethan?” I repeat my question.

“Sorry.” She turns away, feet moving and doesn’t explain any further.

A muted explosion in the distance catches my attention, the light from it appearing no brighter than a bottle rocket set off on the Fourth of July. Had I not been trained to expect it, I probably wouldn’t have noticed given the canyon light show. Kira didn’t seem to. I try to gauge the exact direction, and my best estimate without a compass would be that it had been launched approximately three to four miles northeast of our current location. Without question, this means my Dad has returned to Thera and is stationed at a resistance camp he’d established in anticipation of my deployment here.

Because of the changing tides and steep cliffs descending to the beach his team determined the Eco barrier to be weakest at the Northeast corner. The location had added benefits of harboring no Garden City population, only the desalinization plant to the immediate south and main port farther south of that. If I memorized the city model correctly, the canyon we live in meanders that direction before exiting through a narrow passage into the ocean just north of the desalinization plant. So, technically, I could skate the distance, jog the beach, and get within shouting distance of my father. I’m sure he is expecting this.

The last time I discussed the plan with my father was after we’d met with Ted to sign the SCI paperwork. Ted had explained the nuts and bolts of what to expect: a week of training followed by meeting the Second Chancers and settling into our role as fellow students and amateur psychologists. Given the SCI’s strong interest in Kira and me due to our DNT levels, Ted thought they’d go all out on selling the Garden City experience. The hope was that we’d be given access to the scale model of the city which they’d use to sell career options but is actually used to track residents and plan the Eco barrier pattern.

My father once toured the Garden City model. The night he’d visited, a munitions specialist happened to be testing a section of the detonators used in the model. They’d been having some issues with small animals on the Eco barrier and wanted to make some tweaks to improve the system to only detonate at certain weight levels. My father saw a pattern in the triggers but at the time had no reason to commit it to memory. He visited early in his career when he was still gung ho on the SCI vision

Several vantage points from the scaled city were predicted to give me a reasonable “aerial” view of the model Eco barrier and its chemical detonators. The triggers had been painted to mirror the soil color but had a different sheen. So, in the right lighting, the pattern could be discerned. Their prediction held true. While Kira had been occupied checking out her DNT under the microscope, I picked folks to chat with who had the views I needed to figure out the pattern, confirm that it repeated, and note some landmarks where the pattern stopped and started. So, I already completed one task.

Neither my father nor Ted mentioned the existence of the other city models, so either they are newer or a well kept secret within SCI ranks. My father assumed I would have to get the other patterns out of the data center at Headquarters, but what if I could get into the models instead? On the one hand, I learned the layout of SCI Headquarters during my training. My father worked within those walls for years before happening upon a whole lot of information he wasn’t supposed to and getting booted. On the other hand, I haven’t figured out how to defeat the SCI tracking system yet, though, and if I can’t, the SCI would know if I was anywhere near a sensitive area. I believe they inserted the tracker with the shot they gave us the moment we’d entered Thera, but it’s also possible the tracker’s in our watch. Ted thinks they may have redundant systems in place to ensure they don’t lose anyone.

I, and, by extension, Ted now that he’s on Thera, have also been tasked with assessing current security levels and weak spots citywide, determining whether a weapons stash exists and where, and ideally figuring out how to turn off the Eco barrier altogether. Permanently disabling the gas triggers would be ideal. However, if we could just disarm them temporarily, it would give time for the Exilers to infiltrate the city.

It’s close to final exam time. And, if the actual final exam trumps the simulated one my dad gave me, I could be in trouble. I need to find a way to stack things in my favor fast.

––––––––

One year prior

We spent the summer after my sophomore year of high school in a full-scale mockup of the building. The building sat atop a series of old mine tunnels, which my father used to approximate the secret canyon tunnels that lead to Headquarters. Mind you, he has never been in those tunnels but promises they exist. The tunnels will provide my only entry short of becoming a member of the Grand Council and inheriting a passkey, or getting Cleaved on my eighteenth.

My “final test” of that summer was to get from my “school residence” to the protected server bank in the Grand Council building through pitch-black tunnels, locked doors, and a half-dozen security guards. He hired some ex-military buffs to play the tunnel security goons. They reminded me of my dad’s Militant buddies—single minded and lethal. No question, my dad wanted to show me my inadequacy for the task, so I stacked the odds in my favor with a little creativity or—as some might call it—downright cheating.

The night before the test, I told my dad I was going for a run to calm my nerves, knowing he’d never deprive me the opportunity for more exercise. My eight-mile loop took me through an occupied horse farm we’d driven by upon arrival two months earlier. I circled the farm to confirm its occupants were away and then broke into a locked bin in the stables where, even better than hoped, I found injectable horse tranquilizers, a tranq gun, and what appeared to be an anesthetic.

The key would be to use my stash in moderation so as to not kill anyone, although a prison life sentence might be preferable to my dad’s plans for me. I kissed my treasure before stuffing it into the lining of my running shorts and jogging back. The four miles back home proved to be a little uncomfortable as my loot chafed some rather sensitive areas.

First up on test day was locating the entrance from my digs to the tunnels. Officials use the tunnels to check up on kids during sleeping hours, scan for illegal paraphernalia and other rule violations, restock cupboards, and the like. Invisible to most, they present a huge security hole to the enlightened. I pretended to sleep, listened for when the monitor entered and from where, and after they’d left, it took me less than twenty minutes to find and open the hidden door behind the bathroom cabinet.

Once in the tunnel, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness before proceeding. Light on my feet, I jogged through the hot, musty passages, and kept an ear out for guards.

The first guard was stationed at an intersection of pathways. I watched as he shifted his focus to each path every twenty seconds, giving me only twenty seconds with his back to me, and forty with his attention directed elsewhere. Dressed in black, with a dark hood obscuring my face, I inched towards him. As he turned to the passage to the right, I quickened, and by the time his back was turned to me, I pressed the horse tranq in a third of the way before removing, capping, and shoving it back in my pocket. I couldn’t use the gun for the first couple doses or I’d likely kill the guys, so close encounters were my only option.

The dude didn’t drop lightly, or quickly. He fought me for a good thirty seconds before tanking, nearly crushing my windpipe when he clipped my throat. I knew how to take hits and was able to absorb the blow by buckling backwards and rolling to the side.

After catching my breath, I launched up, slamming my head into his with massive force. Full credit had to be given to the drugs because he was moving pretty slowly by this point. His reaction time withered and within a minute he dropped.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I disrobed the guy, donned his uniform, and stuffed my tools into my new pockets. Then running full speed, I took the path to the left.

I passed three guards without incident, they having ignored me after seeing my uniform. The fifth guard required some horse tranquilizer and a good kick in the ribs. I felt bad for sharing needles between the two guys but didn’t want to waste any, not knowing for sure what lay ahead.

Number six weighed at least two-eighty, so I got out the new needle for him and gave him a half dose, and even with that he broke three of my fingers and a rib, and dislocated my left shoulder before he got woozy. I gave myself four minutes to recover and assess my wounds before proceeding. I searched my victim’s pockets. He had a passkey on him, which I used to enter the building.

My dad had purposefully kept me out of the basement area, so that I’d have to improvise and find my way up six stories to the data center. I wasted many precious moments sorting through all the crap before finding a doorway blocked by a bookcase stacked with file boxes. I unloaded the bookcase before inching open the door and climbing the staircase.

I didn’t expect much activity upstairs given the off-hour, but my dad was roaming the halls of floor five in an attempt to block my success. The anesthetic worked magic on him, and his passkey worked magic on the lock to the data center. Not knowing how long he’d be out, I quickly located what I needed—a trophy my father had hidden—and reversed my path out of the building and through the tunnels.

Carrying a large shiny metal object past the other guards gave my disguise away, so I dealt with the three remaining guards by giving a third dose of the tranquilizer to one, and quarter doses to the other two. Using the trophy as a weapon compensated for my injuries, and I was able to get back to my “house” with only a few extra cuts and bruises.

Exhausted and in extreme pain, I waited out my dad who finally arrived an hour later to give his usual verbal thrashing, but at least he popped my shoulder back into place and let me get a few hours sleep. Despite the extended lecture to the contrary, I could tell he was impressed I found, stole, and used the drugs to my advantage.

The day after, I returned to school to start my junior year, still injured. I hid the cuts, bruises, and breaks beneath a baggy hooded flannel not wanting to have to spew lies to cover for them. After that, I left the hood on and let myself go until now—my hair long and shaggy, my interactions with others less frequent, my disgust for my dad at an all time high.

Present

My dad wants to have a conversation, so my immediate task is to figure out a legitimate reason for visiting that beach. Perhaps if I could get Kira to ride with me, we could find an excuse to have a pretend romantic picnic there one sunset or sunrise? Any plan will require her help and even though she has forgiven me for my failure to disclose and admitted she has feelings for me, I have no freaking clue where our relationship stands or if she still has my back now that she knows my mission.

I guess I better ask.

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

—Edgar Allen Poe

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kira

Even though our conversation warrants completing, I march towards the gym as an obedient Recruit should do. The look on Blake’s face when I told him I imagined my whole future revolving around him…priceless. Guys don’t react well to going zero to sixty on the emotional front in a relationship. They’ll go from “hello” to “sex” in 5.5 seconds flat, but going from “you suck” to “I want to marry you and have your babies” will cause them to sprout wings and fly away at supersonic speed. Blake clearly is inexperienced in the relationship front because instead of running, he got the whole deer in the headlights expression, and for a moment I thought I might have caused an aneurysm.

Speaking of aneurysms—when I believed that I had Cleaved to Tristan, I truly did panic. Blake really did a number on me. But I out-gamed the gamer with my spectacular performance. It was going perfectly until I decided to seal the deal with a kiss, and he kissed me back—really kissed me. And in a completely turned-on kind of way that made me think he wants to drop the “fake.” Not that I would let him know I agreed the kiss was hot. After his “joke” he gets no ego stroking.

Then things got blurry really fast the moment Blake mentioned a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed Intern named Ethan who’s here on Thera. It can’t be a coincidence given my sightings and the hearing of his voice. If he’s here, why has Blake run into him “a couple times” when he has managed to avoid me entirely? Blake said the Ethan he met was “really into a girl he met at a party.” The same longing I’ve felt for months returns in force at the thought it was my Ethan, and he might have meant me. If he liked me enough to consider marriage, kids, and old age by my side, why would he avoid me? And guys accuse girls of playing games.

“Hold on,” I hear from behind as Blake grabs my hand, caressing it until I meet his gaze.

“We’re late,” I protest.

“I know. I just have to ask you a couple things. First, is my mission really your mission now? Are we still partners, and do you still have my back?” Committing to this will put my life in danger. But my life and future are already at risk, as are Blake’s, and I’ve already decided our futures are tied, like it or not. His eyes intensify in purpose as he awaits my answer.

“Yes. I’ll cover for you while you do your whole try to take down the bad guy thing,” I respond. “I really do want off this rock.” He closes his eyes, lifts his head upward, and clasps his hands together for a moment, before staring at me again.

“Thank you. Because, I don’t know if you noticed that flare a minute ago, but that means my father has arrived and will be eagerly awaiting an update on how my mission is progressing.”

“That firecracker thing?” I vaguely remember a small blast and a light in the sky—higher than the canyon lights, yet not a star. He nods. So, his dad’s here to put on the pressure which means whatever he has got planned is a “sooner rather than later” kind of thing. Great if successful, potentially disastrous if not. “So, when will you fill me in on the plan?”

“From now on, every bit of canyon time will be devoted to it.” His look turns serious. “I have so much to tell you.”

“Yes you do have a lot of explaining left to do,” I answer. He twitches at my jab.

“My last question is…where do we stand? Are we resuming our quote-unquote ‘relationship,’ or what?” he asks. I know to complete Blake’s mission we will need the canyon time, but I’m hesitant to define our relationship given the complicated nature of my feelings towards him and the news about Ethan. It takes a couple deep breaths to be able to answer.

“For public appearances, sure. We can resume our, ‘quote-unquote relationship,’ but it’s going to remain fake.” He looks disappointed.

“What about that kiss?”

“What about it? You’re on a mission to take down the SCI. You’re not on the freaking Bachelor. We keep up the ruse, so we get our canyon time, but the PDAs are going to be kept to a minimum,” I respond.

“Surely after they observed that kiss, the powers that watch are going to expect more of the same. An escalation even,” he says, leaning into my ear. My breath hitches a smidgen, and I hope he didn’t notice my body’s betrayal.

“You guys have about two minutes to get into the gym,” Bri yells. Saved by the yell. Thank you, Bri.

I look Blake right in the eyes with my best sultry look that used to get Tristan all hot and bothered. “In. Your. Dreams.” And then I turn and run.

“You look absolutely freaking Cleavable,” Blake says as I enter the living room in full party attire. We’ve been summoned to an all night to early morning dance-a-thon on the football field, mandatory for all students freshman and up, and so I’ve squeezed into my tiny tube top and skirt to appease the powers that be. I even dusted myself with Industrial City Party Sparkles, and I look like a human disco ball. Thankfully, I’ve had a week off from clinic visits, so my abdomen is flat and firm, the swelling from my surgery gone.

“You look like a ‘70s movie extra.” He looks ridiculous in his party vest and pants. The SCI has no issue killing off a whole party full of teenagers but can’t give a single decent fashion designer a second chance? “Ready to get your groove on?”

His eyes sparkle. “Absolutely. Happy to show you my moves.” He pulls me close and grinds against me. The last couple weeks have been absolute torture as Blake seems hell bent on getting a repeat of that kiss. Sure, we’ve spent a lot of time discussing his mission in the canyon, but I’ll be darned if he hasn’t figured out how to discuss the SCI and their evil minions with bedroom eyes. But I’ve also seen him use the same look on Bailey and vice versa. So, I haven’t given him more than a couple chaste pecks to keep our cover.

“You—” I poke him on the exposed part of his chest. “—have become Testosterone’s poster boy.” He twirls me around and laughs.

“Ready to go?” he asks with a smirk. “I know how much you love parties.”

“Why? You going to drug me?”

“Despite how hard you’re trying to resist me, I know you want me, even without the drugs,” he jokes.

“Yep, I’m right behind Bailey in line.” I pull him out the door. I need some fresh air. I’m quite conflicted. Sure, I haven’t been able to forget that kiss. But after hearing from Blake that an Intern named Ethan was in the city, I can’t take things further. Blake thinks I’m playing hard to get, and Bailey thinks Blake’s playing hard to get. Though the more Bailey plays “easy,” the more he seems to be softening to her advances despite the fact he has been all over me.

I need to find Ethan and figure out what his deal is. I cornered Spud to ask whether he could get me in touch with him, but he told me that he’d do no such thing, and that I should just focus on my own assignment. He didn’t, however, refute Ethan’s existence, so I’m as curious as ever about where he’s hiding and why. And how he’s here on Thera. If he has high enough DNT to cross over, could that mean his being at that party wasn’t a coincidence? The thought sends shivers down my spine.

Spud scored Blake a scooter that’ll fit us both, so I’ve learned to close my eyes and hang onto Blake for dear life while he maneuvers us through the canyon paths at high speed. The pleasant breeze created outweighs the threat of injury since walking the dark canyon in one hundred ten degree plus temperatures only results in sweat. The ride takes less than two minutes by scooter, so we’re at the dance quickly.

Teens litter the football field, dancing to some new age crap that sounds like it belongs as the soundtrack to the canyon light show. At least it’s music, I think. When I see Tristan eyeing me in my skimpy attire and licking his lips, I pull Blake in to dance with me.

“I like you in your skimpy party swag,” Blake jokes. “You really move well in it.” I push away and do a back handspring and flip to a split that gets everyone’s attention. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He pulls me up and into a tight embrace.

We dance in a large group for an hour, rotating between slow and sweet, fast and crazy, and sheer athleticism. While Bailey pulls Blake off for a private dance that looks more like a strip-tease, I teach a line of girls several dance routines I know from cheer to tamp down my jealousy. My subjects eventually burn out and collapse into the arms of TB-enhanced boys.

“You’re losing him, frigid minute by minute,” a teebed out Bailey whispers into my ear. I turn to face her.

“He has been all over me lately, Bailey. Not all guys are into the ‘I’m so teebed that I’ll gladly spread my legs for you’ thing,” I snap.

“Little kitten Kira tries to have some bite, eh?” she says. “Well, my dear little promo for purity…what do you think has had Blake so hot and bothered these days? Surely you don’t think that one kiss you shared in the canyons did it, do you? Blake and I have had a…lot…to debate lately, and he has been so…receptive to my arguments. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Whatever, Bailey. If he wants your brand of skank, he and I aren’t meant to be anyways.” I push through the crowd to escape her. Unbelievable. But, then again, her case makes sense. Every time Blake returns to me from a conversation with Bailey, he’s more aggressive about “giving the SCI a good show” than usual. If he’s so into her, why’s he still pursuing things with me?

I continue my brisk walk across the football field until I run straight into Blake.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“Discussing with Bailey your imminent Cleaving to her,” I quip.

“Like that’s going to happen.” His eyes dart through the crowd, scanning for her.

I glare at him and hope he can feel the heat even if he can’t see it. “According to Bailey, the only reason you’ve been so amorous with me as of late is because she has done such a good job of getting you worked up…and you guys just haven’t had a chance to seal the deal yet.”

Blake grabs me around my waist and presses his body to mine and whispers in my ear, “I have some rather bad memories of Bailey from my time back on Earth. You have nothing to worry about.”

Bri considers his move foreplay and whispers in my ear, “Cleave, Cleave, Cleave.” She really wants me “off the market,” so that Tristan will not pursue me.

I am sick and tired of all the Cleaving pressure—from Bri and everyone else. Find some friends for the singular thought in your brain, people. I know their eighteenth birthdays are all staring at them in the face and the prospect of a lifetime with one person is huge, but they need to find better hobbies. Even if they are referring to the “lifetime commitment” instead of the “consummation,” it still makes them sound like a bunch of freaking sex-starved robots when they talk about Cleaving all day.

“Raise my bet to thirty berries that they’ll Cleave off after the dance,” Bri says to Tristan. When she says “they” she means Blake and me. Bri and Tristan have been dancing next to us as have Lucas and his new squeeze, Brooke. Bri adds, “They’ve been downright gooey since they got back together. Have you ever seen two kids more in love?”

“We heard that,” I yell back. “It’s a good thing you don’t value your berries.” Bri started a Theranberry pool to predict our Cleave date, and I believe everyone over sixteen (with the exception of Bailey) has entered since berry season ends soon. It’ll be a long summer for those without good stock. Bri bounces over to Blake and me, dragging Tristan along.

“Come on guys. Help me out,” Bri says, eyes twinkling. Her usual heavy makeup is doubled and particularly sparkly tonight, the effect being pretty sultry, and I wonder if she’s going to make a play for a Cleaving of her own with Tristan by morn. She pleads with Blake, “My summer party schedule depends on you. Blake, how can you possibly resist her dressed like that?” Tristan scans me, thinking he’s safe holding Bri from behind, but Bri’s sixth sense kicks in, and she grinds her heel into his foot. Tristan whimpers like a dog.

“I think it safest to not answer that,” Blake responds. “I do agree that Kira’s pretty hot in her party attire. Especially when she does all those flips and stuff.”

“Seriously, you two.” Bri’s voice is a bit pushy and urgent. “Get with the program. Cleave. Have wicked cute babies.” Blake tenses at the mention of babies because of his concern of mini “Bliras” being grown in the Garden City labs. I think the concerns are unfounded. The doctors showed me ultrasound pictures of the lesion before and after my surgery. How would Ted know the specifics anyway? He’s just guessing and spreading his unhealthy psychosis.

I dismiss her marketing campaign. “Sorry. I’m programmed differently.” She purses her lips in disgust at my values. I always suspected she didn’t share my views on waiting until marriage, but she wasn’t one to kiss and tell either. She’d dig into my affairs—particularly where Tristan was concerned—but glossed over her own relationships. She’d dated Lucas for four months before her death. I have no clue what they did behind closed doors. Never asked. Didn’t want to know.

Bailey pipes in. “Yeah, you’ve got the 50s housewife programming.” My head whips around to face her, and I’m not the only one. What did she just say? She shouldn’t know squat about 50s housewives. Blake clearly heard as well. Bailey’s eyes jet around nervously, but then she lets out a squeal before I can ask her about it. Good thing. I could have exposed Blake and myself to the Second Chancers had I confronted her in front of everyone.

“Oooh. Lara and Johnnie came. She looks so cute pregnant!” Bailey says, waving her arms to get the couple’s attention. She successfully lures them our way. I’ll have to get Bailey alone later and subtly figure out what she knows.

Lara Stewart and Johnnie Sanders had been crowned royalty at Carmel Valley High…Homecoming Royalty, that is. Both seniors, they’d dated since freshman year and applied to the same colleges. I believe they’d been accepted and agreed to go to University of California Riverside before attending the Goodington Winter Formal After Party. Now here on Thera, they’re Cleaved and have Assisted Pregnancy Baby Number One on the way. Lara’s working towards a degree in teaching administration, and Johnnie’s got a security gig of some sort.

While Blake plucks Johnnie’s brain about Garden City security protocol, I politely listen to Lara dish about completely unnatural methods to get pregnant on Thera. The more she describes, the whiter I get, fainter I feel. Shots. Abdominal ultrasounds. Minor surgical procedure to remove the eggs. She might as well have been dictating my medical file. Our experiences vary on two fronts. First, she agreed to her egg removal. And second, a few nights after they removed her eggs they implanted an embryo, which took, making her pregnant.

Whereas Briella laps up every detail of Lara’s story, my brain attempts to reject the similarities to disprove Ted and Blake’s theories of Petri dish-generated posterity. If they really did take my eggs and Blake’s sperm, what happened to the embryos? Are they hoping Blake and I will Cleave soon so they can impregnate me? Or do they have some other plan?

I need air. The throngs of teens on the field seem to be closing in and cutting off my air supply. Without explanation to Bri, Lara, or Blake, I sprint out into the open air and down a path deep into the canyon. The air feels heavy and sticky, different from usual, but I don’t know what to attribute the change to. I look to the dark sky for clues, but the canyon lights mask my view.

While I love my canyon time with Blake, I don’t find the same appeal being out here alone. We usually walk the canyon as dawn approaches, but it is solidly the middle of the night, and the swirling lights can’t cut through the blackness. Every sound rattles me: the bugs, animals and reptiles camouflaged in the brush, and a rumble I can’t place. It starts softly like fingers tapping on a keyboard but then grows to a stampede of horses. So much for being able to think. Blake yells for me, and then I hear a loud siren. It’s familiar. Oh crap. That’s the same siren they used in the flash flood drill. I scramble to climb the hill before the water assails me.

I’m fifty feet up, a third of the way, when it hits. Knowing I’ll lose all progress if caught in a mudslide, I grab for the thickest bush, a thorny Theranberry. The briers slice through my exposed flesh but keep me from being washed into the growing river below. Mud blankets me as it washes down the hill, and the rain assaults from above. Our emergency drill hadn’t properly prepared me. I’d relied on Blake’s quick thinking and strength. He’d used rope ladders to scale the canyon, but how can I find a ladder if I can’t see? The canyon lights are useless covered with mud. And the zip lines are way too high to reach.

Smaller brush, cacti, and unknown objects join the landslide and pummel me as they make their way towards the river of death below. I can feel the roots of my Theranberry bush loosen and know that they won’t hold me much longer. Where’s a city worker on a zip line when you need one? I scream for Blake and for help until my voice fails me.

Twenty or thirty minutes later the rain abates from barrels to merely buckets and visibility increases. Enough to barely make out a human life form headed my way. The voice reveals that Blake has come to rescue me. He’s on a rope ladder a half dozen feet to my left.

“Kira, listen to me. You’re going to need to dive for it. Wait until I get farther down and I’ll catch hold of you,” he shouts, his voice shaking.

I attempt to dislodge myself from my destabilized Theranberry bush enough to slide sideways towards the rope. I get washed down ten or fifteen feet before I feel Blake’s hand grab me and swing me towards him. Once I feel the rope ladder solidly beneath my feet, I let out a cry of relief and embrace Blake.

“What were you thinking? Why’d you run off by yourself like that?” he asks. I can only see the outline of his face but can tell he’s upset.

“Lara. She explained how she got pregnant. They took her eggs. Just like they took my eggs. You and Spud were right,” I whisper, my throat raw.

“Oh crap.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe the procedures are similar?” he says. “Maybe we’re jumping to conclusions.”

“It’s possible. I mean they never did a second procedure to implant an embryo back in me like they did with Lara.” Perhaps Blake is right. The procedures could be similar.

“They couldn’t do that anyway until you’re Cleaved. If you got pregnant you’d have to be Exiled.”

“Uh huh. More reasons to avoid Cleaving like the plague,” I say.

“Well, perhaps instead of freaking over something we can’t prove or control, we should try to get out of here, so we can live to see our labies.” He looks upward at the huge climb ahead of us.

“Labies?” I ask, confused.

“Lab babies—labies.” His attempt to make a joke of it is futile.

“Funny,” I respond. “They stole my eggs. You gave them your sperm.”

“That isn’t fair, Kira. They made me. They said they were running fertility tests on me, just like they told you.” He’s clearly upset by my accusation that he was somehow in on their plans when. Obviously. he wasn’t.

Any further dissection of the state of our potentially existent labies will have to wait. The dumping of the heavens upon us has resumed with vigor, and we can barely keep hold of the rope with the continuous lash of water and mud. I try to latch onto Blake, so he can ascend the rope, but progress is impossible. Gale force winds pelt the rain at our faces with the force of a fire hose. As I reach up to try to clear my eyes of mud and water, I lose my grip on Blake and free fall towards the river.

Panic overtakes me, and it takes several seconds to regain enough faculties to grasp for something, anything to slow my descent. The rope should still be in reach, I think. I shove my hands into the mud and catch hold, nearly pulling out my elbow sockets as I abruptly halt, legs dangling in the raging river below. My upper body strength may not rival Blake or Tristan’s, but between cheer, my nightly workouts here on Thera, and some major adrenaline, I ratchet myself up a few rungs and get my legs out of the water.

Taking some deep breaths to try to get my heart rate down, I survey my situation. Blake didn’t fall with me, so he must still be above. How far, I have no idea, as I’m still blinded by the rain. How much longer can this storm last? Fatigue plagues my muscles, and the rain and mud sting the flesh wounds sustained by the brush and debris. I’ve swallowed enough mud to craft a childhood mud pie. My stomach protests the non-nutritive meal, and I dry heave between belabored breaths.

I work out a rhythm. Inhale ten times facing down to keep the mud out of my mouth. Climb two rungs. Rest. Repeat. Several minutes go by. Eight rungs. Ten rungs. Twelve rungs. It’s progress.

And then Blake and a mass of sludge slam me into the river below.

With no time to react and no way to hold on, I hit the cement floor with enough force to hurt but not kill. The rapids churn us like laundry, sweeping us towards the ocean. Thirty or forty seconds later, I pop my head out of the water and gasp for air. Where’s Blake? He’d been right next to me. A tug at my legs pulls me under for a moment, and then we both rise to the surface. My lungs burn, but I refuse to die this way so I look for options. I motion towards the “shore.”

Swimming against the current, we target anything along the shoreline that we can use to pull ourselves out. The river carries us at least a mile before we can get across ten feet of rapids and grab hold of a dense patch of brush. Blake shoves me up with one arm, his other wrapped around a monstrous cactus. The rain has slowed again enough for me to see his face every few seconds as a strobe flashes around the canyon.

“Stay above the brush and search for a ladder with your hands,” he tells me. “Try to yell out every couple minutes, so they can get a handle on your location.”

“Take my hand, Blake. I can pull you up.”

“They have a well trained rescue team. It shouldn’t be long before they find you. They’ll be using the zip lines.”

“You’re scaring the crap out of me, Blake. Get up here,” I plead. As the light shines on his face, I can tell he won’t be joining me, and that it is by choice. “No, no, no, no, no. You are not leaving me here. You don’t get to leave me and our labies while we suffer an eternity on this cursed planet!”

“Chill. I’ll be back. I promise. Trust me. If I don’t come back, at least you have some great other options here—Tristan or Ethan, the chick-magnet Intern,” he says in a joking tone, although I don’t think it’s funny. “By the way, it’s not fake to me anymore. I’m falling for you, Kira.” Then he lets go, and the river swiftly carries him away.

“What the hell?” I yell, though he may be too far to hear me. How dare he tell me he’s falling for me right before launching into that suicidal stream of sludge? I know him. He has some hare-brained idea that he can get out to the beach and within range of his father. But the far more likely scenario is that he will drown or get pulled out into the ocean by a riptide, and I never see him again.

The agony of his departure paralyzes any action on my part for what seems like hours. I numb myself to the rain and mud as the intensity cycles between brutal and barely noticeable. As dawn approaches the skies shut off, and the drains built into the canyon floor suck up the remaining liquid, leaving behind a graveyard of debris and silt. The clouds dissipate, and the sun sears the mud to my skin. The minuscule remaining rational portion of my brain urges me to scale the canyon, but my angst of not knowing Blake’s fate squashes any upward momentum.

Eventually, rescuers find me. I get hauled to the clinic by way of mule. The mule’s stench and the jarring ride barely register. An unnerved Spud Rosenberg meets my rescue party at the top of the canyon.

“Where’s Blake?” he asks me. No need to look up to know his chin fat is swaying and thin brows are furrowed.

“The river. He pushed me up and out of it but got swept away.” Intentionally, the jerk.

“How long ago?”

“Hours,” I respond, although I have no idea of the exact timing.

“We’ll find him,” he says. “The rescue team will scour the canyons until they do.” Only if he wants to be found. Or if his dead body is amongst the riverbed debris.

Two nights and no news. They’ve kept me drugged most of the time since my wailing “distracts the doctors and nurses.” My wounds are healing. Appetite, not so much. I’ve been stuck in the clinic, hooked to tubes that force nutrition into my body. Bri and Tristan have been swapping shifts to keep me company. I’m surprised Bri trusts Tristan to sit with me, but I guess she figures I’m too distraught over Blake to put up with any crap from Tristan. She’d hate the truth which is that I prefer Tristan’s bedside manner to hers. Bri’s overly sunny “everything will be fine so that you and Blake can finally Cleave” talk drives me insane when the outcome may be much less than okay. The rescue teams have failed to find Blake, dead or alive. Tristan has avoided the topic of Blake altogether, catching me up on every bit of Garden City High gossip.

“You mind if I read you a children’s story?” he asks.

“Is it because I’ve been acting like a child?” I respond.

“Ha ha. No, because the girl in the story reminds me of you,” he says. He shows me pictures from the book on his tablet, and I gasp at the resemblance of the girl in the story. The girl wears her long strawberry blonde hair in ringlets and has pale green eyes ringed in gold. Even her facial structure resembles my heart-shaped face. The boy looks like a cross between Blake and Ethan, if I even correctly remember what Ethan looks like at this point. I must be doomed to a life of loss.

“Yeah sure, a children’s story is about all I can handle right now,” I say, pretending to not be that interested. Far from the truth because Blake and I are supposedly Originals. I am very intrigued about my legendary ancestors. I burrow into my pillow, pull my blanket up, and listen to Tristan bring life to the magical tale.

Centuries ago, a beautiful princess named Helina of Light stood at the precipice of a volcanic crater at dawn. As firstborn daughter, her family had to sacrifice her to the Gads in exchange for seven years of plenty in the lands surrounding the volatile and fiery volcano. As the sun peeked over the Eastern horizon, she boldly dove towards the fiery pits.

Instead of being consumed by flame, Helina found herself engulfed in warm water. She flopped and flailed in the water to keep herself afloat. A strong breeze whisked her to a shell-covered beach. Too weak to move, she awaited death.

Death did not come. Hadrian of Dark found her while fishing. He abandoned his haul, carrying her to his garden home miles away. The garden was lush, fertile and beautiful beyond measure. Helina thought she was in Heaven with the Gads. She fell in love with Hadrian and, in time, agreed to cleave to him.

A year hence, Helina bore twins to the delight of her husband. Csilla favored her mother. Cole, his father. The children thrived in the gardens, though Csilla yearned for adventure. She’d grown hearing stories of the ‘mortal’ land of her mother’s birth. After Cole took his uncle’s daughter to cleave, Csilla set out to find Light. She wove a raft of reeds of the garden and pushed out to sea, never to be seen by Helina and Hadrian again.

Years after her parents’ death, Csilla returned to her parent’s garden home with her children and grandchildren. Cole greeted her and marveled at tales of travel between Light and Dark. After nights of feast and celebration Csilla invited Cole to journey to his mother’s birthplace and see Light with his own eyes. He acquiesced to his sister’s pleadings, bringing his own children and grandchildren. They visited the very volcano where Helina was sacrificed before Cole returned to Dark. Despite the lure of Light, he missed his cleave and his father’s gardens.

Generation after generation passed between Dark and Light. Only those of the blood of the Originals could make the journey. Until, that is, Helina’s great-great-great-great granddaughter, Ilana, who lived on Light, struck a deal with the Gads when her husband died before his time. The Gads agreed to bring her husband back to life in the Dark land of her distant grandfather. Eventually, others were granted a second chance at life on Dark.

“Cool story, huh?” Tristan says upon finishing. “I love a good romance.” I envy his naivety. He thought some author imagined the story. Although I imagine much of it to be fiction, the folklore justifies Original domination over Second Chancers. Tristan doesn’t even realize he once lived in Light and his benefactors in Dark Exiled him here by execution.

Choosing my words carefully, I respond, “Kind of grim. I can’t believe someone wrote a story for kids about a girl jumping into a volcano.”

“You wouldn’t jump into a volcano if it meant finding your one true love?” he asks. I might actually jump if I knew I could find Blake. Or see Ethan again. But to jump thinking I would die? Crazy.

“She didn’t know she’d find love. And since when are you such a romantic?” A slip. Not one he’d recognize but a slip nonetheless.

“I’m a regular Prince Hadrian.” His brown eyes sparkle and impish grin shines. And with that, I smile for the first time since Blake disappeared. We talk for hours until Bri arrives, covering every kosher topic on Thera from Cleaving, love and romance, to friendship, sports, exercise and food. It is the Tristan of our early relationship. Fun. Talkative. Charming. Sweet. I fell in love with that Tristan, not the soulless, drunken oaf who cheated on me with my best friend.

“Have you found him?” I ask as Spud Rosenberg enters my living room unannounced, a second man behind him. Although I’m thankful to be out of the clinic, being in the house I share with Blake without him has been excruciatingly painful.

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” Spud responds. “Our search and rescue operations are confidential. But you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you kidding me? He’s my partner. I need him back and need to know that he’s alive. Why won’t you tell me?”

“We’re not here to discuss Blake. My colleague, Ethan Darcton, requires a word with you—and I do believe you’ve been wanting a word with him, as well,” Spud says.

“Ethan Darcton—as in related to Brad Darcton of the Ten? ” I ask, straining my neck to get a look at the guy who’s still obscured by Spud’s large head. My stomach lurches toward my throat as if I’ve just taken a plunge down a roller coaster. I instantly recognize the face. Striking. Magazine cover material. Young twenties. Dark hair. Twinkling sapphire eyes. Stubble from a couple-nights without shaving. And definitely not a ghost. Ethan. How could he show up now after all this time? He just now comes to see me? He walks towards me so I can get a better look, and I can finally confirm he’s as incredible as I remember. He’s a Darcton? The Ten was responsible for that explosion and Mr. Senior Ten’s son was there that night striking up a conversation with me? That can’t be a coincidence. Could hot college dude be a terrorist?

“Yes, I’m his son. You and I have met previously,” he says it as if I might have forgotten him. Taking my hand in his, he sits down next to me on my couch, close enough that his knee touches mine. My heart races at his contact, but my brain is doing somersaults at the thought that Ethan may have been involved in the Goodington disaster.

“I’ll leave the two of you to talk.” Spud ignores my icy glare, waving me off and exiting through the front door. My attention returns to the Darcton heir and I find his eyes transfixed on me.

I sigh deeply and try to find my voice amidst my astonishment. “So, after all this time, you show up. At first I thought I lost my mind. I kept seeing you on Earth, or so I thought. And again at the scale version of the Headquarters meeting with… your father. I heard your voice at the clinic, but you wouldn’t open the door. And then Blake said he’d run into an Intern named Ethan with your description. Why wouldn’t you say something to me and let me know you were alive? Or perhaps you were purposefully avoiding me.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if to compose himself before addressing me.

“I’m so sorry that Blake has gone missing.” Ethan ignores my questions. “He seems like a really nice guy and from what I understand, you two are close.”

“How did you survive the explosion at the Goodington party? How are you here on Thera? You’re really Brad Darcton’s son?” I ask. To think that I obsessed over every word he spoke to me that night…wondering if he felt even a fraction of the connection I felt…wondering who his girlfriend was…and, ridiculously, wondering if he could forget her and want a forever with me.

And then the fantasy fizzles. He’s a Darcton. “Why were you even there that night?” Heck, they can Exile me for all I care. “Did you cause the…” Ethan cuts me off as he firmly plants his hand over my lips but shakes his head “no” at my intended question.

“I know you have a lot of questions. But, let me address one thing at a time. I was at the Goodington party because as part of the interview process, the SCI does a ‘spot check’ on the most promising Recruits to confirm they’re of the right kind of character to represent the Second Chance Institute. The Ten asked me to observe you and your friends. It was during my observation I happened upon an unfortunate incident,” he says, as if reciting a script. “It’s easier to show you. I brought a video that should…shed some light on the events of that night.”

“Video?” He briskly leaves the couch, takes a memory card from his pocket, and plugs it into the side of my tablet. I follow him. A few moments later, images appear on the monitor, and I take a seat in my desk chair. Ethan is not acting at all like the flirty, sweet guy I remember. In fact, he’s awkward and seems nervous. His hands are shaking. The all business demeanor doesn’t suit him.

“I apologize in advance for the content,” he warns. “I was directed to show you.”

“By?” I ask.

“The Ten,” he responds. “They have…concern about the time you’ve been spending with your former boyfriend, Tristan. Given your importance…as a Recruit…they want you to be fully informed as to his behavior leading up to the accident.” I clench my teeth to keep from correcting him. Accident? Don’t insult me.

Mr. Darcton the Younger skips forward to the segment I’m to watch. Briella and Tristan fill the screen. They’re sprawled out on a bed, presumably within the former Goodington estate since they’re dressed in Winter Formal attire.

Bri is speaking. “We need to tell her.”

“Why now? If you haven’t told her about us after a year, what’s changed to make you want to come clean?” Tristan asks.

“I love you,” she says. “I always have. Since our first time up at Mammoth, and that was before I stupidly introduced you to Kira and you blew me off for her.”

“I didn’t blow you off at Mammoth. You were playing head games, and then you blew up at me after I spent the afternoon keeping Kira company in the lodge. I didn’t want to deal with your crap no matter how good of a time we’d had at that party,” he responds. “Besides, you said you were okay about it. That you wanted her to be happy, and I made her happy.”

“I don’t think either of us have been making her happy lately. She has to know something’s up, and I don’t think she could handle finding out about it from someone else.” She almost looks like she feels guilty.

Tristan does not look like he feels any remorse. “I thought we’d talked this through at iHop this morning and decided not to tell her. She’ll probably be leaving soon anyway to go do that stupid internship, and then I can use that as an excuse to break up. When she gets back we can tell her we hooked up while she was gone.”

“No, it’s not enough. You can’t date my best friend while having me on the side. We need to tell her. Tonight,” she insists.

“That’s crazy. You’re drunk.” He shoves some tongue down her throat.

“You’re drunk. I’m just enough drunk to give you what you’ve been wanting all night.” She slips off her dress and begins to unbutton his tux shirt.

“Please turn it off,” I say to the monster I assume filmed it. How could I have been so wrong about Ethan? I’d built a freaking pedestal so high to put him on, so I guess I shouldn’t be shocked to see how far he can fall. At least I’ve kept a perfect record in falling for only schmucks who disappoint.

“Of course.” He closes out the file and slips the card back in his pocket. He turns to me, putting his hands on my shoulders and whispering in my ear, “I’m so sorry. Know that I had no choice in this matter and disagree with the Ten’s methods.” His touch sends shivers up and down my spine, attraction and repulsion converging.

I pull back, step away from him, and practically spit out my words. “You followed me? Taped my friends? How did you survive the explosion? Why won’t you answer my questions? Why have you been avoiding me?” I ask, furious at his involvement with the Ten. Furious at the Ten for sending someone to spy on me and for killing my friends.

“I followed you when you left the party and planned to offer you a ride home. But then the explosion happened and Blake carted you off in his truck,” he explains. “After that, well, I wasn’t purposefully trying to avoid you, I swear.” I look into his eyes for hints of sincerity. He appears to be telling me the truth, but I can’t possibly trust the son of a member of the Ten, no matter how attractive he is or how big of a fantasy I’ve built up in my head about him. His father and the other nine exterminated more than a hundred people to get me here. No good can come from that bloodline.

I retreat back to the couch, tuck my legs into my chest, and rock back and forth. My entire relationship with Tristan was a lie. And Bri? She loved Tristan the entire time we dated. Slept with him. Even before we’d met and started dating. We’d gone on a big group thing to Mammoth. I got carsick on the way up so she went to the party that night without me and must have hooked up with him. Then the next day, he’d come over to our table—probably to see her—and since I thought he was cute, I nervously monopolized the conversation. And told Bri afterwards I was interested in him. At that point, she decided not to tell me what had happened between them. And then he’d asked me out, and I was dumb enough to accept.

At some point, though, they’d hooked up again. Or maybe they never stopped. But things shifted. I recognize that now. They both started pulling away. Right around when I told them I planned to take the Test. Tristan distanced himself after that. Started drinking more. When I left iHop the day of the Test, I saw them deep in conversation. Why couldn’t I see it? She thought I was onto them.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I should get an award for my abject stupidity. And then I come here and get partnered with Blake. Our fake relationship starts to progress to something real, and he tells me he’s falling for me. I still can’t quite forgive him for letting go of that cactus and leaving me to fend for myself in a flash flood. Not to mention risking his own life just to chat with his father. And now he may be dead. Or joined up with the Exilers with no plans to return.

Blake and I may be the unwilling parents of who knows how many offspring. There’s still that possibility weighing on me. My eggs. His sperm. Future of Thera. Blood of the Originals. Dark and Light reunited. Fantasy or fiction, I do not know. What I do know is that I’m not ready to parent a brood of crossovers—or Daynighters as they’re called. Why do they care so much about having people that can go back and forth? It’s not for Recruits, that’s for sure.

And if all of that isn’t enough, the incredibly hot, sweet guy who I dreamed about spending my life with turns out to be the son of my worst nightmare. He’s not dead. He’s not with his girlfriend, if she was even real. Instead, he’s Brad Darcton’s son and errand boy for the Ten. His flirting was just another assignment, and my fantasy was just that. A fantasy. That stings most of all.

My silence and mental breakdown lasts at least twenty minutes. Ethan stays put, silently watching and waiting for me to snap out of it. Finally, I speak.

“I can’t…I can’t deal with this. Blake’s missing and may be dead. The whole Bri and Tristan thing. You…being here, not at all who I thought you were. I want to go home, Mr. Darcton.” I purposefully emphasize his family name.

“Please call me Ethan. And, that’s just what we’re going to do. I’m going to take you home for a visit.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ethan

“Still moping over the pretty redhead?” The voice startles me from my daydream. I may or may not have been slacking on my job.

“You scared the crap out of me, Jax. Can’t you ever ring the doorbell or something?” I jump out of my desk chair and turn to him. He’s in a white tank and athletic shorts. Hair’s rumpled and in its usual “needed a haircut a few weeks ago” state. His golden eyes are full of mischief.

“And ruin the surprise? Never. Let’s go discuss your woes over some basketball,” he says. “I take it the moratorium’s still on.”

“Yes on the moratorium. No on the basketball. Some of us have to work…harder than others.”

“Ha. As if, Mr. ‘I’m too in love to have picked up my tablet in the last hour.’ Never fear, love-deprived boy. I doubt you’ll be stonewalled much longer now that Blake’s gone missing.”

“What? Missing?”

“Didn’t your daddy tell you. It happened during the flash flood. Blake floated right on out of Garden City, or so it would seem.”

“I take it you know different?” I ask. With anyone else, I would worry about having this conversation listened to. But Jax has the ability to block any surveillance within a 50 foot radius. One of his many talents. I keep trying to get him to hook me up, but he tells me that although he can work miracles, he can’t (or won’t) work that one. Selfish bastard.

“When will you get it through your thick skull that I know all?” He gives me a jovial shove. “Blake isn’t good enough for her. He has got a thing for that blonde named Bailey. And, he left Kira to die in the middle of the flood. All to meet up with…drumroll please…the Exilers.” He shows me what’s happening in a manner only Jax can. I can’t believe my eyes. “Blake’s daddy is head hauncho of the Militants. And they are plotting against Garden City’s own and quite dear Grand Council. Blake was sent here to play hero.” His tone is mocking. My parents love Jax and would never guess he isn’t a willing pawn in their Grand Cause. In the same way they don’t realize I’m not quite on their side. Dr. Christo made sure of that.

I let Jax’s words and the images sink in. Blake’s a traitor? A plant from the Exilers? I knew something seemed off with him. Could Kira be in on it?

“No, Kira’s not an Exiler plant. Only the boy. Though, he told her, and she hasn’t turned him in. Nor will you. It’s all meant to be played out.”

“I don’t want her involved,” I say. “She could get hurt.”

“Relax. I’m watching out for her.” His eyes are aglow. “And quite enjoying it.”

“No. I don’t want you around her either,” I huff. The last thing I need is more competition. Between Blake, the Exiler and Tristan, the dead boyfriend, the situation is already barely manageable. I doubt Kira would be enough for Jax anyway. He’s even pickier than I am about the female race.

“Alas, you’ll be with her soon. Don’t blow it. If you do, a real man will have to step in and take charge.” He straightens his shoulders and puffs out his chest. Did I just see him flex his bicep?

“And who might that real man be, Jax? Surely not you,” I jest.

“Indeed, indeed. I’m what they model the real men after,” he says with a smirk. “She’s quite unique, you know. More so than the Ten realizes. My dad’s been overseeing her medical treatment, and I’ve been tracking her progress.”

“Why would your dad be involved in her medical care? Does she have a heart issue?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions, Ethan. As usual. You’d be best to ask why my father was involved in your treatment. It’s not like there weren’t others brought to Thera to see to your care.” Jax understands that my parents like to take an occasional dip in the Sea of Depravity. But he has never been one to spout the family secrets.

I’m used to Jax’s lures and refuse to bite. That doesn’t mean I can’t throw out my own barb. “I know plenty about your family’s business too. Did you so quickly forget we did all our schooling together?”

My family may rule the Second Chancers, but his family is responsible for the Second Chancers being here. On the grand hierarchal pyramid, neither Dr. Christo or Jax ever let me forget that they’ve got the “better view,” a carefully guarded secret that no member of the Ten or Grand Council knows which is why I always wondered why Dr. Christo gifted me a “partial view” to his lifestyle. According to Dr. Christo, I’m well situated to help with his family business and so, like everyone else around me, he has appointed me to assist.

“Some things can’t be learned. They must be.” He brushes off my dig with ease. “And I think you know better than to threaten me or my father. We’ve always been there for you, and you can’t say that about the others in your life.”

“Jax, I wasn’t threatening you. I made a vow that I plan to keep. Forgive me for being frustrated. My parents. My Uncle. You and your father. I’m always at someone’s beck and call. I just wanted this one thing—one girl—for myself.”

He slaps me on the back. “And so you will. The lovely Miss Kira Donovan fell prey to your spell that night and hasn’t forgotten. So relax and enjoy the ride while you can. I’ve got to be off. Duty calls. Keep me posted.”

He departs in a flash and I return to my desk and work, pondering the gift of hope Jax left me.

––––––––

The doorbell rings. Well, at least I know it isn’t Jax.

I open the door to find a giant and rare smile on my father’s face. “Hello, son. I come bearing excellent news.”

“And what would that be?” I assume he’s finally here to tell me about Blake’s disappearance nights after Jax filled me in.

“How’d you like a little vacation to San Diego?” That’s not the news I was looking for. The last thing I want is to be a world away from Kira.

“Uncle Henry needs me to escort some brainless bimbo to a fundraiser?” I thought Uncle Henry planned to be on the road all summer, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t slip back into town for a weekend to make a few bucks.

“No fundraisers. I need you to escort one pretty Light Original back home for a visit. The girl’s distraught. Her boy toy disappeared, and she’s not taking it well. And Tristan, the girl’s ex, is trying to dig his claws into her. I want her far away from here for a spell,” he says. I get to take Kira home for an extended vacation? Now that sounds too good to be true.

“Jax filled me in on Blake’s disappearance. His dad’s her doctor?” I try to get a reaction or a rise out of my father. “Since Blake’s out of the picture, does that mean I have the Ten’s approval to move forward? I get a chance with her?”

“Jax should spend less time meddling. And yes, our plan can move forward. Though, not without conditions.” Of course. I would expect nothing less, even if it is his plan, not mine.

“Which are?”

“Well, for one, we need Tristan out of the picture permanently. We need you to show her the video you took at the party.”

“No. No way. That’s seriously perverted stuff. She’ll hate me.” I vigorously shake my head. “She’ll know the real reason I was there that night.”

“It’s required. But, here’s the incentive. You’ll need a reasonable excuse to stay with the girl at her home. So, you get to be her boyfriend for the duration of the trip.”

“You think she’d say yes to that after I’ve just shown her a video of her long-time boyfriend cheating on her?” My father is delusional.

“She has no choice in the matter.”

“Ugh. I don’t want a fake relationship with her. I want a real one. What happens after the trip?” I ask, although I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

“Well, that depends on how the trip goes, whether Blake magically returns, and how she feels about you.” He chuckles. “Keep her in line. No deviations will be tolerated. Her life and your life depend on it. The Ten expects her silence while on Earth and her immediate return to Thera when required.”

“Yes, sir,” I respond. It should floor me that he threatened to kill his own son, but that’s standard issue parenting for him. Who am I kidding? Dr. Christo has been more of a father to me than my dad will ever be.

Eight years prior

Most pre-teens get the talk on “the birds and the bees.” Instead, Jax and I got the “Dark and the Lights” lecture from Dr. Christo. Over and over again. Dr. Christo drilled the concepts and then tested. Perhaps, had Jax let me get a word in, the good doctor would have realized I knew the material. But, Jax felt the need to show his superiority, and I let him.

“What is DNT?” Dr. Christo would ask.

Jax immediately would answer, “Markers that determine whether we can pass between worlds.”

Dr. Christo: “People can be DNT(L) or DNT(D) or DNT(LD). What do the sub-markers represent?”

Jax: “Well, duh, that represents the root source of their DNT. Light, Dark, or Both. Light originated on Earth and Dark on Thera.”

Dr. Christo: “Jax, please let Ethan answer. Particularly since you didn’t answer in full.”

Jax: “Only because you interrupted me. Pure Lights or Darks are extremely rare. Almost non-existent. So, the (L) or (D) sub-marker only indicates what the ‘majority’ is in the mix. The (LD) marker is the theoretical sub-marker for the perfect union between a pure Light and pure Dark which, of course, only happened at the beginning. No pure Lights have been known to exist since.”

Dr. Christo: “True. But it can and will happen again. In your lifetime in fact. What happens when someone has the (LD) marker?”

Jax: “Magic. Among other things, the ability to freely travel between the worlds without issue.”

Dr. Christo: “Is DNT the only marker of interest?”

Jax: “No. ARB is also of interest but highly uncommon. Like those with DNT(LD), those with ARB may also freely pass between worlds. Their talents are many and thus, much is required of them. You and I have ARB, Daddy.”

Dr. Christo: “Indeed we do, Son. Can DNT and ARB co-exist?”

Jax: “Yes, in rare circumstances.”

Dr. Christo: “Jax, please let Ethan speak. Ethan is special, too. Ethan, you’re a pure Dark with a ‘little something extra.’ This is why so much is expected of you, even much more than your parents realize.”

I finally get a word in. “I know. Though I’m hardly special. I’m broken.”

Dr. Christo sighed. “No, not broken. Fixed. Whole.” I just had my last surgery. “Now, why was Light lured to Dark? Why was it crucial in the beginning to have those who could cross over?”

Jax: “To make all things equitable. Things were architected so those who were not afforded ample opportunity to achieve their purpose—through no fault of their own—would be given that opportunity. A Second Chance.”

Dr. Christo: “Isn’t that what the Second Chance Institute does?”

Jax: “No. That’s what we do. We bring them here. The SCI manages them once here. Or mis-manages, I should say. To bring about their own purposes.”

Dr. Christo: “And what purposes would that be?”

Jax: “Research. They test governmental ruling methods here to use back on Earth.”

Dr. Christo: “Is this acceptable?”

Both Jax and I answer this one in unison: “No.”

Present

I hadn’t thought about Dr. Christo and Jax’s differences in a long time. I spent so much time with them that their oddities seemed to be the norm. Not until I moved in with my Uncle Henry did I realize that Jax and Dr. Christo were anything but the norm. Dr. Christo told me that my pure Dark DNT had a “little something extra.” Even when pressed, he never told me what that meant. Other than I have “an even Grander Destiny to fulfill.”

After my “vacation” with Kira, I do believe I owe the good doctor a visit. My parents placed me on Earth with my Uncle Henry for a reason. They want me to have political aspirations and use Theran knowledge to “better” a “declining” society on Earth. But, I need to understand how that meshes with Dr. Christo’s plans for me. Since Dr. Christo knows the big picture, it is time he shares it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Blake

I’m a real jerk. I can’t believe I told Kira I was falling for her and then ditched her in the middle of a flash flood. Who knows how long I’ll be gone, and I wouldn’t want Kira hooking up with anyone while I was gone and ruining our cover. Better to have her pining away while I’m away. Am I really falling for her? After Bailey, I thought that I would never want a relationship again. And now…living with Kira and having Bailey tempt me at every turn, it’s making it near impossible. My hormones are raging. From a strategic standpoint, hooking up with Bailey would only hurt my cause. The SCI wants me with Kira. And, that kiss with Kira was hot. I need to try it a few more times to see if I can get the kind of volcanic reaction I had in the past with Bailey.

It’s all moot if I don’t return. Or if Kira doesn’t get rescued—she could die if another mudslide puts her back in the river. What was I thinking? I saw an opportunity to get word to my dad and took it. Even if the SCI tries to track me, they’ll just assume I got swept out to sea by the current. I have a foolproof excuse to be where I shouldn’t, and I took it without thinking it through. There’s no turning back now. To prevent being tracked, I rip off my watch so the SCI will think it came off in transit down the river.

I’ve completed four triathlons. That’s child’s play compared to swimming river rapids full of debris. I have zero visibility and no way to gauge how far I am from my target. I’m saddled by my less than swim-friendly party attire. And the canyon lights are covered in mud, so it’s pitch black. I use a breaststroke to push the debris from my path while I think strategy. Worst case, I end up in the ocean, swim far enough north to clear the Eco barrier, and then ride the waves into shore. I prefer not to go that route since I’m bleeding from at least a dozen spots which means I’m some pretty attractive shark bait. My standard issue party vest has been ripped to shreds.

Without warning, I slam into a rock wall. I churn alongside large chunks of debris in a small pool for quite some time, periodically being pushed back into the same surface. The clouds break for a moment, and I can see that I’m at the mouth of the canyon. This means the beach, Eco barrier, and the ocean are around the corner. I can’t feel the canyon floor with my feet, so the water must be pretty deep between the ocean waves coming in and storm water flowing out. I’m able to see a small rock shelf jettisoning out of the canyon wall a couple feet above water level. It appears to continue around the canyon’s mouth. That’s my opportunity to get a safe view of my situation since I don’t know how close the Eco barrier is.

I dive low and then push upward with all my might, popping out of the water. After a few tries, I’m able to grab hold of the shelf. I fall off and have to repeat the maneuver. On the fourth try, I pull myself onto it. Thank goodness I added pull-ups to my workout routine. The shelf is about three feet wide, and it’s slick from the rain. I gouge my hand pretty bad getting up so hope it’s worth it because I really don’t want to get back in that water. The shelf is too slick to walk on, so I inch forward on my stomach, using my forearms to propel myself.

The shelf angles upwards and narrows as it rounds the bend of the canyon mouth. I press forward in darkness. The clouds have closed, and the only way I can tell the shelf continues is by reaching out with my arms. It seems like hours pass before I have a decent view of the landscape again. I’ve managed to go from the inland side of the canyon wall, around the corner, and to the beach side. Waves are furiously breaking against the canyon wall below me.

Gads almighty. I had no idea that I’d climbed so high. I’m at least thirty feet above the ground on a shelf that is just more than a foot wide. The Eco barrier may be directly beneath me, but I can’t tell. There’s less than ten feet of progress to be made before the shelf disappears entirely. The only thing I can do is wait for daylight. If the storm clears and sun appears, I’ll burn. My arms and head are exposed. The mud layer that I’d once had on me washed off in the river. Perhaps the ocean route would have been wiser. Exhausted, I scoot my back against the cliff and close my eyes.

Scalding sun wakens me. My skin has turned a bright pink. The stone ledge burns to the touch. I allow my eyes to adjust. Despite the debris left on the beach, I can see the edge of the Eco barrier at least twenty feet to the south of me. Keeping all but my head atop the ledge, I peer over the side to see if the canyon face is uneven to provide enough footholds to allow me to climb down. I see a few, but not enough to descend thirty plus feet without injury. That leaves me two options. Signal my dad and hope his team can help, or return to the other side of the Eco barrier and swim the ocean.

Signal first. I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle loudly in a pre-planned pattern of long short long short for about a minute. And then I wait. Given the Exilers will likely be sleeping, I try again. And again. Finally, I notice a figure jogging down the beach, hugging the cliffs to keep from being too noticeable. About fifty yards from me, he stops and whistles a short long to respond. Only after I echo his tune does he catch sight of me and wave. He closes the distance and shouts up at me.

“Blake? Is that you?” says Doc Daryn. He hasn’t seen me for nearly a decade, but perhaps my father showed him a recent picture. I figure he’s pretty old by now and may not have stellar eyesight, particularly in the bright sun. His hair’s long, white, and pulled back in a braid.

“Yep. Hey Doc. I’m getting fried up here. Any chance you have a thirty foot ladder handy?”

“Sorry, buddy,” he says. “I will, however, go get your father and his team and we’ll try to figure something out.”

“Hey, no hurry. I’m just in Garden City party attire and my sunscreen washed off. Take your time.” He waves his hands in dismissal of my snarky comments and jogs back up the beach. It’s a full half-hour before the rescue brigade arrives. They’re wearing large sun hats and other protective gear, and they have brought shovels and a large fishing net. Looks like they want me to play aerial circus clown. Super. My dad confirms my worst fears when he tells me that he expects me to jump.

“You know, Dad. We could just chat right here, and then I can reverse my course. That might be a little safer than diving into your shoddily built fishnet.”

“We’re going to dig a hole under in case you break through.” Sure, that would delay the pain, but who’s he kidding? He’s asking for me to jump to my death. “A ship will be arriving within the hour, so we’re going to have to get this done and move our conversation to the caves. Otherwise, we’re sitting ducks.” True, given the heavy raiding activity of Interceptors, the ships have taken to firing upon any suspicious activity upon beaches or in the water.

They don’t get much of a ditch built in twenty-five minutes, so they better hold that freaking net tight. I may bounce, but that’s better than a thirty-foot free fall. I try to mentally calculate how far I’ll need to jump outward to land directly above the ditch and center of the net. They roll it out, and the men take their positions.

When my father gives the signal, I stand and pretend I’m jumping off the high dive at the local pool, rather than into a twenty foot diameter fishnet held up by two dozen Exilers. I aim for center but am off by several feet when I land. They’ve held the net too tightly, and the cords slice into my skin before giving way and thunking me to the ground on my legs and back. I avoid hitting my head but twist my ankle. Thankfully, though, I don’t think I have any broken bones, and I’m off the cursed ledge. Who knows how I’ll ever get back to Garden City, but I might as well take this one step at a time.

Two men carry me back to the caves so that Doc can give me a once over. The lacerations and bruises will heal as will my ankle. Of bigger concern are my burns. My party clothes are removed, and I’m lathered with a thick gooey substance and told to stay put for a few hours while it works its magic.

“So Doc, how’s your Cleave?” I ask, trying to make conversation. Doc’s Cleave will always hold a special place in my heart. She was practically my mom after my own mother died. Doc looks away for a moment before turning to answer me.

Tears are welled up in his eyes. “She passed a couple years back. It has been rough without her.” Oh no. They were as tight as any couple I’ve seen.

“I’m so sorry. How’d it happen?”

“In an unfortunate skirmish.” There’s obviously a story behind it. One that likely involves the SCI.

“With SCI security?”

He gets a very serious look on his face and clears his throat. “Things have changed since you lived here. Not all the Exilers have the same goals. Linda went to bat for our beliefs, and the opposition took issue.”

“Exilers did it?” I wonder if they were like the evil men who’d hurt me when I was young.

He shrugs his shoulders. “What’s done is done, and she has got no second chance at it. I can’t dwell. It does no good. All I can do is try to do right by my people and avoid violence in the future.” I nod, tears in my eyes. It hits me hard that Doc’s Cleave is gone.

Doc forces me to eat some nasty cooked grain which makes me wonder how I survived my childhood. How spoiled and picky I’ve become. I used to be grateful to get any food at all. Though, I do remember a time when I got a taste of the good life, and it soured my opinion of Exiled food for the rest my time spent living on Thera. Just the memory of my sweet encounter causes me to reject the pasty slop Doc gave me. I spit it back into my bowl and await my father. The sooner I get my message to him and get my updated orders, the sooner I get back to Garden City, to real food, and to Kira.

Eleven years prior

The Interceptors scored “the big haul.” They sieged a freighter that was hauling supplies from Food City and Farm City to Garden City. Without any fancy-shmancy deep dock to pull into and with a desire to hurt the SCI’s transportation system, they’d run the ship aground north of the Interceptor caves into a lagoon between canyons. The Interceptors set traps to dissuade any SCI men from entering the lagoon to retrieve the spoils.

Knowing the food couldn’t survive the trip to our hot caves, they decided to move the people to the food. Our family and countless others trekked the relatively short distance and spent a month aboard ship. The accommodations were grim and cramped but not enough worse than the caves to warrant complaint. After months of famine, we welcomed the plenty. But even more than the food, I embraced the change of scenery. What little boy wouldn’t want his run of a ship? One night, I was an Interceptor. Next, a Spy. Then, a Militant. The younger kids on board, including Leila, served as my minions, the enemy, or my forces, depending on which game we played. Every adult had been assigned a full time job, so we had little to no supervision.

On one particular night, the adults dispersed to fend off an anticipated attack. Garden City’s next shipment was due which meant a new ship with a fresh crop of security detail aboard. They’d be on the lookout for us and would eagerly await the opportunity to recapture their ship and supplies, although the ship had been so badly damaged when maneuvered into the lagoons that it had a questionable future back on the open seas. The SCI had no way to know that, though. So, the adults camped near the feed from the lagoon to the ocean and waited, leaving their misfit kids aboard the ship. An adult or two may have been left on deck, but the bowels of the freighter were fair game for deep exploration.

That night I became Blake the Great, a fearless explorer of unknown territories. We ventured into every nook and cranny of the ship, seeking great fortune and adventure. The metal ladders aboard presented no obstacle. I found them infinitely more stable than the rope ladders of the canyons. Collecting items of great worth in a small plastic bag, we amassed a sizable treasure by midnight. By then we’d worked up a huge appetite, and I decided to transform from Blake the Great Explorer to Blake the Great Hunter. The supply hold was strictly off limits, but the usual guards were absent. I figured we’d be in and out long before the parents returned, so no harm done. We unlatched the door and entered.

The vault—containing rows and rows of supplies—had been so vast that the light of our headlamps couldn’t extend the length of it. Boxes, with labels I didn’t recognize, were piled to the ceiling. I was taught to read off a tablet the Interceptors stole in a raid but had been limited to the text contained on that particular tablet, so most of the supplies were unfamiliar. We finally found boxes labeled “Food City” and figured that whatever was inside had to be edible. We opened the only box we could reach without toppling an entire stack.

Jackpot. The box was filled with raw sugar and chocolate chips. We divided the spoils and kept eating until we’d devoured every last bit. I’d never tasted anything like it, the sweetness overloading my taste buds in a good way. If the Interceptors had ever happened upon this stuff before, they’d kept it for themselves.

Despite being stuffed, we were desperate to find more for later. We sent an entire stack of boxes flying which had a domino effect on the entire row. If we’d hoped our intrusion wouldn’t be noticed, we were out of luck. Thankfully, no one had been hurt since any of us could’ve been crushed had the boxes fallen a different way. Food was strewn everywhere. We sampled everything that opened upon impact including bananas, cereals, vegetables, and cookies. Many of the things needed cooking, but we didn’t know that. So we quickly moved on from things like dry beans and pasta and hoarded the good stuff in a pile. I don’t remember a happier time in all my early years on Thera. We fell fast asleep by morn with our mountain of goodies.

Our parents had not enjoyed a peaceful, bountiful night like we had. They engaged in a bloody battle with an armed SCI security detail. Ultimately, the Exilers overpowered the security forces but not without a couple dozen losses on our side—men and women. Many of the dead were parents of the kids who’d joined my feast. The good times never lasted long as an Exiler on Thera.

Upon returning to the ship to bind wounds and prepare the dead for burial, the remaining parents found their children missing. A small search party scoured the ship before finding us sleeping, circled around our heap of favorite foods.

The parents could have laughed about their kids getting their hands caught in the cookie and chocolate boxes. They could have admired us for being self-sufficient, for finding food and feeding ourselves. Or, they could whip the little thieves with leather lashes and confine them to assigned quarters for the duration.

I don’t remember a whole lot of laughing on Thera, but I do vividly recall my father giving me twenty stripes for being the food raid ringleader. He and the Militant faction had taken out their anger and frustrations with the SCI on their children while the practical faction looked on with horror. With our wounds still fresh, we were carted outside to help dig graves for the deceased in the marshy ground surrounding the lagoon. That included the kids whose parents died. I don’t think I’d even dug a full grave in a couple hours’ time, but that wasn’t the point. The Militants wanted us to feel so much pain for the loss of these Exilers that it would erase any and all pleasure we experienced during our feast. Living Exiled is about survival not sugar with whipped cream and cherries on top.

We all shed many tears as the remaining Exiled men lowered their friends’ dead bodies into their shallow graves. I’d seen dead bodies before. But it wasn’t until that moment that I realized how hopeless life as an Exiler was. The odds weren’t with us. We faced starvation, exposure to the elements, and unknown forces of evil. There’d even been deaths in our community from spoiled food, snakebites and severe sunburns.

The service for the fallen Exilers was simple. Family and friends spoke kind words about the deceased and their commitment to our cause, their valor with which they fought the enemies, and their sacrifice that would be remembered by the living. The few Daynighters of the group who’d become acquainted with religion on Earth shared their beliefs that the dead would live eternally in heaven, a completely foreign concept to Therans who would be Exiled at the mere mention of a deity.

Following the burials, our leaders marched us back to the caves. They didn’t want to risk another altercation with SCI security details. Our location was known, so we weren’t safe. Our group carried as many essential non-perishables as possible, but the bulk of supplies were left behind. The plan had been for a small group to return to get more boxes, but a large team of SCI security members promptly reclaimed the ship.

Present

After waking up from a quick nap, I seek out my father. I find him in the adjacent cave entrenched in a war of words with Doc Daryn. No one seems to notice me, so I pretend to be a fly on the wall while they finish out their “discussion.” The cave is enormous—long and wide, with jagged ceilings low enough that I can almost reach out and touch the bats who are hanging. There are a few hundred men gathered in the cave. More than half are positioned behind Doc, the others behind my dad. The contrast between the two sides strikes me. My dad’s men are lined up, military style in an attention stance, waiting for orders. Doc’s men are lounging about in an unorganized fashion watching the exchange. Many nibbling on some hard biscuits.

“Just go home, Doc, and take your men with you. We’ve got this,” my father says.

“You and your militant maniacs are on a suicide mission,” Doc says. “You are completely underestimating the capabilities of the SCI.”

“The security in Garden City is weak. I worked in Headquarters for years, remember? There were never more than a dozen security guards in the building, and they don’t carry weapons. And throughout the city? There was no security.” My father paces and waves his arms to emphasize his points. “The Ten and Grand Council? They are completely unprotected. We have weapons and military training. They have no chance.”

Doc shakes his head vigorously. “That’s what they want you to think. It’s a trap. They want nothing more than for you to march in there expecting to take them out so that they can annihilate you.”

My father looks unconvinced. “And how will they do that, pray tell? They’ll be lucky to get a ship from Military City to Garden City in a week with support. By then, the leadership in Garden City will be replaced with our own, and we’ll use their own Eco barrier to keep the security forces out. We’ll easily get the community’s support once the Second Chancers find out how far they’ve been misled.”

“Hank, have these imbeciles you surround yourself with polluted your brain so much that you actually believe that? You really think you can march in there and take over?” Doc whirls his finger around his ear, indicating that he thinks my father has gone insane.

“And what glorious, brilliant plan does your band of pacifist losers have? Do you want to keep scrounging for morsels of food and water until the Exilers become extinct?”

“We Survivalists are strong in number and growing every day. Ten thousand plus, including our two sister communities. With the recent additions of several prominent Daynighter defectors, we have the political clout to negotiate with the SCI. We’re structuring our own government and will ask the SCI to recognize us as a valid entity on Thera. We control several entry and exit portals and could easily expose the SCI on Earth, so the SCI government leaders will have to listen. If you go in there and attack, you’ll ruin any chance of negotiation.” My father laughs wildly at Doc’s plans and signals his men to join the mocking.

I had no idea that the factions within the Exilers had become so fractured. What was once mere annoyance now borders on full-blown civil war. My father never told me that there was more than one way to handle the situation and provide relief for the Exilers. I look around the room. Of the men I recognize, the ones I trust are with Doc Daryn. The ones I don’t are with my father. My mind reverts to what Doc said about the skirmish that killed his Cleave. Were the Militants responsible?

My father, once done with his laughing fit, addresses Doc again. “You think you can negotiate with the SCI? You’re way more deluded than I am. If you threaten to interfere with their plans to create a master race of Originals and inflict their political theology on Earth, they will unleash all of Military City on you.”

“We wholeheartedly disagree,” Doc responds. “But, the conversation’s moot anyway since you’ll never get into the city. Your idiotic plan to send your men across the Eco barrier on stilts will never work. You’ll just alert the SCI to your presence and/or blow yourselves to bits.”

“Actually, thanks to my son we now have a way into the city that doesn’t involve stilts at all. We plan to build a ladder and enter by way of the canyon ledge Blake found.” Great. I seem to give my dad all his bad ideas. Unintentionally, of course.

“With all your guns and equipment? That ledge is fourteen inches wide.” Doc holds up his hands to show how small fourteen inches is.

“It will take time, but it can be done,” my father responds.

I’ve heard enough. I step out to address the group.

“That’s crazy,” I tell my father. “It took me hours to inch up that ledge.”

“You did it in a rainstorm,” my father says. “Stay out of this, Blake.” He motions for me to exit.

“No. You put me front and center of your plan without informing me that there was any alternative. I have to agree with Doc. The SCI has greater capabilities than they’re letting on. They killed a whole party full of kids to get my partner, Kira, to Thera. That kind of extreme action doesn’t come from a government with lax security. Their technology seems sophisticated.”

“Advanced technology won’t help them when they don’t have weapons or forces,” my father argues. “Back off. You gave us what we needed, and I won’t have a seventeen year-old kid who doesn’t know squat telling us what to do.”

“Well, if you don’t need me, then I think I’ll be going at first dark.” I begin to walk away.

“There’s still work you need to do to prepare for our coup. I expect you to do what you are asked,” my father threatens.

My father wants me to find a way to permanently or temporarily disable the barrier in case they need to retreat quickly. If Garden City authorities are pursuing them, the Militants won’t want to take the time to exit by the canyon shelf. He directs me to put the screws to Ted and get his help in accessing Headquarters.

I stand by as the Militant leaders finalize their plans for entering the city, and the individual units practice maneuvers. The Survivalists are forced out of the cave at first dark at gunpoint, although Doc Daryn is allowed to stay. Despite the harsh feelings between the two groups, Doc is still one of my father’s oldest friends and the best doctor in the region.

Doc addresses me when my father is twenty hours into his strategy meeting and well occupied with his “generals.” Whereas I’m ready to crash, Doc looks well rested. His wet hair smells like saltwater and looks like a limp jellyfish. “You don’t need to do your father’s bidding anymore, you know.” He pauses to reflect before continuing, “His approach is all wrong, and I would hate to see you caught in the crossfire of his harebrained plan.”

“Right now, I just want to get back in the city,” I say. “If I don’t, I’ll have a lot worse problems than dealing with my dad and his crazies. The SCI will kill me if I can’t explain my whereabouts.”

The doctor turns to me with a hopeful gaze. His grip on my arm is so tight that it’s cutting off my circulation. “You could be invaluable to our efforts in negotiating with the SCI. If we could guarantee the Exilers a better future without using force…if they could see us as not a threat but as a neighboring country…” His voice trails off. He looks away and drops his hand as he sees me shake my head.

“I get it. But it wouldn’t even help. Recruits are pretty low down on the hierarchy.” His face falls, and I ask him, “How’d it get like this? The Militants and Survivalists? Is it as bad as it looks?”

Doc winces. “Worse. The split happened a couple years after you left. Your dad and his crew moved here, and we stayed back in the canyon. I assure you, though, that the majority of the Exilers want a peaceful existence, without violence. I wasn’t lying when I said that I had more than ten thousand with me. Your dad has about three hundred. Unfortunately, they’ve stolen all but a small stash of our weaponry, so we’ve been powerless despite our numbers.”

“I’m all for peace, but what about the Second Chancers? How does your plan help them? If you simply coexist with the SCI, you help the Exilers at the expense of everyone else the SCI is oppressing.” He purses his lips. No one likes to be asked the hard questions.

“One step at a time, Blake,” he says. “If we’re recognized as an alternate entity on Thera we can grow in power and prosper. Then we’ll have the strength to consider other options.” That’s all fine and good. In the meantime, a lot of people, including Kira, will suffer. From the expression on his face, I can tell he knows his plan is deficient, but that he doesn’t see a viable solution to help the Second Chancers right now.

We talk for a long while about the split of the Exilers and how it came to pass—and more about Doc’s ideas to keep the peace. Although I think both sides are a little extreme in their stances, Doc seems to have thought things through better than my father. He refuses to confirm that the Militants were responsible for the death of his Cleave, though he didn’t have to. The expression on his face when I asked spoke louder than any words he could offer.

I grow weary of the planning exercise, and I retreat to the cave next door and collapse on an old tarp in a dark corner that reeks like dead fish. It’s critical that I get a few hours sleep before I attempt to return to Garden City. I need to get back and beg Kira for forgiveness.

To prepare for reentry, Doc scrapes the silvery burn ointment from my skin. As it pops, blistery welts appear across my back, and I scream in agony. It’s not that he or I want to shun good medical treatment, but that I won’t be able to explain it to the SCI without looking suspicious. It has to go. Hopefully, I’ll be found before sunrise. I’m not sure I can handle the pain of one hundred fifty degree sun on my burns.

I put back on my party attire—what’s left of it—wishing the flash flood had happened during school hours. My regular school uniform would provide much better sun protection. Oh well, I need to work with what I have. I drink a full flask of water and gnaw on a hard biscuit before bidding farewell to the Exiled Militants, and to Doc. My father tells me to ignore anything Doc told me. He also emphasizes that his life and the lives of his people are in my hands, and that failure isn’t an option. Really, Dad? I’m glad you mentioned it because I really haven’t felt the pressure until now. I hope Kira’s wrong, and I don’t have a whole host of children being grown in some Garden City lab. The only thing parents can possibly offer their children is disappointment, unrealistic expectations, and heartache.

I’d ditched my uncomfortable party shoes back in the river so have to go barefoot. The sand feels hot on my feet. I jog down the beach towards the Eco barrier. Depending on whether I can see a partial pattern, I’ll decide whether to swim around or try to cross it. The sun lingers above the horizon, providing light. Waves are crashing onto the beach fifteen feet away. Too bad I don’t have my surfboard here. Given it is high tide, most of the barrier is covered by the waves. I wonder if I could body surf it? If I swam out and across, I could potentially clear the barrier if I rode a big wave in.

Despite piles of debris, I can make out sections of the pattern. The storm must have eroded the soil covering it. Either I’ve remembered incorrectly, or the layout has shifted. It’s almost as if each detonator has moved ninety degrees on an axis from where I would expect them to be, creating a completely new pattern. I stare, trying to figure out an explanation, when the detonators shift again. Some shift ninety degrees clockwise, others counterclockwise. I openly curse my father’s naive assumption that I could ever cross the barrier on stilts. All that insane training in the desert was for nothing.

Even though it delays any futile attempt to cross, I wait out the next adjustment. I don’t have my watch, but my best guess would be that there is five minutes between rotations. My father definitely underestimated the intelligence of the SCI. Had I not found that canyon ledge, they’d have all died trying to cross the barrier. Best case, it would take me twenty minutes to cross with stationary detonators. It’s impossible with randomly rotating ones as the movements can’t be anticipated. The barrier is foolproof.

That leaves my original idea of body surfing over the barrier. The barrier remains intact, even under water, per the folks I spoke to at the scale model of the city. In low tide, the barrier is completely exposed on the beach. In high tide, it’s at least partially covered with water. My hope is that, if I catch a big enough wave, I can clear the barrier when I come crashing in. There is no barrier to the south where the ships come in. In place of the barrier is a solid, sliding wall that only opens to let ships in and out of the docks.

Because I waste the remnants of sunlight studying the shifting patterns, I have to enter the water at twilight which will make it more difficult to see what’s coming.

No time like the present to die. I have zero desire to return to my father’s cave to tell him I gave up without trying. The exit portal to Earth is a three-night journey. Even if I could remember the exact route, I have no supplies. And I couldn’t leave Kira on Thera without attempting to rescue her. So, my decision’s made before I can second-guess it.

I wade out into the ocean and the salt assaults every open wound. Clenching my teeth to keep from screaming, I dive under an incoming wave and swim out twenty yards to keep the surf from prematurely pushing me to shore. Then I swim south fifty yards to clear the North border of the Eco barrier. I tread water for a few minutes waiting for the right swell.

“Here goes nothing,” I say to the unseen ocean life.

The wave’s a good pick. I swim with all my might to catch the crest, silently pleading with the Gads to deliver me safely on the other side of the barrier.

No such luck. The Gads must side with the SCI.

I crash ashore right atop several detonators. They ignite immediately.

The water absorbs a chunk of the lethal fumes. Not enough to protect my exposed areas, however. I can feel the skin melting from my arms and back, unprotected by my threadbare party vest.

I’m not there for more than a second, however, as the combination of the blast and the next wave catapults me like I’m one of those dudes who flies out of cannons. When I land again, I realize I’ve cleared the remaining detonators.

The damage has already been done. I scream out in pain.

Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

If I’m not found quickly…I will die.

I will probably die anyway. Who could survive this?

With my last bit of energy, I roll through the sand towards the canyon mouth. I hope the sand can mitigate the effects of the poison. Plus, I don’t want to risk a larger wave sucking me back towards the barrier.

Or do I? If I die, the pain will stop.

Help arrives quickly. Detonating the barrier must have set off alarms. The rescue team attempts to ask me what happened, but I’m too weak to speak. I can barely breathe, my lungs filled with burning gas. My head’s pounding, and my vision’s blurry. Whispers of my bleak situation abound due to an unstable heart rate, severe chemical and sunburns, scant breath tones and pulse, and the fact that I’m unresponsive.

I’m transported on a board and by mule through the canyon. Brad Darcton and Ted Rosenberg await me at the burn unit. They chat while doctors clean and douse me with chemicals to diffuse the poison.

“Will he make it?” they ask the doctors. Yes, will I?

“It’s too early to say. We’ll do everything we can. But it may not be enough,” one of the doctors replies. It may not be enough. They may not be able to save me. “The pain medications should kick in soon, though, and give him some relief.” Yes, give me relief. Make the pain go away.

“It’s time to have Ethan show her the video and then distract her with a trip back home,” Brad Darcton says to Ted. Ethan? She said she didn’t know him. Was she lying? She certainly knows some Ethan by the way she looked at me when I asked her about him.

“You sure? Shouldn’t we wait to play that card until we know if Blake lives or dies?” Ted responds.

Will I live or will I die? That is the question.

“No. We play the card now so that we have her under control if he dies. Ethan’s my pick for her anyway. He’s equally qualified.”

“But he’s not all of the Ten’s pick,” Ted argues. “Some think you’re biasing the panel because he’s your son.”

“At this point he has got the vote. Besides, I hardly think you’re in a position to counsel me about Ethan or the girl. If Blake lives, then we’ll see where the girl’s at and adjust our strategy as necessary.”

Did I hear that right? Is Ethan the Intern really Brad Darcton’s son and pick for Kira’s Cleaving? It’s too much to take in.

Ahhhhh. The pain meds must be working. Thank the Gads.

I drift off to sleep, ready for the night when I can screw over all of Brad Darcton’s plans.

“Have the courage to live. Anyone can die.”

—Robert Cody

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kira

Three zips, two trains, a long mule ride, and a short hike—all blindfolded and attached to College Boy. Obviously, the SCI does want me to know the route to the exit portal. I spend the time in silent meditation hashing through the pathetic details of my life and stressing over Blake’s fate.

I’m beating myself up for begging to leave Thera instead of waiting to hear whether they find him. Call me a wimp, but I can’t—can’t hide out waiting for a knock on the door bringing bad news, can’t risk a confrontation with Tristan or Briella. What do I even say to them? They have zero memory of the crap they pulled, so I’ll never get an apology. Guys can be real idiots, but what is Bri’s excuse? Something lame like “I saw him first,” I’m sure. Whatever. I just have to put it out of my mind for a while and enjoy time off this God-forsaken planet.

Ethan removes my blindfold once we’re well into a dimly lit tunnel. “Sorry about that. Security protocol.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t want the Recruits leaving Thera. You’d have people sneaking off to go out to dinner or shop. They might even try to smuggle in contraband like music or games or something,” I joke.

“Funny, yes, we can’t have that,” he says in a flat tone. “Here’s some clothes to change into. You can’t wear your Theran clothes home.” He hands me a bag.

“You expect me to change here? In front of you?” My cheeks flush with color. “I don’t think so.”

“Please. If you want to go home, you’ll do as I ask. I’ll turn away to give you some privacy.” How thoughtful.

I partway undress and then peek at Ethan to see if he’s peeking at me. His shirt is off. He’s changing, too. Wow. I hesitate to take in the vision and allow myself to remember the way I felt about him when we first met and how he took my breath away. A silvery scar on his chest—likely from some sort of surgery—serves as the only blemish on his otherwise perfect body.

He finally notices me watching him, and we lock eyes for a moment. When he sees I’m half dressed, he swallows hard, bites his lip, and turns away. I quickly finish stripping down and replace my Garden City High uniform with a t-shirt, sweater, pair of jeans, and some flats. All my size but not my original clothing.

“All set.” I hand him the bag filled with my discarded attire. He’s now in low rider jeans, a tight fitting long-sleeved blue t-shirt, and knit cap. The look works on him. A garbage bag would work on him. He’s a Darcton. The Ten gave him this assignment. He may or may not be responsible for my friends’ deaths. I can’t allow myself to be attracted to him; I need to bury my feelings for his alter ego.

“Excellent,” he responds, throwing my bag to the side while keeping his eyes locked on mine. “Let’s go.”

“Thera’s no place like home. Thera’s no place like home. Thera’s no place like home.” I click my heels together. “It’s not working. I don’t have the right shoes. Can I get some red sparkly ones?” I frown and cross my arms defensively.

He tries to hide his smile, but his shimmery sapphire eyes defy him. “Sorry. I’m all out, Dorothy. Just walk the corridor and wait for me in the room with the light at the other side.” Even though he’s dressed now, I can’t get the image of a half-naked Ethan out of my brain. How can someone so beautiful be spawned by someone so evil?

As excited as I am to go home, I can’t believe I have to be chaperoned by Brad Darcton’s son. The Ten must really not trust me to behave while home. I could cause all manner of trouble for the SCI if I went to the press with my story. The headlines would be killer: “Second Chance Institute Front for Zombie Slavery Enclaves on Earth’s Sister Planet”; “Aliens Exist—But They’re Really Your Dead Friends.”

To rebel against my orders ever so slightly, I launch into a light jog before doing a couple perfectly executed back hand springs, an aerial, and then a back flip into a large, circular room. The room’s round and paneled in cherry-colored wood. The electric sensation of the tunnel and parched feeling I got on the way in bothers me less on the way out. I look around and find the place odd. There’s a metal circular staircase that goes down to another level and a lot of seams in the panelling that seem unnatural, although there’s only a single opening where I came out and one doorway which is marked “EXIT” in large red letters.

Ethan’s out of breath when he gets through, so I figure I might as well use that exit and see exactly where I am. Another warehouse in the middle of the ocean? I skip through the doorway and up a windy staircase that leads to a trap door. I push it open, climb a rope ladder, and find myself at the end of a concrete jetty.

“I know this place,” I say out loud, looking to my left to see the ocean and my right to see Children’s Beach in La Jolla from the jetty I’m standing on. A wave hits the sea wall and douses me with water. I feel cold for the first time in weeks. The sky is just turning light blue as the dawn breaks and dozens of seals are littered across the beach. We are less than twenty minutes from my parent’s house. I love to come here to watch the seals even if it’s a huge controversy for the city. The space had been designated to be a children’s swimming beach before the seals took over. What an odd place for an exit portal. Of course, the portal existed long before La Jolla, and the jetty may have been built to help Daynighters get to shore with ease.

“Not cool,” I hear behind me. Ethan’s shaking and looks ten shades paler than he did on Thera.

“I’m sorry that I circumvented your precious Theran security protocol. If you need to, you can take me down a notch on the Circle of Compliance. But, seriously, I can’t enter through this portal. And I don’t know where the entrance to it is back on Thera nor would I rush to get back there even if I did know. So, what does it hurt? Besides, you removed my blindfold, and I didn’t hear anything about putting it back on.”

“Can I expect this much trouble our entire trip?” He puts his hands on my shoulders. Despite his mild annoyance with my disobedience, the right side of his mouth is turned upward in a smirk.

“Trip? I thought I was coming home for good.” I raise my eyebrows. I know it’d never be allowed, but he deserves to be tweaked.

“I wish you could stay, but you have yet to fulfill the terms of your contract. So, you will be returning to Thera.” He almost looks sad for me. The guy really doesn’t show a lot of enthusiasm for his job.

Rolling my eyes, I respond, “I was just joking. You were so much more fun the first time we met. Oh yeah. I forgot. That was just an act.” He grimaces at my reminder of his betrayal.

“I wish it was a joking matter.” He clenches his teeth. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast before we head to your house. We need to get our stories straight.”

Ethan obviously knows La Jolla well since he leads me off the jetty and up the hill towards a swanky hotel buffet breakfast. The walk dries me off and returns some color to Ethan’s cheeks, but he still looks a little off. Oddly I feel fine. Though, to me, it feels like dinnertime, not breakfast. It won’t be the first time I’ve had breakfast for dinner. Yummy. I pile my plate full of eggs, waffles, pancakes, and fruit and wolf down every bit. It’s not that the food’s bad on Thera—it’s that the selection is limited and far too healthy for my liking. Ethan manages to get down some dry toast and a banana but abstains from the rest.

“The return trip’s always easier, but wow, you’re amazing.” His eyes twinkle which causes my tummy to flutter. I almost believe that he means it about more than my world-traversing skills.

Darcton. Darcton. Darcton.

Evil. Evil. Evil.

“What can I say? For some people, inter-worldly travel’s just in their blood,” I respond. As I stare at him, I’m reminded of his age, and something strikes me. “What does your wife or Cleave or whatever you call the girl you told me about think about you playing babysitter to an unCleaved girl? Wouldn’t she be kind of ticked to find out you flirted with me at that party even if it was part of your job?” That brings a huge smile to his face.

“What makes you think I’m Cleaved?” His amusement makes the topaz in his eyes appear to jump out in three-dimensional fashion.

“You’re old. Or older. Obviously over eighteen. You’re Brad Darcton’s son. I would assume that you have no choice but to follow the Canon strictly,” I say, as if it’s a completely normal subject to be talking about while I push my remaining food around the plate.

“I’m twenty but am not Cleaved,” he replies. I cock my head and scrunch my face as I try to figure it out. “I live here—not on Thera. My dad brought me over when I was fifteen to live with my Uncle Henry. I started college at UCLA at sixteen and got my international relations degree by eighteen. And I just finished my second year of law school at the University of San Diego. I spend my summers interning for the SCI on Thera. The current plan is for me to go into politics—here.” I note that he’s careful not to say that it’s his plan, just the plan for him to enter politics. Wow. Bizarre. Brad Darcton created a loophole for his own son.

“Oh, I guess I should have asked you a few more questions that night.” Under my breath I mutter, “About a lot of things.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I didn’t want to bore you.”

Although the details of his life are far from boring, what I really want to ask is about the girl, and I can’t let myself do that. He can’t know how much he got to me that night. “So, what politically correct story have you concocted for my parents? Cause I’m betting we’re not going with the truth.” I study his face as he takes a couple deep breaths before answering.

“I’m a fellow Recruit in Unit 27. We fell for each other the moment we met, and you just couldn’t wait a full year to have your parents meet me. The program has helped put things in perspective for you…helped you move on.” He sharply inhales and holds his breath as he waits for my reaction.

“And your alternative story is?” I ask. I pause for only a moment before continuing, “I don’t like that one. First, you’re a Darcton. Second, you filmed my ex having sex with my best friend which is disgusting. Third, you may have been responsible for that explosion. Fourth, other than you being incredibly attractive and being able to fake a good conversation, I don’t know you well enough to pull off a pretend relationship. Fifth, I’m in a relationship with Blake. Sixth, I’m going through a lot right now with Blake maybe being dead and the whole ex-best friend debacle. So, please come up with something else.” I don’t mention that my relationship with Blake has mostly been fake with some real undertones as of late, including the surprising declaration that Blake is supposedly falling for me.

He doesn’t smile at this. His face is devoid of emotion as he speaks in a soft tone. “Listen to me very carefully, Kira. This is the only story that will explain why I’ll be at your side every moment. And I will be at your side every moment. Many lives, including your own and your family members, depend on your cooperation.”

“You’re threatening my family now? It wasn’t enough to off all my friends?” I whisper. He leans across the table within inches of my face and stares into my eyes. I get a little dizzy at his proximity. His breath still smells like cinnamon.

“I had nothing to do with that, nor did I know it would happen. I almost died. My job that night was solely to keep track of you and your friends. But you are just going to have to trust me when I tell you that the Ten is serious. So please stop putting both our lives in danger, and do as you’re told,” he says. He looks pained as if he has seen the Ten in action a few too many times. No, worse than that… It’s personal to him.

“What did they do to you?”

“Nothing, and if they did, it’d be none of your business. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.” He pulls back and looks away.

“Fine. Whatever. But, if you expect anything beyond some hand holding to pull off this scam, I’ll warn you that my parents do not like public displays of affection. It’s uncivilized.” I use the snottiest tone I can muster.

He chuckles. “As long as you can convince them I’m the love of your life without the PDA, then OK. You are attracted to me, so how hard can it be?” He’s relaxed and showing off the flirty side I remember.—or starting up his act again.

“I said that you’re attractive, not that I’m attracted to you. Besides, you don’t want me in love with you,” I say. I’m trying to focus on the negative things about him to keep my attraction at bay, but I know I’m failing. If there were a formula for perfection in appearance, Ethan would be the natural output of it. “Bad things happen to the people I care about.”

“Well, then you must be head over heels for me already.” He winks. “Because I’ve been kind of down on my luck lately.”

“What? Did the love of your life reject you or something?” I strike a nerve as a sad look sweeps across his face. Is his girlfriend no longer in the picture? “You’re not dead like I thought you were, and Blake likely is, so I wouldn’t be complaining.”

“Understood. There are degrees of bleak. But, if you’re in hell, you’re still in hell whether directly in the fire or standing right next to it.”

“When you’re ready to tell me about it, I’ll listen.” I may or may not believe what you say, but I’ll listen.

He looks away for a moment and then nods before saying, “The check’s paid. Time to meet the parents.”

My parents adore Ethan. In fact, if they knew about Cleaving I bet they’d lobby to institute it here. Who wouldn’t want a twenty-year-old son-in-law who’s already completed his second year of law school? And who has political aspirations with the face to pull it off? He’s charming, polite, and listens to every boring story they tell like it’s the best tale he has ever heard. They’re not privy to the small little details of his life to round out their impressions—like the fact he was born on another planet to a dictator father.

Jared, on the other hand, refuses to buy that I left a complete mess a few weeks ago, miraculously healed, and fell in love all over again. Well, I did fall for Fantasy Ethan. Just not Reality Ethan. And I have feelings for Blake but am not ready to declare my love for him.

We’ve been at my parents’ house for thirty hours. Ethan slept on the living room couch next to my downstairs bedroom. And even that level of proximity took Ethan selling my parents that he’d only enter my room in case of a non-romantic emergency. The “time change” has decimated my internal clock. I barely made it to seven o’clock last night before passing out. I have no idea how I got into pajamas or into my bed, and I’m not sure I want to know. And right now, I would love to take a seven or eight hour nap, but that’s not in the cards.

Jared pulls me aside while Ethan is busy tasting my mom’s dinner concoction.

“Spill, sis,” he says. “You and Mr. Model? I’m not seeing the sparks. You look like you’re pissed at him all the time.” He narrows his light blue eyes at me. Typically, I’m brilliant at masking my feelings with a smile, but I just can’t get over the fact that Ethan’s a Theran, a Darcton, and that he was at that party on the Ten’s business. I wonder if I would have been better off if he’d kept avoiding me. No, perhaps I needed to know the truth. Fantasy Ethan was seriously interfering with my ability to consider a relationship with Blake. Reality Ethan is flawed like all other guys. He isn’t some character from a fairy tale.

“You know how Mom and Dad are… If I showed sparks, they’d get out the fire extinguisher.”

“Hardly. They like Ethan so much that I’m sure they’ve already driven down to get your marriage license. But the way you used to look at Tristan…totally different from how you look at Ethan. And where’s the brushing hands against each other and sneaking kisses in the pantry?” Jared asks.

“Ethan’s not just some high school fling. He’s a little beyond that.” I try to cover my tracks. It’s true that I’ve done little to perpetuate the fantasy of a real relationship. I’m terrified to trust myself around Ethan because I could so easily forget his lineage and give into him if I was just to go on the attraction factor. Ethan sees that Jared has me cornered which must worry him, because he’s over in an instant.

“Hey, beautiful. I missed you.” Ethan stares into my eyes and smiles. He leans down to kiss me, and I’m so taken aback by the surprise, illegal, sweet tasting move that it takes me a couple seconds to pull away. My heart’s going haywire, but my brain resents his gesture. I involuntarily lick my lips to savor the touch of cinnamon he left behind. He gives me his patented smile, spreading from right to left. Lawyers and actors share a lot of attributes, and I’m ready to give him an Academy Award for his “save” performance. I want to hurt him, but instead I plaster on my fake smile and hold my tongue.

“How’s the dinner tasting? Would you rather eat out? I know a great place.” To retaliate, I’m trying to decide between feeding him ten-star spicy Thai food or having him take me to five-diamond restaurant that would put him back a few hundred bucks.

“It’s dreadful,” Ethan whispers, his lips touching my ear which makes me shiver. “However, I wouldn’t want to disappoint your parents.”

“This is my vacation, and I really feel like I’ve had enough family time for tonight…or today.” I correct my mistake. “I insist you take me out and put a dent in your daddy’s trust fund for you.”

Ethan leaves to smooth over our decision to eat out while Jared continues to grill me.

“He’s infinitely more believable than you are,” Jared says.

I roll my eyes at him. “Did you ever think I might just be tired from the time change?”

“What’s the time change again?” he asks, trying to narrow down the possibilities for where I might be stationed or to catch me in a lie. If Jared was half as curious in school, he’d be top of his class.

“You know I can’t talk about it. I would be kicked out of the program. I’m not willing to risk my future over it.” Or your future. Or mom and dad’s futures. I can’t handle more deaths on my conscience.

“All I know is that the secrets can’t be a good thing.”

I try to lighten the mood. “You’re just irked I left you behind to deal with Mom and Dad all by your lonesome. A few weeks ago you were begging to come with me.”

“Does Ethan have a cute sister?” Yikes. I have no idea. I hope my face doesn’t betray my ignorance.

“Sorry, buddy. No sisters,” Ethan says, coming up behind Jared. To me he adds, “Your dad gave me the keys to his Mercedes. Let’s go. I’m taking you for the most romantic date you’ve ever had.” Ethan pecks me on the lips again and then grabs my hand to drag me towards the garage. Jared’s down on one knee and pretending to open a ring box. Funny, Jared. Ethan sees it and winks at Jared. I’m not amused. Once in the garage, I pull my hand from Ethan’s and bring my fingers to my lips to pretend to wipe off his cinnamon taste.

Ethan takes me through the McDonalds drive-through. I hate to say it, but I’ll take the McRib sandwich, a chocolate shake, and french fries over my mom’s cooking any day. We drive to the beach, and Ethan lays out a blanket he must have found in our garage. I’m a little irked my fries are cold by the time we get there. Eating in my dad’s car though…never going to happen. He’d contact the SCI to make sure they grounded me on Thera and may still do that if we can’t air the car out by the time we get back.

“Romantic enough for you?” Ethan smirks. “How can you go wrong with restaurant food, beautiful view, and fabulous company.” He has kicked back on the blanket shirtless, enjoying the relatively hot day for San Diego. He’s like the perfect combination of Tristan and Blake, physically at least. Six foot one, toned, and oozes sex appeal. Even the six-inch scar he has on his hair-free chest somehow makes him look more appealing. His abs…holy smokes. But as nice as he has been to me, I can’t get over his pedigree chart.

“You must not have dated much in college. McDonalds on the beach really doesn’t scream romantic date. Too busy racking up the degrees to figure out the dating protocol, eh?”

“Not at all. I dated. And none of those dates warranted a trip through the McDonalds drive-through. You, on the other hand, are lucky to have gotten fed given your lackluster performance the last couple days,” he says. “A steel post could have mustered up more excitement about that kiss. I expected so much more from you.”

Ugh, he infuriates me. “We’d agreed not to kiss. You caught me off guard.”

“I agreed to no such thing. You were supposed to sell everyone on our incredible whirlwind love story. I managed to get your parents to like me, but your brother’s not buying any of it” He narrows his eyes and adds, “And I knew you wouldn’t dare react to the kiss. You know what’s on the line.”

“Keep up that line of talking. That’ll warm me up to you.” I sneer. “I’m so sick of this crap. Do you honestly think I’ve forgotten the threats? Please don’t treat me like an imbecile.”

“I don’t think you’re an imbecile at all. Just a terrible kisser, so I was disappointed. I could give you lessons,” he says, laughing.

“You think I don’t know how to kiss? I assure you that I do. I just don’t want to kiss you. I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you,” I tell him. He scoots closer to me so, that I have to look him straight in his gorgeous sapphire eyes.

“Really? Can you tell me with all honesty that you didn’t feel anything for me at that party? I kind of thought you were into me, but maybe I was just deluding myself.” He doesn’t say it in an “I think all girls love me” way but in almost an embarrassed to even be asking way.

“Why do you think I did?” I ask, answering his question with a question.

“Well, other than all the flirting and blushing, you just seemed really concerned about whether I was alive when I showed up on Thera and so annoyed that I didn’t come see you sooner. You were keeping track of my whereabouts,” he says in a tentative tone.

I gaze out towards the ocean, not wanting to look at him any longer. I’m embarrassed my feelings were so apparent. “That was before I knew who you were. Your sweet act at that party was just a ruse.”

“Come here.” He motions me towards him. I lean forward slightly. “Closer.” I don’t want him to kiss me to make his point, so I make sure the only thing near his face is my ear, although even his breathing in my ear makes me reconsider. When his lips brush my ear by accident, I have to take a deep breath to keep from suggesting we head back to Thera and Cleave. I’d regret that move, as I don’t ever want Darcton in-laws.

He strokes the side of my face and then says, “You’re going to have to trust at some point that I have as much on the line as you do. Do not, for one moment, think that because Brad Darcton is my father that I get preferential treatment. I do what I’m told, or the consequences are as severe for me as they’d be for you. Stop punishing me for who my father is. I’m nothing like him, and you know it. I never misrepresented myself at that party.”

I turn my face towards him and realize his lips are a mere inch from mine. Swallowing heavily, I whisper, “Really? Are the Ten threatening to kill your family? I don’t think so. Your dad is one of the Ten, and your family is safely on Thera.”

“No, but the Ten will have the girl I love killed,” he says. If he’s being honest which it looks like he is, his perfect girl is still in the picture, and her life is on the line. That means he’s as terrified as I am. I should be relieved to know he’s not evil like his father. But instead, I’m jealous of his girlfriend and angry that Ethan wasn’t born into another family.

Once Ethan confessed his precarious situation to me, and I could see he was a fellow “blackmailee” in this whole mess, I relaxed and decided to enjoy my vacation. We did all the things I missed while living on Thera, from shopping, to eating out at my favorite restaurants, to seeing a movie at a drive-in theater, to spending afternoons at SeaWorld and the zoo. And we hung out by the pool to soak in sun that wouldn’t fry us. We played games and had fun. Ethan acted like a little kid everywhere we went. For the level of enthusiasm he showed, you’d think he was doing it all for the first time.

It hasn’t been hard to pretend that Ethan’s my boyfriend. In fact, sometimes I have to remind myself that it’s all an act and that I’m not just living out the fantasy I dreamed about in the months I thought he was dead. Dates, cuddling, holding hands, laughing, and joking around. After all, even though Ethan treats me like a queen, and an outsider would never know that he’s not completely devoted to me, I remember that he’s in love with someone else. I admit this makes me jealous. So, I remind myself that Blake cares about me, assuming Blake’s alive and will somehow return to Garden City. I’ve come to doubt that Blake is alive or, if he is, that he will return. Wouldn’t they have summoned us back from vacation if they’d found him?

Jared’s now completely sold that Ethan and I are head over heels in love. He has been since he taunted us for not being affectionate enough, and we kissed again.

“Do you think you can sell it this time?” Ethan had whispered, although he said it in a joking, flirty fashion.

I sold it. I didn’t feel it, but I did sell it. No, that’s a complete lie. I felt it. It was impossible not to because of my convoluted feelings. Ethan has exceptional kissing skills and the way he kissed me—like I was the love of his life. We were in the pool. I was in my bikini, Ethan in his swimsuit. The whole thing played pretty steamy, but I figure actors and actresses have to do it all the time. It doesn’t matter. I only did it to support our bogus story. Ethan hasn’t teased me since about needing kissing lessons, and he has encouraged as much repeat behavior when Jared’s around “to further the cover” as possible. Why do I get saddled with the bogus relationships? By deceit or design, they all suck.

The way Ethan looks at me sometimes has me wondering “if that’s the way he looks at me, how does he look at his real girlfriend? And does he melt her heart, too?” Tristan told me he loved me. I know the look. I just don’t know how Ethan pulls it off with me when his heart lies elsewhere. The guy’s a brilliant actor because he acts smitten even better than Tristan or Blake. How easy it would be to fall for him if he didn’t love someone else and I wasn’t so stressed about Blake. He’s just so nice to look at—and so fun.

During our time off, I also spent some time researching “assisted pregnancies” and believe, more than ever, that the doctors harvested my eggs. If they used Blake’s sperm to create embryos, those embryos could have been implanted as soon as five days later. Or they could be frozen and stored for later. Ethan caught me researching it and insisted I explain. He thought I was being paranoid, but I could tell that he saw too many similarities to be dismissed as coincidence.

If I never appreciated my circumstances before, this vacation has helped me count all the blessings I enjoyed before becoming a Recruit for the SCI—daytime living, choices, open schedules, and capitalism. Even the loving concern of my parents beats being used by dictators. The more I contemplate going back to Thera, the more claustrophobic I feel about my freedoms being quashed. Somewhere in the back of my head I hear a voice screaming to remember what happens when I outwardly rebel, but I ignore it.

It’s during this moment of reflection, at the height of my appreciation for earthly life, that Ethan informs me our vacation is over. We’re out by the pool. I’m happily getting my vitamin D fix, drinking a diet soda, and reading a trashy novel. His timing sucks.

“I won’t go back.” I openly tempt Karma and don’t care as I do. “My parents aren’t perfect, but they don’t threaten me with death and Exile if I don’t follow all the rules.” I slurp down the rest of my drink and return to my book.

“Kira,” he says softly. “If it was up to me, you know that I would let you stay. But, it’s not. Bad things will happen if we don’t go back.”

“Did they tell you that my real boyfriend, Blake, is alive and well yet?” I ask. “Because that would be motivation for me to go back. Short of that though…” It’s one of those thoughts that I should have left in my head because Ethan looks offended and hurt by my jab.

“Well, no.” He looks at his hands and nervously runs his fingernails across his thumb. “They didn’t. I wish I had good news for you, but they haven’t said anything about him. I’m so sorry. That doesn’t mean he’s not fine. You can’t assume the worst.”

“Sure I can. Truth is, I can’t handle the bad news. If and when they have good news, then they can come get me.” I don’t bother to look up from my reading, even though I haven’t progressed more than ten pages in the last hour.

“We have to go. Our boat will be here this evening, and they’ll make sure we are on it one way or another.” He looks terrified. What’s he expecting? That they’ll come drag me out of my parents’ house? Let them. My parents can issue an Amber alert and perhaps the goons from the SCI will get arrested.

I finally put down my book and turn to him, speaking in a bitter tone. “Look. I know you’re probably worried about your girlfriend. But it’s not like they are going to punish you for failing to compel me to return. So, feel free to leave any time. Go Cleave Miss Perfect and enjoy the rest of your summer internship with your daddy.”

I shouldn’t bring up the girlfriend, but I think to myself, the girl should dump him anyway. Assignment or not, Ethan has been playing my boyfriend a little too well. There’s nothing I dislike more than cheaters. I mean, sure, he’s doing it because he’s being blackmailed, but I think he could have toned down the PDA and still made his ruse about our relationship work.

“I’m not leaving without you, Kira.” He sits up straight and grabs my hand. “They will punish me, but that’s not my concern right now. I’m concerned about how they’ll punish you.”

“What? They’ll blow up my friends? Been there. Done that,” I say. “I’m not discussing it any further. I think I’ve had enough sun. I’m going to go in to watch some bad TV or listen to some music while I eat some junk food.” He closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths.

He droops his head and shakes it vigorously. “Oh, Kira. You don’t know what you’ve done. You have no idea.”

Ethan’s super clingy all afternoon, almost as if he’s shielding me from the storm that he thinks is coming. He hasn’t let me do anything short of use the bathroom by myself. I had fun most of the trip with him, but this afternoon—it has gotten to the point of being stifling. He completely ruins my recorded season finales marathon with his whiny pleadings.

When the doorbell rings at dinnertime, I assume it’s the pizza guy and answer the door with enthusiasm for some grease-covered bread. Imagine that. You go on your computer, place an order, and someone brings food to you that you don’t have to prepare. Bonus.

It’s not the pizza guy. I curse at Karma in my head when I see our visitors. It’s two men toting guns with silencers. And they have four girls in tow. The men are hooded and are wearing dark sunglasses. They herd us all towards the kitchen where the rest of the family has gathered for the expected pizza. The color drains from every face in the room. It’s clear this won’t end well. The mystery girl guests’ hoods are removed, and they all seem shocked to see Ethan.

“I thought you were gone for the summer,” one of them says. She’s your typical Southern California blue-eyed blonde, with enough unnatural curve to make me wonder whether her plastic surgeon daddy helped her fill a D cup. “How? Why? And who is she? Wait, that’s the girl who you had a picture of on your phone that you refused to delete,” the girl adds, pointing at me. He kept that? Is this his girlfriend? Seriously? Yuck. I’ll add that to “being a Darcton,” “can get clingy,” and “cheats on love of life” on his list of negatives. Bad taste in women. Really bad taste.

“That’s Ethan’s girlfriend—my daughter, Kira. He plans to marry her,” my father interjects. My dad’s obviously deluded. Did Ethan give him that impression? That we’d get married? No way. He’d have no reason to set that expectation. Ethan shyly avoids my gaze when I look at him.

“You’re what? You are going to marry her?” the girl screams. The other girls look equally as disgusted. “Don’t believe him Kirie—or whatever your name is—Ethan is seriously anti-commitment.”

“Shut up. All of you,” one of the gunmen demands. “You will speak only when directed to do so.” I’m down with that. It has been quite a while since I’ve been in a room with such a low average IQ level, Tristan and Bri’s party being the last time.

“Ethan, if you feel the need, please explain your behavior to your host of girlfriends from the past year. And, of course, say your goodbyes.” Everyone looks confused. I believe the girls think the men plan to execute Ethan. Both Ethan and I know better.

“I’m really sorry, Sarah, and, Beth, and Courtney, and Aliya. When I…dated…each of you, I had no idea that I was putting you in danger. I should have, but I was naive. If it helps, I can assure you there’s life after death in this kind of situation.” He fumbles over his words, shaking with anger and fear. He appears to be collecting his thoughts to say something more.

Too late.

The impatient gunmen execute them—two at a time. Courtney and Aliya first, and then Beth and Sarah.

Less than ten-seconds passed and four lives extinguished.

How could they do that? Why?

They’ll likely show up on Thera somewhere and will gratefully not know Ethan or me from Adam and Eve.

Ethan steps in front of me to shield my body, rigidly holding my arms as if he’s worried that I’m next. We’re all covered with bits of brain. It’s somehow not as messy as I had imagined.

It occurs to me I may be in shock.

Definitely in shock. Because this is not okay.

My mother tries to wipe the blood from her body. When it doesn’t work, she screams. My father begs for mercy. Pleads for the gunmen to leave.

These men have no mercy.

My parents try to run. They don’t get far, stopped in their tracks when they see guns pointed at Jared’s head.

The assassin looks at me. “Ms. Donovan, I assume you have some final words for your family?”

They plan to kill my parents. To kill Jared.

No, no, no. I have to stop them.

I wriggle out of Ethan’s hold and step to the side to address the man.

What will work?

My parents and Jared must be Originals, too. When a person crosses over after dying on Earth, do they retain the same level of DNT? I can’t imagine that to be the case. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they have just killed Blake and me rather than offing all my friends at that party.

They only care about the ones who can have children.

I realize that I may not be able to save my parents. But perhaps I can save Jared? I decide to play my hunch.

“I do, but first I have a thought for you. Jared’s as much of an Original as I am. Do you really want to make the same mistake you made with Blake’s sister, Leila?” I ask. I can tell I struck a nerve. I must be right. But their guns stay trained on my parents.

While I speak, I try to think of a way out of this. A way my parents and brother can survive. “I’m super sorry, Mom and Dad. I love you so much and appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I’m so sorry to have been so difficult after the explosion and put you through so much agony. If this doesn’t go well… It’s not like you’ll remember this or believe me, but I promise these gentleman will arrange for you to live the remainder of your lives on a planet named Thera. You won’t recognize me, but everything will be provided for you. It’ll be a clean slate, and a chance to be happy again.”

“Please,” I ask the men. “Spare them. Bring them across with me.”

The men shake their heads.

I failed.

No words can soften the blow, convey my pain, or my guilt.

My parents look like they want to respond. Perhaps even tell me they love me, too.

But before words can leave their mouths the bullets enter their brains.

Nooooooooooooooo.

I collapse to the floor, unable to breathe.

I am responsible. I did this.

I defied a direct order to return. My own parents are dead because of me.

I deserve to return to that hellacious rock. I deserve death.

But I won’t be granted death, or the peace of a second chance with erased memories. The assassins grow weary of my display. I swallow my sobs, kiss each of my parent’s foreheads, and then close their eyes. They’ve been so unhappy—with me and with each other. Perhaps a fresh start will be good for them. To hold it together, I have to embrace one good thought. I’m yanked back to my feet.

What will they do about Jared? He is frozen. Paralyzed. Likely thinking if he moves an eyelash the men will put a bullet through his brain too.

Ethan steps back in front of me, holding both my hands tightly to keep me from moving. The assassins confer quietly while keeping one gun pointed at Jared, another at Ethan and me.

I mouth “I’m sorry” to Jared, but he doesn’t respond.

One gunman circles Jared, gun pressing into his head. Jared lets out a low groan as he awaits the bullet.

The other gunman heads towards Ethan and me. Ethan turns to embrace me, pressing his body hard against me, his lips to mine with a level of desperation that I’ve never experienced. As he does so, the gunman pries our lips apart with his gun and shoves it into my mouth. His partner drags Jared over and has both Ethan and Jared covered to keep Ethan in check, knowing that Ethan would make a move to protect me.

The seconds feel like hours. Ethan screams, “No, no, please don’t. It’s my fault. Kill me.” Jared’s still moaning. I stay perfectly still and look directly into the assassin’s sunglasses. Please kill me. I will him with my eyes. I can be another SCI Second Chancer puppet or waste away into nothingness. Although I can feel the beads of sweat drip down my face, that bothers me less than the waiting. I taste metal and am keenly aware that the gunman’s finger is pulsing against the trigger.

Do it.

The creep shoves the gun a little farther into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat and making me gag. He whispers into my ear, “You best not disobey orders again” before yanking the gun back out of my mouth. He then drags me by the hair over to Ethan and Jared. Looks like I’ll live to see another night. I don’t deserve the easy way out anyway.

The gunman kneels before me and says, “So, if you can only take one of them with you, who would you choose? Your brother or the boy toy?” He alternates pointing the gun at each of them and chants, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, shoot a traitor in the toe. If he hollers, let him go? I don’t think so, no, no, no.” I look neither to my right to Ethan or left to Jared, not trusting the gunman to honor my choice, even if I could make one. “Now don’t make me kill them both…or do you have another deal you’d like to strike with me?”

“How about we go try to make that boat? All of us,” I plead. “Haven’t you hit your quota for today on ‘accidental deaths’ to provide new labor for Thera? Doesn’t the SCI only get to pull across 50,000 a year?” I’m angry, devastated, and determined to be the one to die—to keep Ethan and Jared alive.

My quip earns me a pistol whipping with such force that I end up in Ethan’s lap and his soothing voice pleads, “Don’t leave me, Kira. Please don’t leave me.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Blake

Two weeks later

I awaken having no idea how long I’ve been out or why. I’m flat on my stomach with my head cradled in a large donut that is attached to my bed. As I attempt to get up and feel pain at the attempt, my memories of crossing the Eco barrier return. I’m hooked up to dozens of tubes and machines and am bandaged like a mummy.

“Excellent,” a voice says. I turn to see a potbellied man with a bad combover, wearing a white coat. My doctor? I think so, but the circumstances of my rescue are still pretty fuzzy. “You’re awake. I’m going to remove your bandages and see how things are healing.” As I try to vocalize my response, I feel the tube running down my throat and start to gag.

“Don’t try to take it out. Let me examine you, and if I think you’re ready, then I’ll remove the tube.” I nod and wait as he painstakingly removes bandages and inspects every inch of my body. After what seems like hours, he slowly slides the tube from my throat. I choke, cough, and sputter before I speak.

“Kira? Is she okay?” I barely recognizing my voice.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor responds. “I’m not familiar with anyone named Kira.” I vaguely remember a conversation between Ted Rosenberg and Brad Darcton about Kira, a video, and Ethan. Was that real or did I dream it? I have no idea.

“When can I go home?”

The doctor pauses before answering. “You’re doing remarkably well for someone who came in contact with the Eco barrier. We were able to get an antidote for the poison in you quickly, but it will take quite a while for you to build your lung capacity back up. You sustained some pretty severe burns on your shoulders, back, and arms that required skin grafts. You also have more modest burns on your hands, feet, and face that are healing nicely. We induced a coma to allow your body time to focus on regenerating.”

“Can I see a mirror?” I ask. I’ve never been vain but with the way he describes my injuries make me fear I look like Frankenstein. He complies, getting a couple small hand mirrors. A two-inch gash extends along the hairline of my forehead. It had been closed with stitches which are already removed. I can live with that. My skin looks patchy from the healing burns. I find similar stitched abrasions on my hands and feet. My clothing had covered part of my chest and legs, but the chemicals in the blast had dissolved the clothes and skin from my back and arms—thus, the more severe injuries.

He has to hold one of the mirrors to help me see my back and the backs of my arms. There are four patches of graft. Each appears raised and pink, with vein-like swirls and dots of red.

“Your body is accepting the grafts well. There should only be minor scars. You won’t be able to do any exercising for at least three more weeks.” He describes in disgusting detail the process used to graft the skin to my body and the risks of over-stretching it. A knock at the door interrupts, and my buddy, Brad Darcton, joins us.

“Well, well, well,” he says. “Wonder boy pulled through after all.”

I don’t bother with pleasantries. “I want to see Kira.”

“I’m afraid she’s not here.” He doesn’t elaborate. “I’m here to discuss the events that led to your injuries, Blake. What happened?” Thankfully, this is a conversation I’m prepared for.

“Kira and I went to the dance—the night of the flash flood…however long ago that was,” I explain. I have no idea how long I was in a coma. “She left to get some air and must have been quite a ways down the canyon when the alarms went off. I heard her calling for me.”

“Fast forward to the part where you end up by the Eco barrier nights later,” he demands. I stare at him for a moment and notice that he has a small, circular pin with the number ten on it fastened to his City Headquarters attire. For how much respect these folks expect, I’m surprised they don’t wear a flashier nod to their authority.

“Sorry. I’m still a little fuzzy, so I’m trying to remember as I go. We ended up in the river at the bottom of the canyon. We were able to swim to the edge, and I pushed Kira up into some brush, but the current carried me away. I couldn’t see because it was so dark. I was carried a long ways with a lot of debris. At some point, I grabbed onto a plank and managed to get myself on top of it. By daylight, I was in the ocean. I could see the shoreline but was quite a ways out.”

“You were in the ocean? How’d you get over the Eco barrier to get into the ocean?” he asks in an accusing tone, obviously not believing my story.

“I don’t know. As I said, I couldn’t really see. The water in the river was deep. I assume I just floated over it.” Had I continued and not climbed up on the canyon shelf, this is exactly what would have happened.

“So then, how’d you get back in?”

“Well, I paddled towards my best guess of where I came out of the canyons. I remembered from the city model we visited that the desalinization plant was south of the canyon that the school was in. I was pretty weak, but I decided that I might have a chance at high tide of clearing the barrier if I body surfed in.” This is true.

I can see veins pop in his forehead and neck. Perhaps, in his anger, he’ll have a small stroke. “You thought what?”

“I just figured that the water would be higher at high tide, and I might be able to float over like I did on the way out. Obviously it didn’t work very well. When I tried, I crashed into the barrier, and the explosion sent me flying.” I describe, in detail, exactly how I hit, the effect of the water on the blasts, and how I finally cleared the other pressure points. Honesty will serve me well here. There’s no way I could describe the event so vividly without having experienced it. Not to mention, I have the injuries to back my story. He seems satisfied with my explanation. At least for now.

“Well, I’m happy I won’t have to deliver bad news to your parents,” he says. “The Second Chance Institute prides itself on taking good care of our Recruits. We have our very best doctors on your case.” I’m sure you do. I’m the future of Thera, after all, aren’t I? Or am I? The memory of his conversation with Ted Rosenberg still haunts me. He said Ethan was his choice for Kira. I can’t believe I’d joked with Kira that she should go for him if I didn’t return. Of course, at the time, I had no idea that Ethan the Intern was Ethan Darcton, son of a member of the Ten.

I look him in the eye. “Thank you for the excellent medical care—and for the rescue.”

He nods. “I’ll talk to the doctor and will expect you back on duty as a Recruit as quickly as possible. There have been some unfortunate activities happening with the Garden City High Second Chancers that we need someone on top of.”

“Like?” What have they done? Did Brad and the rest of the Ten find out about their parties and TB pimping? I’m interested to know.

“Just get better and your Handler can apprise you of the situation when you return,” he says, before upping himself and promptly leaving the room.

Three weeks later

With strict instructions to abstain from any physical exercise, including boarding, running, and anything else I might do in the gym, I’m released after I’ve had time to recuperate and taken home. They dress me in a loose fitting Garden City High shirt to protect but not irritate my grafts.

Bri and Tristan happen to be out on their patio when I’m wheeled up the ramp to my house in a wheelchair.

“Hey, man.” Tristan jumps over the barrier to my patio. He has got his Garden City High shirt draped over his bare shoulder. “Can I help?” he asks the nurse.

“Yes, thank you,” she responds to Tristan. He takes control of my wheel chair. To me she says, “Remember your release instructions. A nurse will be by twice a night to check you out. Get plenty of rest, and drink lots of water.”

“Yeah, I got it.” The nurse departs, and I get up out of the wheel chair and go inside. Tristan and Bri follow and make themselves at home in my living room. I hobble in to join them.

“So, what happened to you? I thought…Kira thought you were dead,” he says. “She was pretty freaked.”

“Was?”

“I haven’t seen her in forever. She just vanished out of thin air. We’ve both asked around. No one’s seen her,” he tells me. I look at Briella, but she just shrugs her shoulders.

“How could she just disappear? Was she okay after the flash flood? Tell me exactly what happened.” Tristan and Bri each take turns telling me Kira’s story. It sounds like she disappeared shortly after being released home from the hospital.

I need to talk to Ted Rosenberg. He’ll know. Wait. Brad Darcton directed Ted to “have Ethan show her the video and then distract her with a trip back home.” Perhaps she really did get to go home?

“Could she be with a guy named Ethan?” I ask.

“The only Ethan I know is Brad Darcton’s son.” Briella’s cheeks take on a rosy color. “I met him on one of our field trips. He’s helping his dad with some stuff for the summer but lives somewhere else the rest the year. You better hope Kira isn’t with him as she might forget all about you, Blake.” Thanks. I hadn’t been worried about that already.

“You mean that guy you were crushing on?” Tristan accuses Bri.

“I wasn’t crushing on him. He was hot. So what? He has to be at least twenty, so I’m sure he’s Cleaved. Gads. I can’t believe you’d accuse me of crushing on another guy after you mauled Kira.”

I ignore the rest of their quibbling. All I know is that Ethan is Brad’s pick for Kira—so he can’t be Cleaved—and that Brad arranged for Ethan to take my girlfriend on vacation. He said Ethan was “equally qualified” to be Cleaved to Kira. I wonder if they’ve collected sperm samples from him too. He showed up at the clinic the same night Kira and I were there. Are there little Kethans being created in those labs? Perhaps. Or perhaps not, as Brad Darcton only played the “son” card when he thought I might die.

“So hey…” Tristan uses a loud voice to recapture my attention. “We’re having a killer party at dawn. The flash flood killed off the rest of our uh, party enhancements, so we’re going to use our reserves and do it up right. Of course, you don’t have to partake if you don’t want to.” This sounds like the kind of thing I could get bonus points with Brad Darcton for attending and “keeping an eye on things.”

“Sure. I’ll come. But I’ll bring my own water bottle.” I wink at him.

“Good to have you back. Hopefully, Kira will come back soon too. It’s not the same without you guys being all judgy judgy on us,” he says with a laugh. “Plus, the three of us—me and Bri and Kira—had gotten to be pretty good friends before she disappeared.”

“Yeah, she better show up soon.”

They leave after a bit more small talk, having to return from break to their online classes. I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then reward myself with some sugar and chocolate. Being fed through a tube—and before that eating Exiled food—has me craving some real food. I would kill for some McDonalds and hope Kira really has been able to get off this rock and enjoy some earthly treats.

I jump when I turn and see Ted Rosenberg. He must’ve let himself in, and I didn’t even hear him. Perhaps my hearing was affected in the blast? I shove my fingers in my ears to see if there’s some excess wax buildup.

“Where’s Kira?” I ask after Ted sinks back into the couch and smoothes his newly grown salt-black moustache.

“Hello to you too.” He glares at me. “Nice to see you’re still alive.”

“Yep, I’m alive. Where’s Kira?” I repeat.

“She was having a hard time with you missing, so we sent her back to Earth for a respite from her worries,” he explains. “So, let her enjoy her break while you recuperate.”

I study his face. “When will she be back?”

“Despite my promotion, I’m still the last person to know anything.” Sure you are. Brad Darcton’s been giving you personal orders. How can he lie to my face?

“So tell me about Ethan Darcton.” His chin fat wiggles, a clear indication he’s uncomfortable.

“How do you know Ethan?”

“I’ve met him a couple times. And then, Briella mentioned him tonight. I was wondering what his story is.”

“He’s Brad Darcton’s son. I believe he attends law school during the year back on Earth and interns here in the summer.” He’s avoiding eye contact.

“Is he Cleaved?” I ask. Ethan told me he wasn’t, but I want confirmation.

“I don’t believe so,” he says. “Why the curiosity?”

“Oh. I had to listen to a stupid argument between Bri and Tristan about him.” Whoever’s listening would have heard the same thing and backed my story. Hopefully, Ethan’s still obsessed with that girl he met at the party and won’t find Kira interesting or vice versa, assuming either of them has a choice in the matter. I don’t like the idea of that guy being her escort home. He’s too nice, too good-looking, and too ready to settle down. And Kira still never explained why she called me Ethan. What if they really do know each other and she has a crush on him?

“I see. Well, I know you aren’t supposed to exercise, but the nurse did mention that I should get you to stretch your legs once a night. Shall we take a short stroll in the canyon?”

“Sure,” I reply.

We don’t walk far. I update him on how I spent my flash flood time. I tell him the planned timing of the Exilers’ attack and my father’s directive to shut down the Eco barrier. This is particularly important given my new data about the shifting detonators. Ted slips me a card key that will give me access to Headquarters. Even if he can’t see the benefits of his promotion, I can. He also issues me a new watch with the instruction to perform any “extracurricular” activities without it. It is indeed a tracking device and supposedly the only tracking device used.

The bulk of our walk is spent brainstorming the potential ways to disarm the Eco barrier. He feeds me bits and pieces of conversations he has heard about it, and we narrow the possibilities as to where the switch may be to three rooms within Headquarters. Even better, he provides an access password to the HQ central computer system that he claims to be two levels above his security clearance.

“Did that strain your grafts too much?” he asks as we walk back into my house.

“Nope. I’m good,” I lie. I’m pretty exhausted.

“You should get some rest.”

“Yeah. I’m going to head over to Tristan and Bri’s for a big party they’re having at dawn, and then I’ll get some sleep.”

“Really? They’re having a party?”

“Yep. Sounds like they’re going all out,” I tell him. “I figure it’s a good way to get to know some more people and catch up on Second Chancer scoop.”

“Excellent. I’m glad to see you are jumping right back into your role as a Recruit. Just remember to keep well hydrated—with water.”

“You think?” I’m not stupid. I saw how TB interacted with Kira’s pain meds. Sobriety won’t be an issue for me.

How much freaking TB did these kids have stored? This party’s insane. Not that I’m a party expert, but I thought Tristan’s last party lacked inhibition. This one has no restraint whatsoever. I do my best to chat it up with folks, but they’re slurring sentences so badly I can’t understand one freaking word they say.

The spread looks tame, but every morsel of food and drink contains Theranberry. And for those who want the quickest hits, raw berries and powder have been provided. I sip my water and listen to Briella justify the portrait of Tristan she had Bailey paint on her stomach with Theranberry juice. Bailey has no future as a Theran artist, but she still offers to paint me in some rather private and sensitive areas that I want her nowhere near. When in her teebed state she lifts up her tube top to show the “work” she did on her breasts, I try to leave. Not that they aren’t attractive, but I’ve seen them before and the girl could be renamed Pandora. I don’t want in her box.

“Not so fast, cowboy.” Bailey grabs me and yanks me into the bathroom. “I need to talk to you.” She pushes me hard and fast against the cupboard and presses herself against me. She has got on five inch stilettos, so we’re eye to eye. I’ll give her two minutes. I don’t trust her and haven’t since our relationship ended.

“It’s not going to happen, Bailey. Sober up.”

“No matter what you say, Blake, I know you find me attractive,” she whispers in my ear. “You’ve been quite responsive to me for weeks now.”

“You know I’m with Kira.” Unfortunately, I can’t tell her the whole host of reasons her devoid-of-warmth personality trumps her gorgeous body, or I’d be Exiled.

“I don’t see Kira here. In fact, I haven’t seen her for a long while. I heard she’s otherwise occupied with a very attractive guy,” she responds without so much as a glance away.

I glare at Bailey. “I trust Kira. You, not so much.”

“Why do you act like you hate me, Blake? I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done here to piss you off so much. I’ve been nothing but friendly.” Yeah, like the freaking neighborhood welcome wagon.

“I’m not getting your game, Bailey,” I lie. I’m totally getting her game. The sultry look, licking those plump lips, a wardrobe “malfunction” that has her breasts spilling out of her tube top, and the grinding against my hips in a way that I’m having trouble ignoring. Brain understands “vindictive tramp”; body not so much.

“Sure you do, Blake.” She stares at my lips which gets me staring at hers. Before I know it, her lips are pressed against mine, and she has parted my lips with her tongue. Like riding a bike, the muscle memory comes back, and I’m helpless to resist. She’s surely talented at this, but there’s a reason I don’t want this if I could only remember what it is. It occurs to me. I hate her. Really hate her. And then there’s Kira—my “girlfriend”—who’s off with Ethan the freaking Abercrombie-model intern. I told Kira I’m falling in love with her, and she can’t stand guys that cheat. Not that I am cheating. Bailey kissed me. Crap. I’m kissing back and wanting more. Wherewithal regained, I push Bailey back.

The only thing I can bring myself to say is “No.”

She smirks as she licks her lips, roughly gropes my pelvic area, and whispers, “You’re saying no, but I can tell you’re not really feeling it.”

“I’m out of here. Don’t touch me again,” I reply a bit more half-heartedly than I should have.

“We’re not through, Blake. Not even close. We’ve got more in common than you think, and I’ll be seeing you sooner rather than later.”

I practically run towards the other end of the house and figure that Bailey won’t be able to catch me while teebed up.

What I see happening in the rest of the party makes my encounter with Bailey look tame. Guys are slurping TB from girls’ bellybuttons, licking TB powder from lips, and chewing up berries and sharing the slop like a mother bird does with her babies. The “sizzler,” where they allow the TB juice to boil on their skin out in the courtyard and whiff in the fumes, disturbs me greatly. And then there’s the random making out with multiple people to see who’s most teebed and will put out more.

No question this morn will end with people Cleaved.

I’m contemplating how disgusting they all are when Tristan slaps me on the back atop one of my grafts.

“Holy crap, Tristan. Don’t slap me on my skin graft—or anywhere,” I tell him.

“Sorry, dude,” he responds. “Didn’t know they’d put cow skin on you.”

“Huh?”

“You said skin calf right?”

“No. Graft,” I say. No lights on upstairs this morn. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”

Time for me to leave. I’m getting nothing out of this party other than new images to add to all the other disturbing ones in my nightmares. I make my way to the front door but am stopped when a host of men in official looking uniforms burst in, led by Brad Darcton.

“Blake…” He narrows his eyes at me and says in an accusing tone, “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Mr. Darcton,” I respond. “Just doing my job as a Recruit and attempting to mix with these folks. I can assure you that I have done nothing of concern.” I wave my water bottle at him.

“Go home then. We’re moving their party to Headquarters.” Holy crap. What’s he going to do to them? Mass execution? Appearing to read my thoughts, he explains, “They’ll be fine. We’ve figured out a…creative…way to deal with their complete disregard of the Canon.”

“I do believe I will head home. I need the rest,” I say, being truthful. I am so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open. “The only circumstance I’d like changed is for Kira to come back.”

“Be patient, Blake. And thanks for giving your Handler the heads-up on the party.” He winks at me before shooing me out the door. Great, whatever life-changing circumstances he has in store for them will be on my conscience. I just hope it isn’t Exile. These kids would be zero help to my father’s cause.

I watch from my balcony as the gaggle of drunk teens are escorted off—at least a hundred of them—in the blaring hot sun. They can barely walk, much less adhere to the strict instructions being yelled by the security detail. Once the kids have been ushered through the door that leads to the train, I see another half dozen men carrying evidence in carefully labeled bags. SCI Security is well trained to carry out raids. I’ve seen it happen before. But this raid has been far more civilized than the ones I remember.

Yes, whatever Brad Darcton has in store for the delinquent Garden City high schoolers, it will pale in comparison to the Ten’s treatment of the Exilers.

Thirteen years prior

My fifth birthnight rapidly approached, and the summer heat was deadly. I remember begging my father for more water. Leila cried around the clock. Collectively, our band of Exilers became pretty sluggish, lacking the energy to do even the most basic tasks. However, desperation drove the men to help the Interceptors forage for food. Only women and children remained in the camps, and no one thought to stand watch as we slept during the day. That must be why we didn’t see them coming.

A large team of security detail from Garden City showed up toting shotguns and whips. Threatening to kill, the men went cave to cave and poured out water supplies, trashed food, and stole supplies. They ripped apart the soft brush we used for bedding, destroyed fire pits, and burned excess clothing. It was chaos, and everyone started to scatter. We feared for our lives.

A few gunshots brought us into line. The men corralled our group together at the bottom of the canyon by pushing and shoving us down the hill, guns pointed at our backs. I carried Leila, and my feet struggled to keep up with the fast pace of the unfamiliar men. Several times, I fell and was kicked by heavy black boots. Leila wailed and wailed. They insisted I shut her up or they’d do it for me. Thankfully, Doc’s Cleave made her way to us and took Leila from me and calmed her down.

What the men did next still gives me chilling nightmares. A half-dozen kept their barrels trained on us while the rest troweled a ditch around us a couple inches deep. The process took less than twenty minutes with their tools. Then they poured some sort of powder into the ditch and lit it on fire. Ringed with hot flames and exposed to the searing hot sun, we were powerless to escape. Laughing, they’d gone on their merry way, toting large bags of our life-sustaining supplies back towards Garden City.

One of the more resourceful women figured out that we could extinguish the flames by scraping the hard soil with our fingernails and pushing it into the ditch. Once we cleared a path out of the ring, Doc’s Cleave led the children back up the canyon to the caves. The other women stayed to put out the rest of the fire. A single spark could have set the entire canyon ablaze. Any remaining supplies would have been destroyed, and we’d have all died from burns or smoke inhalation. They weren’t willing to risk it.

Hours later, the ladies trudged up the canyon, blistered from the sun, hands bleeding from their toil. They discovered what we had already seen. The supplies kept in our caves were gone or burned. Thankfully, our meager reserve, camouflaged by boulders in a nearby cave, remained undiscovered. So, resources were rationed, and we subsisted on sips of water and crumbs of food for a full week until the men returned with more.

I find it interesting that the security detail didn’t kill us. Perhaps, they rationalized that they weren’t responsible for our deaths if they left us to dehydrate, starve, or burn rather than put bullets in our heads. And, after all, they’d just been “retrieving goods stolen from the good citizens of Garden City,” or at least that’s what they said.

Present

“What the—?” I say out loud as I approach the common area at school on foot. Did I miss my invite to some sort of date function? Most nights the girls group together and gossip while the guys play basketball, football, and board the canyons. But tonight…it’s a whole different scene.

All I see are couples splattered about holding hands, kissing, laughing, talking, and staring dreamily into each other’s eyes.

I walk over to Briella and Tristan who are sprawled out atop a picnic table looking at the obscured stars.

“What happened after the party? Why has everyone paired off?” I ask in a loud voice.

“Oh hey, dude,” Tristan says. “Keep your voice down. My head’s pounding.” Really? Shocker. Don’t do TB. Just say no.

“Last I saw, you guys were being carted off by security. Where’d they take you?”

“Oh yeah. We went to the SCI Headquarters. It’s all a little fuzzy. But that Darcton dude from the Ten—he Cleaved us.”

“You and Bri?” I look at each of them.

Briella smiles at Tristan. Tristan opens his mouth first to respond. “Yeah, first he Cleaved us. And then, he Cleaved all of them.” Tristan sits up enough to wave his arms towards the rest of the couples.

“Seriously? The Ten Cleaved all of you?” I ask. “No. Freaking. Way.”

“Way,” he says. “Well, except for Bailey who apparently managed to get herself Exiled. She wandered into a high security clearance area at HQ. So, I guess you won’t have to worry about her pawing you any more.”

I know the powers that be are listening in, so I’ve got to be careful what I ask. “I’m so confused about how this all went down.” Bailey was Exiled? What was she doing in a classified area of Headquarters? I always thought there was something off with her after her 50s housewife comment. And all the Second Chancers were Cleaved? I’m teeb-free and I’m still tripping.

Tristan’s all too happy to share his warped memories. “Mr. Darcton seemed a little tweaked about our party. Apparently, TB’s illegal or something. Instead of Exiling us, the Ten decided to give us the ‘opportunity’ to become all responsible by Cleaving us which is pretty much the most awesome punishment ever.” Kira may be the only one who can appreciate the brilliance of Brad Darcton’s punishment for the partying Second Chancers. And she’s not even here to gloat.

“Wow.”

“Wow is right. Wait, how come you didn’t come with us to HQ?” Let’s see. How do I explain that? I look at my shoes and then back at Tristan.

“I was just leaving when the security guys arrived. When they saw I was sober, they told me to go home,” I explain. “I guess I missed out. How’d they do the Cleaving?” I doubt Tristan, Bri, and the others got the full Cleaving treatment given their inebriated state. Typically, physical tests and questionnaires proceed the pairings to insure good Cleaving matches. Following the official pairing, the SCI provides a ceremony and grand dinner celebration.

“They just called off names by pairs and then had us sign some paperwork to make it all legit,” Tristan says. “Then they sent us home to consummate the Cleaving. Which we did several times.” Given how hopped up on TB he was, I’m surprised he could perform or remember.

As if narrating a documentary, Tristan starts to detail the consummation for me. My eyes go wide, and I scan for an excuse to escape. Briella pretend slices her throat to try to get him to stop. Too much information. I see Ted Rosenberg and pretend like I have something urgent to discuss with him.

Ted confirms Tristan’s story. The Ten had the Garden City High sixteen-and-ups mass-Cleaved at SCI Headquarters overday. Every single bone-headed kid who attended that party, with the exception of Bailey and me, has been Cleaved to their “perfect” mate. Given there wasn’t an exactly equal number of girls and boys at the shindig, a few non-partying kids got whisked off to HQ by afternoon.

“What does this mean for Kira and me?” I ask. “Are we going to keep working with them now that they’re Cleaved? Cause I’m not so sure I want to listen to all that Cleaving talk.”

“For now, yes, it’s business as usual. I realize that it will be awkward, but it was awkward anyway, right?” he chuckles. I nod. “The Ten will be reviewing the program and will adjust it as necessary. I’ll let you know if your duties change.”

I think what he meant to say is that he’ll let me know when things change. The Ten is likely still hoping Kira and I will Cleave—assuming they ever bring her back. Or, they’ll move us elsewhere—to another city. I shudder at the thought. Having two singles amongst dozens of Cleaveds just isn’t going to fly for long. The dynamic would be too awkward. They’ll be saddling the couples with kids before long, and then what would we have to talk about? Our mythical labies?

“Kira’s going to freak when she finds out about all this.”

Ted shrugs. “If you’re referring to Tristan and Briella, I really don’t think she’ll be bothered that they Cleaved.”

“Well, no, I just meant the whole thing, although I guess that might still bug her.”

“I don’t think so. The two—meaning Tristan and Bri—apparently had a long-term sexual relationship back on Earth behind Kira’s back,” Ted tells me.

“Serious? How would you even know that?”

“They were caught in the act on video. Kira viewed the video prior to her vacation,” he explains.

That’s the video he and Brad discussed? That makes sense. When they decided to place her in spitting distance of her ex-boyfriend, they made sure to have a smoking gun to keep her from ever being tempted to reunite with him. When they feared I might die, they decided to show it to her so that she wouldn’t turn to Tristan. With me out of the picture, they wanted her to have someone to confide in. Insert Ethan Darcton—the alternative heir to Thera.

“Wow, that’s extreme,” I say, mostly to myself. “She must’ve flipped.”

“I wasn’t there to see her reaction, but I imagine she was upset by the news.”

Upset? With that news and me missing, I’ll be surprised if she didn’t go insane.

“Anything less than abject submission has to have some attack in it.”

—Frank Herbert

CHAPTER TWENTY

Kira

Three weeks after having left Thera

I awaken groggy, nauseated, hooded, and with extreme facial pain from where I was whacked with a gun. From the intensity of the pain, I bet that I have a huge welt and am in for some very attractive bruising. My captor drops me in a heap onto a hard surface.

A familiar voice indicates that I’ve returned to Thera. Brad Darcton. My hands are tied behind my back with something thin and cutting. A tight gag keeps me from speaking. Oddly, I feel better than I did the last time through. Physically, that is. Mentally, I’m just waiting to be shoved into a padded room as the memories of the deaths at my childhood home flood my brain. I have to keep it together. I wriggle to indicate I’m awake and await to have my hood, gag, and cuffs removed—and to see if Ethan and Jared made it through with me. The thought of either of them dying at my hands is unbearable. I’ve already killed my parents; more blood would soak my hands.

“Ah, it appears our little rebel has awoken,” I hear Brad Darcton say. “Keep her hands in the restraints until I know that she plans to behave.” A pair of ice-cold hands removes my hood and then my gag. I wrench my head around and am devastated to see neither Ethan or Jared in view.

“Where are they?” I struggle to speak, my emotions choking me.

“Who?” Brad asks in a menacing tone.

“My brother, Jared. Your son, Ethan.” I emphasize the “son.”

Brad strolls over to me and with a nasty glare says, “I’m so sorry to hear about the untimely deaths of your parents. It’s so tragic when those we love die—especially when the deaths could have so easily been avoided.” I drop my head and try to contain the sob growing in my throat. Is that his way of telling me that Ethan and Jared are dead too? Everyone I care about. Gone. Do I dare confirm my worst fears? Could there still be one person left?

I ask yet another question that I’m afraid to hear the answer to. “Blake? Is he alive?”

Brad paces back and forth for what seems like an eternity before answering. “We found him, though his situation is dicey. Honestly, I don’t know which way it’s going to go. Your cooperation the next few weeks would go a long way to lifting his spirits and giving him the fight he needs, don’t you think?” He’s alive. I’ve never been more relieved or scared at the same time. This time, I’ll take Brad’s threat seriously. If I don’t cooperate, Brad will make sure Blake dies. If I cooperate, he has got a fighting chance. With Jared and Ethan presumably gone, I can’t lose my one last thread tying me to life and hope of a future.

“Whatever you need me to do.” I bow my head in submission, even if it’s mock submission in my head.

“You three will be placed in a…quiet area…where you can contemplate the bigger picture of things.” He has a sickeningly amused look on his face. Wait. Three?

I’m afraid to take his bait. “Three?” I whisper. Brad motions to a colleague, and two hooded figures are dragged in and dumped beside me. I let out a gasp of relief as I recognize the clothes to be Jared and Ethan’s. Their hoods are removed, and they get the luck of having their cuffs, simple zip ties, removed. Jared looks bewildered. Ethan bursts into tears when he sees me, but Brad’s colleague keeps him from running to me to have a happy reunion.

Brad steps forward to address Ethan. “Son, welcome back. I assume you’ve learned some vital lessons while away. One, to always follow orders. Two, I warned you to avoid the women on Earth. You’ve got to stop fighting me on the Cleaving thing.”

How can he be so cavalier about killing my parents and Ethan’s harem? What a monster.

Brad turns to Jared. “And, here, we have an unexpected guest.”

I walk over beside Jared and plaster on a smile. “This is my brother, Jared. And I’m afraid in my passed out state that I didn’t have a chance to educate him on where we were headed. Perhaps you’d like to do the honors?”

“Absolutely,” Brad Darcton beams. “Jared, welcome to Garden City, Thera.”

“And where’s Garden City, Thera?” Jared asks.

“It’s the location of Unit 27 of the Second Chance Institute. You left Earth by traveling through a portal to Earth’s sister planet, Thera. It’ll take some getting used to, and we’ll be sure to get you properly trained as Kira and Blake were. But first, I think all three of you need a little ‘me’ time. You’ll all be able to talk things through and gain some needed perspective.”

“No, Dad. You can’t do that. You can’t lock us up…me up.” Ethan looks desperate as he places his hands on his father’s shoulders.

“I can, and I will.” Brad pulls away from Ethan.

“I have no idea what you guys are talking about,” Jared says, his mouth gaped open. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“First, recuperation. Then, education. That’s what I tell every Recruit. I’ll see you all real soon,” Brad promises. He pauses to scan us and our disheveled, bloody state, “Oh, and get yourselves cleaned up. What a mess.”

To the casual observer, one would think Ethan, Jared, and I were sharing a typical Garden City two bedroom home. Ethan and Jared took the twin beds in one bedroom, and I got the queen, just like in the house I share with Blake. This house, however, connects to the center city clinic and has been completely locked down. A team of physicians and psychiatrists manage our “care.”

It takes a couple nights for us to lose the drug-induced haze that the doctor shot into us after our entry and much longer to get over the shock of the events that happened. Brad Darcton knows that he crossed a line by executing my family and Ethan’s friends in front of us. There’s no going back to presenting the Second Chance Institute as a benevolent cause. So, his only choice is to terrorize us into compliance, brainwash us into acceptance, or eliminate us.

In case he needs to go for plan C, he plans to extract another round of eggs from me. Despite being drugged, I recognize the shots for what they are. When I try to protest, I’m kindly reminded of Blake’s fragile physical state and my brother’s tenuous mental state.

Yes, Jared. He’s like a raving lunatic. Take note for future recruiting, SCI—don’t execute a Recruit’s parents in front of said Recruit if you want them to like you. While I’m currently terrorized into compliance, Jared’s far from willing to feign even a little obedience.

“I’m going to kill them. Every last one of them,” he threatens. He’s pacing the living room and kicking the furniture.

“That will be difficult without weapons, and I think you’re a little outnumbered.” I tuck my feet up onto our couch so that he doesn’t whack me in the shins.

“They freaking killed Mom and Dad. For no reason.” He spits out the words, and his fists slam into an imaginary punching bag.

“Not true. They had a reason. They wanted me back on Thera, and I wasn’t cooperating. I called their bluff, and they called mine. It’s my fault, Jared.” After all, it’s the truth.

“It’s not your fault, Kira,” Ethan says. He has barely said a word since we returned. I’m shocked that he doesn’t blame me. “They were looking for a reason—any reason—to do it. I don’t think it was avoidable.” I’m worried about him. He doesn’t look well. Not that I do either with a giant gun-shaped, multi-colored bruise on my face. In contrast, Ethan’s face is deathly white. I’ve seen him muttering to himself and hyperventilating. He checks the door lock every few minutes. The average claustrophobic hates being in small, enclosed spaces—Ethan goes nuts by simply being locked in any space.

“Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but I need to take responsibility. Six people lost their lives because of me.” I’m not taking my current situation well but need to stay strong for Jared, Ethan, and Blake. I save my tears for my pillow at day in the privacy of my own room.

“Well, technically they’re no longer dead. They’re here somewhere,” Ethan responds. He’s on an adjacent chair and looks ready to call for help if Jared gets any more violent.

“Sure, the zombie or shell versions of them are here, but it’s not really them if they can’t remember their lives. For instance, how can you learn from mistakes you’ve made if you don’t remember making them?”

“What zombies?” my brother asks. He still doesn’t get it. I explain it all to him again. The Second Chancers. Daynighters. Recruits’ roles on Thera. Inverted days and nights. Cleaving. The Circle of Compliance, the Grand Council, and the Presiding Ten.

When do they plan to start his training? Or are we his training? I hope not, though I’d be a whole lot more interesting than Video Dude. I’m careful to try not to color the facts with my personal interpretations. We’re being monitored. Any admission to things I shouldn’t know or “misrepresentation” of Theran doctrine could cause things to end badly. I already played the “Originals” card and admitted I knew they killed Leila. At some point, I’ll be called to explain my “wealth of knowledge” to Brad Darcton, and I prefer not to add things to what I have to rationalize.

“The people who run this place are total quack-jobs,” my brother yells. “Certifiable. And they lock us up? I’ll tell you who needs some ‘me’ time. The Ten Assassins for their Circle of Compulsion or whatever it’s called.”

I shake my head. The anti-psychotics didn’t help. Information’s not making a dent. I’ve got to figure out some way to get Jared to keep his opinions to himself or we’re all dead.

“I’m not insane,” I tell the therapist. “Nor is my brother, or Ethan. We’re just…upset…over the deaths of our loved ones…and the roles we played in those deaths.” We’re in our nightly group brainwashing-centric therapy session, and I’ve decided we’ll never get released unless we redirect blame to ourselves. It is like a play-acting exercise from drama class, except I actually do blame myself. Each mind warp session lasts four hours, and we cover the same things over and over and over and over again. Presumably, we’ll continue to cover them until we get the answers “right” in the eyes of the Ten.

“So, you understand that you are responsible for the incident which is causing you so much pain?” Lily, the silver-haired therapist asks.

“Absolutely. I defied a direct order, and there are consequences when we don’t abide by the law,” I say. All true. It is my fault.

“She is full of CRAP.” Jared stands and kicks his chair back behind him. “You are all full of crap!”

“Jared, it isn’t your turn to share,” Lily says as if Jared is a misbehaving toddler. “Please pick up your chair and return to the circle.”

“Lily, would you mind if I have one minute to speak with my brother in the kitchen? I think it might help, but I’ll leave the decision to you.” I try to be as pleasant, yet submissive, as possible.

“One minute,” she says to me. “We want to keep our discussion on track.”

I pull my brother from the dining area into the kitchen. To reach his ear, I have to get up on my tiptoes. When did he get so tall, and why hadn’t I noticed while I was at home? He is easily past six feet now. His tan and freckles are fading from the lack of sun.

“You need to get your temper under control, Jared.” I reach up to steady myself by putting my hands on his shoulders. “They will keep us locked up forever—or worse, Exile or kill us if you can’t. If you want any hope of a relatively normal future, then you’ll get a grip.”

“Sorry. You may be used to the whole ‘move to a different planet full of psychoapathetic killers thing,’ but I’m not,” he says in an angry, hushed tone. Did Jared stop his SAT prep classes when I left? Or did coming through the portal tweak his long-term memory? He just shouldn’t use big words. Unless he’s doing it on purpose to get on my nerves.

“It’s not a planet full of psychopaths, I promise you. Just a bunch of normal people going about their lives. But the Garden City leaders do strictly enforce the rules. That, they’re quite up front about.” For the most part, I speak the truth. Other than forgetting their past on Earth, the Second Chancers live their lives as best as possible given their circumstances. It’s only those in charge who have redrawn the line between right and wrong.

“They killed our parents and those girls.” He backs away from me and puts his hands on the back of his head. “How do I forget that?”

“Our parents and those girls are alive—here on Thera,” I tell him. “I’m sure they’re fine. Happy even.”

“Will I ever get to see them again?”

“I don’t know. But if we don’t get out of here, then I can assure you we’ll never have the chance,” I say. I’m not as eager to see my parents as Jared is. It could be unwise to destroy my fantasy of a perfect “hereafter” for them.

“I’ll try to do better,” he says, walking back to the living room calmly.

I catch up and whisper in his ear, “Try harder. Because I can’t stand confinement another night.”

After Jared shows restraint for a couple sessions, he’s allowed to start his official training. He still attends group therapy but spends the remainder of his non-sleeping hours learning Theran doctrine. Meanwhile, Ethan and I are going out of our minds. There’s only so much we can do within the confinement of our locked down home. I teach Ethan games from my childhood like charades and hide and seek to distract him. We garden, have cook-offs, do a lame aerobics routine since we’re gymless, read to each other, and sleep a lot. And, I do my fair share of crying behind closed doors for my failure to consider how my actions would affect my family.

After stuffing ourselves with veal schnitzel that I cook and chocolate soufflé that Ethan makes, I excuse myself to my room to hide a pending mental breakdown. Within a few minutes, a knock at my door forces me to dry my tears on my pillowcase and answer.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Ethan says. “But, I could tell you were upset and thought you might need a hug. And I know I could use one.”

“I could” I let him join me on my bed, although I face away from him and let him hold me from behind. We both silently contemplate our situation for a while. Finally, I speak, turning to face him. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you and not fought coming back. I’ve made such a mess of everything. Even though I didn’t hold the guns, I pulled the triggers.”

He takes my face in his hands. “It’s not your fault, and I don’t blame you. I’m just happy that you’re okay—that Jared’s okay,”

“It is my fault, and now I’ve ruined your life. I assume the blonde girl they killed was the girl you spoke of at the party? The one you wanted to grow old with?”

He shakes his head. “No, Kira, she wasn’t. Not even close. You haven’t ruined my life. Don’t ever think that.” He presses his forehead against mine and touches his nose to mine for a moment before pulling back.

“Why were you dating her then?”

“My girl’s been a little tied up, so I’m in a bit of a holding pattern. To be honest, I only took Sarah to a couple events my uncle was hosting. She’s the daughter of a colleague of his, and Sarah wanted those dates to turn into a relationship. I didn’t feel the same.” So Sarah was a bit of a stalker, and forever girl has been giving Ethan the brush-off. I feel terrible for him. What girl would keep a guy like Ethan waiting? Even if he is a Darcton.

“Do you think we’re ever going to get out of here?”

“We’ll definitely get out of here. You’re handling this…them…Jared…well,” he says.

“They took more eggs from me,” I whisper.

“Are you absolutely sure?” His blue eyes narrow.

“Positive. Same process as before.”

“They took a sperm sample from me during my ‘check-up’—they said they needed to test my reproductive system. It was the second time they’ve done it, in fact. That night you heard me at the clinic…that’s why I was there—for my routine reproductive system check.”

“Great, looks like we’re going to have lab-produced babies together too. Don’t they have any other high-DNT, Original-blooded girls to spread the joy of motherhood with?” I’d be more disturbed, but the fact is that I’m well beyond being surprised at the absurdity of the Ten’s actions. I bury my head in his chest, and he holds me tight. Despite our situation, I feel safe with Ethan. That hasn’t always been the case. It has taken a while for me to trust him, and I still have doubts. It’s hard to believe that he didn’t have anything to do with the Goodington explosion, and that he’s not an evil pawn but an unwilling pawn in the Ten’s terror games.

“Somehow, everything’s going to work out. We have to believe that,” he says.

I look up at him and wonder if he really thinks that or if he’s just trying to make me feel better. An absurd line of thought trickles through my brain as I wonder if my labies with Blake or Ethan will be cuter. I laugh out loud.

“What? Are you mocking my optimism?”

“No, no. Not at all. I’m just truly going bonkers. Don’t worry about me. Can I ask you something that I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while?”

“Sure.”

“How’d you get the scar on your chest?” I roll his shirt up and run my fingers across the scar and down the contours of his muscles despite knowing how intimate and inappropriate my action is.

“I was born with a heart defect,” he tells me. “The doctors weren’t sure I’d live, but they were able to correct it with a bunch of surgeries.”

“Oh, wow, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s long done with and fixed, although my parents continually remind me of my shortcoming.” He looks so sad. I can’t imagine having Brad Darcton as a father. “I think they…and others…are worried that it’s genetic, and that I may pass it on to my children. It makes me a less-than-appealing Cleaving candidate. So, I guess it’s a good thing I don’t live here full time.”

“There’s absolutely nothing that could make you unappealing.” I mean it. He’s downright beautiful. We lock eyes, and I can see him melt at my compliment. I can’t believe that his parents have killed his self-esteem so much. His eyes drift to my lips, and I can’t help but drift my eyes to his.

“Likewise.” He leans in to kiss me, the first time since we’ve returned to Thera. His cinnamon-tinged lips hit mine, and then he parts and teases my lips with his tongue. He alternates between gentle exploration of my mouth and nibbling on my bottom lip. For a sizable moment, I allow, respond, and even enjoy this sweet, passionate gesture, my heart pounding and desire for him building until I remember—Ethan loves someone else. And, Blake is alive and fighting for his life. The guilt pummels me. I have feelings for Ethan. No question. He’s gorgeous, fun, a great listener, an even better smooth talker, a fabulous cook, my best friend at the moment, and I feel comfortable with him. He’s the only reason I’m getting through this. But, we’re no longer faking this to support our cover. This is all too real and feels wrong. I can’t and won’t be “the other woman.”

I pull away. “I’m so sorry. We need to stop. This isn’t right. Not now. You’re in love with someone else. And, there’s Blake. I forget all that sometimes…being here with you and not having them around. But, I’m just not one of those kinds of girls. Just look at what Briella and Tristan did to me. I don’t want to ever be like that…ever.” My loyal tendencies are a good trait, right?

He closes his eyes, unable to look me in mine. “I understand, and I shouldn’t have done it. Forgive me? I just got caught up in the moment…beautiful girl I care for in my arms. But I’d never want to disrespect what you have with Blake. I’m not that guy either. I promise. We just seem to have bad timing,” He rolls off the side of the bed and then comes around and sits on the edge, facing away from me, head in his hands.

“It’s okay, and, of course, there’s nothing to apologize for.” I rub his back. It’s hardly his fault. I put my hand up his shirt and told him how incredibly appealing he is. What guy wouldn’t act on that?

“I hope we can be friends,” he says, though I’m not entirely sure he means it. He looks depressed, but I don’t see why he would be since he has still got his dream girl in the wings. I couldn’t stand to be his “fill-in” girl anyway.

“You are already my friend, Ethan. The best friend I could ask for.” I pause for a moment to wonder if it’s really possible for a girl and a guy to be just friends. Sure we can. How could we not after what we’ve been through together? “How about I go trash your butt in charades? Because you really, really suck at having to keep your mouth shut.”

“I’m a lawyer-in-training,” he says with a chuckle, although I can tell he’s still upset. “What’d you expect?”

Three weeks after returning to Thera

I’m so excited to see the familiar sights of my canyon that I loosely hug a giant cactus and kiss the dirt. Never mind the fact I almost died in it. And I discovered the truth about the Second Chancers here. Blake and I spent a lot of time amongst these Theranberry bushes and cacti, and for that reason alone, I’ll always appreciate the place.

Ethan and I were released on a “probationary” basis. If we continue to toe the party line, we stay free. If we start spewing unflattering words about the Ten or SCI, we’ll be re-confined or Exiled. Jared had to stay behind to complete his training. I expect he’ll also be receiving a little extra therapy time too.

“Come on,” I say to Ethan who seems less enthused to deliver me back home than I am to be delivered. “Let’s go.” I grab his hand and drag him along the canyon path and up towards my house. He stops me at the ramp to my front door.

“Things are going to change now that we’re out. You and Blake will be together. I have my internship. And, soon, I’ll return to Earth for my last year of law school. I just wanted to tell you that I, uh, am glad to have gotten to know you better. That first night I met you I thought you were amazing and I was right. You are, well, incredible. I’m really going to miss you.” His hands are in his pockets and he is rocking back and forth on his feet—just like he did that first night.

“You can come see me anytime you like. And, if I’m allowed, I’ll come visit you. We’re going to stay friends, Ethan Darcton, despite the fact you were spawned from Satan. You don’t get to use law school or Blake or anything as a cop out. I’ll miss you just as much.” He smiles at the reference to his father.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” I tell him. “Now, can I go see if Blake’s home?”

“Sure, I’ll be going.” He motions towards the doors to the train. He looks so sad that it makes me want to cry.

“Uh, no you won’t. You’re coming with me. If Blake’s not home, you’ll handle my meltdown and help me track him down. If he is home, I still want you there. You guys should be friends too.”

“I don’t know about that. I don’t think he’s going to like me much now. After all, I did pretend to be your boyfriend.”

“Right, you pretended. On orders,” I say.

“What about all the kissing?” He bites the edge of his lip and looks at me through his long eyelashes. I feel a pang of longing at the memories, particularly of our last kiss. But I feel even more desire to see if Blake is home and well.

“What kissing?” I wink at him. “I don’t remember a thing, and, even if I did, I think you compared me to a post and suggested I need lessons.”

“Kira,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “You know…” I don’t let him finish, shushing him by placing two fingers over his mouth. Then I put my hands on his shoulders and push him up the ramp backwards until his back is against my front door. I pause, my body pushed against his, our eyes locked, knowing it will be the last moment we have for a while. I soak in the fabulous nature of his sapphire eyes, strong jaw, full lips, and stubble. Finally, not wanting the moment to get any more awkward than I’ve let it, I knock with one hand while keeping him trapped with the other. Trapped being an overstatement as he could easily overpower me, but he’s going along and laughing while he does.

It seems like an eternity before the door opens. Ethan has to catch his footing as the door gives way. To keep him from escaping, I shove him inside, shut the door behind me, and then jump into Blake’s arms. Blake feels a whole lot skinnier than he did the last time I saw him, if that’s even possible.

“Whoa, whoa, Kira.” Blake sets me down gently. “I guess no one told you about my skin grafts? Ow!”

“Skin grafts? No one told me squat. Last I heard, you were ‘barely hanging on.’ I didn’t even know if you’d be here when I knocked on the door.”

“Well…” He looks at Ethan. “It looks like we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Blake, I think you’ve met Ethan Darcton. After the flash flood, I kind of flipped out. So, the Ten allowed Ethan to escort me back to Earth for a vacation of sorts. He has been a good friend.”

“Friend?” Blake narrows his eyes and looks Ethan up and down. Perhaps it does look a little sketchy for me to show up with an incredibly attractive male “friend” who I’ve just spent several weeks with.

“Yes, friend.” Ethan offers his hand to Blake to shake. Blake hesitates for a moment but finally accepts the gesture. “I’m glad you are back and feeling ok.”

“That was quite a long vacation you took,” Blake says to me.

“Well, it wasn’t all vacation,” I tell him. “But, no matter. Thank goodness you’re okay. I have been sick with worry.”

Ethan interjects, “You know, I’m going to get back into the city to see how my house held up while I was away. It was good to see you again, Blake. Kira thinks the world of you. You’re a very lucky guy.”

“Thanks for bringing me back.” I want to hug him but don’t think Blake would react kindly. So I smile and tell him I’ll see him soon. When the door closes, Blake wraps his arms around me.

“I thought he’d never leave. I’ve been waiting an awfully long time to do this.” He backs me against the front door and kisses me. He’s holding back, though, and I wonder why. Or maybe it’s me holding back. For that I know why—but I push the comparisons with Ethan aside.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You must hate me for leaving you like that during the flash flood.”

“That sucked, but how could you even think it would be possible for me to hate you?”

“I love you, Kira.”

I pause. It’s funny how once one person says those three little words that it’s that the other will reciprocate, and that both of you will continue to repeat those words. At some point, you stop questioning whether you meant it in the first place, and the words continue to leave your mouth. That happened with Tristan. And now, here I am again. About to tell a guy I love him. He nearly died. What else can I do? I might love him. But am I sure? Why am I second-guessing myself?

“I love you, too,” I finally say, though the crack in my voice may reveal my uncertainty about it.

“What about Ethan?”

“He’s a friend. I thought I mentioned that.”

“As in friends with benefits? Or just friend-friend?” he asks.

I playfully shove him. “You are so jealous. It’s too bad you didn’t lose that attribute with your skin.” I’m well aware that I don’t answer his question, but we’re not going to discuss it in this house with others listening. “You know, I feel like I’ve just been locked up inside forever. Can we go for a walk? On the upper trail of the canyon? I’m not quite up to hiking down it yet.” I’ll never let myself get trapped down low in canyons again.

“Sure,” he responds. “Bear with me, though. I’m a little slow.”

We walk. And talk. Oh how I’ve missed our conversations in the canyons. I breathe in the putrid, warm air and run my hands along the prickly shrubbery, thrilled to be outside. Blake asks me for details about my “vacation.” I gloss over my recovery from the flood, the video, and my trip home. And even though I’m talking to Blake, I take care when speaking of the traumatic “incident” with my parents and Jared. The brainwashing had the intended effect.

I explain that the SCI had Jared return with me after there was an “accident” with my parents. I’m honest about the faked relationship with Ethan, including the kissing, although I say the kisses meant nothing. Liar. I may be attracted to Ethan, but it doesn’t matter. I chose to just be friends with him and let him pursue the love of his life. Blake is less than happy to know I shared saliva with Ethan.

“I think there’s more to your trip that you aren’t telling me. You really expect me to believe your parents died in an accident?” I knew he wouldn’t buy it.

“Blake, please don’t push me on it.”

“You don’t know me very well if you think I’ll let it go.” His body language tells me that he’ll never forgive me if I don’t tell him the truth.

“It’s my fault they died. I didn’t want to come back. In fact, I refused to come back. My parents and several girls Ethan dated died because I wanted to be able to eat out, watch movies, and lay out by the pool.” I pause to brush tears from my eyes. “I was clearly told there’d be consequences if I wasn’t cooperative but thought I could get away with it. I should have known better. The last time I tempted fate, all my friends died.”

“Oh, Kira.” He takes me in his arms. “It’s not your fault.”

“You can’t breathe a word,” I whisper. “Or they’ll lock me back up or Exile me. Or they will kill Jared. They still have him.”

“What do you mean lock you back up?”

“Ethan, Jared, and I have been back on Thera for a while but in lockdown. Brad Darcton felt we could all benefit from therapy,” I explain. “Jared hasn’t been too cooperative, though, so he’s stuck there for longer. I can’t risk his life, Blake. I just can’t.”

“Perhaps there is hope that we’ll all be free soon. My dad and the other Exilers plan to attack. I found a way into the city that doesn’t involve crossing the Eco barrier. I’m not sure it’s the best idea, but they’re going ahead with it whether I like it or not.”

He proceeds to catch me up on his ridiculously dangerous mission and near-death inducing return. He tells me about the different Exiler factions with competing strategies. The Militants’ plan is crazy. Suicidal. I don’t want Blake to have any part in it. It doesn’t sound like he wants any part of it either. He assures me that Ted has given him a foolproof, risk-free way to help his father but avoids mentioning the details which means it isn’t foolproof or risk-free. What should I do? I’m not willing to lose him again. We can’t fight the SCI in the way his father is advocating. Our best hope’s to avoid making waves and stay alive until we can find a way to get out.

“Gads,” he says. “I forgot to tell you the biggest news. Right after I got back, Tristan and Bri invited me to one of their out of control parties. They got raided and hauled down to SCI Headquarters. The Ten Cleaved them there.”

“Ha ha. That serves them right. The two of them belong together.”

“Not just Tristan and Bri. All of them.”

I’ve been back for three nights and still haven’t seen all the happily Cleaved couples. Spud Rosenberg brought us orders from the Ten to refrain from any interaction with them to “allow them time to acclimate to their new circumstances.” Fine with me. I have no desire to rush the reunion with Tristan and Bri and want the alone time with Blake. Not that our private time has gone as well as I’d have liked.

Spud completely mucked with our schedule. To avoid the Second Chancers, Blake and I have free time and exercise time in the evening with classes after midnight. So, we spend all evening in the canyons disagreeing over his plans to help the Exilers, the late night hours quietly fuming while trying to concentrate on school work, and early morning “making up” by making out. And even that has been tame since Blake moans every time he’s touched. The grafts are pretty nasty, I must say. They’re healing, but his back and arms look like skin patchwork quilts. I just thank my lucky stars that he survived. Had the detonators not catapulted him farther up onto the beach, I’d be saying goodbye to yet another boyfriend.

Our area of contention is that Blake is still intent on delivering a knockout punch to the leadership of the SCI—although he’d like to devise a plan more proactive than his friend, Doc Daryn, and less extreme than his father. I’m determined to avoid any contention with the SCI until we have a foolproof plan. Enough people have died at my hands. He doesn’t understand my point of view, and although I sympathize with his, I think the outcome of his plan will be failure for the Exilers and pain and suffering for the rest of us.

Tonight, we’ve been invited to attend the first ever Garden City Cleaving Festival at Headquarters Plaza. The entire city has been summoned, and special attire has been issued to wear for the event. Surprisingly, I like the outfits they picked to represent Garden City. I’m wearing a lightweight, wispy dress with floral pattern and hidden pockets. Blake has on a light yellow, short-sleeved shirt, green pants, and tie that matches my dress. He has been complaining about the short sleeves as one of the grafts on his arms shows, but I assure him they’re healing so well that no one will notice. A small white lie.

We arrive shortly before midnight, and the crowds have amassed. It reminds me of how Times Square looks on New Year’s Eve, though it is at least a hundred degrees out, and everyone’s dressed in the same clothes. The heat generated by all those bodies is being offset, only slightly, by ventilation holes in the concrete surface that are blowing cool air up into the crowd. So, at least my feet and legs feel mildly comfortable. The air being piped in has a slight pleasant scent to it. Aromatherapy to combat all the body odor, perhaps, or a drug to pacify the masses?

A large stage has been constructed in the middle of the crowd, and booths are surrounding the plaza. Giant screens sit atop the booths and have projected images of some of Garden City’s most prized murals. The entire plaza has a warm glow.—not bright enough to wash out the screens, but enough to see well in the dark of night. Did they portal in a party planner from Earth? It’s uncharacteristically festive for Thera. I scan the crowd to see if I know anyone. Or, should I say, to see if I can catch sight of Ethan, not having seen him since I reunited with Blake. I’m sure he’s here, but with everyone dressed the same, it’s worse than playing Where’s Waldo.

At midnight sharp, seven men and three women take the stage, Brad Darcton among them. Brad climbs onto a five-foot tall podium atop the stage and addresses the crowd. Then, he introduces the Presiding Ten of the Grand Council. Was one of the women another Darcton? Blake whispers something about going to find a restroom, and I’m left to watch the spectacle alone.

“We are thrilled to have the opportunity to address the Garden City residents tonight,” Brad says. “And to celebrate our heritage and beautiful prospects for the future with each of you.”

He tells the love story of Helina and Hadrian and how they tenderly cared for their garden. How their children were special and had the ability to overcome Day and Night, Dark and Light. How the blood of the Originals still runs through the veins of those on Thera. And how we honor the Originals by Cleaving and bringing new generations of Original-blooded Therans into the world.

“The Ten is thrilled to present Garden City’s newest Cleaved couples.” He motions for them to come up on stage. I scan the stage. Notably missing is Bailey Goodington. There’s no way she would have missed that party. I’ll have to ask Blake why she isn’t up there. “These forty young pairs put their faith in the Cleaving process. Furthermore, they agreed to parent the next generation of Theran youth without delay. It is with great joy, I announce that each couple is confirmed pregnant thanks to our Assisted Pregnancy process.”

Wild cheers and shouts of congratulations fill the air. The couples on stage look genuinely happy. However, I stay silent. The math isn’t working for me. I know how long it took to shoot me up with drugs before they took my eggs. There hasn’t been enough time since they Cleaved to retrieve the eggs, create embryos, insert the embryos back in, and confirm the pregnancies took—unless they’d already done the egg retrieval on all the girls previously? Perhaps they’d been planning this for a while?

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around. Guess who is better at playing Where’s Waldo than I am? My heart starts thumping wildly.

“Ethan,” I say and give him a huge hug and kiss on the cheek, noting he’s not as scruffy as usual. We’re both slow to let go, and I know I spend a few seconds too long staring at his lips which he most definitely notices. “I was hoping I’d see you tonight. You haven’t come by even once. I’ve been going through major withdrawal.”

“I thought you’d be sick of me after being around me twenty-four seven for weeks and that you’d want the time with Blake. Where is he?”

“He went to find a bathroom or something, but I’m not sure he’ll ever be able to find his way back in this crowd.” I watch the hordes of people fill every gap in the makeshift arena.

“Are things going okay with him?” I can tell he regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“We’re friends. You can ask me anything.” As long as you don’t ask me to betray Blake or your girlfriend because you are too much of a temptation, and I really don’t want to be that girl. If my relationship with Blake was fake before—well, I can no longer say it is. It’s real, fights and all. What choice did I have after Blake declared his love for me? I felt obligated to return the sentiment, particularly since Ethan’s in love with someone else. I have to get over Ethan and fully commit to Blake. “It’s going okay.”

“You look beautiful in that dress.” He changes the subject. “And it could even pass for something you’d find at the mall,” he adds with a whisper.

“Thanks and yeah, shocking huh—patterns. You look pretty handsome yourself, College Boy.” I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks. It’s one of those awkward deals that can’t be avoided after two people have a “moment” and then try to retract it and just be friends. I’m really happy to see him. He has been on my mind a lot. I haven’t been having much fun lately. Plus, it’s hard to spend that much time with someone and then let go cold turkey. I want to look away, but I can’t take my eyes off his. Under the festive lighting of the plaza, the topaz sparkles in his eyes are more prominent than usual.

“My dad’s on a roll,” he says, changing the subject again.

“He’s quite the dynamic speaker. When he was introducing the rest of the Ten, did he mention another Darcton?”

“Oh yeah, that’s my mom—Vienna Darcton.”

“You never mentioned they both were members of the Ten,” I respond. Yikes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m not them—and you thought the worst of me already.” I’ve hurt his feelings, and I run my hand along his face to show him I’m sorry. He softens when I stare into his eyes and then down to his lips, and we’re back to uncomfortable, so he lightens things up. “So, what’s the deal with all the Cleaving? Did all those kids really turn eighteen at the same time?”

“Nope.” I tell him about the partying and consequences, and then add, “I didn’t know about the pregnancies though. That’s a bit of a surprise.”

“When did you say they Cleaved?” I can tell the math’s not working for him, either. He saw the same in-vitro information I did while we were back on Earth.

“Not long enough for them to be pregnant already.”

“Huh, you should ask them about it,” he says. “In the meantime though, since Blake’s probably lost in this crowd somewhere, why don’t we make a round of the booths and look for him? There’s free food and fun to be had. Or at least that’s what my dad announced.” I missed the part of his speech about food.

“I am hungry.” Ethan takes my hand and leads me through the crowd.

We get half way around the booths and still haven’t seen Blake. The booths are a mix of industry-sponsored informational stations and ladies who volunteered to bring their favorite meals in bulk to hand out as samples. I manage to eat a full meal, though I haven’t tasted anything to beat Ethan’s chocolate soufflé. We skip over a full section of booths aimed at small children and end up in the “Cleaving propaganda” section where we run into Tristan and Bri. Ethan drops my hand, probably thinking I don’t want to have to explain it. Too late. Bri definitely noticed.

“Kira, you’re back.” Bri gives me a huge hug. She’s sporting her party look, her eyes a dark sea of eyeliner. “Where’s Blake? And hi, I’m Briella. We’ve met before, but you probably don’t remember,” she says to Ethan, outstretching her hand to shake his. She looks to Ethan, then to me, and back as if she’s trying to figure out how and why we are here together.

“I remember. Nice to see you again,” Ethan responds. “I’m Ethan Darcton,” Ethan says to Tristan.

“I’m Tristan. Bri and I are Cleaved.” As if we didn’t know. The comment, however, seems to be directed to Ethan. Tristan is marking Bri as his personal territory.

“So where’d you say Blake was?” Bri glances at Ethan again, implied text being “Did you dump him for this hunk?” I can tell she wants me to explain why I was holding Ethan’s hand when I’m supposedly committed to Blake. How can I explain it? I shouldn’t have been, but I love the way Ethan strokes my hand while holding it and have missed that feeling since we got back to Thera.

“Blake disappeared to find a bathroom and seems to have gotten lost, so Ethan has been helping me try to find him.” I’m starting to wonder if that’s where he really is. I thrust my hands in my pockets to wipe off some of the sweat, and I find an object in my left pocket. A watch. Blake’s watch. Where is he? Somewhere he doesn’t want to be tracked. You’re an idiot, Blake.

“Huh, we haven’t seen him either,” Bri says.

I don’t want them raising any alarms so I change the subject. “I guess congratulations are in order. Wow—Cleaved and pregnant. That’s…uh…just…uh…huge.” I try to imagine her nine months pregnant. She’ll barely turn eighteen by the time the baby’s born, being young for our class.

“I know. It all happened so fast.” Yeah. Too fast. Ethan nudges me to tell me that’s my cue.

“Fast is an understatement. Tell me about the whole Assisted Pregnancy thing. How’d that work?” I ask.

“Well, a couple nights after our Cleaving we went in to the doctor, and they put the baby in,” she tells us.

“Huh? I’m confused. How often had you been seeing the doctor before that?”

“Well, almost every night for the month before. They’d put me on a few extra medications, but that was just because my thyroid was out of whack or something,” she explains.

“When did they retrieve your eggs? I think I remember your friend that you introduced me to—Lara Stewart—she mentioned having a surgical procedure to get her eggs out. Did you have the same thing done?”

She rubs her stomach. “What? No. I just had the one procedure, but they assured me that was all I needed. And obviously it worked because I’m pregnant. I’ve been having plenty of evening sickness to prove it.”

I turn to Tristan and ask, “When did you give, uh, your contribution to your child’s DNA?”

“Oh yeah, that happened the same night they put the baby in,” Tristan says. I shake my head. Obviously they’re clueless and will be no help to me. For all I know, the only assistance the doctors did was to take a syringe full of Tristan’s goods and insert it into Bri. It seems like a pretty huge coincidence that the timing would be right to get all the girls’ cycles aligned. Although, they’ve had them all on birth control, so it could be possible.

“I haven’t seen Bailey around. What’s she up to?” I ask.

“Blake didn’t tell you? She got Exiled. The night we were at Headquarters for our Cleaving, she apparently snuck off and got caught in some secret area. She totally missed out, though I’m pretty sure the only one she’d want to be Cleaved to is your boyfriend. She was super teebed and was all over him the night of the party.”

“Huh, interesting,” I grimace. “No, Blake never mentioned it.” Why wouldn’t he tell me Bailey got Exiled? And that she’d been throwing herself at him at the party?

“So, when did you get back exactly?” Bri asks.

“A few nights ago,” I respond. “I would have stopped by but heard you guys were having ‘private time’ or something.”

“Yeah, we’ve had a lot of private time,” Tristan says. I cringe. Whatever. That’s nothing new, apparently. Not that he remembers. Ethan rubs my back to calm my nerves. He knows better than anyone what these two did to me.

“Where were you?” Bri pushes. “You just disappeared without saying goodbye to us. Blake was pretty freaked when he got back and you were gone.”

“I’m really sorry about that.” I look to Ethan to help me out. He can spin some sort of story that’ll fly.

“It’s my fault,” Ethan tells her. “I was working on this project for my dad that had this huge deadline. My dad told me I could pull Kira out of school to help me out. She didn’t want to leave, but it’s not like anyone can say no to my dad, right?”

Both Tristan and Bri nod. They’re quite aware of who Brad Darcton is, and had they been asked, they’d have jumped without asking to say goodbye to friends too. “Oh yeah. I think Blake said something about you maybe being with Ethan.” Huh? Blake knew? How?

Speaking of the literal devil. “Hello, Son. Kira,” says Brad Darcton. He appeared out of nowhere. I wonder how much he heard? His eyes are fiery and trained on me.

“Hey, Dad. I was just explaining to Kira’s friends why she disappeared for so long and how much I appreciate you having her help me out on my project.”

“Yes, Kira has been a huge help to the Second Chance Institute.” Brad smirks. “In fact, I wanted to discuss your work with you, Kira, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” I respond. Oh crap. He must have heard me interrogating them about their Assisted Pregnancies. I keep my face emotionless and avoid looking at Ethan who might invoke a reaction. My mother taught me well to control my emotions and bury them when necessary. Which on Thera—is all the time.

“Can I join the two of you?” Ethan says, a stern glare affixed to his father.

“Sorry, Son. I need to talk to Kira alone. I believe Councilman Hunt would like a word with you.” Brad gestures to a man a few feet away. To the others he says, “Please excuse us, and enjoy the festivities. And let me give you my personal congratulations on your pregnancy, Tristan and Briella.”

“Thanks, Mr. Darcton,” they say in unison.

“I think we’re past the pretenses now.” Brad pushes his glasses higher onto the crown of his nose. It took a few minutes to weave through the crowd, out the back of a booth, and to an empty bench overlooking the city canyon where we could talk. He removes a gun from a leg-holster and sets it on the bench, loosely pointed toward me. I guess he’d like me to take our conversation seriously.

“Yes.” I study the face of Ethan’s father. He’s handsome for an older man. I don’t entirely see the resemblance to Ethan other than the dark hair. Ethan must have his mother’s general demeanor and physique. Brad has dark hazel eyes and is pencil thin compared to Ethan’s evenly toned body.

“I’m pleased by the reports of your progress during therapy and am counting on you to maintain an objective view of your circumstances.” I simply nod. If he wants my opinions he’ll ask—and I’ll give him the version of the “truth” that he wants to hear.

“Your brother isn’t adapting as well as you and Ethan,” he tells me. “So he’ll be remaining with us a while longer.”

“Okay.” I’m not surprised that Jared is still being difficult.

“You were very smart to play the Originals card to get Jared here. How’d you know about it? And how’d you guess his DNT would diminish if he came over as your parents did?”

“You say we’re past the pretenses?” I ask. He nods. “Blake overheard a conversation that we were descendants of the true Originals and important to the future of Thera. And then Tristan read me the story of the Originals when I was recovering from the flash flood. I made an educated guess from there that our DNT was important—and perhaps not as potent if we came over as Second Chancers. Otherwise, why not just kill us?”

“Why do you think you’re important to the future of Thera?” He avoids my comment about offing us.

“Well, I assume you want more pure-descendant blood in your midst. I don’t know why. But given you’ve harvested my eggs twice now, my progeny must be important,” I say. If my bluntness surprises him, he doesn’t show it.

“I believe the doctors told you they were removing lesions on your reproductive system,” he says, sitting a little more upright.

“Let’s just say, that’s one of the first things I checked when I went home. It’s amazing what you can learn with internet access. So, what have become of my eggs?”

“They’ve been put to excellent use.” He smiles widely. “In fact, the fruits of your labors were on stage tonight. Your friends are carrying your children.” Are you freaking kidding me? I knew something was off with the timing of their pregnancies, but this revelation shocks the crap out of me. Even though my insides are churning, I maintain an aloof appearance on the outside by digging my nails into my palms.

“All the Cleaved couples are pregnant with my children? Forty babies?” I ask. “From what I read, doctors are lucky to get fifteen eggs during a retrieval. And, don’t doctors usually have to insert multiple embryos to get someone pregnant?”

“We’ve had a lot more experience with Assisted Pregnancies on Thera and thus have much higher success rates with retrieval and implantation than our counterparts on Earth,” he says, beaming with pride.

“I’m impressed. So, who’s the father of my children? Blake? Ethan? Or both?”

“Ah. Excellent question.” After a long pause, he answers. “Both. Whereas you will uniquely be the Mother of New Thera, we have yet to decide who will win the role of Father. That may largely depend on you.”

“How so?” I ask. Best to keep him talking. How will I ever explain to Blake that he has fathered half my children and Ethan has fathered the other half? Worse, how will he feel about our friends being used as permanent surrogates? Briella will birth and raise my child with Tristan. I have no words to describe how I feel about that. At least, nothing I’d say out loud.

“There are two ways this can play out. One, you get your boyfriend, Blake, under control, Cleave him, and stay on Thera with your new extended family.” I see zero chance of getting Blake to agree to Plan A.

“And the other option?”

“You Cleave to Ethan. You’d be trained here on Thera, in the family business. You’d also be trained to be a Daynighter and politician’s wife. You would eventually return to Earth to help him move forward SCI interests there.” I’m not sure Ethan would be happy about plan B, since that would keep him from the girl he truly loves.

“Interesting,” I say, my heart being tugged in two directions. “Which plan does the Ten prefer for me?” Hmmm, which of those do I prefer for me?

“It’s undecided.” He rubs his chin. “I’m preparing you for either eventuality. Either way, you’ll have an important role in propagating SCI interests.” Ah, the Ten still hasn’t come to an agreement on my exact role, but they all agree I’m a permanent fixture in their plans.

“When you say I need to get Blake under control, what do you mean by that?” I know very well where Blake’s allegiance lies, but I wonder how much, if anything, Brad Darcton knows. He shifts his head to the side and smiles.

“Don’t insult me, Kira. I know Blake’s father well, or did before his Exile. I’ve tracked his whereabouts and the company he keeps since. I have strong evidence that Blake met with the Exilers during the time he was quote-unquote “lost” during the flash flood.”

“I didn’t see him after he disappeared down the river. What evidence?” People like Brad Darcton like to hear themselves talk to show how smart they are, so tend to give away more than they should.

Brad fiddles with his gun as he speaks. “He was treated for severe sunburn with a silver paste that is a trademark cure concocted by an Exiler named Doctor Daryn. Most of it had been removed by choice or by the saltwater, but enough was left to prove he didn’t spend his entire time paddling ocean waters.”

“Assuming you are correct, how can I affect Blake?”

“He says he loves you. Wouldn’t he rather live out his life with his true love, than die fighting a battle that can’t be won? Surely, you could help him to see things more clearly.” As if. I have tried to persuade him to abandon his ideals for a chance at a life with me but have been entirely unsuccessful.

“What happens should my clarity and his clarity fail to converge?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid—for Blake or the Exilers.” He shakes his head. “You see, I think people underestimate the strength of the Second Chance Institute, both here on Thera and on Earth. One might incorrectly assume we’re weak since our cities are small and spread apart. Our security force appears to be limited, and our only defense from outside attack seems to be the Eco barriers. I’m afraid those same people may delude themselves into thinking they could succeed in an attempt to overthrow or undermine our efforts. Unfortunately, we’ll be forced to reveal the full extent of our capabilities if, and when, attacked.” He could be bluffing. Or not. Probably not. They killed off an entire party full of kids to get me here. They executed my parents in front of me to get me back. Why would they be any less ruthless with the Exilers?

“I can see your point.”

“I’m afraid I need to get back to make an important announcement about a huge threat to our beloved city. We have intelligence that deranged Exilers have plans to harm our fair citizens. They need not fear, though, because their government will protect them.” So, this entire “celebration” has been a ruse to spread ill will about the Exilers—so that if, and when, they attack—sympathy will be with the SCI and not the Exilers. Smart on the Ten’s part. “But, before we convene, I have one more piece of advice for you.”

“Yes, what’s that?” I ask.

“I strongly recommend you don’t mention our conversation to anyone—especially Blake. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to guarantee the safety of Jared or of Blake if you were to discuss these highly private matters,” he says. “And I will know if you do no matter where the conversation occurs. Understand?”

“I understand.” Jared and Blake die if I warn Blake. And Blake’s and my canyon time has never been just “ours.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ethan

Earlier that evening, prior to the festival

“You locked me up like a caged animal. No, I’m not going to forgive you,” I tell my father. After spending my childhood as Heart Defect Poster Boy in a room-shaped bubble, I vowed never to allow myself to be confined again.

“Given the circumstances, it was quite necessary. And, I locked you up with the girl, so what’s the problem?”

“She went back to him,” I say, more to myself than to my father. “All because she thinks I love someone else. And I can’t tell her otherwise since I haven’t been given the go ahead to freely pursue her.” I’ve been going crazy the last few nights. I kissed Kira, and she responded with enthusiasm. It felt different from the passionate, lust-filled embraces we’d shared back in San Diego. There was no “audience” (e.g. Jared) to impress or cover to support. No, this was so personal, intimate, and full of love. Dropping her back with Blake and seeing her reaction to him…heartbreaking.

My father puts a hand on each of my shoulders and looks me squarely in the eye. “Forget about her. She and the boy are liabilities and as good as dead. We have what we need from them. Anything more is too risky.” My heart beats erratically and vision blurs. “Dead” and “Liability” are not acceptable descriptors for the woman I have fallen so deeply for.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. Contemplating making a deal with the devil brings on sharp sinus pains. “I’ll do anything to keep her alive. I won’t fight you any more on your plans for me. Just don’t have her killed. Please. Blake either. She cares about him.” I can’t bring myself to say or admit she loves him, even though I can tell she does.

“You’re more of a sap than I thought. Fine. I’ll protect the girl. In return for your ‘cooperation’ in our plans for you. I cannot, however, guarantee she ends up with you. And you are not, under any circumstances, to share anything with her that would put me, your mother, the rest of the Ten, or the Grand Council at risk, including the events of your childhood. Understood?”

A small price to pay to keep her alive. And besides, I can feign my compliance and enthusiasm. At least I hope I can. “Understood. And Blake?”

“I’ll do my best. He’s not exactly a friend to the Ten.” This, I’m well aware of thanks to Jax, but I don’t let my father know it. “He may be able to be…persuaded…to come around.”

“How?” I ask.

“You leave that to me. In the meantime, I’m going to arrange for you to shadow some Council and Ten members for the remainder of your Internship to further your education and help prepare you to take your rightful place in the affairs of the SCI. Henry’s arranged for you to work on his campaign during the school year as well.”

I groan. So much for free time to visit Kira. He sneers. “If it’s a problem, we could annul our agreement.”

I’m quick to respond. “It’s fine. I’ll do what’s required to keep Kira safe.” Why do I get the feeling I’ve been manipulated? I have to wonder if he threatened Kira’s life solely to gain my cooperation.

“Excellent,” my father says with a wicked grin. “I’ve got to leave for the Festival, as do you. It’s going to be an exciting night for Thera.”

“I’ll never find her in this crowd. It’s a regular clone-fest,” I complain to Jax. Seeing Jax in Festival attire is jarring. He rarely wears color. Lots of heads turn our way as we push through the hordes of people here to celebrate the messed up institution of Cleaving.

“That’s why you have me with you.” Jax brags. “I’ve got my Kiradar on since she has just entered the premises with one very suspicious-looking Blake Sundry.” Would it be too much to ask for Blake to make himself scarce for a bit?

“Well, then, by all means. Lead the way,” I say, eager to find her. It feels like an eternity since I’ve seen her. Jax takes his time meandering, our progress slowed by Council members and other acquaintances who want to exchange small talk.

My father is on the podium driveling on about the Originals. I’m only marginally paying attention, but then he introduces “Garden City’s newest Cleaved couples” and my head snaps up. Kira better not be up there.

“Kira remains as virginal and nearly as pure as when you last saw her.” I clench my fists, ready to mar Jax’s pretty face when he adds, “Fascinating. Forty newly Cleaved couples. And they are all pregnant. That’s a lot of babies. Magical, don’t you think?” That would be Jax double-speak for “I’ve got information that you don’t.”

“What do you know?”

“I know the tide’s a’changing, and this is history in the making, and the Ten’s playing with fire,” he says without answering my question. Typical.

“Why must you always speak in riddles?”

“To keep your brain from atrophying.” He chuckles. “Looks like your love interest is a little shocked by the news.” He points to a crowd twenty feet away, and I immediately see her. She’s a vision—the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Her hair, in perfect ringlets, cascades down her back. The Festival dress clings to her curves. She looks to be deep in thought and has a slight scowl directed at my father.

“Wow,” I say.

I glance at Jax and notice him salivating at Kira. When his eyes darken with lust, and he licks his lips, I re-clench my fists, and prepare for a fight. But then he slaps his hand on my back. “I’m not fighting you, Ethan, despite the fact she’s breathtaking. Positively glowing. And alone. Chop, chop. No time to waste. Get over there.”

“Want to meet her?” I say without thinking and then mentally berate myself.

“In due time. But not tonight. I have business to attend to. Enjoy your evening. And the girl…while you can.” He winks at me. When I scowl at him, he adds, “Blake will be back for her eventually.”

I waste no time and leave Jax behind. Has she even thought about me? Will she be excited to see me? Has she missed me a fraction as much as I’ve missed her? I tap on her shoulder.

She turns around. “Ethan,” she says as she embraces me and lands a huge kiss on my cheek. I flush red as she holds on, staring at my lips with such desire that I’m tempted to pack her over my shoulder and back to my house. “I was hoping I’d see you tonight. You haven’t come by even once. I’ve been going through major withdrawal.”

Oh, Kira. Me, too. Me, too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Blake

The moment I see the Ten all on stage, I know I’ll never have a better opportunity to explore SCI Headquarters. I hoped this would be the case. Although I don’t want to support my father’s plans, I figure I may be able to find something to help Doc Daryn. And, if my dad and his men do need to escape and I can figure out how to turn off the Eco barrier, I’m saving lives. Lives spared, even if they are Militant lives, is still a good thing. Avoiding the situation altogether would be even better. Doc promised me that he’d continue to work on my father and see if they can come to an agreement that will stall or avoid the invasion.

I tell Kira I need to use the restroom and slip my watch in her dress pocket so I can’t be tracked. She’ll assume I got lost in the crowd when I don’t return quickly—unless she notices the watch. Then I’ll have a lot of explaining to do because she wouldn’t agree with my choice. All of the sudden, she’s pro-subservience and anti-rebellion. Seeing her parents executed really did a number on her. The Ten have convinced her that she’s responsible, and that if she deviates from strict obedience to the Canon ever so slightly they’ll put a bullet in Jared’s brain.

As I wind through the crowd, I notice that although all the security personnel are wearing the standard issue Cleaving Festival attire, they are also wearing hats. I hunt for the right situation and then “accidentally” push a large woman into one of the security guys. They both topple over, sending the guard’s hat flying. While the guard is busy helping the woman return to her feet, I snag his hat and tuck it into my shirt.

Because booths circle the plaza, with only one entry from the train station, I have to exit through a booth to get to Headquarters. I don my new hat and explain to a nice lady offering fried chicken samples that I’ve been dispatched to check the perimeter. She sends me with some chicken to go. I thank her for the service she’s rendering by providing food for the festivities, and I’m on my way, discarding the chicken into a trash bin in front of Headquarters.

I’m surprised I don’t encounter anyone as I enter Headquarters. Not a single soul. How could they possibly leave the entire building unattended? I don’t waste time to analyze the situation as the security guards could return at any moment, but I do take a second to look up in awe as I walk into the center court of the building. Six stories high and made entirely of intricate glass mosaic, the dome-topped atrium depicts the loveliest garden I’ve ever seen. A circular staircase rings the outside of it and shines lights through the glass to create a spectacular three-dimensional kaleidoscope feel. It’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I have a sudden desire to go get Kira and show her, but I suppress it. That will have to wait for another time.

Instead, I locate the fully enclosed back staircase and start to climb. Ted’s instructions prove accurate, and I head to the first target room on the third floor. I keep my face shielded by the hat in case any cameras are recording my visit.

The first room has banks of servers but no computer to access them from and no switches other than to control the lights. So, I head for the second room Ted suggested on the fourth floor. This one appears to be a boardroom of sorts and has lots of monitors and cords to connect to tablets but nothing else of interest. I’m starting to worry Ted sent me on a wild goose chase.

Room three is smack dab center of the sixth floor, and I find both a computer and a host of control panels. Jackpot. This appears to be the main control center for the city. There are panels to adjust the solar panels, monitor the city’s water reserve, and track incoming cargo ships. Pretty cool. The Exilers—from either faction—would love access to this room.

One control panel is labeled “EB” and appears to be a good bet. An LCD screen sits atop the panel and shows a ring the shape of the Eco barrier with dotted lights, likely representing the current pattern of the detonators. Perfect. Unfortunately, I have no idea if switching it off will trigger alarms or will switch it off permanently. So I turn to the computer and enter the password GCM47CoCL10 that Ted gave me hoping to find more information.

With a bit of hunting I find a manual for the Eco barrier. Apparently, the switch only disables the barrier for ten minutes. To disable for longer—in whole or in part for maintenance work—an additional switch must be enabled from one of the Ten’s tablets. Worse, to prevent someone being able to steal the password and deactivate the barrier from their own tablets, the Ten must memorize a twenty-digit code to enter into the Eco barrier program on their tablet. Man, I thought the password Ted gave me was bad. I hope ten minutes will be enough time for my dad and the other Exilers to cross, because I have little hope of getting one of those tablets or the code.

The other thing I run across while hunting for the manual is a master calendar of upcoming activities at Headquarters. One particular event catches my eye: Theran City Heads Meeting. It’s scheduled over a two-night period—three nights prior to my dad’s planned attack on the city. I have to get my dad that information. The Exilers could deliver a definitive blow to not only Garden City’s government structure, but also every city’s structure, if they were to capture and imprison the heads of every city. A list of attendees who’ve accepted an invitation to the meeting may also be useful to my father, so I commit the names to memory, noting whether they are from Garden City or elsewhere.

I logoff the computer, glance around the room to make sure I’ve returned everything to the state I found it in, and depart. As I approach the stairs, however, I hear the familiar whir of the elevator shaft. Crap, I took too long, and folks are returning. I duck into the back staircase and jog down the stairs, being careful to stay light on my feet and to check for anyone entering or exiting the staircase. But the coast is clear, and I’m able to get down to the basement. My dad had the layout all wrong. I don’t have to hunt for trap doors or climb up storage room shelves. There’s a simple exit to the tunnels.

Of course, I have no clue where to go once in the tunnels. My hope is that the majority of Garden City inhabitants are still partying at the Festival, and that, if I go farther than a hundred yards in any direction, I’ll be in the clear. So I pick a path and run quickly but carefully, just as I had in the coal mine tunnels. At my current pace, I should hit a quarter mile in two minutes. I count it out and once past my mental quarter mile mark, I look for an exit. About ninety seconds later, I see a small ladder. I scale it and find a trap door at the top, which opens using the passkey Ted gave me.

Here goes nothing. I push up and peer out. All I see is hanging Garden City attire, and not just any attire—Grand Council attire. If caught, I’m dead. They won’t even bother Exiling me. On the other hand, it is likely the resident is still at the Festival. I listen for any sounds in the home but hear nothing, and so I decide to go for it.

A minute later, I’m out the front door and down the home’s ramp. I recognize the street from the Garden City model. This street is the only street with residences built atop the canyon and close to the city center. If I follow the road towards town, I should hit the plaza. I jog down, staying clear of the street lamps, until the backs of the booths and large screens come into view.

And that’s when I hear an announcement that makes my hair stand on end. I recognize the speaker as Brad Darcton, and he’s spinning a tale about barbarian Exilers planning to mount attacks on the city. He claims that hordes of blood hungry savages stand waiting to kill women and children to get Garden City’s resources. They’ve already attempted to infiltrate the Eco barrier on numerous occasions and have attacked incoming ships, executed the sailors, and stolen supplies meant for the city’s residents.

Well, despite hating the message and the Ten’s manipulation of the general public, Brad has given me the perfect opportunity to enter the Festival again unnoticed because I guarantee everyone is focused on that stage, awaiting his next riveting words. So, I duck into the bathrooms to wipe the sweat from my face and ditch the security cap. When I come out, I add my shock and dismay at the gall of the evil Exilers to the crowd’s.

Someone demands to know how the Ten and Grand Council will keep them safe. Have no fear Garden City citizens. The Ten and the Grand Council have a Grand Plan. They will protect the residents of Garden City, even if it means the annihilation of the extremist Exilers. The crowd cheers “Thanks to the Ten” over and over again. If security in Garden City has ever been lax, it isn’t now. Brad wouldn’t create widespread panic if he didn’t have a plan to defeat any intruders. Doc Daryn was right when he warned my father not to underestimate the SCI.

While joining in the chanting, I circle the crowd looking for beautiful strawberry blonde ringlets. I finally spot Kira and am dismayed to see Ethan by her side looking at her like a puppy in a pet shop window who wants her to take him home. Friend, my booty. Guys don’t have girls as friends. At least not hot girls like Kira. Why’s he not Cleaved to his dream girl again? Right, he doesn’t have to Cleave as he’s not under Garden City jurisdiction. His daddy made an exception until he could find Ethan the right girl. One with the right blood type. For a guy who told me he’d never be able to look at another girl again, he surely seems to be in love with my girlfriend. I’m sure that was daddy’s plan by sending them away and then locking them up together. With that much time alone, some feelings were bound to crop up.

I sneak up behind Kira and hug her from the back, slipping my watch back out of her pocket and onto my wrist.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” I unwrap my arms and slip between her and Ethan. I give her a juicy kiss for good measure.

“Likewise,” she says. “We finally gave up and decided to stay in one place so you could find us.”

“Thank goodness for that or we’d have probably kept missing each other.” I can’t tell if she’s buying it. In fact, since she got back, I don’t have a clue how she feels. No matter what she says, her face shows nothing except a smile.

“Ethan’s in love with you,” I say to her as we walk back from the Festival.

“You are way out of line. You have no idea what you are talking about. He’s in love with someone else. Not me.”

“I see the way he looks at you. Don’t pretend like you can’t see it, too,” I snap at her. I hate that she affects me the way she does. Even my father can’t hurt me or make me angry like Kira can. “I think you understated your relationship with him.”

“Are you accusing me of lying to you?” Her eyes and body language scream defensive.

“No. Omitting.” I know I’m being a hypocritical jerk. It’s not like I told her Bailey kissed me. Since Bailey got Exiled, I didn’t see any real reason to bring it up. And I’m the one who escalated my relationship with Kira. The moment I saw her come back home with Ethan in tow, I knew I had to raise the bar and tell her I love her, or else I’d lose her. Bailey had been Exiled by that point, so I could give Kira my undivided attention.

“Wow. I mean, wow. That’s so choice,” she says. “You ditch me for the entire Festival and, suddenly, I’m a lying, cheating whore when I spend a little time with a friend?” Now she’s pissed.

“That’s my problem. I don’t think he sees you as just a friend.”

“How would you even know? You don’t know him like I do. I like him. He’s important to me. We went through some crazy stuff together. But we’re just friends, and that’s the last time I’m going to say it. Believe me or not, I don’t care.” Her poker face is firmly in place. I do have a bad attitude about Ethan. His daddy wants him to Cleave my girlfriend. And, the thing I keep coming back to, he’s nice and devoted and ready to settle down. More so than me. What bugs me about Ethan is that he has that same look as his father and the other SCI higher-ups. He’s pretty on the outside and talks a good game. But what if he is masking a whole lot of ugly under that beautiful façade?

“I’m sorry I mentioned it. I don’t want to fight with you.” I know she’s hiding something from me, and it involves Ethan. But the conversation’s going nowhere, and who am I to talk? I haven’t exactly been forthright about my own plans and activities. Though none of my activities involve a “friend” that’s a girl (only a hot girl enemy who’s no longer in the picture).

“I don’t want to fight either. I wish we could just be on the same page about things. I feel like we’re heading down divergent paths, and that really scares me,” she says, finally showing some emotion. I can see the fear in her eyes.

“How can you be so complacent after everything the SCI has done to you? It seems like you’ve just given up and decided to live with it. I can’t do that. I’ll fight to the end to get my freedom and the freedom of the Second Chancers and Exilers even if I decide to go about it differently than my dad. Why can’t you do the same?”

“Because I decided I can live with the status quo, for now, if it means that we can be together and live in safety, or at least try to affect the status quo from the inside,” she tells me. “I have nothing to go back to on Earth. Everything I care about is here. I’m not willing to risk a life with the people I love over an effort that I think is hopeless. ”

“So let me get this straight,” I say. “You want to Cleave me, have two kids, and live unhappily ever after in this hellhole?” She stares directly into my eyes and pauses only momentarily before responding.

“That’s better than the alternative,” she responds. “Think it over. Since we’re so important to the future of Thera, perhaps we can have a positive effect on the way things are run. Regardless, though, what’s more important to you? A futile cause or the potential of a life together?”

“Is that an ultimatum?”

“No, of course not. I just have spent a lot of time thinking about it myself, and well, it’s obvious what conclusion I came to. It’d just be nice if you did the same—I mean the thinking, not to necessarily come to the same conclusion.” She shrugs her shoulders.

“That’s not fair. It’s not black and white. One or the other.” I cross my arms.

“Life’s not freaking fair,” she says. “I think we both know that.” Ted Rosenberg once said something similar to me—that “life wasn’t fair but that it’s my life, so I need to get over it and make the most of what I have.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence.

Seven years prior

My father dumped me on Ted Rosenberg for a week when I went through a period of rebellion at the age of ten. The first thing Ted did was to take me to the graveyard where his daughters were buried to give me a little object lesson.

“Well, life isn’t fair,” I told him.

“What’s not fair exactly?” he said.

“My mom died. I had to grow up on that dark craphole Thera, and, now, my dad makes me learn all this stuff I don’t care about just so he can send me back there.”

“Let me tell you something, Blake.” He took a picture out of his wallet and handed it to me. It was of two darling girls that reminded me a bit of Leila when she was little. “My beautiful, beautiful daughters were born here on Earth. But they died way before they should have—when they were just little girls. They got a second chance to live—on that ‘craphole Thera’ as you call it. They love it there. They’re happy. Really, really, happy. So, I hold a really special place in my heart for Thera. It’s a place of miracles for my daughters and for me.”

“Well, it wasn’t for me.” I kicked a clump of grass out of the turf and sent it flying.

“Did you know that if it wasn’t for your family—and it goes way, way back—that my daughters would have never gotten a second chance and people like you and me couldn’t travel back and forth between Earth and Thera?”

“Nope.” Nor do I care.

“You are going to have the opportunity one day to help make sure the people on Thera—like my daughters and the rest of the people living there—get treated right, including the Exilers. It’s your birthright,” he explained.

“What’s a birthright?” I asked.

“It’s something that gets passed down from father to son to father to son and so on. If Thera had Kings, you’d be one. You’ve got royal blood in you, Blake. You and your brother will one day get to rule Thera as goodly Kings.”

“You mean sister, right? I don’t have a brother. Only Leila.”

“Yeah, sorry. When you get old you say stupid things.” He laughed. “Leila can be like a Queen. And you both can have children that will get your birthright too. That way, more people can travel back and forth and help the people on both Thera and Earth.”

“I don’t see how going there helps anyone.”

“You’ll understand someday,” he responded.

“Why do you care so much what I do?”

“I would do absolutely anything to protect my daughters and the people I love. Your dad feels the same way about the Exilers. One day, all the people that your dad and I care about will depend on you to make good choices and do the right thing,” he said. “Can you promise to do that?”

“I guess. I have no clue what you’re talking about, but I’ll try to be good.” I promised.

“I’m counting on that.”

I remember that I asked my dad about the whole birthright thing, and he told me that Ted must’ve been making up a story to get me motivated. But now, I know it wasn’t a story at all. Which means that Ted knew who I was all along and about my importance to Thera and the SCI—and he didn’t tell my father. Well, Teddy boy, time for you to step up and show where your allegiance lies. If you’re really on the side of “good for all Therans,” then you can play a bigger role in helping my dad’s coup. Why should I risk my life to sneak into Headquarters again—during regular business hours this time—when Ted Rosenberg works there?

And if Ted’s loyalty has drifted over the years…well then, he has got a date with the Reaper, a.k.a. my father.

“I’m going boarding,” I tell Ted and Kira. Ted’s here first thing in the evening for our nightly Handler meeting since it’s a Sunnight, and we don’t have school.

“You’re not supposed to exercise for another week.” Kira green eyes stab me with accusation of poor judgment.

“I feel fine, and I need some air. Thinking time. No tricks, I promise.” It’s ironic. I’m using Kira’s “suggestion” that I spend some time thinking to do the things she prefer me to avoid like the plague.

The truth is that I’m not really ready to ride, but I need to get a message about the meeting of the City Heads to my father. So I grab my board, walk out the front door, and roll down the ramp before Kira can stop me. The temperature is brutal. I note the sun is setting to the East, so it shouldn’t be long before the heat backs off. It’s a long ride to the beach, but I’ve left my watch at home, so unless I encounter someone who has the audacity to ask me what I’m doing, I should be fine.

Despite continual adjustments to my stance while boarding, I feel like someone’s trying to rip the grafts off my back with a giant claw. The new skin doesn’t stretch well. I start to worry that my back will look like it has been through a shredder by the time I get back. The paths get bumpier the closer I get to the beach, having been ravaged by the storm. Apparently the Garden City maintenance crew hasn’t bothered to fix this stretch. The pain from being jostled on my board slows me down. It takes a half hour to get to the mouth of the canyon, and by the time I get there, the sun has fully disappeared.

Without the lift of the flash flood water it takes a couple minutes to find some footholds in the canyon wall to help me climb to the shelf. I manage to get up, though. I can feel blood seeping through the back of my shirt. Not good. My doctor will be most displeased with me. I turn my focus to maneuvering up the shelf. The slickness of rain slowed my forward progress before. Tonight, vertigo attacks me as a full moon and stars illuminate the increasing distance between the beach and me.

When I finally hit the end of the shelf, I give the signal. Short long short long. I repeat it several times and get a response within minutes. My dad comes personally, lantern in hand which sheds light on his mood. Angry.

“Why are you here?” he yells up at me.

“Nice to see you, too,” I quip. “I just missed you so much that I thought I’d come for a visit.”

“I don’t have time for your sarcasm, Blake. We’re busy preparing for our mission.”

“Well, I have some intel that could and should influence your plans,” I say. “After what I tell you, perhaps you’ll listen to Doc Daryn. You’ve way underestimated the SCI.” I detail my visit to Headquarters and the information I obtained, including a warning about the ten minute time limit to cross the Eco barrier, the ever-changing barrier configurations, list of meeting attendees, and Brad Darcton’s speech about the Exilers.

“Are you sure about the timing of the meeting?”

“That’s what it said on their master schedule. So unless Ted set me up, it should be accurate. He gave me the passkey and code to get on the computer.”

“Ted can be trusted,” he says.

“Really? I’m not so sure.” I recount the memory of my trip to the graveyard with Ted and how it proves that he knew about me being an Original long before I arrived in Garden City.

“Just because he knew doesn’t say anything about his loyalties.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“If Ted has turned and you can prove it, I’ll personally put a bullet through his oversized head. But until then, we’re going to act on this intel. The opportunity to remove all the City Heads at once may not come again.”

“The SCI is expecting you. They’ve warned the entire city. There’s no way you can come waltzing in and expect no resistance.”

“We haven’t seen a single ship come through—so where is the Ten’s supposed security force? Every security detail we’ve encountered from Garden City has been a dozen or less people. We can easily overpower whatever they have.”

I shake my head, incredulous at how overconfident he is. “So, you’re still coming? Same timing, just different night?”

“Yes, we’ll be there on meeting night at 1930 hours—just prior to the start of the work night. Dressed in city attire. The Interceptors got lucky on their last run a couple months back. The clothes will help us blend,” he says. Indeed, that will help. Once within city limits, officials won’t know who to be on the lookout for. “You should get back. It was a huge risk to come.”

“Infinitely less risky than what you’re about to do.”

“Just give us three hours to get in and out and have that barrier down at 2230 hours sharp,” he demands.

“Okay. But I just want it to be on the record that I think this is a bad idea. I’ll do what I can to preserve lives, but I think you’re making a huge mistake.” I still plan to ask Ted to disarm the barrier. But I’m not sure I want to be anywhere near Headquarters when this all goes down.

“Get off your high horse, Blake. We see the atrocities being committed by the SCI, and we’re doing something about it. Unlike Doc’s bunch, we refuse to be a bunch of pansies who are fine to let those evil men continue to torment us—and the Second Chancers. Have a little faith. We know what we’re doing.”

He turns to leave without a goodbye. I surely hope he’s right. The largest security detail I’ve seen since I’ve been here came to cart off Tristan, Bri, and the other partiers. From our “aerial flight” and visit to the scale model of the city I didn’t see any obvious place to stash large numbers of security men or an arsenal, but they could have just left something off the model or failed to fly over a secure area.

I retrace my path down the ledge and then jump off once I get inland, twisting my bad ankle again when I land on a rock that I didn’t see in the poor lighting. Great. Now my return trip will take longer. I estimate about an hour and twenty minutes with a lot more uphill riding and energy spent. I have an uneasy feeling about my father’s plan. Everything rides on whether Ted is truly loyal and whether Brad Darcton and the Ten have more capability than my father thinks. I plan to distort the truth when I communicate my dad’s plans to Ted. I’ll tell him I need him to turn off the barrier to let my father and his team in and not tell him it’s their exit strategy. That way, my dad and his team will have a three-hour start and can hopefully avoid an ambush. Any advantage is better than no advantage.

The other thing that makes me feel uncomfortable about the plan is the invariable fallout if the Militants fail. Every Exiler knows about my involvement. So, if caught and questioned, there’s a high probability someone will give me up. How would the SCI handle my treason? Death? Exile? Or would they hurt Kira to get to me?

When I arrive back at my house, ready to collapse, I’m surprised to see Ted still there. I’ve been gone for at least two and a half hours, if not longer, and they look pissed.

“You aren’t supposed to exercise at all and you go ride for three and a half hours?” Kira says. Oops. My calculations on time were way off. “We were about to send out a search party.” I need to think up an excuse fast. A variation of the truth usually works best.

“I haven’t slept well lately…I’ve been reliving the explosion at the Eco barrier—having nightmares where all my skin melts off my body. I dunno…I just thought if I went back to the spot that I might be able to get some sort of closure or whatever. Sorry, I know that probably sounds really lame, but…it was the only thing I could think of to help me sleep better.”

“I could have arranged to have you taken by mule,” Ted says. “It was irresponsible for you to board all the way to the beach. The doctor should be here any minute to give you a once over and make sure you haven’t done irreparable damage to your grafts.”

“I’m fine,” I say, a small deviation from the truth. “My back’s a little sore, but I just need to rest. And drink some water. It’s hot out there.” It was pretty stupid to leave without bringing at least a bottle of water.

“A little sore? I see blood on your shirt. And, where’s your watch?” Ted asks, pointing to my wrist.

“Oh, shoot. I must’ve forgotten to put it on. Let me go grab it.” I slip away to my bedroom and put on the watch. Why would Ted say that out loud when he knows we’re being listened to? It wasn’t necessary and will just make the SCI wonder what I’m up to. My suspicion about Ted’s defection from the Exilers’ cause is at an all time high.

I let the doctor check me out. I’m so severely parched that he has his nurse insert an IV and tells her to run three bags of fluids through me so that the grafts can rehydrate. Kira bails at the mention of the IV, knowing that it will involve needles. It takes six tries in four different veins to get the needle in. After the juice is flowing, the doctor tends to the damage of my patches, stitching a few dissolvable sutures into a dislodged area. Then, he wraps my ankle to stabilize it.

Once all needles and sharp objects are put away, Kira brings me some bland toast. I try to make some light conversation, but I can see she’s clenching her teeth to keep from chewing me out in front of company. She knows better than to discuss our issues within the walls of our house. So, she stays silent.

Maybe it’s better she’s ticked. If the Ten thinks we’re on the outs, there’s a chance she won’t be blamed or punished for my actions. It was far more irresponsible for me to start up a relationship with her than to board down to the beach. I knew better than to get involved but did it anyway. I let myself be tricked into thinking I had hope of a normal future. People like me don’t get normal futures.

“Whenever two good people argue over principles, they are both right.”

—Marie Von Ebner-Eschenbach

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Kira

“So, you had plenty of time to think on your long ride,” I say to Blake. His story about not sleeping and wanting to face the source of his nightmares is not believable. He could sleep like a baby even if tornado sirens were blaring. We are sitting on the upper path of the canyon looking out at the lights. Blake still thinks it is safe to talk here. I know that nowhere is safe but can’t tell him. All I can do is persuade him to abandon everything he believes in—or he dies. “What’s your verdict? Adjust to life here or fight your father’s cause?”

“I want to support my father’s cause and be with you. If his mission fails, I’m all yours and we’ll do things your way. But I can’t abandon him or the other Exilers now. They’ve sacrificed too much for me.”

“Is it worth your life?” I ask.

“I’m not really involved at this point. I got my dad his intel, and, now, I just have to wait and see what happens, so don’t stress. I’ll be fine.”

“Since you met with them on the beach, you haven’t done anything to help him? No intelligence gathering? Nothing?” I whisper. Although I don’t want Brad Darcton to know the answer, I need to know whether Blake will lie to a direct question. I stare directly into his eyes so that he has to do it to my face. After finding out my entire relationship with Tristan was a sham, trust means everything to me. If I can’t trust Blake…if he can’t be completely honest with me, even when I completely disagree with his actions, then how can I possibly fathom spending my life with him?

“No.” He seems to be sweating more than usual. “What good would that do? It’s not like I could get any information back to my father in time to make a difference. I’ve done my part.”

“You’re sure that you aren’t keeping things from me? Because, whether it’s to protect me or avoid disagreeing with me, I’m not okay with dishonesty and secrets. After the whole Tristan and Bri thing, I realize that trust is paramount.” I’m giving him a second chance to fess up. He pauses for a few seconds before answering.

“Nope, there’s nothing important to tell.” He brushes some large beads of perspiration away from his eyes. “Other than the fact I love you.” He leans in to kiss me, but I pull away.

“The watch at the Festival? Your board trip? I know you’re lying,” I say, again with a whisper. “Plus, Ted told me about the passkey and code he gave you.” I stand up, brush off my pants and turn to leave. It’s time for me to do some thinking. He just lied to my face. Twice. Unbelievable.

“Kira, wait.” He pops up. “Let me explain.”

“No. I gave you the opportunity to come clean.”

“You set a trap for me.” He complains. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is lying to the person you say you love. I thought we were partners—that we had each other’s backs.”

“So, that’s it? You’re done with me just because I don’t give you a freaking log of my whereabouts?” Typical guy reaction. They’re the jerk, and they try to make the girl look like a taskmaster.

“I think you know the difference between me being a control freak and you doing stuff behind my back that puts us in danger.”

“Well, at least I didn’t go spend a few weeks with some girl behind your back.” Ah yes, when the taskmaster accusation doesn’t work, he accuses me of cheating. “If you want to talk about omission, let’s talk about you and Ethan and what’s really going on between you two. Obviously you’ve had a thing for him for a while since you called me by his name when you were all hopped up on TB.”

Blake has been relentless in his accusations about Ethan. He is one-hundred-percent convinced that Ethan’s in love with me and that I return his feelings. No matter how much I try to explain that Ethan’s heart lies elsewhere, Blake responds that “feelings can change.” Sure they can. I know that. But Ethan has been consistent about loving another girl since the first night I met him. So, Blake is just being jealous and paranoid.

“Let’s not, because we’ve already discussed it and it’s not at all relevant to you lying to me.”

“You lied to me.”

“I’m going now.” I throw up my hands in defeat. “You go do your thing. I’ll be back later. After I’ve had a chance to cool down and think things through.”

“I bet you go see Ethan. That’s your plan, right?” he says. “You can whine about me to him, and he can comfort you and tell you how much better he is for you than I am.” Wasn’t my plan. Not until he put the idea into my head.

“Goodbye, Blake. I’ll see you later.” I’m done with the fight. How could Brad Darcton ever think I had a shot at getting Blake under control? I walk off, shaking my head, disillusioned about any hope of a happy ending to this bleak situation.

Not wanting to go home, I take the mini-rail into the city, a couple short zips across the canyon to get to a residential area, and then walk around. Part of me wants to go see Ethan and the other part doesn’t want to validate Blake’s theory. It can’t hurt to at least figure out where Ethan lives. I’ve been meaning to do it for a while, and I have his address. I start walking until I’m horribly lost.

The heat is brutal, even in the middle of the night. My clothes are clinging to my body, and my hair is matted against my head. A hubbub of activity under a portable spotlight catches my attention, and I turn towards the crowd to find someone who can give me directions.

Bad move. As I approach, I’m pummeled with dirty water along with the rest the onlookers. Dirty, hot water. Even the water in the main lines is hot. On Thera, there’s no need to heat your water, only cool it. I try to brush the gooey, sticky mess out of my face so I can see. A young female worker apologizes to us and explains that a water main had broken earlier in the night. While they thought they had it fixed, the patch didn’t hold. Murphy’s law in action. The good news is that she kindly gives me directions to Sunflower Lane where Ethan lives.

It occurs to me as I ring his doorbell that Ethan’s probably at work. And even if he is home, that he might prefer a visitor who isn’t covered with mud. On the short walk from the water main break to Ethan’s house, the mud dried to my body and itches like mad. Just as I turn around to leave, the door opens.

“Kira,” Ethan says, chuckling at my ridiculous appearance. “What happened to you?” He must’ve worked tonight. He’s in Garden City Headquarters attire, which looks like it was designed just for him. The shimmery blue top matches his eyes perfectly, and the tan pants look as good as any pair of jeans would on the model-worthy boy. His appearance literally steals the breath from my lungs.

“Well, I was walking around trying to find your place and happened upon a broken water main.”

“Come on in.” He looks me up and down. “I was going to come by your house, but you saved me a trip. I have a surprise for you, but first…do you maybe want to get cleaned up?”

“Getting cleaned up would be good. Unless you want mud all over your house.” I walk in and immediately remove my shoes. His house smells oddly like a fast food restaurant which makes me really hungry. “What smells so good?”

“Stay here,” he says with a mischievous grin. “I’ll be right back.” He returns a couple minutes later and has me follow him to the bathroom. A fresh towel, robe, and one of his shirts are on the counter.

“Just throw your stuff outside the door, and I’ll wash and oven-dry your clothes. It’s as close to instant laundry service that I can offer here.” He brushes my mud-covered hair out of my eyes. “My shirt’s pretty big so I figure you can wear it as a dress in the meantime.”

“Thanks.” He leaves, and I take a look around his bathroom. Although it’s identical to mine, the products are suited to men. I undress and open the door to put out my clothes and am thankful to be largely shielded by the door when I find Ethan waiting to take my clothes. He blushes. I bite my lip, and hand him my filthy attire before closing and locking the door. It’s not that I don’t trust him but want to secure any possible temptations. On both our parts.

Despite it being awkward to bathe in his house, I take a quick shower, dry myself and put on Ethan’s shirt over my wet but still clean underwear. The shirt’s barely passable as a dress, extending no more than six inches past my butt. It will have to do. I crimp my wet hair with my hands and use some lotion on my face as men aren’t issued makeup. After, I join Ethan in the kitchen to see the source of the smell.

“Are those french fries?” I place my hands on his waist and peek around him. He turns and feeds me one, doing his best to keep his eyes off my rather exposed legs but largely failing. I grab another fry. Yummy. Thin and salty, just as I like them.

“For you, my dear, I have tried my best to recreate McDonald’s french fries, a McRib sandwich, and a chocolate shake. I planned to drop it off to you. But it will taste even better fresh.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “Did I do something to tick you off again? The first time you took me to McDonald’s, it was for punishment.” I try to look upset, but my grumbling tummy gives me away.

“Oh, so you don’t want it? It’s fine.” He winks at me and then covers up the plates with his arms. “More for me.”

“I do want it. Come on…hand it over. I’m starved, cranky, and could use some major comfort food.” I tickle him to get him to release his grip. He smiles, hands me the plate, and we both sit down at opposite sides of his dining table. I savor every bite of the greasy, calorie-laden meal and slurp down the chocolate shake while Ethan watches me.

“So, are you going to tell me what brought you here?” he says after he knows my mouth is food free.

“Can’t it just be that I missed my lockup buddy?”

“Is that the truth?” he asks, biting the corner of his lip.

“Yes, I did miss you. Terribly.”

“Is that really why you’re here?”

“Yes. And no. But, I prefer not to talk about it. I just need a good distraction. Can we play a game or something?” I ask. “You think of something while I do the dishes.” I jump up from the table, stack the dishes, haul them to the kitchen, and start scrubbing.

“Twister?” I can’t tell if he meant for me to hear that or not. I glance back at him and catch him staring at my backside, and he blushes.

“Are my clothes dry yet? Because I think I’m being more of a distraction to you, and you’re supposed to be distracting me.” I open the oven door and check. My clothes are still wet, though making progress.

“Sorry.” He walks over to me and sizes me up head to toe. “I promise to stop noticing how hot you look in my shirt and focus on entertaining you in a wholesome manner.” I shoot him a disapproving glare for his compliment but, also, can’t completely conceal a smile, as I have zero immunity to Ethan’s flirty side. He then lifts my chin up, stares into my eyes, and says, “Do you know that you are the only girl who can manage to be even more beautiful without makeup than with it?”

I blush. “You’re a great liar.”

“I’d never lie to you,” he says. After taking a deep breath he adds, “So, how can I best distract you? Do you want some dessert? Charades? Pillow fight? Tell ghost stories? Play tag? Marco polo? Hide and seek? Cuddle? What strikes your fancy?” A smile spreads from the right side of his mouth to left at the inclusion of “cuddling” in his list.

“Let’s see. Anything except the cuddling because that could only lead to trouble.” I want to blot out my disappointment with Blake and the inevitable consequences of his actions. So I need distractions. But given how bad things are with Blake and how attracted I am to Ethan, it would take very little cuddle time to let things get out of control. And I’d like to maintain what little control I have over my life.

“I was just messing with you,” Ethan says, looking away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You apologize altogether too often.” I get on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You’re it.” I dash away and get to the other end of the house before I’m tackled. Ethan and I play hard for a few hours until well past dawn and then take two spoons to some ice cream, polishing it off. Stuffed and exhausted, I sprawl out on the floor amongst piles of pillow fluff. We had a couple purposeful casualties during our pillow fight.

“Distracting enough for you?” He inches as close as possible without touching me. I find it very hard to be this close to him. He oozes Cleave appeal from every pore. He’s gorgeous, sweet, sensitive, fun, and attentive. But he’s not my boyfriend. Ethan and I have terrible timing. The first time we met, I was stupidly with Tristan. And now, despite all the fighting, I’m still with Blake; I have told Blake that I love him. I have to keep reminding myself, though, that Ethan’s not mine to desire.

“Do you still love her? The girl you told me about way back when?” I ask. He rolls onto his back, inhales, and then exhales slowly.

“Madly,” he says, glancing at me. “I didn’t think it was possible to love someone so much, but she is the smartest, most beautiful, most kind, most loyal, most caring, most fun, most incredible girl in the universe. When I’m with her, I just want time to stop forever, and, when I’m not, I can’t even think straight. My heart pounds, I’m antsy, and I can’t get her out of my mind. She’s in my every thought, every moment, so much so that I have trouble getting my work done. I constantly wonder what she’s thinking and if she feels a fraction for me the way I feel about her. I’d like to grow old together and be surrounded by our kids and grandkids and great grandkids.”

He pauses, and I feel sick. My stomach is in my throat and my own heart is pounding a billion times a second. I’m so jealous, I can barely function. Both because he feels that way for someone else and because no one feels that way about me. Sure, Blake loves me, but it’s not the kind of undying love that Ethan has for this girl. And doesn’t every girl deserve that kind of love?

“So, why haven’t you Cleaved her or married her or whatever?” I ask, my voice strained. Why do you keep tormenting me, flirting with me, and making me have second thoughts about being with Blake? That’s what I want to ask but can’t. No wonder he didn’t even think to come see me after I got to Thera. The other girl is the only thing on his mind all night long. He looks at me like I’m a bit crazy and shakes his head.

“Well, for several reasons. My parents, for one, aren’t fully on board. And more important, I’m not sure she is either.” Great, so it’s my fault they’re not together. His dad has Ethan on hold as a potential Cleave for me and Father of Thera.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, and then mumble, “Here I am taking up all your time when I’m sure I’m a terribly poor substitute.” He rolls his eyes at my pity party.

“That’s just silly talk.” He grins from the right side of his mouth again.

“Tell me about your childhood and your family. You know everything about me. Return me the favor. What was it like to be sick? How’d you react when you had to move to earth at fifteen and live with your uncle? Was it better or worse than here? What’s your mom like? Your uncle? I want to hear every single detail.” He ponders my request for a minute before answering.

“I, uh, don’t think you’d be very interested. I grew up in one boring little bubble. My story would put you dead asleep. Which reminds me that it’s very late. Do you want me to walk you home?” he says, looking away. Why won’t he ever talk about himself?

“I am interested, and I’m too tired to go anywhere.” I close my eyes. “Especially home. So, put me to sleep telling me all about your boring life.” Blake would want to fight it out, and I can’t deal with that right now. I’m all about delaying confrontation. And I’d feel too guilty being at home with Blake when I’m so busy coveting the guy I cannot have.

“But Kira…” I open my eyes. He turns to face me again, and I reach up and shush him with my fingers which he starts to kiss but stops himself.

“I can’t. Please let me stay. Please? I’m fine to sleep right here. I know that puts you in an awkward spot, but I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need this.” I stare into his eyes. The wheels appear to be spinning as he tries to figure out the right move.

“You can have my bed,” he says. “I’ll take the couch.”

“I’m really fine here.” He lifts me up in his arms and takes me back to his bedroom, kissing me on my forehead before tucking me into his bed.

He lingers on the edge of the bed and takes my hand in his. “I’m here. If you want to talk it through. But I won’t push.” He lets go and gets up to leave.

“Wait. Where’s my bedtime story?” I ask. “I really want to hear about your life.” I have a deep desire to know what makes him tick and how he turned out the way he did given his parents and environment.

“You should sleep,” he says, getting up to leave the room. “Good day, Kira.” What is he hiding from me? Why is it such a big deal to tell me about his childhood?

“Thanks for being such a great…” I stop myself before I say “friend” as it doesn’t accurately describe my feelings despite it being an accurate representation of our relationship. In the back of my mind, I’m fully aware that if Blake continues to screw up, I end up Cleaved to Ethan. I should be repelled by the notion of a Darcton Cleaving. I wonder to myself if I could live with it, but I realize that I would be depriving Ethan of happiness with his true love. I feel guilty and selfish for even contemplating it.

“I know. I’m your good friend,” he says with what I detect to be a slight bit of resentment. I want to ask him to hold me in his arms while I sleep without it meaning or implying anything, but I can’t, because it would, so I let him leave, and I hug his pillow, wafting in his scent until I fall asleep.

It takes me a few moments to realize that I’m not in my own room. The murals differ from mine. My clothes aren’t in the dresser. I’m still wearing Ethan’s shirt. I stagger out of his bedroom and towards the kitchen to retrieve my clothes, so I can change and go home, but I stop in my tracks when I see the scene at Ethan’s dining table. Ethan, Daddy Darcton, and Mommy Darcton are all eating breakfast as if it’s a normal, everynight occurrence. Ethan’s back is to me, but Brad Darcton catches my eye. I try to smooth out my messy hair and pull Ethan’s shirt down to cover more of my body, but I’m afraid that won’t really make this look any better.

“So Ethan,” Brad says. “How are things going with Kira? You guys looked pretty cozy at the Festival. Do you like her as much as I think you do?” I keep my feet firmly planted and fold my arms, not wanting to ruin Brad Darcton’s nightly amusement. If I did, he’d surely take it out on me somehow.

“Keep your voice down, Dad. I told you that she’s here and sleeping. I don’t want to wake her. She seemed like she could use a good day’s rest.”

“But how do you feel about her?” Brad pushes.

“You, of all people, know how much I care about her. She’s fantastic. We’re good friends. But if you’re asking about anything more—well, she loves Blake Sundry, not me,” he says, a hint of disappointment in his voice. Why does he always seem to want more from me when he loves someone else?

“I don’t know. I think they’ve been fighting,” Brad responds. Okay, that’s enough. It’s time to silence this conversation.

“Yeah.” I approach. “Relationships suck when there are outside influences setting all the parameters.” Ethan looks terrified that I heard him talking about me with his parents. “Good evening, Ethan. Mr. And Mrs. Darcton.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were up.” Ethan stands up and offers me a chair. His hair’s more disheveled than normal, stubble more pronounced than last morn, eyes dark. I like the fresh out of bed look on him. If only I could pull it off as well. I feel frumpy. “My parents brought by some breakfast. I was hoping they’d be gone by the time you woke up.” He glares at his father, and I stay standing.

“On the contrary,” Brad says. “Your mother’s been wanting to meet Kira. And how often do parents get to catch their grown son having a sleepover with his female ‘friend’? I just love those awkward situations, don’t you?” There’s a huge smirk on his face. Yes, to Brad Darcton this must be like Christmas.

“Hi, I’m Vienna Darcton.” Ethan’s mother outstretches her hand towards me. I shake it. She’s stunning up close. Dark hair. Bright green eyes. Milky skin. Ethan definitely favors her over his father, but he’s more beautiful than both of them.

“Kira Donovan. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m so sorry to barge in on your breakfast. I’m just going to change and get going.”

“No, you’ll stay for breakfast. Sit down,” Brad demands. “I always enjoy our conversations.” I comply and sit in the chair Ethan pulled out for me. He squeezes my hand under the table.

“Kira, please tell me something about yourself,” Vienna Darcton says.

“What would you like to know? About my life back on Earth? Or my dead parents and friends who are now on Thera? Or my boyfriend, Blake, who is making bad choices and will probably face death or Exile? Or, how about my brother, Jared? He’s here on Thera, too—but in lockdown—because he was being a little too rebellious. Actually, I’m sure you know about all those things, being one of the Ten and all.” Ethan’s mouth is gaping open, and his parents look aghast at my tirade. I should know better than to tempt the universe again.

“Blake may face death?” she asks Brad, a look of sheer disappointment on her face. Brad doesn’t respond. I assume that’s a topic they’re not going to discuss in front of me. She then turns to me and says, “How do you feel about your situation?”

“I’m resigned to it. Though I would be more comfortable if a) Jared were released and b) Blake’s safety could be ensured.” Might as well put it out there. Brad said no pretenses.

“You’ll see Jared soon. Later tonight, I assume,” Brad tells me. “And as for Blake…you were supposed to get him under control.” I avoid looking at Ethan. I’m not sure how much he knows, but obviously Brad has no issue discussing it in front of him.

“You know that’s not possible. He fears his father as much as he fears you. And you know that I’ve tried and you know what I’ve offered to get him to abandon his plans.” Given how Blake reacted to the idea of a future with me, I’m not even sure that’s what I want anymore.

“Yes, I do know the lengths you’ve gone to get him on board,” Brad responds. “And that kind of loyalty won’t go unnoticed or unrewarded. I’ll do what I can. As long as you continue to do as asked. Now, why don’t you enjoy this delicious meal my Cleave has prepared.” I pile some food on my plate and get no more than a couple bites in before Ethan’s mom interrupts.

“I know how you feel about Blake. But how do you feel about Ethan?” she asks. I look at Ethan. He has covered his face, obviously embarrassed. Vienna continues, “You came to him when you had problems with Blake. Spent the night here. Are you toying with his affections?” Why does it not surprise me that Brad Darcton got Cleaved to someone as blunt as he is? As invasive as the question is, it’d be a valid question from any parent—whether or not they are members of the Ten.

“I think it should be obvious to all of you, Ethan included, that Blake and Ethan share my affections. How could they not? Both have fathered my children—babies you’ve impregnated my friends with. Both are candidates to be my Cleave and ‘Father’ of Future Thera. I’ve spent considerable time under stressful circumstances with each of them.” I state. “So it’s only natural that I have feelings for each of them.”

“What?” Ethan whips his head around, looking at me and then his father. “How come I’m the last one to know about this? Babies? Surrogates? Cleaving? Father of Thera? Explain!” Oops. Did I let the babies out of the lab? Shame on me. At least I’ll have someone to talk to about it now.—if Brad doesn’t Exile me on the spot.

“Son, why don’t you and your mother discuss it in the garden while Kira and I finish our talk.” His mother forcibly pushes Ethan from the room. I mouth “sorry” to him.

“Well played, Kira,” Brad says. “I never give you enough credit.”

“Sorry. I figured he knew about your Grand Plan since you felt like you could openly discuss the rest of my life in front of him.”

“Is it true that you have feelings for both Blake and Ethan?” he asks.

“Yes.” The exact nature of those feelings may differ, but there’s no need to mention that. Particularly when the balance seems to be continually shifting.

“How do you plan to reconcile that?”

“I thought you planned to do that for me.” Didn’t he make it clear that I have no choice in the matter?

“And you will abide by whatever the Ten decides?”

“Yes—with the caveat that if Jared or Blake are harmed, my loyalties could fade,” I say. “Let me be blunt. You know Blake is being forced to help his father, and he has every reason to do so given his precarious upbringing. I ask you to consider his upbringing when making a decision between Exile and death. One night, his father could push him too far. Or if the Exilers fail as expected, he may see the error of his ways.”

“We shall see if you can keep from slipping sensitive information to Blake like you did to Ethan.” He appears to be deep in thought. “Now run along home and try to explain to Love #1 why you didn’t come home last day, and I’m going to go help mop up the mess you created for me with your Love #2. Be at SCI Headquarters promptly at 2200 hours Thursnight. I want to show you and Ethan something.”

“What?” I ask.

“It’s classified, but I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“The last time kids my age showed up at Headquarters, they got Cleaved.”

“True, but that’s not my plan for Thursnight,” he says with a smile. “Go home. Perhaps Jared will be there by now. You should be there to celebrate the terms of his release.” That’s all the motivation I need to leave. I’d like to say goodbye to Ethan, but Brad makes it clear that’s not going to happen. So I change into my dry clothes and head home.

I can hear his drawl the moment I enter my house.

“Jared,” I yell. I run into the living room and am a little confused when I see not only Jared but also Blake and his sister, Leila. “Hey, you’re out. Thank goodness. How was training? You okay?” Jared has a guilty look on his face. Leila’s stroking his arm in a fashion that seems a little too intimate for my liking. She’s pretty, but she and Blake don’t look much alike. She has got long, straight dark hair but small hazel eyes in contrast to Blake’s large emerald ones.

Jared responds with a half-cocked grin and, “I’m all trained. I never thought I’d finish, but then Brad Darcton came by yesternight with an interesting proposition for me. After weighing the alternative, I accepted.”

“What proposition?” I ask, glancing over at Blake, but he won’t even look at me.

“Kira, I’d like you to meet my Cleave, Leila. We did the whole Cleaving ceremony and feast at Headquarters, and then they gave us a house a couple doors down from you,” he says. “We came over as soon as we, uh, made everything official.”

Leila kisses him on the lips and both Blake’s and my eyes go wide. They apparently waited for me to arrive to drop the bomb. They Cleaved my little brother to Blake’s little sister? I know she’s a freshman, but I don’t think she is even sixteen yet. Blake told me that she had skipped a year in school. Can the Ten be Exiled for disregarding their own Canon?

“The kitchen. Now.” I scream. I don’t wait for him to obey, yanking him along with me. “You agreed to what?”

“It sounded a whole lot better than a bullet through my brain, Kira,” he whispers. “I’m fine with it. Leila’s cool, and you’re right that it’s better to go with the flow than face the consequences.”

“Uh huh.” I pace the kitchen. My brother is Cleaved at the age of sixteen. Insanity. Brad Darcton gave him the option of getting a bullet in the head or Cleaving Leila. If I maintained any hope of a future that didn’t involve Thera or the SCI, it just vanished. The only thing I don’t know is who my future will be tied to. I have to try again with Blake but can’t with Jared and Leila here.

“Come on, Kira. Chill. Come get to know Leila. For me?” he begs. “Hey, since you’re not Cleaved yet, I bet I’ll make you an Aunt before you make me an Uncle.” He’s wrong about that. He’ll be an uncle forty times over soon enough. The thought of my baby brother having kids makes me a little ill. He can’t even clean his room, do basic chores, or wake up for school on time. How can he possibly handle raising a child? Heck, how can any of my friends raise children? My children!

I return to the living room after making a pit stop to the bathroom to brush my teeth and freshen up, and I make nice with Leila for a half-hour while Jared and Blake talk. Then Jared and Leila leave to have some more “alone time” which means I’ve got to smooth things over with Blake.

“Can we talk?” He still won’t look at me, his eyes focused on a patch of garden on our wall with yellow sunflowers.

“How’s Ethan?” he says, still turned away. “Did you have a nice slumber party?”

“Ethan’s fine. Nothing happened—if you are curious. We just ate and played games. Slept in separate rooms. Had breakfast with his parents.”

“Sounds like you’ll make a happy Cleaved family.” His tone is bitter, eyes narrow and brooding.

“I love you, Blake. If you recall, I offered to Cleave you and spend my life with you. I haven’t offered that to anyone else, and you know what a big deal it is to me.” I sit by him on the couch. “Please, look at me.” He turns his head to me, but his look is sour.

“You’d Cleave with me—right here, right now?”

It takes some effort to shove thoughts of Ethan out of my brain and say, “If you agree to have your sole focus to be on us and nothing else from here on out. Then, yes, I’ll Cleave you. Here and now.” I can see him struggle with my offer. He rubs his temples, and I reach up and stroke his face with the back of my hand.

Moments later, he kisses me and then pushes me back on the couch, takes off his shirt, and lies atop me. More passionate kissing ensues—the most intense it has ever been. I’m extremely nervous. I’m not ready. But I must do this. To keep him alive. He starts to lift my shirt off and then abruptly stops. Did I hear a door slam?

“I’ve got to go,” he says. “I can’t do this.” Huh? That’s supposed to be the girl’s line.

“What’s wrong?” He’s already up and has his shirt on. “Blake, don’t leave. Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I just can’t commit to what you’re asking. Had we gone through with it, I would end up disappointing you by going back on my word. I love you, Kira, as best as I can. But as amazing as you are, I’ll never forgive myself if I’m not true to myself and what I believe in,” he says. “As much as it kills me to say it…I think Ethan’s the better Cleave for you.”

“You can’t mean that.” Tears fill my eyes.

“I’m sorry. That’s just where I’m at.”

Lovely. Where does that leave me?

I arrive at SCI Headquarters at ten to 2200 hours Thursnight. I’m a little nervous to see Ethan, given the bomb I dropped on him at breakfast the other night and hoping he is in good spirits and can cheer me up. Blake’s barely been home since he rejected my offer to Cleave. When home, he has been silent. It’s breaking my heart.

Ethan shows up precisely at 2200 hours.

“Hi,” I say. I’d hug him, but his body language says he won’t be receptive. His hands are in his pockets, he is tense, and has a cold look on his face. He looks like he hasn’t slept in nights.

“Yeah, hi.” He is distant and businesslike. I’m repelling all the men in my life. Before I can delve into which thing I did that pissed him off, Brad Darcton shows.

“Excellent. You’re both right on time,” he says. As if we’d dare be late. “Kira, I wasn’t sure you’d be here with all that Cleaving you’ve been trying to do with Blake lately.” Well, kudos on making things even more awkward, Brad. Of course, that’s his intention.

“That’s a bit of an overstatement,” I respond. “Blake hasn’t spoken to me in nights.”

“Well, looking at it from his perspective…you stay overday at Ethan’s house and then come home and throw yourself at him. Those kind of mixed messages would be a huge blow to any guy’s ego.” If he’s attempting to solicit a reaction, he’ll be sorely disappointed.

“I did what I thought was right to try to protect his life and your interests, as requested,” I say. “My sales pitch failed.”

“Yes, didn’t he suggest that Ethan would be a better Cleave for you?” Ethan shoots his father a glare so cold that Brad must get brain freeze.

“Ethan’s not happy with me either. Do you have a plan C for the Father of Thera?” I quip. “I should have some more viable eggs left.”

“I’ll make note of your willingness to provide more offspring. In the meantime, let’s proceed with our tour.” It’s unwise to plant ideas in his head, but they’d do it whether I agreed or not.

Brad leads us into Headquarters and facilitates an express route through security. He then leads us into a multistory atrium of sorts that takes my breath away. A short, overweight man signals Brad by waving a folder.

“You two stay here for a moment while I consult with a colleague,” Brad says. Fine with me. I want to take this place in. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen on Thera…maybe ever.

“You get to work here?” I ask Ethan. “This is incredible.”

“You offered to Cleave Blake?” I guess he doesn’t want to discuss the stunning glass mosaic gardens that bring the atrium walls to life.

“Yes—to keep him from proceeding with activities that will lead to his death. He’d prefer sticking to his plans than to have a life with me, however.”

“You said—that evening at breakfast—you have feelings for both of us. Is that true?” he asks. Why’s he so worried about my feelings when he has declared that the only girl who will ever make him happy isn’t me?

“Yes, I shouldn’t, but I do. I’m sorry.” I look into his eyes and watch as he swallows hard. I’ve been really jealous the last couple nights about his admission that he’s still in love with the other girl and beating myself up over it for stupidly caring.

“Yet you rejected my kiss and said you just wanted to be friends?”

“Just because I have feelings for you doesn’t mean I can act upon them or that you should want me to since you are in love with someone else. When you kissed me, you were in love with someone else, and I can’t condone cheating. Plus, I had a relationship of sorts going with Blake and needed to figure out if that was going anywhere. I felt guilty enough pretending to be your girlfriend back on Earth, knowing what it must be doing to the other girl. Had things been different…had you not had someone else…,” I say. “But they aren’t different, and anyway, you’re the one that suggested we stay friends. If you don’t want that, then tell me.”

“I came by to talk to you after my parents left—to talk about all the stuff you said at the breakfast table. Your front door was open. I knocked, but no one answered, so I came in. I saw you and Blake on the couch. Needless to say, I left right away.” That explains the door slam I heard. I shake my head. Ethan must think I’m such a jerk—talk about a huge blow to a guy’s ego. No wonder he’s giving me the cold shoulder. But wait, he shouldn’t care. He loves someone else.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. Obviously I’m an immature idiot and an excellent argument for raising the Cleaving age to 21 or higher. I’m just not equipped to deal with this.”

“I’m not sure any of us are equipped to deal.” He turns away from me. I feel guilty at what he saw and how much it hurt him. Why is this bothering him so much?

“Ethan, who’s the girl you are in love with?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” I can see the nerves kick in as he shoves his hands in his pockets and starts rocking.

“You’re confusing me. You tell me that you love this other girl so much that you’d do anything for her, yet you are upset that I haven’t acted upon my feelings for you. The way you look at me and flirt with me…how can you do that when you love someone else? You say you aren’t that guy who’d ever cheat or convince someone else to cheat, but you are being that guy. Every moment we spend together you’re that guy. So who is she?” He throws his hands up in air and rolls his eyes, before settling his hands on my shoulders.

“Do I really need to answer that? Isn’t it obvious? Wasn’t it obvious the first time we met? How can you not know? I never said it was anyone else,” he says, staring into my eyes.

Oh. Holy crap. It’s me. What an idiot I am. I can’t help it, but my mouth and eyes go wide.

“I wasn’t even supposed to talk to you that night,” he mumbles. He shakes his head and walks off a few feet. I’m having trouble processing this.

Before I can discuss it with Ethan, Brad returns and tells us the history of the glass mosaics. I attempt to listen to try to get my mind off Ethan and what I’ve done to him. I’m not sure I can ever fix the mess I’ve made. Ethan won’t even look at me. How could I have been so stupid? It should have been obvious all along; it certainly is now. The SCI needs to revamp their tests. If they thought I was good at puzzles and problem solving they were dead wrong.

Brad tells us that the atrium took two-dozen artisans more than ten years to complete, and it represents the garden of Hadrian and Helina—where the first Cleave occurred. Now, every Cleaved couple has their feast in this very spot and is sworn to secrecy to keep the experience fresh and new for every Cleaved couple. Well, except for me. And Ethan. And Blake since I know he has been in the building with Ted’s passkey.

From the atrium, Brad leads us through a series of turns until we arrive at a familiar hallway where Blake and I took our field trip to the Garden City model.

“Kira, I thought it was time I introduced you to the whole of Thera. You need to understand the importance of the Second Chance Institute, how far-reaching our program is, and why you are so vital to it,” Brad tells me. He’s going to let us see all the cities? Cool! I watch as he signals four different people to use a combination of passkeys and codes on floor panels. The moment deserves to be celebrated with my best friend, but Ethan’s still shunning me and my heart aches for him.

The walls on either side of us lift and give way to a sight more spectacular than the glass mosaics in the atrium. In every direction there are full-scale city models—every one completely different from the other. One city has spindly skyscrapers. Another appears to be completely underground. A third has been built entirely of white and blue marble and a fourth of jeweled glass. One city looks like it has thousands of “pods” made of shells and cement. A very mysterious city is surrounded by mirrored walls.

“It would take weeks to explore every city,” Brad states. “Tonight, we’ll just take the moving sidewalk from one end to the other, so you can get an idea of the diverse nature of the Theran landscape.” He motions us to step onto the walkway, which we do.

“Why is every city so different?” I ask, watching the models while we converse. I don’t want to miss anything, even though I’m having trouble absorbing it all while my mind is on Ethan’s revelation. I keep shifting my attention from the cities to Ethan. He still refuses to look at me.

“Excellent question. Each city has a unique personality—from landscape to people, to government, to architecture. We track best practices from each city,” he says.

“How so?” I ask. “That sounds complicated.”

“We have quarterly meetings with all the City Heads here at Headquarters. In fact, the next one is next Monnight and Tuesnight. The first night, we will discuss and record good practices from each area, and the second night, we will meet with top government officials from Earth to share our findings.”

“How do Earth’s officials use the information?” I ask in a very professional manner as if I’m representing a non-existent Theran newspaper.

“We give them ideas for new legislation and effective methods to manage diverse groups of people with obvious goals of reducing crime, increasing productivity, and increasing personal accountability for citizens,” he replies.

“So the folks back on Earth can expect to be Cleaved or face Exile?”

“No, but perhaps there should be accountability for premarital relations to try to ratchet up morality. And an adaptation of the Circle of Compliance could be useful, so citizens know whether they’re in good standing or not—especially if they know the better they act, the more influence they’ll have on society’s rules. But those are minor thoughts in the grand scheme of things. We get hundreds of ideas from other cities. We create systems that work for Theran citizens, but obviously, change must happen in degrees back on Earth.”

“From my interviews with your Recruiters, I can tell that some of the city governments would be considered pretty extremist back on Earth. Are the Theran citizens in those cities happy and well cared for?” His theory only works if the quality of life is good for everyone.

“We take care to place Recruits and Second Chancers where they’ll have the best experience. Some people need more structure than others. Others need nurturing environments. So yes, we like to think that our citizens, overall, are much happier than those on Earth,” he says.

“Interesting.” I’m not sure I agree or condone the extreme actions the Ten take to protect their secrets, but at least I understand better how the Theran government works and why they want and need people to travel between the two worlds. I wonder why Brad Darcton trusted me with this information. Blake’s dad and his Militant Exiler gang would kill to know that all the City Heads would be here next week.

We continue down the walkway in silence. Ethan shifts closer to me and presses his arm against mine, but he still won’t look at me. We watch the bizarre scenery while leaning against the handrail: A floating city built on giant pylons with marshy land underneath, Farm City has no visible residences above ground—only farmland, and, in what seems to be the very center of all of it, there’s a large, two-story circular platform with dozens of long, narrow tubes emanating from each level in every direction. It almost looks like two giant bicycle wheels laid atop one another with the tubes being the spokes of the wheels.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That’s the secret source of our power and reason we’ll never be defeated.” Brad smirks. “But, I think I’ll leave it undefined for now other than to say it helps us with resource allocation and management.” It reminds me of something, but I can’t quite place what.

Our moving walkway circles the spokes, but a close-up view gives no additional clues to its purpose. Beyond it, I see a triangular city with what looks like large manmade canals through it—like Venice on steroids.

“Let me guess—Import/Export City at the Bermuda Triangle?”

“Yes,” Brad confirms.

When our tour concludes, I’ve counted at least thirty distinct cities, though I may have missed some.

“Are all the cities represented here?”

“Not all,” he says. “We’re always expanding, and the models take a considerable amount of time…and real estate to build.” He finishes out our tour, and then we retrace our steps back through the Headquarters building. Once back out, Brad reminds us to keep our mouths shut about what we’ve seen and leaves us.

“We need to talk,” I say to Ethan. “Really need to talk.” He cups my face in his hands, rests his forehead and nose against mine. It’s impossible to be this close to him, knowing how he feels about me, without having my feelings bubble to the surface no matter how hard I try to shove them to the back of my mind—for Blake’s sake, not my own.

“Not now. I have plans. But we’ll talk soon.” He leans in to kiss me but instead, plants one on my cheek after grazing my lips with his. I stand there for a long time watching him walk away. He turns once and stares for a moment but then vanishes around a corner, and I feel completely and horribly alone.

Blake’s sound asleep when I enter his room and slip into bed next to him given it’s well into the morning. It takes a while to rouse him. When traditional methods don’t work, I kiss his eyes, ears and nose and rub his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “I haven’t…” I peck him on the mouth to shut him up. He doesn’t need to tell me that he hasn’t changed his mind. I know that. But I need to tell him about the City Heads’ Meeting, and this is the only way I can think to do it discreetly. After all, Brad thinks I’m spending all night, every night and day trying to Cleave with Blake…

“Play along,” I whisper. “I need to tell you something important.” He kisses me back, but I can tell there’s little feeling to it.

“What? Be quick. I need my sleep.”

“Every City Head is coming to Garden City for a meeting,” I say, kissing him along the neck.

“I know that. Why do you think I’m trying to get sleep? My father and the Militants attack tomorrow night.”

“Why tomorrow?” I ask. “The meeting is next Monnight and Tuesnight. Monnight’s meeting is for City Heads only, and then a bunch of Daynighters who work as government officials on Earth show up on Tuesnight.”

“You’re positive?”

“Brad Darcton told me.” I leave out the part about the city models. It takes four guys with proper access to open the walls, so the Militants have zero hope of ever getting in there.

“Ted set us up,” Blake says. “I had a bad feeling, but my dad wouldn’t believe that Ted had turned.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought it was important that you knew. If Brad finds out I told you, it won’t be good for either of us.” I want to tell him everything but know Blake would end up dead if I did. He’ll be at huge risk come tomorrow when the Militants show. I’ll only be able to bargain with Brad Darcton if I’ve kept the bulk of the truth from Blake.

We kiss for a short while longer, but it feels more forced than my kisses with Ethan on Earth. In fact, it’s pure drudgery because Blake’s not responding at all. Now I know what Ethan meant when he compared me to a steel post. I find myself thinking about Ethan the whole time and wondering what plans he had to keep us from talking, or if he lied to avoid spending more time with me given how much I’ve hurt him. The whole time we were home, he wasn’t faking it. When he told my father he wanted to marry me, he probably meant it. He wants to have kids together and grow old with me. Thinking about another guy, even if I’m not imagining him in an inappropriate way, makes it difficult to keep kissing Blake.

It’s not that I don’t still care for Blake. My feelings for him are strong, but all the fighting with no compromise has left me feeling depleted and completely void of emotion. I feel like I’ve been beating my head against a battery of knives, and they’ve carved the life right out of me.

I’m more of a zombie than my Second Chancer friends.

“You should go,” Blake finally says. “Thanks for trying again, but I’m still not ready for that kind of commitment.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “You’ve made that really clear.”

I turn and leave to go sulk in my room. That’s what they’ll expect. This morning, I’ll have to fake it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Blake

I rise mid-afternoon, unable to sleep. Kira’s revelation about the true date of the City Heads’ Meeting deeply disturbs me. Although I warned my father that Ted might be setting them up, I still feel as if I’ve failed the Exilers. I wasn’t able to persuade my father not to attack, and I gave him the wrong information about the date of the City Heads’ Meeting. Ted’s a traitor and has assuredly informed the Ten of the impending attack. They’ll be ready and waiting. The only things the Militants will have going for them are their city uniforms and three-hour head start. They better use this small advantage well. I do think Ted will disable the Eco barrier at the appointed time, believing he’s luring the Militants into the Ten’s trap. There’s still a chance my father can get out safely.

After a quick shower, I get dressed in a Headquarters uniform Ted brought to me. It would draw too much attention to wear my school uniform in the city during class hours. I eat a hearty breakfast before collecting food, sunscreen, extra clothes, a flashlight, duct tape, and other necessities. The necessities include anything I could use to help capture SCI officials or protect myself if needed including knives, rope, and a bag of flour which can be used to create a lame and very temporary smokescreen. Sleeping pills and pain pills that I’ve ground into powder can be slipped into a drink or food. Perfume that Kira doesn’t use could blind someone if sprayed in the eyes. If not, it’ll surely make them gag. I have to be prepared to leave with the Militants or fly under the radar for a while, in or out of the city, and defend myself if attacked. The loot blankets our dining table as I try to figure out how to efficiently fit it all in a small pack designed to cart my tablet computer.

“Going somewhere?” I hear from behind. Crap. It figures this would be the one time she’d wake up early. I’ve done my best to avoid Kira since I made my choice. But this morning when she crawled into bed with me and gave me a heads up about the real City Heads’ Meeting date, it took every ounce of energy to treat her like an inanimate object. I thought about bad-tasting foods, negative experiences, and eons of SCI control to keep from mauling her.

It’s best Kira think I’m a heartless prick who chose my father’s cause over a life with her. Actually, that’s exactly what I am, because I did make that choice. Not because I don’t have feelings for her. I owe the Exilers too much to let them down—and although it would be better if my dad and Doc Daryn agreed on a strategy that would keep the peace and grant freedom to both the Exilers and Second Chancers, I realize that my father will never compromise. So, I’ll do what I can to help overthrow the SCI today even if it means sacrificing my chance with Kira or my own life.

I make the mistake of looking at her. She has got her arms crossed, a foul look on her face, and distrust streaming from her eyes. It’s kind of hot. “Good evening—or I guess it’s still afternoon. I’m just getting ready for my night.” She circles the table, perusing my stash, running her fingers across it all.

“Need any help?” She stops in front of me and looks directly into my eyes.

“Nope. Thanks for offering, but I’m good.” I avoid her gaze. I start to stuff everything into my pack, trying to remember my preferred order despite the current distraction in a daygown.

“You sure?” she asks. I shake my head to indicate I am. “Okay, well, let me know if you change your mind.” I’m tempted to stay here, spend the night with Kira, and let whatever’s going to happen happen. If I leave and join the fight—or even just observe—there’s the possibility I’ll never see her again. The taste of blood brings me out of my trance, and I can feel sharp pain. In my attempt to block out my desire for Kira, I bit the inside of my cheek so hard it’ll be difficult to eat for a week. That’ll stretch my meager supply further if I’m forced to switch to an Exiler’s diet.

Should I say goodbye to Kira? She disappeared back into her bedroom, likely to take a shower and get ready for the night. If I walk in and find her in anything less than that daygown, I won’t be able to resist. It would be best to avoid a teary, dramatic farewell. I hope that it’ll end up being unnecessary. The Militants need to prevail tonight so I can return home in the morning and celebrate with Kira, assuming she will forgive me and take me back.

I leave my watch by my desk where I’m supposed to be starting lessons for the night. Then, I quietly slip out the front door. It’s still light out, but the sun is quickly fading behind the canyon hills to the East. The air is hot and sticky, and it smells like a campground which concerns me a little. Fire of any kind is strictly forbidden within the city. I worry the citizens may panic. They’re already on edge about a potential Exiler attack, thanks to Brad Darcton.

I dart into the entrance to the train and am happy to see it empty but running. Minutes later, I’m at the city center. The sun disappeared while I was aboard the train. The booths and stage have been dismantled, so I have a clear view of the vibrant lights of the Headquarters building. All looks quiet, so I take a seat on a bench next to a city worker and pretend to peruse my tablet for evening news as he is doing. The smell of fire is stronger here. Could it be a diversion of some sort?

I’m thankful that the lighting is better in the plaza than elsewhere in the city. The street lamps give a hundred feet of visibility or more. Out of the corner of my eye, I see small groups of men in city uniforms on the offshoot street where city officials reside. That’s where I came out of the tunnels the night I infiltrated Headquarters to get Ted’s bogus planted information. They’re at a considerable distance, but a couple of them look familiar. Although I don’t have my watch on, I know what time I left the house. The Exilers planned their arrival to shortly precede the normal worknight at HQ, so if I’m right and it’s my father’s men, they are early.

“Not again. This is Mandy’s tablet,” I say out loud. The man next to me gives me an odd look. “I grabbed my Cleave’s tablet by accident. It’s the third time this month I’ve done that! Here I thought I was so early, and now I risk being late.” He chuckles as I get up to leave, giving him the impression I’m off to rectify my stupid mistake. I head towards the residential area to get a closer look and confirm the men are Militants.

It doesn’t take me long to find my father. As promised, he and his henchmen are in city attire, although their equipment implies they are part of a fire safety crew.

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Take this.” My father hands me a toolbox. “Don’t say a word. I mean it. Now’s not the time. Just follow.” I nod and follow him to the front door of the next house. A woman answers.

“We are so sorry to alarm you, ma’am. Is your Cleave home? As you can tell from the odor in the air, there’s something burning in the city, and we’ve been dispatched to find the source,” my father says. She calls to her Cleave who arrives promptly at the door. Medium build. Receding hairline. Cold brown eyes. He’s wearing that telltale symbol that all members of the Ten wear—a silver pin carved with a circle representing the Circle of Compliance and a small number ten in the center of the circle.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” he asks.

My father and his colleague don’t bother to answer. My father puts a bullet through both the man and his Cleave’s brains. I gasp in horror at the sight of my father executing two human beings. The man may have been a member of the Ten, but what about his Cleave? My father pushes me back and closes their front door.

“Go home, Blake,” my father demands. “We’ve got this.”

“Dad, the meeting isn’t tonight. Ted set us up. It’s next Monnight and Tuesnight.” The words stumble from my mouth.

“I see,” my father says. “No matter. We’ve hit six of the Ten so far and numerous members of the Grand Council. Garden City’s government will be crippled. Now go.” I back away from the group wanting no part of their mass executions. At no point during my father’s planning sessions do I remember him discussing killing, and not simply capturing, city officials.

I slowly walk back towards the square as my father’s men finish out the rest of the street. Masses have gathered to report for work at HQ and are making their way through security and into the building. Pretending to be one of them, I join the line and get out my HQ passkey to prepare to enter. My gut says my father and band are headed here next. As I approach the main doors, I’m proven right. I see my father to my side. He glares and motions for me to leave, but I ignore him. If there’s a way to stop further executions, I’ll figure it out. I’m ashamed to carry my father’s DNA right now.

How could things go so wrong in ten minutes time?

Two hundred plus Militants stormed Headquarters with a vengeance, executing twenty security guards in seconds and surrounding the crowd. The workers screamed and frantically tried to escape. To protect myself, I grabbed an executed guard’s gun and tucked it under my shirt and into my pants.

That’s when I saw her. Kira must have followed and slipped in behind me. I froze as I tried to figure out how to keep her out of the clustered crowd and safe. Our eyes locked for a moment, and that didn’t go unnoticed by my father. He pounced on her faster than a cat on its prey.

“Well, well, well…” My father pulled her beside him. “You must be Kira Donovan. Stick by me, and I’ll keep you safe.”

“Let her go, Dad,” I said. “As my partner, she followed me here. But she has nothing to do with any of this.”

“On the contrary. If you reported correctly, Kira is a coveted Original. The SCI has big plans for her and likely wants to keep her alive. That’s about as useful as anyone could be to us.”

“Dad, no. You are not using Kira as your security blanket.” He didn’t reply but pointed his gun at her head.

“It’s okay, Blake,” Kira said, her gold ringed green eyes showing infinitely more confidence than I have. “Everything will work out. I’m not worried.” She mouthed “I love you” to me. I paused too long, leaving her sentiments unanswered.

“Move. Everyone to the atrium now!” My father yanked Kira with him.

So, here I am, watching as the HQ employees are coerced into the atrium. Militants systematically look for Ten or Council pins and terminate wearers accordingly. In the chaos and panic, I ditch the crowd. Before I can climb the stairs to watch from above, I run into Brad Darcton. Behind him are hordes of heavily armed security forces.

“This is not my doing,” I say to him. “My father has Kira with a gun to her head. You have to get her out safely. Please.” Brad tilts his head to the side as he weighs his options, one of which I assume would be to eliminate me on the spot.

“How many men?” Brad asks.

“Two hundred or more trained Militants. I didn’t get a good count. It all happened so fast.”

“Is Ethan or my Cleave in the crowd?” he asks.

“I don’t know. They have everyone in the atrium.”

“I’ll do my best with Kira,” he states. “And you will answer for this later. For now, it would be helpful if you could think of something to divert your father’s attention.”

“Yes, sir.” I start to creep up the stairs.

“Careful,” he warns. “You’ll be a tempting target through all that glass,” referring to the glass mosaics that won’t hide my silhouette as I climb the stairs. Chills go down my spine. Despite the risk of being shot at, I creep up the circular staircase until I am safely behind a post and then get down on my stomach. I watch the scene through holes cut in the glass for spotlights to shine through.

Brad makes a grand entrance, parting the crowd as he greets my father by name.

“Hank, my friend. So good to see you.” Two hundred guns track his march to the center of the atrium.

“Brad. Long time no see. I can’t say I missed you,” my father replies.

“Wow. My feelings are so hurt.” Brad puts a hand over his heart. “What brings you and your friends to Garden City tonight?”

“I thought a little reorganization of your government was in order,” my father responds. “And hell, the revenge is good too.”

“Let the girl go, Hank, and let’s talk this out like two grown men,” Brad says. He starts to speak again, but a Militant fires a shot that hits Brad squarely in the chest. It sends him catapulting back a few feet, although I don’t see any blood. Body armor.

“Hold off,” my father says to keep more shots from firing. “There’ll be plenty of time for that, and I’d like to do the honors.” It takes a minute for Brad to catch his breath and stand back up. In the meantime, while everyone’s busy trying to catch a glimpse of one of the Ten’s fate, Brad’s soldiers have the opportunity to surround the Exilers and disengage their safeties in unison.

“Checkmate,” Brad says in a more belabored tone. “I believe you are outnumbered, my friend. I have endless reserves to take their places. It’s time for your men to stand down.” I don’t know where they came from, but Doc Daryn was one hundred percent right. The SCI’s illusion of weakness was the work of a master magician.

“You harm anyone and your precious Original dies, and then you won’t be able to use her for your ridiculous purposes,” my father threatens. Kira is ignoring my father. Her eyes are trained on someone in the crowd. Ethan. If Kira ever questioned his true feelings for her, or if I ever doubted her feelings for him, both are crystal clear now. He looks ready to sacrifice his own life for her if needed. I watch him inch towards her. She appears to be waiting for his signal to make a move. Fabulous. She’s going to get herself killed.

“Ridiculous purposes? Your son’s alive thanks to those ridiculous purposes. As for Kira, if you want to kill an innocent girl over your futile plans, then go for it. She has already provided what we needed to preserve the future of Thera.” Brad walks forward to meet my father face to face.

“Don’t you dare bring up my son.” My father scans the crowd. Is he looking for me? He looks more scared than I’ve ever seen him.

“Why? You don’t want him to know about his true lineage?”

“I am his father,” my father says.

“Perhaps, but your dear Cleave, who died in Exile, is most certainly not your son’s mother,” Brad states. “I bet you never mentioned that to him.”

What? I stumble a little but catch myself before going headfirst through the glass. My mom—who I watched die in agony—wasn’t my real mother? He has to be lying. But then I think about the whole Assisted Pregnancy process, and it occurs to me that they could be implanting any embryos in the mothers.

“Shut up or I’ll kill the girl.” My father presses the gun harder against Kira’s head.

“Really? Because if finding out that you lied about his mom won’t kill your relationship, I really can’t guarantee your son will ever support you or your cause if you execute his girlfriend.” The look on my dad’s face is priceless as he tries to absorb that nugget of information. I guess I failed to mention that my relationship with Kira expanded beyond plain old partners.

“Is that true?” my father asks Kira. “Are you involved romantically with my son?”

“Sorry, I missed that. What are you accusing me of? I can’t hear with the gun shoved in my ear,” she quips. He keeps hold of her but shifts the gun ever so slightly away from her head and repeats his question. That’s just the opportunity I need to create a more significant diversion without risking her life.

I remove the security guard’s gun from my pants, release the safety, and aim for the glass mosaic directly behind my father. Then, I pull the trigger and watch as thousands of shards of glass rain down on the crowd below.

The diversion works. My dad loses his grip on Kira as he spins around to see the source of the explosion and starts firing shots wildly. Ethan tackles Kira, pushing her to the ground so he can act as a human shield. I see blood oozing from Ethan’s shirt. He may have been hit. By the time my father realizes the rain of glass was meant to distract him and jolts back around, Brad Darcton shoots my father. The force of the bullet puts a grapefruit-sized hole through my father’s heart. Dead on impact. His lifeless body falls to the floor.

The execution of my father causes a domino effect. A Militant shoots Brad Darcton in revenge. Then one of Brad’s security personnel shoots the Militant. Brad’s still down, but I can’t tell where he was hit. Security forces rush and secure Brad’s body and the area. While there, they grab Ethan and Kira and whisk them out to safety.

After that, it’s an all-out slaughter, with the Militants outnumbered at least five to one. I see some of the Militants drop their weapons and try to blend with the HQ employees, but most get outed by residents who saw them with guns. When both sides start shooting at the glass in my direction, I scramble up the stairs to the third level, use my passkey to enter the floor, and run for the back stairs and down to the safety of the tunnels.

The problem is that the tunnels are used to evacuate important SCI personnel to safety in case of emergency. I see a group of security goons escorting a group. I’m in the open with no place to hide. This group includes Ethan and Kira. Ethan’s shirt is off, and he’s using it to apply pressure to his wound. Showoff.

“There you are,” Ethan says to me. “I worried you might have been amongst the injured.” To his security escort he adds, “He works with me. We were together in the crowd, but I lost him when I went for Kira.” Why would he help me? Guilt over his father killing mine?

“I barely escaped. Two of those beasts were after me.” I play along.

“Let me see your Headquarters passkey,” the security guard says. I show him, and he nods to accept me into their brigade. Kira starts to drag as if she can’t handle the hike, and within minutes, we’re at the back of the group. The security detail’s way more concerned about the Council members than us, so they leave us alone as we march.

“You’ve got to get out of here,” Kira whispers to me. “Once they figure out who you are…given the number of dead up there…they’ll blame you.”

“I know. I wasn’t exactly planning to run into company,” I respond. “I’ll ditch you at the next intersection. I know where we are.”

“I’m sorry about your dad—about all of them.”

“You were right about it being a futile cause,” I tell her. “I just had to try to help. But when I saw the way my father carried out his plan—by executing innocent people—well, I couldn’t support that. So, I got them all killed by bringing down that glass wall.”

“That was you?” Ethan says. I nod. “Great timing. But, the deaths aren’t your fault. That would have happened anyway with the security detail surrounding the Militants.”

“Maybe you are right and that the outcome was inevitable. Doesn’t make it any less hard.” I slump my shoulders, feeling the heaviness of the burden I’ll have to carry for the rest of my life.

“Thank you. What you did…probably saved both our lives.” Kira brushes her hand against mine.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan says to me. “About my father…what he did to your dad.”

“Your dad paid the price of the conflict as much as my father did.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is your arm okay?” I motion towards the wound.

“It’s just a graze. I’ll be fine,” he says, though I can tell he’s gritting his teeth.

“Time for me to take off,” I tell them. “I’ll see you soon,” I add to Kira.

“Hope so,” she replies.

And with that, I dash to the right and sprint to the next bend where I take a left and head towards the exit I found through the Council residence previously. I should have told her I still care about her, but until things settle down, I’m poison to her. It sucks to have to leave her in Ethan’s care, though. His perfect, nice-guy, risk-his-life-to-save-hers deal is pissing me off.

Once through the trap door and into the residence, I listen for sounds. There are none. I check by the front door and see two decimated dead bodies, likely executed by my father. Seeing the couple conjures up images of the hundreds massacred at Headquarters. I splash some water on my face and grab the victims’ tablets so I can look for information and track time. Thankfully, the owners left their tablets logged on. After, I settle back into the closet and allow myself to mourn my losses.

I find maps of the tunnels on Walter Hunt’s tablet, Walter being the homeowner. The maps prove to be useful since staying at a murder scene doesn’t seem too wise. It’ll be a while before officials finish with the mayhem at Headquarters and fan out to search residences, but with the number of forces that magically appeared out of nowhere, I can’t count on a long reprieve. After studying the maps, I decide where to go.

My father had been right. The tunnels do extend all the way to student residences. I take the long way back to my school, hoping to run into as few people as possible in some of the outer tunnels. It’s eerily silent the entire way other than creaking and squeaking sounds. All security personnel must be at Headquarters, but there are plenty of rats and even some large bearded lizards to keep me company.

When I reach the narrow tunnels that lead to school residences, I’m pleased to see small markings to indicate which trap door leads to which residence. It’s a sketchy hour to make an entry—middle of the day—but I don’t hesitate to intrude. The trap door leads to the back of the kitchen pantry, and as I swing it inward, the shelves and food move with it, leaving the door open so I can get back out. I remove duct tape from my backpack and tear off two mouth-sized pieces and then two larger pieces to secure hands.

I tiptoe into the sole bedroom in the residence and am pleased to see the occupants sound asleep. I’m able to get the duct tape on without much struggle, but it does wake them both up. Thank goodness they’re clothed. After removing both their watches and turning on the light, I bring my finger to my mouth to encourage them to be quiet, and I motion for them to follow me. They look a little angry but comply. I lead them back into the tunnel where I’m fairly certain our conversation can be private and have them sit down.

“I apologize for the midday invasion. But everything we say in our own homes is monitored by the government, and I wanted our conversation to be private. If I remove the duct tape from your mouths, do you promise to be quiet and listen to what I have to say? I’m not here to hurt you but to give you information that you need to know.” They both nod, and I remove the duct tape. From the shrieks they let out, it must’ve hurt to pull it off. Bummer.

“Ow. What the hell, Blake?” Tristan yells. “You better start explaining yourself fast.” He looks like he wants to kill me. Get in line.

“I will. It’s a bit of a long story, so just calm down.”

“I’ll freaking calm down when you explain what’s so important that you need to kidnap us in the middle of the day and drag us into this nasty, smelly, dark place.” I’m glad I duct-taped his hands together as his knuckles are white. I think he’s angry.

“Did you ever wonder why you guys are called Second Chancers?” I ask. Both shake their heads sideways to indicate they don’t. “Well, it’s time you both partook of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.”

“Huh?” Bri says.

“You both have very interesting pasts that you can’t remember. So, I’m going to fill in the gaps for you. Starting with the fact that you lived and died elsewhere before being given a second chance here on Thera.” I tell them everything, start to finish, as best I know from what Kira has told me about them, including the pertinent details about what they did to her on Earth. Bri soaks it all in, but Tristan looks skeptical throughout.

When I’m finished telling them the whole story, Tristan chimes in first. “It all sounds like a bunch of crap you made up.”

“No, I think he’s telling the truth,” Bri says. “I got chills. The whole thing rings true.”

“You got chills because it’s freezing!” Funny. It’s a humid eighty-five or ninety degrees in the tunnel but to a Theran that feels cold.

“What if we really did all that stuff to Kira, Tristan?” Bri says. “We’d deserve to die for it.”

“He’s just trying to give us a guilt trip over Cleaving before they had a chance.” I watch them banter back and forth for a while before inserting some well-needed advice.

“Well, don’t take my word. By all means, spread the news, gather your friends, and go ask the folks in charge at Headquarters about it.” I encourage them to take action.

That should keep the remaining Ten and Council members occupied while I figure out my escape plan.

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Kira

“You asked to see me?” I enter Vienna Darcton’s executive office on the sixth floor of the Headquarters. An armed security guard delivered me here. He made sure to take me past the masses of dead bodies on the way up—an object lesson in the perils of rebellion. The blood, body matter, and stench struck me like an oncoming train.

It has been twenty-four hours since Ethan saved me, and we were evacuated to an underground stronghold. Since then, security forces have secured the city, and city officials have returned to Headquarters to assess the damage.

The commander of the security forces briefed officials in the stronghold. Only three of the Ten remain. Sixty percent of the Grand Council members were executed—either within their homes or at Headquarters before security forces intervened. Fifty-seven additional innocents lost their lives; Cleaves of the Ten and Grand Council members, Headquarters employees, and city residents who were caught in the crossfire when the battle expanded beyond the Headquarters building. Two hundred seventy-seven Militant Exilers perished. Others were wounded and captured.

Everyone within the city had been tracked down and afforded the opportunity by security forces to present proper credentials, proving they were Garden City residents. If they couldn’t do so and no other resident could vouch for them, interrogations, followed by executions happened on the spot. Those who were vouched for by Cleaveds, friends, or family await confirmation in lockup. Whether Blake is alive or dead, I have no idea. He disappeared in the tunnels with a promise to see me later. The security commander didn’t mention specifically searching the tunnels which are only accessible by official passkeys, so I’m holding out hope.

“Yes, Kira. Please have a seat,” she says. I sit in a lush green velvet guest chair in front of her large mahogany desk and admire the view of the canyon lights. While I wait for her to explain why she summoned me, I chew on my finger. She looks at me in disgust for my nervous habit. “We’ve been unable to locate your partner, Blake, despite our city-wide manhunt. Do you have any idea where he might be?” Thank goodness. He’s still alive.

“Honestly, I don’t. I haven’t seen him since yesternight.”

She narrows her eyes, clearly doubting my answer. “A security guard claims to have seen him with you and Ethan in the tunnels during the evacuation.”

“No.” I lie. “There was some colleague of Ethan’s, but he went back to see if he could find his Cleave when he saw she wasn’t with us.” Ethan and I had discussed how we’d handle questions about Blake if asked.

“I understand your desire to protect him, Kira, but given his father’s role in the Exiler attack on the city, we need to speak with him.” I stare into her bright green eyes and feel the same contempt I’ve felt from Blake lately. A good time to change the subject.

“Mrs. Darcton, I am really sorry about your loss. It must be terrible for you. Can I ask you though—what did your Cleave mean about Blake’s dad being his real dad but that his mom wasn’t?” I ask. The statement kept me up all day.

I watch Vienna’s face closely for clues on two fronts. First, to see how she reacts to my statement about her loss. Although it has been widely reported that Brad Darcton died from the gunshot wound he received, I know he was wearing body armor, and security ushered him out quickly. To this, she does genuinely look upset. Second, I’m curious about how much she knows about Blake. Her expression is contemplative as if she’s deciding how much she wants to share.

“His parents used the Assisted Pregnancy process to get pregnant, just as all Therans do. A donor egg was used to insure he had Original blood,” she says.

“Can I ask who his mother is?” She looks away and it’s apparent she’s not going to give me an answer, although she knows. After a moment, she turns to me again.

“It’s likely Blake will come to you,” she says. “If so, I need you to persuade him to turn himself in.” I start to laugh but then cover it up with a fake cough.

“I have a poor track record of convincing Blake of anything. If he comes to me, I’m happy to try—if you promise me that you will spare his life, no matter the circumstances. He’s not like his father. He must take after his mother.” I try to strike a nerve. She turns her chair around to look outside for quite some time before turning around to face me again.

“I’ll agree to spare Blake’s life if you agree to stay on Thera and submit to the will of the Ten and Grand Council.” I think to myself that she means the “Three” and the “Less Grand Council” but don’t voice my snarky thoughts. The decision requires little thought. Blake lives if I do what she wants. No brainer. Every time I’ve rebelled, horrible things have happened. This time, I’ll happily comply to keep the people I care about alive.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll agree to those terms.”

“Even if that means that you and Blake won’t have a ‘happily ever after?’” she asks.

“Yes. I think I’m well past the fantasy of a happily ever after.”

“I’ll count on you to keep your word. Aside from Blake, you have a lot of family now on Thera—Jared, your parents, and all those babies—who will benefit if you do.” She does threats as well as her husband, although I do sense she has more heart than he did, or she wouldn’t have agreed to spare Blake.

I mask my disgust of her threats with a small smile. “Yes. My family is here now.”

“How’s Ethan?”

“Physically, he’s okay. He was grazed by a bullet, but we managed to get the bleeding stopped quickly. Emotionally, I expect he’s devastated. Seeing his father kill Blake’s to spare my life, and then, watching him be shot by an Exiler—it was terrible.” She nods in agreement.

As much as I despised Brad Darcton, he did do what he did to save me, well, and surely to make a definitive statement to the Militant Exilers, too, but his actions did save my life. “Both your Cleave and your son saved my life. I’m grateful.” My gratitude will only go so far. She and the rest the SCI still need to pay for their actions.

“Ethan cares for you deeply,” she says. “He would have sacrificed his own life for yours yesternight.”

“I know.” I blush a little. Both Blake and Ethan did their part to save me with little thought for themselves. It blows me away, and I feel unworthy of either’s affections. I spent the entire day tending to Ethan’s wound, and then together we mourned the dead. It took three armed security guards to persuade me to leave and then bring me here.

A knock on the door interrupts our conversation.

“We have a situation,” the security forces commander says. He looks at me suspiciously, but Vienna encourages him to continue. “The plaza is filled with Second Chancers demanding answers about their ‘previous lives.’” My eyes go wide. Somehow, I don’t think the Second Chancers having newfound knowledge is by chance. Someone broke the cardinal rule. And unfortunately, I think I know how Blake spent his day—and it wasn’t sleeping. This will definitely test my deal with Vienna Darcton.

All the mass Cleaveds have filled the plaza and don’t seem to be dissuaded by the security forces pointing guns at them. Those girls are carrying my babies so the situation’s making me pretty nervous given the massacre I saw yesternight. All the questions you’d expect are being shouted from the crowd:

“Why can’t I remember anything before February?”

“How did I get here?”

“Is it true that I died?”

“Was my name the same?”

“Where’s my family? Who are my parents?”

“What happened to my memories?”

“Where did I live before and what was it like?”

“If I got blown to bits how’d my body get put back together?”

Vienna Darcton turns to me. “You’re lucky we made that deal about Blake before this.” I nod. There’s no use trying to convince her that this isn’t Blake’s handiwork.

“How can I help?”

“We have a strict protocol on how to deal with these situations,” she states. “Watch and learn. And never contradict.”

Vienna steps forward and signals the security commander to blow a loud whistle which stifles the masses. Although her demeanor had been stiff and businesslike with me, it softens as she addresses the crowd. She smiles and disarms them with her warmth. I’m surprised to see that she’s capable of showing emotion.

“Greetings, Garden City residents. Thank you for bringing us your concerns tonight, although, I assure you, they are unfounded. Regardless, we invite each couple to meet with Council members and staff to have your worries addressed personally.” As she says this, a large group of what appears to be remaining Council members and doctor staff pair off and approach each couple, walking them off towards the psychiatric clinic where Ethan, Jared, and I had been imprisoned. All the couples cooperate except Bri and Tristan who refuse to leave without talking to me.

Bri looks like she has been crying, her face a mess of mascara and eyeliner. She grabs my arm and says, “Kira, we need to talk to you. You need to tell us whether what Blake told us is true. Did we go to high school with you on a place called Earth? Did we die in an explosion?” I can sense the doubt in her voice as she says it out loud. The story, albeit true, sounds preposterous. It’s obvious who Blake targeted to incite the crowd. I’m sure he was more than happy to dump a whole load of guilt on them.

Vienna pats Bri on the shoulder in an effort to comfort her. “Kira and I will personally answer your questions. Just follow us.” Then, she whispers in my ear. “Lie. They’ll have the hardest time letting go of the truth since they were given details.”

Vienna leads us to a small room in the clinic with a table and chairs. She directs us to sit. A mirrored wall leads me to believe we’re being watched. Despite a member of the Ten being there, Tristan and Bri unload everything Blake told them. My friendship with Bri and relationship with Tristan. Tristan and Bri’s affair. The Goodington party. The explosion. It’s all a sordid tale of betrayal and just desserts.

“Wow,” I say when they’re done. “That’s quite the story. But it’s not true. I’m sorry. Blake was just messing with you. It’s clearly revenge for you giving me that Theranberry juice, Tristan. He unleashed his rather overactive imagination on you.” I’ve had plenty of practice masking my emotions, so it’s unlikely my face will reveal it’s a lie.

“Are you sure?” Bri asks. “I really felt like it was true and, as much as I try, I can’t remember anything that happened before I came here. No one can.”

“We’ve brought in a doctor who may be able to help,” Vienna tells them. “She specializes in helping people with their memories. She uses a combination of medications and mental exercises. Would you like to give it a try? The process takes a couple nights, but it is well worth it.”

“Will the medicine hurt the baby?” Bri asks, rubbing the not-yet-existent bump on her belly. Tristan squeezes her in tightly as if that will protect her from whatever Vienna Darcton has planned.

“Not at all.” She takes Bri’s hand in hers. “We’d never do anything to harm your baby. That life you are carrying inside you is precious.” Bri and Tristan both relax.

“Well then, yes,” Bri responds. “We’d like to meet with the doctor.”

“We will send her right in.” Vienna stands up.

“Could we have a moment with Kira?” Bri asks. Vienna nods and then leaves. She’ll be watching. “I just wanted to ask you again without her in the room. Are you positive there’s no truth to what Blake said? If so, what we did would be unforgivable.”

“Positive. And, even if it were true which it isn’t, it would be forgivable. I’d forgive you.” A little risky, but I needed to say it. I needed them to know that I’m over it, and I forgive them.

“I didn’t sleep a wink thinking I betrayed you like that,” Bri says. “Is everything okay with you and Blake?”

“I’m sorry you lost sleep over it and am really sorry Blake did that to you,” I say, avoiding a discussion about my failed relationship with Blake.

“He took us into some creepy tunnel behind our house. Why would there be a hidden passageway into our pantry?”

“They are probably delivery tunnels. I wouldn’t worry about it,” I respond.

“Do you trust that woman?” Tristan asks of Vienna Darcton. “Will the doctor really help with our memories?”

“Yes to both.” I put my hand on Bri’s arm for effect. Vienna Darcton will absolutely send in a memories expert—to erase their memories of Blake’s indiscretion. “I’m going to go and see if I can find Blake. He has got some answering to do for this.” We say our farewells, and a kind-faced lady in a white coat passes me as I leave.

A security guard opens an adjacent door for me to join Vienna. I watch through a one-way mirror as the doctor gives Tristan and Bri some medication and then hypnotizes them. It only takes about an hour, but, apparently, she’ll repeat the process every six hours for two nights. Vienna explained that most people only need two to three treatments, but, given the specific details Blake unleashed on them, they’ll need more extensive therapy.

“You should understand that the alternative isn’t possible,” Vienna says to me. “Second Chancers come here happy. Introducing a troubled past creates guilt, worry, comparisons, and trauma that they can’t handle. They can never go back to Earth. And in most cases, they wouldn’t want to. But they might think want to, and that can only cause pain.”

“Indeed.” I agree with her. My recent memories of Earth are all about pain.

For some strange reason, Vienna Darcton invites Ethan and me to sit through the last hour of the City Heads’ meeting to hear a portion of the overall recommendations they’ll be giving to Earth’s delegates tomorrow night.

A rotund man with a bad comb over proceeds to read the minutes from the meeting, and within moments, I’m nodding off.

“I know that voice,” I say to Ethan. “That’s the dude from the training videos. If they want anyone here to retain any information, they should really let someone else read. He gives new meaning to the word monotone.” Ethan nods his agreement.

“I guess I’ll have to entertain you then. Or you can use me as a pillow. Up to you.” I snuggle up next to him and put my head on his shoulder, taking care to avoid his bandaged arm.

“I’m exhausted. Your mom kept me up half the day watching the experts extract the unpleasant memories Blake provided to the Second Chancers,” I say. “They were all pretty messed up over it.”

“Have you heard from Blake?”

“Nope. Who knows if he’s even still in the city. He has to know he painted a giant target on his head by inciting the Second Chancers to riot.”

“He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you,” Ethan says. “Or taking you with him.” His voice trails off, and I can tell he thinks it’s a distinct possibility that I’ll be heading off into the desert with Blake any time now.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, looking directly into his eyes to show how serious I am. “Leaving would be counterproductive to the health and happiness of my friends and family.” Plus, I doubt Blake will even try to come rescue me and whisk me off with him. If he did, I’d have to decline for the safety of my family, and that would make the break from him harder.

“What about your happiness?” What about it? I once thought I was happy with Tristan, but that was a joke. My best friend wasn’t a true friend to me. Blake chose his father’s fight over the hope of a happy life with me. And the fun I had vacationing with Ethan at home ended with my parents’ deaths. Since back, I’ve been angry, confused, and torn between Blake and Ethan…anything but happy.

“I’m good,” I lie. I bargained away my happiness to save Blake’s life and keep my family safe here on Thera. That’s good, right? “How are you, though? With your dad and everything?”

“I could be better.” He takes my hand, squeezing it tight, and then intertwines his fingers with mine. We sit silently for a couple minutes, each of us needing the other’s company but not knowing what it should or can mean under the circumstances.

“You know how much I care about you, right?” He shifts his body weight to look at me with an expression that could melt the hardest of hearts. We still haven’t had “the discussion” about his feelings for me and whether I return them. It didn’t seem appropriate after the scene at Headquarters, and I don’t think I’m ready for it.

“Yeah. I care about you too.” Even though he loves me, I’m glad he didn’t put me in the awkward position of having to return the sentiment. My feelings for Blake and my generally tentative feelings about the whole love thing after two strikeouts in a row would have made it difficult.

We’re both shocked to attention. One of the remaining Ten is demanding Blake be located and executed for his role in the Exiler’s attack and for creating unrest with the Second Chancers. Blake’s father had killed the man’s Cleave. She was a member of the Grand Council.

“That is not possible,” Vienna Darcton says. “The boy will not be harmed.”

“You are hardly unbiased in the matter,” the man accuses. “Blake Sundry’s father shot my Cleave.”

“And his men shot mine,” Vienna retorts. “But we’re not going to punish the boy for his father’s actions.”

“We can punish him for what he told the Second Chancers. The Canon is clear that discussing the past is cause for immediate Exile.”

“Mr. Stockly, I’m the senior member of the Ten here and must ask you to stand down. You are well aware of the circumstances of Mr. Sundry’s pardon. In fact, if you haven’t noticed, we have two guests in attendance tonight—my son, Ethan and Ms. Kira Donovan.”

“Ah, the well-behaved and obedient son,” Mr. Stockly says. “Welcome to both of you.” He motions towards us. While we’d been able to disappear into the room’s corner prior to the introduction, every eye is on us now, and I feel incredibly awkward. I straighten up but keep hold of Ethan’s hand. Who cares what they think. Mr. Stockly scoffs at us. “I guess their display is meant to cement Ethan as the choice for Kira’s Cleave?”

“Kira and Ethan are close friends who, as you know, were present at the unfortunate circumstances that transpired in this building with the Exilers. They and I are not trying to imply anything.” Did she just defend us in front of the remaining Ten and Council?

“Ms. Donovan.” Mr. Stockly speaks to me. “You are aware of your role as the new mother of Thera? And that the role of father is still up for grabs?” I stand to address him.

“Yes. Though, let’s be clear. There are two ‘fathers of Thera’ regardless of whether you choose to acknowledge them both. Ethan and Blake must be equally qualified, or, I assume, you wouldn’t have used them to fertilize my eggs before implanting our babies in my friends.” I can see Vienna hide a smile at my bluntness.

“Yes, all your offspring will be important to the future of Thera assuming they are healthy,” Mr. Stockly responds. “However, you will be required to Cleave one of Ms. Darcton’s sons and together be the face of our future. Do you have an opinion?” I see Vienna shoot Mr. Stockly a deathly glare. What does he mean by one of her sons? I thought the only candidates were Blake and Ethan? I know Ethan has no sisters, but for some reason, I never asked him about brothers. Of course, I do have an opinion, but I’ll hardly share it in an open forum. My only option for staying alive is to pretend to go along with their plans for me and bide my time until I can figure a way out.

“As I have told Ms. Darcton, I will submit to the will of the Ten and the Council on this matter. I wasn’t aware of any other sons, though. Are there more fathers of my children running around Garden City? On Earth that kind of thing would really be frowned upon.” I look to Ethan who appears as confused as I am.

“She hasn’t told you?” Mr. Stockly says. Told me what? I shake my head. Vienna stands up and starts to cross the room, shaking her head and wagging her finger. She looks like she wants to hurt him. “Both Blake and Ethan are Ms. Darcton’s biological children. After Ethan was born with difficulties, more children were created to ensure a healthy line of Original offspring. Why do you think Ms. Darcton agreed to spare Blake’s life without consulting with the rest of the Ten and the Council?”

A full-scale argument breaks out in the Council room. I’m too floored to contribute anything more. Ethan looks extremely pale. Blake is his brother. I will be forced to Cleave one brother over the other, and there’s no way that can end with warm and happy feelings in the family.

“I didn’t know,” Ethan says, his voice hoarse. “I swear it.”

“I should have seen it. He has your mother’s eyes.” How could I have missed it? It makes sense. They even have similar facial expressions. “Family reunions could be fun, especially if we invite all forty kids.”

Ethan doesn’t look amused at my twisted sense of humor. “How can you joke about it?”

“And my options are?” I smile and jab him in the ribs. “It’s actually kind of funny in a dark comedy kind of way. You and Blake are brothers and have collectively fathered forty of my children.”

“I wonder how many other unknown siblings I have.” Ethan muses. “What if I had stayed here on Thera and Cleaved one of my sisters by accident? That’s some seriously sick stuff.” We both chuckle and then return our attention to the escalating fight in the center of the room. It has gotten so intense that security personnel have their guns raised, safeties off, and ready to fire if needed.

“At a minimum, I demand you bring Blake Sundry here to address the Council and Ten. He needs to be thoroughly vetted regardless of your unilateral pardon,” shouts Mr. Stockly.

“You are in no position to make demands, Paul,” Vienna says.

“Really. Should we take a vote? I wonder which side would get the most support.”

“What on Thera do you think you could accomplish by such an interrogation?” Vienna replies. “The Exilers are dead, so understanding their motives and methods will hardly be useful. The situation with the Second Chancers was unfortunate, but we quickly addressed it, and soon, Blake will have no access to any of them to repeat the offense.”

“You think we won’t have threats in the future?” Mr. Stockly asks. “If you’ve convinced yourself of that, then you’re clearly not worthy of the position of Senior Ten. I say, the boy gets brought forth to answer for his sins. Who’s with me?” The crowd applauds, though quiets as Vienna starts typing names into her tablet of those questioning her authority.

“We’ve had thousands of security detail searching, and they can’t find the boy, much less produce him to answer to any of you,” Vienna says. “As best we know, he has left the city. And if he hasn’t, our only hope of finding him is through Kira Donovan, and if she suspects an ounce of harm will befall him, she won’t help any of us.” I love being talked about as if I’m not in the room. She’s right, of course. If the deal dies, so does my cooperation.

“I don’t care if I have to personally search every cave within twenty miles of Thera. I will find the boy! If Ms. Donovan is the key, I’ll be happy to make it clear throughout Thera that Ms. Donovan will suffer if the boy doesn’t turn himself in.” Mr. Stockly has sweat pouring from his head and spit ejecting from his mouth.

Ethan grabs me, pushes me behind him, and yells, “Over my dead body.”

“And mine,” Vienna says.

“That can be arranged if you keep me from finding the boy.”

“How about you stop referring to me as ‘the boy’?” a familiar voice says from the entrance to the room. “You want to talk to me? Well, here I am. Have at me. Just leave Kira out of it.”

I peek around Ethan to confirm that Blake has indeed entered the room. My heart skips a beat as I realize every gun in the room is now trained on him.

Oh crap.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Blake

A half hour earlier

I watch the late evening proceedings of the City Heads meeting from the taping room, fulfilling the duties of my stolen identity, Walter Hunt, Grand Council member. I plan to collect data on the cities and leaders to use in Exile or once back on Earth, but I get distracted when I notice Kira cuddled up in Ethan’s arms in the corner of the room.

Amidst the snugglefest, a butt-ugly man with a large ego challenges Vienna about my pardon. From what I can gather, Vienna Darcton agreed to pardon me. And Kira was somehow involved in this? Seriously? I can’t imagine the things she’d have to agree to in order for Vienna to grant me a blanket pardon. Unfortunately, the ugly dude’s not taking it well and is accusing Vienna of bias.

Then, I hear several things that blow my mind. First, there’s some deal about a whole lot of Kira’s babies being implanted in our Second Chancer friends and both Ethan and me being their fathers—one of us will be the so-called Father of Thera. Second, Kira has agreed to be Cleaved to one of Vienna Darcton’s sons and to let The Ten choose for her. And third, I’m one of the sons. Vienna Darcton’s supposedly my mother and Ethan’s my half-brother. Gads almighty, help me. Fourth, a good chunk of the people in that room want me dead and are willing to use Kira as bait to trap me into answering for my part in the rebellions—of both the Exilers and the Second Chancers.

I start pacing the small room. Why didn’t Kira tell me about the babies and her deal with the devil? She and Ethan look as shocked as the rest of them about Vienna Darcton being my DNA donor. My brother is shielding Kira from Mr. Stockly, the Ten bully. But I know, if the tide turns and Mr. Stockly gains momentum with the Council and other City Heads, that Kira, Ethan, and Vienna are not safe.

It’s time to trust my instinct and hope that Vienna’s blood oath with Kira runs thicker than the stream of dissent in that room. I use my passkey to access the conference room.

“How about you stop referring to me as ‘the boy’?” I say in a loud voice as I enter. “You want to talk to me? Well, here I am. Have at me. Just leave Kira out of it.”

At least a hundred guns shift from Ethan and Kira toward me in an instant. I ignore them and walk down the stairs and towards Vienna Darcton and Mr. Stockly, outstretching my hand to shake theirs. I don’t think they were expecting me since they seem to be a little tongue-tied.

“I’m Blake Sundry,” I say. “Apparently I’m your biological son,” to Vienna, and to Mr. Stockly, “I guess I’m your worst nightmare, though I’m confused as to why.” I’d never seen Vienna Darcton up close, but I have zero doubt that we share DNA upon this close inspection. I share her eyes and facial shape.

Vienna gives me a tight-lipped smile. “You’ve been elusive. We’ve had a lot of people looking for you—for your own protection, of course.”

“Of course. My father and his cohorts take out a chunk of the city, and you’re worried about protecting me? I believe that.”

“Where were you during the attack?” Mr. Stockly asks me.

“I was at Headquarters,” I respond. “But my only goal was getting Kira out alive. My father took her captive. Thankfully, I ran into Brad Darcton who agreed to try to get her out safely if I created a diversion.”

“What diversion?” Vienna and Mr. Stockly say in unison.

“I blew out the glass wall behind my father. I apologize for the damage, but it was the only thing I could think of.”

“Let me get this straight.” Vienna starts pacing. “You ran into Brad, and he told you to create a diversion. You obeyed this, even though your actions resulted in the death of your father?” They both look incredulous about my claims.

I shrug my shoulders. “Just ask the security detail that was with him at Headquarters. They witnessed our conversation.”

“Okay, so even if you’re telling the truth about what happened at Headquarters…what about the Second Chancers? How do you explain away your actions there?” Mr. Stockly asks.

“Sorry about that. It was stupid. I wanted to dish back a fraction of the suffering Tristan and Briella caused Kira. And, perhaps, I was trying to deflect some of the anger about my part in getting my dad and so many others killed, although I’m not trained as a psychologist, so it’s hard to know for sure.” I use a voice meant to imitate the school counselor they’d had me see after the explosion at the Goodington’s.

Paul Stockly isn’t amused. He must think I’m mocking him. The creases in his forehead deepen as his anger increases and his voice raises. “Your father killed my Cleave.”

“I’m not here to rationalize my father’s actions, and I’m very sorry for your loss. Obviously, I disagreed with my father’s tactics, or I’d have never helped Brad Darcton. All I can say is that my father felt his cause was just, and I can empathize. I grew up with the Exilers, and our circumstances were pretty horrible. Eventually, my father got my sister and me to Earth, but his goal was to bring me back and bring down the Second Chance Institute. He blamed the SCI for my mother’s—” I pause for a moment to correct my mistake, “or who I thought to be my mother…her death.”

“So, you admit that you came back here to commit treason against the SCI?” Mr. Stockly twists my words even if his interpretation is the truth. Albeit a rash decision to enter this room, my intention was to calm the dissension, not further fuel it.

“Please, separate my father’s intentions for me with my own actions,” I say. “I didn’t realize until I returned to Thera that my father was working with an extremely militant offshoot of the Exilers. I opposed my father’s plans, siding with the Survivalist Exilers who want peace and coexistence without violence. They are no threat to you.”

“Are we really going to listen to this?” Mr. Stockly turns to the crowd. “This boy admits to coming here to destroy us. I demand justice, and I demand it now even if it requires forcibly removing Vienna Darcton from her post on the Ten.”

Within moments, security guards surround Vienna, face outward, and point their weapons at Mr. Stockly. Ethan and Kira both run to act as my human shields, saying the dissenters will have to kill them first to get to me. The guards that are sympathetic to Mr. Stockly’s cause have all three of us in their sights. The two sides shout loud threats to one another.

“This is not your fight,” I say to Ethan and Kira. “I can’t let you risk your lives to protect me.”

“Uh, I’ve always wanted the opportunity to say this. Shut up, brother.” Ethan glances back at me with a sly grin.

“Yeah, shut up, Blake.” Kira grabs my hand and squeezes it tight.

The stalemate continues for several minutes, no one wanting a repeat of the Militants’ slaughter but the threats of a repeat hanging in the air. At its most tense point, and when I’ve sweated out every bit of liquid from my body thinking I’m a dead man, a third contingent enters the room, and I about have a heart attack when I see the people in it.

“What the hell’s going on here?” a commanding voice asks. “Everyone lower your weapons now.” Both sides are slow to comply. But when they see that a new security detail that has entered who plans to execute all of them if necessary, they do as they are told. “So, sister. Are you going to explain? I got your message about the attack on the city, and so we came early,” the man says to Vienna Darcton, motioning for her protective security detail to part. I crane my neck to get a closer look at the man who resembles my “mother.”

But, his sister? How is that possible? The man speaking is a California Senator and the United States Democratic Presidential frontrunner candidate. He’s Vienna’s brother? That would make him my uncle. With him are the current United States Secretary of State and a whole host of other people who I learned about in my government class at Carmel Valley High. Are they part of the American delegation due for the second night of the City Heads’ Meeting? They are all Daynighters? What the hell? And my dad thought he could take these guys on, the fool.

“Henry,” Vienna exclaims. “It has been too long. We have much to discuss.”

“I can tell.” He scans the room, an angry scowl on his face. “Well, don’t keep us waiting.”

Kira, Ethan, and I listen as Vienna dispassionately tells the events of the last week to the American contingent. She doesn’t leave anything out, including my role leading up to and during the Militant attack, her deal with Kira to pardon me, what I told the Second Chancers, and particularly, Paul Stockly’s demands for my immediate execution and Vienna’s removal from the Ten. She allows Paul Stockly to defend his actions, and we watch as he backpedals from his harsh stance.

“I see,” Henry King says after hearing the whole of it. “Well, let me meet them.” He turns around to look our way and then warmly embraces Ethan. “Ethan, so good to see you. About ready to head back to law school and follow in your uncle’s footsteps?”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan responds. “Uncle Henry, let me introduce you to Kira Donovan and Blake Sundry.”

Kira immediately steps forward to shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you Senator King. I’d say I’m surprised to meet you here, but not much shocks me these nights.” If she’s remotely nervous to meet him, she doesn’t show it.

“You are stunning. I can see why my nephew…or should I say nephews are so smitten with you,” he says to Kira before turning to me. “And you must be my more notorious nephew, Blake?” He offers his hand.

“I guess so.” I take hand to shake it.

“You have her eyes.” I assume Henry is speaking of Vienna Darcton. He looks me square in the eye. “Do you have anything to add to your mother or Mr. Stockly’s accounts of Garden City happenings?”

“No. I think your sister…uh, my mother accurately covered things.” I’m not willing to give any credence to Mr. Stockly’s fantastical take. One of the member’s of Henry King’s security detail taps Henry’s shoulder and whispers something in his ear. Henry nods to him. The man then cocks his weapon, releases the safety, and puts a bullet through Paul Stockly’s head. The room silences after a collective gasp.

“Would anyone else like to break protocol, challenge the established line of authority, or fuel further dissension in this room?” Henry looks around. No one appears to take the bait. “Because my head of security has reviewed the tapes of the last half hour and has a list of those of you who were sympathetic to Paul Stockly’s poison. I do believe that those who commit treason are subject to immediate Exile or execution.”

Henry directs his head of security to take me into protective custody while my fate is discussed and asks Ethan to watch over Kira.

As we are ushered out of the room, I hear “Uncle Henry” say, “Well then, I believe we all have much to confer about. New members of the Ten and Council must be appointed. I want to personally hear each City Head’s plan to prevent similar attacks from happening worldwide, and we have decisions to make on furthering our plans on Earth’s soil. Let’s get to it. I hope no one was hoping to sleep today because we’re not leaving until every matter is resolved.”

Five days later

“How’s solitary confinement treating you?” My brother, Ethan, has come to visit several nights after I was sealed in the detention facility. Considering the circumstances, my room’s pretty nice—other than the mirrored wall which indicates I’m being watched at all times. I get fed regularly, and I have a treadmill, free weights, and a comfortable bed.

“It hasn’t been all that solitary,” I respond. “A lot of people have questions for me. So, how’s Kira? She’s notably missing off my visitor log.” I’ve had oodles of time with my mother and Henry King as well as the other remaining members of the Ten. They were nice enough to let me know that Kira has been staying with Ethan.

“Not by choice, I assure you. Until tonight, we’ve been banned from visiting,” he says. “She’ll be here soon.”

“You are here first to stake your claim, then? She’s due to Cleave one of us, so I assume you prefer that it be you.”

“I did see her first.” He grins. “But I don’t think it is up to me to make that decision.”

“What do you mean you saw her first? She didn’t even meet you until I went missing during the flash flood.”

“Not true,” he tells me. “We met the night of the Goodington party. It was love at first sight, for me. She went running off after she caught Tristan and Briella kissing. I tried to catch her and give her a ride home. But then the explosion happened, and you carted her off. After, my father banned me from pursuing her until she’d adapted to Theran soil and the Ten could agree on who was her most suitable Cleave.”

I pause a moment. So now it all makes sense. Ethan’s perfect girl was Kira. The perfect guy Kira spoke of who she met at a party—that was Ethan. She’d known him all along. How shocked she must’ve been when he showed up again, and she learned he was a Darcton. That must’ve killed the fantasy a bit, although, after spending all that time “playing” his girlfriend, she seems to have forgiven him for his bloodline.

“So why did you let me fall for her if you were already head over heels?”

“As I said, I was banned from seeing her until she’d acclimated and met the Second Chancers. The consequences had I disobeyed would have been deadly. And, by that time, you two were already spending time in the canyons, and the general sentiment was that you’d Cleave ‘any time now.’ I figured I’d lost my chance.” He shakes his head. “But then you disappeared, and my father ordered me to show her the video of Tristan and Bri and to take her home for a break. We got to be good friends.”

“That’s all?”

“She played along with the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing while we were back on earth because she had to. She’d never betray you willingly.” He frowns at me. “She’s not like that.”

“But you really love her?”

“Yes. I do,” he says. “More than you can imagine.” Oh, my imagination’s been going wild about you and Kira for a while now, so I think I’m all caught up.

“And she loves you?”

“I hope so, but I don’t know. I’ve never asked her directly. I know she cares for me. She surely loves you. That, she has told me many times.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

“So, where does this leave us? Two brothers after the same girl. We’ve both fathered her children. Doesn’t look like it’ll end well.” I cross my arms.

“I will abide by whatever she decides,” Ethan says. “The choice is hers. I refuse to interfere with her free will.”

“That’s the thing though. It doesn’t sound like she does get to decide. She made some deal with your—our—mother to let the Ten decide who she Cleaves. How could she do that?”

“She did it to save your life. That alone should tell you how much she loves you.” He looks jealous, as if she wouldn’t do the same for him. I think he underestimates how much Kira cares for him.

“Well, I don’t stand a chance given what I’ve done to the SCI, and the fact ‘our’ mother will clearly favor you over me. Being my egg donor doesn’t really create a strong mother-son bond.” I pace the room.

“From what I understand, Kira offered to Cleave you on multiple occasions, and you chose your cause over her.” He’s right, but I glare at him anyway. He continues, “Besides, our mother will do what’s best for Thera, not for either of her sons. She’s not super maternal, if you know what I mean. She still has major issues with my ‘faulty genes.’” No wonder I have trouble with relationships. Between my mother and my father, I’m lucky to not be an emotion-free robot.

I stop my pacing and stare at him. “You have to promise me to treat her right if you Cleave her.”

“Likewise to you,” Ethan says to me, though it floors me that he hasn’t gone running to our mommy to make sure he wins her hand. Why would he give in so easily? Ethan interrupts my thoughts with an unexpected question. “Do you love her? Like in the ‘she’s the only one for me’ sense?”

My brother is such a sap. I tell him, “I don’t buy into the whole ‘there’s only one for me’ thing, nor do I believe in ‘love conquering all or being all’. I’ve done the love thing before and gotten burned. But, as much as I’m capable…yeah, I guess I do love her. I just have to keep it all in context. I can’t let the entire world go to hell because of it.” I surprise myself by admitting this to Ethan. I expect him to tell me that it’s not enough, and that she deserves better. He’d be right. I do love Kira. But, I also love the cause and the people who cared for me in my youth and who are suffering as we speak.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I may not have asked for it or wanted it, but you are my brother and that means something. Don’t ever forget that.” I don’t know what to say, since I didn’t ask for this, so I just nod. We hear a knock, and within seconds, the door is open, and Kira enters. She looks surprised to see Ethan here, and it creates an uncomfortable moment where no one knows what to do.

“I’ll see you both later,” Ethan says. He looks Kira right in the eye, and I can see she is guilt-ridden by our triangle.

Once the door is closed, she gives me a hug and a lingering kiss on my cheek. “Hey. How are you doing?”

“Not too bad for a prisoner,” I respond.

“What were you thinking? Why didn’t you just leave the city?”

“It’s such a nice place, and I’ve gotten rather attached,” I joke. “Plus, I wasn’t able to find a good bed and breakfast to book outside the Eco barrier.” She smiles at that. I have missed her smile—everything about her.

“I’m guessing you have some questions for me.” She stares down at her feet.

“I think I’m all caught up on the multitude of omissions on your part—the deal you struck, the babies and the like,” I state. “But I did find out one new tidbit tonight. That ‘perfect’ guy you met at the Goodington party was Ethan, wasn’t it? And the ‘perfect girl’ he’d told me about was you.”

“I guess. I’m sorry,” she replies. “I met a handsome, charming stranger at the party. I didn’t act on my feelings because I was tied to Tristan, and then Ethan disappeared. I figured him for dead. The more I remembered him, the more perfect he became. That doesn’t mean he is perfect. That bubble burst long ago.”

“Do you love him?” I ask.

“I love you—if I even believe in the institution of love anymore.” She looks up into my eyes. “That said, I know that being in love doesn’t automatically lead to a lifetime of happiness.” Everything that has happened has broken her, or she just doesn’t want to admit to her feelings for Ethan.

“Trust me. Love exists. I love you. Ethan says he loves you.” She bites her lip at the mention of Ethan and starts to sway side to side a bit. “And I think you love him.”

“Perhaps, but it’s not relevant. Is it? Tonight, the Ten will determine which one of you I Cleave and when and how I live my life,” she says. “They don’t care who I’d rather be with.”

“You agreed to that.” I regret the words as they leave my mouth. She did it to save me.

“Yes. And I’d do it again under the same circumstances.” She has a dead serious expression on her face.

“Well, screw the deal. If they Exile me, come with me. We can make our own future.” She pauses and sinks her head.

“You know that won’t be an option, Blake. As much as I’d love to run away from everything and be with you, I can’t leave the people I care about, knowing they won’t be safe.”

“Even if that means we can’t be together?” I bite down hard on my lip.

“Even so,” she responds. “But you can choose to stay, and then there’s always a chance.” She runs the back of her hand down my cheek which sends shivers of desire down my spine.

“You want me to stay here and watch while you Cleave Ethan?”

“You don’t know that’s what is going to happen.”

“Perhaps that’s what you want anyway,” I mumble. “You can have pretty little babies together who can grow up to be the ‘future of Thera’ and who can continue the SCI’s grip on the Second Chancers.”

“Stop it.” She fumes. “I had a choice and chose to protect the people I care about. You have a choice. The Ten will have their choice. I don’t know if all those things will match or not, but I do know that I’m not giving up on anything, so neither should you. Come here.”

She drags me to the corner of the room behind the treadmill—perhaps the only spot in the room shielded from view through the mirror—and she straddles my lap, facing me. To my surprise, she removes her shirt to reveal her shimmery party tube top. The last girl that revealed herself to me in party attire was Bailey, and I remember where that led. I still feel a little guilty that I never told Kira what happened.

At first I think that Kira’s attempting, yet again, to get me to Cleave her. That is not the case. In fact, despite her position atop me, she’s being a little robotic. She’d never go back on her deal and risk my life. And we both know they won’t let us stay “hidden” for long. She points to her stomach where she has drawn an elaborate diagram and instructions in what appears to be…makeup? The picture looks like a bicycle wheel, but when I see what she has written, I understand the message she’s trying to communicate. Ms. Kira Donovan has discovered the SCI’s Achilles heel. When the SCI banned paper and pencils, they forgot that other methods could be used to communicate if necessary.

“Commit it to memory,” she whispers as she pretends to nibble on my ear. I gladly oblige, my mind whirring with the implications of what she discovered.

A couple minutes later, the door opens, and the security guard informs us we’re out of time. She slips back on her shirt and gives me a chaste kiss goodbye.

“I do love you, Blake. I know it’s not enough, but don’t ever forget that.” A tear escapes one of her eyes and runs down her cheek.

I try to stave off my tears until she leaves because I fear the security guard is right. The Ten will make sure that our time is up—permanently.

When a security guard comes to fetch me at 0200 hours and leads me on a convoluted route to a massive field of solar panels, I’m positive I have a date with a firing squad. At least, I’ll be dying with Kira’s taste on my lips. Instead of finding men with guns, however, I’m surprised to be greeted by my mother and Ted Rosenberg.

“Walk with me,” my mother requests. Ted leaves with the security guard, and my mother and I stroll through the solar panels. “We’ve come to a decision about you, Blake.”

“Firing squad? Hanging?”

She chuckles. “No. Actually, we’re giving you a choice.”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” I mumble.

“You can choose to stay in Garden City and assist me in my work at Headquarters…assuming you agree to pledge strict obedience to all the Theran Canon. Or, if you feel you can’t put aside your feelings for the Theran government and abide by the Canon, you can choose to leave Garden City…self-exile, if you will, and the Ten will agree to not pursue you and to let you live in peace.” She stops to study my reaction.

I’m floored. Seriously? In return for my pledge of loyalty, she is offering me a job at the SCI? As her “assistant”? I have trouble believing the Ten will trust me to leave without staging another rebellion. Or, what if I leave Thera and out the SCI on Earth? I’m not buying it.

“What is the catch? And what about Kira? Who does she Cleave?” I ask.

“The catch of you staying is that there are still many on the Council and Ten who feel you are guilty of treason and who may not be your biggest fans here. Your life could be at risk,” she says. “The catch of you leaving is that those same people will be constantly leery of what you may do in the future. And could construe any actions you might take…as an act of war against us. You’d have to be very careful to live out your life without any thought of us.”

I pause to take it in. What would life be like working with Vienna? Would I be making her coffee? Taking dictation? Having Mommy and Son Sunnight brunch together? I shudder at the thought. Being at the Ten’s beck and call doesn’t exactly sound like a picnic. Would there be benefits? A passkey to the city models, perhaps? Free rein throughout Headquarters? The possibilities are there. But, would the Ten trust me enough to give me any leeway and not shadow me all night, every night? I have to weigh the potential pros with the most certain cons—and the personal assistant option against life in Exile with Doc Daryn and the Survivalists—what a choice.

“And Kira?” I ask.

“If you decide to stay, the Ten will decide between you and Ethan by dawn,” she explains. Her expression is blank. Does that mean she has made up her mind? Will the negative sentiments about me put me out of the running, or will Ethan’s faulty DNA kill his chances? They do seem to be all about DNA here, the SCI being busy building a master race of Original-blooded Daynighters, many of whom will be my children.

“Who would you vote for…for her Cleaving?” I want to see if I can get a reaction one way or the other. Her expression doesn’t change.

“You are both equally qualified. You both love her. I’m torn, as any mother would be, between two sons. With Ethan, her long-term future would be with him on Earth. With you, she’d stay on Thera and raise my grandchildren here. I haven’t decided either way.”

“What do you mean with Ethan she’d be on Earth?” I ask.

“Ethan’s attending law school, and his path is to follow in my brother’s footsteps in the government there. Naturally, his Cleave would be at his side.” Yet another thing Kira didn’t mention. That means, if I stay there’s a good chance I have to see Kira Cleave Ethan. Then, I’d get to watch as they both leave to live happily ever after on Earth while I’m stuck with my mom and her minions. To me, that sounds worse than living off bugs in Exile. Sheer hell. What if I’m wrong, though, and I do have a chance with Kira? Can she be the one for me forever? Unbidden, I feel Bailey’s ice-cold blue eyes glare at me in my subconscious, reminding me that I already failed once.

We’ve gone in a giant circle, and I can see Ted and the security guard up ahead. As we approach them, I ask, “Why’s Ted Rosenberg here?”

“Because Ted Rosenberg is a true traitor to Thera. He played both sides, trying to set himself up with the eventual victor. He’s the one who should have a date with the firing squad,” she says, loud enough for him to hear.

Apparently, Ted’s not ready to say goodbye. He makes a run for it, darting between two solar panels. I can hear his hefty breathing as he hikes his heart rate beyond acceptable levels. The security guard dashes after him.

Vienna chuckles at Ted’s flight. “Isn’t Ted a little touchy tonight. I wasn’t serious about the firing squad. He’s headed for Exile.”

“That should go well.” I smirk. “I’m sure he’s far more hated there than here. I’ll go help round him up.” I head down a parallel row to try to corner him from the opposite side. I’m sure I can run double his speed without even trying.

I keep light on my feet and listen for his shuffle. He appears to be zigzagging between panels in an effort to hit the outer edge where he’d hope to disappear into the canyon. I make some calculated turns to reach the edge before he does and then slow my pace, so I can determine exactly which row to intercept him. His shuffles have slowed. If he’s smart, he has stopped to gauge where the guard and I are. Perhaps, he’ll even climb up into one of the panels to wait us out. There must be ten thousand or more of them in this field, so it’d take forever to check them all without bringing in every troop in the city.

I slowly crouch down and look through the rows for his feet, betting he’s not so smart after all. I’m right. I see him ten feet in, five rows up, trying to blend into the base of a panel. He’s probably just catching his breath before making a run for the canyon. Kira would get a kick out of watching Mr. Potatohead try to escape. I can understand why he’d try, but the odds are not with him. Of course, Ted Rosenberg’s as arrogant as they come, so he has likely convinced himself it is possible.

In less than twenty-seconds, I’m in the row next to him. I slowly and weightlessly inch to the panel in front of him.

“Give it up, Ted,” I advise. I hear the click of the guard’s gun, indicating the guard has him covered on the other side. Rolling towards Ted, I clip his feet and send him barreling backwards.

Between belabored breaths, Ted says, “Vienna’s lying. I never betrayed the SCI. It was your father and the Exilers I deceived. That was my job. Brad Darcton assigned it to me.” As Ted nervously twitches, I see his chin fat jiggle. I remember how Kira used to joke about doing liposuction on Spud’s fat chin, and I wish I was back with her and not here.

“You should be ashamed of yourself on all accounts. I hope you had a good meal tonight, Ted. How do you feel about slop?”  He’s up on his knees now and begging the security guard. He still thinks he’s going to be executed. The SCI, however, will be kinder than my father would have been—my father would have put the bullet through his brain. Ted lured my father and the Militants into the city knowing they’d be ambushed, knowing they couldn’t win.

“Please, please, please spare my life. I’ll tell you everything I know about the Exilers. Everything you need to take them out.” He whimpers and sweat pours from his face. “I’ll do anything you need. Anything.”

Vienna walks up behind him with a second security guard and says, “Shut up, Ted. I said that you should face a firing squad, not that you were going to.” Ted sucks in a chest full of air and then bows down at her feet. She steps back. “Instead, I have a bright orange jumpsuit and nightpack with a night’s worth of food. Nathaniel’s going to take you outside the city. Good luck, Ted. I hope the Exilers are as forgiving for your trespasses as we’ve been.” I watch as Nathaniel, the security guard, cuffs, and blindfolds him. Ted screams as he’s dragged off. Before they get to the edge of the canyon, Nathaniel tires of the wailing and uses a piece of duct tape to quiet Ted for the rest of their journey.

Ted probably does deserve Exile. He flagrantly broke dozens of Canon rules with his attempt at being the double-agent. My problem is that there’s no due process to the SCI’s law. Ted had no trial, no jury of his peers, and no due process. As crappy as the American government can be, democracy still has merit. The SCI assumes that the few know better than the masses. They test their methods on unknowing and unsuspecting Second Chancers. As with any dictatorship, they need to be stopped. I just have to figure out the best way to make that happen with the information Kira gave me.

My mother approaches me. “I need your decision, Blake.” I know what I need to do, but it’s still hard to do it. As it is any time you have to pick in a lose-lose scenario. As much as my choice sucks, the alternative’s unbearable.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ethan

“You never had a heart defect.” Dr. Christo has never been one to mince words, but he has never managed to utter a doozy like this one. He’s dressed head to toe in such a dazzling white that it blinds me. I struggle to suck life-giving air into my lungs.

“That’s impossible,” I finally manage to say.

“Thera is at a critical juncture. The Ten and Council have been decimated, leaving the most extreme in place. It’s time you know the truth.”

“And you’re telling me the truth is that I had a dozen surgeries for a non-existent heart condition?” I ask incredulously.

“It was necessary to make it appear that you both had a defect and needed constant medical care—for your protection. And to give me complete, unquestioned access to you.”

“You’re the one who had me locked up for ten years?” I accuse.

He begins to pace back and forth in my living room. Like, Jax, he too has the capability of blocking surveillance, so our conversation is secure.

“The Grand Council and the Ten had lost focus. They were perverting the purposes of the grand design behind Thera and the Second Chancers. I had to take action. At the time, I ran the Assisted Pregnancy lab. Your mother and father had ‘won’ the lottery and were due. I used your mother’s egg, but…fertilized the egg with…I’m your biological father, Ethan. You have both ARB and pure Dark DNT in you. But your parents couldn’t know. And the ARB and DNT don’t always co-exist well, so I needed to treat you. Hybrids are…rare and exceptional. You have…undeveloped talents.”

He lets the news sink in. I sit down on the couch and bury my head in my hands. Brad Darcton, the man presumed dead in the attack on Headquarters, is not my father? Dr. Christo is? Which would make Jax…my brother? I’m some sort of DNA hybrid concocted in a lab?

After a minute taken to get my breathing under control again, I ask, “Why? Why would you do that?”

“You’re destined to realign the Ten and Grand Council to their intended purposes. It’s almost time to right the wrongs of the Ten. To be trusted by the SCI, you had to be a pure Dark. To be trusted by me and the rest the Arbiters, you needed to have the ARB marker. I trained you from your youth for this purpose.” He looks so proud of his accomplishment.

“And if I say no to being your ‘sleeper agent’ in the SCI?”

“You won’t. You can’t,” he says.

“Are you threatening me? If so, you’re no better a father than Brad Darcton was.”

“I’m nothing like Brad Darcton. With what you know about the SCI…what they are doing to the Second Chancers…to the Exilers…to the people you love. Can you turn your back on a chance to fix it?” He’s right. Kira would never forgive me if I ignored the opportunity to repair that which is broken.

“All those couples are carrying Kira’s and my children? What happens when my ARB-marked blood mixes with Kira’s?”

“Not for you to worry about” he responds. “You have other concerns. From here on out, things will move quickly. Your Uncle’s in town, and they are scrambling to fill spots on the Ten and Council. If offered a spot, you’ll take it without hesitation. I will advise you as I am able, and Jax and I will train you to develop your latent…talents.”

“Jax knows?” I ask. “For how long? And what talents?”

“He has always known,” he mumbles. “It would be impossible to keep from him. As for talents, it’s unclear what you are capable of. We’ll have to run tests.”

As disturbed as I am by the turn of events, I’m equally intrigued. If I could do a fraction of the things Jax is capable of, it would be amazing. Life changing.

“And, Ethan,” Dr. Christo tells me. “You’re to keep this to yourself. No one can know. The future of Thera depends on it.”

“Hey, bro. I hear a Cleaving may be in your future.” A very smug Jax has arrived, uninvited and unannounced. Kira has been staying with me but is taking a longer-than-approved shower.

“You bastard,” I reply. “You knew about me all along and never breathed a word.”

“You,” he says, poking me in my chest, “did not have clearance. Besides, all the clues were there. You just failed as detective.”

“We’re brothers.” I still can’t believe it. “I seem to be accumulating those lately.”

“So I’ve heard. Half-brothers, though,” he corrects. “I’m anticipating a few half-brotherly quarrels in our future.”

“Well, then, I guess nothing will change.” As much as Jax riles me up, it’s hard to stay mad at him. “We’re always arguing.”

“Over trivial things, thus far. Imagine what happens when brothers clash over important things,” he muses. What, like Blake and I have been doing over Kira?

“Then we’ll have to hope blood runs thicker than hostility.” I’m not convinced that if they Cleave Blake to Kira that I’ll be able to get past it and forgive him.

“About that Cleaving…Think they’ll pick you?” Jax asks.

“I have no idea. If they don’t, I’ll be in no condition to help you, your father, my Uncle, or anyone else for that matter. I’ll find some remote area on Earth to curl up in a ball and wither away.”

“You’re being dramatic as always, Ethan. You hardly even know Kira. Have you talked to her?” he asks.

“She knows how I feel. I can’t force her to feel the same.” I shrug.

“She does,” he says. “She has got a big heart. Big enough to love more than one man utterly and completely.”

“Don’t remind me.” I stuff my hands into my pants pockets and rock back and forth to calm my nerves.

Jax pats me on the back. “Got to run, bro. Kira’s done showering, and I’d hate to run into her when she’s in…compromising attire. It’s almost show time. May the best man win, and I think we all know who the best man is.” Well, I know Jax always assumes that he is the best, but I think that between Blake and me, he’d support me.

“Thanks, Jax.”

“Ethan, do you know where my brush is?” Kira yells. I turn around to say goodbye to Jax, but he has already vanished. So, I do the only thing I can—go to spend what may be my last moments with Kira before the Ten make their decision.

“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.”

— Joseph Campbell

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Kira

The knock comes at 0300 hours. Two armed guards tell us that the Ten has requested Ethan’s and my presence at Headquarters immediately. We oblige and follow the men. Ethan holds my hand the entire way, and I’m not sure whether this will be the last opportunity to do so or not. Vienna Darcton visited me earlier to tell me Blake would be given a choice to stay or leave, and the Ten awaited his decision before choosing my Cleave.

I stress over what Blake decided the entire way to the Headquarters building. How will he use the information I passed to him? I—and now Blake—are in possession of a whopper of a secret. The clues came unwittingly from Brad Darcton. I’m sure he’d be rolling over in his grave if he knew that he led me to the information.

Even though I didn’t figure it out right away, the key to the puzzle was an offhand comment Brad made the day he showed us the city models. He bragged that the SCI could never be defeated because of the power within a giant, wheel-shaped structure in the model. It helps with “resource allocation and management for the city” he said.

The resources are people, the structure—a portal—a mega-portal leading to Earth and to every city on Thera. That’s how they could have security forces arrive on demand when Exilers attacked. And how the City Heads arrived for their meeting. The spokes of the wheels are tunnels—the individual portals. When Ethan and I left Earth, we arrived at Earth’s mega-portal. The circular room was paneled, but I saw the seams to dozens of doorways.

Without the capabilities of their mega-portal, the SCI would appear weak and scattered. With it, they can transport goods and people quickly from one place to another without the need of airplanes or complex transportation systems. The ships are used for large shipments and serve as a great decoy, hiding the SCI’s true capabilities.

I repeat the million dollar question in my mind. What will Blake do with the information? Will he stay here so that we can formulate a plan to immediately decentralize the SCI government? Or will he choose Exile? Albeit unspoken, we both know our best chance of getting back into the great hall of city models is to stay on good terms with Vienna Darcton.

Ethan and I are screened at the Headquarters door and then separated. I’m taken to a small room where two armed female guards watch over my “care” given by my regular doctor and nurse. They give me a full physical with more shots. I still hate the needles, but since I seem to encounter them nightly, I’m used to the pain. Once the shots and medications are done with, the doctor gives me another full abdominal ultrasound. Are they going to take more eggs so soon, I wonder? I don’t ask.

Following my medical checkup, I get moved to a giant dressing room where my escorts ask me to dress in a shimmering gold gown in preparation for my Cleaving ceremony. I guess the Ten’s wasting no time Cleaving me off now that the decision has been made as to who. Although I’m hardly ready for a Cleaving to anyone and what that entails, I’m ambivalent about the ceremony itself.

I put on the gown. I’d swear it is spun of real gold. Diamond-like gems cover the tight bodice. The skirt’s full and imitates flowers and leaves delicately laced together. It fits me perfectly as though a master craftsman created it just for me. I feel like a princess about to be crowned queen. Queen of an evil regime, that is.

A kind older lady joins me to do my makeup and hair. When finished, I look like the royalty the Therans claim I am, jeweled gold tiara and all. I stare at myself in the mirror. Despite being masked with beauty, this isn’t at all how I imagined my wedding day as a child. I’m without family or friends. I didn’t get to pick my gown, nor is it white to reflect my virtue. The identity of my groom is a secret. There will be no fancy reception.

Forget expectations. Forget what the Ten think they’ll be dictating for me—just for tonight. The gown is gorgeous and well beyond anything I’d be able to afford. My Cleave will be my family—with my enthusiasm for that being either real or faked, depending on who they pick. And, I don’t need a big reception. I can do this. I signal that I’m ready to proceed. I put on my happy face. No one will know the truth. Everyone will think that it’s the happiest night of my life.

The guards lead me through a series of passageways and tunnels. Blake told me that Cleaving ceremonies were held in the atrium of Headquarters, but given the massacre that happened there and the destroyed glass mosaic, they must have moved the location.

“Please wait here for your escort,” one of the guards says. I nod. We’re at a large carved wooden doorway, an anomaly on Thera with the lack of trees. It’s stunning with each of a dozen panels display a hand-etched garden scene. After marveling at the craftsmanship on the door, I shift nervously as I await my Cleaving, and then I start to pace. What did Blake decide, and who did the Ten pick?

I care about both Blake and Ethan. They’re both gorgeous, smart, and both love me. I’m attracted to both.

Considering I will spend a lifetime with my Cleave, I start to ask myself a series of questions. Who will be more honest? The better father? Be more reliable? More fun? Make me laugh? Who’ll be more stable? Exciting? Put me first? Us first? Family first? Who’ll make me smile when times get tough, which they are bound to? Who will still give me butterflies when we’re both old and wrinkly? Which one can look past my flaws? Which one’s flaws can I look past? Who’ll know what I need and when I need it even before I do? Who has the most substance? Who will I have the most to talk to about? Who is his own man and not a puppet to those around him? Who do I love most? Because, I realize, I do love them both. Unquestionably.

I see Vienna Darcton round the corner to join me.

“You look beautiful, my dear. You will be pleased with both your Cleave and your Cleaving ceremony. I’ve brought the perfect escort to bring you in. It’ll just be another moment.” I bite my lip, hoping she’s right and disturbed that she just commanded me to be pleased with her selection. The sinking feeling grows. Everything else has gone wrong, so I expect this to as well. In my panic, I can’t as much as mutter a reply. Vienna disappears through the door without allowing me so much as a peek inside.

The tears freely flow as my “escort” arrives. He looks confused as to why I am crying, but I can’t help it. The security guard gives him instructions on how to walk me into the room.

“Well, pretty lady,” my father says, looking healthy, happy, and quite alive in a dashing suit with a gold vest. “I guess I’m the lucky guy that gets to take you to meet your Cleave.”

“Thank you. I’d like that so much.” I wipe my tears. I can’t believe Vienna Darcton brought my father here for me. His presence calms my nerves despite opening a previous wound I prefer not remember. Who am I kidding? Remembering what happened to my family at my hands was bound to happen on this night. I slough off the guilt, knowing I must press forward, plastering back on a smile just as my mother taught me to.

The security guard opens the door, and we’re flooded with light as we enter the most spectacular football stadium-sized garden I’ve ever seen, one, I imagine, to be like my ancestors enjoyed, and what I assume the artisans portrayed in the Headquarter’s atrium mosaic and on the garden doors. Even though it’s the middle of the night, the light looks as natural as sunlight, the ceiling like daytime sky—sunny with a smattering of clouds. Chairs have been set up on a central lawn and my schoolmates—and children’s surrogate parents—are all seated. Jared and his Cleave, Leila, are here. I also see my mother. She looks more alive on Thera than she did on Earth. The only thing detracting from the perfection is the armed security detail circling the garden.

My father and I walk along sparkling gold stones towards an altar built of stone, and I take in the scenery of majestic trees and fragrant flowers of every variety. No groom awaits me, but I see Vienna Darcton motioning someone to come down another path to join us. When I see who it is, I have the epiphany I’ve been waiting for. I do love both Ethan and Blake, but I’m not ready to Cleave either of them. Blake’s and my relationship has been mired with lies, deceit, and plans beyond our control. Ethan and I have never even had the opportunity to have a real relationship. It looks, however, like I’m going to get that chance.

Ethan is the one walking towards me. The Ten chose him to be my Cleave, and if I’m going to be forced into a relationship I’m not ready for, I can’t say I’m disappointed with their choice.

Ethan’s devoted, ready to settle down, and wants to have a long and happy life with me. I’ve been attracted to him from the moment I met him and still get butterflies when he’s near and shockwaves when he touches me. He caters to my every whim and will listen to me talk for hours. We have fun, and he makes me laugh. I feel at home when I’m in his arms.

Ethan’s positive characteristics don’t erase my concerns or give me the illusion that it’ll be a “happily ever after” without any work. Ethan has never really opened up. I’ve asked him on multiple occasions to tell me about his childhood, but he has avoided the subject which makes me wonder what’s he hiding. I don’t know what makes him tick, what he likes or cares about, or what motivates him.

An example—Ethan lived with his Uncle Henry when he moved to Earth. Uncle Henry has been his “mentor.” But, Uncle Henry is Senator Henry King, presidential frontrunner. Not only did Ethan never mention this, but I have no idea what Ethan thinks about being forced into politics. Between his parents’ and uncle’s influence, I don’t know if Ethan has been brainwashed to the point of no return. I’ll never be able to fully trust him until he shares his deepest, darkest secrets and thoughts with me.

My biggest fear with regards to Ethan is that he’s like the most glorious shell in the sea, but when I look inside the shell is hollow. Or perhaps worse, that the shell is filled with a standard-issue, Ten-approved, Original-blooded clone of the SCI ideal of a human being.

To have the kind of love where I want to be intimate—to give my Cleave everything I have to offer, I need him to bare his heart and soul. Maybe, given time, we can get there. But I know the Cleaving rules and time is not something we’re allowed. I dated Tristan for a full year and never slept with him. So consummating the whole Cleaving thing? Too much, too soon.

I’m not sure I’ll ever completely get over Blake. He has made a lot of mistakes. He lied to me, deceived me, and kept things from me. I realize it has all been to either protect me or to further the Exiler’s cause. He cares infinitely more about others than he does about himself, and I find that amazing. Blake is exactly what he represents himself to be, flaws and all.

Bottom line—for my sanity, I need to give Ethan my heart and trust that the rest will work out. But, I’m also going to continue to figure out a way to take down the SCI even without Blake’s help. Fact is, Blake exercised his choice, and he didn’t choose me. He chose to leave. He didn’t trust me to help him get the job done. So, while he’s off with the Exilers, far away from the mega-portal, I’ll be here, working on a plan from the inside.

Ethan and I arrive at the altar at the same time and embrace.

“I love you, Kira Donovan.” He strokes my face and pushes a ringlet aside. “You are, and have been since the moment we met, the only girl for me.” He looks incredible dressed in a gold suit with diamond-studded tie to match my bodice.

“And I love you, Ethan Darcton.” Joy washes over his face as he hears me tell him I love him. With that one simple statement, I’ve lifted his burdens and worry.

We hurriedly sign the paperwork, and, then, Vienna Darcton announces us as the Mother and Father of New Thera. We then kiss to loud applause, and in that moment, I feel at peace.

We celebrate for hours in the garden, and, the more time I spend here, the more magical it feels. The garden itself covers twenty acres, per Vienna, and is irrigated by an underground spring that has thousands of tributaries to this garden area, acting as a naturally occurring drip system. I’m astounded by the variety of species of plants and flowers—over twenty thousand—all unique to Thera, in every color of the rainbow. Even the grass area is naturally occurring and has more than a hundred types of grass creating an optical illusion of an image I can’t figure out close up and with so many people on it. The fragrance is sweeter and more divine than anything I’ve ever smelled before.

Ethan steals many moments with me in various secluded spots of the garden. For the first time with him, I don’t hold back, and I feel longing and desire I never knew I had. I wish I could build a hut on the grass area and live here forever, raising a whole host of children that I birth myself. This place could make me forget about the Ten, the Grand Council, the desert canyons, and the cruel undertone of Thera.

I do enjoy the party. Vienna provides a delicious banquet for the guests, full of Theran delicacies, my favorite of these is the marinated quellfish, a tube-shaped shellfish caught off shore that tastes like lobster with the texture of a scallop. Some of the girls are having problems with evening sickness so don’t partake, but it is still fabulous to spend the time with my friends and family, even those who don’t remember me. Tristan and Briella avoid me for a chunk of the time but finally come to offer their congratulations.

“You got a way cooler Cleaving ceremony than we did,” Tristan says. “That is a stunning dress.”

“We’re very happy for you is what Tristan means to say,” Briella pipes in. “But I’m a little confused. Where’s Blake? How’d you end up Cleaved to Ethan?”

“Blake’s gone.” I try not to let my voice crack over it. “And Ethan is great. I love him. It’s all good.”

“Where’d Blake go?” Tristan asks. “And why doesn’t anyone ever say goodbye when they leave?”

“He left the city. And I’m sorry he didn’t say goodbye. He must not have had the chance.” I didn’t get a goodbye either. Once he made his decision they probably didn’t give him that option. Or they did, and he chose not to take it and have to explain himself. I just can’t talk about Blake any more on my Cleaving day. It’s still too fresh and raw.

“Speaking of leaving the city…” Vienna Darcton inserts herself into our conversation. “I have an important announcement to make. Everyone gather around.” She’s wired with a microphone and starts to speak.

“Thanks to everyone for joining us on this momentous occasion. We’ve witnessed the Cleaving of two pure blooded descendants of the Originals. As in the beginning, Dark and Light have been reunited in the same sacred garden at the very altar where their ancestors Cleaved.” She lets the tidbit soak in. A great fable, but I’m not buying that the garden has been here for thousands of years. Given the extreme weather on Thera, how’d they keep the garden alive before they had the technology available to preserve it? How can they prove that the altar was the same one used by the Originals, assuming the Originals even existed as the story was passed down?

“You young Cleaved couples are lucky. You’re carrying Original seed in you, and like with any seed, room must be given to grow and flourish. The Original seed must be spread forth across Theran soil. Each couple will henceforth be transferred to another glorious Theran city this night. I compel you to raise these children with great care to be Thera’s future leaders. You’ll be escorted directly from here to your ships. I wish you great speed and health on your journeys. Please say your farewells, and then proceed to the far door where you’ll check in and be assigned an escort.”

Now, that gets a reaction from the crowd as the news takes hold. They’re all leaving and being dispersed to different Theran cities—cities they probably didn’t even know existed. They line up to say their farewells to me and each other. Ethan holds me upright as I watch my unborn children slip away.

The hardest partings are with Briella and Tristan who, once again, hold no memories of our collective past and with my brother and Leila. I make promises I’ll likely never be able to keep about seeing them again.

“It’s all good, big sis,” Jared whispers in my ear as he hugs me tight.

“Yeah, it’s all good,” I respond.

The teary farewells behind us, everyone dispersed to the far ends of Thera, Ethan and I return to his home in bright sunlight. Some rather risqué lingerie has been laid out for me on the bed, I’m sure to encourage us to consummate our Cleaving as quickly as possible. How’d this happen again? I’m not even eighteen, and I’m Cleaved to a guy I love, but who’ll have to leave for his third year of law school shortly after we consummate the deal. I’m terrified.

“We should wait to do this,” Ethan says to me, reading my mind. “In fact, my mother insists. She waived the decree for immediate consummation. Our Cleave will stand whether we do or not. She thought we…or you…might need some time to digest everything that has happened and be ready.” Maybe my Cleave-in-law is not as bad as I thought. I try not to let my relief be too apparent.

“You’d do that for me?” I ask. My heart’s racing. “I love you, Ethan. I really do. But, we haven’t even had a chance to date for real…there’s so much I still don’t know about you. I want to know everything.”

“I’d do anything for you; give you anything in my power, so this is nothing.” He kisses me gently on the lips. He picks up the lingerie and adds with a smirk, “It’s not that I don’t want this. I want you, Kira. But when we do consummate our Cleave, I want you to want it every bit as much as I do.”

I nod and ask, “Are you still leaving? For law school?”

“Yes.” He wraps his arms around me and buries his head in my neck.

“Can I come?” I ask.

“Unfortunately, no. My mother says you have training to complete here on Thera before we can be together on Earth. It’s going to kill me to be away from you. I hope you know how much I love you.” He lifts his head up and reminds me how I became smitten early on by his blue eyes and dark lashes. “I’ll visit as often as I can.”

“How can you leave? I wish you could just defer your last year of law school until I can return with you.”

“I wish I could, too.” He bites the corner of his lip and looks at me through his curly mess of eyelashes. “Were you disappointed? That it was me and not Blake?” The mention of Blake’s name is like a razor to my wrists which shows on my face.

“I feel terrible about Blake, but no, I am happy it was you. It’s still hard, though.” Tears fill my eyes. I don’t want to hurt him but can’t hide my own hurt.

Ethan invites me to lie down next to him on the bed. I melt into his embrace and enjoy his tender kisses and comfort until he falls asleep. For hours, I lay awake, stroking his hair, trying to wrap my head around all the events that have transpired since I agreed to take the SCI Test.

After being left to ourselves for less than twelve hours, we’re both escorted, again by armed security detail, to the main city lab. Our doctor greets us and ushers us into a procedure room. Once I’m undressed and in a medical gown, the armed guards join us.

“What’s going on?” Ethan asks.

“Now that the two of you are Cleaved, it is time for our Mother and Father of Thera to become literal parents,” the doctor says.

Ethan jumps up and gets in the doctor’s face. “Are you kidding me? We’ve only been Cleaved a night.” The guards draw their weapons, release the safeties, and point them at us. That doesn’t stop Ethan from continuing his protest. “Why do you feel it necessary to do this by gunpoint? Lab rape has become the norm? Where’s my mother? Does she know about this?” Maybe he does have a backbone after all?

“Yes, in fact, she ordered it,” the doctor responds. “Now, the procedure is quite simple and should only take a few minutes.” I bite my lip and hold back the tears.

Ethan’s not taking the news so well. His protest is making the armed guards more anxious and angry. They push him back onto his chair. One of the men holds his arms and puts him in cuffs while the other puts a gun to his head.

“It’s okay, Ethan,” I say to him before addressing the doctor. “Please just tell me that it’s my own child I’ll be carrying.”

“Yes,” the doctor tells me. I settle back on the exam table and let the doctor do his bidding. Lab rape indeed. I’ll be an eighteen-year-old mother just like my friends. And my Cleave won’t even be there to help me with my pregnancy. While he has his head in law reviews, I’ll be puking my guts out and getting as fat as an elephant. He probably won’t even want me by the time he returns from law school.

When it’s all over, the doctor addresses us. “Excellent. That went smoothly, so the embryos should take.”

“Embryos?” Ethan and I ask in unison. “There are more than one?”

“There’s only about a ninety percent chance they’ll both take, but there were two set aside for you,” the doctor explains.

“Who’s the father?” I ask. “You created embryos using both Ethan and Blake as fathers in that lab of yours.”

“I believe there is one from each father,” the doctor says. “That’s what we’d been requested to implant. You know, in case Ethan’s offspring has uh, medical difficulties.”

Forget waiting until the pregnancy takes, I lean over the table and puke on the doctor’s shoes. He deserves it. If my Cleave-in-law were here, I’d puke on hers as well. The consolation of their perverted act is that I’ll be carrying pieces of both the men I love for the next nine months.

Muffled voices awaken me. I freshen up in the bathroom to try to alleviate my puffy eyes. I’d cried myself to sleep. Who’s here, I wonder? I slip out of the bedroom, still in my daygown, and towards the hushed conversation happening in the kitchen. Once I hear who is speaking, I delay my entrance.

“Your Uncle Henry wants to see you at Headquarters. Immediately,” Vienna says.

“I don’t want to leave Kira. She’s upset. I’m upset.” Ethan responds to his mother, “You had no right to impregnate her, much less with babies from two different fathers.”

“I have the right to do as I see fit for Thera’s future. And, I determined that both brothers deserve to have their progeny born by the Mother of Thera. As the grandmother to these babies, I see it as only fair. Besides, would you deprive Kira children if you’re not able to have…healthy children?”

“Do you even know my condition will create unhealthy children? Why do you continue to punish me for something I have zero control over? After all, if my condition is genetic, then blame yourself or my father, not me!” This, I agree with him on. His parent’s—and the SCI’s—obsession with genetically perfect Original children is Hitler-esque in nature.

“Regardless, we need to ensure that Kira is able to have healthy children,” she says.

“Why not let someone else mother and raise Blake’s child?” Ethan asks. “Why does Kira have to give birth to his baby?” Men. Of course, that’s what is bothering Ethan at this point. Not that the doctors implanted the babies against my will, but that I’m carrying Blake’s child.

“I think you’re worrying over nothing. You got the girl, so be happy and deal with it.” Vienna’s voice is cold. “It will all work out.”

“A line was crossed, Mother. I won’t soon forget or forgive.”

Ugh. I decide I’m in no mood for Cleave-in-law time. I quietly return to the bedroom and climb under the covers. The reminder that I’ve got two embryos implanted in me gets the tears flowing. A few minutes later, Ethan comes in to let me know he needs to run over to Headquarters and will be back soon. He’s in shorts and a tank…he must have been planning a workout when his demented mother arrived.

“What’s wrong?” he asks upon seeing my tear-stained face.

“Can we talk when you get back?” I need to ask him all the questions swirling through my mind. After the Cleaving, I feel much closer to Ethan, but there’s still so much I need to know.

“Oh, Kira. I have to go, but I’ll be back as quickly as possible. I love you. We’ll work through all of this. I promise. Trust me.”

Ethan leans in and kisses away my tears and then trails his lips to mine. He parts my lips with his tongue and gently, but passionately, makes me forget what I was so stressed about. I pull him atop me and return his kisses with enthusiasm. I peel his shirt off, so that I can rub his muscular chest and abdomen. We’re both on fire, and I suddenly desire to consummate our Cleaving. I want to be fully his. To indicate I’m ready, I pull off my daygown. His eyes go dark with desire.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes. I don’t want to wait another minute.” If I wait, I’ll change my mind.

And then a knock at the bedroom door with “Ethan, honey, Uncle Henry is waiting. And, Kira, I made you breakfast,” throws a big bucket-o-ice-water on our moment. I scramble to find clothes as Ethan does the same. I wouldn’t put it past that woman to barge in on us.

“I’m so sorry, Kira. I thought she’d left. You…are amazing. I’ll be back soon.”

One more passionate kiss, fully clothed, and he’s out the door. After breakfast, my Cleave-in-Law sticks around to do dishes and make small talk. About a half hour in, she drops a huge bomb on me.

“Ethan’s not coming back,” she tells me. “He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s returning to school earlier than expected.”

“What?” I throw the dishrag on the counter and turn to look at her. “Why?” I need to talk to him and take care of other unfinished business.

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t finalize your Cleaving. I don’t trust that you could spend twenty-four hours a night for four nights together without doing so.” She’s probably right about that. “As Ethan told you, I waived the decree that you had to consummate your Cleaving within twenty-four hours. But, what he doesn’t realize is why I did that.”

“I’d appreciate it if you told me why.” I feel a huge lump in my throat. I doubt I’ll like her twisted rationale.

“Let’s just say that I, as Senior Ten, would prefer to wait until the babies are born before rubber-stamping your Cleaving as a permanent thing. If Ethan is unable to father healthy babies, I want the option to revoke the Cleaving and reassign you to Blake. Because Blake will return, Kira, to take his rightful place as the heir of Thera, whether he realizes it yet or not.” Reassign me? Like switching Cleaves is no different that changing jobs. Blake would never agree to her terms in a billion years.

I’m flabbergasted at the gall of this woman. There’s no end to her evil designs. If I give birth to a defective child, my Cleave-in-Law will toss Ethan aside and re-Cleave me to Blake. I have my poker face on. She, of all people, can never know that I hate her with every fiber of my being. I want her to be surprised when, despite Blake being gone, that I find out a way to cripple the SCI’s mega-portal myself.

“How could you do that to your own son?”

“They are both my sons. And you will be thrilled to know that both have seats on the Ten. Henry is discussing this with Ethan right now. Of course, with Ethan at law school and Blake sowing his wild oats in Exile, I’ll manage their votes for now. But both will rise to their destiny.” She gives me a look of satisfaction at her triumph that makes me want to take a kitchen cleaver to her. Ethan and Blake will be members of the Ten?

“Neither of them would ever agree to that,” I say with indignation.

“I think you’d be surprised at what people will do when the opportunity for power is dangled in front of them. How well do you really know either of them, Kira? How do you know Ethan hasn’t wanted this all along? Or that Blake won’t see the opportunity to change the fate of the Exilers and Second Chancers with a seat on the Ten? How much do you know at all about the true purposes behind what the SCI does?” She runs her fingers across the kitchen knives, just daring me to try to get past her for one.

“That’s ridiculous. They’re not like you,” I respond but, this time, without any oomph behind it. She’s right. Depending on how it’s presented to them, either one could jump at the opportunity and get sucked right into the institution that stands for everything I despise. But maybe they could get me access to the mega-portal? Gah. Now even I’m getting lured. I mentally slap myself.

“We’ll see, won’t we? And, Kira, you’re not to mention this conversation to Ethan. Ever. Or he dies. Is that clear enough for you? And if that’s not enough motivation, please don’t forget your other loved ones who are still here on Thera.” She’d so easily ignore our previous agreement and would have her own sons killed? Any redeeming value I thought this woman had just disappeared.

This is one time I wish that I’d been raised to know a God. Don’t people with faith get through hard things easier? I mean, they can pray or whatever and isn’t that supposed to give them some sort of peace? Oh well. Won’t do me any good here on this God-forsaken planet where we’re all forbidden to speak to or about God anyway.

“Will I get to see Ethan at all? Or is he simply gone for the next nine months—my entire pregnancy?” I ask. “You didn’t let me say goodbye. We had so much to discuss.” And do. I think back to how close we came to consummating our Cleave, and a jolt of desire hits me hard. Nine months suddenly seems like an eternity.

“I think that if we can come to an understanding about this matter, we’ll allow some limited visitation. The terms are simple. One, keep your mouth shut. Two, under no circumstances can you consummate the Cleave before you have my approval. Got it?” It’s another easy choice. I follow the rules, and Ethan, Blake, my parents, and brother live.

“I understand, and I agree to your terms. So, in the meantime, what do I do? Will I be trained in the ‘family business’ and as a Daynighter, as promised, or is that on hold, too? Or perhaps you’d like me to sit around and get fat?”

“At least for the immediate future, you’ll be able to proceed with your studies while your pregnancy is monitored. I’ve arranged for some excellent care…outside Garden City.” Like I need a reminder about the pregnancy. I’m in denial and just waiting for some time to myself to have a complete mental breakdown over my situation.

“What?” I start to hyperventilate a little. If I leave Garden City, it will be pretty difficult to figure out a way to take out the mega-portal.

“Yes. We’ll leave here shortly to go to the port, so that I can drop you off.”

“Where am I going?” I ask. “Why would you send me away?”

“It’s for your safety, my dear. There are reports of some renewed activity with the Exilers outside Garden City. A few of the Militants escaped and are hoping to convince the other Exilers to join their cause.” She reaches out to grasp my arm. “You’ll be in good hands. I promise. I don’t want to take any risks with your life, or the lives of those you are carrying. You and your children are a target for these people, Kira. They think that if they’re able to get to you that they can cause the Theran government harm.”

“You think the Exilers would try to kill me?” I ask. “I don’t believe that.” Not if Blake is with them. Plus, even if a few Militants escaped, there are over ten thousand decent Exilers who will never join the Militants’ cause after hearing from Blake what happened.

“If they get desperate, yes, they could try to kill you. Or kidnap you. Or torture you. Who knows what they are capable of.” She’s exaggerating to rationalize her actions, but I pretend to be fearful for my own life. I know that Vienna really wants me out of Garden City, so that Blake—and Ethan—won’t know where I am. That thought does scare me, far more than any threat from a few Militant Exilers.

I follow Vienna’s instructions to freshen up and back up my tablet to the central servers. Then, I say goodbye to Ethan’s home, a home we shared all of two nights. We take the train to the port, escorted by several armed security detail. The process to get through security takes a good hour, as I’m questioned, fingerprinted, have my blood taken, and wait around while they “transfer my files” to my new jurisdiction. I wish I’d eaten a bigger breakfast. It’s not like they have vending machines or fast food restaurants here to give me a quick fix. Finally, they let me out of the small, dark interrogation room, and Vienna walks me to a large hydrofoil docked at SLOT 5. It looks sleek and modern. I wonder where it was built. It would be so much faster to just take me to the mega-portal.

“I do have some good news for you. There will be some familiar faces on board,” Vienna says with a smile. “It’s always good to have family with you during a difficult time.”

“Family? Who?” What distant relatives of hers will she dispatch to keep me in line this time?

“You’ll join your mother, father, and brother and his Cleave for a while. Plus, you’ll have your own personal instructor and bodyguard—Jackson Christo. And, as we discussed, Ethan will visit as he is able.” I get to be with my family? That’s way better news than I expected.

“Thank you,” I say with enthusiasm and thankfulness. Although I am thankful, and despite her seemingly sweet act, I know that she’s all evil and always scheming.

“You’re welcome. Ah, here he is. Meet Jackson. He will be with you at all times.” She motions to the guy standing next to her.

“Call me Jax. Pleased to finally meet you, Ms. Darcton.” He grins, and I grimace as he gives audible confirmation that I have the same last name as my deranged Cleave-in-Law.

As Jax looks me over, I return the favor. His outfit, which hardly seems standard Theran fare, catches my eye first. He’s fully dressed in glistening white. Pressed white dress shirt, white slacks, belt, and loafers. Jax looks to be Ethan’s age, has disheveled light blonde hair and what I can only describe as light gold eyes ringed with blue. Equally unique and stunning as Ethan and Blake’s eyes, and something I’ve come to expect on Thera. Jax’s skin tone seems unusually golden for the Theran climate, though. He looks like a Nordic god with dimples.

Jax puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Vienna thinks she has me in her pocket, but I assure you that her pocket has a rather large hole. Trust our interests are in alignment and we’ll get along famously.” I smile widely, liking Jax already. Everything about his demeanor calms me.

“Jax, no flirting with Ethan’s Cleave,” Vienna admonishes.

“Relax. Ethan and I are the best of friends. More like brothers,” Jax responds. “You hardly have to worry about me. I would never disrespect a consummated Cleaving.” He turns and winks at me. One of Ethan’s best friends? Perhaps Jax can fill me in on everything Ethan has failed to.

Vienna looks furious but shakes her head and returns her attention to me. “If he becomes a problem, let me know immediately. He’s rather annoying but uniquely situated to train and protect you. You can contact me with any issues using your new tablet. It has extra security and requires your fingerprint to access it.” She hands me the device, and I press my index finger as instructed. Vienna continues, “All your data was transferred. I also added a new folder that I think you’ll particularly appreciate.”

I open a folder marked “Personal” to find pictures of Ethan and Blake. I flip through and can’t hold back the tears. Her gesture was not one of kindness. There are pictures of me with each. Pictures of Blake in Headquarters when he’s not supposed to be there. Pictures of Ethan watching me from afar. Pictures of my Cleaving ceremony. Pictures of Blake in Exile, donned in orange which make my heart go crazy. At least I have proof that he left the city alive. That is heartening. Vienna, however, has no heart.

It’s clear that Vienna wants me to remember every bit of my love triangle and to know that the SCI will always be watching, listening, and controlling. I continue to scroll through, and I come across something that gets my blood boiling—a picture of Blake and Bailey Goodington kissing while in party attire. They’re in a bathroom with the door closed. You have got to be kidding me. I remember that Bri told me Bailey was all over Blake at the pre-mass Cleaving party, but she or he never mentioned that Blake didn’t seem to mind her advances. At all. He threw a temper tantrum over my friendship with Ethan when he so readily gave in to Bailey? I’m clearly a magnet for lying, cheating losers.

“That’s my personal favorite. While you were away and pretending to be Ethan’s girlfriend back home, Blake managed to find company of his own. And now that he has chosen Exile, he very well may run into her again,” Vienna brags. My stomach flip-flops, but I hold a neutral expression.

“So, where am I headed? Which of the cities?” Without understanding the government structure of each, it would be hard for me to pick, but there are definitely cities I saw in scale versions that would be fascinating to visit. Hopefully, my travels will be interesting. It’s crucial for my sanity that I find one bright spot in this. Other than being with my family, which will help immensely. I look to Jax, but he just shrugs.

Vienna says, “I think I’ll leave that as a surprise for now. Only the ship’s pilot and a handful of crew know, for security purposes. I wouldn’t want your location getting passed along to the Exilers.”

“Okay. Then, how long will it take to get there?” Can’t I know anything?

“Don’t worry, Kira. You’ll have suitable accommodations on board, and the crew will provide you with everything you need.” She gives me a kiss on my cheek. I smile and put my hand on her arm. I can pretend to be kind too.

Of course the SCI will provide everything I need. They always do. Everything except a certain and stable future.

Vienna turns to leave, and I’m left standing with Jax. He nudges me. “Well, m’lady. Are you ready for an adventure?” He leans in to my ear and whispers, “After all we have things to learn, plans to make, governments to overthrow, and lands to conquer. You with me?”

He offers me the crux of his arm, and I insert my own arm. “I do believe I am.” Then, silently, we walk together up the gangway to the ship.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Blake

She wants my answer. Now. Vienna Darcton is nervously shifting her weight between her two feet as she awaits my decision.

I stand up to face her. “I’m sorry. I have to choose Exile. Although I’ve gained a much better understanding of the SCI and why they do what they do, I still can’t be a part of it.” And now that I have what I need to take them down, I’m going to go convince Doc Daryn and the Survivalists that there may be a way to victory over the SCI without violence. Kira and I can’t pull it off alone.

“You’re sure of your decision? This means Kira will Cleave to Ethan immediately.” I wince at the vision of the consummation that pops into my head, but, even if I stayed, I’m positive the end result would be the same. At least he loves Kira and will keep her safe.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Very well. Curtis will take you outside the city.” She motions to her security guard. I see that he has orange clothing and a backpack prepared for me. “It was nice to have been given a chance to get to know you. I wish you well. Remember to be cautious in your actions. And, if ever you change your mind, find Ethan. He can bring you back. Goodbye, Blake.” And how do I find Ethan? I guess, reading between the lines, that she is suggesting I use the Exiler-controlled exit portal to return to Earth and find him at law school which is where he’ll shortly be. I’ll take her up on that advice as soon as I have a plan in place and am ready to return.

“I will. Goodbye, Mother.” Without as much as a hug, she turns and walks away. I guess it would be too much to allow me to say goodbye to Kira. Then again, how would I explain that I chose to take the information she gave me and bolt, leaving her to Cleave to Ethan?

I’m led out of the field of solar panels and to a path where two mules packed with supplies await us. I change into my orange attire and put on the backpack. The backpack is at least three times the size of the one they gave Ted and feels like it weighs about a hundred pounds. Curtis blindfolds me, helps me up on one of the mules, and then takes me on what I can tell to be a windy, downward path. Although I have no ability to sense exactly how much time has passed, I’d guess about a half-hour, the last ten minutes of which the wind stopped and the environs smelled musty. I realize once my blindfold is removed that we passed over the Eco barrier and nothing happened. They must have deactivated the section we crossed. Why did it smell so bad?

“The Exiler camp is due north two miles,” Curtis says, handing me the reins to the second mule. “You only have a couple hours before sunup, so make haste. And, good luck.” He hands me a head lantern and compass, and then turns to leave.

“What about the mules?” I ask.

“What mules?” He grins before heading back towards the city by foot. My mother directed Curtis to give me the extra supplies and mules, I’m sure. She wants me as far away from the city as quickly as possible. Perhaps, she does believe my life is in danger. As I watch him approach the Eco barrier, I see a ten foot section of ground open. Curtis enters without looking back, and I see his head disappear. We traveled under the barrier. That explains the musty smell and lack of wind. The section of barrier closes over him, immediately blending with the surrounding barrier, no seams visible. Amazing. All that work trying to find a way over, and the SCI had a way under. They’ve never had to turn off the barrier to Exile folks or send out security details. I stack some rocks ten yards out to give myself a visual clue as to the location in case I ever need to find it again.

Time to leave. I have to rack my memories for clues as to the exact route. Difficult considering the monotony of the vegetation. Thank goodness for the head lantern and compass. Ten minutes into my journey, I hear some moaning and wailing. I follow the sounds until I find Ted Rosenberg curled up into a ball by a Theranberry bush. It looks like Nathaniel didn’t give him mules, a head lantern or compass. As much as I’m tempted to leave him there, I don’t want his death on my hands.

“Want a ride?” I jump off my mule.

“Blake?” He looks up. “Is that you? Please help me.” I don’t trust him to not steal my supplies and the mules, so I gag him and tie his hands and feet. Then I drape him over my second mule. It won’t be a comfortable ride for him, but it’s better than dying an ignominious death in the canyons. I feel bad about gagging him but don’t want to listen to his complaints and rationalizations the whole way. I’m in need of peace and solitude to do some thinking.

With luck, I find the Exiler camp as the sun rises. What I find looks nothing like I remember. There are many times more people living in the canyon than when I lived here. Doc appears to be organizing everyone into teams.

“What’s going on, Doc?” I ask.

Without fully turning around he says, “We’re leaving—at nightfall. There has been a security detail in the area. It’s only a matter of time before they come for us. The Militants stole most of our weapon stash, so we’re unprepared to properly protect ourselves.” Then, finally realizing who I am, he adds, “What are you doing here, Blake?”

“Shouldn’t that be obvious from my bright orange attire?” I turn around to show off my jumpsuit. “I’m the newest Garden City Exile. I missed your nasty grain slop so much that I got myself booted.”

“Who is that?” He points to Ted. “What did you do? Highjack a transport team?”

“Nope. I picked up this loser on the way. He was Exiled immediately before me. Doc, meet Ted Rosenberg. He’s the guy that betrayed my father and the Militants and got them all killed.” Ted’s writhing atop the mule, obviously disturbed that I mentioned his shortcomings.

“Ah yes, I’ve heard so much about you,” Doc says to Ted, motioning for one of his men to help Ted off the mule. To his man, Doc says, “Dave, take our guest into the cave and get him fed. I’ll be there in a moment to have a word with him.” Dave, a burly guy who’s at least seven feet tall, hefts Ted over his shoulder, still gagged and bound, and they disappear into the mouth of the cave.

Doc turns again to me. “So, how’d you get the mules? In all my years, I’ve never seen an Exiler show up well-stocked before.”

“Long story. Let’s just say I have a fairy Gadsmother in the city. Shall we see what she gave us?” I open my backpack and the boxes packed on the mules to find food, water, and medicine. And a note from my mother.

“Dear Blake,

I knew there was a very good chance you’d choose Exile over a life in Garden City with no guarantee of Kira by your side. Although I disagree with your choice, you are my son, and I have no desire for you to die. I asked Curtis to send you off with supplies that a royal son would deserve, and I have had a security detail stock a cave nearby the Exiler camp that should last long enough for you to reconsider your decision.

Fondly,

Vienna”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that security detail.” I hand him the note. “It looks like they were just delivering some supplies for us. Perhaps we should stay put for a while. We have much to discuss.” He lifts his glasses, attached by a chain around his neck, to the bridge of his nose, and reads Vienna Darcton’s note.

Upon finishing, he hands the note back to me. “I agree. We do have much to discuss. Why is this woman claiming to be your mother, and why would SCI security give us food and medicine? Did you negotiate an agreement with them?”

“Sorry, no. I wasn’t really in a position of negotiation before I left.” I give him the cliff notes version of what happened since I last saw him, including the story behind Vienna Darcton being my biological mother. Doc’s thrilled that I have an “in” with the Ten for peace talks. He’s hopeful that he can use Ted to get as much information about the inner workings of the SCI as possible.

I refrain from sharing the information Kira gave me with Doc, for now. Any plan that doesn’t involve diplomacy will take a better sales pitch than I’ve had time to put together. We may want to use the excuse to hold talks with the SCI as a reason to return to the city while secretly being well prepared to cripple the Theran “transportation” system. Doc excuses himself to go in and talk to Ted. I sit at the edge of the canyon and watch the sun rise over the horizon.

I hope I made the right choice in choosing Exile. In retrospect, my decision was pretty rash. I was given the opportunity to become an SCI insider. I could have advocated for the Exilers and potentially had access to the city models and portal system. But the Ten and Council would be watching my every move, expecting me to screw up. And besides, I’m not good at putting on a fake happy face. I’d fail at mock obeisance to Vienna which would give the Ten further fuel to target me.

As much as I don’t want to think about Kira and leaving her behind, I can’t help it. She has likely Cleaved to Ethan by now. Picturing them together isn’t healthy, I decide. I shake my head. My choice is made, and I have to live with the consequences. I could have decided differently.

Doc Daryn’s return interrupts my thoughts. He asks, “Is your mother a good woman? Will she be open to talks with us?” he asks. “I’m not getting a whole lot out of Ted Rosenberg. He thinks we’re going to kill him, so he’s in there bawling.” We both chuckle, knowing that the Survivalists would never execute an Exiler.

“Well, my mother is a member of the Ten of the SCI, so, on the one hand, no. I don’t think she will be open to talks with the Exilers. But, she did right by me by giving us supplies, so I have to hope that there are pockets of good—in both my mother and the rest the leaders of the SCI.” What I’m really thinking is that evil that has taken root and left to thrive will eventually overtake and eke out all the good. At the risk of sounding like my father, I think some weeding needs to be done in the Garden. Instead of killing the “weeds,” I like the idea of a work camp. That would humble the prima donnas. “Do you really think we can find a diplomatic solution to our problems?”

Doc’s wrinkles sink deeper as he crunches his face. He runs his fingers through his long white locks, and I see strands of brittle hair fall. Exiler life has taken its toll on Doc. “Perhaps. If they see us as an ally, we may be able to have a positive impact on their policies.” He’s sticking with his spiel.

“I hope you’re right.”

“Me, too,” he says as he walks back into the cave. I’m concerned. If Earth’s history is any indication, dictators don’t negotiate. If the talks fail, we will have to consider a more drastic approach. Either way, I’m afraid I’m going to have to return to Garden City.

Perhaps, while I’m there on business, I’ll come across a certain girl who I can’t quite get off my mind. Unfortunately, a quite different girl sits down next to me—one that reminds me that Karma remains quite displeased with me.

“Welcome to sooner,” Bailey says.

“Shoot. I’d been hoping for later,” I mumble. “Much, much later.”

She leans in to whisper in my ear. “That’s too bad. I know your plans. And I can help.”

“How can you help me? Or our cause?” I ask.

“Well, Blake Sundry…As it stands, you have a fraction of the Exilers on board, right? What if you had the Second Chancers on board?”

“I tried that and failed.”

“What if you had a Second Chancer who, say, remembered everything—one that the SCI let slip through their clutches by way of Exile.” My head whips around to her so fast, I pinch a muscle in my neck. She’s so close to me that my lips brush hers, leaving me with an annoying tingly sensation.

“You remember? For how long?”

“I never forgot. They always say you’ll never forget your first…” No way. She does have all her memories from before. I suspected, but the implications of the truth have my mind whirring with possibilities.

“Do you remember the transition? How you came through?”

“Every. Last. Bit.” She raises her eyebrows. “People, places, processes. The works.”

“What’s the catch?” I ask. With Bailey, there has got to be a catch.

“We’re partners. Very. Close. Partners. Your daddy’s not around to keep you away from me, so I think we should start over.” She runs her fingers very seductively across my lips.

“After everything you did to me, you want a do-over?” I ask. Unbelievable.

“Yes. Yes I do,” she says. “All that ridiculous drama seems worlds away and lifetimes ago.” Touché.

I turn away and take a moment to contemplate whether I can make a deal with the Wicked Witch of Exile. Can I resume our relationship? Her knowledge can tip the scales in my favor. And it’s not like I’d be cheating on Kira. She’s freaking Cleaved to my brother. They’re probably rolling around naked right now. Bailey leans in and puts her head on my shoulder. My body betrays me as it does a little happy dance at her touch, apparently not having forgotten our little incident in the bathroom.

She lifts her head back off my shoulder, and I turn to her. She has got her bedroom eyes blazing and is staring at my lips like they’re the blue ribbon winner of a decadent chocolate buffet. When she licks her lips and opens them just a fraction in anticipation, all reason goes out the canyon. I’ll likely add it to my regrets, but what’s one more on such a long list. What happens with the Exilers is going to have to stay with the Exilers.

“Well, ok then, partner. Let’s do this.” I close the distance and crush my lips to hers.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Ethan

A twenty year old in his third year of law school hardly needs his mom to drop him at school and help him settle, but my mother insisted. She claims to be worried about how I’m taking the separation from Kira—the separation that she forced nights ahead of schedule. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I am livid. By the time I got home from my meeting with Uncle Henry, I found a house full of armed security detail, and a mother with a mouth full of excuses. She didn’t trust that I’d return to fulfill my law school commitments if I had that “extra and unnecessary” time with Kira. The farewells would be too hard on both of us. She called me “selfish” and said, “How could you dare consider doing that to your pregnant Cleave?”

Kira—beautiful, breathtaking, sexy Kira. I miss her already. Who cares about law school when the love of my life is pregnant with my child? She wanted to consummate our Cleave! Settling in at my desk, I start to pen my thoughts to her with plans to send my letter back with my mother. I have to be careful what I write, knowing that if there’s censor-inviting material, the whole thing will be tossed. My cell phone still has the picture of Kira that I took the night of the party and many more I took of the two of us together on our “vacation.” I stare at the pictures and consider sneaking back to find her. Unfortunately, my mother won’t tell me where on Thera she is.

Everyone thinks they own me. Dr. Christo and the Arbiters want my assistance with their altruistic plans for restoration of original Theran ideals. The SCI wants my help with world domination, and Uncle Henry wants me to become an SCI-owned politician. None of their plans interest me. But I stay obedient to stay alive.

My mother still believes that my non-existent heart condition mars my royal family status, much like a CEO with a few felonies on his or her record would be a problem with the board of directors. Perfectly healthy “Original” progeny means everything to the rulers of Thera. In their minds, all native Therans—those who aren’t Second Chancers—should be of pure Original blood. Anything less dilutes their potential power on Earth. Of course, my progeny will be presumed hybrids, like me. Will my ARB marker be as much of a risk to those babies as a heart defect would? Dr. Daddy wouldn’t tell me.

My thoughts return to my letter. What I want to write—and what I know Kira wants to hear—concerns my childhood, my real parentage, and the vows I’ve made to keep her safe. But I’m forbidden to discuss my childhood because my “parents” repeatedly broke Canon edicts in my upbringing. Amongst other Exile-worthy violations, they had two prominent heart physicians killed on Earth to get them to Thera for my treatment even though Daddy Christo took over in the end. It wasn’t kosher to risk the SCI being implicated in murder charges over a “defective” Original, but my parents felt their actions were above the law. Taking steps to save my life was as close to an act of love as they’ve ever shown me. However, it wasn’t for me but to enforce the legitimacy of their seats on the Ten. An unspoken requirement for holding a seat on the Ten is pure Original-blooded posterity.

I can’t tell Kira about my ARB-fueled blood, either, or I’d put us both at risk. The SCI wouldn’t react kindly to knowing I’m a plant, and the Arbiters have taken great lengths to keep their secrets from the Council. So, all I can safely discuss, for now, is how much I love her—how I’d do anything, everything, for her. And how she’s the one thing that makes my life worth living.

One day, when I know we aren’t being followed or listened to, I’ll tell Kira everything. Maybe I can convince my Arbiter brother, Jax, to “run interference,” so that we can freely talk. Kira deserves to know about me, despite how painful it will be to share. I’ll start with my childhood which consisted of loneliness, fear, monotony, emotional abuse, longing for human interaction, and dreams of escape from my prison. I still yearn for escape. My cell may be larger, but the shackles are heavier than ever. I’m an adult but have no control over my life. And if I can find something to hold over Daddy Christo, I’m going to get approval to tell Kira about the Arbiters and my presumed duty to them.

Kira saved me from the brink of insanity. Despite my parentage, she accepted me. She let me live the childhood I never had. For the first time in my life, I feel hope for a happy future. I can deal with the rest with her at my side. Or perhaps I can do better than deal—perhaps together we can fight the controlling influences that plague us.

How can I ever describe on paper how much I love Kira? Or how much I’ll miss her? How I can’t stand being away from her while she’s pregnant? How can I tell her that I would do anything in the universe to make her happy? I do my best, but nothing will make up for my not being there.

Once my mother has stocked my apartment, and cleaned, and dusted like the maternal being she has never been, she’s finally ready to depart. I give her my letter to Kira which she promises to have delivered promptly. I know the odds are less than fifty-fifty Kira will ever see it.

“I think you’re all set, Ethan, so I guess I’ll be on my way.” She kisses me on the cheek.

I grit my teeth. There are so many forms of punishment I could inflict upon my mother, but I’d be killed for any of them. I need to see Kira again, so I choose life. “Thanks for the help, Mom. You really didn’t have to do any of that. I’m a big boy now,” I reply with feigned appreciation.

“It’s the least I could do after everything you’ve done for me and for Thera,” she says. “Everything’s gone according to plan, thanks to your perfect obedience. The Cleaving is done, the babies are brewing, and, thanks to those Militant Exilers, the weeds have been extracted from the Ten and the Grand Council. The Exilers have no idea that they only took out the members we left unsecured that night. Equally important, the seed is set for your brother to make his prodigal return. I think I can speak for your Dad when I say that we’re so proud of you.” Actually, she hardly speaks for my real father. And, I don’t know what planet my mom’s from that makes her think her plan or anything is perfect. Oh wait, actually I do. The one where the insane people rule.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mom. I’ll leave the scheming to you, and I think I’ll just focus on law school and visiting my beautiful Cleave every moment I can.” Perfect cooperation—that’s what I vowed to keep Kira safe.

“Don’t less us down, Ethan. I expect you to focus and do well. Be top of your class. Nothing less is acceptable for what we have planned for you.”

“I know, Mother,” I respond. “But I refuse to do that at the detriment of my Cleaving with Kira.”

“Kira will be fine. In fact, I assigned Jax to be her personal bodyguard and instructor.” What the hell? I knew Jax would weasel his way into this somehow. I’m going to kill him. My mother smirks and adds, “She’ll be perfectly safe and attended to.”

That statement has as much double meaning and as little credibility as my Uncle Henry’s campaign slogan: “Expect MORE from Henry King. MORE Unity. MORE Service. MORE Security. With NO MORE Taxes.” He forgot a few: MORE Lies. MORE Rules. MORE Uniformity. With NO MORE Freedom.

Beware, fellow citizens of Earth. The SCI will soon be controlling a country or city near you. And you won’t even see it coming.

THE END

The story continues with clean slate complex (daynight #1.5) and arbitrate (daynight #2). Both are available now.

Author’s note

If you enjoyed this book, please leave a spoiler free review on Amazon.com and/or Goodreads. Reader reviews help spread the word about indie authors and books. I appreciate your support!

clean slate complex (daynight #1.5) is available as part of the dystopian anthology, Darkest Worlds which is available on Amazon, B&N, iTunes, and Kobo. All proceeds go to the fabulous charity, Girls Write Now www.girlswritenow.org. It is also available for free as a standalone story on Amazon. An excerpt is included.

The second book in the daynight series, arbitrate, is available now. An excerpt is included.

Follow me on Twitter at twitter.com/megan_thomason.

Follow the daynight series on Facebook at facebook.com/daynight.series. This is the primary place where I post dates and teasers for new releases. I also do regular giveaways.

My personal blog (where you can sign up for notification of new releases in the series and find discussion questions for daynight) is at meganthomason.com.

I’d love to hear from you! You can email me at megan@meganthomason.com.

Acknowledgments

Cue the happy dance. This day has been a long time coming. I wrote the first draft of daynight in 2009 before rewriting it many times. I still wasn’t happy with it, so I tabled it for a couple years while I worked on other things, and then alas, inspiration hit and a few changes here, there, and everywhere and I finally felt happy enough with the results to release it in November 2012—well, after enough editing to make many eyes bleed. I wrote daynight to be a little tongue-in-cheek and a lot extreme about teenage behavior—because I love how dystopian extremes cause discussion and shed light on our own society.

My first thank you goes to all of you readers! I appreciate all of you for taking the time to read it and for all those who have written reviews, sent me notes through email, and Goodreads, participated on the daynight Facebook page, sent me tweets, and commented on my blog.

There have been so many people who helped and encouraged me along the way. First, I’d like to thank my daughters for being with me every step of the way—providing commentary, editing, and even the not-so-occasional threats when they didn’t like how the story was going.

I want to give a huge thank you to my professional editor, Anglelique Bodine, and to both Angelique and Sher A. Hart for their professional proofreading. I have learned a lot about the editing process in the last year. First and foremost, I have learned that professional editors and proofreaders are an absolute necessity. But eyes are fallible, and there may still be mistakes. So, if you find any errors, I give my sincerest apologies. Know that I’m cringing right along with you. I’ve done updates over a single incorrect letter, so email me at megan@meganthomason.com if you find anything.

I am extremely grateful to all the bloggers who have provided so much support to me. Big shout-outs to Kathy from I am a Reader, Not a Writer and Laura from Prism Book Tours who both did exceptional blog tours for daynight. Little Hyuts, A Casual Readers Blog, Sab the Bookeater, Deal Sharing Aunt, A Dream Within a Dream, Lust for Stories, Martha’s Bookshelf, Sher A. Hart: Written Art, A Diary of a Book Addict, Shortie Says, Magical Manuscripts, Mythical Books, Must Read Faster, Sapphire Dragon, Lisa is a Bookworm, Ever and Ever Sight, Why Not? Because I said so!, Blood Sweat and Books, One More Chapter, Rattle the Stars, A TiffyFit’s Reading Corner, Letters to the Cosmos, Mel’s Shelves, My Passion for Books, Marked by Books, My Seryniti, Little Library Muse, Tressa’s Wishful Endings, Buckeye Girl Reads, Red Headed Bookworm, Coffee, Books & Me, Stressed Rach, All Fantasy Worlds, Bookaroo-Ju, Parnormal Opinion, The Cozy Reading Corner, Getting Your Read On, All Fantasy Worlds, Fantastical World of Wonders, A Backwards Story, Beck Valley Books, Books Mystify, Arriane Cruz, Candace’s Book Blog, Life of a YA Girl, Fuonlyknew, Lovin’ Los Libros, Paulette’s Papers, Becky Barmy’s Book Blog, Backing Books, Hezzi-D’s Books and Cooks, Living a Goddess Life, Mortality Bites, Jack’s Junk Drawer, The Reading Diaries, Book Snob, Crafty Zoo, Heather’s Book Chatter, Forever Young Adult, Waiting on Sunday to Drown, Froze8’s Blog, Blkosiner’s Book Blog, WTF Are You Reading, Emi Gayle, Cuzinlogic, Reader Girls, leanne.me, Laurie’s Thoughts, Lena Sledge, Delirious About Books, Fangirlish, Read Your Writes Book Reviews, Indie Author How-To, Impressions of a Princess, Brooke Blogs, Lady Reader’s Bookstuff, Crossroads Reviews and many, many more who have publicized the daynight series through reviews, author interviews, guest posts, cover reveals, excerpts, top 10 lists, character interviews—I am grateful to each and every one of you!

I’m grateful to fellow authors Katie French, SK Falls, AG Henley, Zoe Cannon, Kate Avery Ellison, Nicole Grotepas, and Gretchen Powell for your encouragement, support, and the occasional beta read.

My husband, Jon, has supported me through thick and thin. He did the original and updated book covers for daynight, which I love. When I’m fully entrenched in writing, he puts up with a messy house, less-than-fabulous meals, and a very distracted wife. My kids have patiently endured hearing “Just let me finish this” and “Not now”s. Is it a bonus that they’ve all learned to be quite self-sufficient? The honest truth? If I’m not writing, I’m doing another project. My kids tease me incessantly about my projects (sure, the world-class weapons collection might have been a little unnecessary, but at the time it seemed cool. And it will be rather useful come the zombie apocalypse.)

My kids also make the most excellent muses. I feel like I live in a comedy show. Yes, they have been known to have raging debates at the dinner table about the best weapons to use during the zombie apocalypse with guests present (those guests never returned).

A huge shout-out to my friends who graciously agreed to read my books early on…Kelli J., LeAnn R., Marci B., Darlene I., Liz S….you guys are awesome. My sister…Tara C. And thanks to my kids’ friends who also logged some major hours…Rachel P., Jonci R., and Jennifer T.

I find music inspiring and some of the artists who help get me typing include Muse, My Chemical Romance, Imagine Dragons, Owl City, blink-182, The Killers, Fall Out Boy, Ludo, and Neon Trees.

Thanks to the folks who designed and developed Scrivener. They make outlining, organizing notes and research, and writing easy. I’m also grateful to those who created Dropbox, which allows you to open files in Kindle and see your book before it goes live. And a huge thank you to the folks at Amazon and CreateSpace who have helped transform the publishing industry.

About the author

Bestselling, award-winning author, Megan Thomason, lives in paradise aka San Diego, CA with her husband and five children. A former software manager, Megan vastly prefers writing twisted tales to business, product, and marketing plans. When she isn’t typing away on her laptop, she’s reading books on her phone—over 600 in the last year—or attending to the needs of her family. Megan’s fluent in sarcasm, could potentially benefit from a 12-step program for road rage, struggles with a Hot Tamales addiction, loves world travel & fast cars, and hates paperwork & being an insomniac.

* * *

STITCH, Samantha Durante

Dystopia, by Samantha Durante

I’ve always been drawn to dystopian settings.  Not surprisingly, The Giver, Brave New World, and Fahrenheit 451 were some of my favorite books as a kid.  But there’s one thing about my beloved dystopian books which has always driven me nuts, and it’s this: no one ever explains how the world came about.

You know what I’m talking about.  There’s always some vague backstory about a war or a catastrophe a hundred-plus years ago that brought our current world to its knees, and then out of the ashes rose this wonderful new society where everything was neat and tidy and everyone accepted these crazy new rules just as they were.

But how does that really work?  At what point in history have we ever seen one civilization transition into the next without some sort of fight?  For the sake of enjoying the story, I always swallow this jagged little pill and accept that the society stands, but there’s forever a tiny voice in the back of my head saying, “Wait – how does any of this make sense?  Why would these people allow this to happen?  Why would they submit themselves to this kind of control when they knew freedom before?  And who put these crazy leaders in charge, anyway?”

When I decided to write Stitch, I wanted to do things differently.  I wanted to explore a society in transition – not one where the rules were in place, but one where the people in charge were still trying to figure them out.  I wanted to try to understand how we could go from the world we live in today to something totally different, and who could have made that happen and, most importantly, why they would go to the trouble.  (And I freely admit that it was impossible to address all of these questions in the first book – but this is what a trilogy is for, right?)

In the Stitch Trilogy, the characters are the first generation to rise from the rubble and start fresh in a new society.  They’re young – only teenagers when everything happens – and you get to watch from their eyes how our world came tumbling down, to be replaced with something different, something which was shiny on the surface but quickly turned sinister underneath.  In fact, for most of the first book – a blend of paranormal romance, new adult contemporary, and of course, dystopian sci-fi – the characters don’t even realize that they’re living in a world where nothing is as it seems.  And you’ll be by their side as they uncover the truth and try to figure out what they can do to set things right.

Because, in the end, I think this is really the crux of the whole dystopian genre: when the world ends, and everything is terrible, and you’re forced to do things you don’t even want to think about just to keep on living, what do you have left?  Hope.  Only hope.

And it’s that inner optimism – the ability to remind ourselves that there’s something out there worth living for even when our world crumbles beyond our wildest nightmares – that best characterizes us as human beings.  Dystopian fiction by its very nature asks us how we can solve our collective problems.  How would you structure society to make things better?  What could you change that would create a different outcome?  After all, every dystopia is just a failed utopia – someone’s unsuccessful attempt at making the world a better place.

So with the Stitch trilogy, we’ll get to play “What If?” through the protagonist Alessa’s eyes – to see how she answers these questions, how far she’s willing to go, and what factors will push her to bend her own rules. And as we watch Alessa struggle to find her place in a transitioning society, we get to ask ourselves: what would I do?

STITCH

(Stitch Trilogy, Book 1)

Samantha Durante

PREFACE

She woke to the sound of heavy boot steps marching down the hall and the familiar pang in her hip bones wrought from too many nights on a rigid metal cot.  The back of her throat ached from the icy air that’d ravaged her lungs all night; she could almost see her breath as she let out a weary sigh, resigned to another day in this hell.

What time was it?  It was always difficult to tell from within her dim windowless cell.  She listened as the footsteps approached, attuned to the jangle of the keys in the guard’s pocket and the soft clap of the rifle against his back.  Then she heard something she hadn’t noticed before – a second set of footsteps, softer than the guard’s, following slightly behind.

She shot up with a quick gasp, adrenaline surging through her body and firmly shaking off the last wisps of her semi-peaceful slumber.  The footsteps paused outside her door as she registered the soft whooshing of a lab coat and the gentle tapping of fingertips against a tablet.  She was certain now that they had finally come to fulfill their grisly promise.

She had known this was a risk when she’d been briefed on her mission, and she had accepted it anyway.  Now she cursed her own arrogance, and the sorry luck that had landed her here.  She had failed in her mission, and now she was going to reap her recompense.

She was only glad that he wasn’t close enough to hear her impending screams.  One by one she had listened from within her own lonely chamber as the others cried out in agony, and she’d been unable to drown them out with nothing but her fingertips to plug her ears.  After the riot they had staged early on, the guards had learned that it was necessary to separate her from him, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him for weeks, maybe months, so she knew for certain that he wasn’t nearby.  That one small mercy almost made the ordeal ahead of her bearable.  Almost.

As the heavy automatic locks on her cell door released with a tumultuous clang, she turned to face her captors.  Thinking only of him, she steeled her resolve for whatever unspeakable nightmare awaited her.

1. DISTRACTION

Alessa dropped her pen and looked longingly at the clock.  She had little more than twelve hours until the exam and she just could not focus on the words swimming on the page in front of her.  Instead, all she could think about was the ghost.

She turned back to the diagram in her textbook, but it was no use.  The only image she could see was his piercing sapphire eyes, brimming with melancholy and longing.  What could he be so sad about?  The little information she’d been able to dig up about the history of her sorority house contained nothing which might indicate who the soulful young man she’d been seeing was or what he could possibly be thinking of as he stared out into whatever plane of existence he was inhabiting.  Alessa guessed she’d probably never know.

She let out a quiet groan of exasperation which drew withering glances from the handful of other students studying in this corner of the library.  She supposed it was probably time to go.  She certainly wasn’t being productive, sitting here with a head filled up with fantasies about a person she didn’t even know.  A person who wasn’t even alive, no less.

Alessa closed the lid on her laptop and slid her pen into the spiral of her notebook.  She was resigned.  If she didn’t know the basics of physics by now, she certainly wasn’t going to learn them by tomorrow.

She’d never really been the studying type and had spent her high school years relying on the knowledge she absorbed during class to get her through exams just fine.  She was lucky to have the ability to learn quickly, usually only having to pay attention to a subject once or twice before she mastered it.  As a result, she just didn’t understand how everyone in this library had the patience to devote hours to reading and re-reading all the same material they’d been learning day in and day out all semester long.  Alessa just couldn’t do it.

At least the midterm was open book.  She may not get the A she was used to, but she was confident that she’d be able to wring out at least a B without wasting any more time staring at a textbook page she couldn’t bring herself to actually read.  She slid her belongings into her backpack as quietly as she could, hoping not to provoke any more derisive looks from her neighbors.

Alessa needed to stop obsessing about the ghost.  Her disdain for studying notwithstanding, her new fixation was getting in the way of her grades and her social life.  Ever since she’d started seeing him a few weeks ago, he’d been all she could think about.  And the unnerving recurring dreams she’d been having weren’t helping either.

At first the ghost had scared her senseless – a normal enough reaction to waking to a strange man standing at the foot of her bed while she slept or appearing out of nowhere behind her in the bathroom mirror – but after three or four encounters it soon became apparent that the ghost wasn’t even aware of her presence.  Once she realized that, her fear was overtaken by curiosity and she took to studying the elusive figure whenever she got the opportunity, instead of sprinting from the room in terror.

What she’d learned in the latest handful of encounters hadn’t amounted to much.  Though she’d resolved to stick around and see what she could learn, the ghost apparently had different ideas.  His apparition never lasted more than a few seconds, which wasn’t a lot of time for Alessa to gain much insight.  Overall she’d probably spent less than a minute in his presence in the seven or eight times she’d seen him over the first 12 weeks of the semester.

So far she’d been able to determine that he seemed about her age – maybe a little younger than her 19 years – and that, judging by his clothes, he was probably from the early twentieth century.  Besides the clothes, he looked like any other athletic male teenager she’d known – tall and lean, with tousled brown hair and unbridled energy brimming just below the surface of his skin.

The only thing particularly notable about him was his eyes.  Despite the transparency of his form, his blue eyes shown clearly, flecked with green and gold and shining with a subtle indigo light.  They looked like the eyes of a television or movie actor, just unnaturally blue.  Alessa had never seen eyes like that in real life and had always thought that those actors were digitally enhanced.  Now she wondered if people really did have eyes that vivid.

Even more striking than the color of his eyes, however, was the hint of torment that they almost always conveyed.  He was constantly gazing out at the distance, a wistful look upon his face.  Often Alessa had seen him clench his jaw and swallow, then breathe deep and close his eyes, exhaling with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.  It was as if he were fighting back a feeling, resolving himself for some struggle ahead.

Only on one occasion had Alessa seen him anything other than distraught. He’d turned rapidly, as if in response to someone calling his name, and looked directly through Alessa as his face lit up with the most beautiful smile she had ever seen, one so genuinely overflowing with love and pride and just a hint of amusement that it brought tears to her eyes.  That was the way Alessa’s parents used to look at her, before everything happened.

So she had no idea who the ghost was, or what he was thinking about, or why he kept appearing to her, and these questions had become the only thing she could focus on, much to the detriment of her schoolwork and the few friendships she’d begun to develop in the first weeks of the semester.

And then the nightmares had started – always the same immobilizing fear buzzing through her in that dark, dank cell – and the lack of sleep was only compounding the distraction she felt in her waking hours.  Alessa knew it wasn’t healthy to let a specter take over her life, but she felt powerless to resist.  Who or whatever he was, she was determined to learn the truth.

2. MEMOIR

As Alessa stepped out onto the quad, she breathed deep and let the crisp fall evening wash over her.  She always felt better being outside.  Her head felt clearer than it had all afternoon as the cool November air lightly stung her eyes and worked its way from her lungs into her bloodstream, bringing the feeling back to her limbs.  She’d been cramped at that uncomfortable library desk for six hours and had little to show for it besides a sharp pang of hunger welling up in her gut.  She decided to grab a sandwich and head back to the house to see what Janie was up to.

Wandering her way across the quad, Alessa headed toward Van Husen Hall, hoping the student-run café in the basement was still open.  Leaves crunched beneath her feet as Alessa made her way towards the stately brick building ahead of her.  The façade was laced with ivy and decked by massive old-growth trees still clinging to their last clumps of foliage as winter threatened to descend.  The facilities department had carefully placed up-lighting behind the trees, highlighting the building’s grand turn-of-the-century architecture and casting dramatic shadows across the entrance. The campus was beautiful, that much she had to admit.

Alessa had not been thrilled when she’d received her acceptance to the university.  She’d felt relieved she supposed, but in truth, she was more disappointed than anything.  Up until her senior year of high school, her grades had been flawless and she’d racked up an impressive resume of extracurricular accomplishments.  As her last year of high school had begun, she’d known she was on the right path towards achieving her dream of getting into one of the elite private universities she’d always strived for.  Then everything had gone wrong.

On a Friday a couple weeks into the school year, her parents had had plans to go to a party at the nearby home of a family friend.  Alessa had been invited, but she had plans to go to the big homecoming game and join some friends at another party afterward instead.  That morning on her way out the door to school, Alessa had gotten in a big fight with her mom over something petty.

Her memories of that day were a blur, but it might have been the length of her shorts – the summer heat had persisted well into September, and Alessa’s old-fashioned mother always had something to say about her attire.  Alessa had expressed her frustration a little too vividly and her mom had grounded her for the night.  Alessa had been fuming as she left for school and refused to speak to her parents when she got home, marching straight up to her room and slamming the door behind her, a move she knew would get right under her father’s skin.

Despite her bratty behavior, her ever-patient parents had come up to say goodbye before they left for the party and to remind her that they’d be home by midnight.  Alessa had still been furious about being grounded and refused to let them in, so they had said an exasperated, “I love you,” through the door, a sentiment that Alessa had begrudgingly returned.  She was immensely grateful now that she did; it was the last thing she’d ever say to them.

Alessa had fallen asleep on the couch that night watching reruns of some terrible reality show, so she hadn’t noticed when midnight rolled around with no sign of her parents.  It wasn’t until the doorbell rang at 1:15 in the morning that she’d realized something was wrong.  She’d stumbled to the door in a stupor to find a pair of grim looking police officers.  “Are you Alessa Khole?” they began.  And in a matter of moments, her entire world had come crashing down.

Her parents had been killed in a car accident, hit by a drunk driver who, incidentally, was coming from the same party that Alessa had planned to attend.  They’d been on a dark, winding road and something, maybe a deer, had caused the young driver to swerve into the oncoming lane, smashing head on into Alessa’s parents.  Everyone had been killed instantly.

It was an all too familiar story, almost a cliché, and Alessa could not believe that her parents were gone.  When she had woken in the morning, she’d thought that perhaps it was all a bad dream, until she’d gone downstairs to an empty kitchen.

Alessa had been on her own since then.  She’d turned 18 a few days before the accident, so she was legally empowered to make her own decisions in the aftermath.  She assumed control of her parents’ finances and decided to stay at her house and finish out her last year at her own school, instead of moving in with her cousins who lived on the other side of the country.  In retrospect, this may not have been the best decision, but at the time, Alessa just couldn’t imagine losing her whole life in addition to her parents.  So she’d stayed put and made do.

As might be expected, the ordeal had taken a major toll on her performance in school.  She struggled to accept the reality of the situation and fell into a thick depression which left her unmotivated to do her work or devote time to her activities, or even show up to class.  The fall passed by in a haze and when December had rolled around – bringing with it college application season – she was practically failing out of school.

She’d tried her best to pull together a few halfway decent applications to the list of selective schools she had been planning to apply to, and had asked the guidance counselor to include a note in her recommendation explaining what had happened in Alessa’s personal life.  She’d hoped that the admissions officers would have some sympathy and give her a pass for this year’s academic performance, in light of the strength of her transcript from previous years.  But they didn’t – these schools only had room for exceptional students, young people who were ready to change the world.  At this point, Alessa could barely even change her own clothes, and it showed.

Reality had set in once the rejection letters started piling up in late March.  Alessa began putting more effort into her schoolwork to salvage her GPA, and her teachers had taken pity on her and given her passing grades.  When it had finally sunk in that her old dreams of collegiate glory were out of her grasp, she’d taken stock of her options and decided to apply to some less selective schools.  It turned out that a few big state schools were still accepting rolling admissions, and one – Eastern State University, home of the Fighting Gophers – was willing to overlook the disaster of the last seven months.

That was how Alessa had ended up where she now stood, reaching towards the door of Van Husen Hall in search of a late dinner.  Alessa caught a glimpse of herself in the glass and was surprised at how haggard she looked.  Mercifully, her long, dark hair hung straight in neat layers that framed her face.  That was about the only thing her hair would ever agree to do and the only reason why she looked halfway presentable, since she certainly hadn’t taken any measures to tame her appearance.

Thanks to her glossy chestnut locks, if an outside observer didn’t look closely, they might not notice the bags under her green eyes, or her lackluster skin, or the jeans hanging loosely from her hips after months spent absent the desire for food.  Alessa realized the sandwich she was about to buy was the first thing she’d eaten all day.

She entered the hall and steered toward the large marble staircase directly ahead of her, trailing her hand on the heavy mahogany banister as she descended to the basement.  Alessa was relieved to find that the café was indeed still open.  She grabbed one of the premade sandwiches out of the refrigerator case and paid at the counter with a swipe of her meal card.

Heading back outside, Alessa turned onto the wide cobblestone path that led to the far side of campus where her sorority house resided.

Approaching the porch of the chapter house, Alessa took note once again of the myriad surveillance cameras flanking her from every side.  A widely-publicized hazing scandal had embroiled the university in a drawn out lawsuit, a disastrous PR spectacle which could have ended months ago with proper video evidence to prove that the university’s expulsions had been justified.  The administration had learned from their mistake and promptly installed a state-of-the-art surveillance network across the entire ESU campus.

Though Alessa could only see two cameras on the porch – one pointing down towards the front door and one looking out towards the walkway she’d followed here – she knew there were others as well, peeking out of bushes and camouflaged behind rocks and benches.

Alessa had first noticed the hidden cameras on one of her first days on campus.  She’d been sitting on a bench between classes eating a sandwich and doing some reading, and when she’d gotten up to toss her wrapper in a nearby garbage can, subtle movement in the bush across from her had caught her attention.

At first she’d thought it was a squirrel, but the glint of sunlight off glass had held her eye as the camera followed her movement.  Curious, she’d approached the bush for a better look, but before she could brush the leaves aside, a burly security guard had appeared out of nowhere.  “Please do not disturb the foliage, miss,” he’d commanded.  It was an innocent enough request, but the menacing look that had accompanied his entreaty had chilled her straight to the bone.

Alessa knew the cameras were there for her own protection, but something about their presence made her uneasy.  She didn’t like the feeling of being watched whenever she left her home.  And worse, a lot of the students didn’t even seem to notice that they were under constant surveillance.  Something about the whole setup just seemed like a violation.

She eyed the camera on the porch, her lips pressed into a hard line.  The relentless gaze of that cool glass lens just felt somehow insidious to her – she couldn’t explain exactly why.

On the plus side, the administration’s over-the-top reaction had enabled Alessa to score a great room in this beautiful old house, instead of one of the standard cinderblock cells usually reserved for freshmen.  To discourage future hazing incidents, in addition to the camera system, the school had also done away with rush week.  Instead, they decreed that any freshman who wished to join a Greek organization had only to read the descriptions of each house and check a box on their housing form.

Though Alessa had never really been interested in joining a sorority – she didn’t consider herself the “sorority type” – after living alone for most of the last year, she’d thought it might be good for her to be around other people.  So she had picked the house she liked the most – Zeta Epsilon Pi’s big white farmhouse with a wraparound porch – checked the appropriate boxes, and hoped for the best.

By a stroke of luck, Alessa had won one of the two available rooms.  The other had gone to another freshman, Janie, who had quickly become Alessa’s closest friend at ESU.

The chapter house itself turned out to be a dream come true.  Just as the photo on the housing application showed, it was a gorgeous old white colonial farmhouse with stark black shutters, more of a mansion than a house really.  Outside it had a large wraparound porch stretching the entire front and right side of the building – which came in handy when the sorority’s parties got a little too congested – and it looked out over acres upon acres of rolling green hills, what was once probably farmland.

The house had a big kitchen, dining room, and living room on the main floor which the sorority used as shared space.  The upper floor had been divided into 14 bedrooms, half of which still had the elaborate original fireplace mantles.

Alessa was lucky enough to have gotten one of the fireplace rooms, though she was disappointed to find that all of the hearths had been boarded up for safety reasons.  She’d been pleased to find that her room was somewhat larger than those in the solemn gray freshman dormitory, and much more homey, with thick carpeting and chair rail moldings instead of linoleum and white-washed cinderblock walls.

The bathroom renovations were the one area where the university had unfortunately gutted most of the house’s charm in favor of a more functional approach.  The only spot they had overlooked was a finely-crafted old clawfoot tub housed in a tiny bathroom on the attic floor.  Alessa supposed it wasn’t worth the university’s time or expense to remove the heavy fixture, so it remained perched on the top floor overlooking a round porthole window and was rarely used, though Alessa had been surprised to learn that it was still functional.

So even though the last year had not gone at all as Alessa had planned, in the end she supposed she was grateful for where she had ended up.  After all, if it wasn’t for this house, she would never have met Janie.  And she would never have seen the ghost.

3. OBJECTIVE

The door to Janie’s room was propped open invitingly, so Alessa poked her head in.  Janie was sitting at her desk, her small frame hunched over her computer as she typed furiously, short brown hair tucked behind her ears.  Alessa remembered that in addition to the physics exam, Janie also had a paper due tomorrow.

“How’s it going?”

Janie finished the sentence she was keying and swung around in her chair.  “Well, I might bomb physics, but at least I won’t show up empty-handed to psych.”

Alessa dropped her bag and crossed the room to sit down on Janie’s bed.  Janie’s usually neat chin-length bob was mussed, dark wavy layers sticking out in all directions.  It looked like Janie could use some reassurance.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.  You took physics in high school, right?”  She began unwrapping the crinkled cellophane around her turkey club.

“Yeah.  But unlike some people –” Janie turned her chocolate brown eyes toward Alessa and raised her eyebrows, “I didn’t get the highest grade in the class.”

Before Alessa could explain that it was chemistry she had mastered – physics was after the accident, and she had barely scraped by – Janie reached for the sandwich.

“Whatcha got there?” Sooner than Alessa could react, Janie had already stolen a bite.  Despite her pixie-like proportions, Janie had a considerable appetite.  She was chewing in a loud, dramatic fashion.  “Mmm, dry turkey, tasteless vegetables, and soggy bread.  Let me guess – Van Husen basement?”

Alessa loosed a small smile and nodded as she swallowed her own bite.  “Best I could do at this hour.”  It may have been a poor excuse for a sandwich, but putting food in her stomach took the edge off her hunger almost immediately, which vastly improved her mood.  “Got anything to wash this down with?”

Janie swung open the minifridge to her right and pulled out a can of iced tea.  She placed it on the edge of the desk nearest Alessa.  “Here you go.”

Janie turned back to her paper while Alessa finished off the sandwich.  Alessa loved that about Janie.  Neither of them ever felt a need to keep the conversation going just to fill the space.

With the other girls in the house, Alessa often struggled to come up with things to talk about.  They were nice enough, but Alessa often found that they were more concerned with boys and parties than Alessa had the stomach for.  She had so little in common with them that it was difficult to even fill a 30 second exchange in the bathroom, and lulls in their conversation were palpably awkward.  But not with Janie.  Alessa was content just to sit in the same room as her, knowing that she’d be there to talk to if anything interesting occurred to her.  Janie felt the same.

The only other freshman in the house, Janie had had an easier time assimilating – she had a natural charisma that helped her get along with anyone – but privately, Janie had expressed the same frustrations that Alessa felt.  It was clear that she and Janie were different from the other girls in the house and they knew that they would never truly fit in.  Alessa was just glad that they had found each other.

Janie was the one bright spot in an existence that Alessa had had difficulty feeling more than apathetic about lately.  A spunky, sharp little bundle of energy, Janie had the same fire in her that Alessa had once had, and Alessa found that being around Janie made her forget about her troubles for a while.  For some reason that Alessa couldn’t fathom, Janie had been drawn to Alessa as well, and the two had become fast friends.

As Alessa drained the last few sips of iced tea, Janie tapped a few keys with a sense of finality and sat back in her chair, a satisfied smile on her face as she turned towards Alessa.  “So, how are things with your phantom boyfriend?”

Alessa laughed.  “I know it’s ridiculous. I feel like I’ve spent so much time obsessing over this when I should be focusing on my grades or trying to hang out with some people we met during freshman orientation –”

“Or trying to find a real boyfriend,” Janie interrupted.  She gave Alessa a meaningful look.

“Or trying to find a real boyfriend, yes.  It’s just… I don’t know.  I guess it’s the first time I’ve felt excited about something since my parents died.”

“I just don’t understand what you’re hoping to get out of this.  If what you’re seeing really is a ghost – and I’m not entirely convinced yet that it’s not just some kind of mental break –”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.  I guess what I’m saying is, I just don’t see what the end game is here. He’s dead, you’re not – so where is this going?”

Alessa sighed and hung her head.  Janie had a point.  Where was this headed?  Certainly nowhere useful.  “I know, I know.  I’m just so curious to find out who he is, why he’s hanging around here.  You know?”

Janie’s expression softened.  “I’m just worried about you, Less.  You’ve been so distracted lately…”  Her tone changed back to goading.  “And you look like shit.”

Alessa tossed a throw pillow at Janie’s head.

Janie deftly swatted it to the floor, feigning insult.  “What!  Seriously, you look like you haven’t slept in days.  Have you been studying that much?”

“Oh God no.  I just haven’t been sleeping well.  I keep having these dreams…”

“What kind of dreams?”

“Like a recurring dream.  It’s not exactly the same every time, but I’m always in some sort of jail cell waiting for someone to come do something horrible to me, but I’m not exactly sure what.”

“Sounds miserable.”

“I can’t even describe it.  It’s just this overwhelming sense of foreboding and despair, but at the same time I feel relieved.”

“Why relieved?”

“Because, well, the ghost is there, and I know he won’t be able to hear me being tortured or whatever.”

“The ghost is there?”

“Yeah.  I never actually see him, but somehow I know he’s there with me, in the prison.  I actually don’t see much of anything because it’s very dark and the whole thing is a bit hazy.  It’s weird because the feelings are really vivid – it’s so disturbing that I have trouble going back to sleep after – but besides that things are pretty fuzzy.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah.”

There was a knock at the door and Lizzie Green bounded into the room in all her blonde, buxom glory.  “Hey girls!  Just wanted to remind you two that dues need to be paid by the end of the month.  Is that cool?”

“Sure thing,” Janie replied with a grin.  Alessa forced a smile and nodded in agreement.  She tried not to hate Lizzie – she really did – but it was just so easy.

The sorority president had never been openly hostile towards Alessa, but at the same time, it was clear that she would never have approved Alessa’s “sisterhood,” as Lizzie liked to call it, if it weren’t for the university’s policy.  And the fact that Lizzie was a walking male fantasy and obviously reveled in the fact – while simultaneously pretending that she was oblivious to her own physical gifts – inspired nothing but loathing in Alessa.  Even at seven o’clock in the morning, Lizzie always managed to look perfectly put together, not even an eyelash out of place.  It was nauseating.  Alessa knew that she was simply feeling envious of Lizzie, but all the same, she just couldn’t shake her dislike.

“Okay, great!  Have a good night, girls!”  Lizzie exited the room with an exaggerated swing of her long golden waves and Alessa promptly feigned a mild gag.  Janie rolled her eyes at Alessa’s behavior, but her smile betrayed her accord.  “She’s not that bad.”

Alessa chose not to respond.

“Oh!  That reminds me.”  Janie started digging through her desk drawer.  “I came across something that I thought might be of interest.”  She handed Alessa a printout of an article from the school newspaper.  A photo showed Lizzie and the other board members in front of the sorority house.  The headline read:

ESU’S ZETA EPSILON PI CHAPTER CELEBRATES 40 YEARS

“What’s this?” Alessa asked.

Janie sighed.  “I figured you hadn’t been reading your emails.  There’s a big anniversary coming up in a couple days and the board hosted a small celebration with some university officials, including a local historian who works at the library.  Read the third paragraph.”

Alessa scanned the page.  In the middle of the article was a quote from a Mary Brighton, the librarian Janie was referring to.

Local historian and university librarian Mary Brighton took a few moments at the commemoration ceremony to share the history of Z-E-Pi’s chapter house.  According to Ms. Brighton, “The house which is now occupied by the Zeta Epsilon Pi sorority was one of the first properties acquired by the university during the expansion drive of the 1930s.  Eastern State officials were able to purchase 200 acres of land including the home for a very reasonable sum after the passing of a wealthy family who had owned the property.  From that time until the founding of the Zeta Epsilon Pi chapter, the building was used for offices and storage.”

This did look promising.  Alessa looked up.  “Do you think this has something to do with the ghost?”

Janie shrugged.  “The timeline seems about right and that Brighton lady made it sound like a whole family died.”

Alessa nodded in agreement and folded the printout, tucking it into her pocket. She’d read a little about the building on the ESU website, but it didn’t mention anything about the original owners.  “Thanks for this.  I haven’t put a ton of effort into researching the house yet, but nothing I came across so far went back further than the founding of Z-E-Pi.  This is the first thing I’ve seen which might actually be related.”

“I thought maybe that librarian might know who the family was and what happened to them.  Or if there are other reports of hauntings.”  Janie spoke the last word in a dramatic eerie hush as she widened her eyes.

“Don’t mock me!”  Alessa giggled at Janie’s theatrics.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d giggled at anything.

Janie grinned.  “I’m just kidding.  Seriously, though, aren’t there usually multiple reports of sightings or other ‘disturbances’ when a place is haunted?  Have you heard anyone else talk about seeing your ghastly beau?”

Alessa ignored Janie’s teasing and shook her head.  “No, but they’d be more likely to tell you about it than me.  Everyone seems hesitant to send more than a quick hello and goodbye in my direction.”

Sarcasm oozed from Janie’s reply.  “I wonder why.  Couldn’t be your inviting demeanor and abundant enthusiasm for life.”  She gave Alessa a scolding look before continuing.  “But no, no one’s said anything to me either, and I certainly haven’t experienced anything myself.  But who knows, maybe someone has and they’re just afraid to say anything because everyone will think they’re crazy.”

“Like you think I am?”

“Exactly.”  Janie laughed.  Alessa knew Janie believed her, even if she didn’t want to admit it.  “It just seems strange to me that you’re the only person who’s ever seen him.  It doesn’t seem to fit with any other ghost story I’ve ever heard.”

“Well maybe I’m not the only one.”  Alessa’s interest was definitely piqued.  “I’ll stop by the library after the physics exam tomorrow and see if I can find that Brighton woman.”

4. RECORDS

“Pencils down!”  The shrill voice of the proctor rang throughout the lecture hall as the sound of scratching graphite faded to the gentle shuffling of paper against paper.  Quiet murmurs sprang up in every direction as Alessa looked over at Janie to see how she had fared.  Janie shrugged apathetically.

Alessa was about to relay her own expectations when the proctor’s voice pierced the air once more.  “No talking until all exams are turned in!”  Alessa swallowed back her comment and returned Janie’s shrug instead.  They gathered up their textbooks and calculators and headed towards the front of the class to turn in their exams.

The open book didn’t turn out to be as helpful as Alessa had hoped, but nevertheless, she still felt relatively good about her answers.  It turned out that Alessa remembered more of the physics she’d learned in high school than she had thought.  Despite last night’s failed attempt at studying, of the seven long questions on the midterm, she was confident about four, less certain about two, and had at least written something for the last.  She guessed that – depending on the curve, of course – she would probably wring out a B, maybe better.  That was going to have to be good enough.  She had other things on her mind.

Alessa and Janie turned in their booklets and filed out the door, swept in amongst the stream of students.  Alessa hated these big imposing lecture halls with auditorium-style seating for 400.  At first it was a little exciting – so different from her high school experience – but eventually she grew to loathe the scratchy fabric seats, the dim overhead lighting, and those cramped little desks that folded out from beside the chair.  It just didn’t feel like a classroom.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Janie began drilling Alessa.  “What’d you get for number four?”

“The ball rolling off a ramp one?”

“Yeah.”

Alessa thought for a moment.  “12.4 meters.”

Janie swore under her breath.  “Hmpf.  Hopefully they’ll give partial credit.”

“I’m sure they will.”  The last thing Alessa wanted to do right now was rehash every question on the midterm.  What’s done was done, and there was no sense in agonizing over something they couldn’t change now.

“I can’t believe Professor Liu is making us go to lecture today,” Janie moaned.  Janie wasn’t the biggest physics enthusiast and she was taking the class just to fill a science requirement.  Alessa had convinced Janie to transfer in a few weeks into the semester so that they could have a class together, so she felt partially responsible for Janie’s dread.  It did seem unfair that the university allowed professors to schedule class on the same day as the midterm.

“I know.  I’m not looking forward to it either.  But at least he didn’t assign any homework.”  As they headed out of the building, Alessa and Janie commiserated on the injustices of midterm scheduling until they reached the quad.

Alessa stopped walking and motioned toward the library.  “Have time for a little paranormal research?” she asked.

Janie smiled but shook her head.  “I’ve got to go turn in that psych paper.  But good luck!  Let me know how it goes.”

“Will do.”  Alessa and Janie parted and Alessa headed up the few steps towards the library door.

When she stepped inside, the musk of old books hit her immediately.  It wasn’t an unpleasant smell exactly, but it was a violent contrast to the fresh fall air outside.  Alessa looked up and admired the tall vaulted ceilings and heavy wood rafters.  Like most of the main campus, the library had been built in the late 1800s, a time when labor was still cheap enough that buildings were treated as detailed works of art as much as construction projects.  The architectural details in the library were stunning, from the intricate woodwork in the moldings to the stained glass windows to the Versailles-patterned tile floor.  From the entranceway, Alessa could look up four stories straight with nothing to block her view except a grand old chandelier.

She headed to the information desk and the student behind the counter looked up with a smile.  “How can I help you?”

Alessa wasn’t quite sure what to ask for.  “Hi.  Um, I’m trying to learn more about the history of my sorority house?”  She cringed.  Alessa hated feeling unsure of herself.  “I saw that a Mary Brighton was quoted as an expert in an article from The Burrow,” – the university was overrun with seemingly endless references to the ridiculous school mascot, and the campus newspaper was no exception – “and I think I read that she’s a librarian here?”

“Yup!  Ms. Brighton has an office up on the third floor.  Just take the steps and make a right.  It’s down past the local history section.”

“Thanks,” Alessa breathed with a smile.  She turned towards the large staircase on her left and headed up to the third floor.  Passing stacks upon stacks of books, Alessa wondered how many tomes were housed in the building.  The rows seemed almost endless.

Reaching the office, Alessa noted that the door was open.  Inside was a smallish older woman, gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, thick black glasses perched low on her nose, her neutral outfit neat but frumpy.  Alessa almost had to laugh – Mary Brighton was like a caricature, displaying every trait one might attribute to a stereotypical librarian, right down to the over-large book she was patiently paging through.

Alessa knocked gently on the wall.  The librarian pushed her glasses back to the bridge of her nose and looked up.  “Hello, dear.  What can I assist you with?”

“Hi.  I was actually interested in learning more about the history of my sorority house, Z-E-Pi, and I saw that you were at the commemoration ceremony a few days ago?”  Alessa tried not to be awkward.  She didn’t know what she was going to say if Ms. Brighton asked why she was interested.  She wished she had thought this through a bit more.

“Oh, absolutely.  33 Mason Manor is one of my favorite properties on the campus.  What did you want to know?”

Alessa wondered if it would be possible to avoid the subject of the ghost.  She didn’t want to be known as “the poor girl who was seeing things,” even to an old spinster that she didn’t particularly know.  Alessa took a deep breath and hoped her reply was casual enough to not betray her lie.  “I’m working on a project for my history class, about the lifetime of a building.  I’m supposed to choose one building and write about all the notable people who lived or worked there.”  She looked at the librarian expectantly.

“Of course.  I can help you with that.  Just one moment.”  Mary Brighton closed the volume she’d been reading and Alessa was hit with a puff of that old book smell again.  Ms. Brighton stood up.  “Come with me.”

A few moments later, Alessa was seated at another uncomfortable study desk, this time in the back corner of the library’s third floor.  Mary Brighton had known exactly where to find all the old town records, dating all the way back to the 1700s.  Alessa was pretty sure that the ghost was from the late 1800s or early 1900s based on his clothes, though her limited knowledge of historical fashion was gleaned mainly from movies, and who knew how accurate they might be.  There was a thick book for every decade from 1760 to 1999, after which Ms. Brighton had explained that the records were electronic.  Alessa was worried she’d have to page through all 24 books to keep up the pretext for her research, but the librarian had given her a break when she mentioned that the house was built in the 1870s, knocking almost half the books off her list.

Alessa picked up the first book and paged through to get acquainted with the organization.  The book was broken down by year, then the properties were listed alphabetically by address.  There was an entry any time a property was built, destroyed, or changed hands, with the date and any involved parties listed alongside it.  Alessa started with 1870 and skipped to the M section, scanning the page for 33 Mason Manor.

Nothing.

She tried 1871.  Still nothing.

Alessa continued in this manner until she came across the first entry in 1878:

Mason Manor, No. 33.  New Construction, completed October 14th on 148 acres.  Owner: Albert B. Mason.  Residents: Albert B. Mason & Elizabeth Mason, children Albert Mason Jr., 3, and William Mason, 1.

Now she had a start.  If the young man she was seeing was from the 1890s, it could be Albert Jr. or William.  She noted that the last name of the residents was the same as the address – she supposed they had named the property after the family.

Alessa continued reading.  There was nothing more in the first book, nor in the second or third.  It was in the fourth volume – 1900s – that Alessa had another hit:

Mason Manor, No. 33.  New Owner, Albert Mason Jr., as of April 25th.  Residents: Albert Mason Jr. & Martha Mason, children Isaac Mason, 6.

That entry was from 1906, adding Isaac Mason as another possibility.  Alessa read for a few more moments, and found one more related record in 1908.  The family had acquired another 40 acres of land adjacent to the property and there was an additional entry beside Isaac under the children, a one year old Josephine Mason.

If it was Isaac, the ghost she was seeing was probably from between 1915 and 1920.  She knew from the Z-E-Pi article that the university had purchased the property in the 30s, so that left two or three volumes to go through to narrow down the possibilities.

Unfortunately, though, it would have to wait.  Alessa glanced at the clock and realized she had only 20 minutes until her physics lecture, and she still needed to run home and grab her laptop, which she had forgotten in her rush to get to the midterm that morning.

Alessa jotted down the information she had found and resolved to come back the next time she had a few free moments.  She stacked the volumes of records chronologically and carried them back to the shelves from which Mary Brighton had taken them.  She took one last look at the clock – 17 minutes.  That was just enough time to dash across campus, grab her computer, and meet Janie at the science building.

5. ENCOUNTER

Alessa climbed the steps to her house with 13 minutes to spare until the start of her lecture.  She hastily bounded to the second floor and tried to remember if she had anything edible in her minifridge.  She thought there might be a few string cheeses left and made a mental note to grab one as she swung around the doorway into her room.

Alessa stopped short.  Standing at the window not ten feet from her was a tall solitary figure, partially cast in shadow.  He was looking out the window, breathing gently, one slim lace up boot perched on the low windowsill, narrow suspenders pulled taut across a broad, flat back and fastened to the narrow waist of his trim brown slacks.  Lost in his own thoughts, he gazed pensively across the expanse of the lawn, his chin perched gently upon the knuckles of his left fist, white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow.  She could see the muscles in his forearm flex as he clenched and unclenched his hand.

Alessa stifled the urge to scream as adrenaline rushed through her body.  Panic threatened to overtake her as blood throbbed through her temples, her muscles tensing for action.  But she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, so she just stood still, watching.

He was contemplative, as usual, gazing through the window but not focused on anything in particular.  He dropped his left arm and ruffled a hand through the short waves of his soft brown hair.  His skin was pale, but not the pallid color of sickness, more the luminous porcelain of mid-winter.

Alessa’s body refused to calm, her insides churning as she fought the mayhem stirring in her chest.  Terror mixed with agony, her heart sinking with each beat, overwhelmed with an aching sorrow she couldn’t explain.  But at the same time, she felt the firm tug of a powerful longing, the depths of which she’d never experienced before.  She couldn’t have torn her eyes from him if she’d tried.

His image glowed faintly, the lines of the windowpane just barely visible through his semi-translucent form.  For a moment, his head inclined in her direction and she could see the gleam of one sea blue eye above a strong, straight nose and thin pale rose lips.

Transfixed by his face, Alessa couldn’t get a grip on her emotions.  She was frightened and anxious, every impulse in her body telling her to run.  But at the same time she felt strangely drawn to him, and she knew she couldn’t have forced her feet to move even if she’d wanted to.  She was frozen in place, powerless to act, waves of anguish washing over her, drowning.  And on top of all this, that ever-present, searing longing that rooted her in place despite her best instincts towards self-preservation.  How did this strange apparition invoke such turmoil in her?

Alessa knew somewhere inside that she needed to connect with the ghost, needed to break through the barrier that separated them, but she didn’t know how.  The only thing she could think to do was speak, but what would she say?  How could she start?  And did he even know she was there?  How would he react to her intrusion?

Alessa was building the courage to try to communicate when the ghost began to fade.  It started with the hazy glow around him, which grew strong for a moment then rapidly drew inward, erasing his presence as it went.  Alessa thought she saw a small flicker and then the form was gone.

She gasped for air; she didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath.  The entire encounter had only lasted a few seconds, maybe ten at the most, but she was overcome with exhaustion.  Her heart was still pounding and she was trembling from her fingertips to her toes.

Worse, her entire mental state was in shambles.  Alessa didn’t understand the tumultuous emotions that had hammered through her and she was still reeling from the experience.  Seeing the ghost was thrilling, but it was also alarming and strange, and it shook her straight to her core.  That was a normal enough reaction to this kind of situation, but there was something else, too, something specific to this ghost.

Her attraction to him was magnetic, and it went beyond her natural curiosity.  And yes, he was an incredibly appealing guy – the kind she would have pined over in high school – but it was more than that too.  It was like she knew him.  She just couldn’t explain it.

Whenever she was in his presence, she desperately wanted to reach out to him, to tell him he wasn’t alone.  He was forever gazing out over some landscape that Alessa was blind to, hard lines of melancholy scored into his face.  But she just couldn’t bring herself to interrupt his reverie, held hostage as she was by her body’s impulses.

The sound of footsteps approaching from down the hall brought Alessa back to reality.  She quickly closed the door behind her.  The last thing she wanted to do right now was exchange pleasantries with one of her housemates.

She leaned her back against the door, spreading her palms against the cool wood.  Alessa looked up at the ceiling, releasing a deep sigh.  These encounters always left her shaken and emotionally drained, and she didn’t have time to deal with it today.  She had to get to class.

She looked slowly around the room.  Everything was in its place – the oversized original fireplace mantle to her left, her twin bed and nightstand beyond it against the wall, then the double window and finally her desk and fridge across from the bed.  To her right was the large sliding door sealing off the double closet.  It was amazing how such a familiar place could for those few moments feel so foreign to her, like another world she didn’t belong in.

She crossed the room and snapped the lid of her laptop shut, unplugging the power cord from the back of the machine as she awkwardly attempted to scoop it up with the other hand.  She regretted once again that she hadn’t splurged on a higher-end model constructed of lighter materials as she exchanged the heavy textbook in her backpack for the heavier computer in her hand and closed the zipper.  Looking at her bedside clock, she noted that she had 10 minutes to make it back across campus.

Alessa turned towards the door and then she remembered the string cheese.  The scene inside her refrigerator was dismal.  The shelves were lined with half-rotted fruit and takeout leftovers from who knows when.  On the door she found a few cans of diet soda.  Checking the bottom drawer, she hit upon the package of string cheese with three individually wrapped sticks remaining.  She grabbed one and accidentally slammed the fridge door as she headed out, the adrenaline still ringing through her body.

Springing down the stairs of the house, Alessa set a quick pace down the cobblestone path that led back to the quad.  She peeled the plastic back from the string cheese as she went, anxiously swallowing bites as she strode past ambling students.  Janie would throw a fit if she could see; she viewed not peeling string cheese into strings as virtually sacrilegious.

A couple frat boys were tossing a frisbee across the quad while some freshman girls stood huddled under a tree, stealing glances at the guys and giggling to each other.  Alessa watched a comic looking professor in a classic tweed blazer replete with elbow patches hustle a stack of papers a foot tall towards the faculty offices.  On the far side of the quad, a team of facility workers were blowing fallen leaves into a pile and raking them into bags.  Taking in the ordinary college scene around her, Alessa began to feel almost normal again.

It’d been a couple weeks since she’d last seen the ghost, and she had forgotten how unsettling it was.  It was as though for a few moments her whole world turned upside-down.  Ghosts weren’t supposed to exist.  She shouldn’t be wandering into her room in the middle of the day to find a strange man standing there, only to watch him disappear into thin air seconds later.  It was true that much of her life in the past year didn’t make sense to her, but at least it was still firmly grounded in reality, on a planet with clear laws of nature that no one could break.

This ghost thing turned all of that on its head.  She was sure that what she was seeing was real, despite Janie’s half-joking hints to the contrary, and that knowledge made her wonder what else she had mistakenly taken for granted.

There had been her family’s stability for one.  She’d always counted on her parents to be there for her, to be a guiding voice and a security blanket whenever she needed them.  In spite of the constant fighting in recent years, Alessa needed her parents.  And one moment in the wrong place at the wrong time had taken them from her, forever.

Then, of course, there was her own infallibility.  Alessa had been so wrapped up in her dreams for the future that she had failed to prepare for reality.  Yes, her parents’ death was a curveball she hadn’t anticipated, and her reaction – depression, withdrawal, breakdown – had been pretty understandable.  But even if they had survived the accident and things had gone back to normal, Alessa had a sneaking suspicion that she might still be in the same boat.

She had thought she was invincible, but in the end she was just deluded.  Yes, she was a talented student and a good leader with a strong resume, but there were thousands of others just like her.  She didn’t know what had ever made her think that she was entitled to admission to only the best schools in the country.  She should have known that getting accepted to any of the schools on her list was a shot in the dark, and she should have put more time into evaluating other more realistic options that might actually have been a good match for her.

She’d always preferred to be a big fish in a small pond, and she could have had her pick of decent colleges, even after all the devastation of the accident.  Instead, she’d squandered her opportunity and had to settle for this massive university where she was nothing but a number.

Arriving at the door to the lecture hall, Alessa felt more lost than she ever had.  She didn’t know what to believe in anymore.  Certainly not her own judgment, certainly not her parents’ permanence, and certainly not the laws of science.  In the past year, if there was one thing Alessa had learned, it was not to trust herself, not even down to the most basic truths. Like that ghosts were only stories.  She knew now that there was much more to this world than it had seemed.

6. DISSECTION

Janie had saved a seat for Alessa towards the back of the huge auditorium.  “Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?” she jibed with a mischievous smirk.

Alessa was unfailingly punctual.  She knew that Janie – who was always running ten minutes behind – must take a small amount of pleasure in seeing their roles reversed for once.  Usually it was a frazzled Janie plopping down into her seat, frantically pulling out her notes seconds before the beginning of class.  Today it was Alessa’s turn.

Alessa looked at Janie.  She didn’t know where to start.

Janie’s expression shifted into concern.  “You look like you’ve seen…”

“A ghost, yes,” Alessa said under her breath.

Janie’s eyes popped.  “Just now?” she whispered urgently.

Alessa noticed that Professor Liu was stepping up to the podium.  “Yes,” she whispered back, “in my room.”

“What happened?” Janie breathed.

The professor had started speaking, something about being pleased with the results of this morning’s exam.

Alessa lowered her voice to give Janie the summary.  “The same thing as always: he was just standing there and then he disappeared.”

“Kind of anticlimactic.”

“No kidding.”

Janie thought for a moment.  “Did you find anything at the library?”

Professor Liu raised his voice, “Ladies in the back, is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

Alessa flushed.  She hated being reprimanded.  She shrunk back into her chair and mouthed a sheepish, “Sorry.”

The professor returned to his lesson plan, but as had been the case of late, Alessa just couldn’t focus on what he was saying.  She unfolded the little desktop from its storage space under her armrest and took out her laptop.  Opening a blank document, she angled the screen toward Janie, intending to write a short note explaining what she’d learned at the library.  Luckily, there was no one sitting directly behind them, so she didn’t have to worry about anyone reading over their shoulders.

“I found the librarian from that article – she pointed me towards some old books of property records and I was able to find the house in there.”

Feigning attention to the lecture as she scribbled in her notebook, Janie quickly shifted her eyes to Alessa and raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.

Alessa cleared what she had written and started a fresh sentence.  “There was a Mason family who built the house in the 1870s, and they had two sons, Albert & William.  Then Albert took ownership of the house about 30 years later and had a son named Isaac.  I think it might be one of those three.”

Janie nodded and wrote something in her notebook.  She slid it quietly towards Alessa.  Alessa saw something scrawled in the margin in Janie’s signature tiny capital letters.  She leaned closer for a better look.  “ALBERT?  SEXY.”  Janie had underlined the last word for emphasis.  It was amazing how Janie’s voice rang clear in Alessa’s head, even just from her writing.  Alessa could hear the sarcasm dripping from those two syllables.

Alessa rolled her eyes playfully.  She turned back to the keyboard and typed, “Isaac?”

“DEFINITELY BETTER.”

Alessa laughed silently and shook her head at Janie’s antics.  Albert, William, Isaac… She didn’t care what the ghost’s name was, only who he was.

She was opening the file with her physics notes as Janie pushed her notebook in Alessa’s direction once again.  “SO WHAT’S THE PLAN?”

Alessa looked at Janie and shrugged.  She typed, “Going to see if I can find death records for these people.  Beyond that, not sure.”

Janie acknowledged the response with a nod and went back to her notes.  Alessa did the same.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Professor Liu was reminding the class to check the syllabus for the reading due next session.  Alessa was surprised at how much she had absorbed once she started paying attention.  With what she picked up in class today she thought she should be able to skim through the reading, which might give her enough time to continue her research about the ghost between now and Thursday’s class.

Janie turned to Alessa as she was packing her notebook into her messenger bag.  “Did you eat lunch yet?”

Alessa was surprised to find that she actually had an appetite for once.  “Nope.  Did you want to grab something?  I’ve got a half hour until my next class.”

“Let’s go to the cafeteria.”

Alessa nodded her assent.

Janie led the way down from the back of the lecture hall, following the tide of students to the door.  As they passed the front podium, Alessa was startled to hear someone other than Janie call her name.

“Ms. Khole?”  Alessa and Janie stopped in their tracks and turned around.  Professor Liu was looking directly at Alessa.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Yours was one of the few exams I had time to grade before class today.”  Alessa felt a twang of trepidation; this couldn’t be good news.  She braced herself.

The professor continued.  “I was quite impressed with your performance.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Alessa stammered.  That was not what she was expecting.  She reminded herself to smile.

“I haven’t finished the curve yet, but I think you can expect at least an A-minus.  Keep up the good work.”

Alessa perked up.  “Thanks, Professor.”  She turned towards the door and caught a surprised look on Janie’s face.

As they exited into the hallway, Janie said, “He knows your name?”

Alessa was just as puzzled.  Besides his brief chiding in the beginning of class, Alessa had never had any direct interaction with her physics professor.  “I guess so…  He probably looked up my photo in the student directory or something.”

“You must have really done well on that test.”

Alessa thought she had done okay.  She must have gotten more right on those last few questions than she expected.  “I didn’t think I did that good.”  After a second, she added, “Guess we have to be more careful not to get caught talking from now on.”

Janie chuckled.  “Guess you need to be more careful.  He still has no idea who I am.”

Alessa laughed. “True.”

After a short walk, they arrived at the cafeteria.  As it was almost 1:00, most of the lunch rush had died down and there were only a few stragglers remaining inside.  This was always the best time to come.  With 20,000 hungry students and only one main dining hall, the ESU cafeteria was not Alessa’s preferred dining venue between noon and one o’clock.  If she ate lunch, she usually grabbed something quick from one of the smaller vendors elsewhere on campus, like the Van Husen café.

The dining hall was one of the few modern buildings on campus.  With that many mouths to feed every day, the original cafeteria – which was built back in the 40s to accommodate one tenth the number of students – just wasn’t going to cut it.  A few years ago the university had used a large grant to build the enormous structure, with a huge kitchen and serving area on the main floor and three floors of seating above.

Alessa and Janie swiped their meal cards then diverged to opposite ends of the cafeteria.  Janie, as usual, went to the salad bar.  Alessa scanned the hot food entrees.  It was a chilly day and after her earlier incident with the ghost, she could use some comfort food.

Bingo.  Macaroni and cheese, her favorite.  Alessa scooped herself a modestly sized portion, then added a spoonful of steamed broccoli to her plate as well.  She didn’t want to hear Janie’s nagging to eat her vegetables.

Sure enough, the moment they sat down across from one another, Janie eyed Alessa’s plate.  “You really shouldn’t eat that junk.”  Janie’s plate was piled literally eight inches high with fresh raw vegetables and nuts.  For someone who was so health-conscious, she had a voracious appetite.

“I got some broccoli,” Alessa offered.  She watched as Janie dug a fork into her mound of produce and shoveled it towards her mouth.  “I really don’t know where you put all of that.”

Janie swallowed.  “It’s low calorie and healthy fats.”

“No, I mean, physically.  How can you fit that much volume in your stomach?”

Through a mouthful of food, Janie replied, “Practice.”

Alessa smiled and started in on her own plate.  The mac and cheese was definitely hitting the spot.  It reminded her of her mom’s homemade recipe, creamy and buttery with a thick layer of crisp breadcrumbs across the top.  Heaven.  It felt like forever since she’d eaten something so rich.

Janie looked up from her tray and took a deep chug from her glass of milk.  “So, how are you feeling?  You look better than when you walked into class.”

Alessa definitely felt better.  “Yeah, I’m okay now.  Thanks for asking.”  She took a sip of water.  “I forgot how –” she searched for the right word, “– distressing it is to see the ghost.  I mean, beyond the expected scared-out-of-my-mind reaction, for some reason he stirs up all these other emotions in me.  I know I’ve told you that I can see that he’s distraught, but it’s more than just empathy.  I feel it.  It’s like a whole bucket of emotions are dumped on me in the span of a few seconds, and it just leaves me feeling like a wreck.”

“Is that normal for ghosts?”

“Is what normal?”

“Making you feel things, like maybe what they’re feeling.”

Alessa hadn’t thought of that.  She certainly couldn’t explain how she felt in his presence, and at least some of it did seem to match his expression.  “You know, I’m not sure.  It kind of makes sense, and it would help to explain why these encounters keep affecting me like they do.”

Janie thought for a moment.  “Was it always like that?  I don’t remember you being such a mess at first.”

Alessa reflected back over her history with the ghost.  At first the encounters were much briefer, lasting only a second or two.  In fact, she may even have had incidents that were shorter.  In the beginning of the school year, sometimes she would see something out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked nothing was there.  So she wasn’t even sure at first that anything had happened.

Then one night, she’d woken up at three in the morning feeling that eerie sixth sense that she wasn’t alone.  When she’d opened her eyes, she’d seen the silhouette of a man standing at the foot of her bed, near the fireplace.  She had frozen out of fear and pretended she was still asleep, squinting in the darkness to try to figure out if what she was seeing was real.  She could only faintly make out his shape and thought it might have been a trick of the light coupled with her sleepy eyes, but she just had that feeling that she wasn’t the only person in the room.  Then all of a sudden the feeling had passed, and when she’d reached out to her nightstand to switch on the lamp, there was nothing there.

When she finally did see the ghost for certain for the first time, she’d flown from the room.  She’d been alone in the bathroom one evening brushing her teeth when she looked up from the sink and saw the ghost lurking behind her in the mirror.  He didn’t seem to have noticed her, but Alessa hadn’t stayed long enough to look closely.  She’d sprinted from the bathroom toothbrush in hand and locked herself behind her own door until she’d calmed down enough to go tell Janie what had happened.

So she supposed in those early incidents it wasn’t quite the same.  Today, she had been transfixed.  She couldn’t seem to summon the will to flee, even as every instinct screamed at her to go.  But those first few times, she had been able to take action.

Alessa confirmed Janie’s suspicions.  “You’re right.  It didn’t used to be like this.  I think the encounters are lasting longer and longer, and they’re getting more intense.”

“That’s a little scary.”

Alessa agreed.  “I’ll look into it when I get home tonight.  I’m sure there are plenty of ghost stories on the internet – I’ll see if I can find reports of anything similar.”

“Good idea.”

Alessa savored the last bite of her mac and cheese and put down her fork.  “Okay, I think it’s time for me to head to my ethics seminar.”

Janie still had a sizable pile of veggies in front of her.  “Okay.  I’m going to stay and finish up.  See you back at the house tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

7. RESEARCH

Alessa was flooded with relief as she climbed the steps to Zeta Epsilon Pi’s front porch.  Between the exam that morning and her lunchtime rendezvous with the ghost, she was wiped.  Her ethics seminar had dragged on interminably, and as she yawned and drooped in her chair, Alessa had found herself wishing she was back in one of those massive lecture halls so that she could sink into the crowd.

Instead, she had spent the entire class struggling to keep her eyes open in full view of her ethics professor, who quickly took notice given that there were only twenty or so students in the room.  Alessa had spent the better part of the last hour with the professor’s affronted expression boring through her and was glad to put the class behind her.  It felt good to be home at last.

As Alessa opened the front door, she noticed that there was a group of seven or so sorority sisters gathered around the coffee table in the living room.  They alternated between nodding furiously and looking intently at Lizzie’s laptop as she spoke rapidly about something, gesticulating enthusiastically as she went.  Alessa caught wind of the words “party” and “delegate” and quickly scurried up to her room before anyone noticed her presence.

Alessa switched on the light and flopped onto the bed, letting out a deep sigh.  It had been a long day.  At least she could expect a little respite before her next encounter with the ghost, since he didn’t seem to drop in more than once every other week or so.  With the way she was feeling at the moment, she thought she might need that much time to recover.  She ached with exhaustion right down to her bones.

Alessa rolled over facing the wall and pulled her knees toward her chest, her long hair strewn out behind her.  She rested her head on her arm and closed her eyes.  She still hadn’t fully processed everything that had happened earlier, the emotions that had tugged at her from seemingly every direction.  She wondered if there was any validity to Janie’s theory that they were actually the ghost’s emotions being projected onto her.

She didn’t want to think about it.  It was bad enough that she was seeing the apparition.  Did she really need to feel it too?  She didn’t like the idea of some foreign entity hijacking her emotions, making her feel like someone she wasn’t.  It was troubling to think how little control she had over her own faculties during those moments.  And now it was hours later and she was still feeling the effects.

She needed to get to the bottom of this.  With a weary sigh, Alessa rolled back over and swung her legs to the floor, pushing herself out of bed and over to the desk.  Sinking into the chair, she snatched up her backpack from the floor and slid out her laptop, dropping it onto the desk with a clunk.  She popped the lid open and reattached the power supply while she waited for the system to boot up.  Once the familiar startup chimes sounded, she opened her browser and navigated to a search engine.

Alessa wasn’t even sure where to begin.  She decided to start broad and entered “ghost stories.”  120 million results.  Perhaps she was going to need to be more specific.

This time she tried “real ghost stories.”  That narrowed it down to 5 million results.  She tested to see if adding “emotion” or “feeling” to her query would help, but scanning the results, she didn’t see anything that looked useful.  Alessa backed up to the “real ghost stories” search and randomly opened the first few results.

They were all stories from people who claimed to have experienced a ghost encounter, but the only emotions they reported feeling were the expected ones: that something was “not right,” like they weren’t alone, and of course terror, anxiety, panic.  It sounded pretty similar to Alessa’s first few experiences.

She tried entering “ghosts projecting feelings” which narrowed it down to 3 million results, but still nothing seemed quite right.  One of the top results was a general information page about ghosts, so she decided to check there.  Scanning the page, she noticed that the words “projecting” and “feelings” were there but nowhere near each other, which didn’t really answer her question.  However, there was a list of alternative hypotheses attempting to explain the existence of ghosts, so she decided to read further.

Of course there was all the usual theorizing about the existence of spirits on another dimension or plane, a soul caught between life on earth and the afterlife envisioned by most major religions.  This was generally thought to be caused by “unfinished business” on the part of the deceased or a great trauma experienced at the time of death.  Both scenarios seemed reasonable enough to explain her own experiences, though Alessa didn’t know enough about her ghost to guess what might have been his particular hang-up.  And another issue, of course, was that this entire theory hinged on the premise of being willing to accept the existence of the soul, which Alessa also wasn’t sold on quite yet.

As expected, there was also plenty of scientific skepticism.  Carbon monoxide poisoning, air pressure changes, and mistakes interpreting peripheral vision were all cited as rational explanations behind what one might interpret as a ghost sighting, but none of these rationalizations seemed to hit the mark in Alessa’s case.  Alessa remembered that she had cited many of these same arguments herself in debates with friends over the years, an irony that was not lost on her.

There was also some discussion of a phenomenon called infrasound, sound waves emanating at a low enough frequency that they’re inaudible to humans but still detectable in other ways.  There were experiments where people reported seeing things and feeling uneasiness and even sorrow when exposed to sound at these frequencies.  However, in those experiments 20% of the tested population was affected by the presence of infrasound, which meant that if there was some sort of infrasound source affecting her house, at least a handful of her housemates should have experienced something similar.  As far as Alessa knew, no one else had, so that didn’t seem like the culprit.

Other theories hypothesized that ghosts were projections of the viewer’s own emotions, some sort of low-level telepathy that resulted from stress.  Alessa thought this theory might have some merit, especially given the recent loss of her parents and her difficulty coping with the experience.  However, that didn’t explain why her emotions might take the form of a guy from the early 1900s.  Shouldn’t it be her parents she was seeing if in fact her stress over their death was the root of all this?

Yet another set of theories considered the possibility of a time warp.  In these cases, by some unknown process the fabric of time was momentarily folded in such a way that someone in the present either got a glimpse of a person from the past, or – in the case of what was called a “time slip” – was fully transported into the past for a few moments.  Besides the usual lost soul hypothesis, this theory seemed probably the closest of everything Alessa had read.  However, in most reported instances, the person in the past had noticed the person from the present as well, which had not been the case with Alessa’s ghost.  And even if this theory was correct, Alessa didn’t understand how it was possible or why it was happening to her, in this house, with this ghost.

Alessa closed her laptop lid in frustration, snapping it a little harder than she’d meant to.  All in all, she was disappointed with what she’d been able to turn up.  There was practically nothing she came across that she didn’t already know, and none of the various theories seemed to quite match her experiences.  Most of the information online seemed like it was written by either lunatics or dedicated skeptics, neither of whom she trusted for a reliable opinion.

Most troubling was the fact that she wasn’t able to find anything related to the emotional disturbance that had accompanied her recent encounters.  There were occasional stories about feeling sorrow or loneliness when bumping into a spirit, but nothing to the degree of what she had experienced, and certainly no inexplicable sense of allure in addition to the sadness and pain and fear.  She had truly expected to find something that might help explain what was going on, or at least accounts from other people who had experienced similar sensations.  Instead, her search had left Alessa feeling more alone than ever.

Glancing at the pile of textbooks on her desk, Alessa remembered the slowly accumulating mountain of reading that she had yet to tackle.  She didn’t even want to try to calculate the number of pages she had due in the next week.  Alessa weighed the possibility of powering through some text tonight, but the thought of delving into economics or physics or history was just more than she could bear at the moment.  The reading would have to wait.

Alessa grabbed a hair tie off the desk and pulled her locks into a low ponytail.  She slid open her closet and dug into a dresser drawer, fishing out a comfortable pair of old sweatpants and a cozy long sleeve tee.  Changing out of her jeans and sweater, she tossed the discarded clothes in the laundry bag then headed for the bathroom.

In the hallway she passed by a sophomore housemate that she’d barely traded ten words with all year.  Sara, was it?  Alessa wasn’t positive.  She forced a quiet smile, a gesture that maybe-Sara returned with a quick wave.  She seemed relieved not to have to make conversation, so Alessa continued on without breaking her stride.

Reaching the bathroom, Alessa was grateful to find that it was empty.  She washed her face in the second of the triple sinks, splashing cool water over her skin until it flushed with pink.  As the water dripped off her chin, she looked up at the mirror, locking sight with her own green and gold eyes.  Janie was right – she looked like shit.  She was glad she’d decided to get some rest tonight instead of trying to force the reading, which would surely have been an exercise in futility.

Alessa dried her face and hands on the fluffy towel she kept hung on a hook by the door and returned to the sink.  As she reached for her toothbrush, she heard footsteps approaching.  She considered forsaking dental hygiene for one night if it would allow her to avoid another awkward exchange with one of her sorority sisters.

It was Janie.  “Hey, Less.”

Alessa breathed a sigh of relief.  “Hey.”

Janie was wrapped in a towel and headed towards one of the shower stalls.  She closed the curtain behind her and flung her towel over the top of the stall as Alessa began brushing her teeth.  A moment after the shower started pattering against the floor, Janie let out a yelp.

Alessa spat a mouthful of foam into the sink basin.  “You okay in there?” she asked, glancing in the mirror toward the shower.

“I always forget how cold it is when you first turn it on.”

Alessa knew the feeling.  She finished brushing her teeth and rinsed her toothbrush.

After a short pause, Janie continued.  “So did you get a chance yet to look into my projection theory?”

Putting her toothbrush back in its holder, Alessa turned to face the shower curtain.  “I did actually.  It wasn’t very successful.”  Just thinking about her failed research attempt caused the frustration to well up in her stomach again.  “None of the stories I found involved anything as intense as what I’ve been experiencing.”

“No?” Janie prompted.

“Nah.  There were some people who said they would be overcome with feelings of loneliness or grief, but there was no mention of anyone simultaneously feeling…” Alessa hesitated.  She knew Janie was going to goad her for this.  “… attracted.”

Janie snorted.  “Figures.”  She thought for a moment.  “I don’t know what to tell you, Less.”  Alessa could hear the concern in her friend’s voice.  More playfully Janie added, “Well, maybe your loins know something you don’t.  Maybe this ghost was your lover in a past life or something, and just like muscle memory you’re longing for him with every cell in your body.  Except the ones in your brain, of course.”

Alessa shook her head and laughed, out of frustration as much as amusement.  Now that she was seeing ghosts, how could she just dismiss other possibilities?  Even reincarnation wasn’t out of the question.  “You know what, Janie?  At this point, I’m not ruling anything out.”

8. EXPECTATION

Alessa had expected to be up half the night reliving her most recent encounter and mulling over the assortment of potential explanations.  But she surprised herself by slipping into the cool dark peace of slumber almost the instant her face struck the pillow.

Unfortunately, her peaceful repose did not last for long.  Halfway through the night she awoke in a cloud of anxiety, a pervasive sense of unease coloring the air around her.  She’d had another nightmare.

This time, instead of a dim prison cell she’d been outside on a brilliant winter morning, the chill air bracing against the cool sweat that dripped from her brow.  She was digging a hole, struggling to pierce the frozen ground as the harsh winter sun glared down on her back.  She felt weak and exhausted, her body fighting her every movement.  And hungry, so hungry.

“Need some help with that?”

She looked up to find a handsome young man, tall, strapping, with short chocolate hair and striking blue eyes.  He looked familiar, like someone she should know, but she couldn’t seem to place his face.  And he was breathtaking; though he approached her with affection and ease, Alessa’s heart pounded at the sight of him.

He took the shovel from her hands and plowed it into the ground, easily loosening the section of dirt that Alessa had been battling with.  Leaning over the shovel, he turned his back to the others working in the courtyard and dropped his voice low enough that only Alessa could hear.

“I have an assignment today.”

She felt her body react with alarm.  She didn’t understand why, but something about his statement rang of danger.

“What kind of assignment?”

“We’re stealing rations.  Everyone is hungry,” he glanced with concern over Alessa’s angular frame, “and we need to keep up our strength.  So we’re going this afternoon.”

Alessa didn’t like the sound of this.  She wished – not for the first time – that he hadn’t gotten involved with these people, regardless of how righteous their mission may be.

“Who’s we?” she asked, wondering who would be accompanying him during this harebrained scheme.

He motioned over his shoulder at another young man.  This one she recognized – it was her ghost.

“Him?”

“Yeah, why not?  He’s perfectly capable, and he’s been dying to get more involved.”

“But you’re supposed to be looking out for him!” she heard herself say.  “How can you put him in this kind of danger?”

He shot her a warning look.  Alessa lowered her voice before continuing.

“Has he done anything remotely this challenging before?”

Alessa could see the flash of doubt in his eyes, but only for a moment before he set his jaw.  “Listen, he needs to learn sometime.  I can’t hold him off anymore – he wants a part in this, and I can’t protect him forever.  Not to mention, I think it will make him feel better.”

“Better about what?” she hissed.  She still couldn’t believe he was going to go through with this.

He hesitated for a moment.  “I don’t know how to explain this to you.  He feels… responsible, for what happened.  For everything.  He thinks it’s his fault, what happened to our family.”

“What?  How does that make any sense?”

“It doesn’t, but nothing I can say will change his mind – trust me, I’ve tried.  He feels like he needs to prove himself, like he needs to make up for it somehow.  So I’m giving him the opportunity.”

Alessa’s head thrummed with apprehension – she had a very bad feeling about this – but she knew she couldn’t change his mind.  She stepped forward and grabbed hold of his shovel, locking her eyes with his.  “Just be careful.”

He smiled brightly, suddenly cocksure.  “You know I’ve got this.  Don’t even worry about it.”

His grin was meant to be reassuring, but Alessa knew better.  If there was one thing she’d learned here, it was that nothing was ever as it seemed – and there were no sure bets.

“Be careful,” she reiterated, the undercurrent of fear sharpening her voice.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he replied, intrepid as ever.  “Bring your appetite.”

Despite the sense of foreboding that had draped itself about her after that strange dream, Alessa had been able to fall back asleep, and the next morning she woke feeling rested and refreshed.  The prior day’s excitement – and the emotional toll it’d taken on her – seemed almost surreal.

After a solid night of sleep, Alessa’s muscles were eager for a little movement.  She indulged in a long feline stretch, finishing with a gratifying shiver as she rolled over to face the window.  Sunlight streamed through the windowpanes, catching on the countless little flecks of dust floating lazily through the air.  Alessa watched absently for a few moments, breathing deeply and enjoying the unseasonal brilliance of the sun.

She tossed the covers to the side and sat up, swinging her feet to the floor.  Sliding into her desk chair, she gave her email inbox a cursory glance, scanning the subject lines for anything that might be important.  As was usually the case, there wasn’t much there besides a lot of insubstantial chit-chat on her sorority’s discussion alias.  As she finished skimming the list of messages, a new one popped to the top of her inbox:

[Z-E-PI ACTION REQUIRED] PARTY PREP ASSIGNMENTS!

Alessa groaned.  On her way into the house last night she’d thought she’d overheard Lizzie and Co. discussing a party, but she had been hoping she was wrong.  Now her suspicions were confirmed.

The last party Z-E-Pi threw over Halloween weekend had attracted a crowd of 300.  The house had been overrun with a rowdy jumble of drunken coeds decked out as everything from a bloody vampire to a sexy bumblebee.  By the end of the night, the acrid smell of vomit had wafted under the door of Alessa’s room all the way from the bathroom down the hall.  On that occasion Alessa had been stuck on cleanup duty.  The smell of stale beer still gave her flashbacks.

She made a quick decision to ignore the email and continue on with her day, rationalizing that she couldn’t possibly feel guilty for neglecting her “sisterly duties” if she didn’t know what they were.  If anyone asked, she’d just pretend she hadn’t seen the email yet.  Hopefully no one would ask.

The rest of Alessa’s day was unremarkable, as was the next.  She went to class and did her best to pay attention.  She chipped away at the bulk of the reading she’d amassed.  She checked in to see what Janie was up to every so often.  And whenever she found her mind unoccupied, her thoughts unfailingly drifted back to the ghost.

Her last encounter had been nothing short of disturbing, but after a couple of days, the unpleasantness had faded and she found herself anticipating her next opportunity to see the ghost.  Alessa knew that looking forward to that sort of harrowing emotional experience probably wasn’t healthy, but she couldn’t help herself.  If the encounters continued getting more and more intense, she couldn’t imagine the toll it might take on her, but it was no use trying to resist.  Alessa’s curiosity had overtaken her sense of self-preservation.

She’d been meaning to make it back to the library to finish the search for the house’s previous inhabitants, but had yet to find the time.  William, Isaac, Albert… Alessa rolled their names on her tongue, wondering if her ghost was one of them.  At this point, all she really had to go on to narrow down the time period was the style of his clothes, and it seemed to her like any of them could be a fit.  Albert was probably a stretch given that the records showed he’d survived well past his teenage years, but she was still hesitant to cross anyone off her list just yet.  And then there were the remaining volumes of records to consider.  Who knew how many other potential names she might uncover?

Once she had compiled a list of possibilities, she planned to research each one to see if she could discover the manner of each person’s death or any other major events in their lives.  If there was anything traumatic, she hoped the library might have some old local newspapers documenting what had happened.  It was probably a longshot, though.  In all likelihood, she would leave this experience knowing exactly as much as she did coming in, which was nothing.  Alessa couldn’t imagine anything more demoralizing.

After a busy Thursday attending physics and ethics class and cramming reading for world history and econ in between, Alessa was back in her room preparing for bed.  She heard a quick knock on her door and a bright voice asking, “Alessa?  Are you there?”

Alessa sighed.  It was Lizzie Green.  Her time on the lam had come to an end.  “Yeah, come on in,” Alessa called out.

“Hey Alessa!”

“Hey Lizzie.”  Alessa was already dreading the next part of the conversation.

“So, you haven’t stopped by yet to pick up your flyers for the party…”

Alessa put on her best befuddled face.  “My what for the what?”

Lizzie hardened.  She didn’t look amused.  “Your flyers?  For the big anniversary party on Saturday?  Didn’t you see the email that went out yesterday morning?”

“Oh…” Alessa paused and pretended to think for a moment.  “I guess not?  Sorry.”

Lizzie’s expression softened, though she was still grimacing.  It was clear that she was making an effort to be nice.  Alessa assumed that for someone who was used to being listened to, it must be difficult to feel ignored.  She decided to be more compliant.  She didn’t really have a choice, anyway.

Lizzie continued.  “Okay, well, you must have missed it, no worries…  You were assigned to marketing duty this time, so there’s a bunch of flyers that we need you to hand out and hang up around campus.  Preferably tomorrow,” she added.  She extended a stack of brightly colored paper towards Alessa.

HELP THE GIRLS OF Z-E-PI RING IN

40 FABULOUS YEARS!

PARTY AT THE CHAPTER HOUSE

SATURDAY @ 10 PM

Alessa looked up from the flyers and smiled at Lizzie.  “Okay, no problem.  I should be able to take care of it in between class tomorrow – I have a light schedule, just a lab and a lecture.”  She would have preferred to go back to the library and continue her research, but decided to keep her reservations to herself.

“Ok great!  Thanks for your help.”  Lizzie beamed her million dollar smile and headed for the door.  She paused before exiting.  “Oh, and Alessa?  Remember to recruit lots of boys.  Cute boys.”

“Sure.”  Alessa breathed a sigh of relief as Lizzie closed the door.  That wasn’t nearly as painful as she’d expected.  On the spectrum of party prep assignments, flyer duty was about as good as it could get.  Nothing heavy to lug, no money to spend, and no chunks of puke to pick out of the carpet and couch cushions.  Given Alessa’s surly temperament towards most of the girls in the house, she had expected to get sallied with something on the lower end of the spectrum, if not clean-up again, at least something cumbersome like transporting the keg.  Flyers she could handle.

Alessa put the stack of paper in her backpack along with a stapler and some tape, then promptly crawled into bed and drifted off to sleep.

Alessa woke with a start.  Frantic, she gasped for air as her eyes struggled to focus in the dark.  What is this place?  Alessa searched her mind, the strange surroundings taking their time to resolve.  The mantle, the desk, the bedspread… she was in her room at school.  She glanced at the clock – 3:47 AM.  It was only a dream.

She was in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, her heart still pounding against her chest.  She wiped the tears from her face and tried to get a grip on her emotions as fear and panic continued to surge through her body.  She felt vigilant, ready to jump at a moment’s notice.  What had she been so afraid of?

Alessa could feel the tendrils of the dream slipping back into her subconscious, even as she strained to weave them together into a cohesive whole once more.  She felt like she was looking through a fog.  She remembered being crouched in some small dark place, hiding, the feel of cold metal seeping through the thin leg of her pants.  She wasn’t alone.  She was holding someone’s hand, clutching it, not daring to breath.  She knew they were being stalked.

Who was hunting them?  She couldn’t remember.  Boot steps…  She remembered the sound of boot steps approaching their hiding place.  She remembered panic welling up in her chest, tingling in her fingertips, her muscles taut and ready to spring.  She remembered regret, thinking of the sturdy knife stored inaccessibly in her knapsack, the hopelessness of fighting.  Most of all she remembered dread.  She knew that if she was caught, it would be the end.

Finally she recalled the light, a bright dazzling light suddenly filling the alcove, blinding her.  She remembered a dark gloved hand emerging through the light, snatching at her, at him.  Him…  The ghost!  But not a ghost – he was alive, next to her, grasping her hand in the same grip of terror as the gloved arm reached for them.

What happened next? The dream was slipping… The images frosted over in her mind and she could feel them sliding from her grasp.  They had grabbed him, yanked him from her side.  She knew it was over.  She couldn’t face what came next.  A crushing sorrow descended on her, the tears streaming down her face.  And then she had woken up.

What had woken her?  A scream.  Her own scream.  One word cutting through the blinding light and ringing clearly into the night.  One word filled with all the pain, all the loss, all the hurt that one person could bear.  Her own ravaged voice, desperate to bring back the one thing that meant everything to her, the one thing that would enable her to survive.

“Isaac!”

9. PREPARATION

By the time she got out of her physics lab, the last thing Alessa wanted to do was hang up flyers for the party.  She had slept fitfully after that terrifying dream, unable to shake her anxiety until the first rays of dawn peeked through her bedroom window.  When she’d finally fallen back asleep, there had only been a couple hours until morning, and though she couldn’t remember any other dreams, she suspected that those feelings of panic and dread had chased her through the remainder of the night.

The worst part was that she hadn’t even been able to talk to anyone about it.  Janie unfortunately was assigned to a different lab session, so Alessa was forced to work with a stranger to complete the day’s experiment.  Mercifully, her partner took charge of manning the motion sensor and calculating the coefficient of restitution while Alessa stood on her stool and mindlessly bounced the basketball, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She spent most of the lab mulling over what the dream might mean and why it had affected her so deeply.  By that point she had already lost most of the details, so she focused on piecing the major elements together.  Trapped, with the ghost, terror, sorrow, Isaac.  It did sort of make sense when she broke it down.

Feeling trapped seemed to be one of the overriding themes of her life right now, in a variety of ways.  Trapped at this school, trapped into participating in the sorority’s nonsense, trapped in this world without her parents to guide her.  She was even almost physically trapped whenever she saw the ghost lately, unable to move her feet.  Yes, trapped was a feeling she was familiar with, and it was only logical that her subconscious might surface this feeling as literally being trapped in some kind of small recess.

The ghost had obviously also been a major player in her life lately.  She’d been devoting most of her mental resources towards thinking about him – who he is, what he’s feeling, why he’s here – or trying to recover after he ransacked her emotional state.  And there was always that strange yearning she felt to be close to him.  That might have emerged in the dream as their physical closeness, being squeezed in that small place together, holding hands even.

The feelings of fear and despair also made sense.  After all, she had just experienced these emotions both very acutely during her last encounter with the ghost, which was only a few days ago.  And unfortunately those feelings were applicable to other parts of her life as well – the death of her parents, for example.

And the Isaac thing wasn’t exactly inexplicable either.  She had three names – Isaac, Albert, William – who were possibilities, so her mind just must have chosen one.  Maybe she had latched onto Isaac since Janie had commented on it being an attractive name.

When she considered all this together, it also explained why she felt so unnerved by the dream.  There were a lot of unexpected things going on in her life and a lot of emotional turmoil surrounding them.  The dream had taken all those messy feelings and boxed them up into a neat little narrative, forcing Alessa to face all the negative emotions she’d been trying to suppress.  Of course she would feel disturbed after having to face that head on, without any warning, in a dead sleep no less.

Alessa felt better after giving the dream some thought, but that didn’t change the fact that she had lost hours of rest to its aftermath, and now she was tired.  When her lab was over all she wanted to do was go home and take a nap, but instead she was obligated to deal with the flyers.

She trudged from the science building to Van Husen Hall, flyers in hand, half-heartedly thrusting one toward whomever she happened to pass.  Inside Van Husen, she tacked a flyer to the bulletin board on the main floor and also the one in the basement café.  She asked the student behind the register if it was okay to leave a stack of flyers on the counter, a request he cheerfully obliged while also pocketing a flyer himself. Having distributed half of her stack, Alessa decided that it was a good time for a break.

It was nearing lunchtime and Alessa of course had not eaten breakfast, so she decided to pick up a cup of soup from the vat in the corner of the café.  Remembering the pathetic contents of her fridge, she also grabbed a handful of items to restock it – apples, individually wrapped cheeses, a pint of milk, and a box of cereal.  Now at least she wouldn’t have an excuse for not eating.

She paid for the items and took a seat at one of the small round tables to eat her soup.  It was a thick, almost gelatinous chicken noodle that was lacking in vegetables and – she knew from prior experience – heavily salted and far too hot.  She stirred to release some heat, then crushed a packet of complimentary crackers into the soup and sampled a spoonful, lightly burning the back of her throat as she swallowed.  The bland crackers had done what she’d hoped and absorbed at least some of the salt flavor.  It was passable.  What more could she expect from Van Husen?

After finishing her pitiable lunch, Alessa decided to take a lap around the quad to distribute her remaining flyers.  There were a few covered bulletin boards staked at odd intervals around the green along with a plethora of lampposts and, of course, mounting poles for the university’s ubiquitous security cameras.  Even if Alessa didn’t pass a single soul as she lapped the quad, she should still be able to finish off her stack.  It was technically prohibited to post flyers anywhere except on university-approved spaces like the bulletin boards, but in practice it was done all the time.  Alessa was eager to get rid of her flyers and get home for a quick rest before her afternoon history lecture, so she decided to risk it.  Anyway, she didn’t see anyone in the immediate vicinity who looked official enough to reprimand her.

She headed for the bulletin board on the south end of the quad near the library.  On her way she passed a group of three female students and handed them each a flyer with a perfunctory, “Party Saturday.”  She remembered Lizzie’s admonition to invite “…lots of boys.  Cute boys,” and felt a small pang of guilt.  Oh well.  Was it her fault that all of the cute boys were apparently in class during her only flyering opportunity?

Reaching the bulletin board, she dropped the strap of her backpack from one shoulder and swung the bag forward to where she could reach the front pockets, withdrawing the stapler and tape from the larger compartment.  She righted her backpack and held a flyer against the bulletin board, securing it in place with the stapler.  Taking a quick glance around to make sure no one was looking, Alessa reshuffled some of the other printouts on the board to slightly obscure the flyer she’d just posted.  The fewer people who showed up to this party the better.

Alessa headed toward a lamppost about ten yards past the bulletin board.  She taped a flyer at eye level, then crossed the cobblestone path toward a camera pole another ten yards away.  Alessa worked her way in a loop around the quad, crisscrossing the path as she encountered any surface she could stick a flyer to.  There were only a handful of other students out and she made sure to give flyers to them as well.

At last Alessa was down to one final printout.  She surveyed the quad and was satisfied with the job she’d done.  A little too satisfied, in fact – her subtle attempts at sabotage stood no chance against the barrage of colorful papers waving in the brisk fall breeze as far as the eye could see.  It actually looked rather festive with all that pink, yellow, and blue.

Alessa turned to the mounted camera beside her, staring quizzically into the lens as she approached the base.  She wondered if anyone was actually watching.  There had to be thousands of hours of footage logged across the absurd number of cameras on campus – too much to actually review in its entirety.  She decided the university was probably just storing all the recordings in a vault somewhere in case one was ever needed for another lawsuit.  Once again, Alessa mused that the whole practice really seemed unnecessary.  Unnecessary and unnerving.

Reaching the camera mount, Alessa tore off an inch of tape and held her only remaining flyer against the pole.  She pressed the tape down and was about to release a satisfied sigh when she heard a deep male voice behind her.

“Excuse me, miss.  This is a violation of university policy.  I’m going to have to ask you to remove that.”

Alessa swore under her breath.  She’d never heard of anyone actually getting in trouble for flyering.  Of course she had to be the first.  She prepared her best perplexed face – she had decided her best option was to feign ignorance – and turned around to face her accuser.

She was surprised to find not the burly university official she was expecting, but a student.  In fact, he was what Lizzie Green would have called, “a cute boy,” which Alessa thought was probably an understatement.  He was tall and dark and – oh, she hated to say it – handsome, with neat black hair and deep brown eyes.  He flashed a mischievous white smile which glowed against his tan skin.

He introduced himself in a slightly higher octave than before.  “Nikhil.  Sorry to scare you.  I couldn’t help myself.” He gestured at the expanse of the quad, the multicolored papers seemingly adorning every available surface.  “Is this all your handiwork?”

Alessa laughed sheepishly.  Was this attractive guy really flirting with her?  It’d been a while since that had happened – she flushed as she tried to think of something clever to say in response.  “Yeah, that was all me.”  Fantastic.

Nikhil smiled nonetheless.  “So, will you be at this party –” he paused expectantly, motioning towards her with his hand.

Alessa picked up on his meaning.  “Alessa.  And yes, I will absolutely be there.”  Ugh, so boring!  She tried to make up for her inadequate banter with a smile, a real one for once.

“All right then, I’ll have to look for you.”  He flashed that smile again and Alessa’s grin brightened.  “So do you have any more of those left?”  He indicated the pink flyer she’d just hung.

Alessa quickly peeled it off the pole and held it out to him.  “Why don’t you take this one?  You’ll save me from adding yet another infraction to my colorful record.”  He laughed.  Finally she’d come up with something worthwhile.

Nikhil folded up the paper and slipped it into his pocket.  With a coy smile he turned to go, locking eyes with her one last time.  “See you tomorrow, Alessa.”

“Bye,” she replied, unable to wipe the goofy grin from her face as he sauntered down the path away from her.  Perhaps this party wouldn’t be so bad after all.

10. PREENING

The next evening, Alessa found herself staring critically at her own reflection in the full-length mirror that was affixed to her closet door.  It’d been over a year since she’d last devoted more than minimal effort to her appearance, and unfortunately one enthusiastic hour of preening could not quite make up for all that neglect.

She stepped closer to the mirror, squeezing gently at her skin with her fingertips.  One by one the little bits of goo popped to the surface and she wiped them away with a tissue.  Satisfied with her efforts, she stood back to observe the results.  She was mildly horrified by the splotchy mess she’d made of her face, but she figured the redness would subside in the hour before people started arriving for the party.  Hopefully.

Alessa had spent the last 24 hours anticipating the upcoming party in a way that she hadn’t felt about anything lately.  She supposed it was due to Nikhil and his promise to seek her out that evening.  She thought about his dark almond-shaped eyes and warm smile, his broad shoulders and unmistakable air of confidence.  For the first time in months, she felt slightly giddy.

She had spent much of the day replaying her short conversation with Nikhil over and over in her mind, grimacing at her lack of charisma.  She thought about how she could have responded better – should she have been more coy?  More witty?  More playful?  She knew she was probably overthinking it, but she was determined to be mentally prepared to turn on the charm the next time she got the opportunity.

She wanted to feel confident tonight, but her recent lack of practice conversing with the opposite sex made her wary.  Even before everything had happened with her parents, she’d always found herself clamming up around guys, remaining quiet when she was usually outspoken.  As someone who usually felt relatively self-assured and in control, she found her inability to act normally around guys extremely frustrating.  And in the past year, it’d only gotten worse.  She’d hoped she would feel better tonight if she looked better, so she had spent the last hour conducting a mini-makeover to boost her spirits.

Overall, her plan had somewhat succeeded.  Alessa at least had to admit that she could be much worse off.  Her skin had always been less prone to blemishes than that of most teenagers, so her complexion was still relatively clear even after months of neglect.  She could have used a little more exfoliation in all that time, but she’d done her best to make up for it with a vigorous scrubbing earlier that evening and her skin glowed faintly as a result.

Being out of practice with makeup, she’d kept her beauty routine minimal – just a heavy coat of mascara, a thin stroke of eyeliner, and a swipe of shimmer eye shadow in a neutral beige tone.  Though the technique was simple, the result was actually rather striking.  Her bright green eyes smoldered and were the obvious focal point of her face.

Which was fortunate, since she was in desperate need of a haircut.  Regrettably she hadn’t thought of it until well after the nearest salon had closed, so instead she’d taken extra care in blow drying her long layers into smooth, shiny tresses.  The blowout helped to hide most of her split ends and she was reasonably certain that no one else would notice the damage.  From a distance, her hair actually looked glossier than she remembered it ever being.  Perhaps all those months away from heated styling tools had done some good.

Alessa curled her fingertips and held them up to her face for a closer look.  Her nails, as usual, were bitten down to nothing and her cuticles were peeling from dryness.  She certainly didn’t have the time – or the patience – to polish them this close to the start of the party, so she turned instead to the fireplace mantle where she had stashed a bottle of lotion next to her hairbrush and makeup bag.  Squeezing some into her hands, she massaged it into her fingertips.  Better already.

Alessa turned back to her closet and groaned.  Clothes were going to be the most difficult part.  She hadn’t bought anything new since before her parents died, even though she’d dropped a good 15 pounds in the interim.  She unfolded a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans and slipped into them.  They bunched unflatteringly in the back and hung lower on her hips than intended.  At one time, Alessa had been thin but curvy, a tall well-muscled athlete with a strong yet feminine physique.  Now she was more angular than anything, and she found herself missing the rounded behind she’d once cursed.

She tried another pair of jeans, old ones that she had not worn much after accidentally shrinking them in the dryer a few years ago.  They fit a bit more snugly than the last pair and were definitely more flattering in the rear.  She decided to stick with these, as she didn’t have many more options in the denim department.

Alessa wasn’t sure what kind of top to wear.  She’d normally put on a light sweater at this time of year, but with hundreds of people crowding into the house, it was bound to be warmer than she was used to.  She pulled out a sleeveless printed blouse that was fitted around the waist and slipped it over her head.  It hung loosely from her shoulders like a sack, the cinched waist doing nothing to improve the appearance.  No good.  Alessa stripped it off and tossed it on the bed.

Working her way through half the tops in her closet, Alessa found fault with each one in turn.  Too boring, too loose, too old, too frumpy.  The pile of discarded shirts on the bed grew.  She let out an exasperated sigh as the rhythmic bass from the stereo system downstairs started to bump through the floor.  Guests would be arriving any minute.

There was a knock at the door and Janie poked her head in.

“Hey, are you almost –” she paused midsentence as she took in the mound of clothes on the bed, “…ready…” she trailed off.  Janie sniffed the air with a small twitch of her nose and considered for a moment.

Suddenly her face lit up as it dawned on her what Alessa had been up to.  “Perfume… makeup… clothes… Oh my God, you met a guy!”

Alessa smiled abashedly.  “Guilty.”

“Ooooh!” Janie squealed.  “What’s his name?  Where did you meet him?  When did this happen?  And why haven’t you told me about this yet?!”  Janie was spewing questions faster than Alessa could take them in.

Alessa laughed.  “Okay, okay… slow down!  His name is Nikhil and I met him yesterday while flyering on the quad.”

Janie clapped with excitement.  “And is he cute?” She drew out the last word for emphasis.

“Very.”

Janie laughed and clapped her hands some more.  Alessa blushed.  Practically skipping to Alessa’s side, Janie crossed the room and stood facing the mirror alongside her.  “So what are you going to wear?  I hope not that…” She scowled with disdain at the cheap sequined tank top Alessa had on at the moment.  “It’s skank-a-licious.”

Alessa laughed and shook her head.  “I honestly don’t know what to wear.  I have nothing!”  She motioned at the pile on her bed.

Janie held up the first few shirts off the top of the heap and eyed them critically.  “I see what you mean.”  Tossing the shirts back into the pile, she blurted, “Hold on a minute,” and dashed from the room.

A moment later, Janie returned carrying an emerald green v-neck tee in a smooth thin cotton.  “I know it’s just a t-shirt, but the fit is really nice and since we have similar coloring, I think it would work on you.  Actually, with your eyes, the color might just be perfect.  Try it on.”  She tossed the shirt in Alessa’s direction.

Alessa caught it and peeled off the sequined number.  Once she slipped the t-shirt over her head, she knew at once that Janie, as usual, had been right.  The shirt’s slinky knit clung to her body in all the right places and the color more than complemented her eyes, which were glowing like gems.  Alessa was pleased with the overall effect – even though she’d put quite a bit of time into getting ready this evening, with such understated clothes and simple makeup she looked effortlessly beautiful.  This must be how Lizzie Green felt all the time.

“Hot.”  Janie, apparently, was pleased too.  “This Nikhil doesn’t know what he has coming.”

Alessa laughed as she slipped on a supple pair of flat knee-high boots, one of the few pre-college splurges she’d indulged in with her parents’ inheritance.  She could smell the rich brown leather as she slid the zipper closed.  “Definitely not.  You can imagine what I looked like when we met yesterday afternoon.  It’s a miracle he even wanted to talk to me.”

“Nah, you don’t give yourself enough credit,” Janie replied.  In a mock announcer voice, she continued.  “Alessa Khole, breaking hearts from this life to the next!”  Janie laughed heartily at her own joke.

Alessa’s amusement faded as she was stung by a sudden pang of guilt deep in her gut.  She hadn’t thought about the ghost even once since meeting Nikhil.

Janie noticed the change in Alessa’s expression and suppressed her mirth.  “What’s wrong?” she asked, inquisitive.

Alessa didn’t really know what was wrong.  She certainly had no obligations to this ghost but, strangely, for some reason Alessa felt like she was betraying him.  It didn’t make any sense.

Alessa tried to put on a smile for Janie.  “It’s nothing.  I just… realized I forgot to put on deodorant.”  She crossed the room to grab the stick of antiperspirant on the mantle, eager to shield her face from Janie’s inquiring eyes.

Alessa knew Janie wasn’t fooled, but Janie let the topic drop nonetheless.  Alessa was relieved.  She had a hard enough time rationalizing her ridiculous thoughts about the ghost to herself, let alone trying to explain them to someone else.

Alessa had a nagging feeling that she was doing something wrong by seeing Nikhil, and the feeling had washed away all of the excitement that she’d been reveling in all afternoon.  Now she just felt resentful.  Why couldn’t the ghost just let her be?

She swiped the stick under her arms – for the second time that evening – and put it back on the mantle.  Alessa swallowed her frustration and tried to compose herself before she turned around to face Janie again.  She was going to put the ghost out of her mind and enjoy herself.  There was no reason she couldn’t go to a party, have a couple beers, and flirt with an attractive guy like any normal college freshman, at least for one night.  She owed it to herself to try.

A shriek of glee pierced the air from downstairs and Alessa took the opportunity to change the subject.  “Sounds like the drinking games have begun.”

Janie picked up on her cue and obliged, smiling good-humoredly.  “Ready for a little action?”

“You bet.”  Alessa took one last look in the mirror and headed out the door towards the party.

11. REVELRY

Alessa and Janie descended the stairs into the main foyer and took in the scene.  The front door was propped open invitingly, cool air streaming over the threshold and regulating the temperature inside.  Alessa observed that the house was already starting to feel sweaty and humid in a gross sort of way; she was glad she’d opted for the t-shirt over a sweater.

To the right of the steps in the living room, the couches were pushed back against the walls and the DJ – who Alessa recognized as a fraternity brother from one of the other houses on campus – had set up a pair of massive speakers with thick cords running to his laptop.  He was playing dance music so loudly that Alessa could practically see the speakers vibrating.  There was a large hand-painted sign hung on the wall that read, “Happy 40th Zeta Epsilon Pi!”  Nearby a group of sisters and a few male guests stood chatting and swigging back gulps of what Alessa could only assume was the cheap, flavorless beer that always seemed to be served at student-funded events.

To the left, there was a rowdy game of beer pong underway on the dining room table.  Two of Alessa’s housemates – maybe-Sara and another sophomore who lived down the hall – had two very dumbfounded guys down to their very last cup, with only two cups missing from their own side.  Alessa looked on with amusement as maybe-Sara sunk the ball in the last cup – the guys had probably thought the two sorority girls would be an easy win, but no such luck at Z-E-Pi.  Alessa felt a small swell of pride, which surprised her immensely.

There were two kegs stashed to the side of the dining room table, a giant bag of red cups balancing between them.  Alessa guessed someone had made a trip to the bulk discount store earlier that day to stock up.

Janie saw Alessa eyeing the beer.  “Shall we?”

“We shall.”  As the beer pong teams set up for another match, Alessa and Janie made their way past the table to the kegs and each grabbed a cup off the top of the stack.  The light yellow beer streamed from the tap, foaming up the moment it touched the white interior of the plastic cup.  Alessa’s foam nearly overflowed and she took a quick sip to prevent the spill.  As expected, it was bland and flavorless except for an unpleasant hint of sour.  Ugh, she could already imagine the stale taste that would pervade her tongue tomorrow morning.

Janie took a sip of her own beer, her face contorting into the same grimace as Alessa’s.  “Nothing but the best for Z-E-Pi,” she joked.

Alessa smiled and shook her head, choking down another frothy sip.  At least the beer was cold.  For now.  “Come on, let’s go find somewhere to sit.”

Janie gave Alessa a disapproving look.  Alessa knew that sitting alone in a corner was not Janie’s idea of a party, but she followed Alessa into the living room nonetheless.  Alessa plopped onto the couch as far from the speakers as possible and Janie perched on the arm cushion next to her.

For the next hour or so, Janie and Alessa sat devotedly sipping their beers, making occasional small talk with the few sisters who stopped by to say hello.  They finished their first beers and each started a second. The house started to fill up, another group of students pouring through the door every few moments and heading straight for the kegs.  Before long the party was in full swing.

Her field of vision now entirely obscured by bodies, Alessa decided to stand up and get a better view.  There were students packed in every direction, mingling and laughing and guzzling their cups.  Shrieks of triumph sounded from another raucous game of beer pong, the talented Z-E-Pi team reigning over their next victim no doubt.  The air buzzed with the din of voices shouting over the aggressively bumping music, the crowd’s bodies swaying almost involuntarily to the beat.  Alessa could see a few small groups slipping into a full-out gyrate, which was slowly starting to spread to neighboring circles.

The atmosphere had ripened with the musky human smell of sweat.  An already intoxicated male guest leapt onto the couch and thrust his red cup skyward, splashing beer in every direction as he bellowed a hearty, “Z-E-Pi!” at the top of his lungs.  Most of the guests cheered in response, then resumed their carousing.  Yes, it appeared the party had begun.

Janie poured the last drops of beer number two down her throat and turned to Alessa.  “Ready for round three?”

Alessa threw back the remainder of her own beer with a grimace.  She was going to need to choke down a lot more of these to make this chaos enjoyable.  “Let’s do it.”

Janie led the way towards the dining room, weaving her way in between pockets of dancing students.  Alessa followed in her wake, apologizing to everyone she bumped into as if they could hear her over the noise.  As they crossed through the foyer, Alessa paused at the threshold of the door to take in some fresh air, and at that exact moment, Nikhil came striding up the steps onto the porch.

“Alessa!”  He spotted her inside the doorway immediately and started heading her way.

“Nikhil.  Hey.  You came.”  Great opening.  She took a deep breath and tried to swallow her awkwardness, taking a step in Nikhil’s direction.  Then she remembered Janie heading for the beers.  “One sec,” she said to Nikhil.  She turned around and shouted Janie’s name.  Janie was almost to the dining room but she heard Alessa and stopped, swinging around in the direction of Alessa’s voice.  Alessa waved for Janie to come over.

Janie’s face lit up when she saw Nikhil.  “Nice work,” she murmured to Alessa under her breath.

Alessa suppressed a laugh and turned back to Nikhil.  “Nikhil, this is Janie.  Janie, Nikhil.”  They shook hands.

“Nice to meet you, Janie.”

“Likewise.”

Another tall, handsome male loped up the steps behind Nikhil, playfully punching him in the shoulder with a sarcastic, “Thanks for waiting for me, bro.”

Nikhil turned to his friend and laughed, and Alessa found herself blatantly staring at the two of them.  They looked like they’d stepped out of some sort of preppy catalog that catered to the wealthy and privileged – twin Adonises, one dark and one fair.  She normally found the popped collar look a little over-the-top, but somehow these two managed to pull it off with ease.  They were quite possibly the most attractive men Alessa had ever been within touching distance of.

Nikhil turned back to Alessa and Janie, completely oblivious to the effect he and his friend were having on them.  Janie was practically drooling.  “This is Josh, from my water polo team.”  Water polo.  That explained it.  Josh extended a hand in their direction and Alessa and Janie introduced themselves in turn.

Alessa was fumbling with how to proceed when Janie stepped in to save her.  “So, we were just about to get a beer.  Would you gentlemen like to join us?”

“Sounds great,” Nikhil replied.

“Follow me.”  Janie led the way with Alessa, Nikhil, and Josh in tow.

Reaching the dining room, Alessa saw that the beer pong tournament had deteriorated and Lizzie Green was attempting to organize a battle-of-the-sexes game of flip cup.  She was clearly tipsy, which only brought out her good-natured bubbliness.  She spotted Janie and Alessa and waved them over.  “Janie!  Alessa!  Come play with us!  And bring your –” her eyes widened when she saw Nikhil and Josh, “– friends…”  Fantastic.  Just what Alessa needed – Lizzie Green as competition.

Janie, however, didn’t seem concerned.  She turned to Alessa and the guys with an enthusiastic, “Let’s play!”  Her competitive side sometimes overshadowed her better judgment, in Alessa’s opinion at least.

Alessa begrudgingly followed Janie to the female side of the table, hiding her displeasure as best she could.  Janie grabbed two more cups for Nikhil and Josh and filled them each a quarter of the way with the now-warm beer while Alessa did the same with the girls’ cups.  Lizzie turned to the new players.  “I assume you all know how to play?  When it’s your turn, chug your beer, set the cup down on the table, and tap it from the bottom to flip it upside down.”

“We got it,” Alessa replied, gritting out a smile.

As the game initiated, the eight players on each team held their cups aloft, tapping them together with their opponents across the table.  Janie stood across from Josh, beaming, and Alessa lined up with Nikhil.  She noted with satisfaction that Nikhil was looking only in her direction.

Everyone placed their cups on the table in front of them, goading the other side with cheerful trash talk and spirited promises of defeat.  Lizzie, who was to start them off, viciously stared down the guy across from her until he looked visibly shaken – apparently the combination of so much beauty and so much ferocity being flung at him at once was a little too much to handle.  She raised her glass to his to signal the start of the game, her opponent wavering for a moment before he realized what was happening.  It was all Lizzie needed.  She threw back her beer without pause, slammed her cup to the table, and deftly used her fingertip to flip it on its head in one graceful swipe.  Perfect, as usual.

The game continued down the line, each side cheering on their own players as they downed their beers and flipped their cups with varying degrees of success.  When the game reached Alessa, the girls had a small lead and she was determined not to jeopardize it.  She chugged her beer in one swift motion and placed her cup on the table, the lip overhanging the edge of the wood.  Alessa tapped it gently with her finger, but the cup just fell over and rolled on its side.  In a moment of panic she glanced across the table at Nikhil; he was only now starting to guzzle his beer.  She quickly reset her cup and hit it with a little more force.  Success!

Janie finished off the game with a win for the women’s team, to much applause and uproar.  The men immediately demanded a rematch.  After another close round the men proved victorious, necessitating a tie breaker.  When the men won once again, they suggested mixing up the teams and everyone happily obliged.

After four rounds of flip cup – bringing Alessa’s tally for the night to somewhere around three beers – the room started to spin, in a pleasant way.  The excitement of the game had brought out a zeal in her that she hadn’t felt in very long time, and the adoring looks that Nikhil was sending in her direction didn’t hurt either.  Alessa felt deliriously happy for the first time in over a year.  Damn the ghost.  Tonight she was having fun.

There was a break in the action as the first keg tapped out and a couple of the guys volunteered to set up the second one.  Janie took the opportunity to suggest that the four of them go dance, which sounded like a fabulous idea to Alessa.  Alessa looked inquisitively at Nikhil and he consented with an affable shrug.  Janie didn’t even give Josh a choice.  She grabbed his wrist and dragged him behind her, and he acquiesced with an amused smile.  Alessa and Nikhil followed.

Finding a clearing in the living room, Alessa noticed that the pounding music no longer felt oppressive, but freeing.  She could feel the beat pulse through her body and she let it move her as it pleased.  She danced with abandon, completely unselfconsciously, and it felt good.  She felt sexy, alive.

Nikhil and Alessa were pressed together ever closer by the crowd, their bodies moving as one in time with the music.  Alessa could feel the hair sticking to the back of her neck as her skin started to glisten, but she didn’t care.  She threw her arms up and tossed her head with the beat, reveling in the moment.

Nikhil gently placed his hands around Alessa’s hips, seemingly mesmerized.  The crowd swelled and they were pressed together once more, his arms wrapped around her waist, her hands on his taut swimmer’s chest and shoulders.  He leaned over, nudging his face so close to hers that she could feel the heat rising off his skin.  Alessa parted her lips and looked up at Nikhil, preparing to surrender to her body’s impulses.

But instead of the dark brown eyes she expected, she saw only blue.  Unfathomable, sparkling blue, glittering with facets of ocean and sky, boring deep into her soul and clutching at her heart.  Once again, a single word rose in the back of her throat – Isaac – and she knew this night was over.

12. RESOLUTION

Alessa pushed Nikhil away with a start.  She wasn’t sure if what she’d just seen was the ghost himself or just a figment of her guilty imagination, but either way, she couldn’t go through with the kiss.

Nikhil looked at Alessa, bewildered.  Fortunately, Alessa was too tipsy to feel more than a tinge of embarrassment at her own behavior, but she did feel sorry for the hurt she saw in Nikhil’s eyes, which were brown once again.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” was all she said, and she pushed past him, heading for the stairs.  Janie noticed Alessa’s abrupt departure and made to follow, but Alessa waved her off.  She needed to be alone.

Bounding up the stairs, Alessa stumbled and caught herself against the rail.  The room was spinning, but not so pleasantly anymore.  She staggered into her bedroom and closed the door behind her, sliding down to the floor with her back against the wood until she sat on the carpet, her knees pressed against her chest.

What was going on in her head?  She was having an amazing time – the best she could remember having since her parents died – flirting and dancing with a nice, incredibly good-looking guy who was clearly interested in her, and instead of just enjoying it, for some reason she was fixated on some stupid phantasm that probably didn’t even exist.

She cursed her own idiocy and hung her head in her hands.  She’d definitely blown things with Nikhil.  She couldn’t imagine how she would face him tomorrow, or whenever she happened to see him next, if he even wanted to see her again.  What must he be thinking right now?  She couldn’t bear to guess.

It was all the ghost’s fault.  Stupid Isaac.  And there was that word again.  When had she become so convinced of his name?  And why couldn’t she put him out of her head for one night?  The whole situation frustrated her beyond belief.

Alessa felt nauseous.  She crawled over to her fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, chugging half of it in one long gulp.  Her stomach rumbled and she felt immediately worse.  She needed food.

Still sitting on the floor, she reached up and grabbed the box of cereal on top of the minifridge, scooping a handful of dry flakes to her mouth.  She chewed and swallowed, repeating the process until she no longer felt the urge to spew.

Alessa sat on the floor with her legs splayed out in front of her, her back slouched against the side of the fridge.  She put the cereal box down.  This was pathetic.  She couldn’t believe she’d allowed a ghost to drive her to this sorry state.

Alessa realized in that moment that the only way she was ever going to get past this obsession was to get to the bottom of the mystery.  She needed some clue as to what might be driving him to haunt her, to know who the ghost was and how he had died.  Only then would she be able to make some sense of this strange situation and finally move on with her life.

She looked at the clock.  Almost 1 AM.  It dawned on Alessa that the library was open 24 hours, and she already knew where the records she needed were located.  She resolved to put an end to this charade this very night if she could.

Alessa pulled a warm sweatshirt over her head and tossed her laptop into her backpack along with the half-empty bottle of water.  She was dreading having to sneak out through the party when she remembered the rarely-used narrow second staircase that led directly to the kitchen.  She headed that direction and was able to escape out the back door having only encountered a handful people who were raiding the sorority’s pantry for late-night snacks.

It was frostier out than Alessa had expected, but between her strong buzz and heavy sweatshirt, she felt mostly impervious to the cold.  The back of the house was dark, which suited Alessa just fine.  She stuck to the shadows as she skirted her way around to the front of the house, towards the path that led to the quad.

As she rounded the corner of the front porch, she heard rustling and voices a few yards off to the side, in the darkness near a large tree.  She caught a glimpse of a couple of campus security guards hustling a tall student away from the house.  Alessa gasped as she realized the student was Nikhil.

His nose was bleeding and he looked defiant, but scared.  Had he gotten into a fight after she’d deserted him?  She didn’t know him very well, but it still seemed out of character for him.  She supposed people were known to do strange things when they were drunk and upset.  She wanted to help, but her presence would probably only make things worse.  She put it out of her mind and continued on.

Alessa cut across the unlit lawn and leapt a low hedge to join the path, far enough from the house that she was sure no one would see her.  The last thing she needed was to try to explain to one of her sorority sisters why she was trekking to the library in the middle of the night.

Alessa reached the library in a few minutes time.  As she expected, it was mostly deserted except for a handful of hardcore studiers dispersed at different tables throughout the building.  She felt slightly delinquent as she dizzily made her way towards the local history section on the third floor, where she knew the old record books were stored.  It seemed somehow inappropriate to be intoxicated in this somber old place.  Alessa hoped the other students were too engrossed in their studies to notice her.

On her previous visit, the last entry Alessa had read was the one from 1908, where she’d learned of Isaac Mason’s sister, Josephine.  Knowing that the university had purchased the house sometime in the 1930s, she decided to grab the four volumes documenting 1900 to 1939 to see if she could learn anything more of the house’s history between the time of Isaac’s arrival and the university’s acquisition.

Alessa opened the first book to 1909, scanning the page for the right address as the words swam lazily across her vision.  Trying to shake off her stupor, she flipped hastily through the remainder of the book, but found no mention of 33 Mason Manor that year.  She moved on to the next volume.

The first half of this book was useless as well, and staring at the tiny letters was starting to give Alessa a headache.  She was beginning to think she wouldn’t find anything that decade when she came across an entry in 1917:

Mason Manor, No. 33.  New Owner, William Mason, as of May 3rd.  Residents: None.

So in 1917 when – according to her previous notes – Isaac Mason would have been 17 years old, his family vacated their home and transferred ownership of the property to Isaac’s uncle, William, who appeared to have declined to move in or rent it out given the lack of residents recorded in the entry.  Alessa noted this information on her laptop and continued reading.  She pressed through the rest of that volume and onto the next, not finding any additional entries until 1933:

Mason Manor, No. 33.  New Owner, Eastern State University, as of September 4th.  Residence converted for office use.

Alessa noted that there were entries for other properties recording when they were converted to residential rentals or office space, and there was no such log for 33 Mason Manor prior to this one in 1933.  From what she could tell, it sounded like the house had stood empty from 1917 until the university acquired it in 1933.

Alessa tried to list the plausible explanations for this series of events in her head.  She thought perhaps it was possible that the family had just moved away and sold the property to William.  That didn’t explain why he had chosen not to live there or at least to rent it out to another family, though she supposed that perhaps he was wealthy enough that an empty second home wasn’t a concern.

Inspecting her notes, Alessa remembered something vague that the librarian said in the article that Janie had clipped, something about “the passing of a wealthy family.”  If Isaac’s family had died, that could provide a sound rationale for why William didn’t live there.  Maybe the house was still damaged from whatever tragedy had struck them, or maybe William just couldn’t bring himself to do it.  It might have been too painful to be in the house where he’d lost his brother’s entire family.  And it would also explain why he eventually relinquished his family’s farm to the university, since it wasn’t going to do him much good sitting there abandoned.

Of course, with this little information to go on, it was impossible to know which of these theories might be correct, or if there was another explanation entirely.  But Alessa had a hunch.

She felt fairly certain now that Isaac was indeed the ghost.  He seemed to be the only possibility given that William had apparently lived well past his teenage years, and Albert, having fathered two children, presumably had as well.  It also seemed like an uncanny coincidence that all record of Isaac’s family mysteriously vanished at the same time when Isaac would be the right age to fit the description of the ghost she was seeing.  The simplest explanation was that they had tragically died, leaving the property to William, who was too haunted by their memory to make use of the house.  And the simplest explanation was usually right.

It was two in the morning and Alessa’s buzz was slowly twisting into a dull throb in her temples.  She’d probably learned as much about the ghost – about Isaac – as she could on this particular night.  She decided to return home and sleep off her impending headache.

As she packed up her belongings, Alessa hoped that this new knowledge would be enough to lay her recent preoccupation with the ghost to rest.  For the sake of her sanity, she at least had to try.  If she hadn’t known it before, the evening’s events had made it abundantly clear that her fixation was getting in the way of her life, and it wasn’t healthy.

There was nothing she could do for Isaac.  His life was in the past, and she would have to let him go.  Now it was time for Alessa to take care of herself.

13. CONNECTION

Laying on her stomach with her face pressed into the pillow, Alessa squeezed her eyelids together, but to no avail.  The relentless drumming in her head had kept her awake the better part of the morning, and the bright light creeping in her bedroom window was only magnifying the sharp pains surging through her skull.  All she was asking was for a couple more hours of sleep.  She knew she was just delaying the inevitable; eventually she would have to face the debacle of the night before.  But maybe not quite yet.

She closed her eyes for a few more minutes, but it was no use.  Until she got some water and food in her system, Alessa would never get comfortable enough to fall back asleep.  Covering her head with a blanket to block out the sun, Alessa blindly reached out from her bed, groping the floor for her backpack.  She withdrew the half-empty bottle of water from the night before and tossed the covers from her face with a groan.

She sat up and took a tentative sip.  Her mouth had been seized by a dry, sour rot, a taste which mingled unpleasantly on her tongue with the plasticky lukewarm water.  After downing the remainder of the bottle, Alessa lay back in bed and draped an arm across her eyes.  She’d known last night that she was going to regret all that beer, and she’d been right.

Alessa cringed as her memory of running out on Nikhil surfaced, the flush returning to her cheeks as she recalled his dismayed expression.  How could she ever explain her behavior in a way that didn’t seem absurd or ridiculous?  He would never understand.

She was glad, though, that she’d decided to go to the library last night.  Knowing that the ghost was Isaac Mason had at least answered some of Alessa’s questions, and she no longer felt the same compulsion that she once had.  If Isaac had lost his entire family in some tragedy, it certainly explained why he hadn’t moved on, and as long as Alessa understood where he was coming from, she thought she would eventually be able to peacefully coexist.  She just needed to figure out how to block out the feelings he incited in her, and then she’d be able to ignore Isaac during their little encounters the same way that he always ignored her.

Alessa fetched the box of cereal from on top of the fridge and tumbled back into bed.  She would have preferred something hot and greasy, but unfortunately dry corn flakes were the best she could do without slogging to the cafeteria.  She munched away, breathing slowly, staying as still as possible to avoid jolting her aching head.

She lay back down after consuming a satisfying amount of cereal and felt immediately relieved.  She was able to take a 20 minute nap and felt significantly better when she woke up again.  Not back to normal yet, but better.

Being a Sunday, Alessa could at least stave off any possible encounter with Nikhil by staying in her house for the day.  She was sure Janie wouldn’t mind bringing back some real food from the cafeteria whenever she ventured over that way, so Alessa decided to stay put and focus on getting some work done, namely an upcoming term paper for her ethics class.  Despite the sustenance and rest, though, she still felt gross.  She needed to brush her teeth and shower before she could even think about being productive.

Alessa felt disoriented when she finally got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.  Her equilibrium was off, and she felt like she was wandering in a daze.  This hangover couldn’t wear off soon enough.

When she got to the bathroom, she found that both showers were occupied, and neither of them had freed up by the time she’d finished brushing her teeth.  She decided to swing by Janie’s room to wait.

Janie was awake, barely.  She had been half-dozing, watching an old movie on her laptop in bed when Alessa entered.  She scooted over to make room for Alessa to sit adjacent to her.  “Morning, sunshine.  You look almost as good as I do.”  Even with a hangover, her sarcasm was unrelenting.

Alessa just moaned in response and rested her head on Janie’s shoulder.

“I know, I know.”  Janie patted Alessa’s leg sympathetically.  “Do you want to talk about what happened with you last night?”

Alessa moaned again.

“It seemed like things were going well with Nikhil…” Janie prodded.  “Why did you freak out?”

Rousing her head from Janie’s shoulder, Alessa released a long sigh.  “I don’t know…  We were about to kiss, and then I looked up and all I saw were Isaac’s eyes, and I just couldn’t go through with it.”

“Isaac?  The ghost?”

“Yeah, I went to the library last night and confirmed that it’s him.  Isaac Mason, 17 years old when his family died in 1917.”  Alessa dropped her hands in her lap definitively.  Looking at Janie, she qualified, “At least I think.  The records aren’t exactly exhaustive.”

“That must have been a sight.  I’m sure the library staff appreciates having inebriated students stumbling through the stacks in the middle of the night.”

Alessa laughed in agreement, then remembered that she’d wanted to ask Janie about what had happened to Nikhil after she left the party.  “Oh, I wanted to tell you, on my way to the library I saw Nikhil in trouble with campus security.  His nose was bleeding like he’d gotten in a fight or something.  Did that happen here?”

Janie looked surprised.  She thought for a moment.  “I don’t think I saw anything.  After you left, Nikhil stormed out and Josh went to follow him.  I don’t think I saw either of them again after that.”

“Sorry.”  Alessa couldn’t believe she’d managed to ruin Janie’s night as well.

Janie shrugged.  “Eh, it was fun while it lasted.”  After a moment, Janie closed the lid on her laptop and set it down on the bed.  “I really don’t feel like doing work today.”

“Me either,” Alessa agreed.  Too bad she had that paper to tackle.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Janie asked.

“I was going to shower and then attempt to get started on my ethics paper, but the showers are all full.”

“Well, there’s always the bathtub upstairs.”  Alessa knew Janie was half-joking – with only a tub, the attic bathroom was rarely used – but Alessa considered for a moment.  A bath might be just what she needed.

“Hmm… I might actually go do that,” Alessa replied.

“I was kidding.”

“I know.  But I could use a little detox, plus it will give me an excuse to put off work for another hour.”

Janie reflected, and nodded her head.  “Good point.  Maybe I’ll take one after you.”

Alessa smiled.  “I’ll let you know how it is.”  With that, Alessa rose from Janie’s bed and headed for the attic.  She swung by the bathroom on her own floor to grab her towel and toiletries then climbed the small staircase to the attic level.

There wasn’t much on this floor besides a locked storage space and the small bathroom.  Stepping inside the tiny room felt like going back in time, as it was the only lavatory in the house that the university had decided not to modernize.  The bathroom was very simply furnished with just the big white clawfoot tub in the center of the room, leaving only a few feet of space to maneuver on each side of the basin.  A matching pedestal sink was positioned across from the foot of the tub, the same height as the brown chair rail molding.  One glass and bronze wall sconce affixed to the ivory wall above the sink provided a dim light, but on the outer wall running alongside the bath, a high round porthole window set in a dormer shed plenty of sun across the black and white mosaic tile floor.

Alessa draped her towel over the side of the tub and opened the faucet.  At first the water ran a little brown – sediment accumulated from disuse – but after a few moments, it was streaming in clear and hot.  She plugged the drain and prepared to wait.  As the bath filled, Alessa stepped around to the other side of the tub to peer out the window, her foot nudging something as she did so.  She looked down and found a half-empty box of bubble bath.  Well, apparently she wasn’t the only one who used this bathroom.

She shook some of the bubble bath powder under the running water.  The scent of lavender filled the room and a fluffy white foam floated to the surface of the water.  The window began to fog from the heat flowing from the tap.  When the water reached the halfway point, Alessa closed the faucet and stripped off her clothes, tossing them in a heap in the corner.

She touched one tentative toe to the water and immediately withdrew.  It was hot.  Steeling herself, she plunged the full foot into the water.  It seared initially, but after a moment her skin adjusted.  She stepped her other foot in and slowly lowered herself into the water, exhaling as she went.  Again, the pain only lasted a few seconds before bliss overcame her.

Alessa sighed deeply and leaned back against the tub, sinking lower in the water until only her face rose above the bubbles.  She closed her eyes, listening to the muffled underwater sounds that filled her submerged ears.  It’d been years since she’d last taken a bath and she couldn’t in that moment remember why – showering was a poor substitute indeed.

Alessa’s body relaxed completely, the warm water loosening every ounce of tension from her muscles.  Her headache subsided into the background as she breathed deeply and luxuriated in the soothing aroma of the froth hovering below her nose.

After a while the bath started to cool slightly.  Alessa slowly peeled open her eyes, thinking of adding a little more hot water to prolong the experience.  As her eyes adjusted, she thought she saw something out of place at the foot of the tub.

It was a hand, ever so faint, draped over the edge of the basin.  Alessa stared, disbelieving, as the hand slowly materialized, stretching into a strong muscled forearm, a rolled-up white shirtsleeve, an elbow, a shoulder, a long narrow torso.  Within a matter of seconds, there was Isaac in full form, sitting on the edge of the tub in his usual brown trousers and boots.  He was facing away from Alessa, his fingers dabbling in the water behind him without disturbing even a single ripple on the surface.

Alessa felt the familiar mix of emotions – panic, sorrow, and that ever-present magnetic pull that she just couldn’t seem to shake.  She sat transfixed, staring at his apparition.  He glanced towards the doorway every so often as if he were waiting for someone, his bright blue eyes lazily wandering across the wall in front of him to pass the time, lingering occasionally in the direction of the door.  Alessa held still, waiting patiently for the image to fade, as she knew it soon would.  She felt more in control than she had the last time, less unnerved, merely curious instead of overpowered.  She was overcome with sympathy for this boy who had lost everything.

Isaac inclined his head toward the water, a few light brown locks of hair falling forward to obscure the blue of his eyes.  He drew his fingertips from the water and extended his arm in the direction of the faucet, his head following the trajectory of his reach.  As his view scanned across the head of the bathtub, he did a quick double-take.  Alessa wondered what might have caught his attention.

She watched as his eyes widened and his mouth gaped, the same mixture of astonishment and apprehension flooding his expression that Alessa had felt so many times before.  It was only then that she realized what he had seen.  It was unmistakable – he was looking directly at Alessa.

As Alessa locked eyes with Isaac, all the old emotions came raging back, more powerful than ever before.  She felt a crushing desperation to reach out to him, to clutch his hand as tightly as she had in that horrible dream and never let him go.  She sat up slowly, never dropping her eyes from his, mustering all of the courage she possessed to inch her arm through the foam in his direction.

She could see him start to recoil as he understood what she was doing, but then something stopped him.  He sat motionless, waiting, staring at her with anticipation, his chest rising and falling with each rapid breath.  Alessa’s fingertips closed the gap between them, now only a hairsbreadth away.

And then, suddenly, he was gone.

14. REVERSAL

Isaac sat down on the edge of the tub listening to the splash of the water as it spilled from the faucet into the basin.  Steam warmed the chilly room as it rose from the bath and he breathed deeply, enjoying the respite from the long, cold winter they’d been enduring.

Isaac glanced at the door wondering when his sister, Josephine, would come upstairs.  She had made a muddy mess of herself helping him in the stable with the horses.  By the time they’d finished, she was shivering violently from head to toe and Isaac had offered to run her a bath to help her warm up and clean off.  At almost ten years old she was more than capable of doing it herself, but Isaac liked to coddle his little sister in the few ways she would allow.

Jo was a bit of a tomboy, more interested in riding horses and playing outdoors than pampering herself.  She was Isaac’s constant companion, following him wherever he went and always wanting to be part of the action, even when she was too small to keep up.  No one could blame Isaac if he’d been annoyed by her insistence on tagging along, but instead he found her enthusiasm endearing.  She was almost like the brother he’d never had, but with a genuine sweetness that no boy could ever hope to match.  There was no one in the world he loved more, and so he’d been glad to have this small opportunity to care for her by drawing a warm bath to ward off the winter’s chill.

He unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up to the elbow, dangling his fingertips in the water behind him.  While he waited for the tub to fill, he studied the image in the large mirror in front of him reflecting the round window on the opposite wall and the expanse of dry midwinter fields beyond.  In a matter of weeks, it would be time for the farmhands to plow the long rows and sow this year’s crops, a prospect that Isaac was dreading.

He’d lived in this same house on this same farm for almost as long as he could remember, and yet he’d never quite felt at home here.  As much as he loved his family and appreciated the successful business his father was prepared to leave to him, something about staying here just didn’t feel right to Isaac.  Not to mention, he couldn’t imagine anything more dull than another year of farming.

Isaac thought perhaps moving to the city might soothe his restlessness.  There was so much going on there these days, so much progress passing them by at Mason Manor – new technology cropping up seemingly every week, revolutionizing the way people live.  Isaac felt that if he could be a part of improving other people’s lives, maybe it might ease the guilt he felt over abandoning his family, as he knew he one day surely would.

But for the moment at least, he was stuck here, watching plants grow.  His only respite was the occasional mischief stirred up by Jo, and more recently, the mysterious manifestation he’d been seeing around the house.

Her appearances had started a couple months ago and never lasted more than a few moments.  He would get a glimpse of a striking dark haired woman who always seemed to disappear around a corner before he could reach her.  He’d called out to her, but to no avail – she didn’t seem to hear him.

At first he thought that perhaps she was a new servant, but when he asked his mother if she’d hired anyone recently, she replied that she hadn’t.  In any case, the woman certainly didn’t dress like any servant – or anyone – that he’d ever seen.  Isaac still wasn’t quite sure if he was just stir-crazy and imagining the whole thing, but regardless, the presence had made the long winter much more interesting than in previous years and he was grateful at least for that.

Isaac glanced at the door once more and wondered what Josephine had gotten into now.  The bath was nearly full and if she didn’t come soon, the water would cool.  Isaac thought perhaps it would be best to finish filling the tub once Jo was ready to get in so that it would still be hot when she did.  He decided to close the tap while he waited for her to arrive.

Withdrawing his fingers from the water, Isaac reached back for the faucet handle, his long arm stretching across the tub.  As he swung his head around toward the tap, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye by the head of the bathtub.  He looked back and – registering what he’d seen – immediately froze in place.

It was the woman, closer than she’d ever been before, and she was staring directly at him with shapely eyes that were greener than the richest of jewels.  She sat in the tub, her head cocked curiously to one side, regarding him with narrowed eyes.  Her expression conveyed a cross of marvel and what looked like concern.

Isaac’s heartbeat quickened and he fought the urge to run.  He stared back at the presence with wide eyes, his chest pounding as he gripped the rim of the tub ever harder.  She was quite possibly the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, but at the same time, the strangeness of the situation was more unsettling than anything.

Suddenly her expression changed.  Her emerald eyes widened to match his and she locked her gaze directly onto Isaac’s.  She sat forward and he could see her hand reaching from below the water towards his own.  For a moment he cowered, dismayed at the prospect of those translucent fingertips mingling with his own.  But then he noticed the anguish stamped across her face, and he knew he couldn’t leave.

Slowly the ghostly fingers inched nearer and nearer, her eyes never dropping his gaze.  Thoughts raced through Isaac’s head faster than he could process them – he’d never experienced anything so thrilling.  He sat motionless but inside he was churning, his emotions a whirling eddy in a ferocious gale of anticipation, awaiting the crescendo when their fingertips would meet.  She stretched toward him, nearly touching…

And then she was gone.

The apparition faded in an instant and Isaac let out a heavy gasp.  He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.  His heart was still pounding as he slowly pried his fingertips from the edge of the tub.  What had just happened?  He could barely think – he felt almost dizzy.

He was certain now that he was not imagining the presence, or if he was, that his mind was well beyond the hope of repair.  He honestly didn’t know what to think anymore.  Isaac was impatient to learn more about this ghost – or whatever she was – but he had no idea where to even start.

Before today he’d never even been able to capture her attention, and then once he finally had it, he’d missed his chance.  Why hadn’t he said something?  With her startling green eyes locked on his face, he’d forgotten he had the ability to speak.  He lamented his own inaction; in all likelihood, he’d never get another chance like that.

Isaac heard Josephine’s ungraceful clomping up the attic stairs and tried to compose himself.  He hadn’t said anything to Jo about the presence for fear of frightening her.  She rounded the corner into the tiny bathroom with an energetic leap and nearly knocked Isaac into the tub.  He leapt up to regain his balance.  “Whoa there!  Since when are you so eager for a bath?”

Josephine beamed up at Isaac with big brown eyes and an eager grin.  “Ma said I could bring the cat inside to play after I’m done.”

Isaac couldn’t help returning her innocent smile.  The anxiety he’d been feeling a moment ago melted away.  “All right, I’ll leave you to it then.  You should run the hot water a bit longer before you get in to warm it up.”  He headed for the door and mussed her tangled blonde hair on the way out.

Isaac made his way down the narrow attic stairs to his study on the second floor.  He sat in the plush burgundy armchair by the fireplace, the only warm spot in the room.  He ran one hand briskly through his hair then rested his elbow on the armrest, pondering his recent encounter.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the presence.  He supposed it might have been some sort of ghost but he didn’t know how he might go about confirming that theory.  He scanned the heavy bookshelves lining the wall for ideas.

Most of his collection was composed of thick leather-bound volumes on science and engineering, along with the requisite books about history and philosophy.  He had only one work pertaining to ghost stories, but it was clearly a work of fiction; he didn’t suppose it would be much use in unraveling the mystery of the presence.  His eyes skimmed a row of science fiction novels, and one spine imprinted with the words “time machine” caught his attention.  Perhaps she was a traveler from a distant future?

Sighing, Isaac realized that his speculation was hopeless.  Until he could find a way to communicate with the woman, he’d never understand how she came to be.  He stood and paced back and forth in front of the hearth.

This situation with the apparition was just one more brick of frustration to add to the growing wall that stood in the way of his starting his life.  Even from his earliest childhood, Isaac had never been able to shake the feeling that he just didn’t belong here, that something important was missing from his life and it was somehow his own fault.  He’d always been obedient – studious, hardworking, kind – but yet he never felt like it was enough, never felt like anything he did could truly justify his own existence.

Isaac had never understood where these feelings of inadequacy had come from – his parents had never been anything less than loving and proud as far back as he could remember – but he’d harbored this discontentment with himself as long as he could remember.  And now he was nearly a grown man, and every passing day saw him more and more eager to break free of the family farm and prove himself out in the world.

But at the same time, the thought of leaving his loved ones behind left his resolve wavering.  And now this presence – and his ardent desire to learn who she was – was just one more thing tying him to Mason Manor.  He didn’t know how he’d ever disentangle himself from his current life enough to pursue what he knew he needed to do.

Isaac paced to the window, the frosty bite of winter pressing against him through the glass.  His breath fogged in a small circle on the windowpane as he looked eastward out over the property, in the direction of the city.  This many miles away he couldn’t see the dense array of golden lights emanating from apartments and restaurants and offices, but he knew they were there, twinkling in the evening light.  Isaac wondered what else he might be doing now if he were there, instead of in this solitary house on his family’s vast estate.

The floor creaked in the hallway as Josephine descended from the attic and headed to the first floor.  Isaac dismissed his wandering thoughts and turned his attention back to the presence.  He wasn’t sure how to proceed in uncovering more about her, but he was fairly certain that he wasn’t going to trigger any epiphanies sitting in his study.

Isaac wondered if perhaps Jo had seen the presence as well.  It was said that children were often more attuned to supernatural experiences.  Maybe she had seen the woman but neglected to say anything, figuring that she’d just be scolded for making up fanciful stories.  Isaac turned towards the door, intending to follow Jo downstairs and find out whatever she might know.

15. FRUSTRATION

The floorboards under Isaac’s feet protested a loud creak with every step.  The cold had seeped into every crevice of the house, and despite the diligent efforts of the servants flitting from room to room with wood, Mason Manor’s many fireplaces did little to stave it off.  He rubbed his hands together as he walked, exhaling occasionally into his clasped palms in an effort to bring the color back to his extremities.

He descended the main staircase slowly to the first floor.  Reaching the foyer, he saw that his mother had made good on her promise to Josephine.  Jo was sprawled out on the floor in the parlor to his right, gently stroking the brown tabby cat who usually lived in the barn.  The cat was napping peacefully on the hearth in front of a blazing fire, a small bowl of milk not far from its side.

Isaac sat on the stiff sofa nearest Jo and she looked up at him with a relaxed smile.  “Ma gave the kitty some milk while I took my bath.”

“I see that,” Isaac replied.  “He must be relieved to get out of the cold.”  As Isaac spoke, the cat stretched out its paws and released a small contented sigh.  Isaac wished his own problems could be so easily solved.

He thought for a moment about how to broach the subject of the presence.  He wanted to be careful not to scare Josephine with the possibility of the house being haunted, but he needed to find out if she’d had any encounters with the woman he’d been seeing.  He decided to use the book of ghost tales in his study to break the ice.

Isaac cleared his throat in a way that he hoped sounded natural.  “I read a spooky ghost story while you were in the bath.”

Jo perked up, her eyes wide.  “What was it about?”

“About a woman who died in a big white farmhouse and haunted the new family who moved in.”

“Ooooh.”  Jo was mesmerized.  “Was she a mean ghost?”

Isaac pretended to think for a moment.  “Well, not exactly.  She never tried to hurt anyone, but she did appear out of nowhere and scare them sometimes.”

Jo leaned in toward Isaac, whispering, “What did she do?”

Isaac leaned closer in and paused to build the suspense.  Talking in a low voice, he said, “She would sneak up behind them… and when they least expected it… she would say… Boo!”

Jo jumped at his exclamation, then giggled wildly.  The cat peeked at her with one eye and promptly went back to sleep.  “You scared me!”  Still laughing, she punched him lightly in the shoulder.

Isaac smiled.  “It was only a story.”

“But maybe it was a real story!”

“Maybe it was in this very house!”

Jo squealed.  “That would be so creepy!  I’m glad I’ve never seen a ghost.”

It didn’t sound like Jo had had any experiences with the presence, but Isaac decided to press a little further to be sure.  “Well maybe she hasn’t decided to show herself to you just yet.  In the story, sometimes the ghost would slam doors or knock things off the table when no one was looking.  Did you ever notice anything strange happening in our house?”

Josephine screwed up her face in thought, then finally shook her head.  “I don’t think our house is haunted, Isaac.  I think you’re just trying to scare me!”

Isaac laughed.  “I told you it was only a story.  You’re the one saying it’s real.”

“Well I changed my mind.”

“Okay.”  Isaac smiled and rumpled her hair.

Jo returned his affection with a begrudging half smile. “Even if it was real, I wouldn’t be afraid of any old ghost.”

“I know you wouldn’t.”  Satisfied, Jo turned back to the cat, tracing the long black stripe down its back with her fingertip.

Isaac hoped she’d never have to confirm that theory.  He knew from experience that even when the ghost was a gorgeous young woman, it was still terrifying.  There was just something so unnatural about a person appearing and disappearing at will that it was hard to feel anything but unnerved in her presence.

Jo stroked the cat for some time and Isaac watched her in silence, reflecting on how he might try to contact the presence.  Suddenly Jo looked up at Isaac with an earnest face and asked, “Isaac, are you going to get married soon?”

Isaac was taken aback.  “Wherever would you get that idea?”

“Because I heard you the other day, talking about a woman.”

Isaac thought back – had he mentioned the presence to anyone else?  No, he was certain he hadn’t.  How could Josephine know about her?  “When?  To whom?”

“A couple days ago.  I came by your room in the morning to see if you were up yet, and you were talking in your sleep.  You kept saying her name.”

“What name?”

“Alessa.”

Now Isaac was beyond confused.  He didn’t know anyone named Alessa.  He didn’t think he’d even heard that name before.  Why would he be uttering it in his sleep?  He didn’t even remember having any unusual dreams lately.  “That’s odd.  I don’t even know anyone by that name…”

“Are you sure you’re not fibbing me?” Josephine narrowed her eyes accusatorily.

Isaac reassured her.  “How could I be secretly courting a woman?  I never even leave the grounds!”

Jo considered for a moment and nodded her head in concession.  “I guess that’s true.  You just sounded… I don’t know.  You sounded like you loved her.”

Isaac smiled soothingly.  “I promise, I don’t know any Alessa and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Good.  I don’t want you to go.”

Isaac’s chest panged with guilt.  More gently he said, “I have to go someday, Jo.”

“But why?”

“Well, everyone has to grow up sometime.  I may want to go to university and study science and become a great inventor.  I couldn’t do that if I stayed here, could I?”

“No… But why can’t you just run the farm like Papa does?”

“I could, but… I just, well, I don’t know if that’s what I want to do.  Don’t you ever yearn to see the city?”

Jo scowled.  “I like the farm.”

“I like it, too.  But I may want to spend a few years away, to work on my studies and find myself a wife.  Wouldn’t you like to have a sister?”

Looking down at the cat, Jo replied, “Only if she was fun.”

Isaac smiled and took her small hands in his.  Jo looked up at him.  “Of course.  And you know that when I go, I will miss you dearly and I will come back to visit you often.”

Josephine loosed a small smile and appeared satisfied.  Isaac let her go back to playing and headed up the stairs towards his study.  He wondered again where the name Alessa might have come from.  He tried to recall any dreams he’d had lately, but nothing came to mind.

Alessa.  He rolled the name on his tongue and oddly enough it did feel familiar.  Had he met an Alessa at some point?  Perhaps he had read the name in a book or the newspaper.  He couldn’t pinpoint any particular instance, but obviously this name had gotten lodged in his subconscious at some point.  Isaac made a mental note to keep an eye out for any Alessa references he might come across, in hopes of finding the source.

Alessa.  No, that name just wasn’t ringing any bells.

16. ANXIETY

Alessa cleared her throat audibly.  She was standing at the open doorway of the office of the librarian, Mary Brighton.  As might be expected for someone who chose to devote her life to books, she was engrossed in a thick volume and didn’t seem to notice Alessa’s presence.  “Excuse me?” Alessa piped.

“Oh!  Sorry, dear, I didn’t notice you there.”  She gently closed her book and set it down on the desk.  The librarian seemed to recognize Alessa.  “Are you back to work on your paper about 33 Mason Manor?”

Alessa smiled brightly.  “Yup.  I finished going through the record books the other night and I was wondering if you knew of anywhere else I could look for information…?”

“As a matter of fact…” Mary Brighton shuffled some papers on her desk and pulled out a thin manila folder.  Inside was a piece of lined paper with a series of numbers jotted down in a neat cursive hand.  “Ah, here we go.  I had a feeling you might be back, so I took the liberty of checking the microfilm archives for newspaper articles about the Masons, the family that owned the property.  Here’s a list of reel numbers and slide positions for the articles I found.”  She handed Alessa the paper across the desk.  There were two lines of numbers carefully recorded on the page.  “All of the film and the reader machines are on the fourth floor.  They’re relatively easy to use, but feel free to come get me if you run into any trouble.”

“Thanks again for your help.”  Clutching the paper, Alessa turned to go.  This was already far more than she had been hoping for and she was eager to see what the articles contained.

Ever since her encounter with Isaac in the bathroom a few days prior, Alessa’s obsession had taken on a new heat.  He’d finally seen her.  She was no longer an invisible bystander, but a fully acknowledged player in this strange game.  By the look on his face, Alessa surmised that he had been just as surprised about this turn of events as she had.

After he’d vanished the instant before she reached him, Alessa had slammed her arms into the water in frustration, streaking the walls with a splash of bubbles.  The situation was infuriating to Alessa.  She’d been so close to a breakthrough, and then nothing.

She wondered what he had seen when he looked at her.  Did he realize he was dead?  If he’d been wandering that house alone for almost 100 years, she could only imagine what a shock it would be to turn around and find someone else there.  Did he know who she was?  Did he think she was another lost soul?  She hadn’t a clue how to find out, but she was determined to try.

She hadn’t been able to stop replaying the scene in her mind, wishing she’d had the courage to move faster, or the insight to realize sooner that he’d been looking at her.  She had to be ready to act the next time she saw him, and in the meantime, she needed to do everything she could to learn more about him.

Alessa took the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor and followed the signs to the microfilm archive.  The shelves of film were neatly organized and clearly numbered, and it was only a matter of moments until Alessa set her eyes on the reels that the librarian had indicated.

The microfilm projectors had instructions posted nearby and Alessa was able to load the first reel easily enough.  She turned on the scanner’s backlight and booted the attached computer, double-clicking the icon for the scanner program on the desktop.

The first slide popped up immediately.  It was an issue of the local paper, The Courier, from 1916, the year before Isaac’s house had changed hands to his uncle.  Alessa checked the list Mary Brighton had given her and navigated to the suggested slide.

Alessa gasped.  There in black and white was Isaac, dressed smartly in a dark suit and grinning with pride.  She’d never seen him so cheerful.  He was standing alongside two well-heeled middle-aged adults, who Alessa guessed were his father and mother, and a young girl who must have been his sister, Josephine.  In the photo, a man behind a podium was handing some sort of plaque to Isaac’s father while they looked on, smiling.  The headline on the article indicated that he was being presented with an award by the local Chamber of Commerce.  Alessa continued to read.

MASON MANOR HONORED FOR MERCANTILE ACHIEVEMENT

On August 10th, Albert Mason, owner of Mason Manor, was recognized by the Chamber of Commerce for Outstanding Achievement in Production and Trade.  Mason Manor was one of 11 local businesses nominated for this year’s award.  Remarks from Chamber President Thomas Browning indicated that Mason Manor was selected for continuing economic achievement.  “This growing season, Mason Manor is producing a variety of crops at record levels, marking our township as a popular center of commerce for traders throughout the region.  The Mason family has been an influential member of our town for many generations and we are proud to honor Albert Mason for his service.”

The article was only a stub, but the photo was more valuable than any words could have been.  Alessa couldn’t take her eyes off of Isaac.  It was surreal to see him here, to have clear evidence that he actually existed, that he was once a person with a life and a family and hopes and dreams.  Affection bloomed within her chest.  She longed to see Isaac as he once was – whole and happy and alive.

Alessa took a screenshot of the photo and article and logged into her webmail, attaching the screenshot to an email addressed to herself.  On second thought, she added Janie to the email as well.

Alessa sat back in her chair, still gazing in awe at the photograph on her screen.  The hair, his build, those eyes – they were all the same as the figure she’d been seeing.  Isaac, her ghost, was real.  There was no question in her mind anymore that she’d imagined any of it.

Alessa’s head was swimming.  She’d had her suspicions about the ghost’s name and what had happened to him, but there was always that voice of doubt in the back of her mind, whispering that none of this made any sense.  But now Alessa knew for certain that the ghost was once an actual person.  Now she had genuine proof.  Without a doubt, the ghost was Isaac Mason.

Alessa’s hands trembled with excitement as she removed the first film.  She didn’t know what she would find in the next article, but she was certain that whatever it was would give her a fuller picture of Isaac’s life, and help her to better understand who he was and maybe even why he had appeared to her.  She fumbled with the second reel while attaching it – she felt like she couldn’t move fast enough.

Alessa paged through the slides with a hunger, finally stopping on the spot the librarian had designated.  It was the front page of The Courier from the 14th of April, 1917.  Alessa’s eyes greedily scanned the page, impatient to find the next bit of information.

She didn’t have to look far.  It was blared across the main headline, in big bold letters:

MASON FAMILY PERISHES IN TRAGIC FIRE

Bile rose in the back of Alessa’s throat.  The blood drained from her head and her vision blurred as she tried to digest what she’d just read.  The whole family had died in a fire.  No.  All of them?  Isaac and his parents and little doe-eyed Josephine?  The thought of that much loss was too terrible to entertain.

The strength of Alessa’s reaction surprised her.  She’d known Isaac was dead, and she’d already guessed that something tragic had happened to the family.  But it hadn’t felt real before.  In this moment, it didn’t feel like Alessa was reading a sad story that happened to some long-gone family over a century ago.  She felt like she was reading about people she loved.

She felt like she was reading about her parents.

Alessa’s realization took her right back to the night her parents had died, standing in the doorway as it dawned on her why the police had knocked on her door in the middle of the night. The nausea, the dizziness, the denial.  It was the same.  Alessa sucked down air as she struggled to stay upright in her seat.  She felt like someone had opened her up and scraped out her insides, leaving her empty and exposed and cold.

She took a moment to steady herself before she read the article, each word a searing stab in the chest.

MASON FAMILY PERISHES IN TRAGIC FIRE

Mason Manor was the site of a tragic barn fire which claimed the lives of all four members of the prominent Mason family yesterday evening, including Albert, 42 years of age, Martha, 41, Isaac, 17, and Josephine, 9.  The Fire Department and Sheriff are still investigating the official cause of the fire, but witnesses on scene speculated that it was likely due to an unfortunate accident.

The Masons’ housekeeper, Henrietta Jameson, was the first to notice the blaze.  As she explained, “I was in the kitchen preparing supper and I saw little Miss Josephine heading out toward the barn.  A few minutes later, I smelled smoke, and when I looked up, the entire barn was aflame.  I called to Mr. Mason and he and the Missus ran outside to help.”

The Masons and their household servants doused the barn with buckets of water and were able to free many of the horses that were trapped inside.  After a short while, they heard young Josephine Mason calling for help from inside the barn.  According to the housekeeper Ms. Jameson, “When we realized Miss Josephine was in the barn, that’s when things really got bad.  She always loved to play in that hayloft and I suppose she was up there when the fire started and got trapped.”

Mr. Mason rushed to his daughter’s aid.  Eyewitnesses report that shortly after he entered the barn, a section of the wall collapsed, but as far as they could tell from the outside, Mr. Mason had not been hurt.

At that point, the family’s son, Isaac Mason, had noticed the blaze and come out to join the firefighting effort.  When he learned from his mother, Mrs. Martha Mason, that Albert and Josephine were inside, Isaac too dashed into the inferno.

A tearful Ms. Jameson recounted his last words.  “He turned to Mrs. Martha and said, ‘No, this is all my fault.’  Then he just leapt into the flames the same as Mr. Mason had done.”

At the time Isaac entered the burning barn, the building was showing signs of severe structural damage and instability.  Witnesses report that shortly after Isaac disappeared from view, two walls and the roof of the barn collapsed inward.  All three Mason family members inside were killed.

Though Mrs. Mason was safe from the blaze, she was severely affected by the emotional trauma of the incident.  Not long after the barn collapsed killing her husband and two children, she suffered a heart attack and doctors were unable to revive her.  Mrs. Mason was known for many years to have had a weak heart.

The tragic and sudden loss of this well-known local family has left many in a state of disbelief.  The Masons were best known for their successful agricultural business and were recently honored by the Chamber of Commerce in August of last year.  The Masons are survived by Albert’s brother, William, a prominent local businessman, and will be honored in a ceremony at St. Anthony’s Church later this week.

Tears splattered onto the keyboard in front of Alessa with a soft whap.  The sound pulled her back from the article and she remembered where she was.  She wiped her face self-consciously and glanced around. Mercifully, there was no one nearby to see her weep.

Alessa hung her head in her hands, mentally reviewing the devastation of the article.  A barn fire, Josephine trapped in the loft.  Albert rushes in to save her, then Isaac comes outside and learns what’s going on.  It’s “all my fault,” he says, and runs into the burning barn.  Isaac’s mother watches helplessly as her family is burnt alive, then dies from the shock of it all.  It was a wonder that Isaac was the only ghost she was seeing.  It was just too horrible to contemplate.

Alessa felt physically sick.  She knew she should have expected something like this, but she’d been completely blindsided by the article, especially coming off the high she’d felt after finding Isaac’s photo.  Isaac’s entire life had flashed through her mind in the span of only a few moments, and it was more than she could handle.  Alessa felt like her chest had been ripped open and now only an empty hole remained where her heart had been beating moments before.

She wanted to do something to comfort Isaac, but what could she do?  Having lost her own family, she well understood the intense emotional pain he was experiencing when he had died; she was still feeling it over a year later.  There was no way he could have accepted his loss in the few moments he had before the barn collapsed, and so he’d gotten trapped between this life and whatever came next.  He’d probably been reliving that horrific night over and over again for a century, a fate far worse than death.

How could she help him move on?  She knew now that Isaac was more than just a figment of her imagination.  He was a real person, and one she felt as obligated to as if he were her own family.  She needed to do something.  The only question was, what?

17. DESPERATION

Alessa frantically rapped on Janie’s bedroom door.  “Janie, are you in there?”

“Yeah, yeah, one sec!” Janie called from inside with a hint of irritation.  She opened the door with her hair in a towel, one hand holding her bathrobe closed.  She caught the look on Alessa’s face and her expression changed to concern.  “What’s wrong?  Are you okay?”

“No,” Alessa moaned as she pushed past Janie and sat down hard on the bed.  She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, sniffling, her long hair falling in front of her face.  She tried to breathe deeply through her nose but only succeeded in clogging it further.

Janie closed the door behind her and stared at Alessa’s hunched form with concern.  She tied the belt of her bathrobe and pulled her desk chair around to face her friend.  She sat down directly in front of Alessa and placed her hands on Alessa’s knees, mirroring her position in sympathy.

“Less, tell me what happened.  You’re scaring me.”

Alessa took another loud sniffle and brushed her hair back, looking up at Janie with glassy red eyes that still shined from the tears she’d shed on her walk back from the library.  “I know how they died, Isaac and his whole family.  It’s terrible, Janie.”

Janie clenched her jaw and waited for Alessa to continue.

Alessa took a quivering breath.  “It was a fire.  In a barn.  Isaac’s sister was trapped inside.”  She snatched a tissue from the nightstand and blew her nose.  “Then his father went in to save her, and Isaac followed, and then it collapsed on all three of them.  His mother watched everything from outside the barn then died of a heart attack later that night.”

“That’s horrible,” Janie agreed, though she didn’t look nearly as shaken as Alessa.  “How did you find out?”

“From some old newspaper articles in the library archives.”  Alessa wiped her nose again.

Janie rubbed Alessa’s shoulder in an effort to console her.  “I’m sorry, Less, that’s really sad.”

Alessa just sniffed again.

“Didn’t you expect that it would be something like this?”

Alessa nodded.  “Yeah.  I don’t know… It just brought back a lot of feelings, from when I lost my parents.”

Janie got up and retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge, which she held out to Alessa.

Alessa accepted the bottle and took a swig, clearing her throat.  After a moment she added, “I found a picture of him.  It’s in your email.”

Janie snatched her laptop from the desk and plopped down on the bed beside Alessa, opening the attachment in Alessa’s email.  She stared at the photo as Alessa watched her reaction.

For a brief moment, Alessa saw what looked like recognition – and maybe relief? – cross Janie’s eyes.  Puzzled, Alessa was about to ask Janie what she was thinking but then her odd expression was replaced by curiosity and approval.  Alessa thought she must have misread Janie’s initial reaction.

Still eyeing the photo, Janie said, “Well, I can certainly see how he snagged your attention.  I wouldn’t mind this guy popping up in my bedroom from time to time, either.”

Alessa leaked a small smile.  Janie always knew how to lighten her mood.  Exhaling, Alessa rubbed her eyes and wiped the tears from her face.  “Sorry I’m such a mess.  It was just such a shock, to see him there in that photo and finally know for sure that he was real, and then minutes later read about this horrible thing that happened to him.”  She shook her head.

“It must have been hard.”  Janie squeezed Alessa’s hand.

They sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.

Then Janie asked, “Do you know how the fire started?”

“Not really.  The article was from the day after and just said they were still investigating, but that it was probably an accident.  Though it did also mention that Isaac had said something about it being his fault before he went into the barn.”

“That’s odd.  I wonder what he meant.”

“Yeah, me too.”  Dejectedly, Alessa added, “I’m sure we’ll never find out.”

“Well…” Janie paused to assess Alessa’s condition before continuing, concerned about adding more turbulence to Alessa’s already difficult day.  “I don’t want to get your hopes up or anything – because it’s a long shot – but I was thinking about the ghost theories you were telling me about, specifically the time warp theory…”

Alessa cocked her head in interest.

“Did you do the reading for our next unit in physics yet?”

Alessa signaled that she hadn’t.

“Well, it’s about electromagnetism, and there was a sidebar in one of the chapters about how spikes in the planet’s naturally occurring electromagnetic waves can cause weird changes in perception in certain locations.  So I was thinking, what if our house is on one of these spikes?  Maybe that could cause some sort of ‘wrinkle’ in the space-time continuum which is allowing you to see into the past?”  Janie rolled her eyes at herself and chuckled.  “I sound like some nerd from a sci-fi movie or something.”

Alessa smirked in agreement, but stayed quiet.  She was eager to hear more of Janie’s theory.

“Anyway, I was thinking that maybe there’s some scientific explanation for why you keep seeing Isaac, something about our times crossing paths.  And I thought that maybe if we can figure out what’s causing it, you might be able to contact him.”

Alessa perked up.  She thought she knew where Janie was going with this.  “You think… I could warn him?”

“Maybe… I don’t know.  It’s just a guess.  I have no idea how to go about doing this, of course.”

Alessa’s mind was racing.  Maybe this was why Isaac had appeared to her.  Maybe she really was supposed to help him.  Maybe she could save him.

Janie interrupted her reverie.  “Less – don’t get too excited.  Remember that much smarter people than us have been trying to solve the problem of time travel pretty much forever and they’ve made almost zero progress.  I don’t think we’re going to have much better luck.”

Something Alessa had read during the fog after her parents’ deaths surfaced in her mind.  “No, no – Janie, that’s it.  They have made progress.  Do you remember the news that came out last fall about those scientists who had created a particle accelerator that could move things faster than the speed of light?”

“Yeah, so what?  Didn’t they only do it with subatomic particles?  It’s not like they can do it with people.”

“Well, that’s sort of time travel, right?  At least we know it’s not impossible.”

“So, what, your plan is to break into a particle accelerator and try to crawl into it or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  It’s just… an idea.”

Janie raised her eyebrows.  “Okay.  Well, let’s try to think of some other, more plausible ideas as well.”

Alessa conceded that the particle accelerator idea was far-fetched, but it was the best she had to go on at the moment.  And it was far better than nothing.  Alessa felt hopeful for the first time since she had read the article about the fire.

At least she had a plan for what she needed to research next.  “Okay.  I’ll see what I can dig up about time travel theories and any scientific studies that have been done.  Who knows, maybe we’ll get a lucky break.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan.”

Alessa sprung up from the bed with a renewed sense of determination.  She would find some way to help Isaac.  She had to.

The next day passed by painfully slowly.  Alessa had crammed in some quick research about time travel in between – and sometimes during – class, but she hadn’t managed to turn up anything very useful.

Using the academic journal database on the library’s website, she was able to find the research journal where the results of the particle accelerator experiment were published, but she could barely comprehend anything written in the report.  The journal was targeted toward a readership of other scientists, not laypeople, and it assumed a level of understanding about quantum physics that Alessa simply did not possess.  She saved a copy of the article, but it wasn’t much use to her at the moment.

After that she had decided to try a wider search of the internet for time travel theories.  There was plenty of information, but she soon discovered that it was difficult to distinguish between science fiction and science fact.

She found an abundance of elaborate crackpot hypotheses that went way over Alessa’s head, but even respectable sources reported findings that seemed fantastical.  One article by a noted physicist explained that scientific studies had nearly proven that there were actually 11 dimensions – the three dimensions of space, the fourth dimension of time, and seven other “dimensions” that Alessa could not seem to visualize in any way.

Alessa could not fathom how one might go about proving such a thing, but she read that supposedly all of these dimensions are wound together and sometimes folded up in ways that might allow a jump from one point of a dimension to another, for example, from today to a time in the past or future.  According to the article, these tiny “wormholes” in time are apparently constantly opening and closing all around, but they’re just so small that they can’t be detected.

Theoretically, if one could capture and enlarge a wormhole, that would create a tunnel that a human could pass through to reach a different time.

The article went on to explain that this would create opportunities for paradoxes – for people to change the past in ways that would affect the future – which should be a physical impossibility due to the laws of cause and effect.  There wasn’t much understanding of how this could be possible or what consequences it might have, but Alessa was intrigued nonetheless.

Perhaps there was something about her house that was causing these naturally occurring wormholes to expand, and that was why she and Isaac were able to see each other for a few moments until the hole closed again.

When she returned home from class, her mind was spinning with the possibilities.  She’d never given much thought to the idea of time travel, which she had assumed was an aspiration firmly lodged in the realm of fantasy.  But the day’s research had shown her that real, legitimate scientists were pursuing this field of study, and it gave her hope that she might somehow be able to warn Isaac and prevent the tragedy from happening.  And if she could help Isaac, maybe someday she could save her parents as well.

Back in her room, Alessa took a long look at herself in the mirror.  Was it possible that the Isaac she was seeing was not a ghost, but a glimpse of the real Isaac during the past?  If this was the case, could she really help him?  It seemed risky to meddle with the flow of time to save him, but her eyes burned with conviction.  She had to try.

At almost the same moment that Alessa resolved to move forward with her investigation, she noticed a twitch behind her in the reflection of the mirror.  She turned around just as Isaac finished materializing in front of her, not four feet away.

Her body trembled as the familiar wave of emotions washed over her, the fear and the sorrow and the longing.  But she refused to succumb to the turmoil that threatened to overwhelm her.  Now was her chance.  She had to act.

He was looking straight at her, his jaw slack.  He seemed to be waiting for her to make a move, but Alessa struggled to find her voice.  She managed to choke out, “Isaac.”

Isaac concentrated on Alessa’s face and leaned in slightly, as if listening closely.  Had he heard her?

“Isaac, there’s going to be a fire.”

He shook his head, looking bewildered, as Alessa continued speaking.  Finally he pointed at his ear.  She realized he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

“Fire!  Fire!”  Alessa shouted the word, desperately hoping he would understand.

It was clear that he didn’t.

What else could she do?  She groped for ideas and decided to try to mime it to him – striking a match, mimicking a small blaze with her fingertips, putting it out with a fire extinguisher.  She felt ridiculous; she’d never been good at charades.  Did they even have fire extinguishers back then?

Isaac looked baffled.  This exercise was hopeless.

Alessa threw her hands to her head.  Think.  Think.  She racked her mind for ideas, frenziedly searching for a way to make him understand.  A solution occurred to her.

She darted to the desk and scribbled one word on an open notebook: “FIRE.”  Tossing the pen, she ripped the page from the spine and turned, holding it up for Isaac to see.  But he was already gone.

18. DILEMMA

Isaac crouched behind the corner of the cool gray wall, taking slow measured breaths as his heart pounded in his throat.  He tried to calm his nerves, but he knew he was in more danger than he had ever been before.  He needed to perform now.  If he was caught, there was no telling what they might do.  And it wasn’t just for himself that he feared.

Isaac looked back at his companion, who crouched next to him beside the wall.  He looked up at Isaac, flashing striking blue eyes not unlike Isaac’s own.  He had Isaac’s light brown hair as well, but a more robust muscular frame.

“Just a minute, Isaac,” he whispered.  “I think it will look suspicious if we’re both carrying heavy packs.”  His partner was unloading a large canvas sack of stolen food into the various pockets of his cargo pants and worn woolen coat.  He crumpled the empty knapsack and tossed it behind him.  “Okay, I’m ready.  Do you remember the plan?”

Isaac nodded, but fear surged through his veins.  This was his opportunity to prove himself, to show the world that he was worth something.  If he could do it, maybe someday he’d be able to make up for everything he’d cost his loved ones.

His partner seemed determined as well.  “Put the backpack on now.  If they catch us, you pretend that you have no idea what’s going on.  Don’t try to play the hero – there’s no sense in both of us going down.  If I’m captured, I need you here to take care of Less.”

Isaac gulped and nodded again.  He was determined to swallow his fear.  He would make his partner proud.

As if he’d heard Isaac’s thoughts, his partner placed a hand on Isaac’s shoulder and offered a reassuring squeeze.  “Listen, you’re going to do great.  Just act casual.  We’ll waltz across the compound, meet the others in the alley to make the drop, and no one will notice a thing.”  As usual, he exuded a showy air of confidence that Isaac could only ever hope to achieve.

Isaac peeked around the corner, a light breeze rousing the dust from the frozen ground.  They were only steps away from safety, but first they had to cross 40 open yards in full sight of the guards.  Other residents of the compound milled about the square; Isaac just needed to blend in.  He took another deep breath.  “Okay, let’s do it.”

Isaac and his partner stood up.  They stepped out from behind the building and strolled through the center of the clearing, looking straight ahead.  They were more than halfway across when Isaac noticed a light thwacking against the side of his boot and realized his shoelace had come undone.  He decided to ignore it; he would just have to walk more carefully.

As they neared the alleyway which held the door to their destination, Isaac heard someone call out from behind them.  “Hey, you!  Be careful – your shoe is untied!”

Isaac swore under his breath.  He couldn’t ignore the entreaty without arousing suspicion.  He glanced quickly at his partner, who nodded.  “Thanks!” Isaac casually called out behind him.

He bent over to lace the offending shoe, his heavy pack slumping forward against his neck.  Before Isaac could react, a single shiny red apple rolled loose from the side pocket of his knapsack and hit the ground with a thud.  Then all hell broke loose.

Six guards emerged from their concealed posts and came rushing at Isaac and his companion from all directions.  Isaac panicked.  His eyes searched for somewhere to run, but they were blocked from every side, except forward.  They couldn’t go that way without giving up their meeting place.

Isaac’s companion grabbed his wrist and gave him a meaningful look, and Isaac remembered what he was supposed to do.  As three pairs of hands grasped his shoulders and roughly forced him to the ground, Isaac let a glazed look slide over his face and he feigned a dull confusion.

His partner, meanwhile, was flailing wildly, bellowing and fighting off the three guards who had descended on him.  Food flung from his pockets in every direction.  “Leave him alone!  He doesn’t know anything!  I put the backpack on him!  Let him go!”  He landed one good punch that sent a guard reeling, but Isaac could see in his eyes that he was resigned to his fate.  The fight was all for show – his partner knew he was done for.

Inside, Isaac was screaming.  He cursed himself – how could a simple shoelace bring them to this?  And why wasn’t that pocket on the backpack secured?  It was all his fault – again – and now his companion was paying the price for Isaac’s stupidity.  An overwhelming guilt impelled him to act, but his partner had made it clear what duty Isaac had to fulfill now.

He needed to stay quiet, he needed to remain calm, and he needed to do whatever it took to convince the guards that he was innocent.  Isaac fought back tears as one by one the guards released him and joined the others in mercilessly beating his partner.

With one sickening final crack, the guards stood up and began to drag his companion away.  He felt the bag of food being torn from his back and heard it thump against one of the guard’s shoulders a few yards ahead.  Isaac knew that nothing he could do would be of any use.  Even if his partner managed to survive the ordeal, he’d likely be tossed in prison, lost to Isaac forever.

Isaac had never felt so alone.

Isaac woke slowly, his neck stiff and crooked to one side.  He stretched slowly, pushing through the pain as he cracked his neck to the other side.  He surveyed his surroundings as he shook off the viscous sense of dejection that still clung to his mood.

He was slouched in his favorite red chair in his study; he must have nodded off.  Isaac tried to remember what he had been dreaming about.  Something about getting caught, feeling guilty and hopeless and alone.  He breathed slowly and waited for the flood of depression that had washed over him in his sleep to slowly dissipate as reality set in.  It was only a dream.

Isaac stood up, still feeling slightly shaken from his nightmare.  It had been so vivid, but already he’d lost most of the details, and the more he tried to remember the dream, the faster it slipped away.

Isaac was relieved to be awake and back in his own home.  Intending to refresh himself with a glass of water from the kitchen, he turned towards the door but halted in place.  The phantom woman had materialized not more than a couple arms’ lengths away.

Any lingering thoughts of his strange dream were quickly eclipsed by her appearance.  She was facing away from him, her long thick hair spilling down her back.  She spun around quickly to face him and locked her startling green eyes on his face.  Isaac’s chest was hammering.

She spoke, but all Isaac could hear was silence.  He tried to make out what she was saying, but he was no lip-reader.  She looked frantic, like she was shouting something over and over again, but she might have been locked in a soundproof box for all the good it did Isaac.  He pointed to his ear, trying to signal that he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

She seemed to understand.  Instead of talking, she began making gestures with her hands, striking one hand across the back of the other and waving her fingers in the air, then mocking holding something in her fists.  Isaac had no clue what she might be trying to show him.

She threw her hands to the sides of her head in frustration as Isaac looked on.  Whatever she had to say was obviously very important to her, and he was anxious to learn what it was.  He just didn’t know what to do.

Finally, she dropped her arms with an expression of realization on her face and dashed to the side.  Isaac thought perhaps she had figured out how to convey her message and he watched her eagerly.  But as she stopped in place and started to lean over, her form vanished.

Isaac sunk back down into the armchair, reviewing the encounter in his head.  What was she trying to say?  She had looked so desperate, shouting and gesticulating wildly.  He couldn’t make sense of any of it.  He’d had no luck making out any of the words she’d been saying to him and whatever she’d tried to mime had been completely lost in translation as well.

Isaac gritted his teeth.  He was glad to have finally caught her attention, to know that she was as aware of him as he was of her, but their inability to communicate was a major hurdle.  She looked like she’d been on the verge of a breakthrough, but she’d faded before he could see what she was doing.  Now all he was left with was a slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Something was wrong.  Isaac wondered what could have made her so frantic.  Was she trying to tell him who she was and how she had found him?  Did she need his help?  What was this message that she was so determined to share?

Isaac worried that he had missed something important.  He just couldn’t dismiss the sense of urgency that her actions had conveyed.  It didn’t seem at all like she was just trying to connect, to say “hello.”  It seemed like a plea.  Or a warning.

Isaac felt anxious.  His heart was still fluttering in his chest and he could feel the adrenaline surging through his limbs.  He felt alert and wary, primed to defend against an attack.

Yes, her expression had been unmistakable.  Someone was in danger.  Maybe it was her, or maybe it was Isaac himself.  But he didn’t know who or what threatened them and he was powerless to find out.  Without a clear understanding of the woman’s message, Isaac was held hostage by his own ignorance.

19. TRAGEDY

Days after his last encounter with the woman, Isaac was still on edge.  His life had been pervaded with a deep sense of foreboding and he found himself feeling jumpy, even the slightest noise causing his body to tense in anticipation.  He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling, and it was making him irritable.

Isaac was sitting in the parlor attempting to focus his attention on the record playing on the phonograph.  He couldn’t seem to pick up more than a few notes at a time.  He closed his eyes to drown out the distraction of the room, but then all he could see was the woman feverishly gesturing at him.  The music couldn’t compete with the silent cacophony in his head.

He felt so inadequate.  Why couldn’t he understand her message?  It’d been all Isaac had thought about for days, but he still couldn’t make any sense of her signals.  What had she been trying to say?

Josephine came sauntering in from the foyer and woke Isaac from his dark meditations.  In each hand she carried a long unlit candlestick unceremoniously wedged into a silver candlestick holder, the carved wooden pony he’d given her yesterday peeking out from her pocket.  She smiled at Isaac as she crossed the room towards the blazing fireplace, but remained respectfully quiet to avoid interrupting the song.

Isaac suspected that Josephine had noticed the change in his demeanor, as she’d mostly avoided him the past few days.  Isaac felt bad – he knew his sister was as bored as he was with nothing to do but wander around the big empty house – but at the same time, he was glad to have her out of his hair.  If the ominous feelings he’d been having were to come to fruition, he’d sooner have Jo out of the way.

Josephine knelt on the hearth and held the two candlesticks over the flame.  The wicks caught one after another, and a drop of wax sizzled as it dribbled into the fire.  Jo backed away from the fireplace and placed the candlesticks side by side on the low table in front of Isaac, plopping onto the sofa next to him.

Josephine wet the tips of her thumb and forefinger in her mouth then closed her fingers over the wick of the first candle with a quick motion, extinguishing the flame with a hiss.  She’d learned the trick from one of the servants and now she practiced it whenever she was bored.  She used the second candle to relight the first, then extinguished it once again.  Isaac watched as she repeated the cycle six times, still struggling to listen to what the phonograph was playing.

On her seventh attempt, Josephine clumsily knocked the side of the candle and spilled a few drips of hot wax onto the table.  Isaac’s patience had been low to begin with, and he was not in the mood to clean up Jo’s mess.  He gave her a reprimanding look and waited for the dribbled wax to dry so that he could scratch it from the hardwood surface.

“Josephine, you know Mother is going to punish you if you damage any of the furniture with your stupid trick.”

She gave him a hurt look, but continued on with her game in silence.  Isaac had been harsher than he’d meant to be, but he just couldn’t take her disruptions in addition to everything else he was dealing with.

After a few moments she knocked the candle again and it spilled outright across the table.

“Jo!”

“It was an accident!”  She had jumped up and was trying to mop up the wax with her sleeve, succeeding only in spreading it further.

“You’re just making it worse!  Go do that somewhere else!”  Isaac felt some remorse at her wounded expression, but he knew that if he wasn’t firm with her, she’d never leave him alone.

“Fine.”  She gathered up the lit candle in one hand and the fallen candlestick in the other and stalked out of the room.

Isaac sighed once she was gone.  He hated to be cruel to his sister, but she was liable to burn down the house with her little diversion, and he didn’t want to be responsible for it, especially not at that moment.

After he’d finished picking the wax from the tabletop, Isaac gave up on the record and turned the knob to switch the player off.  He just couldn’t concentrate today.  He decided to go upstairs and splash some cool water on his face.  Hopefully the shock of it would wake him up from the fog he’d been rambling around in.

Reaching the bathroom, he perched his hands on the edge of the countertop and paused to peer in the mirror above the sink basin.  He looked haggard.  He’d been plagued by more and more unsettling dreams since his last encounter with the presence, each leaving Isaac feeling a disturbing mix of fear and confusion and guilt.  He hadn’t been sleeping well as a result.

He turned the knob and filled the bottom of the basin with an inch of cold water.  He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up over his elbows.  Bending over the sink, he scooped the water into his hands and splashed it gently on his face.  As he’d hoped, the chilly water stung his cheeks and sent shivers down his back.

Isaac looked up, refreshed.  The color had come back to his face and his blue eyes sparkled as droplets fell back to the basin from his eyelashes.  He still felt anxious, but at least his mind didn’t feel as cloudy as it had.

He pulled the drain plug and turned to the towel hung by the door.  Isaac gently dried the moisture from his face then hung the towel up on the rack and rolled his sleeves back down.  He was securing the buttons at his wrist as he headed for the door when he noticed something in his peripheral vision.

It was the woman.  Isaac jumped back with a gasp and nearly smashed into the wall.  She was standing by the sink with a similar expression of shock on her face.  But her dismay was soon replaced with determination.

Isaac watched as she dug into a pocket in her snug denim trousers and withdrew a small swatch of paper.  Her image was already beginning to fade as she unfolded the sheet and held it up to him.  There was writing scrawled across the page, but as her image rapidly grew fainter, Isaac had time to read only one word before she vanished completely: “FIRE.”

As suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.  Fire.  The word echoed over and over in his mind as he paced to his study.  Fire.  What was she telling him?  Was it some kind of warning?  Or was she sharing something about her own experience?

He stood at the window pondering her meaning when he noticed something.  An acrid smell stung the back of his nose and he thought he heard a faint yelling in the distance.  Then it dawned on him.  Smoke.  Fire.

Isaac raced down the back stairs to the kitchen.  Was this what the presence had been warning him about?  Was the house on fire?

He skipped the last three steps and bounded into the kitchen.  Everything looked in its place except for the fact that it was deserted – usually one of the servants would be preparing dinner by now.  He stepped further into the room to see if he could find anything amiss, and that’s when he saw where everyone had disappeared to.

Beyond the window, smoke was rolling across the lawn towards the house.  It spewed from the barn, which was engulfed in massive flames.  A group of servants were standing in a line from the water pump to the barn door, passing buckets which they were frantically pitching onto the burning building.  Isaac could see that it was no use.  The structure shuddered visibly from the intensity of the blaze.

Isaac dashed out the back door and up the hill towards the barn, pumping his legs faster than they’d ever taken him.  The escaped horses reared wildly in the commotion and whinnied over the shouts of the servants.  Isaac was shocked at the heat from the inferno; he could feel it from 30 yards away.

He had difficulty seeing through the smoke, but he soon found his mother clutching the housekeeper, Henrietta, and sobbing violently.  Isaac gripped her shoulders and tried to get her attention.  “Mother, what’s going on?  How did this start?”

She just bawled harder, crumpling to the ground in a heap of desolation.  It hit Isaac that things might be much worse than they first seemed.

He turned to Henrietta.  “Where’s father?  Where’s Jo?”

The distraught housekeeper shook her head vigorously, tears in her eyes.  She sobbed out a reply.  “We heard Miss Josephine calling for help from inside.  Your father went in after her.”

No.  “When?  When?!”  Isaac’s throat burned from the smoke.  He could see that part of the barn had collapsed already and the rest was due to go at any moment.  His body threatened to faint as the blood rushed from his head with one monumental realization.

This was all his fault.  He had sent Jo away with those candles, told her to get out of the house.  Where else would she have gone?  The hayloft was her favorite place.  She must have climbed up there after Isaac had yelled at her, and of course it would go up in flames the first time she knocked over that candle, littered as it was with dry straw.  She was only a child – she would never think twice about the danger.  And now his father was trapped inside with her.

Isaac couldn’t believe his own foolishness.  The people he loved most in this world were facing a fiery death and it was entirely his fault.  He’d been too distracted to see what was right in front of his face, to recognize what the presence had been trying to warn him of the whole time.  He had not only ignored those warnings, but had actually prompted his sister to accidentally set the fire that might kill her.  Isaac felt acid rising in his throat, but he choked it back down.  He needed to think.

Henrietta continued to cry and tear at her own hair as his mother shuddered on the ground.  He couldn’t just stand there and watch his family die.  He had to try to save them.

His heart pounding, he hastened toward the open barn door where the soot-covered servants were still splashing water, trying to clear a path for Isaac’s father and sister to escape.  The heat intensified as he neared and sweat soaked his brow.  Isaac knew that it was now or never.  He dashed through the doorway into the blaze.

The fire inside wasn’t as widespread as he’d expected, but he started choking immediately and squinted his eyes against the smoke to get a better view.  His father and sister were nowhere to be found.  He stretched out his arm to try to feel his way toward the hayloft, but he could barely see his own hand.  He tried calling out to them and could not even hear his own voice over the roar of the blaze.

Isaac shook from head to toe as he stepped deeper into the barn.  He heard a crackling and suddenly a large flaming beam from the ceiling crashed down behind him, blocking his only exit.  He had no choice but to go forward.

He crept cautiously towards the back of the barn, crouching to see through the thick smoke.  Isaac called out again and he thought he might have heard a faint coughing.  He headed in the direction of the sound, gasping against the suffocating heat.

Isaac almost stumbled over a pile of smoldering wood, then he thought he heard the coughing again.  Isaac looked closer and realized what he was seeing.  The hayloft had collapsed and he was standing beside the rubble.  Was Josephine still here?

He tore at the heap of wooden boards, straining as the lack of oxygen burned his lungs.  The walls shuddered around him and he could hear the building roar as the supports gave way.  The ceiling around him began to collapse.

Isaac caught a glimpse of blond hair under the debris and he knew he’d found his sister.  But it was too late.  In a moment she’d be gone, and Isaac was going with her.  He’d never experienced such an aching despair, such an overwhelming sense of hopelessness.  There was nothing he could do now.

Isaac sunk to his knees, his sight growing dim and his head swimming as his body gave in to the stifling effects of the smoke.  He collapsed onto his side, his hand reaching out for Jo as tears streamed from his face.  He mouthed a silent apology to his sister and his mind wandered one last time to the mysterious woman and her fateful warning.

And then his consciousness faded into oblivion.

20. FISSURE

8:32 AM.  Alessa sighed and dropped her eyes from the bedside clock, carefully surveying her room once again.  She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly – some sort of sign.  But so far, everything appeared to be exactly the same as it always had.

Alessa had been playing at this for almost 12 hours now, to no avail.  After seeing Isaac in the bathroom while getting ready for bed the night before, she’d had difficulty sleeping and had woken up every few hours expecting… she wasn’t sure what.  Something to be different.  Maybe to wake up in a different room, in some building that wasn’t Isaac’s house, since if his family didn’t die, maybe the university never acquired it?  Isn’t that how changing the past was supposed to work?

She wasn’t sure if Isaac had gotten the message, but she thought he might have.  After the frustration of their last encounter and her pathetic attempt at charades, Alessa had made sure that the next time she and Isaac met, she’d be prepared.  But she wasn’t quite sure how she would know if she’d been successful.

She’d been diligently carrying that scrap of paper in her pocket for days, and was still keeping it close at hand, just in case.  Alessa plucked it from the nightstand and unfolded the well-worn creases to scan the message once more.  “FAMILY IS IN DANGER – BARN FIRE.”  She’d emphasized the last word with red pen and underlining.  Alessa hoped that the message was clear and concise enough that he would be able to read and remember it even if they only had a few seconds to connect.

As it was, the encounter had been much shorter than usual and Alessa was glad she had thought to keep the message short.  She was fairly certain that she had wrangled the paper from her pocket in time, but she wasn’t positive.  Isaac had started fading almost as soon as she’d unfolded her message, so she hadn’t been able to get any confirmation from him.

Alessa flopped her head back to her pillow and stared up at the ceiling.  How was this time travel business supposed to work, anyway?  If she somehow got a message to Isaac in his own time and he did something different as a result, shouldn’t that mean that something in the future would change to reflect Isaac’s actions?  At the very least, shouldn’t the newspaper article about his death no longer exist?

Alessa’s mind was spinning.  The whole concept of manipulating time was more than she could wrap her head around at the moment.  There were just too many possibilities and no way to predict how changing one thing – like whether Isaac’s family lived or died – might affect everything else.

Alessa had read on the internet that some physicists claimed that all of time was happening at once, that every possible choice and every possible outcome had already happened and was still happening at every moment.  As a result, any change in the “past” would not affect the “present” since, according to this theory, everything was happening simultaneously already.  The idea was baffling, and Alessa just couldn’t process it.

She wondered if perhaps she was making a mistake by trying to affect events that had already happened.  Assuming that changing the past did affect the future, presumably, the results could be catastrophic.  Though in this particular case, Alessa couldn’t imagine how Isaac’s family surviving might negatively affect anything.  She tried to think through the different scenarios in her mind.

One scenario in particular caused her a moment of panic.  If the Masons lived, they would likely have continued passing the estate down through subsequent generations, which meant that it might never have been sold to the university.  That meant Alessa would never have lived on the property, and would therefore have never crossed paths with Isaac.  So if her plan worked and she all of a sudden woke up one day in a different place, she might not even remember things ever having been the way they are now.  Did that mean that if her plan succeeded, she might never even know?

Alessa shook off the thought.  She hadn’t considered the possibility of losing all memory of Isaac before, and she wasn’t keen on the idea.  He had become such an integral part of her life in recent months that she couldn’t imagine losing him, having never even known of his existence.  The idea of continuing on the path she was on before Isaac first appeared – of struggling to recover after losing her parents with nothing but schoolwork to distract her – was just too bleak.

But perhaps that wouldn’t be how it happened.  Just because Isaac’s family survived didn’t necessarily mean that the house would never become university property.  Even if it took decades after Isaac’s family’s lives ran their courses, there were myriad ways that the house might somehow eventually land in the university’s hands.  And if the reason Alessa could see Isaac was, as Janie hypothesized, due to the natural physical properties of the house – as opposed to his becoming a ghost after dying under tragic circumstances – then maybe Alessa would have seen him anyway.  In fact, maybe this was how things were meant to happen all along.  Maybe Alessa was always meant to save Isaac’s family.

Alessa decided to put all this conjecturing out of her head.  It was too early in the morning to be trying to unravel the mysteries of time.  Plus, she had an ethics assignment to do before her late morning class.

After a short trip to the bathroom to freshen up, Alessa was settling in at her desk and flipping open her ethics reading when Janie poked her head in.

“Morning, Less.”  Her cropped hair was bedraggled and she had noticeable bags under her eyes.

“Hey, Janie.”  Alessa noted the exhaustion etched into Janie’s face.  “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks,” Janie yawned.

Alessa wondered what could have kept Janie up.  She’d been half asleep watching a movie on her laptop in bed last night when Alessa had burst into her room to tell her about giving Isaac the warning.

“So, any more developments with the Isaac thing?” Janie asked casually.

Alessa shook her head.  “No, nothing yet.”

Janie nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Do you think it worked?”

“I’m not sure…  I don’t know how I would even know.  I keep trying to figure out how things might be different now if Isaac lived, but it’s all so confusing.”

“Yeah, I was thinking about that…”  Janie hesitated for a moment.  “Alessa, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

Alessa grimaced as a small knot formed in her stomach.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if it didn’t work this time… maybe you should just let it go.”

Alessa swallowed.  “Why?”

Alessa had already buried the doubts that had been nagging at her all morning, and she hoped Janie wasn’t about to bring up the same concerns; she wasn’t eager to think about it again.

“I don’t know, Less.  It just seems like maybe you’re messing with something you shouldn’t.  Who knows how saving Isaac might change things?  Maybe things already happened the way they were supposed to…”

Alessa understood where Janie was coming from, but at the same time, she felt betrayed.  Janie was the one who had suggested the whole idea of a time warp and using it to contact Isaac to begin with.  Why the sudden about-face?

“Less?  Come on, don’t make that face.  I know how badly you want to help him.  I’m just… scared.”

Against her better judgment, Alessa felt a sudden flush of anger well up inside her.  “Janie, if you’re so scared, why did you suggest the idea to begin with?”

She knew it wasn’t fair to be irritated with Janie, but some part of her felt like Janie had given her a shiny new toy and then promptly taken it away.  If it wasn’t for Janie’s suggestion, Alessa probably wouldn’t even have considered the possibility that her encounters with Isaac weren’t with a ghost but with his past self.  Janie had gotten Alessa’s hopes up that maybe she might be able to do something about his fate, and now she was dashing those hopes to the ground.  Alessa knew she was being childish – Janie was probably right about the consequences of meddling with time – but she wasn’t ready to give in yet.

“I wouldn’t even have thought of trying to warn him if you hadn’t said it first,” Alessa added.

Janie’s face blanched and she recoiled, sputtering a retort.  “Well, I wish I hadn’t said anything.  It was a dumb idea.  I’m sorry.”

For some reason Janie’s apology made Alessa’s aggravation boil over.  “You know, Janie, I don’t think you do know how much I want to help Isaac, because if you did, you would be supporting me instead of trying to hold me back.”

Any remaining traces of color drained from Janie’s face.  “Alessa… I –”

Alessa held her hand up.  “Just save it, Janie.  My mind is made up, and nothing you say is going to change it.  I’m going to warn Isaac, and I don’t care about the consequences.  I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”

Janie looked like she was about to argue, but she let it go.  “Okay, fine.  I have to go to the library now, but we can talk later.  Just… don’t do anything rash,” she pleaded.

Alessa just gave Janie a stony glare.  She could see the hurt on Janie’s face and felt a pang of remorse, but she just couldn’t seem to let the anger go.

Janie turned and left, closing the door cautiously behind her, and Alessa dropped into her desk chair.  She was shaking with rage from head to toe.

Alessa knew she was being irrational, but she wasn’t in the mood to be sensible.  Janie’s concerns were perfectly reasonable – the same thoughts had occurred to Alessa herself – but Alessa had invested too much in the possibility of saving Isaac.  She wasn’t willing to let it go without a fight.

Alessa realized that having the opportunity to make a difference in Isaac’s fate had given her a taste of empowerment for the first time in months.  After her parents had died, she’d sat idly by while her life spun out of control, feeling powerless to fix anything.  Even the simplest task – doing her homework, getting dressed, cracking a smile – had seemed beyond her reach.

When Isaac started appearing to her, Alessa had worried at first that their distressing encounters would unhinge her completely, but much to Alessa’s surprise, Isaac’s presence had had the opposite effect.  She felt a deeper connection to him than she had with anyone since her parents had died, and her fixation with resolving his mystery had given her focus and provided her with something to strive for after so many months of drifting.

It’d seemed so hopeless at first, but after uncovering Isaac’s identity and proving his existence to herself, she’d felt a deep sense of satisfaction.  It reminded Alessa that she was capable, that she could control her own fate, that she wasn’t alone.  But now everything was threatening to slip away.

Alessa wasn’t ready to give up on Isaac yet, but as she reflected on her conversation with Janie, she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to wait a bit longer and think through her strategy.

Alessa sighed, her face flushing with chagrin as she remembered the accusatory tone she’d used with her best friend.  None of this was Janie’s fault.  Of course she was just trying to look out for Alessa, and Alessa had thrown it in her face.

Regretting her behavior, Alessa resolved to apologize to Janie as soon as possible.  Their physics lecture later that morning would likely be her first opportunity.

With a groan, Alessa turned back to her ethics book, already counting the minutes until she could set things right with her friend.

21. FORTUNE

For the first time that season, Alessa could see her breath fog in the air, each puff evident of winter’s creeping arrival.  Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she briskly strode to class, the heat within her chest a strong contrast to the chilly weather.

Alessa had spent the last few hours grappling with her ethics assignment in between bouts of agony over her argument with Janie.  By the time that Alessa had hit the print button on her short composition, it was clear that she had taken an indefensible position in accusing Janie of intentionally standing in her way.

Alessa realized that her desperation to feel like the master of her own life once again – a sentiment she hadn’t felt since losing her parents – had become unhealthily wrapped up with her desire to help Isaac.  The thought of losing the opportunity scared Alessa deeply, and she had inappropriately taken her angst out on Janie.  She was anxious now to set things right with Janie, but at the same time was nervous about how Janie might react in the wake of that morning’s quarrel.  She certainly had every right to be angry with Alessa.

Upon entering the physics lecture hall, Alessa scanned the auditorium for Janie’s face but was crestfallen to see she wasn’t there.  She tried not to let the disappointment get to her quite yet.  Janie was certainly known to run late more often than not, so Alessa chose a seat near the door that would allow Janie to make an inconspicuous entrance when she arrived.  If she arrived.

The professor commenced scrawling on the blackboard, and when Janie still hadn’t shown up ten minutes into the lecture, Alessa’s chest tightened with the intuition that her absence was probably Alessa’s fault.  Janie must be even more upset than Alessa had anticipated.  Alessa shifted uncomfortably in her seat and attempted to concentrate over the next hour on the remainder of Professor Liu’s oration.

As class ended, Alessa powered down her laptop and packed it into her bag, slinging the backpack over her shoulder with a heavy sigh.  It would be hours before she got another chance to remedy things with Janie, and she wasn’t looking forward to having the argument hang over her head the rest of the afternoon.  It was going to be a long day.

Alessa turned towards the door, but her departure was interrupted when the professor called out to her.  “Ms. Khole?  Do you have a few moments?”

Alessa contorted her face into a smile before replying.  “Sure.”  She’d been hoping to look for Janie in the cafeteria before ethics, but now she probably wouldn’t have enough time to talk even if she did find her.

Professor Liu smiled good-naturedly and removed his round-lensed glasses, folding the wire frames into a pocket of the white lab coat that tugged just a bit too tightly around his slightly pudgy frame.  Alessa waited for him to continue.

“I’ve been looking for a research assistant to help out in my lab and I was wondering if you might be interested.”

Alessa was slightly taken aback by the request.  This was only the third occasion she’d traded words with the professor – including the time he had reprimanded her in front of the entire class – and she was surprised that he would extend this kind of offer.  But on the other hand, she supposed it was hard to get to know students in such a large class, and she had done quite well on the midterm.

All the same, Alessa wasn’t really interested in doing research and was scrambling to think of a reasonable excuse to politely decline the offer.  To buy time, she decided to ask for more details.  “What kind of research are you doing?”

“Are you familiar at all with theories about wormholes?”

Wormholes?  That was an interesting coincidence.  “Actually, I read an article about them the other day.”

The professor clapped his hands together.  “Great.  My research is in the area of using electromagnetic fields to manipulate the wormholes that open and close imperceptibly around us all the time.  I’m trying to see if I can isolate one and stretch it large enough to pass an atom through.”

Alessa’s heart raced as she processed what the professor had just said.  She responded cautiously, “Isn’t that sort of like… time travel?”

Professor Liu smirked mischievously.  The expression made him look much younger.  “Potentially…”  He leaned in conspiratorially, shielding his voice from the few students who were still filing out of the auditorium.  “The research is confidential and very exciting.  If we can do it, we’d be the first lab to ever successfully pass an atom through to another dimension.  I’m not sure yet if it will end up in another time or another place or somewhere else entirely, but regardless, we’re not quite there yet.  At the moment, I’m just running the machines constantly and trying to isolate a wormhole so that we can experiment with manipulating it.”

Alessa concealed her astonishment behind a thoughtful nod as she considered the implications of getting involved with the experiment.  Could this be her chance to warn Isaac?  She’d had no idea such advanced research was going on at ESU, led by her very own physics teacher no less.  “Sounds… fascinating.  So, what exactly would you need me to do?”

“At the end of the month, I’ll be taking leave for a few weeks – my wife is expecting – and I’m looking for someone to just check on the lab every day and let me know if we’ve caught a wormhole.”

“How would I know?”

The professor considered for a moment.  “Oh, it’s not difficult.  You have to know what to look for, but I can teach you.  It wouldn’t be a significant time commitment, either.  You’d just need to stop by for a few minutes once a day.  Unfortunately, I don’t have enough grant money to pay you… but I could put your name on the report when we publish the findings…”  He looked hopefully at Alessa.

“Oh, that’s no problem.  I’ve been… looking for an opportunity like this, to beef up my resume.”  Alessa felt guilty deceiving the professor, but the opportunity seemed too good to pass up.  “I’d be happy to help.”

Professor Liu’s face softened with relief.  “Excellent!  If you have a few minutes now, I could bring you by the lab to orient you with the procedures?”

Having given up hope of finding Janie before ethics, Alessa had some time and nothing to do except brood over their argument, so she happily obliged.  “Sounds great.”

Following the professor up to the lab on the second floor, Alessa couldn’t contain her excitement over her good fortune.  If Janie’s theory about the house’s natural electromagnetic fields was right, she might be able to use the professor’s equipment to amplify the effect and open a wormhole directly to Isaac’s time.  Forget the particle accelerator – this could be exactly what she needed.  Who knew doing well on one midterm would open such a monumental door?

The professor unlocked the unassuming entrance and ushered Alessa inside.  Surveying the room, she noted the marked contrast between the dated workspace and the shiny new equipment strewn across every available surface.  The professor led her to one corner of the room and began pointing out the functions of each part of the wormhole manipulator.

The apparatus consisted of three silvery spheres mounted on foot-long poles which were set equidistant in a triangle on the tabletop, a glowing strand of electricity connecting each globe.  The professor explained that the poles were placed in precisely the right relative positions to maximize the amplification of the electromagnetic fields in the center of the triangle.

The idea was that if a wormhole opened in that position, as popular theory suggested one eventually would, the strong fields would trap it there and allow the researchers to vary the settings on the device to try to enlarge it.  A computer monitored the apparatus to detect any changes in the fields within the triangles.  The graph on the screen was flat except for one small blip about a month into the three month project.

Professor Liu motioned at the graph.  “That was the closest we’ve gotten so far.  A wormhole opened up within the triangle, but it wasn’t directly in the center, so the fields weren’t strong enough to capture it.”

Alessa thought it seemed like this experiment would require a lot of waiting – what were the chances that a wormhole would appear in exactly the right spot anytime soon?  “Is there anything you can do to broaden the effective area of the triangle?  Can you increase the strength of the fields or anything?”

“We could, but it would require a lot more energy and this old building just isn’t equipped for it.  I’m working on securing another grant which will allow us to move to a more advanced lab, but in the meantime, this is the best we can do.”

Alessa nodded.  Assuming there really was a spike in the natural fields around her house, if she could get this equipment back there, it might serve the same purpose as pumping more electricity into the system.  And the entire setup was small enough that she could fit it all into a large duffle bag to smuggle it home…

Alessa could barely believe her own gall.  Only moments after entering the professor’s lab, she was already contemplating strategies to steal his equipment.  Perhaps she was going too far, but the temptation was too strong to resist.  When would another opportunity like this ever fall into her lap?  On the other hand, Professor Liu was so trusting that it just seemed wrong to take advantage of him.

She could always put everything back, though, once she’d gotten through to Isaac.  That way, she rationalized, she would only be borrowing.  And if she did it while the professor was on leave, he would probably never even know.  Plus, if her experiment worked, she could even devise some way to suggest the idea to Professor Liu – that would advance his research by months, maybe even years.  Alessa felt slightly better about her duplicity.  If she really thought it through, it might be a win-win for her, Isaac, and the professor.

Professor Liu continued with her orientation.  “We run the machine continuously, night and day, but we need to check it every day since occasionally there are surges in the power lines which cause it to overheat and turn off.  We don’t want it to be offline for any significant period of time since we might miss our opportunity, so if you find it turned off when you come in to check on the progress, just flip this switch in the fuse box and it should come back on.”  He tripped the fuse to show how the machine turns off and back on.

After concluding the tour of the lab, Alessa agreed to start coming by twice a week to continue her training until the professor went on leave, at which time she would transition to daily responsibilities.  She was already anticipating the start of his vacation.  “So, when is your baby due?”

“Second week in December,” he beamed.

Great, Alessa thought.  That would give her a few weeks to figure out how she could smuggle the equipment into her house without alerting campus security.  “That’s wonderful,” she smiled back.

Professor Liu held up a set of keys to the lab and presented them to Alessa with a genuine smile.  “Welcome aboard, Ms. Khole!  It will be nice to have another helping hand around here.”

Alessa snatched the keys from his hand, grinning from ear to ear.  “Thanks again for the opportunity.  The experiment sounds really riveting.”  Far more riveting for her, in fact, than the professor could possibly imagine.  “I can’t wait to get started.”

22. REVELATION

By the time Alessa had gotten through that afternoon’s ethics seminar, her anticipation was palpable.  The entire way home she fought the urge to run, until it finally overtook her as the Zeta Epsilon Pi house peeked into view. Dashing up the stairs, Alessa headed straight down the hall and burst into Janie’s room.

“Janie!  I know you’re mad at me and you’re right – I was totally out of line and I’m sorry.  But I’ve got something to tell you.”  Alessa spat the words out as fast as her lips would take them, gesturing emphatically with her hands.

Janie, who had been hanging laundry in her closet, turned quickly in Alessa’s direction, a look of relief on her face.  “So you decided to take my advice and think things through a little before you try to contact Isaac again?”

Alessa deflated.  “Well…”  She wasn’t sure how to continue.

All of a sudden, Alessa wondered if sharing the news of the research position with Janie was a mistake.  She hated the idea of lying to her best friend – or even keeping a secret from her – but at the same time, this was something Alessa knew she had to try and she didn’t want it to come between them again.

“Well, what is it?”  Janie demanded.

After a moment of consideration, Alessa decided to be honest.  She needed Janie to understand why she felt compelled to push on.  “Professor Liu asked me to assist him in his lab.”

Janie looked puzzled.  “I didn’t think you had any interest in doing research…”

“I didn’t…”  Alessa smirked.  She really couldn’t contain her excitement.  “…until he explained that he’s trying to manipulate wormholes to open a door to another time.”

Janie’s face flushed.  “Less, this is a terrible idea.”

Alessa was expecting this reaction, but it still stung.  “What is?  I haven’t even told you yet!”

“You don’t have to!  You’re thinking of using whatever technology he has to try to contact Isaac, obviously.”  She swore audibly.  “You’re so bullheaded!  Why can’t you just let it go?”

Alessa was taken aback by the venom in Janie’s voice.  She wasn’t angry anymore, but hurt.  Janie really must not understand how important this was to Alessa.  Staring at the floor, she sulked, “Janie, he’s the only thing I have left.”  Looking up into Janie’s eyes, she added, “I have to try.”

Janie shook her head and flung the pair of jeans she was holding.  They hit the wall with a whap.  “The only thing you have left?  How about me, Alessa?  How about your life?  You’re willing to throw all that away just to take a gamble on this ridiculous idea?”

Alessa started to recoil but threw her shoulders back in defiance.  “Yes, actually, I am.  Because I think you’re being ridiculous.  How could I live with myself if I knew I had a chance to save someone I love and I didn’t even try?  I would do the same for you.”

Janie closed her eyes and shook her head, as if she were trying to drown out Alessa’s appeal.  “Less, listen to me.”  She glanced around the room warily then hissed, “Don’t you think the timing of this offer is just a bit… convenient?”

Alessa cocked her head to one side and regarded Janie with curiosity.  Slowly, she uttered, “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Janie bit her tongue, shaking her head again.  “What I mean is that this is just totally out of character for you.  You’ve always been a paragon of levelheadedness and now you’re acting like a crazy lady, like some sort of plague crawled into your head and is holding you hostage.”  She looked at Alessa expectantly for a moment, then continued more softly.  “I just think you need a little more time to think about this.  I promise I will support you in whatever you decide to do –” she reached for Alessa’s hands.  “– because I do know how much Isaac means to you.  I just don’t want you to rush into it.”

Alessa allowed Janie to take her hands, but inside she was still resistant.  It was clear that Janie had more to say and Alessa couldn’t understand why she was holding back, especially after Alessa had been so forthcoming with her own feelings.  She was tempted to press her further, but something in Janie’s expression told Alessa that it would be futile to ask.  Janie obviously wasn’t ready to share whatever it was that she wanted to say.

Instead, Alessa tried to reassure her friend.  “I won’t have an opportunity to act until the professor goes on paternity leave in a few weeks, so I’ll think it over between now and then.  But I’m pretty sure I already know what my decision will be.”

Janie nodded and seemed pacified.  “That’s all I ask.  Just take some time to think things through.”

Alessa departed for her own room, her sense of exhilaration much dampened from earlier in the day.  Despite Janie’s reassurances, Alessa wasn’t sure that she’d be able to count on her friend for support if she did decide to move forward with her plan to steal the equipment.  And the fact that Janie was obviously withholding her thoughts bothered her even more.  She hoped that – as Janie suggested – more clarity would come with time.

The next morning, Alessa felt more conflicted than she ever had, and her frustration with Janie had reached an all-time peak.  She couldn’t imagine why Janie wouldn’t just come out and say whatever she was trying to insinuate during yesterday’s conversation.  The growing rift between them troubled Alessa deeply, and it was making her reconsider everything.  Was saving Isaac really worth the risk of losing her best friend?

All of this indecision had left Alessa with a stronger appetite than usual, so she’d decided to fix herself an egg sandwich before her morning class.  After downing the sandwich, she found that the hearty sustenance did indeed help to fortify her outlook.  She just hoped her housemates wouldn’t notice the absence of the ingredients she’d borrowed.

Striding down the first floor hallway from the kitchen, Alessa heard a muffled noise, like a heavy lock clicking, from the other side of the wall to her right.  That was odd – she didn’t remember there being a room on the other side of this hallway.  She stopped in place and eyed the wall.  Sure enough, it was blank.  Alessa was about to chalk up the disturbance to a figment of her imagination when she noticed a narrow fault running most of the length of the wall from top to bottom.  As she looked closer, she could see other fine slits adjoining the first – the outline of a door.

Before Alessa had time to consider what she was seeing, the door swung inward and a hand extended out, yanking her by the collar into a small, dark room.

It took Alessa’s eyes a moment to adjust.  The room was no larger than a supply closet, and the only source of light was the blue glow from hundreds of security monitors that were mounted to the walls in every direction.  She saw images of the quad, the science building, the outside of her house.  The Z-E-Pi kitchen.  Inside her bedroom?  Alessa’s mouth dropped.  Had the university really taken the security cameras that far?  Wasn’t that a violation of some kind of privacy right?

As she watched, one by one the screens flickered and replaced their crisp images with a single error message.  “CAMERA OFFLINE.”  The room glowed brighter as each monitor flashed the error on a vivid white background, and gradually Alessa could make out more detail.

The security monitors were unlike anything Alessa had ever seen, shiny glass panels hung in neat rows across every surface of the room.  The screens were almost paper-thin; Alessa hadn’t even known such technology existed.  In the corner, she saw what she believed was a control panel, with various glowing buttons seemingly floating in midair alongside a continuously updating list of text.  She made out the first couple lines.

Camera 1753.  Status: offline.  Cause of malfunction: unknown.

Camera 8237. Status: offline.  Cause of malfunction: unknown.

Now that she could see more clearly, Alessa glanced around alertly looking for whoever had pulled her into this disturbing little closet.  With a gasp of surprise, Alessa saw that it was Janie.  She was watching the monitors attentively and turned to Alessa as the last one flicked to the error screen, a fevered look in her eyes.

“Alessa, we don’t have much time, so I need you to listen to me.  Don’t repeat anything I say here – otherwise we’ll all be in great danger.  Do you understand?”

Alessa just nodded her assent, her heart in her throat.  She could tell that Janie was dead serious, and Alessa was clutched by fear.  What was going on?

“Okay.  I need to know how much you remember.”  Janie stared intently into Alessa’s eyes.

Alessa shrugged her shoulders.  “Remember about what?” she croaked.

“About the war?  The outbreak?  Losing our family?  Starting over in Paragon?  The rebellion?  Anything?”

Alessa had no idea what Janie was talking about.  She just stared at Janie in bewilderment.

Janie groaned with frustration and put one hand to her temple, looking off to the side.  “It’s worse than I thought,” she muttered to herself.  “I hoped the dreams might have triggered something, but her stitch seems to be holding strong.”

Janie continued to stare into space, and Alessa realized she was listening.  In fact, Janie wasn’t touching her temple, Alessa saw, but her ear.  Was she wearing some sort of concealed earpiece?  Janie nodded in response to whatever she heard on the other end of the line.

Turning back to Alessa, Janie grabbed her shoulders and looked her directly in the eyes once more.  “How about Joe?  Do you remember Joe?  Do you remember the day he was captured?  How you and Isaac became close after his death?”

Alessa couldn’t keep up.  Each thought felt like a trudging step through thick, viscous goo.  Some of these names – Joe, Paragon – sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place why.  Her mind still catching up, a thought occurred to her about Janie’s initial line of questioning.  “Wait, did you say ‘our family?’”

Janie exhaled a deep breath, tears welling in her eyes.  “Alessa.  I’m your sister.”

Alessa shook her head, her heart pounding.  She didn’t know how it could be true, but something inside told her it was.  She felt faint.  “How…”

Janie brushed off the question and continued at a rapid pace.  “Alessa, we’re almost out of time, so I’m going to get to the point.  Nothing beyond this door –” she gestured at the hidden door Alessa had entered through, “– is real.”

Alessa still felt ten steps behind.  “What?” she whispered.

“The university, these people, your memories, Isaac’s apparition – they were all deliberately chosen to create the illusion of an early 21st century college where a girl, you, falls in love with a ghost.  It’s 2114, Alessa – almost a 100 years later than you think it is.  Isaac is real, but he’s not a ghost and he’s not in some other time.  He’s as alive and present as you and me.  He’s just on a different set.”

“Set?  Wait, Janie, slow down.  I can’t –”

“There’s no time, Alessa.  The dramas, please try to remember,” Janie pleaded.

Alessa just stared blankly, shaking her head in disbelief.

“This is all the set of a TV show, Less.  You’ve been, well, brainwashed essentially – we call it ‘stitched’ – to think that you are your character, and so has everyone around us.  But in reality, we’re all prisoners here.”

Alessa’s mind was racing.  This didn’t make any sense.

Janie continued.  “The memory wipe technology – the stitch – they used on us isn’t perfect.  There are certain things they couldn’t erase, like your name and your feelings for certain people.  So the producers worked those things into the plot, then they used a selective perception tool on you to smooth the edges around their deception, helping you miss the clues that might alert you that this wasn’t reality.  The idea is that the more real this world is to you, the more you’ll forget who you really are, and the less likely it will be that you’ll rebel again.”

Janie paused, waiting to see if Alessa was following.  She continued softly, “Do you see?  That’s why you feel all those things when you see Isaac.  You love each other.  None of that is made up.  But you were both captured and separated months ago, and held prisoner while they did – who knows what? – to you both.  You probably thought he was gone forever.  I didn’t know what had become of either of you for months.  Then finally our spy within the production team taught me how to resist the stitch and helped me infiltrate the show.

“But Isaac isn’t gone, Alessa.  We’re going to save him.  And not just from some bogus special effects fire, but for real.  We’re working on a plan to help you both escape.  We just need a little more time.”

23. RECONCILIATION

Grabbing Alessa’s shoulders once more, Janie beseeched Alessa to be cautious.  “Less, we’re almost out of time, so I’m going to emphasize once more how critical it is that you don’t let on that you know any of this.”

Alessa had never seen Janie look so frightened.  She still couldn’t process most of what Janie had said, so she just nodded quickly in response.

“Say it.  Promise me you’ll be careful.”  The reflection of a hundred tiny screens glowed eerily in Janie’s wide eyes.

Shaken by Janie’s frenzy, Alessa stuttered, “I… I promise.  I won’t let anyone know.”

Janie dropped her hands from Alessa’s shoulders with a visible sigh.  “Just remember that if you’re not careful, we’ll both end up like Nikhil.”

“Like Nikhil?”  Alessa remembered the night they almost kissed, watching those security officers drag him away into the dark.  She whispered hesitantly, “What happened to him?”

“He was the star of another show that they’re filming on campus, but his show wasn’t supposed to intersect with yours.  So the producers had him taken away…”  She shook her head.  “I honestly don’t know what they did with him.  No one has seen him since.”

Alessa gasped quietly.  Her stomach felt queasy as she realized that the violent tussle she’d seen really had been her fault.

Janie grabbed Alessa’s hand.  “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not your fault.  None of us could have known.”  She paused, her eyes clouding, then continued slowly, “Well… maybe I could have, but I didn’t know about him meeting you until the night of the party.  I thought the producers were introducing a love triangle – I never imagined he was from another show until I learned what happened from my contact a couple days later.”

Janie’s reassurances made Alessa feel slightly better, but not entirely.  She wasn’t even sure if she could believe everything that Janie had revealed, but regardless, she suddenly felt petrified.  Maybe she hadn’t been living the happiest life for the past year – or however long she’d been part of this charade – but she had at least felt physically secure.  Alessa would never have guessed that her seemingly normal everyday life was so fraught with danger, that one misstep could end it all.  She felt on edge, and then she realized with a start that the feeling was all too familiar.

“Janie, how long have I been here?”

“On the set?  Since the start of the semester – all of your memories before that are fake.  But you were being held prisoner for months before that, over a year actually.”

Alessa rubbed her eyes with her hands, willing herself to wake up from this nightmare.  She didn’t.

Janie tried to reassure her.  “I know it’s a lot to process.  I’m sorry.  And I’m sorry for my behavior the past few days.  It’s just that, I didn’t realize that time travel was the plotline the producers had in mind – I thought it was too out there – and then when I suggested it to you, I unwittingly set you on that path and fast-tracked the story.  I knew that when you finally reunited with Isaac, the show would be over and we’d lose our best chance at getting you both out.  So I was just freaking out.  I hadn’t been able to get in touch with my contact and I thought I was going to lose you.  But it’s okay now, we’re working out the plan.”

As Janie finished, one of the monitors flashed back to life – students milling around the cafeteria.  Then another, and another, their pace accelerating.  Janie swore.

“Okay, you have to go, now.  We’ve been in here for a couple minutes, so you can’t just reappear in the same spot you were when the cameras went off.”  Janie snapped her fingers rapidly as she assembled a quick plan in her head.  “Oh!  Got it – run over to the stairs and walk down them as if you had gone up to your room one last time before going to class.  That should account for your whereabouts during the blackout.”

Alessa nodded, her heart railing against her rib cage.  She wasn’t ready for this yet.

The screens were popping back on at a rate of two or three per second now, and Janie was visibly panicked.  She turned Alessa around and pushed her towards the door.  “I’m sorry, it’s time.  We’ll talk again soon.  Just remember your promise and act normal in the meantime.  Okay?  You can do this.”

She opened the door with one hand, the other on Alessa’s back, the room flashing with each resurrection of a camera.  “Oh, and Less?  One more thing.  I love you.”  And Alessa felt herself shoved from behind back into the hallway of Z-E-Pi.

The sunlight filling the hall was blinding after the dimness of the security closet.  Alessa could feel the adrenaline surging through her body; she knew what she had to do.  Feeling her way along the wall, she ran as quickly as she could to the foyer and halfway up the stairs.  Grasping the rail, she took a couple deep breaths to steady herself, then turned around and began descending.  She hoped she’d made it in time.

As she exited the sorority house and briskly made her way down the path toward the quad, Alessa suspected that she hadn’t given the producers any reason to be suspicious.  Even the security guards she passed didn’t give her a second look.

As her heart rate began to slow, Alessa was able to dismiss the threat of immediate danger and try to wrap her head around Janie’s revelations.  Her mind was reeling.  A thousand questions popped into her brain in rapid succession, each thought raising another before she could even begin to ponder the answers.

Trying to remain calm and maintain a normal walking pace, Alessa shook the myriad ambiguities from her mind.  Now that she could think instead of just reacting, she focused her thoughts on one question: what evidence could she find to support Janie’s radical claims?

Glancing around, Alessa reasoned that everything looked pretty normal – students bundled up in the cold hurrying to and fro, a maintenance worker raking leaves into a pile.  The ivy-covered walls, the professors in their tattered tweed jackets, the mousy little librarian and her dusty old tomes…

Come to think of it, maybe everything was a little too normal.

Then there were the cameras, of course.  The university’s claim that they were for security wasn’t completely unreasonable, though the fact that they were apparently hidden even in Alessa’s bedroom did point towards there being something unseemly going on.  And the monitors in that closet were certainly more advanced than anything Alessa had ever seen.  Even if such technology did exist today, she couldn’t imagine the school budgeting that much money for fancy equipment when regular old flatscreens would have done just fine.

And then there was the closet itself.  Alessa had walked down that hallway in Z-E-Pi countless times and never once noticed a doorway there.  And once she finally did see it, it wasn’t like it was cleverly hidden or anything.  Yes, it was the same color as the wall, but the outline of a door was plain to see.  It felt almost as if she had been wearing fogged up glasses without realizing it, and then the fog was wiped away and she could finally see clearly.  She wondered what else she had missed.

Entering the econ building, she looked around the lobby and noticed another hidden door similar to the one in her house.  She stood in place for a few moments, pretending to fiddle with something in her bag, and casually watched the other students filing into the building.  Not a single one seemed to notice the door, or anything else around them for that matter – they all just walked straight to class, their eyes fixed on their destination.  Were they acting?  Alessa remembered what Janie had said – “We’re all prisoners here.”  Had Alessa been wandering around in the same daze as everyone else?

Alessa thought back over her experiences.  Were there red flags that she should have caught?  It did seem odd that Isaac and Alessa only ever saw each other.  If he really was a ghost, why hadn’t anyone else ever seen him?  Or if their house really was stuck in some sort of time warp, shouldn’t everyone who lived there be affected at some point?  Why hadn’t she seen any of Isaac’s other family members or, for that matter, anyone else who had ever been there before or after Isaac’s or Alessa’s times?

And what about the more bizarre claims that Janie had made, for example about all of Alessa’s memories before ESU being constructed?  Losing her parents felt so real that Alessa couldn’t imagine those memories being artificially implanted in her.  It was pure agony to know that her family was gone, an almost physical pain.  But then again, why didn’t she have a single photo of her parents?  Janie had said something about the memory wipe – the “stitch” she called it – not being able to erase certain feelings, and also that they had lost their – Janie and Alessa’s – true family.  Maybe the feelings were real then, and her memory had just been altered to apply those feelings to a different circumstance?

If that was true, though, did that really mean that Janie was her sister?  They did look somewhat alike, she supposed.  By no means twins, but they shared the same dark hair and sharp features, and Alessa had always felt like she’d known Janie forever, even though they supposedly only met a few months ago…

It suddenly hit Alessa that she didn’t even know Janie’s last name.  In months of conversations and emails and shared classes, it had somehow never come up, and Alessa had never thought to ask.  She felt that familiar foggy feeling, the thought beginning to slip away almost as soon as it had occurred.

Quickly, Alessa pulled out her notebook and jotted “Janie’s name” in the corner of a sheet.  Tearing the page from the book, she marched into her econ lecture, taking a seat toward the back of the class.

As she unzipped her backpack, Alessa had the frustrating feeling that she’d forgotten something.  She strained to remember what it was.  Homework?  No, she was certain she’d done the reading…  Did she bring her laptop?  Yes, there it was in her bag…

And then Alessa noticed the crumpled piece of paper that she was clutching in her hand.  Unfolding it, she saw her own writing in the upper right corner – “Janie’s name.”  Alessa shook off the fog once more as her line of thought came flooding back.  She didn’t know Janie’s last name.

Before she lost the thought again, she opened her laptop and navigated to the student directory.  Searching for Janie, only one listing came up:

Khole, Janie.  Freshman.  33 Mason Manor (Zeta Epsilon Pi), Rm. 2E

Alessa’s head swam as she quickly closed her browser and shoved the paper to the bottom of her bag, hoping no one had noticed what she’d been doing.

So it was true.  Janie was her sister.  Something clicked in Alessa’s mind, and she knew she wasn’t going to lose that fact again.

Alessa wondered why the producers would take the risk of listing Janie’s real name in the directory.  She remembered Janie explaining that the stitch couldn’t separate a person from key facts about themself, like their name.  Alessa supposed that if she had looked herself up and saw a different last name in the directory, she would have immediately recognized that something was wrong.  So given that the producers thought Janie was stitched as well, it made sense that they wouldn’t try to change it.  And until today, their selective perception technology had worked like a charm to hide these little inconsistencies – it seemed as though anything that caused dissonance in Alessa’s mind would be forgotten the moment after she recognized it.

Alessa calmly turned her notebook to a new page and began taking notes on her professor’s lecture.  But inside, her mind was racing and her emotions swelled.  She teetered between biting fear and the blackest despair.

If Alessa had had any doubts that what Janie had said was true, her jarring discoveries since leaving the security closet had quelled them completely.  How much time had Alessa lost to the producers’ games?

ESU was most definitely not the idyllic collegiate environment she thought she’d been inhabiting.  Far from it.

Yes, it appeared that Alessa had stumbled upon some fantastically twisted kind of hell.

24. RECOLLECTION

Alessa slid her tray onto the long table in front of her and squeezed onto the bench, smiling at the handsome young man across from her.  He flashed his bright blue eyes and returned her grin.

“Hey, Joe.”  Tossing her hair behind her shoulders, she threw back a long sip of milk and released a satisfied sigh.  “How’s your day going?”

Joe swallowed a bite of his apple.  “Not so bad.  I’m on landscaping duty, so I’ve been enjoying this weather.”

Alessa wished she’d been assigned landscaping as well.  Butterflies wheeled in her stomach at the thought of being able to spend the day side by side with Joe, not to mention that it was a gorgeous summer day, sunny and warm but blessed with unusually low humidity.  As it was, she was stuck inside on kitchen cleanup.

Joe took a tentative look around and leaned in, whispering conspiratorially.  “So, have you given any thought to joining me tonight?”

Alarmed by Joe’s indiscretion, Alessa glanced up and down the long bench checking to see if anyone else was looking.  They were all clad in the same dull cotton jumpsuit as Alessa and Joe, slowly eating their lunch and making idle chitchat.  Alessa noticed with envy that the hot food today was fettuccini alfredo.  She was tempted to steal a bite, but then she noticed the glazed look on her neighbor’s face as the drugs in the food took hold.  Scowling at her undressed salad, sometimes Alessa wished she could just forget what she knew about the colony.

Ever since the day she’d gotten ill a few weeks ago, Alessa had been careful not to eat anything rich which could hide the bitter taste of the drugs.  She still wasn’t sure exactly when – or why – Paragon had started drugging the food, but when she’d recovered from her sickness, her mind had felt clear and sharp for the first time in months.  After 24 hours of not being able to keep anything down, her system had finally cleared the drugs and she’d been determined to keep it that way ever since.

Alessa’s alarm had grown when she returned to her work shifts and noticed the zombie-like behavior of her younger sister, Janie, and her best friend, Joe.  Being under the influence of the drugs herself, she hadn’t discerned the change in her loved ones until she could think with some clarity.  Once she realized what was going on, Alessa had covertly steered them away from the items she suspected contained drugs, and after a few days, they’d begun to return to their normal selves.

Since then, they’d been subsisting mainly on produce and nuts, which was difficult since the colony’s communal dining halls served only a limited supply of fresh fruits and veggies.  Mercifully, it seemed that the milk was left untainted, so that had provided them with a consistent and nutritious source of calories.  But even so, Alessa and her friends were quickly dropping weight.

It still wasn’t clear to Alessa what exactly the point of the drugs might be.  As far as she could tell, Paragon was an orderly and peaceful society, everyone contributing to their share of the work and, in turn, provided with everything they needed to live a comfortable life.  It had certainly been a relief from the chaos they’d been plunged into before the colony – after the constant threat of nuclear war and then the pandemic that had killed almost everyone she knew, including her and Janie’s parents and kid brother, Paragon had been a sanctuary.

Alessa still wasn’t sure how she and Janie had survived the devastating outbreak, some mutated strain of a fast-acting plague that seemed to viciously chew up its victims from the inside out.  No one even knew how it had all started – whether it was a biological attack from one of their enemies in the Eastern Allies, or just some sort of horrible mistake at a lab.  But regardless, the disease had spread rapidly and it had been merciless.

Alessa’s family had spent weeks barricaded in their home, watching friends and neighbors fall sick one by one.  When the government finally announced a safe quarantine area, they had carefully traveled there together, only to be separated at the gate.  Coughing and wheezing, the condition of Alessa’s parents and brother betrayed to the guards that they had contracted the virus en route.  As a result, only Alessa and Janie would be allowed inside.  The sisters despaired at leaving their loved ones behind, but their parents had insisted that they continue on to safety, promising to find them once their ailments were cured.  They never saw their family again.

Alessa had been only 17 at the time, Janie 14, and the two of them clung together in their new home as the outbreak continued to ravage the population beyond the quarantine zone.  Eventually communication with the outside world was lost – as far as they knew inside the quarantine area, no one outside was spared and it probably wouldn’t be safe to leave within their lifetime.  A temporary government was established to keep order and they named their new home Paragon.  Paragon was supposed to have been a beacon of equality, a community where everyone shared the labor and cared for each other and worked together towards a common goal: survival.

At first the idea seemed to have been working.  Yes, there were sacrifices – limited food, the bland but functional government-issue jumpsuits, grueling menial labor assignments that everyone had to endure.  But in return, they were safe.  And Alessa and Janie at least had each other.

Being in the same age group, Alessa, Janie, Joe, and Joe’s brother Isaac were all assigned to the same “efficiency unit” – the complex where they slept, worked, ate and socialized.  As orphaned teenagers looking after their younger siblings, Alessa and Joe had become fast friends, bonding over the burden they shared and prodding each other with amusing banter to lighten the load.  Before long, Alessa very much hoped that they would someday become more than friends, but she hadn’t yet had the courage to express those feelings.

And so despite everything that had happened, Alessa had been doing okay.  After a few years in Paragon, she had adjusted to her new life and had fallen into a comfortable routine.  Each day she received her work assignment, reported for meals when they were served, and spent her free time with Janie and Joe, watching the engrossing TV dramas that aired in the evenings.  She had even been happy.  And then she’d discovered the drugs.

Now Alessa was more scared than anything.  She suspected she was breaking some sort of protocol by not ingesting the mind-altering substances, but at the same time, she wasn’t even sure who she should be hiding from.  As an egalitarian society, there were no clear authority figures in Paragon.  Obviously someone was in charge, making the decisions about who lives where and does what jobs, and also apparently what drugs go in the food.  But Alessa didn’t know who that was, and some instinct told her it would be a bad idea to start asking too many questions.

Worse, Alessa wasn’t even sure when the drugging had begun.  Her sense of time was skewed, one day running into the next with only the passing of the seasons to break up the year.  It was easier now that her mind was free, and she knew it’d only been a month or so since she’d stopped taking the drugs.  But she wasn’t sure how much time had passed before then.  It could have been months, or it could have been years.

After weaning Janie and Joe off the drugs, Joe had been the first to notice that there were a handful of other people eating a similar diet in the cafeterias, dishing the hot entrée onto their plate and pushing it around to make it look like they’d eaten it, but never taking a bite.  He’d cautiously mentioned his observation to one of them, and shortly after he’d received a covert invitation to a secret meeting with some sort of underground organization.  He was to meet with them for the first time that night, and he’d been urging Alessa to join him.

“Alessa.”

Joe’s voice snapped Alessa back to the present.

“What do you think?  Are you going to come with me?”

She looked down at her plate.  “I don’t know… It just seems kind of risky.”  Joe had always been the more daring of the two – it was something Alessa found appealing about him, since boldness was a quality she lacked.  She couldn’t even work up the nerve to tell Joe how she felt about him, let alone sneak out of her bunk in the middle of the night.

“Don’t you want to know why this –” Joe motioned at their dazed dining hall companions “– is happening?”

“Of course I do,” Alessa hissed.  She continued under her breath.  “But you don’t even know who these people are.  How do you know you can trust them?  You’re putting yourself in danger.”

Joe sat back, resigned.  “Fine.  I understand your concerns, but if I don’t take this opportunity, we may never know what’s going on.  I’ve got to try.”

Alessa sighed and shoveled a forkful of dry lettuce into her mouth.  At the very least, maybe these rebels might have more insight into exactly which food was drugged so that she could resume eating something other than salad.

“All right,” she groaned through her teeth.  “I’m in.”

Later that evening, Alessa was lying in bed in the pitch dark, the soft sounds of her dozing bunkmates wafting around her.  Alessa glanced in the direction of her sister, but couldn’t make out her face in the dim light.  She hadn’t told Janie what she was planning for fear that she would want to come along, so she’d waited until Janie had fallen asleep then pulled out the clothes hidden under the bed and dressed silently in the dark.  Now she was just waiting for Joe to show up.

A quiet tap on the open window signaled his arrival.  Luckily, Alessa was bunked on the ground floor and the windows were all propped open due to the heat, so sneaking out wasn’t as complicated as she had anticipated.  She simply slipped out the window and followed Joe across the compound’s dark courtyard to an unmarked door in the alley between two buildings.

Inside, Alessa and Joe found a group of six people scattered about a supply room, some perched on boxes while others leaned against the dusty walls.  The man Joe had reached out to in the cafeteria was present, along with a few other individuals that Alessa recognized from around the compound, plus one tall striking blond about Alessa’s age whom she’d never seen before.  All of them seemed to be waiting for a signal from a middle-aged woman with cropped dark blond hair who sat rigidly in the sole chair in the room.  Alessa thought she looked familiar as well.

Alessa and Joe awkwardly shifted their weight and looked around, afraid to be the first to speak.  Then finally, the woman stood up from her chair and addressed the group, “Thank you, everyone, for joining us this evening.  Carlos, would you put out a seat for our newcomers?”

A sturdy Latino man in his thirties who’d been standing near the door crossed the room to pluck a storage container from a shelf and gently placed it beside Alessa and Joe.  When Alessa tried to adjust the angle of the box with her foot, she was surprised to find that it was so heavy that she couldn’t get it to budge.  She left it alone and sat down, but Joe remained standing.

The woman continued.  “Before we can go any further, we need to know who you are and how you found out about us.”

Joe cleared his throat.  “I’m Joe and this is Alessa.”  Alessa waved tentatively, feeling intimidated.  “A few weeks ago, Alessa came down with a mild virus which left her unable to eat for about 24 hours.  In that time, the effects of the drugs in the food wore off, and she realized what was going on.  She got her sister and me off the drugs, then I did the same for my brother.  Since then we’ve been eating a restricted diet, and when I noticed him –” he pointed at the man he had approached in the cafeteria “– doing the same, I mentioned it to him and well, here we are.”

Studying Alessa with a slightly alarmed expression on her face, the woman demanded, “Did you go to the infirmary when you were sick?”

The atmosphere turned tense as they waited for Alessa to answer.  “N-no,” she stuttered.  “I –” she looked down at her hands, ashamed.  “I was afraid it might be, you know, the virus, so I just hid out in the bunk.  I was too scared to tell anyone.”

There was a collective release in the room.  “I apologize for the interrogation.  I was worried you might have attracted notice during your illness, in which case they might still be following you – we can’t be too safe, you understand.”

The thought of being tailed for the past month sent shivers down Alessa’s spine.  She didn’t think that kind of thing happened in Paragon.

Joe took half a step forward.  “Listen, we just want to understand what’s going on.  Why are they putting stuff in the food and when did it start?  Who is doing it?  And how did this whole secret organization come about?”

“All in good time.  First, I believe introductions are in order.  We are the inner circle of the Rebel Alliance.  My name is Regina Green.”

No wonder she looked familiar – before the outbreak, Regina Green was the CEO of one of the largest media companies in the world.  Alessa had seen her face on television and magazine covers, but certainly never expected to meet the woman herself.  In person she looked much older than Alessa remembered, with more gray hair than she had first noticed; maybe Paragon just had that effect on people.

“This is my daughter, Elizabeth.”  The voluptuous young blond stepped forward, the shapeless standard-issue jumpsuit somehow perfectly hugging her svelte body.

“Call me Lizzie,” she said.  Alessa noted with a pang of envy that she addressed her remark to Joe, who hadn’t been able to peel his eyes off her.

Regina briskly continued.  “You’ve already met Carlos.  He’s a former police commander and head of our underground militia.”  Carlos nodded.

Militia?  Alessa had assumed that the entire rebel movement was in this room.  Apparently there were more people involved in this than she had thought.

“Alicia and Sato lead our medical and mechanical teams, respectively.”  Regina gestured at two women perched side by side on a storage container.  The first, Alicia, was a lean dark-skinned woman with a genial smile, her narrow face framed by a halo of natural kinky hair.  The second, Sato, was a tough-looking Asian woman, her sleeves rolled up to reveal a bevy of tattoos on her forearms.  Sato nodded almost imperceptibly, her expression impassive.

“And finally, I believe you already know Michael.”  The portly middle-aged man Joe had approached in the cafeteria stepped forward to shake Alessa’s and Joe’s hands.

“I’m a social psychologist.  Nice to officially meet you both.”

“Likewise,” Alessa replied.

As Michael took his seat, Joe addressed Regina.  “I didn’t know there was an organized rebel movement.  How did this all come about?  And who exactly are you rebelling against?  Is there something more going on than just the drugs?”

Regina nodded.  “It’s a long story, but I’ll give you the short version.”  She paused and took a deep breath.  “I first learned of the Ruling Class when my daughter, Lizzie here, showed up on my doorstep about 18 months ago.”  She looked at Lizzie, tears welling in her eyes.  “I’d thought Lizzie had died in the outbreak, since we were separated at the gate when she tested positive for the disease.  It turns out the test was a lie.  They were keeping her for something worse.”

Alessa caught her breath.  She and Janie had been separated from their family at the gate as well.  Was it possible that her parents and brother were still alive?  Her heart fluttered madly as she considered the possibility, but she dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had occurred.  With some measure of relief, Alessa remembered that her family members had all begun showing symptoms of the disease well before reaching Paragon.  As much as she wished them to be alive, she had an ominous feeling that whatever Regina was about to reveal would make her glad they were gone.

Regina continued.  “Paragon is not the perfect society we’ve been led to believe it is.  We’re all being exploited for our labor, in the service of an upper class of bureaucrats who are running everything behind the scenes.  And beyond wasting resources and lying to us about pretty much everything, they’re also exploiting us in… other ways.”

Lizzie took her mother’s hand and picked up the story.  “I wasn’t sick.  On the contrary, I was young and healthy and somehow unlucky enough to have caught the eye of one of the bureaucrats.  They…” she looked down and took a deep breath, fighting back tears.  “They sterilized me and then they forced me to serve as a concubine.  For two and a half years, I endured their abuse day in and day out…”

Alessa felt physically sick as Lizzie continued her hideous tale.  She’d had no idea such atrocities were taking place.  “… until one day I finally had enough.  I attacked one of my… patrons…”

Regina took over, pained but proud.  “The Ruling Class likes their women compliant, and my Lizzie is anything but.”

His face pale, Joe whispered, “How did you get away?”

Regina held out her hand to signal that she would get there.  “I have an old friend on the inside.  As you might know, before all of this I used to head a media empire.  One of my old producers was recruited into the Ruling Class and assigned to lead production on the dramas.  When Lizzie was jailed for her insurrection, she was cast in one of the shows.

“My friend knew they were testing memory wipe technology on the ‘actors’ since they were all prisoners who wouldn’t otherwise be willing to comply, and he had ethical qualms about it to begin with.  Then they tried to feed him some garbage about how the prisoners were endangering society, but he knew Lizzie and he knew it couldn’t be true, at least in her case.  He was able to speak to her in private and when he learned what she’d been through, he started looking more closely at what was going on.  He learned that I was alive and helped her escape to me.”

Alessa was shocked to learn that the actors on the dramas were really prisoners, people like her who had been stripped of their free will.  She had watched those shows every night, even after the effects of the drugs had worn off; she’d enjoyed them.  Once again she felt sick.  She couldn’t believe the atrocities in which she had unwittingly been complicit.

Regina sat down, clearly drained from reliving her horrendous story.  Alicia stood up to continue.  “By that point, some of the workers in certain efficiency units had gotten wind of something dubious going on – rumors of people secretly living in luxury, that sort of thing – and workers were starting to openly rebel.  Shortly before Lizzie escaped, they began drugging the food and airing the dramas.  We don’t have the right equipment to do a positive identification, but we believe the drug is some sort of sedative that dulls the senses and induces a mild state of euphoria.  The idea was that if we were all kept happy and our minds were occupied with entertainment or work at all times, that they could keep us under control.

“We’ve since learned that most of the people within the Ruling Class don’t realize how bad things are.  Only a small subset of people know about the drugging, and everyone else thinks that the workers are well aware of the existence of the bureaucracy and that they support the Ruling Class in their mission to ‘design a perfect society.’

“They don’t know that people are being exploited while the Ruling Class lives in comparative luxury, devoting their minds to intellectual debates about how things in Paragon should be run.  Like Regina’s friend, many of them are good people who would be appalled to learn what’s going on, and we are slowly recruiting those people to our cause.

“I think in the beginning the Ruling Class was intended to be a temporary installation, just until the leaders figured out how to make a truly egalitarian society work.  In the aftermath of the outbreak, there were thousands of people crowded into this quarantine zone with little order or direction, and once we lost contact with the outside, I think whoever was in charge realized we would need a more permanent solution in order to survive for much longer.  So they plucked a collection of the best and brightest and asked them to figure it all out.  That’s when they started handing out the work assignments and organized everyone into efficiency units – I’m sure you both remember.

“But Paragon is still a work in progress, and as you can imagine, designing a perfect society turned out to be a bit trickier than they expected; from what our allies within the Ruling Class have shared, it sounds like it was difficult to get consensus on pretty much anything.  And then – as always happens when you give a group of people power over another – things just got out of hand.  They may have started with good intentions, but at the first sign of conflict, a few bad seeds wielded people’s fear to steer things in the wrong direction, and that’s how we ended up where we are today.”

Regina nodded in assent and took the lead once more.  “Our mission is to end the exploitation and bring down the Ruling Class once and for all.  We’ve been covertly recruiting soldiers for about a year now, and we can use as many people as we can get.  It’s not easy, and it’s not safe, but it is serving the best interests of everyone here.”

Regina paused and looked Alessa and Joe each in the eye in turn before she brought her discourse to its conclusion.  “The question then, for you, Alessa, and you, Joe, is are you willing to join us?”

25. CONVICTION

Alessa woke in her bed at Zeta Epsilon Pi.  For a moment, she felt content and well-rested, enjoying the bright sun falling through her window.  And then she remembered.  The vivid dream she’d just stirred from – the outbreak, the colony, the rebels – was not a dream at all.

In the last 24 hours, Alessa’s world had been shaken entirely to its core.  Alessa was not a college student, and Isaac was not a ghost.  This campus was not real.  And suddenly Alessa had far bigger concerns than how she would fare on her exams this semester.  Her every move was being watched, and one foul step could mean the end.  It was a rude awakening to learn that her comfortable bed was, in reality, no better than a cold prison cot.

Alessa thought over her detailed dream and the others like it that she’d been having all semester long.  She knew now that they were far more than they appeared.  They were memories, buried in her subconscious and pushing their way to the surface, little seeds of truth that had taken root long ago and refused to stay dormant any longer.

In her head, Alessa tried to piece her various dreams together to figure out the timeline.  She guessed that the latest dream had happened earliest, since the others all involved being captured and imprisoned, or discussing upcoming missions.  How long ago had this all happened?  How old was she really?

She tried to picture Joe, but all she could conjure was Isaac’s face.  In her dream, she had felt so close to Joe.  He had been a huge part of her life – her confidant, her co-conspirator, even her crush.  Alessa rolled over to ease the guilt that was crushing her chest.  How could she have forgotten him?

Willing herself out of bed, Alessa plodded to the bathroom to brush her teeth.  She was standing at the sink when Lizzie strolled in, flashing her bright perfect teeth in Alessa’s direction.  All of the envy she’d felt toward Lizzie melted away, replaced by compassion and respect.  Alessa would never again begrudge Lizzie her beauty; it had cost her far too much.  For the first time, Alessa responded with a genuine smile.  She wondered how Lizzie had ended up on the show, and if she had any recollection of reality.  She wondered if Regina even knew where Lizzie was.

Returning to her room, Alessa sat down at her desk and checked her email, hoping for a message from Janie.  Her inbox was empty.  Of course, it would be stupid to put anything in writing, especially on a network that was probably being monitored by the producers.  Now that bits and pieces of her former self were coming back, Alessa was eager to tell Janie of her progress and to ask her the million questions that were circling in her mind.  But she would have to wait.

In an effort to keep up her ruse for the producers, Alessa grabbed her ethics book and moved to the bed to feign some reading.  She opened the book and allowed her eyes to scan the page, not taking in a single word.  Instead, she concentrated on trying to remember how she’d ended up here.

She tried once again to concentrate on Joe, on remembering who he had been to her.  Thinking back to her dream and all the things she’d felt, she conjured an outline of the person she thought he might have been.  Good-natured, handsome, strong, honorable.  Caring and protective, but playful, even a little bit mischievous.  She closed her eyes and repeated his name to herself, visualizing a different version of Isaac, pushing herself to re-forge those connections that her brain had lost.

And then, suddenly, she remembered.

Alessa was pacing in her bunk, a knot in her stomach.  She had slunk off from her afternoon work duty to steal a glance at the courtyard, hoping to get a glimpse of Joe as he finished his assignment.  Joe had only been working with the rebels for little over a year, but he’d proven himself a valuable asset, and today he was executing his most dangerous assignment yet.  She was eager to see him safely returned.

Alessa shivered and pulled her scratchy sweater tighter over her bony shoulders.  Like many of the rebels, the recent cold front had been difficult on Alessa.  With winter approaching, they were all starting to feel the effects of malnourishment from the restrictive diet they kept to avoid ingesting the drugs.  As such, Joe and Isaac had agreed to steal some extra rations of food from the supply kitchen on behalf of the rebel forces.

Peering out the window to check if Joe and Isaac were on their way toward the meeting spot, she noted that the courtyard appeared perfectly sound, with only a handful of residents milling about.  But Alessa knew better.  Rebel intelligence showed that there were at least four guards posted in the area in concealed positions, waiting to quash any sign of rebellion.  The residents of Alessa’s efficiency unit had no clue that they were under almost constant surveillance by the Ruling Class.  Alessa thought wistfully of the days when her ignorance shielded her from the truth as well.

Movement at the far corner of the courtyard caught Alessa’s eye, and she was relieved to see Joe and Isaac strolling casually together across the open square.  They were almost to the alleyway where Alessa knew they would be passing their plunder to another rebel team when one of the residents resting in the plaza called out to Isaac.  Alessa couldn’t make out what they said, but she saw Isaac stop and bend down, as if tying his shoe.  As he reached forward, something shiny and red – an apple? – shook loose of the side pocket on his backpack and landed on the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust around the point of impact.

Alessa held her breath, and then out of nowhere, the guards appeared.  They rushed towards Isaac and Joe, tossing Isaac to the ground while Joe flailed and screamed, various foodstuffs flying from his pockets as he tried to draw their attention.  It worked.  The guards abandoned Isaac, who lay placid in the dirt, and turned on Joe.

Alessa’s heart dropped – she ducked lower behind the window, clutching the sill in a death grip as she watched Joe fight for his life.  There were just too many of them, landing blow after blow after blow.  He collapsed to the ground and they fell after him, merciless.

After a few interminable moments, the guards withdrew, peeling the knapsack from Isaac’s back and dragging Joe’s listless body behind them.  Alessa brought her hands to her mouth to stifle a cry.  She was shaking from head to toe, her body urging her to fight, but she knew that nothing she could do would be of any use.  Joe was gone.

Isaac was still lying on the ground, the glazed look in his eyes matching that of the vacant onlookers who had withdrawn into themselves at the first sign of violence.  Bitterly, Alessa observed that the drugs had done their job.

With the guards out of sight, she saw Isaac slowly get to his feet and head toward the nearest entrance to the bunks.  She knew the guards were probably still watching, but she couldn’t let him weather this alone.  That was the last thing Joe would have wanted.

Alessa grasped the windowsill and unsteadily hoisted herself up, running down the hall towards the entrance that Isaac had been heading for.  Isaac rounded the corner, dazed, and Alessa nearly plowed him over in her haste.  When he saw her, he broke down.

“It’s my fault.  It’s my fault.  It’s my fault.”  Isaac muttered to himself as Alessa pulled him into an empty room, closing the door behind them.  Isaac sank to his knees with tears streaming down his face, and Alessa held him to her chest, gently hushing his cries.  He was 21 years old, almost a man now, but in her arms he wept like a child.  Alessa was only two years older than him, but she’d never felt more protective of anyone than she did in that moment.

“It was an accident, Isaac,” she whispered.  “It’s okay, it’s okay.  It’s going to be okay.”

Isaac heaved and clung to her.  After a few moments, he regained enough composure to look Alessa in the eyes.  “I’m so sorry, Alessa.  It’s my fault.  I just bent over and – and I killed him… I killed them all.”  Isaac collapsed into himself again, burying his face in his hands.

Alessa stroked his hair and held him once more.  “Shh, Isaac, it was a mistake.  I saw everything.  It was a mistake.  There was nothing you could have done.”  Excruciating pains seared through Alessa’s chest, ripping through her like she’d been stabbed in the heart.  She wanted to wail and thrash and cry out for justice, but she knew she had to be strong for Isaac now.  He didn’t have anyone else left.

She looked down at Isaac and wiped the tears that streaked his dust lined face.  “I know you’re hurting.  I am too.  But we can’t let them see.  They would know immediately that we’re not on the drugs and we’d both be taken away.  Joe would want us to be strong.  Okay?  I need you to breathe.”

Alessa took slow, deep, rhythmic breaths to show him and Isaac followed suit, clutching her hand all the while.  After a few moments, they both appeared calmer, at least outwardly.

“Okay, Isaac.  That’s better.  We have to go back to our shifts now.  We have to act like nothing happened.  You did a great job pretending out there, and now you need to do it again.  I’ll come find you tonight and we can talk, but for now, we’ve got to go on.”

Isaac gulped and nodded.  “Thank you, Alessa, for being here.  I… I don’t know what I would have done.  I promise I’ll be stronger, for you, from now on.”

Alessa tenderly cupped his face with her hand.  “What you did today – laying still while they took Joe away – that was the strongest thing you could have done.  I don’t know how you did it.  I don’t blame you for what happened, Isaac.  Please don’t blame yourself.”

He just looked down.

And with that, they both straightened up and parted ways, bonded perpetually by their loss.

26. ELICITATION

Alessa sat up and dropped her ethics book into her lap, a blistering pain surging through her head.  The memory of losing Joe seemed to unleash a floodgate.

Alessa’s vision swam as the rest of her memories finally came back in a rush of images and sounds and emotions.  An odd stitching sensation surged through her head, like thousands of tiny needles weaving in and out of her brain, pulling her neurons back into place with a firm and unwavering hand.  The pain was searing.

Alessa fought through it and placed the book to the side as gently as she could, struggling not to attract the producers’ attention.  She curled up under the blanket, hoping that the production team would interpret her actions as boredom with her studies.  Once safely under the covers, she pressed her hands to her temples, tears leaking from her eyes as she grimaced from the pain.  She stifled a cry as the throbbing in her head grew more intense and waited for the agony to end.  But the onrush of memories persisted, unrelenting.

“That was close.”  Still breathing heavily from their mad dash across the compound, Isaac locked the door, a satisfied smile settling across his face.

Alessa struggled to suppress her ragged breaths, anxious to attract any notice.

Stepping deeper into the small room, Isaac fingered a long, neat row of uniforms hanging on a rack.  “Looks like our intel was good.”

“Let’s just change before anyone finds us here,” Alessa advised.  Alessa had only been in the service of the Rebel Alliance for a few months now, and this was one of the most daring assignments she’d been on yet.  It was one thing to risk getting caught outside the bunks after curfew for a basic reconnaissance mission – at least she could make up some excuse in that case – but if they were discovered stealing wait staff uniforms and sneaking into a meal at the headquarters of the Ruling Class, she didn’t know what explanation could possibly get her out unscathed.

Isaac smiled reassuringly.  “Don’t worry, Less – this isn’t my first attempt at this, and it’s always worked out fine.”  Handing a uniform to her, he added, “Here, this one looks like your size.”

Isaac’s confidence did much to assuage Alessa’s fear – she trusted that Isaac knew what he was doing.  In the aftermath of losing Joe, Isaac had become one of the rebels’ most admired crusaders, flawlessly executing dangerous missions and covertly winning the rebels supporters and allies amongst the workers and the Ruling Class alike.

But in the wake of Joe’s death, Alessa had been in shock at the brutality with which Joe had been apprehended.  She still couldn’t wrap her mind around the finality with which he’d vanished, as if he had never even existed.  But after witnessing Joe’s fate, Alessa knew she could no longer entertain any delusions that Paragon’s rule was benevolent.  Whoever was behind Paragon’s secrets had made it clear that they were not about to let anyone stand in their way, and their show of force with Joe had finally convinced Alessa that something truly sinister was lurking below the surface of their peaceful little settlement.

Watching Isaac honor his brother by fighting back, Alessa had been inspired to finally join hands with the rebels in earnest.  And she’d been relieved to find that her missions allowed her to channel her grief over Joe into rage, a rage that had helped her find a courage inside of herself that she hadn’t known existed.

Taking a deep breath, Alessa mustered that courage and accepted the uniform from Isaac.  At any rate, it was too late to turn back now.  Unzipping her jumpsuit, she turned modestly from Isaac’s view.  Isaac smiled sheepishly before considerately moving to the other side of the rack to afford her some privacy.

In the months since they’d lost Joe, Alessa had been training with the rebels to become a stealth soldier like Isaac, and though they’d initially assigned her another partner, Alessa’s sense of responsibility toward Isaac had led her to ask if he could train her instead; after what Joe had told her about Isaac’s tendency to blame himself for every misfortune that befell his loved ones, she wanted to be able to keep an eye on him.  Over the course of their missions, though, Isaac and Alessa had had ample opportunity to reminisce about Joe, and their shared grief had brought them closer than either of them had expected.

As Alessa got to know Isaac’s quirks and values and dreams, she could feel the beginnings of something deeper blossoming towards him.  She was surprised to see how quickly Isaac was growing into a man, emulating all the good qualities of his brother while adding his own brand of kindness and humor and intellect.  She’d never thought she’d fall for someone younger than her, but Isaac had been through enough to mature him well beyond his 21 years, and Alessa respected him immensely.

And as much as Alessa tried to ignore it, there was something else there lately as well, a maddening fluttering in her chest that she couldn’t seem to quell whenever Isaac was around.  Peeking through the rack of uniforms, Alessa caught a glimpse of his broad bare back, the taut muscles in his shoulders rippling as he slipped on the stiffly starched uniform shirt.  Alessa could feel something stirring inside her, something she hadn’t felt since… well, since Joe.

Feeling guilty, Alessa knew she should look away, but her eyes lingered on Isaac just a moment longer.  He began to turn in her direction and she quickly turned aside.  Reddening, she hoped he hadn’t caught her spying.

“Ready to go?”  Isaac peeked around the rack and Alessa smiled in affirmation.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Isaac led the way back out into the hallway, striding calmly but purposefully towards the location of the main dining room.  Pausing at the threshold, he tossed one quick glance over his shoulder to confirm they’d found their mark and continued in.

Alessa rounded the corner behind Isaac and her eyes bulged as she took in the magnificent room before her.  She’d known the Ruling Class was housed in what was once a lavish hotel, but she hadn’t been prepared for the opulence that now barraged her senses.

The room itself was exquisite, a massive ballroom bedecked with intricate wood moldings and extravagant sparkling chandeliers hung from high arched ceilings.  Unlike the other structures in Paragon – most of which struggled to maintain even their current level of shabby disrepair – this room gleamed and shone from every surface.  Even before the war, Alessa had never seen anything so grand.

Hundreds of well-heeled guests sat poised around long tables, beautiful women – attentive and smiling – silently flitting amongst the bevy of mostly older men who slurped their goblets of wine and eyed the women greedily.  Laid out before them all was a sumptuous meal of roasted meats and hearty cheeses and vibrant fresh vegetables.  Alessa’s mouth watered at the smell of hot bread and garlic wafting in the air.

Alessa had heard rumors that the Ruling Class was living a more comfortable life than did the workers, but this was beyond even her wildest imagination.  Compared to this feast – which Alessa had been led to understand was a normal everyday meal – most of the people of Paragon were living in what could only be described as abject squalor.  Alessa hadn’t known that this much food even existed within the colony’s borders, let alone that an upper class of bureaucrats was gorging themselves on it on a daily basis.  She was appalled – there was no other way to describe it.

After a quick nudge from Isaac, Alessa realized her jaw was hanging open and she quickly snapped it shut.  Following the lead of the other waiters, Alessa and Isaac cleared empty plates and refilled wine glasses, staying as inconspicuous as they could.  Alessa did her best to muffle the rumbling of her empty stomach so that she could listen in on as many conversations as possible.

What she heard aligned well to her expectations – some mild debates about housing policy, discussions of proposed job assignment procedures, one pair of guests arguing vehemently over how many children each family should be entitled to have.  And all the while, the lovely, impassive concubines passed new platters of delicacies and popped fresh bottles of wine, their expressions eerily dead-eyed despite their unbroken smiles.

From what the rebels had learned, these men were tasked with determining suitable laws and policies for Paragon’s society, but even years after the compound’s gates had been closed, little progress had been made.  And given what Alessa was seeing, she could easily understand how the Ruling Class had ended up in this state – who would want to resolve these disputes when every minute they delayed saw them plied with more food and drink and flesh than any man could want?

As the meal concluded, Isaac and Alessa hurried back to the supply room where their jumpsuits were stashed.  Locking the door behind him once more, Isaac turned to Alessa.

“So what’d you think?  Was it what you were expecting?”

Alessa just shook her head and swallowed – the scent of roast beef clung to her nostrils as she closed her eyes in envy.  She couldn’t put her feelings into words.

Isaac understood.  “Sickening, isn’t it?  The rest of us are practically starving out there, laboring 12 hours a day to haul their trash and dig their wells and clean their city.  And these people barely even know we’re alive, stuffed as they are with bacon and brie and cabernet.”  Isaac was practically spitting.

His bitterness was mirrored in Alessa’s gut, which roiled uncomfortably.  Alessa had really believed that the rumors were exaggerated; she’d even been willing to concede that perhaps if these people really were working for the benefit of everyone in Paragon, that perhaps they deserved some special perks.  But not like this.  This was just an insult.

“Those women…” Alessa looked up at Isaac.  “Are they all… like Lizzie?”

Isaac sighed wearily.  “Did you see their eyes, Less?”

Alessa shook the memory away; she was afraid she might throw up.

Isaac tentatively took her hand.  “Come on.  We need to go report to Regina what we heard.”

Still curled under the covers in her bed, Alessa clutched her shoulders as her memories continued to surface.  Gradually, the onslaught slowed and her headache began to subside.

She and Isaac had spent the next two years taking on ever more dangerous reconnaissance missions in an effort to gather the information they would need to bring their enemies down.  Isaac continued to be Alessa’s constant partner, and together they had become some of Regina’s most trusted soldiers.

But despite their many small triumphs, Regina and the other leaders of the movement soon realized that they were fighting a losing battle.  Some devastating losses throttled morale within the ranks, not the least of which was Lizzie Green’s recapture, which forced Regina to go into hiding to escape the Ruling Class’s subsequent investigation.  One by one, important rebel affiliates seemed to disappear, occasionally cast on the TV dramas in a thinly-veiled effort to provoke those who were still undercover.

Without being able to wage open mutiny, the rebels were limited in their resources, and the threat of discovery put them in constant danger.  In order to take down the Ruling Class and free the people of Paragon from further manipulation, the rebels needed to escape the confines of the colony and create their own stronghold.  But with the deadly virus still potentially lurking outside the gates, it wasn’t clear if the rebels could survive an exodus.

To determine the feasibility of escape, Isaac and Alessa had been entrusted with a mission to sneak offsite and conduct reconnaissance, looking both for any remaining traces of the plague and for a suitable new home for the rebels.  Janie – who had by this point become enthralled with the Rebel Alliance despite Alessa’s best efforts to keep her from getting involved – supported the leaders’ decision to send Isaac and Alessa.  She was convinced that fleeing was their only long-term means for survival, and there was no one she trusted more to carry out this crucial mission.

But something had gone awry the night that Alessa and Isaac had set out on their fateful mission, and they’d been apprehended while trying to steal across the compound’s borders.  Painfully, Alessa remembered that their detainment had almost been her undoing.

Tap, tap.  Tap tap tap.  Tap.

Alessa listened closely to each cue, the code Isaac had taught her during her early training days proving immensely useful now that they were locked up down the hall from each other and under constant surveillance by the prison’s guards.

After four weeks in Paragon’s penitentiary, Alessa and Isaac had figured out the prison’s routines and pinpointed the weaknesses in its security procedures.  They’d been able to communicate coded messages to the other prisoners during mealtimes and recreation, and they had a plan in place to break free.  Now they were only waiting for their chance.

Alessa had been shocked to find that the detention center was surprisingly primitive, with the same cinderblock cells and iron bars and metal cuffs that’d been used to keep people locked up for hundreds of years.  Only the high-tech locking mechanisms that secured the bolts of her cell door – and the clinical white interrogation rooms decked out with shiny monitors and insidious mechanical torture devices – marked this place as a modern dungeon.  But what the guards hadn’t figured out yet was that a regular old steel lock would have been far more effective than the fancy fingerprint scanners they currently employed.

Tap, tap, tap.  Tap.

That was the signal – two guards were working their way down either end of the hall to release the prisoners one by one for the evening meal.  Isaac was planning to delay the guard at his end of the cellblock until the guard on Alessa’s side reached her cell.  Already, she could faintly hear commotion stirring from Isaac’s direction.

Tugging at his rifle strap with only mild interest in the disturbance at the other end of the hall, the guard approached Alessa’s cell and gave her a quick once-over before reaching for the scanner pad.  The locks banged, and the bars slowly slid up.  Alessa rose from her cot and strode tentatively towards the cell door, in the same manner she had every day for the past four weeks.  The guard didn’t suspect a thing.

The moment she was through the threshold, Alessa loosed a vicious, spine-tingling cry, alerting Isaac that it was time to make their move – “Now!”

Simultaneously, Alessa and Isaac each took out their guards with a couple quick diverting jabs and one powerful blow to the head.  The guards hit the floor with a simultaneous thump, to raucous applause from their fellow inmates.

Heaving the unconscious guard over her shoulders, Alessa dragged the bulky man towards the security station in the center of the hall.  For the first time in weeks she locked eyes with Isaac; he mimicked her movements from the opposite side of the hall and worked his way towards their meeting point.  Seeing Alessa, Isaac’s face lit up, a smile Alessa knew he reserved only for her, and Alessa’s heartbeat skipped in response.  The uprising was almost complete, and soon they would be together once more.

In just a few more steps, Alessa and Isaac would meet at the security station and swipe both guards’ fingerprints, releasing the master lock on all of the cells in their wing and unleashing hundreds of riotous inmates on the prison.  In the chaos, Alessa and Isaac would be able to slip through to freedom.

Grunting, Alessa slogged up the hallway, lugging the weight of the guard as best she could.  Isaac was already at the security station, waiting for her.  Alessa puffed with each stride, reaching out toward Isaac’s gleaming blue eyes.  Just… one… more… step…

Alessa slumped the guard against the wall and brought his fingertip to rest upon the scanner pad.  Almost instantly, the hall reverberated with a hundred clanks as the locks on the cells unlatched and the cell doors began to slide open.  Alessa flashed an ecstatic grin in Isaac’s direction.

Still holding the guards in place to complete the release of the doors, Isaac reached towards Alessa, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close to his side.  He beamed down at her, his sapphire eyes filled with pride.  Her eyelids fluttering shut, Alessa reached her lips towards his, craving his touch after so many weeks apart.

But as Alessa closed the space between them, her lips met nothing but air.  Opening her eyes with alarm, she found Isaac crumpled on the floor, a massive snarling guard looming over her holding a heavy baton.

“Isaac!”

Alessa dove to the floor on top of Isaac, shielding him from the guard’s oncoming blows.

“…Alessa?”  Isaac croaked.  His whisper was almost inaudible over the din of the cell locks slamming back into place.  Alessa could see that Isaac was dazed, just coming to after being knocked unconscious by the guard’s powerful strike, but before she could react, she found herself soaring.

Another guard wheeled her through the air, carrying her effortlessly away from the racket of the uprising.  Before she could get her bearings and resist, she hit the floor with a thud and heard the slam of a heavy door.  All she could sense was blackness and silence and cold.

Scrambling to her feet, Alessa felt for the metal of the door and pounded furiously against it.  Bang, bang, bang, bang.  No reply.  Realizing her frantic knocking was futile, Alessa lashed out in frustration.

“Isaac!  Isaac!  ISAAC!”  She screamed until her throat was raw, but a heavy, pervasive silence was the only response.

Sinking back to the floor, Alessa cringed as a wretched sob rang throughout her lonely cell, almost inhuman moans of fury and desolation.  She realized with a start that they were her own.

Following the uprising, Alessa had suspected that she would never see Isaac, or Janie, again and she couldn’t have imagined anything worse.  That’s when she’d started overhearing the torture.

For months, the muffled wails of her fellow inmates were the only sounds to penetrate Alessa’s thick-walled cell.  She’d known it was only a matter of time until they came for her.

But when they finally did, it’d been nothing like she had expected.  She’d been prepared to be battered and abused, but a guard had simply immobilized her as a lab coat clad doctor injected something into her arm.  At first she thought it might be some sort of tranquilizer, but then she noticed an odd tingling in the back of her head, almost a knitting sensation, gently at first but growing more intense.  And then the pain had kicked in, sharp twinges coursing through her brain as she screamed and writhed and begged for it to end.

And the next thing she knew, she’d woken up in this very same bed, on her first day of class at ESU.

Alessa had certainly suffered in her life, but her memories of solitary confinement were the most excruciating of anything she’d yet experienced.  All those months alone in the dark, Isaac’s absence had become a constant panging throb that had replaced her heartbeat, leaving a gaping hole in her chest where Isaac should have been.

And suddenly Alessa knew it, viscerally, could feel it deep within her core.  Isaac was hers.  He was as much a part of her as her own blood, as the oxygen that seeped through her lungs.

No wonder the last months had been so agonizing.  The teasing glimpses of him had torn her apart, left her feeling hollow and empty.  They might as well have taken her innards with the void his absence had left inside her.

If there was one thing Alessa was sure of, it was that she needed Isaac to be whole again.  And she would do everything in her power to have him once more.

27. OPPORTUNITY

Over the following days, time roiled tumultuously for Alessa, each moment seeming to alternate between dragging on listlessly and whizzing right by.  After regaining so much of her memory, Alessa was eager to tell Janie of everything she’d recalled and she waited anxiously for an opportunity to speak with her shielded from the camera’s ever-watchful eye.  But with the producers monitoring Alessa’s every step, she was frustrated to find that that opportunity had not come, and every minute she was forced to wait seemed to last an eternity.

At the same time, with her memories flooding back, it was almost as if Alessa was living in double time.  Her mind was constantly flitting back and forth between life as a college student at ESU and life as a rebel in Paragon.  She was startled on more than one occasion to look up and find that over an hour had passed while she daydreamed about some past event.  But in the present, Alessa could feel every single second ticking by.

The knowledge that she was under constant surveillance was disconcerting, to say the least.  Suddenly, every decision she made was a matter of life and death – she was constantly coaching herself to look “natural,” to act “normal,” to make sure she stuck to whatever she knew of the producers’ planned storyline.  To do otherwise – as Nikhil had regrettably discovered – would be to put herself, and Janie and Isaac, in mortal danger.

Knowing that cameras were trained on her at all times, even the most routine tasks became stressful.  It took all of Alessa’s strength not to hesitate when getting undressed in her own bedroom; though she yearned to scoot out of the camera’s sight, she forced herself to change in front of the closet as she always had.  Even the notion of falling asleep felt eerie, with thousands of pairs of eyes pricking her back as she lay on her side facing the wall.  Just preventing herself from tossing an errant glance in the direction of any of the numerous cameras on campus was a constant battle.  Alessa had thought she’d been mentally and emotionally exhausted before, after her visits from the “ghost.”  She realized now that she hadn’t even known what exhaustion meant.

Alessa had been cataloguing questions in her head, trying to prioritize what was most crucial to ask Janie the next time she got the chance.  She knew it was likely they would only have a few moments together and there were so many things she wanted to know.  How did Janie manage to resist the stitch?  Of all the shows that were filming, how did she manage to get placed on this one, and cast as Alessa’s best friend no less?  And where exactly was Isaac?  Most importantly, how were they all going to get out of this alive?

At the time that Alessa and Isaac had been caught, Janie had been only marginally involved in the rebel resistance.  Worried for her sister’s safety, Alessa had made sure that the extent of Janie’s involvement was limited to eating the right diet to stay away from the drugs and keeping her head down as she went about her business.

At first Alessa hadn’t even told Janie about Joe’s clandestine meetings with the rebel units, which Alessa herself had attended only on occasion.  Wanting to believe that Paragon’s leaders had good reasons for the decisions they’d made – that they had everyone’s best interest at heart – Alessa had had reservations about being actively subversive, and for a year she’d watched from the sidelines as Joe took on a bigger and bigger role within the rebel organization.

But Janie had been too sharp for Alessa’s ploy.  She’d noticed Alessa slipping out with Joe for what she assumed were midnight trysts, and she’d grown steadily more upset when her sister neglected to share her secrets.  When she had finally confronted Alessa about her furtive rendezvous, Alessa had chosen to reveal the truth rather than lie to her sister once again.

Janie, of course, was enthralled with the whole idea.  Much like Joe, she had a daring streak that drove her to take what Alessa considered unnecessary risks, and on top of that, she had always hated being excluded from anything that Alessa did.  To placate her, Alessa had kept Janie informed about what she learned from Joe, but she had prohibited Janie from becoming directly involved.  Janie was still a teenager at the time and Alessa knew that her judgment was clouded by the romanticism and adventure of it all, that she just wasn’t seeing the danger.  And so Alessa had put her foot down.

Even after Alessa had fully devoted herself to the cause following Joe’s loss, she’d managed to keep Janie out of it for the better part of two years.  But Janie had remained resentful of Alessa’s embargo on her participation, and as Alessa had grown more confident in her own role and abilities, she’d realized that perhaps it was time for Janie to get involved as well.  Alessa had just begun training Janie a few weeks before she and Isaac were apprehended.

From what Janie had said during their meeting, it’d been over a year since her and Isaac’s imprisonment, and in the interim, Janie had obviously developed her talents and become quite influential within the rebel order.  Alessa couldn’t imagine what Janie had gone through to successfully infiltrate the show and make it this far intact, after being tossed in a jail cell and probably tortured and subjected to the excruciating stitch procedure.  Alessa wanted to know how she’d done it.  She wanted to ask Janie how she’d made it through all of that alone.  She wanted to tell her sister that she was proud of her.

But for the time being, Alessa had to keep these sentiments to herself.  As far as the production team knew, Alessa and Janie still were not speaking to each other after their fight almost a week ago, and Alessa had kept her distance in an effort not to arouse any suspicion.  Janie had said she needed time to work with her ally within the producers to sort out the escape plan, and Alessa was going to give it to her.  This scheme had to be flawless; they couldn’t risk being caught again.

Despite Alessa’s patience, however, the schedule was still tight.  Training for her research position was starting the following day and after two weeks, her professor would be going on leave and the producers would expect her to execute her plan to steal the “wormhole manipulator” and travel to Isaac’s “time.”  From what she remembered about the dramas she’d watched, the show always seemed to end when the main characters finally achieved their goal – which in her case was reuniting with Isaac in the “past” to warn him about the fire.  And Janie had said that her intel led her to believe the same, so a little over two weeks was probably all they had before the producers started getting antsy.  And who knew what might happen when they took matters into their own hands.

As Alessa exited the history building after her afternoon class, she was surprised to find the ground blanketed with inches of a wet, heavy snow.  There’d been talk of an impending snowstorm – the first of the season – but with everything that was happening, Alessa hadn’t really paid attention to the forecast.  Despite the early hour, the sky was quickly approaching dusk and the lamps lining the quad already shone brightly, reflecting off the sparkling layer of white that sheathed every tree branch right down to the smallest twig.

Watching each breath rise in a festive puff as she trudged her way home – averting her eyes from any cameras she passed – Alessa felt a small flutter of delight stirring within her.  The snow-encased trees bowed enchantingly, and for a moment at least, the campus felt like a winter wonderland, instead of the dungeon she knew it to be.

By the time Alessa reached Z-E-Pi, her shoes were soaked through and the tip of her nose had turned a startling shade of red.  She was relieved to cross the threshold into the warmth and slip off her wet sneakers in favor of a cozy pair of woolen socks.  This prison certainly had more creature comforts than her cold cell in Paragon’s penitentiary, that much she had to admit.  She realized with a pang of regret that in a couple weeks, whether the plan succeeded or failed, she would no longer have this warm bed to return to each night.

Alessa sat down at her desk.  She intended to check her email, but the moment she opened her laptop, the screen went dim and the lights switched off, plunging her into near-darkness.

Sitting in the twilight, Alessa’s heart began to race.  What was going on?  Was this it?  Were they coming for her?  How had she blown her cover?

She scrambled for a plan and scanned her room for a weapon, settling on the heavy flashlight by her bedside.  Clutching it at her side, she stood rigid, waiting for whatever was coming next.

A bright beam of light shined through her open door.  Alessa pinned herself to the wall beyond the beam’s initial sweep, straining to see past the source of the light.

A tentative whisper pierced the silence.  “Alessa?”

“Janie?”  Alessa flooded with relief.

The light shone in the Alessa’s direction.  “Is that you?”

“Yes!” she hissed.  “What’s going on?”

Janie pointed the light upward, illuminating the room.  “We knocked the power out.  A tree went down at the far end of campus, taking a power line with it, and though it actually didn’t affect this building, we tripped a fuse to make it look related.  Once they’ve got the power up, we’ll have to turn it back on, but it should be at least 10 minutes or so.”

“Oh, thank God.”  Alessa dropped her flashlight on the bed and ran to her sister, embracing her.  “Janie, I’ve been dying to talk to you.  I remember everything now.  I’m so sorry I forgot, I don’t know how…”  Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at her sister for forgiveness.

Janie just hugged her tightly.  “It’s not your fault, Alessa.  That’s exactly what the stitch was supposed to do – they injected you with some kind of substance that literally rewires your neural pathways, breaking down your memories and putting new ones in their place.  You couldn’t have known how to resist.”

“But you did, Janie.  How?” she searched her sister’s face.

“We figured it out a few months after you were caught.  Some of the prisoners proved resistant to the stitch, so our allies within the Ruling Class sought them out to ask how, and it turned out to be so much simpler than we ever thought.  They said that after they were injected, instead of thinking about the pain, they concentrated on a single thought – something that was meaningful to them, like a memory of a loved one – and somehow it blocked the wipe from rewiring some of their neurons.  Since they didn’t lose their grip on reality entirely, everything else quickly came back to them.”

“So that’s what you did?”

“Yeah.  Once we figured that out, it was a no brainer.  We knew we needed to get you and Isaac out – with Lizzie getting captured and Regina going underground and then you two being detained, morale within the ranks had taken some big hits, and we really needed a win.

“Our agent on the inside heard about you and Isaac being cast for this show after they couldn’t seem to get either of you out of each other’s heads, and when I approached Regina with the idea of infiltrating the drama, she reluctantly agreed that it was worth the risk.  I deliberately got captured, repelled the stitch while pretending that it worked, and then our inside guy worked his magic to have me cast as your friend, ostensibly for the same reason as you and Isaac – since we were so close, it was easier to work me into this false world than try to get rid of your memories of me altogether.”

Alessa was overcome with gratitude; she couldn’t believe her little sister had risked so much for her.  She wanted to be mad at Janie for putting herself in danger, but she couldn’t seem to muster any anger.  “Janie, it’s brilliant.  I don’t know how you pulled it off…”

Janie shrugged off Alessa’s praise.  “It was nothing, really.  Well, I mean, prison was kind of –” her eyes clouded for a moment “– terrible…  But here, well, besides the cameras, this is the most comfortable place I’ve lived since before Paragon.  It’s almost like a vacation.”

Alessa laughed at the absurdity of Janie’s assertion.  This was certainly unlike any vacation she’d ever heard of.

Janie continued.  “So anyway, I’m so glad to hear you finally got your memories back, and you seem to be doing okay.  I want to update you on where we are with the plan, but before I get to that – when the lights go on, we should assume the cameras are back.  Just pretend like I came in here looking for a flashlight and that we’re finally making up, ok?”

Alessa nodded.  “Got it.”

“Okay, so, the plan.  I think I told you that Isaac is on another set nearby, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, well, he’s basically living in a replica of this house inside a big dome a few miles away.  The campus was already here from before the war, so they just spruced it up a bit and then they built his set separately.  Since they were planning the stunts with the fire, they needed an environment that offered a little more control – no snowstorms or rain unless they allowed for it, that sort of thing.”

Alessa interjected with a question.  “So how have we been seeing each other then?”

“Holograms.  There are projectors hidden all over the house just like the cameras,” she motioned at the ceiling, “so whenever they feel like it, the producers turn on the projection for one of you so that you can see the other person, or they turn it on at both ends if they want you to see each other.  It’s all happening in real time, which is why he keeps disappearing before you can tell him about the fire.  To build the suspense, you know?”

Alessa nodded – she would need some time to digest all that.  “And what about Isaac?  Does he know what’s going on?  Does he know who I really am?”

Janie shook her head.  “As far as I know, he has no idea that any of this is fake and he thinks you’re some kind of apparition.  He doesn’t even know your name, though apparently he’s been saying it in his sleep.”

Alessa wasn’t sure how she felt about that.  Part of her was disappointed that Isaac didn’t remember her, but at the same time, she supposed she hadn’t remembered who he really was, either.  And who knew, maybe he did remember and was just keeping it to himself like her and Janie.

Janie interrupted Alessa’s thoughts to continue her report about Isaac.  “The producers actually already filmed the fire scene – it was all pyrotechnics, but I heard it was really convincing.  They made it look like Isaac passed out from the smoke and then the burning barn collapsed around him.  Really the whole thing was rigged, though.  According to our mole on the production team, they just gassed him and put him back in his cell to wait it out until you come to save him – once you do, they’re just going to reset his stitch to the day before the fire, as if it hadn’t happened yet.”

Alessa winced, thinking of Isaac undergoing another agonizing stitch.  She shook off the thought.  There was nothing she could do about it now, and she still had a list of other questions for Janie.

At the time Alessa had been captured, there still was not much known amongst the rebels about the inner workings of the dramas or, for that matter, the objectives of whoever was running Paragon.  Alessa turned over the list in her head and decided to start with the simple questions.  “What about everyone else here?  Isaac’s family and the other students – are they all in on it?”

Janie shook her head.  “Oh, no, no, they’re all like us.  Some are rebels, like Lizzie…”

“Yes, I remembered that…” Alessa cringed at the thought of whatever unfortunate turn had landed poor Lizzie back in the hands of the Ruling Class.

“Some are just people who got unlucky, stumbled across things they weren’t supposed to see.”

“How many of us are there?”

“Hundreds, I think.  There are all these different plotlines happening on the same set and a bunch of people from the Ruling Class editing behind the scenes.  They’re careful to show each drama only to efficiency units where no one should know the actors.  Even with the drugs, I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if my own sister was on TV,” Janie explained, “so they try to avoid those situations by being deliberate about where they broadcast which dramas.  And of course, if there are any mishaps, that just means they have a new actor.”

“Why don’t they just kill us?”

Janie thought for a moment.  “That’s a good question.  We really haven’t found a good answer for that yet.”

“Okay…  What about their ultimate motives?  Do we know exactly what the Ruling Class is doing or why they’re keeping a blindfold over the workers?”

Janie shook her head.  “Not really.  It seems like it’s a small subset who’s behind all the bad stuff.  We’ve learned that many – most – of the people within the Ruling Class just think they’ve been elected by the workers to design a new constitution for our society.  They too watch the dramas, but they think they’re just entertainment, and they don’t know about the drugging.  They just live in this comfortable little bubble and don’t seem to realize that someone is orchestrating all this exploitation right under their noses.”

Janie loosed a weary sigh, obviously troubled by the challenges the rebels were facing.  “The problem is that no one has really figured out who is engineering everything, so our allies have been hesitant to spread the word of the resistance because they don’t know who to trust.  Plus, it would be hard to convince anyone in the Ruling Class that anything is amiss, since they’re all living in the lap of luxury, and disappearances and that sort of thing are much less common and much better covered up than they are for us.”

Alessa was surprised at how much and how little had changed.  Though the rebels had managed to recruit and train some talented new people, like Janie, it seemed that they were still no closer to answering some of the most basic questions about their enemies.  Most of this information was known when Joe first started with the rebels, and that was almost three years ago.

Alessa decided to refocus on their immediate situation.  “So, how are we getting out of here?”

Janie hesitated for a moment before she continued.  “As you’ve probably figured out by now, the producers are giving you an opportunity to steal Professor Liu’s ‘time machine’ and use it to get to Isaac.  What will really happen is that when you bring it here and turn it on, they’re going to gas the room so that you pass out, and when you wake up, you’ll be somewhere on Isaac’s set.  What we’re still figuring out is how to get you two off his set once you’re there.  There are a bunch of hidden utility tunnels and things like that since his is not a real house like this one, so we’re thinking maybe you can sneak out that way.  But it’s going to be tricky.  We’re still working on finding the right path.”

Alessa rolled the plan over in her mind.  “And where will you be during all of this?  How are you going to escape?”

Janie averted her eyes.  “We’re still figuring that out,” she looked up at Alessa reassuringly, “but it will be fine, don’t worry.”

Alessa was wary of Janie’s nonchalance, but she supposed it was unfair to expect her to have all the details before the plan was even complete.  Alessa wanted to thank Janie more explicitly for everything she’d done and tell her how full of pride it made her feel to see Janie so strong and independent and sharp.  But before she got the chance, she was blinded by a sudden flash from the lamp.  The lights had come back on.

Janie slipped right back into character, switching off her flashlight and handing it to Alessa.  “Well, I guess I don’t need to borrow this anymore.  I’m sorry, again, for the way I’ve been acting.  It was just stress with school and everything.  I’m sorry to have taken it out on you.”

Alessa squeezed her sister’s hand and tried to convey her appreciation in her eyes.  “It’s okay, Janie, really.  I’m just glad to have you back.”  Alessa hoped Janie caught her meaning.

Janie smiled.  “Okay, I’m going to get back to work on that paper.  Let me know how things go with your first day in the lab tomorrow.”

And with that, Janie exited, leaving Alessa to ponder her memories and her questions on her own once more.

28. INTROSPECTION

Over the following weeks, Alessa counted down the days to Professor Liu’s departure with anticipation.  She played along with the producers’ games, diligently visiting the lab every few days to receive her training, and in the evenings she and Janie huddled together, conspiring on plans to steal the equipment as soon as Alessa had the lab to herself.

Knowing that their “time travel” plot was only a ruse took much of the pressure off of Janie and Alessa’s plotting.  Though they debated the merits of different strategies and feigned distraction with their assignments and classes, they knew that whatever path they chose, the producers would ultimately make sure that their pilfering was successful.

Internally, however, both sisters anxiously fretted over their true plan: how they would orchestrate their upcoming escape.  They knew this would be their best – and probably only – chance to shake loose of Paragon’s crushing grip, and so this plan truly needed to be flawless.  It was a dangerous undertaking, and they knew they could surely count on the producers to try to thwart them at every turn.

Janie still had not received word from her rebel contacts about the details of their strategy, or if she had, she hadn’t gotten an opportunity to communicate that to Alessa.  As the date loomed closer, Alessa harbored doubts that the rebels would be able to pull together a reliable plan in time.  But in the end, she had no choice but to wait, trusting in their allies to deliver them to freedom.

In the interim, Alessa found herself with plenty of time to reflect on her situation, and she found that she was grudgingly impressed with the cleverness of the producers’ ploy.  They had so skillfully woven her character’s background with her true thoughts and feelings that, until Janie’s revelation, she had never once questioned her experience.  She’d been so utterly convinced that she had even readily dismissed the flashbacks of her true life that had come to her in dreams.  It was beyond frightening to consider what could happen if this type of memory-altering technology was used on a larger scale.

It still amazed Alessa how willingly her emotions had transferred from their true sources to the producers’ constructed ones.  Shifting her feelings of sorrow at losing her real family in the outbreak to her imaginary parents in their car accident wasn’t too dramatic of a jump, but transforming her distress at losing Isaac into distress at seeing his ghost – without triggering her memory – was certainly a more complex feat.

Now that Alessa could remember her real life, the wave of emotions that had overcome her whenever she saw the ghost felt all too familiar.  The fear, the hopelessness, the despair – these were Alessa’s constant companions during her time held captive in solitary confinement.

Listening to the cries of the other prisoners as they were interrogated had tormented Alessa, images of Isaac bloody and lifeless flashing before her eyes with the sound of each ragged wail.  In her hours of idle time, she’d worried endlessly about what would become of Isaac, wondering what terrors they were subjecting him to and how, if either of them managed to make it out alive, they could ever move forward without the other by their side.  It only made sense that these emotions would come back to her whenever she saw him, almost like a conditioned response.

And then, of course, there was the strange but powerful desire that had undercut even her most ravaging fear.  A deep sense of allure had always drawn Alessa to Isaac’s “ghost” despite the troubling feelings that his presence had evoked, and this aspect of her reaction had been the most confusing to her.  She’d been able to rationalize the anxiety and sorrow as natural responses or projections of the ghost’s, but the physical pull she felt towards him had always been somewhat of a mystery.

Until, of course, she recognized Isaac for who he really was.  Just as their romance had emerged slowly from the ashes of Joe’s demise, so had a smoldering passion that had only grown more intense as their relationship progressed.  And like a glowing ember, all Alessa had needed was a little touch of kindling to reignite that fire.

Alessa fumed at the way the producers had manipulated her emotions, using the attraction that burned between her and Isaac to drive her participation in their plot.  If she hadn’t felt that attraction to Isaac, she probably would have reacted to the ghost by moving to a different dorm, just as any normal person would have done, and the show would have been over right there.  But the producers had known that some deep part of Alessa would thirst for Isaac, and they’d used that knowledge to trap her in their game.

Even the general aura of depression that had settled on her in recent years had been convincingly worked into her character’s backdrop.  Before her memories resurfaced, Alessa had thought she’d been disappointed in her college experience and frustrated with her own inability to take control of her future.  In reality, these were feelings she’d developed while living in Paragon.

The collapse of life as she’d known it – and especially the loss of her family – had left Alessa questioning whether she even wanted to be alive at all.  But as everyone in Paragon had settled into a routine, she’d allowed herself to be swept up in the comfort and predictability of structure.  Those early years that she and Janie had shared together in Paragon had almost been happy.  Alessa had come to accept that it was a different life, but an okay one.

However, once she’d discovered the drugs and started working with the rebels, Alessa’s contentedness had evaporated into thin air.  With no one else to turn to, she’d trusted the society of Paragon to take care of its people.  That betrayal had left her disillusioned and distraught.  Then, after losing Joe, she’d valiantly fought alongside Isaac for justice, but inside, she’d privately grappled with the enormity of her task.

Someone had masterminded this plan to convert a simple government quarantine zone into a highly controlled multi-class civilization, which most of the inhabitants didn’t even realize they were living in.  Alessa knew that she was outmatched, and with every setback that rattled the rebels, her confidence had eroded further.

Alessa did feel powerless and did feel alone, but not for the reasons she had thought.  It wasn’t because, as she’d reasoned when she believed herself a student, the death of her parents had unraveled her plans for the future.  It was because she had no future, and neither did anyone else she loved.  If Paragon had any say in it, she was destined to live out her days in the same drab jumpsuit, eating the same lackluster food, working the same monotonous jobs to support some privileged upper class who barely even knew she existed.

And the knowledge that Paragon was not the refuge that everyone around her assumed it to be left her isolated and demoralized.  She’d dutifully fallen in line each day with the medicated zombies around her, shuffling mechanically from work assignments to meals to nightly drama airings, and collapsing at the end of each long day into a stiff bed in her crowded bunk.  But inside she was crying out.

She’d yearned to race from one citizen to the next, shaking them from their stupor and rallying them to the cause.  But Alessa had known that that would only get her killed.  Instead, she’d kept her head down and resisted Paragon’s schemes in subtler ways, like the careful diet she and her friends kept to evade the drugs.

But sometimes it all felt futile.  After all, no amount of salad that she consumed was going to bring down whoever had put her here.  Some days it seemed like it would have been better to just give in to the temptation of the hot entrée, to allow her mind to become vacant once again and finally accept her fate.

But she had pressed on.

Now that Alessa knew what Paragon was truly capable of – the nightmarish prisons, the indifferent use of mind control, the elaborate deceptions just to keep the populace subdued – she was torn between rage and despair.  Something had to be done to right these wrongs, that much she was certain of.  But how?  Their enigmatic enemy had proven cunning and determined; taking down this opponent would be no small feat.  Was Alessa really the one to do it?

The truth was that the rebels were failing.  They had been for months, and when Alessa and Isaac had set out to scout for an escape, Regina had placed all of the alliance’s hopes on the shoulders of their mission.  Now it was months later, and as far as Alessa knew, no progress had been made.  If the plan to break them out failed this time, it could mean the end of the rebellion.  It could mean the end of liberty for everyone in Paragon, whether or not they knew.

These thoughts weighed heavily on Alessa as the semester’s final days of class rolled around, bringing with them a sense of impending finality.  Alessa privately relished her last days of comfort – she knew that once she went for Isaac, there would be no warm fluffy bed to return to, no closet filled with cozy sweaters, no cafeteria with tray after tray of satisfying food.  They would be on their own, and there would be no turning back.

Finally, the day before Professor Liu was scheduled to leave, Alessa received word from Janie that the plan had been set in motion.  As she stood near Janie’s shower stall brushing her teeth that evening, Janie whispered a hushed message through the plastic curtain, her voice concealed from the producers’ mikes under the cover of the spattering water.

“We’re executing tomorrow, so be ready.  You’ll find a map of your escape route in your pocket when you wake up on Isaac’s set.”

Alessa continued to shimmy her toothbrush, listening carefully for Janie’s words.  She felt unexpectedly calm.

“Be careful, Alessa.  I’ll see you on the other side.”

29. EXECUTION

At the completion of her afternoon ethics seminar, Alessa zipped her backpack and headed off towards the science building to meet Janie.  Jangling the keys to Professor Liu’s lab in her pocket, Alessa wondered what the producers had in store for her next.  With any luck she would be on Isaac’s set by nightfall, but she knew from experience that things rarely went as planned in Paragon.

Janie had proposed that they smuggle the “wormhole capturing apparatus” out of the lab by daringly hiding it in plain sight, and as Alessa approached the front of the building, Janie was waiting for her and clutching a large box that was labeled “broken equipment.”

Noticing Alessa’s approach, Janie smiled wickedly.  “Let’s do this.”

Alessa led Janie up to the lab and unlocked the door.  Once inside, they worked quickly in silence to disconnect the power and load each piece of the machine into the container.  Sealing the top with tape, Alessa and Janie hoisted the box between them and strolled out of the building.

Alessa was surprised at how nervous she felt, her entire body shaking with adrenaline as she and Janie waltzed through the quad, doing their best to look unassuming.  She knew the producers needed her to get to Isaac’s set to fulfill the climax of the show, but she just didn’t expect them to make it this easy for her.  She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

At the edge of the quad, Alessa and Janie turned onto the wide cobblestone path that led to Z-E-Pi.  Alessa’s heart skipped a beat as she noticed a security guard up ahead.  She made to turn off the path and let him pass, but before she could nudge Janie in the right direction, the guard looked up and noticed them.

Janie swore under her breath and panic rose in Alessa’s chest.  The guard was headed right for them.  Had the producers changed their plans?  Maybe they wanted Alessa to get caught, had decided to draw the show out longer.  If that was the case, there was nothing Alessa could do but play along.  She braced herself as the guard approached them.

“Good evening, ladies.”

“Hi,” Janie responded cheerfully.

Alessa just kept her mouth shut and tried to steady her racing heart.

“That’s an awfully large box you’ve got there – hope that’s not elicit contraband or anything.”  The guard smiled.

Alessa just laughed nervously in response.

“I’m just kidding.  Do you need any help carrying that thing?”

Janie jumped in.  “Oh, how nice of you to offer.  No, thanks, I think we’ll be okay – not too much farther to go.”

“All right, then.  You have a good evening.”

“You too,” Janie replied.  When the guard was out of earshot, Janie added, “Way to keep it cool, Less.”

Alessa exhaled.  “Sorry.”

They continued quickly home and deposited the box on the bed in Alessa’s room.  Closing the door, Janie turned to Alessa.

“So, where should we set this baby up?”

Alessa hadn’t really given this much thought – she suspected that the producers would make the device work no matter where they used it.

“How about right here?”

Janie frowned.  “What if someone walks in?  We should do it in the attic bathroom where no one will notice us.”

“Yeah, but I only had one encounter with Isaac upstairs – I’ve had tons in here.  I think we’re more likely to snag a wormhole where they most often naturally occur, which means wherever I see him most, and that’s here.”

“Okay, fine,” Janie relented.  Alessa knew of course that the whole dispute was for show – this close to the end, it was essential to stay in character to keep the producers’ suspicions at bay.

Unloading the three electromagnetic poles, Alessa positioned one on the bed.  She placed the second on her desk and handed the third to Janie.  “Put this in the other corner while I hook the power up, will you?”

Janie perched the final pole atop the fireplace mantle across the room while Alessa connected the power cord and plugged it into the wall.

She took a long look at Janie.  “Well, here goes nothing…”

Janie nodded and Alessa flipped the power switch.

Alessa wasn’t sure what to expect when she turned the apparatus on, but if she’d been hoping for special effects, she wouldn’t have been disappointed.  At first the device looked the same as it had in the lab, with waves of electric current – what Alessa had suspected was really another hologram – circling the globes mounted on each pole and connecting them in a triangle formation.

And then all of sudden sparks began to crackle at various points around the triangle, and a tiny dot appeared in the center, suspended in midair.  As Alessa watched, the dot began to grow, slowly at first but quickly gaining speed, the edges of the expanding circle reaching toward the floor and ceiling.  Through a long oval which now stood as high as Alessa, she could see what looked like the back of her house, only different, newer.  Isaac’s house.

Again, Alessa marveled at the convincing visuals that the producers’ holograms could construct; she really felt like she was looking through a window into another time.  Even though she knew it was an illusion, Alessa felt the urge to reach through the ring, to see if what she was looking at was real.

And then she heard a quiet hiss and her head started to spin.  Were the producers flooding the room with gas?  The wormhole continued expanding outward, reaching ever closer to Alessa and growing at a faster and faster pace.  Out of the corner of her eye, Alessa saw Janie duck for cover against the wall.  The last thing Alessa remembered before losing consciousness was the side of the hole racing toward her.

Alessa woke up face down on the lawn outside her house, or rather, Isaac’s house.  Coming to, the first thing she noticed was the poke of a folded piece of paper tucked into her pocket – the map Janie had promised their ally would deliver.

Still sprawled on the ground, Alessa’s heart raced as she considered the magnitude of the task in front of her.  She needed to convince Isaac to follow her, sneak off the set while avoiding the production team’s grasp, and set out into the wilderness beyond Paragon’s walls – where a deadly virus may still be lurking – to find something that would revitalize the rebel movement and give them hope for the future.  She wasn’t quite sure how she would be able to manage all of this without getting killed, but she supposed it was too late to back out now.

Alessa stood up to take in her surroundings.  The ground was bare, with no hint of the snow that blanketed the actual ESU campus.  As Janie had expected, it seemed the producers had landed Alessa in what Isaac believed was springtime, the day before the fire to be exact – perfect timing for a dramatic conclusion to the show.  But little did the production team suspect that they were about to get an even more dramatic ending than they’d hoped for.

She was alone in the backyard at dusk, a light shining from the kitchen of the nearby house.  Peering in the window, she found Isaac sitting at the table whittling away against a block of wood.

The blood rushed to Alessa’s head as she registered that Isaac was only steps away.  She watched him greedily for a few moments, fighting the urge to burst through the door and scoop him up in her arms right then.  Her breathing quickened as she stretched her fingertips on the glass of the windowpane, struggling to contain her overwhelming desire to touch him.

First things first – she knew she needed to get a good look at the map before she could lead Isaac to their escape.  How could she steal a peek without attracting the producers’ notice?

Just then the lights flickered, giving her the opportunity she’d sought.  Perfect timing – Alessa guessed that her ally had somehow disrupted the power supply, but she knew that the producers would be scrambling to restore the cameras before they missed her reunion with Isaac.  She hurried to unfold the map before they could.

Hidden in the shadow of the house, Alessa stole a quick glance at the plan and noted that her starting point was the foyer closet.  Hastily shoving the map back into her pocket, Alessa choked down her fears and readied herself for what came next.

30. AWAKENING

Isaac stood at the kitchen window examining the small block of pinewood in his hand in the fading evening light. He switched on the overhead lamp to get a closer look, searching carefully for knots and noting each of their locations in turn.  Satisfied, he withdrew a small, sharp knife from a drawer and made his way toward the heavy wooden table.

Even an hour after the servants had put the last clean pot back on the shelf, the hearty aroma of dinner still lingered in the air as Isaac sat down to begin his carving.  He wasn’t much of a woodworker, but he hoped that keeping his hands busy for a few hours might help his mind to focus on something other than his last encounter with the mysterious presence.

Though three days had passed since he’d last seen her, he’d had no success in shaking the troubling feeling that had settled in his gut after he’d failed to grasp the meanings of her frenzied gestures and frustratingly silent shouts.  He’d replayed the scene over and over in his mind, but could not make sense of anything she’d tried to convey.  All Isaac knew was that she was desperate to tell him something, and he was eagerly anticipating their next meeting in hopes of learning what that something was.

Isaac turned the block over in his hand as he considered what shape this particular piece of wood might best take to.  With his mind so preoccupied over the past few days by his exchange with the woman, Jo was certain to be feeling snubbed, and he thought she would appreciate a gift.

Isaac withdrew the knife from its thick leather sheath and starting chipping at one corner.  The soft wood gave readily under his steady hand and within a few minutes, a rudimentary resemblance of a horse had emerged.  He held it up to the light to examine it and was pleased with his handiwork.  However, with a painful cramp slowly creeping into his hand, he opted for a short break before continuing.

Carefully sliding the blade into its case, Isaac set the knife on the table.  He allowed his mind to wander as he massaged the heel of his palm with his thumb to loosen the cramp.  As usual, most of his thoughts revolved around the presence.

The strange woman had taken hold of him like nothing he’d ever experienced.  For months now her mystery had dominated his waking thoughts, and he’d devoted an inordinate amount of time to anticipating their next encounter.  He had hoped that he’d be able to learn more about her by now, but frustratingly, he was no closer to understanding who she was than he had been at the start.

After their last exchange, however, Isaac felt certain that he was on the verge of a breakthrough.  She had tried to communicate with him, and it was only a matter of time before they figured out how to break down the barriers that stood between them.  His body tingled as he remembered her burning emerald eyes and wondered idly what it would feel like to run his fingers through her thick, glossy hair.

A flicker from the overhead light interrupted his reverie.  Isaac wondered if there was some sort of outage coming – after all, the power lines running to the farm weren’t exactly reliable.  He stood up with the intention of checking the electricity in the rest of the house, but he was interrupted by a sudden swing of the back door.

Standing in the doorway was the woman.

Isaac gasped.  He’d been anticipating this moment for days, but her unexpected appearance left him breathless nevertheless.  He froze in place as his mind scrambled to compute a course of action.

As they locked eyes, time seemed to slow and Isaac was able to perceive her more clearly.  She somehow seemed more vivid than she ever had before, flushed and radiant, with gleaming hair and glowing skin and shining sea-green eyes.  And then he realized what it was.  She was solid.

Isaac gaped as comprehension dawned on him.  The woman wasn’t just some transparent figment, but alive, and here, standing in full flesh and blood right in front of him.

“Isaac!”

The peal of her voice reverberated in his ears.  Finally, he could hear her.  As he registered her words, confusion replaced his relief.  She knew his name?  “How…”

She paced toward him, her hands reaching out for his, and he prayed that she would not disappear again.  She didn’t.  As her fingers closed around his, the heat of her palms pressed through him, strangling the words that had been rising in his throat.

“Isaac…”  Tears glistened in her eyes as she squeezed his hands.

All Isaac could think to say was, “…Who are you?”

She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, steadying herself.  Then she trained her startling green eyes on his.  “It’s me, Isaac.  Alessa.”

Isaac’s head spun.  Alessa?  Wasn’t that the name that Jo had said he’d been uttering in his sleep?  He tried to make sense of it.  How could he have known her name?  Did they know each other somehow?  If so, he couldn’t imagine how he could have forgotten her…

Alessa grasped his hands tighter, pulling him back to the moment.  “Isaac, I know you’re confused.  But you need to listen to me.  I have something very important to tell you.”

The lights continued to flicker, but Isaac barely even noticed.  All he could concentrate on was her – her eyes, her skin, her scent – there was nothing else.

“I’m here to warn you, Isaac.  There’s going to be a fire that will kill you and your family, but I think you can avert it.”

Isaac’s jaw dropped.  “How could you know this?”

“I’m…” Alessa paused and took a slow breath.  “I know how this sounds, but the truth is, I’m from the future.  I live in this same house, a hundred years from now, and I’ve been seeing your ghost.”

“From the future?  But how is that possible?  I thought I’ve been seeing your ghost, or something like it, anyway.”

Alessa shrugged her shoulders.  “I don’t fully understand it, either.  All I know is that I dug up some old newspaper records and I found articles saying that your entire family died on April 13th, 1917.”

Isaac released Alessa’s grasp and brought his hand to his chest to steady himself.  “But that’s tomorrow!”

Alessa placed her hand on his shoulder to reassure him.  “That’s plenty of time!  I know the fire was started by Josephine in the barn, so you just need to keep her away from there for the next 24 hours and I think everything should be okay…”

Isaac’s heart pounded as he tried to process what she was saying.  He and his family would die tomorrow, but she’d found a way to warn him in time.  He just needed to make sure that Jo didn’t leave his sight.

He placed his hand gently but firmly on Alessa’s shoulder.  Only inches away now, he gazed solemnly into her eyes.

“Alessa, I don’t know how to thank you.”  He paused for a moment to let the magnitude of his appreciation sink in.  “You’ve been the only thing I’ve thought about for months, but I couldn’t seem to contact you.  It was the most frustrating thing I’d ever experienced.”

Alessa smiled softly.  “I know, Isaac, I felt the same.  I just felt…” she searched for the right word, “…drawn to you.  When I learned what happened to you – what would have happened to you – I just… I couldn’t live without knowing I’d tried to warn you …”

Tears welled in Alessa’s eyes as she looked up at Isaac, invoking a tenderness inside him that yearned to comfort her in any way he could.  He could feel the current buzzing between their bodies, a compulsion to hold her.  He withdrew his hand from her shoulder and gently cupped her face, tentatively at first.  Her breath caught and she seemed to melt into his touch.

Emboldened, he threaded his fingers through her thick, soft locks, releasing his other hand from hers and resting it on the curve of her hip.  His body throbbed with the closeness of her, his heart bursting with affection and gratitude and desire as he leaned in.

As Isaac pulled Alessa closer, he could feel her gripping his shoulder tighter.  She slipped her free hand around his waist and pulled hard, closing the space between their bodies.  Anticipation flared in her eyes, razing the last shreds of his inhibition.  Her eyelids closed at the same moment as his, and Isaac drew a hurried breath.

As he leaned his face towards Alessa’s, Isaac knew at once that he’d been here before.

Dirt and leaves clung to Isaac’s skin as he lay huddled in the thicket.  Even hours after the sun had set, the heat and humidity of the day refused to subside and the air felt thick and heavy.  And being sidled up next to Alessa in such close quarters – the bare skin on her long, taut limbs glistening in the moonlight – certainly wasn’t helping.

Isaac had partnered with Alessa on countless reconnaissance missions in the six months since they’d lost Joe, but this was the first that had placed them in such close physical proximity.  In that time, his feelings for Alessa had grown and evolved in many ways, but tonight the only feeling he could concentrate on was that of her body pressed next to his.

He’d always found Alessa’s beauty undeniable, but knowing how his brother had felt about her, it had always seemed best to push those feelings aside.  And as Isaac got to know Alessa, he came to appreciate her on a much deeper level.

After losing Joe, she’d become Isaac’s lifeline.  Given that they needed to hide their grief in order to avoiding arousing suspicion, Alessa was the only person he could talk to about what he was feeling.  Their clandestine assignments for the rebels provided their only opportunities to talk freely about their shared pain and their uncertain dreams for the future.

In addition to her emotional support, Isaac had also grown to admire Alessa for her efforts in the rebellion.  Ever since the tragedy with Joe, Alessa had invested herself completely in the cause and had quickly proven talented.  She’d earned greater and greater responsibility and, along with Isaac, had become entrusted with executing some of the rebels’ most critical missions.  He respected her abilities and her dedication intensely, and there was no one he trusted more.

Though their friendship was rooted in their shared grief over Joe, it had blossomed into something much richer and much more profound than Isaac had anticipated.  Over time he’d realized that the complicated feelings he had for Alessa were love.  And along with that love came a deep, consuming desire that he had worked tirelessly to suppress.

As much as he cared for Alessa, Isaac still couldn’t shake his old notions of Alessa as Joe’s sweetheart.  He remembered what Joe had said on that fateful day – “If I’m captured, I need you here to take care of Less,” – and Isaac had taken his brother’s last request seriously.

He was determined to do right by the memory of his brother, to be strong and brave and to protect Alessa, whatever the cost.  But he was fairly sure that his brother wouldn’t have been happy about Isaac becoming romantically involved with Alessa, and that guilt had thus far prevented Isaac from acting on his feelings.

But on this sweltering summer night with the heat of Alessa’s smooth, soft body pressing into his side, strands of her glossy hair clinging to the droplets on her neck, and her striking emerald eyes sparkling in the night, he was starting to reconsider his position.

If Joe truly wanted Isaac to take care of Alessa, he reasoned, he would want him to be there for her completely, in any way she might need him.  Right?  The only question was whether Alessa did need him in that way, or if she still only saw Joe’s kid brother when she looked at him.

Alessa turned suddenly to Isaac, disrupting his contemplation.  She tucked her recently-cropped chin-length hair behind her ears, still adjusting to the new low-maintenance style she’d opted for in light of the colossal challenges they faced in the rebellion.  “Wasn’t the delivery supposed to happen by one o’clock?  It’s almost two now.  I’m wondering if our intel was bad…”

Sweat glistened on her brow, her hair matted against her cheeks, and clumps of dirt clung under her chin.  But as far as Isaac was concerned, she’d never looked more stunning.  The mission be damned, it was now or never.

“Alessa, I… I have to tell you something.”

She looked at him expectantly, her expression softening as she registered the emotion on his face.  She searched his eyes, concerned.  “Isaac, what’s wrong?”

Isaac took a deep breath and rolled onto his side toward Alessa.  She mimicked his movement unconsciously and they lie facing each other, close enough to feel each other’s breath.  He steeled himself for what came next.  He needed to show Alessa how he felt, whatever the risk.

Tentatively he inched closer, watching her reaction.  Her eyes widened as she realized what Isaac was about to do, but she didn’t pull back.  Encouraged, he plunged forward and gently touched his lips to hers.

At first Alessa froze, her eyes staring into his with alarm.  But only for a moment.  Then her body relaxed, her eyelids fluttered shut, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him as she returned his kiss with a passion he’d only dreamed of.  They clung to each other as everything around them – the sticky humid air, the scratching branches, all of their doubts and insecurities and fears – melted away under the intense blaze of their kiss.

And Isaac was certain he’d made the right choice.

31. TRUST

What was going on?  Alessa’s touch had unleashed a vivid flashback, but Isaac couldn’t make sense of any of it.  When had that memory occurred?  What had he and Alessa been doing hiding under that bush in the middle of the night?  And who was this brother, Joe, of whom he had no recollection?

All Isaac knew was that his body recognized the feel of this woman as familiar, and he didn’t know how that could be possible.  But whoever Alessa was, it was clear to him now that she was as vital to his existence as oxygen or water or food.  Whatever she asked of him next, he would deliver.  There was no turning back.

Looking down at the mysterious woman still wrapped in his arms, Isaac burned with anticipation. But before he could seal his lips to Alessa’s, the lights flickered once again and finally went out.  She pulled away quickly, the alarm exuding from her palpable.

With the sun still fading in the distance, there was enough light for Isaac to make out her face.  She quickly glanced around the room, her wide eyes settling on his.

“Isaac, we only have a few seconds, so please listen carefully.”

Her expression had changed.  She was afraid now.  And intense, alert.  Her tension had triggered some sort of instinct in Isaac that told him to follow her lead – or else.

Letting their intimate moment pass was an almost physical ache, but he nodded to signal that he was listening, his eyes searching her face.

She continued.  “Once the lights turn back on, they’ll be watching us, so we’ll need to be discreet.”

Isaac was perplexed.  He couldn’t imagine who could be watching them – or how.  “But why?”

Alessa warily skimmed the room again.  Her words spilled out in a rapid tumble.  “I can’t now…”  She took a deep breath.  “You’re in danger – we both are – and I need you to come with me.  I’m here to help you escape.”

“Escape?”  But she’d already warned him of the fire – what other danger could there be?  It didn’t make any sense, and yet – given her behavior – he didn’t doubt the sincerity of her words.  But if there was danger, he couldn’t possibly leave his family behind.  “I can’t leave without my family…”

Alessa hesitated before responding.  “Isaac, they’re not who you think they are…”  Her expression softened.  “They’re not your real family.  They’re just prisoners here, like us.”

Isaac shook his head in disbelief.  This woman was clearly very confused.

Alessa’s eyes bored into him, a pained expression on her face.  “I know it’s a lot to take in.”  The lights flickered once and a wave of panic swept over her expression.  “Just please… trust me.  I’ll explain everything when there’s time.”

Isaac couldn’t think of a single logical reason to trust Alessa.  His family was his family.  His parents and Josephine featured in all of his memories, back down to his earliest childhood.  What did she mean that they weren’t his real family?  He didn’t know what to think.

And wherever did she get the gall to make such wild assertions, anyway?  If such a thing were true, how could she even know?  To his knowledge, Alessa knew practically nothing about him; she was a stranger to him.

But somewhere deep inside, he knew that wasn’t true.  Just as his subconscious had known her name, he could feel in his bones that he knew this woman.  Something drew him to her in a way that nothing else ever had.

Despite his better judgment, he decided to trust her.  For now.

Isaac stood frozen, waiting for Alessa to act.

The lights flickered once again and she surveyed the room hastily, an animal look in her eyes.  One of her hands released his and darted for the sheathed knife on the table.  She snatched it up and deftly slid it into her waistband under her shirt, the motion smooth and automatic, as if she’d done it a million times before.  Then she quickly retook his hand, resuming the same position they’d been in when the power first went out.

The lights flicked on once more and held, illuminating the room for a moment.  Isaac looked Alessa in the eyes, unsure of what to do, and found a pure, almost feral determination staring back at him.  With a twinge of fear, he wondered if he’d made the wrong decision.

32. PURSUIT

Isaac caught his breath as he waited for a cue from Alessa.  She was unmistakably anxious.  Isaac observed that she was nervously fingering the knife concealed at her waist while eyeing the room.  He didn’t know what to expect next, but he was ready to follow her lead.

When the lights flicked off once again, she wasted no time.  She grabbed Isaac’s hand and sprinted from the room, leading him out of the kitchen and down the hallway in the direction of the parlor.

Thousands of questions tumbled in Isaac’s mind as he wondered about the circumstances that had led her here, but his thoughts were interrupted by Alessa yanking him violently into the foyer closet.  She slammed the door shut behind him and pulled the string overhead to turn on the dim closet light.

“Isaac, quickly, we only have a few minutes before they get here.  Help me barricade the door.”  An expression bordering on panic lined her face as she began frantically searching through the contents of the closet.

“Who’s coming?”

Alessa snatched up a sturdy folded chair and wedged it under the doorknob.  “The producers!” she replied with a grunt as she threw her weight at the chair to jam it in tighter.

The producers?  “Who are ‘the producers?’”

“Isaac, there’s no time.  I promise I will explain as soon as I can.”  She was unfolding a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, her face scrunched with concentration.  “According to the map, there should be a utility tunnel connected to this closet…”

She turned and started knocking lightly on the walls.  Once she reached the back wall, he realized what she was doing – it sounded hollow.  Gritting her teeth, Alessa turned and swung her elbow hard into the plaster.  Isaac cringed, expecting a cry of pain, but when he looked up, he saw that Alessa had punched a large hole at the point of impact.  As she withdrew, Isaac could see thousands of tiny blue and red lights blinking in the darkness beyond.  What in the world…

She began tearing at the hole, ripping chunks of the wall away to reach the dark space behind it.  “Isaac!  Please, there’s no time!”

Isaac put his confusion aside and complied.  As his fingers wrapped around the edge of the hole, he was surprised to find that the wall was thin and light, a dusty composite material that broke readily in his hands.  This was unlike any of the hard, thick plaster he’d ever seen.

Within seconds, they’d opened a hole large enough for Alessa to step through, and she beckoned Isaac to follow.  Still reeling from the surprise of finding a hidden room in his hallway closet, he numbly obeyed.

Isaac stared in disbelief as he emerged from the wall and straightened himself.  He was in a long, narrow corridor that dipped into the earth, with dark metal grating on every side.  Behind the grating, hundreds of glowing blue wires wove together, running through the walls and ceiling with a panel of blinking red lights interjecting every few feet.  The tunnel glowed eerily in a dim blue and red, Isaac and Alessa’s shadows cast in all directions.  Isaac scanned the room in wonder; he’d had no idea that this kind of technology even existed.

Noticing his confusion, Alessa grabbed his hand and drew him deeper into the tunnel.  The passage was only wide enough for one, so Isaac followed behind, holding her tightly.  In a hushed voice, she tried to explain as they felt their way through, shuffling quickly and quietly as they went.  “There are all kinds of tunnels and shafts built into this replica of the house, more so than on my set, which is the original.  If we follow the route on this map, we should eventually end up in a sewer that we can follow to the outside.”

Isaac didn’t understand.  What did she mean that his house was a replica?  Where did these tunnels come from?  What were all these wires and lights and grates?  Where were they going?  “Set?  What do you mean?  How did this passageway get into my house?”

Alessa stopped and faced Isaac, setting her hands on his shoulders.  “Isaac, do you remember anything from Paragon?  Do you remember the compound or the rebellion or Joe?”

The strange dreams he’d been having popped to his mind, and his memory of kissing Alessa, but he still didn’t know how they fit in with what he was seeing.  “I… I’m not sure.  Sometimes I have dreams about a man who looks like me but older… we’re always sneaking about, and I feel afraid but excited.”

Alessa smiled encouragingly.  “That’s Joe.  Joe is your older brother.”

“But I don’t have a brother.  Just my little sister, Josephine.”

Alessa shook her head.  “Josephine’s not really your sister, Isaac.  You’re confused, but it’s not your fault – that’s exactly what they want.  It’s really 2114, almost two hundred years later than you’ve been led to believe, and this house and this farm are all part of an elaborate set for a show.  You and I – and Joe – were rebels fighting against a secret government that was exploiting everyone we knew.  We were captured and imprisoned, and they used some kind of mind control to erase our memories and give us new ones.”

Isaac took a step back and just shook his head.  No, this couldn’t be true…

Alessa grasped his hands before he could move out of reach and gripped them tightly.  “Listen to me, Isaac.  You know all of this already.  You just have to remember.”  She stepped closer to him and spoke softly, never dropping his eyes.  “I know what you’re going through.  The same thing happened to me.  I thought I was a college student in the 21st century until my best friend revealed that it was all fake.  She was my sister, Isaac, and I didn’t even realize it.”  She paused.  “But Janie managed to infiltrate the show and now she’s working with the rebels to help us escape.”

Isaac stopped backing away, but he still couldn’t process all of this.  It sounded familiar, like the plot of a story he’d read a long time ago and forgotten about, but he just couldn’t seem to remember what had happened.

“Isaac, we have to keep moving.  Just try your best to remember.”

Alessa continued to guide him through the tunnels, checking the map every so often.  Isaac’s head was spinning, but somehow he knew that Alessa was telling the truth.  He willed himself to remember, but to no avail.  It just wasn’t coming back to him.

After a few minutes of trailing Alessa through the corridor, he could hear a commotion back by the entrance.  It sounded like someone was trying to bang down the door, but he and Alessa were too far away to see if they’d been successful yet.  Alessa threw one hurried glance over her shoulder and pressed forward ever faster.

A moment later she stopped abruptly, peering from the map to the wall on her left.  She reached up and began pulling at the grate above her head.  With a ping, it pulled loose and Isaac could see a small chute stretching away from the hole in the wall, barely big enough to crawl through.

Alessa folded the map and shoved it deep into her pocket.  “It’s a ventilation shaft.  We’ll need to follow it to a nearby surveillance room where we can switch to another route that will bring us to the sewer.”  She reached up and shimmied into the hole, bracing her legs against the wall for support.  Isaac followed her lead and climbed in after her.

Once in the shaft, she passed the grate she’d removed from the wall to Isaac and he fit it back in place with a pop.  Then Alessa led the way through a few turns and out through another grate into a small room with hundreds of illuminated panels lining the walls.

She checked the lock on the door and pulled out her map once more.  Glancing at the glowing screens, Isaac saw images of his house – the barn, the kitchen, his study.  At first he thought they were well-lit photographs, until he saw a group of men in dark heavy armor beating down the door to the foyer closet.  Isaac realized they were tiny motion picture screens, somehow showing the current state of the various rooms of his house.  In the parlor, he saw his parents and Josephine lying motionless on the floor.  He peered closer at the screen to confirm what he’d seen and gasped.  “No!”

Alessa dropped the map and jumped to his side.  “Isaac, it’s okay!  I’m sure they’re all right – for some reason the producers have seemed reluctant to kill anyone, so they just use gas to make the actors pass out.  That’s why those guards are wearing masks.”

Isaac’s chest was pounding, but he tried to calm down.  Breathing heavily, he demanded, “Who are those people?  And why did you say my family were actors?”

Alessa sighed wearily.  “Well, they’re not actors by choice.  They’re like us – rebels, or maybe just people who were unlucky enough to come across something they weren’t supposed to see.  Either way, they were taken prisoner and their memories wiped, then they were assigned to this show as your family.”

“This show?”

“It’s all a TV drama, Isaac.  The producers did their best to wipe our minds clean, then whatever they couldn’t get rid of – our feelings for each other, for example – they worked into the plot.”

“I don’t understand…”

“It’s because they needed to keep everyone subdued.  They use the shows and the drugs in our food to keep us oblivious and content so we’ll keep working, thinking that we’re all doing our part to rebuild society together.  But someone else is running the show, and they’re using us without our knowledge.  That’s why we joined the rebellion.  To fight, for ourselves and for everyone in Paragon. Is any of this ringing a bell?”

As Alessa filled in the blanks, Isaac could feel something shifting within him.  A rush of images exploded into his vision and a searing burst of pain zapped from one end of his brain to the other.  He collapsed to the ground in agony as his neurons re-stitched themselves and a flood of memories came rushing back all at once.

He could hear Alessa calling his name, but she sounded distant, her voice merely an echo beyond the cacophony raging in his mind.  Suddenly, everything she’d said made sense.

He remembered the war and the outbreak, sheltering with his brother in the government quarantine zone after their mother and father had succumbed to the virus.  A wave of guilt flooded over him – their deaths had been his fault.  As an unplanned child born to a working class family, Isaac had always carried the burden of taking from the rest of his family, of knowing he was just one more mouth to feed.  And then during the outbreak, he had been their undoing.  Isaac’s father had gone out to find food after their stores ran out, and came back with the virus.  His mother caught it, and within days they were gone.  Then it was just Isaac and Joe.

He and his brother had somehow resisted the virus and made it to the quarantine zone, and after years without contact from the outside world, they’d joined their fellow refugees in deciding to start fresh.  They’d christened their new society Paragon, a name to embody the spirit of equality that would underscore the sharing and mutual commitment that would define their community.  Isaac and Joe had received their daily work assignments, ate their rations, watched the nightly dramas, and finally they had begun to settle in to their new lives.

And then Joe had come home one day babbling about drugs, and everything had changed.  After Joe had restricted Isaac’s diet, Isaac realized that he hadn’t been thinking clearly for months.  Together he and his brother had joined the secret rebellion.  And then a mission had gone wrong – Isaac’s mistake, for which he would never forgive himself – and Joe was gone.

After that, Isaac had resolved that Joe’s loss would not be in vain.  That conviction, and Alessa, were all he’d had left.  As the only person who had loved Joe as much as he had, Alessa had become his rock, his constant companion and an ally in the war against whatever sinister forces were guiding Paragon’s rule.  And then they’d been captured during a crucial mission, separated in jail, subjected to endless torture, and Isaac had prepared himself to leave this life altogether, alone.

But then he’d woken up as a different person, a teenager again, on a pastoral farm in a simpler, more peaceful time.  As Isaac Mason of 1917, he’d never quite felt like he belonged.  He’d always known that something was missing from his life, and had carried a deep sense of guilt that he was, or would be, somehow responsible for his family’s ruin.  At the time, he had thought it was because he’d always yearned to leave the farm, abandoning the family business and leaving his sister behind.  But he now understood that those feelings were a part of him, etched into his bones, and nothing that anyone or any technology could ever erase.

In the real world, a sinking depression had threatened to overtake Isaac as he struggled to accept his family’s fate and his own entrapment in Paragon.  But just as Alessa’s specter had been the only catalyst to help the Isaac of 1917 focus on the present, her supportive presence in Paragon had provided the real Isaac with a reason to exist.  And now she’d come back for him, to save him from the awful fate of living a life that was not his own, under the control of the exploitive Ruling Class who saw him and everyone else only as pawns for their manipulation.

Isaac Mason of 1917 was gone now, and in 2114, Isaac was a child no more.  He may only have been a boy of 16 when he passed through what would become Paragon’s gates, but he was a man of 24 now, a soldier.  And with Alessa by his side, he would do everything in his power to avenge his brother, and finally prove his worth to his parents.

Isaac shivered remembering how readily his mind had slipped into 1917 without a single look back.  It must have been months since then; Isaac’s stomach tensed at the thought of all the time they’d lost.  It was time now to finish their mission.

Isaac groaned as the rush of memories subsided.  He reached out to Alessa, who was kneeling beside him, and croaked a weary, “I remember.”

Alessa flung herself over his chest, breathing a sob of joy as she circled her arms tightly around him.  “Oh, Isaac.”  After a long embrace, she sat up and cupped his face gently in her hands.  With a bright smile, Alessa stared deeply into Isaac’s eyes, her words infused with relief.  “You’re back.”

33. BETRAYAL

Despite Isaac’s irresistible sapphire eyes, Alessa was having trouble training her vision on his face.  Still woozy from whatever the producers had used to knock her out for transport to Isaac’s set, she was struggling to focus her mind on anything at all.  It was a miracle she’d even made it this far.

But now Isaac – her Isaac – was finally back.

Alessa’s body buzzed as she leaned in, hastening the moment when their lips would finally meet after so many months apart.  They pressed together, their kiss releasing a dizzy burning that radiated throughout Alessa’s being, taking her breath away.

For the first time in over a year, Alessa felt whole once again.  She clutched the wall behind her for support as lightheadedness descended over her, born from the intensity of the turmoil Isaac’s touch had induced.  She ran her fingers roughly through his thick hair and concentrated on pouring every ounce of her longing into the kiss.

As they broke apart from their embrace, Alessa struggled to steady herself.  She could see from Isaac’s dazed expression that the kiss had shaken him as well.  He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, a contented smile on his face.

Alessa gathered up the map from the floor and caught her breath as she allowed Isaac to rest for a few more moments. Having just regained his memories, Alessa knew from experience that it would be some time before Isaac could really process everything he’d been through.  In the meantime, she would have to take responsibility for leading them to safety.

As the sound of the guards’ voices drew nearer, she was forced to interrupt his repose.  Shaking Isaac’s shoulder gently, she whispered an urgent plea.  “Isaac.  I know you’re exhausted, but we have to get going.  They’re getting closer.”

Isaac moaned and nodded, rubbing his temples with his fingertips.  Alessa crawled to a second ventilation shaft on the floor opposite the one they’d entered through and dug her nails under the edge to pop it from the wall.  With a quick glance behind her to make sure that Isaac was following, she slid on her stomach into the narrow chute.

Shimmying on her belly, Alessa felt her way in the darkness through the path that the map had laid out.  She and Isaac moved as quietly as they could, keeping their hushed discussion to a minimum.  Finally they arrived at a vent that opened onto a large room.  It was marked on the map as the most direct route for crossing into another series of tunnels which would lead to the sewer.

Alessa carefully peered through the grate to check that the room was clear.  It was fairly well lit, and all Alessa could see from her position at the base of the wall were some empty desks and chairs a few yards away.  For a moment she thought she’d seen a quick movement – a shadow maybe – but when nothing else stirred after two minutes of waiting, she decided she must have imagined it.

Using her elbow, she swung through the cramped space into the grate.  It popped out of the wall and clattered across the tile floor.  Alessa paused, listening for any signs that the disturbance had been heard, but there were none.  She reached through the hole and started drawing herself out into the room.

It was only when she was halfway through the opening that she realized her mistake.

Alessa heard a soft click to her left and her heart dropped to her stomach.  She wasn’t alone.  Slowly looking over her shoulder, Alessa was horrified to find four guards in heavy black armor with guns pointed in her direction.

The nearest one snarled a quiet, “Freeze.”

Adrenaline surging through her body, Alessa knew her only chance was escape.  “Isaac, run!” she screamed, simultaneously shoving herself back into the shaft.

But the guards were too quick.  The nearest one swiftly reached into the shaft and snatched up the end of the long ponytail that trailed behind her.  He pulled hard to drag her out of the tunnel.

Alessa flipped onto her back and clutched for the knife hidden at her waist, withdrawing it from its sheath and jabbing at the guard’s wrist.  The blade glanced off his armor uselessly.  She aimed again for his hand, but the sharp blade was unable to penetrate his tightly-woven protective glove.

Alessa fought the urge to panic as she felt her body inching out of the chute.  Isaac had grabbed on to her ankles, but in his shaken state, he was unable to do much more than slow the guard’s progress.  Alessa could feel her skin starting to lift away from her skull, strands of hair ripping from her scalp and dropping to the floor beside her as the guard tugged with all his might.  Then suddenly, she knew what to do.

Alessa positioned her knife at the base of her scalp, swinging skyward as the razor-sharp blade sheared through her hair in one swift motion.  And just like that, she was free.

As she slid back into the shaft, she saw the guard stagger backward, knocking into the three behind him as they all lost their footing like toppling dominos.

“Go, go, go!” she shouted to Isaac as they retreated into the depths of the tunnel.

Once they were safely away from the opening and hidden beyond an erratic set of turns in the dark chute, Isaac gasped for air as he looked to Alessa for a report.  “What happened back there?”

Alessa tried to catch her breath as she replied.  “They… were waiting for us.  I don’t know… it was like… they knew.”

All of a sudden it dawned on Alessa.  They did know, and there was only one way they could have.  Someone had leaked their escape route to the producers; there was a traitor within the rebels.  “No…” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

Alessa felt sick as she considered what her realization meant.  First of all, she and Isaac obviously could no longer follow their planned route to the exit, that much was for sure.  But that problem wasn’t insurmountable – assuming that their map was accurate, they should be able to find another path.

More concerning was the fact that Janie was in the middle of executing her own escape, and Alessa had planned to meet up with her at the exit to the sewer.  If the guards knew where Alessa was headed, would they set up an ambush there as well?  Alessa shuddered.  There was no way to send a warning to her sister.

Isaac sensed her trepidation.  “What is it, Alessa?”

“There’s a traitor…  Someone told the producers where to expect us.  And now Janie…” she couldn’t bring herself to say it.  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

Isaac’s eyes grew wide and his breathing quickened.  He whispered urgently.  “Alessa, what?”

Alessa opened her eyes and stared ahead blankly, a numb look on her face.  “She was supposed to meet us at the exit.”

Isaac grasped the implications immediately.  “Oh, no.  She’s going to walk right into their trap.”

Alessa broke down as she nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.

After all this, all they had survived together – the war, the outbreak, life in Paragon, the drama – she was finally going to lose her sister.  Alessa couldn’t move, couldn’t think.  Anything she did would be futile.  She was powerless.

The hope drained from Alessa, left her empty and hollow.  She would lose them all, one by one, everyone she cared about.  It was only a matter of time before they got Isaac, too.  And then what would she have left?  What would be the point of any of it?  Why should she even bother?

Alessa was no hero, she knew that now.  It had been fun, for a time, to put on the rebel’s shoes, to play at subterfuge and revolt, to feel for a moment that she could make a difference.  But when it came down to it, she was only just a girl.  How could she ever have thought that she could change things?

Isaac clutched Alessa’s hand.  “Alessa.  Alessa, look at me.”

Alessa sighed heavily, her head slumping towards her chest, her entire body collapsing inward.  There was nothing to do now but wait, wait to be caught and put back on another show in another place.  This time, she would stay there.  Anything was better than here.  Maybe they might even kill her, just end it all.

“Alessa!” Isaac shook her violently.

Begrudgingly, Alessa peeked up at him.

In a hushed voice, Isaac continued.  “Less, come on, don’t give up on me yet.  Maybe we can beat them to the exit, get a warning to Janie.”

Alessa only sighed in response.  Now was no time for false hope – it was time to face the truth.

But Isaac was persistent.  “Come, we have to keep moving.  Where’s the map?”

Without lifting her eyes from the ground, Alessa listlessly withdrew the map from her pocket and held it in Isaac’s direction.  She couldn’t even bear to look at it, couldn’t muster the will to hand it to him.  Her sister was all but lost, and they would be next.

As Isaac pored over the page, Alessa distractedly ran her hand through her newly cropped hair.  It fell to her chin in soft layers that framed her face, the strands at the nape of her neck – only an inch long at most – ending abruptly in her fingers.

Isaac looked up from the map and noticed Alessa nervously toying with the ends of her hair.  He ran his fingers through a lock and let it fall back into place, smiling.  “I love your hair like this.  Do you remember the last time you cut it?”

Alessa thought about how she had felt the last time her hair was this short, a few months after Joe had died when she began working for the rebels in earnest.

At the time, she had told herself it was for convenience – with her late night missions and the constant stress of staying undercover, the last thing she had time to pay attention to was her appearance.  But the moment she’d made the first cut, Alessa had realized that it was much more.

She’d been at the precipice of a new stage in her life, and she’d realized in that moment that her new style was symbolic of her transition.  The frightened long-haired girl who had stepped through Paragon’s gates clutching her little sister – and the world that girl had come from – was no more.  Alessa had decided that she was done being afraid.  With each strand that had fallen to the floor around her, Alessa’s resolve had been strengthened.  She wasn’t going to be a victim anymore.  She was going to fight.

And as Alessa remembered that feeling, her tears subsided and her heart filled with rage.  Paragon could take everyone she loved – Joe, Janie, even Isaac – but she would never back down.  As long as she had an ounce of life left in her, she would fight them every step of the way.

And Janie wasn’t gone yet.  Isaac was right – they needed to find a way to beat the guards there and warn her.

Fortified, her voice rang with tenacity.  “Do you have a plan?”

Isaac beamed.  He nodded, turning the paper in her direction.  “Look – if we go back out and follow the first tunnel, it should lead to a maintenance room that has sewer access.  There’s another drain opening not far from where we were supposed to meet Janie.  If we hurry, we might be able to make it there in time.  But first –” a mischievous grin crept onto his face “– let’s slow them down a bit.”

34. DIVERSION

Isaac led the way through the shaft back to the utility tunnel they had first entered through.  Carefully, he and Alessa worked their way through the long, narrow hall, listening closely for any sign that they’d been followed.  Alessa was not about to walk into another ambush.

After a few tense minutes, Isaac looked up from the map.  “If I’m reading this correctly, there should be a maintenance closet up ahead with sewer access.”  He pointed toward a door 10 yards away where the tunnel ended.  “That’s our path to the outside.  But before we go, I want to create a diversion to distract the guards while we make our way to Janie.”

Alessa nodded.  She wasn’t sure if Janie would even make it that far – after all, they may try to intercept her along her route as well – but she pushed the thought aside.  If Janie could make it out, Alessa would be there to receive her.

Isaac reached up and ran his fingers along a set of gray pipes that ran against the ceiling.  He knocked against the pipes a bit, testing for something.

“Some of these are carrying water and some are carrying gas, but I’m not exactly sure how to tell which is which… Do you have that knife still?”

“Here.”  Alessa drew the knife from her jeans and pointed the handle towards Isaac.

Isaac grasped the knife and looked up at the pipes once more.  “Well, one way to find out.”

With a swift swing of his arm, Isaac jabbed the tip of the knife into one of the pipes.  Alessa could hear a quiet hiss coming from the hole, and a moment later she smelled the distinct aroma of gas.

“Got it,” Isaac said.  “Okay, let’s move.”

Alessa followed Isaac towards the closet, but she still wasn’t entirely sure what he was planning.  “Isaac, wait.  What’s the plan here?”

Opening the maintenance room door, Isaac headed straight for the manhole cover in the middle of the concrete floor.  Grunting as he shifted the heavy round plate to the side, he explained, “I’m going to blow up the shaft.”

“What?!”  Alessa fired off questions.  “How?  Won’t that kill us?  What about Janie? She could still be inside!”

Withdrawing his head from the sewer hole, he replied, “These are 12-inch concrete floors, and we’re going to be on the other side of them when the explosion happens.”

“And what about everyone else, the other actors on your set and Janie?”

“If these gas lines were built correctly, there should be safety mechanisms that will keep the explosion relatively isolated, and we’re far enough away from the set now that nothing but smoke should reach the house.  As for Janie, we can only assume that she’s still headed toward the original sewer drain, so this area of the tunnel shouldn’t be in her path.”

Alessa was still a little wary, but without any better options, she decided to go along.  Even a small explosion would still cause quite a mess for the guards to deal with.  Hopefully the diversion would buy enough time for Janie to make it to the meeting point unscathed.  “Okay, and how are you planning to ignite the blast?”

“Simple – all we need is a spark.”

Isaac propped the door to the maintenance closet open, giving him a direct line of sight to the pierced pipe.  The scent of gas was overwhelming now.

He directed Alessa to descend through the manhole to the safety of the sewer below.  She climbed down the ladder and scurried a few yards deeper into the tunnel away from the manhole, bracing herself under one of the overhead supports.

Isaac mounted the ladder and took a few steps down until he was mostly through the hole.  Holding the knife gently in his hand, he took aim and whipped the knife toward the section of the wall directly below the open gas pipe.

The end of the handle glanced off the wall and the knife skittered across the floor.  Isaac cursed.

Dipping his head into the sewer, he took a deep breath and scrambled up the ladder.  A moment later he returned, gasping through the manhole, knife in hand once more.

This time his aim was true.  With a skillful flick of the wrist, Isaac’s blade hit its mark, glinting off the wall’s metal grating in a shower of sparks.  The gas ignited in a tidal wave of flame.

Isaac dropped through the hole and hit the floor hard, covering his head with his arms as debris and smoke raced behind him.  Alessa grasped the sewer wall for support as the fiery gas raced through the pipes with a loud boom that shook everything around them.

“Isaac!” she called.  “Are you okay?”  The sewer was quickly filling with a thick black smoke – she could only barely make out his form.

Isaac coughed and stretched in the direction of her voice.  “Alessa?  Yeah, I’m all right.”

He coughed more and began crawling towards her.  Alessa dropped to her knees where the visibility was better and scrambled over to meet him.  She knew he was drained to begin with after the shock of regaining his memory, and she was worried that he might be injured now on top of it.

Reaching him, Alessa was relieved to see that he had suffered no worse than bumps and scratches from the falling debris.  He sat up and slumped against the wall.

“I just need a minute, Less.  To catch my breath.”

Alessa kneeled next to him, waiting.  But every moment they delayed, the tunnel got darker, and the air more difficult to breathe.  Finally, she took his hand.

“Isaac, we’ve got to go.”

He nodded and followed her to his feet, but as he put pressure on his right ankle, he let out a small yelp.

“Are you hurt?” Alessa demanded, concerned.

Isaac gingerly put more weight onto the affected foot.  He grimaced.  “I think it’s just a sprain.  Let’s keep moving.”

Limping, he trailed behind Alessa as she made her way through the sewer, ducking to stay below the thick smoke that had filled the upper part of the tunnel.  Luckily, there was enough light from the opening up ahead that they managed to avoid the stream of fetid muck that trickled down the center of the tube.

Hand in hand, Isaac and Alessa made their way towards the outside, praying they had given Janie the opportunity she needed to escape.

35. DELIVERANCE

Alessa and Isaac emerged coughing and panting from the sewer drain, a cloud of smoke leaking from the tunnel behind them.  In the distance, they could see a thick column of black bellowing into the sky from the direction of the set.

Alessa laughed and flashed an appreciative smile at Isaac.  “Well, I think your plan worked.”

Isaac coupled his wide grin with a modest shrug of the shoulders.  “I picked up a thing or two in my time with the rebels.”

“No kidding.”

The sewer had ended in a shallow ditch which dumped Isaac and Alessa in the middle of a dark wood.  By now the sun had set completely, and a bright full moon had replaced it, illuminating the forest in an eerie crystal blue.  Upon climbing from the ditch, Alessa could see that the old growth trees thinned out not far to the west, the orange lights of Paragon glowing in the distance, casting long shadows from the compound’s walls on the snow covered ground.  A veil of smoke hovered above the northern section of the complex, blotting out the lights below.

Gazing at the chaos in the distance, Alessa still couldn’t believe they’d pulled it off.  But there wasn’t much time for celebration – they still needed to make it to the original meeting place in hopes of finding Janie before the guards did.  “Let’s move on.”

Alessa and Isaac carefully picked their way north through the gnarled trees and thick undergrowth of the dark forest in the direction of the drainage pipe where they expected Janie to emerge.  The frozen ground was littered with bare shrubs and a smattering of snow leftover from the recent storm.

Alessa shivered.  She was still in the same jeans and sweater she’d been wearing when she and Janie had used the wormhole device.  She’d at least had the foresight to throw on a couple extra layers, but anything heavier than that risked raising suspicion amongst the producers.  And Isaac, who’d had no warning of what was to come, was wearing only his usual light cotton shirt.  Alessa prayed that the rebels had left some equipment for them at the rendezvous point – otherwise, they may not even survive the night, let alone the oncoming winter.

As they reached the location of the other sewer drain, Isaac and Alessa slowed their pace and approached quietly, alert for any sign of the guards.  All was quiet.  Unfortunately, Janie was nowhere in sight.

Searching the area, Alessa spotted two heavy packs stashed among the bushes lining the sewer opening.  She exhaled with relief, thankful that the rebels had found an opportunity to equip them for the mission.

They grabbed the packs and settled down in a thicket not far from the sewer to wait.  From their vantage point slightly up a hill, they’d have a clear view of any movement from Janie but were still hidden behind enough cover to escape without notice if the guards decided to make an appearance.  Alessa unloaded two heavy coats from her backpack.  Slipping one over her shoulders, she was pleased to find a set of warm gloves and a winter hat stashed in the pockets.

Isaac, who had donned the second coat, scooted closer to Alessa and put his arm around her shoulders.  “So, do you have any idea when Janie’s supposed to show up?”

Alessa shook her head.  “She was pretty vague – we didn’t get a chance to talk in detail with the cameras always rolling.  All she said was, ‘Be careful,’ and ‘I’ll see you on the other side.’”

Alessa dug into the backpack once more looking for Janie’s coat, thinking she would warm it up against her chest before Janie arrived.  When she didn’t find a third coat in the first bag she tried the other one, but was dismayed to find that there was no coat stored there either.  She wondered how Regina could have overlooked such a basic piece of gear… and then she understood.

Alessa gasped loudly, an expression of horror on her face.  “Oh my God.  She’s not coming.”

“What do you mean she’s not coming?”

Alessa buried her head in her hands, muttering quietly to herself.  “How could I have been so dense?”

“What?  What happened?” Isaac urged.

Alessa dropped her arms in defeat and turned to face Isaac.  “I don’t know how I could have forgotten… ‘See you on the other side,’ were my mother’s last words to us as we were separated at the gate.  I don’t think Janie ever intended to come with us.”

Alessa couldn’t believe her sister had lied to her.  She closed her eyes and shook her head once more, disappointed and disbelieving.

Isaac nodded, his face grim, and took Alessa’s hand.  “Well, at least that means the guards aren’t looking for her, right?  As long as she stayed in character, she should be safe…”

“Safe from the guards, maybe, but what’s next?  Now that they don’t need her for the show anymore, who knows what they might do to her?”  Alessa couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her sister behind.  With the show over, they were no doubt going to toss her back in one of the cold, lonely cells in Paragon’s prison to await her next assignment, subjecting her to who knows what ghastly tortures in the meantime.  And what if the producers figured out who had helped her and Isaac escape?  Alessa would never have agreed to this if she’d known.

Still holding Alessa’s hand, Isaac brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently through the thick fabric of her gloves.  With kindness in his eyes, he tried to reassure her in a soft voice.  “It will be okay, Alessa.  Regina will keep her safe, and we’ll find her as soon as we get back.”

Alessa wasn’t as optimistic, but she knew there was nothing she could do.  She just dropped her eyes to the ground with a heavy sigh.

Isaac released Alessa’s hand and clasped his own together, blowing a long breath onto his numb fingers.  “Where did you get those gloves, anyway?”

“They were in my jacket.”

As Isaac withdrew the gloves from his own pockets, a small piece of paper fell into his lap.

Watching as he unfolded it, Alessa saw that it was a letter.

“It’s from Regina.”

“What does it say?”

Isaac held the paper out and adjusted the angle until he caught the moonlight just right.  Then he cleared his throat and read aloud:

Dear Isaac and Alessa,

I’m sure you’ve been through quite the ordeal today, and I hope you are both doing well, at least as well as could be expected under the circumstances.  Unfortunately, it’s unlikely that what lies ahead for you is going to offer much in the way of respite.  We don’t know what to expect beyond Paragon’s walls, but hopefully the supplies we’ve gathered for you will help in some small way to ease your journey.

I doubt I need to remind either of you of the gravity of your mission.  The rebel movement will not survive much longer under Paragon’s iron grip; we need a place of our own to regroup and build up the resistance.  These past months have been difficult on us all, and we’re counting on you to bring us back some good news.

By now you must have figured out that Janie won’t be joining you.  I apologize for our deception, but we knew that Alessa would never willingly leave her sister behind.  Janie has become a critical component of our operation in your absence, and she can do more good for the cause here than she could have out there.  I’m sure you understand.  She sends her love and hopes you will find it in your hearts to forgive her.

As you scour the surrounding area for what I hope will become our next home, please remember that our situation here is dire.  If you find anything encouraging to report, do not tarry.  Every day that we delay puts the resistance more at risk.  Once your plan is ready, return to the place where you found these packs and you will find instructions to contact me.  I will expect to hear from you by the end of May, if not sooner.

I wish you a safe and speedy mission.  Stay strong and remember your training.  The people of Paragon need you.

—R

36. DUTY

Alessa awoke at dawn wrapped tightly in the warm cocoon of Isaac’s arms.  She lay still, listening to the silence of the forest and watching as the tendrils of her and Isaac’s breath mingled in the cold air above them.  For a few moments at least, she savored the tranquil morning, allowing the trials ahead of them to slip quietly away.

But a few moments was all they could safely spare.  Having been hesitant to turn on a flashlight for fear of attracting notice, they hadn’t been able to travel far in the night’s blanketing darkness.  They had settled in for the night on a high hillside not more than a mile from the sewer drain, and it was there they still laid now, limbs entangled as the sun’s first rays crept over the barren ground.  There was no doubt that Paragon’s guards would be looking for them at first light; it was time to go.

Alessa nudged Isaac awake and he let out a groan as he stretched his stiff muscles.  “Argh.  What time is it?”

“Time to get moving.”  She brushed her lips softly against his cheek.

Isaac grinned and tucked a strand of Alessa’s hair behind her ear.  “I could think of something better to do…”

Alessa smirked.  “At least let me do something about this hair before we go there,” she teased.  She couldn’t imagine what her one-stroke restyling must look like in the light of day.

Isaac cupped her face in his hands and kissed her firmly on the lips.  Pulling back only an inch, he looked deep into her eyes and smiled genuinely.  “Don’t do a thing.  You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

Alessa glowed as she and Isaac quickly folded the blankets they’d found in their backpacks.  They took a quick inventory of the other supplies the rebels had left for them, now that it was light enough to see the contents of their packs.

“Fire starter, blades, flashlight, socks, a few days’ rations, a bottle of water,” Isaac listed the contents of his pack as Alessa dug through hers as well.

“Same here.  Oh, and a compass.”

“Good.  Well, we should be okay for a few days at least.”

“True,” Alessa agreed.  “How’s your ankle feeling?”

Isaac rolled it tentatively.  “I’ll be all right.  It’s a little swollen, but I can walk on it without too much pain.”

Alessa was relieved about that, but she was still worried about him in general.  “And how are you otherwise?”

Isaac sighed.  “Okay.  I mean, physically I’m fine.  I was tired after yesterday, after I remembered – it hurt, my memories coming back.  It really took it out of me.  But I’m feeling better now.”  He paused then and looked at Alessa, inquiring.  “How do they do it?  How do they just replace all my memories with whatever they want?  It was the oddest sensation, like my brain was being –”

“Stitched?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“I know.  I experienced the same thing.”  She sighed.  “I don’t understand it, either.  All Janie told me was that the producers have some kind of technology that rewires your neural pathways, hiding your memories and sewing new ones in their place.  The rebels are calling it the ‘stitch.’”

Isaac contemplated for a moment, then shook his head.  “I just can’t believe we lost so much time.  How long were we captured for?”

“A year?  Maybe a little more than that.”

Isaac thought that over for a moment, then set his jaw in fury.  “Who are these people?  Why are they doing this to us?”

Alessa just shook her head.  “I wish I could tell you, Isaac.  All I know is that the rebels are flailing, and they’re depending on us to finish our mission.  And as we learned yesterday, there’s apparently a traitor within our ranks.”

Isaac rubbed his temples, his anger displaced by dismay.  “Ugh, I’d forgotten about that.  I wonder if they know.”

“I don’t see how we could warn them if they don’t.  I guess we’ll just have to trust in Regina to stay as on top of things as she always does.”

“I guess so.”  His anger deflated, Isaac took a deep breath.  “We should probably get going.”

Alessa nodded.  “So which direction do you think we should head?”

Crunching snow between his fingers, Isaac replied, “How about south?”

Alessa smiled.  “South works for me.”

They repacked their supplies and shared a small chunk sliced off a block of hard cheese from their rations.  It was a meager breakfast, but it was heartening nonetheless.

Swallowing, Isaac commented, “We’re going to have to be careful about how much we eat until we can resupply.”

Alessa nodded.  “There’s not going to be much in these woods at this time of year.  We should probably look for a route towards the city – maybe we can scavenge some canned goods.”

“We’ll be more likely to find shelter there too, maybe even the base that Regina is hoping for.”

Alessa nodded, but she still held some reservations about venturing toward what had once been more populated areas.  Though she knew that heading to the suburbs and city was the right plan, she also knew that the virus had no less than decimated the world population, and Alessa just wasn’t sure if she was ready to face that.  It’d been… not effortless, but easier, to put the total destruction of everything she’d ever known aside while safely hidden behind Paragon’s walls.  But there was no hiding from the truth anymore.

“Isaac… what do you think it will be like out there?”

Isaac set his mouth in a line and shook his head.  “I really don’t know.  We headed for the quarantine zone relatively early, so I wasn’t there to witness the worst of it.  But the few people I saw who had caught the virus… it was horrible.”  He shook away the memory of his parents.

Alessa nodded.  “I know… But it’s been eight years since they closed the gates.  I just keep telling myself that with no one left to infect, the virus must have died out too.  Right?”

“Let’s hope.”

Alessa knew that her rationalization was speculative at best – after all, who knew how long the disease could lay dormant? – but she did her best to put her fears aside.  At this rate, exposure to the elements or starvation were more likely to get them first, so she decided instead to focus on the immediate task of survival.

Regina had made sure that Isaac and Alessa were well prepared for this mission, and Alessa was fairly certain that she remembered most of her training.  She knew where to look for food and water, how to build shelter and start a fire, the basics of first aid and navigation.  But nothing had quite prepared her for the enormity of the task laid out before her.

The world beyond Paragon’s gates felt big.  Even the simple question of which direction to head held potentially life-altering consequences.  In one direction, they might find sustenance, or the defensible facility that Regina was hoping for.  In the other, maybe death.  The problem was that they didn’t know which way was which, and one small misstep could get them lost, sick, hurt… or worse.  It was imperative that they remain always alert, vigilant.  They couldn’t let their guard down even for a second.

And the hardest part was that the rebels were counting on them.  As far as Alessa knew, the survivors living within Paragon’s walls may be the only people on the planet who had managed to escape the scourge of the outbreak.  Given that mind control and drug-enabled coercion were what Paragon had come up with in the first eight years of its existence, Alessa didn’t even want to think about what else might be in store.  And she knew that if she and Isaac didn’t return with a viable plan – or didn’t return at all – they could be condemning everyone here to life behind the walls of the thinly-veiled prison camp that was Paragon.

Isaac seemed to be thinking the same thing.  He took Alessa’s hand with an earnest look.  “Alessa, promise me that we’re going to pull this off.  For Joe’s sake.”  He took a deep breath and brushed away the tears that had begun to well in his eyes.  “He gave up his life for me, and I need to know that that was worth something.  I need to do this to make his sacrifice count.”

Alessa nodded solemnly.  “He knew you’d make it count, Isaac.  And so do I.  We’ll find a way to do this.”  And for the first time in months, Alessa truly believed it.

She’d spent so long feeling trapped, alone, lost.  She remembered her long march to Paragon’s gates, her family by her side.  The quarantine center was supposed to be their salvation, but even then, Alessa had sensed that all was already lost.  With each step, she remembered feeling like all of her hopes and dreams for the future were crumbling to the ground around her, disintegrating in a cloud of dust.  And when she’d passed through the gates with only Janie to hold, she’d known her premonitions had been right.  Nothing would ever be the same.

Her life in Paragon had felt like one big pause, even after she’d discovered the drugs.  Every day was monotonous, one day bleeding into the next, and for five long years, she had simply survived, nothing more and nothing less.

But after Joe’s loss had spurred Alessa to join forces with the rebels, things had begun to change.  Alessa’s missions had given her a sense of satisfaction that nothing else in Paragon ever had.  As she progressed, she began to feel in control again, like she finally had some power over her own life.  The feeling was intoxicating, addictive even, and she’d begun to crave it.

But then overconfidence had landed her in Paragon’s clutches, and during her months in lockup, Alessa’s old feelings of hopelessness had come back to her in force.  For a time, Alessa had truly believed that she was capable of anything, that she was destined for greatness despite everything that had befallen her.  And losing that conviction had been crippling.  Even on the drama, these bitter feelings of powerlessness had overshadowed her every thought.

But that was behind her now.  She and Isaac had an opportunity to make a difference in the sorry world that they’d inherited, and they would do everything in their power to achieve that goal.

From their position on the top of the hill, Alessa and Isaac had a clear view of the landscape around them in the bright, cloudless morning.  The forest stretched out to the east and south, as far as the eye could see.  And to the west, where the trees petered out into rolling plains, Paragon’s thick gray walls rose abruptly like a scar.

Slinging her pack over her shoulders, Alessa took one last look in the direction of Paragon’s walls, wondering when she would see them next.  Not before she had a plan to bring them down, she vowed.

She turned her back and sidled up alongside Isaac, the crisp scent of pine needles and the soft, stroking rustle of the wind fusing with the taste of hope on her tongue.  She knew this was a moment she would never forget.

Isaac held out his hand to her, his deep blue eyes sparkling in the morning sun.  He motioned at the vast expanse laid out before them, beckoning.  “Shall we?”

Grasping Isaac’s fingers in her own, Alessa smiled gently, certain that with Isaac by her side, she could overcome whatever life may throw at them.  “Let’s.”

And they took their first tentative steps away from Paragon together.

EPILOGUE: FURY

A Sneak Preview from SHUDDER (Stitch Trilogy, Book 2)

The General slammed his fist on the table, the noise reverberating through the large room.  “This is completely unacceptable.”

The Developer rested his elbows on the table, one lanky arm bending as he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.  He let out a long sigh before leaning back in his chair, tossing his shaggy, unkempt hair back in an awkward motion.  He waited for the grumbling to subside before he spoke – as the youngest billionaire on the planet, he’d grown used to having a captive audience.

“This rebellion has become more than a headache; it’s putting our plans for Paragon at risk, and it’s time we take more drastic measures to resolve the problem.  We should never have let it get this far.”  His whiny voice and slouching shoulders didn’t command much in the way of esteem, but the four other men in the room – the Engineers, as they liked to call themselves – sat rapt nevertheless.  They had quickly learned that what the Developer lacked in presence and age, he made up for with brilliance and guile.

“If I may…” The Economist cleared his throat.  Though this was technically a group of equals, he often found himself deferring to the others, being more comfortable with books than he ever was with people.  But if their plans for Paragon were ever to succeed, this group above all else needed to keep their focus on the end game, instead of allowing themselves to be sidetracked by minor setbacks.

He continued.  “It’s only two people, and given the weather forecast, it’s unlikely that they’ll even make it through the week.  How much trouble could they cause?  I vote that we let them go and focus our efforts instead on reaching our goals for the collective.  It’s been years since the deliberations have made any real progress and –”

The Doctor cut off his remarks with one biting look.  “Only two people?  And what traits might those two people be carrying that are essential to our race?  Do you presume to know why they were chosen for Paragon?  Presume to decide who here is expendable?”

“N-n-no… I just…”  He took a moment to compose himself.  “We’re supposed to be working toward a true communist society, and every day that the Ruling Class remains in power, we are one more step away from achieving that goal.  The only reason the rebellion thrives today is due to the continued existence of the Ruling Class, so to me it seems that recapturing a couple of rebels is treating the symptom, not the cause.  Let them go, and instead let’s put our energies towards facilitating the deliberation process, thereby hastening the birth of the ideal society that was the entire reason for this whole undertaking.”

The Doctor’s silver hair glinted in the sharp artificial light as he devoted his entire head to the effort of rolling his eyes.  “Save your pretty rhetoric, Ben.  There won’t be any society if we don’t have the genes to support one.”

The Developer nodded vigorously in agreement.  “He’s right.  The algorithm was very specific in who was selected, and we need to trust that everyone here deserved to be chosen.  Otherwise, what was the point of everything we did?”

Everyone took a moment to digest his last comment.  They had agreed from the beginning that sacrifices would be needed to make this work, and indeed those sacrifices had been huge – the biggest the world had ever seen.  But they had only agreed to the plan knowing that it was the only way to do this right, and that everyone would benefit in the end.  Everyone who was left, anyway.

“So what are you suggesting?”  The Draftsman – the oldest and most levelheaded of the group – spoke, as always, in a steady, reasoned tone, absentmindedly stroking his paunch.

Before the Developer could respond, the General chimed in with a suggestion of his own, his raspy voice filled with retribution.  “We have the girl, the one that helped them escape.  I say we make an example of her, send a message to the rebels that we won’t tolerate their insubordination any longer.”  As he rubbed the scar across his lips, he muttered, “Stupid bitch.”

The Draftsman wondered if he was referring to the girl or to the rebel leader, but either way, he dismissed his comments as bluster.  Over the years he’d come to despise the General’s deep insecurities, and his resulting tendency to overcompensate.  It was a shame, really – the man had a magnificent reserve of military knowledge, but his personal flaws marred his usefulness considerably.  And at least the rest of them had actually achieved the titles they’d chosen for themselves – the General had never earned that rank at all, he’d just christened himself upon finding that he had the power to do so.  To say that the Draftsman found the General trying was an understatement indeed.  But much to the Draftsman’s chagrin, the others had not yet come to the same conclusion.

The Developer, in fact, seemed to be seriously considering a show of force.  Shaking his head, he reflected, “If only we knew where Regina Green were hiding… we could drop the girl’s head right at her front door.”

“That’s sick!” the Economist blurted, appalled.

The Doctor once again shot him down.  “Oh, please.  Like you haven’t agreed to worse.”

As barbaric as it was, the Draftsman had to admit that the Doctor spoke the truth.  “Eugene has a point there – we’ve all agreed to worse.  ‘The ends justify the means’ has been a de facto tenet of our philosophy…”

“Thank you, Pascal.”  The withering glare subsided from the Doctor’s face.  “Now, as I said before, I don’t like the idea of tinkering with the algorithm’s selections, but in this one case, I suppose we could make an exception.  After all, she wasn’t part of the original results set to begin with.”

Chastised, the Economist held his tongue while the others nodded in agreement.

The Developer stood, signaling that the meeting had come to a close.  “Then it’s decided.  We’ll use the girl to send a message.  Given that we don’t know Regina’s location, everyone think about what might be our most effective strategy and we’ll reconvene in the morning to finalize the plan.  And remember, as distasteful as this might be, the rebels haven’t left us much choice.”

He held his right fist at his shoulder in the customary gesture, and the others stood and followed suit.  “For Paragon,” he stated, accompanying the sentiment with an almost imperceptible nod of the head.

The room echoed in unison as the men added their response, each earnestly believing the mantra in his own way.  “For Paragon, always.”

———

Continue reading in Book 2 of the Stitch Trilogy

SHUDDER
www.stitchtrilogy.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dear Reader,

Thank you, thank you, thank you for making time in your busy schedule to read my very first novel, Stitch.  It is an absolute honor to share Alessa and Isaac’s story with you, and I’m thrilled that you chose this book out of the millions of incredible books at your disposal.  Truly, I cannot thank you enough.  You are a dream come true.

If you enjoyed Stitch and are interested in reading the rest of the series, I encourage you to join the Stitch community at www.samanthadurante.com to sign up for notifications of future Stitch Trilogy releases and to keep up with the tons of exciting extra content that’s published on my blog, Facebook pages, Twitter account, and Goodreads page almost every day.

I also wanted to take a moment to express my sincere gratitude to all of the fans who have so graciously spread the word about Stitch on their blogs and social media.  This book could never have succeeded without your help, and I am utterly in your debt.  You guys are amazing – I really can’t say it enough.

I’ve been reading books since I can remember, but until I began writing professionally, I never understood how truly dependent authors are on their fans.  As a reader, I always assumed that a good author would get picked up by an agent and publisher, and that those allies would use their arsenals of marketing and PR tools to ensure that the author’s books would reach their rightful audience.  And perhaps things used to be like this, once upon a time, but the publishing industry is changing, and unfortunately this is no longer the case.

The traditional publishing model just isn’t working anymore, and as a result, up-and-coming authors are often passed over altogether in favor of proven sellers.  And even those authors lucky enough to find a publisher are not afforded the same amount of support in the marketing department that they once could expect.  That means authors now have to know not only how to write but also how to market their work effectively.

As an author, I’ve since learned that my number one ally in the challenging endeavor of finding an audience for my books is not the marketers and PR people I once thought, but the readers themselves.  Every review on Amazon and Goodreads, every recommendation to a friend, every mention on a blog or Facebook post or tweet has been absolutely invaluable towards Stitch’s success.  So thank you a million times over to everyone who has done this for Stitch, or for any book – you have no idea how important (and appreciated!) you truly are.

As a reader, you hold so much power to aid the authors you love.  If you enjoyed this book – or any book – I encourage you to write a review, tell someone about it, post about it online, and reach out to the author to let them know.  Take whatever steps you can to share your love with the world, because your words really do matter.

Thank you so much for all of your support!

Samantha

* * *

THE ANNIHILATION OF FOREVERLAND, Tony Bertauski

Dystopia, by Tony Bertauski

––––––––

One is too many, a thousand not enough.

This quote is usually reserved for AA meetings, but not necessarily exclusive to booze. As humans, we all want something, whether it’s another cigarette, a larger slice of pie or our children home safe. Naturally, we want to feel to feel good. It’s built into our instinct, our sense of survival. Written somewhere on our DNA is the need for a happy ending, that when this is all over the narrator of our life will announce in classic Disney tone, “And they lived happily ever after.”

Dystopia reveals the light of our lives by walking through the dark. It explores the true nature of our predicaments, the tragic adventure of the human experience. At times, it shows how dark we can become. How brilliant we are.

But no story really ends. It simply transitions into another. One ending begets another beginning. When we look back on our lives, those catastrophes that seemed like mountains are merely anthills that made us tougher; those eye-high hurdles made us stronger. We loved deeply and fought valiantly. If we’re lucky, we achieved our dreams: our children are safe, our grandchildren are healthy and our vast wealth, the proof our successes, the currency of our value, is inexhaustible. Happily ever after.

But when the time comes, when our ending nears, will we let go so easily?

We’ve worked so hard to become who we are, to build our castles and protect our young. Is it not unfair to walk away from what is rightfully ours? Especially when so many people in this world waste their lives, those moments that now—lying on our last bed counting our remaining breaths—seem priceless. It seems ludicrous—from our old, decrepit vantage point—that anything should die.

But death is our ending. Happily or not, it comes. It is part of life, we say, but those words leave our lips much easier before we’re sucking our numbered breaths, when we’re clinging to our last moments. Those moments that seemed endless and inexhaustible slip away as we draw our last breath. When the last one arrives, will we grasp at it, or let it go freely?

Is one too many, and a thousand not enough?

The Annihilation of Foreverland

Tony Bertauski

Copyright © 2011 by Tony Bertauski

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

This book is a work of fiction. The use of real people or real locations is used fictitiously. Any resemblance of characters to real persons is purely coincidental

See more about the author and forthcoming books at http://www.bertauski.com

Where there’s needles, there’s pain.

The Needle’s Prick by The Zin

ROUND 1

Local Computer Genius Arrested on Federal Charges

SUMMERVILLE, South Carolina. – Tyler Ballard, 37, was apprehended by authorities of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for practicing federally banned computer technology.

Ballard is best known for inventing the controversial technique of Computer-Assisted Alternate Reality (CAAR) that induces lucid dream states. The program requires a direct connection with the user’s frontal lobe by means of a needle-probe piercing the forehead that results in a realistic computer-generated environment. Users reported no difference between their CAAR experience and flesh-body experience.

The controversial technology was later banned in most countries when all users began to suffer irreparable psychological damage that resulted in vegetative states.

Ballard was practicing CAAR in his basement with his wife, Patricia Ballard, 36. Patricia suffers from bipolar disorder and, Tyler Ballard claims, was responding well to CAAR treatments. Authorities dispute this claim since Patricia has been unresponsive to physical stimuli since the arrest.

Harold Ballard, 12, their only son, was placed in the custody of his grandparents.

1

Click-click-click-click.

The walls inched closer. Reed gripped the bars of his shrinking cell.

His legs, shaking.

The cold seeped through his bare feet. The soles were numb, his ankles ached. He lifted his feet one at a time, alternating back and forth to keep the bitter chill from reaching his groin, but he couldn’t waste strength anymore. He let go of the bars to shake the numbness from his fingers.

He’d been standing for quite some time. Has it been hours? Occasionally he would sit to rest his aching legs, but soon the cell would be too narrow for that. He’d have to stand up. And when the top of his cage started moving down – and it would – he’d be forced to not-quite stand, not-quite sit.

He knew how things worked.

Although he couldn’t measure time in the near-blackout room, this round felt longer than previous ones. Perhaps it would never end. Maybe he’d have to stand until his knees crumbled under his dead weight. His frigid bones would shatter like frozen glass when he hit the ground. He’d fall like a boneless bag, his muscles liquefied in a soupy mix of lactic acid and calcium, his nerves firing randomly, his eyes bulging, teeth chattering—

Don’t think. No thoughts.

Reed learned that his suffering was only compounded by thoughts, that the false suffering of what he thought would happen would crush him before the true suffering did. He learned to be present with the burning, the cold, and the aches. The agony.

He couldn’t think. He had to be present, no matter what.

Sprinklers dripped from the ribs of the domed ceiling that met at the apex where an enormous ceiling fan still moved from the momentum of its last cycle. Eventually, the sprinklers would hiss another cloud and the fan would churn again and the damp air would sift through the bars and over Reed’s wet skin, heightening the aches in his joints like clamps. For now, there was just the drip of the sprinklers and the soft snoring of his cellmates.

Six individual cells were inside the building, three on each side of a concrete aisle. Each one contained a boy about Reed’s age. They were all in their teens, the youngest being fourteen. Their cells were spacious; only Reed’s had gotten smaller. Despite the concrete, they all lay on the floor, completely unaware of the anguish inside the domed building.

They weren’t sleeping, though. Sleep is when you close your eyes and drift off to unconsciousness. No, they were somewhere else. The black strap around each of their heads took them away from the pain. They had a choice to stay awake like Reed, but they chose to lie down, strap on, and go wherever it took them. They didn’t care where.

In fact, they wanted to go.

To escape.

Reed couldn’t blame them. They were kids. They were scared and alone. Reed was all those things, too. But he didn’t have a strap around his head. He stayed in his flesh.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Started counting, again.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9…10.

And then he did it again. Again.

And again.

He didn’t measure time with his breathing. He only breathed. His life was in his breath. It ebbed and flowed like the tides. It came and went like the lunar phases. When he could be here and now, the suffering was tolerable. He counted, and counted and counted.

Distracted, he looked up at the fan. The blades had come to a complete stop. The air was humid and stagnant and cold. Around the domed ceiling were circular skylights that stared down with unforgiving blackness, indifferent to suffering. Reed tried not to look with the hopes of seeing light pour through them, signaling an end. Regardless if it was day or night, the skylights were closed until the round of suffering was over, so looking, hoping and wishing for light was no help. It only slowed time when he did. And time had nearly stopped where he was at.

1, 2, 3—

A door opened at the far right; light knifed across the room, followed by a metallic snap and darkness again. Hard shoes clicked unevenly across the floor. Reed smelled the old man before he limped in front of his cell, a fragrance that smelled more like deodorant than cologne. Mr. Smith looked over his rectangular glasses.

“Reed, why do you resist?”

Reed met his gaze but didn’t reply. Mr. Smith wasn’t interested in a discussion. It was always a lecture. No point to prolong it.

“Don’t be afraid.” The dark covered his wrinkles and dyed-black hair, but it couldn’t hide his false tone. “I promise, you try it once, you’ll see. You don’t have to do it again if you don’t like it. We’re here to help, my boy. Here to help. You don’t have to go through this suffering.”

Did he forget they were the ones that put him in there? Did he forget they made the rules and called the shots and forced him to play? Reed knew he – himself – he had gone mad but IS EVERYONE CRAZY?

Reed let his thoughts play in his eyes. Mr. Smith crossed his arms, unmoved.

“We don’t want to hurt you, I promise. We’re just here to prepare you for a better life, that’s all. Just take the lucid gear, the pain will go away. I promise.”

He reached through the bars and batted the black strap hanging above Reed’s head. It turned like a seductive mobile. Reed turned his back on him. Mr. Smith sighed. A pencil scratched on a clipboard.

“Have it your way, Reed,” he said, before limp-shuffling along. “The Director wants to see you after this round is over.”

He listened to the incessant lead-scribbled notes and click-clack of shiny shoes. When Mr. Smith was gone, Reed was left with only the occasional drip of the dormant sprinklers. He began to breathe again, all the way to ten and over. And over. And over. No thoughts. Just 1, 2, 3… 1, 2, 3… 1, 2—

Click-click-click-click.

Reed locked his knees and leaned back as the cell walls moved closer. Soon the fan would turn again and the mist would drift down to bead on his shoulders. Reed couldn’t stop the thoughts from telling him what the near future would feel like. How bad it was going to get.

He looked up at the lucid gear dangling above his head.

He took a breath.

And began counting again.

2

“Danny Boy!”

Danny’s aunt’s voice was muffled. She was calling from his bedroom with that thick Irish accent, obviously thought he was still in bed. Eventually, she’d come up to the attic where Danny was hunched over the keyboard, eyes on the screen. His mother had cleared a space out of the corner just for him, no one else, and even when the weather was too hot or too cold, Danny would sit up there all day.

“Danny Boy! Where are you, darling?”

He couldn’t be interrupted now. He’d been acting sick for two weeks and got behind in school work. His mother trusted he was getting the homework done but he’d spent all his time modding the computer to do exactly what he was doing now.

People are stupid.

They used easy passwords and repeated the same one over and over. Who thinks the word password is a password? Morons.

It wasn’t difficult to get past the school’s firewall. Danny broke the encrypted password – using a program he wrote, thank you very much. In two seconds, he’d be a second grade, straight-A student. Once again.

Thank you very much.

Wait. I’m 13, not 7.

“Danny Boy?” The steps creaked. “Are you up here all ready? It’s not even six o’clock in the morning, sonny boy.”

Danny’s fingers danced over the keys.

“Danny Boy… what are you doing?”

One more stroke and—

CRRUNNCH!

Danny fell out of the chair. The sound was deafening, like a metal pole plunging through the roof, smashing wood and shingles. Dust swirled in the new light. The steps creaked again, but something had changed. There wasn’t insulation hanging from the ceiling anymore and there was a pile of boxes that wasn’t there before.

The house changed.

“What are you doing in the attic?” A man was on the top step holding a golf club.

Danny blinked but it wasn’t his aunt. And he wasn’t in front of a computer anymore. He was lying in a crib. He was a thirteen-year-old kid in a baby’s crib. In someone else’s house.

The man’s golf shoes sounded funny on the wood floor. He stopped short of the crib with his hands on his hips, the club teetering in his left hand. “Son, what in the hell are you doing? You think you’re still a baby?”

Danny didn’t move. Then the man smiled like a proud father.

“Well, if you want to do the baby thing again, let’s give it a try.”

He dropped the club and started tickling Danny’s ribs. His fingers hit the funny spot and Danny gave out a chuckle. The man was all smiles, making happy-daddy sounds as he tortured him with loving grabs. Danny tried to knock him away but the man was too strong. Danny was about to piss his pants he was laughing so hard.

“Come here, you.” The man snatched Danny up by the arms with a strong grip, but it wasn’t strong enough. Danny slipped out of his clutches. He heard the man gasp as Danny fell out of the rickety crib, thought he’d land on his feet but the drop was farther than he expected. He crashed, all right; not on the floor, but on grass.

The sun was over him. The house was gone.

A crowd cheered. Danny was wearing a baseball uniform with a glove on his left hand. He’d never played baseball in his life, but there he was in center field with a cap pulled down just above his eyes.

Somewhere, an aluminum bat went ting.

The players on the infield turned around. The ball was high in the sky. The sun was in his eyes. He lifted the glove but couldn’t see it. He tried squinting, tried covering the sun with his right hand but it was blinding. And the ball was going to hit him smack in the face. But he couldn’t let the team down. He had to catch it. He had to—

And then he was swimming in the ocean. The waves crashed around him. There were other kids, too. Danny had never been to the beach, but there he was, swimming in water that churned at his waist—

And then he was coloring Easter eggs. There was a lady at the sink with an apron and some little girl across the table. He’d never seen her before—

Opening birthday presents and people were singing. People he’d never—

Playing Hide and Seek. He was hiding behind a bush with someone he’d—

Baking cookies—

School bus—

The scenes stacked on top of each other until he couldn’t tell where one began and the next ended. It was all a blur. All a blur.

All a blur.

The throbbing.

That was the first thing Danny noticed before he cracked the seal of his sleep-crusted eyelashes. The head-splitting throb. His forehead felt like it had been punched with a dental tool.

“Don’t sit up just yet, young man.” A soft hand was on his arm. “Give it a few seconds.”

He did what the man said.

When he opened his eyes, the light seemed bright. It took a minute of rapid blinking to adjust. He was in a doctor’s office, on a patient’s table. The paper that covered the table was bunched up under him, crinkling when he moved. There was an old man sitting on a stool next to him. His face was plenty wrinkled and his hair as white as the coat he wore.

“I’m Mr. Jones.” The man broke out in grin worthy of a father looking at his newborn.

“Wa…” Danny’s tongue was gummy. “Water, please.”

“Sit up first, all right?”

When Danny was up, Mr. Jones passed him a paper cup and watched him chug it.

“More, please.”

“Let that settle for a moment, okay. There’s more when you’re ready.”

He wrapped a band around Danny’s arm and took his blood pressure. Then took his temperature and pulse. He did some scribbling on a clipboard, occasionally looking up and humming.

The room, now that Danny had a chance to focus, was less like a doctor’s office and more like a lab. There seemed to be large equipment attached to the wall that could be pulled out and centered on hinged arms. And behind him, the room went back another twenty feet with a treadmill and monitors and more machines.

“You go by Danny Boy?” the man asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“You were dreaming before you woke up and mumbled Danny Boy. I thought maybe that was what you preferred to be called. Danny Boy.”

“My aunt… she called me that…”

“Ah, yes. Aunts are special, aren’t they?” He grinned, again.

Danny reached for his head that felt so full of… stuff. But Mr. Jones caught him by the wrist. “Just relax a second, Danny Boy.”

“I was having this weird dream… like it was a bunch of dreams all crammed into one.”

“Dreams are like that.” Mr. Jones quickly looked at his clipboard.

“Where am I?”

“You’ve had an accident, but you’re okay now. Would you like some more water?”

“Yes, please.”

He downed a second paper cup and wadded it before handing it back.

“Um, Doctor…”

“You can call me Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones, am I in a hospital?”

“You’re somewhere much better than a hospital, my boy. You’re in a special rehabilitation center that is unique for your condition. You’ll have the best care that money can buy while you’re here and you’ll get to do things no other kid on this planet has ever tried. You’ll also… ah, ah, ah… don’t touch.”

Danny reached for his forehead. There was a round band-aid the size of a Bull’s eye right in the middle where it hurt. He tried to remember an accident, anything that he would’ve been doing that would’ve knocked him on the head, but all the memories were gibberish. He couldn’t remember his home address or phone number. If his aunt hadn’t been calling for him, he wouldn’t remember his name.

“Is this why I’m here?” He tried to touch the bandage again.

“In some ways, yes.”

“Did I fall on an ice pick?”

“No.” Mr. Jones snorted. “You’ve been asleep for a long time while you’ve undergone treatment, so you may feel a bit woozy when you stand up. Be careful, all right? I want you to lean forward and let your toes touch the ground… good. Now stay just like that a second.” Mr. Jones spun on the stool and coasted to the computer behind him. “And don’t touch your forehead.”

Danny’s toes were tingly. Just the little weight that was on them, he could tell standing wasn’t going to go well. He left his forehead alone, reached for his stiff neck, instead. It was sore, too. And there was a knot between the vertebrae. It felt like a band had been inserted just under the skin about the width of a wedding ring that made it seem like one large neck bone. Mr. Jones had one bulging on his neck, too.

“What’s this?”

“That’s part of your treatment,” Mr. Jones said without looking. “It’s new technology meant to stay in touch with your nervous system. We’ll talk more about that later.”

“Okay,” was all Danny could think to say. He was thirteen. When an adult said something, he listened and that was that. But nothing was making sense, not the strange lab or Mr. Jones and his proud grin like everything was normal. His head was just so full.

“Where are my parents?”

Mr. Jones took several moments at the computer before he stood up with the clipboard over his stomach. “They want you to get better, Danny Boy. And that’s what you’re going to be… better.”

Smile.

“When will I see them?”

“Can you put all your weight forward?”

He held out his hand and Danny took it. His weight was a little wobbly, but he felt better on his feet than he thought he would.

“Where are we?” Danny asked.

“Take a step for me and I’ll tell you.”

He took one step, then two. They reached the door and Mr. Jones opened it without letting go. The hallway was long and white.

“We’re going that way.” He pointed to the left. At that end was a glass wall.

Danny dragged his feet the first couple of steps. He was already breathing a little hard. Mr. Jones was slightly hunched over next to him. Danny put his hand on the wall and traced it with his fingers. His knees were weak but Mr. Jones watched him with a smile like everything was just okie-dokie. His touch became lighter as Danny’s footsteps became more confident. When he let go, Danny still touched the wall but was walking closer to normal when they reached the end.

The glass wall was slightly curved like the building was a giant cylinder. They were a few stories above ground. A little ways away was the back of a horseshoe-shaped building. Beyond that was a large green field with people.

“You’re going to love it here, Danny Boy,” he whispered.

The field looked like a college campus lined with tropical trees and palms with giant white birds. Danny was smart but he wasn’t college-smart. Unless something happened to his brain. He reached for his forehead. Mr. Jones gently caught his arm before he could graze the band-aid with his fingertips.

“I’m going to be your Investor while you’re here. I’m invested in your future, Danny Boy. If you ever need anything or have any questions, I’m the one that will help, all right?”

Danny nodded.

Mr. Jones smacked a sticker on Danny’s shirt. Hello, I’m Danny Boy.

“I’ll be by your side the whole way, Danny Boy. That you can trust. We have a deal?”

They shook hands and watched the activity below. It looked like one big summer camp on a tropical island. Danny’s parents weren’t rich, they couldn’t afford something like this. At least he didn’t think so. He couldn’t remember them at the moment. But he wasn’t going to ask questions, even though Mr. Jones said he could.

“Let’s go down to the Yard,” Mr. Jones said, gesturing to the wide-open field, “and meet your fellow campers.”

By the time they reached the elevator and selected the ground floor, Danny had already forgotten about the doctor’s office and the dream and the confusion. He stared at the doors inside the elevator; the reflection of a red-headed kid with a slight body and freckles looked back. He looked like a stranger with a name tag stuck on his t-shirt.

“I’m Danny Boy,” he whispered.

3

They walked through the woods for ten minutes. The path was mulched and the trees thick above them with dangling vines and scrubby palms. Mr. Jones was sweating through his shirt and had to stop midway to catch his breath and wipe his face. He was all hunched over. Danny found a stick and Mr. Jones said thank you.

They came out of the trees at the back of the horseshoe-shaped building that had no windows. It was a huge blank wall tinted green with algae and one door right in the middle. They went inside.

Danny’s room was smack in the middle of the building. Unlike the back wall, this side of the building faced the Yard with plenty of windows. Danny could see to the other side. It was big enough to hold five or six football fields.

Mr. Jones sat on the bed wiping the sweat from the folds of his neck. He gave Danny a feeble smile and pointed to things. “There’s your sink and the bathroom is next to the closet. Your drawers already have clothes folded in them. The hamper chute is down the hall.” He took a few wheezy breaths. “You can get new sheets once a week.”

Danny opened the closet and thumbed through the shirts and pants that were all brand new and all pressed and ready to wear. All exactly his size. Mr. Jones attempted to stand but the mattress drew him back down. Danny offered a hand but he ignored it, doing sort of a side roll to one buttock before throwing himself onto his feet. He nodded with a pained grin.

“Out there, Danny Boy,” he said, sweeping his hand at the window, “that’s where most of the boys hang out in their spare time. The Yard is where you’ll find them.”

The Yard sounds like a prison.

The area near the dorm was crisscrossed with sidewalks forming an X with – from what Danny could tell – a giant sun dial in the middle. Tables were in between the sidewalks but the Yard beyond was grassy.

“But you’re not limited to the Yard. You can go wherever you want, I mean it. You’re free here, Danny Boy. Go climb a tree, hike the trails, fishing… whatever. Well, you can go anywhere,” he lifted a finger, “except where I live. None of the campers are allowed in the Investors’ quarters.”

“Where’s that?”

“We have accommodations back where we came from, only a little further. Besides that, the sky’s the limit, my boy.”

“Can I go home?”

Chuckle. “Not unless you’re a real good swimmer. We’re on an island, Danny Boy. It’s about five square miles or so, but there’s nothing but water as far as the eye can see. Even if you’re a good swimmer, I don’t recommend it. Sharks and ship-eating coral and the like will tear you up.”

He wanted to call them, but there wasn’t a phone in the room and Mr. Jones didn’t have one on his belt, either. There wasn’t even a clock. Besides, Danny was having a hard time remembering what his folks looked like and that disturbed him, so he tried to forget it.

“Where are we?”

“Let’s just say we’re plenty isolated.” Mr. Jones shuffled closer to the window. “Now, this isn’t all recess, just so you know. You see over there on the left is the library where you’ll be taking classes, but don’t get nervous. They’re not like high school. You don’t get grades, they’re just fun classes to keep your brain active and strong. And next to the library is the gym to keep your body active and strong.” Mr. Jones flexed his biceps and said with his best Russian accent, “Strong like bull!”

He lifted Danny’s arm, smacked his bicep like he was trying to wake it up.

“Listen, Danny Boy. We just want you of sound body and mind when you’re ready to graduate. Only the best, only the best, my boy.”

The cafeteria, Mr. Jones said, was on the west wing of the dormitory. As long as Danny was here, everything was free. Games, food, classes, all of it paid for. By who, he didn’t say. He might have some limitations on food because, Mr. Jones said with a chuckle, “I don’t want you getting fat on me.”

“They’re all boys,” Danny Boy said.

“Pardon me?”

Danny pointed at the field. “This is a boys’ camp, right?”

“Well, it’s easier that way, Danny Boy. Girls can be a distraction and we want all your attention on improving your body and mind. But just between you and me,” Mr. Jones winked and nudged him with an elbow, “you’ll have plenty of chances to meet girls when you’re ready. Nothing wrong with that, if you ask me. Nothing wrong, indeed. By the way, see those boys down there?”

He pointed at a group sitting at one of the many picnic tables.

“That’s your group. You ready to go meet some of your fellow campers?”

Danny didn’t know what to say. Didn’t seem like he had much of a choice. Mr. Jones walked a little easier to the door this time. He stood a little taller and started to open the door.

“What’s that building over there?”

Mr. Jones answered without looking. “We’ll talk about that later.”

It was past the far end of the field buried in the trees. Its dome-shaped roof was just above the forest canopy. Sunlight reflected off the circular skylights.

“Come along, Danny Boy. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Danny followed him, reluctantly. He was thirteen years old. When an adult says there’s nothing to worry about, there’s usually plenty.

4

Everyone stared.

Mr. Jones walked damn near zero miles an hour. Danny kept his eyes straight ahead. They cut across the grass. Everyone seemed pretty tan, but the sun bit into Danny’s fair skin. They were aimed at the group at a picnic table near the sun dial. Four of them were playing cards. The fifth was watching. When they got close, the game stopped and they watched the painfully slow approach of Mr. Jones and his sidekick.

“Well, lookie there,” one of them mumbled. “We got ourselves a new poke.”

Mr. Jones leaned one hand on the table.

“Boys.” He took a long breath. “This is your new camper. I’d like you to meet Danny Boy.”

“Hey, Danny Boy,” one of them said.

Most gave a head nod. Danny sort of smiled, waiting for Mr. Jones to either leave or die.

“This is your group, or camp,” Mr. Jones finally said. “You’ll be going through your work with them for the next couple months, so you’ll get to know them pretty well.”

“We love pokes,” someone said.

“Now be nice, boys. You remember what it was like when you first got here, extend some courtesy to this young man. I don’t want to hear about any funny business. You remember that, now. I’ve got my eye on you. Anything happens to my Danny Boy I’ll come down here and tan your hides, you understand?”

My Danny Boy?

The card dealer with a shag of black hair waggled his bushy eyebrows and those around the table smirked.

“I’m not kidding, boys. You try me and see how fast I can reach into my pocket.”

Danny wondered what was in the pocket. A notepad or a laser beam?

A golf cart silently pulled up while Mr. Jones eyeballed each of them. The driver was older than Mr. Jones. His gray hair looked wet and parted on the right. The white line of his scalp showed through the part as straight as a razor. He set the brake and made an attempt to get out but his belly was rubbing against the steering wheel. He got it on the second try.

“Mr. Miller,” Mr. Jones said.

Mr. Miller acknowledged Mr. Jones with a nod but ignored the rest of them. He walked to the other side of the table to speak with a gangly kid with an Adam’s apple the size of a walnut. His cheeks were pasty and he stared vacantly at the table while Mr. Miller spoke quietly into his ear, occasionally nodding. The walnut bobbed up and down. Mr. Miller patted him on the back and waddled back to the cart without making eye contact with anyone, again.

“Remember, I’m watching, boys.” Mr. Jones pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at the rest of them. Danny needed him to leave for a whole lot of reasons. If the rest of the Investors were as decrepit as Mr. Jones, they would be as much help as a box of kittens.

And when he thought it couldn’t get any worse.

Mr. Jones waved him over to the cart. He stopped a couple steps away. Mr. Jones pulled him closer and put his hand – soft with lotion – on Danny’s cheek, lovingly. “You call if you need me. All right, my boy?”

He did not.

Do.

That.

Danny jumped back and shook like a wet dog. Mr. Jones looked a little hurt, but then nodded like maybe he realized and understood that you just don’t do that TO A THIRTEEN YEAR OLD BOY!

Unless you wanted him to die of embarrassment, of shame and humiliation.

The entire world would have to be on fire before he called Mr. Jones for help.

The card game was more important than Danny. That was a good thing.

He walked away to get some space. If he was going to hang out with them, he needed to make a new first impression. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his back, looked around the Yard. There were maybe a couple dozen boys out there, but they were a mix of race and nationality. He heard someone speaking French. Regardless, they were all boys. Every last one of them.

But you’ll get your chance.

There was only one loner. He had his shirt over his shoulder. His long hair was dark. He walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, like he was just soaking in the sun with nowhere to go. Even from where Danny was standing – about fifty feet away – he bet he could count the kid’s ribs.

“Hey, I’m Zin.” A kid about Danny’s height stepped next to him. He was plump, brown skinned with a shaved head and a mean looking zit in the middle of his forehead. “You’re Danny Boy, huh right.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Danny peeled off the nametag.

“Ain’t much of a welcome wagon, but that’s the way it goes around here. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“How soon is that?”

“It’ll feel like home in a day. Two, tops.”

Danny had transferred to a new school when he was ten (or was it five?). His dad was a teacher (or was he an engineer?) and got transferred to the mountains (or was it the beach?). Danny got in a fight the first day (or did he run away?). The biggest of the bunch got up right in the middle of class and slapped him while the teacher had her back turned. They duked it out after school.

(Or was it lunch?)

“How long you been here?” Danny asked.

“Long enough. I can tell you one thing, I didn’t get a welcome half as warm as you got. As soon as the Investors left they threw me in a trash can.”

Yep, there it is. This was prison because he was standing in the Yard and there were no girls, just boys. No need for barbed wire when you were surrounded by “sharks and ship eating coral and the like”.

He remembered a time he got in trouble, something about a computer. Danny knew that if he was right – that this really was some sort of prison enclosed by water – then there had to be rape. He’d watched enough Locked Up episodes to know the weak got it good and these guys were going to bust into his room for a little midnight snack and who was going to stop them? Mr. Jones and his team of geriatric superheroes?

“Listen, it’s a little intimidating the first day,” Zin said, picking up on Danny’s expression or the pale color of his cheeks, “but you get used to it in no time. And these guys aren’t going to do anything to you, so don’t worry. We all look out for each other.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“Same way as everyone else.” He shrugged. “Woke up with my Investor staring at me and couldn’t remember a damn thing. I take that back, I remembered too many things and nothing made sense. You?”

Danny wanted to just forget about the dream and the weird feeling in his head and Mr. Jones touching his cheek.

“That’s what I thought. Listen, don’t sweat it.” Zin lightly punched his shoulder. “This place has its ups and downs, but it ain’t so bad… look, that’s the library over there… and the game room is behind the gym…”

Another orientation, but this one felt better coming from Zin without the creepy grin Mr. Jones was wearing when he did it. The buildings were all dome-shaped besides the horseshoe-shaped dormitory. Zin pointed everything out and then named everyone in their camp.

“And if you want to know what time it is, there you go.” He pointed at the sun dial. “It’s never wrong.”

“What’s that?” Danny pointed at the round building across the Yard, the same one he’d seen from his room.

“That’s the Haystack. You’ll find out about that in a few weeks when we start a new round. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“That much fun?”

Zin thought about it. “Yes and no.”

“He looks like he had a blast.” Danny nodded to Mr. Miller’s kid, still staring. Saliva glistened on his lip.

The kid with a mop of black hair dealing the cards had been listening. “Yeah, old Parker here is about to get smoked, ya’ll.” He smacked zombie-Parker on the back and rattled his head. Parker didn’t seem to notice so much. Or care.

“Sid means that Parker’s about to graduate,” Zin said. “We all graduate at some point.”

“From what?”

“From the island. You’re here because you got problems, Danny Boy. You’ll learn that problems start with your mind, that we assign concepts and requirements to life that create friction and chaos. If we want to heal, we start with the mind. Or at least, that’s what the Investors tell us. Who the hell knows.”

Zin’s smile was infectious.

“You believe that?” Danny asked.

“Sure, why not? Don’t you see, Danny Boy, the universe is perfectly imperfect.” Zin wiggled his hands in mysterious-fashion. “There are no problems, you just think there are. And you believe what you think, and that’s why you’re here. We’re going to fix you.”

Zin jabbed at Danny’s forehead.

“And once you’re fixed, you get smoked. And once you’re smoke, you’re out of here.”

Zin pointed at the cylindrical building rising up from behind the dorms. Bands of glass windows alternated with bands of metal. Five floors. One of those glass floors was where Danny woke up and walked down the hall. The top floor was black glass. At the very top was a long chimney.

“That’s right,” Zin added. “Once you go to the Chimney, you leave the island. It’s graduation time, kind of like how they pick a new pope, when someone graduates the Chimney puffs and then it’s sayonara, baby.”

“Where do we go?”

“Home, I guess. Where else?”

The thought of going home wasn’t as comforting as it should’ve been, mainly because Danny couldn’t quite remember it.

“Come on.” Sid slung his arm around Parker’s shoulders. “Let’s have some fun before they smoke you, pal. What’d you say, huh? Old times?”

Parker was glassy-eyed.

“That’s the spirit. Let’s go, ya’ll.” They chucked the cards on the table and left the mess behind. “Zinski, bring the new poke. We’ll need him to take Parker’s spot on the team so let’s get him to the game room. We got a match in an hour.”

Zin pulled Danny along. Sid walked with his arm around Parker. It didn’t look like he was going to make it unless someone kept him propped up. A cold feeling crept into Danny’s stomach. He had a feeling what happened to him.

“What’s a poke?”

“That means you’re a rookie, a virgin that just got popped.” Zin pointed at the round band-aid on Danny’s head. “You got poked, Danny Boy.”

Danny touched the bandage. He felt a little guilty after Mr. Jones told him not to, then he noticed the zit on Zin’s forehead. When he first saw it, it looked like a deep blackhead. It was a little red and puffy around the edges, like maybe he was squeezing it. Is that a hole?

A cold feeling trickled into his legs.

Danny noticed the loner kid with the shirt over his shoulder. He was hardly a kid, looked like he was nineteen or twenty. Easily the oldest one around. An old man (there seemed to be an endless supply of them) limped toward him. There were a few words exchanged.

“Yo, Danny Boy!” Zin was calling. “Don’t get lost on day one, hurry up!”

Danny watched the long-haired kid follow the limping old man. Maybe he was going to get smoked.

5

Mr. Smith didn’t talk much. Reed expected that.

The old man limped along with a small grunt whenever he heaved his bum leg forward.

The elevator was in the center of the first floor. The inside was curved like a big tin can. There were only buttons for four floors. Nothing for the fifth. The doors remained opened while Mr. Smith looked at the numbers and the small camera staring back. A few seconds later, they closed and the elevator made the gut-dropping rise to the top of the Chimney.

Mr. Smith put his hand on Reed’s chest. “Wait here.”

The elevator opened. There were no walls on the top floor. Just one big room. One section had bedroom furniture, another office furniture; there was a bar with liquor bottles. But nothing in-between.

On the far side, by the dim windows, a large man wearing a flowery shirt was looking through an oversized telescope. Mr. Smith limped over. His words murmured across the room. The Director never looked up from the eyepiece but occasionally muttered back.

There had been other boys that failed in the Haystack for whatever reason and they just disappeared. No graduation or farewell just poof – they were gone. Didn’t matter if they went mental or the needle lobotomized them, it was game over.

Move on to the next contestant.

But they had been patient with Reed. He was nineteen. He’d be twenty in a couple months. And twenty – for whatever reason – was a magic number. Poof.

Mr. Smith didn’t look happy.

He was trying to hold his voice in check and kept stealing glances at Reed when he got too loud. The Director never bothered to pull off his telescope while Mr. Smith waved his arms and smacked his fist. And then he was dismissed. Mr. Smith came back like a peg-legged pirate that dipped his hair in a bucket of ink.

His cheeks were flush.

“The Director would like a word.”

“Reed, my boy, come here.” The Director was still hunched over the telescope when Reed approached. “You don’t want to miss this, take a look.”

Reed hesitated. The Director stood up and stretched his back. “Well, do I need to mail you an invitation? Come on, you must see this,” he said, happily. “Nature is happening, son.”

The Director was a large man with a scraggly beard and squinty, smiling eyes. He was wearing baggy shorts and flip-flops. Reed stopped short of the telescope, peering out the window at the back side of the island – a view rarely seen by any of the teenage campers. Rarely was one of them brought up to the Director’s office. The Investors’ living quarters hundred yards away, right on the edge of the island – the Mansion with stately palms. Beyond that was endless water.

“Reed, unless you can stretch your eyeball out of your head, you’re going to have to bend over to see what I’m talking about.” The Director smiled. “Take a look.”

Reed did so. Slowly. He adjusted his eye around the lens. It was focused far out into the ocean. Everything shimmered blue.

“You see it?” the Director asked. “Don’t touch the scope, just look with your eye. Just stay open and you’ll see it.”

There was nothing. Suddenly, there was a spray of water. A humpback whale broke the surface, its slick body rolled over and the white speckled tail slapped the water. He wanted to see it again.

“Magnificent, right?” The Director slapped him on the back. “Nature.”

Reed stayed perched over the telescope. Moments later, another one came up for a breath and disappeared beneath the waves, free to go as deep and as far away as it wished.

“How many rounds have you been through, Reed?”

Reed stood.

The Director was at the bar near a section of plush furniture. Ice rattled in a couple of tumblers and the Director poured drinks. One with Coke, the other whiskey. He brought the Coke to Reed, handed it to him with a stiff smile, the eyes still crinkled.

“I’ve lost count,” the Director said. “Twenty-five, would you say?”

“Sounds a little high.”

“Math wasn’t my strong suit, but twenty-five times you’ve been through the Haystack, Reed.” The Director took a drink and grimaced. “You like punishment?”

“I’ve discovered my inner masochist.”

“Well, then, how about I punch you in the face and we’ll have a ball.” He smiled wide and laughed loud. Reed joined him. They were both in on the joke for several moments, although the Director laughed a little hard.

The Director leisurely strolled away. He swirled the glass. He stopped at a large cage behind the expansive mahogany desk. It reached up to the ceiling, inside were a pair of large white parrots. He looked up at them, said, “Why won’t you take the lucid gear, Reed?”

“I’m not crazy about getting punched in the head with a needle.”

“It’s not a needle, Reed. It’s lucid gear, and it doesn’t hurt, you know that. The other boys have told you so. Hell, I’m telling you.” He pointed at the neat little hole in his forehead.

“Forgive me,” Reed said. “The needle-like lucid gear goes through the skull. It can’t feel good.”

The ice rattled. The Director sipped, nodding. He looked over, head cocked. A grim smile. He jerked his head, signaling Reed to come over. The glass of Coke was still full, soaking in his hand. Sweat or condensation?

Together, they watched the birds.

“This is my island, Reed. It’s my program, my vision that happens here. These…” He waved his drink toward the Mansion. “These Investors fund it, but it’s my vision to use cutting edge technology – revolutionary ideas – to help people like you, Reed.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“Yes, you did. You just don’t know it.”

“I don’t know much of anything, thanks to you.”

The Director ignored the insult. “You’re a kid, Reed. You don’t know anything about life and your place in it. And it’s a damn shame to see a kid like you with so much potential just waste away to nothing. I can’t accept a world that turns its back on people that need help, Reed. I can’t. I won’t.”

Reed realized the floor was slowly rotating. His view of the Mansion was slightly askew from when he arrived. Eventually, they’d be turning back towards the dormitory and the Yard.

“Why do you think I brought you here, Reed?”

“You know I don’t know that.”

The Director was nodding. He knew that Reed couldn’t make sense of the multitude of memories that crowded his mind; memories they both knew were implanted in Reed’s head to keep him confused, to keep him from remembering his past.

The Director put his drink on a small table and opened the doors beneath it. He pulled out a small cage squirming with oversized cockroaches. The parrots flapped madly, squawking. Feathers floated out of the cage.

“You think I brought you here to torture, mmm?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“You think I get my jollies by filling an island with young boys to torture?” He popped the lid and reached inside. The cockroaches hissed. “You think that’s me?”

“I don’t know who you are, Director. Like you said, I don’t even know who I am.”

A wingless cockroach clung to the Director’s finger, blowing air from the spiracles on its abdomen to hiss loudly. He held it close to his face. The cockroach hunched over and went quiet.

“I like you, Reed. You remind me of myself, all full of piss and vinegar. For all I know, you’re refusing the lucid gear just to spite me, to spite Mr. Smith. And I can respect that. I mean, Jesus lord, you’ve withstood some discomfort, son. I don’t think I could’ve done it when I was your age and I was one tough son of a bitch. You believe that?”

There was a long pause. The Director turned his hand over; the cockroach clung to it upside-down.

Reed answered, “Believe what?”

“That I was a tough S-O-B?”

“Again, I don’t know you, sir.”

“Yes, you do, Reed.” The Director glared, intensely. “You know me.”

Reed turned away. He didn’t know the Director, but that look told him everything he needed to. You know what I do.

The Director plucked the cockroach off his hand. It threw a fit, hissing and scratching for a grip. He pinched it by the abdomen. The birds jumped to the branch nearest the cage, their beaks jawing open and close, open and close. The Director dangled the cockroach just out of their reach. Feathers flew.

The cockroach hissed and hissed, and then it ended with its exoskeleton crunching loudly in the curved beak of the larger bird. The Director took a sip of his drink, watching the bird pull half the insect’s body, legs flailing, out of its mouth with its claw, chewing on it like popcorn.

“What makes you so tough, Reed?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe my father was a Navy SEAL.”

The Director stepped directly in front of Reed. They were eye to eye, only inches apart. Scotch was on his breath. “Every single boy that’s been to the island has taken the lucid gear the very first time they go to the Haystack. Not one has resisted, and you’ve done it… how many times, Reed?”

Shrug.

“Twenty-five,” the Director said. “You get it wrong again, I’ll slap you.”

He stayed uncomfortably closer, staring. The bird grinding the insect into bite-sized pieces.

Reed knew how he resisted, but how did he tell the man responsible for all the misery around him that it was a dream that told him not to take the needle? Sounds crazy, but what doesn’t?

It happened when he woke up in the lab with Mr. Smith staring at him. He clung to a memory as he opened his eyes. It was a girl with long red hair. She told him – as if she was talking to him – to resist. She told him that if he did, they would be together again, one day. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had to resist. If anyone could do it, he could.

He didn’t know what resisting meant until he entered the Haystack.

And when his resolve faded, when he considered reaching for the needle because he just couldn’t take it anymore, when he just wanted it to end, he would have another dream.

Resist.

The Director, looking as far into Reed’s eyes as he could and seeing nothing, stepped away. He sipped, thinking. Reed noticed the lump on the back of his neck when he bent over for another cockroach, the tracker imbedded between the C4 and C5 vertebrae. No one went unchecked on the island, not even the man at the top.

“I can’t accept watching you piss away an opportunity, Reed. Do you know what’s right in front of you? The effort Mr. Smith and I made to bring you here, to offer you freedom from your problems, to give you a nobler life. Do you know what it costs every day we keep you here and watch you deny the healing we offer?”

He squeezed the cockroach in his palm, crunching inside his closed fist.

“Do you know how hard we work TO GIVE YOU A BETTER LIFE?”

The birds jumped. So did Reed.

“We’re pioneers, Reed,” he said, softly. “We’re forging into new ground of healing the world. You’re a pioneer, do you understand that?”

Reed nodded, slowly.

The Director held his gaze, then offered his hand to the unfed bird. It pushed its beak between the bars and snatched the cockroach out of his palm. The Director flicked the slimy remains on the bottom of the cage and walked away wiping his hands with a paper towel.

The Director went to another telescope at the perimeter of the room, this one aimed over the Mansion. The floor had rotated. Reed was looking at the dorm and the Yard beyond.

“You have a shot at a second life, but I can’t make you take it. All I can do is offer you healing. No one can make you go lucid, you have to want it. Don’t you see, that’s why we make you uncomfortable before it’s offered? Your mind detaches from the body when it’s in pain, yet you continue to stay. You won’t take what I offer, Reed. And I can’t understand that.”

The Director spent a few minutes focusing on a new target. He stood up, hands on his hips. Staring out, pensive. Struggling with a thought. A decision. “Five more rounds, Reed.” The Director looked at Reed over the couches and tables and space in between. “I’m giving you an opportunity to help me help you. This is your last chance to take my outstretched hand. I can’t help the unwilling, son. You understand?”

The Director smiled, eyes squinting.

“If you don’t, then I’ve failed you, son. And I’m sorry for that.”

The Director went back to the telescope. The birds licked their beaks. Reed looked at the Yard below, wiping his slick forehead where the needle hole had long since healed.

6

Danny remembered going to summer camp… or something like that. The more he thought about it, maybe it was just camping. They went fishing. It seemed like a really fun time in his life.

The island was even better.

No one assaulted him in his sleep. No one dumped him in a trash can or even so much as gave him a wedgie. It was ten days of non-stop fun.

It started in the game room which turned out to be a game building. Flat screen monitors were positioned around the perimeter showing on-going games or flashing team standings of various competitions. Most of them were small capsules where campers could experience three-dimensional action while some were simple screen games for one or two people.

On the first day, Sid led them through the crowd. There were about twenty-five people – all boys, no old men – watching or playing. They made their way to center stage: a twenty-foot wide circular platform enclosed by a clear dome. Inside was a small scale layout of a war-torn city with smoldered buildings and overturned cars. Digital troops strategically stalked the cityscape and miniature helicopters rained bullets and missiles into clouds of smoke and fire.

There was a group on each side that controlled the tiny figures and with each explosion and each death, numbers changed on the four-side scoreboard hanging from the ceiling. Names repositioned in the standings. An hour later, one team stood victorious.

Zin smacked Danny in the chest. “We’re up.”

The taunting started when they stepped onto the small stage vacated by the losers, a group of Middle Eastern boys in their early teens. Danny saw the other team on the opposite side of the dome – they were Russian, maybe – pulling on black gloves. Sid was trading insults with the crowd, pointing at the scoreboard and thumping his chest. Zin gave Danny a pair of gloves and knee pads.

“No time for instruction. You’ll figure it out.”

The gloves slid on like silk embedded with fine wire mesh. The knee pads strapped on without anything special. Sid passed out yellow-tinted goggles with embedded earbuds and miniature microphones. Danny was still playing with the goggles when he was assigned to a tower and told to keep his head down.

“Watch and learn.” That was the only time Sid addressed Danny. “And try not to get killed, poke.”

The game started.

Instead of watching the action like the spectators, Danny saw it inside the goggles. The view was first person, like he was inside the dome, shrunk down to size. The goggles absorbed his vision. When he turned his head, the view changed.

He was in a tower with a two-ton bell. For the first twenty minutes, he did what he was told, experimenting with the controls and not getting killed. He learned his movements were controlled by bending his knees. The gloves controlled his hands and weapons. After that, he watched half of his crew get slaughtered on one of Sid’s stupid ambushes.

When there was nothing to lose, he went to the ground.

He felt the rubble under his feet, the heat of burning automobiles. He ran from building to building and by the time he neared the action, Zin was the only one left. He was hiding inside a bunker that was about to be flamed.

When Danny was later asked how he slaughtered the opposing team, he didn’t have a good answer. He just said that it made sense, that he didn’t realize he was intuiting the enemy’s moves and shot them with effortless accuracy and moved with the grace of a veteran assassin. He just did it.

He sniped the last enemy from three hundreds.  After that, everyone in the game room knew his name.

There were classes, too.

Although, like Mr. Jones said, it wasn’t really class. They talked about economics and geology and philosophy, but it was just talk. There was no homework, no tests. The instructors were the old men, of course, that insisted they exercise their whole brains when they thought about various topics, so they kept the discussion lively. The boys debated loudly, acted out their passion and shook hands when it was all over. It wasn’t bad, Danny had to admit. Without the busy-work of homework, he was interested in class.

Sort of. Kind of.

Strange thing, though. There was no Internet, no email, text messages or phones. There weren’t even computers. There was plenty of time for worldly things, the Investors said. Just not now.

Occasionally, Danny would hear a bell ring three times like a gong. Then he’d see boys heading for the Haystack and sometimes leaving it. Once, someone was carted away from it. An Investor was driving a utility vehicle and another old man was on the flatbed with the boy lying down. No one said much and the Investors stared straight ahead as they drove around the dormitory toward the Chimney.

In the first couple weeks, Danny saw the Chimney smoke three times.

Danny sat with his camp at lunch. He didn’t know anyone else.

He half-listened to Sid layout their next game strategy and watched people move through the line. Another group returned from the Haystack, this one Hispanic. They hardly spoke.

One of them was a new poke. The band-aid.

Mr. Jones took Danny’s band-aid off within the first week. He was a little more chill after the hand on the cheek incident. Danny decided if it happened again, he was swimming for it, screw the sharks. But Mr. Jones was cool. He just wanted to make sure Danny was getting everything he needed and followed his schedule. He had a knack of always finding Danny, but then he remembered the tracker in his neck. Mr. Jones could probably count the number of turds Danny dropped in the morning.

Danny peeled the band-aid off. Beneath it was a neat little hole. It wasn’t red, wasn’t sore. Just a hole. Mr. Jones wiped it with some alcohol, said the stent was healing just fine. He sensed Danny had a question – as anyone who woke up with a hole in the head would have – and said the hole was for healing. And not to worry.

Don’t worry, my boy. He said that a lot.

“You listening?” Sid snapped his fingers in Danny’s face. “Come on, man, you need to pay attention. This next battle is our last before we go to the Haystack. That’s when it gets real, son. You’re good with the gloves but things change when you get inside.”

“Danny Boy isn’t going to be any good the first round,” Zin said, swallowing the last of his milk. “He shouldn’t even be on the squad until he gets a few rounds inside the Haystack, you know that. You forget, he’s a new poke.”

“Yeah, just in case, Zinski.”

“That’s what we do in the Haystack?” Danny asked. “More games?”

Long silence.

Silence, every time the topic of the Haystack came up – and what the needle was. Danny knew what was likely to happen, it didn’t take a genius. There was a needle and there was a hole in his head. It didn’t take an engineer. Still, it was hard to imagine a needle going through his skull, so there had to be other explanations. He didn’t want think about that.

When everyone was on another topic, Zin leaned over. “We’re going inside the Haystack in two days. Everyone gets a little edgy, but don’t let them worry you. It’s all cool.”

“So what happens, exactly?”

“It’s a good time. You won’t remember much, though.”

“What are you going to be doing?”

“Uhhhh…” Zin looked around then smiled, mischievously. “Well, I don’t know about the rest of these war mongers, but I’ll be hooking up with my lady. If there’s time, I might join them for some shoot ‘em up, but that ain’t my priority. I promise you.”

“Girls?”

“Oh, yeah.” Zin looked around again but no one was paying attention. He mouthed the word with a smile.

GIRLS.

They were going to see girls? There had never been one on the island – coming or going from the Haystack – unless they were dropped off on the back side of the island and snuck into the back of the building. Danny thought of the possibilities. Boys were in the Haystack alone for half a day or longer. If there were girls in there, too, then all kinds of things could be happening. So far, the island was a summer camp, but the way Zin was smiling made him wonder if it had some real-life sex education.

Just keeps getting better.

The last people in line were grabbing their trays off the dessert table. The last one was all alone, something Danny rarely saw. Everyone travelled in packs. There were no loners on the island, except for the guy at the end of the line – the long-haired kid Danny saw his first day. He moved slowly, carefully. Occasionally, he turned his head listening to something, looking around the cafeteria. Then he slid his tray along the service line.

“We’re going to be down three men,” Sid was saying. “Parker’s going in with us but he ain’t going to last long. He’ll be smoked, after this. Am I right, Parker?”

Parker breathed through his mouth, holding an empty spoon over his tray. His food was untouched. He shrugged his shoulders when Sid snapped his fingers.

“Easy money,” Sid said. “Anyway, Zin’s right about Danny Boy clumping up like a vegetable, so we’ll be short-handed. We’ll have to play some defense.”

“Who’s the third person?” Zin asked.

“Oh.” Sid twitched his chin at the loner in line. “Forgot to tell you, we got the freak.”

There was a collective moan and some pissing to go along with it.

“Who is he?” Danny asked.

“That’s Reed,” Zin said. “Guy’s been through, like, 100 rounds or something like that without taking the needle.” Zin shook his head. “One tough dude, man. Someone said his head got all scrambled when he first got here. Ask me, I think he’s just some badass that wants to piss in the Director’s cereal.”

“Where’s he been?”

“He goes to the beach on the north end, stands there looking at the water all by himself. No one goes out to the beach, man. The bugs and the wind and no one’s going swimming. There are a thousand better things to do, trust me.”

“That makes him crazy?”

“You wait and see, no sane person would do what he’s done. He just doesn’t have any friends and no one wants to get near him, afraid his crazy will rub off. Can’t say I disagree.”

Reed stopped at the dessert table and held still like someone hit pause on him.

“See what I mean?” Zin said. “He’s an odd dude named Reed, the kid that bends but don’t break.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

Reed nodded. He was either agreeing with himself or with the voices Zin said he was hearing. Reed left his tray on the dessert table and grabbed an apple. He left the cafeteria.

“I rest my case,” Zin said. “Whack-a-do.”

Reed didn’t walk like he was crazy. Danny didn’t exactly know what a crazy man would walk like, but it didn’t seem like it would be confident, slow and steady. Just because someone doesn’t fly with all the birds doesn’t mean he’s nuts.

The flock could be going in the wrong direction.

7

Danny woke up two hours before the sun rose. His eyes opened and refused to shut. He stared at the ceiling. The unknown was terrifying. Everyone else seemed excited. Danny rubbed his forehead, making a tiny circle around the hole. No way they stick a needle in there.

There was a soft knock.

Danny pulled the sheet up to his chin. Mr. Jones opened the door. Danny realized he looked pathetic, but he couldn’t will himself to get up anymore than he could make himself sleep. Besides, he was in his underwear and even though Mr. Jones wasn’t so creepy, there was no need to roll the dice.

“Good morning,” Mr. Jones said.

Danny didn’t answer.

Mr. Jones, usually cheery that time of the day – usually throwing open the curtains and welcoming the morning and telling Danny it was a great day to be alive – this time he went directly to the chest of drawers and began to fold Danny’s clothes. When his shirts were organized, Mr. Jones put his hand on the desk. His cheeks moved like he was chewing on his tongue.

He sat on the bed, sinking into the mattress and rolling Danny closer. Thankfully, he placed his hands on his own lap.

“Danny Boy,” he started and let out a sigh. “Today is a big day. It’s a big day, my boy. You can’t imagine what it means to me. The journey you’re about to take will be revolutionary. You should know that, so that in your darkest hour you have something to hold onto. The Haystack is critical to what we do here on the island, you understand? We wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, but sometimes you have to go to the dentist to stay well, am I right?”

Danny pulled the sheet just under his eyes. He wanted to pull it over his head but that wouldn’t make the bogeyman go away.

“Here.” Mr. Jones held a pill between his finger and thumb. “Put this under your tongue, it’ll boost your immunity. I don’t want you catching cold while you’re in there, it just makes things harder.”

Danny didn’t move.

Mr. Jones had to pull the sheet down and put it on his lips. His fingers smelled like old leather. Danny let the pill fall into his mouth just so he’d get his hand away. It dissolved like candy.

Mr. Jones sighed again, looked at the ceiling. His eyes looked a little wet. It was times like this Danny thought he might be regretting something. He squeezed Danny’s knee. “You’re a hero, son. A real hero.”

And then he got up, after two attempts, and went to the door looking more hunched over than usual. He put his hand on the knob and, without turning, said, “You go on and get dressed now, you hear? I’ll be back up in an hour to escort you over to the building. No one goes into the Haystack alone, my boy.”

The door clicked behind him. Danny stayed in bed with the sheet pulled up. He remained there for a while and only got dressed because he didn’t want Mr. Jones in the room when he did.

All modesty was about to disappear from Danny’s life.

Danny walked the Yard with Mr. Jones. This time he had no problem with his slow and steady gait. The others were walking with their Investors, too. They were all spread out, heading in the same direction: the multi-eyed round roof peeking above the distant trees. Their paths converged the closer they got.

They got in line as they entered a narrow path. There was little talking. But the silence was more than that; it was the sort of intense concentration that spontaneously happened before a big game, before surgery or some other life-altering event. Even Sid, walking a few bodies ahead of Danny, was quiet.

Suddenly, the path ended in an opening. The Haystack was at the far side. Its concrete wall was painted dark brown, stained with algae and sucker-cups that remained from vines stripped away. A man stood at the entrance with a clipboard in his folded arms. He was old, but kind of young among the old men. He had gentle gray eyes inside folds of skin. He began checking off items on his clipboard as they entered.

A bell rang three times.

Danny didn’t look around but once. Zin was to his left. He lifted his eyebrows in mild celebration. Just past Zin was Parker as glassy-eyed and slack as ever. He wasn’t looking around. He didn’t even look like he knew anyone else was there.

“Welcome, young men,” the man at the door suddenly said. “My name is Mr. Clark. I’ll be supervising this round. Most of you know the drill. I know some of you are nervous, as would be expected, but I assure you that your experience will be just as exciting as the previous ones have been. For the newcomers, you will follow your Investor inside and he will orient you on what to do. But there’s nothing to worry about, things are very simple inside.”

Mr. Clark looked at his clipboard.

“Before we enter, are there any questions?” He looked around with the same welcoming smile. “Very well, then. Let’s begin, shall we?”

He pushed the door open and stood to the side. Mr. Jones’s hand fell on Danny’s shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. Danny immediately tensed, but noticed every Investor was doing the same move with the hand on the shoulder, guiding their kid into the Haystack in some sort of ritual. Danny got in line. When they stepped inside, it was cold and dim.

It was the last time he would see the sun for quite some time.

Danny clenched up, a full-body seizure.

His knees locked and he pushed his weight against Mr. Jones’s hand. It wasn’t the dim light coming through the skylights or the giant steel fan that waited to chop them up or the smell of urine or the dank-dungeon cells that lined both sides of the aisle that made Danny step back. It was a sense of panic, of fear, that saturated the atmosphere like an electrical current, tingling in his bowels. The boys ahead of him didn’t seize up, but they stutter-stepped. Like the end of a ship’s plank was dead ahead.

Danny felt this type of fear spreading through his groin like cold fingers once before. A memory emerged in the soupy sea of memories inside his head. He remembered getting pulled out of the back seat of a car with his hands cuffed behind his back by someone. But then like everything he tried to remember, there were gaps.

There were FBI shirts, and big doors—

“It’s all right, Danny Boy.” Mr. Jones gently urged him forward.

Danny’s knees refused to unbuckle. The cages were open and waiting. The boys ahead of him each walked inside one without resistance and their Investor closed the door.

“Come on!” someone shouted from outside. “We’re waiting, Danny Boy!”

“Come along, my boy.” Mr. Jones pressed forward, pushing Danny ahead. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Danny walked with his weight leaning into Mr. Jones’s hand. The old man showed surprising strength. His hand was like a talon. It guided him past the open cells. No cot or toilet or window on the walls. The boys were stripping off their shirts. That’s when Danny realized the cold wasn’t just fear eating away his innards but the humid cold air dimpling his skin.

They stopped about halfway down the aisle. Mr. Jones turned Danny to the left. He tried to squirm away but the old man’s claw shoved him inside the open cell. The door latched closed before he could turn around.

Mr. Jones grabbed the bars.

“Why are you doing this?” Danny suddenly wanted to be back in his bed. He didn’t mind if Mr. Jones sat on the bed and patted his knee. He would let him touch his face, if that’s what he wanted.

“Danny Boy, trust me. Everything will be all right. It’ll be better than okay, you just trust me now, son. These boys have been through this already and they’re doing better, I promise.”

No one else needed to be pushed inside a cell. They knew the deal and didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t look happy, but they weren’t freaking out.

“We’re about healing the world,” Mr. Jones said, quietly. “This is the work that we ask you to do. As with any work, it is not always easy. But it will be rewarding, my boy. Richly.”

The Haystack was silent except for the somber mutterings of a few Investors. The rest of the boys were taking off their clothes. First their shirts. Then shoes, socks and pants. And finally underwear.

Completely naked!

Mr. Jones held out his hands. “You need to hand me your clothes, Danny Boy. We enter the work like we enter life, completely exposed to the world. We are reborn into our flesh, revealing our humility for everyone to witness.”

Danny backed up. The others were folding their clothes and passing them between the bars, neatly stacked. They stood unabashed with various amounts of pubic hair. The cold had shriveled most of them to embarrassing sizes, but no one seemed to care all that much. None of them were looking around like Danny.

“No one can touch you, Danny Boy.”

Mr. Jones was right. There was a gap between the cells on each side. Even if he reached all the way through, he wouldn’t be able to touch the person imprisoned next to him. He noticed the walls were set inside slots that could slide but it only looked like the cell could get smaller.

“You’re safe inside the cell. No one will bother you.”

“But… but why? Why do we have to do this?” Danny’s voice cracked with an embarrassing whine.

“You’ll understand. You’ll just have to trust me.”

Danny hugged himself. “I just don’t want to. You can’t just expect me to… I’m not just going to get naked because everyone else is. I’m not doing it.”

“Stop pissing around, Danny Boy!” Sid shouted from across the aisle. His penis had shrunk into the bush of pubic hair that crawled up and around his belly button. “The longer you go on like that, the longer it takes… NOW GET NAKED, BOY!”

Investors were already leaving. Mr. Jones stood with his hands around the bars. His expression was silent and sympathetic. Sid was growling and pacing inside his cell. But Danny couldn’t break the grip the cold hand of fear had on him. He just wasn’t going to do it. He just wanted to close his eyes and disappear. He wished this would all go away, that he could somehow escape his body and go somewhere nice and warm and safe.

“Hey.” Zin was pulling his shirt over his head in the cell next to him. “Listen, you got to do this. I know it’s all weird, but it’s no big deal. It’s like showering in the gym. I can tell you, nothing happens.”

“Then why do we have to do it?”

Zin shrugged while he stepped out of his shorts. “To make the first part more uncomfortable, I guess. To humiliate us, to make us want the needle. I don’t give two craps either way. All I know is that we got to get this thing going or it’s going to suck being here even longer.”

Zin folded his shorts and shirt into a stack and placed his flip-flops on top. His Investor gave him a nod and left.

“Danny Boy,” Mr. Jones said. “You should understand that in life, there is joy and there is suffering. Your work includes everything. The Haystack is designed to allow you to experience suffering safely, to learn to let go of your physical body so that you may experience another level of your existence. But I can’t make you, Danny Boy. I can’t make you do it. You’ll have to do it on your own.” Mr. Jones held out his hands. “You’ll have to walk naked alone.”

Others had joined Sid in the taunting. Danny could see there was no way to escape. And the others had been through it and they didn’t seem to mind. Zin, too.

Danny’s shirt came off, first. The cold air pulled his skin tight and his nipples were like BBs. He was shaking when he took off his shorts. Despite Sid screaming to go faster, he took his time getting his shoes off.

His underwear was last.

He took a long shaky breath before pulling them down. Unlike Sid and Zin, he didn’t have much hair downstairs. What little he did have was bright red and barely covered his boyhood that looked more like a mushroom cap.

He threw the clothes at Mr. Jones’ feet and cupped his hands over his genitalia.

“I’ll need you to fold the clothes, Danny Boy.” Mr. Jones didn’t stoop to pick them up. “It’s our attention to every moment of our life that matters. To make room for this very moment, to allow it to unfold. To care for life. Now, please, hand me your clothes properly.”

Danny squatted down and did his best to put his clothes in order like Zin had done. Mr. Jones didn’t seem completely pleased with the quality of his stack, but he nodded and stepped back. He nodded again and without another word, exited the Haystack.

The wrath of the others didn’t stop. Danny backed up until he pressed against the bars, wishing it was dark enough to hide him. He kept his hands over his privates. The room had become loud with anger, vibrating inside Danny’s head. Even Zin had his hands on the bars, shouting obscenities until finally one Investor was followed by another until they were all gone.

Sid tried to shake the solid bars on his cage, shouting, “Come on! Come on, already! LET’S GO!”

It seemed to go on forever. Danny’s shoulder blades had numbed on the cold steel when a loud clank erupted from the ceiling. Everyone cheered as the dim light began to fade. Shutters inside the skylights were turning. What little light was available disappeared.

Danny shivered in the dark.

“Danny Boy?” Zin called.

“Yeah?”

“Welcome to the Haystack.”

8

Danny moved to the center of the cell. It was so dark that it didn’t matter where he stood, no one would see him. The worst part was the concrete, slick and cold. Danny began to pace to keep warm.

“Save your strength.”

There was a lump in the darkness to Danny’s right. Slowly, the details of the room began to return with grainy, gray detail and fuzzy edges. The lump was Zin, sitting in the center of his cell with his knees pulled against his chest and his arms wrapped around his shins.

“You want to protect your core, Danny Boy,” Zin said. “Do whatever you can to conserve your body heat. Walking around is only going to waste it. It might feel good now but you’ll pay for it later.”

“Why are they doing this, Zin?”

“Sit down and do what I told you,” he snapped. “And use your legs to keep your balls from touching the floor. You don’t want those getting cold.”

He didn’t have to worry about his scrotum touching anything. It had shriveled up like a mummified prune. The floor felt like a glacier. He stopped rocking back and forth before Zin snapped at him again, but he couldn’t control the shivering.

“You good?” Zin asked. “Now, get into a breathing rhythm. Slowly, take in a breath and let it exhale on its own. In.” Zin sucked air through his nostrils, loudly. “Out,” he said, letting it leak out. He did it again, and again.

Danny followed his example. The chattering continued, but he felt less scattered. A little more settled. The fear that was strangling his insides had subsided to mild warmth. The muscles that were bunched around his shoulders released.

In.

Out.

He continued.

The room was mostly silent. Some of the others were talking. There was subtle laughter. Someone was whimpering.

“Here’s the deal,” Zin finally said. “We come here every two weeks, get naked and wait for the needle.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll find out. After this round, we’ll screw around for two weeks like we’ve been doing until the next one. You get the picture.”

“How long do we do this?”

“Don’t ask that question. Just count your breath, that’s all you need to know.”

Laughter crackled through the room. Someone said to shut the hell up, then added, “God, I hate this freaking part.”

Danny went back to breathing like Zin. It wasn’t helping, he was getting colder. But there wasn’t much choice. Danny could make out more details, could see that Zin was sitting with his back straight and legs folded beneath him, his hands in his lap. His chest rose and fell.

Danny didn’t know who was in the cell on the other side, but he was standing and shrouded in darkness. He hadn’t uttered a word.

Across the aisle, Parker had not moved. He stood in his cell hunched over. He looked disconnected already. He didn’t seem to care whether it was hot or cold, whether he suffered or not. Like some spirit from another world.

The seconds stitched together and became minutes. Zin told him when to get up and walk around, when to rub some feeling back into his buttocks, and when to sit still and breathe. Danny was still shivering. There were moments when he swallowed the knot in his throat that threatened to break out sobs.

Danny lost count of how many times he and Zin walked, how many times he rubbed the feeling back into his buns, and how many breaths he’d counted. But he would remember for the rest of his life the sound the fan made when it engaged.

It started with a buzz. The long blades began to crawl in a circle. After one rotation, they picked up speed and the breeze came down with a slow helicopter sound.

Wop-wop-wop-wop-wop.

Then came the hiss of the sprinklers. A fine mist swirled in the current and settled on the floor and everything else.

“I won’t talk after this, Danny Boy, no offense,” Zin said. “This is where the real work begins. Just remember when the needle drops, push your tongue against the roof of your mouth.”

“Why?”

Zin began to pace. “Or else you’ll bite it off.”

And that’s when the lump in Danny’s throat broke. He tried to smother the sobs but failed. No one said anything.

No one laughed.

The fan would stop. So would the mist.

Then start again.

Danny stopped the breathing exercise. He hadn’t done it since the fan began. He was curled up on his side with his legs drawn up to his chest. He had cried out all his tears. His stomach ached.

He found strength watching Zin. He sat so still. He was getting up more often and walking back and forth with a steady, measured pace; his hands folded over his stomach. His head was slightly bowed.

And on and on, it went.

On and on, it went.

There were large patches of forgetting.

Danny wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep or just blanked out. The floor had begun to grind into his hip and his neck hurt from lying down. He started to walk like Zin but didn’t talk to him. It was just back and forth, back and forth.

The guy in the other cell turned out to be Reed. Danny only guessed from the long hair. He faced the other direction. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t much move. He just remained steady.

The fan finished another cycle of turning and they were in for a short reprieve. The following silence was interrupted by shuffling and a cough or a moan. Droplets of water condensed on the bars until they fell with a heavy drip.

But there was a new sound.

Above Danny’s cell, a tiny mechanized motor turned.

The atmosphere changed. A heavy pause, like a collective breath.

Everyone stared up.

Danny saw a black box fastened in the center of the barred ceiling of his cell. Something was moving inside it. He didn’t see the tiny door open, but heard the wire and straps fall out.

A jubilant roar shook the room.

The others were on their feet, calling to each other. There was laughter. They all reached up.

Zin stopped pacing. He paused for one final breath before reaching for the black box and pulling down a gaggle of straps and wire. He sat down and pulled the line from the box until there was plenty of slack on the floor. Then he took the straps and fastened them over his head like some sort of wrestling gear, but instead of ear protection there was a single knob that centered over the middle of his forehead. He didn’t look at Danny, only took a deep breath and lay on his back.

His body convulsed once, his back arching off the floor for a long moment.

Then it went limp.

Everyone was in the same position. It was suddenly silent. No labored breathing. No groans or whimpers. Just complete silence.

He reached for the mess dangling from his cell. His joints ached. The straps were cold leather; the wire a thick cable. The knob was hard. He was reluctant, despite the agony. There was a needle inside the knob, he knew it had to be. It would plunge into the hole.

The thought was as cold as the floor.

He sat down, unable to put it on. But when the fan began to whir, Danny was in motion. His body moved on its own. He couldn’t stand the cold, wet air anymore. Not when everyone around him was so peaceful. He just wanted out.

Away from this body.

The strap fit snugly around his head. He pulled extra cable from above until it pooled at his side. He shifted the knob over his forehead. If there were any tears left, Danny might have squeezed out a few. Instead, he just squeezed his eyes shut.

The knob began to squirm like flagellating lips, like the bottom of a snail. It numbed the skin beneath the knob. A cold fire spread into his forehead, like a river of icy water gushing inside his brain. His bladder released; a warm puddle grew between his legs. It was embarrassing, but he didn’t care.

He just wanted out.

The cell walls shifted. The one next to him got smaller. Reed had turned around, staring down at him.

Then came the needle.

9

Danny tasted steel.

The needle plunged into the frontal lobe. The pain was minimal, but his body thrashed on the concrete, scraping his elbows and cutting the back of his head.

All Danny felt was the dull blunt force of metal and the crunching sound of the hole reopening. He no longer felt the cold floor or the frigid mist blowing over his naked body or the warm blood seeping from the back of his head. He was in another type of darkness.

Bodiless. Sightless.

Somewhere else.

Once he’d ridden a three-story water slide. He flung himself into the dark tube and plunged into the unknown where turns tossed him left and right and the water surged over his head. His stomach twisted with fear and excitement until he was shot out the bottom of the ride.

He remembered that. The whole thing.

The memory seeped into his mind from somewhere in the dark.

Danny was on another sort of ride that caused his stomach – if he still had a stomach – to buck and he was thrown through a series of twisting turns. But this ride swirled up and down and side to side, and it kept going and going. Until, finally, he fell through the bottom into a soft pit that was still black. Still nowhere.

There was a sense of floating. It was amniotic, thick and fluid. He tried to shout but had no lips, no throat. He was just somewhere, and that somewhere was better than his flesh.

He was seven years old. He slept in tee-pees and ran through icy streams and shot arrows and threw knives. He didn’t change his underwear once. It was the best week of his life.

That was summer camp. He remembered! The memory was whole again. It was him.

A small man with a badge on his belt put his hand on Danny’s shoulder and walked him up wide concrete steps that led to big wooden doors.

He had done something seriously wrong. He and some friends got caught writing computer code and hacking into websites. They did it as a goof, didn’t think they’d get caught. And if they did, they were only seven or eight years old at the time. What were they going to do, put them in prison? They were kids. But the men and women waiting for Danny inside the wooden doors wore FBI t-shirts.

The needle was bringing back his memories. He felt more like himself.

There were sounds. It was distant, as if coming through a long pipe stuffed with towels. At first, it didn’t sound like much, but then it took form. It sounded more like… laughter. The kind that comes from a playground.

He tried to swim towards it, but he was just floating, just listening. But it got louder. Words were popping up, now and then. They seemed to be running past him.

“Danny Boy!” It was right in front of him, just on the other side of the darkness. On the other side… of… his eyelids?

“I knew it,” the voice said. “He ain’t worth crap and in the middle of the field. Someone get him out of the way!”

There were footsteps. More voices. Some very far away, others going past him. Someone was nearby, out of breath from running.

“This is Danny Boy.”

Zin! He’s right there, just out of reach.

“That’s him?” There was a girl with him. A girl. Colors swirled in the dark when Danny had the thought. “I thought you said he was some big deal,” she said. “He’s barely old enough to be here.”

“Yeah, well you never saw him in the game room. The kid’s some kind of prodigy with the computer sticks in his hands. I mean, there are kids on the island that have been here longer than me that aren’t half as good as Danny Boy.”

“Video games?” She sighed. “Seriously, who cares, Zin?”

“You want to help me move him, Sandy?”

The darkness shifted. Danny had a sense of the ground below him, the open sky above. Zin hooked his arms under Danny’s armpits and Sandy took his feet. He felt the jostling of their footsteps. The breeze whistled past him and the grass was soft on his cheek when they put him down.

“Zin!” Sid called. “Don’t get lost, I want you at the sundial when it hits noon, you got it?”

“Aye—aye, Capitan!”

“You’re not really going to play that game again, are you?” the girl said.

“Naaaaaw.”

“Seriously, Zin. We don’t know how many rounds we have together and you’re going to waste time gaming?”

And they went back and forth. Danny imagined the wry smile on Zin’s face, what he usually looked like when he lied right in your face but still made you laugh. The image looked so clear and vivid, like he was looking right at it. Then he heard someone laugh.

Zin and Sandy were quiet. There was laughter again, and this time he felt it.

It was him.

“Danny Boy! Holy crap, did I tell you this kid was a winner, Sandy?”

Zin was very close, his voice soft but loud.

“Open your eyes, kid. Get here, man. Get all the way inside?”

Danny didn’t know how to open his eyes. It was like telling a quadriplegic to move his legs when he didn’t even know where they were. But then he felt pressure from the outside and recognized his face. There were hands on him. Once he knew where his cheeks were, he followed the pattern to his eyes.

They opened with a crunch, like years of sleep were crusted on his eyelids. There were blurs of color. A few blinks and smudges merged into a face. Zin was inches away, a big smile warping his lips.

“Danny Boy, you did it, man. You went fully lucid on your first round. How about that?” Zin looked back at Sandy. “Did I tell you? Who goes lucid on the first round? No one does, that’s who. No one except Danny Boy. Freaking all the way inside on his first round.”

Danny felt a smile on the inside, but he was still completely numb. His eyelids were already too heavy to keep open. Zin lightly slapped him.

“Not yet, don’t go to sleep yet.”

“Let him go down, Zinny,” Sandy said. “He’s not going to be able to move and I want to spend some time with you. The clock is ticking.”

“I know, baby. I know. I just want to keep him lucid as long as possible. That will make the next round a lot easier.”

Zin reached under Danny and propped him against a wall so that he was looking across a green field. He blinked and thought he was dreaming. He was sitting against the dormitory looking at the Yard and it didn’t look a whole lot different.

“You see that, Danny Boy? We’re inside the needle, somewhere between your mind and the Haystack’s network. The needle is sunk inside your brain right now, boy. It’s realigning your synapses so the computers can link directly with your frontal lobe. You’re about as useful as a bowl of pudding, but you can see, Danny Boy. You can see, and the next time you’ll be moving around. Next time, you’ll be able to do this.”

Zin lifted a boulder above his head. He tossed it over the distant trees.

“Peter Pan went to Neverland, but this is Foreverland, Danny Boy! We can do anything here. ANYTHING! There are no rules, no laws. Where gravity doesn’t exist if we don’t want it to. Where magic is limited only by our imagination.”

Zin opened his hand and a long-stemmed rose grew from his palm. He took a knee in front of Sandy and kissed her hand. She rolled her eyes. She pointed over her shoulder and a truck squeezed out of her finger like a cartoon, but bounced on the ground like a ton of steel.

“It’s not magic if everyone can do it,” she said.

“Magic is not defined by the number of people that can perform it, but by the manner in which it is done.”

“Okay, Socrates.” She wrapped her arm around his neck and whispered. “Can we go?”

She whispered something else. Zin smiled wide.

He twirled his arm in front of his stomach and half-bowed. “I must bid you adieu, Danny Boy. There’s only so much time and we work so hard to get here.” He began to backpedal while Sandy pulled at him. “But don’t give up hope. The first round sucks because you suffer without a payoff, but you’ll see, Danny Boy. The next one will be better, you’ll see!”

And they were off, running across the field, gleefully trotting like long lost lovers.

Danny didn’t stay awake long. He managed to keep his eyes open to see the magic Zin was talking about. What seemed so ordinary when he first opened his eyes quickly turned into Foreverland. People were shapeshifting into lions and tigers and eagles. A mastodon thundered past with a horde of spear-chucking warriors that jumped off and floated away with their arms spread out.

It was everything that made dreams. But it was so real.

A long blink and the sun was lower. The field was nearly empty. There was half a spaceship buried a hundred yards away, its back half was on fire. It looked like the Millennium Falcon. There were distant explosions and gunfire. Someone shouted orders nearby. Another person went flying past on the back of a dinosaur.

Another long blink and it was night.

The ship was gone, replaced by an empty crater. Two moons were high, one full and the other half-crescent. There were several campfires in the field. Some people were singing, others laughed loudly while chasing each other. Girls squealed. It looked a lot like summer camp. Except for the people flying past the moon.

Dawn arrived.

The Yard was empty, except for the crater and dead campfires.

The sun was rising somewhere behind him. The shadows were long and dusky and the sunlight turned the trees a weird shimmery magenta. The quiet was disturbed by an occasional frog. Danny closed his eyes again. He was going to sleep when he felt someone very close. It was a girl.

She was inches from his face. Her eyes were green and her hair red, like candy. Her nostrils flared and her eyes searched his face. There was desperation in them, the eyes wide enough to expose the whites around her irises. She leaned in and pressed her cheek to his. She smelled like a beautiful flower.

“Find him,” she said. “Tell him we found you.”

And then she was off.

Danny hadn’t even blinked. She moved so fast, it was like she hadn’t been there. Maybe he would’ve believed he imagined it if not for the lingering scent.

He went to sleep for the last time. The next time he would wake, it would be in his bed, back in his body. But he would wake with her smell upon him and her words.

Tell him we found you.

ROUND 2

One-Car Accident; One Dead, One Missing

HOBART, Oklahoma. – A blue Ford F-150 hit a tree off route 55 and caught fire. Both occupants were ejected from the vehicle. One was a female in her late teens and pronounced dead on arrival. The other occupant is a male, also in his late teens, and severely injured. Neither person had identification on their body.

The female was Caucasian, 5’ 7”, 130 pounds, long red hair and green eyes. The male is Caucasian, 5’ 10”, 180 pounds, shoulder-length black hair, and brown eyes. He was taken to Elkview Hospital but was mysteriously missing shortly after being admitted. He was last seen wearing denim jeans, work boots and a brown t-shirt.

If you have any information regarding their identification and the male’s whereabouts, please contact local police.

10

Danny stared at the popcorn texture of the ceiling. His face was fat; his lips rubbery. Every joint in his body ached.

The curtains were closed. A sliver of light etched the dusty air, falling on a plastic cup on a tray next to his bed. Danny reached for it, winced when the scabs on his elbows cracked and his entire head throbbed, front to back. The crown of his head was crusty and bruised. He leaned on one elbow and took the cup, drinking the water in three swift gulps, noticing the medical equipment on the tray, the blood pressure cuff, thermometer, and bandages.

Mr. Jones’s smell was all over the place. Danny threw the covers off and sat up, the floor cold on his bare feet. Nothing but underwear.

He didn’t want to think about Mr. Jones putting him in bed. Problem was, he couldn’t remember anything. A cloud filled his head. He dropped his face into his hands to think a moment but it was hopeless. There was a strange taste in the back of his throat and all he could think about was more water.

He took the cup to the sink. There, in the mirror staring back, was a circular bandage in the middle of his forehead. He touched it, gently.

The fog cleared.

The Haystack and the fan and the mist. The needle.

Vertigo smacked him. He held onto the sink. It got worse. He sank to his knees and crawled to the bed while the memories settled. It was strange how his mind was like water and the memories swirled like grains of sand. There was something he was supposed to remember but it was so hard. Summer camp? FBI? Damn, he couldn’t remember it now.

He had journeyed through the needle to some… dream. Foreverland.

It was torture to get there.

The taste still lingered, but it wasn’t just in his mouth. It was in his head, too. Metallic. The taste of the needle.

The price to pay for reality limited only by the imagination. Danny looked at his hands, turned them over and studied the creases in his palms. Is this Foreverland, still?

He decided it wasn’t. But it was hard to tell.

When the doorknob slowly turned, Danny threw the covers over his lap. The door cracked open. An eyeball slid into the opening and the door closed again. Before he could decide if it was Mr. Jones’s eyeball, the door flew open and banged on the wall, followed by a mob.

“Danny Boy!”

Zin was the first one in the room. The others were right behind him. Danny curled up under the covers just before they piled onto him. They were slapping his back, his legs, his butt, shouting his name and whooping loudly.

“What a player!” Zin threw open the curtains, stabbing Danny’s eyes with light. “The kid went lucid on his first round! ON HIS FIRST ROUND!”

There were high-fives and another dog pile on top of Danny. Zin mercifully pulled them off. The celebration continued in the center of the room.

“You all right, Danny Boy?” Zin asked

“A few aches.”

“Yeah, but you did it,” Zin said. “You did the impossible, you opened your eyes. No one does that.”

The room got quiet. They stood like they were posing for a group photo, waiting for Danny’s words of wisdom. He had none. They looked at him, expectantly. Everyone was there, except Parker.

“Poof.”

That was Sid’s explanation for Parker. He snapped his fingers, said, “Ole Parker is a puff of smoke, Danny Boy. He’s gone on to bigger and better, my friend. Bigger and better.”

No one explained it much beyond that, other than Parker graduated and was likely on his way back home, all healed up.

Bigger and better.

The slam dance of celebration began again. “And now you need to get out of bed, son! You’ve been sleeping for two damn days while we’ve been back in the real world. We need you, Danny Boy. We’ve been holding your slot open in the game room and we’re about to drop in the standings. We can’t wait any longer.”

“Relax, Sid.” Zin stood between them. “The kid hasn’t eaten in two days, either.”

“Then let’s eat,” Sid said. “Get dressed, we’ll eat. We’ll game. Daylight’s burning, son.”

Danny put his hand up to pause the ceaseless slam dance. It was hurting his head.

“Give him some privacy,” Zin said. “Kid’s in his underwear.”

“He was butt naked two days ago. Underwear is a step up,” Sid countered.

“All right, well, give him a second. We’ll meet down in the cafeteria, right, Danny Boy? When you’re ready, you come down. What do you say?”

Danny nodded with his eyes closed. He listened to Zin push them out. The chaos faded down the hallway. Danny dropped his head on the pillow. He needed some silence, just enough space to let the sand settle in his head. The last grains were falling into place.

We found you.

Mr. Jones was the happiest Danny had ever seen him.

No more hunching over. He walked upright and smiled all the time. He was proud of Danny, he said so every day. Looked like he was about to cry once or twice. Even the other Investors took notice. They shook Mr. Jones’s hand and congratulated him, like he’d done something himself. Mr. Jones stood up and shook their hands back vigorously. Once, when he was walking with Danny to the cafeteria, another Investor stopped to congratulate him. The old man didn’t pay much attention to Danny when he shook Mr. Jones’s hand and said, “You got a good one there, Jonsy. Lucky you.”

“Maybe he’ll graduate in five rounds,” Mr. Jones said.

“Wouldn’t that be something.”

They parted ways and the old man didn’t look back. Danny kept thinking. Got a good one there… lucky you.

Like the pick of the litter.

Danny didn’t feel special. All he did was follow everyone else into the Haystack, put the needle on his head and wake up two days later. It wasn’t like he did anything.

Evidently, others thought different.

He got high-fives in the game room, and those that didn’t raise their hand were staring. Zin was out front, making room for them to walk to the central game dock where Sid and the others were waiting. Danny strapped on the gear and felt the pressure of half the game room gathering around to watch.

“Word gets around,” Zin said, pulling on his gloves. “Don’t disappoint.”

And he didn’t.

Danny took control of the game and Sid let him. Like before, he didn’t feel like he was doing anything special, it just happened. He thought faster and clearer. He knew where his enemy was going, like he knew their thoughts. He’d operated with the efficiency of a computer, and when he snuck into the enemy camp and put a bullet through the last one’s throat, the entire game room erupted.

He forgot they were even there.

Danny had discussed the first round with Mr. Jones, how he opened his eyes and what he saw. Mr. Jones listened, jotting down the details on a clipboard. When Danny was finished, he asked him to start from the top and go through it one more time, just in case there was something he was missing. “It’s sort of like dreams, Danny Boy,” he said. “The more you think about them, the more you remember. So one more time, my boy.”

The more he remembered. That was the strange thing. Danny had the sense he got a bunch of his memories back when he was inside the needle, but now he couldn’t remember them. Just something about summer camp and the FBI.

Danny got the feeling Mr. Jones just wanted to hear about it again. He added a few more details about people flying and the weird creatures that spawned from the ground (Oh, yeah, and the Millennium Falcon had crashed; weird, huh?).

“That’s good. Good.” When Danny stared at the floor, twisting his fingers, Mr. Jones said, “Anything else?”

“No,” Danny said. “No, that’s it.”

But there was something else. He left out the girl. That felt secret and a gut-feeling decided to keep that part to himself. He waited another week before he did what the girl asked him to do.

Danny went to the beach.

11

Danny found the narrow path somewhere near the Haystack.

It meandered without apparent direction. Clearly one less traveled.

Palm fronds hung across it like soft arms blocking the way. He was wet from the dew and eventually found a stick to push them out of the way while knocking down spider webs.

The path eventually turned sandy and ended on a wide dune. He climbed over the soft mound of sand to the hard-packed beach. The wind was strong on this side of the island. The surf drove towards the shore in ten-foot waves, crashing hard only thirty yards out and leaving foamy residue on the beach. Danny could see the jagged edges of coral just under the surface, too dangerous to surf.

A lone figure was far down to Danny’s left. He sat in the loose sand of the dunes. Danny started in that direction. His stomach tightened with nerves. And even though the sun was biting his white skin, he felt shivers the closer he got to him.

Reed didn’t look up, not even when Danny was a few feet away. He sat with his arms resting on his knees, staring at the ocean. His bare chest was red. The edges of his shoulders poked out like his skin was hanging on him like an old shirt. The tracker bulged on his neck.

Danny started to say something but the sound of the surf blotted out his hesitant words and then he just didn’t know what to say, so he swallowed the lump and looked at the water, too.

“What do you think’s out there?” Reed finally asked.

Danny squinted, shading his eyes to search the horizon but nothing disrupted the flat line. No ship or island or rock, just water.

“Home,” Danny said.

Reed didn’t tell him if he was wrong or right. He got the feeling he was wrong.

Danny continued to search the horizon. Just because he couldn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He came from someplace and it wasn’t the island. Out there, somewhere, were his parents and a place he called home. And when he graduated, he would see them again.

“Tell me what home looks like,” Reed said, without looking up. “Better yet, tell me about your favorite Christmas. Think about the best Christmas you ever had, when you got everything you asked for and the world was the greatest place to be. Tell me what it was like.”

Easy.

It was the time he got a skateboard half-pipe. He came down the stairs rubbing his eyes and his little brother was opening these big boxes from Santa and all Danny had was a green envelope. It was a message to look out the kitchen window. Danny pressed his hands on the cold glass. There, standing six feet tall and filling the back yard was the thing he wanted most in the world.

The half-pipe was covered in all his favorite stickers – Fallen and Zero and the fiery red head of Spitfire. His mother, wearing her pink robe with dyed blond hair hanging in her eyes, went onto the back deck with him.

But when Danny went through the back door, he stepped in three feet of snow. His mother was wearing a coat and her hair was black and short and she was smoking a cigarette. And his dad was there, too. He was fat and unshaven with a cigarette stuck in his lips. He handed Danny an air rifle and said Merry Christmas and aim for the cans he set up in the back yard. The yard was empty except for a dozen Budweisers.

Danny looked back to his mom because he had a half-pipe, not a rifle, but now she was shorter and wearing a tank top and the snow was gone and there were palm trees next to the house.

“They didn’t erase our memories, Danny Boy.” Reed still hadn’t looked up. “They filled us with random ones, layered them one on top the other until we don’t know which ones belong to us, which ones are false.”

He was right. They didn’t feel like his memories. And they were never the same parents. But Foreverland, that was different. “In the Haystack… I remembered…”

“They put your memories inside the needle. Every time you go inside, you get more of them back but you come back to the flesh, they get mixed with an ocean of random ones that aren’t yours.”

“Why?”

“The more you go inside the needle, the more you feel like yourself. The more you like it.”

Danny tried to remember Christmas again. He knew who he was, he remembered getting what he wanted. He remembered the half-pipe covered with stickers and the sound of the skateboard clapping on the metal coping. But then he couldn’t actually remember skating.

Then he realized he didn’t know how to skate.

“She sent you,” Reed said. “She told you to come find me, didn’t she?”

There wasn’t a hole in Reed’s forehead, only a scar where it used to be. He went into the Haystack and endured the suffering without taking the needle. After Danny went to sleep, Reed stayed in that dreadful room. He’d done it before, Danny had been told. Reed was a sick puppy, he was told.

“How do you know that?” Danny asked.

Reed remained still and quiet. “You can trust her,” he finally said.

“Do you know her?”

“I did, once upon a time.” Again, quiet. A slight shrug. “Or maybe I just think I do. It’s an ocean of thoughts, Danny Boy.”

Danny wanted to ask him a hundred questions. Everyone on the island was buying everything the Investors were selling, gobbling it up like a bunch of hungry fish, and here was a kid that seemed to know something. Danny wanted to know why they were on the island and why Reed didn’t take the needle and who the girl was…

But then a cart came over the dune and began driving down the hard-packed beach, the water skimming beneath it. Reed never looked at it, just continued staring. The cart stopped in front of them. Mr. Jones rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared at Reed. It was the first time since Danny had come out of the Haystack that the old man didn’t look happy. He patted the empty seat next to him.

“Come along, Danny Boy. Your camp is looking for you, they’ve been waiting at the game room. You don’t want to disappoint, now do you?”

Mr. Jones’s eyes flickered at Reed when he said that. Reed didn’t notice. Or seem to care. He just stared at the ocean, not looking for anything, almost like he was waiting for a ship to arrive. The girl said to tell Reed that they found him. He did that.

Now what?

Danny got on the cart. They left Reed behind. He’d stay there the remainder of the day. Maybe longer.

The next time Danny would see him was through the bars of his cell.

12

Reed had spent time on every section of the island. Most were sandy beaches; a few sections were cliffs. At first, he explored these areas in search of an escape while all the other boys wasted time in the game room. It didn’t take long to see the futility of the choppy surf and rocky coral. Of course, he hadn’t seen the south end where the old men lived where hope may still exist.

But hope was no longer in Reed’s vocabulary. He extinguished it. Twenty-five trips – now, twenty-six – through the Haystack will scrub that out of any person. Boy or man.

Reed spent his time on the north end because no one else did. He would remain on the beach for days while the sun spread warmth deep into his bones where the cold torture felt unreachable.

He rarely saw anyone on the north end. Not even Mr. Smith, especially since he wasn’t talking to Reed anymore. Mr. Smith didn’t show up when the last round ended. Reed walked back to his room and curled up under the covers, chattering in and out of fitful sleep where he dreamed of turning blades and endless rain.

Reed came to the beach just before the sun rose, when the sky was glowing orange and purple. He sat, watching the waves come in. There was a time when he decided escape was impossible but still looked for a sign that he was wrong.

Not anymore.

Now he just watched the waves crash, reminding him of the one sustaining lesson: hopelessness.

Reed had given up hope that he would one day find a way off the island, to discover home somewhere out there, to be rid of the ceaseless random thoughts churning in his head. Because to hope was to reject the present moment, the only thing that was real, regardless of its misery. Reed clung to the present moment like a buoy. Reality had frayed. He didn’t know who he was.

He hadn’t given up, only the hope that things would be different. He found his suffering was bearable when he did so, that he accepted the totality of life, regardless how he felt about it, whether he liked it or not.

And like it, he did not.

Reed couldn’t look at Danny. If he did, he would risk clinging to hope again.

He wasn’t surprised he’d come. He had an intuition that he would seek him out. Reed’s intuition didn’t come in words or thoughts, it came in dreams. The only consistent thing about them was the image that followed them: red hair.

He didn’t know who she was. He sensed her presence the day he woke up in a lab staring at Mr. Smith’s hopeful grin. Her essence warmed him. At first, he thought he’d imagined it like all the other random thoughts, but the essence that accompanied her was different than all the others.

It was fragrant.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know if she meant anything to him or if she was real. He may have given up hope for escape, but he wasn’t able to expel hope concerning her, hope that she was real, hope that he meant something to her. When things were darkest it was hope that he would see her one day that warmed him.

But that was as far as he hoped. That was it.

He couldn’t look at Danny because he’d see the hope in his eyes. Danny needed to accept and understand where he was. This was the island. It was the end of the world. Home didn’t exist, not anymore. If he hoped to find something better, he would eventually look inside the needle. But the answer wasn’t in there.

But he would go inside. They all did.

Reed wasn’t disappointed when he did. Danny confirmed what he suspected. She’s in there, too.

It was harder to know that she was in there than suffering through the Haystack, knowing that if he took the needle he would find her. But he would have to stay strong. In his dreams, she told him to resist. She told him that someone would come for him and show him the way.

And then Danny appeared at the beach and he knew it. He just knew it. Maybe he was the one that would put an end to all the suffering. Maybe he would give them hope.

That was why he couldn’t look at him.

13

Class was in session.

About thirty of them in small desks arranged in tidy rows and the teacher discussing the world economy. He was propped on the corner of the desk. He was mostly bald and his bottom lip glistened when he took a moment to gather his thoughts.

Some of the guys in the back row were asleep, carefully hiding their faces behind the people in front of them. Danny was up front and had taken to doodling on a piece of lined notebook paper. It started out as a tapestry of curly lines, but then a face took shape in the middle of it all. First the eyes, then the petit nose. He began to darken the hair—

“Danny Boy?” The teacher had crossed his arms, scowling over his glasses. “Art class is not today. I’ll advise you to join the discussion or I’ll be forced to report you to your Investor for tutoring.”

Danny folded the paper.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, the teacher continued in the same droning tone about the recent flash crash of the New York Stock Exchange. Millions of dollars were lost in a matter of moments. The market closed early that day and all trading suspended. A week later, the culprit was found: some dopey day trader that lived in his parents’ basement that hacked his way into the market and over reached.

“You don’t mess with money, boys,” the teacher intoned with a gurgle. He cleared his throat. “Money is power and it will find you.”

The teacher asked for questions. He was answered by the sound of soft snoring somewhere in the back but didn’t hear it. He had no idea why everyone started laughing.

“Okay, I understand this is not a stimulating topic,” he said, finally standing up with a grunt, “that’s why I got special permission to do an exercise today.”

Their interest piqued.

“We’re going to use tablets for our class discussion today.”

There was no buzz, no excitement. There was a fully-loaded game room in the next building, why would anyone care about a tablet?

The teacher unlocked a cabinet in the corner of the room. He pulled a box off the bottom shelf and slid it across the floor. The guys sleeping in the back continued sleeping. The others looked bored. Danny listened.

They were going to begin a business in a simulated program. It could be anything: services, goods, investing, whatever. All they had to do was show they could create a fake business that made fake money in the fake world inside the tablet and that would prove they had some understanding of economics.

A few of the guys started taking them out of the box. The teacher stopped them by holding up a knobby finger. “And remember, these tablets are not allowed out of this room. The repercussions of such an infraction will be severe.”

Ass = grass.

When he dropped his hand, Danny was the first one to the box. He found a seat next to one of the Sleeping Beauties. The tablet felt warm in his hand. It fit nicely.

The teacher got stern with the rest of the boys barely making an effort.

“We’ll be here all day,” he said. “Until you finish, I swear to God.”

Every second in the class was a second away from the game room. They began breaking down into small groups. Even woke up the sleepers. The teacher advised them on how to begin. Danny, though, stroked the smooth glass as instincts bubbled inside him. He ignored the instructions and, with all the excited chaos, called up a virtual keyboard on the touchscreen.

His fingers raced over the keys with the tablet snuggly cradled in his left hand. He swiftly hit a combination of keys to override the operating system. The screen went black. A cursor blinked in the upper left corner. He began typing again.

The commands came from somewhere deep in his subconscious. He didn’t stop to think about the letters or the meaning of what he was writing, he just let it flow through his fingertips until line after line of code began scrolling rapidly from top to bottom. He was looking for a combination of words that would give him an encrypted password. He didn’t know what it was, just trusted he’d know it when he saw it.

AW34uT!69fEW&8990.

There it is.

He tapped the glass and stopped the word flow, then dragged his fingertip over the password and dropped it into the upper right corner. The screen went black again. One second. Two. Three.

And then color swirled into focus.

A light blinked in the upper right. He had hacked into the network. That blinking light meant he had access to the Internet. To the world outside.

Danny began to download a browser from an FTP site that popped into memory—

“Aw, what?”

Every single tablet went blank.

Danny looked up. The class was moaning, some of them trying to shake their tablet back to life. “What happened?” someone whined.

“Class! Class!” The teacher held up his hands. “I need you to hand the tablets back to me in an orderly fashion…”

Danny quickly slipped into the middle of the room and exchanged his tablet with one of many abandoned on a desk. Then he switched with another one, careful no one was watching.

“Class, please!” The old man cleared his throat. “Please! It’s important you give me your tablet so we don’t lose your data. Line up, keep orderly, please. Keep orderly.”

Danny did what everyone else did and began moaning. He told the guy next to him about the idea he had for a lemonade stand. When he was checked off and dismissed, he left the classroom smiling.

We’re not alone. There is an outside world.

14

They had a match in the game room in an hour.

It had only been a week since Danny woke from his first round and he’d put them firmly in first place. In fact, they were so far ahead they would still be in first after the second round. Sid didn’t even pretend to be running the crew anymore. When they talked about strategy, he got everyone quiet and then looked at Danny.

They were in the cafeteria, talking about the second round only days away. Most had met new girls in the first round and Sid was having a hard time getting them to agree on another match once they were inside the needle.

Danny pushed his tray away and checked out of the conversation. He looked around for Reed. He had to come back to eat but maybe he did it at night when everyone was sleeping.

Danny pulled a sheet of paper from his back pocket. He had continued the doodling he started in economics class and fleshed out the details of the girl’s hair, added plump lips and eyebrows. He hoped to see her again once he was inside. Danny didn’t know what he was supposed to do and craved some direction. Craved some answers.

“What’s that?” Zin plucked the paper out of his hand. “Ooo, you’re a Michelangelo and a war hero, huh? Who would’ve guessed?”

Danny snatched it back. Zin didn’t seem alarmed by the overreaction.

“That your girlfriend?” Zin asked.

“Yeah,” Danny said. “I meet her every night in my dreams.”

Zin opened a box of juice and sipped, absently. When no one seemed interested in what they were doing, Danny unfolded the paper and smoothed out the wrinkles.

“You ever see her, Zin?”

He glanced. “No. Why, you?”

“No, no. I was just wondering, you know, for the next time we’re…” Danny stumbled over his directionless conversation. Again, Zin took no notice.

“Where do they come from?” Danny asked.

“The girls?”

“Yeah. I mean, are they real or just part of Foreverland?”

“No, they’re real all right.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “Sandy describes a camp kind of like ours. They do the same things we do, only they don’t call it the Haystack. I think they call it the Vase, or something girly.”

“How do you know it’s real?”

He shrugged, again. “I don’t, but it makes sense. We’re a boys’ camp and they’re a girls’ camp. Why not?”

Danny looked at the face in the doodle. She was different than the rest. Maybe she wasn’t real.

“But how do you know?” he said. “Who says that this, right here, isn’t real? Maybe this is the dream.”

Zin shook his head, took another sip and grimaced.

“I mean, what proof do I have that any of this is real? Maybe this is just another Foreverland that we think we woke up in and we’re really still in a dark room somewhere freezing our asses off while we wander around another Foreverland—”

“Look! This is real!” Zin slammed his juice down. “It just is, so get that through your little punctured skull, all right? This is real, Foreverland is real, it’s all real.” He grabbed the paper and held it up to Danny’s face. “She’s real, too, Danny Boy. You know why?”

Danny backed off.

“Because we got nothing else. It’s just this, and that’s all. My girl is real, you got it? Stop pissing all over my party, why don’t you?”

He finished the drink in one long sip and crushed the carton on the table. His leg was shaking. Then he got up and left.

Sid didn’t see any of it, just figured Zin was making an early exit for the game room. In seconds, all of them followed Zin out. Everyone on the island had a nerve, Zin once told him.

Danny just stepped on Zin’s.

15

Danny woke early for the second round.

Mr. Jones walked him to the Haystack. They walked inside without introductions from another clipboard carrier as the last bell faded.

Danny wasn’t nervous until the air inside hit him and the steel fan loomed overhead and the smell of dank misery crawled up his nose. By the time he reached his cell, his insides had turned to jelly. Mr. Jones had sensed his hesitancy and placed a firm comforting hand on his shoulder. Danny turned quickly into his cell to get away. He waited until everyone was inside their cells before getting undressed, doing it quickly and folding everything neatly so that Mr. Jones would leave.

“Hey, Danny Boy,” Sid shouted. “I want you fully lucid this time and get to the sundial, my man. You hear? Once you’re inside the needle, none of this exploring crap like a new poke, you stay in the Yard and meet us at the sundial. We need to clock some real kills in the game, son. We only need to stay in first place another week!”

Someone whooped and shouted, “FIRST PLACE!”

And then everyone joined the seemingly random celebration.

“Zin, you, too!” Sid shouted above the melee. “You be at the sundial, boy, or I’ll dot both your eyes. You’re screwing with my time if you get lost inside the needle.”

And the chant continued. FIRST PLACE! FIRST PLACE!

“What’s the obsession with the game?” Danny said.

Zin was already sitting on the floor with his back straight. “There’s a reward for any team that captures first place for three straight weeks. They drop the needle as soon as we get here. No getting naked and no suffering.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Danny grabbed the bars. He wanted to pull them apart and throttle Zin sitting so composed and unmoved. No suffering? I’d be in that game room every waking second!

“Bad luck to tell you,” Zin said. “It’s a jinx.”

Danny wanted to argue, but he was right. They were in first.

“Don’t fight it, Danny Boy.” Zin took a deep breath. “Suffering is part of life. Either way, we go inside the needle.”

“You mean you like this?”

“Hell, no. But it doesn’t matter how I feel.” Another deep breath. “Be here, no matter what.”

“Fine.” Danny crossed his arms and began pacing. “If you want to freeze your ass off, be my guest. I want out.”

Reed was standing in his cell with his back to Danny. He was as motionless as Zin was sitting. The skylights began to turn, followed by another round of cheers. Light faded. Darkness settled like thick soup. Forms disappeared. Voices became bodiless chatter.

The second round had begun.

“Danny Boy?”

Zin’s voice was soft, blending in with the docile conversations that were beginning to trail off into the silence of impending pain.

“The game, it’s a waste of time,” he said. “We’re going to explore once we’re inside the needle. I’m going to give you the tour, show you Foreverland.”

Danny resumed breathing like Zin had taught him. He finished his count to ten. “Sid’s going to be pissed.”

“Good thing he’s not running the show.”

“Then who is?”

“You are, Danny Boy.”

“Me?” He cringed, hoping Sid didn’t hear him. “Dude, I’m a poke, I’m not running anything.”

“Don’t be a clown, you’re the whole reason this place was cheering about a half hour ago. They’re all watching you, Danny Boy. Not Sid. He’s just a cheerleader.”

“You’re cracked, man,” Danny hissed. “Sid will put a black mark under my eyes after he’s done with you.”

“You think the old men are going to let him do anything to you or me or any kid in this place? Nothing’s going to happen, Danny Boy. This place is locked down tight.”

Danny imagined a mob of old men charging through the Yard wielding stun guns. It wouldn’t matter if they were carrying nuclear weapons, they’d throw a hip before they got anything under control.

“What about when they threw you in a trash can?”

“It was a trash can, who cares. It was funny. Even I laughed.”

“So how’s a bunch of crypt keepers going to keep us from getting pummeled?”

“Right here.” Zin’s dim figure tapped the tracker on the back of his neck. “They got some sort of remote in their pocket. They put their hand in there and they can kick a volt or two into your spine and you’re sleeping, my friend. And Sid knows it. The geezers load you on a cart and it’s over.”

“What’re you saying over there?” Sid’s voice carried from across the dark aisle. “You got something to say about me?”

“Nothing, Cap-i-tan,” Zin said. “Just girl talk over here, that’s all.”

Sid grunted. His teeth ground together. He said, “You just make sure—”

Click. Hmmmmmmmm.

The fan engaged. The blades began to crawl.

Conversation died.

“Let’s get on with the suffering,” Zin said.

Danny was already counting his breath. He glanced at Reed, still standing, still facing the other direction. It would be long and hard for him. Maybe if they held first place, he’d get a reprieve.

But he wouldn’t take the needle, so then what?

Danny thought about doing the same. He could talk to Reed when everyone was out. He could tell Danny more about the underlying secrets of the island, the red-headed girl, and why he resisted. Maybe they could talk long enough to sort through each other’s memories, figure out which ones were their own without having to go inside the needle.

But then the sprinklers began to hiss.

Moments later, Danny looked at the top of his cage. He knew he’d reach for the needle as soon as it dropped. Just like everyone else.

16

Reed settled into the rhythm of breathing.

The wet cold had reached his bones, but he found peace with it. Even the shivers seemed to fall into rhythm. He was at peace with misery.

He didn’t like the suffering, didn’t prefer it. If the gates opened, he’d gladly leave. But he didn’t resist it.

He found space for it.

Mr. Smith’s familiar walk-shuffle came down the aisle. Reed could smell him.

In-out, he breathed. In-out.

“Reed, look at me.”

Reed saw a haggard face that was losing the battle with time and gravity, the cheeks sagging like an old dog that needed putting down. The eyes were hidden in the shadows.

“You’ve put me in a very difficult position, my boy. In an effort to convince you what’s best, the Director and I have decided to alter your experience. We hope you’ll make the best of your opportunity.”

Reed drew a long breath through his nostrils.

“You understand we put you under duress to facilitate your progress. It’s not meant to harm you, you see. Only to propel you forward. But you refuse our guidance, Reed; therefore, we’ll need to push harder.”

The back of the cell began closing. It did not stop until the bars were pressed against his chest and back. Reed was sandwiched tightly in place, barely able to move. The lucid gear dropped from the top of his cage and brushed the top of his head. He would only need to lift himself onto his toes to let it slide into place.

Mr. Smith clamped something on the bars, turning the wingnuts with his arthritic fingers. It was a metal frame, box-like. An empty bracket was centered twelve inches from Reed’s face.

Mr. Smith remained a few seconds longer, then headed for the exit.

Reed closed his eyes. He squirmed against the bars and panic threatened to overwhelm him. He just wanted to move.

The lucid gear touched his head. They were making escape easy.

Each breath was forced to be shallow and quick as his chest was constricted by the bars. He wasn’t able to turn his head. Thoughts of being buried alive piled up. Trapped, he focused his efforts on breathing, again.

Mr. Smith returned. He was dragging something long and snake-like.

Reed wouldn’t look. He barely controlled his breathing.

Mr. Smith fastened it onto the metal bracket, turning wingnuts to hold it into place. He left the Haystack, the heavy door clicked shut. Locking the darkness inside.

Reed was tempted to lift up and take the needle. What if it’s a box of rats?

Water hit his face.

He choked. Struggled to breathe. Unable to turn his head, he was forced to swallow too much of it, choking on the rest. He managed to hold his breath until it stopped. He coughed up excess liquid.

Drowning.

A hose was locked into the metal frame.

When he had regained his breath, when the burning subsided in his chest, when the bars weren’t pressing as hard, the water came again.

And again.

17

Floating in darkness.

Not exactly floating, that implied motion.

Danny was just nowhere. There was no sound, smell or flesh. No nothing.

When the needle had dropped, Danny couldn’t pull it down fast enough. He didn’t bother looking at Reed. He was shivering too much to care about anything but escape. The suffering was worse than the first time. Felt longer, colder. He welcomed the needle like a savior.

The strap numbed his forehead. The needle hit the stent with a dull thump. His back arched. And then he went to the dark place.

And it was better than the Haystack.

Boundaries formed.

What felt like an endless void shaped into arms and legs and a body. He had no sense of up or down, just a feeling of being curled up in a fetal position.

Slowly, there was something hard beneath him. Gravity pulled the weight of his body against it. A rhythmic beating throbbed distantly, got louder. Heartbeat. Blood rushed past his ears.

The ground thundered beneath him.

The world spun and pain struck his arms—

“Don’t challenge me, son.” The voice was modulated and robotic. “Wake up.”

Danny’s head bobbled and neck popped. His eyes began to open. First, light. Then color. Then the details of a mechanical face. Danny was twenty feet off the ground, in the clutches of giant mechanical hands.

Danny’s world shook violently, again. A word vibrated in his throat but didn’t make it out.

“You ever have any delusions about who runs our camp, let this be a reminder,” the thing said.

Danny’s arms filled with sparking pain. The monster squeezed until they were painfully numb.

“You might be a hero in the game room, but you’re a little thirteen year old bitch. You got that? Life on the island is short, and I’ve been here way longer than you, so get in line, son. I don’t care what Zin told you about the tracker volts, I’ll stuff your head up your cornhole before they konk me out. You’ll be tasting last night’s dinner for weeks.”

The lower jaw jutted out. Flames ignited on the incisors like pilot lights.

“Try me again and I’ll set your head on fire. You hear?”

When Danny didn’t respond, his world shook. The popping in his neck was louder.

“You hear—”

“Whoa, whoa there, Sid. You’re going to turn him into a jellyfish if you’re not—”

Danny crumpled on the ground. The mechanical beast’s enormous hand clamped around Zin and lifted him up. The fingers squeezed so hard that Zin bulged like a water balloon. Then he melted, dripped to the ground like mercury, coagulating and reforming. Zin was whole again.

“I’m not kidding, Zinski! You start putting ideas in Danny Boy’s head and I’ll cook you both.”

“Sid, you got to remember that he just got here. He’s still a poke, man. He needs a little introduction to the needle before you start throwing him in the Foreverland game room. Just give him a second to get used to it, will you? You remember what it was like on your second round?”

Zin was engulfed in a cloud of fire. He was unfazed when the fire died, pinching off a small flame dancing on his sleeve.

“Both of you.” Sid pointed back and forth. “Don’t jerk off all day, you hear? If we lose and you’re MIA, then it’s cornhole time. Got it?”

Danny nodded. Zin gave him a thumbs up.

The ground shuddered as the monster trotted across the Yard. Danny bounced with each step.

How’d you do that? Those words were stuck inside Danny.

Zin grabbed his arm and lifted him to his feet. “Lean against the sundial and stand there a minute.”

It vibrated beneath his hand, penetrating into his chest until he was filled with warmth. The aches from Sid’s punishment faded. He noticed other sensations, too. The breeze brushed his cheeks. The grass tickled between his toes. He noticed the shouting and laughter from across the Yard. People running. People flying.

“Welcome to Foreverland, Danny Boy.” Zin let go of his arm. “You’re all the way inside this time, my friend.”

A body began to appear in the empty space only a few feet away. It first appeared translucent and ghostly, slowly solidified into one of the new pokes that came to the island shortly after Danny. He was sucking his thumb, eyes closed.

“That’s what most people look like on the second round,” Zin said. “Don’t tell Sid, but I heard he sucked his thumb for five rounds.” He looked around, suspiciously, whispered too loudly, “Even sucked his thumb inside the Haystack.”

Danny laughed.

“How’d you do all that?” Danny asked, weakly.

“What? Turn to water? Old trick, man. Sid was just trying to scare you. He knew you’d be lucid enough to feel it but not enough to control the pain. After this round, Danny Boy, you’ll be able to do anything. You can feel as much pleasure or as little pain as you want.”

Zin splayed his hand on the sundial. He pulled a meat cleaver from his pocket and rammed it through the back of his hand. No blood. He didn’t even flinch.

“See?” Zin held up his hand, the tip sticking through his palm. “If I wanted to feel that, I could. But I don’t.”

Danny felt dizzy. The blade sticking through the flesh and people flying like birds and the ground swaying and—

“Whoa, hold on there.” Zin placed Danny’s hands on the sundial before he fell over. “Hang on a bit longer, Danny Boy.”

Feelings of seasickness subsided. The ground held still. The alternate reality felt normal again and the urge to vomit disappeared.

“You good?” Zin asked.

Danny nodded.

“All right, give it another minute. The sundial is the center of Foreverland, where we feel most solid when we get inside. It helps to touch it when you first get here. After while, you’ll just hit the ground running.”

“Where are we?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

Danny shook his head.

Zin laughed. “We’re inside a computer, Danny Boy! This is a program, a digital environment. Our identity has been sucked out of our heads, and the needle is doing the sucking. Hell of lot better than freezing your ass off on that concrete floor, right?”

Danny smiled. Yeah, it is.

“Once you’re fully here, fully present, you’ll figure out how to control this body. You can dial up pleasure, push out pain, turn yourself into a baboon or swim to the bottom of the ocean… whatever you want to do. The sky’s the limit, Danny Boy. And the sky has none.”

Zin pulled Danny from the sundial. They walked around the poke curled on the ground. Danny felt shaky the further they got from the sundial, but he was still solid. He had a new body, one he could control with a thought.

“So what do you want to do, Danny Boy? What’ll it be?”

Danny stepped away from Zin. The Yard was exactly like it was on the island. The same buildings, same trees. Even the Haystack. But it was different. It all felt interconnected. Danny could feel the grass shifting in the wind. He could feel it crush when a footstep landed. He sensed the birds singing and the crackle of heat as a fire erupted in the trees. He was one with everything.

Not separate. But one. And the sky was the limit.

“That,” Danny said. “I want to do that.”

Zin looked up. “All right.”

The island was lushly shaped like the state of South Carolina, dominated by trees with a bald spot of turf in the middle.

Tears streamed down Danny’s cheeks in the cold wind. He kept his arms out for balance, like walking a tightrope for the first time, 3000 miles above the ground. Zin flew next to him on his back with his hands laced behind his head. For him, it was as thrilling as riding a bike for the thousandth time. For Danny, it was everything he imagined.

The ocean was choppy, but the distant horizon disappeared in a gray haze. Even the sky above them looked more gray than blue, like they were inside a fuzzy dome.

“What’s all that?” Danny shouted above the wind.

“The Nowhere.” Zin made hardly any effort to speak, but his words resounded clearly across the whistling wind. “You can’t go out there, it’s the edge of the program. Where your memories are.”

“Wait. What?”

“Your memories.” Zin put a finger on Danny’s forehead. Inside Foreverland, there was no hole. “Haven’t you noticed?”

Danny concentrated on flying straight, but he was remembering the time he stepped on a nail when he was six and had to get a tetanus shot; the time he got caught smoking his mom’s cigarette and had to finish the pack in front of her as punishment. The time he kissed a girl behind the garage on a dare—

He began to wobble. Zin grabbed his arm to straighten him out.

“I don’t get it,” Danny shouted.

“It’s part of the reprogramming, Danny Boy. The healing. They sucked our memories out so our bad habits get fixed. You know, like addiction and stealing and whatever else the bunch of us lowlifes did wrong before we got here. Inside the needle, we get them back until we’re whole again.”

“Reed said we’ll get sucked inside the needle.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not exactly the voice of reason.” Zin resumed his relaxed posture. “But he might not be all that crazy.”

“Why?”

“You might not want to remember everything, Danny Boy. There’s a reason we’re here.”

He didn’t have a chance to ask for more. Zin floated farther away, eyes closed. Not so happy. If they were a bunch of screw-ups before they got to the island, it wouldn’t be so rosy to remember.

They soared over the beach. The waves were just as angry as the day he went to visit Reed but the beach was empty. Reed was still back in the Haystack, forced to stand in the blowing cold. How would he know what was going on if he’d never been inside the needle?

Danny liked the way it felt, remembering his life. He wasn’t sure it made sense, how it was fixing him, but if he was broken then maybe he shouldn’t know how it worked. Just because he was regaining memories, though, didn’t make him more of who he was.

Is that what I am, memories? Or am I something else?

It was too confusing to think about. He was perfectly fine with the thrilling sensation of flying, of being so far off the ground without the fear of falling. If they just did circles all day, it would be a good one.

There were no girls on the ground. Zin was flying with his eyes closed. Danny wanted to ask about them, even about the redheaded one, but then a squad of boys blasted between them in v-shaped formation and tossed Danny head over heel. He went tumbling.

I’m going to crash, I’m going to die!

Zin steadied him. “You got to watch it. If you let your thoughts get a hold of you, you’ll divebomb out, man. You crash, it’s going to hurt. You’re not ready to control your pain so if you split a bone, you’re going to feel it. Remember, they’re just thoughts. You are not your thoughts. Stay focused. Sometimes it helps to imagine a dot in the middle of your brain. Breathe in and out of it until there’s nothing left but the dot. You’ll get the hang of it.”

He did that. First, with his eyes closed. Next, eyes open.

They did a complete circle around the island. The second time around, he felt a little more in control. In fact, he put his arms down and did a Superman pose. Zin was pretending to swim.

They were over the south end of the island where the Investors’ Mansion divided the trees from the coast.  They soared around it and cut across the middle of the island. Zin turned on the jets and did loops around the Chimney.

The Chimney, where everyone woke up and everyone disappeared. Graduated. Smoked. But no one knew what really happened. Would Foreverland really show them what was inside?

“Get to the ground, Danny Boy,” he said. “I don’t want you crashing and burning, my man.”

“Where you going?”

Zin pointed down. Danny could see the girls popping into existence near the sundial. “Girl plus boy… you do the math.”

They landed safely. Danny didn’t see Zin after that.

The two moons had fallen below the tree line. There was a castle in the Yard with smolder holes in it. The moat was on fire. Danny watched Vikings carry out chests of gold. They celebrated around a fire with pre-historic turkey legs and vats of beer, wine or whatever was slurring their speech. Apparently, they won.

Danny had gone to the beach. It was empty. No sign of the redhead. He explored the island, messed around inside the castle and went swimming. He even went to the game room and helped the team win.

(They were getting slaughtered before he showed up.)

DA-NNY! DA-NNY! DA-NNY!

Sid was all happy.

Danny looked for the redhead some more. He ended up where he first met her on the Yard. The castle had crumbled into dust by then. The moat continued to burn with eerie red flames. Campfires were all around it. When the moons began to fade, they were hugging and saying goodbye. Some of them were crying. Danny watched from the edge of the trees, alone.

Someone walked toward him.

“You Danny Boy?” It was one of the girls. “Someone found this by the fire.”

She handed him a gift. It was wrapped in red paper that sparkled in the dimming light. He opened the card taped to the top.

Merry Christmas, Danny Boy.

He could hardly see his hands as he ripped the paper from the box. The fires were nearly gone when he pulled the top open. He put his hand inside.

Sand.

ROUND 3

Fire Takes Life of Mother and Son

GILBERT, Arizona. – The Gilbert Fire Department responded to a call at 4:22 AM where a two-story house belonging to Allison Forrester was engulfed in flames. Fire fighters were able to keep the blaze from jumping to neighboring houses but unable to rescue the occupants. Once the fire was extinguished, two unidentified bodies were discovered inside. One is believed to be Allison Forrester, 47, and her son, Daniel Forrester, 13.

The cause of the fire is unknown.

18

She neared the edge of the gray boundary, dared not go any closer.

But she could see… all of Foreverland.

Danny flew by with the other boy. He was quite… good.

Quite.

She… she was right. He was who she needed. She needed someone to watch Reed. Needed someone to help her… to put an end…

She watched, she watched.

He would need the practice. He would need to learn the ways of Foreverland. He would need to be stronger. She couldn’t wait long, but she… she needed to wait for now. To give him time to get stronger.

She left him a present. A gift. A clue.

He would use it.

To find her next time.

In the…

Nowhere.

19

Light softly flooded the Haystack. Danny shivered.

The boys were slowly coming to life. Zin was still on his back. Reed’s cell was empty. Danny didn’t bother wondering where he was or if he was alive, he just needed to get out. The others were already ahead of him, scurrying for the exit. No one spoke.

Danny’s clothes were near the opening of his cell, the door slung open. He quickly got dressed and hurried for the outdoors, to get heat into his bones. They exited into the shade of the trees, but the air was so much warmer than inside the Haystack. They trotted down the path to the end. Sun.

Danny stopped as he entered the Yard, savoring the warmth on his face, the smell of green grass and the sound of birds.

Something flashed.

He shaded his eyes and picked up a small twinkle in the top floor of the Chimney behind the black windows. He gave it little thought. Instead, he started for the dorms to get some rest. He hadn’t moved all day, but all that healing was exhausting. He couldn’t exactly remember what had happened.

Danny crossed the Yard.

Zin was still inside the Haystack, shivering on the floor.

20

The Director scrubbed his hair with a towel.

It had been days since he’d showered. Work was demanding. Sometimes he forgot what he smelled like. But when a man stays locked away on the top floor of a luxury penthouse-style apartment, it didn’t matter what he smelled like. But a shower was in order. He needed to get outside and stretch a bit, see his island. Reconnect with the reason he came to it in the first place.

Things have evolved so quickly.

He saw the line of boys emerging from the trees.

The Director threw the towel over the back of a chair and aimed one of his telescopes. He dialed the knob until the faces came into focus. They were exhausted and shivering. Eight hours of bone-chilling cold would make a polar bear chatter. Those boys had no idea what their bodies were enduring while they were away.

Foreverland, they called it.

The Director couldn’t have come up with a better name. Then again, he never could have envisioned what his island had become. Not in a million years.

These kids had no idea what a gift they’d received. If they knew what their lives had been like before he brought them to this paradise, they’d break down like rag dolls. Then again, if they knew the price they were paying for such freedom, for the unadulterated alternate reality, they might not exactly drop to their knees in thanks.

Evolution works that way. The weak feed the strong.

The boys continued to exit the trees, crossing the Yard toward their warm beds. They’d stop for some food but then they’d sleep the night away. The Director kept his telescope focused on the trees until he came out. The kid stopped, shaded his eyes and glanced in the direction of the Director.

Danny Boy.

He was filled with the urge to mix a drink.

The Director questioned that acquisition, the young little redheaded hacker. He wasn’t the typical candidate for his program. He was too smart. Too skilled. He needed kids that were physically fit. Not necessarily retarded, but he didn’t need a genius, either. Just an ordinary kid that would follow the pack.

But that Mr. Jones persuaded him it was the right choice. Said the kid had enhanced brain activity that would open new avenues in the program. The Director knew Jones was only in it for himself, but he made sense.

The Director was reluctant because the program was delicate. There were so many unknown factors that a risk was dangerous. But if he didn’t push into the unknown, the program would stagnate. In fact, if the problem – the problem – hadn’t already started, he would’ve told Jones to go slam his head in the sand. But he needed some solutions, and, damnit, Jones made sense.

Reed created the problem. The Director needed to keep him around to solve it. So far, that wasn’t working. He couldn’t make Reed take the needle. It just wouldn’t work if he didn’t want it, if he wasn’t open to it. If the Director punched it through his skull against his will, it would do more harm than good.

Danny Boy, though, could be the key. He’d already reached out to Reed on the beach. The Director knew it had something to do with the girl that confronted him in the first round.

She is the problem.

She was still hiding in the Nowhere. She was careful, sent the kid a clue. The Director didn’t know what she had in mind, but he would keep following. And like all his enemies, she would be destroyed in the end. He rubbed the small hole in his forehead. After all, she couldn’t escape.  He knew where she was, he just couldn’t reach her.

“Director?” the intercom squawked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“We’re ready.”

The Director watched Danny cross the Yard. He was too sleepy, too damn cold, to do anything else. He’d go to his room and sleep off the experience for the next day. That would give the Director some time to figure out something for the next round.

He decided he’d mix that drink after all. Tomato juice and vodka mixed over three ice cubes. The Director stirred it with a stalk of celery. He took a swig, hit it with a dash of pepper. He crossed to the other side and stood over another telescope, this one pointed over Geezer Mansion. He munched the celery and looked at the water beyond.

He focused on the horizon. There was nothing but the sharp edge where water met the sky. He often imagined he could see land beyond it. But that was too far for a telescope. He hadn’t seen it in many years.

“Director?” The voice was impatient. “We would like to begin—”

“Don’t interrupt, Mr. Jackson.”

The intercom remained silent.

The Director finished his drink. When he was good and ready, he went to the elevator to assume his position as Director of a revolutionary program.

The world would remember him long after they forgot Jesus.

21

Parker lay on a bed. Mouth open. His lips were dry and cracked; his hair springing out in all directions.

A needle in his forehead.

A bald old man pulled aside a curtain that divided the room in half. “We’re clear, Director.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

The Director stood at the foot of the bed. The room was hospitable with soothing blue walls and the white curtain. There was a large glass window with half a dozen old men staring at them. At one time, the Investors stood in the room with the Director. Now, they were sequestered in the sound-proof booth. The Director needed peace and quiet when he worked his magic.

The Director would’ve banished them altogether, but these old men funded the project. The Director had proven to be a smart man in science and politics, so he let them watch. They didn’t like it, but they were smart men, as well. They eventually stopped complaining and the Director eventually forgot they were there. Besides, he wanted them to see him perform the miracle. The Director was not a magician.

He was a savior.

Parker’s eyes began rapid eye movement. The Director moved next to the bed. The eyes danced beneath the lids.

“Come on, now,” the Director said, gently. “Come on.”

Sometimes he lost them in the final leg of the journey; they just needed to connect the mind with the body. The sound of his voice gave them guidance. Previous patients said it was like a beacon bringing them home. It was very dark and directionless where they were; the mind drifting in unknown territory.

He cradled Parker’s head, careful not to bump the wire protruding from the end of the needle that connected to a bedside computer. He brushed the wild hair back and stroked his cheeks, anything to stimulate the nervous system, give the mind direction.

“You’re almost there.” The eyes bounced faster. “Almost. Come on, now.”

The eyes stopped.

Opened.

Parker stared at the Director without seeing him. Slowly, they came into focus. The Director pulled the needle from his forehead and stood back, gave him space. Parker sat up like a spring. He jerked his head around, surveying the room, eyes wide with wonder. He looked at his hands, turning them over, palm to back to palm.

“You did it,” he said. “I’ve never felt… this good.”

The men in the booth were waiting for a sign. Parker lifted his hand and waved. He saw them silently clap. The Director stopped Parker from standing.

“The password.”

Parker jittered like a kid hopped up on energy drinks. He watched the men in the booth, mouthing out the words, He did it, he did it!

The Director squeezed his arms. “Password.”

Parker focused on him. His lips moved but the word wouldn’t come. He searched the Director’s face for the answer. Mr. Jackson appeared from around the curtain, hiding a syringe behind his back. The Director glanced at him.

The old men settled.

“Last time,” he said. “Password, please.”

Panic jittered in Parker’s stomach. The Director gave him a password before the journey to ensure he had made it. Without it, he couldn’t be sure.

He knew the moment was about to pass by and he was about to lose everything he worked for. The Director let go of him and sat back. Parker sat still, thinking. A word was coming. He felt Mr. Jackson take a step and held up a finger to give him more time. He knew there was a needle behind his back. He knew if he didn’t give the Director the word they would put him out and try it again. Next time, he might not return from that dark, drifting place.

He looked up.

Eyes bright.

“Foreverland.”

The Director nodded. Smiled. “Foreverland, indeed.”

He grabbed Parker’s arm and held it up. They turned to the booth and the expectant faces inside.

“We’ve saved another one, gentlemen!” the Director shouted.

The old men entered the lab with cheers, shaking Parker’s hand vigorously and patting him on the back. The Director stood back and watched. It was his favorite moment. The fruit of his labor. They brought Parker a glass of water and – in between sips – listened to him describe the details of his journey. They listened with bright eyes.

Mr. Jackson sheathed the syringe and stepped next to the Director.

“Check his vitals,” the Director said. “And run him through cognition testing. If everything checks out, put him on the standard quarantine for six weeks. His body’s in good shape, but we don’t want him slipping away after all this hard work.”

Parker touched his forehead, tenderly.

“Wait to remove the stent until the quarantine is complete,” the Director added. “Just in case we need to go inside again. Otherwise, he won’t need that anymore.” He smiled at Mr. Jackson. “At least not for quite some time.”

“And the garbage?”

“Hold it in the freezer for a few days, then the oven.”

Mr. Jackson went behind the curtain.

The Director put his arm around Parker’s shoulders and shook hands with all the men.

“We’re saving the world one life at a time, gentlemen.” He smiled through the scraggly beard. “One life at a time.”

22

“Boom!” Sid slammed down the Jack of Spades. “That’s game, you hole-headed freaks!”

The others threw their cards down. Sid swept them up. They were two days out of the Haystack and the damp cold was still inside them. Lying in bed just wasn’t the same as letting the sun heat them up. They sat around the table killing time while they slow-roasted their bodies in the mid-afternoon heat.

Danny had been to the beach. He was expecting Reed to be warming up on the dune, but it was empty. He wanted to tell him.

Merry Christmas, Danny Boy.

It was from her. The red wrapping, the same bright red of her hair. The sand, he figured, maybe that meant the beach. Meet her at the beach inside the needle? Was that it? Or meet Reed at the beach when he got back? And Merry Christmas?

“Zinski!” Sid slapped Zin. “Wake up, boy. It’s your deal.”

Zin had his elbows on the table, staring at the mess of cards. He was yawning. Danny caught him shivering, earlier. Zin slowly unraveled the cards, stacking them all in one direction. He attempted to shuffle but they sprayed over the table.

“I think Zinski’s heading for the Chimney, boys,” Sid announced. “You feeling a little foggy, son? A little muddled in the noodle?”

Zin batted his arm away. “I’m waking up, fool.”

“Oooooo…” Sid poked the cards out of his hands. “This dog’s got some bite.”

Zin carefully picked them up and began putting them back together. He was sluggish. Maybe he was tired, but he was breathing through his mouth. Vacancy lingered in his eyes now and then. How long before the Chimney took him?

Danny didn’t want to think about it. He just got here and now Zin was looking more like Parker. Danny got up and stretched.

“Where you going?” Sid scooped up the cards as Zin dealt them.

“A walk, I guess.”

“Maybe you’re going to the beach with Reed.”

“Why would I do that?” Danny snapped.

“I don’t know. You been there a couple times, I thought maybe you two were dating.”

“Give him a break,” Danny said. “Who on this island is normal?”

“That’s my point, you lunatic. He’s standout crazy on an island of crazies. Right, Zinski?”

Zin blocked Sid’s attempt to rustle his hair.

“Reed’s in his room,” Zin said. “I heard him in there before I came down.”

“Well, good,” Sid said. “Maybe they finally broke through his granite skull and he’ll pop the needle like the rest of us.” Sid played a card. “He thinks he’s too good, that’s his problem. He’s special or something, all high and mighty that he can’t damage his royal head. Friggin idiot, is what he is.”

“You hit it right on the money.” Danny stepped closer. “He’s so stuck up that he would rather suffer than go inside the needle. All this time I thought he was trying to work something out or maybe he was just afraid we’re all doing the wrong thing, but now you’ve made so much sense, Sid. He’s an asshole! Why didn’t I think of that?”

The game stopped. Sid tapped his cards on the table. “What’s your problem, kid? You got a crush on Looney Tunes?”

“You ever stop to think why we’re here, Sid?”

“We’re here because we’re sick.” Sid nodded at the others. “This is a revolutionary method of healing, or did you miss orientation?”

“You buying that?” Danny looked around. “We’ve all had our memories sucked out and scrambled and we’re marched into a prison cell and forced to get naked before they torture us until we stick a needle in our brains… that’s what you’re buying, no questions asked?”

“It’s revolutionary, dummy.”

“Or something else,” Danny said.

Silence settled.

Sid tapped his cards into a neat stack and placed them face down. He was thinking. They all were. It was the line of questions that was always ignored. No one wanted to think about it. Even Danny.

But it was out there like the Ace of Spades.

“Okay, hotshot.” Sid was expressionless. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

Danny clenched his fists so no one would see him shaking. He didn’t have any more balls to do something about it than any of the rest of them. He was reaching for the needle just like they were; swimming towards a bone-crushing waterfall.

Danny opened his hands. His fingers trembled.

“That’s what I thought.” Sid picked up his cards. “So why don’t you shut your little cake hole and play some cards.”

Sid shouted for the next play. Zin was staring, mouth open.

23

Danny went to the beach a couple of times that week. Always empty.

He avoided Sid and company and they didn’t seem to care. They had locked up first place so they didn’t need Danny anymore. They went to the game room without him while he was lying in the middle of the Yard with an unobstructed view of the Chimney. The smoke stack was leaking fumes. It was hardly noticeable, just a thin discolored wisp.

Danny dozed off. It felt good to be so warm and alone. Sometimes when he felt that good, he forgot about the island. He thought about a time when he was sitting in the kitchen at home when a warm breeze made brightly colored curtains dance in the windowpane. It smelled like cut grass. And his mom was there with macaroni and cheese in a plastic bowl.

It didn’t bother him that it probably wasn’t his memory. He enjoyed it, nonetheless.

“Danny Boy?” A shadow passed over. “You all right, my boy?”

Danny refused to open his eyes. He was sick of being Mr. Jones’s boy. “Yes, sir. Just enjoying the weather, that’s all.”

“Okay.” Mr. Jones’s laugh was grating. “Well, your camp is going to the cafeteria. I thought maybe you’d be with them.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re not sick, are you?” Mr. Jones’s took a knee and his old-smelling hand landed on his forehead. It was soft, untouched by manual labor. “Perhaps you should get some rest in your room so you don’t get sunburned.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.” It was best not to argue. “I’m waiting for Zin, though.”

“Isn’t he in his room?”

“He’s coming.” Danny lied.

“Are you boys going to the game room?”

“No, sir. I think we’ll do some exploring. Maybe hike over to the beach or something.”

“That’s a fine idea, Danny Boy. A little exercise is good for you. Maybe you could grab an apple before you head off. You know what they say, an apple a day…”

“Keeps the doctor away,” Danny finished.

And Mr. Jones laughed. He grunted as he stood up but kept on laughing. “At a boy,” he said. “You’re a good boy, Danny Boy. A good one.”

Mr. Jones smacked the grass off his hands. There was an awkward silence. Danny hadn’t opened his eyes. Mr. Jones finally said, “Well, I’m going to turn in for a nap and sleep for the both of us, my boy.” That was punctuated by a short laugh and Danny cringed. “If you need anything, ask one of the Investors and they’ll be in touch with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

And the shadow was gone.

Mr. Jones was halfway across the Yard before a cart picked him up. It looked like Zin’s Investor (Danny was getting accustomed to the subtle differences in gray hair). A few minutes later, another cart pulled up to the dormitory and the Investor (he didn’t recognize this one) went inside.

Zin’s curtains were closed. Only one other room had the curtains drawn: two to the left of Zin’s. Reed. He was sleeping, too. Or hiding.

Danny could get at least one of them to go on a hike.

Or a ride.

“What are you doing?” Zin stopped short of the golf cart.

Danny shoved him onto the seat. The Yard was mostly empty. He swung around to the driver’s seat and stomped on the accelerator. The cart jerked forward and Zin nearly fell off. He went around the dorm at full speed. Zin grabbed onto the roof.

“Hold on!” Danny shouted. “We’re out of control, Zin! We’re out of control!”

Zin’s eyes were wide open for the first time since they’d finished the last round. A smile had returned, too. Danny saw it. They made the next turn even faster and Zin held on to keep from sliding off. No one saw them hit a narrow path and disappear into the trees.

Danny was breaking the rules. He was doing something bad. It felt gooood.

The wooded turns were hard to manage at full speed. They sideswiped a couple branches, gouging the side of the cart. But the laughter never stopped. They drove past the Chimney where, luckily, no one was around and they got to the path on the other side without being seen. Several minutes later and a close call with a tree, Danny slammed the brakes. Zin nearly went over the dashboard.

“There it is.” Danny huffed.

The path ended a hundred yards away at steps leading to gigantic palms that framed doors at the top.

“Geezer Mansion?” Zin said.

Danny smiled wide. “Let’s storm it.”

“Reed’s rubbing off on you.”

“What are they going to do? Ground us? Stick a needle in our head?”

Zin thought about it, then was overcome with laughter. “Let’s ditch the cart and ambush these old bastards.”

Danny started up the cart again. They each hung a foot over the edge as they approached the end of the path. Just before they hit the opening, he gunned it and they leaped out, rolling into the scrubby palms. The boys crawled out in time to see the cart come to a stop at the bottom step.

Perfect landing.

“What are we doing?” Zin asked.

They were crouched just inside the tree line, watching the front doors. “We’re going to see what the old men got inside there.”

“No, I mean why are we hiding? It’s not against the rules to be here.”

“We hijacked a cart. There’s a really pissed-off Investor back at the dorm.”

They waited another five minutes.

When nothing happened, they stepped into the opening. The Mansion was more intimidating in the real than it was flying overhead when it was Foreverland. It was only one story tall. The walls were white and smooth with a wide soffit that would keep anyone from climbing on top. The trees were kept twenty feet away, preventing anyone from climbing up one and leaping to the roof. The infrequent windows were a hundred feet apart, interspersed with single garage doors for the golf carts.

But it was long.

In both directions, the building was a solid barrier that extended all the way to each coast, cutting off the southern tip from the rest of the island. That much he had seen in Foreverland, and it was dead-on.

“You believe this?” Danny said. “It looks like a prison wall to keep us out.”

“Or keep them in. You got any ideas besides bum-rushing the front door?”

They stared at the doors. There was nothing but the sounds of the jungle all around.

“If we time it right—”

“I’m kidding. That idea sucks,” Zin said. “They’ll jolt our trackers before we’re two steps inside.”

“How do you know?”

“You want to try it?” Zin stepped to the side and gestured.

Danny hadn’t given it much thought. He wasn’t serious about getting inside, but now that they were on the doorstep, it didn’t sound so bad. Danny looked in both directions. He started to his left.

“Where you going?” Zin asked.

“Looking for a mouse hole. What else?”

“You scared of getting smoked?” Danny asked.

They’d been walking for twenty minutes. Zin faded in and out, not like he was deep in thought but more like he was just absent, staring at the ground while his body was on autopilot. Then he’d come back and they’d be talking again. Danny wasn’t all that sure Zin even knew it was happening.

He didn’t snap his fingers or clap. That was something Sid would do. Danny just gave him space because Zin always came back and then they’d pick up where they left off. Most of the time, they just walked. The Mansion was nothing but a long wall with an occasional window and not one of them accidentally left open.

Danny was about to ask the question again when Zin answered.

“No,” he said. “I’m not. I just want it to be over.”

Danny gave that answer a good twenty steps. “You giving up hope?”

“Since when was there hope? Like it or not, Danny Boy, we all get sucked into the needle. You want to swim against the current, you’re just going to get tired. Just sit back and enjoy the ride, that’s all you can do, son. And hope you come out the other side.”

“Where’s that?”

“The Chimney, where else?”

They reached the end of the building. It dropped off a sheer cliff about thirty feet. The Mansion was built flush against it. And just in case someone figured out a way to get down, tangles of barbed wire extended down to the water.

“Figured as much,” Zin said.

“Man, they don’t want us in there. Think there’s any reason to go to the other side?”

“Not unless you want to see a mirror image of this.”

The breeze was nice. They stayed there until the sweat evaporated from their cheeks. Five minutes back down the trail, they were wiping sweat off their brows. Zin seemed present, although he wasn’t talking.

“What’d you think they’re doing in there?” Danny asked.

“Healing, I guess.”

“How, though?”

“Who knows?”

“That’s what I mean,” Danny said. “They tell us they’re healing, but we don’t see anyone after they’ve graduated.”

“Maybe we’re all infected with something, it’s a quarantine.”

“You believe that?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Danny Boy. You think salmon wonder why they’re swimming up stream?”

“They should. Bears eat them.”

Zin shrugged. A few seconds later, he glazed over. He’d been on the island much longer than Danny and asked all the same questions, made all the same arguments when he first woke up in the Chimney. But you bang your head with a hammer long enough, you come to realize it only hurts when you swing. He’d put the hammer down long before Danny arrived. Explanations only made his head hurt.

“What’s it like?” Danny asked.

Zin still seemed absent, but then coughed. “What?”

“Fading out like that, what’s it feel like? Where do you go?”

He thought about it. “It’s like… becoming hollow.”

“You mean like a log?”

“Kind of,” Zin said. “I’m tired, but not the regular tired. It’s more like I’m just not connected with my body like I’m supposed to be.” He swung his hands around like his identity was a ghost floating around him. “I am out there and I’m attached to this body by these invisible filaments, like a puppet.” He began to zone. “And they’re breaking, Danny Boy.”

“What happens when they all break?”

“I guess I go to Foreverland.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s where I want to be. I don’t remember much of anything when I’m back here. When we go inside the needle, that’s when I feel like myself. I get my life back and it feels good. You know what I mean.”

“But that’s a computer program, you said so yourself.”

“So, what’s the difference?”

“It’s not real. And if you’re not real, you’re dead.”

“Like I said, Danny Boy, why fight it.”

Zin went into the zone and didn’t come back out, almost like the argument exhausted him. Danny could see the cart still parked at the steps, exactly where they left it. He couldn’t stand the look on Zin’s face, remembered how the joy ride brought him back. Maybe joy rides would reattach those filaments and Zin wouldn’t go away so much. Maybe he just needed to live life in the real world and make some new memories. He could reverse the tide.

He was about to ask Zin if he wanted to drive the cart this time when the front doors opened.

Danny yanked Zin into the trees.

Just as the garage door to the left of the steps began to open, someone came down the steps. He didn’t take them one at a time and he wasn’t hunched over a cane. The kid went three at a time, hit the ground with both feet and sprang into a somersault!

Danny didn’t recognize him because he’d never seen him with that much energy. He’d been a zombie from the day Danny woke up.

But Zin knew him.

“Parker?”

The kid was climbing onto the driver’s seat.

“Parker, dude.” Zin said. “Is that you?”

Parker stood, slowly. The boundless energy dissipated. He looked from Zin to Danny and back again. The knot in his throat bobbed up and down.

“Danny Boy, look. It’s Parker! He’s right here. Oh, man.” Zin grabbed Parker’s hand and shook. “Me and Danny Boy here were just talking about never seeing anyone that graduated and here you are… man, it’s good to see you!”

The handshake shook Parker’s whole body. The zombie look that Danny associated with Parker was gone. He was confused but completely focused. He looked exactly the same, except for the hair. The wild shag was gone, replaced by a proper haircut above the ears and combed to the side. The part was so sharp and neat that it looked like a white line on the side of his head.

“I almost didn’t recognize you, man.” Zin tried to muss up the hair but Parker jerked away. Zin didn’t notice the rage that flashed across his face. “Are you living inside the Mansion? Is that where the graduates go?” Zin turned to Danny. “Holy crap, you know what that means? They’re not lying, Danny Boy. They’re really healing us, I mean look at Parker. I never seen this kid so… alive.”

One thing Danny couldn’t argue with, he looked good. Half an hour ago, Danny thought there was a chance they might be chucking the graduates into an oven that smoked out the top of the Chimney. Now, there was proof they weren’t.

“Can you get us inside?” Danny looked inside the open garage. “We’ll hide in the garage until night, what do you say?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Zin said. “How about it, Parker? Maybe you can give us a sneak preview?”

Parker’s eyes widened. The knob was bobbing non-stop. He started backing up the steps and tripped backwards.

“I don’t know, Zin.” Danny watched Parker crab-walk his way up the steps. “Something isn’t right.”

Zin was catching on. “You remember us, Parker?”

When Zin took a step towards him, he crawled faster.

“That’s enough.”

The deep authoritative voice sent shivers through Danny’s guts. A round old man was at the front doors. He stepped aside and two old men came out to help Parker inside. The round old man kept Danny and Zin frozen in place with a baggy-eyed stare.

“Danny Boy?” Mr. Jones came out. “What are you doing here, son?”

The gentle, grandfatherly look that distinguished Mr. Jones from all the other old men quickly darkened. Danny experienced another familiar feeling.

Getting caught.

24

Danny lifted the desk onto his bed and sat on top of it. It was mid-day and most people were in the game room or the cafeteria. Only three guys were in the Yard playing catch with a long-distance disc.

Danny hadn’t been outside in three days.

Mr. Jones put him on room-restriction for two days and threatened to send him to the Director if he got to misbehaving like that again. None of that bothered Danny. To prove it, he volunteered to stay in his room a third day. Who knows, maybe he’d stay there until they dragged him to the Haystack for the third round.

He spent the day staring at a spot on the ceiling and counting his breath, practicing his focus like Zin taught him. You’ll need it to control yourself when you’re inside the needle. Find your point of existence and breathe into it.

There were a dozen old men that were eventually lured out of the Mansion when they got caught. When Mr. Jones got the full story – how they hijacked the golf cart and conspired to break inside – his face turned dark red. A jagged vein throbbed on his right temple. Danny thought it might wriggle out and explode.

Zin’s Investor, Mr. Stevens, didn’t change color. He arrived ten minutes later and calmly took Zin aside while Mr. Jones ushered Danny down the steps with a stranglehold on his arm. Anger transformed his feeble task-master into a thundering disciplinarian. They went to the dormitory on the very same cart that Danny swiped.

“You love trouble, Danny Boy,” he said. “You have to have self-control. Chaos leads to anarchy, my boy. It’ll lead you down the wrong path. It led you here.”

Thought I was here for healing.

Mr. Jones strangled the steering wheel. “There are much worse places than here, I promise. You go back to trouble and you’ll find out.”

Mr. Jones was telling Danny more than he should’ve and Danny knew it. Most thirteen year old boys would’ve been reduced to a trembling mess under the glare of those father figures, but not Danny. It was thrilling. And the more Mr. Jones frowned – the more he shook his finger – the more fun Danny was having. He was forced to look away before he began laughing. Mr. Jones thought it was because he felt shame and, out of compassion, left the boy alone. He was hopeful Danny was punishing himself and that maybe, just maybe, he was mentoring this boy to a better life.

But authority doesn’t scare me, Mr. Jones.

And neither did Sid.

Self-preservation should’ve instilled some fear in him since all the above could cause a great deal of pain. Maybe worse. Danny knew he was good with computers, that perhaps he’d been arrested for hacking a federal agency, and that he loved trouble. It was a start.

He also knew something else: Parker was alive and healthy. Maybe a little confused but, besides the creepy haircut, he looked good. That ended speculation that the old men were using them for firewood. But Parker didn’t look excited to help them out.

Something had changed.

Danny had a future date with the Director, he was sure of it. And it might be sooner than later if he didn’t curb his behavior and he had no plans to do that. He was just starting to flex his muscles and he liked it.

The boys had stopped throwing the disc and headed inside. Someone else was crossing the Yard.

Reed finally left his room.

Danny’s self-imposed restriction came to an end.

25

Reed felt smaller, frailer. Vulnerable.

I’m breaking.

Reed stayed in the room because he didn’t trust himself. He craved the sun’s warmth but the ocean would be so near. If he went to the beach, all he’d have to do was step into the water and let the undertow sweep him out. It was moments like this – moments that revealed cracks in his will – that made him ask the question.

Why?

Why keep going?

Sleep came in short bursts. His body continuously ached. Dreams were fitful. He had delusions of falling, of shattering, of dying. He dreamed of drowning, over and over and over. Sometimes waking up gulping air. He didn’t find a restful night.

Until she came.

He was in a field of soybeans. The rows ran over the hills like a sea of green. He walked them and picked the heads off foxtail and stripped the seeds to chew on the bitter stalks. When the sun had peaked, someone appeared in the row ahead of him.

Her hair was below the shoulders, a halo of cherry red. She walked toward him in a fluttering white summer dress. She took his hand and led him to a lone elm tree in the middle of the field. Her smell was like a dewy morning. Her laughter, pure joy.

It was a dream. A long one. A safe one.

He lay back on the grassy knoll. The grass tickled his shoulders. “If I take the needle, we’ll be together,” he said. “I won’t have to dream anymore.”

“If you take the needle, you’ll never see me again.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” She looked off. The dappled shade mottled her complexion. “I just know that you must wait. You must resist.”

“I don’t think I can anymore.”

“You must. Not for you and me, but for everyone on the island and everyone that will come. This is bigger than us.”

“But this is just a dream. Maybe I’m imagining this. Imagining you. Maybe none of this is true.”

She ran her finger over the bridge of his nose, touched his lips. “It’s all a dream. We just need to wake up.”

He took her hand and traced the blue veins on her wrist.

“If any of this matters,” he whispered, “then why can’t I remember you?”

“You will, Reed.”

“But I don’t even know your name.”

She took his hand and pressed it to her chest. Her pulse beat steadily into his palm. He slid his hand into her hair. The sun was low and the shadows hid her face as he drew her closer. Her cheek was warm against his.

The sun set.

Reed didn’t understand dreams. He might be delusional. All his bravado misguided. His suffering, useless.

But it was all he had.

When he woke, he returned to the beach.

The water lapped against his ankles.

He walked the length of the north shore until he reached the rocky outcroppings. He went no deeper into the water, just enough to keep his feet wet. He turned back, his footprints washed away.

His life was like his footprints: no trace of his past. Everything he could remember he disregarded as chatter. None of it was true, there was no reason to give it space. He just walked and walked, one foot in front of the other. The footprints dissolved behind him.

Up ahead, Danny was on the dune. He looked different. His chest was out, his gaze patiently set upon the horizon. He paid no attention to Reed’s approach.

Reed plunked down and leaned back on his elbows. He was tempted to take his shirt off and let the sun warm him but didn’t want Danny to see what had become of him. His appetite had waned and it was beginning to show.

Danny sat next to him. The wind scoured their shins with sand.

And the waves rolled.

“They’re healing us, Reed. Just like they promised.”

He told him about Parker, how he looked, how he acted. He wasn’t dead, not a zombie. He was vibrant, happy to be alive.

“You believe that?” Reed spoke just loud enough to be heard.

Danny took a breath, started to answer. He picked up a shell, instead, rubbing the shiny backside with his thumb. He wanted to say yes, he believed it. They were doing exactly what they told us and there was the proof. Parker was alive. He’s alive! They’re not killing us.

But are they healing us?

It was what they all wanted to believe. And he saw it with his own eyes.

He started to say yes again, but stood up. He walked to the water and threw the shell sidearm, skipping it on the thin water racing over the hardpacked sand. He remembered throwing flat rocks on a pond and counting the number of skips when he was a little kid. He was fishing with his dad.

Someone’s dad.

Someone’s memory.

He’d come to the beach to bring good news: they were being saved.

Reed shattered it with three words. Cut right to the heart of Danny’s doubt.

He picked up another shell, this one as big as his hand, and carried it back to the dune. He rubbed the inside of the shell, the pearly white inside. Half a clam.

Where was the other half?

Danny picked up sand, let it sift between his fingers. It scattered in a gust of wind.

“I remember hiking,” he said, grabbing another handful. “Hunting and fishing and fighting. Once, I got stuck on a trail without water for a day and nearly dehydrated before I got back. My ankle was twisted, too. Lost ten pounds on that trip.”

He smacked his empty hands, the grains of sand lost on the dune.

“The thing is, I know none of those memories are mine. I don’t hike and I don’t fish.”

Reed nodded.

“What I’m trying to say is, maybe you don’t know her. Maybe she’s someone else’s memory and you’re just hanging onto it and you’re wasting your time resisting.”

“I don’t remember her.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Reed looked far away. “I dream about her.”

Danny hadn’t dreamed once since he woke up on the island. In fact, he always woke up with a buzzing noise, like static. And it had gotten louder since the second round. Was the needle killing their dreams?

“I didn’t see her in the last round. But she gave me something. She left a gift just before it ended, or at least I think it was from her. It was wrapped in red paper, the same color of her hair. It said Merry Christmas, Danny Boy. And inside was sand.”

Reed tensed.

Describing her made him cringe.

He didn’t like to think of her inside Foreverland. Not when he was outside.

“What do you think it means?” Danny asked.

“It’s a clue.”

“A box of sand, but what does it mean?”

“You need to find her. It’ll make sense the next time.”

“Why don’t you go with me and help find her?”

Reed didn’t bother responding. He’d been through enough pain and suffering that a bit of guilt wasn’t going to get him to take the needle.

“Why is she hiding?” Danny asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, quickly. “But you need to find her.”

Danny played with another shell, sifted more sand. Reed didn’t have anything else to tell him so he got up, whacking the sand off his legs. He started back over the dune without saying goodbye.

“Danny Boy!”

Danny turned around but Reed was sitting still, facing the ocean. Maybe Danny imagined him shouting his name. The waves were so loud. He left him on the dune, all alone. But even when he was sitting next to him, he seemed so alone. Hollowed out by the suffering, a shell of a boy.

And the waves rolled.

26

“Keep your clothes on, gentlemen,” Mr. Clark said. “You’ve earned a reprieve for your masterful skills in the game room.”

The boys gathered outside the Haystack and gave a rousing cheer. The Investors applauded. Sid lifted his arms and strutted around. He stood next to Mr. Clark, jutting like a rooster. Mr. Clark pushed him gently back toward the boys.

“Yes,” he said. “Your appetite for killing in a virtual environment was unparalleled.”

The Investors chuckled but the boys didn’t catch the sarcasm. They were still slapping hands.

“As you know, you will be ineligible for another hiatus until the fifth round, so I encourage you to enjoy the reprieve. Please, take advantage of this gift bestowed upon you by the Director.”

Again, only the Investors noticed the sarcasm.

“You may enter the Haystack and your prospective cells.” He opened the door.

They lined up single file, as usual, but there was no need for the Investors to guide them with a hand on the shoulder. The damp cold was nothing to fear, only a temporary nuisance.

Danny found his cell and Mr. Jones closed it for him with a curt nod and a quick exit. Danny blew into his cupped hands watching the others find their place. He wasn’t going to lie on the concrete until the skylights went out. Zin entered his cell with his head bowed. He dropped to the floor and crossed his legs, falling into his typical breathing pattern. Reed stepped into his cell alone. His Investor wasn’t with him.

“Zin.” Danny bent down. “Zin, hey!”

Zin took a long breath and turned to Danny. A slight smile curled on his lips. That was all Danny wanted to see.

The Haystack door closed and the room became a shade darker. Only one Investor remained inside. Mr. Smith paced the aisle and stopped in front of Reed’s cell.

“Reed, you are ineligible for the reprieve, son. I’ll need you to—”

“Wait a second,” Danny said. “He’s part of this camp, he gets the same treatment as the rest of us.”

Mr. Smith waited for the interruption to end. “I’ll need you to hand me your clothes.”

“Listen to me, dammit!” Danny screamed. “You’re being unfair!”

Mr. Smith was unperturbed. His gaze was trained on Reed like crosshairs.

“He deserves it, Danny Boy,” Sid chimed from across the aisle. “What the hell has he done to get reprieve? I’ll tell you what: squat. He’s done nothing, Danny Boy. He’s a waste of time. They should put a bullet through his skull instead of a needle.”

“Mr. Smith, please.” Danny hugged the bars. “Reed needs the reprieve, sir. You’re going to break him. He’s not going to take the needle, you know that. There’s got to be another way. Have a heart, man.”

Mr. Smith’s stare did not waver.

Reed stripped off his shirt. His shoulder blades knifed from his back and every one of his vertebrae could be played like a xylophone.

“Mr. Smith…” Danny said.

“Ah-hah-hahaha!” Sid bellowed. “Look at the goon! It’s Halloween in cell six, boys. Reed’s got an eating disorder, the crazy mutt!”

Reed slipped off his pants. His pelvis poked from his hips.

Danny couldn’t watch. He’d sat with him on the beach, but seeing him bared to the world told of every second he’d endured since he’d been on the island. Even his face looked like a barren skull in the shadows.

Danny took off his shirt.

“Hey, look at Danny Boy!” Sid laughed. “He’s copying his boyfriend. I knew the two were gay for each other.”

Mr. Smith finally looked Danny’s way. He muttered something. By the time Danny had his pants off, the door to the Haystack swung open and a crowd of Investors rushed inside.

“Danny Boy.” Mr. Jones grabbed the bars on his cell. “What are you doing, my boy? You don’t need to do this, you have a reprieve. You can’t worry what the others are doing, you need to keep yourself in line, son.”

Danny removed his underwear and began folding his clothes.

“You’re a good boy, Danny Boy. You’re a good boy. This is so…” Mr. Jones looked at the other old men. “Danny! Look at me! LOOK AT ME, BOY!”

Danny turned his back.

“Stop this madness, son. This is just so unnecessary… I mean, you don’t need to go through the suffering. You don’t need…” He chuckled nervously, then reached through the bars but Danny was out of reach.

The other Investors murmured. “It’ll be all right,” they said. “He’ll get right, Mr. Jones, don’t worry. The kid will get right. Let things go at their own pace, you can’t make him do it.”

Reed placed his clothes at the foot of the cell door. Mr. Smith retrieved them and left. The Investors consoled Mr. Jones until he let go of the cage. He muttered on the way out, leaving Danny’s clothes behind. When the door closed, the Haystack was quiet.

“You’re as crazy as he is, Danny Boy,” Sid said. “You’re a pair of cracked pots, son. A pair of them.”

Reed turned his back on Danny and started a breathing routine.

The skylights began to close and darkness settled.

Danny began pacing to combat the chill running up and down his body. The camp began talking in half-hushed tones. He didn’t care.

It was impulse. He didn’t plan on joining Reed, but he just didn’t want to follow the rest of them into the needle. It was too much celebration, they were embracing it too happily. Someone needs to resist.

But the lights had gone down and he was already shivering.

The cages whirred. The needles began to lower. The excitement had been dampened by the weirdness of Danny’s voluntary nudity, but it didn’t slow any of them from reaching. The lines whined as they were stretched to the floor.

Zin was still sitting, unaware that the needle had dropped into the cage until it lowered to the top of his head. He reached up, mechanically, and began to fit it around his head.

“Zin,” Danny said. “Come back, all right. Don’t… just come back.”

Reed still had his back to Danny. And Zin was reaching for the needle and Danny realized it might be for the last time. If he got smoked on this round, Danny would be completely alone.

“Zin!” Danny just wanted him to hear it, to make sure. “You hear me?”

“Isn’t that lovely, boys?” Sid’s voice echoed in the dark. “Danny Boy’s afraid for Zinski. Hot damn, I’m tearing up over here. It’s breaking my heart.”

“Zin.” Danny tried to keep it quiet, but it was impossible. “Just look at me, man. Just, don’t smoke out. Not yet.”

“He’s a goner, Danny Boy,” Sid said. “Say goodbye.”

“Shut up!” Danny rushed the front of his cell and reached into the dark aisle. “SHUT THE HELL UP, SID!”

Silence fell as heavy as the cold air. Faint rustling told Danny that none of the boys had gone inside the needle, yet. They were listening. A drop of water fell from one of the sprinklers.

Sid laughed. “You think you’re a man, now? You’re Danny BOY, son. You better mind your manners.”

“I quit, Sid. I ain’t never stepping foot inside the game room again.”

“I don’t need you.”

“You were nothing before I got here. You and the rest of these clowns were just running around in circles until I saved your asses again and again because you’re an idiot. It’s over, now. All you dumbasses, you’re on your own. I’m done.”

The silence grew heavy, again. It was undercut by growling.

“I hope you learned how to control the pain response, Danny Boy,” he said. “Because when you get inside the needle, I’m going to pull you apart like a bug, son. I’m going to pour acid in your eyeballs and piss in the holes.” Sid laughed, but no one joined him. It was as dark as the room around them. “You think it’s torture in here, wait until I get a hold of you in Foreverland.”

Danny was grateful for the cloak of darkness, but it couldn’t hide the shivers in his voice. “I’m not going inside the needle.”

“Of course not.” And Sid laughed again. It carried down to the floor and faded off. Soon, the entire room no longer moved except for the heavy mouth-breathing. They were all inside the needle.

It was just Danny and Reed.

“Danny Boy?” Zin’s voice was scratchy, just above a whisper. “I’m coming back.”

Danny leaned his head against the bars.

The big fan clicked.

And the breeze came down.

“What are you doing?” Reed had turned around. Danny couldn’t make out his expression in the dark but he could see him latched onto the bars facing him. “This is my fight, not yours.”

“I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Then follow your own advice!” Danny shouted. “You’re not doing anything by staying here.”

Reed remained at the side of his cell. He dropped his hands and went back to the center. Danny could hear his breath fall back into rhythm. He was not going to waste words.

Danny began pacing again. The cold crept into his ankles. The fan was on but not the sprinklers. With the rest of the camp wearing clothes, maybe they didn’t want to keep them soaked. Still, it was plenty uncomfortable, especially since Sid promised something much worse on the inside. Danny wasn’t sure he could control the pain response. He hadn’t even tried.

Zin will protect me.

But would he even remember Danny? Parker didn’t seem to know anything near the end. Perhaps his memory completely evaporated.

An hour elapsed.

Danny was cold but without the mist it was easier to stay in rhythm. If it remained this way, he could tolerate the suffering like Reed. Maybe the hole would even heal. Maybe the others would see the wisdom in fighting the system and they could form a revolt. If everyone refused the needle, they could make a difference.

That’s when the door opened.

He knew it wasn’t Mr. Jones, unless he hurt his knee in the last hour. An old man appeared in the darkened aisle dragging a bum leg. Mr. Smith passed Danny’s cell. He was carrying tubes attached by a cord that dangled and swayed between his hands.

“Reed.” The old man stopped at his cell. “I need to see your hands, son.”

Reed took a deep breath and turned.

“What’re you doing?” Danny said. He was ignored.

Mr. Smith held up the tubes. “Put your hands through the bars.”

“Don’t do it, Reed,” Danny said. “They can’t make you.”

But Reed voluntarily went to the front of his cell and offered his hands. Mr. Smith slipped the tubes over his thumbs and adjusted clips on the sides. He stepped back and watched the cell begin to collapse.

“The pressure will increase over time, Reed. Please don’t be stubborn. You’re not accomplishing anything by the needless suffering.”

The cell continued to shrink until it sandwiched Reed, pressing deeply into his chest and back. Mr. Smith stared at Reed. They were unflinching in their hatred. Until the pressure clamped down on his knuckles and pinched the webbing between his thumb and finger, pressing on a nerve that buckled his knees. He would’ve fallen had the bars not held him tightly.

The lucid gear dropped just inches from the top of his head.

“Stop this,” Danny said. “This isn’t fair, he doesn’t want the needle. You can’t do this. YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”

But they could. They did.

Mr. Smith began to take his leave.

“Come back here, you old bastard!” Danny reached through the bars, losing sight of the limping man. “YOU HEARTLESS BASTARD!”

Light cut through the Haystack as the door at the end of the aisle opened. Danny turned away as it hit him in the face, but for a moment he saw Reed’s quivering hands and the shackles squeezing his thumbs. He didn’t see the expression of agony. But he heard it.

Danny paced back and forth. Reed’s pained breathing was worse than anything inside the Haystack. He’d rather they come put the thumb shackles on him.

There was nothing he could do.

He had to find the girl.

Danny pulled the lucid gear from the top. It whined as the cord unreeled to the floor. He dropped hard on the concrete and pulled it quickly over his head. The needle numbed his forehead, searching for the stent.

Before it jolted inside his brain, before he arched off the pavement, he muttered something to Reed. He doubted he would hear it.

“I’m sorry.”

And then the needle took him.

27

Danny visualized a spot.

He imagined it was a glowing dot floating in the darkness where he was drifting. He put his breath into it. One. Two. Three.

It abolished thoughts.

It brought focus. Presence.

And when he felt his body forming near the sundial, he willed it to become numb. There would be no pain when Sid pulled out his intestines. He would melt like water and blow like wind. Nothing would hurt him.

The grass was beneath him. Sunlight and wind. And the screaming of engines.

Danny opened his eyes.

An asphalt racetrack circled the Yard and rocket-shaped cars roared around it, disappearing into the trees. The engines called from the jungle and soon wound around him before reentering the Yard behind him and making another lap.

He was alone. Sid was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he got bored. Or perhaps he was setting a trap. Didn’t matter. Danny needed to get to the business of finding a Christmas present. And it would be much easier if he was invisible when he did it.

He put both hands on the sundial and felt the power vibrate through his arms. He pictured the focal dot and willed transparency to enter his body. What was his body other than data, really? Danny knew how to handle data. It helped to think of it that way, that he was computer code that needed to be manipulated. He breathed in and out, in and out.

Opened his eyes.

He was still there, but he could see the sundial through his hands.

“Translucency. Okay, close enough.”

He wasn’t invisible, but he’d faded enough that no one would notice unless they were looking right at him. He crouched down and – as the rocket cars came around – leaped into the sky.

Danny hovered just inside a cloud.

The gray haze on the horizon seemed closer than it did the last time. No one would see him, especially being half-faded. As long as no one flew into him, he could stay there all day. Since it seemed everyone was part of the race, he took his time.

The track serpentined around the entire island – through the trees and over the cliffs. The rocket cars even made a loop into the water. Occasionally, one would fire a weapon and there would be an explosion and parts flying.

The only other oddity about the island was tiny lights twinkling on top of random trees. He floated around the cloud and willed his vision to zoom on one of the trees. It appeared to be a star set on top, along with smaller lights strung from the branches.

Christmas trees. They’re all Christmas trees.

It would’ve been an easy clue to follow, but there was easily a hundred of them scattered over the island. Even one that appeared to be floating out at sea. He cloud-hopped around the sky, zooming in on several trees but couldn’t make out any substantial differences.

“I’m going to have to go down,” he muttered to no one. Then said like he was the one answering, “Yep, going to have to go down.”

The sun was already falling toward the horizon. Time in Foreverland went faster than it did in the flesh. He had wasted half of Foreverland’s day in the Haystack. Maybe he already blew it.

He dropped from the sky and hit the ground like a stone. He was able to quell the pain from the impact. He was getting the hang of it. He dusted off the dirt and stared at the twenty foot tall Christmas tree that shaded a dozen red-wrapped gifts. Nothing else was around. There was no time to waste.

Danny began ripping open presents.

He had been to nearly fifty trees. Each one had a pile of gifts that he tore open to find more sand. By the time he got to the tree in front of the Mansion, the sun had dropped below the trees and the sky had turned orange and was quickly dimming. He wasn’t going to get to all the trees, but he couldn’t sit around and think about it.

This tree was near the entrance. A golf cart had been abandoned exactly where Danny and Zin had left one a week earlier. Seemed odd, but Danny was focused on the tree and the dozen gifts beneath it. He tore through them, sifting sand from each one, finding nothing new. He crouched down to bounce back into the sky to find the next one when lights inside the Mansion caught his eye.

One of the double doors was open. An enormous tree glittered inside the dark entrance.

Danny climbed the steps. The doors had been vandalized with spray-painted graffiti and skateboard stickers. The hinges creaked as he pushed the door open. The tree stood beyond the foyer against the far back window with a view to the ocean where lights twinkled. More trees.

He sighed. He’d never get to all of them. She was killing him. And yet he couldn’t forget what Reed must be going through. He opened the dozen presents to find more sand. Danny threw the last one across the room. He grabbed the tree and launched it through the window. Shards of glass exploded.

His curses echoed down the empty halls.

But he was wasting time. Every second that was wasted was a second that Reed endured needless suffering.

He went back to the front doors. There was a narrow closet door on both sides of the foyer, both closed. But the one on the right had a sticker. Danny stopped.

It was a Spitfire sticker; the flaming head smiling at him.

One sticker. The rest of the room was in order, just the one sticker.

Merry Christmas.

Sand.

Christmas on the beach.

Tell me your favorite Christmas.

Reed asked Danny on the beach and Danny remembered the thing he wanted most in the world: the half-pipe covered in stickers. But no one would have known that, he didn’t tell anyone about it. He wasn’t even sure it was his memory. But there it was, a Spitfire sticker in an otherwise pristine Mansion without a half-pipe in sight.

Danny put his hand on the door knob. He turned it slowly and cracked the door open. An odd grainy light spilled out. It crept out in misty tendrils. Danny tried to slam it closed but the foggy light wrapped around him. Liquefied him.

And sucked him inside.

28

The mist had texture.

Grainy particles, scratching.

Momma?

A boy. He sounded sad, crying for—

First! I’m first!

On the right. Someone excited, someone—

You go first!

Where am I?

How long until we eat? I’m hungry.

The voices bunched together, above and below. They were everywhere, but nothing came out of the gray mist. The bodiless words whizzing by like passing trains.

The mist thickened.

The grains pelted his face like sand. He looked at his hands, saw his feet and realized he was standing on something solid. The wind began pulling away, revealing a white floor.

A spot of color developed ahead of him. It was soft and faded, like a beacon appearing in a blizzard. It was pink.

Then red.

Bright red.

The mist swirled out like an ever-widening hurricane. And then it was gone. He was in a round room, walls white. And she was sitting in the center, hands on her lap. The bright red hair cut below the shoulders.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, softly. “But you couldn’t know where you were going. He would’ve known, he would’ve followed… he was watching.”

“Who?”

“Whoever runs… Foreverland.”

“The Director?”

She shrugged.

Her eyes were large, the pupils engorged and the irises brilliant green. She was almost cartoonish, the colors saturated.

The room was barren, except for the chair she was sitting on, legs crossed, hands on lap. She stood up, her bare feet touched the floor silently; toenails the same color as her hair.

Olly-olly-oxen-free! The voices soared through the wall.

“Where are we?” Danny asked.

“The boys call this the Nowhere,” she said. “It’s outside… the eyes of Foreverland. Outside the reach of he who… is Foreverland.”

“Those are memories?”

“In a way…” Her cheeks suddenly matched the color of her hair and toenails. “I know you have questions and I’ll answer them the best I can, but the truth is… I don’t know much and we don’t have much time…” She wrapped her arms around her chest like she was hugging herself. “I’m sorry. It’s just… he hurts so much… and you’re our only chance… and I never…”

She trailed off. She had difficulty finding words, like she had to search for them.

“You mean Reed?” Danny asked.

She nodded, hugging herself again.

“Who are you?” Danny shook his head. That sounded rude. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know much about Reed. Or you.”

She thought, staring blankly. “I don’t really know, Danny Boy. I just woke up here…”

Danny remembered the confusion of waking up on the paper-covered table and Mr. Jones staring at him with his white lab coat. He didn’t know anything before that moment. She had the same experience, only she woke up in Foreverland.

Is she real? Definitely rude. But is she a memory? Reed’s memory? But she’s here, alive. She had to be something other than a memory, right?

“If you’re in here, how do you know about Reed?” Danny asked.

“I see the boys’ thoughts. I see what they bring in from the island… I know the suffering they go through… before the needle.”

That’s how she knew about the half-pipe at Christmas. She saw it in my thoughts.

“Then you know Reed is—”

She began shaking her head and rocking in her self-hug.

Damn.

She was still muttering about Reed. Danny stopped her. “How can I help?”

Her oversized eyes were glassy. Her brow furrowed when she pointed at the chair.

“Sit.”

Danny went to the chair. When he sat down, a desk appeared from the floor and circled all the way around him. Several keyboards appeared.

“You don’t really need the keyboards or the monitors… but you’re familiar with that medium… so that’s what you’ll start with.”

She glared at him.

“You need to understand… I’m as much a prisoner in here as you are out there.”

“But Foreverland is a computer program.”

“I don’t know what this is, Danny Boy. You need to help us find out… what it is.”

“How?”

She lifted her arms and the walls flickered like the entire room was a monitor. The walls were blue with white puffy clouds, like the wallpaper of a computer desktop. Danny brushed his fingers over the keyboard and felt something for the first time since arriving.

A familiar thrill.

A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek. Strange, this was an illusion but his body believed it.

It took several minutes to get familiar with the 360-degree monitor and multiple keyboards, but the keystrokes were the same as any computer. He accessed the mainframe and was soon sneaking around the security firewalls. The system was like one he’d never encountered. The code seemed to evolve like a living organism. Maybe it was a program that believed it was alive, just like he was sweating.

He synchronized several programs and let them run like digital wrecking balls smashing holes in databases and security code. He spun on his chair to unravel the next layer of the firewall. The security system operated like a virtual vault that continued to change the combination. Danny learned its tendencies and began to solve the complex code. His fingers blurred across the keyboards but it wasn’t fast enough.

I’m inside my head. I don’t need the keyboards.

He began to call out commands instead of typing and they were executed just as if he’d pecked them on the keyboard. He swiveled around to watch geometric shapes of computer code connect, shift and reconnect like organic chemistry. He stopped seeing the numbers and letters and began to see the computer language in three-dimensional objects that began to float off the walls. He shouted at them, made them change direction, change form, merge or divide. He was looking for the arrangement that would open the door to the system that was driving Foreverland.

Still, he was behind the evolving firewall that was always half a step ahead.

In the mind.

He focused inwardly, forming his next command into a sharpened thought instead of a spoken word. Then he created another one. And another. The shapes began to move again. Silently, Danny looked around the room and sent the thought-commands out. The room was in continuous movement, washed in morphing shapes and colors. Danny stopped looking at what they were doing so that he wasn’t limited by his eyes. He connected with his mind; he began to construct the code, predicting outcomes, glancing only to verify what they were becoming. He was in the center of another universe that operated on numbers and formulas and colors, looking for the right combination—

The room went black. Something clicked.

A spot of light hung over his head.

“What is it?” the girl said.

He’d forgotten she was there. “The firewall cracked.”

“What’s that mean?”

More clicking, like blocks were stacking and pieces latching and uncoupling. The spot of light shrunk to a pinpoint and began to dim. The clicking ended. Something fell into place like a key sliding into a lock. And turning.

The point exploded in blinding light.

And then they were flying above planet Earth.

“We’re through,” Danny said.

“Where?”

Danny stood up. “It’s the outside world.”

It exists.

There was an outside world. The desks and keyboard had disappeared. Danny walked on clouds, looking at the blue ocean thousands of feet below.

“We’re seeing the world through satellites,” he said.

“Where’s the island?”

Danny put together a few thought-commands, requesting the location of the portal he’d just hacked. The view spun like the planet rotated below. They were in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean, halfway between South America and Africa.

Nothing but water.

[Enhance,] he thought.

The view zoomed toward the water and two tiny islands came into view. The southern one was very small and narrow. There appeared to be an airstrip the length of it. The larger island to the north was shaped like South Carolina.

“That’s it,” Danny muttered. “That’s where we are.”

“It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“Exactly.”

He began pacing around, observing the two islands. The details were sharper than what he’d seen in his flying sessions in Foreverland. There was the Yard in the center of the larger island and the horseshoe-shaped dormitory and the top of the Haystack nestled in the trees.

That’s where I am. Right now.

He scrolled the view to the south end, over the Mansion. He enhanced the view until he was walking right over the roof. The area behind the Mansion was a resort with swimming pools and lounging areas. There was a large pier attached to the shore with a yacht.

He looked at the smaller island, now off in the distance about five miles.

“They must fly into that island.” Danny took a few steps and the view scrolled beneath him until the airstrip was just below their feet. There was a hangar at one end and an empty pier on shore. “And then bring people over on the yacht.”

The girl stood next to him. “What do you think they’re doing?”

The view returned to the Mansion. Someone was swimming. One of the Investors was taking long, smooth strokes to the end of the pool before turning to backstroke in the other direction.

“Looks like they’re on vacation,” he said.

After scrolling over the rest of the Mansion yard and finding nothing unusual, he began to look at the rest of the island. The view – directly overhead – looked like a privately owned tropical island. If someone flew over it, there would be nothing out of the ordinary.

“There’s not much time.” The girl had been walking along Danny’s side, looking where he was looking but watching for his reaction. “Is there anything here that helps?”

He grunted. “Not really.”

Danny continued walking, looking for anything that would be of interest. The Yard had a few people in it. The Chimney was highest in the sky, the stovepipe quiet. The waves were crashing violently on the north shore. The beach was empty, of course, because Reed was still in the Haystack with those vicious looking things on his hands.

Danny turned.

The girl was standing in the middle of the room, her hands clutched in front of her. She saw his thought and her eyes were big but not glassy this time.

“How do you know Reed?” he asked.

“It’s hard to know… my memories…”

“They’re mixed up?”

She shrugged.

“But you’re stuck in here?” Danny asked. “You can’t get out of Foreverland?”

“I don’t know… I just remember suddenly being here… something was after me when I woke up…”

Danny waited, but she seemed more confused than before. “So you escaped into the Nowhere?”

Quick nod, again. “No one can come out here. Not even him.”

The Director.

“You know that Reed dreams about you. He thinks you’re telling him not to come, that he has to—”

“I know… I just… want him to be okay.”

She turned away so Danny couldn’t see her face. Her shoulders tensed. He thought she might be weeping, but when she turned back around, Danny thought it was anger fading from her expression.

Her fists were clenched. “What are we going to do… to make all this end?”

An old man was getting out of the pool. He wrapped a towel over his shoulders and waved to someone back at the Mansion. A young man ran down the wide, curving steps off the balcony. Parker.

“I’ll figure something out before the next round,” Danny said. “Can you bring me back here?”

“Yes, but it’ll have to be like the last time… just look for a fight and I’ll get you back.”

Danny looked across the island at the Haystack where Sid’s body was twenty feet away from his. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

The random voices began penetrating the walls and the grainy mist twisted across the floor, obscuring the view below.

“There isn’t much… time. You need to figure something out… fast.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

The light began to fade.

“Goodbye, Danny Boy.”

The fog swirled around him. Her red hair faded to pink. “Wait! What’s your name?”

The voices were louder, one after another. The gray fog thickened, wrapping him in a cocoon of silky darkness. The voices got farther away. Danny slid back to the space between Foreverland and the Haystack.

Just before he felt his flesh and the hard concrete on his back, he heard one last word from far away.

Lucinda.

ROUND 4

Real Estate Tycoon Missing at Sea

LAS VEGAS, Nevada. – Local real estate and business billionaire, Franklin Constantino, 82, was reported missing after taking his yacht for a solo excursion out of San Francisco into the Pacific Ocean.

Constantino had been diagnosed with lung cancer two months before his disappearance. According to one of his staff, he rarely boarded his 70’ yacht without a captain and crew, but insisted on a lone journey for some “soul searching”.

The Coast Guard received distress calls about fifty miles off the coast but were unable to locate the ship. Evidence suggests the ship may have sunk but nothing has been confirmed.

29

The top floor of the Chimney hummed as the electric motors began winding up the shades. Evening light – diffused by the window’s tint – filled the room.

The Director was stretched out on a comfortable recliner. His lips began twitching before his eyes fluttered open. He stared vacantly at the black ceiling for a few moments before reaching up. He slid the needle out of the stent. He quivered. The sensation of the lubricated needle was a queer one that tickled the inside of his brain.

He rubbed salve over the hole and sighed while the Foreverland world faded. It would take a few minutes before he felt all the way back in his body. He drummed his fingers on the cushiony armrests while the chair’s internal rolling pins massaged his back, legs and buttocks. Circulation was important after lying still for so long. When the tingling faded, he put his feet on the ground and slowly stood.

He hadn’t eaten since he’d gone “inside the needle” (another term the boys invented) but he wasn’t thinking of food. He was thinking of what he just saw.

He found her.

The Director mixed a drink.

He stooped over a telescope aimed across the empty Yard. The boys would exit the Haystack in a half hour or so. It always took them a bit longer to return to the flesh when a round had ended. After all, the Director had been doing it for years, one of the few people to master the ability to go inside the needle. They were still rookies.

Only Danny Boy’s third round and he’d already managed to get control of his body. Maybe she was helping him, but he somehow doubted that was it. The kid was brilliant. The Director secretly wished he could somehow cryogenically freeze him for about twenty years; he could save the kid for his own personal use. But he didn’t have that technology. Not yet.

The drink warmed him.

She was clever, of course. He continued to underestimate her. She left that Christmas present as a clue and then sent the kid on a wild chase throughout the island. The Director already had a lot of responsibility keeping Foreverland stable, so keeping track of Danny Boy racing around was difficult. Somehow, she managed to construct a trapdoor in the Mansion and the kid found it without knowing it. By the time the Director realized what had happened, she’d collapsed the tunnel that led to the outer perimeter of the Nowhere. Out of his reach.

She’s learning, that’s what’s happening.

And learning was a problem.

Before she infected Foreverland, it was an expanding universe that started at the sundial and extended hundreds of miles past the shoreline. The Director envisioned it encompassing the planet, the solar system, and eventually the universe. The growth was exponential and the system operated flawlessly. He had great plans for humanity’s next evolutionary step. Foreverland wasn’t just an imaginary place where the kids went to play.

Everything was right on schedule. Until they inoculated Reed.

He appeared to be a healthy, normal subject. As he lay in a medically induced coma – after his body healed from the car accident – they strapped him with the initial needle-piercing for false memory infusion, but when they drew his memories out, this girl had slipped out of his subconscious. Memories always ended up floating around the Nowhere like bits of chicken in a bowl of soup.

But the girl was conscious!

Initially, she was merely a nuisance, a cockroach that would eventually run into the bottom of the Director’s heel. But she found cover in the Nowhere where the Director was blind. And ever since then, Foreverland had been collapsing.

The misty Nowhere was less than five miles off the shore, shrinking every day. He predicted that it would take a month to collapse all the way back to the sundial. If there was no Foreverland, the program would come to a screeching halt. The Investors would not be pleased. Not with the sums of money they were putting up.

But Danny Boy found her and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It was the first time she’d stuck her neck out of the Nowhere. The Director missed it, this time. He wouldn’t the next. She wanted Danny Boy and that meant she would do it again. If he caught her – no, not if… when he caught her, he would put a stop to the collapse. And then he could continue with the original plan: get Reed inside. He knew that once Reed was inside Foreverland, he would absorb her like a memory. Because that’s what she was. She would go back inside his mind and leave Foreverland.

And Foreverland would grow, once again.

Why Reed had resisted all this time he still couldn’t understand. Somehow, the kid seemed to know he was the antidote to the Director’s problem. That’s why he needed Danny Boy. He needed him to tell Reed about what she was doing, what she looked like, how much she needed him. Danny Boy would apply the pressure the Director needed, he would help bring him to Foreverland.

He swallowed the drink and mixed another.

Someone was crossing the Yard. Reed was the first one out, clutching his hands to his stomach. There were Soldiers of Fortune that didn’t have balls half the size as his. The Director would have to get medieval, very soon. Reed would discover that every human had a breaking point.

“Director?” the intercom called.

“Yes?”

“At your convenience, could you come down to the network floor? I think you’ll find this interesting.”

He finished the drink. He was tired and already a little buzzed. But there was data to observe from Foreverland.

30

Lucinda watched Foreverland recede.

She knew everything about the Nowhere. She knew all the thoughts of the boys that had been there. Knew all the… suffering, too. But it was Danny Boy that cracked the system open. He showed her how to work with the code, how to see into the network that helped operate… Foreverland.

The Nowhere fog circled the sundial as the boys went back to their bodies. And Foreverland went to sleep. Until the next round.

31

Danny woke on the floor, shivering. His clothes were still piled up where he left them. The door of his cell was open. A sharp pain gouged his ribs as he sat up. He couldn’t remember falling before taking the needle. He got dressed and wiped something off his cheek, like snails raced across his face.

The Haystack was empty, except for Zin.

He was awake and sitting with his arms propped on his knees. His throat bobbed up and down like he was trying to swallow something that just wouldn’t go down.

“Zin.” Danny squatted in front of him. “You all right?”

A string of saliva dangled from his lip.

Danny pulled him onto his feet. At least he didn’t have to dress him. He threw Zin’s arm over his shoulders and guided him out of the Haystack and through the woods. Zin continued to swallow at nothing until they emerged into the Yard. When daylight hit their faces, Zin looked up. Focus returned.

“Thanks, Danny Boy.”

They went straight to their rooms. Danny helped him crawl in bed and then went to his own. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

There were no medical trays when Danny woke up. As far as he could tell, Mr. Jones hadn’t been to his room. At least, he couldn’t smell him.

He did come to his room a couple days later. He was apologetic, at first. He stood in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back like he was addressing the press.

“I’m sorry I lost control in the Haystack, Danny Boy. I understand you’re under a lot of stress and it can be confusing about what to do. It’s easy to become irrational, I know. We’re all under a lot of stress.”

Danny wondered what kind of stress Mr. Jones could be enduring. Did he have to swim three laps in the luxury pool instead of two?

“But what Reed is doing is borderline insanity. No, it is insanity.” That was about the time the apology ended and the finger-waving began. “The fact that he’s been allowed to remain in the program this long is unconscionable, Danny Boy.”

And that was another first. Program. He called this a program.

“He’s a terrible example,” Mr. Jones said, pointing at Danny. “Refusing the lucid gear is an insult and a travesty and sabotages everything we strive to…” His tone softened. “Everything we strive to give you boys. It makes no sense, and I don’t want to see you contaminated by his actions. You understand, Danny Boy?”

“I’m sorry, too,” Danny said with his most convincing doe-eyes. “I just lost it in there, Mr. Jones. It didn’t take long to realize my mistake, trust me. It won’t happen again.”

Mr. Jones smiled. He sat on the bed, permeating the sheets with his Mr. Jones smell.

“You know, I can’t forbid you from talking to him. I just want you to understand how damaged he is. I don’t want that to happen to you. You’re a good kid, Danny Boy. You know what they say about spoiled apples.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Jones.”

Danny stopped from adding, Golly gee. I love this place. Mr. Jones would’ve bought it even if he did. He scrubbed Danny’s head.

“A good kid, you are.”

The camp was at the table, again, soaking up the sun and tossing cards. Danny mostly stayed in his room for a couple days and only snuck down to the cafeteria when they weren’t there. Sid didn’t seem to be looking for him but Danny wasn’t taking any chances. He just needed some peace to sort through his thoughts.

Lucinda.

She woke up in Foreverland, but what was she? Part of the program? Something real?

It didn’t matter. They all had the same goal: get off the island. He just needed to come up with a solution. He’d established contact with the outside world and no one that ran the place seemed to notice. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched. He’d slipped through the firewall and he was sure he could do it again, at least once. And if he only had one chance, it needed to work.

He couldn’t send for help, it would just look like a hoax. We’re a bunch of kids held on a tropical island given everything we could ever want and we go into a barn and get a needle shot into our heads so we can experience an alternate reality. Please help.

The island was a slick operation. Surely they’d have a plan for visitors. Danny needed something that would get the world’s attention, something that would piss off some important people and make them come looking for them. The next round wasn’t for another week and a half. He had time to think and no distractions. He had to go into the fourth round with something ready to go.

And look for a fight.

The card table was empty. Sid and his band of merry men had gone to lunch. Zin hadn’t left his room. His Investor was bringing up food and closing the door quietly on his way out. Danny had been checking up on him, too. He was tired, but at least he was alive. Maybe when this was all over, he’d find the old Zin in the Mansion. Or maybe a new and improved Zin.

Danny opened his door. The hallway was empty and Zin’s door was closed. He lightly tapped on it. He was going to try the door knob and peek inside the room when someone said, “Zin’s looking for you.”

It was James. He was a fourteen year old kid that never gave Danny any crap.

“Where is he?”

James opened the door to his room and said, “I saw him going out back, said something about a joyride.”

Danny went to his room and threw on clothes and started for the stairs. A joyride? Maybe the old Zin was putting up a fight after all.

He never bothered opening Zin’s door.

32

“Preposterous.” Mr. Jones threw his arms up. “You’ll have a real problem on your hands if he’s hurt, I promise you, Director. Something happens to my Danny Boy…”

Mr. Smith stood next to him. They were looking out the tinted windows of the Chimney’s top floor. Mr. Smith calmly kept his hands latched behind his back, while Mr. Jones folded and unfolded his arms making a small sound each time he did, like he was choking on words until he had to spit them out.

“There will be hell to pay. I’ve invested too much time and money to take such a risk, you should’ve consulted me.” He looked over his shoulder. “This is absurd!”

The Director was throwing a floral red and white shirt over his head. “Mr. Jones,” he said, his flip-flops slapping his feet, “I don’t consult my clients. You pay me to do the thinking.”

The Director stood next to Mr. Smith. They were looking at the back of the dormitory.

“Besides,” he said, “you don’t exist, so don’t make idle threats.”

Mr. Jones’s face went red. “You’re punishing him for what? For going in the Nowhere? I’m a fair man, Director, and this has nothing to do with fairness.”

The Director looked at Mr. Jones. His beard did not conceal the smile. Fair man? His delusion knows no bounds.

The program thrived from the self-centeredness of these old men, the infection of false entitlements that comes from money and power. Their universe revolved around their petty concerns and anything that affected them. They couldn’t see the bigger picture, they couldn’t see opportunity when they looked in only one direction. Stay open to life, gentlemen. Let it unfold and the universe will provide you with endless paths on your journey.

Fact is, they got lucky.

The Director expected Danny to be risky, but he never would’ve guessed the kid would hack through the security firewall and spread across the world! He did it through a vast web of communications. He didn’t attempt any communication because he was smart. Any other frightened kid would’ve shouted out to the world, Help! Help! The Director had answers for that, but that wasn’t what Danny Boy did. He was patient, scoping out his potential. He would do something the next time, something the Director might not be able to stop.

But, more importantly, he showed the Director how the world’s vast communication network had become a living body that just needed a soul to breathe. Danny Boy merged his identity with the network. He became the network.

Danny showed him just how short-sighted he had been all this time.

“We’re making him stronger,” the Director said. “He needs this to push through his psychological barriers.”

“On what basis do you make these assessments?” Mr. Jones said. “Those barriers were put in place by us! He’s not supposed to remember his past in the flesh, Director. Like every boy on this island, he only recovers them inside the needle, and now you want to remove the barriers that prevent him from remembering in the flesh? Director, I must question your motivations—”

“Question nothing, Mr. Jones,” he snapped. “Every boy on this island is different, each needs the program tailored to his individual needs. May I remind you that you were the one that argued to recruit this young man against my better judgment, that he would bring problems that would be dealt with in an unorthodox manner. Do you recall that conversation?”

Mr. Jones folded his arms, once again. “You are introducing anarchy. I hardly see how that will benefit those involved.”

“Sometimes death provides life, Mr. Jones. I believe that is something we can all agree upon.”

They watched the scene unfold behind the dormitory.

“I’ve had enough. I’m putting a stop to this now.”

The Director didn’t stop him from going to the elevator. The event was over.

Mr. Smith was nonplussed. It didn’t involve his boy. In fact, it was for the benefit of Danny Boy and Reed. Therefore, Mr. Smith watched with great interest.

“Danny Boy is Reed’s salvation,” is what the Director told him before Mr. Jones had arrived. “He’s our best chance to draw him inside the needle.”

And the needle was what Mr. Smith needed him to take. Otherwise, he would have wasted his time and money. Money, he had. Time was what he was trying to buy.

So the Director’s argument was very compelling. The pressure they had put on Reed still had not succeeded. The Director and Mr. Smith agreed that Reed was likely to die before succumbing to it. His health was already on the decline and his time was very short. It wasn’t going to benefit Mr. Smith if he destroyed him. He was willing to try anything.

The Director twisted the curly whiskers on his upper lip. The event behind the dormitory was taking an unforeseen turn, but Mr. Smith didn’t flinch. He watched as it unfolded. This made the Director smile. He trusts me.

“There’s hope yet, Mr. Smith. The two are bonding. Keep them close, let them continue to develop a relationship.”

“What about Mr. Jones? He will not be pleased with this approach.”

“I’ll handle Mr. Jones. Danny Boy made contact with Reed’s ‘problem’ inside the needle. We can’t let that opportunity go to waste.”

The Director didn’t lie. There was a problem. The extent of that problem, however, was not fully explained to any of the Investors. Reed’s problem was a threat to all of them. Mr. Jones, included. If Danny Boy was part of the solution, there would be no discussion about how to handle it.

The boys behind the dormitory fell to the ground as Mr. Jones and other Investors arrived on the scene. Mr. Smith took his leave to attend to Reed.

“He’s worth saving,” the Director said, as Mr. Smith boarded the elevator. “They’re all worth saving.”

Not a lie. But not exactly the truth.

33

Danny ran towards the only door that opened to the back of the dormitory. Zin must have come out of it to swipe a golf cart. His Investor was going to flip. And Mr. Jones was going to drop a nuke. That’s right. Danny is not a good boy.

Maybe they could scout the other end of the Mansion but this time take the cart, drop a brick on the accelerator and send it over the edge. It was a horrible idea, but he’d run it by Zin, see what he thought. If he was game, Danny wasn’t going to stand in his way. May as well have some fun destroying personal property.

He threw open the door—

CRAAACK!

Danny tumbled with lights in his head and the side of his face numb, the tang of iron on his tongue.

“Booooom!” Sid shouted. “Where I come from, that’s called a boom-shot, son!”

Danny touched his fat lips, pulled back bloody fingers. He spit a dark red pool into the dirt.

The camp was throwing high-fives at Sid. One of the guys was down at the corner on the lookout for Investors. James nearly tripped over Danny on his way out of the back door.

“Did I miss it?”

“Hell, yeah, you missed it.” Sid shook his hand like it was hot. “I broke up his damn face. You should’ve seen the look he gave me right before I landed the boom-shot.” He high-fived James. “That’s what we call it where I come from.”

Danny got on his hands and knees and spit red. “You don’t know where you come from.” He spit out a chunk of skin. “None of you morons do.”

It got quiet. Sid squatted down. “I don’t care where I’m from, that’s what we call it.”

He kicked Danny onto his back and got another round of hand-slapping.

“I’m king of this island, Danny Boy,” Sid called. “And you’re the trash. You and Reed, a couple of crazy bastards getting naked. What’s wrong with your brains, son? Did the needle drive too deep? Did it suck the noodle out of your skull?”

“Maybe I’ve seen the truth.”

“Yeah, the truth of your mental illness. What is there not to love about this place, idiot? We got everything we could want, we don’t pay for a thing, and we got the best games in the world. I mean, sue me for not wanting to stay here forever.”

“We get smoked, Sid,” Danny said, spitting. “You forget?”

“Yeah, well we all got to die. That’s a fact, brain surgeon. May as well do it happy.”

The clowns around him agreed. A pack of lemmings.

“The Director is a genius,” he said. “You should be kissing the man’s feet.”

“Excuse me for wanting to know what they’re doing to us,” Danny said.

“Who gives a flying fart?”

Danny was on his hands and knees, again.

“And another thing.” Sid was back down at face level. “You’re getting your ass back in that game room to put us back in first place. I got a taste of that freebee and I like. We want another pass, you hear?”

“Forget it.”

“You might want to think about it because there’s more where this came from.” Sid kicked dirt in his face. “You got to sleep sometime.”

“So do you.”

They laughed. Sid led the way toward the corner of the building where they’d sit their fat asses on the card table and yuck it up. Danny just needed to sit it out until they were gone. He was going to need stitches, but what would he tell Mr. Jones? The truth would probably help the most, but that seemed boring. Besides, Danny sensed the thrill beneath the throbbing in his face. And that’s what made him stand up.

“You forgot something!” He took a shuffle-step to catch his balance then threw up his middle finger. “Take this to the game room with you.”

Sid thought about it. It would be easier to let this one go, but everyone was watching and Danny hadn’t learned his lesson. And that was the whole point. How could Sid really be the king if a little punk gave him the finger and got away with it? If he walked off, Danny wins no matter how many stitches it takes.

Danny sealed the deal when he threw his hands out to the side. Still standing, bitch.

Sid got a running start.

Danny bent at the knees, balled his fists. He was going to start swinging before Sid got too close. He had no plan after that. But it didn’t matter.

Sid launched himself – feet first.

Danny went flying like a limp doll. Before his wits returned, Sid was on top. He tasted gritty blood, now. Sid planted his knees on Danny’s arms, grinding them into the dirt and sat on his chest. Danny’s legs flailed behind Sid. He grabbed a handful of Danny’s hair and held his head still. A bubbly glob of spit hung on Sid’s lower lip, then fell.

“How’s that, munchkin?” Sid said.

The others gathered around. Their shadows loomed.

“That loogey matches the one I dropped on you in the Haystack. That was from me and you’re welcome.”

The snail slime when I woke up.

The pain radiating from his arms had extinguished the thrill and replaced it with rage. But he was too small to do anything, helpless beneath 180 pounds of Sid. He tried to spit on him but it only landed on his own face.

“Listen, you crazy dwarf. What I say goes. You’ll game and shut your bloody mouth or I’ll spit in your eye every day you wake up. You’ll be begging to get smoked when I’m done with you. You think you can out-crazy me? Well, I got news for you, I’m the real deal. I’m a psychopath. I’ll climb inside you and eat your damn gizzard.”

Danny started laughing. Gizzard. What an idiot.

This caught Sid off-guard. Danny’s cheek lit up with a loud smack. But it only made him laugh harder. He didn’t care about pain. Sid would have to break his teeth out to get him to shut up. And that’s what he was about to do, pulling his fist behind his ear—

Sid went rolling across the ground.

Elbows flying.

Danny was back on his hands and knees, catching his breath, listening to grunts and the slap of skin-on-skin. Sid was on feet, dragging someone with him.

Reed.

His shirt was pulled over his head, revealing his bony chest. Sid pushed him into the group and two of them pinned his arms behind him. Reed’s face was gaunt. Yellow-darkness hung beneath his eyes. He was out of breath.

“A hero, huh?” Sid paced closer. “Hold him still, let me show you what we do to heroes.”

He pulled his fist behind his ear, again, lined up a shot that would break Reed’s entire face—

They all dropped on the ground.

Sid, Reed, and all the rest. They fell like dead bodies.

“It’s all right, Danny Boy.” Mr. Jones was on one knee. “We got things under control.”

Golf carts pulled up and old men unloaded, each one of them going to their camper. They rolled them over, cradled their heads. Their eyes were rolled back and the Investors talked to them. Slowly, they came out of the tracker-zapping stupor and their Investors – each with his own look of disapproval – guided them away.

“Come along.” Mr. Jones helped Danny up. “Let’s get you to the doctor to have a look. Don’t worry about those boys, it’s all right now.”

Each of them was up and being cared for, tended to. All of them, except one.

Reed was alone and still unconscious.

34

It was Danny’s second time inside the Chimney.

Mr. Jones took him to the big, silver elevator shaft in the center of the first floor. He held Mr. Jones’s handkerchief to his mouth. It was white with major splotches of blood. They went to the second floor. Danny didn’t see a stairwell. Either Mr. Jones was too tired to walk or this was ultra-security. The only way up was in the elevator.

Five floors in the Chimney. The third one was where I woke up. The second one is the doctor’s office. The fifth one is the Director’s penthouse. What’s on the fourth?

The second floor was silent. Four hallways radiated from the center like spokes. They went down one of them and stopped outside an office door with a row of chairs against the wall.

“Would you have a seat, Danny Boy?” Mr. Jones asked. “I’d like to speak with the doctor.”

Danny grunted through the handkerchief. Mr. Jones helped him into one of the chairs and went inside the office. Danny couldn’t hear them talking. He flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, felt the hole carved out of it when Sid’s fist crushed his face against his teeth. Mr. Jones assured him that would never happen again. If Sid got within fifty feet, an alarm would sound on his tracker. If he got closer than twenty, he’d get knocked out.

Danny wouldn’t mind testing the system. Maybe sneak up on him while he was in the bathroom, watch him crumple up on the toilet. He’d be in trouble – major, big time – but it would be so worth it. So, so worth it.

He laid his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He was sinking in the chair, exhaustion weighing him down. He was breathing heavily when the elevator doors broke open. Two sets of footsteps came down the hallway. One was dragging a foot.

“Hello, Danny Boy,” Mr. Smith said. “How’s your mouth feeling?”

Danny shrugged. He could answer, but the bloody rag was a good excuse not to speak without being rude.

“Listen, son. You’ll be all right. We’ve got a real sharp doctor on the island that will have you back to normal in a snap.” Mr. Smith snapped his fingers to illustrate his point. “No one hurts for long around here.”

Mr. Smith turned to Reed, mumbled something about sitting. “Let me go inside and talk with Mr. Jones and the doctor, all right?”

He winked at Danny, smiled, and went inside.

Reed hunched over, hiding his hands in his lap. The silence was enormous.

“You didn’t have to do that back there.”

Reed didn’t respond. Danny took that as a sign to shut up. He said thanks. Move on. Danny pushed his tongue into the hole in his lip. The bleeding had stopped but he kept the handkerchief to his mouth.

“He’s a psychopath, you know that,” Reed mumbled.

“Yeah, he told me.”

Reed sat back, holding his hands beneath his shirt. “Next time you’ll get more than a bloody lip.”

“There won’t be a next time. Sid gets a warning if he’s within fifty feet of me. Twenty feet and the tracker knocks his ass out. I might sneak up on him just to watch him twitch.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“We all are, Reed. May as well have some fun.”

Zin would’ve liked that line; he’d tell him when he woke up.

“Why are you here?” Danny asked.

Reed hesitated. He unveiled his hands. The thumbs were purple and doubled in size. They stuck out like useless pegs. “To put Humpty Dumpty back together.”

“So they can push you back off?”

“That seems to be the pattern.”

Reed put his hands beneath his shirt, again. His breathing was a little shaky. It hurt just moving them. Danny couldn’t imagine what it took to tackle Sid.

“Why don’t you go inside the needle?” Danny asked.

Reed chuckled, smiled at the floor.

“What’s so funny?” Danny asked. “It doesn’t make sense, going through all this suffering when you know we’re going to end up in Foreverland anyway. Come on, Reed, give yourself a break. You’ve suffered enough, you’ve proved your point. You can take a beating.”

Reed was quiet. He drew a long breath and let it out, thoughtfully. Then threw his head back with laughter. It echoed up and down the hallway.

Danny watched him unravel. “You’re losing it, Reed.”

“What’s so funny?” Reed said, wiping his eyes. “This is exactly what they want.”

“Who?”

“Them.” Reed gestured with a nod at the doctor’s office. “They want us to be friends so that you’ll talk me into taking the needle. And you’re biting, Danny Boy. You’re biting hard on the bait, son.”

“I’m not biting on anything, I’m just making sense.”

“You don’t know what you’re making.”

“I saw her, Reed.” The fits of laughter trailed off, quickly. “Want to know what she said?”

Reed hunched over, quietly.

“She sees you, Reed. She sees you in everyone’s thoughts when they go inside the needle. She knows you’re staying in the Haystack and suffering and refusing to come for her. She’s alone and something is after her. You got to tell me why you’re not going inside to help her.”

Reed bowed his head lower like he barely had the strength to hold Danny’s words.

“She’s in your dreams,” Danny added, “but that’s a dream, man! Lucinda’s alive, I’m telling you.”

Reed jerked. He turned away. No sound came out of him. Just quiet convulsions.

“It’s a trick, Danny Boy. The Director’s got you fooled.”

“It was no trick. She was—”

“YOU THINK I LIKE THIS?”

Reed shoved his hands in Danny’s face. They weren’t just swollen, they were misshapen and three different colors of purple, parts of them black. Thin red lines streaked down his wrists.

“You don’t think I want to see her? That I just want to dream about her, that I don’t want to touch her, smell her? That I don’t want to be with her, Danny Boy, to know she’s okay? To know she’s alive? Is that what you think?”

Danny pulled his head back.

“It’s hopeless, Danny Boy.” Reed walked away. “It’s all hopeless.”

Lucinda.

Her name opened a memory.

Reed suddenly remembered, with fine clarity, a time he was driving a truck – a twenty year old pickup – with torn seat covers. He reached for the stick shift between her knees.

“We’re doing it, Reed!” Lucinda said. “We’re really doing it!”

The landscape rolled past them with long legs of corn and bushy fields of soybeans, dotted with silos and lonesome houses. The wind blew her red hair around. Lucinda grabbed Reed’s face and planted a kiss. Her lips wet, warm and full.

Bip. It ended. Memory, over and out.

But it wasn’t a dream, it was a memory. He remembered her.

He remembered that he loved her.

She’s real.

Danny stepped next to him. They were at the end of the hall, standing at one of the glass walls that overlooked the dormitory and the Yard. And, beyond that, the Haystack.

“The world, it’s out there, Reed.” Danny told him about hacking the firewall, locating the island through the satellite system. “There’s hope.”

“Can you do it again?” Reed asked, staring out.

“I don’t know, it was some wild code. It was evolving like an organism, never seen anything like it.”

“You can’t just send for help. They’ll have that figured out.”

“I know.”

“It has to be something the whole world will see, Danny Boy. You got to give them a reason to search for us.”

Reed hung his hands inside his shirt like a hammock. He couldn’t fold his arms and it hurt too much to let them hang at his sides. Besides, hiding them kept Danny from staring. Reed just wanted to get to the beach where he could be in the sun alone with the memories. He wanted to drive down that country road, again. He wanted to kiss her.

Lucinda. You’re in there and I’m out here. The Haystack is nothing compared to that.

“Danny Boy?” Mr. Jones called from the doctor’s office. “Son, the doctor would like to see you now.”

Danny waited a bit, turned and nodded at the old man. He started to say something to Reed then went on his way. Mr. Jones closed the door behind them. He’d get his lip fixed and be ready for the next round. Reed only hoped he could do it again. Yes, he hoped.

Because he wouldn’t be able to resist much longer.

35

The cafeteria was full. But the table Danny was sitting at was empty.

He was in the corner, far away from the windows. The compartments on his lunch tray were filled with pudding, Jell-O and noodles. No chewing required. The doctor patched the gaping hole with a gel adhesive, but it didn’t relieve the swelling. Pressure on his teeth hurt. His smile was lop-sided, but there wasn’t much to smile about.

He slurped a spoonful of pudding and looked at the lined sheet of paper in front of him. He chose the corner of the room because it was the farthest spot from the rest of his camp eating at their regular table. They were in last place in the game room. Without Danny, they’d have to suffer every round they went inside the Haystack until they all got smoked. That gave him a little satisfaction. A few guys asked him to come back.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Danny glanced up and Sid flipped him the middle finger.

He also wanted privacy and the lighting was weak in the corner. He wrapped his arm around the paper to cast a shadow over his notes. It was stupid to write these things down, but he had to organize his thoughts. He was just writing bullet points but they were still clues:

- Mutual Fund
- FBI
- Mt. Rushmore

These were the three ideas he’d come up with to get the world’s attention. The first one, mutual fund. Get control of the largest mutual fund in the world and sell all the assets. The stock market suffers a flash crash and people lose money.

Money is power and it will find you. If they found the rogue trader holed up in his parents’ basement, they would find an island in the South Atlantic.

The second idea—

“Danny Boy.” James flung a folded sheet of paper into his pudding. “Message.”

Danny turned his notes over. James looked back. They were watching. And laughing. Danny wiped the chocolate smudge off and spread the note open.

Turdbrain. You die in the needle.

Sid was standing on the table with both birds flying. James nodded and smiled.

“Hey, you’re a pal,” Danny said. “Hang on a sec.”

James waited for him to finish writing, watched him fold it back up.

“Don’t peek now,” Danny said. “I want it to be a surprise.”

James opened it anyway. He carried it back to Sid still holding up middle fingers and still getting laughs. James handed it to him and Sid opened it. He sat down.

I’m running at you in five minutes.

Sid was sixty feet away. If Danny rushed him, he’d be less than twenty and pissing his pants. He could curse him all day long, but all it took was minus twenty feet and he’d be catatonic.

Second idea: destroy the FBI’s database. Danny was drawing on previous memories. Crime-fighting agencies, like the FBI, were touchy when it came to their data. If he got inside their network, he could detonate everything digital. That was like kicking a hornet’s nest. They wouldn’t come to the Chimney asking questions, they’d kick the door down.

The third idea: blow something up. Destroying a national monument was surely going to set off a worldwide manhunt. If he dropped a building with a couple thousand people in it, they were as good as rescued, but Danny wasn’t a killer. And there was the problem of getting explosives to detonate. It could be done; he could redirect a couple of military bases but that would get complicated.

It was down to the first two ideas. He was only going to get one chance. It had to work. But he wouldn’t know until he was back inside the needle and tested the system. First, he had to find Lucinda.

Pick a fight.

Danny took his tray to the return window. Sid was in a conversation with someone across the table, but kept an eye on Danny as he filled a to-go box with food. Danny closed the lid and held up his hand for Sid to see, all four fingers and thumb.

He had Sid’s full attention as he dropped one finger at a time. When he folded the last one into a fist, he started walking right at their table.

Sid was out the exit before twenty feet.

36

Danny tapped on the door. He didn’t expect an answer. He turned the knob, poked his head inside, slowly. There was a lump on the bed. The curtains were closed. Danny didn’t bother closing the door quietly. Zin had been asleep for two days.

“Zin, my man.” Danny pulled one of the curtains open. “Let the sunshine in, brother.”

The light fell on his face with no effect. His head was half-buried in the pillow, mouth open. His complexion was lighter, a grayishness mixed with mocha. But still dark beneath his eyes.

“Hey, man, wake up.” Danny shook him. “You got to eat or you’ll shrivel up like a leaf.”

Zin moaned, smacking white slime between his lips. Danny sat him up. Zin’s head lolled around. “What time is it?”

“Daytime,” Danny said. “You need to join the living while you’re still alive. I brought you some food, here.” He doled out an apple, a turkey sandwich with spinach and tomato, a bag of chips and a container of pudding. “Get some of this in you before you fall asleep again.”

Zin was beginning to collapse.

“Hey, come on.” He shook his shoulders. “Throw some water on your face or something. Wake up.”

Zin rubbed his eyes then shuffled to the sink. When he turned around, his eyes were at least open. So was his mouth.

“The mouth-breathing is starting to annoy me, you know,” Danny said.

“Then look the other way.”

“Can’t you just breathe through your nose or something?”

“I’m too tired.”

Zin started for the bed.

“Ah-ah-ah.” Danny pulled the hard chair from the desk. “Have a seat, my friend. You’re eating and then we’re going to the Yard. If your skin gets any lighter, you’ll officially be Caucasian.”

“I didn’t realize it was that easy.”

“You see yourself lately? You’re a ghost.”

“Well, that’s how I feel.” He fell into the chair and limply unwrapped the sandwich. He leaned back and chewed with his mouth open. “This sucks, dude.”

“Sorry. I would’ve taken your order but you were busy snoring.”

“Not this.” Zin held up the sandwich. “I feel like I’m barely here, like a puppet down to one string. I can barely remember anything. It’s like everything that was me is still in Foreverland.”

“Right now, get some of this highly nutritious food in you and stop complaining. We can get to the Yard and if we got time we can chase Sid around.”

Zin was still awake but the distant gaze fogged over his eyes while he stuffed chips in his mouth. Danny had learned not to push. It was better to let him zone out from time to time. He was more responsive afterwards. As long as he was awake, he’d eventually come back. Danny pulled his notes out of his pocket. It wasn’t much and he didn’t need anything written down. It would be better to destroy it. He took a pen from the desk drawer and blacked out all the words.

“What’s that?” Zin shot food out with the words.

“Nothing, just ideas.”

Danny wadded up the paper and tossed it in the air, playing catch with himself. He couldn’t decide which idea to go with. Maybe he could bounce them off Zin, he would know what to do, but it wasn’t worth the chance. He was going to disappear after the next round and who knows if he talked in his sleep. He might blab the whole plan to his Investor and Danny would be screwed to the max.

Zin finished the sandwich and opened the pudding. “Maybe I can help.”

He was behind on the conversation.

“You want to see these?”

Zin shrugged.

Danny went into a wind-up – an exaggerated kick – and threw a fastball right at him. It was a trick throw. When he brought his arm back, he flipped the paperball behind his back and threw an empty hand. Zin still didn’t flinch.

Instead of a fastball hitting him square in the face, it gently lobbed from behind his back and bounced off Zin’s chest.

Danny stared at it. Something happened. It was déjà-vu, he’d seen someone do that before. He learned it… from his father? He used to do that when he was a kid and it scared him the first time. The fake fastball, he called it. And when Danny’s cousins came over, he’d do it to them and they’d laugh when they flinched. The fake fastball always tricked them. Always hit them right in the face. They never saw it coming.

It wasn’t Danny’s memory, but it didn’t matter.

“That’s what I’m going to do,” Danny muttered. “Only I’m going to hit them right in the face with the fastball.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Danny nodded at the empty desk. “You finished?”

“If you say so.”

“Let’s go, then. First, the Yard. After that, Sid-city.”

Zin pushed himself out of the chair and took his time getting dressed in auto-pilot. Danny picked up the paperball. Was it my father, really?

Didn’t matter. Danny was going to hit the island with something the United States military would notice.

37

The moon was just a sliver.

Danny didn’t sleep that night. He lay in bed, working through the details of what he’d need to do when he got inside the needle. He’d have one chance. If he blew it, he’d be headed for the Chimney, and probably not to graduate.

No pressure.

He got dressed, stopped at Zin’s room. It wasn’t locked anymore, not unless Danny locked it on the way out. Danny didn’t bother turning on the lights. He sat on the edge of the bed, felt a little like one of the Investors. Zin was on his back, mouth open, ripping wind through his throat.

“Zin.” He shook him, over and over. “Zin, wake up.”

Zin’s eyes opened but remained unfocused. Danny gently slapped his cheek. He ended up dripping water on his face. “What the…” He looked around the room and couldn’t see Danny right next to him. “What’re you doing?”

“Two things.” Danny held up two fingers. “First, I got to fight Sid when we get inside the needle so don’t get in the way.”

Zin nodded, sleepily.

“Repeat it,” Danny said.

“You got to fight, got it. What’s the other thing?”

“Let me in the Mansion when you get there.”

Zin was thinking about it. Moments later, he got it. He nodded. All right.

Danny went to the door. Zin was still up on one elbow. It was the longest he’d stayed lucid in the last days. He watched Danny leave.

Danny stepped onto the dune. Black waves roared onto shore with white foam on top. The tide was high; the water skimming across the hardpacked sand.

He gripped the paper sack against the tug of the wind. It was too dark to see down the beach. Reed was usually on the left end. A hundred yards proved him correct. His knees were pulled up to his chest, hair fluttering.

Danny had been on the island almost two months. In that time, Reed had become a withered camp survivor. Every bone was visible from the waist up. Danny sat next to him and pulled out two bananas and passed one to him. Reed took it. He held it for several moments before peeling it.

“You got to eat, Reed.”

Reed chewed, slowly. “It only makes me feel better.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea.”

“And that makes it harder.”

When the bananas were gone, Danny handed him an apple. “You know what they say about apples.”

“They don’t say that here, Danny Boy. Besides, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Reed pushed up his lip, revealed the black gap of a missing tooth. Danny hadn’t noticed it when they were at the doctor’s office. His teeth were falling out.

Danny bit a chunk and handed it to him. “Yeah, it’s gross but there are worse things. You got to eat. I can’t have you petering out before the next round ends.”

Reed eyeballed the slice. Danny swore he could see him smile before taking it. Danny took another bite and held it out. He ate the entire apple that way.

“I’m going to drop a satellite, Reed.”

Reed didn’t respond.

“I’ll hack the United States Air Force, direct one of their Milstar satellites to make an emergency landing in the middle of the island. The government will be here before it lands.”

“You think you can do that?”

Danny recalled the processing speed and the ease at which he maneuvered through the global communications network the last time. It had become more an effort of will than skill.

“I can.”

Reed just nodded.

They listened to the ocean, to the rise and fall of the water.

Danny leaned back on his elbows. The sky was filled with a thousand points of light. He located the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt. He put his head down and closed his eyes. And the water lulled him to sleep.

A bird woke him. The waves glittered with morning light.

Reed was gone.

The fourth round was near.

Mr. Jones was waiting at the Haystack. The gongs had already passed.

He led Danny inside with a few encouraging words. The rest of the camp was in their cells, still dressed, waiting for Danny. They were glad he arrived but not happy to see him.

Reed was already nude with his back to Danny. He could count all the vertebrae.

Mr. Jones took Danny’s clothes. Zin was the last to arrive. His Investor guided him inside with a hand on his shoulder. He was vacant, spastically swallowing. The Investor asked him three times for his clothes before he caught on. The boys grew impatient.

When the doors closed and the skylights darkened, Zin stood in the middle of his cell, shoulders slumped. Head down.

“Bye, Zin,” Danny whispered.

He wasn’t sure he heard him. But didn’t expect him to.

38

The Director watched the sun set.

He awoke completely refreshed. He had not slept well until recently. He never slept well in the face of uncertainty. That was over now. He knew what needed to be done. And how to do it.

“Director,” the intercom said. “We’ll be dropping the lucid gear in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

He changed into a clean shirt and settled into his reclining chair. The kneading rollers adjusted to his shifting weight, allowing him to settle into a comfortable position. The Director stared at the ceiling. Deep breath.

The network technician that monitored Foreverland showed him how Danny had somehow circumvented the security like some sort of science fiction mind meld. He became one with the environment and rode it into the Ethernet, around the world and all the way to the satellites.

He wouldn’t do it again. They were ready for him.

In fact, he was hoping he would try.

He would watch closely this time. Even though he couldn’t see into the Nowhere, there were ways to watch how Foreverland was being manipulated. It was a risk to let the kid’s mind run free, but they were ready. But it was still a risk. A risk worth taking. The reward was far beyond his imagination.

Danny Boy was a jewel.

There was still the girl and there was Reed. They would be dealt with. For now, he needed to discover the potential Danny Boy had unveiled.

The Director reached for a tray next to the chair with two glass tubes. One contained a needle – two inches long – soaking in a solution with a thin cable extending from the end of it that went all the way to the third floor where rows of computers would help transform his mind into Foreverland. The boys – when they took the needle – would come to the Director’s mind. Foreverland wasn’t a computer program, that was too artificial. It had to be organic. But the Director needed the assistance of his computer network to keep his mind stable, so that he could create the world of Foreverland, where the boys would find their thoughts. Where he would eat their souls.

Well, to say he ate their souls was a little dramatic. Their identities – whoever they are – were absorbed by the Director’s mind. It made him bigger, stronger. It made him more.

And he liked that.

And his mind would continue to expand. Once the girl was gone.

The Director pulled the needle out and punctured the second glass tube that greased it with electrolytic salve. Careful not to touch it with his fingers, he lifted it to the hole in his forehead. The tip made contact with the stent just below the skin.

The Director took a deep breath. He pushed it through the stent and into his frontal lobe.

His vision quivered.

His body quaked.

He laid his arm at his side and closed his eyes.

Foreverland.

39

The grainy world was all that Lucinda knew.

There was no land to walk, no object… for her to lay her head. She existed in its endless vacuum. In the swirling gray of… voices.

The sound of static.

It was continuous in the Nowhere.

It was lonely.

Until a shockwave began.

It rippled outward, stimulating the grains of gray… excited atoms. The voices began to chatter, fleeing from an object that began to take shape. It was the color of sandstone, a pedestal with a triangular fin atop a circular disc. It was always the first to appear before Foreverland was reborn.

The gray scattered around it like insects. Colors bled from the base of the sundial. Lucinda hid deep in the Nowhere as… grass and trees and buildings and sky was born. She prepared to find her savior, hoping that he might bring her peace.

That he might bring them all peace.

40

Danny floated in the bodiless darkness. He escaped the suffering, forsaking his body for the needle. But he carried the image of Reed’s naked body shivering in the cold.

The fan would blow on him. The sprinklers would mist.

But Mr. Smith would arrive with something much worse.

Danny couldn’t fail.

Solid ground formed beneath him. He was next to the sundial. The entire camp had arrived, forming a half-circle around him.

“Welcome, dirtbag.” Sid was a monster of fleshy muscle and blue, snaky veins. “I’m dedicating this round to your misery. I’m going to invent ways of torture, invent things even the Director wouldn’t dream of doing to another human being, Danny Boy. There’s going to burning, there’s going to be cutting and ripping… just, all sorts of fun stuff.”

He popped his knuckles like snapping timber.

“I’m going to do those things to you, Danny Boy. I’m going to do them all night long.”

Foreverland was quiet. No one flying in the blue sky or miniature warriors racing across the Yard. They were all around the sundial to watch Sid perform surgery. Whether they wanted to watch or Sid told them to, they were there.

“Try to run, Danny Boy, and we’ll catch you. Call for help, we’ll shred whoever shows up.”

Does he mean Zin?

“It’s going to be the longest day of your life, my friend. You’ll beg me to stop, but you missed that chance, son. You already sold your soul to the devil.”  Big toothy grin. “And I bought it.”

He paced around the semi-circle, rolling his head like a mixed martial artist warming up for a big fight. He glared down at Danny. He was nearly twenty feet tall, and growing. Muscles writhed like snakes. He pulled a long breath through his nostrils. It came out like exhaust, blowing hotly in Danny’s face.

Danny looked around.

“No one’s coming, Danny Boy.” Sid’s voice dropped an octave, filled with gravel. “No one is here to save you, it’s just us, punk. Just us.”

Sid filled his chest with another deep breath. His shoulders bulged, his arms rippled. His skin turned a shade redder. Talons emerged from the tips of his fingers with razor edges.

“I’m really going to dig this,” he blurted with a slight lisp as sharpened incisors bit into his lower lip. “I only wish Reed was here to make it double-dip ass whipping.”

The others were growing, too. It would be like a pride of lions feeding on the lone antelope. Danny was not a lion. He closed his eyes, focused on a tiny point.

Stay numb. Until she comes.

Breathe, in and out.

“I love this place, Danny Boy,” Sid stated, deeply. “I’m afraid you’re really going to hate it.”

Sid took one more long breath and let out a roar. He lifted his tree trunk arms, flexed the dagger-tipped claws, and slashed downward. He would dice Danny into cubes. He would put him back together and do it again. And again.

He was going to do it all night.

But then Lucinda arrived.

She emerged from the ground like a ghost.

She smacked the edge of the sundial with her fist. It rang like a gong struck with a hammer. The vibrations shook Foreverland.

Danny staggered. His vision doubled.

Only Lucinda remained in focus, unaffected by the tremors emanating from the sundial. She had let loose a never-ending earthquake.

“If you love this place,” she said, “then you will never leave it.”

Lucinda walked toward Sid as he lost his balance. She plunged her hand into his chest. He continued to convulse, but slowly – very slowly – he began to settle like a bell reaching the end of its ring until he was as unaffected as Lucinda.

His eyes were wide. His mouth was open.

He shrank back to normal-size. When she gently placed him on the ground, he had become Sid, the gangly kid back in the Haystack. His expression was not angry or scared.

It was vacant.

She took Danny’s hand. Warmth penetrated his arm and filled him. And then they fell through a trapdoor that opened on the ground.

Into the grayness of the Nowhere.

Danny was on his knees when the circular room appeared.

His hands were splayed on the floor. Twenty fingers were jiggling out of focus, the sundial ringing between his ears. His stomach turned and twisted. He thought he might vomit, then thought it weird since he was a digital body and hadn’t really eaten anything.

He closed his eyes, focused on the tiny dot. In and out, he breathed until things settled. When he opened his eyes, he had ten fingers again.

“He’s a bad kid.” Lucinda was sitting in the lone chair, center of the room. “I saw what he was doing… in the others’ thoughts.”

“I thought the fight was a clue. You just wanted Sid.”

“He tortures Reed,” she said. “He deserved what he got.”

“What’d you do to him?”

“I gave him what he loves.” She crossed her legs. “I gave him Foreverland.”

It sounded like a bad thing.

Danny sat up, allowed a few moments to adjust before standing. The floor swayed a bit. He felt like he just stepped off a roller coaster. A chair appeared. He grabbed the back but didn’t sit.

“What’s that mean?” he asked. “How’d you give him Foreverland?”

“He’ll never leave.”

“You can do that?”

She glanced away. “You’re all coming here, Danny Boy. You all join the voices in the Nowhere.”

“I don’t understand, Parker was better. He couldn’t have stayed here.”

She shrugged.

He’ll join the voices? She couldn’t have that right. Parker was there, he was back. It had to be some mirror image that remained in Foreverland, perhaps the ghosts of ideas and thoughts that weren’t real to begin with. Perhaps that’s what the program was about, cleansing our minds of impurity, erasing the habits of self-destruction and reprogramming us with desirable thoughts.

But then who would be deciding what to program? And who decided what was desirable?

Zin might already be scattered in the Nowhere.

“He is not,” she said, sensing his thought. “But he’s close.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know… he’s with his girlfriend. He’s a good person, Danny Boy. I like Zin.”

But none of that would matter if Danny couldn’t do something because she was right. They were all heading for Foreverland. If they were really helping them become better people, then a satellite landing on the island wouldn’t harm anything.

But if they weren’t helping…

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Danny let go of the chair and nodded. She stood up and the chair disappeared. He took his place in the center.

Thought-commands lit up the room.

He was in the eye of a data storm.

The colors swirled around the room. Sometimes they appeared as shapes that connected with other shapes, sometimes merging, sometimes snapping together. Other colors were blurs or streaks or dots that interweaved and interlocked and became something larger.

Danny stood still, eyes closed.

He forgot he was in a room. Forgot he once inhabited a body. He had become the data, swimming through the ethereal universe of networks on the island, searching for the conduit that would let him leak out and spread across the outside world—

The colors stopped.

He opened his eyes. The room looked like the inside of a kaleidoscope.

“What’s wrong?” Lucinda asked.

“It’s too easy.”

Danny walked the perimeter, thinking. He wanted to be sure. If he fell into a trap, everything ended. Game over. He made one loop around the room, started another. By the end of the second one, he was positive.

A bubble appeared in the middle of the room, hovering off the floor. Its surface swirled with colors reflecting from the walls.

“That’s like the firewall that seals the island from the rest of the world,” Danny said. “Last time, I exploited a line of communication.”

He put his finger on a black dot floating on the surface.

“They only stay open for a millisecond because snoopers scour the entire firewall a thousand times a second looking for these inconsistencies and closing them. I was able to slip through one before they closed it.”

“So? Do it again.”

“But I shouldn’t be able to. Snoopers are learning programs, they would fix the gap. It shouldn’t be there.”

The lights from the bubble scattered over her face, glimmering on her electric red hair.

“I think it’s a trap,” Danny said. “They might know what I’m doing.”

“Then why set a trap?”

Good question. “I can’t chance it. If I blow this, it’s all over.”

Lucinda gazed at the bubble. She gave him the space to think as the clock inside Foreverland ticked closer to the end of the day. Closer to his return to the Haystack.

“Is there another way to get out?” she asked.

A red dot began glowing in the center of the bubble. It took the form of a building with five floors and a smokestack. Danny reached inside and touched it.

“I’ll go deeper.”

41

Danny had become the colors, again. He had become the data streaming through the network pipelines like blood through the body’s arteries. He swished through the Ethernet web, spreading out and observing the flow of data, reading its content, following multiple directions and destinations, searching for the center of activity. He experienced the sensation of shooting across space.

Lucinda watched quietly.

Many times, he disguised himself as quantifiable data as the security snoopers trolled the network for potential intruders. And then he’d be on the move again. But the closer he got to the center of activity – the mainframe processor – the slower his progress became. He spent long chunks of time idle. One slip and the security snoopers would trace his presence back to an identity known as Danny Boy. He had cloaked his identity, but they would eventually unravel it. And then everyone would know what he was up to. And on an island, it was hard to run and hide.

He began to doubt his intuition about the outer firewall, but he knew it was just wishful thinking. His new path was slow and tedious and dangerous, but he couldn’t take forever. At some point, the needle would withdraw from his body and he’d return empty-handed.

His senses adjusted to the new reality of colorful data. He began to see it and feel it. The room reflected his experience. Lucinda watched as his experience reflected a recognizable reality in the room. They soared through slippery tunnels and past doorways and stopped inside empty rooms. They flew down hallways, beneath doors. Sometimes they went so fast it was just a blur. Something silver formed ahead of them. It was down a long hallway. It came into focus.

An elevator opened.

Danny moved for the first time in hours. He walked toward the elevator and then appeared to go inside it. The doors closed.

Lucinda wouldn’t see him come back.

The Milstar communications system consisted of five satellites – each weighing approximately 10,000 pounds – positioned around the world to meet wartime requirements with a price tag just under $5 billion.

They’d notice one missing.

Danny went up to the fourth floor of the Chimney where the bulk of computer activity operated and streamed through a major conduit of data that was transferring updates to the outside world. He did a quick search of the Milstar program and found it linked to three locations: Los Angeles Air Force Base, Hanscom Air Force Base in Massachusetts, and Schriever Air Force Base in Colorado.

He was careful not to set off any alarms while snooping around each location. Since he resembled data, it only took seconds to cross the country for preliminary observations. Once he was certain, he penetrated Schriever Air Force Base.

There were very few gaps to exploit and the multi-layered security system was covered with alarms. But it wasn’t evolving like the Chimney. Danny easily disguised himself as a top-secret document and streamed onto a secretary’s computer in one of the outer offices. From there, he leaped into the network and passed through encrypted firewalls as a variety of updates and system maintenance. He avoided any sort of forced entry that might trigger a lockdown. He needed things to be open and fully operational.

Once he cleared security, he migrated to the central command processor and located the geosynchronized orbit of the satellites. He could take complete control of all five, if he wished, shoot all of them at the island like falling stars. But that was risky. Alarms would be triggered and there was a chance that a system override could derail his actions. They would know the coordinates and likely investigate, but that wasn’t as sure a thing as dropping 10,000 pounds of metal on the Mansion.

Danny tucked Trojan horses into the system that would lay dormant until one of the satellites was positioned over the island. Then they would send the satellite hurtling toward the South Atlantic. At that point, there would be nothing Milstar could do to restore power in time to alter the $1 billion belly flop.

Estimated impact: ten hours, twenty minutes.

Danny double-checked his work. When he was satisfied, he drifted back into the network. He took his time reentering the same portal inside the Chimney, trailing an email that was downloading onto the server. He ended up in the middle of the main database that contained phone calls, emails, and documents. He filtered through the information disguised as system maintenance, integrating with the content.

There were lists of clients, none of which Danny recognized; surveillance video showing “prospects” of teenage boys that were sometimes in hospitals, alone in poverty or abandoned in remote areas. Prospects had psychological evaluation documents attached to them, evaluating them as either viable candidates or not.

Nothing explained what they were doing with them.

Danny ventured out of the system, past highly secure compartments that controlled all the buildings, food storage, power and security features. He could shut down the island, if he needed to. But that wouldn’t do any good without someone coming to the rescue.

He was about to return to the Nowhere when something stopped him. It was a large database called “Records”.

Danny hesitated. Records would mean histories. The past.

Who I am.

Night had arrived in Foreverland.

Danny hurried inside the Records.

42

The atmosphere transformed into images. He was no longer amorphous data that streamed along the colorful conduit. The Records database took shape of something that resembled an enormous library with vaulted ceilings and hanging lights. The floor was hard and shiny and the walls covered with bookshelves. But there were no tables or chairs; there was no need to reach for the symbolic books that held the records of the island. Danny only needed to think and the information streamed into his consciousness. He could absorb and comprehend the data about everyone, but he was only interested in one person.

[Search for Danny…] he thought-commanded, suddenly realizing something he had been missing every since he woke up.

I don’t know my last name.

It didn’t seem important before. He was Danny and that was all he needed. It didn’t even feel like he had a last name, like it had been erased.

The walls shifted. The bookshelves rotated and changed positions. Three books floated off the shelves and levitated in front of him, each with the name Daniel on the cover. He didn’t recognize any of the last names, but two of them had two small words lettered in red just below the name.

Crossover Completed.

Danny sent them back to the shelves. The third one centered in front of him.

“Daniel Forrester,” he said. “Let’s see what you got.”

He touched the cover. The book opened. There were no words on pages, only the colors of raw data. He put his hand on it and knew.

I’m Daniel Forrester.

Daniel Forrester was born in Gilbert, Arizona.

A healthy boy and an only child. His parents were John and Maggy Forrester. They were both only children, as well. The grandparents all deceased. The only extended family was a great aunt that lived in Rockford, Illinois. She was in her eighties and suffering from dementia.

Ideal candidate, it said.

That’s what Danny was labeled, an ideal candidate for the program. He didn’t know if that referred to his health or the dementia. Or maybe the lack of extended family.

His father was a finish carpenter.

Memories emerged of his father coming home when it was dark. Danny would be parked in front of the television when his truck pulled into the driveway. His father smelled of sweat and cedar. Sometimes he’d lug his double-saddle tool belt into the house loaded with every tool ever invented and work on a project at home, fixing a doorframe or building a new room. He knew where every tool was located in the tool belt, finding it without looking. And when he was done, he always slipped it back where it belonged, without looking.

He was very good.

Until he fell from a roof and severed his spinal cord.

Danny was nine when it happened. He was on the computer in the attic when his mother took him to the neighbor’s house. She was crying and didn’t tell Danny anything. She didn’t come back to get him for three days. She didn’t talk much then, either.

His father died on the operating table.

Danny held her hand at the funeral. It was cold. When he squeezed, she didn’t squeeze back. Her eyes had become blank. No family attended, only neighbors and woodworkers. The house was very quiet that night.

His mother was not home much. She worked a lot. She had a prescription drug problem and washed it down with gin. She often never made it off the couch. This suited Danny’s lifestyle just fine.

Danny learned how to hack computers when he was six. It started with online games. He and his friends hacked Xbox and PlayStation databases, rewriting the code for unlimited weapons. They downloaded free music, movies, and games. Sometimes they had games before they were released.

By the time he was nine, it wasn’t even a challenge. After his father died, he stepped up the stakes.

They hacked into the school and planted porn in the principal’s inbox. They changed all the jocks’ grades to Fs. They set off fire alarms ten times in a month.

They hacked their first bank when he was 10.

They set up a dummy account with false ATM deposits. They never let the balance go over five hundred dollars and they never withdrew the money as cash, simply used it to pay for things online. Because his mother was never home, they had clothes, shoes, computers and software shipped directly to his house.

It was a parole officer that busted him.

Danny skipped school, sitting up in the attic on the computer for days at a time. The cops came to the house and wanted to speak to his mother. It pissed Danny off, so he swiped the officer’s identity, repossessed his car and foreclosed on his house. The man’s credit was trashed. They couldn’t prove he did anything.

He had all the money an 11 year old would want, but he wanted more. He began trolling Las Vegas casinos. At first, it was just jacking accounts and hacking online poker games. But the real money was in Vegas. His friends came over. It took a weekend and a case of Red Bull, but they managed to set up a dummy account with three million dollars and a penthouse timeshare waiting for them at the top of a resort. Their biggest problem was the fact that they were a bunch of eleven year olds.

But they ended up with bigger problems.

At first they thought they’d been discovered by Vegas security and they’d lose all the bones in their thumbs. They were relieved that it was just the FBI. They’d be in trouble, but at least they wouldn’t be hung from a hook through the tongue.

The rest of them wanted to stop, but Danny wasn’t going to lie down. He planted a data bomb inside the FBI network and wiped it out. Their evidence disappeared. But not all of it.

They came to the door disguised as the UPS man dropping off another package. Danny answered the door in his sweatpants. They put him in the back of a black Suburban. His friends sat next to him.

He was back home by the time he was thirteen.

Despite the federal shadow watching his every move, he went back to his Vegas accounts and set up two more. He could retire when he turned eighteen.

That’s when the house burned down.

That’s when Danny’s life – as he knew it – ended.

Danny Forrester was acquired by Franklin Constantino.

The file said he’d been acquired by this man.

Acquired.

Franklin Constantino made his money in real estate and other businesses. He had lung cancer and had not been seen in public for quite some time. Some reports stated he had died in a boating accident.

But Danny knew he wasn’t dead. Franklin Constantino stood in front of him as the record book projected his image before him.

Mr. Jones.

The house had burned down. The police found two bodies. One was a woman and the other was a boy. Each was beyond recognition but assumed to be the bodies of Danny and his mother. The fire started when she fell asleep on the couch and dropped a lit cigarette. Danny was asleep in the attic and couldn’t escape.

None of it was true.

He didn’t fall asleep in the attic. On the nights he did sleep, he went to his room. It was too cold upstairs and there was nowhere to lie down. But to the world, Danny was dead.

And there was no family left to care.

No family left to look.

Like the database at the Federal Bureau of Investigations, he had been erased from the world.

He had been acquired.

The record ended there.

No explanation how he got to the island. Only when he got there and who he belonged to.

Danny closed the book. It flew back to the shelf. So many books, each someone that had been acquired. And every one of them boys, each of them brought to the island, fed and cared for, each marched to the Haystack where they gladly stuck a needle in their head. Every one of them doing what they were told to do and the world would never know.

All of them following this trail to Foreverland. All of them but one.

[Reed…] Danny thought-commanded.

The room shifted. One book came out, front and center.

Reed Johnston, born in Wooster, Ohio.

He was an only child, too. Grew up on a farm. His mother had died when she delivered him.

He was raised by his father. He stopped going to school before he graduated so that he could help with the crops. Reed planted the fields and helped harvest at the end of the season. He also cleaned out the bottles of vodka that rolled from beneath the seat. When his father went on a real bender, he’d be the only one in the fields. He was the one that answered the door when the creditors came knocking and he was the one that called the bank when they needed money for seed.

Reed didn’t socialize much. He wouldn’t talk to anyone at school except for a girl that sat behind him in most of his classes. Her name was Lucinda Jones.

Lucinda lived with her aunt and uncle and their twelve kids. They weren’t thrilled about it; they had enough mouths to feed. She was given custody to them when her father died serving in the military and her mother died of breast cancer two years later. Lucinda was only five.

She made plenty of trouble by the time she was ten.

Reed spent years watching her. He even went to church just to see her walk back from communion. He’d sit in the back row while his dad was sleeping off a long one and slip out before mass was over. But she knew he was watching.

She would meet him out in the field and they’d find the shade of a tree to sit and talk. She would sometimes sneak out after midnight and meet Reed waiting on the road in his father’s old pick-up. They would drive the deserted country roads and look at the stars until she fell asleep in his arms. He would take her home and help her back through the window.

There was no mention of Reed being an ideal candidate.

When Reed was seventeen, he finished the morning rounds. The tractor needed parts. He ate lunch before heading into town. When he got back, his father was still asleep. At supper, he finally checked on him, found him dead in his bed.

Reed didn’t bother calling an ambulance.

He buried his old man in the soybean field out behind the silo. No tombstone, no cross or words. He put him in the ground still wearing coveralls, his mouth slightly agape, and covered him with dirt. When he was done, he dropped the shovel and went inside and called Lucinda.

The next day, they were hundreds of miles away from home. Lucinda’s suitcase was in the back. Reed’s few belongings were in a paper sack. They were driving south. They didn’t know where, they were just going to drive until they felt like stopping. They wanted to get married but they’d have to find someone that would wed seventeen year olds without parental consent. There was always Vegas.

Their truck went off the road somewhere in Oklahoma. The bumper wrapped around an oak tree.

Both of them went through the windshield.

Reed survived. He saw her body next to a tree. She wasn’t moving. He tried to get to her, to help her, to breathe into her lungs, to touch her once more…

The record ended.

Reed Johnston was acquired.

And woke up on the island.

43

The Nowhere room was empty.

Lucinda wasn’t there when Danny returned from the Records. He was relieved. He considered staying in the Records until the round ended but it was too risky. Lucinda would know his thoughts the moment he arrived. She would know that she was dead.

Lucinda is a memory.

When Reed arrived on the island, somehow she slipped out of his memories and came to life in Foreverland. She didn’t know that she didn’t exist outside in the real world.

She thinks she’s alive. Does that make her real?

Did Reed know?

No, Reed was just as confused as she was. He dreamed of her, didn’t know her name. Only Danny knew they had a real past. He knew they had parents, they were real people before they woke up on the island. But their parents were gone. There was nothing left of their lives.

No one would look for them.

Danny drifted back to his body, back to the Haystack and cold reality. He sat up, groggily. The cells were open and empty. Reed was gone. Zin, too. A few Investors were standing outside his cell. They were looking across the aisle. They didn’t pay attention to Danny quickly getting dressed.

Two more Investors came inside with a stretcher. They placed it next to Sid. He was still lying flat on the floor. The Investors began to dress him. His eyes were open. His mouth, too.

“Let’s go, Danny Boy.” Mr. Jones reached for him. “There’s nothing to watch.”

Danny pulled his arm away. Mr. Constantino.

“Come along, son.” Mr. Jones blocked the view into Sid’s cell. “Why don’t you get to your room and get some rest. This was a long round.”

“What happened to Sid?” Danny said.

“He just progressed a little faster than expected, nothing to worry about, son. Come along.”

Danny hurried into the aisle so that Mr. Jones wouldn’t touch him. He went to his room alone and looked across the Yard. A flatbed cart emerged from the trees. Someone was lying on the back of it, covered with a sheet and his Investor riding next to him. They went around the dormitory. Toward the Chimney.

You can stay here.

Lucinda pulled him into Foreverland, like she ripped his identity from his body.

Where was he now?

It didn’t matter.

A satellite would soon be punching a crater in the Mansion.

LAST ROUND

Foster Parents Arrested for Neglect and Abuse

CHICAGO, Illinois. – Cynthia and John Halner were arrested for neglect and physical abuse of twelve foster children living in their home. The Department of Child and Family Services investigated claims of children complaining at school about being punished with belt buckles, bamboo sticks and screwdrivers.

Eleven of the children have been placed in the custody of other families. The oldest child, Eric Zinder, 16, was reported missing. Cynthia and John Halner claimed he had run away several months earlier and failed to report it, although they continued to receive support for his care.

44

It felt like his brains got pulled out of his head.

The Director had to yank the needle out. His hands were still shaking. He lay in the chair, his breathing shallow, staring at the needle in his forehead for too long. Foreverland had closed but he was afraid to reach for it. Each time he did, his hand quivered violently. It would be dangerous if the needle shook inside the stent and scrambled his frontal lobe like a lobotomy knife. He took a deep breath and ripped it out like a loose tooth.

It was several minutes before he stopped seeing double.

She shook Foreverland.

He’d never seen anything like it.

The boys were gathered around the sundial where the Director could see them very clearly. He didn’t even sense her nearing, she just appeared out of nowhere. Before he could act, she struck the sundial and let loose tremors that never ended. They were still inside his head.

The Director threw the needle on the floor.

He put his feet down. He needed some water, maybe something to settle his stomach. He’d already been on the recliner far too long. The room felt like it was turning ten times as fast as it should’ve been. He was imagining it.

He stood slowly, hand on the armrest. He let go, took a step and another, quickly leaning over. The floor felt tilted. The Director went several more steps and crashed into the telescope. He rolled to his back, swallowed back bile bitterly surging upward.

Relax, you idiot. This will pass.

Foreverland needed to be shut down for awhile. He had to admit, that would be the best thing after what he saw. It was getting too risky. He’d never become paralyzed inside the needle. Not only had he lost track of Danny and the girl, he didn’t see anything after she belted the sundial. He didn’t know where they went or what they were doing. He was half-baked until the day finally ended and he returned to the chair.

But he couldn’t shut things down. That would require starting everything over. He’d lose the confidence of the Investors. He might not get it back up and running. Besides, the girl… she was out in the open.

She was getting too strong. For that reason, Foreverland needed to continue, full speed ahead.

The Director decided right there – staring at the ceiling, swallowing foul gulps of saliva – he would follow Danny into the next round and put an end to this madness once and for all. He’d set a trap for the little bitch and be done with it. He had to do something. Soon.

But who’s trapping who?

“Director?” the intercom called. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” He rolled to his side and spent some time on his hands and knees. He decided to sit on the floor a bit longer. “I want Jones and Smith up here.”

“They are with the boys right now.”

“Well, send for them.”

“I think we have bigger problems, Director.”

Oh, you have no idea. “What would that be?”

“You’ll need to come down to the network floor. I think we need to consider suspending the program until we can—”

“No.”

The Director pulled himself up. He saw the cart driving away from the Haystack with someone lying in the back. He assumed the boy Zin had finally crossed over for graduation and was being transferred to the Chimney.

“What would you like to do?” the intercom spoke.

“Right now, I want Smith and Jones in my office.” He filled a glass with water and drank. “Afterwards, I want to see what Danny Boy was up to.”

“I’m not comfortable with the risk you’re suggesting.”

“Life is a risk.”

“You’re risking everything.”

The world settled around the Director. He smoothed the front of his floral-designed shirt, brushing away the fear that, seconds earlier, churned inside him. He poured Scotch over the water.

“Get Smith and Jones up here. Now.”

45

Danny woke in his bed.

His room was lit up. He pulled open the curtain. The sun was high enough to be noon. The Yard was active. Dozens of campers were playing soccer. Others were hanging out at the tables.

Something is wrong.

When the sleep-fog cleared, he remembered. The satellite!

It should have landed. The impact would’ve been like a bomb. There wouldn’t be much of the Mansion left and there sure as hell wouldn’t be a soccer game. Unless it was off the mark, landing a mile or two in the water. That was possible.

Maybe the Trojan horses were quarantined. Possible, sure. There was always a chance a security scan picked them up while they lay dormant. Still, they would find him. Eventually. One day.

He cursed.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, STUPID. He should’ve pulled the trigger while he was there, sent them all hurtling toward the island. That way, at least, he could battle off security snoopers and if they caught him they would trace him back to the island.

Stupid.

He needed to get dressed, get over to the Mansion and see if anything had landed. Maybe there would be some debris that would indicate an off-target crash. Even if the satellite was fifty miles off, the military would cruise by the island. There was still going to be an investigation.

He threw on some clothes and noticed someone sitting at the card table. The camp wasn’t down there throwing cards like usual. It was just one person. One he didn’t expect.

Zin was lying on the table, hands folded over his stomach. Taking in the sun.

“Zin?” Danny approached, warily. “Is that you?”

Stupid question. But after seeing Parker not recognizing them, he worried that Zin would be absent. But then he turned his head and smiled. His eyes were bright and focused.

“Danny Boy,” he said.

Danny wanted to hug him. They slapped hands, instead. Zin sat up, stretched. “Man, the sun never felt so good.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I woke up in the Haystack before you did. You should’ve seen the look on my Investor’s face! He looked like he dropped a ten pound load in his trousers when I stood up and hugged him while I was still full on naked. The old man was speechless. I wanted to wait until you woke up but the old men were running everyone out of the Haystack.”

“I don’t get it. What happened?”

Zin rubbed his face, looked out to the Yard, thinking. “I don’t really remember anything about the last… week, I guess. I mean, I don’t even remember going inside the needle. It just felt like I was… floating, I suppose. Like, I was out in the Nowhere just floating around and coming apart.”

He stalled.

“It’s weird, I don’t know how to describe it. I just felt like I was being pulled in a hundred directions, like I was being stretched. It didn’t hurt, really. It was all rather numb. And I just didn’t care.”

Zin looked good. He was more present. Healthy, somehow.

“The weird thing? I remember everything, Danny Boy. You know how we remember more when we go inside the needle? I’m Eric Zinder. My parents died when I was little and I ended up in foster care. I ran away and lived on the streets. I was homeless, dude. I was some street rat jacking cars and… and… no good, man.”

He looked sick.

“I was no good.”

Zin recalled robbing some tourists on their way to the theater, some old man and a woman way too young. He remembered getting hauled into a van and a sack over his head. Something over his mouth and vapors in his head.

And then he woke up in the Chimney.

But the weird thing was, Danny was remembering, too. He didn’t know his whole life, not like Zin was reciting. But he remembered the stuff he knew inside Foreverland. He forgot things when he came out before, but now he was remembering it.

“She did it,” Zin said.

“Who?” Danny said. “Your girlfriend?”

“A girl with this…” He chopped at his ears. “She had long red hair, these big eyes. She sent me back.”

“Lucinda?”

Zin shook his head. “She didn’t say her name, she just came out of the fog and then she was standing in front of me.”

He put his hand on Danny’s shoulder and bowed his head.

“‘You don’t belong here’ she said to me, Danny Boy. And then I felt all pulled back together. The fog lifted and I woke up in the cell.”

She sent him back. Zin was fading from his body, he was heading for Foreverland and she had the power to send him back. Of course, she did. And maybe that’s what she did to Danny, gave him the ability to remember in the flesh. She did the opposite to—

“Sid!” Danny said. “What happened to him?”

“You didn’t hear?” Zin threw his arm over Danny’s shoulders. “Our man Sid set the record for smoking out, brother. He went into that round all normal and came out empty. The Investors were more baffled by Sid then they were watching me walk out of there. I think the rest of our camp thinks I’m possessed, they think maybe I did something. They’re not talking to me.”

They had to know it wasn’t Zin. They saw Lucinda come out of the ground and hammer the sundial, stick her arm in Sid’s chest. Right? Or did they not see any of that? Maybe they didn’t even see her.

The sky was nothing but blue. No clouds or streaks or smoke.

Untouched.

There was no point going to the Mansion. Nothing was coming. The good guys would never arrive. They were truly alone, now. The Director would figure out what he did in the last round, there was no way they were letting him inside the needle again. Maybe they already knew.

“What’s going on, Danny Boy?” Zin calmly said. “You expecting someone to parachute into the Yard?”

Danny shook his head.

“None of this was supposed to happen,” Zin said. “I shouldn’t be here and Sid shouldn’t be wherever he is. Did you do something?”

“No. Not really.”

“Well, what did you do?”

Danny sat down, rested his elbows on the tabletop. All the dorm windows were open except Reed’s. The curtains were drawn. He was probably curled up in the dark recovering from God-knows-what they did to him. And now Danny had to tell him that he had another round to go.

“I blew it, man.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve got the world by the balls here on the island. You can do whatever you want, as long as you go to the Haystack and let them drill your head. Yeah, how could you blow that?”

“You really want to know?”

“I’m all about knowing.” He held out his hands and smiled, typical Zin fashion.

Danny sat nodding and thinking. He got up, walked around. The sundial was fifty feet away. It was the center of Foreverland. Maybe it meant nothing in the real world, but he didn’t like being that close to it, not when he was about to tell Zin everything.

“Let’s go see Reed,” he said.

46

The Director draped his floral shirt over the back of a chair and buttoned up a beige long sleeved one. He had not been for a walk on his island for quite some time. Lately, it had been all work, work, work.

When he first arrived on the island some thirty years earlier, he hiked every day. He could also see his abs. Now he couldn’t see what color flip-flops he was wearing. It was the price of intelligence, he often told himself. That, and becoming a lazy slob.

It was an abandoned resort when he first arrived. Most of the buildings were in severe disrepair. The jungle was taking them back. It wasn’t worth much. So he bought it.

He didn’t know why he was so hasty. At the time, he just wanted to escape the world. He’d seen his share of heartbreak (his fiancé was having an affair) and disappointment (his business partner died of a stroke at the age of 41) and wanted to heed the advice of a famous philosopher, one Henry David Thoreau.

Simplify.

He planned on living out his life on that island. But nothing stays the same. That was the only guarantee life gave you: things change.

Yes, they do.

He needed to get out. He was nearing the most critical point of the program, of his life, and he needed to be thinking with a clear head. He had just returned from the fourth floor and had seen what Danny had done.

He spent some time contemplating it, but his penthouse was suddenly suffocating. Now he was lacing up snake boots to get outside for awhile. He shirked the flip-flops and shorts. He wasn’t opposed to risk, just not when there wasn’t a payoff. And what he’d seen on the fourth floor was a risk, indeed.

But the payoff was worth it.

The boy became data.

The fourth floor analyst, Mr. Jackson, advised him to remove Danny from the program. When boys went inside the needle, they needed a digital body. Once that was gone, the identity would scatter into the Nowhere, bodiless. Lost. Nothing.

But Danny didn’t need a body. He became data, floating through the system like a ghost. He had done something no one had done before. Something the Director didn’t know was possible. He had no idea what kind of power he had. It came too easy.

He could bring everything down the next time.

Danny had sensed the trap. The Director made it obvious, rigged it so that Danny would suspect it was too easy. He knew the boy was brilliant, and with brilliance comes patience. He wasn’t hasty. He would look for another way to escape the island’s network to get into the outside world, and the only other way was to infiltrate the heart of the Chimney.

Right where they wanted him.

Danny moved inside the Loop Program: a digital environment that simulated the outside world. There was a chance he would recognize it was a mock-up, but he didn’t. Danny thought he had escaped again and went right through the United States military firewall like it was a video game.

His infiltration of Milstar was all inside the network of computers on the fourth floor. If he had actually been in the real world, there would be a satellite-filled crater somewhere on the island.

Brilliant.

Mr. Jackson suggested Danny be removed from the program permanently. What if he knew it was the Looping Program and slipped out?

Well, he didn’t.

Mr. Jackson didn’t understand what the Director saw. He didn’t see the potential. He knew that Lucinda was an anomaly that escaped from Reed’s mind and haunted Foreverland. He knew that she was getting stronger and more troublesome. But he wasn’t looking in the other direction.

They were on the threshold of mankind’s next great discovery. Freedom from the body. Enlightenment through technology.

The Director would go down in history ahead of Edison, Einstein and Jobs.

He would become the 21st century Buddha.

When the Director was young – in his 20s – he travelled to Third World countries, places like Ethiopia and Rwanda. He went there to help people with suffering. He brought them medicine and food; he worked with government officials to curb corruption. He educated them. But there was nowhere to go. And the more he helped, the more he saw their suffering.

It wasn’t just the physical suffering. It was the suffering of the mind.

He decided, after only two years of service, the world needed a revolutionary way of healing the mind. If the mind operated clearly, physical suffering could be tolerated, even avoided. Nothing in the last thousand years brought relief to the mind. People weren’t going to the mountain tops to meditate for twenty years, they were plugging in smartphones and tablets. They needed easier access to real freedom. The record number of prescriptions for depression was proof we were doing something wrong.

Life is suffering.

The Director came to the island to save humanity because God wasn’t helping. He meditated on the cliffs and explored the wild. He rebuilt the island, renovated the buildings and created a paradise that would heal the body and nurture the soul. His father – just before his death – had developed alternate reality and the Director used it to rewrite corrupt minds and correct bad habits. He would do what the Buddha failed to do: bring enlightenment to the masses.

Such an endeavor wasn’t free. He would need money. Lots.

But the Investors would need a reason to spend that kind of money. They weren’t interested in altruistic endeavors like the Director; they needed a return on their investment that would be worth the risk. The Director gave them one. He gave the old and dying Investors what they desired most. He gave them the only thing their money couldn’t buy.

More life.

The Director holstered a machete to cut through the overgrown paths. He carried a sitting cushion to the elevator. He decided that he would sit meditation on the cliff to further contemplate the future of the program. His thirty years had culminated at this very moment. He did not want to be rash.

Mr. Clark waited in a golf cart outside the front doors of the Chimney.

“Director,” he said, “the Investors would like a word.”

“I see.” The Director started around the cart. “I will hike first, Mr. Clark.”

“They request your presence immediately.”

“Mr. Clark, I am not prepared for a meeting. I have a schedule. Presently, they’re not on it. But I’ll make room later today.”

The Director started around again and Mr. Clark bumped the cart in front of him. “I think now, Director, would be an appropriate time to alter your schedule. Impatience can fester, you see. I suggest you come along.”

“I see.” The Director balanced the tip of the machete on the front of the cart. “Mr. Clark, what is it that cannot wait an hour?”

“Your future, Director.”

He laughed. “I don’t attend those meetings.”

“Today, you do.” Mr. Clark patted the seat. “We’re all in this together. And we don’t care how silly you look.”

The Director didn’t mind the insult to his hiking gear. He didn’t like meeting on their terms. And certainly not on their grounds. But he slid onto the seat. Without the Investors, there was no program. And he was so close.

They took the wider path, heading for the Mansion.

47

Danny stepped back into the cover of the trees. He had been hiding outside the Chimney, trying to figure out how to get around Mr. Clark and through the front doors. Danny assumed he was there to pick the Director up, but the minutes dragged on.

The Director looked like he was going on safari. Danny had never seen the man in person. There was a picture of him in the cafeteria posing with a bunch of happy boys like they’d just won the lottery. He was smaller in person and sported a pot belly. He was wearing long sleeves and rugged pants with boots laced up to his knees.

He wasn’t happy to see Mr. Clark, the way he jabbed the machete into the cart. After a few words, he got on the cart and they started in the direction of the Mansion.

Danny went to the front door but it was locked. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if he got inside. He just figured it was time to talk with someone in charge.

He had gone to Reed’s room earlier that day. He began to open the door—

“Son!” Mr. Smith shouted. “Don’t go in there.”

Danny backed away. Mr. Smith walk-limped as fast as he could. He was carrying a lunch bag.

“I just wanted to say hello,” Danny said.

“He’s in no shape to talk with anyone.” Mr. Smith huffed.

“Yeah, I wonder why.”

“Don’t take that tone, my boy. Have some respect when you talk—”

“What did you do to him this time? Did you poke sticks in his ears or rip his fingernails off? Did you break him in half? What was it this time, Mr. Smith?”

Zin pulled him back. “Danny Boy, come on. Let’s come back another time.”

“No, he needs to answer me!”

“Now, relax a second, son.” Mr. Smith stopped Danny with a hand on his chest. “None of the treatments are permanently damaging. He’ll recover just fine, he’s just a little uncomfortable. It’s for his own good. All of this is for his own good.”

“Treatments? You’re torturing him, admit it!”

“I’m going to call Mr. Jones.”

“I don’t care if you call God.”

Danny pushed open the door.

The room was dark. Reed was curled up on the bed. He tried to roll over but convulsions shook him like he’d been struck by lightning.

Mr. Smith reached inside his pocket and then Danny went down. Everything went black.

He woke up on his bed with Mr. Jones.

It took several moments to realize Mr. Smith hit his tracker. Mr. Smith. That wasn’t his real name.

When Mr. Jones finally left, Danny snuck out. And now that he saw where the Director was going, he could find plenty of trouble.

All the bastards will be together.

48

Mr. Clark dropped the Director off at the front steps of the Mansion and took the golf cart through the slowly opening garage door, closing just as slowly behind him. The Director stroked the flat side of the machete, contemplating the front doors and brass knobs. He despised going inside their fortress. It smelled old. Smelled like dying.

The Mansion was built upon the remnants of the resort’s hotel. He had no input of how the original Investors would build it, only that it needed to keep the boys out. He envisioned a fence, but the Investors and their mountains of cash built a damn fortress that dissected the southern tip in gaudy, institutionalized fashion. There was enough square footage to hide a small village.

He stopped at the top step and knocked with the backside of the blade. He stepped inside the foyer, patting the machete in his open palm for all the old codgers to see. He thought it might be over the top, but it wasn’t. They were on the veranda waiting for him. He saw them through the glass wall. Beyond their gray and balding heads, he could see the ocean.

All forty of them were in attendance.

They had pulled chairs onto the expansive veranda that jutted out from the back of the building. A few of them had canes leaning against their knees; others had oxygen tanks parked next to them. It looked like the Board of Directors for the AARP.

A podium was set in the center. In front of that, facing the committee of Investors, was a lone chair. Ceiling fans blew down on the Director as he stepped out to greet them, still handling the machete.

“You may shield your weapon, Director.” Mr. Black, a fat Arabian with a checkered headdress, stepped to the podium. “Threats are not necessary.”

“What, this? It’s for brush cutting. You thought I was going to chop you up?”

These old bastards, so used to their former lives as CEOs and business titans with their formal rules and procedures, had to have a freaking podium just to talk. Now the Director regretted not changing back into his flip-flops.

“Please.” Mr. Black aimed his best glare at him; a glare that worked well with employees.

The Director sheathed the blade with a flurry of sword-fighting moves. “I’m not sitting, gentlemen. This will be a short meeting. You’ve all signed contracts agreeing to the terms of the island and I have final authority of how to proceed. The fact I’m even here is a modern day miracle, so make it quick.”

“I speak for everyone in attendance,” Mr. Black said. “And we have had enough.”

The Director rolled his eyes.

“We have sacrificed much, Director. But we are powerful men and we do not take risks without contingency. We will replace you if changes are not made.”

The Director rumbled with laugher.

“Mr. Black, with all due respect to you and your gang,” he cleared his throat, “I AM THE PROGRAM! You can’t replace me, gentlemen, I am every reason you are here today. I brought you here because I have proved, over and over, this program works. You didn’t risk everything because I made a promise, you did it because I deliver. I am the way, gentlemen. I am the Alpha and the Omega. Without me,” he tapped his forehead, “there is no program, I suggest you understand that.”

The men did not stir.

“Be that as it may,” Mr. Black said, “there are reasons for concern. Eric Zinder has fully recovered from his progress with his memories intact. At the same time, Sidney Hayward has become completely unresponsive. And now we are hearing reports that Danny Forrester has circumvented security.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“We are not ignorant, nor will we sit back and be taken advantage of, Director. You are taking unnecessary risks that could impact all of us.”

“You’re not qualified to judge the program.” He fingered the hilt of the machete. “None of you know what it takes to run this island, to do what I do. It cannot be done, it cannot be understood by anyone else but me, gentlemen. You should not speak where matters do not concern you.”

“On the contrary, they do concern us. And, despite what you believe, we are the program, Director. We fund this operation. Without us, you are nothing. You are playing a game that you won’t win. I suggest you listen.”

The Director nodded along with the accusations. He let go of the chair, meandered around the Investors and leaned against the railing. The ocean breeze was warm but cooled his face as it filtered through his beard that was becoming itchy with perspiration.

“Director, please come back to the chair. Some of the Investors cannot see you.”

“And what game would that be, Mr. Black?”

Chairs scuffled.

“Director, please.”

“What game, Mr. Black? What game am I playing? The game that extends your lives another 80 years, is that the one you’re referring to?”

“We are not barbarians, Director. You are torturing one of the boys. We did not agree to the inhumane treatment of them, that was in the contract. Perhaps you should review it, yourself.”

“I see.” The Director didn’t want to leave the edge of the balcony, took his time doing so. He returned to the chair that was on trial and sat this time. Mr. Smith was sitting on the far left side of the semi-circle, arms crossed and tight-lipped.

“Gentlemen,” the Director said, loudly and slowly, “you bought these boys. You arranged for them to be delivered to the island. You’re not barbarians? What is it do you think we’re doing to them that is not barbaric?”

“We agreed to discomfort, not torture.”

“We have to make adjustments for abnormality. Mr. Smith has invested as much as the rest of you, I believe he has every right to collect on that investment. As would the rest of you.”

“The boy is in agony.”

“He won’t be for long.”

“You’re not being honest, Director. These are more than minor incidents.”

“Every science has its wrinkles, Mr. Black. We have to adjust. I assure you, the program is well. We are analyzing the current state of these abnormalities and will act accordingly.”

Quiet settled, interrupted by the hiss of an oxygen tank.

“Now, if we’re finished—”

“We want to suspend Daniel Forrester, Reed Johnston, and Eric Zinder,” Mr. Black stated.

Mr. Smith stood up. “That was not what we discussed!”

In-fighting broke out.

The Director sat back, twirling the curly whiskers on his chin. Let them tear each other apart. They had no alternative, they knew it. They were all accustomed to having control and that rarely made for good teamwork. Especially when you add the desperation of impending death. They were all dying and that would tend to make anyone impatient, especially power-hungry old men.

THUD!

The front door cracked loud enough that almost all of them heard it on the veranda. The Director turned to listen while the argument began to lose steam. When the second one hit—

THUD!

—he was the first one to the door. He opened it, saw the fist-sized dents about eye level. Carefully, he looked outside.

49

Danny was halfway to the Mansion when he picked up the first rock. He didn’t know why, but then he picked up another. He held the bottom of his shirt and cradled them like a hammock.

He launched the first one as he arrived at the bottom step. A direct hit, head-high. It went bang off the metal door like a gunshot. The stone skipped down the steps. He grabbed another one from his stash, yearning to hear that satisfaction again. He reached back—

Felt it ripped from his hand.

“What the hell you doing?” Zin tossed the rock into the trees. “You want to get killed?”

“They’re already doing that, Zin.”

Zin knocked his hand off his shirt and the cache of stones crashed on the bottom step. He grabbed Danny by the shirt. “Come on, before someone comes out.”

He let Zin drag him a couple steps and pulled. “No.”

The second rock sunk a dent as deep as the first and not more than six inches to the left. He was reaching for a third when Zin knocked him down.

“I’m not letting you commit suicide.”

Zin was on his knees, chucking the rocks into the underbrush. They were going to get caught, but two rocks looked a lot different if there wasn’t ten more waiting to be fired. He had just enough time to grab the two that rebounded off the door. The last one rolled out of sight just as the door opened.

The Director appeared in the doorway, wearing some kind of desert scouting outfit. His left hand rested on the hilt of a small sword. A fat old man pushed past him, followed by more.

“JUST KILL HIM!” Danny screamed. “He’s not going to take the needle, so just go ahead and kill him, already! Put us all out of misery!”

Danny started up the steps. Zin caught him on the third one. He wasn’t going to slip away again.

“I know what you’re doing to us,” Danny shouted. “You’re a bunch of fat, selfish bastards!”

“What are you doing?” Zin hissed in his ear.

“If you don’t want to just kill us, I will! I’ll throw all of the boys over the cliffs.” Danny jabbed at them. “We’re all going over, anyway. We’ll do it on our own!”

“DANNY BOY!” Mr. Jones stumbled down the steps. “Stop this foolishness, right this second. What has gotten into you?”

Another ten Investors were out the door, exchanging knowing glances. The Director’s steely gaze never wavered.

“I’ll tell you what got into me, go see Reed. Mr. Smith knows, he’s doing it to him. He’s breaking him. He doesn’t want to take the needle, all right? Are you so desperate that you’re going to kill him slowly for it?”

“He’s just trying to help him, Danny Boy.” Mr. Jones helped Zin restrain him. “You don’t understand what’s happening, you must trust us.”

“Trust you?” Danny turned on Mr. Jones. Constantino was on the tip of his tongue. Acquired, too. He was about to spit them like darts. Had he, it would’ve changed everything. The Investors would’ve known their privacy had been breached. They would’ve condemned the Director without question. The program would have failed. Nobody would escape, ever.

But the Director’s hand gently fell on Danny’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, son,” he said.

Danny stopped struggling. Everyone said son. But the Director said it differently. It wasn’t an expression, it meant something. And it fell quietly on Danny.

“Mr. Jones.” The Director turned to him. “Let me have a word with Danny Boy.”

All three of them – Zin, Mr. Jones and the Director – kept their hands on him, slowly letting go. Danny stared at the Director. He wanted to hate him, but there was calm in his expression.

“Gentlemen.” The Director turned to the crowd inside the doorway. “We will proceed as usual. Remember why we’ve come together.”

He turned to Danny.

“We’re here to help,” he said to the others. “Let’s remember that.”

No one moved.

The program teetered on that moment.

And then the Director led Danny away from the Mansion.

A man doesn’t achieve that level of power without knowing how to handle pressure.

50

It was a narrow path. An overgrown one.

Danny trampled on leaves and fronds sheared cleanly by the Director’s blade. The Director didn’t turn around when Danny caught up to him. He was grabbing with the left hand and swinging the machete with the right. The jungle bent to his will as they made their way through it.

Sweat drenched the back of his shirt. Danny could hear his breathing between each swing. When they reach a small clearing where a tree had uprooted – its roots bare and dead – the Director wiped his head with a handkerchief and leaned against the massive trunk.

“Whew!” he said. “This trail hasn’t been used in awhile, wouldn’t you say, Danny Boy?”

Danny kept a healthy ten feet between them.

“It reminds me of the time I first discovered this place. Nothing but trees in this part of the island, nature taking back what mankind put in its way. Can you believe that was 30 years ago?” The Director looked up, shaking his head. “Goes by in a flash, Danny Boy. Cherish that youth, my boy, while you can. One day you’re going to be fat and out of shape like me, son.”

The Director pulled a drink from the canteen on his hip. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and offered it to Danny. He didn’t even bother shaking his head. He just stared.

The Director screwed the lid back in place and smacked his lips.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thirty years ago, this was a dying resort for the super wealthy when I got here. I was going to resurrect it, turn it into an extreme vacation island resort with hiking and meditation and snorkeling. Maybe import some animals so it had a real jungle feel.” He slowly moved his hand as if reading a banner. “Discover Your Inner Tarzan.”

He laughed.

“Wouldn’t have worked, Danny Boy. Stupid idea. The rich don’t want anything to do with Tarzan and that’s when I heard a higher calling. That’s when I decided to help the world, to heal it one person at a time. This is a revolutionary program, Danny Boy. We’re on the verge of taking mankind to another level in its evolution…”

He stared at Danny.

“But you’ve heard the pitch, I’m sure. I don’t need to tell you. Right?”

The Director wiped his whole face, again, tucked the handkerchief in the upper pocket of his shirt. He leaned back and waited.

“That’s hard to believe,” Danny finally said, “after what you’ve done to Reed.”

“I see.” The Director nodded, thinking.

Danny clearly didn’t understand what was going on. He was a kid. He needed an adult to explain the world to him.

“The brain operates like a computer, wouldn’t you say?” the Director said. “It’s got connections and information that form concepts and ideas. And computers are susceptible to corruption, like malicious code. Something that will disrupt its ability to operate normally.”

“I’ve never fixed a computer with torture, Director.”

“No, but you have reformatted one. Am I right? Of course, I am. You are a computer genius, there’s no denying that, Danny Boy. You know that when an operating system is corrupt, sometimes it needs to be erased and reprogrammed from the beginning. It needs to relearn the right way to operate.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You don’t know that, Danny Boy. You can’t change and stay the same. In order to heal, you have to be willing to let go of the past. Be willing to let go of the programming that corrupted your soul to begin with. All you boys have a chance to be new again.”

“Reed’s almost crippled. He’s broken. You’re destroying him.”

“Some are more damaged than others. I can only offer him salvation, Danny Boy. Only offer the healing, he has to take it.”

“So you torture him?”

“It sometimes takes a strong hand to get people to let go of their past. People aren’t willing to give up what tortures them. Every time Reed goes to the Haystack, he has the power to heal himself but refuses. I can’t make him, I can only encourage him. He’s got to trust what I’m doing for him, you see. Trust, Danny Boy.”

“I don’t trust you, Director. I don’t know you.”

“How do you know?” He raised his eyebrows, questioningly. “I could be the father you need to forget.”

“No one on this island trusts.” Danny tapped the back of his neck. “That’s why everyone has a tracker, just in case. Including you.”

“We’re dealing with the human condition here, Danny Boy. Corruption, sin. People cheat if given the opportunity. These little things in the neck take that away. Makes everyone feel a little better. Good thing Sid had one, wouldn’t you say?”

The Director smiled.

––––––––

They walked for a long time, in silence. Their path was serpentine. The Director seemed to go out of his way to cut giant leaves when he could’ve just ducked under them. Eventually, the trees began to thin out. The soil turned to stone. A breeze howled down the path, rustling the leaves above them.

They stepped onto the barren ledge of a cliff. The ground was gray with granite and green with lichens growing in the cracks like whiskers and fuzz. It was the highest Danny had ever been on the island. None of the paths led to this spot. He figured if they continued to the right, they would eventually descend until they reached the beach on the north end.

The horizon was flat in both directions. The water deep, dark and blue. The Director wedged his hands on his hips and closed his eyes. He inhaled the ocean’s scent.

“Don’t you wish you could just be that, Danny Boy?”

He inhaled, again.

“The ocean, my boy. The smell, the sight… the life it contains. All of it, don’t you want to be that?”

“How would I know?”

“What do you want, Danny Boy? If you could have anything in the world, what would you ask for?”

“I’d start with knowing who I am, but you took that away.”

“I didn’t take anything away, you didn’t have it.”

“Only I would know that.”

The Director stepped closer to the edge. A half-step forward and he’d go a hundred feet to the bottom. He walked along the edge to a boulder that jutted up from the ground – flat like a table.

“This is where I had the epiphany, Danny Boy. I would come up here to sit every morning and this is where I received the calling. I knew what mankind needed. We needed to harness the power of the mind, the most powerful weapon a man possesses. If we can control the mind, Danny Boy, we get what we want. That’s your answer, son. If you could have anything in the world, it should be the power of the mind.”

The mind is a weapon.

“How can you torture us and call that healing?”

“Your body is a prison, my boy. You need to understand that through experiencing its misery. The Haystack is the best teacher you’ll ever have. It forces you to face the body’s desire, and the suffering that results. You take the needle, you see the freedom of the mind. That’s all we’re doing, son. Setting you free.”

Danny wanted to flee. Everything about the island was wrong, but in the presence of the Director, it all made sense. The body was a prison. The mind was freedom. When he was inside the needle, there was nothing he couldn’t do. Why was that less real than his flesh? He was still Danny Boy.

The Director picked up a handful of rocks and pitched them one at a time over the edge. “You went out into the Nowhere with the girl. She’s been teaching you to be bad, Danny Boy. She gave you access to our mainframe and you escaped.”

He peeked back.

“Didn’t you, son?”

Danny didn’t answer. There was no need to make it any worse. Now for the punishment.

“You’re a true pioneer, Danny Boy.” He threw the last rock as far as he could, grunting. “I tell all the boys they’re a pioneer, but you are true-blue, Danny Boy. Amazing.”

The Director smiled and laughed.

“You did something I never knew possible. You transformed yourself into pure mind. You became data without losing your identity. You were still Danny Boy. And I never thought that was possible, son. Always, I believed, the mind was rooted in the brain, it needed the physical body or it dispersed into random thoughts.”

“The Nowhere. Is that what became of the boys before me?”

“Some of them. But you, Danny Boy. You went into the Nowhere and remained Danny Boy. She knew, didn’t she? She knew you’d survive being out there, and once you did, you embraced it. You became it. And you were set free.”

“How do you know her?”

“I know everything.” He nodded, slowly. “Everything.”

Danny walked back to the scrawny shade of trees and leaned against one, bending it with his weight. The waves crashed far below.

It’s over.

“Is that why you brought me here? To throw me over the edge? Is that what you do with people like me and Reed, throw them in the ocean?”

Laughter. “Son, you don’t understand what you’ve done. You’ve created an inner reality beyond the needle. Until now, all the boys were limited to Foreverland. Danny Boy, you created a new reality. A new dimension. I want to follow you out of the flesh. I want you to lead us to a new dimension of existence. Show us Nirvana, son. Bring us to the world of pure mind.”

“You’re wrong,” Danny said. “I’m just a hacker. I just created an illusion, no different than a video game.”

“We make our own reality.” The Director touched his head. “With our minds.”

“The reality you create with your mind, Director… that’s the definition of delusion.”

The Director shook the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead, wiped his mouth. He went back to the ledge and put his hands on hips, losing himself in the view.

The cloudless blue sky.

Deep blue water.

Violent collisions on the boulders.

“They want you out, Danny Boy.” The Director didn’t turn around but said it loud enough for him to hear it. “You, Reed and Zin… you know what that means, don’t you?”

Danny didn’t want to answer. A lump swelled in his throat. Despite the anger burning his spine, fear had the trump card when it came to survival.

“The program is a delicate thing, Danny Boy. It has balance. When a candidate is rebellious, it tips the scales. These men have a lot invested in you boys. A lot of time, a lot of money. They don’t want to see the program come down, a lot of people will get hurt. And sometimes it makes sense to sacrifice a few to save many.”

Danny was sure that he had thrown people from the cliff. There was no doubt. It was neat and clean to crush them on the rocks and let the fish destroy the evidence. Not that anyone would find a body even if it was staked to the side of the cliff. This was the Director’s island. He was judge and jury.

The Director strode away from the ledge in a meandering sort of way, head down with his fingers buried in his beard, scratching the hidden chin. He knelt at the edge of the trees and broke off a branch, twirled it.

“But I see something in you and Reed.” He looked up. “Something this program needs, Danny Boy.”

He walked over, looked down.

“I need you to show us what it can become.”

The stem spun between his fingers like a helicopter stick with green blades. He plucked one of the leaves and crushed it in his palm, cupped it over his nose and inhaled with his eyes closed, savoring the fragrance.

“Take this.” He put the leaves in Danny’s hand and closed it. “Steep it in hot water for five minutes and give it to Reed. It’ll relieve his suffering. He’ll find peace.”

“How do I know it won’t kill him?”

The Director bit the tip off one of the leaves and chewed. “If I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t send you to do it.”

Danny put the leaves in his pocket.

The Director went back to the tabletop stone where he had his epiphany and leaped up. He stretched back with his hands on his hips, once again gazing at the view.

“This is your last chance to get Reed inside the needle, Danny Boy. The Investors are powerful men. I can only do so much.”

He sat down and crossed his legs into a pretzel. His back was straight, his hands in his lap, he closed his eyes. Breathing, in and out.

Danny left him there so he could become one with the view. He had some tea to make.

51

Danny sat at the picnic table. A plastic cup was in front of him. The water had turned light green with shredded foliage floating on top. He fished them out – one by one – with a stick, steam wafting out. Occasionally, he’d look at the door at the end of the dormitory where an empty golf cart was parked parallel with the building.

The tea smelled like diluted turpentine. He put the cup to his lips, not too hot to drink. The aroma made his eyes water. He didn’t sip. He wanted to save all of it.

The dormitory door opened. Mr. Smith limped to his cart and slid on the seat. Danny waited a few minutes before going inside, taking the cup with him.

The door was locked.

He should’ve known it. Mr. Smith knew he was coming back. Danny tried the door knob again, turning it with both hands, then put his shoulder into it. There was nothing in the hall, nothing like a fire extinguisher or a baseball bat to bash the knob off.

He went back to his room, looking for something heavy. The only thing was the sink. He could get that off the wall and drive a hole through the door big enough to crawl through. But that was only going to make things worse. Reed would be locked away in vault. Danny would never see him again. Maybe a rock on the doorknob could get it open without too much notice. There would be something at the beach.

He left his room—

Zin was on his knees, poking wires into the lock. It clicked. The door swung open.

“I told you I remembered everything,” he said.

The room smelled like dirty socks rolled in bacon. The lights were out. There was a lump on the bed.

At least it wasn’t convulsing.

Danny closed the door, quietly. He knelt next to the bed and put his hand on the lump.

“Reed.” He shook him. “I need you to drink this.”

No response. He shook him harder. Maybe he was finally sleeping and Danny was messing him all up. But he shook, anyway.

“Come on, man. Wake up.”

On the fourth try – one more and he would quit – Reed rolled over. His hair, matted to the side of his face. His face, caved beneath the cheekbones.

“It’s Danny Boy,” Danny said. “Drink this, man. It’ll make you feel better.”

The tea was still warm. Reed tried to lift his head.

Danny reached under the pillow and picked his head up. Reed’s hands were somewhere under the blankets. Danny lifted the cup to his lips. Reed was on the edge of convulsions. He winced and tried to pull away. Danny wouldn’t let him, pouring the astringent water into his parted lips. It spilled down his chin but he swallowed – against his will – until it was all gone.

He dropped back down, breathing heavy. His eyes closed.

Danny could’ve stopped this from happening to Reed if he just called for help. It was his fault they were still on the island. His fault they might never leave. Reed could be in a proper hospital with medicine and doctors, not sunk into a sweaty mattress. He’d die on the next round.

If he makes it that long.

He sat there a while longer. Reed slept.

“Hey, come on.” Zin stuck his head in the room. “Let’s go already.”

Danny left. He looked back. There was no more quivering.

Danny followed the path out to the tabletop cliff for more leaves, then remained there until the end of the day. He snuck into the cafeteria late at night and stocked up on food, eating in his room. He was back out to the tabletop cliff before the sun was up, watching the water catch fire beneath the sun’s burning rise.

He returned with more tea. Reed didn’t shake as much. He lifted his head on his own, drank more than he spilled. The room still smelled like a corpse. Reed still looked like one.

It was the third day he brought tea that Reed was sitting up.

“Get me out of here.”

Zin and Danny walked across the Yard. Reed was between them, a hand on each shoulder. His shirt fluttered like a sheet thrown over bones. His skin was something like the yellow of old parchment.

People stopped what they were doing to watch.

“Mind your own business,” Danny shouted. That only made it worse.

It was a relief to reach the beach. Reed was exhausted. He sat back, the sun on his face.

“Give me some time,” he said.

So they did. When they came back to get him, he was still in the same spot. They walked back to the dormitory. He draped his arms over them, dragging his feet. They carried him to his room. The window was open. The stink still lingered. They carried him over to Danny’s room so he didn’t have to sleep in the smell. It had sunk into his clothes.

Mr. Jones was inside. “Where have you been, Danny Boy?”

“Helping Reed.” They dropped him on the bed. Zin picked his legs up, put them on the bed.

“This is not appropriate. Mr. Smith will want him in his own room.”

“The bed is ruined. He needs some rest before they kill him.”

Danny arranged the pillow so Reed’s head wasn’t at an odd angle. Zin pulled the sheet over him. Mr. Jones watched them close the curtain.

“I’ll be in Zin’s room,” Danny called.

Mr. Jones followed them out, stopped them from closing Zin’s door. “Danny Boy, I don’t like what’s going on.”

“Yeah, neither do I.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Mr. Jones said.

“You go first.” Danny held onto to the doorknob, waiting. Mr. Jones had the sense that someone much older than a thirteen year old boy was looking back. “I’ll see you when the next round starts,” Danny said.

The door closed.

Mr. Jones suppressed the urge to pound on the door. The insolence. The disrespect.

He tried to have compassion for these boys’ plight. They were confused and distressed. They needed space to process everything. But something was going on and he didn’t like it. He felt the need to slap Danny, knock some sense into him. But he didn’t want to upset the program. Any more stress and it would only slow things down. Besides, there were signs Danny was wearing down. Soon, he’d come close to graduating.

He just had to be patient.

Reed was different.

Perhaps he needed to consult with Mr. Smith. He’d been here longer than Mr. Jones. He’d know what to expect from Danny. Besides, he should know what they were doing with Reed.

52

Mr. Jones lived on the west wing. His penthouse was an apartment with enough square footage for a family of four. Even so, he only lived in a small portion of it to cut down on cleaning and cooking.

He walked down the empty hallway, rounding the corner in the foyer onto the veranda. The chairs were still arranged in a half-circle from their meeting with the Director. There would be another soon, he believed.

Mr. Smith paddled on top a floating board in the swimming pool. Mr. Jones went to the end of the pool. Mr. Smith grabbed the ledge and looked up.

“I would like a word,” Mr. Jones said. “I don’t trust what’s going on. The Director, the boys… they have things on their mind.”

“You believe they’re planning an escape?”

Mr. Jones shook his head. “I think we should cancel the next round and call another meeting. Maybe the boys need to be reset.”

“Everything is back on track. They have Sid ready to graduate. Besides, I don’t have time to start over, Mr. Jones. The clock is ticking for this old man. It’s now or never.”

Cancer is an impatient foe.

“Have you seen Reed?” Mr. Jones said. “You might live longer than him.”

“He’s young, Mr. Jones.” He floated on his back, spitting water. “His body can recover once he gives it up. There’s nothing I can do about this body.”

He drew a long breath and went underwater. He frog-kicked to the steps and pulled himself out. Mr. Jones handed him the towel. Mr. Smith dried off and collapsed into a lounge chair.

“Do you ever feel guilty?” Mr. Jones asked. “What we’re doing to them.”

Mr. Smith draped the towel over his neck. “They had their chance at life, Mr. Jones. The mind is a terrible thing to waste. And so is a perfectly good body.”

He put on sunglasses and laid his head back. Mr. Jones watched him. He was lightly snoring within a minute.

Mr. Jones left him.

He’s right. They had their chance.

53

Danny went out to the tabletop cliff with a bag of food.

He wouldn’t return to the dormitory. He had enough food to sustain him until the next round started. Reed had enough leaves, too. He could make all the tea he needed. Danny just wanted to be alone. He needed to think. He needed a plan. One that would make it their last round, ever.

There were rumors that Foreverland was getting smaller. It still worked, but they couldn’t get out to the water or fly as high into the sky without running into the Nowhere. Lucinda had something to do with it. Danny knew it. And the Director did, too.

There was only one way to stop him. Only one way to be sure. They couldn’t wait for someone to save them.

Danny knew what he had to do.

The trees rustled behind him.

Danny was sitting on the tabletop, legs crossed, practicing his breathing when Zin emerged from the forest.

“It’s almost time,” Zin said.

Danny unfolded his legs. “Where’s Reed?”

“He’s on the beach.”

They started back down the path. Danny looked back at the view.

It would be the last time he would see it.

Reed was sitting on the sand dune.

He wanted to get up, walk the beach. His body began to ache again. He reached into his waistband and pulled out a long leaf. He stopped bothering with tea. He chewed the leaf, instead, spitting out the coarse fibers and swallowing back the acrid flavors that stuck in the back of his throat.

The healing compounds surged into his blood. His muscles let go. Nerves relaxed. A mellow cloud drifted through him and he tingled with pleasurable numbness. The ocean seemed to surge through him, each wave pulsing in his groin. He sat there, smiling.

Life is beautiful.

He wanted to try the water, feel it on his ankles. One more time. He might be flying high, but he was lucid enough to know this could be the last time he’d ever get a chance. They would come for him, take him to the Haystack again.

He wouldn’t be leaving it.

He rolled onto his hands and knees. He would straighten his legs first then try to throw himself upright. He started with the right leg—

“It won’t work.”

She was there, to his left.

Her hair glowing fire.

Reed blinked, shook his head. But she was still there, her butt planted in the sand. Her hair fluttering.

“You can’t do it, Reed,” Lucinda said. “You don’t have the strength. You don’t have much of anything. It’s just about over.”

He collapsed back to the ground. A pile of mashed leaves was between his legs. How many did I eat?

“I think it’s time you went inside the needle,” she said. “You’ve waited long enough.”

He closed his eyes and covered his ears. His heart thumped inside his head.

But she was still there.

“I’m serious.” Her eyes were big and green. “There’s nothing to lose now. May as well come to me, Reed.”

“I thought…” he started. No. He wasn’t going to talk to her. She wasn’t sitting there. He was alone on the beach. She was in his dreams. She was in Foreverland. She couldn’t be sitting there next to him. He wasn’t going to acknowledge it.

“I agree.” Another Lucinda said on the other side of him. There were two of them. “You should come inside, Reed. You’re not leaving the Haystack. You may as well come to Foreverland.”

“But…” He dropped his head into his hands. No. No, no, no…

“I know about the dreams,” the first Lucinda said. “I know we told you to stay here, but now that’s over. The end is here, baby. I think it’s time you come inside.”

“No.” He clamped his hands over his ears, eyes tightly closed. “This isn’t happening.”

“We’ve waited long enough.” He could still hear her.

“I’m not going.” He shook his head. “I’m going—”

She touched his arm.

He fell back, pushing away from her—

“Reed.” Danny stood over him, his hand out. “You all right?”

He looked around. The Lucindas were gone. Danny and Zin were there. That was it.

“I think…” he said. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

He relaxed, melting into the warm fuzzy euphoria of the leaf juice.

He wanted another.

Danny and Zin heard him talking.

They thought he’d fallen asleep sitting up, but he was shaking his head. He jumped back like he’d seen a ghost. Green flecks stuck to his chin. Half-chewed leaves were scattered at his feet. Good.

They helped him stand. “Can we walk to the water?” Reed asked.

His legs were sticks. They stopped just where the foam skidded over the firm, black sand, splashing over his bare feet. He smiled a strange smile, a dreamy one. Closing his eyes.

“I’m going to miss this,” he said.

“Not me,” Danny said.

“I’m with Danny,” Zin added.

Reed hummed to himself, wiggling his toes into the sand. Danny and Zin let their shoes become soaked, propping Reed up as he began to slouch.

“She wants me to go inside the needle,” he said, slurring. “After all this, she said I should come inside.”

“You can’t,” Danny said. “That’s what the Director wants you to do.”

“You said she was alone.”

That was before I knew she was a memory.

“Reed,” Danny started, “I was wrong. She’s not…”

He stopped. It was better not to tell him.

“Listen, I’m taking the island down. I’m going inside the needle first and stopping everything. The Director has to be stopped. I’ll bring down the power and ignite all the trackers. It’s all coming to a stop, we’re going to hijack the island. It’ll all be over. Foreverland is going to disappear and everyone has to be out of it when I do it.”

Reed nodded. A moment of clarity. “You’re right.”

“You won’t suffer anymore.” Danny tucked a handful of leaves into his waist. “Eat these, man. Zin and I will go inside the needle and be out before they can do anything to you.”

“Are you sending for help?”

“If I can send for help, I will.”

Reed wasn’t going to recover no matter. Danny would send for help, but it wouldn’t get to the island in time to save him.

The Haystack bell sounded.

Reed began chewing another leaf. Danny thought about telling him the truth about Lucinda. She was real Reed. And she loved you.

But she’s gone.

54

The Director opened the cage. The birds squawked. They were rarely let out. On occasion, he would reach in and let one perch on his arm. If he set it down, he’d leash its foot to a stand. This time, he carried them both to an open window. He set them on the ledge and walked away. They turned around, watched him pull the floral shirt off and drop it on the floor.

He scratched at the curly brown and gray hairs on his chest, stepped out of his flip-flops, then his shorts. Naked, he went to the bar.

A Bloody Mary for the road.

It felt so good to be free of clothes. It would feel even better when he was free of the skin.

Today was the day he transformed. Today was the day he shed his flesh and soared to higher planes. It had been thirty years in the making, and now it was here. He swirled the tomato juice into half a glass of vodka. It would be the last time he would need a drink. From that day forward, euphoria would be on tap.

“Director,” the intercom called. “We’re ready down here.”

“Very well, continue. I’ll be down after the round is complete.”

He lied. They could get started, but they’d never finish.

His plans were carefully laid out. He wouldn’t need them anymore. Wouldn’t need anyone.

The Haystack bell rang.

The Director finished his drink while the group walked toward their final round. He waited until a trio of boys crossed the Yard – one propped in the middle of the other two. Once they entered the path leading to the Haystack, he placed the drink on a table and slid onto the chair. The material stuck to his skin but was soft and warm. The rollers whirred beneath his buttocks. He sunk into the cushions.

The needle was greased and ready.

It entered his brain.

Here I come, world. Ready or not.

55

Reed’s head bobbled.

Danny and Zin walked sideways to get down the narrow path. Reed was throwing a lazy step for every two steps they were taking. They were almost carrying him by the time they reached the Haystack.

Mr. Smith was standing at the entrance. Reed’s lips were tinted green. He wouldn’t feel a thing. Danny wanted to give the sadistic old bastard the finger, standing there with his hands behind his back, waiting patiently for Reed.

Danny and Zin began turning to walk Reed through the door. “Stop there, boys.”

“He can’t walk.” Danny cleared his throat, tried to take the venom out of his tone. “Mr. Smith, he can’t walk on his own. He’s messed up, as you know.”

“You won’t be going inside.” Mr. Smith didn’t hide the smirk.

“What are you talking about?” Danny said. “The Director told me we were all going to do this round, you can ask him.”

“I don’t need to, son. He changed his mind. You and Zin will be sitting out this round.”

The other boys were going to their cells. Reed’s chin was touching his chest.

“I don’t believe you,” Danny said.

“I don’t care.” Mr. Smith put his hand in his pocket. “You can ask the Director, but right now you’re going to let go of Reed. If you don’t, I’ll drop you on the ground. You’re familiar with that feeling, aren’t you, son?”

Smile.

Danny pulled Reed back. The old bastard would have to zap him, if that’s what he wanted. He wasn’t giving him up. Zin got between him and Mr. Smith, like that would stop the tracker. The old man smiled bigger. He was going to enjoy this.

“Danny Boy.” Mr. Jones came out of the Haystack. “It’s true, son. The Director gave us new orders to postpone your round until this one is over. It’s only temporary, my boy. I promise.”

He reached out, but Danny jerked away.

Mr. Smith took a step forward, reached deeper in his pocket. Mr. Jones put up his hand to stop him. He looked sad. Remorseful. Pleading with Danny to stop the foolishness. Mr. Smith would drop him if he didn’t.

Danny took Reed’s arm off his shoulders. Mr. Smith ducked under it and took Reed’s weight. He needed Mr. Jones to help with the other side. Together, they walked into the Haystack.

Reed’s feet were dragging.

Just before the door closed, Mr. Clark could be heard announcing from inside. “Clothes on, gentlemen. The Director has granted you reprieve.”

“Something’s not right.” Danny paced outside the door. “None of it makes sense. No suffering, clothes on. Something’s not right, Zin.”

He looked at the closed door.

“He knows.”

“Who?” Zin said.

“The Director. He knows I was going to blow up the island. He locked us out and now something big is going down. I got a bad feeling, Zin. I got a bad feeling Reed isn’t going to hold out. He’s going inside the needle.”

Zin took a knee at the door, inspected the lock. He could pick it. They could go get Reed as soon as the Investors were gone. But that would only delay the inevitable. And make it worse. The Director would toss them over the cliff for sure.

There were no needles anywhere except the Haystack. Even if they could find them, they wouldn’t work. Putting a needle in his brain wouldn’t automatically take him to Foreverland. There had to another way to access the island, another way to hack into the system.

“I got it.”

Zin turned around. “What?”

“We got to get to the classrooms.”

Zin didn’t know what he was thinking, but he didn’t bother asking. They were running across the Yard.

56

“Stand up, son.” Mr. Smith sagged under Reed’s weight. “You’re not helpless.”

Reed’s feet flopped behind him. Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones struggled to get him in the cell and lower him to the floor. His arm slipped from Mr. Smith’s grasp and his face kissed the concrete.

“Goddamnit.” Mr. Smith put his hands on his hips, huffing. He looked around the cell, deciding how to make it work. “Let’s push him against the cell door and then we can hold him from the outside.”

Mr. Jones helped pick up Reed. It was difficult. He flopped against the bars, knees buckling. They maneuvered around him. Mr. Jones went to the aisle first, holding Reed under the armpits. Mr. Smith quickly jumped out next, catching Reed as he slid down. They were able to hold him up and close the door.

“Go on.” Mr. Smith pushed Mr. Jones out of the way, harnessing Reed by wedging his arms beneath the armpits and grabbing the bars. “I’ll hold him until the round starts.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, yes! Now go, I’ll be out in a moment.”

The boys in the other cells watched the spectacle silently, fully dressed and waiting. Mr. Smith looked at the empty cells next to his. There were two of them.

Danny Boy and Zin are gone. The Director made the right decision, those boys would be a distraction. They’d be trying to keep Reed from the lucid gear. This has gone on too long.

Mr. Smith met with the Director the day before. The slob stood over his damn telescope sipping whiskey while Mr. Smith – for the thousandth time – made suggestions.

“It’s now or never,” the Director said. “Let’s make it happen now.”

Mr. Smith, if he was honest, was shocked. The Director agreed to everything Mr. Smith asked to do. He’d leave Reed in that cell until he either took the lucid gear or died.

And that was fine with Mr. Smith. He had grown weary.

Sweat ran on both sides of his face. When Mr. Jones closed the door, the skylights went dark and the lucid gear dropped. The boys quietly pulled their gear to the floor and slid it over their heads. In moments, the only sound was Mr. Smith’s labored breathing.

Then the cell walls began to click.

The back wall continued moving until it pressed against Reed’s back. Mr. Smith heaved him up one more time before removing his arms to avoid being pinned. The wall pressed him tighter. Tighter. And tighter.

Reed let out a groan. His eyes opened.

Something popped in his chest before the pressure eased.

“Last chance, Reed.”

57

The floor wasn’t stable.

It was like walking on a platform that was balanced on the end of a pole. No matter which way Reed leaned, it was too far. He tried to compensate but couldn’t find the tipping point.

When the old men got him to his cell, he crashed.

He tasted blood and the acrid tang of green leaves. His chin was numb.

“He’s a pig. He wants you to die.”

She was in the next cell. Her hair was long. Red. He couldn’t make out the features, his eyes too swollen, but he recognized Lucinda’s voice.

She squatted so she was eye-level. Grabbed the bars.

“Disgusting pigs.”

Hands grabbed him, again. Heaved him against the cold bars. His knees refused to lock. His arms, noodles. Old breath was in his ear.

Door slammed.

Lights out.

And then the clicking of the cell. And the squeezing. The pressure.

The pain.

It cut through the leaf-induced fog.

A rib popped.

He couldn’t breathe. His breath burned in his chest. And the cell squeezed. It would crush him.

And then it relaxed.

Reed sucked in air that sliced inside his broken chest. He tried to stop, but he had to breathe. And each one hurt so bad.

The cage remained tight enough to hold him up.

Mr. Smith, his old spotted face, was inches away. His eyes relaxed, limp and uncaring. He told Reed last chance. This was his last chance. Reed knew what that meant. He knew he would die in the Haystack this time.

Grateful it would finally end.

“Don’t let them win.” Lucinda was behind Mr. Smith. “They want to keep us apart. If you die, they win. This old, rotten bastard… wins.”

Reed tried to speak, but there was only enough space inside his chest for a ragged breath before he needed another.

“Don’t fight it,” Mr. Smith said. “There is peace inside Foreverland, Reed. There is no need to suffer.”

A breath.

Pop.

“I…” Reed ran out of wind.

Mr. Smith was unsympathetic. Unmoved. Eyes of grey, uncaring.

“I hate you.” Reed whined with the next breath that cut deeply into his rib cage. His eyes streamed tears. Not sadness. Hatred.

“I want…”

“Stop, son. I didn’t do this to you. You have steadfastly refused to help yourself. You have no one else to blame. You can put a stop to it right now. Let’s end it, my boy.”

Mr. Smith put his hand on Reed’s cheek. Meant to comfort, it was stiff and cold.

Reed quivered. Head convulsing. He kept his breath shallow and braced for the pain.

He spit in Mr. Smith’s face.

“Get… out.” He squeaked. “Get out.”

Mr. Smith stepped back. He wiped the pink saliva off his face, unable to control the stern anger that pinched his brows and hid his eyes in shadows. Stiffly, he marched away, pulling his dead leg along.

Lucinda remained in the aisle. Smiling.

Reed closed his eyes. A sob escaped. He tried to control it. It only hurt inside. But when she reached out, when she touched his face, it was warm and loving and kind.

His tears grew hotter.

58

The Director was not surprised to see that the sky had been consumed by the Nowhere. He felt it getting smaller. Foreverland was disappearing into chaos. It wouldn’t be long, but he wasn’t too late.

He assumed a body that, for all intents and purposes, looked like the one lying on the chair at the top floor of the Chimney. Minus the belly and wrinkles, he looked like the Director in the flesh. Perhaps a little more youthful and glowing. A body worthy of an immortal.

He walked across Foreverland’s Yard. It had not changed much since the first day he had visualized it. In the very beginning, he decided that his alternate reality environment would look like the island. It didn’t really matter what it looked like. When he invited the boys into it, they didn’t seem to care since they could do anything and be anything.

After this trip, he would escape the confines of Foreverland and burst into the universe like the Big Bang. He would be much bigger than his own little mind. He reached the edge of the Yard and leaned against a tree. Then melted into it. He became the tree. He waited patiently for the boys to arrive. And one at a time, they did. Until they were all there. Just about all of them.

The Director had a change of heart.

After much thought, he decided Danny was, indeed, too dangerous to let free inside Foreverland. He had progressed much too quickly. It was too much of a risk that he would control everything this time. And if he got control of Foreverland, he would control the Director. There was a chance he might even crossover into the Director’s body and abandon him in the Nowhere, lost in his own mind.

All would be lost.

The Director formed a thought-command. He learned that from watching Danny. He willed all the boys in the Yard to disperse. He willed them into the Nowhere. He felt their identities loosen, watched them scatter like molecules set free. They drifted like vapor into the gray fog where their identities would unravel never to be what they were before that. Their bodies would remain vacant in the Haystack. Some might call it murder.

When the Yard was clear, he waited.

And when the time was right, he willed himself into another body, this one in the likeness of a red-headed boy with freckled cheeks. And, next to the sundial, he appeared as if Danny Boy had returned. The Director walked around and looked surprised.

The girl fell from the sky like the Goddess of the Nowhere.

She meant to snag Danny and pull him into the Nowhere. Instead, Danny grabbed her.

She had taken the bait.

Danny turned into a bearded man. He smiled at her.

“At last, we meet.”

She squirmed but it did no good. The Director wrapped his mind around her and squeezed.

The first of many screams rattled in her throat.

59

Danny and Zin took the steps three at a time and threw the door open.

The library was quiet and empty. Lights hung from the vaulted ceiling, softly illuminating the rows of bookshelves.

The main desk was to the right. Mr. Campbell – one of the oldest looking and slowest moving men on the island – was straightening a pile of papers. He looked up with a stiff neck.

“Hello, boys,” his voice rasped. “I’m closing the library. It’ll be open tonight sometime.”

“Mr. Campbell.” Zin took a second to catch his breath. “We just need to get a book for a… for a report that’s due… soon.”

“Well, you’ll have to come back tonight when we open.”

“Please, sir. We’ve fallen behind on our studies and just want to make sure we do things right this time. We’re serious about our studies, sir. We’d like to better ourselves, our minds and bodies. We’d—”

Danny elbowed him. “Just five minutes, Mr. Campbell. And then we’re out of here.”

Mr. Campbell carried the papers to the shelves behind him. It took so long they thought he might have forgotten they were there.

“Five minutes, boys.”

Danny and Zin took off.

“And no running,” Mr. Campbell said, forcefully. “This is still a library.”

“Laying it on a little thick back there, don’t you think?” Danny said. “We just want to check out a book, not rewrite the Constitution.”

They turned down an aisle, the shelves towering over their heads.

“You know these geezers, they love it when we do our best.”

They turned right at the end of the aisle, moving along the wall with the classrooms along it. Danny stopped at the one in the corner. He could see the cabinet in the corner of the classroom.

“That’s the one. Do your dirty work.”

Zin took a knee, pulled wires from his pocket and inserted them into the lock. Danny walked away, looking down the aisles. He could hear Mr. Campbell sorting books at the front desk. The wires were clicking in the doorknob.

“What’s taking so long?” Danny whispered.

“I can’t get it.”

“I thought you were an expert.”

“I never said that.”

Zin dropped the wires and went to the nearest aisle, looking quickly through the books.

“What are you doing?” Danny ran back to the door. “We don’t have time…”

Zin reached to the top shelf and pulled a thin, spiral-bound book down. He slowly ripped the plastic cover off the front and pushed Danny out of his way. The cover was flimsy but stiff. Zin inserted the corner between the door and doorjamb. He moved it up and turned the knob.

It clicked open.

“I take that back.” Zin stepped out of the way. “I am an expert.”

Danny quietly closed the door. Zin stood outside. He moved through the room, plowing into one of the desks up front. He stopped, moved more slowly this time.

The box of tablets was on the bottom shelf.

He grabbed one and moved to the wall next to the door so no one could see him. He turned it on.

His hands were shaking.

This is it.

If he screwed this up, they were all dead. He had to hack the Chimney’s security system, find the power grid to shut down the island and the trackers to knock everyone out. He had two minutes.

Maybe three.

60

Mr. Jones waited patiently outside the Haystack.

He heard groaning inside.

It was the sound of a tortured young man.

When Mr. Smith opened the door, he was followed by hoarse cursing. Mr. Smith was told that he could go to hell and burn forever. He closed the door behind him. His eyes were dead.

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Jones said. “Is this really necessary?”

“It is his end. He has a choice.”

Mr. Jones did not reply. He did not care to think too deeply on the subject. He had agreed to come to the island. He knew what they did and he agreed to be part of it. He could not judge.

Not now.

“Mr. Williams is prepping Sid to crossover,” Mr. Smith said. “We should go witness. Perhaps we will be next.”

“Your method may destroy your investment, Mr. Smith.” Mr. Jones couldn’t stop himself. “What good will he be to you then?”

“Bones can heal, Mr. Jones.” He looked away. “Much quicker than mine.”

They climbed onto a golf cart and cruised down the path. As they crossed the Yard, they both noticed the white parrots flying out of the top floor of the Chimney.

They stopped the golf cart next to all the others.

The Investors had all arrived at the Chimney to watch Sid’s graduation and crossing over. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t have to wait for the Director to finish the round. Sometimes the crossover took place without him, when there were no issues. They needed to have very few problems. They needed to be assured everything was on course, that when it came their turn to cross over it would happen without a problem. Mr. Jones didn’t like the way things had changed.

He didn’t like a lot of things.

They stepped onto the elevator and held the door for late-arriving Investors. They arrived at the fourth floor. There was only one hallway. Halfway down, there was a door on the left, another on the right. The one on the right was the network computer room. Mr. Jones had never been in that room. There was no need, he knew very little about that part of the program.

He followed the others to the one on the left.

They passed Sid lying motionless on a bed, a needle protruding from his forehead. A cable was attached to the needle, plugging into the equipment that was beside the bed. The technician, Mr. Jackson, pulled the curtain across to hide Sid’s Investor, Mr. Williams, lying on a bed parallel to Sid’s. A needle protruding from his head as well. Eyes closed.

Mr. Jones averted his stare.

He did not like thinking of the needle. He imagined it would feel like a cold, steel nail when it came to his turn. He hoped it would be quick and numb, that he wouldn’t remember it. That when it came his turn for the crossover, he wouldn’t remember any of this. That he could leave all the memories in the past, start a new life.

He followed the Investors into the side room where they would watch the progress. It would be quite boring. Many of them resented being forced to sit in the waiting room like outsiders. Mr. Jones didn’t mind it so much. He could sit in a way that he didn’t see the needle sticking from the boy’s head. And he didn’t have to smell the antiseptic that clung to the back of his throat.

He got comfortable in one of the chairs at the back, happy to let the others sit in the front row. Besides, the air vents were on the ceiling and aimed at the back wall. It was a relief to have fresh air on his face. The room was so stuffy.

He leaned back and folded his hands over his belly. He thought, maybe, he might take a short nap. It could be hours before there was any progress. It was like waiting for a baby to be born. It was like that in more ways than one. And sometimes, when the crossover was slow, they went back to the Mansion. You never knew when the delivery would take place. You just hoped you didn’t miss it.

His eyelids became heavy.

61

“Okay, my boy.” Mr. Campbell’s voice was muffled outside the door. “It’s time to lock up. I hope you boys found your books because I have a meeting to attend.”

Danny’s hands were slick with perspiration.

He stopped to take a breath in order to steady his hand. It quivered over the scrolling text and he needed to be touching with accuracy. He had circumvented the security without setting it off and located the power grid. It would be simple to overload the power distribution and cause a blackout but he needed to find the tracker net before he did that or he wouldn’t be able to activate them and there would be a horde of old men looking for them.

“Yes, sir,” Zin answered. “We got them, thank you for letting us find them. You know, we don’t want to waste any more of your time, but you know how important it is that we do well in our studies. They say that a brain that is active in studies is one that will be stronger and healthier. In fact, research has shown that higher brain activity increases the—”

“Where’s Danny Boy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Son, you’re playing games. Where is Danny Boy?”

Found it.

The tracker net wasn’t difficult to open. He had gotten past the hardest part of the security system, but the database of trackers was large. He did a quick search for names, located his own tracker. Now he need to find Zin… Zin…

Brain cramp. He couldn’t remember Zin’s real name.

“He had to take a dump, sir,” Zin said. “He ate some spicy food at the cafeteria an hour ago, I think it was a bad burrito or something. Anyway, he was—”

A shadow passed in front of the window. Danny moved down the wall, all the way to the corner, squatted behind the last desk. He did a global search for…

The cabinet is open!

Keys jingled outside. “Son, you better locate Danny Boy in the next five seconds.”

Metal connected with metal as the key slid inside the lock.

The knob turned.

Danny crouched down as low as he could, inputting a global search for Zin. Dozens of names scrolled over the interface. He went down the list. Everything with a Z was showing up. No time for another search. He went through the names.

The light went on.

Cameron. Nicholas. David.

Mr. Campbell stepped inside. Shuffled over to the cabinet.

Anthony. Benjamin. Theodore.

Closed the door. Looked around.

Hayden. Dane—

He saw him, stooped in the corner. Cheeks flushed, Mr. Campbell moved his hand quicker than Danny thought possible.

ERIC ZINDER!

Mr. Campbell’s hand reached inside his pocket—

Danny punched the tablet.

The classroom went dark.

Desks slid and tumbled. Mr. Campbell fell into a heap of overturned chairs. He laid motionless, hand buried in his pocket.

Eric Zinder was still highlighted on the tablet.

“Cut that sort of close.” Zin leaned inside the room.

62

He had drifted away – how long, he couldn’t say – when the rattle of the air handler went quiet.

The air stopped blowing.

The lights went out.

The room was pitch black.

“What the hell is going on?” someone said.

Mr. Jones felt a tingle on the back of his neck. He had never had the sensation before. He was told that the tracker was installed for his own protection, that everyone had one in case something went wrong. Even the Director had one. But, he was assured, no Investor ever had experienced the unconsciousness brought about by the tracker voltage that shocked the nervous system and overloaded the senses.

But they all felt it.

It was sudden. Like a hot wire spiking the back the head.

The old men dropped like sacks of meat.

Mr. Jones’s foot twitched in the dark. He would never experience pain that intense again. He would never feel anything again.

None of them would.

His last thought. We deserve this.

63

The Director walked around the sundial, taking his time to let the grass slip between his toes. The gray Nowhere had blotted out the blue sky, descending like a plague of locusts.

She thought she could take his world.

Not anymore.

The girl was on her hands and knees inside a circle of dirt. She wouldn’t escape the ring where the Director focused all his attention. He willed her to experience her flesh curling off her bones, willed her to sense the smell of fried hair and boiling bones. None of it actually happened to her.

But she felt it.

He took a knee. Her red hair hung over her face, shimmering as she convulsed. He lifted her chin. Her face contorted. Eyes filled with tears.

“It’s all over, Lucinda.”

She lunged, snapping her teeth at his hand. He pulled back, laughing.

She cried out, curling into a ball.

Now that she was out of the Nowhere and into the open, he knew everything about her. Everything.

“You know what you are, don’t you?” he said. “You’re just a thought. A memory. You’re nothing different than data. You are a reflection, a shadow, of a girl that once lived. A girl that is now dead. Your body has long since fed the worms. How does that make you feel?”

He waited.

Her skin fluttered in waves. Her nervous system fired uncontrollably. It appeared her flesh was trying to strip itself from her body.

“I am Foreverland, Lucinda. This whole existence,” he stood up, waving his arms, turning in a circle, “that you’ve been trying to destroy is me. It is my mind that creates this. That’s why I’m a little bitter you’ve been pissing on it.”

He wiped the hair from her face so she could see him.

“You’re one dimensional, darling. You can’t understand what I’ve done to help people. You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed to give them a new life. I pulled their memories from their damaged minds to heal them.

“At first, Foreverland was just a computer program but it didn’t work. It was too scripted, too artificial. Their identities didn’t survive and they turned into vegetables. I discovered they needed an alternate reality that’s organic. I became that, Lucinda. They plug the needle into their brains and transfer their identity into my mind where they can live their fantasies. Where they can heal their lives. I am the beautiful mind that heals them. I am the new dimension of existence.”

He leaned closer.

“And you tried to take that away. Shame on you.”

Another wave of pain. She shook, bouncing on the ground. This made the Director smile. He began pacing around the circle, observing the trees barely visible in the gray fog.

“I gave you life when I pulled you from Reed’s mind, Lucinda.”

He breathed the sweet air.

“You’re dead, but I made you live, again. And how do you repay me? A thank you? Maybe a kiss on the cheek?”

He looked down on her trembling body.

“You’re an ungrateful little bitch. But not for long.”

She was inferior. He could control her, but he couldn’t destroy her. And as long as she was inside Foreverland – inside his mind – she would be a distraction. But any moment now, his solution would arrive and absorb her, take her out of Foreverland—

“I know what… you are.” Her words scratched her throat. “I know… what you hide… from yourself.”

Something vibrated in the Nowhere.

“Your true memories…” she said. “The ones… you want… to forget… I know what you are.”

Something buzzed around the Director.

He closed his eyes, but a thought still entered him. A boy’s voice, pleading. It came from above.

No! No, please, please don’t! Please! PLEASE!

“You are not who you believe. You try to forget…” She sat up. “What you’ve done.”

The thought he heard was more than a voice. It was a vision. A young boy, his African skin was black. His arms skinny.

His eyes, empty.

A needle in his head.

Stop. Stop, stop, stop… STOP!

The Director spun and pointed. “WITCH!”

Lucinda was lifted by invisible hands. A stake emerged in the ground, her hands bound behind her back. Kindling at her feet.

“You will poison me, no more,” he said.

He refocused his efforts, pushed away the thoughts of dead and dying children, willed them back into the Nowhere. Pushed them far away until he forgot them, until he was strong again. Sure of who he was. He was a man that brought healing to the world.

The 21st century Buddha.

A body began to form near the sundial. Translucent and fetal.

The Director smiled. He released the girl from the witch’s stake. She collapsed in a pile. Pathetic.

“Your end has arrived.”

64

Reed tried to count a breath. Tried to be with the pain.

He could not.

The bars were crushing him; his chest had no room to inflate. His breaths were shallow, quick and stabbing. When he supported some of his weight, the bars would relax. He had more room to breathe. But that brought more pain. And there wasn’t much feeling left in his legs.

The lucid gear brushed the top of his head.

“They want to keep us apart.” Lucinda stepped out of the dark aisle. “They’ll win.”

“They—” He grimaced, took a dozen tiny breaths. “They want me to take the needle.”

He went limp. The bars squeezed. He whined.

“Why do you think they brought you to the island?” She reached out.

The room was darker.

Reed couldn’t see the ceiling. Or the fan.

But he could see her. Like she was in a spotlight. Her fingernails candy red. Like her hair.

She reached for him.

“They want to keep you away from me. They don’t want us together.”

Her fingers touched his ribs. Cold numbness spread across his ribcage. She traced up his side, to his arm, numbing a path as she went. It was cold and freezing and pleasurable.

He took an easy breath. It came out smooth.

Her hand was on his shoulder.

Touched his collarbone.

Erasing the pain.

“I can’t,” he said. “I won’t—”

“You die. They win.”

A black tunnel closed around him, ate up the cells across the aisle. Closed in behind Lucinda as she leaned closer. Her lips were full. They touched his ear.

“Bastards,” she whispered.

The pleasurable numbness spread across his face.

Down his neck.

“I miss you,” she said.

Her fingertips touched his lips. His upper lip frosted over.

“I miss you, Reed.”

His lips fluttered.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me.”

“I…”

She hooked her finger beneath his chin. Sensation left his bottom teeth.

“I miss you.” He closed his eyes.

Let her lift his chin.

Let her lift the crown of his head into the lucid gear.

The strap tightened around his scalp. The knob snugged up to his forehead. He was losing feeling in his head, but could feel the coldness of the needle searching for the hole that had healed long ago. It sensed the stent embedded in his skull and centered over it.

Lucinda’s lips hovered over his.

The needle shot through.

Cracking the skin. Piercing the frontal lobe.

His head snapped back. He saw a bright light. His body stiffened against the bars. Crackled. Then let loose.

He went inside the needle with his eyes open. Head cocked to the side.

Body, limp.

He went to Foreverland.

65

Danny and Zin left Mr. Campbell in the classroom. They didn’t bother to check his pulse.

They stood outside the entrance of the building. The sun was up. The sky was blue. It was like any other day, except for the four bodies in the Yard.

“How long did you put them out?” Zin asked.

“I don’t know. I just activated every tracker in the system, besides ours.” He looked at the tablet. “I think I hit them pretty hard. And I crashed all the solar and hydrogen power systems, so everything’s off. Well, everything except the building with a backup generator.”

“Which one is that?”

“Guess.”

The Chimney was pouring smoke.

“We can stop him,” Danny said. “This is our chance. Maybe our only one.”

“What about Reed?”

Danny looked at the tablet. There was no telling how much time the trackers would keep the Investors unconscious. He could always zap them again, assuming the system didn’t lock him out this time.

They sprinted toward the Haystack.

The Haystack smelled like sewage and piss.

Maybe that was how it always smelled during a round, they weren’t used to it. But it was stronger, more pungent. Danny’s eyes watered when they entered. It took a few moments to adjust to the darkness. They went down the aisle, past their empty cells—

Reed was crushed.

“Oh, no.” Danny got there first. “Oh, no, no, NO!”

Zin was on his knees, working the lock. Danny could tell, even in the dim light, that Reed’s face was blue. His tongue swelled in his mouth.

“HURRY, ZIN!”

Zin fumbled with the lock, but it was taking too long. Danny reached for the lucid gear—

“Don’t take that off!” Zin shouted. “It’s too soon, he might be in there and won’t be able to come back if you take it off.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His hand brushed Reed’s cheek. It was cold. “He doesn’t… he shouldn’t have died like this.”

Danny slid the black strap off his head. The needle was wedged firmly in his forehead. It came out like a cork. Watery fluid leaked from the hole.

The lock clicked.

Reed’s dead weight threw the door open. Danny caught him before he hit the ground. Zin helped lay him down and started to arrange his hands in a dignified manner.

“Not in here,” Danny said. “I don’t want him staying in here anymore.”

His body was limp, but not as difficult to carry as it should’ve been for someone his age. He weighed less than Danny. They stopped outside the door.

“Let’s take him to the beach,” Danny said.

Zin shaded his eyes, looked at the sun. “We don’t have time.”

Danny retrieved the tablet. He was right. There was no telling when someone would recover. Once the island was back to full power, there would be nowhere to hide.

They left Reed’s body outside the Haystack, hands folded over his chest.

Eyes closed.

Dozens of golf carts were parked around the Chimney.

Danny and Zin hid in the trees, just in case someone was watching. No one was in sight, awake or unconscious. Danny started out first. Zin made a lot of noise.

He was holding a stick the size of a bat. “Just in case.”

Together, they crept to the front door. Still no one. Nothing.

Danny took a deep breath. “We’re in deep, man. There’s no going back, now.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

Zin started to inspect the lock. Danny yanked the handle and the door opened. No jokes, this time. They moved cautiously inside. The ground floor was open floor space with bunches of comfortable furniture and tables for informal meetings. Large monitors were mounted on the large cylinder elevator, showing an overhead tour of the island on a continuous loop. It looked like an area to entertain company or tourists. Or potential clients.

They stepped inside the elevator. There were four buttons.

“Where’s the fifth floor?” Zin asked.

“Fifth floor is the Director. No one goes there, he brings them.”

“Where then?”

Danny dragged his finger over the tablet, rearranging data and tapping commands. He searched the Chimney for clues. “Most of the power consumption is on the fourth floor.”

Zin pushed number four. “We have a winner.”

The doors closed slowly. The floor shifted. The elevator began a slow ascent, the numbers ticking off above the doors.

Second floor, we have the doctor.

Third floor, where we wake up.

The elevator eased to a stop. Number four appeared. The doors jerked a bit, then began to slide open. Zin cocked the stick. Danny stood off to the side. They waited.

The hallway was reflected on the back silver wall. Empty.

Tentatively, they looked out.

One hall. Nothing branching out, just one long hall. Near the end, there was a door on the right, one on the left.

Someone was on the floor, halfway inside the left door. Legs in the hall.

“It’s Mr. Lee.”

Zin gently rolled the old Asian man onto his back. He felt cold. Zin put his fingers on his throat, looking for a pulse. He didn’t really know how to do that, so he put his ear next to Mr. Lee’s mouth and listened.

“I think he’s dead.”

“Oh, man.” Danny looked at the tablet like it would tell him what happened. But he knew. “Oh, man.”

“It’s not your fault, Danny Boy. You weren’t trying to kill him.”

Danny shook his head. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, despite what the old bastards had been doing. He just wanted off the island. He wanted his life back.

“What the hell?” Zin went inside the room. “Is that Sid?”

Danny followed.

There was a hospital bed with white sheets and a curtain next to it. Sid was on his back, hands folded over his chest and a needle poking from the center of his forehead. Danny approached with the tablet at his side. Zin cocked the stick back, ready to swing.

Sid looked skinnier than usual. Sort of gray. His mouth was open, breathing. At least he was alive. Danny followed the wire from the end of the needle to a machine next to the curtain.

“What the hell is going on?” he said. “I thought he already graduated.”

Maybe that was the last step, one last trip to Foreverland where they download the rest of the memories, all reprogrammed for a better, more efficient mind.

Danny reached for the curtain—

“Take a look at this, Danny Boy.”

Zin was looking inside a large window with the stick at his side. It looked like a waiting room. Danny could see the old men piled on the floor as he stepped up to the glass. They must have been standing there, watching, when Danny ignited their trackers. Some of them had knots on their heads where they hit the floor.

Mr. Jones was in the back, laid back on a lounge chair. His fingers laced over his belly. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

Zin tried the door. “Want me to pick it?”

“No.”

He didn’t want to find out if he killed all of them. Especially Mr. Jones. The guy cared about Danny in his weird way. He didn’t want to live with the thought that he accidentally murdered him. Even if Mr. Jones did acquire him.

Even if his name was really Constantino.

“What’s over there?” Zin asked.

It appeared that the room was fairly large, separated by the curtain. Zin snuck up to it with the stick ready for action. Danny grabbed a handful of the fabric and yanked it to the side—

A flash of silver.

Zin wasn’t fast enough to stop the aluminum table leg from cracking Danny’s hand. The tablet hit the floor, the glass screen spiderwebbed. The old man jumped back, table leg back and ready for another swing. Danny got behind Zin, his hand already tingling.

“You all right?” Zin asked, faking a swing at the attacker.

“What the hell you kids doing up here?” the old man said.

“None of your business!” Zin shouted. “What the hell you still doing awake?”

The old man huffed, his eyes darting around. “You did this? You knocked out the power and killed the Investors? You did this?”

He shook his head.

“You boys are done, you hear me? You’re done, out of the program. You had your chance but you’re finished now. The Director will be down any second.”

“Why is he still awake?” Zin muttered back to Danny.

“I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t on the tracker net.”

“And neither is the Director,” the old man said. “You can say goodbye any second now. Any second.”

He stepped behind the hospital bed that was on the other side of the curtain, this one parallel to Sid’s. An old man was on it, same position as Sid and a needle in his head that was attached to the same machine. They had never seen an Investor with a hole. They never went to Foreverland.

“Isn’t that Mr. Williams?” Zin asked.

Yeah, thought Danny. Sid’s Investor.

Side by side, same machine. Needles in their head.

That’s how Parker graduated. And when he was done, they never saw his Investor again.

After that, Parker began parting his hair on the left.

“What the hell is going on?” Zin said.

“I think I know.”

66

Reed felt nothing.

Saw nothing.

And liked it.

He’d been trapped in a broken body for too long. He couldn’t remember the last time he was without pain. If this is death, then it is sweeter than imagined.

But it wasn’t death.

He drifted in the black nothingness, his identity drawn inside the needle, drifting toward Foreverland. He only knew the sweet release.

But another body formed around him. This one firm and pain-free. Curled up. Fetal.

He clutched at tufts of grass with his eyes tightly closed. There was wind in his ears. Light on his face. There was sound—

“Reed.”

Her voice. It was feeble. It was near.

It was not a dream.

He blinked. A blurry layer of fluid smeared over his eyes. But he could see her. She was out of reach. She was on the ground, curled up like he was. Her head turned so that she could see him.

Blink. Blink, blink, blink.

Her lips quivered. Her body shook. She was in pain.

He tried to move his hand, tried to reach for her, but he couldn’t feel his body enough to control it. Barely felt the ground below him. But his heart ached. He couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t help her.

Couldn’t save her. Again.

She managed to crawl out of the circle scratched from the grass. She pulled her body over the ground, dragging her legs behind her. Her breath was labored. Tears in her eyes. She stopped to gather her strength, then pulled herself closer. One handful of grass at a time.

Until her breath was on his face.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re with me, my love.”

Her hand, convulsing, reached out. Gently cradled his cheek. Warm and soft.

And he remembered.

Lucy.

He knew her when he was very young. He stopped a boy on the playground from pulling her hair when they were seven. She watched him in church, leaning forward and smiling at him from the end of the pew. He watched her at basketball games, with her friends.

They held hands in the back of a friend’s truck on the way home from a concert. Their fingers interlaced like broken pieces that belonged together.

Their first kiss was on the couch when her family was gone.

He remembered her smell.

The memories returned, and filled him. All the joy. All the pain.

She put her arms around him. In a full embrace, they merged. His body became light. It became sweet.

He was home.

The bitch is a liar.

She manipulated the memories in the Nowhere to fool the Director, to make him forget who he was. He was not those things. He was not a murderer, he was a savior.

He felt Reed arrive near the sundial. His body appearing like a full grown baby, naked and curled up. So helpless.

And the Director felt such happiness.

He’s here.

The air shifted. Suddenly, it was not so heavy. The gray seemed lighter.

Reed couldn’t move. He was lucky to open his eyes, to see his memory – the bitch – in front of him. The Director released her from the confining circle so that she could crawl to him like a wounded animal.

Specks of gray flitted from the sky, penetrating them like tiny bullets the closer she got. And when she touched his cheek, it rained gray pellets. They had become a magnet the Nowhere could not resist. When they embraced, they absorbed the lost identities that filled the Nowhere.

And in a burst of light—

An explosion—

A thunderous clap—

Foreverland expanded into infinity.

The Director closed his eyes, shielded his face from the burst. And when he opened them, they were gone.

Not a hole in the ground, not a depression, no sign they ever existed.

And the blue sky reached into the heavens.

And the ocean reached the horizon.

In that moment, he realized how puny Foreverland had become. Now it was all existence. He was free. For the first time in his life, he was free.

Enlightened.

He was these things. He created them. He was a god, after all.

And it was finally time to act like one.

To stretch out, let the world know who hears their prayers.

He reached out, feeling a connection with all of Foreverland. His body, back in the Chimney, was of no use to him now. He was free to be his mind, to be whatever he wanted. He dissolved into the air, his identity drifting like vapor, like the data Danny Boy had demonstrated.

The Director moved his identity into the Chimney’s network where he would slip out into the world, melt into the vast web of data that inhabited homes and businesses and governments. He would know everything. He would be everywhere.

I’m God.

The computers bent to his will, the network did what it was told. And as he streamed through the Chimney network, as he passed through his last portal, just before he graced the world with his omnipresence, a room formed around him. He didn’t recall this avenue.

It was a large room. There were shelves all around, filled with books.

A pedestal in front of him.

A book slid off one of the shelves near the ceiling, floating like an invisible hand had pulled it and brought it to the pedestal. There was a name on the front.

Harold Ballard.

He willed the book to be gone, for the room to disappear. He was ready to leave. But none of that happened. The book remained. And it opened.

And the Director witnessed Harold Ballard’s past.

Foreverland faded into sunbleached colors.

First the sky turned lighter blue, then white. Then the ocean followed. Whiteness crept over the trees. It was a different kind of nothingness, not filled with random memories of lost identities but the void of non-existence.

Foreverland was ending.

Reed walked out of the trees just before they evaporated.

He crossed the Yard with the white void nipping away the ground behind him. He went to the sundial. Put his hand on it. Just like she told him.

And he was absorbed by it.

He left Foreverland as it ended.

Forever.

67

Why didn’t we see this before?

It seemed so obvious, now that the answer was lying in a pair of parallel beds. An old man and a young kid, their brains wired to the same machine.

“Don’t you see, Zin? They kept us physically fit and exercised our brains. They let us doing anything we wanted so that we were happy. They put our memories inside the needle and made us go after them. You said it yourself, you just wanted to leave. You belong inside Foreverland.”

Zin was squeezing the stick with both hands. His face relaxed but his hands didn’t.

“It’s a body farm,” he said.

“Every Investor has a kid,” Danny said. “And when the kid graduates, we never see the Investor again, do we?”

Zin stepped toward the old man. “Oh, we saw one of the Investors. We saw one inside Parker’s body.”

“How are we doing so far?” Danny asked the old man.

He backed into the door, slid all the way into the corner, the table leg held in front of him like a four-sided long sword.

After Danny went inside the needle the very first time, the old men were telling Mr. Jones that he got a good one. Yeah, he got a kid that would graduate soon. A smart one. And Mr. Smith was so desperate because Reed refused to cooperate. The amount of money it took for them to acquire one of them had to be a lot. These were billionaires from all over the world that refused to die. The Director showed them a way that they could live another 70 years. All they needed was a kid that no one cared about and bring him to the island so they could lure him out of his body, scatter his identity into the Nowhere until his body was empty.

So they could take it.

“The rich old bastards?” Danny said. “None of them are using their real names. It’s all regular names like Jones and Smith. None of them really want to know who each other are. They aren’t helping us, Zin. They’re just kidnapping kids that no one will miss, kids with a troubled past and no connections. Like you and me, Zin. No one’s looking for us. No one will notice when our bodies return to the outside world. Without us in them.”

“You’re done,” the old man said. “You’ll go right in the oven for this.”

Danny grabbed the back of Zin’s shirt before he charged. The table leg was shaking in the old man’s hands. Zin tried to get loose.

“WHY ISN’T HE KNOCKED OUT?” Zin shouted.

Danny shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Tie his ass up, we’ll figure it out later.”

“Don’t come near me.” The old man reached behind him while holding his table leg in the other hand. He scattered the items off the table, swung his arm around with a syringe in his hand. He pulled the rubber cover off with his teeth.

“There’s enough in here to kill one of you,” he said. “Come after me, and one of you dies.”

“If someone has to do, then I vote for you.” Zin raised the club over his head.

Danny stopped him, again. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Are you kidding me?” Zin didn’t drop the stick. “Weren’t you listening to your own story? He’s one of them… he’s some rich old bastard that’s going to kill one of those kids out there and steal his body. If we ace this old bastard, we save the kid. Eye for an eye, Danny Boy.”

He poked the stick at him. The old man hit it like they were dueling.

“Who’s your kid?” Zin asked. “Which one of us were you going to steal, you sick bastard, huh? Did you import a nice little Kenyan for your next life?”

The old man’s head was shaking as bad as the table leg. Danny’s grip loosened. Zin stepped closer.

“A Kenyan too dark?” Zin said. “How about a Canadian, they got nice white skin, you might like that better, you know with racism and everything. It might make things easier.”

The old man pointed the needle at Zin, then Danny. Back to Zin. His eyes darted back and forth with the needle.

“We didn’t hurt you boys,” he said. “No one got hurt.”

“Oh, no. That Haystack was a blast,” Zin said. “We loved freezing our balls off.”

“But you didn’t get hurt, we just make you uncomfortable so… so…”

“So you could what?” Zin said. “So you could kill us with kindness. You’re demented. You’re the ones sick in the head. You’re the ones that deserve to die.”

“You wasted your lives!” The old man dropped the table leg and held the syringe with two hands like he was going to squirt it at them. “Maybe it wasn’t your faults, but it didn’t matter. You were going nowhere, your lives were a waste of time, you didn’t need your bodies to continue a life of misery. Trust me, you were heading for a lot more suffering than that Haystack. You would’ve ended up in jail or killing someone or something worse. The Investors have lived good lives, they’ve helped a lot of people, and they deserve your bodies a lot more than you.”

“It’s murder, and you know it,” Danny said. “I don’t care what you say.”

“You choose to leave your body,” the old man said. “You reached for the needle, you went inside it. We didn’t make you, it doesn’t work that way. You have to want to leave your body. All we did was make it uncomfortable and you did the rest.”

Danny thought about the two splotchy purple lines down the front of Reed’s chest where the bars had crushed him. He wouldn’t cooperate. So they killed him.

Danny pulled Zin back and shoved the corner of the bed against the back wall, pinning the old man in the corner. “Knock the needle out of his hands, Zin. Just don’t hurt him. Not yet.”

“Are you kidding, I’m going to knock the brain out of his head.”

“No, don’t. I want him tied up and alive. He doesn’t deserve to die, not yet. I want him alive when the authorities get here—”

The old man genuinely laughed. “Stupid kids. No one’s going to find this place. It’s been operating for over thirty years, you think a couple rogue teenagers are going to bring it down? There are trillions of dollars that protect it. The rich stay rich, son. And they stay alive.”

Zin swiped at the needle, narrowly missing. The old man tried to back up further but continued to smile. They couldn’t charge him with that needle and they’d wasted enough time. Danny wheeled the bed back a few feet, put his weight into it and shoved it like a battering ram into the old man’s gut. He picked his leg up to absorb the blow at the same time Zin took a full swing. He caught the old man on the hand, knocking the syringe into the wall. It skittered across the floor.

Danny pulled the bed out. “Grab some of those wires, Zin. We’ll lace his ass to the bed—”

“That’s enough, boys.”

It was the one voice that could freeze them.

The Director stood in the doorway with his hand in his pocket.

68

“I need you boys to step over to the booth.” The Director pointed to the observation window. “Just do as I say.”

Danny didn’t move. Zin was fingering the stick like he was deciding if the next pitch would be a strike.

“Boys, you realize I’ll knock you into next week.” He wiggled the hand in his pocket. “And it won’t be any kinder than what you’ve done to the Investors. Now step away from the bed and plant your backs to the wall. Do it, now.”

The Director stared them down.

The man had exceptional skills, some sort of hypnotic spell he cast just by looking. It didn’t matter if it was a rich, power-hungry oil baron or a juvenile delinquent, he knew how to get people to do what he wanted them to do. And the boys did just that.

Zin lowered the stick and followed Danny. Neither one of them turned their back on the Director. It wouldn’t matter, all the power he needed was in his pocket, the miniature controller that activated trackers. And the boys knew it.

“Are you all right, Mr. Jackson?”

Was he all right? The island was filled with troubled youth. An occasional uprising wasn’t surprising, but when half the Investors drop dead and two little maniacs show up with a stick to knock his brains out his ear? No, Mr. Jackson was a little less than all right.

But the Director had arrived. He would put things back in order. He always did. You don’t run an island like that for thirty years without ironing out a few wrinkles.

“We’ve had some problems, Mr. Jackson. I’d like to start in the network room.”

Mr. Jackson cradled his hand against his chest. It was probably broke. The Director moved the bed out of his way. He wasn’t concerned about the Investors or the aborted crossover lying in the bed.

“Problems,” Mr. Jackson said. “Yeah, I think we need to start in the observation booth, Director. Some of the Investors don’t have a pulse.”

“Yes, we’ll get to that. First thing’s first. Let’s have a look at the network room.”

The boys watched them cross the room. Mr. Jackson kept his distance. Why doesn’t he just knock them out?

The Director was barefoot. He let Mr. Jackson lead the way. They stepped over Mr. Lee – spread-eagle in the doorway – and crossed the hall to the only other door on the fourth floor.

There were endless racks of servers in the network room that went up to the ceiling in aisles that paralleled the curvature of the building. The network room took up half of the fourth floor. Midway around the semi-circular room was a large monitor with continuously scrolling data.

Mr. Jackson sat down. His left hand took the majority of Zin’s stick. He couldn’t move his fingers. Broke, for sure. He placed it gently on his lap and worked the mouse with his right.

“What the hell happened?” he asked. “Power is out on the entire island. The Chimney only has about three hours of charge left in the backup generators. And the Investors…” He looked back. “How could this happen?”

The Director stood behind him, arms crossed, staring at the monitor.

“Something unexpected happened, Mr. Jackson.” He fiercely scratched his beard. “Call up the Looping Program, please.”

“Looping…? That’s not active. We shut that down after Danny Boy hacked into it and thought it was the outside world.”

“Humor me.”

The Director was acting weird. He was an odd-ball, but none of this seemed all that alarming. Things went wrong, but never at this magnitude. And now he was concerned about some insignificant computer program.

“All right, well, let’s see.” Mr. Jackson executed a few commands, the screen went blank. More data came up. He leaned closer and squinted. “That’s strange. It’s been activated. How did you…”

“What’s in there? Tell me what you see.”

Mr. Jackson wasn’t aware that the Director couldn’t decipher the data.

He used his good hand to peck out a few more commands to interpret what he was seeing. It didn’t seem possible, but there was an identity inside the Looping Program that was often used to mimic the illusion of Foreverland, but they didn’t use it that often. An identity could be damaged if it spent too much time solely in the artificial circuits of the network. That was why the Director had become the interface between the boys and the network, serving as an organic “computer” that became Foreverland.

But now there was someone in there. Someone got left behind. Everyone should be out of the Haystack.

Mr. Jackson leaned closer. He could see just fine, the monitor was six feet wide. He leaned closer because he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Couldn’t believe who it was that was inside the Looping Program.

“Tell me what you see,” the Director said. “Tell me.”

Mr. Jackson turned slowly. His lips were moving, finally uttered, “Password, Director. Give me the password.”

The Director stared back.

Mr. Jackson waited.

And waited.

He knew what he had seen inside the Looping Program. He saw the identity that was trapped inside it.

And then he saw the Director put his hand inside his pocket.

Mr. Jackson didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to escape. He just waited for the darkness of unconsciousness to arrive.

It was painless, when it did.

Mr. Jackson crumpled in the chair, falling to the floor in a heap.

He didn’t see the Director watching him. Didn’t see the Director look at the meaningless data on the monitor. The Director couldn’t interpret it, but Mr. Jackson’s expression told him everything he needed to know. Asking him for the crossover password to confirm who the identity was inside the Director’s body.

Mr. Jackson also didn’t see the Director go to the window and begin to weep.

69

“Something’s not right,” Zin said. “That guy has no mercy and he tells us to just hang out after we just brought the whole island down? No sense, Danny Boy. It makes no sense.”

They leaned against the wall like they were told. They looked through the window at the Investors, still motionless. Some of them were breathing. Occasionally, they’d twitch like the tracker was still hitting them with a low dose of voltage to keep them out. Danny didn’t feel so sad about Mr. Jones, not after putting it all together. Maybe he did care about Danny, maybe he did want the best for him while he was here. It didn’t matter. In the end, the old bastard brought him here to steal his body.

And that could not be forgotten.

Zin was hunched over Sid, looking closely at his open eyes. Danny walked around the bed toward the back wall.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“I’m not waiting around to get zapped.” Danny put his hand on the doorknob.

“Hell, if you’re going to do that, let’s just get out of here.”

“And go where? We can’t outrun this.” Danny smacked the back of his neck. “Let’s see what else these old bastards are up to.”

Zin thought for a second. He was right behind Danny.

The room was fairly dark, lit only by a few backlights beaming up the wall near some of the desks and the faint glow of tiny lights flashing on computers and various machines.

The room was dominated by a large stainless steel table in the center with a big lamp hanging from the ceiling. A number of shelves and steel carts held more computers or medical equipment.

“Think they did surgery in here?” Zin asked.

“I don’t know.”

It didn’t look like surgery. There was just the one table and too many computers. If anything, it was an autopsy room.

There were nine doors on the wall to the right arranged in three stacks of three. Like a tic-tac-toe board. The doors were only three feet by three feet. Danny had seen doors like that on TV. They were used to store bodies. Pull the handle and the bed would slide out just like a filing cabinet with a plastic bag and a body inside.

He touched the handle on the one in the center. Did they deep freeze a new candidate until they were ready to suck out his memory and scramble his mind with random ones? It would be so claustrophobic inside. And what if they woke up?

He yanked the handle. An empty slab rolled out with a cloud of frosty air. It was a freezer. They were storing bodies in sub-zero temperatures. Nobody would survive that. Did they just hold the old men in these things after they crossed over into the candidate’s body?

He had his hand on another handle—

“Danny Boy.”

Danny jumped. Zin scared the hell out of him.

“Come here.” He had his hands around a small window on the other wall. “You need to see this.”

Zin stepped aside to let Danny have a look. The window was on a heavy-duty door. There was a slab inside but it wasn’t like the freezers on the opposite wall.

“Watch this.” Zin punched a button next to the door.

The interior lit up with blue flames. The room flickered with an eerie glow.

“A crematorium,” Danny said. “They burn bodies in there.”

“You thinking what I am?”

Danny nodded.

Once the Investor crossed over, their body was empty. They had no use for it. So they cremated it. That’s why the Chimney smoked whenever someone graduated. It was the Investor’s body they were destroying.

“Boys.”

They jumped back. The crematorium’s blue light illuminated the Director standing in the doorway. His eyes flickered with strangeness. Danny and Zin backed up.

“I need to show you something.” He turned around and left.

Danny and Zin waited for him to come back. After a minute or two, they found him across the hall in the network room. He offered the chair in front of a large monitor to Danny. They moved slowly, suspiciously. The Director stood several feet away from them, but distance didn’t matter. Not with the controller in his pocket.

Danny sat down. The Director told him to tell them what he saw on the monitor.

It took Danny a few minutes to understand what he was seeing. He was able to interpret the information and it became apparent who was standing next to him. The Director was inside the Looping Program, even though his body was standing next to him—

“It’s me, Danny Boy.” The Director held out his arms, displaying his new body. Tears brimmed on his eyes. “I made it out.”

Zin was a little shocked to watch Danny hug the Director.

70

Harold Ballard’s mother was a beautiful woman. She was tall and slender and – given the right breaks in life – could have had a career as a model. Instead, she was committed to a psychiatric hospital. She received electric shock therapy on three separate occasions. Each time she returned home, things were better before they got worse.

Harold’s father was a genius. He was an unassuming fellow with glasses that sat crooked on his nose. He was nothing close to model-quality. Seeing him with his wife at a party, one would guess he had tons of money.

He did.

He was recruited by every computer manufacturer’s research and development department. He was, arguably, the most sought after man in the computer industry; that is, until he was fired for unethical practices. His crimes were never made public, but the word behind the scenes had tainted his reputation enough to make him untouchable.

No matter. He didn’t need to make money, not with the number of patents that belonged to him. His basement had become his laboratory.

Harold was their only son. He was not pretty, not ugly. Not brilliant, not stupid. What he lacked in looks and raw intelligence, he made up for in cunning.

He was never allowed in the basement. Instead, he spent his nights looking at the stars through his telescope. But during the day, he shot squirrels with a pellet gun. He’d put birdseed on a plate in the middle of the yard and hide in the bushes. He’d lie there sometimes for an hour, pretending the enemy was coming over the fence, and then he’d plug the first squirrel that dared to grab a sunflower seed right through the eyes. Sometimes he’d nail them to a tree, put them in poses of the crucifix. The yard stunk like death, but his parents never went back there.

He was a loner at school. He was the weird kid with weird parents. His mom was crazy and his dad a nerd. The jocks put rotten food in his locker and the burnouts tripped him in the hallway. At the bus stop, Blake Masterson got on his hands and knees behind Harold and John Lively pushed him over. They laughed, all of them. Even the girls.

That night, Harold climbed on the roof with his pellet gun and a high-powered scope. He was up there until his fingertips were numb from the cold. When John Lively – who lived two doors down – walked outside, Harold put a pellet in his left eye. It was an amazing shot.

The doctors saved his eye. No one ever found out who did it. But John knew. Off the record, everyone knew.

They caught him getting off the bus.

Even though Harold wasn’t physically fit, he got away by swinging his book bag and losing his jacket when they grabbed it. He bound up the steps of his house and through the safety of the back door. But John and Blake didn’t stop there. They went inside after him. Harold threw the kitchen chair at them and ran through the basement door.

He stumbled down the steps, falling all the way to the bottom. There was a sharp pain in his wrist. He rolled into the corner and watched John and Blake stalk him. But, halfway down the steps, they stopped.

Across the room, there were two bodies lying side by side. One was his mother. The other, his father.

Needles sticking out of their foreheads.

Harold’s father was arrested after John and Blake told their parents what they saw and the FBI showed up with search warrants three days later. The computers were confiscated. The needles, too. Harold went to live with his grandparents. He rarely saw his parents after that.

But he picked up where his father left off.

Computer-Assisted Alternate Reality (CAAR) had been banned from all developed nations as cruel and destructive to all forms of life. No animal would be subjected to the debilitating effects that plagued the users of such technology, invented by his father.

But a dictator will look the other way when the bribe is big enough.

Harold used his trust fund to begin CAAR research. He set up labs in Mexico, Ethiopia, and Somalia. He went through thousands of unwilling subjects. None of them were healed in any way. They all died. All destroyed. Sometimes, tragically. Sometimes, horrifically.

The body continued to live, even though the person – the identity – was destroyed.

While some would view his research as a failure, as a crime against God, life and humanity, Harold saw it as an opportunity. The world was run by a small percentage of very wealthy people. The only thing these powerful men and women could not purchase was more life. Death was non-negotiable.

Not any more.

Harold found the island. He found the money.

And he continued destroying.

Eventually, he used his own technology to rewrite his life, erasing all his memories and the atrocities he’d committed. He came to know himself as a good-natured man that served the best interests of humanity. A man of God.

He even shed his name.

And became known as the Director.

The Director knocked the book from the pedestal.

His rage burst out like a telekinetic tidal wave, wrenching all the books from the walls and ripping out their pages and setting them on fire. The room shook and cracks opened on the ceiling, raining bits of concrete on the marble floor. He searched for an escape, a way to dissolve back into data and escape the library, to slip back into the network and find a way back into the world. He might even go back to his body and DESTROY THE BITCH THAT DID THIS TO HIM!

But then he found himself standing in the library, again, the shelves reassembled, the cracks repaired, the books back in order. And a pedestal in the center with Harold Ballard’s book opening to play out his history.

He experienced it again.

And again.

And again.

71

Lucinda laid the trap.

The Director was right, she was getting smarter. His only mistake, he had no clue just how much she knew. In the end, she knew everything.

When Danny was caught in the Looping Program, she knew he was not in the real world. But it gave her access to all of the Chimney’s data. Danny was only able to see a few of the records – his and Reed’s – before he returned to the Nowhere. But Lucinda absorbed it. She knew the real purpose of the island, she knew all the Investors, and she knew the Director’s true past.

She knew everything.

She also knew that the Director would eventually get Reed to go inside the needle. And when he did, she would cease to exist. She would return to being a memory. She was not sad about that. After all, it was her true identity. In fact, she yearned for it. Being away from Reed had been… difficult.

But what she couldn’t accept was the future of Foreverland and all the boys it would continue to destroy to satisfy the gluttony of men.

While the Director ruled Foreverland – he was Foreverland – Lucinda ruled the Nowhere. She knew all the random thoughts, all the lost boys. She knew, also, the Director’s thoughts and his desire to be free. She knew the Looping Program was a dead-end, a virtual cul-de-sac with only one way in, one way out.

She laid the trap.

He attempted to leave the island through the only data conduit to the outside world and, like Danny, mistook the path into the Looping Program as the way out. Before he recognized his mistake, the door closed behind him, trapping him inside. Lucinda had programmed the loop with the data of all the island’s records, most importantly that of Harold Ballard. He would see his true identity, his authentic past. He would exist in the loop until he knew what he had done. As long as there was power on the island, the Director would live in the hell he created.

Lucinda also knew that Reed’s body was beyond repair, that he would likely be physically dead. With the Director’s identity in the Looping Program, his body would be abandoned and vacant. When they embraced, he absorbed her. No longer conscious, she was part of him. Her thoughts and memories of her time in the Nowhere became part of Reed.

He knew everything, too.

Including her best laid plans.

When the Director exited Foreverland, Reed couldn’t go back to his dead body. But he made his exit, as well. And entered the Director’s body at the top of the Chimney.

My body, now.

72

Danny was on one end of the bag. Zin on the other.

They let it rest on the floor of the elevator until they reached ground level. Zin was blowing on his hands to warm them up. Ice crystals had formed on the bag.

They managed to get it outside without dropping it. They slid it onto the bed of a cart. They both began blowing on their hands. Zin took the wheel. They drove away from the Chimney.

The Yard was bustling.

It was another day in paradise and all the boys were outside, playing cards, throwing discs and everything else. Not an Investor in sight.

Danny checked the tablet. A few strokes of the finger told him the old men were all exactly where they were supposed to be. The Mansion.

About half of them survived the prolonged blackout. Mr. Jones was not one of them. Most of their bodies were sick with disease or just broken down with age. They didn’t tolerate the voltage. They relocated the survivors to the Mansion and left them a note that the island was under new management and they would be staying inside the Mansion until further notice. Then they locked the doors from the outside and had not heard from them since. Danny occasionally checked the location of their trackers, just to be sure.

The only indication of the old men that was outside the Mansion was concentrated inside the Chimney. The Investors that died were put inside the freezers, some stacked two high. They could have cremated the bodies but it made sense to preserve as much evidence as possible. Someone would have to sort through everything.

They drove the cart through the Yard. No one paid much attention to the body bag. The boys were told that the Haystack was closed until further notice. Until then, it was unlimited game room and no suffering.

No one argued.

They drove over the sand dune.

A man was in a hole about waist deep, shoveling a pile of sand next to him. He had a round belly and shoulders red from the sun. His face was clean shaven.

“Slow down there, old timer.” Zin pulled up behind the man. “You’re not a teenager anymore, you know that.”

Reed tossed a shovel full of wet sand off to the side and leaned on the handle. He was breathing hard. His cheeks red with exhaustion.

“Got to get this fat ass in shape,” he said.

“You can’t do it in one week, son.”

Reed rubbed his smooth chin. The beard was the first thing to go. It was smelly and itchy. How the hell the Director walked around with those long, curly hairs around his mouth Reed couldn’t understand.

Danny and Zin pulled the body bag off the cart and dropped it next to the hole. Reed climbed out and pulled the zipper down. His former body was inside. Frost had accumulated on the eyelashes. The lips purple. He pulled the zipper to the bottom. The chest was bruised and bony.

“You sure you want to bury yourself on the island?” Danny asked. “Not a lot of good times here.”

“That’s not me,” Reed said.

It made sense to put it on the beach. That’s where he spent most of his time while he was on the island. The body should remain part of it.

They rolled the stiff body into the hole.

It was strange to throw sand on the face. It was hardly recognizable, but it was the only thing Reed had known until a week ago. He was breathing harder with each shovelful of sand. It wasn’t so much the exertion anymore. That’s not me, he kept telling himself. That’s not me.

But he didn’t resist when Danny took the shovel from him. Reed went to the water while he and Zin finished the job. He listened to them pack the sand over the body’s final resting place.

Finally, it was at peace.

The sun dropped below the horizon. The sky was a myriad of purples and reds and oranges. They stood on the hardpacked sand, the water wrapping around their ankles. Home was out there. The outside world was within reach.

For the first time, Reed embraced hope.

Zin leaned on the shovel. “You know, they were right, the old men. There’s not much for us to go back to. I don’t know about you guys, but I got nothing out there. I’m not saying I want to stay here, but there’s nothing great waiting for me in the real world. My life sucked. I got no parents, no home… I got nothing.”

“That’s why we’re not going back there, Zin.” Danny put his arm over his shoulder. “We’re starting a new life.”

Slowly, the sky went dark.

They left the golf cart on the beach and walked back. They crossed the Yard and went around the dormitory. For the first time ever, the Chimney was dark. They passed it on their way toward the Mansion.

Danny was on the back of a yacht.

The foamy water rippled in deep-cut waves as the ship’s motors churned the water. He held onto the railing and watched the island recede into the night. A few lights twinkled on the back of the Mansion. Danny informed the old men that he would be passing through and they needed to be in their rooms. He reminded them that he had control of their trackers and that he would put them to sleep on sight.

They were old and harmless. Still, the three of them walked cautiously through the building and across the back yard to the yacht. He saw them watching from their windows. They would see the Director with them (without the beard) and would want to talk to him, to find out why he was keeping them imprisoned after they paid a fortune. They would want to tell him that he would not get away with this. But they wouldn’t get the chance.

They would never have the chance.

The Director, as they knew him, was no more.

Reed had shut down the Looping Program, ending the identity known as the Director.

Even if the old men knew the Director had passed, there was nothing they could do. There was no communication with the outside world. That was the terms of their contract. They signed their life over to the Director. They had purchased a younger body when they acquired a young man, but had to sell their soul in order to do so.

Once they were on the yacht, Reed took the helm. Zin stayed up front to watch the way to the other island.  The rest of the boys were back on the island and would never know they were gone. They would keep playing games, find food in the cafeteria and sleep in the dormitory. They probably wouldn’t even know something was wrong.

Until help arrived.

“There it is!” Zin called. “Straight ahead!”

Reed waved from the helm. Danny joined Zin at the bow. The water was black and the island invisible in the dark except for a single light at the end of the dock. There would be someone waiting to help them tie off the yacht. Reed had called ahead, telling them to prepare the plane. He would be bringing the boat over soon.

They sounded surprised. The Director, flying?

Of course, he told him. Vacation is long over due.

It took some research, but Danny discovered the Director was a billionaire many times over. He had so much money that if they split it three ways, they would all still be billionaires. For the time being, they were going to stay together. The Director had an estate in Italy.

That seemed like a good place to start a new life.

Missing Satellite Uncovers Human Trafficking Ring

ASSOCIATED PRESS. – The Military Strategic and Tactical Relay (MILSTAR) reported the sudden crash landing of one of their satellites in the South Atlantic when their network was infected with a malicious virus. The virus will likely cost the government millions of dollars to recover and reestablish communication.

However, the recovery of the downed satellite was near a remote island previously thought to be unoccupied. Authorities of the United States have reported a sophisticated human trafficking ring. Preliminary reports have identified wide-spread use of banned technology called Computer-Assisted Alternate Reality (CAAR), though it is unclear how the organization was using the technology.

In addition, dozens of previously reported dead or missing people were being held captive in a resort located on the island. All the people are male and worth billions of dollars. None have agreed to cooperate with the investigation until they have consulted their legal counsel.

However, many have admitted the leader and creator of the island’s society was missing. Currently, his name has not been discovered but he went by the nickname, The Director.

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The Annihilation of Foreverland

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THE GIRLS FROM ALCYONE, Cary Caffrey

Dystopia, by Cary Caffrey

Science-Fiction presents a terrific opportunity for any writer. At its most basic it’s a chance for us to wonder about what could be, what might be, or warn of dangers that might come to pass. But when it’s at its best (possibly most subversive), great science-fiction is really all about “what is.” It’s about the here and now. It’s about us.

I could have set The Girls from Alcyone in the present (I almost did). After all, the story takes place in a world where the corporatocracy has finally supplanted all democratic forms of government, where indentured servitude and bonded labourers are the norm, and where the world’s populations have been neatly divided into the haves and have-nots. Kind of like today!

But I knew if I did (set the story in present day) it would have radically changed the tone and turned the novel into something I didn’t intend. Politics might be very near and dear to me, but I didn’t want TGfA to become a treatise on the rise of the new industrial imperialism. That wasn’t the novel I wanted to write. I wanted to write an adventure.

More than that, I wanted to write a story about the endurance of friendship, unwavering loyalty and love (yes, I am that much of a sap). I wanted to show a possible future where inclusiveness and acceptance were the norm, not the exception—even in a world where 99% of the population lives in abject poverty. I wanted to give my characters a chance to live without the burdens of prejudice, where no one cares about your nationality, your sexuality, or gives a second thought to who you date or who you love. All with no questions asked. Because they have bigger things to worry about. Like survival.

And, goddammit, I wanted the story to be fun!

Setting a story like this in the present day would be impossible. Who would believe it? But, that’s the beauty of science-fiction, and that’s why I love it so much. When we look to the future—in the case of The Girls from Alcyone, three hundred and fifty years into the future—absolutely anything is possible.

The Girls From Alcyone

Cary Caffrey

The Girls from Alcyone. Published by Cary Caffrey. Copyright 2011 by Cary Caffrey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, visit Cary Caffrey at carycaffrey.com

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This novel is a work of fiction created by the author. All characters, events and organizations portrayed in this novel are works of the author’s imagination.

Cover art by Zodev Studios

Published by Tealy Books, NB, Canada

All rights reserved.

For Gisele, for all the reading and listening (and the listening, and the reading…). With thanks to Pete, Mickie, Flood, Tiffinie, Scott, Kelly, Michael, Bob, Andy and Stef. You all get a cookie.

Prologue

Planet Earth

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March 2, 2339

The wet cloak hung heavy over Dr. Lisa Garrett’s shoulders. The wide hood kept slipping low over her face so she had to keep lifting it to see where she was going. She cursed as her foot found another deep puddle. Though cumbersome and stifling, the cloak at least gave her some protection from the torrential rains that always fell on Earth these days.

She might have passed unnoticed through the narrow and crowded alley were it not for the three hired bodyguards who shadowed her. The men stayed close to her side studying all passersby, shooting warning looks at anyone who ventured near their ward. They kept their sidearms in plain sight, worn on clips at their hips in easy reach of their hands. There could be no mistaking their intent.

Lisa knew the streets of Earth were no place for a young man or woman to be walking alone, but she felt ridiculous with the hired thugs traipsing after her. She couldn’t wait to get back to Alcyone and the Academy where she’d no longer need the service. As much as she detested Earth, she had insisted on coming. Her work for the Kimura Corporation, the small but prestigious mercenary company, was at a critical juncture and she couldn’t trust anyone to negotiate the meeting on her behalf. She needed this girl too much.

Kimura hadn’t wanted her to make the trip from Alcyone. On Earth, she’d be exposed to attacks from rival corporations—either from those who wished to steal her as an asset or kill her as a threat. While the dangers were real, she was probably at greater risk of becoming the victim of a simple random mugging.

The heavy steel gate of the habitat groaned opened for her as she approached; the security system having already logged her as an expected guest. Inside, the small lobby was decorated in typical Earth fashion—garbage and graffiti, and smelling faintly of urine. She frowned at the puddled floor, almost as wet as the street outside and fed by a perpetually dripping ceiling.

Lisa removed her hood. The constant humidity was doing a number on her hair. She ran her hands self-consciously through her damp chestnut curls. At twenty-five, she was much younger than usual for someone holding Ph.D.s in Neurology, Genetics and Biomechanics. Her soft, curved face and large hazel eyes belied a fiercely competitive nature and a sharp, analytical mind.

Lisa knocked on the armored door of the small, cube-shaped apartment while her bodyguards waited at a discreet distance. “What a shit-hole,” she muttered to herself, looking around at the crumbling hallway.

As the door opened, a middle-aged couple greeted her, but Lisa’s eyes were drawn to the young girl standing just behind her parents. She recognized Sigrid instantly. Nine years old, with long blond hair, she was very small for her age. The girl was just a tiny, timid thing, but she was perfect—a perfect physical specimen, an ideal, and a very rare, genetic match for her program.

Finding her had not been easy. It was only her access to Kimura’s vast resources that had enabled her to locate the girl. Now she just needed to persuade the parents to let her take their child away, halfway across the galaxy. Probably for the rest of her life. At least the family’s current financial predicament was no secret. It was hardly an uncommon problem, but such information could prove to be important—and something she could use.

“Mr. and Mrs. Novak,” Lisa said, extending her hand. “I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

Mrs. Novak took her hand nervously. “Dr. Garrett…yes. Sigrid, come say hello to the Doctor.”

The woman urged her daughter forward. Lisa noticed that the woman pronounced the girl’s name Seegrid, rather than Zigrid. She made a mental note.

“Call me Lisa.” She bent low, extending her hand to the small girl who took it politely.

Mrs. Novak motioned her inside. “Come in—please.”

They ushered Lisa into a tiny living room where she took the proffered chair, while the Novaks and their daughter settled on the small sofa facing her. The apartment was typical of the identical habitat units found in any city on Earth; small and cramped, but efficient. The modular structures could be stacked on top of one another as needed. The cramped confines might be called intimate by some—mostly by the corporations who sold them—but Lisa found them stifling.

“Lovely place,” she observed.

“Oh, thank you so much. It’s not much, of course…”

Lisa smoothed the pleats of her skirt. She knew how sensitive these meetings were, and how easily things could swing either way. Everything hinged on what she had to say next, and she chose her words carefully. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you agreed to this meeting, Mr. and Mrs. Novak. I know Kimura has already informed you they were considering Sigrid for the Academy—”

“It does sound exciting!” the woman blurted.

Lisa cocked an eyebrow, noting the woman’s agitated state—or was it anticipation?

“I want you to know that Sigrid is very important to us,” Lisa told them. “Many girls are considered for the program, but few are chosen. But in your daughter’s case…” Lisa’s eyes fell to the small girl sitting between her parents. “I’m very pleased to say that she does qualify. We would very much like to have Sigrid come and stay with us—if you’ll allow it.”

The parents breathed a relieved sigh, clutching each other’s hands. Definitely a good sign—the family was clearly more desperate than she’d thought.

“We’re so relieved—and so happy for Sigrid!” Mrs. Novak said. “She’s looking forward to the Academy—I know it. There’s…just one thing…”

Lisa braced for the question—the question that always came.

“We were just wondering…we’re very grateful, of course—we know how reputable Kimura is, but this program…what exactly is it you’re going to do to Sigrid?”

Lisa’s answer was well-rehearsed, and she leaned forward with a warm smile. “Sigrid will receive the very best education and training from Kimura. I can promise you there’s nothing like this program anywhere on Earth. You’re very lucky, Mr. and Mrs. Novak. Sigrid is a very special girl. She’s been blessed with a unique gift—one not found in millions of other girls.”

“A gift?”

Lisa nodded and her smile widened. “Yes. And I will show her how to use that gift.”

Before Mrs. Novak could enquire further, Lisa took a data-pad from her purse and unfolded it, nudging it across the coffee table to the Novaks. On it was displayed the contract with the very extravagant sum Kimura would forward to the Novaks’ accounts. “I believe this will be more than adequate to take care of your entire family’s financial…situation.”

Discussing the finances always felt perverse to Lisa. Fortunately, Mr. Novak’s eyes bulged at the amount displayed on the pad. He pressed his thumb to the screen eagerly.

Mrs. Novak made a show of at least pretending to read the contract before signing. “The program does sound intriguing. I’m sure if Mr. Novak wasn’t…well, if Peter hadn’t had such bad luck with the markets…”

Lisa grimaced. She never understood their need to explain their financial difficulties.

Mrs. Novak sniffed. “No one could have foreseen the downturn in commodities. Still, I’m certain we would have wanted Sigrid in the program, regardless. We always suspected she was gifted. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Mrs. Novak nudged her husband whose eyes remained fixed on the money displayed on the pad. He nodded, grunting assent.

Lisa retrieved the pad and folded it back into her purse. “Of course.”

“And with Sigrid’s birth-debt…” Mrs. Novak wrung her hands together. “Well, you know…”

Lisa knew all too well. Birth-debts were the increasingly popular practice that allowed debt-ridden families to defer their burdens to their unborn children. Girls like Sigrid were often born into staggering seven-figure debts. For the Novaks, selling their daughter’s life contract to Kimura would rid the family of generations of financial ruin. It would take Sigrid most of her life to work off that debt as an indentured laborer for Kimura.

“Yes, of course,” Lisa said, with practiced sympathy. “A tremendous burden on a young girl.” Lisa believed in her heart that Sigrid would be better off with her than with these people—better off on Alcyone than on this crowded, dirty and crime-infested planet. The only people left on Earth were the people who couldn’t afford to leave.

She reached across the table and took the little girl’s hand in her own. “You and I are going to have a tremendous adventure. Have you ever heard of Alcyone?” The girl shook her head. “It’s a beautiful planet, and it’s full of girls just like you.” Lisa smiled as she watched the girl’s eyes light up. The girls always responded well to that. “There will be fields and mountains and grass, and lots of other girls to play with. Would you like to come with me and meet them all? I’m sure they’ll love you so much.”

Sigrid nodded vigorously, but Lisa could feel how nervous she was as the girl’s tiny hand tightened in her own.

“Come then.”

She led the girl to the door. Her parents already had her bags packed.

Chapter 1

Kimura Academy for Girls

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February 17, 2341

Sigrid felt herself being prodded awake. Peeling back the covers, she stifled a groan It couldn’t possibly be morning—she’d only just closed her eyes. The darkness still lurked outside and the ceiling lights of the dormitory glared painfully bright. All around her the thirty-one other girls of the Kimura Academy were struggling to rise from their bunks, still exhausted and sore from the previous day’s activities.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Shielding her eyes with a hand, Sigrid looked up at the eleven-year-old girl standing over her. Suko was already up and dressed, and tying her long black hair into a ponytail with a bright red strip of cloth.

Suko smiled down at Sigrid and reached out a hand to help her up. “Time to get up.”

“No!” Sigrid pulled the blanket back up over her head. “Go away.”

“Come on. You’ll miss breakfast,” Suko said, her thick Kiwi accent making breakfast sound more like brickfist.

“I don’t care. I was dreaming.” Of sleep, she realized.

Suko pulled at the blanket, but Sigrid held fast, curling up even tighter in the sheets. “You’ll get in trouble—again.”

“Traitor!” Sigrid said, throwing her pillow at Suko.

Sigrid felt a pang of guilt for yelling at her friend. It wasn’t Suko’s fault—Suko was her best friend, but right now…right now, she just needed to rest. Just for a few more minutes…

Sigrid’s whole body ached. Her muscles were stiff and twisted in painful knots. She felt positive they must be trying to kill her. They never let her sleep, at least never enough. Every minute of every day consisted of classes, lessons, and hours of brutal physical training. The physical training was the worst. The girls were drilled endlessly in calisthenics, and the martial arts classes seemed to center around Sigrid being punched repeatedly. Sigrid found herself completely intimidated—the other girls were so much bigger and stronger than her. She was rapidly becoming exceptional at being knocked down, always to the delight of the other girls.

Even stranger were her sessions with Dr. Garrett; sometimes they’d just talk; other times the doctor would poke and prod her with strange devices. Sigrid didn’t understand what the weekly sessions were for, and Dr. Garrett would just say, “This is to make you better,” and then she’d stick her with something again.

“UP!”

Without warning, the sheets were torn from her bed. Felix Rosa, her instructor, glared down at her, eyes narrowed in disapproval. He took care of all their training, watched over them at their studies, and dealt out punishment and discipline when needed; which was often the case, especially where Sigrid was concerned. As hard as she tried, she could never keep up or get anything right.

Decades of disciplined training had kept him so lean and hard-muscled that he appeared to be chiseled from stone. He wasn’t always horrible. He was actually often pleasant and nice to her, but right now, she hated him.

“You slow the progress of the entire group, young one,” he scolded. “Do you think everyone will appreciate two extra laps around the track in the rain today because of you?”

No; that would only mean more beatings from the other girls. Even as he spoke, they stood by their bunks, regarding her with raw contempt.

“Come on, it won’t be so bad,” Suko said. She reached out a hand and yanked Sigrid out of bed.

Sigrid was a little in awe of Suko. She had such an easy grasp of things. She excelled in all their classes, especially math where Sigrid felt completely hopeless, and she never seemed to tire or falter during the brutal physical activities that made up much of their days. She was tall for her age, at least three inches taller than Sigrid, and very pretty. And all the girls liked her—something Sigrid couldn’t even dream of.

“Less talking, more attention,” Rosa said, pointing to the spots at the foot of the bed where he expected the girls to be standing. “All of you, two minutes to dress, then outside.”

Sigrid groaned and her shoulders slumped. It was the same instruction every morning. The girls would run ten full circuits of the academy field, return to the dormitory, bathe, dress and be ready for a modest breakfast before the hours of lessons began. Tardiness and lack of cleanliness were not tolerated and always punished.

Sigrid couldn’t believe she’d ever been excited about attending the Academy. It had all sounded so incredible back then—a trip in space, new friends, an entire new planet to explore. Now, Sigrid only wanted to be home in her own bed, to see her mother and father again. But that wasn’t going to happen. The Kimura Corporation owned her and it was her duty to serve them, doing their bidding until her family’s debt was repaid in full. The next years of her life would be much the same: lessons, training, beatings, more running and more lessons.

Sigrid had barely finished tying her bootlaces, still struggling to pull up her pants, when Suko pulled her by the hand. With Sigrid firmly in tow, Suko trailed the other girls heading for the training grounds outside.

A blast of rain greeted Sigrid as she left the dorm. The wet wind sent a chill through her, jarring her awake as it whipped at her hair and face.

“Nice day for it,” Suko kidded.

Sigrid snorted a laugh. As miserable as she felt, Suko was always able to lighten her mood, and side by side, the two girls started off on their morning run.

The rain threatened to turn to sleet, or even snow, in the late winter cold, making the muddy ground icy and slick. Sigrid’s legs felt weak and her shoes skidded in the slush. She feared she might fall and muddy herself—that would be just great—but Suko steadied her.

The training area was in the center of a large courtyard, framed by the four main buildings that made up the Academy. The buildings were all two-story structures with tiled, pointed roofs, connected by a six-meter-high wall that wound its way around the entire perimeter. Outside the walls, the high, snowcapped peaks of the Northern Mountains loomed on all sides. There were no roads leading to the Academy; the only way in and out was by air.

Sigrid heard one of the instructors shout, “Move it, ladies,” as she forced one tired foot in front of the other.

“Come on, you’ll feel better after brekkie,” Suko said, treating Sigrid to an encouraging smile.

The other girls lapped Sigrid—some more than once—as she hobbled along unsteadily. By the time she reached the dormitory she was soaked and frozen, her lips blue. The other girls were already bathed and eating—all except Suko, who stayed with her until she was washed and dressed.

She was late for breakfast, of course, and extra lessons were assigned to the entire class as punishment. Sigrid knew her real punishment would come later, delivered by the other girls. She didn’t know what form it would take, but her classmates would make her pay, just as they always did. She could see them already sizing her up, figuring out how best to make their feelings known.

Her answer came that night. She had just finished brushing her teeth and was making her way back to her bed when one of the girls thrust out a foot to trip her. Another girl pushed her roughly from behind sending Sigrid tumbling to the floor, scattering her towel and toiletries. The other girls gathered in a crowd, laughing at her.

Sara stood over her. Her thin brown hair hung loose over her face, and she pulled it back behind her ears as she sneered at Sigrid. “Why is it that you’re the slowest, but we always get punished?”

Sigrid knew there was no right answer—a sarcastic answer came to her lips, but she didn’t have the courage to utter the words. Instead, Sigrid ignored her and began gathering up her dropped items. Sara kicked them away and pushed her back down.

“Come on. Get up,” Sara said, challenging her.

Sigrid was too weary to fight back. The outcome seemed inevitable, Sara would pummel her, as she always did. Sigrid just wanted them to go away. She hated the school and she hated them. She wanted to go home. Her sudden burst of tears took her by surprise, only deepening her embarrassment and humiliation.

“Crybaby,” Sara spat. She went to kick her again, but she suddenly found herself sprawling as Suko pushed her from behind.

Sara leapt to her feet and spun around, charging back, but Suko stepped forward, placing herself between Sigrid and the other girls. There was a warning tone in her voice when she said, “Leave her alone!”

“Why do you always stand up for her?”

Suko didn’t answer; her fists were clenched and her chest rose and fell quickly. Someone tried to grab her arms, but she elbowed the girl in the stomach, then punched another of Sigrid’s tormentors in the face. Blood flowed freely from the girl’s broken nose as she ran away crying and cursing.

The other girls backed away, eyeing the trail of blood between the bunks. Suko gave them as menacing a look as her eleven-year-old body could muster. She helped Sigrid up from the ground and picked up the towel, soap and toothbrush from where they lay scattered.

“Thanks,” Sigrid said. She was suddenly very aware of the tears on her face and she tried to wipe them away quickly, as if that would hide them.

“Bunch of fuckwits, all of them,” Suko said as she led Sigrid back to her bed. “I don’t know what their problem is.”

“Me,” Sigrid said with a little shrug.

Suko laughed and hugged her. “You have to fight back. She’s just a bully. They all are.”

“I know.” Sigrid blew her nose loudly in her sleeve and sniffed. “But there are a lot of them.”

“Yeah, but they’ll always have to go through me.”

Chapter 2

Bullies

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From The Journal of Dr. Lisa Garrett

July 11, 2343

RE: Project Andraste

Dear Hitomi-san,

I write to you, even though I know, as always, that these letters won’t get to you until after the fact.

I am pleased to report that all the girls are responding well to the Genetic Recombinant, with no signs of ill effects and no signs of rejection. Please inform Dr. Wolsey of that for me—I’m sure we’d both enjoy seeing the man eat a little crow for once. It seems clear now that we were correct in our selection of the subjects, all of whom show a similar genetic predisposition to the Recombinant. We have already monitored a tremendous increase in aptitude, intelligence, strength and reaction time. Felix seems to have his hands full. Thank you for that recommendation by the way. The man is a godsend and I’m not sure where I’d be without him.

We are still years away from introducing any of the bionics or the Control Module, but I’m pleased to say that the foundation is being laid.

I just wish you were here to see what we’ve accomplished. You deserve as much credit as anyone in this.

Yours truly,

Lisa

* * *

Sigrid felt completely self-conscious and was having trouble maintaining her focus. She couldn’t stop thinking of the thirty girls, all watching her, waiting for her to fail. She really needed to focus more on the girl standing across the mat from her.

The girls sat in a large circle on the padded floor of the gymnasium. They were all dressed in the same judogi—the loose, belted coats and trousers—that Rosa had them wear for their martial arts classes. Rosa’s belt was black, although the girls all wore belts of different colors and grades. Months of relentless training and instruction still found Sigrid stuck at yellow. Despite Suko’s extra help and tutoring, Sigrid knew the other girls were leaving her behind.

Today they were studying an ancient form of Jujitsu, and it was Sigrid’s turn on the mat. Her opponent was a much taller girl named Mei. Sigrid liked her well enough, although she’d like her a whole lot more if Mei would stop beating her with the wooden katana she held.

“This is Jujitsu, Ms. Novak, not arm-wrestling,” Rosa chided. “You must use your opponent’s force against her.”

Sigrid frowned—he could say the same thing over and over, but it wasn’t helping. Sigrid was unarmed while the other girl had a sword. She couldn’t take her eyes off the thing, dreading yet another walloping.

“You must draw her into your sphere of defense.”

Sigrid thought Mei was doing a pretty good job in her sphere… “But—”

“Again!” Rosa said, clapping his hands as he backed away from the center of the mat.

Sigrid failed to evade the first attack and paid for it with a bloodied lip. One of her teeth felt loose, as well. She touched the back of her hand to her swollen mouth and it came back red. Her opponent took some pleasure in this and gave her a menacing smile before launching another swing at Sigrid’s face.

The speed of the attack took Sigrid by surprise—but she somehow managed to parry the thrust this time, lashing out with her own leg and kicking Mei in the sternum. Mei stumbled backward, but came rushing back at Sigrid with a wild over-the-shoulder chop. Sigrid sidestepped the swing and clamped down hard on Mei’s wrist, twisting as hard as she could. The bokken fell to the ground.

Mei looked completely surprised. Clearly annoyed, the older girl grabbed at Sigrid’s wrist, but Sigrid brought her hand, palm-up, twisting and thrusting down, breaking the grip before landing a solid blow to Mei’s chin. Even Sigrid gasped, surprised at her own skillful execution of the move. I’m winning! she realized. Her heart beat faster; she’d never beaten anyone—ever!

Sigrid grabbed for the girl’s collar and kicked hard at her ankles. She pushed with all her strength, determined to knock her down, but Mei was far bigger and stronger. Sigrid’s clumsy attempt at brute force failed and Mei pushed her backwards, planting her foot hard in her stomach. The attack sent Sigrid tumbling onto her rear, winded.

Mei fell upon her instantly. Thoughts of a victory were quickly dashed as Sigrid tried desperately to block the fists that flew at her face. Mei landed several blows, bruising her further and bloodying her nose.

Then Suko surprised all of them. She leapt up and grabbed Mei by the collar, hauling her off Sigrid; who was now completely shocked as well as shaken—the girls were never to interfere with another match.

“Ms. Tansho!” Rosa bellowed. All the girls froze. “This is not your fight.”

“But she was—”

“Ten laps around the compound.”

After a quick, worried look to Sigrid, Suko bowed to Rosa and darted off to do her laps. The other girls grew quickly silent, fearful that Rosa might send them out to run more laps as well.

Rosa clapped his hands and gestured for the girls to continue. Sigrid couldn’t believe what Suko had just done for her—she fretted her friend would get in terrible trouble. She was still watching Suko jog away when Mei charged and flattened her with a diving tackle. Mei seemed in no hurry to get off her, either, as she lay on top of her, crushing her chest.

“You have no focus, young one,” Rosa barked. “Ten laps for you, so that you may think about your failure.”

Sigrid groaned and tried to pull herself out from under the older girl who was making things as difficult as possible. She heard a pleased snicker from Sara.

Mercifully, Rosa also heard it. “And you may join her as well, Ms. Skarsden, since you find this so amusing. Ten laps—go!” Sara mouthed several curses, but stood and bowed to Rosa before slinking off to join Suko and Sigrid on their run of shame. “All of you—you must learn that when one of you falters, you all falter. Ten laps each.”

The girls sat stunned for a moment.

Rosa clapped his hands so loudly it sounded like he’d fired a shot. “Go!”

The girls moved slowly to their feet, bowed and skulked off, none of them daring to groan or complain.

Sara caught up to Sigrid easily, and slowed, glaring at her. Sigrid saw the hate in her eyes; she knew Sara was plotting something particularly foul.

Sigrid didn’t expect it to come so soon, though, as someone pushed her hard from behind. She almost caught her footing, but a loose rock was her undoing and she stumbled sideways. Sara clinched it by giving Sigrid an extra shove and she skidded hard to the ground, face first, skinning her knees and the palms of her hands. The cut on her lip reopened and she tasted blood and dirt.

As Sigrid lay there, she thought the ground felt oddly comfortable. If only she could just lie there for a moment. She rolled onto her back and found herself staring up at Suko; her head blocked out the sun, creating a halo around her black hair and ponytail.

“I don’t think Sara likes me very much,” Sigrid said, staring up at her friend.

Suko grabbed her hand and yanked her up. “I like you,” she said, in such a way that made Sigrid smile. “And I thought you did great against Mei. You totally freaked her out with that wrist block.”

Sigrid tested the looseness of her tooth with her tongue. “Yeah, well next time I’ll watch out for the follow-through.”

Sigrid was the last to finish her run—along with Suko, who ran beside her. She was just entering the dormitory to wash when Sara stepped out and blocked the doorway, standing on the steps with her arms folded before her. Two of her cronies stood behind her, making sure that neither Sigrid or Suko could get past.

“Ah, crap,” Sigrid said.

Suko rolled her eyes. “Give it a rest, Sara. You’ll make us all late.”

“If we’re late, it’s her fault,” Sara said. “I’m sick of this and I’m sick of you. Why they even wanted you here is beyond me.”

It was beyond Sigrid too, but she wasn’t about to tell Sara as much.

Sigrid could see that Sara was itching for a fight, eager to beat the tar out of her, but she was determined not to give her the satisfaction. Doing her best to ignore her, she started up the steps—only to be pushed back down by Sara. Sigrid tripped on the last step and fell onto her rear, hitting her tailbone. That brought a big laugh from the other girls.

Sara’s lips curled into a sneer and she looked down at Sigrid. “You’re never going to graduate, you know. You’re going to be stuck here forever. You’ll never work for Kimura. They’re going to take back every penny they gave your family.”

Sigrid looked at her skinned knees and hands, felt the loose tooth in her mouth. Every muscle in her body ached. Sara wasn’t the only one who was fed up. She hated Sara, but more than that, she hated herself for being scared.

Something inside her snapped. Sigrid screamed and launched herself at Sara, grabbing her around the legs and throwing her from the steps. Sara fell hard onto her back and Sigrid was on top of her before she could recover, pounding her face and chest. There was no thought of technique in her attack; she clawed Sara’s face and pulled at her hair, punching her over and over.

Sara’s cronies ran forward, but Suko blocked their path, giving the two girls a warning look. Sara would have to finish this fight on her own.

Sara screamed with rage, finally managing to throw the smaller girl off her, but Sigrid regained her feet first, leaping and planting a hard kick into Sara’s chest. Sara fell to the ground, but Sigrid didn’t relent, kicking her where she lay—over and over again; in her kidneys, in her ribs and with several clouts to her backside. Even as two of the instructors pulled her off, Sigrid kicked and thrashed like a wild animal, out of control.

As Sigrid calmed, she saw that all the girls had gathered to watch. Rosa was there as well.

Sara looked up at her, beaten and bloodied; she’d have several spectacular bruises, Sigrid was sure. She knew she’d gone too far, but beating Sara had been wonderful. Whatever Rosa dished out to her as punishment would be worth it. She looked at Rosa now, waiting for the expected dressing down.

He studied her with a frown, his hands resting on his hips, but instead of the expected outburst, he grunted a simple, “Hmph,” then turned and walked away. As Sigrid watched him leave, the instructors released their grips on her arms. Apparently, that was that.

With the disturbance over, the instructors ushered the girls back into the dormitory to shower and dress before supper. The girls were quiet for the most part, but Sigrid could hear the faint whispers and felt their eyes upon her.

She usually tried to avoid the showers when the other girls used them; they always teased her relentlessly about her body—they were so much more developed than she was—but today she didn’t care. No one seemed to be in the mood to tease her, not after the drubbing she’d laid on Sara. She took an extra-long shower, taking care to wash the cuts on her hands and knees. Her face stung in a number of places, but the water felt wonderful on her sore muscles.

Suko joined her at the sink while she combed out her hair. “I’m proud of you.”

Sigrid frowned. “For beating a defenseless girl on the ground?”

“Beat her?” Suko laughed. “You gave her a right bashing. She deserved it.”

Sigrid winced. “Do you think she’ll be mad?”

“Oh, she’ll be pissed. But she’ll think twice about coming back at you.”

Sigrid hoped Suko was right. She felt a strange sense of guilt—not for the beating she’d laid on Sara, but the fact that she’d completely enjoyed it. She only hoped she wouldn’t pay for it too harshly at a later date.

After dinner, they had a little time before lights-out. Suko lay on her bunk with another book; Sigrid sat next to her on the bed, holding the latest stack of letters she’d received from her mother.

Sigrid smiled as she felt the paper with her fingers. Her mother was so old-fashioned. But paper or electronic, all messages had to be uploaded to the supply ships that came twice a year. Once uploaded, they would be transported through the Warp Relays and downloaded when they reached their destination. It was a slow way to send messages, but infinitely speedier than radio transmissions that wouldn’t arrive in her lifetime. And neither she nor her mother could afford the Couriers—the little unmanned drones that orbited the Warp Relays. That was the fastest way to communicate, but the Couriers were prohibitively expensive.

Sigrid unfolded her pad, thinking of what to write back.

“More letters?” Suko asked, looking up from her book. She seemed annoyed. “I don’t know why you bother. They won’t get them for a year.”

Sigrid shrugged. “I miss them. It doesn’t feel so bad this way.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you’re going to see them again.”

Sigrid put down her pad. “What? Why do you say that?”

Suko turned on her stomach; a sour look came over her face. “What do you think’s going to happen when you’re finished here?”

“I…” Sigrid hadn’t thought about it; at least she tried not to.

“What do you think they’re training us for?”

“I know, but…” But what? “I just thought…” Sigrid felt flustered. Suko never spoke of her own family—she always avoided the subject—but Sigrid missed hers deeply. That her letter writing should anger Suko made no sense. “Well—I still miss them!” She turned back to her letter, frustrated and angry, but she couldn’t think what to write anymore.

“I don’t know why. Your parents sent you here—they sent you away. They sold you, Sigrid” Suko rolled onto her back, crossing her arms over her chest. “I hope I never see mine again. I hate them.”

“Hate them! Suko, they’re your family.”

“Even when we leave here, I won’t go back. I don’t think they’d take me even if I did.”

Sigrid felt too shocked to say anything—never seeing her family again? She couldn’t even consider that. After all, there were lots of children serving indentured contracts; theirs just happened to be with a mercenary organization. As bad as things were, Sigrid knew there were far worse places that children were sent to. How often had her parents warned, ‘Be good or it’s off to the factories‘?

But Suko—how could Suko’s family not take her back?

She was closer to Suko than she’d been to anyone. If Suko wasn’t here…Sigrid shuddered at the thought. Her life at the Academy, torturous as it was, without Suko…

No. If Suko’s family wouldn’t have her then the answer was clear. “Then you’ll just have to come and stay with me,” Sigrid said, with a firm nod of her head. “We’re family, now. We’re…sisters.”

Suko looked up at her, staring at her, studying her. Finally, her gaze softened as the anger drained from her face. She smiled and moved closer, leaning her head on Sigrid’s shoulder. “Sisters…I think I like that.”

Sigrid did, too.

* * *

August 16, 2343

Sigrid continued to wait for the inevitable reprisal from Sara, but as much as the girl kept staring daggers at her, she kept her distance and they both settled back into a routine of studies and exercises. Without Sara’s prompting, none of the other girls seemed interested in bothering Sigrid either, and she began to let herself relax for the first time.

Today, though, Sigrid and the rest of the girls were escorted out to the newly-constructed firing range for their course in Advanced Weapons training. The old weapons caused her enough trouble; Sigrid wasn’t quite sure how she’d deal with these new ones.

She did like her new instructor though. Chesna Dubnov was cut from much the same mold as Rosa; she stood tall, with a lean, athletic figure, and sported an impressive scar over her eye. Sigrid could only wonder why the woman had chosen to keep it, given it was easy enough to fix. Still, it did add a certain mystique, enhancing the woman’s already lethal qualities.

An assortment of weapons had been brought up from the armory and mounted on racks behind them. The racks were stocked with everything from recoilless handguns, eSMGs and knives, to the larger, more powerful weapons, some modern and some ancient. Arquebuses, crossbows, plasma-rifles, EMP grenades; the collection seemed part museum, part arsenal. Despite the exotic selection, Chesna decided to start the girls off with the standard issue 18 mm Marine sidearm. Sixteen of the girls were lined up at the front facing a series of targets down range—some as much a hundred meters distant. The large recoilless pistols were dreadfully loud, and Sigrid covered her ears as she watched the other girls practice, dreading her own turn soon to come.

“You’re supposed to hit the targets, ladies,” Chesna scolded as she paced back and forth through the ranks of the girls. “All right! That’s enough.” The girls stopped firing and the range fell silent again. Chesna scanned the monitors in front of her; she made a show of shaking her head in disgust. “Forty-eight percent accuracy…and that’s the best score.”

Khepri clapped her hands, but stopped when Chesna glared at her.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” she said and sighed, resting her hands on the broad weapons holster at her hip. “I don’t mind saying that I expected a lot more of you girls. All right—next group, you’re up. I expect you to double that score.”

Sigrid stepped forward, taking the weapon from the girl in front of her. She checked the chamber before slapping a new clip into the handle, as Chesna had shown them.

Hesitantly at first, the girls began firing at the targets. Sara cursed in the stall next to Sigrid; she glared at the target, then regarded the weapon in her hand skeptically. “I think it’s broke,” she said.

“Keep firing, Ms. Skarsden—and don’t blame the weapon.”

Chesna stopped by Sigrid next. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation, Ms. Novak?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then I suggest you get to it—this is a timed exercise.”

Sigrid swallowed and hefted the heavy pistol; she needed both hands to hold it steady. Dreading the scolding she was sure to get, Sigrid held her breath, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

Sigrid’s jaw dropped—she’d actually hit the target, square between the man’s eyes. She realized, then, that Chesna was still standing behind her.

“Think you can do that again?”

Sigrid looked back at her with her mouth still open. She wasn’t sure what to say, so instead turned back to the target. With the weapon grasped tightly in her small hands, she fired again, three quick shots, all perfectly grouped, splintering the wood around the previous hole she’d made.

“Very good, Ms. Novak.” Chesna pointed further downrange at the more distant targets at seventy-five and a hundred meters. “Now those.”

“Those?” Sigrid asked; she didn’t see how she could possibly, but Chesna gave her shoulder a squeeze.

This time, Sigrid held the pistol in her right hand. With her body turned sideways to the target, she raised the weapon, aiming down the length of her outstretched arm. Squeezing her left eye shut, she fired two shots, and only two shots, yet scored a hit on both targets—although she barely winged the more distant of the two. It seemed enough to satisfy Chesna though, and she patted Sigrid’s shoulder.

Beside her, Sara cursed again; she still hadn’t managed a single hit.

“You should watch this one, Ms. Skarsden. You could learn something.”

Sigrid stiffened as Sara’s eyes narrowed and stared at her. She felt herself flush.

Chesna seemed unaware, though. With her hand still on Sigrid’s shoulder, she leaned closer, speaking low in Sigrid’s ear. “Although I can’t say much for your technique. Both hands on the weapon next time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Chesna grinned, satisfied, and led Sigrid back to the racks of weapons. “See anything you like?”

Sigrid looked to the weapons mounted before her; her hand played over a longbow that was easily taller than her. The long-barreled sniper rifle also caught her attention. Her eyes glazed over.

“Uh—all of them!”

* * *

Sigrid slept deeply and happily that night. After so many months of struggling with her studies, she realized that she’d finally found something she was good at. The swords she trained with always felt unwieldy, and despite her efforts in the hand-to-hand exercises, her failures were becoming legendary; the other girls had such longer reaches than she did. But now she knew—she could shoot anything.

After dinner she’d yammered Suko’s ear off before bedtime, babbling on about all the types of weapons and how she’d hit every one of Chesna’s targets. Of course, Suko had been there and seen the whole thing, but she let her friend prattle on, smiling at her excitement.

“That’s great, Seeg,” Suko said, feeling genuinely happy for her; but her eyelids were heavy and she yawned. “Now, you hafta let me sleep! I’m knackered.” Suko laughed and hit her with her pillow.

Sigrid didn’t think she could sleep, but exhaustion from the day’s constant activities took hold and she passed out before she knew it, snoring soundly.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep when the strange, muffled sounds woke her. Her eyes struggled to focus in the dark; she could barely make out the shape of several girls by Suko’s bunk. She sat up, fully awake—two sets of strong hands grabbed her arms and two more girls grabbed her legs, tossing the sheets aside and tearing her from her bed before she knew what was happening.

Sigrid screamed. Four girls covered Suko with a blanket, pinning her to her bunk. “Suko!” she cried out, but someone clamped a hand over her mouth. Kicking and screaming, she was dragged into the showers at the far end of the dormitory. She bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth—the girl yelped and pulled it away. Sigrid called out again, more frantically, “Suko!”

As much as she struggled, it was no use; the girls dragged her down, sitting on her arms and her legs. Sara knelt behind her head, staring down at her with a menacing, satisfied grin. “Hold her,” she said.

Sara stuffed a small wash cloth roughly into Sigrid’s mouth, then used a rag to tie a gag around her head and neck, cinching it tight. It knotted in Sigrid’s hair, and she cried out a muffled scream, but Sara just laughed. “Thought I’d forgot about you, you little bitch?”

Sigrid felt their hands reaching for her underwear and her shirt, and she screamed, terrified—just a smothered, gargled sound through the rags. She got a leg free and managed a good kick to one of the girls’ faces, clawing at another, but there were too many of them and they pinned her back to the cold floor.

Sara leaned over her, staring at her, and Sigrid felt herself flush, humiliated and scared. Her heart pounded as another girl approached with a length of rope and handed it to Sara. She tried to pull away, but the girls held her fast as Sara quickly bound her, winding the thin twine around Sigrid’s wrists and ankles.

The ropes tore at the skin on her wrists, but Sigrid didn’t cry out; she knew it would just spur the girls on. Laughing at her, they dragged her into the showers and tied her to a length of pipe.

Sigrid flinched as Sara leaned close to her. “Don’t worry. We’re just going to give you a little shower.” Sara nodded to one of the other girls who turned the faucet full-on cold.

The blast of icy water hit Sigrid hard, and the girls laughed with glee, watching her struggle as she pulled at the ropes, trying to free herself. Two more girls turned on the adjoining showers, directing even more water onto her, ensuring she got a good dousing. Sigrid breathed water through her nose and choked, almost gagging on the cloth stuffed into her mouth.

“Sleep tight, bitch.” Sara’s hand rested on the light switch as she looked her up and down. Sigrid turned her body away from her, as if to shield herself from the girl’s stare, but it only made Sara laugh. Then, with a satisfied sneer, Sara flipped off the lights, leaving Sigrid alone and shivering in the dark.

Sigrid yanked on the ropes, but the thin twine only dug deeper into her wrists. Worse, the knots seemed to slip and bind tighter as the ropes got wet. As hard as she pulled, there was no escape. Within minutes her fingers and hands were numb and pruned—the water was so cold it hurt. She cried out and stamped her feet on the tiles, begging desperately, but of course, no one came back to free her.

Where was Suko? She worried now what they were doing to her. If they hurt her, when she got out she was going to…to…what? Kill them? Beat them up? There were more of them and they were bigger. What could she do against all of them? Nothing. Bound, as she was, and shaking horribly from the cold, despair filled her; Sigrid couldn’t hold back the tears that came, and she wept.

She cursed herself—cursed herself for crying and for being a fool. To think she’d actually imagined the bullying was behind her. Her shoulders ached, her hands were numb and her wrists felt like they were on fire. She was freezing. Sigrid could no longer move her fingers. She strained to arch her back, stretching, to relieve her wrists, but the girls had done a thorough job. The gag in her mouth was soaked through and Sigrid choked again on the ice-cold water and her own tears.

She had no idea how long the girls left her there, and when the bathroom lights finally flicked on she was too exhausted look up. Suko ran to her and shut off the water. She tore the gag from her face and covered her with all the towels she could grab from the laundry. Sigrid shook uncontrollably as Suko held them around her, rubbing her shoulders furiously.

“It’s okay,” Suko whispered.

She saw that Suko’s right eye was swollen and her lip was cut. Her arms were bruised where the girls had grabbed her and held her down. “F-Fuckers…” Sigrid managed through her chattering.

“Don’t worry about me. I took care of them.” Suko pulled at the knots with her fingernails and her teeth, but it was no use—the knots were stuck tight, the thin twine had shrunk in the cold water. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said with a wink.

“I’ll w-wait h-here,” Sigrid said, somehow managing a smile.

Suko returned, carrying a butterfly knife, clearly stolen from the gym.

“W-we’re not supposed to have those—Rosa will k-kill you if he finds that!” Sigrid said, suddenly worried Suko would get in trouble.

“I thought it might come in handy,” Suko said as she sawed at the twine, taking care not to cut Sigrid.

Finally freed, the pain Sigrid felt in her hands became overwhelming as the blood surged back into them; she clung to Suko, shivering, and wept openly.

“I’m sorry,” Sigrid, said, embarrassed at her outburst. “I’m acting like a child.”

Suko scoffed. “They’re the children—bloody animals. Don’t worry, they’ll get their comeuppance.”

Suko half-carried her back to her bed, putting her own blanket over her as well. Sigrid couldn’t stop shivering, nor would she let go of Suko’s hand. Suko crawled in next to her, huddling close. She placed the knife next to her under the pillow. “Tomorrow I’m teaching you little red fist,” she said, referring to one of Rosa’s favorite Kung Fu moves.

Sigrid laughed, but her shivering turned it into a series of choking coughs. She somehow managed a smile, though. She was safe now.

* * *

Sara felt something on her face, a pressure, and she awoke with a start. Something was on her chest. No, someone was on her chest. She looked up and realized that Sigrid was on her bunk. The tiny girl was kneeling on her arms. Something flashed in the dark—the little bitch had a knife.

Sara’s eyes bulged wide as she saw the knife come toward her face and Sigrid pressed the blade to her cheek.

“If you ever touch Suko again…” Sigrid hissed. There was a chill in her voice, but her hand was calm and steady where it held the knife to her.

Sara did her best to sound defiant. “What? You’re going to cut me?” Both girls were breathing hard, their eyes fixed fiercely on each other. “You don’t have the guts.”

Sigrid’s wrist flicked out and Sara felt the blade nick the soft skin under her eye. She screamed and shoved as hard as she could, sending Sigrid tumbling off the bed.

“You little bitch!”

The lights came on, and they all saw Sara standing there—blood oozing from between her fingers where she clutched her hand to her face. “You bitch!”

“Next time it’ll be your eye,” Sigrid blurted. She instantly regretted it; she couldn’t quite believe she’d said it. But it was done.

Sara ran out, screaming in rage, leaving Sigrid sitting on her rear holding Suko’s knife in her hand, traces of blood on the small blade.

Suko rushed to Sigrid’s side, grabbing up the knife. “Oh, my God—are you okay?”

Sigrid nodded, still a little stunned, not quite believing herself what she’d done. But Sara deserved it, and Sigrid wasn’t going to let her bully her or hurt Suko again.

Chapter 3

Survivor

––––––––

Felix Rosa stood at the large picture window in Dr. Garrett’s office. Outside, the girls worked at their exercises. One of his instructors worked with a group wielding Naginatas, the long Japanese bladed-staffs, while another group of girls ran a short obstacle course.

Dr. Lisa Garrett sat at her desk looking over Rosa’s report on the girls’ activities from the night before. Things had almost gotten out of hand. No. Things had, and now she had to figure out what to do. Her goals may have been purely scientific when she’d started the program, but the reality remained that she was responsible for raising thirty-two teenage girls—thirty-two genetically enhanced teenage girls, whom Kimura was currently training in some very deadly arts.

Lisa rubbed tiredly at her temples. “You must wish sometimes I’d supplied you with a group of boys.”

Rosa dismissed the suggestion. “Actually, I find them remarkably focused. They apply themselves to all their tasks with a great deal of veracity, and they demonstrate a tremendous aptitude and willingness for learning. They are dedicated and hard-working. Frankly, I’ve found the experience most satisfying.”

Lisa sighed. “Just think, if we were at Stage Four I might be able to program out bad behavior.”

Rosa chuckled. “You might want to consider starting at that stage with the next lot.”

Lisa sat back in her chair, examining the report on her pad. “In my old school, we would have expelled the lot of them. Unfortunately, we don’t have that luxury.” She needed all the girls—they were too rare a commodity. “But we can’t have them killing each other either…”

“If this were a military academy, I might consider corporal punishment.”

Lisa considered that briefly before dismissing it outright. “We’ll hold off on the lashings for the moment.”

“Do you want me to cancel their survival training?”

“No, that’s fine. It might be good to get them all out of here for a while. A change of pace might be just what we need right now.”

Rosa nodded. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

As he headed for the door, Lisa stopped him. “One thing, Felix…Novak—the little one…”

The grin that came over Rosa’s face was all the answer Lisa really needed. “She’s an interesting one. She doesn’t have the easiest time of it, not quite so big or fast as the others, but…she never quits.”

Lisa smiled. “Good.”

* * *

August 17, 2343

Sigrid and Suko stood together and watched as three Kingfisher transports zoomed out of the summer sky toward them. One at a time, they came in low, hovering briefly before coming to rest side-by-side in the center of the compound. The whine of their four dual-mounted thrusters only fed the girls’ anticipation. Today’s trip would be their first outside the Academy walls since they’d been brought there over four years before.

For a group of girls who had grown up in the crowded and dirty streets of Earth, Alcyone presented a completely alien environment; one of lush trees, mountains and flowing rivers. It was nothing like any of them were used to. The planet was sparsely populated, with only a few mining and manufacturing centers. The total population didn’t even top one million. The fact that today they’d get to ride in the Kingfishers presented a new attraction and Sigrid couldn’t wait.

The flight didn’t disappoint either. The pilots were more than happy to show off. They seemed to make an extra effort in climbing steeply and pulling up hard at the last moment as they cleared the last of the towering peaks that surrounded the Academy. Sigrid’s heart was in her throat, and she held tight to Suko’s hand as they swooped down, skimming a few feet above the ground, as they dived into the river-valley beyond.

The short flight was over all too quickly, and the transports deposited the girls in a clearing by a river that widened into a large pool. The girls took to it instantly, running screaming and splashing into the cool green water. A few of the instructors tried to get the girls out and back in parade rest, but Rosa let them go. He’d brought them here to blow off some steam—best to let them get to it.

Sigrid loved to swim, but swimming was prohibitively expensive back home. Eager to dive in, she couldn’t get her boots and shorts off fast enough. She grabbed Suko by the hand. “Come on!”

Suko held fast, digging in her heels. She’d never been to a swimming pool, let alone seen a river. “Wait. What if there’s…things in it?”

“Things? What things? There are probably fish—”

“I—I can’t swim.”

Sigrid was surprised—she’d never seen Suko frightened of anything. She pulled her hand again, but more gently this time. “It’s easy. I’ll show you. It’s okay.”

Keeping one apprehensive eye on the water, Suko pulled off her boots and shorts and let Sigrid lead her in. The day was warm, it had to be at least thirty-two degrees, but the water felt like ice on her ankles, and she squealed, hopping from foot to foot. “No way—it’s bloody freezing!”

“Come on, you big weenie.” Sigrid wasn’t having any of it and she pulled Suko deeper into the river.

When the water got up to her thighs, Suko screamed, flapping her arms. “You’re crazy!” But Sigrid kept walking backwards, dragging her in. The river deepened quickly and Sigrid began treading water—Suko was doing her best to keep her toes on the rocks as the water lapped at her chin. When the ground disappeared from under her, she panicked and thrashed and swallowed a mouthful of water, but Sigrid didn’t let go. She swam backwards calmly, holding both of Suko’s hands, guiding her along. Suko kicked and splashed wildly with her feet, but Sigrid barely seemed to move her legs at all.

“I love it! Isn’t it great?” Sigrid declared with delight.

“Gr-b-b-great,” Suko managed, spitting up more water.

“See! It’s easy.”

Sigrid let go of Suko’s hands, but Suko began to sink instantly and she kicked out, grabbing onto Sigrid. “Don’t…!”

“It’s all right. I got you.”

Back in Sigrid’s arms, Suko relaxed and let herself be guided along. The water felt lovely against her skin, even if a bit cool.

A half hour later, things were much more calm and quiet at the riverside. Most of the girls lay sunning themselves on the rocky beach. Rosa and the other instructors were relaxing up on a big rock where they could keep an eye on all of them.

Suko had long given up on the concept of swimming as recreation by the time Sigrid pulled herself out of the water.

“That was soooo good,” she said as she flopped down, wet, beside Suko. Sigrid shook out her hair, playfully spraying Suko in the process.

Suko squealed in protest. “No! It’s cold.”

“Landlubber,” Sigrid teased.

Suko lifted up the elastic of her briefs and frowned. “And I got sand in my underpants.”

The sudden low rumble of engines drew their attention and they both looked up in time to see another of the fast-moving Kingfishers crest the treetops on the hillside, zooming low to land in the clearing just downriver. All the girls stood up and craned their necks to see what was going on.

“I guess it’s time to go,” Suko said. She took Sigrid’s hand as they walked down to find out what the fuss was about. As they got closer they could see the crew offloading supply cases from the transport.

“Is that food, sir?” the redheaded girl named Leta asked.

Rosa grinned. “In a manner of speaking, Ms. Halliday.”

Sigrid had always thought Leta beautiful. She was tall for a girl, with large, deep-green eyes and a face framed by a thick mane of heavy red curls. She also seemed to be developing at an alarming rate—alarming to Sigrid, anyway, who could only dream of such curves.

Sigrid was close enough to see that the supply crates contained rope, saws, axes, some long-bladed machetes and shorter knives. Not exactly food, she thought.

Rosa began handing out the tools, studying the girls around him. “You all looked like you were enjoying yourselves so much, I thought you might like to stay for a while. We had considered leaving you here on your own without any of this. I had complete confidence that you’d all be just fine, but since this is your first outing we thought we’d cheat a little and give you some tools to make your stay here a little more comfortable.”

“Stay, sir? Here?” Leta asked.

“You don’t like this spot, Ms. Halliday?”

Leta didn’t answer; she stood blinking at him, twirling a stray curl around her long fingers.

“We’ll be back to see how you’re all making out in a few days.” His gazed hardened, focusing on some of the girls individually—Sara and Sigrid in particular—as he spoke. “I trust you’ll all do well to take care of yourselves. Look to each other—and trust in your training.” He stepped up into the transport. “I expect to find you all in good health when I return.”

Like the other girls, Sigrid was too stunned to say anything; there were hundreds of questions in her head, but none made it to her lips. And then, the transports were gone, lifting off and speeding away over the hillside. Silence returned to the clearing, with only the sounds of the river behind them and the wind passing through the thick standing of trees.

“What do we eat?” one of the girls asked.

None of the girls answered. They all knew what Sigrid knew. This was a test. They’d all taken their survival courses, but that had been classroom training, just theory in books, but this—this was designed to test them for real in the wilderness.

Mei took charge. She was the oldest, by a month, and everyone liked her so there were no objections. She divided up the tools and sent the girls off in groups to begin searching for edible plants and berries, and firewood for cooking.

“What about shelter?” Suko asked. “If we’re going to be here for a while…”

“Food first,” Mei said. “Then we’ll figure out some kind of shelter.”

Mei put Sigrid in a group to find food—something a little more substantial than berries. She shooed Sigrid off, with the simple instruction: “Go kill something.”

The river seemed like the simplest option. It was teeming with large fish. Sigrid knitted her brows in concentration as she fashioned a spear, using one of her leather bootlaces to lash her knife to the end of a strong, thin branch. With Suko splashing behind her, she set off to one of the shallower areas to spear some dinner. It turned out they did a much better job of frightening the fish, but once they stopped splashing about and managed to remain still for a few minutes Sigrid speared her first.

“I got one!” she exclaimed. She raised the silver fish on the makeshift spear to show everyone, but it promptly wriggled off the blade and splashed back into the water. Suko dived after it, only remembering after the fact that she couldn’t swim. She splashed about frantically until Sigrid came to her rescue in the four-foot deep pool.

Realizing she could stand, Suko gave her a sheepish look. “You saved me!” She laughed, and kissed Sigrid hard on the cheek. “My hero.”

Sigrid pushed her head under. Suko found this highly amusing and splashed back, but the other girls nearby berated them for losing the fish. Sigrid was more careful with the next one, making sure to grab it and give it a good whack on the rocks.

An hour later, despite the afternoon heat, their feet were so cold, and their teeth chattering so hard, that they were forced to give up the hunt.

“Well, we bagged seven,” Suko said, counting their catch. “Hopefully the other girls are having better luck.”

Shivering on the bank, they pulled their socks and boots on. Not wanting to dispense with the spear just yet, Sigrid split her other bootlace in half so that she could tie both boots up halfway. They flopped a bit, but not so much that she couldn’t walk.

There was a fire going and one of the girls had caught a rabbit. Lei-Fei made a show of skinning the unfortunate creature, doing a good job of grossing out most of the girls. Only three other girls had caught any fish, but the woods were laden with leafy greens and berries, so they all managed to eat enough to feel pleasantly full.

Suko patted her stomach. “Too bad Rosa didn’t leave us a pottle—we could’ve made some chips. That would’ve been choice.”

“I have no idea what you just said,” Sigrid said—she still struggled with Suko’s kiwi-isms. They both laughed.

As she relaxed by the fire with Suko, her belly full of fish she’d caught herself, and with none of the earthly noises of traffic and people shouting, Sigrid couldn’t remember ever having a better time.

Mei roused them all up. “We still need some shelter, people. Let’s get to it.”

Some of the girls were already off in the woods looking for branches and tree boughs to start building lean-tos. Sigrid and Suko headed off to join them. Suko had one of the axes and was just beginning to work on a small tree that looked good for a support beam when she heard a rustling and a scream a short-ways off. The two girls froze, listening, and then heard it again—a squeal, and then someone cursing.

“That sounds like Khepri,” Suko said. “Come on.”

The undergrowth was thick and the earth soft, forcing the girls to scramble and claw their way through the dense forest. They found the dark-haired Persian girl sitting with her back up against a tree. She was hurt and holding her leg. Sigrid saw the three long gashes down the side of her calf—she’d been clawed. Blood seeped through her fingers and down her leg.

She looked up at them, slightly dazed, as they approached. “Hi, guys.” She sounded more embarrassed than distressed.

Sigrid knelt by her side and pried the girl’s hand away from the wound. More blood oozed out. The cuts were long, but not deep. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches. I think it looks worse than it is. It’s all the blood.”

Sigrid took off her shirt and tore it into several strips to bandage Khepri’s leg.

Khepri grimaced. “Blech…”

“What happened?” Suko asked.

Khepri pointed off into the woods. “Big! It was bigger than me. One of those deer-thingies.”

Sigrid knew she meant the elk-like animals that roamed the forests here; smaller than elk on earth, but with an impressive array of razor sharp antlers.

Khepri laughed, embarrassed. “Silly, really. We just startled it—it charged—just kind of ran over me. I think it was more scared of us than we were of it.”

Sigrid tied off her makeshift bandages. They’d have to figure something else out for her when they got her back to the camp, but the pressure was already slowing the bleeding.

“Sara ran off after it,” Khepri said. “She got it with her spear.”

Suko’s face darkened in anger. “She left you here?”

Khepri shrugged. “Well, Sara…you know.”

“Which way did she go?” Sigrid asked.

Khepri pointed deeper into the forest further up the hill.

“You’ll be okay here for a bit?”

“Feel better already.”

“You’re going after her?” Suko asked, surprised.

Sigrid shrugged. “I want to see the animal. We’ll be right back—just a few minutes.”

“I’ll be here,” Khepri said and shooed them off.

It wasn’t difficult to find Sara; they just followed the trail of broken branches, trampled undergrowth—and blood—until they found her, crouched behind a rotting, fallen tree trunk.

Sara waved them down, signaling for silence as they approached. Sigrid peered over the thick, green moss that covered the trunk. She caught a glimpse of the wounded, furry creature as it limped off ahead of them, disappearing into the thick underbrush with Sara’s own makeshift spear sticking from its furry rump.

“I got it good,” Sara said. “Let’s go.”

She led them out and the girls followed, moving with a swift, soundless grace. They tracked the wounded animal up a steep hill and along a narrow, muddy trail. Far below, they could hear the river rushing by, rumbling and growing in volume as the canyon they skirted narrowed and deepened.

The trail led out onto a rocky outcropping on the side of a cliff. Water rippled freely down the rock-face making the ledge slick and their footing precarious. Sigrid slipped, stumbling and teetering on the edge, but Suko caught her with a steadying hand, easing her back against the cliff wall.

“Thanks,” Sigrid said. She gulped as she looked down. They could all see the steep pitch that ended in a sheer drop plunging deep into the canyon as the river roared its way over the swirling rapids—the sound was deafening.

“My pleasure,” Suko said, relaxing her grip once she saw Sigrid was safe.

The trail they were on came to an abrupt end, revealing a gap in the rocks that led into a cave. The three girls looked at one another, not sure what to do.

“Do we go in?” Suko asked.

As an answer, Sara immediately made her way inside. She’d taken two steps when they all heard a low, bawling moan—then the elk thrust its head out of its hiding place. Sara was completely startled and jumped back, her foot slipping on the rock. She teetered briefly on the cliff edge, her arms flailing. Suko grabbed for her, catching her hand, but Sara’s momentum was already carrying her over and she only ended-up pulling Suko with her as the two girls tumbled backward down the steep slope.

Sigrid had a brief glimpse of the animal tearing away down the path, but her eyes were glued in horror as she watched Suko tumble helplessly down over the loose mud and rock. Suko lost her grip on Sara. She managed to slow herself, spreading her arms and legs out as she descended face first. Sara fell backwards, doing several spectacular somersaults.

For a terrifying instant, Sigrid thought they’d both go careening over the precipice ahead of them, but Suko came to a skidding halt a few meters from the edge. Sara was saved as well, but only because she slammed into a tree—Sigrid heard the smack as Sara’s head hit the trunk.

Without a thought for her own safety, Sigrid scrambled down the slope as fast as she could, skidding, sliding, grabbing onto the branches that lashed at her legs and face. Gripping a tree-branch with one hand, she reached out and grabbed Suko’s ankle.

“I got you!” Sigrid hauled her away from the edge, grabbing onto her belt and hefting her back to her feet. Suko’s shirt was torn and she had several scrapes on her nose and face.

“Thanks.” Suko said; she had to shout over the din of the thundering river below.

Getting to Sara proved more difficult. Sara sat with her back to the tree at the very edge of the cliff. She looked dazed. Sigrid could see the blood trickling from both of her ears.

Grasping hands with Sigrid, Suko reached out to Sara, but she was too far away. “I can’t reach her!”

Inching very carefully, Sigrid crouched as low as she could, grabbing onto one of the many roots that stuck out of the loose earth. It seemed secure enough, and she eased her weight onto it, but when Suko leaned forward, it gave way, uprooting itself a good two feet, sending both of them skidding closer to the edge. It held though, if just barely. Sigrid caught her breath.

Suko turned back to her, her eyes wide.

“Sorry,” Sigrid said—Suko gulped and nodded.

Suko reached down again, stretching out—her fingers still inches away from Sara. “You need to reach up!”

Sara looked up at her, struggling to focus. “I hurt my head.” She laughed, then, looking at Sigrid, her eyes narrowed. “I don’t like you very much.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes. “Really? Now?”

“Take my hand!” Suko ordered.

Still groggy, Sara looked down and saw the drop and the rocky riverbed below. Suddenly panicked, she flailed, reaching for Suko’s outstretched arm, pulling hard, and scrambling to her feet, but the loose earth gave way and her feet slid out from under her, dangling over the cliff’s edge.

Sara clung desperately to Suko’s hand. “Don’t let me fall…”

For a sickening moment, Sigrid felt Sara’s weight pull all three of them downwards, threatening to drag them all over the edge; the river now loomed fully in Sigrid’s view, some thirty meters below. Sara looked at her, desperation in her eyes, fighting to keep her grip as much as she fought to stay conscious. She scrambled madly for footing, but found none.

Sara’s thrashing wasn’t helping any and the tree root Sigrid clung to tore free. Suko stared in horror, helpless. “Sigrid!” she called out, but there was nothing she could do.

Sigrid dug her heels into the earth, but Sara’s weight pulled them forward. Gravity reared its ugly head, and Sigrid’s vision filled with the sharp rocks of the riverbed. They were going over.

In an act of desperation, Sigrid surged forward, grabbing Suko around the waist, pushing with all her strength and leaping as far as she could out over the cliff. Suko screamed, and Sigrid thought she might have screamed along with her, as the two girls fell headlong into the canyon below.

For a terrible moment, all Sigrid saw were the rocks rushing up to meet them, but her desperate push had been just enough, and the two girls landed, not on the rocks, but in a deep, swirling pool at the side of the river. They hit the water hard and plunged deep below the surface. Sigrid felt the strong current swirling them about, pulling them even deeper until her feet found rock, and the river swept them both along on the bottom.

Sigrid’s grip on Suko never faltered. She pushed off the bottom, kicking and swimming as hard as she could. The pull of the river tugged at them, trying to drag them back down, but Sigrid fought it, finally breaking the surface.

The sound was deafening, and the surge of the whitewater completely disorienting. Suko thrashed in her arms and they both fought for air, swallowing large gulps of the water that crashed over their faces. Sigrid lost her hold of Suko as they both went over a huge, sweeping rapid, and for a terrifying, heartbreaking moment, she feared Suko had gone under. But Suko emerged a few meters away downstream, reaching out to her, kicking hard with her feet to stay above the water.

Sigrid swam to her and got an arm back around her. The river widened here, still strong and fast, but Sigrid was able to float along, holding Suko up and keeping her head well above the spray. They drifted along, letting the current carry them. The walls of the canyon were steep, stretching high up above them on all sides. Sigrid scanned the banks for a safe spot, finally kicking toward a flat mossy rock to the side. Exhausted and dazed, they dragged themselves out.

Suko coughed up a considerable amount of water and collapsed on her stomach, panting. “You’re one crazy girl, Seeg. But you saved my life.” Suko rolled over and took in their surroundings, deep in the river canyon. “I think.”

Even Sigrid had to chuckle. They were safe, they were alive, but where were they?

Suko sat up, suddenly. “Where’s Sara?”

Sigrid shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”

Both girls were shivering and they huddled together, holding each other. “You’re bleeding!” Suko said.

Sigrid hadn’t even realized; she’d lost her boots and socks, and somewhere along the way she’d cut her foot. The gash ran from the ball of her foot to her heel, bleeding bright crimson and leaving a widening trail that spread out over the wet rock on which they sat. “Uhgch…” she said, sickened by the sight.

Suko took the knife from her belt clip and cut a long strip off the bottom of her shirt. She wrapped Sigrid’s foot as best she could, tying the wet bandage tight.

“Can you walk?” Suko asked.

Sigrid looked at the vertical cliffs of the canyon that surrounded them. “I don’t think that’s an issue here.” Across the river, about fifty meters away, was the other bank. The cliffs seemed to drop much lower on that side.

Suko followed her gaze. “We’re not going back into that.”

Sigrid saw the fear on her face, but she couldn’t see any other way out. “The camp’s on that side. We’ve got to get across.” Sigrid waded into the shallows, wincing as her injured foot touched the freezing water. She turned back to Suko and held out her hand. “Come on. It’ll be okay.”

Suko took a step away from the river.

Sigrid’s voice softened. “Do you trust me?”

Suko’s eyes were fixed fearfully on the water, but when she took Sigrid’s hand, she nodded. “Yes.”

“All right.” Sigrid guided Suko slowly into the water until it was swirling around their hips. “Just relax and think floaty thoughts.” She turned Suko so her back was half-facing her and wrapped her left arm around Suko’s waist. “Okay, now just lean onto my hip—like you’re sitting—lift your feet.”

“Oh—kay…” Suko lifted her feet, and immediately began to thrash her arms in the water to steady herself.

Sigrid tightened her grip. “Just sit back—don’t try to swim—relax your arms.”

Suko forced herself to relax, and found that she was indeed floating—well, sitting on Sigrid’s hip. Sigrid pushed off and began side-stroking across the river.

Sigrid could feel Suko tense up as they moved deeper into the river, but she didn’t fight her. Sigrid tried not to think of the sound of more rapids and falls further ahead, and concentrated instead on the shoreline in front of her, still so far away. The current was dragging them downstream, faster than she’d expected.

The cliffs dropped lower and lower—the rush of the rapids ahead became ever deafening. Sigrid snagged a rocky outcropping, but the swim had left her too weak to climb up. Suko had to hoist her up onto the edge of the bank. Cold and exhausted, they lay panting on the muddy ground, shivering and clinging to each other.

“How far away from camp do you think we are?” Suko asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s that way,” Sigrid said, pointing upstream. Getting back on her feet took some effort. With the cut on her foot and having no boots, Sigrid had to lean heavily on Suko. “This sucks.”

They’d walked for perhaps an hour when Sigrid needed to stop. Both her feet were raw and her injured foot throbbed like merry hell. Sigrid still didn’t know how much further they’d need to go. It was well into the evening and the sun had nearly set; it would be dark very soon.

Suko helped Sigrid sit down, leaning her back against one of the wide redwood trees and carefully unwrapping the sodden dressing on her foot. She tore off another strip from the bottom of her T-shirt, wadding it and applying pressure, using another strip to tie it in place.

“You need to stop bleeding,” Suko said. “I’m running out of shirt.”

“You? What about me? I gave mine to Khepri.” Sigrid said, looking down at her bare midriff; all she wore now were her shorts and athletic bra. They both laughed.

“We shouldn’t walk anymore,” Suko said, sitting next to Sigrid.

The temperature was starting to drop and Sigrid shivered. “I just need a break.”

Suko put an arm around her and pulled her close.

Sigrid was exhausted and felt herself relax into Suko’s arms, resting her head on her shoulder. “Much better. Let’s just stay here for a bit.” Her eyelids felt heavy, and Suko’s body felt warm against her. I’ll just close my eyes for a second, she thought.

She realized she’d fallen asleep only when she awoke much later, cold and shivering. She felt a surge of panic when she realized Suko was gone. It was completely dark—she couldn’t see her anywhere. “Suko…!” Her voice croaked; her throat felt raw and sore.

She heard a rustling in the brush behind her, and footsteps. “I’m here!” Suko called to her, rushing back. “Sorry—I had to pee.” Suko slid back next to her. Both girls were freezing, and their arms wrapped around each other, hugging for whatever warmth they could get. “We can’t stay here—we’ll freeze.”

Sigrid nodded and tried to rise, but she couldn’t put any weight on her foot.

“And you can’t walk,” Suko said, looking at her with concern. “Come on—hop on.” Suko bent her back lower, offering it to Sigrid. “I’ll piggyback you.”

“You can’t carry me all that way.”

“We don’t even know how far it is. We might almost be there.” Sigrid looked doubtful. “Come on, Seeg. We can’t stay here.”

Sigrid surrendered to her friend’s logic and climbed on her back. It was the first time she’d been grateful for her small size. Except for a few stumbles in the dark, Suko was able to carry her with little trouble. Both girls had remarkable night-vision, and thanks to their enhanced strength Suko was able to keep a consistent pace, even up some of the steeper pitches. They both knew that if they followed the river long enough they’d eventually reach the camp.

Sigrid’s arms and thighs throbbed where she clung to Suko’s back, but she dared not complain—not with Suko doing such a valiant job carrying her. Still, she could feel Suko’s legs growing more unsteady beneath her, and her gait was beginning to falter.

“We should rest,” Sigrid said.

No further prompting needed, Suko collapsed, and both girls tumbled to the ground.

“Good idea,” Suko said, exhausted and panting. She lay on her back, staring up. “I am so hungry.”

As if on cue, Sigrid’s stomach produced a loud growl, making both girls laugh. “Me too.” They were both shivering again and held on to each other.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” Suko said.

“Me?” Sigrid said, through chattering teeth. “I’d rather be back in camp around a fire, thank you very much.”

“I’m serious. If I have to be stuck out here with someone, I’m…well, I’m just glad it’s you.”

Sigrid raised her head up, looking at Suko—Suko, who always protected her and stood up for her. Suko who was always there for her. “I’m glad you’re here too,” she said, then kissed Suko softly on the lips. Suko kissed her back, holding her hand tightly before resting her head on Sigrid’s shoulder.

When Sigrid awoke, the sun was just cresting the tops of the hills to the east; she felt Suko stirring at her side. Both girls were numb and sore—the blood on Sigrid’s bandaged foot looked black, but at least it wasn’t bleeding anymore.

“Shit a brick…” Suko said, sitting up.

“What?”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

“What?”

Suko pointed at the hillside by the river bank, and Sigrid recognized it immediately; she could just make out the edge of the clearing where they’d set camp, perhaps less than a half kilometer distant—and behind them.

“We walked right by it,” Suko said. Her look of disgust turned to a smirk and she laughed.

“Crap,” Sigrid said.

Suko helped her up; Sigrid still couldn’t walk, and she let Suko carry her the rest of the way back to the encampment. When the other girls saw them, they came running forward shouting their names—obviously worried and glad to see they were okay. Two girls whisked Sigrid off Suko’s back and carried her the rest of the way.

While Mei cleaned and put a proper dressing on Sigrid’s foot, Sigrid told the girls what happened. Sara hadn’t come back; Sigrid did her best to describe where they’d fallen from the cliff. She hadn’t seen Sara fall, but after the incident that she described, no one was hopeful. Mei sent two groups of girls to search for her, but no trace of Sara was found.

“We’ll keep looking,” Mei said. “If she’s out there we’ll find her.”

Few girls shared her optimism—they definitely feared the worst.

Sigrid noticed a few of Sara’s cronies eyeing her suspiciously. “Do…do they think I killed her?” Sigrid whispered to Suko when they were alone.

Suko shook her head slowly. “I—I don’t know…”

The other girls had managed to finish the shelter, which comprised little more than a small makeshift lean-to, barely big enough to fit all of them. The next night was still cool, but much more pleasant, spent under cover and warmed by the presence of the others—and Suko, who kept her arms wrapped tightly around her.

“I can’t breathe!” Sigrid said. They both giggled when Suko held her tighter still. Sigrid didn’t really mind; she was warm and felt safe in Suko’s arms.

After another full day of rest, Sigrid’s foot had healed enough to walk and she joined Suko and some of the other girls in a hunt. Already growing tired of fish, the girls were determined to catch something more substantial. It took a great deal of time and patience, but six of them eventually tracked and cornered one of the elk. It was Sigrid who managed to spear it, landing the killing blow. Slaughtering the beast was a hopeless and bloody disaster, leaving many of the girls green. But when it was done, Sigrid was presented with the first cuts, cooked over the roaring bonfire. The girls teased her playfully, referring to her as, ‘Our Great Provider’. Sigrid found it both ridiculous and delightful.

When the transports arrived ten days later, Rosa was greeted by the sight of thirty-one ragged and bleary-eyed girls, who seemed far from pleased with him. He was impressed by the size and fortification of their shelters, even more so when he’d been presented with the trophy of the elk antlers. But when told that Sara was missing his face took on a grim, solemn look. He acknowledged the news with a simple, curt nod. Two Kingfishers, and more transports from the school, were dispatched to look for her, but days and nights of exhaustive searching failed to turn anything up. There was no trace of her. Sara was gone.

Once the shelters had been dismantled and the area cleaned, the girls piled back into the remaining transports for the trip back to the school. The sight of the Academy had a strange effect on Sigrid after her days in the wilds. The thought of her soft, dry bed, and warm food served to her by the attending staff didn’t excite her, as much as it felt ostentatious and unnecessary. How had she ever thought of this place as austere? The school was a virtual resort, her dormitory a palace.

It was good to be back though, and she lay in her bunk that night thinking of the nights spent in the wilds with the girls, with Suko. It was the first night in a week where she hadn’t had Suko’s protective arms wrapped around her; she couldn’t help but miss them, and she tossed restlessly for an interminable amount of time, unable to sleep despite her exhaustion.

Chapter 4

Proposition

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May 3, 2346

The smoky air hung heavy in the dim light of The Prancing Beagle—one of the more popular watering holes of Vincenze Station in orbit above Crucis Prime. Major Karl Tarsus took another long gulp from his glass of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve as he studied his companion. He didn’t know the man’s name, but that wasn’t surprising; most of his clients preferred a degree of discretion. He’d worked for Smith—as he’d dubbed the man—on a number of occasions. Always the usual things: interdictions, search and seizures and the inevitable saber-rattling when the occasion called for it; but it was smalltime stuff.

Smalltime suited the major just fine. He wasn’t an ambitious man. As long as he could maintain his small fleet of four ships and keep his levies paid to the Mercenary Guild, that was just fine. But what Smith proposed was so outlandish that, when the man proposed it, he’d spewed his last mouthful of ale across the small table, drenching the man’s lapel and jacket sleeve.

“You want me to go after Kimura?” Tarsus asked. “You want me to attack one of the oldest private Mercenary organizations in the entire Federation.” Tarsus could hold back no longer and he burst into uproarious laughter. Smith stared back at him, unblinking, while he used a handkerchief to clean the drops of ale from his jacket. “I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong man. We’re a small operation. We have four ships—when they’re all functioning. Kimura…well, let’s just say they have a lot more.”

Smith pressed his thin lips together, clearly struggling with his patience. “We’re not asking you to attack the entire Kimura Military, Mr. Tarsus—”

“Major,” Tarsus corrected him.

Smith gave him a dry look. “Major. I don’t even want you to attack them at all. All we want is for you go to Alcyone—”

“Yes, yes—you want us to grab a bunch of schoolgirls off a Kimura Base. I know, Mr….” Tarsus waited once more for Smith to offer up his name, but of course the man said nothing so he continued, “I assume you don’t have a permit for this operation, either.” Tarsus knew he didn’t. By law, any military action, mercenary or otherwise, needed to be sanctioned by the CTF, otherwise known as the Council for Trade and Finance, the governing body of the Federation of Commercial Enterprises.

“No, Mr. Tarsus. We have no permit.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you. If my outfit gets caught operating without a permit…I’d lose my guild standing. Not to mention the retaliation from Kimura.”

“Spare me the negotiation tactics, Mr. Tarsus. You have no compunction against unsanctioned operations. We’re quite familiar with your organization—which is why we came to you.” Smith leaned forward. “Tell me, Mr. Tarsus, are your guild levies in good standing?”

Of course, they weren’t. Tarsus took a long pull on his ale.

“Your accounts are well in arrears, Mr. Tarsus. You’ll lose your guild standing soon enough, and I don’t see any other clients lining up to pay you the kind of sum I’ve just offered. Shall we dispense with the negotiation tactics, and cut to brass tacks?”

Tarsus waved him off. “I’d still be a fool to go up against Kimura. I have no ego in these matters. I know my organization’s limits…and this is beyond ours.”

“Thirty-two girls, six-point-two million dollars a head—surely that should be enough for you to take on any extra help you might need.”

Tarsus mulled it over and took another pull on his ale, emptying the glass. $6.2 million was an extremely generous amount. There was obviously more to the job than Smith was letting on, but that wasn’t surprising. He signaled the waitress over, ordered another and allowed himself a moment to appreciate the girl—all long legs and hips. Smith had a point and he knew it.

“Very well,” Tarsus conceded, and grumbled, “I suppose we both knew I’d say yes the moment you sat down.”

“Perhaps even before, Mr. Tarsus.” Smith rose to his feet. “I’ll transmit the particulars to your ship.”

Tarsus waved his hand dismissively again. “Yes, yes—I’ll have my man call your man…”

Smith turned on his heels and departed. Only when Tarsus was sure the man had left the bar and no one else was paying attention to him did he call over his second in command. Lt. Commander Selene Tseng slid into the booth across from him. He looked admiringly at his ‘second’. Her jet black hair curved in a flattering fashion around her strong face. Her tall, thin figure belied a raw energy he’d seen unleashed on unsuspecting attackers on many occasions. She was the most skilled pilot he’d ever encountered in his long career, and her steely, ice-cold nerves at the helm had delivered him from many a scrape over the years.

She was his protégé, even though she didn’t know it. At twenty-seven, Tarsus worried she might be too young to be taken seriously in command of a ship of her own. But her time would come, and soon. He already relied on her a great deal. He could trust her, and that was why she was the only member of his organization that he’d ever brought with him when meeting Smith.

“Did you get him?” Tarsus asked.

Selene held up a small recording device. “Right here, Major.”

Tarsus nodded, satisfied. “I think it’s time we learned the identity of our benefactor, don’t you?”

Chapter 5

Upgrades

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From The Journal of Dr. Lisa Garrett

September 14, 2346

RE: Project Andraste

Dear Hitomi-san,

I’m very pleased to report that we’ve reached the next milestone in the project. Today, we began the process of implanting the girls with the Primary Control Module. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two to complete the procedure on all of them. This will be the foundation for the Artificial Neural Network that we discussed so many times.

I’ve decided to implant an Optical Module as well, along with a small test program—something Felix has suggested. I feel this will be a good benchmark for some of the other bionics and modifications we hope to introduce in the coming years.

It will take many months to monitor the effects, but early data suggests a 100% success rate—no signs of rejection or mutation.

As for the Genetic Modifications, the girls all show the same improvements in all aspects of their biology. It will be years more before we can consider adding any of the high-level programming, but we should be able to start working with basic bionics in short order. As per your recommendation, we’ll stick with proven technology: optical implants, communication modules, etc., before introducing some of the more radical designs.

I wish very much that you could be here. Your expertise in nanotechnology would be most welcome and of great help.

Yours truly,

Lisa

Chapter 6

War Games

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November 17, 2346

“Gear up!” Chesna bellowed.

Sigrid grabbed the eSMG, checking the chamber and safety before strapping the gun to her back. The Markov XP 18 mm clipped to the holster at her hip, while the long bowie knife fitted neatly in the sheath in her tall boots. All of the girls had similar load-outs.

“That’s right. You’re all magnificent bitches,” Chesna said, appraisingly, as she inspected their ranks.

Sigrid felt magnificent. Chesna had trained them hard for months. Each girl was now a crack shot, and they could field-strip any of their weapons in a matter of seconds. But it was more than that, more than just the training, and Sigrid knew it. Dr. Garrett’s treatments…

Sigrid ran her finger over the small access port of the Primary Control Module—or PCM—tucked behind her ear above her hairline. The skin around the small, two-millimeter-wide port was still raw and red where a small section of hair had been shaved from her head. But this was the only evidence of the surgery she’d recently undergone. Sigrid was still getting used to the idea of having a computer network wired into her head, and she couldn’t stop touching the small opening.

The sun had already set behind the mountains and darkness was setting in fast. There would be no moon tonight—Rosa had chosen this night in particular to test their new upgrades. Dr. Garrett had implanted all of them with an optical implant. It gave the girls several different viewing options: infra red and night-vision. They could even see the chemical composition of the objects in their surroundings. Their genetically-enhanced vision already afforded them superior sight, but with the new optics they could see as clearly as in the light of day—albeit in a slightly hazy monochrome grey. It was jarring at first, but Sigrid had adapted to it quickly.

Across the compound, eight of the little T-48 VTOL transports sat parked in a row, waiting for the girls assembled in the field before them. The Starlings were small atmospheric flying craft, distinguished by their counter-rotating propellers mounted on each side of the fuselage. They were noisy and cramped, with barely enough room for four passengers in the rear compartment. The Starlings usually sported two 44 mm cannons mounted on each side, but those had been removed for the moment.

Sigrid caught the gleam in Suko’s eyes as she surveyed the ships. “Where do you think we’re headed?”

“As long as we get to fly, I don’t care,” Suko said.

The girls had been divided into eight fire-teams. Leta and Khepri joined Sigrid and Suko to complete their group. They gathered in front of Rosa and Chesna for the mission briefing.

Suko tossed a large, long-barreled sniper rifle to Sigrid. “Don’t forget this.”

Sigrid gripped the rifle, letting her hands play over its cool, smooth surface. It was surprisingly light and fitted well in her diminutive hands. Sigrid knew she was the smallest of the group, and certainly not the toughest or best fighter, but she was a dead-shot with anything that had a trigger.

The rifle spoke to her—literally. When Sigrid touched the weapon it scanned her implant for her preferences, automatically making adjustments to take into account her height, weight, grip-pressure and reach. It was engineered with much the same nanotechnology that the girls now shared, although on a much more primitive level.

After checking the chamber, Sigrid aimed down the sight, caressing the under-barrel.

“I think it’s love,” Leta teased, and even Sigrid laughed at this.

“All right, girls. Listen up!” Rosa shouted. The girls became instantly silent. “Ms. Dubnov and I have something a little special prepared for you today—a little game we want you to play.” He slapped the side of the 3’x3’ cargo container he was sitting on. “This is a Mark Four military transport container. We’ve dropped four of these out there, about 150 kilometers from here. Your objective is to find and locate just one of these. There are two ways to win this scenario: one—locate the container, defend the target and await extraction; two—eliminate the other teams, preventing them from securing the target. I look forward to seeing which course of action wins out. Just so you’re all properly motivated, winning teams will ride back in the transports; losing teams will enjoy a nice long walk back through the forest. It’s lovely this time of year, though, so I’m sure you’ll all enjoy yourselves, win or lose. Questions?”

A girl raised her hand, hesitantly. “Uh, how do we find the containers, sir?”

“I’m glad you asked that. Each target carries a tracking device. We’ve granted all of you network access to the Nav-Sats in orbit. Data will be displayed to you via the optical implant that Dr. Garrett has seen fit to equip you with. Next question?” Rosa scanned the girls, but no one else raised their hand.

“You may be wondering about the ordnance options,” Chesna said. “For the duration of this exercise, you’ll all be using shock-rounds.”

The shock-rounds were non-lethal paper projectiles capable of delivering a jolt of electricity in the 300 kV range. Every girl there had endured being blasted with the little stunners; Sigrid rubbed reflexively at the spot on her rear thinking about it.

“Now, unless all you ladies want to be walking back,” Rosa said, “I suggest you get underway before the other teams find their cargo first. Transport assignments are uploaded to your PCMs.”

The girls didn’t need any more prompting. They rose to their feet instantly, grabbing up their gear.

“Rattle your dags, ladies. Let’s move it!” Suko shouted, and, as one, the girls leapt forward, charging for their transport.

* * *

The compact T-48 had just enough room on the four jump-seats for Sigrid, Suko, Khepri and Leta. There were no doors on the craft and the girls all sat sideways, facing out for a better view. Sigrid rested her foot on the mounting-step, her hand clutching the handrail on the roof. The rush of air was invigorating as they crested the treetops and climbed quickly, high up and over the row of jagged mountains before them.

Their Starling pitched down sharply once it passed the last of the peaks, skimming dangerously close to the rocky cliffs. The night was black as pitch. Sigrid had only a vague sense of the rocky outcroppings dashing by, little more than a few feet away from her—a testament to the pilot’s skill and daring. Sigrid flipped her optics to the new night-setting and her surroundings swam quickly into focus. She took a moment to adjust the sharpness until everything felt natural.

The pilot accelerated, shedding altitude quickly, sweeping down low over a grassy plain. Sigrid waited for her ears to pop after the distinct change in pressure, but her new systems made the transition smooth. The ground gave way abruptly as they came to an escarpment. Down below, stretching out for hundreds of hectares, lay a dense green jungle. The nose of the Starling dipped again as the pilot took them lower still. What Sigrid thought to be the ground turned out to be the heavy canopy of the jungle forest—it looked thick enough to build a house on, and topped out at nearly a hundred meters above the jungle floor.

The pilot signaled they were landing as they sliced through the trees towards a small clearing. Sigrid linked her PCM to the Nav-Sats, their location was displayed clearly in her HUD. The flight had taken them 147.24 kilometers from the school, but they were still nine kilometers away from the nearest cargo drop. Sigrid tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Can you take us closer?”

The pilot frowned in response and jerked his thumb, signaling an emphatic, ‘out!’.

“Worth a shot,” Leta said.

The four girls hopped out and the Starling zoomed off as soon as they’d cleared the props. Sigrid looked around. Thick-trunked redwoods towered over them. The ground was mossy and soft and thick with leaves. Even at night the humidity was stifling. It was all so different from the mild climate they were used to. Within minutes their clothes were damp and clinging to them.

Suko grabbed her bowie knife and cut the legs off her trousers. “Much better,” she said and sighed.

“And fashionable,” Sigrid teased. The long pants were uncomfortably hot so she quickly followed Suko’s example, slashing off the legs of her own pants—Leta and Khepri did the same.

“I just hope there aren’t any brambles,” Leta said.

Suko realized she hadn’t considered the underbrush. “Oh…”

“Oh, crap,” Khepri said, wondering if she could reattach the pant legs.

Leta surveyed their surroundings. “Which way do we go?”

All the girls keyed their PCMs to summon up the information. Two of the containers were over twenty kilometers distant with the other two located closer at twelve and nine kilometers, respectively. They ruled out the closest target—it rested on the other side of a rather imposing mountain. The other one might be further, but they’d have a clear run to it .

“All right,” Suko said. “We’ll go for that one—looks like we head east about five klicks to that river, then we can just head north along the ridge.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Leta said.

They took off toward the river, running impossibly fast for average teenagers—though they were hardly average girls. Thanks to their genetically modified bodies, most of the girls could cover a kilometer in less than two minutes. The undergrowth wasn’t very thick, but they encountered numerous fallen trees that needed to be hurdled over or crawled under. This slowed their progress, but only slightly. Sigrid did her best to keep abreast of the pace. If anyone other than Suko had been leading, they’d have left her behind long ago, but Suko stayed by her side, jogging easily.

“Want me to carry that for a bit?” Suko asked, pointing to the sniper rifle Sigrid was forced to lug along.

Sigrid shook her head, concentrating on breathing and not stumbling. “Figures they’d give me all the extra stuff to carry,” she said, managing a brave smile.

“You’re doing great.”

After all of Dr. Garrett’s work on her, Sigrid had hoped her days of trailing the other girls were over, but of course they’d all received the same enhancements. As fast as she had become, she was still slower than the rest of the girls.

As they reached the river bank, Suko stopped suddenly, dropping to a knee. “Hold up!” Suko looked around quickly, scanning the area. “What the…?”

“What is it?” Sigrid asked.

“I could have sworn…I’m sure I picked up something up on the scan. It just blipped—but it’s gone.”

“Can you replay it?” Khepri asked.

Suko scanned the data, playing it back and transmitting it to the other girls through their implants. Sure enough, they all saw it, just a brief blip picked up from the Nav-Sats, and then it was gone.

Sigrid gasped. “What was that?”

“It looked like something flying by,” Suko said, “but then I lost it,”

Leta craned her neck, looking skywards. “Probably just one of the transports.”

Suko narrowed her eyes. “Maybe—I don’t know. Let’s just be careful. I don’t feel like getting zapped.”

Khepri looked uneasily at the dark forest and the river before them. “Let’s get moving. I don’t feel like walking back, either.” She began to wade out into the river. It was about twenty meters wide, and shallow. The dark, murky-brown water was barely moving.

“Gah…!” Khepri said, as she moved further out in the water.

“What?” Sigrid asked.

She turned back with a disgusted look on her face. “It’s all swampy—muddy. I keep sinking.”

Sigrid nudged Suko and grinned. “Well, at least I don’t have to carry you across.”

Suko gave her a swat on her rear.

The other three girls waded in. It was slow going—Sigrid’s feet kept getting sucked down into the clinging mud. She fell over and had a horrible feeling as her hand got sucked down as well. Suko grabbed her belt and yanked her up. “Now, who’s carrying who?”

Sigrid gave her a sly look. “Shouldn’t that be, whom?”

Suko swatted her again.

Three of the girls made it across, but Khepri had stopped just short of the bank, still up to her knees in the murky water.

“What is it?” Suko asked.

Khepri crinkled her nose in disgust. “I lost my boot in the mud!”

“We’ll come help,” Suko offered.

“I’ll find it!” Khepri said, clearly irritated over the missing footwear. Losing a boot would not be good, given the distance they still had to travel. “What the…” Khepri said, standing up straight.

“What is it?” Sigrid asked.

“Something just—Gahh!” Khepri screamed, leaping back out of the water—closely followed by the biggest snake Sigrid thought could ever exist. The other girls screamed in unison as Khepri fell back on her rear in the mud.

Sigrid had no idea how long the creature was but it looked at least twenty centimeters thick at its middle. It was the same murky-brown color as the mud by the shoreline and had no eyes in its round, bulbous head. The girls drew their pistols, but before they could fire off a shot, the snake slid back into the dark water, disappearing below the swirling surface.

Sigrid’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Nobody moved; they were all still aiming at the spot where the serpent had vanished just a moment before.

Khepri finally broke the silence. “Found it!” She held up the muddy boot in her left hand. They all burst into laughter—they also moved well away from the edge of the water.

“I hope we don’t have to go back this way,” Leta said.

Suko nodded. “Well, let’s make sure we’re not the ones walking back. Come on. We need to find that crate.”

According to the map, their best route was up a steep, slippery hill. Scrambling up the nine-hundred meter slope took far longer than any of them liked. Sigrid worried they wouldn’t get there in time—and that she was the one slowing them down. At the top of the hill, they were relieved to find that the forest gave way to a grassy clearing, sweeping down into another valley.

Suko pointed north. “Straight that way. Another nine-point-three kilometers. If we follow that ridge, it should be somewhere near the base of that hill.”

Sigrid unhooked the sniper rifle from its harness and sighted down the scope to the spot. The forest was tangled and dense there. She adjusted the scope, zooming in to 40x, then again to 80x; the stabilizer in the stock kept the weapon perfectly steady. Gradually, Sigrid pulled back, scanning along the ridge-line.

“Shit,” she said. She spotted something—something moving. She sighted again and focused on the team of four girls ahead of them moving along the ridge toward their target. “Dammit!”

“What?” Suko and Leta asked both at once.

“There’s another team up ahead,” Sigrid told them, without taking her eye from the scope. The other three girls crouched low, instinctively. “I think they’re going for our cargo.”

“Shoot ‘em!” Khepri urged.

“I can’t! The stun-round’s only good for eighty meters.”

Suko was already taking off after them. “Come on!”

Khepri threw her arms up in the air. “Wait! They’re too far ahead.”

Suko turned back, smiling excitedly. “Yeah, but they still have to wait and hold for extraction. They might get there first—but we can still win. We can do this!”

Leta grinned. “Then, we better get moving.”

Spurred on, the four girls tore down the grassy slope, running much faster now, clearing the distance with superhuman speed. They stopped twice for Sigrid to scan ahead with her sniper scope, but there was no sign of the team ahead of them. When they got within five hundred meters of the target they slowed, moving much more cautiously; each girl held an eSMG in her hand as they spread out into the tangle of the forest. They knew the other team would be waiting somewhere up ahead.

Sigrid’s heart was racing in her chest as she scanned the thick undergrowth around her. She was so intent on scanning ahead and on her flanks that she didn’t see the half-buried log in front of her, and she tripped, sprawling forward in the dirt. She banged her knee, and her weapon fell from her hand.

It was also what saved her. Just as she fell, Sigrid heard the telltale whoop-whoop of two shock-rounds whipping by over her head and smacking into the tree beside her. Leta wasn’t as lucky and she was struck; Sigrid watched her fall, twitching onto the forest floor about twenty meters away.

Sigrid rolled behind a tree without thinking, ducking as two more shots whizzed by her ear, crackling through the air. She looked around frantically. She couldn’t see Suko or Khepri. A wave of panic swept over her. Had they run off or had they also been shot? Her heart hammered out a frantic rhythm in her chest—she couldn’t find the eSMG she’d dropped! She didn’t want to lose.

She heard the crack of a twig and footsteps coming closer—heavy footsteps. Too heavy and clumsy to belong to any of the girls.

Sigrid forced herself to calm down and concentrate. Pulling her sidearm from its clip at her hip, she rolled out from behind the tree. The man in the strange olive-green uniform almost tripped over her as he ran by.

Sigrid rolled onto her back, leveling her sidearm at him. There was a frozen moment where the two of them simply stared at each other, both surprised by each other’s presence. The man snarled; it was enough to snap Sigrid out of her shock, and she fired three shock-rounds into his chest.

Nothing happened. “Shit.” The man was wearing body armor. The paper stunners were useless.

Startled at first, the man regained his composure and stared down at the teenage girl lying prone before him. He laughed as he leveled his huge pistol at Sigrid’s face.

But Sigrid was lightning fast in response. Her genetically modified reflexes took over and she scissored her legs and flipped up onto her feet before he knew what was happening. He fired, but the blast was late. She stepped in close and grabbed hard at his wrist, twisting it forcefully.

The man grunted in pain and surprise and dropped the gun. Angry, he swung his fist at her head. Sigrid was glad to be so short at that moment; she barely had to duck, and she brought her knee up hard into the man’s crotch, following through with as much force as her five-foot-tall body could muster.

Groaning loudly, he sank to his knees.

Gouging, biting, hair-pulling…hitting below the belt. Rosa had drilled it into them. There was no such thing as a fair fight. All vulnerabilities must be exploited.

Suko and Khepri ran up; Khepri gaped at the man “What the fuck…?”

“He’s wearing body armor,” Sigrid said. Khepri raised her pistol and shot him pointblank in the face.

“Garr…sonofa…” He snarled, flailing and twitching violently before passing out.

“Holy shit!” Suko said.

“Who the hell’s that?” Khepri asked. She nudged him with her foot, making sure he was unconscious, before tying him with a set of plastic binders.

Suko picked up his assault rifle. “And what’s he doing with this?” She pulled out the magazine—it was full of shockers, similar to the type the girls were using.

“Do you think it’s part of the exercise?” Khepri asked.

Suko shrugged. “I suppose. Hey—where’s Leta?”

“Leta!” Sigrid leapt to her feet. She’d totally forgotten her. She darted off toward the place where Leta had been shot, barely taking three steps before tripping over the damned log again. “Mother fu—” Sigrid looked down. She’d been mistaken. The obstruction wasn’t a log. It was the body of one of the girls.

“Jia…” Sigrid turned her over, brushing her dark hair out of her face. Her eyes were open and glassy. Sigrid could see that she was dead—stabbed in her chest and abdomen.

Suko dropped to her knees beside her. “Oh my God…”

Khepri shook her head in disbelief. “What the fuck?”

All three went instantly into defense mode, scanning the area carefully.

“Let’s find Leta,” Sigrid said, and they moved off with due caution.

When they found Leta, she was struggling to sit up.

“Owie…” she moaned, rubbing the tender spot on her chest where the charge had hit. The stun-round was still stuck to her so Sigrid pulled it off, unhooking the little barbs carefully. Leta was still a little woozy and so the girls had to steady her. She pulled open her shirt looking at the angry welt on her breast. “Bloody well hit me in the boob.” She giggled.

Khepri cocked an eyebrow and muttered, “…not like it’s hard to miss…”

Suko elbowed Khepri firmly in the side, forcing a grunt from her. “What?”

Leta shook her head to clear the fog. “Anyway, I’m okay. What happened?”

The girls told her of the man, how he’d attacked Sigrid, and about Jia, and how they’d found her stabbed to death.

“This is insane,” Leta said. “This can’t be part of the exercise. They wouldn’t kill us…” A doubting look spread over her face. “Would they?”

“Fuck it. I’m calling for Evac,” Suko said. They’d forfeit the exercise, and there would be hell to pay, but none of them were worried about that anymore.

Suko keyed her communications implant—another element of their new bionics. Her eyes shot open in surprise. “I—can’t get through! Something’s jamming me.”

Sigrid felt a heavy knot form in her gut. “If someone’s jamming our signal…”

“Someone doesn’t want us to get out of here,” Leta said.

Khepri shuddered. “What do we do? Do we go back?”

Suko shook her head. “No way. What if there’s more of these guys—what if they go after the others? We have to go after them.”

Khepri’s jaw dropped. “Go after them! With what? Shock-rounds? We don’t even know how many there are.”

“Fuck it,” Leta said. “Let’s kill ‘em all.”

“How? Where!” Khepri protested.

Suko gave her a firm, but calming look. “If someone’s jamming us—if someone’s really after us, then they’ll go for the cargo beacon. If they’re not, then Jia’s team should be there. Either way, that’s our target. We have to at least check it out.”

“Fuck, ya,” Leta said.

“Wait,” Sigrid said. “What if this is one of Rosa’s tricks…?”

“Then I’ll kill him,” Suko said drily.

There was nothing more to be said. The girls gathered their gear and headed to the target drop.

A dense thicket lay between them and their target. The four girls approached the area cautiously using all the tricks Rosa had taught them. They advanced quickly and in silence, flitting from cover to cover, little more than shadowy blurs in the dark woods. Not a twig was broken, or a leaf disturbed. All the time, they watched their flanks, scanning ahead with their thermal and chemical optics for anyone hiding in the underbrush.

At the bottom of the hill, just as Suko had predicted, they found the container—guarded by five men in the same green uniforms. Like the first man they’d encountered, they all wore light body armor and bulky night-vision goggles. All of the men carried assault rifles.

“Shit,” Leta said.

Suko looked at Sigrid. “Any sign of Jia’s team?”

Sigrid pulled out the sniper rifle and scanned. She shook her head. “Just these guys.”

“What are we going to do?” Khepri asked.

A familiar, determined look came over Suko’s face. “We take these guys out.”

“With what?” Khepri looked at her weapon in disgust. “They gave us bloody toys.”

Leta growled, “You know Rosa’s training. We don’t need weapons. We can take these assholes.”

Sigrid continued to scan the men through her scope. “I can get one easy. Maybe two before they know something’s up.”

Suko’s eyes were still fixed on the scene before them. “Well…the others won’t likely stand around waiting to be shot. We’ll need to get close.”

Leta’s face lit up. “Ooh! I have an idea.” She started pulling off her shorts and shirt. “Rosa’s always going on about misdirection, right…” In a matter of seconds she had stripped herself down to her underwear.

All the girls had gone through a rather healthy growth spurt thanks to their modifications and enhancements, but the process provided an added effect on Leta and her more obvious womanly attributes. Leta untied her hair to release the tight ponytail she kept and shook out her voluminous curls. They cascaded over her shoulders and down the curve of her bare back, reaching down to the narrow tuck of her waist. At nearly six feet, the term statuesque hardly did Leta justice. Her full, curving hips gave way to a pair of long and stemmy legs; the simple bra she wore labored to contain her shapely breasts. Sigrid felt positively like a child in comparison.

Suko grinned. “This is your plan?”

Leta wasn’t done yet. With a wink to Suko, she took out her bowie knife and slashed a large gash in her hand.

Suko held up a hand, trying to block the ghastly sight. “Gah!…what are you doing?”

Leta let the blood pool into the palm of her hand before rubbing it over her face and chest. She grabbed up handfuls of muddy earth from the ground, slathering the muck all over her arms, face and stomach. “Do my back,” she said.

Picking up on the plan, the girls joined in, with Leta adding even more blood from her injured hand. The effect was ghoulish.

“One last thing,” Leta said. The girls watched as Leta contorted her face, her mouth curving down. She seemed to heave and convulse a little before the tears came as she made herself cry. “There—that should do it,” she said, pouring forth an impressive stream tears.

“Dear God…” Suko said, torn between horror and amusement.

“This’ll distract them!” Leta said. “A little…misdirection. Just like in our training. Wait for me to get close, then move in.”

Sigrid grabbed Leta by the arm. “Are you crazy? They’ll kill you.”

“I don’t think so. Look, they tried to stun me the first time—and you. Besides,” she said, “you guys got my back.”

“Yeah, but they killed Jia…”

“Just be ready to move in.”

Still very uncertain, Sigrid let go of Leta’s hand, and the girls headed toward their target and the group of men guarding it. Suko moved to the right in a flanking maneuver, while Khepri slunk around to the left side. Sigrid found a spot where she could cover them all with her sniper rifle. When the other girls were set, Leta strode forward, putting on quite a show; she thrashed through the thicket in the darkness, sobbing and making quite a racket.

Through her scope, Sigrid watched as the men’s attention shifted. She could hear Leta calling out to them, “Help—help me, please!” Three of the men moved cautiously toward her, but the others kept watch on their flanks. When Leta crashed into the clearing—a sobbing, half-naked, bloody mess—the other men couldn’t help but turn to stare at her.

As Leta collapsed on the ground, crying, the men hurried to the beautiful girl in distress. The men on the perimeter also began to head over to witness the drama.

Sigrid had one of them in her sights; she saw the pale flash of his exposed neck and squeezed the trigger. He stood up, stock straight, convulsing as the little slug unleashed its charge of electricity. Before he hit the ground, Sigrid aimed at the man on his left and fired, hitting him in the back of the thigh. The man went down in a heap.

The men on the perimeter were completely focused on the chaos in the middle of the clearing when Suko and Khepri rushed silently out from behind them. Both girls fired their eSMGs. Suko hit her target in the unprotected area by the man’s rear, but Khepri missed. She was still rushing at the man when he turned, leveled his assault rifle and blasted her. Khepri screamed and fell—unconscious or dead, Sigrid didn’t know.

Sigrid fired again; the shot glanced off the man’s armor, but it was enough to distract him. Suko jumped on him from behind, tackling him to the ground.

Leta was unarmed and had to improvise. She leapt on the back of the only man still standing. Her legs wrapped around his waist as she held his neck, clamped in the crook of her elbow, while her free arm provided extra leverage. She looked like a wild animal, bloody and filthy, and with her red hair flailing madly about as she clung to the man’s back. He clawed at her, stumbling, trying to throw her off, but she kept her grip, even as he fell over backward, landing hard on top of her, until he finally went limp.

Sigrid turned the scope back on Suko. She was pinned down, wrestling the last of the men. Both of them had their hands on his assault rifle, grappling for possession. Sigrid aimed, looking for an exposed spot; she couldn’t let anything happen to Suko…

She heard, more than felt, the thwack of the stun charge as it hit her in the rear. There was no pain; that would come after the effects of the stun wore off. The rifle fell from her hands and she slumped to the mossy earth, face down in the mud. Her head swam and she kept losing focus, but she didn’t lose consciousness. Her genetically modified body could handle the effects much better than the men. She experienced a moment of terrible panic when she tried to breathe and choked back a mouthful of dirt, but someone grabbed her from behind and flipped her over. She spat out mud and a twig, and concentrated on breathing through her nose.

She struggled to focus on the man sitting on her chest. He clutched the collar of her shirt, gathering it in his fists, pulling her face close to his. His mouth hung open as he scanned her from behind the bulky night-vision goggles. His breath smelled foul and felt hot on her cheek.

He tapped the communicator clipped on his ear. “I got one!” he shouted, clearly happy with himself. He waited a moment and tapped the transmitter again. “Stevens…Martinez…?” He waited again, scanning the woods around him. “Son of a…” Tearing the goggles from his face, he drew a long, black ceramic-bladed knife and held it to her neck. “…bitch.”

He cuffed her across her chin with the side of his fist. It hurt like hell. Then Sigrid realized, yes—it hurt. The shocker had a paralytic effect, but it was wearing off remarkably fast. She wiggled a finger—she could move. Slowly, she reached down to her hip and unclipped her pistol, but her fingers were still clumsy and the man heard the movement.

“Bitch!” he said again and grabbed the gun away from her, tossing it aside.

He was still watching the gun fall when Sigrid pulled the knife from her belt. She slashed at him, cutting him in a wide gash across his arm. He grabbed her wrist and kneeled on both her arms.

“Fuck!” He looked at the blood flowing from the cut. “What the fuck are you girls on?” He held the tip of his own knife under her chin. “I’m not supposed to hurt you, unless you resist.” He drew the tip of the knife down along her neck to the collar of her T-shirt. He lifted up the shirt collar with the tip of the blade, slitting the fabric. “I think we’re past that…”

Sigrid felt her pulse quicken as he drew the knife down her chest. He made a quick upward slash and more of the light fabric parted. He smiled. Sigrid tried to lift her legs; she wanted to grab his neck in a scissor hold, but was still weak from the effects of the stun.

He struck her hard with the back of his hand—the knife grazed her cheek and cut her. “I told you to keep still!” Sigrid tried to kick him again, only to be punched hard and repeatedly. She felt blood dripping from her nose as her vision became fuzzy. When he punched her again she almost blacked out.

“Get your hands off her, fucker!” Suko’s scream rang through the trees like a war cry.

Sigrid saw only a blur as Suko dived over her and onto the man. She tackled him high, slamming hard into his neck. They both rolled over in the mud in a wild and grappling heap. The man still had his knife, but Suko had hers as well. She parried his swipe easily and brought her own blade down hard, twisting it as she plunged it deep into his chest. His body twitched in a last, violent spasm, spitting up blood as his life leaked away.

With the fight over, Suko ran, stumbling, back to Sigrid. “Seeg!” she called out, pulling her close and hugging her hard. Sigrid lay limp in her arms as Suko wiped the mud and blood from her face. “Sigrid!” Deeply concerned, she checked her friend’s condition. Sigrid’s eye was swollen and her nose was a bloody mess. “Tell me you’re okay!” she cried, trying to shake the life back into her.

“Ow…not so hard!” Sigrid said in mock protest. “I’m okay—just feel a bit…woozy, is all.”

Leta arrived at the scene, panting for breath. She knelt beside Suko, wrapped her muddy arms around Sigrid’s neck and hugged her almost as vigorously as Suko had. “Thank God you’re okay.” She looked over at the limp form of the young man and saw Suko’s blade sticking out of his chest. “You…killed him.”

Suko wiped her sudden tears away with a dirt-streaked fist. “I thought—I thought he was going to kill Sigrid.”

Sigrid thought she may be right.

“Why would Rosa do this?” Leta demanded, tears flooding her own eyes. “Who are these guys?”

None of the girls could answer that one.

“Let’s get to the beacon,” Sigrid said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The others nodded and they made their way back down the slope to the cargo container; Sigrid leaned heavily on the two girls. The body of the other man Suko had killed lay on the ground where he’d bled out from the gash in his neck, but the others were gone. The stun charges were only effective for a short time and the other men had escaped.

Leta looked around frantically. “Where’s Khepri?”

They all scanned the woods, holding their weapons ready, but there was no sign of the men or their friend.

“They must have taken her,” Suko said.

“Fuck it,” Sigrid said. She slapped the homing beacon on top of the container that would send a signal to their transport to come pick them up. Nothing happened. Sigrid activated her implant and scanned the transponder. It was armed, but not transmitting. “Dammit!”

“Jamming…?” Leta asked.

Suko huffed. “Well, this is going right down the gurgler.”

“For once, I think I actually know what you mean.” Sigrid tried accessing her com-link again. Nothing. A horrible thought occurred to her. “Do you think there are more of them? Do…do you think they’re going after all the girls?”

Leta stomped her feet in the mud. “What the fuck is going on?”

Suko hushed her with a hand. “Quiet!”

Sigrid also heard it—the sound of a transport coming toward them.

The three girls moved quickly into the cover of the surrounding trees. The transport was on them fast. Sigrid could see it was a large craft—not the T-48s they’d flown in on. Neither was this one painted in the red and black colors of Kimura, but rather a dark-olive-drab, and with no markings on it.

It hovered above them; its four heavy thrusters blasted up fragments of dust and dirt and rock, forcing the three girls to shield their eyes. It hung there for what felt like an eternity before spinning horizontally on its axis, scanning the area with two floodlights suspended from its belly. Sigrid almost cried out as her optics were overloaded by the blinding, bright lights. She quickly dialed down the implant before opening her eyes again. She got a good look at the pilot in the cockpit. He wore the same dark-green uniform, but he wasn’t anyone she recognized. Two more crew members manned the hulking chain-guns mounted on each side.

They had to have spotted them. Sigrid quickly calculated how she’d react, where she’d move, if the thing opened fire. But then a blast from its thrusters pushed it up and over the crest of the hill and out of sight.

“What the hell was that?” Leta said.

“Wait, look!” Suko pointed off in the direction the transport had gone. They could all hear its thrusters powering down as it came to rest beyond the copse of trees that concealed them, landing less than a kilometer away.

“Come on!” Sigrid said. They took off as fast as they could through the trees, and within a minute they saw the transport sitting in a small clearing near a rocky creek. Suko raised her fist, signaling the others to stop. She dropped to her knee. Leta and Sigrid instantly followed suit, taking cover in the brush.

Down below, just ahead of them, were another group of men gathered around the transport. Her heart sank when she saw four of the other girls lying face down in the dirt. Khepri was definitely one of them, and so was Mei, and possibly Lei-Fei. There was no way to tell whether the girls were alive or dead, but Sigrid and Suko and Leta all shared an unspoken resolve—they would not let the men escape with their friends.

Suko signaled Leta to flank around to the right. Leta nodded, disappearing quickly into the woods.

“Sigrid, I want you stay here, just like last time. We’ll wait for you to take the first one out.”

“No!” Sigrid said, grabbing Suko’s arm. She didn’t want Suko to leave her again. But when she looked again at the fallen girls she knew it was the only way. “Okay—I’ll be okay.”

Suko squeezed her shoulder and headed off.

Sigrid un-holstered the sniper rifle. The men were hurrying to load the girls into the transport. At least they were alive—she hoped. She couldn’t let the transport take off, but her weapon was useless against the craft.

She heard the boom of the thrusters powering up; she couldn’t wait any longer. Sigrid fired her first shot, hitting one of the men in the face—not the most effective spot for the stun-round, but it gave her a certain satisfaction. She aimed at the next man and fired. He fell hard, lying twitching in the dirt. She heard the shouts and ducked back down as the men opened fire—real bullets this time. She cursed. If only she had some actual lethal ammunition. One explosive round could take out the lot of them.

Sigrid heard more firing, this time from Suko and Leta shooting from their flanking positions. They each fired quick, efficient bursts and all their shots hit home. The pitch of the transport engines increased to a whistling howl. She couldn’t let it take off, not with the girls still inside. Before she knew what she was doing, she was off and running down the hill towards it, covering the seventy meters in less than eight-seconds.

The large craft was already lifting away from the ground. She dived, grabbing onto one of the landing struts. Suko darted after her, barely managing to get a hand onto the tail gear at the back. Sigrid quickly hauled herself up into the belly of the craft. The two crew in the gunnery pods looked up, startled. Strapped into the pods, they were completely helpless. Sigrid showed them no mercy. She threw her bowie knife, burying it in the chest of one, before smashing the butt of her rifle in the face of the other.

She almost failed to react in time as the pilot fired back at her with his sidearm, but it was a wild, desperate shot, which she dodged easily. She was already off balance when he threw the controls hard over, banking the craft so steeply Sigrid almost tumbled out of the open port.

Sigrid clawed her way the three steps to the open cockpit. When the pilot reached back to fire at her again she was ready. She grabbed his wrist, and without even bothering to disarm him, she twisted his arm around and fired three times into his chest. The pilot slumped forward on the stick and the transport nosed sharply down, hurtling toward the ground not far below.

She made a mad grab for the control stick and heaved it back. The thrusters screamed in protest, and the transport bucked, leveling out moments before impact.

Sigrid slid into the co-pilot seat and throttled down. Her actions were greeted by an abrupt and eerie silence—she’d somehow managed to kill the engines—the huge transporter dropped the last fifteen feet and crashed to the ground. The four captured girls looked up at her blearily from the back of the compartment where they’d been piled, still bound, still suffering under the effects of the stunners. But they were alive.

And then Sigrid remembered—where was Suko? She hadn’t made it into the transport.

“Suko!”

Sigrid leapt from the craft and landed running, frantically searching for her friend. She found her lying in the little creek bed, sprawled on her back, motionless. Sigrid ran to her, splashing through the shallow water, calling out to her.

Suko sat up wearily, probing her back with her fingers. “Ow…I think my bum’s puckeroo.”

Sigrid was so relieved to find her in one piece. She threw her arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“How are the others?”

“They’re alive. Okay, I think.”

Sigrid helped her to her feet, and the two hobbled back to the transport. Leta was already there, cutting the binders off the girls. They all looked okay, although a little groggy.

“What the hell’s going on?” Mei asked. “Sigrid, you—killed those guys…”

“They killed Jia,” Suko said—she still couldn’t believe it herself.

“What?” Mei looked completely shocked.

“They were going to take you—or kill you! I don’t know!”

Leta hauled the body of the pilot out of the cockpit, depositing it unceremoniously on the ground outside. One of the crewmen from the weapons pods was alive, but unconscious. The girls worked quickly to bind him, securing him in the back of the hold. Leta took the empty pilot’s seat. She studied the controls; her fingers flitted over the various switches and gauges until the thrusters reignited. She turned to the girls behind her. “You guys might want to strap yourselves in.”

“You’re not going to fly this thing…” Suko said.

Leta shrugged. “I mean, how hard can it be?”

The other girls scrambled for the empty seats. Mei and Lei-Fei were already clambering into the empty weapons pods.

“This is insane!” Sigrid said—but she too was giddy at the idea of flying the commandeered craft.

Leta looked back over her shoulder; satisfied that the girls were all seated and strapped in, she hauled back on the stick—and the engines promptly died. “What the…?”

Sigrid climbed into the co-pilot’s seat next to her; she’d had a few moments of experience flying the beast. “I think you have to press the thingy,” she said, pointing at the main-thruster control switch. Leta hit it and the engines growled in response.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Mei asked again.

“We have to try,” Suko said. “We have to save the others.”

Leta got off to an adventurous start, but the robust craft shrugged off her brush with the surrounding treetops. The flight was erratic, if not a little hair-raising, eliciting the occasional scream from the passengers. The more the transport pitched and bucked, the more the girls shouted suggestions on how Leta might steady the craft.

“Shut up! I’m flying!” Leta barked back at them. “And you can quit that bloody squealing, too.”

Sigrid took command of their navigation, guiding Leta to the other drop zones. At each point, they found a group of girls waiting patiently—most without a care in the world—simply wondering why their communications were down. But several of the teams had encountered similar groups of soldiers. Mercifully, Jia had been the only casualty. By the time they had picked up the final group of girls, Leta was doing a superb job at the controls.

“This thing flies itself,” she said. “No—literally. Once I figured out I could just punch in the coordinates…”

Just before dawn, the Academy came into view. Sigrid noticed the smoke rising from the compound from more than a kilometer away. As they got closer, she could see that one of the supply sheds had been reduced to a smoking ruin. Some of the staff were still working to put out a fire that raged through the roof of the main building. The attackers hadn’t only targeted them, but the entire Academy as well. What the hell was going on?

The staff hurried to the transport ship as Leta brought it in for a shaky landing. Dr. Garrett was the first to reach the steps, followed closely by Rosa and Chesna. Both instructors were now armed, and pointing their weapons at the transport—as were most of the staff. Some of the instructors were marching off a group of the green-clad soldiers; prisoners, no doubt.

The portal of the craft opened and they lowered their weapons as they saw a rather mud-caked Leta smiling down at them.

“Report!” Rosa demanded.

Leta couldn’t hide the pride that shone through her eyes. “Just doing some flying, sir.”

Sigrid rolled something green and heavy through the open door. It landed on the hard earth with a thud and an audible grunt—it was the crewman they’d captured. “Thought you might like another prisoner to question, sir.”

Rosa erupted in laughter.

Sigrid, Suko and Leta jumped down from the belly of the craft, all of them shouting at Rosa simultaneously, eagerly telling him about the men they’d encountered in the woods, how they’d been attacked…and how Jia was found murdered.

Rosa waved them all quiet. “I’ll debrief you all later. I want you all to report to the infirmary. We’ll talk, but only after they’ve looked you over.”

With groans of disappointment, the girls headed toward the main complex, while two of Rosa’s staff hauled their prisoner away.

Once everything was quiet, Rosa turned to Chesna. “You recognize this?” he asked, looking at the stolen transport ship. It was an ancient Rollins Corp Lancer-Class low-orbital drop ship, specifically adapted to ferry troops to and from orbit.

She scoffed at the sorry-looking craft. “There’s only one Mercenary Group I know that flies one of these rust-buckets.”

“Tarsus.” Rosa shook his head. “Karl, what have you gotten yourself into now.”

CHAPTER 7

Battle Ready

––––––––

January 5, 2348

Sigrid showered quickly that morning. She barely stopped long enough by the basin to brush her teeth and give her hair a quick comb. All the girls were in a hurry—the shuttles would be landing soon and no one wanted to miss such a spectacle.

Suko was dressed in a slim-fitting long-sleeved shirt and capris. She waited by Sigrid’s bunk, with both hands on her hips, glaring at Sigrid and tapping her foot impatiently. “Hurry up!”

“I am!” Sigrid protested. She took off the damp towel she wore, taking time to fold it neatly over the rod at the end of her bunk—untidiness was always dealt with harshly at the Academy; if things weren’t stowed or folded properly there’d be hell to pay. Suko looked on as Sigrid stood before her cubby, tapping a finger on her chin as she considered what to wear.

Suko sighed. “I already put them out for you.” She pointed to the chosen clothes on the bed.

“You’re dressing me now?”

“I just know how long you take to dress.”

Sigrid held up the one-piece brown leotard Suko had chosen. “But I like the blue one.”

“Then wear that one—or go naked. I don’t care. Let’s go!”

Sigrid pulled on the outfit. It was made of a thin fabric that stretched and fitted snugly. Despite the winter weather, a light windbreaker was all she needed to keep herself warm. The girls were becoming increasingly adaptable to all but extreme swings in temperature. Around her waist, she fastened the weapons belt with its two low-slung holsters strapped to her thighs. The two modified Markov PM6 sidearms she always carried clipped into the holstered brackets exactly at the point where her hands hung. The girls were always armed now, ever since the attack over a year ago. Rosa had insisted on it as policy.

Suko rolled her eyes. “You and your…guns.”

The pistols were modified versions, specifically designed with the girls’ new bionics in mind. Each pistol featured built-in scopes that linked directly to her PCM, and were capable of targeting whatever she looked at. She could also instantly select from a variety of smart ammunition of the lethal and non-lethal varieties.

Sigrid pulled the two pistols out and gave them a quick twirl before depositing them back in their clips. “They’re my babies,” she said, rather pleased with herself. “Besides, it’s not like you’re not packing.” She reached under Suko’s shirt and dug around, pulling out one of the balisong butterfly knives she kept tucked in her trousers.

“This? Why, this is just a simple, practical tool.” Suko took the little folding knife and flipped it open with a practiced flourish before handing it back to Sigrid, who tucked it back in Suko’s pants. “Now,” Suko said, “get your boots on or we’ll miss it all.”

Sigrid had barely pulled on her boots when Suko grabbed her hand and hurried her outside. Little had changed in their morning routine since they’d first met.

A light flurry of snow fell from the overcast sky. The peaked roofs of the Academy were already covered with a thick, white crystalline blanket. The ground was muddy and slick where the plows had worked to clear the training area. The Academy grounds had changed quite a bit during the past year. Outside the walls, several temporary structures had been erected to house the company of eighty-five Mercenary Marines who had been commissioned by the Kimura Corporation to guard the girls from further attack. Kimura had initially considered the remote location on Alcyone sufficient to keep Dr. Garrett’s research—and their investment—safe, but the attack had demonstrated how vulnerable they were.

Sigrid and Suko walked hand-in-hand through the crowds that now occupied the training grounds. Stacks of the giant hundred-meter-long intermodal cargo containers took up much of the northern corner of the grounds. Even more stacks lay outside. The girls had to step carefully to avoid the traffic as work crews busied themselves offloading and organizing the supplies that always seemed to be arriving these days. Sigrid knew that Dr. Garrett hated all the mess and chaos, but most of the equipment in the compound would be moved into the new annex in the near future.

The Kimura Corporation was impressed with the girls progress and had tripled their investment in Dr. Garrett’s operation. A brand new annex for the Academy had been built higher up in the mountains and was three-times the size of the existing facility. Soon, the girls would move there, and a new group of students would take their place in their existing dormitory.

The girls had grown accustomed to their isolation on Alcyone—having so many people around felt quite strange. Stranger still were the looks they got from the cargo handlers, who had a tendency to stop and stare. The Marines exercised a bit more self-discipline, but Sigrid could still feel their eyes on them as she walked by, hand-in-hand with Suko. Having grown up in isolation with nothing to compare themselves to, the girls didn’t realize they looked little like normal school girls. Years of harsh training had fashioned them into a lean and lethal bunch; all the girls carried themselves with a certain predatory grace. The modifications Dr. Garrett had provided had enhanced virtually every aspect of their biology, giving a healthy extra push where nature left off.

For years, Sigrid had fretted as she watched the other girls develop ahead of her. She’d been self-conscious about her own body, often wondering if she’d ever catch up. Her growth-spurt had kicked in late; and while she’d been disappointed when her height peaked at five-foot one—and a half, she insisted—at least the rest of her had filled out nicely. She was finally starting to feel like a young woman instead of the adolescent schoolgirl she’d felt like for so long.

One of the cargo-workers, a young man in his twenties, fell into step beside them.

“Hello, Sigrid,” he said; he hadn’t bothered to acknowledge Suko. “Where you headed?”

Sigrid greeted him with a polite smile. “They gave us the morning off. We’re going up to watch the landings.”

“Lucky you. I’d go, but we’re pretty backed-up here. Too bad about the clouds though. You’re not going to see much.”

“Better than more of Rosa’s exercises.”

“Yeah—I’ve seen that stuff…” He glanced over his shoulder at the crew working behind him. “Look, I gotta get back before my supervisor has a fit. But I was wondering…maybe we could meet later—after my shift…?”

“Okay.” Sigrid nodded and watched him trot off.

She turned to walk back toward the gates—and bumped straight into Suko. Suko tightened her grip on Sigrid’s hand.

“Ow…”

“Who was that?” Suko asked, drily.

“That’s, uh, Matthew—”

“Matthew.” Suko seemed unimpressed. “I think he looks dodgy.”

Sigrid felt oddly flustered. “No, he’s…he’s nice, actually.”

“I didn’t realize you were hanging out with the workies now.”

“We weren’t hanging out. We were just…” Confused, Sigrid looked at Suko. Suko’s chest was rising and falling quickly and her jaw was slightly clenched. Sigrid felt the tightness of Suko’s hand around her own and the intensity of her gaze.

Sigrid stepped closer, taking Suko’s other hand. “Suko, he’s just a boy—he’s nobody.”

Suko’s eyes softened and she opened her mouth, as if to say something, but they were interrupted by Leta who ran up to join them.

“What are you doing down here? You’re going to miss the whole thing!”

She slipped between the two girls, linking both their arms in her own. She looked spectacular, as always. Her damp, red curls hung loosely over her shoulders and down her back, sparkling with flecks of thawing snow. The light sleeveless shirt she wore clung to her, showing off her toned arms and strong shoulders.

A sudden boom overhead made all three girls look up.

“Come on!” Sigrid called, towing them along and increasing their pace to a run. The sound was the sonic boom of a shuttle entering the atmosphere high above. The three girls ran out through the Academy gates and up the slope to join the other girls who had gathered to watch the shuttles coming in. They got there just in time and clambered up onto a snowy ledge where they’d have an unobstructed view.

Sigrid raised her hands toward the heavy, overcast sky. “I can’t see a thing!”

“You’re not using your head,” Suko said, snickering. She tapped Sigrid on her forehead.

Sigrid sighed and silently cursed herself. She activated her optical implant and scanned skyward; the heavy thermal signatures from the shuttle’s massive thrusters were clear to see as it blasted down through the clouds. Scanning the electrical signatures provided an even more dazzling sight. The ground shook beneath them as the throaty roar of the re-entry boosters grew louder and louder. Sigrid quickly ramped down the frequency in her audio modules to avoid being overwhelmed by the noise.

They all cried out when the shuttle burst through the clouds, close above their heads at two-hundred feet. The skeletal craft comprised a tangled framework of thrusters connected by a long supporting structure. It looked surprisingly delicate. Sigrid wondered how it could possibly support the massive hundred-meter-long transport container it carried in its cradle.

The shuttle’s sixteen thrusters flared brilliantly as it descended on the Academy grounds. The Cargo-Handlers hardly gave the thing a second glance as they continued with their duties; even though the leviathan craft looked as if it were about to crush everyone beneath it. With a loud, clanking thud of metal on metal, the shuttle deposited the container expertly on the growing stack in the middle of the compound. After pausing to disconnect its burden, the pilots maneuvered the craft swiftly to the side, hooking onto one of the empty containers. The thrusters flared and roared again as the shuttle climbed quickly back into the thick cover of the clouds. The whole operation had taken less than a minute.

The girls hooted and clapped in appreciation.

Over the next two hours, seven more shuttles arrived to deliver the remainder of the cargo from the freighter parked in orbit. Even more impressive, at least to Sigrid, was the busy fleet of smaller transports that emptied the containers and whisked off the supplies to their final destination in the new annex.

“I can’t believe this is all for us,” Suko said.

“And for the new girls, I suppose,” Sigrid said.

It was odd to imagine that a new group of younger girls would soon be moving in to take their place, stranger still to think they would be leaving soon to move to the new annex. She’d have her own room there, in the much larger facility, something all the girls were looking forward to, but Sigrid still felt a certain anxiety about being uprooted.

And a darker anxiety was lurking even deeper within her. They were about to begin the final phase of their enhancements, and their time at the Academy would soon be over.

Soon, they would be leaving Alcyone.

Chapter 8

Annex

––––––––

From The Journal of Dr. Lisa Garrett

February 21, 2348

RE: Project Andraste

Dear Hitomi-san,

I’ve been spending much of my time at the new annex getting things prepared for the final phase of our work. It’s hard to believe so much time has gone by, but I couldn’t be more pleased with the results.

Our greatest challenge has been to keep an accurate chart of the girls’ progress. We had hoped to see improvements, physically anyway, in the range of twenty-five to forty percent, but the evidence suggests something more in the realm of 135% greater than normal. We’ve created quite the batch of young Olympians here. Their endurance and ability to adapt to climactic extremes has been most impressive.

Tomorrow we’ll bring the girls to the new facility where we’ll begin the final phase of the their modifications. I’ll finally be able to integrate the systems and initiate the final sequence. It’s time to hook it all up and turn it on, so to speak. We’ve dubbed the procedure ‘Activation.’ It seems to sum it up fairly well.

The new Master Control Program has been tested and retested, and I’m satisfied that the subjects are ready to have it uploaded to their Primary Control Modules. If this works as we expect, all their modifications will coalesce into a fully-functioning Artificial Neural Network, allowing them to operate at maximum capacity.

We anticipate improvements in their ability to process sensory data by an order of magnitude as their own biological receptors integrate with the bionic Sensory Modules. I would imagine that this will be much like the blind suddenly being given the gift of sight, except that this will involve all their senses at once. It should prove to be a somewhat profound experience for them, and we will record their transformation for complete analysis.

We’ve received the data-packet you’ve supplied us—the Tactical Operations Database, I believe you called it. Once the Control Program is activated, we’ll upload this packet to the girls’ PCMs for field testing.

I know what Dr. Wolsey would be saying right now, but I’m sure you’ll agree that we’re long past the fail-safe point. There’s no turning, back.

All that remains is to turn it on.

Yours truly,

Lisa

* * *

Three Kingfisher transports took off from the compound carrying the thirty girls and their instructors. The heavy overcast skies hung as low and gloomy as Sigrid’s spirits. The Academy was almost back to normal, finally freed from the clutter of giant containers and crews. The only visible change was the temporary barracks that housed the Mercenary Force; the majority of the mercenaries would stay at the Academy to guard the new girls, while a platoon would accompany the senior girls to the ‘Annex’, as it had been aptly named.

They weren’t going far; the Annex was only fifteen kilometers distant, but much of that was straight up. As the transports burst through the cloud bank, Sigrid caught her first glimpse of the new facility. The mountains here were a series of sheer, vertical cliffs; the Annex was literally carved directly into the side of the tallest peak. The Kimura engineers had spent the last few months blasting and tunneling to create the facility. Five stories of terraces and windows were visible from the exterior; Sigrid could see people moving about on several of them—staff members and workers who had gathered to watch the approach of the transports.

There was no visible landing platform though, and the transports climbed even higher, up and over to the far side of the hollowed-out mountain. They landed on a platform built atop the wide glacier at the base of the peak. The ice was smooth and as firm as concrete, and held the heavy structure easily.

The glacier shone brilliantly, reflecting the dazzling midday sunlight. As the girls exited the transports, their enhanced eyes adjusted easily to the blinding light. Lacking such modifications, the instructors had to wear dark goggles. They also wore heavy coats to protect them from the wind that ripped across the ice.

Sigrid gasped as she stood before the large portal the engineers had cut into the rock. Twenty-five meters high and more than a hundred wide, it was large enough to allow entrance and storage for the transports and trucks that would service the facility. Icy flecks of snow, whipped by the fierce, gusting winds, struck Sigrid’s bare arms and stuck in her hair.

Suko placed Sigrid’s discarded coat over her friends shoulders and dropped Sigrid’s duffel at her feet. “I think you forgot something,” she said, pointing at the bag.

Sigrid was still staring at the maw ahead of them; she felt as though it would swallow her.

“Come on—it’ll be okay,” Suko said, wrapping an arm around her. Sigrid picked up the duffel and let Suko lead her by the hand to their new home.

Inside, the hallways were all of polished stone, hollowed out from the mountain above them, with some sections constructed with shaped permacrete. The idea of living in a series of tunneled-out warrens had seemed depressing. Sigrid had imagined her new home to be cramped and claustrophobic, but the high corridors and spacious common areas—with large windows and terraces—filled her with a sense of awe. She’d never seen a place like it.

Their guide led them up two levels to the living area where they’d be quartered. Each girl was presented with her own room, something most of them had never had. Only the richest families, most of whom lived in Earth’s cordoned-off enclaves, could dream of having rooms to themselves.

Sigrid dumped her duffel on her bunk and looked at her new home. The walls were of the same grey, polished stone as the hallways outside, but the room wasn’t drab at all. The rock had a sparkle to it that caught and reflected the light from the overhead lamps. Her bed was larger than the one she’d had in the dormitory, and she had her own desk. There were no closets, but a small armoire sat in the corner, along with a number of hooks for hanging jackets and clothes.

“Looks just like my room,” Suko quipped.

Sigrid jumped; she hadn’t heard her friend come in. Suko put her arms around Sigrid’s waist, resting her chin on her shoulder.

“Could be worse,” Sigrid reasoned. She was starting to think the Annex might not be so bad.

“I have a surprise for you.” Suko put her lips next to Sigrid’s ear and whispered, “There’s a swimming pool.”

* * *

Sigrid sat alone in her room, a little overwhelmed by how quiet it was. Nine years of being surrounded by more than thirty girls had not prepared her for the emptiness of the sudden solitude she was experiencing. There had been no work for the girls that day. They’d spent their time exploring every inch of the Annex, though they’d all been assured that tomorrow would be all work. If she didn’t get to sleep soon, she’d pay for it in spades in the morning.

Sigrid undressed. She tossed her shirt and bra in the laundry and folded her pants neatly on a hanger before she climbed into bed. Normally, sleep came as soon as her head touched the pillow. Rosa and his staff always did a good job of making sure the girls were exhausted. Sigrid tossed and turned for a further ten minutes before casting her blanket off and staring wide-eyed at the stone ceiling.

“Fuck…”

The door to her room glided open almost silently. She grabbed up the discarded blanket and covered herself quickly. But it was just Suko. She poked her head in cautiously and entered the room once she knew Sigrid was awake, closing the door behind her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Suko said. Her long black hair flowed down around her shoulders, shimmering in the dim light. She wore only the small T-shirt and briefs she normally would for bed. Sigrid moved over to make room as Suko slid onto the bed next to her.

“I can’t sleep, either,” Sigrid said. “I don’t think I’m used to all this quiet.” What she didn’t say was how strange it felt not having Suko next to her.

“I know.” Suko stared up at the ceiling. “I was just thinking about tomorrow.”

“Me too. I keep wondering what it will be like.”

Suko frowned. “Dr. Garrett said we’d be better after the final phase. But it’s not like I feel sick.”

Sigrid crinkled her nose in a frown. “I don’t think I like the sound of being Activated. What does that even mean?”

“And, better? Better than what? You’d think it’d kill her to explain something for once. They never tell us anything.”

“That would make too much sense—nothing they do here seems to make any sense.” Sigrid leaned her head on the pillow next to Suko, touching the tips of Suko’s fingers with her own. “And then, I guess they’ll send us away.”

“I was trying not to think about that.” Suko poked her playfully.

“Sorry.” Sigrid chuckled softly. “When they do, I hope they send us to Crucis—maybe they’ll send us to the Naval Academy. That’s what Chesna thinks. That might not be so bad. Maybe we’ll all go.” As long as we go together—she didn’t have to say it.

Neither of them spoke for a while, both were lost in thought. Sigrid didn’t know what the next day would bring, but for the moment, Suko was next to her and that was all that mattered. She began to feel she might finally get some sleep and succumbed to the softness of the mattress…

Suko leaned on her elbow. “Well, I should get back—I just wanted to…” She was looking down at Sigrid, her hair hanging loose over her face, brushing against Sigrid’s. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Suko made it halfway to the door before Sigrid stopped her. “Wait. Stay. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep in here by myself.”

Suko’s relief was accompanied with a smile. “Me too. I mean…if it’s all right…unless you think we’ll get in trouble.”

“Come. There’s room.” Sigrid lifted the blanket and patted the mattress beside her.

Suko stared down at her; she paused, looking almost shy for a moment, but then she pulled off her T-shirt and slipped in next to her.

Sigrid flinched as their bodies met under the covers. She laughed. “You’re cold.”

Suko laughed back. “You’re warm.”

Sigrid covered them both with the blanket and wrapped her arms around Suko, pulling her closer. This was much better than being alone in her empty room. They lay there facing each other, eyes open. Suko brushed the loose hair from Sigrid’s face, tucking it gently back behind her ear, stroking the soft hair of her neck with her fingers. Sigrid breathed deeply and felt her eyelids grow heavy. She was almost asleep when she felt Suko’s lips touching hers; kissing her softly, Suko whispered, “Goodnight.”

There wasn’t much room in the small bed. Suko was perched slightly on one elbow, her other arm rested between them, which Sigrid could feel pressed up against her. Suko still felt cold so she pulled her closer, sharing the warmth of her body. As she moved, she felt Suko’s hand slip between her thighs; her fingers were ice-cold and she shivered at the touch. The two girls stared at each other, eyes wide open, barely breathing.

“Goodnight,” Sigrid whispered back, finally returning the kiss. She let her lips linger there, not pulling away. Her mouth parted slightly and she felt the tip of Suko’s tongue flick over her lips, then a kiss on the tip of her chin and the soft spot on her neck. When her lips found Suko’s a second time, her mouth surrendered to the open intensity as she felt Suko’s tongue dart deeper into her mouth.

Sigrid slowly lifted her leg, freeing Suko’s hand, but Suko didn’t pull away or withdraw it. Slowly, nervously, Suko inched her hand higher, pausing as the tips of her fingers brushed the seam of Sigrid’s underwear.

A wave of delight mingled with terror swept over Sigrid, and her heart pounded, sending butterflies coursing through her body. Both girls froze, stared at each other. And then Suko kissed her again, tracing her fingers over the soft material of her briefs. Sigrid’s whole body trembled under the delicate touch. She pushed up against her, and, finally, she thought, Suko reached into her underwear, touching her very softly with the tips of her fingers.

Sigrid took in a sharp breath as she felt Suko’s fingers slip inside her. She wrapped her knee around Suko’s waist, squeezing her gently.

Suko stopped; she looked at her anxiously and withdrew her hand. “Are you okay?”

Sigrid nodded vigorously and whispered, “Yeah—more than okay.”

Sigrid reached down and quickly pulled off her underwear before redirecting Suko’s hand. She covered Suko’s hand with her own, guiding her with her own fingers. As Suko began to caress her with more urgency, Sigrid felt the warmth blooming within her, a tingling that stretched from her spine to her toes. Her arms coiled around Suko’s neck—she kissed her deeply, pressing her body hard against her. Sigrid moaned softly and shuddered as her orgasm surged quickly into a rushing, sweeping climax. She flopped down into the mattress, fighting to steady the excitement in her breaths.

It took a moment for her head to clear. She was still grappling with what had just happened—she hadn’t realized anything could feel so wonderful, so intense, so sweet. She wanted more.

Sigrid sat up and nudged Suko onto her back. She kneeled over her, tucking her hair back behind her ears. She felt the softness of Suko’s skin beneath her hands, the curve of her breasts. Suko shivered as Sigrid drew her hands slowly down the length of her stomach, pausing just below her belly-button. Suko raised her hips to help Sigrid as she pulled her underwear off. She kissed the tips of Suko’s knees, her lips traced a line up the inside of her leg; her cheek brushed against the soft warmth of Suko’s thigh. She kissed her lightly, first with her lips then her tongue, until Suko responded in ecstasy, shuddering softly against her.

As they gathered their senses and breath, Sigrid became very aware of Suko staring at her. Suko beamed brightly, her eyes twinkling like never before.

“What?” Sigrid asked; suddenly feeling quite self-conscious. Blushing, she held the edge of the blanket over her.

Suko laughed. “What do you think?”

Sigrid blushed hotter still. “Oh…right.”

Still flush with excitement, Sigrid lay back down next to Suko, pulling the blanket over both of them. They shivered, as if suddenly cold, then held each other close.

“Now—I think I’ll be able to sleep!” Sigrid said, snuggling fully into a much warmer Suko.

“You…you don’t suppose anyone heard, do you?”

Sigrid looked around and pounded the hard stone wall with the back of her fist. “I think we’re safe.”

They kissed again—a brief struggle with the blanket ensued as they fought playfully to get the blasted thing to cover their toes. Within minutes, they were both snoring soundly.

* * *

February 22, 2348

Suko had been gone all morning; she’d been called to the Treatment Room to be Activated, as they called it, leaving Sigrid to pace the lengths of her tiny quarters while she waited for her own name to be called. There was no schedule because the doctors were not entirely sure how long the procedure would take, but that only fueled Sigrid’s anxiety toward the whole affair.

Finally, her turn came. An orderly showed up at her door and led her to the Treatment Center. Dr. Garrett greeted her and waved Sigrid to a padded chair surrounded by an array of terminals and displays.

Dr. Garrett smiled warmly. “Hello, Sigrid. How are you feeling today?”

Sigrid was too nervous to answer, but Dr. Garrett, focused on preparing the procedure, didn’t seem to notice. She brought the data-uplink module over to hook up to Sigrid, who flinched and pulled away.

“It’s all right, Sigrid. This won’t hurt.”

“I know, ma’am, but…” She swallowed. “What will it be like?”

Dr. Garrett considered the question before answering. “The clinical term might be, a heightened situational awareness.” Sigrid heard a pronounced click as Dr. Garrett slipped the data-uplink into her access port. Dr. Garrett smiled. “You’re going to feel great.”

Sigrid gulped.

“Now, I’m going to put you out for just a moment,” Dr. Garrett said. “Can you count back for me?”

Still not quite convinced, Sigrid nodded and began her practiced count backward from ten. She remembered getting as far as seven this time, and then nothing. As with her other treatments, it felt as if only a moment had passed when she blinked her eyes open. Doctor Garrett was leaning over her, looking at her expectantly.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“I feel…” Sigrid was about to say fine, but she suddenly became acutely aware that something was very, very different.

She felt a rush—a surge of sensation, a hyperawareness of…everything; smells, noise, the touch of the fabric on her skin…color…she could smell color. When Sigrid looked at Dr. Garrett, she could feel the woman’s heart beating. The sound was deafening. Her PCM fed streams of data to her, displayed in her HUD: pulse, heart-rate, respiration, perspiration. She could even smell the woman’s breakfast on her: orange juice, coffee, two slices of rye toast—and something else…

“You had sex,” Sigrid said. Then looking at Dr. Mitchell, she said. “With him.”

Sigrid giggled, but the laughter shook her violently inside. She could feel the blood moving through her veins—and count the corpuscles. Her skin, her hair; everything crawled. She could see her entire self; not as a whole, but as every individual composite. Heart, pancreas, brain, bionics; even the billions of nanomites that scurried through her system. She could identify each one individually. “Hello, little robots,” she said and laughed, as if tipsy with sensation.

Her attention was drawn to the two orderlies in the corner; the men fingered their stun batons, eyeing her suspiciously. They registered as minimal threat. One of them leaned on his left foot, as if wondering if he should attempt to restrain the girl. Sigrid had already calculated seven ways she could take him down and incapacitate him if he tried as much.

The walls had been recently painted; the stench of its solvent filled her lungs. Worse were the acrid aromas of sterilizers and cleaners, all mixing into a toxic stew, along with Dr. Mitchell’s cologne. Sigrid threw up what felt like an endless gushing stream. In slow motion, she watched as particles burst from her mouth; she found herself analyzing the content of each particle as the memories of her breakfast came flooding back.

Dr. Garrett was holding her by the shoulders, shaking her. Sigrid could see that she was talking, but the words hadn’t yet left her mouth. The Doctor’s stress levels had elevated dramatically. Sigrid didn’t know why this was so—she felt fine. In fact, she felt so good, she thought she’d go tell Suko.

In a flash, Sigrid was at the door of the treatment room. This seemed to increase the general state of agitation in everyone around her. Two of the technicians lunged to grab her. Much too slow. She tripped one and knocked the other on the head, causing them both to fall into a heap. She burst through the door and into the hallway. Four security officers were rushing toward the Treatment Room—toward her. Sigrid didn’t know what they wanted, but they clearly had something on their mind. She braced to strike before they could bring her down.

Then came a stabbing sensation in her buttock. She spun and saw Dr. Garrett holding an empty syringe. She felt the cold lorazepam enter her bloodstream. Sigrid wondered why she’d done that. As she pondered the question, she felt the nanomite swarms coursing through her system, already working their magic to break down the drug and nullify its effects.

Sigrid laughed. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so good. She was about tell Dr. Garrett how wonderful it all was, when one of the security guards hit her with a shock-round. What a curious sensation. “Hey!” Sigrid protested.

“Sigrid!” Dr. Garrett grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “Sigrid! Can you hear me?”

Sigrid’s ears were buzzing and her rear smarted from where the guard had zapped her, but, yes, she could hear her now.

“Ow,” she said.

She felt the euphoria recede, her control flowing back. Her senses were still being bombarded from every which way, but she could make sense of things now. It was a question of focus—she just needed to focus.

As her vision cleared, she became aware of everyone gathered around her, staring at her. The ties on the back of her hospital gown had come loose during the melee. She reached around to hold the gown closed.

“Are you…okay?” Dr. Garrett asked.

Sigrid thought, and nodded, “Yes.” She took a few careful breaths, feeling the air rush through her lungs before blowing it out in a long exhale; it sounded like a gale-force wind in her head. “Is that…normal?”

Dr. Garrett didn’t need to answer; Sigrid could read the woman’s body-language and biochemistry easily enough; the way she gripped Sigrid by the shoulders told her this certainly wasn’t normal.

“Your reaction was rather…extreme.” Dr. Garrett said finally. Her eyes were darting all over Sigrid, as if worried Sigrid might freak out again. “How do you feel?”

How did she feel? Like some giant, ravenous, predator-cat that’s just been rolled in catnip, is how I feel! Sigrid thought, but she couldn’t tell the doctor that—could she?

“May I go to lunch now, please?”

“Ah…I’d like to do some tests first.”

Sigrid hoped the tests wouldn’t take very long.

* * *

The tests took far longer than Sigrid liked, but once Dr. Garrett was satisfied that Sigrid had adapted to the treatment adequately, she released her from the hospital ward. Sigrid walked back to her room slowly and carefully. If she didn’t concentrate, she became quickly overwhelmed by the sounds of her own footsteps reverberating in the halls. It was worse when she passed through a group of people—breathing, sweating, talking, hormones raging. There was a growing hunger lurking in her, and it practically growled.

Suko wasn’t in her room when she looked so she went back to her own, closing the door quickly behind her. The silence proved too much and she found herself calculating the volume of blood distributed by each heartbeat—she wondered if she could manipulate the flow and the rhythm? Yes, she could.

She needed to find Suko. The memory of their night together—stored in perfect detail in her PCM—came rushing back. Sigrid fell back against the wall, closed her eyes; she could still feel Suko next to her, the touch of her hands.

Gah—she had to get out of there.

She decided to change into the long-sleeved, one-piece suit that had become their new uniform. The jet black fabric was emblazoned with the red Kimura logo and had a zippered front culminating in a stylish high-collar. Tall lace-up boots and her twin Markov pistols completed the outfit.

She finally found Suko sitting in the cafeteria with Leta; both had lunch trays in front of them, although neither plate looked touched. Suko’s eyes shot up to meet her gaze as she entered and walked quickly over to the table. Sigrid’s pulse quickened and her temperature rose; Suko’s closeness filled her with a rush of excitement. She found herself involuntarily scanning Suko; her pulse and adrenals were elevated too. It was obvious that both girls had received their treatment, and their senses were firing on all cylinders as they regarded each other with the same hungry intensity. All of Sigrid’s skin tingled; she reached out a hand, half expecting sparks to leap from Suko’s skin to the tips of her fingers.

“Oh, get a room, you two,” Leta said.

Sigrid tried her best to look innocent, but felt her face flushing hot. “What? What do you mean?”

Leta laughed; a few of the other girls were looking over and grinning too. “You think we can’t sense it? It’s written all over the two of you.”

Suko chuckled. “I guess there’s not much we’re going to be able to keep from each other.”

Apparently not, Sigrid thought, somewhat chagrined.

Sigrid tried to keep appearances by taking a lunch tray, but she couldn’t eat either. She tried a spoonful of her soup, but found herself lost, calculating the volume and ratio of the various ingredients. And Suko kept looking at her. It was very distracting.

Suko had dipped the tip of her finger in her water, running it over the rim of her glass in slow circles; her foot gently grazed against Sigrid’s leg, sliding up the length of her calf. She swallowed, and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue—

“Oh, dear God,” Leta said.

Suko shot her a guilty look. “Sorry.”

As casually as they could, Sigrid and Suko walked out of the cafeteria. Suko’s room was closer and they slipped quickly inside, grabbing for the zippers of each other’s jumpsuits before the door had even closed. Suko threw Sigrid onto the bed and dived on top of her. As much as last night’s tryst had been cautious and tender, this afternoon’s adventure was purely carnal, enhanced further still by their newly modified sensory-receptors.

They had no idea how much time had passed when they collapsed, side by side, on the bed.

“Rock walls or not, I know someone heard that,” Suko said.

Sigrid laughed. “I guess this is what she meant.”

“What?”

“Dr. Garrett. She said we’d experience a heightened situational awareness.”

Suko chuckled. “Definitely. That has to be it.”

Chapter 9

Graduation

––––––––

February 23, 2348

A few of the girls were still having difficulty dealing with the effects of Activation, so Dr. Garrett had prescribed a period of rest for those still feeling overwhelmed.

The period of respite left Sigrid free to spend all her time with Suko. Each minute alone seemed a chance for Sigrid to explore every inch of Suko’s soft, warm skin. Suko teased her, saying that she was mapping her, charting her like one of Rosa’s bloody survey exercises. Sigrid was indeed on a mission, loosing herself in each of Suko’s eager embraces.

For the next four days they only left her room at mealtimes and for their daily consultation with Dr. Garrett. Sigrid had been mortified when Dr. Garrett cautioned her not to overly stimulate herself. Dr. Garrett hadn’t said it outright, but Sigrid figured out the staff was monitoring the girls’ activities—all of the time—collecting data for analysis from their telemetry sent to the main servers.

Sigrid and Suko had both been a little embarrassed to learn they were being so closely monitored, but there was nothing they could do.

After not seeing them for days, Leta decided to drag the lovers from their nest and take them on an outing. The new girls had just arrived at the Academy and she proposed a trip down to meet them. She’d finagled one of the Starlings from the motor pool. Sigrid and Suko jumped at the chance to accompany her.

As they entered the hangar, Sigrid noted that Leta was making a point of sticking to the shadows, peering around corners, beckoning them to follow when no one was looking.

Sigrid frowned. “I thought you said you had permission.”

Leta gave a sheepish shrug. “Well…they didn’t say, no.”

“Good point,” Suko said, as they piled into one of the parked Starlings. Leta’s hands flew over the controls with a practiced precision as she executed the startup routine. “Since when can you fly one of these?”

The thrusters roared to life, blasting the ground outside with a gush of wind.

Leta smiled. “Since now. I found the manuals in the Tactical Database.” She pointed out the various operations. “Thrust, lift, pitch…piece of cake. Check it out.”

Sigrid accessed the database stored in her PCM and instantly found the files, along with more files on basic flight characteristics. “Ooo, sweet!” she said, impulsively reaching over Leta’s shoulder and grabbing the stick—she yanked it back. The Starling shot up into the air, narrowly missing the hangar roof before buzzing low over a row of parked transports and scattering their astonished ground-crews.

“Hey!” Leta protested, wresting control from Sigrid. “You’ll get us grounded.”

“Sorry—I couldn’t resist.”

“Well, get your own.”

Sigrid sat back in her seat with a guilty grin. “Okay…I’ll be good.”

Leta rolled her eyes and gunned the thrusters. The T-48 shot through the open hangar doors and into the morning sunlight. Sigrid wasn’t sure if Leta was showing off or just trying to figure out the controls, but she put the Starling through a startling series of aerobatics—Sigrid fumbled quickly to fasten her seat and shoulder-belts.

“Scaredy-cat.” Leta stuck out her tongue as she put the Starling into a half-roll. She pulled out over the peak that hid the Annex, then zoomed low, skimming the surface of mountainside. “I think I’m getting the hang of this,” she said, going inverted again.

Sigrid gulped as she stared up at the ground now above her head.

Leta’s final maneuver brought them low over the Academy as she buzzed a group of Marines on a training run. As they flew by, Sigrid caught a glimpse of the new group of girls assembling in the center compound.

She pointed. “Look!”

Leta hauled back, coming hard about, then circled above them. The new girls began pointing up, some even waved. Leta zoomed back over the Marine compound before performing a spine-crushing landing in the airfield just outside the Academy walls.

A heavyset man wearing sergeant stripes stormed out of the hangar, ready to rip a new asshole for the pilot who had clearly lost his mind. He stopped short of the craft, staying clear of the props as they wound down. Sigrid saw the redness on his face, the veins bulging in his neck. It didn’t require genetically modified sensory receptors to see the man was furious and looking for a pound of flesh. She almost suggested that Leta take off again and flee back to the Annex.

Hesitantly, Sigrid climbed out from her jump seat and stepped down onto the muddy ground. The still-spinning props whipped her long blond hair over her back and shoulders. She pulled a loose strand from her face as she met the man’s glare.

All his bluster vanished in an instant and his jaw dropped as his eyes slowly traced the length of Sigrid’s body. Her formfitting uniform and knee-high military boots complemented the curve of her feminine hips, accentuated by the pistols strapped to each of her shapely thighs. Even as short as she was, Sigrid cut a striking figure, though she’d never been leered at so openly before. The instructors had always been professional and paternal, but this man looked at her with a craving, a hunger. The veins in his neck no longer bulged, but his face remained flushed red. When Suko and Leta came up beside her, Sigrid felt his pulse quicken as he took in the three women.

Dear God—he’s becoming sexually aroused. She looked at her two friends—they’d also picked up on it.

“Something we can help you with, Sergeant?” Leta asked, with a hand on her hip.

The sergeant must have realized he was gawking. He closed his mouth and straightened himself. “Ah…next time, make sure you radio for clearance.” He gave a dismissive wave and stormed off. The girls were out of his chain of command anyway.

The three of them stifled a laugh and headed toward the school, eager to see the new crop of students. They found the new recruits in the courtyard—forty-two girls between nine and eleven-years-old—gathered around Rosa. They listened as he gave the girls their induction speech, similar to the one he’d made to them so many years ago, telling the new group what instruction they would receive and what Kimura would expect of them.

It aroused a poignant feeling in Sigrid. Had it really been nine years since she’d come here and sat on that ground, listened to that lecture? Leaving Earth, her family, all her years of training; it was still so confusing. Perhaps more so now. She would be leaving soon, they all would be—leaving to begin their work as Mercenaries, working to repay their family debts that the Kimura Corporation had purchased.

Whatever would happen to her out there? And what of Suko?

Many of the new girls had seen them approach, their attention drawn away from Rosa and his lecture.

Rosa looked up sharply at the interruption, but rather than send the trio away, he invited them to come closer. The younger girls froze in awe, perhaps from some inherent connection, or maybe because the three older girls in black, with weapons slung at their sides, painted such an impressive and deadly picture.

Rosa’s face relaxed into a slight grin. “Ladies—perhaps you would like to come and meet your new sisters.”

The three girls approached the group, stepping into their midst. The little girls gathered close, reaching out to touch them and say hello. Sigrid was amazed. They all seemed so young. She couldn’t help but wonder if they would have an easier time of it than she did. Would they be bullied as well? Would they be beaten?

Rosa surprised the gate-crashers by asking them to join the new girls in the dining area. As they took lunch with the new arrivals, the three shared stories of their experiences, passing on whatever advice they could to the young girls. Some of them were still frightened and homesick, but the older girls’ presence seemed to calm them.

Finally, it was time for the younger ones to continue their lessons, so the three girls took their leave. The visit made Sigrid feel strangely sad and homesick herself, but not for Earth and her family. She was missing this place here, and she dreaded having to leave it again. A dark foreboding came over her accompanied by a pain in her gut she’d not felt for some time. The return flight to the Annex didn’t lighten her mood any, either.

When they arrived back at the wide hangar entrance atop the glacier, Sigrid’s heart sank one notch lower. Blocking the entrance was a parked transport ship. Painted in the black and red colors of the Kimura Corporation, the transport was far too large to enter the hangar and lay on station outside.

Sigrid heard an order over her comlink; she was to proceed immediately to Dr. Garrett’s office. Suko and Leta received the same order. All three looked to one another, anxiety etched on their faces.

“Who do you think it is?” Leta asked.

Sigrid stared up at the ship. It was definitely an interstellar-job. When her eyes passed over the registry numbers painted on its side, her optic module fed the information automatically into her database and the ship’s ID popped up in her HUD. It was registered as the Agatsuma, out of Kappa Aquarii. Home of Kimura Corporation.

Sigrid felt a cold shiver course through her. “They’ve come for us.”

* * *

Two Mercenary Marines stood guard outside Dr. Garrett’s office—the first sign that something was up. A young corporal retrieved Sigrid’s pistols, along with the two knives she kept in her boots. Sigrid would have felt less naked if they had asked her to remove her clothes.

Most of the other girls were already gathered in the reception area; Sigrid observed as one by one the girls were called inside while the other girls waited for their own turn in silence.

Sigrid was the ninth to be called. Dr. Garrett did not greet her as she came in. Dr. Garrett always had a friendly word for Sigrid, ever since the very first time they’d met at her parents’ apartment on Earth. The fact that she said nothing set alarm bells ringing in Sigrid’s head. Sigrid swallowed hard.

Seated behind the polished stainless steel desk was Shinji Kimura, Deputy CEO of the Kimura Corporation. She’d never met the man before, but her optics scanned him, displaying his ID from her database. Shinji did not appear much older than Dr. Garrett, although she knew his age to be forty-two. His face was sharp and angular, and his eyes were narrow and a dark shade of brown. He sat stock still, facing her with a blank stare. She could tell he was studying her. He may not have had her bionic optics, but she could see things registering in his eyes, calculating, collating.

Two men with equally humorless dispositions stood to either side of him. No one had said anything as either greeting or introduction. Sigrid wasn’t sure if they were waiting for her to speak. An uncomfortable minute passed. She decided to bow in greeting; she would at least be polite.

Sigrid was in mid-bow when she saw the man on Shinji’s left shift his weight on his right knee. The motion was subtle and swift, but the threat registered instantly in her PCM; the motion was calculated, the solution presented to her. This was the Master Control Program at work. Not controlling her actions, but feeding her vital information and sending her systems into action, reacting to her instinctively.

Even before the shuriken left his hand, Sigrid was already moving. Her optics registered and tracked the weapon, her PCM calculated the velocity and trajectory of the small but deadly Ninja Star. Sigrid reached up, slapping both hands together as she caught the razor sharp throwing knife between her palms, eight centimeters from her face. She’d already anticipated her next action; her weight was already shifted forward, and she hurled the shuriken with all the deadly force she could muster back at her assailant. The knife hit him squarely in the chest and the man keeled over, face first, dead by the time he hit the floor with a sickening thud.

The man to Shinji’s right drew his sidearm. Too slow. Anticipating the first shot, Sigrid sidestepped, and rolled under the trajectory of the next one before he’d even fired. She came to her feet in front of him and swiftly kicked up, sending the man’s pistol flying upward before bringing her heel down hard on his neck. The force of the blow sent the man crashing down. Sigrid was on him, ready to strike, calculating different ways she might deliver the next blow: lethal, paralyzing, maiming…?

“Stop!”

Sigrid froze. Shinji Kimura stood placidly, holding out his hand to her. She was still in combat-mode, not quite certain what had transpired, but the man’s body language read calm, his pulse and respiration even and measured. He carried no weapons and seemed to present no threat—even though his goons had just tried to kill her.

Sigrid looked to Dr. Garrett for direction. The woman gave her only the slightest of nods. Not knowing what else to do, Sigrid took the Deputy CEO’s outstretched hand.

“Very good, Ms. Novak. Most impressive.”

Sigrid stumbled slightly backwards. “This was a…test?”

“Of course.”

“Your test is trying to kill me?” Had he done this with all the girls? Sigrid couldn’t believe it. “What—what if you’d killed me?”

“Then, you would have failed. If you can’t dodge a simple knife, you would be of little use to us.”

Sigrid felt her blood rise. “And the other girls? Did they…pass?”

“Most,” he said. He sat back down in the chair by the desk. “But only you attacked, Ms. Novak. Your solution was…most unique. While your fellow students all chose evasion, you chose to attack. Where others chose defense, you chose aggression, and with deadly force.” He turned to Dr. Garrett and said, “You may tell the other girls to leave, Dr. Garrett.” His eyes fell again to Sigrid.

“Pack your things, Ms. Novak. You will accompany us to Aquarii, immediately.”

* * *

February 23, 2348

“You’re going!” Suko cried. “Now?” She was clinging to the back of Sigrid’s uniform, clutching at the fabric. Sigrid was doing her best to pack her duffel—trying her best not to look Suko in the face. She couldn’t bear it.

She leaned down to pick up her meager belongings; a picture of her parents, the stacks of letters from her mother, and the small, stuffed rabbit she’d managed to keep with her all these years.

“You can’t go! Not after…” Suko wrapped her arms around her from behind and pulled her away from the duffel and her packing.

Sigrid hugged Suko’s arms even tighter around her. “It’s not like I want to.”

Suko’s eyes were raw and red with emotion. “Tell them to take me!”

“I did—I asked. He’s only taking me.”

“It doesn’t make any sense—just because you killed one of his men…?”

“I know!”

Suko’s eyes darkened and her body tensed. “Tell them I’ll meet with them—I’ll kill the other guy. I’ll kill him.”

“I wish you could.”

Suko sniffed. “What’s going to happen to the rest of us?”

“He said…Mr. Kimura just said I’m to go to Aquarii. He said they’re going to present me to the Board of Directors for evaluation. Then…they’ll decide what happens with the rest of you.” Sigrid groaned. “Of all the girls, why pick me?”

Sigrid felt dizzy and sick. She leaned heavily against Suko, who stroked her hair and shoulders. Everything was happening so fast. If only she could stay. But it was already time to go.

They were waiting for her.

It took all her force of will to free herself from Suko’s embrace. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Sigrid grabbed her duffel and strode toward the door.

Suko darted past her and backed up against the door, blocking Sigrid’s way. “You’re not walking out on me like that.” Suko was crying. “You can’t.”

Sigrid threw her bag to the ground. “It’s not like I have a choice, Suko. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

“Well, I’m not going to make it easy. I’m not letting them take you. I won’t.” Suko grabbed Sigrid by the shoulders, her eyes were wide and desperate. “Sigrid, let’s get out of here. Let’s leave.”

“Leave? Suko…?” What Suko was saying—it was impossible. “But, Kimura…they’ll never allow…”

“We can try. Sigrid—don’t go. Come with me.”

Sigrid’s heart beat faster. Could they really run away? For a brief moment she allowed herself to contemplate Suko’s outlandish proposal. But her heart sank just as quickly. It was impossible.

“Suko, it’s crazy. Kimura would track us. We’d never get off the planet.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Suko…” Sigrid slumped on her bunk, holding her head in her hands. “You’re just making things worse.” How could she leave? The answer was simple: she couldn’t. They wouldn’t let her. Even if she did, even if by some miracle she and Suko managed to escape, her family would be ruined.

Sigrid rubbed hard at her temples. Her head throbbed as a wave of nausea washed over her. Suko sat next to her. She sobbed as she leaned her head against Sigrid’s shoulder and pulled her close. Sigrid wanted to stay more than anything, but how could she? The decision had already been made long ago. Kimura owned her and her family. They would take her away and there was nothing she could do.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Suko.”

For a moment, Suko just stared back, her face a mixture of hurt and confusion. Suko wiped her nose with her arm. “Then, you’re…you’re really going?”

“What choice do I have?”

Suko looked down, staring at her feet. “I would never leave you.”

“That’s not fair! What you’re asking me…it would destroy my family.”

“The family that sent you here.”

Sigrid heard the anger in Suko’s voice—anger at her, or Suko’s own family, she wasn’t sure. She put her hand on Suko’s arm. “Suko, I know how you feel about your family—”

“And I know how you feel about yours.” Suko pulled away from her hand so abruptly that Sigrid gasped. Suko’s eyes were redder still, and her nose was running freely. “But I guess you don’t know how I feel about you.”

The words stabbed at Sigrid, but this time it was Suko who couldn’t look at her. Sigrid reached for her, crying, but Suko turned away, shrugged off her touch and ran for the door.

“Suko…!”

Suko darted out into the hall, bumping into two Mercenary soldiers coming the other way.

“Suko! Wait!” Sigrid was up and running after her, but the two Marines at the door blocked her way.

“Time to go, Ms. Novak,” one of them said, holding up his hand.

Sigrid staggered back and fell onto her bunk. It was too late. Sigrid knew she’d never see Suko again. She lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to move. Moving would mean leaving, and leaving would mean that this was real, and not just some terrible nightmare.

Finally one of the soldiers cleared his throat. Sigrid looked up. They were both staring down at her as she lay on the bed.

“What,” Sigrid said. It was not even a question. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. Suko was gone.

Chapter 10

Agatsuma

––––––––

February 23, 2348

The journey to the waiting transport ship felt like the walk of death to Sigrid. None of the girls in the halls looked up at her as she passed by them, shadowed by her mercenary escort. There was no one to meet Sigrid or see her off as she boarded the Agatsuma. The two mercenaries deposited her at the bottom of the staircase that reached up into the belly of the ship. As Sigrid entered, the stairs retracted behind her, sealing her in; sealing her fate, she reflected.

She was vaguely aware of the ship’s thrusters firing as the Corvette lifted off. The inertial-dampers shielded the crew from the crushing g-forces as the ship blasted its way skyward. By the time a single crewman arrived to escort her down the narrow corridors to her quarters, the Agatsuma had already cleared the atmosphere and broken orbit. Sigrid was instructed to wait until called for. She hardly heard the crewman—so lost was she in her own bleak thoughts.

She’d held herself together so far, but as the door to her quarters closed behind her, the despair cascaded over her. More alone than she’d ever felt in her life, she collapsed on the bunk, buried her face in the pillow, and wept. She still couldn’t believe Suko was gone. How could she face the rest of her life without her?

And Suko’s words still stung her. “You don’t know how I feel about you,” she’d said.

Didn’t she? Without Suko, Sigrid felt she would have perished long ago. Suko had always been there for her. Suko had protected and cared for her. When they were together, she felt whole and complete. Without her, all she felt was deep despair.

The realization hit her like a brick. She loved Suko. More than that. She was in love with her. And I never told her, Sigrid thought, horrified. She groaned and held her head in her hands. Sigrid felt sick. What had she done…

Sigrid couldn’t decide what was worse; the thought of Suko hating her, or the thought of never seeing her again. If only she could apologize, if only she could tell Suko she loved her. But she couldn’t turn back time. With every second, the Agatsuma was accelerating away from Alcyone and away from Suko.

Suddenly angry, furious at herself and at Kimura, Sigrid grabbed the small clock from the little bedside table and hurled it at the door. Only then did she see the young woman standing there; the ensign ducked and squealed as the clock sailed past her and smashed into the bulkhead behind.

Cautiously, the ensign poked her head back in the doorway. She held her hand to her chest. “Oh my—are you all right?”

Sigrid tried to answer, but was overcome by tears again.

“Oh, my poor dear,” the girl said, rushing to Sigrid’s side. She gathered Sigrid into her arms, holding her close and rocking her. “Whatever’s the matter?”

Sigrid’s body shook as she succumbed to her grief. She had no idea who the girl was, yet she clung to her, pressing her face to her chest. The ensign stroked her hair, hushing her gently.

In time, Sigrid’s trembling subsided. She frowned, suddenly embarrassed at her emotional outburst. “I’m sorry.” She wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“That’s quite all right.”

Sigrid saw her clearly for the first time. She looked about twenty. Her long, curly black hair was tied in an elaborate series of knots and braids, tucked neatly behind her head—not a strand out of place. The smooth, dark brown skin of her face framed a pair of large brown eyes and a pronounced, dimpled chin. Her full lips were painted red, her cheeks artificially flushed; even her eyes were enhanced by the elaborate colors and lines of her makeup.

Sigrid noted the girl was an ensign in Kimura’s naval forces. Her finely tailored uniform looked sharp enough to cut paper. Sigrid released herself from the embrace almost apologetically. She’d left a smear on the girl’s lapel.

“Are you…all right?”

What could Sigrid say? I’ve just left the woman I’m in love with… Did people say such things to people they’d just met?

“I’m fine,” Sigrid said. She wiped her nose and gave a big sniff.

The young ensign handed Sigrid a tissue and shifted herself on the bunk, facing Sigrid. She held out her hand. “I’m Ensign McTeer, and I’ll be your Orientations Officer. Are you…sure you’re all right?”

She wasn’t, but Sigrid nodded and wiped at her eyes again. “Sorry. Call me Sigrid.” Sigrid said, emphasizing the seeg—everyone got her name wrong at first.

“Very well. Then you must call me Karen,” the girl said in such a friendly fashion that Sigrid felt some of her tension ease; she even managed a small smile. “You’re not technically in my chain of command,” Karen continued, “so I suppose there’s no need for us to use titles—although, I would advise you to address most of the officers by their rank until they say otherwise. I’m not sure if the Captain would appreciate you calling him Steve just yet.” Karen winked.

Sigrid heard herself laugh. “No, I don’t suppose he would.”

Karen rose and retrieved the two bags she’d dropped: a small, square case and a long garment bag, which she hung on a hook behind Sigrid’s door. “I suppose you’re probably wondering about all this…”

Sigrid nodded again.

“Well, to start, I guess I’m here to help prepare you for arrival and for your…presentation to Kimura.”

“Presentation?”

Karen smiled. “Mr. Kimura—the man you met, was concerned that your years at the Academy might have left you a little…rough around the edges—his words, not mine. He’s asked me to…” Karen looked a little embarrassed,”…smooth things out, I suppose.”

Karen stood and held out her hands to Sigrid, prompting her to stand. Sigrid did so, a little uncertainly. There was a full length mirror on the back of the closet door. Karen positioned Sigrid in front of it and stood behind her.

“Now, this outfit—” she said, examining Sigrid’s coverall somewhat distastefully, “—might be fine for skulking around in the dark on some clandestine task. You might even wear it around the ship if you like, but for most functions I’d normally recommend something more formal. Unfortunately, we don’t have a tailor or quartermaster on board. I brought a few things of my own. I hope that’s all right?”

Ensign McTeer unzipped the garment bag and took out two outfits still on their hangers. The first was a formal ship’s uniform; Karen held it in front of herself and studied Sigrid with a frown. “No—this won’t do. I’m afraid it will be quite big on you.” Karen was, indeed, several inches taller than Sigrid, but then, so was everyone, Sigrid reasoned. Karen put the uniform back in the bag and held out a dress this time; it was made of a deep, shimmering blue fabric, with patterns of color that shifted in the differing aspects of light. “I think something like this might be more appropriate for dining with the Captain tonight.”

Sigrid regarded it a little skeptically. She’d never seen such an elaborate garment. All the clothes she’d worn at the Academy were more of the utilitarian sort, function over form.

Karen nudged her, offering the dress. “Here—I know you’ll be a knockout in it.”

Sigrid knew forty-eight ways to knock someone out, but none of them involved wearing a dress. She stripped off her jumpsuit and stepped almost cautiously into the dress; she wasn’t even sure which was the front or back, but Karen helped her by guiding it on.

“I was worried it might be a bit long, but I think it’s okay,” Karen said.

Long? The thing barely came halfway down her thigh! On Karen, it must have been daringly short. She began to pull her combat boots back on.

Karen stopped her. “I think these’ll work better,” she suggested, pulling several different pairs of shoes from the bag. “I wasn’t sure of your size so I had some of the girls lend me their favorites. Hopefully, we can find something that fits.”

Karen dropped several pairs of slippers and high-heeled shoes in front of Sigrid, but her small feet swam in most of them. The only pair that fitted properly were platform soled boots that zipped up just past her ankle. The heels were preposterously high. They looked ridiculous and impractical, but when Sigrid stood up she found herself looking down at Karen.

After a few careful steps, she discovered she could move around in the boots more easily than she’d first imagined.

“I love them!”

Karen chuckled. “Lieutenant Meres will be happy to hear that.” With a hand on each shoulder, Karen guided Sigrid to the chair at the table. “Now, for the rest,” she declared as she opened a case on the table, revealing an assortment of makeup, lipsticks and brushes.

The makeup kit held a small mirror which Karen placed in front of her. When Sigrid looked in the mirror, she covered her mouth, horrified. Her face was puffy, with eyes bloodshot and red from crying. She looked terrible! Fortunately, Karen was a master-artist. A cool, soothing cream reduced the puffiness and a touch of rouge brought color back to her cheeks. When the ensign was done, a completely different Sigrid stared back from the looking-glass.

“Goodness…” Sigrid said, admiring Karen’s masterful work. She wished Suko were there now; she couldn’t help but wonder what she’d think if she saw her like this. Would she laugh? Would she like it? Lost in thought, she barely noticed as Karen brushed out her hair and completed her outfit with a series of sparkling bracelets.

Karen examined her creation. She seemed quite satisfied with her work and gave Sigrid a wink. “There. Totally sexy.”

Sexy? Sigrid thought. Me?

Leta was sexy. The girl was all long legs and breasts, and with that mane of flaming red hair, Leta oozed sex-appeal. Suko was exotic and beautiful, long and slender. But Sigrid, on the other hand…her own face had always seemed rather plain, her nose too big, her blond hair limp and dull. But when she looked at herself now—she had changed so much in the past year.

Was it the clothes? The shoes? Was she really sexy too?

“All done,” Karen said. “Now, I think there’s just enough time for a tour of the ship before dinner.”

Sigrid didn’t think she could eat, though the idea of getting out of her tiny quarters suited her just fine. The distraction from her misery would be welcome. But she didn’t feel quite dressed yet. She rifled through her duffel to complete her outfit in the way she knew best. A pair of throwing knives slipped easily into each of her boots, with one down the front of her bra for good measure, and she never went anywhere without the twin Markov’s strapped to her hips.

Karen groaned as Sigrid fastened the heavy holster around the dress. She reached out a hand to stop her. “That’s…not quite the look I think we’re going for.” Karen reached into the case she’d brought and handed Sigrid a small pistol in a tiny holster with a single leg-strap. “They told me you girls never go unarmed, so I brought this.”

Sigrid pulled the weapon out. It was nothing more than a small hideout pistol; the power-pack only held enough charge for a few shots, but it seemed lethal enough.

“Thanks,” Sigrid said; she still wasn’t sure where to put it.

“Pardon the reach,” Karen said as she fastened the small holster to Sigrid’s thigh, high enough to be concealed by the hem of her dress.

Sigrid let the ensign lead her through the narrow corridors. The craft she’d traveled on as a child had been one of the large commercial ships. The Agatsuma was a sleek Corvette—a predator in comparison. This was a military vessel. The crew compliment of forty-two belied the lethality of the small ship, which bristled from stem to stern with armaments.

The few crew members she passed wore the sharp, black and red naval uniforms of Kimura; all looked immaculately groomed and professional, very different from the rough-looking Marines she’d grown used to at the school. Sigrid took note of the mess-areas and the small gymnasium where a handful of crew were working out, but of special interest to her was the Tactical Operations Center. The Weapons Control room led out into a long corridor that spanned the length of the ship, giving access to Torpedo Control and a bank of weapons pods. All the pods were manned and ready; Sigrid sensed that all the crew were intent on something. There was a great deal of chatter.

“What’s going on?” Sigrid asked.

“Don’t worry,” Karen said, “it’s just a drill. Lately—with all the nonsense going on—Captain Maalouf has been drilling the crew around the clock. I suppose he feels it’s best to be prepared.”

Prepared for what? Sigrid wondered. She wasn’t sure what Karen meant by ‘nonsense’ either, but she made a note of inquiry. Right now she was far more interested in watching the crew in the nearest weapons pod. The pod controlled one of the four quad-mounted rail guns mounted on the exterior of the ship. Sigrid knew from her lessons that the combination of mass and inertia was far more effective against targets in space than laser weapons, or even torpedoes, which could be defeated easily with countermeasures. Hurling a handful of pebbles across space at .65 c could rip apart a starship just as easily as a nuclear detonation. Of course, they didn’t really use pebbles. The gunnery officers could select from a number of lethal projectiles. The preferred ordnance were the tiny shredder-rounds. Equipped with proximity fuses, the rounds would break into thousands of tiny fragments as they closed to within striking distance of their target. Any rounds not passing through the target would detonate, causing further carnage. The only drawback of the weapon was that it had to be manually aimed and fired.

Sigrid wondered what it would be like to fire something with that much power, but there was no opportunity to dally. It was nearly time for her appointment with the Captain. They were running a bit late so Karen hurried her along. As they ran through the corridors, heading quickly for the Captain’s Mess, Sigrid noticed several of the crew giving her appraising looks as she hurried past in her short, flowing, blue dress.

Sigrid and Karen burst through the double doors, startling the two officers already in attendance. The mess room itself was just big enough to accommodate the small dining table. First Officer, Commander Tapert and Chief Engineer Romi, were there waiting for the Captain and their new VIP guest. Sigrid felt a moment of panic when she realized that Ensign McTeer wasn’t staying for dinner; she held onto her hand.

“Don’t worry—you’ll be fine,” Karen reassured her.

Sigrid looked to her, worriedly.

“We’ll take good care of her, Ensign,” Commander Tapert said, smiling at Sigrid. Chief Romi greeted her in turn, taking time to shake her hand.

As friendly as they appeared, Sigrid still felt them eyeing her, as if she were a curiosity. She remained aloof, feeling very self-conscious.

“I’ll check in on you later.” Karen gave her a kiss on the cheek, patted her on the shoulder and departed as the doors opened to admit the captain and Shinji Kimura.

Captain Maalouf smiled warmly and greeted Sigrid, extending his hand. The captain was a short man of dark complexion, with what Sigrid found to be a charming and pleasant demeanor.

He invited Sigrid to take the seat next to him, with Kimura on the right. “Ms. Novak—it’s an honor and a pleasure to finally meet you. You’ve become quite the curiosity on board.”

“Me, sir?”

“Oh, yes. We’ve all heard about your lineage and training—well, at least what isn’t classified, which isn’t very much.” The captain looked from Sigrid to Shinji Kimura. “From the little I’ve heard, you must be commended, Mr. Kimura. The program sounds most impressive.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take any credit for that, Captain. The Academy is strictly my mother’s domain.”

The captain turned back to her. “Do you mind if I inquire as to your specialization?”

Sigrid raised her eyebrows. Murder? Espionage? She wasn’t quite sure what she was permitted to say.

Shinji Kimura answered for her. “Ms. Novak is trained as a highly versatile operative, Captain. In fact, I’d be surprised if she couldn’t assume any post on your ship.”

“Is that so?” the Captain remarked, studying Sigrid with even more interest; Sigrid felt herself shrink lower in her chair. “Then we’re lucky to have you aboard, Ms. Novak.”

The Mess Attendant came in, filling water glasses, offering wine and other spirits. Sigrid was relieved to see their attention shift away from her.

“Red or white, miss?” the attendant asked her.

Sigrid had no idea, having never tasted wine, so she simply nodded. “Yes, please.”

Watching her closely, the Captain chuckled as he signaled the steward to bring forth their meals.

The selection of entrees turned out to be impressive; a far cry from the simple fare Sigrid was used to at the Academy. There were roasted meats, whole fish, trays of exotic vegetables and fruits. Sigrid stared at the plate that was presented to her—she was far too distraught to eat, her stomach still twisted in a tight knot.

Captain Maalouf noticed her pushing the roasted zucchini across her plate. “Is it not to your liking, Ms. Novak? Can we bring you something else?”

Sigrid flushed as she noticed the other men looking at her. “No—no. It smells wonderful. It’s just…” She couldn’t tell them…couldn’t tell the captain. “I think I’m having trouble adjusting—to the gravity.” It was a lie; one the captain easily recognized, but he nodded.

“Your first mission,” he grunted. “I understand. It’s been a while, but I do remember what it was like—fresh out of the Academy. Don’t worry. You’ll make the adjustment.”

Sigrid nodded politely and returned to her food. A nibble at a carrot was about all she could manage, but she put on a brave face. It was easy to sit in silence, listening as the officers discussed the itinerary of the journey. It would take 6.7 days at maximum acceleration to reach the Warp Relay that lay just outside the boundary of the solar system. Sigrid noted the grumbling of the officers as they discussed the surcharges and fees charged by Daedalus Corporation—the company that controlled the network of Warp Relays that allowed travel between the different systems in the Federation.

The captain told them there was no other traffic scheduled in or out of the system, yet he remained cautious. They would be at their most vulnerable during this portion of the voyage. As they closed on the Relay, they also ranged further from Alcyone and any help that they might get from ships stationed there. Skirmishes with Independents were becoming alarmingly frequent, and Daedalus was not famous for warning of incoming traffic changes or of ships traveling through their system of relays.

Shinji tilted his head at these revelations. “So you don’t trust Daedalus?”

Captain Maalouf chewed his last forkful of steak and swallowed before answering. “I trust no one—least of all Daedalus. They maintain their neutrality, but that doesn’t mean they’ll do us any favors by announcing changes to the relay traffic. They never do. But with all the trouble with the Independents, we’ll maintain alert status until we reach Aquarii.”

“I’m surprised, Captain. I didn’t think the Independents had anything that could threaten a ship like this.”

“A few years ago, perhaps, but recently…well, someone’s been selling to them.”

“Independents, sir?” Sigrid asked. “Who are they?”

The captain smiled. “Nothing to worry about, my dear.”

“They’re not really anyone,” Shinji explained. “They’re mostly companies that have separated themselves from the Federated Corporations. Some have even gone so far as to attempt to form governments on the planets they control. Of course, they’ve all been abysmal failures. Captain Maalouf is correct—they’re of no concern.”

“Still, the Council will have its hands full, what with all the secessions. Almost makes me miss the old days when the CTF could actually maintain order. Nothing but a toothless tiger now.”

Sigrid knew from her schooling that the Council for Trade and Finance was responsible for maintaining order in the Federation, but it had never been disclosed that they lacked the ability to maintain control. If that were the case then she’d need to update her database.

“Who controls the Federation now, sir?”

They all stopped eating and regarded her with amusement. Captain Maalouf laughed out loud. Sigrid flushed at her apparent gaffe. “An excellent question, my dear. The Council maintains—well, claims—authority, but the Federation has grown…too many planets, too fast.”

“My mother, the Lady Hitomi, calls it a Market Correction,” Shinji said with a snicker.

“With so much more territory, so much trade,” the captain continued, “and so many more companies working the systems, the Council hires companies like ours to plug the gaps in their patrols. But those gaps are growing.”

“The attack on the Academy, for instance,” Shinji offered. “That would have been unheard of just a few years ago.”

“In the past, no mercenary company would take a contract against another. Guild law forbade it, and for obvious reasons. The results would be chaotic—not to mention the tariffs and fines. But greed, it seems, often wins out against logic. The CTF is stretched thin, the Mercenary Guild fractured. We used to pass by ships from other companies without a care in the world. Now, skirmishes are commonplace occurrences. I’m quite positive you and your girls from the Academy will have all the work you can handle.”

* * *

After dinner, Sigrid was escorted to her quarters. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She unfastened the dress and unpacked the rest of her things, trying to get herself set up, but the more she tried to make the modest quarters comfortable the more the room felt oppressive and stifling. She sat on the bed and hugged her pillow, trying to quell the pangs of loneliness that twisted at the knot in her stomach, but the pain only got worse. If only Suko were there. If only she could be with her just a little longer…

Sigrid groaned. It hadn’t even been a day; how would she survive a week?

“Gah!”

Sigrid stood up abruptly and zipped the dress back up, fastening it behind her neck. She couldn’t confine herself to quarters—she’d go mad! She checked the door, half-expecting it to be locked, but it slid open for her. Sigrid stiffened, startled at the sight of the crewman standing guard outside her door.

“Ma’am,” he said with a nod.

“Am I allowed…out?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

That was a surprise. She’d expected him to send her back inside; instead, he accompanied her as she started off down the corridor. Guard or escort? She still wasn’t sure.

Sigrid had no idea where she was going; she only knew she had to go somewhere—do something. The tiny observation lounge provided a moment of distraction, but she needed something more—something more physical. She found just the thing when she reached the small gym. Though late in the evening, the ship ran twenty-four-seven and the gym was crowded with crewmen and officers exercising.

As Sigrid walked into the locker room to change, she caught sight of Ensign Karen McTeer dressed in a towel and heading toward the showers.

“Oh, hello, Sigrid. How was dinner?”

“Odd.”

Karen caught her frown. “I hope they weren’t too cruel.”

“Cruel? Oh—no! They were fine. I just…well, there’s a lot I don’t understand, I suppose.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. Are you on your way in or out?” she asked, pointing back to the gym.

“In—I thought I could use a workout.”

Karen’s eyes widened; Sigrid was, by far, the fittest person she’d ever seen.

“I just need to work off some steam,” Sigrid explained.

“Well, I’m just on my way to the mess to meet some friends. We’d love to have you—if you like—if you’re not busy, that is…”

Sigrid considered the offer; she really didn’t want to be alone at the moment, and Karen was so friendly… “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.”

Karen’s face lit up; she squeezed Sigrid’s arm. “Perfect. Hang on, I’ll be right out.”

Sigrid watched Karen retreat to the showers. After a few minutes, a fresh-looking Karen returned and led her quickly to the mess.

Karen’s companions were already there with a table waiting. Karen introduced the young man as Lieutenant Christian Lopez. He rose and took Sigrid’s hand in greeting; his easy smile was warm and friendly, despite his slightly rough look. He towered above Sigrid; his large hand made her own seem small as a child’s. The other girl was introduced as Ensign Melissa Greenway. Unlike Karen and Lieutenant Lopez, Melissa greeted Sigrid with evident apprehension.

Karen elbowed her in the side. “Melissa…”

Ensign Greenway blushed. “Sorry.”

“She’s clearly been listening to the latest batch of rumors,” Karen explained.

Christian gave her a wink. “The way people are talking about you, they’ll expect you to be eight feet tall.”

Sigrid was shocked. “Me! What did I do?”

Karen gave her a sympathetic look. “They’re all just a little…curious. It’s nothing.”

“Well, you have to understand,” Christian explained, “we were taken off assignment to come ferry you to Aquarii—that’s a lot of ship for one little girl—sorry…young lady. And then we hear about the Academy. That gets people talking.”

“I’ve already told them not to ask you anything,” Karen said, patting her hand and glaring a warning at her two friends.

Christian grinned. “Of course, that just means we get to keep making up our own versions. Don’t worry. In mine, you breathe fire.”

“Christian…really!” Karen chided, swatting him on the shoulder. But it was all rather lighthearted and Sigrid felt her mood lifting as she followed the easy banter they all shared.

“Who wants a drink?” Christian asked. “I could use a drink.”

“Ooh—me!” Karen said. “I want something tall—with an umbrella.”

“One girly-drink, comin’ up. Sigrid?”

“Water’s fine, thanks,” Sigrid said.

“Water? Nah-uh. I’ll get you something good.”

“I’ll take a lemonade,” Melissa said.

“Hard,” Christian said, with a leer; Melissa rolled her eyes.

“Ladies…” Christian bowed respectfully before heading off to the dispenser to fetch their drinks.

He was back in a flash, with something tall and orange for Karen—with an umbrella—a vodka and lemonade for Melissa and two tall pints of something dark and foamy for himself and Sigrid.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass.

“Cheers,” Karen said, mimicking him. Sigrid joined them and they all clinked their glasses together.

Sigrid had never had beer before; the dark liquid teemed with delicious-looking bubbles that wriggled down from the creamy head of foam. Despite its deep, dark color, Sigrid found the taste light and smooth. She quaffed the pint of ale back like a seasoned veteran.

She felt a tingling sensation in her extremities as the alcohol worked its way into her bloodstream. Her head felt light. The bubbles reacted in her stomach, causing her to burp loudly. Karen laughed. But within moments, the nano-swarms in her system surged forward, working to process the alcohol. The tingling quickly abated.

Christian looked at her expectantly. “Well?”

Sigrid considered the beverage. It was like nothing she’d ever had before. It was flavorful and very refreshing. She smacked her lips, still experiencing the taste. “Good!” Sigrid said, giving a thumbs up.

“A girl after my own heart.” Christian raised his glass to her and took a large mouthful.

Sigrid offered to get the next round. As she waited in line for the dispenser a man standing behind her bumped into her. She didn’t think much of it, but then he bumped into her again, harder this time. She turned to see what was going on and saw a young crewman leering down at her.

“You’re new,” he said.

Sigrid looked him up and down, warily. “Yes—I just came on board at Alcyone.” She turned away—it was her turn at the dispenser.

“You’re her! You’re one of those girls.”

“I suppose.” Sigrid could tell that he was already drunk, and so were his companions. The three of them stood snickering behind her. She heard one of them make a comment about her rear—it didn’t make her feel flattered at all. She flushed red. As she placed two more pints of ale on her tray, he bumped her again, making her spill both glasses.

“Whoops!” he said, barking out a drunken laugh.

Sigrid retrieved the toppled glasses and gathered some towels to clean up the mess.

“Lemme help.” He leaned over her, pushing her up against the dispenser, then put his hand over her own as she tried to mop up the spill. “Well, aren’t you a little one.”

Sigrid wasn’t sure what the regulations were concerning her aboard the ship, but she knew a bully when she saw one and she’d just about had her fill of him. Sigrid pushed him back—not hard enough to hurt him, though sufficient to make it clear he’d overstepped.

“Easy…!” he said, holding his hands up. “I was just trying to help.”

Christian, who’d been watching the altercation grow, had seen quite enough. He hastened over and lodged himself between Sigrid and the crewman, placing a warning hand on the man’s shoulder. “I think you’ve had enough, crewman. Why don’t you boys go sleep it off.”

The crewman swatted Christian’s hand away and stepped closer to the Lieutenant. “I’m off duty.”

“You’re also out of line.”

“Sorry—sir.”

Christian didn’t see the sucker-punch coming, but Sigrid did—her hand moved up so fast it shocked both men. They stared as Sigrid held the crewman’s fist in her own hand, centimeters in front of Christian’s face. The startled crewman tried to pull his hand away, but it might as well have been locked in a steel vice. Sigrid tightened her grip and twisted and watched the man sink to his knees, his face contorted with a mixture of shock and pain. They all heard the sharp crack as she broke his arm at the wrist. He howled in pain.

Sigrid glared down at him. “I’ve had a very long day.”

“You broke my fucking arm!”

Sigrid calmly turned back to the dispenser, refilled the pint glasses and got two more drinks for Karen and Melissa. Behind her, two crewman quietly set about hauling the injured man off to the Medical Ward. Sigrid was given a wide berth as she made her way back to the table.

“Well,” she said, handing out the drinks. “Where were we?”

Karen tried her best to stifle a laugh. “Oh my God!”

Christian returned to join them. He took a long pull from his pint, before looking seriously at the three girls. “I could’ve taken him, you know.”

Karen and Melissa erupted into laughter and raised their glasses to Sigrid.

Melissa frowned. “Do you think he’ll press charges?”

“Charges!” Christian cried, losing some ale in the process. “I put him on report.”

“Good for you,” Karen said.

Despite the near fisticuffs, Sigrid enjoyed the rest of her evening immensely. The camaraderie went a long way toward easing some of the loneliness she felt, but she still couldn’t sleep that night. She spent most of it tossing and turning, uncertain of her future, uncertain about herself, and missing Suko terribly.

* * *

March 1, 2348

They were almost at the Warp Relay when Sigrid heard the call come through her comlink. Karen was waiting for her in the forward observation lounge so Sigrid joined her there. It took several minutes to find her because most of the off-duty crew had gathered there and were crammed into the small lounge near the forward viewport.

“I thought you might like to see this before we drop,” Karen said, gesturing to the wide window in front of her.

Sigrid leaned forward and peered at the spectacle. She’d seen pictures of the Warp Relays, but never one for real. The sight took her breath away; especially seeing it charged up as it was, ready for the Agatsuma to drop through its portal into warp-space. The Alcyone Relay was small compared to some in other systems, but it was still over 400 meters in diameter. The latticed, ring-like structure looked fragile and delicate; orange and white sparks danced back and forth between the lattices. The entire structure glowed with an intense blue light, hinting at its immense and latent power.

“Look, they’re orienting it,” Karen said, pointing.

Sigrid watched as the relay spun on its axis; she knew this was the result of the Agatsuma’s navigator feeding coordinates to the relay-system, aiming the device at their destination of Aquarii. Now, it was just a matter of dropping through the portal at the appropriate angle and velocity, where they’d appear, instantaneously, at their destination.

“I always come here to watch before a jump,” Karen said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Have you ever seen a drop before?”

Sigrid shook her head.

“You’re going to love this.”

The Agatsuma accelerated toward the Relay and it glowed brighter still as their proximity and velocity increased. She felt several subtle bumps in the floor as the ship continued to make minor shifts in its angle of approach.

Karen placed her hand on her stomach. “Oh—I hate when they do that. That always makes me nervous.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re adjusting the approach angle—if the navigator gets that wrong, by even the tiniest fraction, we could pop out on the other side of Alpha Centauri, or who knows where.”

“Don’t tell me that now!”

But Karen laughed, easing Sigrid’s sudden anxiety. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s all preprogrammed. There hasn’t been a warp malfunction in years.” Karen pointed ahead. “Here we go.”

Sigrid found herself reaching out and holding the ensign’s hand as the Relay loomed closer, all at once filling the entire viewport. Sigrid heard the telltale hum, growing ever-louder as the ship’s hull resonated with the powerful energy field. She shielded her eyes from the brilliant flash; Karen’s hand tightened in her own. The stars seemed to grow, becoming bloated, quickly expanding, coalescing with one another until all were merged into one. For a long while, everything that was became white. And then, like snow falling, the white melted away, scattering, coalescing again into individual stars that shimmered in the darkness as they took shape.

“Not bad, huh,” Karen said.

Sigrid could only nod in agreement.

* * *

Captain Maalouf sat in his command chair in the crowded CIC. He looked down in quiet annoyance at the flashing red alarm on the panel of the console before him. Four hundred and eighty-seven drops, and that light had always been green, but now it flashed a red warning.

“Report!” he barked at the Tactical Officer.

Lieutenant Christian Lopez swung into his own seat; his hands danced over the panel in front of him. His eyes widened slightly. “Sir—we have a contact off the port bow,” he said, tying in his monitor to the main screen at the front of the bridge so the captain could take a look. A small ship, just a fifth the size of the Agatsuma, lay waiting for them some 25,000 kilometers distant. “It registers as the Morrigan, a small scout-class vessel attached to the Dalair Military Group.”

“Helm—evasive action,” the captain barked. “I want some distance between us and that ship.”

“Aye, Captain,” the Helmsman said.

“Dalair?” the XO asked, looking to the captain. “What the hell are they doing out here? This is a Kimura controlled system.”

“Hail them,” the captain ordered. His face was fixed in a scowl as he tried to figure out the scenario. The Agatsuma outgunned the tiny scout-ship five to one. Attacking them didn’t make sense. “Let’s see what they want.”

Before the Communications Officer could respond, they all heard three loud bangs, reverberating on the hull. Maalouf looked up in alarm.

“Captain, we hit something!” Lopez shouted; he continued to scan the incoming data.

“Missiles?” Tapert asked.

Lopez shook his head. “No, we weren’t hit, we hit something. Captain…” Lopez brought the new data up on the screen, “…we’ve been mined!”

The image of the Morrigan was replaced by a remote view of the exterior of the Agatsuma. They all saw the black, cylindrical object, about three meters long and half a meter thick, attached to the hull of the Corvette.

“Shit,” Captain Maalouf, muttered under his breath. “All stop.” He turned again to his Communications Officer, who stood frozen, staring at the image of the deadly explosive device attached to their ship. “Well, Ensign, let’s get ‘em on the blower and see what they want.”

The young ensign shook herself out of her funk and set to the task. “They’re hailing us, sir.”

“Well—put them on.” Maalouf shook his head. Rookies.

The forward view screen switched to the image of the Morrigan‘s bridge. Centered on the screen was a very large man. He looked to be shoehorned into the command chair where he sat. Realizing that he was connected, he leaned forward in his chair, his face becoming serious and intent. “This is Captain Gregory Oslov of the DSS Morrigan. By order of the CTF and the Federation of Commercial Enterprises, I hereby order you to stand down and surrender your cargo. Failure to comply will result in sanctions and fines—amounts to be set by CTF.”

Captain Maalouf chuckled. “Sanctions? And what of the limpet mine attached to the hull of my ship?”

Captain Oslov looked up at him from below a raised eyebrow. “Incentive.”

“I’m not aware of the CTF permitting the use of mines near a relay point, Captain. Are you sure this is a sanctioned operation.”

Captain Oslov shrugged. “You may, of course, take any grievances to the Council—”

“Should I survive this encounter…” Another shrug was all the response Oslov was willing to give. “You say this is by order of the CTF—I don’t suppose you’re willing to let us wait for verification of your permit for seizure?”

“A formal request for authentication is, of course, your right, but we will take possession of your cargo.”

“Or you’ll blow us to bits.”

“I’m glad we understand each other, Captain Maalouf.”

Maalouf shifted in his chair. “Not quite, Captain—this cargo…there seems to be a misunderstanding. We carry no cargo.”

“You’re carrying an illegal weapon, Captain. We want the girl.”

Chapter 11

Hostile Takeover

––––––––

Captain Maalouf handed the data-pad to Kimura’s Deputy CEO. On it was a copy of the permit for seizure of the cargo.

“This is ridiculous,” Shinji said, tossing the pad back across the table in the captain’s ready-room. “It’s a fake.”

The captain nodded. “There’s no way to be sure, but I would tend to agree.”

“Have you transmitted a copy of this to my mother?”

“Yes, but the transmission won’t get to Aquarii for hours; we’ll have to wait just as long to receive a reply.”

Shinji sighed tiredly. “And how long has the esteemed captain given us to comply?”

“Twenty minutes. That gives us another twelve minutes to either respond—or come up with a plan.”

“And there’s nothing you can do about the mine?”

“We’ve analyzed it. Any tampering will result in our demise, I have no doubt. Even our scans seem to make it twitchy.”

“And our forces on Aquarii?”

“We’ve monitored several ships heading this way, but any help is days away—which explains Oslov’s desire for a hasty resolution.”

Shinji pounded his fist on the table. “I don’t believe it. Someone’s already tried to take the girls once. This is just a trick to get us to hand her over.”

Captain Maalouf studied his passenger closely. Although he was in command, he knew that Shinji could still override any action he might take. He chose his words carefully. “I believe you, but it doesn’t change the fact that we have a high-explosive limpet mine attached to our hull. Any action we take will result in the destruction of this ship. You may refuse to hand her over, sir, but my first responsibility is to this ship—”

“Your first responsibility is to me,” Shinji spat.

The captain sat back, his hands open. He’d said his piece, but the rest was up to Kimura. Unless…he had a thought. “If you’ll forgive me, sir, we might be missing the obvious…”

Shinji looked at him impatiently. “Continue.”

Captain Maalouf straightened himself. “You’ve told me very little about our…passenger, but from what I’ve seen…”

“Yes, yes—go on!”

“Perhaps we should hand her over.”

* * *

Captain Maalouf entered the bridge of the Corvette, followed closely by Shinji Kimura and his XO. “Did you contact Ms. Novak?” he asked the Communications Officer.

“She’s on her way, sir.”

“Good.” The captain dropped wearily into his chair. “Time?” he asked his XO.

“Three minutes, Captain.”

“Hail the Morrigan. Let’s see how Oslov wants to handle this.”

The officer keyed her console. In an instant, Oslov’s large face filled the forward viewing screen. “Cutting it close, Captain.”

Maalouf shrugged. “Exploring all possibilities.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll meet your demands, but I want assurances. The codes to that little Christmas present you’ve attached to my ship would be a good start.”

Oslov shook his head. “Afraid I can’t do that, Captain. Your ship outguns mine five to one. We’ll wait until we’re well away, and then we’ll send you the codes.”

Captain Maalouf spread out his hands. “And what exactly is stopping you from blowing us to bits, even if we do hand the girl over to you?”

Oslov leaned his large frame forward. “Absolutely nothing.”

Maalouf sat back, and exhaled loudly. “I see your point. Very well, we’ll extend our docking ring and wait for you to come alongside.”

Oslov chuckled. “Not going to happen, Captain. You’ll not come anywhere near my ship, not with that mine attached to your hull.”

Damn—but it had been worth a shot, Maalouf reasoned.

“You’ll transfer your Cargo by EVA.”

Maalouf’s eyes widened in surprise. “You want her to EVA over twenty-five thousand kilometers? I don’t think so.”

“What I want is for you to send her out in an EVA suit, and then back off ten thousand klicks. We’ll move in as you back away, then pick her up. Once the transfer is complete, I’ll transmit you the deactivation codes.”

Maalouf considered the proposal. It was as he would have done. Docking with the Agatsuma would be a foolish mistake, allowing his crew to board the smaller craft, possibly even blowing them to bits while cradled together. This way Oslov would keep his ship at a safe distance, allowing him to activate the mine if he sensed any duplicity on Maalouf’s part.

“Very well, Captain. She’ll be on her way in a moment.”

The captain signaled an end to the transmission and Oslov’s image winked out. Commander Tapert, who’d observed the exchange, leaned over. “He’s no fool—so far.”

“Let’s just hope our cargo is everything they seem to think she is.”

* * *

Sigrid stood by the airlock, stripped of everything but her underwear. Her clothes, weapons, even the earrings Ensign McTeer had given her had been taken from her, as ordered by the captain of the Morrigan. Shinji Kimura and Ensign McTeer stood by observing as two EVA technicians helped her into the bulky pressure suit and adjusted the boots around her feet and ankles. Sigrid noted the distress on Karen’s face as she looked worriedly at her new friend.

“Is this really necessary?” Ensign McTeer asked, frowning at Sigrid’s state of undress. She was protectively trying shield Sigrid with her discarded clothes but was just getting in the way.

“Those were our instructions, ma’am. She’s not allowed to take anything with her. The instructions were quite specific.”

“I’m very sorry about this, Ms. Novak,” Shinji said. “I’d intended to present you to my mother before anything like this happened. We hoped to complete your training on Aquarii before asking you to undertake any field operations. It appears your first mission is coming just a bit sooner than anticipated.”

Sigrid pulled the pressure suit up over her waist, hooking her arms into the shoulders before zipping it up over her chest. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll manage.” The words echoed strangely brave in her ears. But wasn’t this like just another exercise? Rosa loved to concoct elaborate scenarios when training the girls. Sigrid wondered what he would think of this one with all its caveats.

Shinji and Ensign McTeer briefed her as much as they could. She knew the ship was in peril, and the lives of everyone on board depended on her. The captain had little choice but to surrender her to the Morrigan. Failure to do so would result in the destruction of the Agatsuma. If they were lucky, once they had Sigrid on board, the captain of the Morrigan would transmit the deactivation codes. If they were lucky…

But Captain Maalouf was concerned that Oslov had no intention of deactivating the mine. If the permit was indeed a fake, if Dalair was acting in violation of Guild Law, then eliminating the Agatsuma and its ship full of witnesses would make sense. They needed Sigrid, but the rest of the crew was only a liability. It would be imprudent to gamble on Oslov’s sense of honor allowing them to live. The captain was emphatic; Sigrid would have to take the small Scout Vessel and persuade Oslov to release both herself and the Agatsuma—all without blowing them to bits while doing so. It was desperate, ludicrous even, but there seemed to be no other option.

One of the techs held up the suit’s controller, pointing at the array of buttons. “This looks a little tricky at first, but it’s really a cinch.”

Sigrid donned the helmet and linked the suit’s control system to her PCM. “It’s okay.” She tapped the suit’s helmet and winked. “I got it all in my head.”

“Looks a bit big, don’t you think?” Karen said, eyeing the bulky suit, which was clearly intended for someone larger.

The tech frowned. “It’s the smallest we got. It’s all sealed and secured, though.” He nodded to Sigrid. “You’ll be fine.”

Sigrid had already checked the suit’s seals and knew everything was in the green. She gave the thumbs-up signal and stepped into the airlock.

Karen leaned forward, raising her voice, unnecessarily. “Remember—I’ve uploaded the Morrigan’s schematics to your PCM. You should be able to deactivate the mine from either the bridge or the auxiliary systems in the engineering section.” She stepped back out of the way, just as the lock-door slid shut behind her.

Sigrid listened to the sound of the air cycling out. It grew ominously quiet; her own breathing inside the suit’s helmet was all she could hear now. She turned in time to see the outer door opening. Sigrid had never seen such a sight. She couldn’t believe there were so many stars. Even on Alcyone, where there were no city lights to dampen the view, nothing had compared with this. There was little time to appreciate the view though, so Sigrid refocused on her task.

It was an odd-feeling to step out of the airlock and into space. It was difficult to believe she wasn’t going to find herself tumbling down away from the ship, but as she pushed away, she floated freely in the vacuum.

Sigrid had never experienced weightlessness, but her enhanced physiology, her reengineered genetics, even her bionic systems, adjusted in unison; she had no difficulty orienting herself and she felt no sense of vertigo. The Morrigan was marked in her HUD and she could already see it moving closer while the Agatsuma zipped quickly away behind her. Using the thruster-pack, she oriented herself to face the small scout ship moving toward her. It was bearing down on her fast—very fast. Sigrid reached for the thruster controls, ready to blast out of the smaller ship’s path, but then it slowed as it maneuvered in close to her.

It was a sleek-little ship, perhaps fifty meters in length, with a long, pointed nose. Its massive stern thrusters made up much of its bulk. She caught a glimpse of its forward viewport and bridge before the craft spun sideways and positioned itself beside her. A small airlock door slid silently open. She jetted toward it, then entered carefully, making sure her feet were positioned properly as the ship’s gravity took hold of her. She monitored the atmosphere cycling in—there was something wrong with the oxygen content.

Gas.

They were gassing the compartment.

A deep voice boomed loudly in her helmet. “Welcome aboard. Please remove your helmet and suit.”

* * *

Crewman James Skinner pulled the breather down over his face and hefted the riot gun they’d given him. Four other crewmen and the ship’s XO stood next to him. All wore breathers, but the others were only armed with stun pistols. He couldn’t understand what all the hype was about. He’d handled several prisoner transfers before, all perfectly—if he said so himself—and with far fewer precautions than they were taking now. What a load of fuss for just one little girl. He had to laugh. Pussies…

And the riot gun was a bit extreme. It fired an electrically charged net that would pin and pacify anyone unlucky enough to get hit with the thing. But why even bother with it; they’d already gassed the airlock. The girl would pass-out when she removed her EVA gear. If she refused they could always blast her back out into space, although killing her would lose them the bounty and all of their bonuses.

That wasn’t going to happen.

The XO looked through the small window in the airlock door, staring down at Sigrid’s unconscious body. “She’s out,” he said, signaling to the crewman by the airlock to open it up.

All the men stood ready, weapons raised as the door slid open. Seeing the girl sprawled out on the floor of the airlock, Crewman Skinner lowered his riot gun. What was the big deal?

The XO signaled the medic forward. He bent, checking Sigrid, first her pulse and then both her eyes, lifting each eyelid. He nodded to the XO. “Totally out, sir.”

“Pump her.”

“Don’t need to—she’s gone.”

XO Keller considered, then dismissed his medic’s advice. “Do it.”

The medic shrugged, took a small syringe from his waist pouch and stabbed Sigrid’s thigh.

Only then did the XO lower his own weapon. “All right, let’s take her to the brig.” He checked his wrist monitor—the environmental systems had pumped the last of the gas out. He pulled the breather off his face and took a deep breath. He hated wearing those things.

The quinuclidinyl-benzilate they’d dosed her with left Sigrid feeling quite nauseous, especially when the medic had followed it up with the sedative. He’d given her enough to put a horse out for a day. Sigrid did her best not to retch and kept her breathing low while the billions of nanomites scattered to combat all the drugs they’d pumped into her. Sigrid’s bionics worked to keep her pulse low and steady, leaving little reason for them to suspect she wasn’t completely down for the count.

Either Keller was paranoid, or just overly cautious, because he had another crewman tie her wrists with a set of plastic binders.

Great; just what she needed.

They were taking her to the brig. She knew from the schematics loaded into her PCM that their route would take her in the vicinity of the Engineering section, one deck below.

The crewmen charged with handling her had a bit of a time passing her down the ladder to the lower deck. One crewman held her hands, lowering her down to two more crewmen below, who gathered her up in their arms. Even with her eyes closed, her sensory modules picked up the men’s reactions as they handled her nearly naked body. She hadn’t anticipated this as affording a distraction, but the young men seemed to be concentrating far more on her rear than the task at hand.

While they carried her, Sigrid took stock of the crew’s location on the small ship. Five crewmen had accompanied her down toward the brig, and four more manned the engineering section. That only left three, presumably on the bridge.

They were approaching the brig. Sigrid knew she couldn’t let them lock her inside. If she were lucky, the captain of the Morrigan had already transmitted the deactivation codes for the mine, but Sigrid had to assume it was still live. The auxiliary control center was only ten meters down the corridor from her current position.

Now was the time.

Sigrid slitted open her eyes. Two crewmen gripped her arms on both sides; the one on her right held a riot gun; he also had several gas grenades clipped to his belt. Perfect. She held back a smile.

Sigrid bent her knees and sprang to her feet. She hooked her trussed-up wrists over the first man’s head, spun him around and threw him into the body of the other man who’d held her a moment before. Both crashed heavily into the wall. It was a simple matter to relieve the crewman of his riot gun; she snapped it out of his hands as he fell, off-balance.

Three crew charged at her from the direction of the engineering section and she fired, watching the net spread out as it pinned the crewmen to the bulkhead. They spasmed—quite satisfyingly, Sigrid thought. She winced at their cries as the power-pack discharged its potent dose of electricity.

Her sensors registered a warning. Sigrid ducked and rolled under the stun-charge that whizzed past her head. In one fluid motion, she liberated two of the gas grenades from the felled crewman, pulled the pins and rolled one down each direction of the corridor. Only the XO had time to get his breather back on his face, but in his haste he dropped his stun pistol. Sigrid stepped in next to him and yanked the mask off his face; he took one panicked, short breath and slumped to the grated, metal floor.

Sigrid tossed the breather aside. The nanomites in her system could probably handle the gas, but she was still feeling nauseous from the earlier gassing, so she held her breath. She could hold it for six minutes easily enough. She relieved an unconscious crewmen of his knife, cut herself free from the binders and massaged her chafed wrists. The brief skirmish had lasted just under sixteen-seconds. She scanned and detected no alarms. Good. Sigrid did a quick count; all five of her escort were down, along with three of the engineers; she realized there was one remaining and cursed.

She peeked into the cramped Engineering Room, but there was no sign of him. That meant he was either on the bridge or her information was wrong. The Auxiliary Controls were in front of her. She moved to the console, where her PCM searched and found the correct network access, linking her directly to the ship’s systems. A number of security protocols tried to block her access as she worked her way through the firewalls. Suko would be better at this, she thought. Suko was always better at decryption.

It took longer than she’d have preferred, a little less than a minute, but she finally managed to break through the security and found the deactivation codes for the mine. She breathed a deep sigh as she confirmed they hadn’t tried to detonate it yet. Her efforts had so far gone unnoticed on the bridge, but that would change shortly.

Sigrid stifled a giggle as she fed a worm-hack into the control systems—this was a little mischief Suko had shown her. It was fast-acting and, if it worked, would keep any of the command crew from doing anything until she could gain full control of the ship.

* * *

Captain Gregory Oslov leaned forward in his chair and peered over the shoulder of the helmsman in front of him. The bridge on the scout ship was so small he could see the consoles of most of the crew. He’d gotten into the habit of looking at theirs rather than his own master-console in the arm of this chair. He was a control freak, and he knew it.

He checked the chronometer again. His XO had reported that they’d captured the girl and were on the way to the brig, but that report was two minutes old. Oslov wasn’t about to relax until she was safely locked away. He didn’t know much about the package, only that she was to be regarded as extremely dangerous. She’d been given the highest threat-rating by their commandant.

He was distracted for a moment by the flashing light on his communications panel. The Agatsuma was hailing him again, eager for the deactivation codes, no doubt.

“Not just yet, my friends,” Oslov muttered, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. Not until she’s safely stowed and secured.

He checked the time again. It had been too long. Oslov wasn’t quite panicking, but the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. His XO should have reported by now. He banged the com with the back of his fist, opening a channel.

“Keller—report!” He waited. Silence. Fuck. “Chen. Hiller!” Only the squelch and rasp of static answered back. The helmsman turned around in her chair and shot him a worried look. Oslov stared down at the small console attached to the arm of his chair. One light blinked like a beacon—the switch that would send the activation command to the mine he’d laid for the Agatsuma. Could he really do it? Could he blow up an entire crew of fellow Mercenaries? Would it make any difference?

He looked up at the helmsman. “What’s the position of the Agatsuma?”

“No change, sir. Still just sitting there, ten thousand klicks out.”

“All right. Lock us down until we can figure out what’s going on. No one gets in here, you hear me?”

The young officer worked furiously at her controls, then a bewildered expression spread over her face.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure, sir—everything checks out, but…nothing’s working. I don’t…I have no control!”

“Mother…” Oslov jumped to his feet and banged his head, yet again, on the low ceiling. He drew his sidearm and moved quickly to the door. Too late—it slid open. Captain Oslov was too seasoned a professional to be surprised or shocked at the sight of the small, nearly naked girl in front of him. He didn’t want to hurt her; he wasn’t a violent man, but orders were orders, and he didn’t hesitate in his duty. He fired his weapon, point blank.

The speed at which she moved didn’t seem possible. She became a flickering blur before his eyes. His slug pierced the air where she’d just been standing and exploded against the bulkhead down the corridor. Oslov’s mouth fell open and his hand went slack. This time, he did hesitate. He stared wildly at her as she leveled the riot gun at him. The blast knocked him backward, sending him tumbling over the back of his captain’s chair and pinning him up against the helm and navigation’s consoles. He felt the surge of electricity judder his system; his eyes rolled back in his head, but not before he saw the girl leap over him; he heard a sickening thud and his helmsman’s screams, then everything went black.

* * *

Sigrid pushed the unconscious body of the helmsman from her chair onto the floor, taking a moment to relieve the woman of her uniform jacket. She hit a switch on the control panel, deactivating her worm program and restoring control to the bridge. She took care to ensure that the auxiliary controls remained locked out; she still had to worry about the missing crewman, probably hiding somewhere on board.

Mercifully, the ship was small and she soon found him, snoring soundly in his quarters. He’d somehow slept through the entire action. Sigrid snorted at the comedy of it as she sealed him into his quarters before returning to the bridge. The Agatsuma was out of range of her implanted comlink so she used the Morrigan’s transmitter and thumbed the channel open. The loud sound of cheering from the Agatsuma’s bridge crew was a welcome assault to her ears. She put the image up on the forward viewer and smiled at the relieved countenance of the captain and the crew behind him.

“Well done, Ms. Novak. Is the ship secure?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve gained control of the bridge and I’ve locked out control through the rest of the ship. The crew is incapacitated. I’ve also deactivated the mine—I think you’ll find it’s quite harmless now.”

The captain nodded acknowledgment. “Very well. Stay where you are—keep the bridge. We’ll come alongside and send a boarding party aboard. I…don’t know how you did it. We can’t thank you enough. I’m sure there’s a hefty commendation bonus in this for you.”

Bonus? Sigrid hadn’t considered that, but of course, this was the life of a Mercenary.

She acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Stand by. We’ll be alongside in a moment.”

The viewer winked-off and Sigrid was alone again, apart from the untidy heap of unconscious bridge officers. Something on Captain Oslov’s body caught her eye. He still held his sidearm in his limp hand—a matching one lay holstered on his left side. Sigrid picked it up. She always found the allure of such weapons compelling, ever since the day she’d discovered what a crack shot she was. The captain’s pistols were unlike anything she’d held before. Slightly larger than the Markovs, these were a unique, custom-design. There was nothing like them in her database. They were pearl-handled and fit the palm of her hand perfectly, even better than her Markovs. Longer, heavier and fashioned from polished tungsten, they fired a variety of simple, high-powered ballistic rounds. They were lethal, brutal and utterly lovely.

Trophies perhaps? That’s what Mercenaries did, right? She wondered if she’d be allowed to keep them, even as she removed the captain’s holsters and fastened the belt around her own waist.

As she looked around the ship, another idea occurred to Sigrid.

Chapter 12

Mercenary

––––––––

March 2, 2348

“You what?” Captain Maalouf demanded.

Standing before him in his ready-room, dressed in her Academy outfit, Sigrid raised her posture, hands clasped behind her back. She had scoured Kimura’s database, and also asked the advice of Karen and Lieutenant Lopez. She was determined not to back down.

“Yes, sir.” Her reply came measured and steady. “I claim the Morrigan as bounty.”

Captain Maalouf leaned back in his chair and studied the small yet clearly determined girl in front of him. “You know that after a victory it is customary for the attacking ship to claim salvageable vessels as prize. Honoring your demands would mean the entire crew would have to forfeit their bonus—not to mention Kimura’s own claims. The Agatsuma is still a Kimura vessel and they’ll be expecting to charge a tax on the operation as well.”

Sigrid had already studied the complex bonus structure thoroughly. On the face of it, the Agatsuma and the entire Kimura corporation appeared to have a legitimate claim on the spoils.

Unless Sigrid could make her case.

She felt a wave of doubt, but steeled herself and blurted out what she’d been rehearsing in her head all morning. “Begging your pardon, sir, no disrespect intended, but…well, you surrendered to the captain of the Morrigan. You surrendered, sir. As such, I was operating on my own. And…” Sigrid swallowed, “I claim the Morrigan as spoils of war under article 487, section 6C of the Mercenary Act.”

Captain Maalouf scowled at her. “Article…” His hand moved over the console on his desk, as if to verify the quoted article, then he fixed her with a stony stare. “You know we had no choice in surrendering—that was part of the plan.”

“Yes, sir. I realize that you were left with few choices. But still, you did technically surrender, sir.” Sigrid coughed to clear her dry throat, as much as fill the silence.

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “I could refuse…”

“And I would request arbitration.”

Her words drew a wry smile from Maalouf. “This won’t make you popular with the crew—they’ll be expecting a bonus in this matter.”

Sigrid breathed a sigh. Was he really giving in? “I’ll still need to hire a crew to bring the ship in, Captain. Or have the Agatsuma tow the Morrigan to Aquarii. Either way, the crew and the ship would be rewarded for the task.”

“You’ve given this much thought, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain laughed with more warmth this time. He nodded and leaned forward. “Very well, Ms. Novak. I concede. You may claim the Morrigan. I propose towing the ship the rest of the way—I believe you’ll find the standard towing fees more reasonable than hiring a crew.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’d prefer to crew the ship.” Sigrid pulled out her data-pad from behind her back and placed it on the desk. “Here’s a list of the personnel I require for the operation.”

Captain Maalouf couldn’t help but grin at Sigrid’s determination. He leaned back in his chair and chuckled before rising and extending his hand. “Very well, Ms. Novak. And congratulations on a job well done.”

* * *

March 3, 2348

Sigrid was once again grateful for her diminutive stature. As she stood behind the command chair on the cramped bridge of the Morrigan her head almost touched the ceiling. The other crew members had to stoop as they entered the crowded cockpit.

The door to the bridge slid open. Lieutenant Lopez came breezing in and banged his head smartly on the low ceiling. “Mother…”

Sigrid and Karen winced in unison.

“Glad you could make it, Lieutenant,” Sigrid said, with a wink to Karen. “Think you can handle bringing the ship in-system?”

He nodded, then rubbed the sore spot on his forehead before taking his position at the helm. “You know I’m just a Tac-Officer. I’ve never piloted anything like this.”

“Yes, but you’re certified. I’ve checked your record.” She also knew Captain Maalouf would be reluctant to release his more skilled bridge officers. Christian was certified, and she was grateful to have him on board—and to have his company.

Karen cleared her throat. “The Agatsuma is signaling they’re ready to get underway.”

Ensign Karen McTeer was still assigned to her personally, as her Orientations Officer and Sigrid had employed her as Communications Officer.

“Good. Let them know we’re also set to go. We’ll follow them in at ten thousand kilometers aft.”

“Aye, sir—I mean, ma’am.” Karen chuckled.

Sigrid peered through the side viewport and watched as the thrusters of the larger craft at their side flared brilliantly. The Corvette slid by them, slowly, then accelerated at an incredible rate before disappearing a few moments later. Sigrid frowned at the command chair in front of her—somehow, she didn’t feel right sitting in it so she stood alongside it with her hand on the backrest.

“Ma’am?” Christian asked. They all seemed to be looking at her, waiting.

“Let’s go to Aquarii.”

* * *

March 8, 2348

For just over six days, both ships thundered through space, moving ever deeper into the heart of the Aquarii system. At the halfway point, they flipped 180º about, decelerating the rest of the way toward the small blue-green planet that was Aquarii II. The Morrigan could have easily covered the distance in half the time, but Sigrid chose to follow the larger ship in. She was in no hurry to get to Aquarii and passed the time by exploring every inch of the small scout vessel. It was lightly armed compared to the Agatsuma, with only two forward torpedo tubes and two rail-turrets, mounted dorsally and ventrally. Spanning less than fifty meters, the Morrigan was small, but fast and highly agile.

Much of her time was spent with Ensign McTeer. In light of the recent attack, Sigrid insisted the ensign should brief her on the political and economic climate of the Federation, rather than worry about what Sigrid was doing—or not doing—with her hair. Sigrid was surprised to learn how the Trade Federation had grown to cover twenty-four planets, with seven more already being explored for mining and resource extraction. When she’d been a girl, there had only been colonies in twelve systems. Much of the information was already included in her database, but Karen had a knack of explaining the complex nuances of the Federation’s political structure in an illuminating way. Sigrid would never have thought to claim the Morrigan as a spoil of war, were it not for the ensign’s tutoring.

On the bridge, Christian frowned at his controls. “I know you say I’m checked out on these things, but I hope you won’t think less of me if I let the automated systems take us down.”

Sigrid laughed. “Not at all. Take us in, Lieutenant Lopez.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

The nose of the Morrigan dipped down and the sight of Aquarii filled the forward viewport. Sigrid spied Aquarii’s most unique and spectacular geological feature, The Slash, a wide and winding inland sea that divided Aquarii’s two largest land masses, carving its way from ocean to ocean.

They pierced the atmosphere at 25,000 kph. After the smooth ride through the system, the sudden buffeting was a noisy, uncomfortable contrast. The inertial dampening systems handled much of the turbulence but Sigrid found herself clinging hard to the back of the command chair as the small ship bumped and jittered through re-entry.

The automated systems flew them low over the lush green and blue hills of Aquarii. Though more populated than Alcyone, it was still a natural paradise compared to the permacrete-covered landscapes of Earth. Sigrid marveled at the colors; she had never seen blue trees before.

The forests gave way to more industrialized areas as they came in over Aetos City, the largest city on Aquarii, populated by well over a million people. The Kimura enclave was a sprawling campus located in the heart of the city. They skimmed down over a wide airfield lined with a variety of ships, passing two hulking destroyers perched on the edge of the tarmac. At over 400 meters in length, these were the largest ships capable of planetary landings. Any larger warships and transports had to remain in orbit around Aquarii.

The autopilot brought them down on their designated pad close to the complex. Christian went quickly through the shutdown sequence to the whines and the wailings of the thrusters powering down. “You have arrived at your destination,” he said with a leer. “Please enjoy your stay.”

“Well done, Mr. Lopez,” she teased. They both knew the ship’s systems had handled the entire approach and landing.

They gathered in the lower airlock; Sigrid hit the release and the outer door swung open and down. A blast of warm, humid air washed over her. Sigrid gasped. But it wasn’t the sudden change in atmosphere that startled her. There, at the base of the stairs, sitting in a wheelchair and surrounded by a platoon of security officers, was none other than the Lady Hitomi Kimura, CEO and head of the Kimura Corporation.

Clad in an elaborate gown of black silk, she smiled at Sigrid from behind a pair of dark glasses. Two security officers helped her to stand. Even with mechanical braces fastened to her legs, she leaned heavily on an ornately carved cane made of lacquered cherry-wood. She stood tall, much taller than Sigrid. Her thick, long, raven-black hair was tied back, held by a set of gilded kogai and kushi. Several long strands hung delicately down the sides of her face. Even at sixty-two, and hampered as she was by the disease that had taken the use of her legs, the Lady Hitomi exuded a powerful, captivating persona.

Sigrid approached her, followed gingerly by her own crew, who were clearly surprised at the entourage before them. Lady Hitomi took two unsteady steps toward Sigrid, who bowed deeply. She lifted Sigrid’s chin with the tip of her finger, removed her dark glasses and regarded Sigrid with a smile.

“Welcome home, Sigrid,” Hitomi said, pronouncing her name perfectly.

The Lady Hitomi pulled back a loose strand of hair that blew across her face. She tilted her head, shielding her eyes from the sun. As she did, Sigrid caught a glimpse—she wasn’t sure at first—but then she saw it again as the breeze whipped the Lady’s hair from her face; a small, two millimeter-wide slot. Hitomi Kimura had a PCM access port tucked hidden away behind her ear, just as Sigrid did. Just as the girls from Alcyone did. Hitomi was like them.

Sigrid stifled a gasp and concentrated on standing to attention. “Milady,” was all she could say as she bowed again. She found it difficult to look the woman in the eye.

Hitomi Kimura waved her hand dismissively. “Please don’t use that ridiculous title. It’s a silly custom invented by the local inhabitants—they gave me such a grand title simply because I head the largest of the companies here. But it’s a small planet and I suppose they imagine it adds something to the local color.”

Sigrid knew there was much more to it than that. The commercial empire that the Lady Kimura had built was responsible for the entire thriving economy on Aquarii, but she knew better than to argue with the woman. “Yes, Mistress.”

“That will do in a pinch, but you may call me ‘Hitomi-san’…at least when we’re alone.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Sigrid said, resisting an urge to curtsey.

Hitomi turned her attention to the ship behind Sigrid. Her smile widened. “A fine ship. Captain Maalouf tells me you’ve claimed it as bounty. You don’t waste any time, do you?”

Sigrid felt herself flush. “My claim is based on existing regulations, Mistress. I only—”

“Not at all. You’re well within your rights. I merely meant to express how impressed I was—that you took the ship single-handedly, and without casualties…that you took such bold action. The Captain was a little…disappointed at losing such a prize, but he’ll get over it. Tell me, do you wish to auction it? I’m prepared to offer you a fair price. Our fleet could always use a fine vessel such as this.”

Sigrid took a deep breath. Selling the ship to Kimura would go a long way to paying off her family’s debt, taking years off her contract. It made logical, rational sense. And keeping it certainly wasn’t an option; she could never afford the moorage fees.

But somehow, Sigrid couldn’t bear to part with it. She couldn’t explain it—she couldn’t afford it—but she wanted it.

There was one more option.

“I propose a leasing contract, Mistress.”

“Terms?” Hitomi asked, with an interested smirk.

Sigrid pulled her pad out from her pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Lady Hitomi for inspection.

Hitomi read quickly in silence. Sigrid held her breath.

She had prepared a leasing agreement that would allow her to maintain title to the vessel. The ship would be released for use in the Kimura fleet, who would handle maintenance costs while paying Sigrid a usage fee. A set bonus would be paid should it be used in combat, more if the vessel proved worthy or claimed victory over another.

“I wasn’t aware they taught business at the Academy, Sigrid.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Impressive.” Hitomi looked over to Ensign McTeer. “You helped her with this?”

Karen bowed before speaking. “No, Milady. I only instructed her in the guild laws. Sigrid—Ms. Novak prepared the contract herself.”

“Very well. Your terms are agreeable.” She pressed her thumb to Sigrid’s contract and handed her the pad. She stood, scrutinizing Sigrid for a long minute—Sigrid shifted on her feet, feeling quite self-conscious, though maintained her stance at full attention. Finally, Hitomi smiled again. “I hope this won’t be the end of your surprises, young one.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Now, if you will forgive me…” She eased herself carefully into the wheelchair. “This is more exercise than I have had in a long while. You will join me for dinner, of course.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

Her attendant began to wheel her away, but she stopped him. “Oh, Ensign McTeer will find you some quarters. Let me know if they are to your satisfaction.” She signaled, and the man resumed pushing her along.

Sigrid’s crew had watched the whole scene, transfixed.

Lieutenant Lopez broke the silence. “Holy crap! Do you know who that was?”

Karen stifled a laugh. “Close your mouth. You’ll catch flies.” She linked arms with Sigrid. “I told you we were traveling with a VIP.”

“I know, but…”

A waiting ground-car took Sigrid and her crew to the main habitat of the Kimura Enclave. Sigrid parted with them there, saying her goodbyes, sad to see them go. Karen escorted Sigrid to her new quarters.

“Is all this for me?” Sigrid gaped at the suite, which was large enough to accommodate all the girls from Alcyone.

Karen nodded, warmed by the sight of Sigrid exploring the multileveled unit, turning on lights and inspecting the closets and appliances. One wall was filled entirely with a large viewing monitor. Curious, Sigrid interfaced with it and found that she could access thousands of entertainment programs. She hadn’t seen TV since childhood. Sigrid paused her channel flipping and stopped on a film. The screen became inhabited with the three-dimensional image of a man and a woman, both completely naked. The man, tall and spectacularly muscled, gathered the woman into his arms and kissed her with a passion that made Sigrid blush. He whispered her name, Sofia, Sofia, and groped her naked breasts. The woman, Sofia, apparently, swooned and moaned with pleasure.

Sigrid sank back into the sofa, transfixed at the images in front of her.

“Gah—I hate that movie,” Karen said as she walked past, exploring the suite. “Trust me, that’s the best part.”

Embarrassed, Sigrid flipped the monitor off. It was a very good part. She looked back at the blank monitor—she had a strange urge to sit and watch more.

“Here you go!” Karen trilled from the other room. Sigrid followed her in to see what was up. Karen was standing before a wide, walk-in closet that was easily bigger than the quarters she’d had at the Annex on Alcyone. It was filled with clothes—formal military uniforms, combat suits, business wear and dresses and dresses.

“Holy…” Sigrid said, running her hands along the racks.

“Check these out.”

Karen held up several boots for Sigrid to see. They were more like the tall-military boots Sigrid was used to wearing, but these were equipped with high-heels.

“They must have read my report,” Karen said.

“You told them I’m short?”

Karen snorted a laugh. “They asked me if I knew what you liked. I told them you loved the shoes I lent you—and, here you go.” Karen pulled one of the formal uniforms off the rack. “Ooh! You have to try this on.”

The uniform consisted of a pair of slacks and a jacket, black with red trim. The outfit was tailored perfectly for her; the pants were tight and zipped at her ankles, but she found she could still move with perfect ease.

Karen opened a drawer, eyes wide as she held up a bra for inspection. “Fancy.” This one was trimmed with a lacy fabric and looked quite delicate. Sigrid quickly slipped it on. It felt soft and comfortable, not nearly as practical or as the functional underwear she was used to, but it was pretty and she couldn’t help but like the way it looked—and made her look. Even the jacket seemed tailored to highlight her femininity, darting in at her sides and under her breasts, accentuating her curves in a provocative fashion.

Sigrid fastened the high-collar and marveled at the fine tailoring of the uniform. She looked almost as sharp as Ensign McTeer. Sigrid pulled on one of the new pairs of boots; they zippered up the sides, with laces that tied all the way up to her knee. Her pants tucked neatly into them without any folds or bulges. When Sigrid stood, she was pleased to find that she stood as tall as the ensign before her.

As always, Sigrid completed her outfit by arming herself; she chose the two pearl-handled pistols she’d liberated from Captain Oslov.

Ensign McTeer gave a long, low whistle as she admired Sigrid in her formal outfit.

Sigrid laughed affectionately. “What’s this?” she asked; her uniform bore no rank insignia like Karen’s, but there was a small rectangular emblem stitched into the chest, just above the breast pocket.

Karen leaned closer and examined it. “Campaign ribbon. The Captain must have reported your action against the Morrigan. I’ve never seen them issue one so fast, though. They’ve certainly got their eye on you.”

Sigrid wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

* * *

March 9, 2348

The boardroom of the Kimura Corporation stood high atop the central tower of the mercenary enclave. It was a grand, circular room, windowed on all sides, revealing a spectacular view of Enclave and Aetos City. The only means of access was a spiral staircase, leading up from a lounge and reception area one floor below.

The Lady Hitomi Kimura despised having to meet with the Board. She found the bureaucracy tiresome and would love nothing more than to dispense with the lot of them—probably about as much as they’d like to get rid of her. But worse was that she couldn’t negotiate the awkward spiral staircase on her own. Being carried up the winding flight of stairs was humiliation beyond reason and served to remind all members of her weakness.

And then there was her CFO, her main detractor and general pain in the ass, Markus Emerson. Markus was well into his fifties; the Kimura CFO was devilishly handsome. Hitomi couldn’t look at him without rebuking herself. She’d made a fatal mistake long ago and let the man get close to her. Though it was all in the past, it remained a thorn in both their sides.

Her security man was ready with her wheelchair at the top of the staircase, but today she refused it. Today she took the seven faltering steps to the head of the conference table—helped along by Sigrid. Hitomi marveled at how easily the girl held her up with an arm around her waist, the other on her elbow.

Two of her men rushed forward with a chair. She waved it away. Today she would stand. It was a small gesture, but she needed to remind her board that she was still in charge, still the CEO of one of the oldest mercenary clans in the Federation.

Hitomi turned to face Sigrid, who remained at her flank, hands clasped behind her back. She felt a great sense of pride as she took in the young woman. Smartly decked out in her formal-dress uniform, Sigrid appeared professional and lethal, despite her small stature and young age. An impressive sight, to be sure. Hitomi wanted the Board to get a good look at her today; she could already see the people before her studying Sigrid closely.

Lady Hitomi tapped her cane to the floor and the room fell silent.

“Thank you all for coming. I’ve called this meeting to deal with a rather startling development. We’ve kept the matter classified until now, but I’ve decided it’s time to inform you all.”

Hitomi gave them a moment, watching as her directors sat up a little straighter; their bored attitudes vanished instantly, to be replaced by concerned curiosity.

“Seven days ago, inbound from the Aquarii Relay, the Agatsuma was attacked. I shouldn’t need to point out the significance of this to any of you. A Kimura ship, in Kimura-controlled space, attacked. This was no random encounter, either. The ship was intercepted by the DSS Morrigan claiming permit for seizure of a cargo of illegal weapons. This is the second attack directed specifically against Kimura and Project Andraste. I don’t want any of you to confuse this with the recent skirmishes we’ve been having with the Independents either. This was a directed attack with a specific target in mind.” Hitomi’s eyes fell briefly on Sigrid. “However, I am pleased to report that the attack was a complete failure.”

Markus nodded. “Captain Maalouf is an experienced line officer, a proven combat specialist.”

Hitomi gave her CFO a stern look. “Your proven specialist surrendered his ship and cargo without firing a shot. I’ll have you all know that the Morrigan was taken, single-handedly, by this young woman. Unarmed and left on her own, she quickly overcame the enemy, while an entire Corvette-full of our most highly trained officers and crew was forced to surrender…”

“Yes, yes. We’re all familiar with the girl’s abilities.”

Hitomi doubted that very much, but she let Markus continue.

“You say the Morrigan had a permit for seizure? If this is true, it’s most disturbing news.”

Hitomi nodded. “Indeed, but we can’t verify the authenticity of the document at this point; not until we receive confirmation from the Council Authority. Personally, I find it hard to believe that the Council would act against us in this way. Their purpose is to facilitate free-trade between the Corporations, not to interfere. It goes against everything they stand for.”

“Does it?” Markus asked. “Isn’t this exactly what they tried to do with Daedalus?”

Hitomi felt a knot in her gut; the same thought had crossed her mind.

When Daedalus Corp had first revealed the technology for the Warp Relays, the Council had tried to appropriate the technology in the name of the Federation, ‘for the betterment of the humankind’. But everyone knew it was just an attempt to control an important new technology, possibly the most significant development ever.

The Council had argued that no one company should control such an important technology, but Daedalus had refused to surrender control. Scars from the conflict could still be seen all over the Earth and in the Orbital Colonies. As a means of truce, Daedalus had sworn neutrality, and for the last forty years an uneasy peace had existed. Humanity had expanded through the galaxy and many, many corporations had grown rich beyond avarice. None more so than Daedalus.

Again, Hitomi nodded. “As insane as it might sound, we must entertain the thought that the Federation Council has designs on Andraste.”

Shinji had been sitting quietly next to his mother, but this was too much. “That’s impossible! The Council would never dare. They have no direct jurisdiction over us. On what grounds could they possibly justify such an attack?”

“Do they need justification?” came the disturbing question from Dannette Kirsch, one of Kimura’s principal shareholders. “If they really wanted to appropriate the girls, would we be in a position to oppose them? Are we even certain this wasn’t just a ruse on the part of Dalair Military?”

“No, we’re not sure of anything at this point,” Hitomi said. “Captain Oslov maintains that the permit is legitimate, and the directive came from the CTF. I have no reason to believe the man, but I can’t imagine why he’d wish to implicate the Council in this fiasco.”

“This might actually make some strange kind of sense,” a young man offered from down the table. “We’ve been monitoring the chatter between ships coming in-system. It’s not just the one girl—there’s talk of bounties on all the girls.”

Hitomi shook her head wearily. “That anyone should even know of any of them—of Andraste—illustrates that we suffer a security breach in this organization. The ship that attacked the Agatsuma knew our flight schedule. They should never have been allowed to lie in wait for our forces like that.”

Admiral Simpson swallowed and looked meekly up at the CEO. “My apologies, Lady Hitomi. We’ve since positioned several ships around the relay. That breach won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not, Admiral. I also propose we take extra steps to guard the facility on Alcyone. With your approval, I’d like to send the Third Destroyer squadron to Alcyone immediately.”

Markus glared at her. “Are you mad? Our naval forces are already committed under contract. And now you’d have us expend even more resources? This project has been nothing but a drain on this company for more than a decade. And what has it brought us? Nothing—except that we’ve been financially hamstrung. The ranks of our creditors grow, while our list of allies grows thin. It’s time to cut our losses. This entire project is a disaster and will surely bring ruin to the Corporation.”

Hitomi studied the CFO, not bothering to hide her contempt. “Are you really willing to resign our assets based on the com-chatter of bored freighter captains? This girl—Sigrid…” Hitomi turned to her, relaxing her tone, “…represents decades of research. She, and all the girls, represent a potential boon for this company, not to mention a massive leap forward in human evolution. This is just the start—”

“What they represent, is a liability,” Markus cut in. “The resources we’ve used—that you’ve personally reallocated—the staggering debt we’ve incurred… We are in no position to refuse the will of the Council, let alone fight a war against the entire Federation.”

Murmurs of opinion echoed around the room, mostly in agreement with his statement.

Hitomi raised her hands for silence. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We still don’t know the Council’s intentions.”

“Then what do you propose?” Shinji asked.

“I see only one course of action. I will go to Earth and address the Council. I’ve already logged the petition with the local Federation Envoy.”

“You?” Markus asked, staring at the braces on her legs. “In your condition?”

“I still have some pull with the Council.”

“There was a time when Kimura had a seat on the Council,” Markus said, unable to resist pointing out that which they all knew so well.

Hitomi conceded the point. Her father and grandfather had held a seat on the Council for Trade and Finance, but that was before Daedalus, before humankind had reached out into the cosmos. It was no secret that the Board blamed her for the loss of the position and the influence that it had once given their company.

“I also have twenty-one contract requests for the girls and more coming in.” She tapped the data-pad in front of her, activating the wall monitor at the end of the room. “I propose that we accept these contracts now. On Alcyone, the girls will remain an easy target. Under contract, they will at least be dispersed, as well as come under the protection of the companies they serve.”

Markus sat back down; she could see him trying to concoct some other argument, but Hitomi had planned her maneuvers carefully. There was little he could say against her at this point.

Hitomi flashed up the fee details on the screen. “Plus, the contracts are for extremely generous amounts. That should keep the shareholders off your backs, at least through the next quarter.”

Hitomi scanned the board members; they were all busy perusing the contract offers. She could see the gleam in their eyes at the generous service fees being offered. Money always smoothed everything over.

“Shall we put it to a vote?” she proposed.

* * *

March 23, 2348

Sigrid emerged from her bathroom, fresh from a shower. She took a moment to wrap her hair in a towel before slipping into a soft, white robe. The last two weeks had been the strangest of her life. Ever since the meeting with the Board, Sigrid had found herself being paraded around for the Kimura officers and section-heads, the Admiralty, even the Corps of Engineers, all of whom were eager to meet her and put her combat training to a test. Sigrid was beginning to feel like a prized calf at auction—and not in a good way.

But there was no time to worry about that. Sigrid had a much more urgent matter to attend to. She flopped down on her bed. Lying on her stomach, she unfolded her pad and scanned through the letters she’d composed to Suko. She’d written at least one letter a day since she’d left the Academy. Writing them was about the only thing that made her time alone bearable. Ever since her arrival on Aquarii she’d been waiting for the opportunity to send them out. Tomorrow, two transports were leaving, on their way to Alcyone to pick up the new girls. The transports would take her letters, and Sigrid could finally tell Suko what she was so desperate to say.

At first Sigrid had been excited at the prospect, but as she flipped through the letters they suddenly felt horribly inadequate.

Sigrid pressed delete on her pad, throwing everything out, and hastily composed a brand new one.

Dearest Suko,

By now you know that more transports are coming to take more of you away. I don’t know who they will take or where any of you might be headed. I can only hope that somehow your path will take you here, back to me, even if it’s only for a short time.

When they came for me that day, I felt as if I had died. I am so sorry, Suko. You were right. I should never have left you—regardless of the consequences. I don’t even care if anyone reads this or if saying this gets me in more trouble.

You said I didn’t know how you felt about me. You were right—at least in that I hadn’t stopped to consider your feelings. I love you, Suko. I can only hope that you love me too.

When they brought me here I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I convinced myself I was leaving for the right reasons. I now know that this was wrong.

And I promise—I will find my way back to you.

Somehow.

Yours always,

Sigrid

Sigrid paused briefly to consider what her superiors might think of the letter. They’d read it of course, screening it for security reasons. It was potentially treasonous, but she didn’t care. As long as the letter got to Suko.

She was actually more nervous about what they might think of the two pictures she’d attached. One was of Sigrid standing before the Morrigan, dressed in her new formal uniform and boots, trophy pistols slung at her side. The other was of a more intimate nature. With Karen’s help, not to mention her prodding and urging, Sigrid had composed a rather daring picture of herself, lying on her bed, dressed in a set of particularly delicate and lacy underwear she’d found in one of her drawers. Sigrid had been thoroughly embarrassed to consider taking the shot, let alone propose it, but Karen had immediately embraced the idea, convinced that Suko would love it.

Sigrid hoped so. She blushed just thinking about it. But as she lay back on her bed she was also delighted at the realization that Suko would see it. As long as she doesn’t laugh! she thought. No, Suko wouldn’t laugh.

Sigrid hit the transmit tab on her pad. There…it was done, sent; no going back now.

She imagined Suko reading it, lying in her own bed, looking at the picture. Would Suko forgive her? Did she still love her? She had to. Sigrid couldn’t bear to consider anything else.

In all of her daydreams she and Suko were together again, reunited. So why not live out the dream? She already had a ship. Might she really take it and steal her way back to Suko? Could they get away?

Unfortunately, the romantic notion was riddled with flaws. Were she to attempt such a scheme, her tiny ship would be tracked and followed. And she had no means of paying the exorbitant fees charged by Daedalus for travel through the Relay System. Still, the fantasy brought with it the flicker of a smile to her lips.

As long as Suko didn’t laugh or think her foolish for sending the risqué picture. As long as Suko still loved her.

Her door chimed. Sigrid sat up with a start and quickly gathered her robe back around her. It was late in the evening and she hadn’t been expecting anyone.

“Come,” she said as she moved into the living area of her suite. The door slid open. Sitting in her wheelchair at the door was none other than the Lady Hitomi. Sigrid poked her head out into the hall, expecting to see the Lady’s security entourage, but the hallway was empty.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Hitomi asked.

“Yes—yes. Please!” Sigrid moved out of the way, painfully aware of the state of her suite. The place was littered with clothes, beverage containers and food wrappers. Sigrid scurried about, doing her best to tidy quickly, hoping to hide how she’d somehow become a slob in a matter of days.

She glanced up to find the Lady Hitomi giving her an amused look. “Sit, sit,” she said, waving Sigrid to the seat next to her. “You can clean later—you will clean later, I hope.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Sigrid said, her cheeks burning with shame.

“Hitomi-san, when we’re alone.”

“Yes, Mis—Hitomi-san.”

Without preamble, Hitomi held a pad out to her. Sigrid scanned the information, curious, though a bit confused. Lady Hitomi was tendering her first contract offer, a highly lucrative, if not unusual contract offer. And it was from Lady Hitomi herself.

“Sign here,” Hitomi said, indicating where Sigrid needed to place her thumb. Sigrid did as she was told. Hitomi tabbed a new contract on the screen. “And here…”

“But, Hitomi-san…” Sigrid found the second contract more confusing than the first.

“I want to hire you and your ship. I want you to take me to Earth. There’s a personal services clause in there as well; you’ll be responsible for my security and well being.”

“Me?”

Hitomi waved her hand. “It’s nothing—a standard clause. Think nothing of it.”

Sigrid might be just-off-the-ship, but she knew how unusual this was. A woman of Hitomi’s importance should only travel on a well-protected and armed vessel, a Destroyer, if not a frigate or Cruiser; she was too important to the organization and to Aquarii. It made even less sense to give Sigrid a private contract; she was already bound to the Corporation. The Lady Hitomi could simply pack her up and order her along for a fraction of the cost.

Sigrid continued to stare at the contract in disbelief. This was not at all what she’d expected.

“The first contract grants you special dispensation to operate as an Independent. The second is for your ship,” Hitomi added as explanation.

“Hitomi-san…why me?”

“Whether you like it or not, you, my dear, are in the eye of the storm. This business with Tarsus and now Dalair, possibly even the Federation Council itself…if they really are in league with each other, then we must know. If not, then the Council, as well as the Mercenary Guild, must be informed. And…I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend time with, or feel safer with on this voyage.”

Sigrid didn’t know what to say.

“Now, I suggest you get some rest. You have a busy day ahead. You’ll need your ship and crew prepared for departure tomorrow.”

* * *

March 28, 2348

Sigrid stood on the tarmac next to her ship with Ensign McTeer at her side. The night sky brooded thick with inky-black clouds. The scheduled rain was beginning to fall, controlled by the slew of weather satellites orbiting the blue-green planet. The weather system wouldn’t interfere with the launch of her ship but it made the ground crews less enthusiastic about their preparations for departure. They were busy fueling the fifty meter-long vessel, loading food-stores, checking weapon-systems and loading ordnance.

Her crew was already on board; she’d hired a number of specialists from a list of available officers and crew. She’d also requested, and was granted, further use of both Lieutenant Lopez and Ensign Melissa Greenway.

Sigrid heard a signal over her comlink; Christian’s voice sounded, tinny, in her head. “Your passengers have arrived.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Sigrid watched as a long string of black Kimura ground-cars approached at speed. The sleek-looking vehicles hovered inches off the tarmac, pulling smartly up in a neat row before the Morrigan. Fifteen security personnel swarmed out of the vehicles, formed a perimeter and scanned the vicinity. Only when they were sure the area was secure did they open the door to the last car. Resplendent in a long gown of red silk, Lady Hitomi Kimura allowed her staff to help her from the car and into the waiting wheelchair before escorting her toward the base of the waiting ship.

“Permission to come aboard?”

Sigrid bowed deeply. “Of course, Mistress.” She gestured behind her to the elevator that she had commissioned the engineers to construct for Hitomi’s ease of access.

Hitomi smiled at Sigrid’s thoughtfulness and bowed graciously in return. “I think it’s time we get underway, don’t you?”

Sigrid nodded excitedly. She was returning to deep space, but this time as Mercenary, a freelance Mercenary, and with her own ship and crew. “Right away, Mistress.”

Hitomi joined her on the bridge to observe the liftoff. She seemed eager to have as good a view as Sigrid—who still didn’t feel comfortable in the command chair. She offered it to Hitomi who declined with a small wave of her hand.

“I’m quite fine right here, my dear,” she said, patting the arm of her wheelchair.

The traffic controller signaled their departure clearance.

Sigrid took a deep breath. “Take us up, Mr. Lopez.”

“Yes, Captain—I mean, ma’am.” He turned and gave her a meek smile. “Sorry…habit.”

Sigrid felt the floor move slightly before the dampening system kicked in as the Morrigan lifted off its landing struts. The ground swung away abruptly as the ship sat back on its rear thrusters. The sky loomed dark above them as rain peppered the glass of the forward viewport. The roaring surge of the thrusters fired and the ship leapt upwards, passing quickly through the low, overhanging clouds. Even through the insulated bulkheads the sound was close to deafening, a testament to the raw power coursing beneath them.

In a moment, they were through the thunderheads. The sky above was crisp and bright; Sigrid could see two of Aquarii’s five moons glowing richly above them, casting a silvery sheen over the clouds beneath. The vibrations eased as they cleared the atmosphere and quickly left Aquarii behind them.

“Take us to the Relay, Lieutenant,” Sigrid said. “Maximum thrust.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“Send a request to the Relay Monitor. Course: Earth, Sol System.”

Hitomi leaned forward with her hand raised. “Um…Not just yet.”

“Mistress?” Sigrid asked.

“I’d like us to make a little side-trip,” she said, with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Take us to Crucis Prime.”

Chapter 13

Letters

––––––––

April 7, 2348

Suko didn’t hear the door chime. She had her head tilted back, submerged under the warm stream of water that splashed over her head and shoulders. She’d had a particularly long day; those little girls were running her ragged, especially now that they were receiving regular treatments of the genetic recombinant from Dr. Garrett. They were already growing in strength and speed. Suko couldn’t believe how much energy they had—and how hard she had to work them to tire them out.

She had to laugh; when she’d accepted the job as instructor for the new group at the Academy, she’d somehow assumed that it would be her task to run them into shape. She’d had no idea what a handful she’d undertaken. She suddenly found herself with a new appreciation for her old instructors. Had she and the other girls really been such hard work?

Suko finally became aware of the pounding on her door and the chime ringing. She turned the water off and stumbled out of the shower, her wet feet slipping on the tiles.

“Come,” she said, only then remembering to grab a towel and wrap it around herself as the door slid open. Leta stood there; positively bursting with excitement.

“Didn’t you hear them?”

“Hear what—when?”

Leta pointed up. “The shuttles. They came. Suko, they…brought you something.” Leta held out a pad to Suko. “I thought you should have it right away. It’s a letter.”

Suko felt her heart quicken as she took the pad from Leta. She was almost afraid to look, but there, blinking on the screen, was a letter from Sigrid. Suko looked from the letter to Leta. “Did you read…”

Leta’s eyes widened in mortification. “What? No! I’d never…”

“No, of course not. Sorry.” Suko frowned at the pad, she was almost afraid to open it.

“Well, go on!”

Suko looked to the pad then to Leta, hesitantly. Finally, she backed away from the door. “Well, you might as well come in.”

Leta smiled gratefully and sat next to Suko on the large, comfortable chair in her modest quarters. Suko caressed the tab; she eyed Leta suspiciously as she angled the pad away from her.

“I won’t peep—promise,” the feisty redhead assured her .

Suko thumbed the tab and opened the letter, reading it slowly and carefully. She read the letter three times. Only after the third did she realize her tears were flowing and that Leta was holding her.

“How could I do that?” Suko asked. “How could I have done that to her?” she said as Leta rocked her gently in her arms. “I blamed her for leaving. I never even told her—I never even said goodbye. I just left her.”

Leta did her best to comfort her. She wiped her tears with the edge of her sleeve and kissed her softly on her cheek. “I’m sure she didn’t mean what she wrote. She was probably just angry.”

Suko looked up between sob’s. “Angry? What do you mean?”

“Did she find someone else? Is that what happened?” Leta frowned. “She met someone, didn’t she?”

Suko pulled away from her. “What? No!”

“I just—I thought…” Confused, Leta tried to grab the pad from Suko. “Wait…what did she say?”

Suko pulled the pad away defensively. “She said…she said she loves me.”

“Loves you!” Leta clapped a hand to her chest in relief.

“She said she’s going to try to come back to me.” Suko’s tears had finally abated and she brightened at her own words. “She Loves me, Leta.” Suko laughed.

Leta snatched the pad away from Suko and read the letter quickly. “Oh my God! Suko…” Leta swatted her hard on her arm. “You had me thinking she left you. Dear God—I thought you just got a Dear John letter.” Leta continued to swat her on the arm and shoulder. “Silly girl. She’s not mad at you. She’s mad for you.”

Suko laughed as she wiped at her eyes and blew her nose.

“Oh…my…” Leta handed the pad back to Suko quickly. “I don’t think I was supposed to see that.”

Suko took it; there was a picture of Sigrid standing before a ship. Suko thought she looked magnificent in her smart uniform. She also looked taller; Suko realized she’d adopted high-heeled-boots. “I can’t believe it! She has her own ship.”

Leta looked embarrassed. “Um…no, not that picture; the other one.” Leta reached over and flipped the image to the second photo she’d seen just a moment before.

Suko’s jaw dropped open, and she sat back in the chair, staring at the evocative photo Sigrid had attached. “Wow…”

“I know!” Leta leaned over her shoulder to admire the photo. “Perhaps I should leave you two alone.”

Suko didn’t answer. She was immersed in the picture. Leta laughed as she let herself out.

* * *

Two Kimura transports stood on station atop the shimmering glacier, ready to take twenty-one girls to their new assignments. Snow had fallen during the night and the wind whipped the light dusting of powder across the ice. Suko stood by the wide landing platforms, saying her goodbyes to each of the girls as they boarded the waiting ships. She was sad to see them go—well, most of them. The years of being at odds with some of the girls over their bullying had left some permanent scars.

Suko had been offered two contracts, but she’d chosen to stay at the Academy as an instructor. She was far from eager to head off into space on some perceived adventure. She felt no love for Kimura, but she did want to stay with the new girls. There was something about them; it wasn’t that she wanted to protect them as such, but there was a bond there; a bond that wasn’t rational or logical, but she felt it nonetheless.

This was where she wanted to be. If Sigrid wanted to find her, she would look here first, and so Suko would bide her time at the Academy.

Leta dropped her duffel at her side, lifted Suko in her arms, and gave her a tremendous hug, expelling all the air from her lungs.

“Gah—careful! The…ribs…” Suko gasped as Leta released her grip.

“I’m going to miss you, Suko.”

“I can’t believe they’re sending you to the Naval Academy on Crucis,” Suko said, with a little envy. Kimura had assigned Leta and six other girls to the Mercenary Naval Academy; there, the girls would go into officers’ training to learn ships’ systems and tactics. It was a much sought after position.

“I know, it’s unreal,” Leta said.

Suko could see how happy she was. Leta loved to fly. Then suddenly, the smile faded from her face. She touched Suko’s cheek with her hand, wiping away a stray tear with her thumb. “She loves you, Suko. She’ll come back.”

“Or I’ll go find her.”

Leta glanced around quickly, but there was no one in earshot. She gave Suko a cautionary frown. “Don’t do anything foolish. This…you don’t just leave a job like this. They won’t let you.”

“I know. I’ll be careful.” Suko registered the obvious concern on Leta’s face. She smiled and swatted her on her rear. “I said I’ll be careful. Now get—go to your ship. They’re waiting for you.”

Sure enough, they could hear the thrusters of the transports firing up behind them. The Academy girls shared their parting moments: some with other girls; others said polite goodbyes to their instructors; and then there were the fond farewells to the Mercenary boys who’d captured their affections.

Leta kissed Suko hard on the lips and gave her one last rib-cracking hug. “See you ‘round, Suko.” Tears welled in her eyes as she snatched up her duffel and headed to the ship. Suko didn’t leave until all the girls were on board and the transports had blasted their way up into the morning sunlight and out of sight.

Seven other girls stood nearby staring up at the heavens.

* * *

April 8, 2348

Crucis Prime was a small red rock that traced a distant orbit around the binary stars of Alpha Crucis. Unlike the other planets in the Federation, Crucis had no habitable atmosphere. What it did have was a vast treasure-trove of resources. Rich in minerals and energy, Crucis had quickly become one of the more vital and active trading hubs in Federation Space.

Vincenze Station had grown in magnitude over the years. A few decades earlier it had been little more than a floating tin can in space, serving as a docking hub for the mining and engineering crews who descended to strip the planet clean of everything it had to offer. Over time, different companies had arrived, adding more modules to the station as they were needed. There had never been any formal plans for the station’s expansion, thus it resembled a random nightmare of twisted metal and modular construction.

“Ugly,” Sigrid remarked, as she viewed the station from her position on the bridge.

The Lady Hitomi snickered behind her. “Any word on docking clearance?”

“None yet, Milady,” Christian told her. “They’re asking us to hold. They say it might be a few days before they can accommodate us.”

“No doubt,” Sigrid said. In front of them, spread out in the space, were fifty-six ships. Most were small, but there were several large warships: destroyers, cruisers, even several hulking battleships and troop carriers, all flying different Mercenary banners. The surrounding space was so crowded with ships and shuttles it seemed a miracle to Sigrid that they weren’t all smashing into one another.

Hitomi scowled at the floating chaos in front of her. “Put me on. I want to speak to the Dock Controller.”

“Yes, Milady,” Karen said, and in a moment the forward monitor filled with the image of a tired and haggard-looking old gentleman. The collar of his uniform was pulled loose; he didn’t look as if he’d shaved in days. Dark circles ringed his eyes.

“I told you I’d get to you as soon as we could. We’ve got a tremendous amount of traffic to deal—”

“This is the Lady Kimura Hitomi. We’re requesting immediate priority clearance for docking. I trust that you can find your way to accommodating our small ship. I’m sure there must be someone willing to give up a spot. They will be compensated for their inconvenience, of course.”

Sigrid stifled a laugh as the jaw on the Controller’s face dropped. “Milady—of course, of course.” His hands flitted over his console, his eyes frantically scanned the data in front of him. “We can accommodate you directly—no compensation required. I’ll send the coordinates right away. Rooms for you and your crew will be prepared immediately.”

“I thank you, but that won’t be necessary. We won’t be staying long.” She signaled to Ensign McTeer and terminated the call. “Nice to know I still have some pull here. Now, let’s go see what’s going on. You have the coordinates yet?” she asked the navigator.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ensign Greenway said from her station. “Docking bay thirty-seven.”

“Take us in, Mr. Lopez,” Sigrid said.

“Aye, ma’am.”

Christian set to his task. Sigrid sensed the rise in his adrenalin. He’d need to take the ship in manually, maneuvering carefully between the waiting ships, all the while dodging the shuttles and service vehicles that crisscrossed their path.

He cleared his throat. “Sure you don’t want to hire a docking pilot for this?”

“You’ll be fine, Lieutenant.” She gave what she hoped was a reassuring pat to his shoulder, and stepped back to let him concentrate on his task.

Christian pushed the thrusters forward, moving the ship faster through the traffic. Sigrid held her breath, watching—he sweated with the effort of juggling the unfamiliar controls—but she noted that the Lady Hitomi remained perfectly calm during the whole process. Despite a near miss or two, Christian’s only gaffe was on his first attempt at aligning the ship with the station’s docking ring; he missed it by a full meter. The sound of metal scraping against metal reverberated the length of ship.

“Sorry,” he said, wincing.

Sigrid couldn’t help but wince too. That would cost her. On his second attempt, all the lights flicked to green on the panel before her; they were docked.

“You have the ship, Mr. Lopez.” Turning to Hitomi, she gestured to the door behind them. “Milady…”

“After you.”

Sigrid led them out onto the docking platform. It was a wide ring that circled the entire station. Built in sections and sealed off from the station and the individual berths, the docking ring was lined almost entirely with glass, affording a spectacular view of the station and surrounding space.

Hitomi wheeled herself out behind Sigrid, flanked by four of her security contingent. Sigrid was surprised to see the Station Administrator himself come out to the platform to greet them. One of the dock workers stepped forward to scan the identification chip Sigrid wore pinned to her collar, but the dock-master slapped the man’s hand away.

“That won’t be necessary.” He scurried past them both, hurrying to the Lady Hitomi’s side. “Milady, it is both a pleasure and an honor to have you with us again. You should have announced your intentions—we could have prepared—”

“I was hoping to avoid a fuss, but there is something you can do for me.”

“Anything, Milady…”

Hitomi handed a pad to him. “There are some people I was hoping to meet with. If you could track them down for me, that would save us a great deal of time and trouble.”

“Of course. Right away.” He handed the pad to his assistant behind him. “If you’ll come this way, we can take care of this immediately.”

* * *

The Station Administrator could only find one of the people on Lady Hitomi’s list: Lt. Commander Selene Tseng, ex-Senior Officer of the Tarsus Mercenary Group. She was still in residence on the station. As a senior member of the disbanded group, she’d been saddled with much of the blame for the blundered operation against Kimura on Alcyone. Consequently, she’d been virtually blacklisted, and no other company had deemed to hire her. Doing so would have been considered a major affront to both Kimura and the Mercenary Guild itself.

They tracked her down in one of the many dockside pubs that were favored spots on Vincenze. These were the places where most of the freighter captains conducted business—even some of the mercenary leaders could be found here. Sigrid scanned her, confirming her identification in her database. Selene wore a casual jacket and pants, with the high, buckled boots common aboard ships. She wore no rank insignia or any mercenary colors, but then, the Guild had seen to strip her of her rank and status when the Tarsus Group had been disbanded.

Seeing them approach, Selene made to rise from her seat in the corner booth, but Sigrid slid quickly into the seat next to her. Selene had little choice but to sit back down. She reached for the pistol at her side, only to find an empty holster. She gasped. The weapon was gone.

Sigrid held the pistol out for her, handle first.

“Ah, Ms. Tseng,” Hitomi said pleasantly as she joined them. “Just the woman I was looking for. I was hoping we might have a word.”

Selene eyed Sigrid warily, but she took the proffered weapon and slipped it back into the holster at her side. She sighed resignedly. “Well, I suppose it was just a matter of time,” she said, reaching for her steaming mug of black coffee. “What can I do for you ladies?”

The Lady Hitomi leaned forward, as calm and pleasant as always; there was no attempt at intimidation, although the four security personnel nearby served that purpose adequately.

“We want to know who hired Tarsus. We want to know who sent you after our girls—and why.”

Selene blew on her coffee and took a careful sip. “I have no idea.”

As Selene spoke, Sigrid’s sensory modules took note of her reactions. Her pulse was slightly elevated, and there was the briefest spike in her blood pressure.

“She’s lying, Mistress,” Sigrid said.

Selene’s eyes shot to Sigrid.

“And lies can have consequences,” Hitomi said, softly.

Selene considered the young girl at her side—how she glared at her with such intensity. She shrugged and put her coffee on the table. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it now. It was a man. He hired us to take the girls. He was willing to pay…a lot. I only ever saw him once. Karl worked for him on a number of occasions. He had money, and Karl needed the work. I never got his name.”

“And you never inquired as to his identity?”

“Of course. Karl asked him every time they met. He was, however, not forthcoming in the matter.”

“Of course.”

“She’s still lying,” Sigrid said, rising with indignation. Hitomi placed a cautioning hand on Sigrid’s, and eased her back into her chair. “At least, she’s not telling you everything, Mistress.”

Selene studied Sigrid closely, and nodded. “Fair enough—I tried to scan him once, but…”

Hitomi raised an eyebrow, waiting. “But…?”

Lt. Commander Tseng reached into her pocket and pulled out a small data chip. Hitomi snapped her fingers and one of her security men came forward to hand her a pad. Hitomi unfolded it and placed the chip on top of the screen to download the data. Displayed there was an image of a man sitting in a booth similar to the one they were in now. The image was crystal clear, showing everything in perfect detail—except for the man; he was totally blurred and pixilated.

“He must have been wearing a jammer,” Selene offered.

“Expensive,” Hitomi said. “I guess he really didn’t want you to know.”

Sigrid had heard of the devices; the jammers could scramble any electronic attempt at scanning the individual who wore the device. Jammers were very rare, very illegal, and very, very expensive.

Selene took another sip from her coffee. “Sorry I wasted your time.”

“Not at all. We will, of course, compensate you for your time.” She slid the pad across to Selene; Sigrid took note of the generous sum that Hitomi was offering her. Selene barely acknowledged the amount, but reached forward and pressed her thumb to the pad.

“One last question,” Lady Hitomi said. “Major Tarsus—have you heard from the man recently? We’d love to talk to him, for obvious reasons.”

Sigrid watched Selene open her mouth to answer; she felt the woman’s pulse quicken, but then Selene paused and looked directly at Sigrid. “About two months ago, he was headed for Eridani looking to get something together, but I haven’t heard since.”

“Lying,” Sigrid said.

Selene sighed. “All right, I did hear from him. He took a job working freight with an Independent—”

“Lying.”

Selene sloshed her coffee down hard on the table. “Stop that! I am not lying.”

“You’re totally lying—she’s lying.”

“All right!” Selene frowned, then glared at Sigrid. “We were supposed to meet on Bellatrix a month ago, but he never showed. I made some inquiries. There were men looking for him. Not surprising—the Major has made a few enemies over the years. I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to think that someone may have wanted to see harm to him. Frankly, I assumed you were the ones after him.”

“Where? Where did he go?” Hitomi asked.

“Gliese. At least, that’s what I heard.”

“And you didn’t go after him?”

Selene shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I couldn’t afford the transport. I’ve been stuck here since Alcyone.”

Sigrid nodded satisfied. “True.”

“That’s a nice trick,” Selene said. “That thing you do—walking lie detector.”

“She’s a girl of many talents,” Hitomi said.

“No doubt…”

Hitomi smiled. “It is a simple thing to monitor pulse, blood pressure, subtle changes in the dryness of the mouth and skin…”

Selene continued to eye Sigrid warily. “But she never touched me. How can you…?”

Sigrid was about to answer, but Hitomi stopped her, answering instead. “We girls have to have some secrets.”

“We heard stories about you girls,” Selene said. “After the operation went south…they said you were dangerous—some kind of experiment. They said you were a threat to the Federation.”

“Dangerous? My, how people talk.”

Selene took another drink from her mug. “I’m just saying, that’s what I heard.”

“And you believed it?”

Selene laughed, spewing out a mouthful of coffee. “Of course not. Men will always feel threatened by anything they can’t dominate. And a pretty woman who can kick their ass…why, that might be the biggest threat of all.”

“Interesting observation.”

“So tell me, is it true—what they can do?”

“Difficult to say when I don’t know what it is that you mean,” Hitomi answered, innocently.

“I know what ship you came in on. It wasn’t long ago that the Morrigan was registered to Dalair. One minute Oslov’s heading off to collect on some bounty; the next thing I know, here comes the Morrigan, returning not under the Dalair banner—not even the Kimura—but as an Independent, and registered to a seventeen-year-old girl.”

“I’m eighteen!” Sigrid said, indignantly.

“I heard about what you did. I heard how you took that ship.”

Hitomi looked at Selene. “And just how is it that you came by this information?”

“I still have friends. There’s a lot I hear, and there’s a lot they’ll tell a girl on her own in a bar here after a few drinks.”

“And just what is this information going to cost us?” Hitomi asked. “There’s no need to play us, Ms. Tseng. As I said before, I’m more than willing to compensate you.”

“It’s not money I need—well, that too. I need a job.”

This time, it was the Lady Hitomi who showed surprise. “A job? You would work for us, even after—”

“That was just a contract. It was nothing personal. I told Tarsus he was biting the wrong leg on that one. There’s been a lot of gossip about Kimura and those girls of yours—even with all the trouble brewing with the Independents. I want in. I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

“And this would have nothing to do with the rumor about the bounty…”

“Oh, the rumor’s real,” Selene said. “But I don’t care about that. You have a ship and I’m the best pilot there is.”

Hitomi raised her eyebrows at the declaration. “Best pilot not under contract?”

“The best.”

“It’s her ship, Ms. Tseng,” Hitomi said, pointing to Sigrid. “I think she’s the one you need to impress.”

Selene sat back and looked directly at Sigrid, clasping hands behind head and kicking her legs out under the table. She exuded a cocky confidence—every inch a hotshot pilot.

Sigrid scanned the woman very carefully. Her words had been bold, but she could sense no attempt at deception. The woman was supremely confident of her skills, and prepared to back up her boast. Sigrid wondered how Christian would feel if she replaced him at the helm—probably relieved.

“Very well, I accept your offer. I’ll prepare a contract.”

Selene smiled. “Standard rates should suffice.”

Sigrid held her hand out to seal the deal. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Tseng.”

* * *

After parting with Selene, Sigrid escorted the Lady Hitomi to her next appointment with the Mercenary Guild. Sigrid was surprised to see that the Guild resembled a private club rather than the stuffy offices of a bureaucrat. The Condottiere had already been notified of the Lady’s arrival and was expecting her. She greeted Hitomi and her entourage warmly in the Guild lounge.

“Marylyn!” Lady Hitomi smiled broadly.

“Hitomi, how wonderful,” The older woman said, rushing to Hitomi’s side and taking her hand while also noting Sigrid at her side. “Is this…?”

“Yes, this is Sigrid Novak. Sigrid, Meet Marylyn Lawther, Condottiere of all the Mercenary clans.”

“Milady,” Sigrid said, with a deep curtsy.

“Oh, now! None of that here, my dear. We’re all good friends. Now, come, let me look at you.”

The woman took Sigrid by her shoulders and gave her a quick and appraising once-over before escorting them all to a set of comfortable chairs. Sigrid noted the lovely tea service set out on the low table near their seats, and there was an actual real fire roaring in the brick fireplace!

“Please tell me you’re here for a while,” Marylyn said to Hitomi. “I do so miss our talks.”

“I’m afraid we’ll be leaving momentarily. I just wanted to stop by and let you know—”

“If it’s about that dreadful business with Dalair—we’ve heard all about it. It’s all the chatter these days. Don’t you worry, Hitomi-san, the Guild Heads have already agreed to convene. Dalair will be dealt with most harshly. This business of clans taking contracts against each other must stop. Things have long been out of hand. It’s absolute barbarism.”

Hitomi sighed. “It pleases me to hear that, but I’m afraid there’s more.”

The revelation made Marylyn pause her pouring of tea for a moment. “Not more nonsense, I hope.”

“Of a different sort. There’s a chance the Council may be involved in this.”

“The Council? What business is it of the Council to get involved with Mercenary affairs? That just won’t do.”

“I agree. I’m on my way to a hearing on Earth—I just wanted you to know. But Council or not, if someone is taking out contracts on any of the clans—”

“They must be crushed… Sugar?”

“Please, one spoon.”

“Now, do tell me all about these girls of yours,” Marylyn said excitedly.

Sigrid found herself quite taken with the very charming, yet commanding, Marylyn Lawther, and after what turned out to be a most enjoyable hour, Hitomi announced it was time for them to depart.

Marylyn cautioned them about the bounty on Sigrid, but Lady Hitomi was confident they would be safe on the station. Vincenze Station had always been a haven for Mercenaries. It was highly unlikely for an Independent group to get aboard with the intention of hostile action without facing the wrath of close to a million angry Mercenaries.

They made one stop on the way back. Lady Hitomi caught Sigrid spying a weapons shop on the promenade. The store was little more than a pawnshop for out-of-work soldiers looking to score some credits, but Sigrid was drawn into its metallic charm. She found one item she couldn’t resist. Sitting in what looked like an old umbrella stand, rusted and covered in dirt and dust, Sigrid discovered an old Katana. Despite the neglect, she could tell the blade was of the finest workmanship, its handle was modestly decorated and bound in black leather, with most of its gold inlay worn away. The shopkeeper had been happy to get rid of the relic, so Sigrid picked it up for a song.

Sigrid wasn’t as skilled with blades as the other Academy girls, but she knew Suko would love it. She’d deliver it to her somehow.

Hitomi watched with interest as the girl paid for the obscure item. Sigrid wrapped it carefully in a cloth the proprietor had given her before tucking the long two-handed blade in her belt.

“It suits you,” Hitomi said.

Sigrid glanced at the blade, a little embarrassed. “Oh it’s not for me.”

“No? Who then?”

Sigrid wasn’t sure if she should tell her, or what the older woman would think if she told her about Suko. Sigrid was growing fond of the Lady, but she had to remember that the woman was Kimura; this was the organization responsible for taking her from Suko.

“It’s for a friend,” she said at last.

“I’m sure she’ll love it.”

They made it back to the docking ring without incident. Sigrid was pleased to find Selene already waiting for them. She’d changed into a one-piece ship’s suit, much like Sigrid’s, though Selene’s sported a wide lapel, folded outward and cut low. She wore a lightweight, black pilot’s jacket and the high-buckled boots from earlier, along with a large sidearm, holstered at her hip. Dark pilots’ glasses covered her green eyes. The smallest suitcase Sigrid had ever seen sat on the ground next to her.

Selene was not alone, either. Standing next to her was a young man—he couldn’t have been more than 20. He wore a baggy ship suit, his blond hair cut short.

“This is Rodney,” Selene said. “He’s the best mechanic in this quadrant. Trust me.”

Sigrid studied the boy. “I’m afraid we’re already crewed with engineers.”

“Those Academy-types? They’ll do in a pinch, but our Rodney here…” She patted the young man’s shoulders. “He’s got a gift. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Forgive me, but you look a little young, Rodney,” Hitomi said. “Where did you graduate?”

“Graduate, ma’am?” Rodney scratched his head.

Selene laughed. “Rodney didn’t exactly do well at the Academy.”

“It’s not what you think,” Rodney said awkwardly. “It’s just that…well, I grew up on ships. Classrooms…”

Hitomi smiled. “You didn’t think much of the instructors…”

Rodney frowned. “We didn’t exactly get along.”

“I understand completely. Have you ever worked on one of these?”

Rodney looked over his shoulder out the viewport to the Morrigan. “PS 16c falcon-class patrol ship. Manufactured by Diego Systems: fourteen years old, by the look of it, progressive, fusion-core reactionless drive engines—piece of cake—140 metric ton cargo capacity, dual-mounted rail-gun system with two forward-mounted quad-torpedo launchers, crew compliment of twelve. But, no—never touched one.”

Sigrid grinned. “Very well. Welcome aboard. Ensign McTeer will see that you’re both quartered.”

“I’m sure whatever you have will be adequate,” Selene said. “As you can see…we travel light.”

After getting settled in, Sigrid took Selene and Rodney on a tour of the ship and introduced them to the crew. Some were surprised at the hiring of the ex-Tarsus officer; others seemed to be relieved to have an experienced helmsman aboard.

She was completely amazed at how familiar Rodney and Selene were with the systems of the small Scout, and it was Rodney, not Sigrid, who ended up conducting the tour, with Selene pointing out some of the more peculiar elements. Sigrid might have been able to tie into the ship’s systems directly with her PCM, but it was Selene who understood those systems, and how best to use them, especially in combat situations. Sigrid was feeling better and better about the hiring. Rodney was particularly eager to make several modifications to the engines to soup them up, but the Chief Engineer was outraged at the suggestion. Sigrid hastily declined the offer, hoping to defuse the situation.

“Ready to get underway,” Christian said as the two women entered the bridge. Christian had already vacated the helm and Selene now filled the seat, looking every bit the ship’s pilot.

“Let me know when we’ve received clearance from the Dock Master,” Sigrid said.

“Confirmed,” Karen said from her station.

“Very well. Take us out, Ms. Tseng.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Sigrid watched as Selene deftly moved the ship away from the docks, spinning it quickly on its axis and blasting away. Christian had sweated their approach, not exceeding 10,000 kph through the traffic, but Selene handled the small ship masterfully, knifing easily through the crowded corridor of waiting ships and service traffic at well over 42,000 kph.

Christian nodded in admiration. “Nicely done.”

“Thanks.”

“We’re clear of traffic and free to maneuver,” Ensign Greenway said.

“Take us to the Relay, best possible speed,” Sigrid said.

“Destination, ma’am?” Melissa asked.

Sigrid smiled. “Earth.”

Chapter 14

Ninja

––––––––

April 15, 2348

As the Morrigan entered Earth’s orbit, Sigrid could only stare, openmouthed, at the scene before her. Crucis had seemed crowded with the fifty-six ships that surrounded the station, but it was nothing compared to the clutter she saw before her. Thousands of ships lay between her and the blue planet below, with hundreds more already docked at the many orbital stations and docking platforms.

It was far too congested for them to gain clearance to bring the Morrigan down. They were forced to park in orbit and take the São Paulo Elevator, known affectionately as the Lift, down to the planet’s surface. Sigrid and Karen accompanied the Lady Hitomi and her security contingent while her crew remained in orbit on the Morrigan. Once on Earth, it was only a short trip on the TGV to Buenos Aires, home of the Council for Trade and Finance.

Hitomi’s security argued against her taking such a vulnerable mode of transportation, but the Lady insisted and sat beside Sigrid on the short train ride, marveling at the sights of the old planet as the TGV whipped along, suspended below the elevated rail system.

Aquarii and Alcyone were beautiful and largely pristine; there was nothing to compare with the diverse architecture of the urban sprawl before them. Grey smog hung heavy, mixing in with the mist and clouds that enshrouded everything. There was no end to the strings of modular habitats and towering permacrete structures that thrust their way up into the clouds. Hitomi pointed out the more important landmarks, remarking that many of the buildings lay empty; most people of any sort of means had long since left for new opportunities off-planet. All that remained were the tens of billions of working poor, and the very, very rich elite.

There were no stops between São Paulo and Buenos Aires, so they were all a little unnerved when the TGV shuddered to an abrupt halt. Sigrid peered through the window as the train rocked gently back and forth, suspended below the rails some fifty meters above the ground.

“What happened?” Sigrid asked. “Why aren’t we moving?”

Hitomi didn’t know either, but she stopped a steward as he passed by.

“Terrorists,” the steward informed them, making tisking noises. “It seems they’re causing trouble with the tracks again.”

“Terrorists!” Sigrid said, alarmed.

The steward gave her a reassuring, if condescending, smile. “Shameful. But don’t you worry yourselves. We’re quite used to it now. It should only be a short delay.” He continued on down the car, happily reassuring the other passengers.

“Terrorists?” Sigrid said again, still not quite believing it.

A man in the seat next to her leaned over and patted her knee. “Happens all the time now. A lot of fuss and bother, if you ask me.”

Sigrid looked down on the hand that still lingered on her knee. She jerked her leg away and gave him a sharp look. The man returned quickly to his reading; Sigrid noticed Hitomi’s amused expression and smiled.

Just as the steward promised, they were underway in moments. The TGV slowed again as it passed by the area where the trouble had been and Sigrid leaned forward, catching a glimpse of the damage of the surrounding area. Several of the shanty-like structures had been flattened in the bomb blast, yet the track was perfectly intact.

“I guess we got lucky,” Sigrid said. If the bomb had hit the tracks…

“Yes…lucky,” Hitomi said.

Ten minutes later they were off the train in Buenos Aires. The Lady Hitomi’s entourage was quite a sight; mostly because of the Lady herself, resplendent as always in her long, richly patterned gown of deep green and gold, complete with full headdress. Wherever they went, people stopped to look. Sigrid had the feeling she was traveling with royalty, and in a sense, she was.

“We should arrange transportation, Milady,” her head of security said, scanning the crowded streets.

“Nonsense. The hotel is only four blocks from here. It’s a beautiful day and I would like Sigrid and the young ensign to enjoy the sights. I’m sure Sigrid is quite capable of taking care of me. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Uh…”

“There. You have it.”

The man opened his mouth in protest, “Milady…”

Hitomi wasn’t having any of it. “You four go ahead and meet us there. Take care of the luggage. We’ll be along shortly.”

To give him credit, her chief of security argued valiantly for several minutes, but there was no swaying Lady Hitomi’s mind on the matter, and the four men eventually took a cab to the hotel.

“They’re quite professional, but they do need to lighten up now and then,” Hitomi said. “They’re simply no fun.”

Hitomi motored along in her wheelchair with Sigrid and Karen trailing behind her. “Come, girls; there’s something here I think you’ll like.”

This part of Buenos Aires wasn’t that much different from the ghetto in Geneva where Sigrid had grown up. Sullen, weary-looking people filled the streets, mulling about the open markets, combing through the bleak offerings of the merchants. The flesh traders were the most aggressive, attempting to ply their trade on Sigrid and even Hitomi herself—presenting the women with some rather graphic offerings.

Sigrid looked at the girls and boys, some young and frightened, some older and weary, beaten down. She knew she could have easily been sold into such a life, just like many girls in her financial predicament.

“Here!” Hitomi exclaimed, leading the girls into a crowded little shack, glowing with the warm lights from paper lanterns. The air was thick with steam and the wonderful smells of broth and cooking vegetables. “Phong! My good man, you look positively ghastly.”

Old Phong ran out from behind his counter to greet Hitomi. Sigrid thought he did look ghastly, what with his scruffy hair, spotted withered hands and awesomely blackened teeth. But his face lit up at the sight of Hitomi and the girls. Cooing and chattering, he ushered them into his establishment and seated them in pride of place by his counter.

Sigrid looked around the little soup kitchen. The place wasn’t without its charm—as long as she didn’t examine the layers of grease and dirt on the floors and walls too closely.

Hitomi seemed to love it though, especially when the three of them were presented with steaming bowls of delicious-smelling soup. Sigrid marveled at the presentation; the vegetables and meat were cut and layered with such precision and care. The whole time, Hitomi chatted spiritedly with Phong in Vietnamese. Sigrid was surprised that her Mistress was so fluent, then completely astonished to discover that she could understand them perfectly once her PCM executed the programmed language files.

Sigrid’s jaw dropped when she saw the tip Hitomi left for the man—he could probably close for the month.

“I simply adore his cuisine,” Lady Hitomi intoned. “I always make a point of stopping here.”

Sigrid liked it too, and so did Karen, who finished everything, even all the broth.

When they arrived at the Hotel Astrid, it seemed the entire staff was out to greet them, red carpet and all. The hotel manager welcomed Hitomi personally, extending his gratitude for her continued patronage. Lady Hitomi was the epitome of graciousness; as tired as the Lady was, she didn’t refuse his offer of hospitality as he escorted her to the private VIP lounge for refreshments. Sigrid had never imagined such variety of foods and drinks even existed. Despite having just filled up on Phong’s outstanding soup, she couldn’t keep herself from sampling all the fare available, stopping only when she realized how tight her belt had become.

Sigrid groaned, the last morsel of cheesecake perched on her fork, raised halfway to her lips.

“Careful!” Karen cautioned. “You look a little green.”

Sigrid steeled herself to the task and swallowed the last bite. “My mother always said, never let anything go to waste.”

Karen chuckled. “Yes, and I’m sure that starving people everywhere appreciate your efforts.”

The festive mood was spoiled when another group of people entered the lounge; Hitomi took instant notice. Sigrid saw a darkness descend over the Lady’s face.

“Randal Gillings,” Hitomi said, wheeling herself in his direction; she didn’t even bother feigning politeness. “I thought this was a private lounge.”

“If you’ll forgive me, Lady Hitomi. I thought it best that I should meet you here.”

Sigrid scanned him warily, standing with her arms folded in front of her. His name was Randal Gillings, chairman of the Council for Trade and Finance and CEO of Coran Industries, the single largest conglomerate in the Federation—short of Daedalus Corp. In his seventies, Gillings had the look of a man who had grown well accustomed to getting his own way. Sigrid instantly found him arrogant and unlikable.

Hitomi noticed the sour look on her Sigrid’s face; her own expression was similar as she turned to Gillings. “What’s on your mind, Randy?” Hitomi said. “The hearing isn’t until tomorrow.”

“That’s what I came here to talk to you about. There will be no hearing.”

The statement caught Hitomi off-guard. She stared at him for a moment. “I see.”

“I’m sorry you’ve come all this way,” he said.

Sigrid didn’t think he sounded sorry at all.

“Aren’t you even the least bit curious to see the information I’ve brought for the Council?”

“I think you’ll be far more interested in the information I have for you, Hitomi.”

Hitomi frowned. “Out with it, Randy, what’s on your mind?”

“All the talk coming through the Relays these days seems to be about you—and not in a good way. There have been…allegations. We find this business of Project Andraste quite disturbing.” He looked directly at Sigrid, somewhat distastefully. “Human genetic manipulation? Abducting children? These are grave charges, Madam Kimura.”

“And who exactly has made these charges?”

“Do you deny them?”

“I see neither the need to confirm nor deny anything. Kimura is not in the habit of discussing any of its projects.”

“Well, whether you like it or not, those projects are being discussed. Charges have been brought to the Council, petitions have been made.”

Hitomi laughed.

“I would not make light of this, Lady Hitomi. I can delay the matter somewhat, but in time, the Council will be forced to make a ruling on this matter. I’m sure you would not wish to see the girls taken from you.”

“Taken? On what grounds?”

“It is the Council’s responsibility to investigate any suspect technology—especially when dealing with something that may pose a threat to the security of the Federation.”

“A threat to the Federation…?” Hitomi laughed again. “Come now, Randy. I’m not sure who you’ve been listening to—”

“Don’t play games with me, Hitomi,” Gillings said, a sternness had crept into his voice. “I didn’t have to come here—I’m warning you as a favor. Seriously, how did you think people would react…with gratitude? These girls don’t just pose a threat to your…rivals, they threaten society itself. And the fact that you’ve only done this to girls. When people—”

“Sorry, but men are not compatible.”

“—When people see what you’ve done…these girls of yours…people will see them as nothing more than an abomination. I don’t think that will make you very popular with the general public.”

“Well, I suppose I’m just lucky to have you here to watch over me.” Hitomi didn’t attempt to veil the sarcasm in her voice. “Your concern is most gracious, Randal, but hardly necessary. Now come, you can’t expect me to believe you came all this way to give me a polite warning. You’re after something. What is it you want? Tell me, and be done with it.”

Gillings grunted. “Very well. The Council has been discussing your case at great length. And for some time. It’s been clear for decades that we made a mistake with Daedalus. We should have never permitted them to create a monopoly with the Warp Relays. It’s only prudent we monitor any new developments.”

“Like Andraste.”

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this—”

“Somehow, I have the feeling you’re about to anyway.”

“The Council is prepared to make you an offer. We are prepared to take over the project from you—from Kimura. We are willing to purchase the contracts of all the girls. In fact, we’re even happy to take you on as a consultant.”

Hitomi laughed long and hard. “Oh, Randy, you are a caution.” Wiping her eyes, she looked to Sigrid. “You hear that, dear? How would you like to go work for the Council?”

Sigrid still stood with her arms folded across her chest. “No thank you, ma’am.”

“There, you see, Randy—your first refusal. I would get used to that.”

“Don’t be so sure, Hitomi. You haven’t seen the compensation package we are offering. Are you certain your Board will be as willing to deny us?”

Hitomi’s face hardened. “The Board will do as I instruct.”

“We’ll see soon enough. I wasn’t going to mention this, but I suppose it hardly matters now. Eight days ago we dispatched a courier to Aquarii. Your Board should have the offer by now. It will be interesting to see how they respond.”

Hitomi flushed red and tried to rise from her chair. “How dare you. You knew I was coming here—”

“Not at all. A fortunate coincidence, Hitomi. Nothing more.”

“And is it also a coincidence that you know so much about a project that was classified until quite recently?”

Gillings shrugged. “You may wish to conduct an internal security audit when you return.”

“The Council has no business interfering with the affairs of a free corporation. The Council was formed to serve at our discretion, not its own.”

“And we will serve you now. It’s a fair offer, Hitomi. Your finances are a matter of record. We know of the attacks you’ve already endured. How long before you lose everything? And for what? Take the offer.”

“Don’t do me any favors, Randal.”

Gillings raised his hands and backed away slowly. “I’ve said what I came to—more than I had to. You have our offer. I advise you take it. It may not be there tomorrow. Good day, Milady.”

Hitomi looked angrily at him. “This isn’t some experiment, Randal. This is evolution. These girls are unique. Their genetic structure is like no other. You can’t deny them…” Hitomi looked down, closing her mouth, biting her tongue.

Gillings studied her for a moment, turned and left.

Sigrid watched him leave from Hitomi’s side.

“Damn…” Hitomi said, muttering more curses under her breath.

“Mistress, what’s wrong?”

“I let the bastard get to me. I fear I may have said too much.”

“He seemed to know a great deal already.”

“Indeed, but I should have never said anything about your genetics.” Hitomi grew silent, lost in thought. “He was right about one thing…we have a spy in our midst.”

* * *

With the party thoroughly spoiled, Sigrid and Lady Hitomi retreated to their rooms. Sigrid said a quick goodnight to Ensign McTeer before reporting directly to Lady Hitomi in her suite. The Lady had her tea service laid out and poured two steaming cups. She handed one to Sigrid.

“What did you think of our man, Chairman Gillings?” Hitomi asked.

“I thought he was a miserable old man who could use a good punch.”

Hitomi snorted, almost choking on the tea. “Not too far off. But how about what he said?”

Sigrid thought for a moment. “I don’t feel like an abomination, Milady.”

“Good, because you’re not. But circumstances, it seems, are conspiring against us, and rather quickly. I fear much of this is my fault.”

“Yours, Mistress?”

“Long before the first attack on Alcyone, I demanded more protection for you and your sisters. But the Board denied me at every step.”

“But—they sent the company of soldiers—”

Hitomi barked a laugh. “That? Hardly adequate for guarding a cargo of wheat. Sigrid, I know you don’t believe it, but you’re far more important than you can possibly imagine, and not just to Kimura—or to me…” Hitomi took a sip from her cup. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but you represent a threat to them. A shift in power. They fear you.”

Sigrid laughed. “That doesn’t sound like me, Mistress. No one at the Academy worried about fighting me.”

“You are far too modest, my dear. They have good reason to be afraid of you, even if you don’t believe it. But Gillings…he knows far too much. I would love to know where he’s been getting his information.” She looked up at Sigrid; there was a bright spark in her eye. “How would you like to pay a visit to the Council offices tonight?”

Sigrid checked her internal chronometer, it didn’t seem likely that the offices would be open at that hour.

Hitomi placed her purse on her lap. “Do you know why my son picked you? Do you know why he brought you to me?”

Sigrid remembered the test very well, and with some distaste. “Because I killed that man. He said I passed his test.”

“He brought you because I asked him to. I picked you, Sigrid.”

“You? But he said…the test…?”

“Oh, he tested you—and I’ve scolded him about that.”

“But…why?”

Lady Hitomi reached into the purse on her lap and took out a data-module, holding it out for her. “I have a present for you.”

Sigrid took it in her hand.

“This is something I’ve developed on my own. No one knows about it, not even Dr. Garrett. This is a secret I’ve kept for nearly twenty years. You’re the first person I’ve ever shown it to, Sigrid.”

Sigrid examined the module; she could feel her own heart beat faster. She had no idea as to its contents, but there was something about the way Lady Hitomi looked at her and the small module nestling in her hand.

“What is it?”

“Tell me, you’ve studied history—you know of the myth of the ancient Ninjas?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“We’re alone, Sigrid…”

Sigrid blushed. “Yes, Hitomi-san. If we’re speaking of the myths, rather than history, it was said that they could disappear, make themselves invisible, disguise themselves as their adversaries, vanish in puffs of smoke.”

Hitomi smiled. “And what if I were to tell you that it was all true?”

* * *

The one-piece uniform that the Lady Hitomi had provided for Sigrid was made out of a thin, but incredibly strong fabric. It was light, hugged her figure snugly and moved as she did. Superficially, it might have resembled a variation of the standard Kimura Uniform, but the material was laced with a unique, highly conductive nano-fiber. Everything she wore, everything from the high boots to the new holsters that held her pistols, even the harness that held the katana strapped to her back, all were made of the same material, all stitched with the same fibers.

The nano-fibers allowed the suit to become a pure extension of herself. She could interface with it just as she could any of her other bionic implants. The cloth had a highly unique feature: Sigrid could control the color of the material, shifting both the color and pattern to match anything in the environment around her, creating a perfect camouflage. And, for very short periods of time, Sigrid could adjust the opacity of the material, rendering it virtually invisible.

She tested the feature now, holding her arm up against the wall behind her. The material reflected the pattern and texture of the wall perfectly. Intrigued, she pressed her whole body up against it and watched as the cloth perfectly mirrored the textures and hues.

“Sweet,” Sigrid said.

A broad smile spread across Hitomi’s face. “Now, move away from the wall.”

Sigrid did as instructed. It was difficult; she had to concentrate, but she was able to maintain the translucent effect of the suit. She wasn’t quite invisible, she could still see the outline of her body, but if someone wasn’t looking directly at her they wouldn’t notice she was there. Her exposed hands and face looked odd though, they remained quite visible, as if they were suspended in the air. Sigrid waved her hands about and laughed.

“Now—the rest,” Hitomi said.

Sigrid reached deep within herself. The Lady Hitomi had loaded the program from the data-module she’d shown her. This was her secret. Now it was time to test the old program. Sigrid accessed the algorithms; they were long and complex, and she combed through the hundreds of terabytes of data.

Controlling the transition took even more effort than it had to alter the suit, but Sigrid initiated the program.

Instantly, she shrouded.

Just like with the suit, Sigrid was able to alter the light reflecting on her own skin; still not quite invisible, a shimmering, translucent outline of her body remained.

Pleased, Hitomi clasped her hands together. “Marvelous.”

Sigrid felt suddenly warm and dizzy and stumbled backward; her clothes reverted to their normal colors of black and red. She leaned over with her hands on her knees, reeling from the wave of nausea. “Whoa…”

“You must be cautious. Shrouding draws power from your own body’s energy reserve. You can only maintain the effect for a short time.”

“Yes, Hitomi-san,” Sigrid said, taking a moment to recover. Hitomi handed her a glass of water, which Sigrid drank deeply.

Hitomi took Sigrid’s hands in hers. “How do you feel? Do you detect any ill-effects?”

Sigrid ran a quick diagnostic of her body and functions. Despite a slight feeling of fatigue, she felt perfectly fine. “No, Hitomi-san. Just a little tired.”

“Very well, but use these programs sparingly, at least until we’re positive there are no side-effects. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“No, Hitomi-san,” Sigrid said; she found herself surprised at the genuine concern the older woman seemed to have for her.

Hitomi looked at the wall chronometer; it was nearing two in the morning. “We don’t have much time. I suggest you get underway.”

* * *

Sigrid pushed the ceiling tile aside and poked her head down into the dark corridor of the CTF Tower. Her long blond hair was bound in a tight braid and hung down below her head, swinging back and forth in a pendulum-like fashion. The soft soles of her boots barely made a sound as she dropped to the polished, marble floor below. Sigrid had armed herself more heavily than she’d ever done in the past. Her belt was lined with the little throwing knives she liked, as well as a selection of blackout bombs, smoke-grenades, flashbangs and frags. She reached back and touched the hilt of the katana—her gift to Suko. Having the gift with her was like carrying a little piece of Suko; it may have been foolish, but it brought her comfort.

Her objective was on the 222nd floor, near the top of the CTF tower. The Council’s main server was located there as well; it was not connected to any network so the only way to hack into it was by direct link. Sigrid would need to make her way there now, hack into the system and get out, all without being seen.

Sigrid called up the building schematics on her HUD and studied the possible routes. The stairs seemed safest, but she was running out of time; it was already 3:36 and Hitomi had warned that by 5 a.m. it would not be unusual for staff to start filtering back in to prepare for the working day ahead. Sigrid called for an elevator and waited in the shadows while it made its way down. It arrived without incident and the doors slid open. The elevator was empty, but Sigrid detected several monitoring devices so she engaged her shroud before entering. She pressed the button for 223rd floor, just above the offices; there was a viewing terrace located there that she’d chosen as her point of insertion.

Sigrid climbed through the ceiling hatch onto the roof of the elevator. Only when the hatch was closed did she allow the shroud to fade; she breathed a sigh as she felt her system recover. Holding the effect drained all her focus and energy.

There were little grips on the side and roof of the elevator—most likely for the service personnel—and Sigrid clung to them as the elevator shot upward at an alarming rate. She looked up to see the top of the tower grow ever closer as floor after floor shot by. If she hadn’t been holding on, she might very well have been propelled into the air when the lift came to an abrupt halt on the 178th floor. She heard two people board the elevator beneath her, a man and a woman. They were muttering complaints about the elevator going up when they needed to go down, but they didn’t seem suspicious so Sigrid relaxed a little.

It only took a second for the elevator to traverse the next few levels. Sigrid jumped off and clung to the wall of the shaft. She’d only just found footing when the elevator dropped away beneath her; Sigrid had a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched it disappear like a stone into the darkness, leaving her clinging to the rail of the vertical shaft some 740.271 meters up. She did her best not to think of the abyss that gaped beneath her. Whether she fell 50 or 700 meters made little difference.

The door was just below her so Sigrid scrambled carefully down to it. The walls of the shaft weren’t exactly built for climbing and there were few handholds, but Sigrid negotiated her way down. Prying the door open was easy enough, and she was glad to find the floor she’d chosen unoccupied.

With her camouflage set to a dark, charcoal grey, Sigrid blended perfectly into the shadows as she made her way out to the terrace above the Council offices. At the upper levels, the tower was built in a pyramid-like fashion, and there was another terrace on the office-level just beneath her. Sigrid slipped up and over the high protective barrier—designed to prevent people from leaning out over the edge, no doubt—and dropped down to the lower level. The doors were locked and electronically sealed, but no match for the Lady Hitomi’s excellent decryption algorithms.

Sigrid was in.

Quickly and quietly, Sigrid made her way down the hallway to the server room. She saw a guard there, walking by, making his rounds. He seemed oblivious to her, so she let him pass, before commencing the task of breaking into the server room.

The security here was much more complex. It took Sigrid almost a full minute to break through the locks on the great door, and it didn’t get any easier once she was inside. The room was armed with motion and heat-sensors, audio sensors, even chemical and bacteria sensors, and cameras positioned at all angles.

Sigrid searched and found what she was looking for. The Security Node was located in a service panel in an alcove just inside the server room; she’d still need to get to that without being detected. She shrouded herself, again becoming virtually invisible—just a shimmering, translucent outline of a woman. Concentrating even harder, Sigrid lowered her body temperature by several degrees; she could only hope it was enough to shield her from the heat sensors. If it wasn’t…well, she’d know soon enough.

Her optical implants picked up the location of the biological sensors. Sigrid selected four of the silicone gel-caps from the pouch at her waist and fixed them to the tiny palm-sized launcher she carried. Four quick shots took care of the sensors, coating them in a thin layer of silicone. After that, it was a reasonably simple matter to avoid the infrared beams by stepping lively as she moved toward the security panel. She couldn’t deactivate the security completely—that would set off a series of alarms—but Sigrid put the system into a temporary diagnostic loop. It wouldn’t last long, but she only needed a few more minutes. With the security systems temporarily deactivated, Sigrid de-shrouded. The effort had been particularly draining this time, especially after having to alter her core temperature; she didn’t want to be doing that again any time soon, she decided.

Now, for the server.

Sigrid was surprised to find the security so light, and she gained access quite easily. They probably never thought anyone would get this far, she thought as the monitor lit up in front of her. Sigrid slipped a blank data-module into the access port on the side of the unit. Hitomi’s wish list was extensive; she was to find and retrieve all files pertaining to the Andraste project.

It didn’t take long to find the first, and one seemed to lead to another and then another. Sigrid was finding hundreds of communiqués, all of them voicing either outrage or concern over what they perceived as ‘Hitomi’s army of genetic monsters’ and what it would mean if they didn’t move to control them, and soon.

The loop in the security system would not last much longer and there were more files to download. The powerful processors implanted within her enabled her to scan through the thousands of terabytes of information rapidly. The files pertaining to the Council’s financial accounts took up most of the room on the four data modules she’d brought—especially since there seemed to be two sets of accounts. Sigrid chuckled; she knew Hitomi would find these of great interest.

Sigrid filled all four data-modules, then cursed; there was still more. Her own PCM could accommodate some of the information, but there was too much. She was about to extract herself from the system when she spotted the anomaly. One communiqué—she’d almost missed it. It wasn’t logged as all the other messages were. Someone had even tried to delete it, but they hadn’t been quite thorough enough. No. That wasn’t correct. Someone had tried to repair it.

There was no ID tag and the message was nearly completely corrupted. Much of it didn’t make sense; names, dates, payment schedules. Two names stood out instantly: Alcyone. Dalair. But it was the third name that stopped her cold. Tansho.

Suko…

It was Suko’s last name, but there was nothing more. There was no signature, and she couldn’t make out the recipient either, but she downloaded it quickly to her PCM. With luck, Hitomi could analyze it later.

It was time to go.

Sigrid exited the server room and made her way back to the terrace; she would leave the way she came—retracing her steps, covering her tracks on the way out.

Before she’d completed half the distance to the terrace, every sensor in Sigrid’s system shot the warning to her. She rolled into cover, behind one of the many pillars that lined the reception area. Someone was there.

Sigrid didn’t breathe; she reached out with every sensor she had, scanning the vicinity. The signals she got back were confusing. She couldn’t lock anything down, but was certain of it now—someone was there, watching her. She took a chance and peered out from behind the pillar.

The reception area appeared clear and quiet. She switched to her thermal optics and scanned and—there! She saw them. Two men hiding behind cover, and another lay in wait on the other side. They knew she was there and were blocking her exit to the terrace. There was something odd about their scans. She was only getting a partial signal, as if something was shielding them from her.

Sigrid played back the entire operation in her mind—she couldn’t think of any alarm she’d missed. How was it they knew she was there?

Sigrid moved quietly into the shadows, away from the men and back toward the elevator. But her sensors picked up more movement. More men, many more, were moving toward her from the opposite direction. It was a trap.

What was it that Rosa had always drilled into her—the path of least resistance? She had little choice; she had to take out the three men blocking her exit to the terrace. Sigrid grabbed two flashbangs and one of the gas grenades from her belt, rolling all three in the directions of the men lying in wait for her. The explosion shattered the silence and darkness, filling the corridor with smoke and the debilitating gas. Sigrid held her breath and rolled out from behind her cover, coming into a crouch and drawing her two pearl-handled pistols.

Finally, her pursuers revealed themselves. Three men leaned out from their positions of cover. Sigrid logged the targets and fired three shots—three perfect head-shots—that bounced harmlessly off their armored helmets.

Only then did Sigrid see that all three wore some kind of mechanized armor that covered their entire bodies. She’d never seen anything like it and there was nothing of the sort listed in her database. The armor perfectly protected them from the gas bomb she’d thrown and the ballistic rounds she’d fired.

At first she’d assumed the men to be CTF security, or possibly Marines, but their armor bore an unfamiliar insignia that didn’t register with her. All three men leveled their weapons at her; two had lethal looking chain guns, the kind normally mounted on heavy vehicles; they held the bulky weapons as if they were featherweight. The third man was pointing a familiar-looking riot gun at her.

Sigrid swallowed. “Crap.”

The one with the riot gun moved first; Sigrid’s sensors picked up the flex of his finger on the trigger and she launched herself forward, moving directly at him. She saw the flare as the weapon discharged the restraining net at her. Sigrid hurled herself out of its path. Her pistols were back in her holster and she’d already drawn the katana from its sheath as she came back up on her feet. She was vaguely aware of the net smacking harmlessly against the wall behind her. The clanking of the two chain guns firing sounded loud in her head as the armored soldiers frantically tried to track her. All her focus was on the armored man in front of her.

Her PCM registered the weak spot in his armor, just below his helmet and above his shoulders. Her katana sliced through the composite material, relieving the man of his head. Sigrid charged onward; the terrace was just in front of her; though her path took her between the two remaining men. She could feel the explosive rounds from their chain guns nipping at her heels. Sigrid crashed through the doors, shattering the heavy glass, not daring to slow. In a second she was up and over the railing, leaping from the terrace, 222 stories above the city of Buenos Aires.

For a terrifying instant Sigrid feared she’d miscalculated and leapt too far, but she crashed down onto the next terrace three stories below. The drop was nearly fourteen meters and she hit the concrete hard, absorbing as much of the energy as possible in a desperate tuck and roll. But her momentum propelled her into the oncoming railing and she smacked her head solidly on the barrier. She screamed, fighting to keep her wits. The nanomites surged through her system, working hard to repair the damage, ease the pain and keep her conscious.

She had to keep moving. The armored soldiers were already firing down at her. Sigrid ran for the safety of cover. She fired her pistols to smash the glass doors in front of her before charging inside.

Sigrid skidded to a halt. Standing, waiting in front her, dressed in the same mechanized armor and with a rocket launcher leveled at her face, was Sara.

“Hello Sigrid,” she cooed.

Chapter 15

Reunion

––––––––

“Sara…” Sigrid’s mouth hung open. Sara stood before her; she was older now, but it was definitely Sara. She was alive! “But…how? We thought you were…”

“Spare me the false concern.”

“What are you doing here? How’d you—”

“Believe it or not, I’m here for you.”

“Here for me?” Sigrid frowned. “To kill me, you mean.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’m here to help you.”

“But you—you’re dressed like them, like those men.”

“Them? Don’t worry about them.”

Sigrid folded her arms and eyed the rocket launcher warily. “Right now, I’m more worried about you.”

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.” Sara lowered the launcher. “Sigrid…what do you really know about Kimura? Do you really trust them? They left me for dead—they took us all. You don’t owe them anything. I can help you.”

“Help me? And were your friends back there trying to help me? Is that what you call it?” Sigrid had no loyalties to the corporation. But the Lady Hitomi…the woman was not what Sigrid had expected. Sara, on the other hand, was the last person Sigrid was willing to trust.

“We don’t want to kill you, Sigrid. But make no mistake, if you choose to work against us—you, or any of the girls…” Sara took a deep breath and frowned. “The Council will try to control you. We can’t let that happen.”

“Is that why you’re here? To stop the Council, or to get me?”

“Like I said. We can’t let them take any of you. They’ll use you, Sigrid. They’ll use all of you.”

Sigrid’s hands slid down to her hips. “And this is how you want to recruit me—at gunpoint? What if I say no? What of the other girls?”

Sara shrugged. “You’re either with us or against us. Now, are you going to stand down like a good little girl, or am I going to have to blow you to bits.” Sara aimed down the sight of the launcher. “I’m happy either way.”

Sigrid pursed her lips. There was no way in hell she trusted Sara, or would let her harm the girls from Alcyone.

Sara hadn’t noticed Sigrid’s hand resting casually on her belt, hadn’t noticed the tiny frag grenade she rolled between finger and thumb. Sigrid popped the frag and charged straight at her. Surprised, Sara fired, straight at Sigrid’s face, but Sigrid was already moving sideways, spinning, continuing her charge forward. With her shoulder down, she barged heavily into Sara, tackling her. She released the grenade; it clattered along the marble floor toward the elevator doors just ahead. The blast blew the metal doors inward sending bent and twisted shards tumbling down the long shaft.

Sigrid somersaulted right over Sara, wrenching herself from the girl’s hands as Sara made a desperate grab at her. Sigrid didn’t stop, and she dived, head first into the open shaft ahead of her, disappearing into the smoking darkness.

The last thing Sara saw were Sigrid’s heels disappearing over the edge of the elevator shaft. She hauled herself up and ran to the charred opening, staring down into the abyss. She saw nothing. Her scans couldn’t pick anything up either. It was difficult to imagine Sigrid surviving the fall, but she thumbed the comlink on her armored collar. “She’s in the shaft. Check the perimeter—nobody lets her get out.”

* * *

Sigrid was grateful for Hitomi’s planning as she hurried to the Starling waiting for her on the roof. Shrouded in camouflage, it sat still and quiet, looking black as the night around them. The skin of the heavily-modified craft glimmered faintly under the torrential downpour. Had it not been for the rain washing over it, Sigrid might not have seen it at all.

She’d barely put her foot on the mounting step when the pilot gunned the thrusters, sending the craft rocketing up toward the spilling clouds overhead. Sigrid stood on the rail, one hand gripping the open doorframe above her as she stared down at the diminishing city of Buenos Aires, with its bright, colored lights blurred and muted, dimmed by a thick layer of fog and a swirling of low-lying clouds.

The Hotel wasn’t far; the flight through the dismal weather was mercifully brief. The pilot circled once, dropping altitude, hardly slowing long enough for her to leap onto the roof, skidding and rolling to stop on the slick surface. Her suite was only a few floors down so Sigrid chose to scramble down the exterior to the balcony below rather than risk being spotted in the halls.

She burst through the balcony doors. The rain slanting down onto the terrace behind her splashed into the living area. She found Hitomi waiting for her; the Lady gasped at the sight of the cuts on Sigrid’s hands and face, and the rips in her uniform.

“My goodness, dear. Are you quite all right?”

“There were men,” Sigrid said.

Sigrid told her immediately of the armored soldiers lying in wait for her, of her narrow escape. And of Sara.

Hitomi listened in silence, never interrupting.

When she was finished, Sigrid took out the data modules filled with the stolen files.

Hitomi waved them away. “There’s no time for that now, dear. It seems we’ve stumbled into the midst of something. I fear we are in danger as long as we remain on Earth. We must leave, and we must leave now.”

What followed was a dizzying frenzy of activity. Within minutes, the Lady Hitomi had her entire entourage packed and boarding a private transport. There would be no leisurely journey back on the TGV to see the sights this night. Tonight was all about flight.

Hitomi stared through the rain-beaded window of the transport, deep in thought. “There are more things at play in this than even I imagined. Until we get off this planet, we are vulnerable.”

The Morrigan was still locked in high orbit, prohibited from landing to pick them up, so they had little choice but to book a return passage on the system of Orbital Elevators—the principal means of ferrying passengers and cargo from the Earth’s surface into space. There was an early departure scheduled from the complex in Panama City; with luck, they’d just make it there in time.

The Panama City complex was one of the largest of the Lift Centers on the planet, with four massive elevators, each over 200 meters in diameter and six stories high. The elevators could deliver tons of material and personnel far more efficiently than the shuttles. Even more impressive were the Lift cables. Constructed with a carbon nanotube weave, the two-meter-thick cables stretched up 700 kilometers into the exosphere, where they were tethered to the orbital docking platforms.

They received word that the Lift was completely booked, but the Lady Hitomi soon crushed the will of the terrified ticket agent. Within moments, they booked a passage on the Lift, berthed in the most opulent accommodation.

They were halfway across the concourse, moving toward the boarding area, when a booming voice sounded behind them. “Halt!”

Sigrid spun and saw a man approaching through the main gate; he wore the blue and grey uniform of CTF Security; his shoulders bore the rank insignia of a captain. He was flanked by an entire squad of soldiers, all leveling weapons at Sigrid and her companions.

Karen squealed and her hands shot up in the air—Sigrid’s hands dropped lower to rest on the pearl handles of her sidearms. She felt the Lady Hitomi’s cautioning hand touch her arm.

“Easy, child,” she said.

Sigrid relaxed, placing her hands behind her back, but all her attention and sensors remained fixed on the squad of security officers that surrounded them.

The captain approached them, striding briskly across the polished floor of the concourse. “Lady Hitomi. I have a warrant for your arrest—you and your party. You will come with me.”

Karen shot a panicked look at Sigrid, who gave her a reassuring nod, although she herself felt a certain unease.

“My good Captain,” The Lady said, in a breezy tone. “Whatever is the matter? This must be some misunderstanding.”

The Captain gave her as stern a look as he could; not easy, Sigrid thought, under the withering stare of the Lady Kimura. “You are wanted for questioning regarding the break-in at the CTF Offices early this morning.”

“Questions? Why I’d be more than happy to answer anything you’d like, right here. There’s no need to bother anyone else.”

The Captain squirmed uneasily. “Please, Madame. We don’t wish to make a scene.”

More footsteps approached; a prim, thin-faced man pushed his way forward. He wore a formal black business suit and his hair was sharply groomed. He also wore a security ID for the Bernardino Lift Company. “What is the meaning of this?” the man barked, staring at the captain.

The captain shifted from foot to foot and Sigrid watched his face begin to redden; she could sense his blood pressure rising. “Um—I have a warrant…”

Lady Hitomi smiled up from her chair at the newcomer, extending her hand in greeting. “Ah, Mr. Gomez. How pleasing to see you again. We’re so sorry for the disturbance. The Captain here just had some questions for us.”

The Captain held out the pad that displayed the warrant, but the prim little man slapped it away. “I believe you’re a little out of your jurisdiction here, Captain.”

“Sir, my orders are quite specific. If you do not let us proceed in our duty—”

“The Bernardino Lift Company is not a member of your Federated Corporations, sir. We are an independent organization. You are now in BLC territory.”

“Sir,” the captain’s voice remained firm, “I must insist you allow us to remove the Lady and her entourage.”

Gomez raised his index finger as a signal. Instantly, the concourse filled with more security, this time dressed in the red outfits of the Bernardino Company. “And I too, must insist.”

Sigrid studied all the men and women, now faced off against one another; the problem was that she and her friends were standing in the middle of a potentially explosive situation. Sigrid lowered her hands, resting them again on the handles of her pistols. She made a quick calculation of the rounds available in each weapon, choosing a selection of primary and secondary targets.

The Captain and Gomez stared at each other coldly. Gomez stood erect and calm. Sigrid saw the Captain scan the group of BLC Security that confronted his own men; he was outnumbered two to one. His chest rose and fell heavily, the smallest trickle of sweat escaped from below the brim of his uniform cap.

At last, the captain nodded, with some reluctance, relenting. “Very well. Stand down.” He signaled his squad to lower their weapons. “I will have to report this, Lady Hitomi. I’m sure the Council will be in touch.”

Hitomi gave a slight nod as answer. The captain retreated, followed by his men.

“I’m so sorry for all this fuss,” Hitomi said to Mr. Gomez.

“Not at all, Milady. It is always a pleasure to have you aboard our Elevators. You must let me know if there is anything we can do to make your trip more enjoyable.”

Hitomi chuckled. “I think just the fact that we are making the trip…I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Gomez.” She held out her hand; Sigrid gave a little gasp as she saw the man kiss Hitomi’s gloved hand—she’d never seen such a gesture. The Lady really is…a Lady, she decided.

With the excitement fading behind them, the group proceeded through the waiting airlock to the Lift. Only once safely inside, only when she felt the giant machine start its slow climb into space, did Sigrid allow herself to relax.

The Lady Hitomi headed immediately toward their rooms down the hallway. Sigrid and Karen followed, shadowed closely by Hitomi’s personal guard. “Now, let’s go take a look at what you brought, Sigrid. Perhaps we’ll find some of the answers there.”

They reached Hitomi’s suite, locked the door and Sigrid began uploading the stolen files to Hitomi’s pad.

Next, Hitomi did something astonishing; Sigrid watched as Hitomi took out a data-uplink module and proceeded to insert it into the access port in the side of her head. Ever since she’d spotted the telltale port hidden behind Hitomi’s ear, there had been a question Sigrid had wanted to ask.

She decided to ask it now. “Mistress—Hitomi-san, are you…are you like us?”

Hitomi put down the data-uplink and took Sigrid’s hand. “No, my dear. It was my hope…but no. I am not like you. I am a failure.”

“A failure…?”

Hitomi laughed and rubbed at the telltale slot. “This—this is nothing more than a testament to my own hubris. I had thought I could enhance myself as we have with you. But…” she looked down at her crippled legs in their mechanical harness, “…as you can see, I failed.”

Sigrid looked at her worriedly; she hadn’t meant to upset her.

Hitomi took up the data link again, reconnected it to the port and winked. “Don’t worry, my dear. I still retain some benefits. At least I won’t have to read through all these communiqués.”

Despite having been up all night, the Lady Hitomi sat diligently working her way through the walls of security and decryption that barred her way as message after message sparked along her synapses. It was much like Gillings had said. The Council intended to appropriate, or seize, all materials pertaining to Project Andraste and take over every one of the girls’ contracts, either by paying-off Kimura or by force of sanction. If necessary, military action was also listed as an option. Gillings was confident that the extreme measures would not be necessary. But the Council was resolute—they would not suffer another ‘Daedalus’.

More disturbing to Sigrid were the clauses pertaining to the girls. If the girls could not be properly controlled, they were to be—how had the Council put it—deconstructed for the purposes of reverse-engineering.

Sigrid gasped. “How could they do that?”

“I’m afraid the Council feels they can do with you whatever they like. And more than likely, they will try.” Hitomi patted her hand. “Fear not. I won’t let things get that far. I have no intention of letting Gillings or any of his cronies get their hands on you or any of your sisters.”

Hitomi set about repairing the partially destroyed message Sigrid had found. Sigrid watched, open-mouthed, as the Lady’s fingers flew over the pad as she wrote, from scratch, a program to reconstruct the scrambled data.

“Well, isn’t this interesting.” Hitomi scrolled quickly through the message; her repairs working, slowly filling in the blanks. “Look, here. There’s a reference to Gliese…”

“Gliese? That’s the planet Selene mentioned—where Tarsus was headed.”

“Indeed. And look, there’s more.” Hitomi highlighted a section that referred to a Dr. Joseph Farrington, but Sigrid didn’t understand any of it. “Dr. Farrington is an old colleague of mine,” Hitomi explained. “We worked together several years ago on your…well, on this project. He had some interesting theories, but the man was, frankly, erratic. I had to let him go.”

“Is he…do you think he’s behind all this?”

Hitomi laughed. “Farrington? Definitely not. The man couldn’t organize his day-timer let alone a military action. No, but I have no doubt that he’s working with whoever is.”

Hitomi paused in her scrolling, causing Sigrid to shift uneasily in her chair; the Lady had found the same name that had captured her attention: Tansho.

“Suko…” Sigrid said. “Is it about Suko?”

Sigrid watched as more words merged into repair, filling in the sentences around the name. Hitomi shook her head. “I’m not sure. A large part of the data is still corrupted. But, Sigrid, these can’t be coincidences. Tarsus, Dr. Farrington—the attacks…and now we find a link between them and one of our girls. We must consider the possibility…”

Sigrid stiffened. “No, Mistress. It’s impossible. Suko’s no spy, she’d never betray us.” Sigrid knew Suko felt no love for Kimura, but to work with men who would attack them? Kill them? Not Suko—never.

“I know how you must feel, Sigrid. But someone is clearly working with them. We must consider—”

“No!” Sigrid couldn’t believe it. I have to tell her, Sigrid thought. “Mistress…Suko and I…well, I just know it’s not possible. She would never…”

Hitomi considered her words for only a moment. “Very well. If you are certain, then that is all I need to know.”

Sigrid suddenly noticed the fatigue etched in Hitomi’s face; the effort of deciphering the messages and the long hours had clearly taken their toll.

Hitomi seemed to realize as much herself. “It will take more time to repair the rest of the message, but for now—sleep. Unlike you, my child, being up all night is a little hard on me.” She directed her wheelchair to the small bedroom just off the anteroom where they’d been sitting. “I suggest you do the same. The Lift won’t reach the orbital station for at least another thirty-seven hours.”

“Yes, I will, Hitomi-san. Shall I come by later?”

“No. I’ll be busy here. There’s little more you can do. Go enjoy yourself. Go do…whatever it is you young girls do nowadays.”

Sigrid bid the Lady goodnight and headed to her own room. She felt exhausted as well. For the first time in over a month she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

Chapter 16

The Long Fall

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April 18, 2348

Alone in her room above the girls’ dormitory, Suko rolled over on her bunk and took a last look at the picture of Sigrid before folding the pad back up and putting it away. She’d made up her mind and wasn’t going to back down. Suko clipped on all her weapons, threw on her jacket and grabbed up the small backpack she’d prepared. The door to her room led out to a short staircase behind the dormitory. Suko carefully scanned the grounds with her optical implant. All clear. The gates would still be guarded by the mercenary squad stationed there. She was free to come and go, but Suko didn’t want anyone taking note of her departure; she’d need to remain undetected if her plan was going to work.

The wall that framed the Academy was only twenty feet high, so Suko scaled it easily with the rope and small grappling hook she’d fashioned. She paused at the top to take one last look back at the Academy. She felt a moment of loss, thinking of the young girls, her students; she’d grown attached to them so quickly. She worried about what would happen to them after she was gone. But they weren’t her responsibility, she told herself.

She had enough to worry about. Her plan was desperate and she didn’t hold much hope, but she had to try. If she failed, if they caught her, she had no idea what they’d do with her; better not to think about that now. Suko slid down the wall, pulling the rope after her. In an instant she was trotting off into the forest. She resisted the urge to steal a transport—it would be too easy to track. Getting to the Southern Station would take weeks on foot, perhaps longer, but Kimura would find it far more difficult to hunt her down in the tangle of the bush.

She hadn’t even covered two kilometers when she stopped. There was no mistaking the sound; a sonic boom…and then another…followed by a third. The distant rumbling grew louder, decibels blaring to a deafening level. Her first thought was that they were out looking for her, but as the distant rumbling grew louder, Suko realized that it wasn’t atmospheric craft she was hearing; it was the sound of heavy ships coming down from orbit.

Suko tracked the sounds and scanned upwards, zooming in with her optical implants. There were few clouds, making it easy to locate the transports. Three large ships descending directly onto the Academy grounds. And they weren’t Kimura, Suko could see that. They bore no markings or designation, but they were clearly troop transports, and carrying at least a battalion, by her calculations. Suko homed in on the weapons pods on the sides, manned and ready.

Someone was attacking the Academy.

“Shit.”

A strange thought occurred to Suko—this might be the break she’d need to get away. The Kimura soldiers would have their hands full—too full to worry about her. She might actually get away and find Sigrid.

Her heart pounded. I should be running. Why am I not running?

“Shit,” she said again. Suko knew she wasn’t going anywhere. If they were being attacked—her girls…

“Dammit!”

Suko turned and tore off toward the Academy. She was on a rise, looking down at the grounds when another sound stopped her. Eyes narrowed, Suko looked up; the transports were ejecting something from the ports in their sides. Her first thought was bombs, but as she zoomed in she saw the hulking machines leaping from the drop ships. Heavily armored and carrying multiple armaments, the bipedal constructs were as big and ugly as tanks. They leapt from the drop ships, slowing themselves with retro-thrust rockets and landing solidly on thick, tri-jointed legs.

The small pistol she always carried was quickly in her hand. Suko gasped. The Mechs were landing right in among the Mercenaries, raking the scrambling soldiers with their chain guns and high-powered explosives. Three Starlings made it into the air, but the Mechs swiftly dispatched them, blasting the small craft from the skies with a barrage of missiles fired from their shoulder-mounted pods.

Suko was trained for combat, but what could she do against such a hail of mechanized destruction? The wall was now before her. She took a deep breath, leapt as high as she could and scrambled spider-like to the top of high wall before jumping over the side and hitting the ground running. The girls…she had to get to them first. Suko sprinted the last few yards to the dormitory, skidded inside and slammed the door closed behind her. All forty-two girls were awake, sitting up in their bunks with eyes full of terror. Khepri was already with them, gathering them up and shouting at them to get dressed.

“Where were you?” Khepri demanded, eyes mixed with anger and fear. But what could Suko say? There was no time; they could hear the explosions and cries from wounded and dying Mercenaries.

Lei-Fei came dashing in, startling both of the older girls. “Let’s go! What are you guys waiting for?”

“Bunker?” Suko asked, lowering her sidearm.

Khepri nodded and pushed the group of terrified girls toward the door. A testament to the girls and their training, none of them hesitated or questioned as they ran for the door Lei-Fei held open for them.

Suko stifled a scream as the wall behind them collapsed, crushed under the weight of a giant Mech as it crashed through the roof of the dormitory. Khepri and the last of the girls stopped, transfixed, staring at the giant metal monster as it leveled its twin chain guns at them.

“Run!” Suko yelled. Khepri picked the last two girls up in her arms and dived for the door as a torrent of bullets rained down on them. Suko rushed forward, rolling under the hail of gunfire. The Mech raised a metal foot to crush her, but she leapt, clambering up its torso until she came face to face with the startled operator seated in the cramped cockpit. Suko drew her sidearm and fired, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off the protective glass. The operator grinned, but the grin vanished when Suko pulled a grenade from her belt and stuck it to the glass in front of his face.

Suko jumped, then rolled through its legs. She watched the mechanical arms trying to claw the grenade off; then it detonated, ripping through the tempered glass, and blowing the Mech backwards off its feet. Suko screamed, leaping out of the way to avoid being crushed. Her leap took her out through the hole where the wall had once been. Suko lay on her stomach, out of breath, shielding her head from the shower of shrapnel and debris.

As the blast subsided, she looked up, ears ringing, to find two more of the metal giants before her, flanked by a squad of soldiers in some kind of mechanized armor.

“Fuck,” Suko said as the lead soldier raised his weapon and fired, point blank.

* * *

Sigrid’s sensors picked up the movement and woke her from her dreams. Someone, no, several people, were in the room. Slowly, she opened her eyes, just a slit, and peered out into the darkness. The men were already on her and she felt the prick of a syringe pressing against her neck.

Before her assailant could plunge the needle into her, Sigrid’s arm shot out, slapping the man’s arm away. She leapt out of the bed, grabbed him by the neck and spun him about using his body as a shield while his companions fired round after panicked round in her direction. They must have been firing shock-rounds, Sigrid realized; the body of the man she held in front of her spasmed crazily as they unleashed their 300-plus kV blasts of electricity; they were still trying to trap her.

She saw now that there were four men in her room, minus the one who’d just tried to stick her with the needle. Her sensors picked up the panic they felt—they were terrified.

Sigrid hurled the limp body of the needle-man at one of her assailants; he collapsed under the weight, crying out and dropping his weapon. She was on the next one in an instant, grabbing his pistol from his trembling hand, blasting him, while throwing a terrific kick into the sternum of the third that sent him crashing through the small door of the bathroom, tearing it right off its hinges. The only man still conscious was pinned under the body, struggling to push it off of him. She aimed the pistol and fired off a couple of shock-rounds, rendering him unconscious as well.

She rifled quickly through his pockets until she found the man’s ID. It had to be a fake. The man carried a student identification card. Sigrid read the embedded code. ‘Hekate…’ It was a planet, separated over a decade ago from the Federation. She searched the others to find all their IDs were the same. Were they real, or faked?

Sigrid dressed quickly, grabbing the camouflage gear Hitomi had given her. She was still zipping up her boots and buckling on her gun belt as she hurried down the corridor to the Lady Hitomi’s room. When she got there, she froze—the door was ajar. Sigrid had assumed that the attackers were just after her. She cursed her foolishness—she hadn’t even considered that the Lady might be targeted as well.

A quick thermal scan revealed three men in the Lady Hitomi’s suite, as well as the Lady herself. Hitomi’s four bodyguards lay dead on the ground. At least Hitomi looked to be alive; Sigrid scanned her to be sure, and breathed a relieved sigh. One of the men carried her in his arms as the other two moved toward the door. There was nowhere for her to hide in the narrow hallway so Sigrid shrouded, ducking out of the way just as the door opened. One of the men poked his head out into the corridor. He motioned his companions out, guns drawn. The last one carried the Lady Hitomi. Her hands were bound and they’d wrapped a gag around her mouth. She was awake though, and she looked directly at Sigrid—her eyes did not betray that she could see the shrouded girl.

Sigrid fired three shots from her pearl-handled pistols, catching Hitomi in her arms as the three attackers slumped to the ground, dead. She pulled the gag from her mouth and smiled.

“Mistress.”

The Lady smiled, much relieved. “Now, Sigrid, you know to call me ‘Hitomi-san’.”

Sigrid’s cheeks reddened, but her smile widened affectionately.

The noise from Sigrid’s shots had caused quite a stir. Several doors opened up and down the hallway as curious passengers stuck their heads out to see what was going on. Sigrid heard several gasps and cries at the grisly sight. The loudest outburst was from Karen who ran up to them, pulling her dressing gown around her.

“Oh my goodness—are you two all right?”

Still in Sigrid’s arms, Hitomi nodded. “Quite all right, my dear, although…” She looked around at the bodies at Sigrid’s feet. “I suppose we should inform the Lift Administrator.”

More footsteps could be heard rumbling down the corridor; Sigrid lowered Hitomi to her feet, still supporting her with an arm around her waist. She raised her pistol in the direction of the commotion. Three armed guards, dressed in the Bernardino uniforms ran up, followed by the chief of security. All four raised their hands upon seeing Sigrid’s gun leveled in their direction.

Realizing there was no threat, Sigrid lowered her weapon and put it slowly back into her holster.

“Lady Hitomi!” the security chief said, alarmed. “What on earth happened here?”

“These men tried to abduct us. I’m afraid they murdered my bodyguards. Heaven knows what they intended.”

He signaled to his men. “Let’s get this cleaned up.” To the people in the corridor, he called out, “Sorry for the disturbance—please go back into your rooms—nothing to see here.”

They all heard the terrible, loud clang and the sounds of metal shrieking and grinding somewhere in the bowels of the Lift. Even with the inertial dampening systems of the elevator engaged, they could all feel the Lift come to a juddering halt; several passengers gasped, looking around in bewilderment.

Sigrid turned to Hitomi and Karen. “We’ve stopped.”

* * *

Selene sighed as she pulled Rodney away from the Morrigan’s Chief Engineer. The two had been at odds since they’d come on board. Even here in the ship’s mess, their arguing was quickly spiraling out of control. Rodney was a brilliant engineer, and he knew far more about the ship’s systems than the stuffy officer, but he still needed to learn about the chain of command. She couldn’t keep intervening on his behalf. He had to learn.

Mercifully, the spat was interrupted by the chirping of the ship’s intercom.

“What is it, Christian?”

“Uh, excuse me, Commander, but we’ve got three ships coming in.”

“Mr. Lopez, we’re in high Earth orbit. There are ships coming in all the time.”

“Yeah, but these…I think they’re headed for us.”

“I’ll be right there.” She turned back to Rodney and the Chief. “You two—behave!”

Selene walked quickly to the bridge and slid into her seat at the helm. “All right, Mr. Lopez. Let’s see what’s got you so worked up.” Selene called up the tactical information on her monitor. Lopez was right: three ships, not much bigger than the Morrigan were bearing down on them. They were already exceeding the port speed limit, and they were still accelerating. None of them were listed in the registry. “Independents…”

A red light on the center console flashed and series of alarms shrilled for their attention.

“What the…They’ve got a firing solution on us!” Christian said, more confused than alarmed.

“Dear God…” They had missile lock—and her own ship was moored and locked with the orbital platform. She was a sitting duck. “Hang on!”

Without warning, Selene sealed the airlocks and disengaged the mooring locks.

“But, Commander—we have no departure clearance,” Melissa cried.

“They can fine me.” Selene hit the maneuvering thrusters, blasting away from the station at maximum thrust. “General Quarters. We’re under attack. This is not a drill.”

“They’re firing missiles!” Christian shouted.

Selene studied her monitor; all three attacking ships were braking hard as they closed to 10,000 kilometers. Her own ship was barely moving, still maneuvering with the small steering jets, trying to put some distance between themselves and the station. She could hear the angry shouting of the station’s docking master in her com. She switched it off.

“Counter measures,” Selene barked. “Get our jammers up—I don’t want anything getting through.”

“Aye, ma’am,” Christian said.

Selene saw the blast of flares from the viewport as the Morrigan belched out an array of defensive devices, flares, and hundreds of tiny pods designed to both deflect and attract incoming ordnance. The little ship even had a reasonable phalanx system; it could use the rail guns to hurl thousands of pellets into the path of oncoming missiles. The only problem was, with all the traffic in the port area, they’d most likely tear apart tens of innocent ships parked close by. As long as they’re not using nukes, she thought. But that would be truly insane.

“Impact in ten,” Christian informed them.

The Morrigan was still struggling to clear the station when Selene fired the massive rear thrusters, pushing them to maximum; they all winced at the horrible screeching sound as the hull met the edge of the station. No sooner had they cleared the giant docking platform when six missiles slammed into it. A huge fireball flared up, exploding silently outside the window, winking out in an instant as the oxygen was quickly consumed in the blast. The only sound was of the thousands of bits of debris peppering the hull of their ship.

“Holy shit…” Christian gasped.

* * *

The corridor was abundant with confused passengers looking about, wondering why the Lift had stopped. Such a thing was an extremely rare occurrence.

Still in her dressing gown, Karen came out of Hitomi’s quarters with the wheelchair; Sigrid eased their mistress into it.

“What do you think the problem is?” Karen asked. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Sigrid felt her skin tingle. She was growing accustomed to the various ways her sensory modules functioned to alert her to danger. She felt something now, something familiar.

“We have to get out of here now,” she said, starting down the corridor at a jog. “Everyone—back in your rooms!”

The bemused passengers looked at her in wonder as she ran by. Even the Security Chief looked confused.

“Get your men out of here, Chief,” Sigrid said over her shoulder.

“Wait!” Karen said. “Where are you going?”

Sigrid stopped at the corridor junction just ahead. When Karen saw her draw both her pistols, she gasped, but instantly quickened her pace, rushing alongside Lady Hitomi. Sigrid stood with her back to the wall, hurriedly motioning them past her.

“Keep going. Run!”

Neither Karen nor Hitomi stopped to question her—probably what saved them. The corridor behind them erupted in a hail of gunfire forcing Sigrid to duck back behind the wall out of harm’s way. She’d seen what she needed—three men in the same mechanized armor, just like the ones in the CTF tower the night before. The Chief and his security team weren’t so fortunate. They fired back at the attacking soldiers, but their bullets bounced harmlessly off their armor—Sigrid looked on in horror as the security men were gunned down mercilessly. Passengers screamed and ran quickly back into their rooms, most of them fortunate to get out of the way. Most, but not all.

“Dammit,” Sigrid said. She dialed the ordnance selector on her pistols, switching to the armor-piercing rounds she’d added to her arsenal. Taking a moment to shroud, she rolled out into the corridor, coming up firing. The thunder of the high-powered slugs was deafening; two of the soldiers stumbled and collapsed as the armor-piercing rounds ripped through the plating on their chests, bursting through the layers of composite material into the soft flesh underneath.

She missed the last one and was forced to dive aside into an open suite. Explosive rounds pierced the air, tracking dangerously close to her own head. Sigrid touched the side of her ear and her hand came back a bloodied mess.

The man—the Mech—she wasn’t sure what to call it—was on her in an instant. She couldn’t believe such bulk could move so swiftly and gracefully. His huge frame suddenly silhouetted in the doorway, and she fired, wide, as he leapt forward, crushing her with his massive weight and knocking the wind completely out of her.

Sigrid tried to raise her guns, but powerful arms, aided by some kind of servo system, pinned her back easily. The weight on her chest was too much. Sigrid couldn’t breathe. Her guns were still in her hands, but even trying with all her strength she couldn’t wrestle her arms or hands free of his grip. She fought for breath, already starting to feel the blackness coming. If she didn’t break free in the next few seconds she knew it would be over.

The gun in her left hand was pointed at the glassed-in viewport on the suite’s wall.

Sigrid fired.

The explosion and howling rush of air was deafening. Alarms sounded all over the Lift, but the vacuum lifted her assailant off her, pulling him quickly toward the opening and out into space. He grabbed the frame of the window and clung precariously to the edge. Sigrid was also carried across the room; her PCM had already logged every possible handhold, and she opted for the leg of the table in the center of the room; she could only hope that the bolts held where it was fastened to the floor.

The armor her attacker wore must have been pressurized; he was already clawing his way back inside. A drawer from one of the dressers flew across the room and smacked into his helmet, but he still managed to hang on with one gloved-hand. Sigrid lowered her pistol and fired; the armor-piercing round shattered his faceplate, and he cart-wheeled freely, finally, out into space.

Firing at the window had been an act of desperation, and Sigrid’s predicament hadn’t exactly improved. The freezing cold of space pervaded her bones, just as the torrent of air from the Lift’s environmental systems threatened to blast her out into oblivion. She was only meters from the doorway and safety, but reaching it was like climbing up a waterfall. All the time, she had to dodge the debris that was tumbling by her from the corridor beyond.

With the last of her strength, Sigrid lunged for the doorframe and heaved herself out, sliding it closed behind her and sealing it shut. The sudden silence filled her ears, and she shivered; she was blue with cold. Her uniform was torn where the mechanized hands had held her, and she was bruised and bloodied. She had a long laceration on her right arm; she couldn’t even remember how she’d gotten it, but she was alive.

Sigrid hauled herself up and started back down the corridor; she only hoped that Lady Hitomi and Ensign McTeer were still all right. She caught up to them at the next junction. It was sealed off from the breach, but she was able to override the locking system and let herself through. She collapsed in Karen’s arms, sinking to her knees.

“Oh, my God!” Karen said, distress visible on her face as she held Sigrid.

Hitomi looked equally concerned. “Those men, are they…?”

Sigrid nodded. “Dead. I had a little trouble with the last one,” she said, managing a grin—she didn’t want them to worry about her. “But he’s off touring the universe.”

“Do you suppose there are any more?” Karen looked terrified.

Sigrid opened her mouth to answer, no, when they heard the sound of a far-off explosion, followed by the agonizing sound of groaning, twisting metal.

Karen screamed, clutching at Sigrid; all three of the women looked to each other. Sigrid noticed it first—the slight tilting of the floor.

“Oh no…” she said.

Even Hitomi, always so steady and strong, paled. “They cut the tether.”

* * *

“Yes, Lieutenant, I see it,” Selene said, leaning forward.

They’d all seen it—a massive explosion just at the top of the Lift that carried Sigrid and her party. The Lift had already reached the Earth’s thermosphere, at some 135 kilometers, but the explosion had severed the tethering system that connected the elevator to the orbital platform above; the sheer weight of the massive cable, still connected to the base of the Lift, was already dragging the elevator back down toward the planet below.

“Holy…” Ensign Greenway said, breathlessly.

“Can you reach them on the com?” Selene asked.

Christian’s hands flew over his console. He shook his head. “Too much interference, ma’am.”

Selene nodded. “All right, I’ll bring us in closer.”

“Closer?” Christian asked.

“We can’t very well do much good back here, now, can we.” Selene pushed the thrusters harder, accelerating and moving the Morrigan ever closer to the massive elevator.

“Uh…Commander,” Christian said, nervously.

“Watch your tactical monitor, Lieutenant. I want a second by second report on the course of that elevator.”

He gulped. “Um—it’s headed down, ma’am. And we still have those three ships on our tail.”

“I know!” Selene said. She bit her lip. Well, you’re really in it now, she thought and laughed.

Christian caught the laugh. “Ma’am?”

“Just keep trying to hail them—we don’t have much time.”

* * *

Sigrid heard the second explosion, followed by a horrible tearing sound of metal being ripped away. Karen screamed again.

Sigrid’s comlink chirped on the emergency frequency and she heard Selene’s voice. She quickly hushed both women, listening as Selene fed her the series of instructions. Only when Selene was finished did she turn to her companions. “We need to get down to the lowest level, and we have to hurry.”

“Wait!” Hitomi said. “The data modules—I left them back in the rooms. We must go back.”

Sigrid looked down the long corridor, and then at the increasing tilt of the floor. She could feel the vibrations intensify as the Lift accelerated in its descent.

“I don’t think there’s time.”

Hitomi nodded and Karen looked relieved to keep going, helping the Lady’s chair along.

Sigrid led them quickly down the corridor. The tilt of the floor slewed even more as they ran, making progress difficult as the three forged ahead. Sigrid stopped at each junction, checking to make sure their path was clear.

“Sigrid, wait!” Karen called out to her.

She turned back and saw the girl struggling with Lady Hitomi’s wheelchair; the angle of the floor was pitched at thirty degrees and Karen could no longer manage the chair. Lady Hitomi looked thoroughly angry and embarrassed.

“You girls go ahead. I’ll only slow you down.”

Sigrid scanned the corridor, checking again to see that their path was clear before rushing back to the two. Holstering her weapons, she lifted Hitomi out of her chair.

“Sigrid—”

“Please don’t argue,” Sigrid said, starting back down the corridor. “We’re not leaving you behind.”

“I’d never dream of it. I was only going to tell you—it’s the other way. We need to go down.”

Sigrid chuckled, as she turned around and spotted the maintenance hatch at the end of the corridor.

Sigrid helped Hitomi along as fast as she could. She could feel the vibrations in the floor becoming more pronounced, and she realized they must be entering the planet’s atmosphere. They heard a series of loud bangs—what sounded like entire sections of the Lift being torn away as the elevator shifted further on its axis. Sigrid stumbled and fell, twisting so that Hitomi landed on top of her. They all rolled from the floor onto the wall as the Lift dipped sharply. Sigrid tried not to think of how far or how fast they were falling as the cabling system dragged them further down into the atmosphere.

The Lift’s stabilizing systems groaned in protest, working desperately to right the elevator. The three women were thrown back in the other direction. They landed hard on the floor; Sigrid caught Hitomi, who shook her head at Sigrid in surprise.

“Sorry about this,” Sigrid said, gathering Hitomi up into her arms and carrying her the rest of the distance to the maintenance hatch. She kicked it open. “Go!” she yelled at Karen, who scuttled inside, climbing quickly down the ladder. Sigrid looked down the shaft—the ladder led down two decks below.

“I’m sorry,” Hitomi said, frowning at the ladder. “I don’t think I can manage that.”

Sigrid examined the length of the access shaft again. “Hang on!”

Hitomi nodded bravely and Sigrid jumped, pursing her lips as she landed hard on the deck below; the pain was intense, and she felt something tear, but she’d worry about that later. Sigrid looked about her; they were at the bottom of the elevator in a small maintenance room; there was a large access panel in the floor painted with red warning signs, marked, ‘Authorized Personnel Only’. The small room shook with tremendous noise and violence.

“Now what?” Karen asked.

“Stand back,” Sigrid said, and slammed the emergency release on the floor panel at her feet. Explosive bolts blew the panel away, sending it twirling downwards to be whipped away by the buffeting winds. The sound of the air rushing past them thundered in their ears; Karen’s light dressing gown swirled about her head until she forced it back down.

Through the open hatchway they could all see the Earth rushing up toward them, perhaps little more than six thousand meters away and closing fast; Sigrid saw the sorry, twisted shape of the lift cable coiling up beneath them.

But also there, somehow, impossibly, below, the Morrigan danced in time with the whipping of the cable. Sigrid thought Selene had to be completely mad as she maneuvered the ship deftly, drifting closer and closer to the plummeting elevator. She brought it as close as three meters, and Sigrid saw one of the dorsal hatches open. Christian emerged from the opening, tethered in a harness and wearing a breather. He waved to them frantically.

“Go!” Sigrid screamed to Karen above the worsening din.

Karen swallowed hard, but there was no time to debate the issue and she jumped the short distance. She landed on hands and knees, spread-eagled on the hull.

Sigrid stumbled as the lift tilted hard over, almost colliding with the Morrigan, but the small ship banked hard over, blasting down and away, keeping its distance from the massive Lift just above it. The maneuver lifted Karen back into the air off the hull—Sigrid held her breath—but Karen came crashing back down, clinging desperately to the hull some ten meters down the length of the ship.

With a tight grip on Hitomi, Sigrid leapt and hit the ship’s deck next to Christian. She handed the Lady over to him and he helped her quickly inside.

“We have to go—now!” Christian shouted.

Sigrid looked down the length of the ship to where Karen still clung desperately for her life.

“Not yet.”

Taking one brief look up, Sigrid gulped at the sight of the massive elevator above them—she didn’t want to think about how close the Earth was beneath them. She moved quickly and carefully to where Karen clung to the top of the Morrigan; The ensign looked completely petrified and desperate.

“I got you,” Sigrid said as she grabbed Karen by the wrist and hauled her up.

She heard Christian’s voice loud in her comlink. “Sigrid!”

Sigrid grunted and threw Karen into the open hatch, diving in after her.

Christian sealed the hatch then thumbed the comlink on his uniform collar. “They’re in!”

The ship shook beneath her as the massive thrusters fired, blasting forward. Somewhere, not too far distant, Sigrid heard the crash and explosion of the Lift smashing into the Earth. All of them collapsed into a sweaty, breathless heap.

“We’re not out of this yet, people,” Selene said over the com.

After making sure Hitomi was uninjured, Sigrid, followed by Christian, made her way to the bridge. The door was open and she could see that they were already clearing the upper atmosphere.

The tall woman rose from her seat at the helm and leaned surprisingly casually against the bulkhead. “Well, to think I worried this job might be dull.”

Sigrid smiled. “Sorry.”

“Look, we’ve got three Independent ships on our tail and the entire CTF Earth Defense force moving to blockade the Relay. I just thought you should know.”

Sigrid ran quick calculations on the scenario—she wasn’t trained in fleet tactics. “Can we run the blockade?” She was worried that Selene might protest, but the woman smiled.

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

The ship lurched in time with a deafening explosion. Selene turned to Christian. “Report.”

“Torpedo—that one got a little close.”

Selene cursed and slapped the com button on the arm of her chair, shouting at the men in the weapons pods. “I told you—nothing gets through. We’re lucky those weren’t nukes. I want a phalanx pattern on those guns.”

“What is it?” Sigrid asked.

“Rookies. They couldn’t hit a cow’s ass with a banjo; so I’ve got them strictly firing a defensive pattern.”

Sigrid smiled. “Maybe I can help.”

* * *

Sigrid relieved the frazzled crewman manning the ship’s dorsal weapons pod. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, he was more than happy to give up his post.

As she slipped into the pod, she noticed the number of physical hookups for the operator as well as the VI helmet that provided a full 360 degree view of the combat area. Sigrid pushed all these aside, preferring to interface directly with her PCM; all the operational information she needed was displayed in her HUD. Three ships, only slightly larger than her own, were bearing down on the nimble Morrigan. As fast as her ship was, even faster than the Agatsuma, the three Independent ships were gaining on them. Quickly.

The pursuing ships were still launching missiles. Sigrid watched them all streaking closer as the Morrigan continued to belch out a barrage of countermeasures. The pod’s gun was set to a phalanx-mode, firing concentrated blasts of ordnance into the paths of the oncoming missiles, shredding any that got close.

Selene was putting her ship through a series of desperate evasive maneuvers, but Sigrid knew that, as their pursuers closed the distance, it would become virtually impossible to dodge the hail of ballistic rounds that they were firing from their own rail-systems. They were already within 15,000 kilometers; when they got within five, they’d be virtually defenseless.

Aiming her quad-mounted rail-gun wasn’t easy with the ship moving so erratically, and her targets weren’t exactly holding still. Sigrid tried for a computer lock, but of course the attacking ships were using their own countermeasures and the automated aiming-systems were completely useless.

Sigrid switched her ordnance from the defensive phalanx-rounds to fragmentation rounds and took aim at the lead ship in pursuit. The quad-mounted guns belched out a quick burst, missing her target completely as the Morrigan jigged to avoid yet another incoming barrage; she’d have to compensate for that, she chided herself. Tying directly into the ships navigational computer allowed her to track the ship’s movements and anticipate the violent maneuvers. Her next shot tracked perfectly, ripping apart the bow of the lead ship, severing vital systems. The ship’s drive shut down, and the vessel dropped quickly away as the Morrigan continued to accelerate at maximum thrust.

Sigrid tracked the next ship; it was veering off, possibly trying for a flanking position, but the ploy left the length of the ship exposed and Sigrid’s next shot tore through it from stem to stern. Several of the fragmentation rounds connected with the ship’s main engines, erupting in a tremendous explosion. The captain of the last ship must have had enough; Sigrid saw it flip over on its axis, showing the Morrigan its massive stern tubes. They flared brilliantly as it decelerated away, eager to put some distance between themselves and the waiting death in Sigrid’s gun.

This fight was over. Sigrid was about to shut down the Pod, but then something occurred to her and she felt a coldness spreading inside herself. These men had attacked her and her friends, killed all those people on board the Lift. And what of the Panama Complex? The loss of life would be staggering. Sara’s words rang in her head—they would continue to pursue her and all the girls. They were still a threat.

Sigrid targeted the fleeing ship. It was already at a tremendous distance and retreating fast. She took a quick moment to calculate its evasive patterns and set her ordnance for proximity detonations before firing. The ballistic rounds covered the distance between the ships quickly and Sigrid watched the flares from the series of explosions. The ship was gone. Whoever they were, whoever they had been, they would bring no harm to her or her friends again.

Safe for the moment, she pulled herself out of the pod and headed back to the bridge.

Selene turned as she came in. “Nice shooting.”

“Nice flying,” Sigrid said, returning the compliment.

Selene turned back to the small monitor mounted on her chair and brought the tactical display back up on the main viewer. “The next part might be a little trickier,” she said.

Sigrid could see the Morrigan’s position as it moved quickly away from the Earth toward the Warp Relay. Still millions of kilometers away, but moving to block their path, were fourteen CTF naval ships ranging in size from light Corvettes to heavy Cruisers. The wall of ordnance they could put up was far more than even a nimble ship like hers could dodge.

“Shit,” Sigrid said.

Helped by Karen, Lady Hitomi emerged in the doorway of the bridge. “I might be able to help with that,” she said as Karen eased her into one of the little jump seats in the back.

Selene nodded. “This might call for more of a diplomatic solution.”

Hitomi raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I had something a little more radical in mind.” She gestured to the console at her side. “With your permission…?”

“Of course,” Selene said.

Hitomi’s fingers danced over the console while Sigrid and Selene watched over her shoulder.

“What the hell is that?” Selene asked.

Almost embarrassed, Hitomi looked at Sigrid. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had my people make a few modifications while we were on Aquarii. I meant to tell you…”

Sigrid studied the new schematics and smiled.

“This is my own design,” Hitomi said. “I’m sure you’ll all understand why I need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement once we’re out of this pickle.”

“You’re joking,” Selene said, laughing, but when she saw that Hitomi was serious she closed her mouth.

“Not even my Board knows about this. If this works—”

“If?” Selene asked.

“Well, it’s never been tested.”

Sigrid looked at the monitor; they’d be in weapons range in moments. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast—Mistress…”

Hitomi chuckled and activated the new system she’d installed. It was a variation of the same stealth systems that she’d given to Sigrid, but on a much larger scale. The Morrigan became virtually invisible, both to the eye and to any tracking devices the opposing ships might employ against them.

“Nice trick,” Selene said, suitably impressed. “So, now we just drift through their ranks?”

“Yes—but you’d best shut down the drives. I’m not sure how the shielding will affect that.”

Selene nodded and disengaged the main thrusters. The ship grew eerily silent.

Sigrid watched the CTF ships trawling this way and that, searching for her ship. “They’re firing,” she said.

“Do they see us?” Karen asked, worried.

Sigrid studied the pattern and shook her head. “No—they’re guessing. They’re just trying to cover our path, hoping to get lucky.”

The stealth systems that Lady Hitomi had employed worked perfectly and within minutes the Morrigan had drifted safely between the blockading ships, slipping harmlessly past the plethora of mines they had laid.

“I am so glad I took this job,” Selene declared with a jubilant smile.

When they deactivated their cloak, Sigrid saw all the CTF ships moving quickly to pursue, but it was too late; the Morrigan and her crew were safely away with nothing between them and the Warp Relay.

“Course?” Selene asked.

“Aquarii,” Hitomi told her. “We must warn the Board of these developments. It’s a shame we lost the evidence you stole from the CTF offices. I just hope they’ll listen to reason.”

“I still have the one partial message,” Sigrid said, tapping her head. “I never deleted it.”

“That’s something, at least. With the facilities on Aquarii, I should be able to finish reconstructing it. With luck, we’ll uncover the truth to all of this.”

As they blasted toward the relay, Sigrid couldn’t ignore the feeling of worry and dread she felt growing within her. They were definitely caught in the middle of a whole new war. And what of her friends on Alcyone? What of Suko? Would they be able to protect them—warn them in time—or were they already too late?

Hitomi saw the look on her face. “Don’t worry, Sigrid. We’ll go to Alcyone. But we’ll go in strength. I will convince the Board of the need to send a sufficient force this time. I won’t let anything happen to any of them.”

Chapter 17

Independents

––––––––

May 2, 2348

Naked, bruised and bloodied, with wrists and ankles bound, Karl Tarsus was dragged down the narrow steps into the damp corridor below. There were several puddles on the moist floor and the place stank of mildew and sweat. They hauled him into an open room at the end. Rough hands deposited him on a small wooden chair that creaked and threatened to collapse under his weight.

It took great effort, but Tarsus lifted his head, looking up at them from beneath the swollen lids of his eyes.

So, this is it, he thought. They finally got him. And then he laughed. They. ‘They’ could have been one of a hundred people or organizations. How many contracts had he taken over the years? How many people had he angered? How many people had he killed…

Of all the people who could have walked through the door, the last person he thought it would be was Smith, but that’s exactly who it was. Tarsus would recognize that thin face, those narrow eyes anywhere.

Smith. His most generous benefactor—the man responsible for his demise. This time he had a woman with him; someone he didn’t recognize. She appeared to be in her fifties, but she seemed odd, out of place; she had the look of an academic, hardly a military type. What she was doing with him, he could only guess.

“You…” Tarsus said. His voice was dry and rasped, like metal grating.

Smith nodded to the guards, who untied him and tossed him a grubby blanket. Someone handed him a cup of water which he drank from thirstily.

“Glad you could make it, Mr. Tarsus. It’s been a long time.”

Tarsus drained the cup and glared at him. “What’s the meaning of this? Why have you brought me here?”

“I couldn’t take the chance that someone could trace you here to me. Not now.”

Tarsus stared at him in disbelief. “Then this…this is just…”

“I have a job for you, Karl. Whatever else would we be here to discuss.”

Karl gaped at him a long moment and then laughed, a huge belly laugh. Then, the menace returned to his eyes. “Work for you? I’ll kill you.”

“That would serve neither of us. Besides, who pays you better than I do? Let’s save time and dispense with the games.” Smith threw a pad onto Tarsus’ lap; displayed there were the details of a new contract, and for a staggering sum of money.

“This…this is enough to buy a ship—four ships. And not just haulers—the real frontline jobs.”

“More than that, I’d wager.”

Tarsus was tempted by the money. He was completely broke. But, he also remembered how the last job for the man had gone. Smith had completely failed to give him proper intel on his targets. That group of girls had turned out to be a highly trained group of…he wasn’t even sure what to call them. They’d acted like Spec-Ops, but they were wild, fearless. They had taken apart his best men like they were a bunch of recruits. Worse, his men had let themselves be captured, killed. Evidence had been left, and his organization had been fingered in the operation. His mercenary group had been devastated by fines and sanctions from the CTF. Tarsus had been completely ostracized from the guild.

Smith had ruined him, and now the man wanted him to work for him again.

“If I remember correctly,” Tarsus said. “The last job we did together didn’t exactly go swimmingly.”

“Granted. Things could have gone better.”

“Better? We failed—we didn’t retrieve any of the girls.”

“Fortunately, where your organization failed…” Smith gestured to the woman next to him, “…Ms. Kirk here has succeeded.”

Tarsus eyed the woman. He’d never heard of her. “Then you don’t need me.”

“You sell yourself short, Karl. I’ve always found your service satisfactory. I see no reason to terminate our relationship.”

“You destroyed my organization, and now you want me to—”

“Rebuild it. Double it. You’re going back to work, Major.”

Major—now he was spouting rank…

Tarsus couldn’t figure out the man’s game, but the money… “If I start buying up ships now, people are going to start asking questions.”

“I would imagine.”

Tarsus studied him carefully and then laughed heartily as he put his thumb to the contract. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me your name?”

* * *

Suko woke up. Her head throbbed and it took several minutes for her vision to clear. What had they done to her? They’d hit her with something, but it wasn’t like anything she’d felt before. The blast had thudded into her in the chest like a mallet, scrambling all her systems and frying her PCM. She searched for it now, but all access was gone. She couldn’t locate any of her systems, not even her most basic bionics.

Suko surveyed her surroundings. She was lying on the cold metal floor of a small room. She didn’t know where she was, but she was sure it wasn’t any room in the Academy or Annex. Her wrists and ankles were bound and her clothes had been taken away, leaving her only with her underwear.

“Suko!”

Suko rolled over to discover Khepri and Lei-Fei sitting behind her with their backs up against the wall. They were also trussed at wrist and ankle.

“Thank God you’re alive!” Khepri said.

Suko could see they’d both been crying. Their eyes were red, dark; half-circles lined their eyes. “You got hit so hard—we thought you were dead.”

Suko hauled herself up next to Khepri as best she could. She tried to scan herself to see how badly she was hurt, but she still couldn’t access any of her systems. “My PCM…” Suko said; her voice cracking dry as she tried to speak.

“It’s fried, but it’ll reboot when it resets,” Lei-Fei said. “At least, it did for us.”

“Where are the others?”

Khepri and Lei-Fei looked to each other. Lei-Fei spoke first. “Mei, Petra, Leia…they’re dead. The others…”

“They took them,” Khepri said, fear in her words. “Suko…they…did something to them.”

Who were they? Suko wondered. “Where are we?”

Both girls shook their heads. “We don’t know,” Lei-Fei said. “We definitely dropped through a relay, but where…”

They listened to the footsteps coming down the corridor outside; The two girls recoiled in fear, and she, too, slunk back against the wall. A face appeared in the grated opening near the top of the door. Two eyes studied her for a moment, then the face disappeared; the footsteps diminished into the echoes until all was quiet.

Suko looked frantically about the small room looking for any means of escape. She struggled to her feet, not easy with her ankles bound and her hands tied behind her back. There was nothing in the room but a small bucket—used, from the smell of it. Suko threw her weight against the door, but it was completely solid.

“It’s no use,” Khepri said. “We tried.”

Stubbornly, she threw herself against it repeatedly until her shoulder was bruised and sore.

The footsteps returned—more this time. And there was something about them, something familiar, the same heavy sounds she’d heard during the attack.

The door rattled and swung open. Three people stood before her. Two were soldiers, dressed in their heavy mechanized armor, leveling assault rifles. The smaller of the two removed her helmet, shaking her hair loose and staring at Suko through narrow eyes.

Suko’s eyes widened in shock. It was impossible. “Sara…”

“Hello, Suko,” she said.

Suko couldn’t believe it. The girl was alive, free—and armed—wearing the same armor as the soldiers who had attacked them. Sara was with them?

Another man stood to her side. He looked to be in his late twenties, with jet-black hair. His eyes explored her carefully, strangely. He stepped toward her, but Suko recoiled from his outstretched hand, falling back against the wall away from him. But his eyes…Suko thought. There was something…

“Suko…”

“Who the fuck are you?” Her parched words came out as a croak.

“Get some water,” the young man snapped at the guards. “And, godammit—bring back her clothes.” His face and voice were firm and commanding. He looked back at her, apologetically. “I’m so sorry about this, Suko. But I’m glad you’re here.”

It seemed impossible. It had been so long…It couldn’t be. Could it?

“Riku…?”

Riku, Suko’s brother, smiled. “You do remember.”

Suko stumbled back. Her older brother, Riku. She’d barely known him—he’d left when she was so young. How is this possible? He can’t be…She couldn’t believe it. “Riku…what are you doing here? Where are the girls…?”

Riku held his hands up. “I’ll explain everything. I promise. You just have to trust me.”

Suko gestured to her bound wrists and ankles, at Khepri and Lei-Fei, who looked so frightened. “Let us go. Then I’ll trust you.”

“I can’t. Not yet. But I will. I promise.”

Another man appeared, accompanied by two more of the armored troopers. He carried a bundle of clothes for them. Suko was given water. One by one, they were untied and allowed to dress, before their wrists were bound once more.

“Take that one,” Sara said, pointing to Lei-Fei.

“What?” Suko cried.

“No!” Lei-Fei cried, shrinking away from them, but the bound girls were no match for the soldiers in their powered armor. They dragged Lei-Fei out, kicking and screaming. Khepri jumped on one of the hulking figures, but he easily beat her back down. Suko kicked at Sara, cracking her shin against the hard shell of her armor, and then fell backwards as Sara smacked her hard on the head with the butt of her gun.

And then Lei-Fei was gone. Khepri and Suko lay bruised and beaten on the floor of their cell.

Suko glared up at her brother and Sara, anger clouding her eyes. “Don’t you hurt her.”

Riku didn’t respond.

Suko’s heart pounded. “What are you going to do to her?”

“I’m only trying to help. You’re a slave, Suko. You just don’t know it.”

“They’ve programmed you, Suko,” Sara said. “They did it to us all.”

“I’m going to help you,” Riku said. “We’re going to set you free.”

“You’re mad,” Suko spat.

“You don’t know what they’re capable of. You don’t know what they’ve done.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Riku held up his hands, imploring. “You can’t know what it’s like out there, Suko. Tens of billions living in abject poverty, starving, while the Federation grows fat. With each planet the CTF opens up, with all its resources, you’d think that there would be some relief, but it just gets worse. More wealth for the rich, more crippling debt for the rest of us.” Riku shook his head and laughed, the tired laugh of a cynic. “And all of us so willing, so eager to sell ourselves, our children—to the very people who created the problem.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Sara said.

“When our parents sold you…when they took you…I knew I had to do something.”

Suko couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You? You’re responsible for this?”

“Not myself alone, no. There are many of us. And we’re going to stop them, Suko. We can do it together. With your help…we can put an end to this. We can make some real change.”

Suko turned her eyes to Khepri, bruised and bleeding, to her own bruises and the restraints on her wrists. “You attack us, you kill my friends…now you say this is to help us?”

“I’m sorry, Suko. That was…regrettable.”

“Let us go,” Suko pleaded.

“I can’t. Not yet. But I will. When it’s time.”

* * *

Riku closed the door and turned to the man at his side. “Satisfied?” he asked, not hiding the disgust in his voice.

Riku stood before his compatriots, Nicola Kirk and Dr. Joseph Farrington, in Nicola’s makeshift office in the hastily assembled facility. Nicola had discovered the abandoned mining operation years ago during her work in the Records Office for the CTF.

Like everyone there, Nicola bore the marks of exhaustion. Dr. Farrington was lost in his calculations, his face locked on the monitor before him.

Nicola sat on the edge of her desk. She was only in her fifties, nearing middle-age, but her duties with the movement didn’t exactly lend themselves to eating right and taking care of herself. It was starting to show. Still, she had a strong face and carried herself with the confident air of command. She’d proven herself capable time and again, and had risen to become one of the principal architects of the movement against the Federation and its ruling Council.

“Dammit, Joseph—you stink,” Nicola told him.

Farrington didn’t bother to look up. “Find me some decent water and I’ll shower.”

Nicola folded her arms and turned her attention back to Riku. “You’re doing the right thing, Riku. After what they did to her, your sister will be better off. I promise.”

Riku paced, uneasily. “She’s not what I expected.”

“Of course she’s not. Look what they’ve done to her—she’s as good as grown up in a cult. Who knows what kind of crap they’ve subjected her to.”

“No, it’s not like that at all. She’s like—she’s just like I remember. It’s my sister.”

Nicola pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’ve discussed this. Those girls have had their genetics scrambled, mutated and reassembled. Dammit—they have a controlling chip in their brain! They’re nothing but a bunch of trained assassins, programmed for a CTF murder-squad.”

“And now you want to reprogram them for yourself.”

She gave him a sympathetic look, but her voice remained firm. “The damage has been done.”

Riku stared contemptuously at Farrington. “Well, I’m not letting him touch her, not after what happened to the others.”

“They’ll be fine,” Farrington said, unimpressed, not bothering to look at him. “I’m still tweaking the program. You can’t expect me to undo years of work in a day.”

“We’ll fix it, don’t worry,” Nicola assured him. “We’re going to need all those girls for the next phase. We need you for this, Riku. You’re a valuable member of the movement, but if you’re having doubts…”

Riku nodded away his reticence. “I know. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

* * *

As soon as the Morrigan emerged through the Relay and blasted its way toward Aquarii, they could tell something was wrong. The closer they came to the planet the more the surrounding space became littered with the wrecked hulks of ships orbiting the planet, some Kimuran, some of unknown origin. Sigrid gasped at the devastation.

They landed without delay. On the tarmac, Sigrid could see more evidence of the attacks—burned wrecks of fighters and service vehicles mostly, but several buildings had been crushed under the bombardment. Cleanup crews were busy everywhere repairing and salvaging what they could, and hauling away what was beyond repair.

Sigrid stepped through the airlock. She was fully armed and dressed in her combat outfit, sporting a short pilot’s jacket. She helped Hitomi onto the lift, steadying her as they were lowered to the tarmac. Selene, Karen and Christian followed close behind, climbing down the short steps.

They were greeted by Markus Emerson and Hitomi’s son, Shinji, who rushed to the base of the stairs. Both men were surrounded by a squad of marines in full battle gear. Sigrid noted another man in their midst, grey-haired and thin, he wore a black suit with the Federation emblem on his collar. Her PCM confirmed him as the Federation Envoy to Aquarii.

Hitomi wheeled herself forward to meet them. “Shinji, Markus. What on earth happened?”

Markus scanned the scene of destruction. “Independents, from what we could tell, but…I’ve never seen them operate in such numbers. It happened nearly two weeks ago—soon after you left.”

“We must convene an emergency meeting of the Board. We’ll need to deal with this immediately. I fear it’s more than just the Council that is moving against us. We’ll also need to send a force to Alcyone—”

“Mother,” Shinji said, distress haunting his face. “Alcyone is…gone.”

“No…” Sigrid moaned.

Hitomi put a steadying hand on her arm.

“What? When?” Hitomi demanded.

“A ship came back, soon after the attacks here.”

“Survivors? On Alcyone?”

Markus shook his head. “Unknown. The ship barely made it away itself. We haven’t been able to launch a rescue mission—not with all the work to do here.”

Sigrid felt sick. “Mistress…”

“Don’t worry. We’ll investigate right away.” She turned to Markus and Shinji. “How many ships do we have available? We must return in force to Alcyone immediately.”

Sigrid watched as Markus and Shinji looked uncomfortably at each other. Hitomi picked up on it as well.

“Markus…?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Milady,” the Federation Envoy said, stepping forward at last.

Hitomi shot the man a disparaging look. “Markus, what is he doing here?”

The envoy answered for himself. “Alcyone and all materials pertaining to the project known as Andraste are now property of the Council for Trade and Finance.” His gaze fixed on Sigrid. “All materials, Milady.”

Hitomi’s eyes hardened on Markus Emerson and her son. “I don’t believe it. You took the Council’s offer.”

Markus cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Milady…after the attack. We had little choice.”

“You always have a choice, Markus. You made the wrong one.”

The envoy stepped forward, placing his hand on Sigrid’s arm. “The girl must come with me, of course.”

Sigrid jerked her arm from his grasp; Hitomi wheeled herself forward, putting herself between the two. “Impossible. The girl is contracted to me personally. The Council has no claim on her.”

“My orders are explicit, Lady Hitomi. I am to retrieve all materials. Kimura has already signed the girls’ contracts over to the Council.”

“Not this contract. She has been granted special dispensation as a private operator under the Guild Act.”

“A technicality, Milady. You may file a grievance with the local CTF office, of course.”

“Magistrate, you are the local CTF office.”

The envoy ignored the remark and grabbed Sigrid’s arm again.

He gurgled ever so slightly as Sigrid’s free hand gripped his throat, lifting him clear off the ground. His eyes bulged and he grabbed frantically at her arms, his feet kicking madly as his outstretched toes reached for the ground.

“Sigrid!” Hitomi’s hand came up, half-covering her mouth in surprise.

Sigrid had as little intention of going with the envoy as she had with Sara. “I’m afraid I won’t be taking that contract offer from the Council at this time,” Sigrid said, her eyes locked fiercely on his. “You may file your own grievance.”

“Goodness. Just don’t…kill him.”

Sigrid put him down and shoved him backward; he clawed at his throat, choking and gasping for air.

Sigrid turned to Selene behind her. The pilot had her sidearm drawn and pointed at the envoy on his knees before them. “I think we should be going now, don’t you think?”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Selene holstered her weapon and backed up the stairs toward the ship.

Still clutching his throat, the little envoy waved at Sigrid, calling to the troops behind him, “Stop them! Arrest them.”

The squad of Marines looked to each other uncertainly and then to Markus, who nodded. The Marines stepped forward, weapons raised.

“Markus?” Hitomi exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, Milady. But this is no longer Kimura’s affair. The girl must be turned over to the Council.”

The envoy was back on his feet, gesturing frantically to the Marines. “Take her! Arrest her!”

Sigrid’s pistols were in her hands; she was already locking her HUD on the nearest targets.

But Hitomi’s reaction was just as quick, and she grabbed Sigrid’s arm, pulling herself to her feet—shielding Sigrid from the oncoming squad.

“Sigrid, no!”

Sigrid stared at the woman in disbelief; her heart was pounding. “Mistress…”

Hitomi gave her a warning, cautioning look. “Sigrid, they’ll kill you.”

At that moment, Sigrid wasn’t sure she even cared. She only knew she wasn’t going to let them take her. She had to get to Alcyone—she had to know if Suko was alive, and she wasn’t going to let them hand her over to the Council. She shook her head again. “No, Mistress.”

“Sigrid, please. Trust me.”

She looked at the soldiers surrounding her; fourteen soldiers stood just feet away from her, assault rifles leveled at her. Sigrid made the calculations, but she couldn’t see how even she could defeat those odds. And then there was Hitomi, still clinging to her arm, looking to her pleadingly.

Sigrid dropped her weapons. The soldiers surged forward, moving the Lady Hitomi out of the way and stripping Sigrid of all her weapons, which wasn’t an easy task. When it was over, the tarmac was littered with knives, pistols, even the tiny pinhead grenades she’d stitched into her bra. With wrists shackled, Sigrid was marched off.

She was their prisoner.

Chapter 18

Prisoner

––––––––

The prison on Aquarii was modern, clean and comfortable, the inmates well taken care of. But it was still a prison.

They placed Sigrid in their maximum security facility, in solitary confinement and under constant guard, monitored by scanners and armed guards who never left the front of her cell. She’d studied the layouts for days, but not even she could calculate a method of escape.

And Sigrid knew well that she had to escape. Alcyone had been attacked, that much was obvious, but the fate of the girls and of Suko?…well, she wasn’t going to find the answer to that question trapped in her cell. Sigrid studied the clear perma-glass door again. It was as solid as steel and incorporated a simple mechanical locking mechanism. There was no way for her to interface with it or tamper with it at all. The rest of the walls were of ultra-dense reinforced permacrete. There had to be a way out, but for the moment, Sigrid couldn’t see one.

The door down the hall to her section rattled open and Karen burst through, pushing her way past the guard. She saw Sigrid and ran forward, pressing her hands up against the perma-glass of Sigrid’s door.

“Oh, Sigrid, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe they did this to you.”

Sigrid frowned. “I’m learning to believe a lot of things.”

“Listen. Kimura isn’t going to take you to Earth. They’re keeping you here until a CTF transport comes to get you. That won’t be for another five days.”

Five days! In another five days, where would Suko be?

“I…I just thought you should know,” Karen said tearfully. “I also wanted to finally thank you. On the elevator—you were so brave. You saved us all. You saved my life.”

“You would have done the same for me. I just did what any of us would have done.”

Karen laughed. “Don’t be silly. You were incredible. I’ve never seen anyone do the things you can do. You were so cool and calm.”

“Please! I was terrified!”

“Well, I’d never have known it.” Karen put her hand up on the glass. “They won’t let me stay—I just wanted you to know. I’ll try to come back tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

Karen disappeared back down the corridor, prodded along by the attending guard. Sigrid suddenly felt very alone.

She had more visitors that day; Christian came by, muttering several scathing comments about Kimura and their betrayal. Sigrid cautioned him not to say anything that might get him in trouble, but he didn’t seem to care.

Selene Tseng came as well. Sigrid hadn’t stopped to think about her or what would happen to the Morrigan. She’d just assumed that Kimura would confiscate it, claiming it derelict. They had tried, but Selene had stopped them.

“You should take the ship, Selene,” Sigrid said. “It doesn’t look like I’ll be needing it anytime soon.”

Selene put her hands on her hips, considering the offer. “Tell you what, I’ll take it, but only under a Stewardship. You may find yourself needing it some time in the future.”

“It doesn’t look like I have much of a future at all.”

Selene gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re a very remarkable girl, Sigrid. If anyone can figure a way out of this, you can. I’ll keep the ship in good order. It will be ready and waiting for you.”

The one person who did not visit her was Hitomi Kimura. ‘Trust her,‘ she’d said. How could the Lady Hitomi allow her to be handed over just like that? But where was she? Sigrid had a terrible thought; if Hitomi’s own company had truly turned their back on her, perhaps even the Lady herself was powerless against the influence of the Federation Council. If that were the case, then Sigrid knew to trust herself alone.

She needed to effect her own escape.

They would have to remove her eventually to transfer her to the CTF transport. That’s when she would make her move. They’d be expecting it, but Sigrid was determined. She could not let them take her to Earth.

Sigrid hardly slept for the next few days; it was as if she could feel the CTF transport coming for her, looming ever-closer. The day the ship was to arrive, Sigrid was at her bleakest; she barely looked up from where she lay on her bed when Karen came to see her.

“Hello, Sigrid,” she said.

There was something odd about the way she’d said her name; there was an urgency in her eyes. Sigrid sat up.

“I wanted to come say goodbye. And I wanted to give you something. It’s not much, just a souvenir.” Karen took the Ensign insignia off her collar where it was pinned. She started to hand it to Sigrid through the tiny slot in the door, but the guard in attendance rushed over to stop her.

“Wait!” the guard cautioned, grabbing for Karen’s hand. “You can’t do that. She’s not allowed to have anything.”

Karen twisted her body, holding the pin out of reach of the guard. “No, it’s nothing—it’s just a little pin—completely harmless. See?”

The guard glared at her. “Hand it over.”

“Please…”

“Now!”

The guard held out her hand for the pin, her other hand rested on the handle of her sidearm.

“Oh, all right.” Karen looked reluctant, then thrust the pin into the palm of the guard’s hand, pressing down firmly. The guard was completely startled and began to protest, but the heavy dose of flunitrazepam entered her system and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Karen eased her to the ground, blinking frantically at Sigrid. “Well—come on!”

Sigrid glanced up at the monitors.

“They’re out,” Karen said. “We’ve got two minutes, but we must hurry.”

Sigrid tried the door—to her surprise, it slid open for her.

“Lady Hitomi…” Karen breathed in explanation. She was already busy unzipping the guards uniform and pulling it off her.

“Ah…what are you doing?”

Karen looked confused. “I thought…I thought you could wear her clothes as a disguise…”

Sigrid laughed. “I’ve got something better.” She stripped off the paper coverall she wore, even taking off her socks and underwear.

Karen started with embarrassment as Sigrid stood naked before her. “Um…what are you…?” And then she gasped as Sigrid shimmered and disappeared. “Oh my!”

“Come on,” Sigrid said, suddenly right next to her, causing Karen to squeal in astonishment.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises.” Karen reached out with her hands, touching Sigrid, as if to make sure she was still there for real.

“I could say the same of you. Careful! That tickles.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re taking an awful risk doing this.”

“You saved my life. I can’t stand by and let them do this to you.”

Karen led her out into the guard room. There were three security personnel there; two at monitoring stations and one man, a corporal, who appeared to be supervising. Sigrid noticed the younger of the two guards give Karen a subtle, knowing look.

“One moment, Ensign,” the corporal’s voice boomed out, stopping Karen cold.

She turned, lashes fluttering an innocent who me? look. Sigrid rolled her eyes.

“You need to sign out,” he explained, extending a pad to her and unfolding it.

“Oh—right.”

Karen was about to put her thumb to the pad when one of the guards at the monitor called out, “Sir! She’s gone!”

“What?” The corporal turned and headed for the monitor.

Sigrid knew she’d only have a moment before they keyed the alarm. She hurled herself at the corporal, grabbed him by the neck and clocked him hard on the back of the head. He collapsed sack-like to the ground. Sigrid had lost the shrouding effect and the two guards stared in shock at the abrupt sight of the wild, naked girl appearing in front of them. One of the guards rose from his chair, hand moving to his sidearm; Sigrid kicked him in the throat, sending him sprawling. She was on him quickly, jabbing him with her fist, applying pressure exactly as Rosa had drilled into her. He made a gurgling sound and his shoulders drooped. He was out.

The last guard had his hands raised, but Sigrid already knew he’d been the one who had helped them. She walked slowly to him. “Sorry, but this is for your own good.”

“No—wait!”

Sigrid sent a measured punch to his mouth; his knees buckled, threatening to give way.

“Ow!” he cried. “Thanks a bunch.” He wiped the blood from his torn and swelling lip with the back of his hand

“It’ll leave a nice mark, but there’ll be no lasting damage—and you still have your teeth…”

“I’ll try to remember that…”

Karen tossed a set of binders to Sigrid.

The guard, still holding his jaw, looked imploringly at Sigrid. “Oh, man?”

“Sorry. But there’ll be fewer questions for you.”

Karen quickly bound the other two guards and the two girls ran outside, where a large, black ground-car was waiting for them. Sigrid and Karen piled in the back.

“You!” Sigrid cried, staring across at Hitomi Kimura seated opposite them.

“I told you to trust me,” Hitomi said, with a broad smile. She tapped the glass that separated them from the driver, and he gunned the car forward. “No one harms my girls.”

“Here, put these on,” Karen said, handing Sigrid a bundle of new clothes.

Sigrid took them; it was a Kimura naval uniform. “Only an ensign?” Sigrid said with a wink.

“You’re a little young for Captain,” Hitomi said, amused.

“Hey—I’m an ensign,” Karen protested.

Sigrid chuckled as she dressed quickly in the new Naval uniform while Karen helped tidy her hair, knotting it quickly into a neat bun. She’d just finished buttoning up her collar when the car came to a stop at the security checkpoint off the aerodrome.

“Shhh!” Hitomi cautioned both girls as they saw the fully-armed guard approach the driver-side window. Another guard stood a few feet back, also holding a rifle.

Hitomi lowered her window. “Good evening, Corporal.”

“I’m sorry, Lady Hitomi, but the port is closed.”

“Closed? Then how on Earth will I get to my ship. I’m due on Crucis in days.”

“I’m sorry, Milady. You’ll be informed as soon as we return to normal status.”

Hitomi pouted her disappointment, causing Sigrid to stifle a laugh.

“Oh—that just won’t do. Certainly there must be something you can do. Perhaps if we could contact your superiors. I’m sure Major Grayson would permit us.”

“I can make the call, Milady,” Sigrid said, opening the door beside her.

The corporal put his hand on the door, slamming it shut again. “Please stay in the car, ma’am. I’m sorry, Lady Hitomi, but you’ll have to turn back.”

Hitomi looked at him more sternly now. “Now, Corporal—it is Corporal, isn’t it?” Sigrid saw the color drain from his face. “I have a very important engagement on Crucis. You will either allow us to pass or we will contact Major Grayson. Certainly whatever orders you have don’t pertain to myself or my staff.”

The corporal squirmed, considering his options. “Very well—you may contact the Major.”

“Of course.”

The corporal stepped back and allowed Sigrid to exit the vehicle, then followed her into the little guard booth.

“Oh, my…” Karen said. From her seat she could just make out the muffled sounds of a brief struggle and see a pair of booted-feet fly up into the air. The gate before them clanged open, rolling out of their way.

Sigrid came back and let herself into the car, straightening her hair and tunic. Karen couldn’t suppress a snicker. Sigrid gave the girl a wink.

Hitomi tapped the glass and the car sped forward again, speeding across the tarmac past the rows of parked ships. They came to a screeching halt at the pad that held her ship, the Morrigan; Sigrid felt a strange tingling sensation at seeing the ship again. Her ship.

The first of the alarms sounded as she opened the car door. She glanced back at her two companions. She felt overwhelmed; there was so much she wanted to say to both of them, but there was no time.

“I can’t thank either of you enough. You’ve taken an awful risk in helping me like this. I don’t know how you’ll be able to explain any of it.”

Hitomi laughed. “My dear, this isn’t goodbye. We’re coming with you. Now, help me out of here. They’ll be here in a moment.”

Karen chuckled at the expression on Sigrid’s face, then both girls helped the Lady Hitomi from the car. Hitomi took a moment to thank the driver before he sped quickly off.

“Will he be all right?” Sigrid asked, as they helped Hitomi up the stairs to the ship. They could already hear the sounds of vehicles speeding toward them.

“Oh, they won’t give him too much trouble. They can hardly fault a chauffeur for driving his Lady to her ship now, can they?”

Sigrid sealed the ship behind them and they hastened to the bridge; the thrusters were already firing. The Morrigan tilted back on its tail before blasting skywards.

Selene greeted them as they helped Hitomi into one of the jump-seats. “Nice to see you again.”

Sigrid stared at her companions. She knew she must look ridiculous, but she felt completely overwhelmed. “I—I can’t believe you’ve all done this for me.” She thumbed a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

Karen laughed. “Now don’t you start or you’ll get me going.”

“But your career—your life. You can’t go back.”

“Oh, it was just a job.” Karen paused, suddenly flustered, and looked quickly to Hitomi. “Sorry, Milady…that came out all wrong.”

“That’s quite all right. I understand, and you may dispense with the ridiculous title. My Board has relieved me of it. I am merely Kimura by name now.”

Sigrid wasn’t sure if she’d heard correctly. “Milady…?”

Hitomi frowned. “Yes, it appears I’ve been sacked. It seems the shareholders blame me for the recent attacks. And after our extracurricular activities on Earth…they’ve seen fit to strip me of my office. My son will head the company now.”

“Mistress, I’m so sorry.”

“Bah! Think nothing of it. We’ll have time enough to lament that later.”

Despite her easy dismissal, Sigrid could tell Hitomi was quite annoyed with the firing. It was a betrayal; nothing less than a coup.

The bridge door slid open and Lieutenant Lopez stepped in. Sigrid threw her arms around him. “Christian!”

Her tight embrace winded him; he grunted, exhaling hard.

Sigrid stepped back, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Christian flexed, probing his bruised ribs. “It’s okay.”

“I still say you’re all crazy.”

“I think you misunderstand,” Hitomi said. “This isn’t a rescue mission. Sigrid, I need your help.”

Sigrid gaped at Hitomi, clueless as to what she was talking about. “Mistress…?”

“I need your help—the help of all of you. I have no intention of letting the Council, or anyone else, take my girls from me. Sigrid, we have to save them.”

Chapter 19

Search & Rescue

––––––––

May 11, 2348

Sigrid stood in the center of what had once been the Academy grounds on Alcyone. Now, all that remained were the burned and collapsed remnants of the school and dormitories. Smoke still wisped up from the blackened piles of lumber and debris. The stench was raw and acrid, threatening to overwhelm Sigrid’s sensors.

“Whatever happened here, we missed it,” Christian said, waving the small scanner in a horizontal arc. “I can’t find any life signs or any energy readings. I’m sorry, Sigrid.”

“Thank you, Christian.”

The Academy had been attacked, there was little doubt. Dead Kimura Marines lay everywhere, but there was still no sign of the girls, not Suko or any of the young ones. And where was Dr. Garrett? Where was Rosa? If they were hiding, they should be able to get them on the comlink, but Sigrid’s only answer was faint static.

“Chesna…” She bent over the woman’s body, that still clutched a heavy rifle. Her face was black and caked with blood around her nose and mouth, her eyes open and staring skyward. The macabre sight fed Sigrid’s growing sense of dread.

“This was no snatch and grab,” Christian said. He picked up a discarded, broken assault rifle from the ground. “They had heavy equipment. Look.” He pointed to the tracks on the ground.

Sigrid saw the tracks, but they didn’t make any sense; they weren’t vehicle tracks, at least none like any she’d ever seen before. These were more like giant foot prints.

“Mechs,” Christian said. “They had bloody Mechs.” He tossed the broken rifle to the ground.

Sigrid scanned her database; as far as she could see only Diego Systems were developing prototypes for such a weapon, but those had been little more than walking, armored shells. Her records revealed some scathing reports about the technology; while Diego’s claims of the weapon’s potential was grand, the project had so far been a disaster; only a few malfunctioning prototypes existed.

“There’s no way Independents did this,” Christian said grimly. “It looks like a whole battalion landed here.”

Sigrid nodded. “Come on. We have to keep looking.”

She led him through the ruins, out of the Academy grounds and into the woods. The place she sought was a little less than half a kilometer away. This was where the bunker was located, built by the Kimura Engineering Corps during the expansion. If the girls were alive, if they hadn’t fled into the woods or been captured or killed, this was the only place they could be. The bunker was perfectly hidden amongst a dense copse of trees with the entrance buried under a deep pile of dirt and leaves.

Sigrid went straight to where the hatch was and stopped dead in her tracks. The camouflage had been cleared away leaving the hatch clearly visible. Like all the girls, she knew the codes, and she tried them now. The door refused to open. She tried several more times, to no avail.

“What is it?” Christian asked. “Is it broken?”

“I’m not sure.” Sigrid scanned the hatch mechanism and drew in a sharp breath. Someone, something, had completely fused the locking mechanisms. Sigrid pounded her fists on the metal seal. “Shit!”

“What?”

“It’s been sabotaged! The lock’s totally melted away.”

“They’re not…they’re not trapped inside?”

“No. They sealed them out.” Frantic, Sigrid scanned the area again, searching desperately for signs of any of them, but nothing turned up in her sensory modes. She tried calling out with her comlink. If the girls were in range, they’d pick up the signal. But there was still nothing. Not even the orbital satellites showed any sign of the girls, or survivors for that matter. Whoever had done this had been brutal and thorough.

Sigrid knew she would kill them.

She tried to remind herself that all wasn’t lost—twenty-one of the girls had gotten off the planet before the attacks. They were already well on their way to the assignments that Hitomi had arranged for them. Hitomi had sent word through the Mercenary Guild to Marylyn Lawther to warn them of the danger. She had also asked her to personally look out for the girls who had been assigned to the Naval Academy.

But that didn’t change the fact that Suko, seven other girls, forty-two little ones, Dr. Garrett and her staff, were all still missing. Killed or taken from Alcyone? Sigrid could only guess.

Her comlink chimed for her attention, followed by Selene’s urgent voice. “Sigrid, we just spotted four ships coming through the Relay. They’re Kimura, and they’re on their way.”

“How long?”

“Four days, best speed, as far as I can determine.”

“All right. Thank you, Selene.”

“That still gives us time to keep searching,” Christian said. “There could still be survivors.”

Sigrid wanted to believe him. She scanned for any signs of life, desperate to turn something up, but there was nothing. “They’re gone. Everyone here is dead. Selene, you better come pick us up. I’ll send you our coordinates.”

“On our way.”

Within minutes, Selene returned with the Morrigan. Their search of the Annex had turned up virtually the same results: death and destruction, but no sign of the girls, and no evidence of who had perpetrated the attack. Not only were the girls gone, but they’d cleaned out the facility; all the servers had been wiped clean of all information pertaining to Project Andraste. There was still no sign of Dr. Garrett or her staff.

“Where could they have taken them?” Karen asked.

“We don’t even know who took them,” Christian said. “There’s no way the CTF did this.”

“It’s Sara,” Sigrid said. “At least, it’s the people she’s with. I’m sure of it.”

“But where?” Karen asked.

Sigrid didn’t know. But perhaps there was someone who did. Sigrid thought back to the partial message she’d recovered from the CTF offices.

“Tarsus.”

Selene looked at her skeptically. “I’m sorry, Sigrid, but I doubt Karl could have organized anything on this scale.”

“No, but he knows who did.”

Hitomi’s eyes lit up. “Gliese.”

“What? What is it?” Karen asked.

“It’s a message we found,” Sigrid said. “It mentioned Tarsus, among other people, Alcyone and…Gliese. This can’t be a coincidence. There has to be a connection.”

Selene’s eyes narrowed. “That is where Karl was headed. But would they take your girls there?”

“I don’t know, but I think that’s where we’ll find some answers.”

“Gliese it is, then,” Selene said, pushing the thrusters to their maximum.

They still had to deal with the four Kimura warships headed their way, standing between them and the Warp Relay. Crewed only by the six of them, the Morrigan was in no position to go into battle against such a superior force. Sigrid had assumed they’d employ the ship’s new stealth system again, but it hadn’t been necessary. Hitomi simply contacted the commander of the task force and explained the situation to him.

“Thank you, Admiral,” she said, addressing the officer. “I hope this won’t cause too many problems for you back on Aquarii.”

The Admiral scoffed at the suggestion. “I have no direct orders instructing me to either detain your ship or apprehend you or your crew, Milady. We were only dispatched to Alcyone to investigate and bring back any survivors. Frankly, I don’t think they wanted to put any of us in the position where they’d have to test our loyalties in this matter. You must know the Board’s move against you was not greeted with enthusiasm among the Admiralty.”

“You are most gracious, Admiral. I must tell you, we found no survivors on Alcyone. But we were a bit pressed for time. I do hope you have better luck than we did.”

“Milady—if I may. It’s not just the Admiralty…I believe that you may find that there are many still loyal to you back on Aquarii. Your family helped build that planet. People won’t soon forget your many contributions.”

Sigrid could hardly believe what she was hearing. She knew that what the Admiral was saying bordered on insurrection.

Hitomi, for her part, brushed it off. “You are more than kind, Admiral. I thank you for the kind thoughts, but for the near future, I fear my path will take me away from Aquarii.”

“We will all be looking forward to your return. Good luck in your journeys.”

“And to you, Admiral.”

Hitomi signed off, and indeed, the Kimura task force allowed them to pass through their ranks and onward to the Warp Relay. In less than four days, the Morrigan dropped through the relay to Gliese.

* * *

May 17, 2348

Christian Lopez sat back in his chair in the ship’s Mess; his heels rested on the table and he was busy observing Karen as she presented her latest creation to Sigrid.

“It’s pink,” Christian said.

“It’s not pink, it’s magenta,” Karen corrected as she helped Sigrid into her new uniform. Karen had spent the last few days altering Sigrid’s special camouflage outfit. The old Kimura colors were gone; the one-piece suit was still largely black, but she’d replaced the Kimura red with a mix of white and pink trim. “I think it looks much more flattering—sporty, even.” Karen seemed quite pleased with her creation.

“It’s girly,” Christian added.

Sigrid finished pulling the stretchy fabric over herself and fastened her gun belt to her waist.

“Well, as you can see,” she said, sweeping an arm before Sigrid, “our ship’s Master is indeed a girl.” She put her arm through Sigrid’s. “And quite a girl, at that.”

Christian raised a brow. “Well, as long as you’re not planning to dress us all in the same colors.”

“Well, I like it,” Sigrid said, pulling a short jacket over her shoulders. “Thank you, Karen.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she said, sticking her tongue out at a bemused Christian.

Selene called them all to the bridge. They were coming up on Gliese fast. Despite its Earth-like appearance, Gliese 581g was more than three times the mass of Earth and much higher in gravity. Its few inhabitants were forced to spend most of their time in the gravity-controlled habitat structures scattered across the surface. Being one of the very first Earth-type planets ever discovered, Gliese had been a curiosity. Pioneers had quickly settled in, but after the discovery of other new planets, all with more forgiving gravities, the planet had largely been abandoned.

“Take us down to the main complex,” Sigrid said. “And let’s drop a spy-sat, I don’t want anyone slipping away without us knowing.”

“Aye, ma’am,” Selene said, nosing the ship down into the atmosphere; behind them, a tiny satellite, not much bigger than a pea, slipped from the ventral rack mounted on the bottom of the Morrigan. The tiny device would monitor all incoming and outgoing traffic from the system, keeping them informed.

Gliese was an ugly, squat-looking world. The trees and vegetation were Earth-like to a degree, but everything seemed stunted, huddled close to the ground. Or so it seemed. As they closed with the surface, Sigrid discovered that the trees she’d thought to be short were massive; like giant mushrooms with stalks ten meters in diameter.

“My God, they’re huge!” Karen cried in delight.

Sigrid noticed the huge patches of clear-cut scarring the surface. Her database confirmed, not surprisingly, that logging was Gliese’s primary resource and export.

“Just one of those can go for over a million and a half at auction,” Hitomi said, pointing at one of the giant trees.

“No doubt,” Sigrid gasped. Any type of wood was an extreme rarity on Earth. It was more prized than diamonds.

They descended steadily and landed at the small port using full retro-thrust as a precaution. There was no traffic and there were only three other ships parked on the tarmac. The scene was oddly quiet compared to the few other ports Sigrid had seen.

“At least it shouldn’t be hard to find the people we’re looking for,” Sigrid said as she opened the outer hatch. A strange little vehicle approached from the spaceport and parked next to the ship. A hydraulic lift raised it up to the level of the Morrigan’s outer hatch where it extended a small gangway. The door opened and a bored-looking man stared out at them.

“Twelve-hundred a head for the lift,” he said in greeting, barely acknowledging them.

“Your sales-pitch leaves something to be desired,” Hitomi said.

The man shrugged. “You’re free to walk—if you don’t mind the extra Gs.”

“Twelve-hundred!” Sigrid couldn’t believe such an outrageous sum. “We’re not paying that! It’s only 1.4 Gs. We’ll walk, thank you very much.”

“Speak for yourself,” Karen said, and pressed her thumb to the proffered pad. “I’m not as strong as you.” She climbed on board. “Come on. It’s on me.”

Sigrid shot the driver a disapproving look. “Very well.”

Selene smiled lightly at the Lady Hitomi. “Begging your pardon, Milady, but it might be best if you remain on board.”

“Oh?”

“We might attract less attention without, well…you.”

Hitomi considered her words and nodded. “Very well. Young Rodney and I will stay and guard the ship.”

“Call us if you see anyone snooping around,” Sigrid said, stepping into the now crowded little vehicle. The man released the locks and the cab lowered itself jerkily back to ground level and lurched off toward the spaceport.

“It’s so empty,” Sigrid observed as they walked from the port into the gravity-controlled warrens. There was evidence of what used to be a bustling port town, but those days were long gone.

“And quite filthy,” Karen said, scraping something dubious from her shoe. “Urghh, what was that?”

Christian negotiated a rental car. It wasn’t much more than an electric cart, but the transportation was welcome. The city was small by planetary standards, but the chain of complexes still covered several hectares.

“So, where do we go?” Christian asked, seated at the controls.

Sigrid chewed on her thumbnail. Her plan had been to get here, but after that—she was so desperate, she had to admit she hadn’t thought it through. “There must be some kind of registration office—immigration, or something.”

Selene barked a laugh. “Not here, sister.”

Sigrid slumped. What then—drive around?

“Why not start at the most obvious spots?” Selene suggested. She eyed the man who’d just rented them the transport. “Hey, buddy. Know where a girl can get a drink?”

Once Sigrid had adequately greased the merchant’s pad, he directed them to several establishments. They went from pub to pub, each seeming to outdo the previous in seediness and decrepitness as they moved further away from the port. All the while, Sigrid gently charmed or bribed the clientele for information. Her meager funds were growing short and they’d still found no one with any information on the whereabouts of either Tarsus or the girls, but some of the barflies had heard about the girls.

“You! You’re one of them,” the man Sigrid was currently interviewing said.

“And just how is it that you know about them?” Christian asked; he was losing his patience now. He grabbed the man by the collar.

“Me? I know nothing. I only know what Karl told me.” Terror had taken residence in the little man’s eyes. He looked at Christian, then at Sigrid. “Please! I’m telling you everything. He was here—but he left weeks ago.”

“Weeks?” Sigrid couldn’t believe it. They’d been so close…

“Two—maybe three,” he wheezed, clutching at Christian’s hands.

“Alone?”

“No—there were men. They took him.”

“Took him? You mean, he left with them?”

The man gulped. “If by that you mean at gunpoint, then yes.”

“What men?” Christian asked. “Where did they go?” He tightened his grip momentarily.

“I—don’t know. I never saw them before. They came in on a ship. Please…”

Sigrid put her hand on Christian’s. “It’s all right. He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t know.” Sigrid cursed silently; she still couldn’t believe they’d missed Tarsus by so little time.

Christian frowned. “With all due respect, how can you tell he’s not lying?”

Selene chuckled. “Oh—she knows…”

It wasn’t much help, but it was their first lead. The frightened little man was also able to direct them to Tarsus’ favorite watering hole—a peeler bar out on the farthest edge of the complex. The pink, painted walls of the modular habitat structure stood out like a beacon as they approached, with its gaudy neon postures of women and men in various states of undress glowing above the darkness.

“I should have known,” Selene said as they parked.

Sigrid had to give more funds to the doorman. “Welcome to Paradise,” he said, handing them over to a bubbly hostess who escorted them to a table.

“Well, at least we know where everyone is,” Christian shouted over the din as he looked around the crowded bar. The Paradise was packed with patrons, waitresses, dancers female and male. There had to be close to 400 people there.

Sigrid scanned the room, taking stock of the many patrons. None stood out. She was struck by the dull, complacent looks of the men who sat passively as women, and sometimes men, danced for them at their tables and private booths. The mood was markedly subdued and quite in contrast to the driving music that came from the sound system.

Everything Sigrid heard was seemingly performed by a single, lone woman on a small stage. She was seated before what looked like a piano and surrounded by banks of computers. Sigrid couldn’t believe such a powerful voice could come from such a small package; her presence pervaded the room as she sang out, resting one of her heels on the edge of the keyboard. She was clad in little more than a transparent plastic bikini and knee-high boots with preposterous heels. Her long, full hair had to be a wig; a bright yellow affair topped with a tall hat in the shape of a—Sigrid zoomed in to make sure—yes, a unicorn.

“Goodness.”

The dancers and hostesses mingled freely, their skimpy outfits providing the patrons with a plethora of exposed flesh. Sigrid wondered how many of them were working under indentured contracts like herself, well, as she had been. She wasn’t really sure what her status was anymore.

“Oh, my…” Karen gasped as their waiter approached. He wore no shirt, and the thin fabric of his tight pants highlighted his manly attributes handsomely.

“Ladies—gentleman,” he offered in warm greeting. “What will be your pleasure?”

Karen burbled out their drink orders, making a point of stuffing an actual paper credit note in his trousers.

“Where did you get that?” Sigrid said. She’d never seen paper money.

Karen pointed to a dispenser by the door. “They sell them! Here…” she handed a stack to Sigrid, and more to Selene. “You’ll want some. Trust me.”

Christian frowned. “I thought we were here for information, not to ogle men.”

Selene chuckled and leaned close, rasping into his ear over the noise, “In a place like this, who do you think we’ll be talking to? If Tarsus was here, it’s the dancers who’ll know.”

“Good point,” Christian conceded, taking a stack of bills from Karen.

They had no trouble soliciting attention from the array of dancers who trawled each and every table. Once word got out they were asking about Tarsus—and paying—they all made a point of stopping by.

Sigrid showed a picture of Tarsus to a young dancer who went by the name of Cherry Bomb. She had dark, wavy hair that fell all the way down to the small of her back. Like all the dancers, she wore the flimsiest of outfits, the gossamer material of her bikini left little to the dullest of imaginations. Sigrid stuffed another bill into her bra.

“I remember Karl,” Cherry said.

Sigrid felt her cheeks flush hot as Cherry melted onto her lap and wrapped her arms around her neck. The girl’s voice was soft and low, and she kept her lips close to Sigrid’s ear, taking care not to shout.

“Karl never came in here with anyone, but there were always people here looking for him.”

“These people—would he meet with them?”

Nodding to Sigrid’s question, her hair fell forward, brushing against her cheek. “From time to time. I don’t think he liked them very much though. He was always…tense afterward.”

“And you know the names of these men?”

Cherry’s only answer was another sway of her hips and a sweet bat of her long lashes. Sigrid sighed and stuffed another credit note into her bra. “No, but I bet I know someone who does.”

Sigrid didn’t wait, stuffing more credits into her panties this time.

Cherry gestured toward the stage. “Talk to Honey Dew. Tarsus was always hanging out over there. I think he liked her music.”

Christian snorted. “I’ll bet.”

“No, I mean it. I think he really was a fan. Everyone knows Honey. Trust me. Hang out here long enough, and Honey gets to everyone.”

The song ended and Cherry extracted herself from Sigrid’s lap. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said, giving her a wink and blowing her a kiss before retreating into the darkened bar.

“Is it wrong that I found that hot?” Christian asked.

Karen swatted him on the shoulder. “Come on,” she said, taking Sigrid’s hand and leading her through the crowd.

The four of them made their way to the stage just as Honey finished one of her songs. Sigrid waved and called out, “Honey!”

Honey smiled down at them from the stage. “One sec, sweetie.” Honey made some quick adjustments to one of her computers, queuing up a particularly raunchy tune. She sat down at the edge of the stage, swinging her legs over the side. “There. That should keep them happy for a while. Now, what can I do for you?”

“We were looking for Karl Tarsus. We heard you knew him.”

Honey stiffened at the mention of Tarsus’ name; the color drained from her face. She took a quick look around before leaning close. “Karl’s gone. You should leave now.”

Honey stood up abruptly, but Sigrid reached out and grabbed her hand. “Please. It’s very important. We’re just trying to find our friends.”

“I have to go. My shift is over.” Honey pulled at Sigrid’s hand, but Sigrid held tight. Seeing the distress on Honey’s face, Sigrid suddenly felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t her intention to frighten the girl.

Sigrid felt a meaty hand on her shoulder. She turned to face the large bouncer behind her.

“Don’t touch the talent, Miss.”

Sigrid let go of Honey and watched her scurry off backstage.

The bouncer folded his thick arms across his chest. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now, you and your party.”

“But—”

Sigrid’s protests were greeted by the arrival of two more bouncers.

“We’d better go,” Selene cautioned.

Sigrid didn’t bother to resist; there was no point in starting a brawl. They had definitely struck a chord with Honey. The question now, was how to get the girl to talk.

Chapter 20

Robots

––––––––

May 17, 2348

Suko and Khepri looked up as the door to their cell rattled open.

“Lei-Fei!” Suko said, scrambling to her feet. She would have given the girl a hug had her hands not still been bound behind her back. Suko sensed something was wrong and stopped cold. Lei-Fei regarded her with a blank stare. There was no warmth in her eyes, no recognition. She was now dressed in a grey coverall and she was armed. “Lei-Fei…?”

Lei-Fei pushed her roughly, making Suko stumble backward against the wall.

“Please stay back. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Suko looked down in confusion at Khepri.

“They did it to her too,” Khepri said, tearfully. “Tara, Christi…they did it to all of them.”

“Did what?” She had no idea what Khepri meant.

“Freed them,” Riku said as he entered the cell; Riku was followed by his guards in their mechanized armor.

Suko’s PCM and some of her sensory modules were functioning again and she scanned Lei-Fei, but it was all wrong. “Lei-Fei? Are you…Lei-Fei!”

But Lei-Fei merely stared back vacantly; the girl she knew was gone. Suko turned to her brother, seething. “I’ll kill you for this.”

Riku raised his hands in a calming gesture. “It’s not what you think. I can explain everything Suko. I’ll show you. Come with me.”

Suko backed away, looking fearfully at Lei-Fei.

Lei-Fei extended her hand to her. “We mean you no harm.”

The voice was hers, but the inflection was all wrong, and her eyes… no way was she going to let them do that to her…

“Suko, it will be all right. I promise.”

With her hands bound behind her back, Suko could put up little fight as the two soldiers dragged her out of the cell. They carried her up several levels to a brightly lit room that looked to have been set up as a makeshift medical facility. An operating table was set up in the middle of the room, complete with restraints. Banks of monitors surrounded the table, and several technicians were seated there, making preparations. Suko noticed the older woman sitting on the edge of a table in the corner, observing from lowered eyes. She didn’t know who she was, but it was clear—this was the woman in charge.

Suko dug her heels into the ground, struggling against the metal hands that gripped her. “No…” she screamed. The soldiers picked her up bodily and dumped her on the table, face down, while they cut the binders from her. Suko struggled in vain as they flipped her over and fastened her into the restraints.

Riku watched the doctor warily. There was a warning chill in his eyes. “You can’t fuck this one up, Farrington. This is my sister.”

The woman in the corner stood up. “She’s not your sister anymore. She’s a drone.”

Riku glared at her. “And this will bring her back?”

Dr. Farrington looked at him, not bothering to disguise his anger. “If you don’t trust me, then get Doctor Garrett in here. Or can she walk yet?”

Suko felt the panic well up in her. “Riku, don’t do this…”

Farrington moved toward her with a long metal wire, reaching toward the access port behind her ear. He smoothed her hair out of the way and moved the wire closer, but Suko jerked her head back.

“Dammit—hold her,” Farrington hissed at the guards.

Suko felt the tears on her cheeks. “Riku, please…”

Riku grabbed Farrington by the arm. “I want your assurances this time.”

Farrington looked at the hand on his arm and then to the woman in the corner.

Nicola sighed, heavily. “Dammit, Riku. Let him do his job.”

Before Riku could respond, the door burst open and a frazzled-looking woman came running in. “Sir—ma’am…!” she gasped, trying to catch her breath.

“What?” Nicola barked, irritated at yet another interruption.

“We’re…we’re under attack,” she said. “It’s the CTF.”

All of them froze.

“Mother fu…” Nicola was on her feet in an instant, running toward the door. She turned back, shouting a command to the guards. “Take the girl back to her cell. We’ll take care of her later.”

“I can handle this,” Farrington said, annoyed.

“Later, Joseph. Not till I get back. Come on, Riku. We’ve got work to do.”

* * *

“I can’t believe it,” Sigrid said as she continued pacing around the small hotel room they’d rented.

“She knows something,” Karen said. “She’s scared.”

“Maybe scared of us,” Christian suggested.

“We’re not done yet,” Selene said, leaning forward on her chair. “Trust me. A lot of people saw us asking questions today. This is a small settlement; people will talk.”

“So, we wait?” Sigrid asked.

“At least a day or so. Tomorrow, we should split up. We can cover more ground.”

“I want to stay on that girl,” Sigrid said. “I don’t think we should let her out of our sight.”

Christian sat up. “I’m happy to go back to the club.”

Karen swatted him again.

“I’m just saying…”

“What about the other complexes?” Karen said. “Maybe one of us should take the ship?”

Selene shook her head. “No. Tarsus was here, and this is where the port is. If anyone came for him, this is where they got him.”

Sigrid grabbed her coat from the bed and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Karen asked, sitting up.

“Out. You guys stay here and get some rest.”

Christian leapt up. “I’m coming with you. You’re not going out alone. It’s too dangerous.”

Sigrid had to smile at his protectiveness but knew he’d only get in the way. “I’ll be all right. I want to make a visit to the port’s records office. I want to check the transit logs.”

Karen glanced at her watch. “But—they’ll be closed!… Oh…right.”

“I highly doubt that whoever took Tarsus left an accurate flight plan,” Selene said.

Sigrid knew Selene was probably right, but she had to check. She desperately needed a lead. Mostly, she wanted to get out and at least feel like she was doing something. “I won’t be long.”

Sigrid opened the door—the two girls leaning against it from the other side stumbled forward.

“Honey! Cherry!” Sigrid said, catching both of them in a neat sweep of her arms.

Even in their street clothes, and without the outlandish costumes, Sigrid recognized the women from the Paradise. They were breathing heavily and seemed quite panicked.

“You totally fucked my gig,” Honey said, shooting a frightened glance over her shoulder. Sigrid pulled them inside and closed the door.

“It was my fault,” Cherry said, clutching Honey’s arm. “I never should have said anything. I was scared—”

Honey put a reassuring hand on the girl’s cheek. “Don’t blame yourself, Cherry. You didn’t know.”

“What happened?” Sigrid asked.

Honey’s eyes darted nervously over the other people in the room before she answered. “Your little question and answer session got quite a bit of attention today. You got us fired.”

“Oh, my…I’m so sorry,” Sigrid said.

“Save the sympathy,” Honey said. “The men you’re looking for—the ones who took Karl…they’re not nice men.”

Sigrid helped them both to a chair and Karen brought glasses of water for the two performers.

“Do you have anything stronger?” Honey asked.

Karen shook her head, but Christian took a hip flask from his pocket and handed it to her. She clutched it in both her hands and took several gulps before handing it to Cherry, who stared at it skeptically.

“Thanks,” Honey said, starting to level out.

“The men…?” Sigrid urged.

“I’ll tell you what I know, but you have to promise to take me with you.”

“And me! We want out of this hellhole,” Cherry said.

“Of course,” Karen said. “We’ll take you anywhere you like.” She turned to Sigrid and winked. “We will, won’t we?”

Sigrid nodded.

“All right—I saw three of them. They came by after you were gone…I remembered the one because he had this thing…” Honey pointed to the top of her head.

“He was bald—and there was this mole,” Cherry added. Honey glared at her. “Sorry—you tell it.”

“Karl met with them several times. I could always tell…these were not fun meetings…”

“Who were they?” Sigrid asked, frustration setting in. “Did you get their names?”

Honey shook her head.

Cherry sat up. “Ooo! There was one. Karl used to talk about him a lot.”

“Who?”

“I don’t think he liked him very much. He always got quite angry when he talked about him.”

“Who!”

“Sorry—ah, I think he called him Sven, or something.”

Honey swatted her on the arm. “It was Smith. That’s who he was always bitching about.”

Selene and Sigrid looked to each other.

“Smith, are you sure? Did you see him?” Selene asked.

Honey shook her head. “Sorry. But I’m sure that’s who Karl said they worked for.”

Cherry nodded agreement. “Definitely.”

Sigrid looked at them intently. “Do you know where they took him?”

“They were asking questions. I told them I didn’t tell you anything. Karl…he only hung out there. He liked to talk—he tipped well.”

“Really well,” Cherry added.

“Where?” Sigrid asked, more urgently. “Honey, please. It’s very important. You have to tell us where they took Major Tarsus.”

“I don’t know! I told them the same thing, but they didn’t believe me. They were waiting outside our apartment. I think they followed us here.”

Cherry’s eyes went wide. “They’re going to kill us.”

Sigrid’s pistol was in her hand, and she moved quickly toward the door.

Selene stood up, gathering her few things. “We should get out of here quickly.”

Sigrid nodded. “You guys get to the ship. I’ll be there shortly.”

Karen gasped. “Us? What about you?”

Sigrid studied Honey for a second. “We’re about the same size, don’t you think?”

* * *

Honey wasn’t that much bigger than Sigrid, but she still had to keep tugging up on the girl’s skirt to keep it from slipping down over her waist. The jacket and shirt were a bit baggy, but anyone spying from a distance shouldn’t notice, especially with Honey’s wig and dark glasses. Karen had done a masterful job making her up in such short order. Unless someone got up close, they should think Sigrid was Honey Dew—she hoped.

Sigrid made her way back toward the habitat section of the Port Complex, all the while scanning the streets for the men that had followed Cherry and Honey. She’d picked them up almost instantly as she left the hotel, much to her relief. Odd to feel relieved about being stalked, Sigrid thought, stifling a laugh. The men kept their distance, spread out behind her and across the street. They weren’t doing much to conceal themselves, causing a moment of doubt, perhaps she wasn’t being followed. Could they really be this obvious? She changed her course several times, crossing the street and cutting through a narrow lane, but the men stayed with her. She was definitely being tailed.

She was almost outside Honey and Cherry’s apartment, wondering when the men would make their move, if at all, when the man in the lead picked up his pace, getting closer. His two companions remained further back about 25 meters away. Sigrid frowned; it would be simple enough to take them all out, but the plan wasn’t to kill them. She needed them alive enough to answer questions, and that would be difficult with them all spread out. Honey’s apartment presented the answer. It was just across the transit lane and Sigrid picked up her pace, not quite running across the street, but stepping lively in Honey’s high-heeled boots.

The man behind her ran to keep up, crossing behind Sigrid just as she slipped through the doors to the apartment complex. She hurried up the stairs to the second level and let herself into the girls’ room. The place was a royal mess, with clothing strewn and hung everywhere, some looking more like decorations than outfits. Sigrid spent a moment taking a quick look around, but apart from a selection of rather daring undergarments and empty food wrappers, Sigrid found nothing.

Now it was up to her pursuers. Sigrid flipped off the lights and lay down on the lone bed, pulling the blankets around her. Minutes went by and she decided she might have miscalculated. She’d been expecting the men to follow her up to the unit, but they seemed to be waiting. If they doubled-back, then this ruse had all been for naught. Sigrid cursed. She should have tried to take them in the street. She started to get up when she sensed the movement outside; her thermal optics picked up the shapes of the three men moving toward the door. Sigrid heard one of them working the hacking device in the lock. She lay her head back down, leaving her eyes open barely a slit.

The door opened and she listened, breathless, as they crept toward the bed. Sigrid saw the gloved hand reach down to cover her mouth. She screamed and struggled against the arms that reached out to restrain her—not too hard she hoped, just enough to be convincing.

“Keep her quiet!” one of the men whispered urgently.

“I’m trying…”

Sigrid eased her struggles, staring at the three men with what she hoped was the right amount of fear in her eyes, all the while studying them, ascertaining their intent.

What she saw surprised her immensely. In her years at the Academy, and in her short time as Mercenary with Kimura, Sigrid had been a little awed by the professionalism and training of her instructors and the men and women who served in the Kimura forces. But these men looked about as frightened as she was pretending to be.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” the first man said. “We just need to know who those people are, the ones you were with. You tell us—we go.”

Sigrid shook her head frantically, letting the tears flow from her eyes.

“You’re still holding her mouth, idiot. How’s she supposed to answer?” the one in the back said; Sigrid decided to label him Target Three.

“If I let her go, she’ll scream.”

Target Two thrust his hands into his pockets. “This is ridiculous. Why the fuck did they leave us here for this? I told them I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

Target Three punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t tell her that, you numnut.”

“Will you two shut up!” Target One hissed through gritted teeth.

Sigrid saw Two’s eyes narrow, looking at her more closely. “Hey…are you sure we got the right girl?”

“What the…?” Target One mouthed as he looked more closely at Sigrid.

Sigrid knew her disguise wasn’t sufficient to stand up to close scrutiny; it had worked so far because they’d kept the lights off. It didn’t matter. She’d heard enough.

As they leaned closer to her, Sigrid pulled her hand out of her pocket and thumbed the little gas grenade she held between her fingers.

* * *

Sigrid and Karen stared at the three new prisoners in the Morrigan’s brig. They painted a miserable picture, sitting there in their boxer-briefs as they continued to scowl at Sigrid. But Sigrid wanted more information, and it was time to find out where they’d taken Tarsus, who had taken Suko, and why.

“We’ve answered your questions,” One said. “Now will you give us our clothes back, or what?”

“Not quite,” Sigrid said. “These men, the ones who left you on Gliese—”

“We told you. We never met them before.”

“And yet, you followed their orders?” Sigrid asked, skeptically.

“Nicola—Kirk…she told us to,” Two pleaded.

“And this woman, Kirk, she’s your leader?”

“Nicola’s a great woman,” Two said. Sigrid could see him begin to unravel. “This is crap. This whole thing’s out of hand. This was supposed to be a nonviolent movement. It’s not her fault. Everything was fine until he came.”

Three glared at his companions. “Will you stop talking! Don’t say anything else. They’re nothing but a bunch of Federation stooges.”

Sigrid raised an eyebrow. “Federation? You think we’re with the CTF?”

“If you’re not, then you’re working for them,” Three said.

“We could say the same of you,” Karen said, wagging her finger at them.

Three laughed. “You Feds are all the same, nothing but a bunch of butchers.”

“We’re not with the CTF…or anyone,” Sigrid assured them. “I’m just trying to find my friends.”

Three eyed her warily. “You’re one of them, aren’t you. He warned us about you.”

Karen poked her head out from behind Sigrid, scowling hard. “You tell us who you’re working with…or…or we’ll throw you out the airlock!”

Sigrid smiled. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Karen looked surprised. “Really?”

Sigrid drew one of her pistols, motioning the three of them to exit. “Come on. All of you.”

Karen opened her mouth and raised a correcting finger. “But, we’re still—”

Sigrid elbowed her in the side.

Karen grunted, but she seemed to get Sigrid’s meaning. She did her best to look menacing and pointed toward the lower airlock. “Come on, you…you.”

Two shook visibly and had a wild glaze in his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

Sigrid shoved him down the corridor, putting her boot to the others.

Three gave her a defiant look. “I told you. You’re all butchers.” He looked to his companions as Sigrid opened the inner door to the airlock and shoved him inside. “Don’t tell her anything!”

“This is your last chance,” Sigrid said. “Tell me where they took my friends and I let you go.”

Three spat defiantly. “The Federation is doomed. You’re fucked. You won’t get away with this!”

Sigrid cycled the lock, sealing him in. There was a frantic pounding on the door until Sigrid opened the outer door. One fainted and slithered to the floor in a heap.

Two stood blinking at Sigrid, completely terrified. “Scorpii! They’re on Scorpii. I don’t know much more, but that’s where the base is. I don’t even know if that’s where they took Tarsus. You have to believe me!”

Sigrid grabbed him by the collar, moving him toward the lock. “Who are they? Why did they take them?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. This was a peaceful movement but the Federation…the embargoes are killing us. Then they came—”

“Who?”

“I thought they were Mercs, but I don’t know. They had ships, weapons; the technology…” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How many ships?”

“I don’t know! They don’t tell us anything anymore. I told Nicola she was making a mistake. There’s a man—I don’t know his name—he came to us a few years ago. He’s the one you want.”

Sigrid knew he was telling the truth. He was scared witless and he’d wet himself. She felt a fleeting pang of guilt for what she’d done, but she had the information she needed. She keyed her comlink. “It’s Scorpii, Selene. I want to be underway as soon as possible.”

The airlock opened and Christian came through holding a very angry-looking Three by the arm. “I found this guy outside. Who the hell let him out?”

Two gaped at his companion. “You…you’re alive!”

“We’re still on the ground, idiot.”

Karen covered her mouth with her hand but couldn’t hold back her laughter.

Once Two, whose real name turned out to be Gene Wehr, started talking, he didn’t seem to know how to stop. Sigrid let him clean himself up and gave him his clothes back, before taking him to the Mess for some food and coffee. He’d met the woman, Nicola Kirk, five years ago on his home planet of Hekate. As a student growing up on the impoverished world, he’d been frustrated by the Federation’s treatment of his home planet. He’d met Nicola and eagerly joined her movement. But what had once been a peaceful protest movement had grown exponentially into what was quickly becoming a full-scale rebellion.

“And the bombings?” Sigrid asked; she remembered the terrorist attack she’d witnessed on Earth, and the ones that were so much in the news.

Gene scoffed. “Terrorists! We’re not terrorists. Ask the Council about the so-called terrorist attacks.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s an old tactic, Miss…”

“Sigrid.”

“It’s an old tactic, Sigrid. They bomb their own people, blame us and garner sympathy. We’re not killers.”

Sigrid wasn’t impressed. “I saw the bodies on Alcyone. You might want to tell them that.”

Gene frowned. “This is all so out of hand.”

“And you are kidnappers.”

“I don’t know anything about that. I’m not exactly in the ‘loop’ anymore. That’s why they stuck me on Gliese. I—we—were just supposed to watch for anyone snooping around and report.”

Sigrid rose, putting her mug back in the recycler.

“If you’re really not with the CTF, then what will you do with us?”

Sigrid hadn’t thought that part through. “I suppose we’ll let you go. As soon as we make port somewhere.”

“Let us go? Just like that?”

Sigrid didn’t answer.

“We could be allies in this. If you’re telling the truth, if you’re really not with the CTF.”

“I only care about my friends, Mr. Wehr.”

Sigrid left him there and headed toward the bridge. She was shocked to find the Lady Hitomi working her chair onto the airlock lift; she had a small suitcase balanced on her lap.

“Mistress?”

“Ah, Sigrid—I was going to send for you.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m afraid I have some urgent business to attend to.”

“Here? We’re not leaving you on Gliese.”

“I’ll be quite all right—and I’m not staying here. I’ve arranged for transport.”

“Where?”

Hitomi gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t you worry about that. There is little I can do for you on Scorpii. You’ll be fine. I’ll be of far more use to you where I am headed. There are still the other girls to think of.”

“I can’t let you go off on your own!”

Hitomi chuckled. “I’ll be quite all right, dear.”

“But—” Sigrid found herself dreading the idea of Hitomi leaving her.

“Go to Scorpii, Sigrid. Save our girls. Save your sisters. They need you. I need you to do that.”

Sigrid swallowed and nodded. “Of course, Hitomi-san.”

“When you get them, I need you to take them here.” Hitomi handed her a pad, detailing the coordinates she wanted Sigrid to jump to. “It’s very important. No matter what happens, whether you succeed or not. You must travel to these coordinates.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

“And Sigrid, if you can, as a personal favor to me—please find Dr. Garrett. She’s…Lisa…she’s very dear to me.”

“I’ll do everything I can, Hitomi-san.”

“That’s all I can ask. Good luck, Sigrid. And whatever happens, I just want you to know how proud I am of you, and how glad I am that we met.”

Sigrid wasn’t sure how to respond so she remained silent as she watched Hitomi exit the airlock and lower herself on the lift to the tarmac. And then she was gone. Sigrid was still considering Hitomi’s words as she sealed the lock and keyed her comlink to the bridge. “Take us up, Ms. Tseng.”

Chapter 21

Scorpii

––––––––

Nicola Kirk stood in the monitoring station of the abandoned mining facility. She was surrounded by a strange mix of soldiers in their mechanized armor and some very non-military-looking types, manning the assemblage of consoles.

One large monitor had been mounted on a stand in one of the corners. Nicola stared at it now, worrying a well-chewed thumbnail. She couldn’t take her eyes off the task force of four CTF Naval ships that were marked and moving across the screen.

“I don’t think they’ve seen us,” the young woman seated before her at her station said.

The task force had just entered the system and was headed toward Scorpii IV; it would take them the better part of four days to reach the planet. The once-habitable world had been stripped clean of all things valuable by overeager corporations long ago. The planet had been bled-dry and then laid to waste during the first of the Corporate Wars as the giant multinationals had fought to seize control of the planet’s riches. That had been decades ago, before the Federation and the Council had decided to extend their reach to planets further afield. They’d used ‘peace’ as an excuse, but Nicola knew it was all a question of control, of commerce, of power and profit.

Scorpii was a fitting location for her movement, she thought.

The CTF forces would find their old facilities on Scorpii, but she’d anticipated that and moved virtually everything out to one of the larger asteroids that orbited between Scorpii V and VI months ago.

“Let me know if their status changes,” she told the young woman.

A major in full combat gear approached her, helmet clutched under his arm. “All our ships are in position. Say the word and we’ll move in. They won’t know what hit them.”

Nicola winced; these military-types were always so eager for a scrap. There was a good chance the CTF ships would simply leave after finding their old base abandoned. The task force would most likely turn around and leave without the need to fire a shot. On the other hand, she had twelve ships at her disposal, and a mercenary force that was spoiling for some action. Should she order them to attack? Nicola laughed to herself. Farrington had said she was a closet-general. Perhaps he was right.

“Very well, Major. You may engage them. Just…we can’t let even a single pod escape. I don’t want anyone reporting on our position.”

The major nodded and smiled broadly, eager for the chance to engage the enemy. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll take care of them.”

* * *

From the bridge of the Morrigan, Sigrid looked out at the giant Warp Relay before them; they were still decelerating hard, the distance closing quickly. Selene transmitted the navigational codes to the Relay Monitor. Sigrid watched quietly as the giant construct aligned itself.

“We’re clear to jump once the transaction is complete,” Selene said.

No one could travel through the Relay without first paying the huge tolls charged by Daedalus. Sigrid leaned forward to key in her account access; it would take a sizable portion of the money Lady Hitomi had transferred to her.

“And don’t you think you should take your seat?” Karen asked, eyeing the empty command chair.

Sigrid still felt uncomfortable with the idea of sitting in it; her crew were looking at her expectantly. What was she afraid of? Scorpii lay ahead on the other side of the Relay. The girls were there. Suko was there.

Sigrid slid slowly into the chair; it felt surprisingly comfortable.

“It looks good on you,” Karen said brightly.

Sigrid felt her cheeks glow warmer; she shook her head and smiled at the lively ensign.

“Begging your pardon, Sig…Captain…” Selene said. “But do we have a plan for this? We don’t exactly know what we’re flying into here.”

A plan? So far, she’d been propelled along, either by the wishes of her masters or by the inertia of events unfolding around her. Did she have a plan?

Gene had told them much of Scorpii; his group had a base on one of the larger asteroids, nestling in an old mining facility. There were only a few hundred people there, mostly workers and students from Hekate, but they had been joined by a paramilitary group backed by a wealthy friend and patron of Nicola Kirk’s. His involvement had been the catalyst that had seen their protest movement move from peaceful demonstrations to full-scale military engagements.

It had to be Smith.

As for having a plan…? Sigrid closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “What will happen if we engage the stealth systems going through the Relay?”

“It shouldn’t affect anything,” Christian said. “Travel through the Relays is more contingent on mass, inertia, velocity and our entrance vector. I don’t see how the cloak will affect that.”

Selene let out a long breath. “It does expend a tremendous amount of energy. If it causes some kind of feedback as we enter the effect…”

Christian did some quick calculations on his console. “I see only a small chance of that being a possibility.”

“Small? How small is small?” Selene asked, furrowing her brow.

“A little over four percent.”

Karen swallowed hard. “But…what would happen—”

“We could end up on the wrong side of the Galaxy,” Selene said.

Christian stroked his chin. “More likely, any energy discharge would simply disrupt the Relay.”

“You mean, we might break it?” Sigrid asked.

He nodded. “Quite likely.”

Selene laughed. “So, either we get trapped somewhere across the galaxy or we get trapped here.”

Sigrid considered her options. “Wehr told us how many ships they have there. He figures they’ll have between fourteen and twenty ships guarding that base. If we fly straight in, they’ll see us. We can’t take on an entire fleet.”

Christian plunked an elbow down on his console, leaning heavily on his hand. “Well, isn’t this fun.”

Sigrid sat quietly, calculating the different scenarios. “Either way, it’s a gamble, but we have to make the best of the cards we hold. Engage the stealth, Lieutenant Lopez. Ms. Tseng…take us to Scorpii.”

* * *

Captain Samson Potter stood on the bridge of his ship, the flagship of the large task force that was currently pursuing the four CTF Naval ships inbound for Scorpii IV. They’d been accelerating toward the force for nearly three days, coming in on a vector that had completely cut the CTF ships off from the Relay behind them. They were cornered and trapped. He’d been somewhat surprised when the CTF ships had not turned to engage; they were still hanging there in orbit around the dead planet. He’d expected them at the very least to bring their ships up to speed to try to match the velocity of his attacking force. But instead they’d remained parked in orbit. They were sitting ducks.

Knowing that didn’t make Captain Potter feel any better; he’d learned long ago that when an enemy, especially a cornered one, didn’t do the expected, then there was a good chance that he was the one who was being cornered. Right now, Potter could feel all the hairs on his neck bristling.

“Break off,” Captain Potter, said to his helm. “All ships disengage.”

“Sir?” his XO asked. She shook her head in complete disbelief. “We have them!”

“Break off. All ships, 180 degrees about. Maximum acceleration.”

His XO took a deep breath, but acknowledged the command.

“Sir!” the tactical officer cut in. “We’ve got ships in system—coming in from the Relay.”

And so the trap was sprung. “How many?”

The face of his tactical officer turned white as a sheet. “Thirty-two.”

Potter laughed.

“Sir?”

“They played us,” he said. “They drew us out, and we took the bait. We showed them exactly where the base is.” Potter slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. “What’s the vector on those ships? Are they attacking?”

“They’re splitting into two groups, sir. Some heading for the mining facility, the rest look to be engaging us.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-eight, sir—headed toward us. Four moving to engage the base.”

Thirty-two ships against his task force of twelve. Now he was the one surrounded. It was a goddamn ambush.

Captain Potter sighed grimly. “Get the crews to their Pods. Let’s prepare for battle.”

* * *

“How many?” Sigrid asked. What she’d heard didn’t seem possible.

“Thirty-two in total,” Christian said. “They came through the Relay right behind us.”

“But how?” Karen asked. “How could they have followed us?”

“They didn’t,” Selene said. “There were no ships in-system at Gliese. Their exit vector doesn’t match ours either. Wherever they came from, they didn’t follow us.”

“So, we just walked into a full scale invasion?” Christian said.

“It would appear so.”

Sigrid peered over Christian’s shoulder at the tactical monitor; four of the ships from the CTF forces had peeled off from the main force and seemed to be following them in. “Do they see us? Is our cloak still engaged?”

Selene nodded. “Yes. I don’t think they see us—but the harder we push our engines the more the cloak drains us. If we’re not careful we won’t have enough in reserve to get back through the Relay.”

Sigrid opened a channel to her engineer. “Rodney, how long can we maintain the stealth field?”

“As long as you’re not planning any crazy maneuvers, I should be able to hold it. It would be great if we could ease off though. I don’t like some of these readings.”

Sigrid grimaced. “And if we slow, those ships behind us will overtake us. How far behind us are they?”

Selene checked her readouts. “They exited the Relay about two-point-four hours behind us. We’re still faster. If we keep accelerating at this pace, we should increase that gap to nearly five hours by the time we reach the facility.”

“What kind of ships are those?”

“Two troop carriers with destroyer escort.”

Two troop carriers against her crew of five…? Sigrid had a thought. “How many mines do we have aboard?”

Christian’s eyes lit up. He smiled. “Six, ma’am.”

“Well, let’s see if we can even the odds somewhat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Christian and Selene worked diligently to coordinate the mine-laying, dropping five into the paths of the oncoming CTF ships that were so close on their tail. Then it was just a matter of waiting the few hours for the ships to catch up. With luck, the four pursuing vessels would be snared, much in the same way that the Agatsuma had been.

While they waited, Sigrid spent her time grilling Gene Wehr on everything he knew about the mining facility, piecing together a map and committing everything to her PCM. It wouldn’t be accurate, but it would hopefully save her some time once they landed. That wouldn’t be for another two days.

At least the main CTF Force was engaged with the…Sigrid laughed to herself. What should she call them? The Hekatians? The Scorpions? The Rebels?

It didn’t matter. This was a rescue mission.

They gathered on the bridge again to monitor their mine-laying efforts. Three of the mines attached themselves to their targets. Needles of piercing light radiated outwards as the mines detonated, completely obliterating one of the transports and disabling two of the oncoming destroyers. One mine drifted off harmlessly and the fifth suffered a malfunction, allowing the second transport to continue unscathed.

“We still have one mine,” Christian said.

“No, I want to keep that in reserve,” Sigrid said. “I have something in mind for that one.”

Now, all she needed to do was deal with a single company of CTF Marines and whatever they had down on the Scorpii base. Piece of Cake.

They neared the base just as the CTF forces began clashing with the Scorpii ships. The smaller task force put up an admirable fight, taking out eight of the CTF Naval ships, but their defenses were overwhelmed by the sheer weight and numbers of incoming ordnance thrown at them. Their smaller force was quickly obliterated.

Sigrid and her crew observed the surviving CTF ships wheeling away from the battle area, changing course and accelerating in their direction.

Karen’s eyes went wide. “They’re heading this way.”

“Let’s just make sure we’re not here when they arrive,” Sigrid said.

The Morrigan decelerated, pushing its maximum Gs as it slewed into orbit around the large asteroid. Christian kept close monitor over the station’s defensive activity. With the programs Hitomi had provided them, Sigrid had masterfully hacked into their communications and they’d been monitoring the chatter coming from the station for some time.

The base still had a sizable defensive force of soldiers, who were bracing for the invasion that was certain to come.

The crew of the Morrigan held their collective breath as six large fighters launched from the base. But the fighters headed straight for the troop transport and its trailing escort ships; the Morrigan’s stealth systems were doing their job.

“Take us in, Ms. Tseng,” Sigrid said. She pointed to a spot on the navigational map, two kilometers north of the base. “Put us down there, just on the other side of that ridge.” She hoped that would keep her ship hidden from prying eyes.

“Aye, ma’am.”

While Selene directed the landing, Sigrid made for the airlock, gathering her weapons and pulling on the EVA gear she’d need to make it across the surface of the asteroid to the base. She looked up in surprise as Karen squeezed in next to her and started gearing herself up.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Sigrid asked.

“If you think I’m letting you go in there alone, you’re crazy.”

The girl’s sentiment was sweet, but Sigrid knew she’d only slow her down. “Karen, I want you to stay here.”

Karen stood up straight, clipping the ammunitions belt around her waist. “I’m not just an Orientations Officer,” she said, primly. “I’ve had full weapons training. I’m checked out on all of these.” She held up one of the heavy assault rifles—upside down, Sigrid noted.

“Karen—”

“Don’t argue,” Karen said fiercely. “I’m helping you whether you like it or not.”

Before she could muster her voice, Christian ran up, clutching similar gear.

“Not you too!” Sigrid said.

Christian grinned. “Of course…”

“No, you have to stay here with Selene. I need you at Tactical to monitor the station—troop movements, com-chatter, everything. If they detect us, I need you to let me know.”

“But—”

“That’s an order.”

Christian nodded. “Very well. But you call us the moment you need extraction.”

“That’s the plan.”

Sigrid fastened her helmet, gathering all the ordnance she could carry into a duffel, while Christian helped Karen into the rest of her gear. Christian heaved the bag up and handed it to Sigrid, who took it easily in one hand.

“Get the ship to a safe distance and stay on the comlink,” Sigrid said. “We’ll signal when we’re ready.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Christian saluted and went about sealing the airlock after them.

Sigrid opened the outer airlock door as soon as the Morrigan shuddered down on the surface of the asteroid. She leapt out. There was no point in trying to walk across the surface. The gravity was so low it wouldn’t take much for her to bounce off the terrain at escape velocity.

Karen floated down beside her, arms waving an unlikely flight pattern. Sigrid hooked a tether into the belt on Karen’s suit. “Hang on!”

Using the maneuvering jets on the EVA thruster pack, Sigrid blasted toward the Scorpii mining facility; she heard Karen’s tinny squeal over the comlink as the tether took hold and yanked her forward. Keeping low, she skimmed over the surface, taking care that Karen was trailing obediently behind her and not hitting the rocks that jutted out here and there.

The mining facility was buried deep in the rock of the asteroid. The only evidence of the facility was a large landing pad and an airlock used to deliver heavy machinery and ore from the bowels of the mines. Sigrid had another entrance in mind; a few light boosts later they arrived at the small access shaft Gene had told her about. She found the hatch to be just as Gene had described it; the grey metal door of the airlock, jutting out from a pile of dusty rocks.

“We’re in,” Sigrid said over her comlink. She pulled off her helmet, quickly stripping off the EVA gear before helping Karen out of hers. Within a minute, Sigrid was armed with her twin pistols, katana, a load-out of grenades and shuriken belted to her waist; Karen was furnished with a compact eSMG—light, easy to aim and capable of spitting out an incredible number of rounds per second. “Try not to shoot me with it,” Sigrid said with a wink.

Sigrid keyed her comlink; if the girls were here, if she could reach them, she could locate them that much quicker. She called several times on all the channels, but only static hissed back. Dammit. She reminded herself that it didn’t mean anything—they were here. They had to be.

A quick scan with her thermals showed the corridor beyond the airlock was clear and the two girls headed quickly out. The complex was massive, spanning nearly 20 square kilometers—there wasn’t enough time to go searching blindly through the maze of twisting tunnels, not with the CTF invasion force closing in behind them. There was only one place large enough to house all the girls—Ore Processing. It was at the lowest level, deep beneath the surface. She could only hope the girls were there, and not scattered throughout the facility.

Up ahead, Sigrid sensed movement and signaled Karen to stop and move back. Three people were coming down the corridor toward them. Karen backed into the shadows around a corner. Sigrid shrouded.

Two people in civilian clothing approached; they were accompanied by a man in what looked like a military uniform, but it wasn’t CTF or any of the Mercenary clan colors that Sigrid was familiar with. There would be time for questions later.

Sigrid drew her pistols, taking care to dial them to their silenced modes. She fired two quick shots, felling the soldier and one of the civilians. She grabbed the last woman from behind and covered her mouth.

Karen came out from her hiding place and stared at the two bodies. “You…you killed them…”

Sigrid ignored the remark as she dragged her captive back around the corner. “The girls—where are they?” she demanded.

The terrified woman shook her head. Sigrid jerked her neck back, tightening her grip. “Where?”

Slowly, Sigrid eased her hand away from the woman’s mouth. “They’re…they’re in the habitat. Lower level. Tier 3.”

Sigrid smacked her on the back of the head and eased the unconscious woman to the floor.

Karen, who had gathered her wits, was already struggling to drag the other two bodies into the dark passage. “I’m sorry. I…suppose I should have been expecting this.” She took a deep breath. “That won’t happen again.”

Sigrid squeezed her arm. “It’s all right. But I won’t let them stop me.”

“Of course. I know—I remember what they did on the Elevator…all those people. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Moving smartly, the two girls padded down level after level without having to eliminate anyone else. Most of the people were gathered near the surface, preparing for the station’s defense, with only the occasional group flitting through the lower parts. Sigrid checked her watch again. They had a little more than three hours before the CTF troop transport arrived, unless the station’s defense systems managed to take care of them.

They avoided two more squads of patrolling soldiers before finally reaching the lowest level, which looked more like a storage facility for the habitat—just a narrow corridor lined with large lockers, by the looks of it. Sigrid spotted the three armed guards.

Karen gasped at the sight of the soldiers in their mechanized armor. “Oh-my-God…”

“Stay here.”

Karen nodded vigorously, slinking back into the shadows as Sigrid shrouded herself again.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” Karen whispered.

The soldiers carried motion trackers—as soon as Sigrid entered the corridor they turned, searching, trying to locate her. In slow motion, Sigrid drew her pistols and selected the armor-piercing rounds. She focused on the weak spots in their armor: neck, joints, faceplates. One of them raised a hulking chain gun to his shoulder. Sigrid leapt forward, fast as light. She fired two shots, shattering the faceplate of one soldier; the second shot glanced harmlessly off the next as he turned, his composite armor deflecting the blast. He was still turning, still trying to track her. Drawing her katana, she charged at him full-on before diving and slicing his leg clean off below the knee. He fell backward—the slugs from his chain gun chattering up and ripping a pattern on the ceiling before his finger slackened on the trigger.

Sigrid leapt cat-like onto the chest of her last target. She let her momentum carry them both back. He stumbled, dropping his weapon as he fell backward onto the floor. Sigrid was quickly upon him and brought her sword straight down with all her strength, piercing the mirrored faceplate. His body shuddered under her as his arms clanged limply to the floor.

Sigrid stood and grabbed for the hilt of the katana, but the blade had penetrated deep into the floor. She tugged again, but the sword held fast. With her foot planted solidly on the soldier’s metal breastplate, Sigrid heaved and twisted the blade free.

“Uhchh…” Karen said from behind as Sigrid wiped the gore from her blade.

“Sorry.”

They hurried to open the lockers. Most of them held little more than supplies, then Karen called out as she opened one of the locked doors at the end. “Sigrid!”

Sigrid raced over; her heart pounding loudly as she entered the room. Huddled in the corner, disheveled, starved and filthy, with hands and feet bound, were Khepri and—

“Suko!” Sigrid screamed. She dropped the katana from her hands and threw herself at Suko, gathering her into her arms and placing kisses on her face and lips.

Karen carefully cut the bindings from Khepri’s wrists and ankles, then set about liberating Suko. All three girls were weeping softly—even Karen joined in with a tearful wail of emotion.

“What took you so long?” Suko said, still trying to pay back all of Sigrid’s sweet kisses.

Sigrid laughed. “You didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address.”

“I knew you’d come.”

“I’ll never leave you again. I promise.” Sigrid said, wriggling out of Suko’s warm, koala embrace with some reluctance.

Suko’s eyes fell on Karen. “Who’s this?”

“This is Ensign—er—Karen McTeer.”

Suko’s eyes narrowed at the girl somewhat suspiciously.

Sigrid swatted her on the shoulder. “She’s a friend.”

“Ooh! I’m so pleased to meet you both,” Karen chirped.

Sigrid shook herself out of her euphoria; she’d found Suko, but they were hardly out of trouble. “Where are the others? I tried to reach you on the comlink, but I couldn’t. I feared the worst.”

“They deactivated most of our implants,” Suko said. “What they couldn’t switch off…” she shivered, “…they removed. The others—”

“Mei, Petra and Leia are dead,” Khepri said.

“Lei-Fei, Tara…?” Sigrid asked, fearful of what the answer might be.

“And Christi,” Suko said. “They…did something to them. I saw what they did to Lei-Fei. They can access the Control Program. I don’t know how, but they changed her.”

“Changed—how?”

“They programmed them,” Khepri spat.

Suko looked downcast. “There’s more. Sigrid—my brother, he’s here.”

“Your brother?” Sigrid instantly recalled the message and the name—Tansho.

“He…he said we were the ones who were programmed. He said Kimura did it to us. He said they’d fix us.”

“That’s bullshit,” Khepri said.

Sigrid frowned. She thought about Lady Hitomi. Despite her feelings toward Kimura, she trusted the woman; she liked Hitomi. She couldn’t believe she would do such a thing. And Hitomi, she was like them. She’d helped her to escape and provided means to rescue Suko and the girls. She shook her head. “No way. I don’t believe it.”

“How can we be sure?”

“I’m sure.” Sigrid helped Suko to her feet. “I can’t explain now. We have to get out of here before the invasion force arrives. We need to find the young ones.”

“Invasion?” Khepri asked.

“Later.” Sigrid gathered the weapons from the fallen soldiers and handed them to Khepri and Suko.

“What about Lei-Fei and the others?” Suko asked. “We can’t leave them.”

“They’re with them now,” Khepri said. “The people who took us.”

“We’ll get the young ones first,” Sigrid decided. “We’ll get them to the ship. Then we’ll see about the rest.”

Following Sigrid’s lead, the four of them sped off toward the ore-processing facility. Mercifully, their path took them further away from the operations center, where most of the activity was. Sigrid only had to take care of two patrols on the way. Suko and Khepri looked on in amazement as Sigrid shrouded herself and took out the first batch of guards.

“No way.” Suko said as Sigrid shimmered and reappeared before them.

“I didn’t know we could do that!” Khepri said.

Sigrid winked. “I’ll get you the program.”

The processing room was a cavernous facility, filled with the massive earth-moving machines and separators that used to load the containers with their precious minerals. All the machinery lay in rusting heaps, some the victims of weapons’ fire, others from decades of neglect. Looking down from a catwalk, high above, they spotted the forty-two girls gathered in an empty ore container. The huge container had been sandblasted clean and outfitted with bedding and portable toilet facilities. The young girls were assembled in a miserable huddle. A squad of soldiers guarded them; Sigrid was relieved that they wore regular fatigues rather than the composite armor the others had worn. Unfortunately, one of the giant Mechs patrolled nearby, manned and ready. It clanked back and forth, scanning the surrounding area.

Karen let out a breathless squeak.

“What the hell is that?” Sigrid asked

“They used those on Alcyone,” Khepri said. “They took out the entire company of Marines.”

“I bagged one,” Suko said, mildly.

“How?” Sigrid was transfixed by the walking tank.

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“Suko—”

“No worries. I got this one.” Suko plucked one of the grenades from Sigrid’s belt and rolled off the catwalk, sliding silently down one of the supporting pillars.

“Suko!” Sigrid hissed after her, but it was too late.

The girls watched anxiously as Suko crept along, flitting from cover to cover behind the huge piles of ore and lumps of decaying machinery. The whole time, Sigrid kept a watchful eye over the squad of soldiers. At least they looked bored, switched off, and unaware of the girl who was busy skirting around them as she crept ever closer to the walking tank.

Suko reached the last piece of cover, but there was still fifty meters of clear ground between her and the tank.

Khepri stiffened. “She’s going to get herself killed.”

“Stay here,” Sigrid said to the other girls.

“Not you too!” Karen implored.

Sigrid winked. “I’ll be right back.“Sigrid engaged her shroud, rolled over the side and slid quietly down the cold metal pillar. She used her limited invisibility to venture closer to the squad of soldiers until she was safely behind the cover of the container. Sigrid de-shrouded and breathed a deep sigh; the process was still terribly exhausting.

Sigrid could see Suko now; she lay hidden behind a hydraulic prop, but she wasn’t yet close enough to the Mech—it would rip Suko apart if she made a run for it.

Sigrid keyed her comlink, cursing as she remembered that Suko’s had been deactivated. But, she knew Suko; they’d trained so much together and she trusted her more than anything. Suko would understand her signal.

Sigrid plucked three grenades from her belt, braced to roll out from her cover when a voice from behind stopped her.

“I know you!” the girl’s voice called.

Sigrid spun, completely stunned. Behind her stood an eleven-year-old girl. Two more of them were scrambling over the wall of the container. How the hell were they getting out…?

“Look! It’s her!” another girl called.

Sigrid cringed and shot a finger up to her lips. “Shhh!”

But the damage had been done. The soldiers had heard the commotion and were heading quickly toward her position—and so was the Mech.

“Get back!” Sigrid yelled as she rolled the grenades toward the oncoming soldiers. She dived, shielding the girls from the explosions and falling debris and the burst of gunfire that erupted behind her. More gunfire came from above. Sigrid looked up to see Karen and Khepri firing at the fleeing soldiers. The Mech had also spotted them.

“Oh, shit…” Sigrid said. With her pistol in one hand, Sigrid threw three more smoke grenades out followed by a series of flashbangs. Thick black smoke swirled around them as the shockwaves of the flashbangs echoed around the facility. All hell was breaking loose—and more of the girls were scrambling out of the container.

How on earth…?

Only three of the soldiers were still alive. Sigrid picked them up with her thermal optics and targeted them through the smoke. Three shuriken spun in swift succession from her fingers. The soldiers fell dead to the ground. The fight wasn’t over yet; the chunking of a chain gun sent her diving to ground. There was a deafening explosion followed by the protests of groaning metal and a series of loud bangs. And then it went quiet.

Sigrid was still holding her breath when the smoke finally started to clear. She had to laugh at the sight before her—Suko, standing on top of the wrecked hulk of the Mech, one hand on her hip, the other holding the gun Sigrid had given her.

“That’s two,” Suko said.

A rousing cheer ensued; the young escapees stampeded past Sigrid and crowded around the valiant Suko. Khepri received a similar greeting when she climbed down from the catwalk. They’d obviously bonded in their short time together at the Academy. Even Karen was mobbed by the excited girls.

Sigrid heaved open the heavy metal door of the container; there were still over twenty girls inside. Sigrid had to appreciate how they’d built a teetering pyramid using their bedding and three porta potties to effect their escape.

The girls gathered quickly around, shouting questions at her—was Sigrid there to save them and take them home?

She raised her hands and the girls fell silent. “I’m getting you all out of here. But you’re going to have to do exactly what I say—when I say it. Do you understand?” To a girl, each nodded in affirmative silence. Sigrid smiled. “Good. I have a ship—it’s going to be a little crowded.” Sigrid scratched her head, wondering if she could actually get them all aboard. “But we’re all getting out of here now.”

“You’ve become very masterful since you’ve been gone,” Suko teased, coming up behind her.

“Sorry—it’s just that we don’t have much time.”

Suko gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “No worries. I like it.”

* * *

Nicola Kirk slumped over the desk in the monitoring station. The defense force assigned to her was gone. Twelve ships and their crews…

The CTF troop carrier would be there soon, carrying an entire battalion of soldiers. And what did she have left? Less than half of a company for defense against so many. She had two transport shuttles in the loading bay—not enough to evacuate everyone.

She pounded her fist on the desk. And where the fuck was Tansho? The man was always disappearing. “Has anyone seen Riku?”

No one answered her. Seemed they didn’t even want to look at her.

Fuck. He was gone. She knew it. If he took that girl with him…

But she had even bigger problems.

Nicola could sense the latent panic. Things had spiraled out of control—long ago, long before the CTF had found them and ambushed their forces. Her forces were devastated. Riku was gone. And so was he. They’d all abandoned her. A cynical laugh escaped from her.

“Ma’am?” the major asked.

Nicola shook her head and composed herself. There was only one reasonable course of action, but she wasn’t sure how it would be received. “I need you to gather the girls and get them to the shuttles.”

“Uh…ma’am?”

“They’re the reason this facility exists, Major. We have to get them out, or all this…all this has been for nothing.”

The major shifted uneasily. “Uh…I’m not sure that will go over well with the troops. They’ll want a chance at those shuttles.”

Did she have to ward off a mutiny as well? “Major—”

Nicola screamed as the shot ripped a ghastly exit wound in the major’s face. He slumped to the floor looking as shocked as a dead man can.

Sara stood behind him with her gun still raised, and wearing her full suit of composite armor. “He was going to cause trouble.”

Nicola gagged at the gore covering her chest and her arms. She could feel the beads of his blood on her lips.

Sara calmly re-holstered her sidearm. “We have a new problem, ma’am. We’re under attack.”

“I know we’re under bloody attack. Don’t be stupid.”

Sara shook her head. “No. Not the CTF. It’s them—the other girls from Alcyone. They’re here. I suggest you get your people to the shuttles while there’s still time. I’ll take care of the girls.”

Nicola nodded slowly. This girl—she was so strange. They all were. “Very well. I’ll wait as long as I can. Just get them all. I’ll get Farrington and that other doctor. We still need her.”

Sara turned. “I’ll be there. Just don’t be late.”

* * *

Sigrid led the girls back up the corridor, retracing their steps to the airlock. She would have thought it nearly impossible for forty-two girls to proceed up the corridor without causing a racket, but to their credit, they all kept remarkably silent. She’d already received word from Christian that the CTF troops were landing and entering the base through the main loading bay. The two crippled destroyers were trailing slightly behind, with the larger force still days away. But their little fracas in ore-processing had clearly raised the alarm.

“Whatever you’re doing, do it fast,” Christian urged over the comlink.

“We’re on our way back to the airlock, just be ready when we get there.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Sigrid heard a combination of screams and gunfire behind her. She desperately wanted to run back to investigate but she had to keep leading the girls forward; Suko and Khepri were back there. She had to trust them to handle whatever trouble had transpired.

Finally, they arrived at the airlock door where they’d come in. “We’re here!” she said through her comlink. Christian acknowledged; he was already on his way. “Clear a path,” Sigrid called to the girls, waving them against the wall. The girls did as they were told. Sigrid ran back to find out what had happened. The fight was already over. None of the young ones had been injured but Khepri was dragging Karen along while Suko kept watch.

Sigrid ran to her. “Karen!” Her chest was bloody and her face ashen, but her eyes were open—though not sparkling like they usually did.

“He got me,” she said, sounding more surprised than hurt. But Sigrid could see that the wound was serious.

“Christian, we’re going to need some medical assistance,” she said over the comlink.

“Affirmative. We’re already here—I’ve got Rodney fixing the emergency collar. But Sigrid…” Christian’s pause made her nerves tingle. “We can’t keep the cloak up with the collar on. They’ll know we’re here.”

“I understand. We’ll do this quickly.” She looked down worriedly at Karen, and Khepri who was still tending to her. “Take care of her.”

Turning, Sigrid ran back to the airlock. Through the window, she could see Rodney, clad in an environmental suit, working to affix the flexible collar to the outer door. She could also see her ship; not good. Everyone would know they were there. She drummed her fingers in time to the minutes dragging on as Rodney did what he did best; there was nothing Sigrid could do to speed up the process.

“Got it!” Rodney signaled.

Sigrid had the door open and was already hoisting the first of the girls into the short, flexible tube that extended to her ship. One by one, the girls scurried through the tunnel. Dragging Karen through was a bit more awkward, but Khepri took as much care as she could.

“Go on,” Sigrid said to Suko, who was holding up the rear.

“What do you mean, go on?”

“The other girls—we can’t just leave them. And…I made a promise. I have to find Dr. Garrett.”

“Sigrid, they’re not…themselves anymore. I saw what they did to Lei-Fei. You can’t rescue them. They’ll only try to kill you.”

Sigrid’s jaw tightened. “I have to try.”

“All right, then I’m coming with you.”

“Suko, you’re hurt—half your implants are deactivated.”

Suko sealed the airlock as she stepped clear. “And you’re wasting time.”

Sigrid sighed and keyed her comlink. “Christian…get the ship out of here.”

“What? Sigrid, we’re not leaving without you.”

Sigrid couldn’t contain her frustration. “Will everyone stop arguing with me! I’m not asking you to abandon me—just get the ship safe. I can’t leave yet.”

“Sigrid…” It was Selene’s voice this time. “That base is crawling with CTF troops. I—we just thought you should know.”

“Thanks. We’ll be careful. And don’t go too far. I’ll want you on station when we’re ready.”

“We’ll be there before you can sign off. Don’t worry. And, Sigrid…good luck.”

“What’s that?” Suko asked, not having heard the exchange.

“We’re going to have some more company.”

Suko winked. “Brilliant.”

Sigrid watched the collar retract as her ship blasted away from the asteroid’s surface. She suddenly felt very, very alone. Suko grabbed her arm and gave it a squeeze. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

“One sec,” Sigrid said, bending and rummaging through the bag she’d brought; it still lay on the ground in the airlock. She pulled out the bulky weapon and slung it over her back.

“That’s a little inelegant, don’t you think?” Suko said, eyeing the hulking rocket launcher.

Sigrid laughed. “I also have a little something for you.” She bent down and pulled an auto-loading-grenade launcher from the bag. She handed it to Suko. “I think the time for quiet has passed.”

“No kidding.”

With no one to slow them down, they made swift and silent headway toward the habitat—to the one place Suko had seen Dr. Garret: the Medical Facility. The deeper they went into the base, the more they could hear of the battle being waged—growing louder, ever closer.

“At least it’s keeping them occupied,” Suko said.

“For the moment.”

The medical center was three levels below. The two girls leapt down the metal stairs as fast as they could. They burst through the doors, startling the three medical technicians cowering there. Sigrid’s pistols were in her hands and two quick shots went into the legs of two of the men. The technicians howled in pain, falling to the floor. The last one, a woman, raised her hands and screamed.

“Dr. Garrett,” Sigrid demanded. “Where is she?”

Terrified, the woman pointed; Sigrid grabbed her by the collar and pushed her to the front to lead the way. The frightened woman led them down two more corridors before she pointed again. “There! She should be there.”

Sigrid clouted her on the back of the neck and eased her smoothly to the floor.

Suko looked at her with wide eyes. “You don’t mess around, do you.”

Sigrid snorted.

The door the woman had indicated was locked so Sigrid kicked it in rather than slowing to hack the electronic lock.

An astonished Dr. Garrett looked up at her rescue party. “Girls!” She ran to them, wrapping them in her arms.

Sigrid had only ever seen Dr. Garrett when perfectly put together; she was always neatly groomed and dressed. But the woman Sigrid saw before her was almost unrecognizable. They’d taken her clothes and dressed her in the same grey coveralls that they’d given to Suko and Khepri. Her hair was matted, and she looked exhausted and filthy.

“How did you find me? When did you get here?”

“Later,” Sigrid said. “Dr. Garrett…Lei-Fei, Tara, Christi…we still need to find them.”

Dr. Garrett grabbed Sigrid’s arm. “I know where they are, but…Sigrid, I don’t know if they…I’m not sure if we can save them.”

“Why? What happened? Do you know what they did?” Sigrid asked.

“Yes, they…” Dr. Garrett studied the floor, ashamed. “They…I… altered their Control Program. I didn’t want to…they made me. I was afraid if I didn’t—I thought it would be worse.”

“It’s all right, Doctor.”

Suko fixed her eyes on Dr. Garrett. “Sara said you did the same to us. Is it true?”

Dr. Garrett looked up. “What? No!”

“But it’s possible, isn’t it,” Suko said. “You could program us.”

Dr. Garrett nodded slowly. “It was part of the…contingency. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

“We can discuss this later,” Sigrid said, with some urgency. “Doctor, you have to take us to the girls. We have to try.”

“Of course. Follow me—quickly.”

Dr. Garrett led them through the twisting corridors to another room. This one held several beds, all of them hooked up to banks of monitors and computers. Suko recognized the room—the same one where she had been brought—but now it looked abandoned.

“They were here,” Dr. Garrett said. “This is where they were treating them…It’s where they worked on the girls. I saw—”

“Wait!” Suko said, and Sigrid saw it too—the one bed, in the far corner held a shape, almost hidden under the sheet draped over it.

Sigrid pulled back the covering. It was Tara. Her eyes were closed and there was no color in her face. She was dead.

“Bastards!” Dr. Garrett cried. “I warned them. I told them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

Sigrid squeezed her shoulder. “Come on. We still need to find the others.”

She nodded, steadying herself. “Of course. They must be in the programming facility. Come, I’ll take you there.”

Dr. Garrett hurried out into the hall just as Sigrid’s sensors exploded in alarm.

“Wait, Doctor!”

Dr. Garrett looked back over her shoulder. Sigrid grabbed her arm, pulling her back from the hall just as she felt the concussive surge of a blast. The ground exploded before them, sending them all flying backwards. Sigrid hit the wall hard, shielding her face from the falling debris. Suko landed on top of her—both girls coughed, wiping at their stinging eyes.

Dr. Garrett lay beside them, bloodied, but still, somehow, alive. “I’m okay,” she assured them.

Sigrid and Suko were both on their feet, grabbing up their dropped weapons. Sigrid’s scanners showed a platoon of fifteen soldiers moving toward them down the hall. She signaled to Suko, indicating the number and direction. Suko nodded, hefting the grenade launcher. She fired three times, bouncing the little grenades off the wall and out into the corridor. In an instant it was awash with searing flame and falling debris and charred body parts.

Sigrid launched herself into the fray, charging into the corridor. Even through the smoke, her targets were displayed and locked in her HUD. Sigrid fired quickly, shot after shot from her pistols, never stopping, always moving. Her programming functioned optimally, anticipating and logging each threat, reacting before any threat could be brought to bear on her. Ducking, rolling and diving, she came up in the midst of the surviving soldiers and drew the katana. In her hands, it became a spinning whirlwind of death. The cries of the dying gave way to silence, and as the smoke cleared, Sigrid counted the bodies of the fallen CTF soldiers at her feet. All accounted for.

Dr. Garrett was still reeling from the concussive effects of the blast; she let Suko help her along.

“You’re shot!” Suko cried as they approached.

Sigrid looked down and saw the wounds; her leg had a deep gash where it had been grazed by a bullet. There was a long, bloody tear below her breast in the fabric of her outfit. Another bullet had penetrated her forearm, passing clean through. She could already feel the nano-swarms moving to repair the damage, even shielding her from the pain.

Suko steadied her, trembling as she scanned Sigrid for further injuries.

“I’m all right,” Sigrid assured her. “I’ll be okay.”

Their brief respite was broken by the sounds of more troops heading toward them—many more.

“We’re not getting out that way,” Sigrid said.

There had to be another option. Wehr had given her as much information as he was able, but they were hardly detailed schematics.

“Back,” Sigrid said, gesturing to the stairwell at the other end of the corridor.

Suko frowned. “Back?”

“We need to head down. We’ll go through the mines.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

The two girls hoisted Dr. Garrett off the ground and set off at a searing pace. Down the levels they went, back to the depths of the mining facility, slowing only when Sigrid was sure there was no more sign of pursuit. They found themselves in one of the many access tunnels that led even further into the belly of the asteroid. Ahead, it was completely black, the tunnel having long been vacated by the miners.

“I think we lost them,” Sigrid said.

“Well, yeah! That’s because there’s no way out this way.”

Switching to her night-vision, Sigrid scanned the blackness ahead. It was cold, empty and creepy. “There’s got to be a way out. A ventilation or maintenance shaft, or something.”

“How’s that?” Suko asked.

“Because there’s still air. It has to lead somewhere.”

“Yes. It leads down.”

Sigrid shrugged and chuckled. “It’s an asteroid—if we go down long enough, we’ll eventually be going up.”

* * *

Selene looked over her shoulder as Christian came into the bridge. “How is it back there?”

“Crowded,” Christian said, settling into his seat. “Karen’s hurt, but I think she’ll be okay.”

Rodney’s voice came over the com. “Hey, guys. I think we have a problem.”

Selene hit the com. “What is it, Rodney?”

“Uh…it’s this whole stealth thingy…”

“I believe that’s the technical term,” Christian muttered.

“Uh—I don’t think it was ever meant to be used this long.”

“What’s the problem?” Selene asked.

“I think…”

“Rodney!” Selene said, in earnest. “Get to the point.”

“I think it just broke.”

* * *

Sigrid jumped, startled, as she heard her comlink buzz for her attention. Someone from the Morrigan was trying to get through, but the signal was weak, blocked by hundreds of meters of rock.

“Christian?”

“Sigrid…” She could hardly hear his voice. “We have a problem. We’ve lost the stealth field. Rodney’s trying to fix it, but he says it’s fried. We’ve put the asteroid between us and those CTF destroyers, but….”

Shit. There was nothing her small ship could do against a pair of destroyers—even a crippled one. And the remainder of the task force would be arriving soon. “Get clear, Christian. Get the girls through the Relay.”

“No way—not going to happen.”

“Christian—stop arguing with me. There’s nothing more you can do. Just get yourselves to safety.”

“What about you?” Selene demanded.

Indeed, Sigrid wondered. “You worry about the ship. I’ll worry about us.”

Seconds went by, and all Sigrid heard was static, and then she heard Christian’s glum voice, “Aye, ma’am. Good luck.”

Suko leaned close, whispering in her ear. “I guess we just lost our transportation.”

“We’ll find a way,” Sigrid said—with more conviction than she felt.

There was still the matter of finding their way out of the mines. Sigrid started ahead, leading both of them by the hand. Suko’s optics had been disabled, so neither she nor Dr. Garrett could see anything in the pitch blackness of the mine. They walked in silence for close to ten minutes; even Sigrid was starting to question her choice of direction. She had to find a way out and find it soon. Please.

Sigrid was still scanning ahead, searching through the darkness for a way out when she sensed something. She came to a sudden stop, squeezing Suko’s hand. Neither woman made a sound. Sigrid was sure she’d seen something…

Very quietly, she helped Dr. Garrett and Suko to the side of the shaft. The rocky walls were jagged and uneven, providing plenty of cover for them—but also for whoever lurked further ahead.

“What is it?” Suko whispered.

“Trouble. Stay here.”

Sigrid eased ahead, keeping close to the wall, searching through the darkness. She couldn’t see anything, but the hairs on her neck bristled. She nearly leapt out of her boots when she felt Suko’s hand on her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Sigrid asked.

“Helping you.”

Sigrid sighed—there was no point in arguing with her. “There’s something up ahead. At least, I could have sworn…”

“I felt it too. I guess it’s good news in a way.”

“How’s that good news?”

“Well, if they’re here, then there really must be another way out—or in. You know what I mean.”

“I see your point.”

They crept further along the sloping tunnel, but Sigrid couldn’t scan anything. She was starting to wonder if she’d imagined it.

“Close your eyes,” Sigrid said, taking a flashbang from her belt. She rolled the grenade forward; the pebble-sized grenade bounced along the floor of the tunnel. Sigrid shielded her eyes as the grenade went off. A combination of the flashes, squeals and smoke pervaded the darkness—Lei-Fei, Christi and Sara, stumbled out from their cover, eyes still full of green neon from the burning flare of the flashbang. Sigrid’s guns were in her hands, but she hesitated. She hadn’t come all this way to kill them.

“Sara!” Sigrid called. “I have a ship. I can get us all out of here.”

Sara’s reply was a torrent of bullets unleashed in their direction, but Sigrid had already dragged Suko into the cover of the rocky outcroppings along the wall.

“I heard your little conversation. You just sent your ship away. You’re trapped.”

“So are you,” Sigrid countered. “Those Federation troops aren’t here to rescue you.”

“I’m not worried about them. They’re far more afraid of us, trust me. Don’t fight me, Sigrid. We’re on the same side.”

“So what about Mei, Leia and Petra?” Suko called out. “We saw what they did to Tara. Are you on their side as well? They’re too dead to care, of course.”

“They’re dead because Dr. Garrett wouldn’t help them,” Sara called out, louder. “Isn’t that right, Doctor? You could have saved them.”

Dr. Garrett came out from her cover and felt her way forward. “It’s not that simple, Sara. I warned them of the dangers.”

“But you didn’t warn us.”

“No…we didn’t. I’m sorry for that.”

Sigrid could feel the regret thrumming in Dr. Garrett’s voice.

“Too late, Doctor.”

“Let us go,” Sigrid said. “Better still, come with us. We can get out of here together.”

Sigrid endured the uneasy silence until Sara said, “All right—throw out your weapons first. No tricks.”

Sigrid began unfastening her holster; she felt Suko’s hand grab her arm.

“No! Sigrid…it’s a trick. She’s lying. Please don’t…”

Sigrid hesitated, but she patted Suko’s hand. “It’s okay.”

She tossed the belt with her pistols out onto the floor of the shaft, slowly emerging with her hands out wide. With her optics, she could easily see the three girls up ahead of her, about twenty meters down the tunnel; Sara, in the powered-armor, with Lei-Fei and Christi flanking her. They held weapons, raised and aimed at her, but the faces of the two girls were set blank and lifeless. And their vital signs seemed oddly low.

“Suko too,” Sara said.

“No,” Sigrid said, motioning Suko back into cover. “‘Together’ was the deal. We’ll not go as prisoners.”

“If we’re getting out of here, we’re going to need weapons,” Sara said.

“Yes—but not aimed at us.”

“All right!” Annoyed, Sara lowered her weapon. “Now tell Suko to come out where we can see her—and Dr. Garrett.”

“What about them?” Sigrid asked, looking at Lei-Fei and Christi, who still had their weapons raised.

“Them?” Sara laughed. “They’ll do whatever I tell them.”

“Then tell them.”

Sara seemed to consider this, and finally nodded. “Stand down. Don’t fire on them.”

Sigrid held her ground. “Now, tell them they’re not to harm us.”

Sara looked to the two girls at her side. “You are not to attack them. You hear me?”

Lei-Fei and Christi obediently lowered their rifles.

“Now let’s go,” Sara said.

“Wait,” Sigrid said. “I have your word? You won’t harm us or try to turn us over?”

Sara sighed impatiently. “Yes. I promise. We won’t try anything. Satisfied?”

“Very,” Sigrid said.

Without warning, Sigrid launched herself at Sara, who grunted in surprise and brought her gun up, but Sigrid was already diving out of the way. Her hands reached into her boots, drawing a pair of knives as she rolled to her feet; the deadly blades blurring in rotation as they rushed to greet Sara.

Sara ducked the throws easily, but was thrown off her aim and her shots went high.

Sigrid dived on her, tackled her, pounded her face with angry fists.

Sara grabbed her; her already genetically modified strength was magnified by the powered-armor she wore. She threw Sigrid off easily, roaring with rage as she grabbed for her rifle. She leapt on top of Sigrid and pinned her to the ground, pressing the muzzle of the rifle up against her neck.

“You crazy fucking bitch! I told you I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

Sigrid fought for breath under the crushing weight of the girl’s armor. She stared up at her; the familiar glow of hatred had returned to her hawk-like eyes.

“You lied.”

Sigrid had monitored their conversation closely. She knew Sara had no intention of cooperating with them. None of that mattered now. She could see Sara’s knuckle, white, on the trigger of her rifle. Sigrid had gambled and lost.

Sara’s eyes flared. “I should have killed you in the CTF Tower. I should have killed you on Alcyone. I always hated you, you stupid little bitch.”

“I told you to leave her alone,” Suko said from somewhere in the shadows.

Sara looked up in surprise.

A shot rang out. Sara’s head jerked back, blood poured from the hole in her forehead as she slumped on top of her. Sigrid groaned under the dead weight of the girl in her armor.

It took all of her strength, and Suko’s, to roll Sara off her.

“She always was a lying bitch,” Suko said, helping Sigrid up.

Sigrid studied her in the dark. “I didn’t think you could see anything.”

“I can’t—I just followed her voice.”

“You might have hit me!”

Suko feigned a hurt expression. “Never. Now come on.”

Sigrid grabbed a flare from Sara’s belt and lit it. Lei-Fei and Christi still stood there silently.

Suko reached out a cautious hand and touched Christi; the girls were like cold, stone statues. “Are they going to be all right? I mean, you don’t think they’ll attack us, do you?”

“I don’t know. They seem to be obeying Sara’s orders.”

“Let’s just hope they obey ours.”

Sigrid nodded.

They quickly gathered their weapons up and retrieved Dr. Garrett. Mercifully, Lei-Fei and Christi seemed just as willing to follow their orders in place of Sara’s, but Sigrid took the precaution of removing their weapons from them—just in case.

They found the maintenance shaft Sara had used, and proceeded to haul Dr. Garrett up the 300 meter length of it until they reached the top. The sounds of battle raged louder here. The sound of death; the CTF soldiers were already mopping-up the remainder of the routed Scorpii forces.

“The hangar should be this way,” Sigrid said, leading them cautiously down another corridor.

There was a monitoring station just above the hangar, occupied by a squad of Marines; Suko made quick work of them with one of the tiny gas grenades, plucked from the seam of Sigrid’s bra. Two large windows gave a clear view of the loading bay below. It was bristling with CTF troops. Evidence of the fierce battle was strewn everywhere—the destroyed, burning hulks of Mechs and bodies, scattered, twisted, over the floor of the bay.

The shuttles were gone, but the bay was full of the CTF Naval drop ships used to ferry the soldiers back and forth from the carrier.

“Now what?” Suko asked.

“We take one of those,” Sigrid said. “That one.” She pointed to the drop ship nearest to the hangar doors.

“I’ll take the one next to it,” Suko said.

“What?”

Suko shrugged. “Why steal one when you can steal two for the same price?”

“All right, but let me go first. You take the others—I’ll get the guards attention.”

“You? Why do you get the dangerous assignment?”

“Because, I can do this, silly.” Sigrid winked and shrouded herself, disappearing from view.

“When we get out of here, you’re showing me how to do that.”

“I promise,” Sigrid said, delivering a moist kiss to Suko’s lips.

Suko wriggled from Sigrid’s invisible embrace. “Now, that’s just weird.”

Sigrid snorted and lowered herself from the open window. She padded silently toward the waiting drop ship. The soldiers were mostly concentrating on the main entrance to the mining facility, but even the soldiers facing her failed to notice as she slipped by them and climbed carefully into the small ship.

She took quick stock of the craft and its controls. The ship wasn’t much different from the Kingfishers they’d used on Alcyone. Sigrid hoped the controls were similar—she couldn’t find any of the specs for the craft in her database.

“Here goes nothing,” Sigrid muttered as she eased the power up, lifting the craft off the ground.

The alarms shrieked out a hooting cacophony, and all around her she could see the CTF soldiers running toward her, raising their weapons.

“Uh-oh,” Sigrid said. She blasted upward, bouncing into the ceiling-netting. “Whoops!” The controls were extremely sensitive. She throttled back, and promptly crashed back down to the floor. Soldiers and personnel dived out of the way, pointing and screaming up at her. “Sorry!” Sigrid called out.

More troops were pouring in through the main entrance; Sigrid wheeled the ship hard about, releasing the safeties on the missile pods mounted on the ship’s side. She hit the trigger and watched four missiles arc out. The explosions ripped through the doors and into the corridor beyond, sending men and machinery flying in every direction. Switching to the chain gun mounted in the nose, Sigrid spun the ship in a circle, spraying the ground around her with a chattering burst of fire.

All the attention was focused on her. No one saw the four women at the far end running for the other drop ship. Once they were in, Sigrid aimed her ship at the hangar doors and unleashed another barrage of missiles. The high-yield warheads ripped the metal doors apart, the rush of escaping atmosphere whisking away what was left of them. It took all the drop ship’s power to keep it from sailing out of the bay, out of control, but Sigrid’s frantic adjustments held the craft in place. Once the turbulence had abated, she pushed the power forward, easing the craft out through the narrow opening, and out into space.

Sigrid slipped her headset on. “You with me?”

“I-firmative,” Suko responded.

Sigrid breathed a sigh.

Now what? They were free of the base, but the drop ships were only designed for short hops. They’d never make it to the Relay, let alone have the power to push through it. At each stage, Sigrid had been thinking on her feet, moving from one obstacle to the next, but this one was different. How could she break the intrinsic laws of physics?

The answer lay ahead of her. Sigrid set a course toward the hulking troop carrier before her, still in orbit around the asteroid.

“Uh, Sigrid…” Suko’s voice crackled over the com. “You’re going toward that? Shouldn’t we be going away?”

“I have an idea,” Sigrid said. She pushed forward on the power, accelerating to maximum.

The commander of the carrier had different ideas; the giant ship opened up with all its armaments, firing wildly at her small drop ship.

“Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea,” she said, arcing her ship over, and out of the larger ship’s weapons range. She had hoped to get much closer to the carrier, maybe even get aboard before they’d realized who was piloting the craft. But clearly, someone aboard the carrier was far more diligent in their duties than she’d expected.

“They’re launching fighters!” Suko warned her.

“Shit.” Her slow moving transport was no match for even one of them, and by her calculations they’d be on her in a matter of minutes. “Get clear, Suko. Run.”

Sigrid rolled her ship over on its axis and accelerated toward the oncoming fighters.

“Sigrid! Don’t you dare.”

Sigrid quickly calculated the trajectories of the fighters, pushing her craft forward onto a collision course with the lead ship. She swept an arc across all their paths with the chain gun in the nose of the ship. It was desperate, but she knew the small slugs were still capable of holing the fighters—if she scored several lucky hits, if they failed to maneuver out of the path of her desperate attack.

With so many ‘ifs’ she wasn’t expecting them to explode—which was what each of them did, in quick succession.

“What the…?”

The proximity alarm bleated a warning on the control console; Sigrid jerked the controls hard over, narrowly avoiding a collision with a ship that clipped across her path in a blur.

It was the Morrigan.

Sigrid heard Selene’s voice over her comlink. “Just what kind of crazy stunt were you trying to pull?”

“Erm…well…” Sigrid replied, too stunned and elated to expand further.

“Get yourself clear, missy,” Selene chided.

“Yes, ma’am!” Sigrid said, doing exactly that.

She watched on her screen as the Morrigan swung around in an easy curve toward the CTF troop transport. The bulky ship was firing all its thrusters, desperately trying to maneuver, but it was too big, too slow, built for hauling and not combat. The Morrigan raked it stem to stern with tens of thousands of rounds from its twin rail-guns and a full spread of torpedoes.

Burning chunks of the carrier broke off amid several explosions as the ship started venting atmosphere from its compartments. The coup de gras was delivered as the rail guns reached the stern of the ship and tore apart the main engines. One moment Sigrid was looking at a ship, the next it became a grenade of debris and wreckage exploding outward; she was forced to employ some fancy maneuvering to avoid the hail of shrapnel.

“Thanks, Selene,” Sigrid said, blowing a deep sigh.

“Our pleasure—Stay there. We’ll swing back around and pick you up.”

Within minutes, both drop ships had docked and transferred to the Morrigan. Sigrid stared in amazement at the interior of her ship; it was so incredibly crowded. Every centimeter was jam-packed with the young girls from Alcyone, along with her crew and friends. Sigrid weaved quickly and carefully through the swell of bodies as she made her way to the bridge.

Suko was already there—waiting. She swept Sigrid into her arms, smothering her with a long, deep kiss. “Don’t you ever try that again.”

“Never. I promise.”

“Glad to have you back in one piece,” Selene said over her shoulder.

“What’s the status?”

“Other than the stealth system, we’re fully functional and clear to maneuver. I’ve got us on a wide trajectory back to the Warp Relay. That should keep us clear of those destroyers.”

“What about the other ships?” Sigrid asked.

Selene shook her head. “They’re moving to cut us off, but they’re still too far out. They committed all their ships to the attack on the Scorpii forces. I don’t think they were expecting us to be in the mix.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Very well. Take us to the Relay.” Sigrid leaned over her and keyed a series of numbers into the navigational array. “I want you to warp to these coordinates.”

Selene studied the numbers and frowned at Sigrid. “Uh—begging your pardon, but those…those don’t go anywhere.”

Suko squeezed her arm. “Sigrid?”

“There’s no Relay listed in the database there,” Selene explained. “If we go there, if there’s no Relay, there’s no way back.”

Sigrid felt the familiar doubt growing inside her again. Would Hitomi lie? Is this why she left—to trap them? No. She couldn’t believe that. Whatever Sigrid thought of Kimura, she trusted Lady Hitomi. She was one of them.

“That’s the heading, Ms. Tseng. That’s where we’re going.”

Selene let out a breath and shrugged. “Okie dokie.”

Sigrid caught Suko’s stare as she held her hand. “It’s all right. I know what I’m doing.”

She hoped.

It took three days for them to reach the Relay—more than enough time for doubt to creep further into Sigrid’s thoughts. Where was Hitomi sending them? And what would they find on the other side?

Sigrid spent most of her time caring for the young girls. She warmed to the actions of Cherry and Honey, who took to caring for all the girls, making sure that each of them got enough to eat, even working a schedule so they could all make use of the ship’s limited bathroom facilities.

As they closed on the Relay, there was little more to do than wait. The crippled CTF destroyers, ever present on their tail, were drifting further and further behind. When time allowed, Sigrid visited Karen in the cramped infirmary; she was recuperating well, and in good spirits. In engineering, Rodney and Christian continued to wrestle with Hitomi’s stealth system, but neither of them were able to figure the thing out. As far as Rodney was concerned, the whole thing was voodoo.

Sigrid was having a rare moment to herself in the ship’s head, when she felt someone pushing the door open.

“Occupied!” she cried, alarmed and covering herself. Her one-piece outfit was down around her ankles—it clearly hadn’t been designed with latrines in mind, she thought. The door pushed open and Suko slipped in.

Sigrid laughed her relief. “I thought it was one of the little ones again. They certainly ask a lot of questions.”

Suko closed the door and grinned. “Bloody ankle-biters.”

Sigrid flushed the loo and stood up, struggling to pull her suit up in the cramped space of the head. Her eyes fell on Suko; she’d forgone the grey coverall and now wore a pair of Sigrid’s shorts and a T-Shirt. The shirt was clearly too small, leaving a portion of her midriff exposed, and the shorts, were a little snug; Sigrid couldn’t help but admire how the outfit highlighted her long, slender form in a much more flattering fashion than the awful prison garb had.

Suko’s hands fell self-consciously over the clingy clothes. “They’re a little tight, I know.”

Sigrid winked. “I hope that’s not a knock at my size.”

“Not at all. I’m quite fond of your sizes.”

Sigrid tilted her head up, standing slightly on her toes, putting her face close to Suko’s. “You know, I’ve been wondering how to get you alone, all this time. I never considered the head.”

“Well, don’t get any ideas now. I only came in to tell you they need you on the bridge.”

Sigrid ignored her, pressing up against her and kissing her with such a passion that it took them both by surprise.

But when Sigrid’s hands slid under her shirt, Suko pulled back, taking a deep breath. “Wow. I…can’t believe I’m saying this…but they really do need you.”

Sigrid straightened, surprised. “What—really?”

Suko pointed at the door. “Selene says we’re almost at the Relay. You better get up there.” She laughed. “Sorry.”

Sigrid zipped her suit up the rest of the way and quickly straightened her hair. “Oh, you are seriously trying to get me in trouble.”

“Me! I only came in to deliver the news. You know what they say—don’t kiss the messenger.”

“I think that’s kill. We’ll finish this later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Slipping as casually as possible out of the head, and carefully negotiating the girls sitting in the hall outside, Sigrid led Suko by the hand toward the bridge.

Selene and Christian looked over their shoulders as they came in.

“Glad you finally found her,” Selene said with a smirk. “I was about to send the search party.”

“Sorry,” Sigrid said taking her seat in the command chair, with Suko at her side.

Selene had already sent the navigational commands to the Relay; Sigrid watched the towering halo-like structure as it turned on its axis, powering up and aligning itself.

“We’re set,” Selene said. “You sure about these coordinates?”

“I’m sure,” Sigrid said; but her palms were sweaty, and she knew that Suko could feel the doubt in her. And there was one thing she needed to take care of—something she’d been thinking of since they’d left the base. “Lieutenant Lopez, do we still have any of those mines?”

Christian nodded. “Just the one.”

“Very well. I want you to set it for a two-minute delay. I want you to launch it before we drop.”

Christian swallowed and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Suko squeezed her hand, looked at her intently. “Sigrid? Are you sure about this?”

“I’m not letting any of them come after us. I’m through being hunted. Whatever they started—it ends here.”

Selene chuckled. “Daedalus won’t be very happy with you.”

“They can send me a bill.”

“Thirty-seconds to drop,” Selene said.

Sigrid signaled to Christian and nodded. “Drop the mine, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They could hear the distant thunk of the mine dropping from the mounting rack in the stern. The ship was closing fast on the Relay, accelerating forward, making its final course corrections. They passed quickly through the warp field and the stars became needles of light; then came the familiar long, white flash, followed by the glittering of the stars as they coalesced again before them.

The huddle of observers gasped as they gazed through the viewport, craning their necks to look more closely. Warp jumps were always performed outside of stellar systems, both incoming and outgoing. The risk of even the slightest gravitational anomalies, or collisions with debris, let alone planetary bodies, was far too great to attempt within the confines of a solar system. But the Morrigan had emerged from warp space directly in the orbit of a massive gas giant surrounded by countless moons, several of them much larger than Earth. Sigrid knew it was a miracle that they hadn’t suffered a collision, or been pulled off-course. And then she had a horrible thought—perhaps they had.

“Dear God,” Selene said.

“Where the hell are we?” Christian asked.

Selene’s hands flew over the navigational controls, scanning quickly for any indication of their location. “Pegasi—it’s Pegasi.”

“Uh-oh…” Christian said, peering closely at his own monitors. “There’s…there’s no Relay…”

Sigrid felt the knot in her stomach again. If there was no Relay…why did Hitomi tell us to come here? Frantically, Sigrid checked and double-checked the coordinates, but they were correct. They were exactly where Hitomi had told them go. To go through all this…

“I trusted her…”

Chapter 22

Medea

––––––––

With no sign of a Warp Relay, Sigrid’s focus shifted away from Hitomi and why she’d directed them there, to the simple matter of survival. They wouldn’t survive for long on the small scout vessel. The environmental controls were already being pushed beyond their limits and soon the food stores would run out.

The Pegasi system held several earth-type planets, three of them in orbit around the gas-giant that loomed so close to them.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Sigrid said. “Hitomi must have known we could survive here.”

“Survive? But we’re prisoners,” Suko said, bleakness in her voice. “Is this just to get rid of us?”

“I don’t know.”

After studying the options, they picked the planet that promised to be the most hospitable. From what they could tell, it was a veritable paradise, lush and green, with a mild, temperate climate. It was largely covered in blue oceans, but there were several sizable islands dotting its surface.

“Incredible,” Christian said. “I’ve…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Sigrid took a deep breath. “Take us in, Selene. I suppose we should go investigate. It appears this is our new home.”

Selene nodded silently, angling the ship down and breaking through the wispy atmosphere.

Suko gave Sigrid’s hand a squeeze as they cast their eyes over the blue oceans. “It’ll be okay,” she said, looking bravely at Sigrid.

“Where do you want to set down?” Selene asked.

“Anywhere—pick your favorite—pilot’s discretion.”

Selene chuckled and nodded. “How about somewhere hot? I think we could all use a nice relaxing vacation on a beach somewhere.”

“Not too hot,” Christian said. “I burn easily.”

The easy banter relieved some of Sigrid’s stress; she felt responsible for them all being trapped here. No, she was responsible.

Her mood lightened further when Karen joined them on the bridge, easing gingerly into one of the empty seats. “Where are we?” she asked.

Sigrid couldn’t bring herself to answer.

Christian spoke up. “We’re at Pegasi.”

“Pegasi!” Karen said. “But there’s no Relay at Pegasi.” Karen looked at all of them, at the grim look on their faces. She sank back in her seat. “Oh.”

“Uh…wait a minute,” Selene said. “I think I found our island.”

Sigrid sat up straighter. “Where?”

Selene swiveled around in her seat, eyes wide with excitement. “There!” she said, pointing out the window.

Sigrid leaned forward and stared at the sight before her. There, down below, on one of the larger islands, was a settlement of sorts. It was small—only a few buildings, but it was definitely a settlement. “There are people!”

“I know!” Selene exclaimed.

“Who—what?” Suko asked.

The com squawked for their attention, causing them all to jump. Christian leapt for the button to open the channel, but Sigrid beat him to it. “Hello?”

“Hello, yourself,” Lady Hitomi Kimura said. “Welcome to Medea. What took you so long?”

Chapter 23

New Home

––––––––

June 21, 2348

Lady Hitomi Kimura stared up into the sky at Medea’s newest satellite. Construction on the new Warp Relay was nearly complete, and the 400 meter-wide structure could clearly be seen through the pair of binoculars she carried. She watched for a few minutes as the Daedalus crews began maneuvering the last of the sections into position before handing the binoculars back to the man at her side.

“Thank you, Joffrey,” she said. “Just think. In a few more days, you’ll be free of this place. Although I can’t imagine why you’d be in such a rush to leave.” Hitomi looked down the beach at the group of girls cavorting in the shallow surf, while others languished on the shore under the warm sun.

Joffrey grunted, not letting his eyes linger.

“Why, Joffrey, I do believe you’re blushing.”

“Perhaps you might arrange for some bathing costumes for the girls…”

Hitomi let out a sympathetic laugh at the man’s discomfort. His name was Joffrey Deschamps, CEO of the Daedalus Corporation. Hitomi had always found him handsome, in a rather dashing sort of way. She didn’t think he looked at all out of place in the paradisiacal setting, standing there, barefoot on the soft, sandy beach. She knew that he was not at all happy having to be there, but Hitomi hadn’t given him much choice.

It had taken time, but she had finally repaired the message Sigrid had found, and the message had revealed a great deal. What they had found turned out not to be a letter, but a file detailing all of Daedalus’ payments to the Dalair Mercenary Group. Daedalus had been behind the attempt on the Agatsuma. They had forged the Permit for Seizure, and worse, they had taken bribes to divulge information on traffic through the relay system. It was an understatement to say that the Federated Corporations would not be at all pleased with Daedalus—should they find out.

No one would tolerate anything less than complete neutrality from Daedalus. Learning of their attempt against Kimura would be the excuse many corporations were looking for to finally move against the giant company and break its hold over the relay technology. Learning of the bribes and payoffs would be their undoing.

“This makes us even, you realize,” Joffrey said, looking up in the direction of the Relay. “My debt to your father is repaid after this.”

“Of course. But let us not forget our agreement…”

“Yes, yes—no one will know of this Relay. Not our Board, not the shareholders.”

Hitomi looked up at him slyly. “No one can ever know, Joffrey. Unless you wish to see how widely and how quickly I can make copies of that file available. People would not be pleased with you.”

“You have my word, Hitomi. No one will find out about the Pegasi Relay.”

She patted his hand. “That’s all I can ask.”

“You know, I could have just left you here,” he said with mock indignation.

“Ah, but that’s why I insisted you come along. Now, let’s enjoy this wonderful sunshine. I may even arrange to take a dip. Perhaps with your assistance…” Hitomi held her hand up to him.

* * *

Five of the young ones raced along the beach, leaping over Sigrid and Suko, who lay basking in the afternoon sun. All five girls cleared them easily, but kicked up a good amount of sand, spraying Sigrid for the most part.

“Hey!” Sigrid was still dripping wet from her swim and the sand stuck to her bare skin. “Oh, look, they got sand everywhere.” Sigrid brushed the sand from her stomach and thighs, aided a great deal more than was necessary by Suko, whose hands seemed to linger on various parts of Sigrid’s exposed flesh.

Sigrid laughed. “Not here,” she protested, but no one seemed to be taking any notice.

“Come on. Let’s go wash that sand off.”

Hand-in-hand, the two girls walked back toward the water.

After more than a month on Medea, Suko still claimed she was unable to swim, but Sigrid knew she was only pretending.

“No! You have to save me,” she said, splashing Sigrid and diving into her arms. “See. I’m sinking.” Suko kicked and splashed and Sigrid held her in her arms, floating easily in the salty water.

It had taken a while to adjust to life on Medea—strange to have to adjust to the idea that no one was trying to kill them—but the last month had been the most pleasant and peaceful of Sigrid’s life. And no one seemed eager to leave once the new Relay was complete—not even Honey and Cherry. Sigrid had discovered their real names were Stefani and Katherine, and they were content to stay, at least for a while. They were further down the beach, the surf washing over their toes as they collected the little shells that washed up in the sand. Rodney was eagerly pointing out various aspects of the marine life to the two girls, who were rapt with fascination. Like most of them, Honey and Cherry had probably never even seen an ocean up close before.

“Hello!” Karen called from the beach, arms waving.

Both girls waved back and swam toward the shore. As they strolled back through the surf, another splashing group of girls ran giggling by.

“Oh my,” Karen said, jumping out of the way. Always well-dressed, Karen had on a little bikini, in deep burnt-orange and red. It was daringly cut and very brief, but still she blushed at the sight of the two girls before her who wore nothing at all. “Why is it I suddenly feel a tad overdressed?”

Sigrid and Suko laughed.

Suko said, “Sorry. We didn’t exactly get a chance to pack our togs.”

Karen blinked back her confusion.

Sigrid translated for her. “She means our swimsuits.”

“Oh…Well, when in Rome,” Karen said. Steeling her nerves, she slipped out of her bathing suit, still feeling a little self-conscious. “Well—that’s actually quite exhilarating!”

“We’re just glad you’re finally up and about,” Suko said.

“Dr. Garrett worked wonders. Look, you can’t even see where the bullets went in.”

A loud rumbling emanated from somewhere above followed by a telltale sonic boom; a ship had just entered the atmosphere. Sigrid froze and her head jerked up, scanning the heavens for the source.

She felt Suko’s hand tighten around her own. “They found us.”

“They couldn’t have,” Karen said.

“No, wait. Look!” Sigrid pointed up at the ship as it feathered its way down, circling ever lower. Zooming in, she could see now that it was just a shuttle, definitely a mercenary vessel. She could clearly make out the markings of the Athena Corp. “That’s one of Ms. Lawther’s ships.”

Sigrid grabbed both their hands and towed them quickly in the direction of the landing pads, stopping briefly to gather up their clothes.

“Gah!” Karen said, reaching for her discarded bathing suit, before hurrying after them.

They arrived in time to see the shuttle settling in on its landing struts. All the young ones from the beach had run up to witness the spectacle, even Hitomi and Joffrey had joined them on the rise. Sigrid was just pulling her shirt back on when the lower airlock opened and a very familiar redheaded girl leapt out.

“Leta!” Sigrid and Suko screamed, jumping forward and gathering her in a rib-crushing hug. “We’ve been so worried about you. Thank God you’re okay.” Leta looked sharp in her Mercenary Naval Cadet uniform.

“Us?” Leta said. “What about you! We all heard about Scorpii.”

“We? Who’s with you?” Suko asked.

“Why—all of us!”

Leta stepped out of the way, and sure enough, the rest of the girls from Alcyone began to emerge from the ship, each of them staring in wonder at the stretch of sandy beach and inviting waters, framed by swaying palms and tall grass.

“Holy…” one of them said, gaping, while the girl behind her shoved her along.

Marylyn Lawther stepped out of the airlock. “Marylyn!” Hitomi cried, wheeling herself forward and extending her hand to her friend.

She wore a ship’s uniform in her clan’s colors of red and gold. Sigrid noted the rank insignia of admiral on her collar. She also wore a large black sidearm on her hip. Sigrid expected she’d be quite capable of using it, as well. She was even more of a commanding presence than she’d been on Crucis.

Marylyn took Hitomi’s hands in her own. “Hitomi. What a wonderful spot you’ve chosen.”

“I’ve had my eye on it for some time. You remember Sigrid, of course.”

“Sigrid, so nice to see you again.”

Marylyn Lawther held out her hand to Sigrid who bowed deeply instead. “Lady Lawther.”

Marylyn chuckled. “Oh, you and your manners.”

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” Hitomi said. “I trust you didn’t have too much trouble with the authorities.”

“Oh, posh. We girls must stick together. And no, we intercepted the transport exactly where you said. I’d like to claim that I rescued them, but by the time we arrived your girls had the situation well in hand. I don’t think those CTF soldiers knew what they were taking on. The only problem we had was trying to convince the girls we weren’t there to harm them as well. Your girl here…” she said, nodding to Leta, “…proved invaluable. Without her I think they may very well have destroyed us! I’m just glad you decided to place some of them in our care at the Naval Academy.”

“I knew you’d take good care of them.”

“You should be very proud of them, Hitomi. The things I’ve seen…it’s no wonder they’ve caused such a stir.”

“I am proud. Very. I owe them my life,” she said, looking directly at Sigrid. “Now, come. We have much to discuss. I’ve prepared a delicious dinner for all of us. I think you’ll be quite pleased.”

“Wonderful. I’m absolutely ravenous.”

The two ladies headed off toward the larger of the two buildings that had been completed, while Sigrid led the others to their new quarters. Like the Annex, each of the girls would have their own accommodations; Hitomi was busy building a sprawling new complex to house all of them, with room for many, many more.

It was difficult to get them all settled. None of them would leave Sigrid’s side, demanding to know what had happened on Alcyone and Scorpii.

Sigrid gave in. She gathered everyone in the large common room so she could tell them all at once instead of over and over again. They’d heard of the attacks, but knew very few of the details. Sigrid told them everything—all of them listened without saying a word, although there were several gasps when Sigrid told them of her encounter with Sara, and more when she described the destruction of the elevator over Panama and their narrow escape. All the while she spoke, Suko held her hand, especially when Sigrid described the rescue of her and Khepri and the new girls from Scorpii.

The girls were extremely angry to hear of Mei and the others who were killed in the attempts to reprogram them, even more so to find that Lei-Fei and Christi still suffered. Dr. Garrett was confident she could restore them, but it would take time. Dr. Farrington’s work had been invasive and thorough, but also incredibly careless.

“We can’t let this ever happen again,” Leta said.

There was a murmuring of assent.

“But aren’t we prisoners still?” another girl asked. “We’re here—we may be safe—but will they ever let us leave?”

“Leave?” Khepri asked. “Where would we go? Anywhere we go they’ll hunt us down and kill us. Or worse. I saw what they did to the others. That’s not going to happen to me.”

The girls started talking all at once, arguing over whether to stay or go, or whether they even had a choice in the matter.

Sigrid listened for a few minutes before raising her hands, asking for silence. “You’re all free to go.” A hush fell over the room at that. “You’re also more than welcome to stay. You won’t be safe on Earth, or anywhere else right now. But I promise, whatever you choose, it will be your choice. No one will tell you what you can or can’t do anymore.”

“What about school?” one of the younger ones asked. Her name was Lilith and she was nearly twelve. “Do we still have to study?”

Sigrid smiled. “Yes. You still need to keep to your studies. Now more than ever. But you’re all free.” Sigrid glanced at Suko who was still holding onto her hand. “This is my home now. I know I’m staying right here, and I hope you all will too.”

Lilith looked up at her. “Can we really go home?”

“I can answer that.”

The gathering of girls turned to see Lady Hitomi enter the room, accompanied by Marylyn Lawther.

“Medea was never meant to be a prison. I’d rather hoped you’d find it a haven, a sanctuary. You will always be welcome here, regardless of whether you chose to leave or stay. When the Relay is complete we will take any of you that wish to back to Earth. But Sigrid is correct in her estimation of the danger. If you leave here, you will be hunted, and I fear I will not be able to protect you.”

“You will also be welcome on Crucis,” Marylyn offered. “The Guild can offer some protection.”

“I want to go home!” one girl called out, and there were more rumblings of the same vein.

Sigrid felt her heart sink—what if they all left? What would happen to them?

“I’ll stay,” Suko said.

“Me too,” Leta said.

Khepri stepped forward. “Think about what you’re saying. If you leave, what kind of life will you have? Go see Lei-Fei, see what they did to Christi. Then tell me you still want to leave. Sigrid saved my life. I say we stay.”

“I’ll stay,” Lilith said, putting her hand in Sigrid’s.

Sigrid gave it a little squeeze, feeling her spirits rise.

One of the girls in the back stood up. Her name was Una, and like Leta, she wore one of the Naval Cadet uniforms. “Sod it. I say we stay. What do we have to go back to anyway? We’re with you, Sigrid!”

A cheer rose from their ranks, and Sigrid was nearly crushed under the surge as the animated young ones crowded around her.

Suko laughed. “I don’t think any of the little ones will ever leave you.”

Sigrid smiled and raised her hands. The girls grew silent again. “Some of you may change your minds when you find out what I have in mind. Alcyone is gone, and it won’t be safe for any of us on Earth—not as long as there are men out there who want to dominate us…and girls like us.”

“Like us?” Suko asked.

Sigrid nodded. “We know we’re not the only ones. The Council knows it, and clearly others do as well. They failed trying to capture us, but now they know what to look for. It’s only a matter of time before they look for the others like us. With your help, I plan to stop them. We’ll need to be ready. We’ll need to train. The young ones will need to be taught. And I’ll need volunteers to help bring any girls we find back here.”

Hitomi looked up at her, intrigued and very impressed.

“Forgive me, Mistress, I know I haven’t discussed any of this with you.”

“By all means, Sigrid. I think it’s a marvelous idea. All my resources will be at your disposal, of course.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“And for the last time, call me Hitomi.”

Sigrid laughed. “Yes, Hitomi.”

* * *

“You’ve changed,” Suko said. She lay sideways on their bed, covered only by the edge of one of the soft white sheets. The windows were open—they were always open, as no glassed enclosures seemed to be necessary on Medea. Even at night, the cooler temperatures were still quite comfortable.

Sigrid stood and stretched, then wandered to the window, where she breathed deep of the salty air and let the cool breeze caress her body. The light of three of Medea’s sister-moons shone down, bathing her skin in a pale glow of light.

“Well, I don’t feel very different. I see the girls and the way they look at me. I’m never sure what to say. I only know I don’t want to let them down.”

Suko laughed. “But don’t you see—they do look to you. Even Hitomi. We all see how she listens to you.”

“I never meant to tell anyone what to do.”

“And you don’t. You just say what needs to be said.”

“It wasn’t my intention to take charge.”

“Sigrid, we trust you. You lead by example.”

Suko rose from the bed and moved slowly to Sigrid, slipping her arms around her waist and holding her close. Her eyes were playful as she made a show of looking her up and down.

“What?” Sigrid asked, blushing.

“My new sensory modules must be out of sync—I was sure you’d grown taller.”

“Oh!” Sigrid laughed and pinched the soft area of Suko’s bottom.

“Hey!”

Sigrid leaned back against the low ledge, pulling Suko closer to her, absorbing the softness of her skin and the warmth of her body. “You shouldn’t tease. I’m far too fragile right now.” She tilted her head back, letting Suko’s lips fall against hers, only coming up for air after a few minutes.

“They say the Relay will be done in days. Will you be leaving then?”

Sigrid nodded. “I have to. I’m not going to sit back wondering what the Council is up to. The next time someone moves against us I plan on knowing well in advance.”

“See! You even think like a general.”

“If I do, it’s just the programming.”

Suko shook her head. “If that were true, then we’d all be thinking the same thing. I think it’s wonderful. I feel safe knowing you’re looking out for us.”

Suko leaned forward to kiss her again, but Sigrid pulled her head back and flashed a sly smile. “You do! Then who’s looking out for me?”

“Who do you think? Now shut up and kiss me already.”

“Now who’s being commanding?”

Epilogue

Silver Linings

––––––––

June 22, 2348

It had been a very good day.

Randal Gillings sat back in the comfortable chair behind his desk as he scanned the report his attaché had just brought to him. Outrage over the attack and destruction of the Panama Lift facility, combined with news of the apparent ‘rebellion’ on Scorpii, had fueled calls for increased defense spending. And with the loss of the thirty-six ships at Scorpii, those calls had been upgraded to demands for immediate action.

Coran Industries had personally signed a contract to deliver seventy-eight new front line ships, with options for hundreds more. His shareholders would be rich, and Coran stood to surpass even Daedalus as the single most powerful company in the Federation. His position as Chairman of the Council would not be challenged for decades to come. There would be a Draft to recruit new personnel for the CTF forces, and Coran’s own workforce would also need to be increased tenfold. He was already being hailed as the architect for the New Society by the news readers. Of course, Coran had supplied the services with the appropriate copy to read.

Yes, it had been a very good day.

So why didn’t he feel better? Gillings frowned and poured another whiskey from the decanter on his desk. He neglected to offer one to his attaché who sat before him. The man was efficient, but he was excessively timid, and Gillings wondered why he hadn’t yet fired the man. Relatives.

He brooded again on why his mood was so foul. The answer was simple. Andraste. Those little girls had thwarted his latest attempt to appropriate Hitomi’s technology. Twenty-one girls had been delivered personally by the Kimura Forces, and yet those girls had escaped. But not on their own—they had been aided.

Gillings stared hard at his attaché. “You’re sure it was her—Lawther.”

His aide squirmed uncomfortably. “I can’t say if it was her personally, sir, but it seems they were definitely aided by the Mercenary Guild.”

“Which clan?”

“Uh—all of them, sir.”

“And you have no idea where they’ve gone?”

“No, sir. Daedalus has so far refused to divulge any information regarding their destination. We even offered double the usual amount of the bribes.”

“Compensation,” Gillings reminded him. “Bribes are illegal.” He took another gulp of the whiskey and refilled the glass. That news was somewhat disturbing. It wasn’t like Daedalus to refuse him information. He’d have to have words with Joffrey, and soon.

“Triple it. Quadruple it,” Gillings said. “Someone in that blasted organization is bound to know something. I want to know where they’ve gone. And perhaps you should add some of this business with the Mercenary Guild to the news feeds. It might not be a bad idea to implicate them along with the Hekatians in this rebellion.”

His attaché made a quick note on his pad. “Of course, sir. Might I say, early reports show the stories are playing very well with the public. Seventy-eight-percent of people polled are calling for a military strike on Hekate.”

“Seventy-eight? Change it to ninety-two and run that story.”

“Very good, sir. With those numbers, you might actually be able to persuade the Council to move against the Mercenary Guild now.”

Gillings dismissed the idea. “No. Not just yet. With the losses on Scorpii, I’m afraid we’ll still need to suffer the Mercenary clans, at least for the short term. We still need to retain them under contract to maintain order.” He drained his glass. “Soon, though. Let’s just deal with the news campaign first. We’ll need full public support to move against the Guild.”

Gillings’ attaché bowed and headed immediately down the elevator to the parking level where his car was already waiting for him. The chauffeur held the door for him and he slipped inside. Unlike Gillings, the man who waited for him in the car did offer him a drink, and he took it, raising the glass politely.

“Thank you, Karl. Might I say, you’re looking much better than the last time I saw you.”

Karl Tarsus snorted a laugh, nodding to the man he’d only known as Smith until very recently. His real name, he now knew, was Harry Jones, Special Attaché to the Council Chair, and Personal Aide to Randal Gillings. He still didn’t trust him, but the money and resources he could get his hands on were staggering. Tarsus still hadn’t been able to trace the source, but it was not the Council or Coran Industries. More investigating would be required.

Thanks to Harry Jones, Karl Tarsus was now a man on the move—a new player in Mercenary Services. But he was operating as an Independent now. The Mercenary Guild would not take him back, but that was just as Mr. Jones wanted.

“Have you arranged for the new ships?” Jones asked.

“Crewed and ready.” Tarsus took a case out from under his seat and opened it. “And I got your package—CTF Naval transponders. Not easy to get your hands on.”

Both men knew that to be true. Tarsus held out one of the tiny devices in his hand; all CTF ships carried the transponders that would confirm their identity to other ships.”

“Have them installed right away. I have your first target. Crucis Prime.”

Tarsus closed the case and looked up. “Crucis! You can’t be serious. Six ships against that facility…Perhaps with fifty ships…”

Harry Jones chuckled and poured two more glasses of whiskey. “Don’t worry. We only need to poke the hornets’ nest, not destroy it. I want you to get in, cause as much trouble as possible, and get out. Just make sure you’ve got these installed.” He patted the case with the transponders. “I want every Mercenary on that station to know who attacked them.”

“I don’t suppose they’ll be too happy with the Council.”

“No, I don’t suppose they will.”

“This might actually galvanize the clans against them.”

“I would imagine that’s a possibility.”

“They may even chose to move against the Council in force.”

“I would be surprised if they didn’t.”

Tarsus studied him for a long while, then shook his head. “Harry Jones, you’re an interesting man. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me the rest of your little game? What this is all about. Is it Power? Money? Women?”

“Why not all three?”

Tarsus’s grin was bordering on leering. “Forgive me, but you don’t seem the type—at least, not for such mundane pursuits. Now, do tell.”

Harry Jones opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it and raised his glass instead. “To possibilities, Mr. Tarsus.”

––––––––

The End

––––––––

The adventures of Sigrid Novak continue in The Machines of Bellatrix

Chapters One & Two are included here

The Machines of Bellatrix

The Girls from Alcyone II
by Cary Caffrey

CHAPTER ONE

Train à Grande Vitesse

July 14, 2348

Bellatrix

The TGV sped along, cruising at a pedestrian 782 kph. The noise and crowds of the city were quickly left behind. There was nothing before it now, nothing but open desert and the thousands of kilometers of empty track that stretched into the night.

There was little to see outside and even less to hear. Not even the rushing blast of transonic winds could penetrate the insulated passenger compartment. The only sounds in the cabin came from the labored breathing of Dr. Farrington’s slumbering companion. The doctor didn’t know the man’s name, nor did he care to. He was far too preoccupied, too busy mulling over the course of recent events. Events that had led him to this godforsaken armpit of a planet.

Independents.

How Farrington had become involved with a group of rebels was beyond him. He never cared for politics and avoided such topics when possible. It was only his work that mattered.

Farrington cursed. The whole thing was academic. The facility on Scorpii was lost, and his work now in the hands of the Council for Trade and Finance. He was a wanted man. A fugitive. And he was still no closer to an answer.

He knew whose fault this was. It was Lady Hitomi Kimura. She was to blame. She should never have fired him from the project. Without him, Project Andraste would not exist. Not without his research. Not without his diligence. Without him, Andraste would still be a proposal sitting on some middle-manager’s desk. And for this, for all his efforts, he’d been sacked. It was Hitomi’s fault he’d been forced to continue his work elsewhere.

And it was Hitomi’s fault he’d ever been found by the Independents.

Dr. Farrington sat a little straighter then. He tugged on the edge of his shirt and thrust his chin out. It mattered not. He would start again. Here, if he had to. There were always new investors. No one knew more about Hitomi’s work than he. And this time it would be different. This time he would be in control.

Dr. Farrington had made certain of that.

Farrington dug deep into his coat pocket. His damp fingers coiled around the tiny object thrust there, if only to assure himself that it was still there and still safe. It hadn’t been easy to smuggle off of Scorpii, but he had done what was necessary, and now it was his and his alone. Farrington withdrew his prize. The tiny data-module was no more than two centimeters square, but it was crammed with vast petabytes of data, exact copies of the Primary Control Modules taken from seven girls captured on Alcyone. Now, all he needed was time. Time to study. Time to plan.

Farrington leaned against the window of the small cabin and looked out. Not that there was anything to see. Bellatrix had no moon to light their way. It was not a scenic planet. Flat and arid, the only landmarks of note were the squat scatterings of manufacturing centers that dotted the landscape, huge factory complexes surrounded by squalid ghettos that had sprung up to house the migrant working population.

People didn’t come here for the sights, they came here to die.

But that suited Dr. Farrington just fine. No one would be searching for him here.

Farrington felt the slight shift in the cabin. He checked his wristwatch again. They would be slowing now as they made their approach into New Shēnzhèn. He reached for his bag. From here it would be a simple matter to lose himself in the crowds. He would find a quiet place to hole up, rest, and yes, work. Here he could finish his work without the nonsense of wars or rebellion to distract him. And when he was ready, he would name his price, he would—

“Excuse me, Dr. Farrington?”

Farrington gave a start and looked down to see the meaty hand that gripped his wrist. For the first time he took notice of his cabin companion. The man across from him slumbered soundly no more.

Farrington tried to pull his arm away, but the man held him fast. He realized the bulk he’d mistaken for fat wasn’t fat at all. The man was on the large size, but he was powerfully built, barrel-chested and with thick strong arms. He had the stern look of a professional, one used to giving orders and having those orders followed.

Mercenaries.

“Let me go—release me!”

The mercenary considered the request. “As you wish.” He relaxed his grip, causing the doctor to tumble back against his seat. Farrington’s eyes shot quickly to the cabin door.

“You are free to go,” the mercenary said. “I didn’t come all this way to hold you hostage, but fleeing won’t serve either of us.”

Breathing heavily from the exertion, Farrington glared back at him. There was only one thought in his head—flight. Farrington lunged for the cabin door and threw it open—only to bounce off the person standing in the doorway, a steel wall blocking his way.

He fell back on his seat and stared up at the person who had prevented his escape. A woman! Not even a woman. A girl, a teenager of no more than seventeen and half his size. The long black coat she wore came down nearly to the floor, hiding most of her slight figure. Dark lenses shielded her eyes. She turned slowly toward him and stared down, her face cold, thoroughly devoid of emotion.

Farrington shuddered.

The mercenary waved her forward. “Come in, Victoria. Shut the door.”

The girl obeyed. She stood with her back to the door, hands at her side, feet apart. Farrington wasn’t going anywhere.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Farrington dabbed the sweat from his forehead. “I-I thought you said I was free to go.”

“Yes, but not before returning what you stole from us.”

Farrington’s hands shot to his pocket. He pawed at the lining, searching, digging deep, but his treasure, the data-module, was gone.

“I’ll take that, Victoria,” the mercenary said.

Farrington watched as the girl handed the prize over to him. All his efforts, all this time, it was all for naught. He had lost. Without the stolen module, he was nothing. This mercenary should have killed him. It would have been more merciful.

“Oh, do cheer up, Doctor. It’s not as bad as all that. You must know we couldn’t let you leave with such a prize.”

“Who—who are you?”

“My name is Tarsus. Major Karl Tarsus. My companion’s name is Victoria. Say hello, Victoria.”

The girl turned her head toward him as if on a swivel. She looked down at him, but said nothing. Farrington felt himself recoil despite himself.

“What…what will you do with me?” Dr. Farrington asked; he feared he already knew the answer.

“That, my good doctor, is up to you. You have two choices, as I see it. You can walk out that door—yes, I’ll let you go, I assure you. Ah, but what waits for you out there? That is the question. Have you considered that? I think you’ll find the realities quite harsh. You’re a wanted man now, Doctor. A terrorist. I’m afraid the authorities are well aware of you and the role you played on Scorpii. They have prepared quite the reception for you. But, fear not. It wasn’t chance that got you this far, Doctor, I assure you. You’re only here because we wanted you here.”

Farrington noticed his mouth had drooped open and closed it. “Here? On Bellatrix? Why…?”

“You didn’t think the facility on Scorpii was the only one, did you? No, I can see you didn’t give it much thought. Well, then I’ll tell you. Scorpii was nothing. This…” Tarsus gestured up around him, his palms open, arms wide. “This is where it began. And this is where it will end. With your help.”

“You have the data-module. You don’t need me.”

“Don’t be so modest. If all we wanted was the data, we could have taken that when we spotted you at the transfer station on Hadar. You are one of the few remaining people to have worked directly with Lady Hitomi Kimura. That experience is of value to us. And perhaps we have something of value to offer you.”

“I want nothing to do with you.” It was a mistake. Farrington knew it. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “What could you possibly offer me?”

“Security, for one. Your life, for another,” Tarsus added, leering meaningfully. “Oh—and perhaps we have one other thing to offer you. The one thing you need more than anything.”

Farrington caught the gleam in Tarsus’s eye and took the bait. “What?”

Tarsus glanced to the girl by the door. “Why, Doctor, we have volunteers, of course.”

Volunteers…?

Farrington stared up at her as if for the first time. He understood then and felt the fool for missing it. “She’s one of them, isn’t she?”

“You mean from Alcyone? No, Doctor, Victoria is something entirely different. Isn’t that true, Victoria? Why don’t you show the doctor?”

The girl removed her glasses to look upon the doctor with her own eyes. No, not eyes at all, Farrington saw. Bionics. Constructs. He spotted the artificial irises, the lenses shifting to focus on him, scanning him. Little attempt had been made to make them look human or natural. This was pure mechanical efficiency. Farrington rose. His fear vanished in an instant, replaced by scientific curiosity.

Without thinking, he reached out, held her face, turning her head back and forth. Her skin was cold to the touch. But when he moved to examine her eyes, her gloved hand came up to halt his probing fingers. The hand that gripped him felt hard, unyielding.

He looked at the glove and then to Tarsus. “May I?”

Tarsus nodded.

Farrington peeled back the glove and stared at the artificial limb. Plasteel skin stretched all the way up to the girl’s elbow, where it melded to the reddened flesh of her natural arm. The bionics were advanced, efficient. But this was a blunt instrument, ugly, simple and crude. This was not the work of Lady Hitomi Kimura. Farrington had seen this work before.

“Wolsey.”

“I’m impressed,” Tarsus said. “You recognize the man’s work.”

Farrington’s lips formed into a sneer. “The man wouldn’t know a micro-dermatome if it slapped him in the face.”

Tarsus chuckled.

Dr. Wolsey had worked under him during his time at Kimura Corp—using most of his time to plot against him, apparently. It had been Wolsey’s report that had seen Farrington dismissed; the student betrays the mentor.

Farrington looked again at the girl. It was clear they’d made advances, solved problems that had eluded him. The jealousy burned within him.

“How—how did you solve the issue with the Recombinant?” Farrington asked.

“I promise you, I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps you’d like to ask Dr. Wolsey in person?”

“In person? He’s here, then.”

“Has been from the beginning. Before me.”

Tarsus tossed the prized module back to him. Farrington promptly dropped it and scrambled to pick it up, clutching it to his chest.

“The key is now in your hands, Doctor. It’s time to finish what you started. What say you?”

Finish? Was it possible?

His eyes shot again to the cabin door. The logical part of him knew he should walk out, run as fast as he could. But there was another part, a vengeful petty part, and it wanted something else entirely. It wanted revenge.

“I want to see this facility, Major Tarsus. I want to see it all.”

CHAPTER TWO

Merchantman

“Blast!” Sigrid said.

Twisting, turning, arms spread out or tucked in, nothing she did made any difference. With nothing to grab hold of, no resistance, nothing could stop her as she tumbled out of control, moving deeper and deeper into the blackness of space.

Stars spun by her fractured visor. Every point-four-six seconds she saw the blinding binary stars of Alpha Phoenicis flash past. It was only Sigrid’s enhanced physiology, the nano-swarms that surged within her system, that halted the rise of bile in her throat and kept her from losing consciousness completely. But she had greater worries to consider.

Debris from the explosion had penetrated her suit and damaged her oxygen feed. The mixture was far too rich. Her bionic systems did their mechanical best to compensate, but they were taxed at their limits. Worse, a chunk of the Merchantmen’s ship had struck her, nearly cracking open her helmet. A quick calculation determined that the weakened faceplate would soon succumb to the pressure and shatter in less than nine minutes.

Nine minutes to live.

This in itself did not depress Sigrid or bring on any sense of panic. She was too busy cursing, punishing herself. She’d missed all the signs, ignored the warnings of the captain, and allowed all four of their ships to walk willingly into the trap. The traders had never intended to deliver their supplies. Sigrid doubted they ever had them. They were liars. Thieves.

And yet she hadn’t seen it.

Another wave of debris blew past her; twisted bits of metal mingled with body parts, all that was left of the Merchantman.

Small mercies, Sigrid thought.

* * *

September 16, 2348 (Forty-Eight Hours Earlier)

Alpha Phoenicis Space

White light gave way to the blackness of space. Like snow melting away, large white droplets scattered, forming into billions of individual stars. Her warp jump complete, the Ōmi Maru swung around, blasting toward the heart of the Alpha Phoenicis system and her destination, the Konoe Transfer Station, still hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.

The captain of the tramp freighter leaned back in his chair, his fingers kneading the wiry mess of stubble he called a beard.

“Do you honestly think we’ll find what we’re looking for here,” Captain Trybuszkiewicz said; it was more a statement than a question.

Honestly? Sigrid wondered. I have no idea.

All she knew was their new homeworld was in desperate need of supplies. Not just food and materiel for shelters, but machines and equipment, parts for vital defensives systems, everything they would need to make their new homeworld self-sufficient.

Frankly, Sigrid didn’t have a clue what she was doing here or why Lady Hitomi had assigned her this task. Sigrid could think of any number of people more qualified. Karen seemed the obvious choice. The ex-Kimuran orientations officer had a knack for understanding all the nuances of trade regulations; things that repeatedly escaped Sigrid. Of course, no one was more qualified to lead a trade mission than Lady Hitomi herself, though it was far too dangerous to allow her to do so, for obvious reasons.

Lady Hitomi was now an enemy combatant as far as the Council was concerned. Sigrid was no less a target. The authorities had not taken kindly to her actions at Scorpii or her destruction of the Warp Relay. For her actions, the Council had placed a bounty the size of a small planet on both of them.

They were wanted, barred from trading with anyone from the Merchants Guild. This left a very thin list of willing trading partners, with even fewer legitimate options open to them.

And so it had been decided. Sigrid would take their four lone transports—four stolen Kimuran freighters crewed by expats and defectors from Aquarii, men and women thoroughly loyal to Lady Hitomi Kimura. Her destination: an outpost far outside of Council-controlled space, long abandoned by the Federation. Here, with luck, she could make contact with the only persons left willing to trade.

The Merchantmen.

These brokers of goods were not aligned with the Merchants Guild or with the Federation of Corporate Enterprises. They considered such stilted bureaucracies an annoyance, an impediment to true free trade.

“Black marketeers,” Captain Trybuszkiewicz said. “You should not trust these men, Ms. Novak.”

Sigrid agreed. “I’m not sure we have much choice, Captain.”

“With all due respect, the smartest course of action is to go in, take what you need, and leave. If you happen to injure a few along the way, I’m sure no one will mind.”

“Steal?” Sigrid asked. She found it hard to believe the captain would advocate such a plan.

The captain favored her with a knowing look. “Anything they have to sell is already stolen. Besides, when one considers the sums they will demand of us… Now that is thievery.”

Sigrid wondered at the older man. She rather liked Captain Trybuszkiewicz, even if pronouncing his name left her tongue twisted and numb. He hadn’t always been a freighter captain. In fact, he’d been a commodore in the Kimuran Naval Forces, commanded an entire cruiser division of his own. But all that had changed when the Council had orchestrated the coup against Lady Hitomi. They had intervened in her affairs, taken her company, her world. Captain Trybuszkiewicz had been one of the first to defect and join with her. It had taken little effort to convince his own crews to follow. These same men and women now crewed the four aging transport ships in service to New Alcyone. Their devotion and dedication to Lady Hitomi amazed Sigrid. Only their professionalism and attention to duty impressed her more.

“You don’t like them,” Sigrid said. “These Merchantmen.”

“At my age there are few people I like. Fewer that I trust. I trust only that these people are not worth the spit I use to polish my boots. You must be mindful of them and always keep your hands on your purse.”

“I don’t have a purse.” It was true. Sigrid had never carried a purse or a handbag.

The captain smiled.

“We’re approaching the transfer station,” the helmsman reported.

Captain Trybuszkiewicz nodded. “Slow to 42,000 kph. Signal the dockmaster. And don’t let me hear any nonsense about traffic delays. I want priority docking.”

“Aye, sir.”

Sigrid moved toward the forward view port, eager to catch her first view of Konoe Station. The transfer station was much smaller than Vincenze, much simpler in its design. It didn’t appear much larger than the orbital lift platforms in Panama. Few ships were in orbit. The small outpost appeared a cold and friendless place, a dull metallic disc drifting alone in the barren wastes of deep space.

“What on Earth are those?” Sigrid asked. She spied several vehicles moving quickly amongst the sparse traffic. Too small and too fast to be pilot ships or tugs, they danced in and around the waiting ships, the flares from their thrusters making them look like fireflies in the dark.

“Are they service vehicles?”

The captain laughed, his broad shoulders shaking, causing him to wheeze and then cough. “You’ll find no service vehicles at Konoe Station, Ms. Novak. These things—they are the toys of children, boys.”

“Joy riders,” Andrzej Topa explained; he was the ship’s chief engineer. “Troublemakers and layabouts. They take old maneuvering thrusters—engines, anything—strap seats on them, blast themselves to oblivion… Menace to navigation, if you ask me.”

Sigrid looked closer, her eyes wide in disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”

But he wasn’t. Sigrid zoomed in with her optical module and scanned the speeding vehicles more closely. The chief was correct. She couldn’t believe it; she’d never seen anything like it. These joy riders were insane. The vehicles appeared as nothing more than acceleration couches strapped to rocket motors. The pilots wore only pressure suits with no other protection against the elements. They seemed to be racing, performing laps around the station, using ships as turning markers. It looked insanely dangerous.

Sigrid was desperate to give it a try. “They look marvelous.”

“Death traps,” the captain said.

“I don’t know,” Sigrid said wistfully, twirling a lock of hair about her fingers. “I think they look like fun. They remind me of those old rockets men would ride on back in the olden days. Those weren’t much more involved than these.”

Sigrid remembered reading about such things: huge, hulking rockets packed with unstable propellant; engines welded together with bits of tubing and piping; the pilots riding on top with little more than a tin-plated fairing between them and the cold realities of space.

“Exactly,” the captain reiterated. “Death traps.”

The chief nudged Sigrid, directing her attention to another ship moving into a berth off their port beam. She was a freighter, but far grander than the likes of the Ōmi Maru or her sister ships. She looked close to one hundred and fifty meters long, roughly the same size and tonnage as their ship. But she had a stately flair to her, her thrusters painted in bright green and gold, her long hull featuring distinctive red piping. She sported several cannon mounts along her starboard side; Sigrid knew they would be of little use in a real firefight—probably more for show as a deterrent, never intended to be used in actual fighting. Sigrid scanned her markings; she registered as the Merchantman.

“Our contact,” the chief engineer said. “Right on time.”

“Dockmaster says we’re cleared for approach.”

The captain leaned back, pulling his cap down over his eyes. “Good. Wake me when we arrive.”

* * *

“Are you sure about this?” Sigrid said.

She was standing in the airlock with the captain, the chief and the ship’s three crew—the entire crew complement of the Ōmi Maru. The Kimuran officers had changed from their usual uniforms and now wore the rough workmen’s clothes familiar to tramp freighter crews. Sigrid had done likewise. She sported a heavy wool skirt and a sweater with a high collar rolled over and down. It was hot and itched, and the knitting was already unfurling in several spots.

“You look perfect, Ms. Novak,” the captain said. “I fear our normal accoutrements might attract the wrong kind of attention, but you look like a true mariner.”

“Don’t worry,” the chief said. “No one will look at you twice here.”

The captain scratched his beard; Sigrid caught his eyes on her as he scrutinized her attire. They had taken great effort to dress her as them. Her long blond hair was braided and tucked beneath a too-large knitted cap. The bulky sweater did a reasonable job at disguising her small but powerful figure, making her appear shorter than her five foot one-point-five inches, if that were possible. But there was no getting around the fact that Sigrid would always stand out in a crowd. The exact nature of the alterations to her physiology was a closely guarded secret; her array of bionic enhancements even more of a mystery. Whether Sigrid would ever realize it or not, she was special and she would never pass as normal.

The chief lifted his cap and scratched his forehead. “Well, the other freighter crews might want to buy you a round, but I don’t think you’ll raise any suspicions. Maybe try not to stand so straight. Slouch your shoulders a bit. There that’s it. Maybe if we take your hair…”

“Enough!” Captain Trybuszkiewicz shouted. “We go.”

Without further discussion, the captain hit the switch opening the airlock.

Unlike Vincenze, there was no security on the docking platform waiting to greet them. In fact, there was no one in sight at all. Trash and debris littered the docking ring. Someone had left a series of incoherent scrawlings painted on the walls and ceiling, and the overhead lighting flickered in an annoying fashion, blinking out its need for repair.

“What happened here?” Sigrid asked.

“Independents,” the captain said; it was clear he did not approve. “They wrested control of this station from the CTF years ago. Claimed the space for their own.”

“They took over?”

The captain made a sniffing noise. “Before abandoning it. Revolutionaries seldom consider what will happen after their battles are over. They had no plan to govern this place. Don’t misunderstand, I have no love of the Council, but at least they know how to change a light fixture. With the Independents… well, you can see the result.”

Sigrid took care stepping over a collapsed support beam. “Who governs the station, then? Who’s in charge?”

“In charge? If you mean the law…? Well, we must be cautious.”

The docking ring led out into a holding area. This seemed to be a warehouse of some sort, the entire length filled with what appeared to be abandoned intermodal shipping containers, some stacked, some overturned, rusting and covered with even more of the graffiti. Several of the containers had been cut open, turned into makeshift residences and storefronts. Sigrid spied several vendors emerging from the shelters as they approached, eager to showcase their wares to the newcomers.

Captain Trybuszkiewicz waved them all away, his officers manhandling some of the more persistent peddlers.

“They don’t get many customers on this level. Come. The place we want is just up ahead.”

The lift was out, leaving their group to climb three stories up a winding staircase to the station’s main level. Sigrid reasoned the station’s environmental systems must have been malfunctioning here. The narrow stairwell was damp, puddled, and rank with mold. And worse. Sigrid was glad to have the ability to ramp down her olfactory sensors. She didn’t envy the crew of the Ōmi Maru having to endure the stench.

When they emerged on the main concourse, it was to the relief of all. Much brighter and busier than the lower levels, the main concourse practically bustled with activity—if she could call the slow shuffling of Konoe’s residents ‘bustling.’

Passersby kept their faces lowered, heads down, too interested in staring at their own bootlaces to take notice of Sigrid or her companions. She saw the reason for this. Groups of armed youths occupied each of the corners; young men and younger boys brandished assault weapons and rifles, patrolled, and kept watch on the crowds. Sigrid scanned the weapons—mostly antiques and not well cared for. Criminal. One pedestrian who strayed too close to one of the groups got a boot to the backside and ordered to move along. The boys seemed disappointed when the man obeyed. She could see they were looking for an excuse, any reason to demonstrate their dominance, their power.

“Local militia,” the captain explained.

“Gangs,” Chief Topa elaborated. “After the CTF pushed the Independents out, they didn’t think to leave anyone in charge. Now these thugs control everything—if one can call it control.”

A scattering of brightly lit signs added minimal color to the depressing surroundings. Electronic placards and storefronts announced a variety of services: asteroid prospecting, claims services, weaponsmiths, and of course, the flesh traders were everywhere. Their destination was up ahead. Neon flashed like a beacon in the gloom. Sigrid heard the low throb of music sounding from deep inside the structure.

“A gentlemen’s club?” Sigrid asked skeptically.

Captain Trybuszkiewicz held the door and ushered them inside. “The location is of our contact’s choosing—though I’d hardly call these men gentlemen.”

Sigrid had seen such places before and thought she was prepared, but this place was nothing like the Paradise on Gliese. It was neither raucous nor festive, and no host rushed to greet them. The girls and boys that worked the room were younger than she: weary, battered, drained of life and hope. It sickened her to think that men thought to profit from their misery. Perhaps she would have words with the management…

The captain must have sensed her anger and put a reassuring hand on her arm. “We’re here for a purpose, Ms. Novak.”

Sigrid forced herself to unclench her fists. “Of course, sir.”

He was right. Their mission was of vital importance. Her friends were relying on her.

Sigrid scanned the room. The man they sought was here, this trader, leader of the Merchantmen. He occupied a table on a raised platform to the rear overlooking the club. He was fat; rolls of pudgy flesh billowed out between the folds of his trousers and his shirt. The vile cologne he wore threatened to overwhelm her sensors from across the room. Worse odors lingered. Two girls sat to either side of him, barely aware of their surroundings. Drugged, Sigrid knew. The morphgesic cocktail in their blood stream registered heavily in her PCM. It was a miracle the girls were conscious. Tired eyes looked up at her as she approached, suspicious, leery, their thin hands clinging to the fat man at their side and the coin he promised.

Sigrid was far more interested in the four men who stood close by. They wore their sidearms in full view, their fingers never far from the triggers.

“Corbin Price,” the captain said, approaching the table.

The fat man gestured to the open seats and signaled for his men to stand down. “Captain Trybuszkiewicz, I presume. You’re more punctual than most.”

The captain spread his hands wide in greeting. “We are eager to conduct our business. Our client expects us to return without delay.”

“Not in so much a hurry to share a drink, I trust.”

Corbin Price snapped two pudgy fingers, signaling over a server. The rail-thin girl, no older than fifteen, leaned over, her flimsy garment giving the trader a generous view of her wan flesh, much to his delight. Sigrid felt her fists clenching, her nails digging into the palms of her hands.

Corbin Price retrieved one of the little glasses. “A little lubricant to smooth negotiations?”

“Negotiations?” Sigrid blurted. “We have already agreed to your fees, Mr. Price. Do you wish to sell to us or not?”

Corbin Price chuckled, raising his glass to her. “Of course. I did not mean to imply any retractions on my part. I simply thought I may have other things you might find of interest. We have both journeyed far to get here. Might as well make the most of our meeting.”

Captain Trybuszkiewicz took one of the offered glasses from the tray, downing the amber liquid in one gulp. With all eyes on her, Sigrid realized she was to take one too, perhaps part of some social ritual. The contents registered as tequila; the black worm seemed an odd thing, but her database confirmed that this was done. After a cautious sniff, she downed the shot, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Her eyes never wavered from the fat trader across the table.

“You’ll have to forgive my grandniece, Mr. Price,” the captain said with a firm look to Sigrid. “She is new to the life of a tramp trader. This is her first journey with us. I thought this meeting might prove educational.”

“Of course. Then, Ms….”

“Peters,” Sigrid said.

“Ah, Ms. Peters,” Corbin Price said graciously. “Your uncle must have informed you, trade is a fluid matter. Many new opportunities have arisen since our last communication. New items have come into my possession. One never knows what one might find unless one asks.”

“I have been given certain leeway to negotiate any item of interest,” Captain Trybuszkiewicz said. “Perhaps if you show me…”

Corbin Price reached down, retrieved a data-pad from the folds of his coat, and tossed it across the table. Sigrid saw the screen and nearly gasped. The manifest advertised two industrial manufacturing platforms. These absolutely massive orbital facilities were self-contained factories on a grand scale. Capable of processing raw ore and minerals, they could be programmed to manufacture any number of things: building materials, engine parts, even ship components—parts enough to build an entire fleet. One of the platforms alone was worth twelve times the price of all the goods they were scheduled to pick up. Two would be worth more than Sigrid’s life contract had been to Kimura Corp.

Machines like this were the heart of any terraforming effort. Acquiring even one of the platforms could mean all the difference for their struggling colony. Yet the captain seemed unimpressed by the offering.

Sigrid felt the elbow in her side and closed her mouth.

“I’m not sure what you think we can do with these…”

Corbin Price spread his fat hands wide. “Why, any number of things, I should imagine.”

Any number of things, indeed, Sigrid thought.

“Even if my client was interested,” the captain said. “I would have to contact them. This is well beyond my realm to negotiate.”

Sigrid knew this was true. As vast as Lady Hitomi’s wealth had been, it had taken nearly all her holdings, all her favors and negotiating skills to get them this far. There was little left in her mistress’s accounts for such extravagances.

Corbin Price bowed his head, conceding the expense. “Perhaps there are other things you can offer. We Merchantmen trade in all goods and services.”

The captain helped himself to another of the offered tequilas. “Goods? Our holds are empty, Mr. Price, awaiting delivery from you. As for services, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“There is no need to be coy, Captain. It serves neither of us. Not when I have something you so desperately need, and you have something that would be of tremendous value to me. I see no reason why we cannot come to an arrangement.”

The trader’s demeanor changed in an instant. He sat up, the easy, jovial expression gone as his eyes fixed firmly on Sigrid.

“I did not get to this position by being ignorant, Captain. And I wouldn’t be much of a trader if I did not anticipate my clients’ needs. You are not simple merchant sailors. You are Kimura. Now—don’t be alarmed—I am not here to make threats. I’m simply pointing out what needs to be said. You are Kimura—ex-Kimura. I know your client well, and I know your needs. And I know you could very much use these. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Instead, let us figure out how we both might prosper from this situation.”

He was right, and Sigrid knew it. Their attempt at ruse had been foolish. The trader knew exactly who they were and what she was. Strangely, she felt relieved. And she desperately wanted those platforms.

“And what do we have to trade?” Sigrid asked.

“Your services, for one, Ms. Peters. Yes, I know what you are. It’s quite all right. I am very familiar with Lady Hitomi’s work in genetics. Although, I must admit I did assume you would be…well, taller.” The trader shifted his bulk, sitting forward. “Now, you must tell me. Is it true? Everything they say about you and your kind—the things you can do?”

Sigrid crossed her arms over her chest. “I couldn’t possibly answer since I have no idea what they might have said.”

“They say you destroyed the Lift Complex at Panama.”

“Independents did that, Mr. Price. Not me.”

“What about what occurred on Scorpii? I hear you took out an entire company of CTF Marines.”

“It was a battalion. But no, they were too busy fighting the Independents to worry about me.”

Corbin Price laughed heartily, giving his knee a good slap. “Well said, Ms. Peters. But you were there, all the same. And you did blow up the Relay. They say you can’t be killed.”

“I’m afraid someone has been having fun at your expense, Mr. Price.”

“Granted, these things are always exaggerated. But I’ve learned to trust in the kernels of truth buried inside. I suspect you are being modest, Ms. Peters. The truth probably lies somewhere in between.”

Sigrid was eager to turn the conversation away from her, back to the industrial machines. “Exactly what services would you have me perform?”

The captain raised a hand in objection. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves. Ms. Peters’ services are not negotiable.”

“Wait,” Sigrid said. “I would still like to know, Captain. Those manufacturing platforms would be invaluable to us.”

“Invaluable!” Corbin Price said, steepling his fingers with interest. “Well, then…”

“Of value,” Sigrid corrected, cursing herself; she knew little of negotiation tactics. “If it is something within my power, then perhaps we might have a deal.”

“Sigrid…” the captain cautioned. “I do not think it wise—” But Sigrid nodded; it was all right.

Corbin Price bowed his head. “Very well. There is a man arriving at the station tomorrow. He has stolen from us. Services were rendered, but no payment received. His theft hurt our organization. We cannot allow his dishonesty to go unpunished—not good for business. I want to see that he is hurt in return.”

Sigrid braced herself. All her life she had been trained as a mercenary, as a soldier, and yes, an assassin. Certainly, she had taken lives and done so without hesitation. But that had been her choice. Her duty. Until this moment she hadn’t truly appreciated how it would feel to have someone ask her to kill another. What was it the mercenaries said? For coin and contract?

“He carries with him something we would find of value,” Corbin Price said. “I wish you to retrieve it and return it to me.”

“Retrieve? Then…then you don’t want me to kill him?”

“Kill him? Heavens, no! We are Merchantmen, Ms. Peters, not mercenaries—apologies to present company. No, I don’t require him harmed; although, should you leave him bruised, possibly maimed, no one will think worse of you. Retrieving the package will suffice.”

Sigrid studied the fat merchant closely. The job was simple—too simple—but Corbin Price appeared quite earnest that she should perform this service for him. Her sensors revealed his heart rate was steady, his skin cool. If his blood pressure was elevated, it seemed more a result of his diet, his immense bulk and the excitement he felt at the prospect of a deal. But she could sense no duplicity. Her scans registered no lies.

“That’s all, then? Retrieve a package?” Sigrid asked.

“That is all.”

True.

“And bring it to you?”

“Yes. And bring it to me.”

True.

“And you’ll give us what we want?” Sigrid asked.

“If you perform this task to my satisfaction, I will be happy to deliver all that you desire.”

Something still didn’t fit. The man appeared sincere—sincere for a thief, a con artist. But there was more. Sigrid could sense it, but could not put her finger on it.

“What does he carry? What is so important?”

Corbin Price raised a finger. “That, my dear, is on a need-to-know basis. And there are some things you don’t need to know.”

“Any information you have on a job is information I need, Mr. Price. Let’s call it a deal breaker.”

“A deal breaker? Ah. Well then, if I have no choice—”

“No. You don’t,” Sigrid said. “Not if you want me to do this for you.”

“All right. It is information he carries, nothing more. A client list, if you will. Information that could prove of great value. Losing it to me will not be looked on kindly by his superiors; something I imagine they will make him suffer greatly for—also of great value to me.”

“Why me?” Sigrid asked. “Why not one of your own men?”

Corbin Price looked to the beefy men to his sides and chuckled. “Them? They serve a purpose, but I’m afraid they lack the finesse required for a job like this. The man I seek works for powerful men, Ms. Peters. Dangerous men. The men they answer to more so.”

“Incorporated?” Sigrid asked. “Federates?” She was well aware of the power and reach of the Federation of Corporate Enterprises, even in a place such as this.

“Let’s just say, they will not part easily with this information. As for my men, we are simple merchants and not much good as spies. You, on the other hand…”

“We will have to inspect the platforms,” the captain said. “Ensure they are in working order.”

Corbin Price raised his shoulders. “That may prove problematic. The platforms are far too valuable to risk transporting to a place such as this. You understand.”

The captain flashed a knowing smile. “Of course.”

“They are safe, I assure you. And in good condition. Not new, but functional. Nothing your skilled technicians can’t take care of.”

The captain chuckled, shaking his head. “They’re wrecks, aren’t they? Salvage.”

“They are what they are. But if you are not interested…”

Sigrid leaned forward. “If I do this for you, get you this information, you will give us the platforms? Both of them?”

“Both?” Corbin Price’s smile broadened. “Why, Ms. Peters, complete this task for me and I will give you one of the machines. But…should this go well, I would be happy to discuss terms for the second.”

* * *

Work loading the first of the supplies began first thing in the morning. Sigrid stood with Captain Trybuszkiewicz and the chief engineer overseeing the loading, all done by hand since the station’s automated systems had long since failed. The supplies were trickling in, brought in in dribs and drabs by hired laborers; their slow shuffling serving to raise the captain’s ire. It would take days to complete loading at this rate.

“I don’t like this,” the captain said. “I don’t trust these Merchantmen. The supplies should be here, waiting. And this business with this man—what he carries. This is all too convenient.”

Sigrid set the ninety-kilo cargo container onto the floating handcart to her side. “He’s telling the truth, Captain. I know it. My scans—I can tell when a man is lying.”

“But you can’t rule it out,” the captain said.

“It is not a precise science—it’s not mind-reading, if that’s what you mean.”

“I might not have your abilities, Ms. Novak,” the chief said. “But this business has a smell. It reeks. And we still haven’t seen these platforms. Do we know if they even exist?”

That was something not even Sigrid could answer. She was certain Corbin Price was telling the truth. But truth about what? The existence of the industrial platforms, or the fact that they weren’t here. There were too many variables. But if there was a chance—having even one of the machines could mean the difference of life and death for her friends, the survival of their colony. Was it not her duty to take that risk?

The captain dismissed the idea.

“It’s too dangerous. I don’t like it. We will have the supplies we came for…” He looked at the few scant sundries they’d loaded so far. “Soon, I hope. When we are done here, we will return to New Alcyone.”

Sigrid grabbed hold of the captain’s sleeve, tugging. “Captain, please…” The thought of losing the valuable machines was too much. “I know the risk.”

“That is what I’m afraid of. The risk. This man—this merchantman—I don’t trust him.”

“I don’t trust him either. But Captain, this is what I’ve been trained for. If there’s even a chance…”

Captain Trybuszkiewicz looked into her wide eyes, sighed heavily, as one does when faced with an unwinnable battle. “Lady Hitomi warned me this might happen.”

“Warned you!”

“She tasked me with watching over you, Ms. Novak. I am to keep you out of trouble. Should something happen to you… Well, a court martial may be the least of my concerns.”

Sigrid squeezed his arm, a very unmilitarylike gesture. “I’ll be careful, sir. I promise.”

“We’ll monitor your progress from the bridge. If you sense trouble, anything, you are to abort, return here immediately. We will lend what aid we can.”

Sigrid was already running for her quarters, already playing the mission over in her mind.

“I’ll call. I promise.”

The captain watched her scurry off.

“She’s very skilled,” Chief Topa said. “She can take care of herself.”

“But she’s young, Andrzej. She doesn’t yet know the lengths men will go to get what they want. This man, Corbin Price…” The captain’s voice trailed off. He reached for his weapons belt, strapped his sidearm back on, and walked quickly from the docking platform.

“Keep watch of her progress from the bridge, my friend.”

“Me? Where are you going?”

The captain called back over his shoulder. “I’m going to pay a visit to Mr. Price. I have more questions for him. We will have…a conversation.”

* * *

The transport began offloading its passengers to the ventral docking platform a little after midday. Sigrid waited amongst the crowd of onlookers, mostly vendors and flesh traders who crowded forward, shouting offers to the passengers as they disembarked.

Sigrid remained to the rear, watching. She had the identity of the man she sought uploaded to her PCM. His name was Bernat Wereme, a retired financier with a criminal record nearly as impressive as hers. Guilty of numerous accounts of fraud, he had been stripped of his licenses and banned from work within the Federation of Corporate Enterprises. It explained how he had ended up out here dealing with the likes of the Merchantmen.

Sigrid spotted him in the crowd. He was tall and thin, an elderly gentleman well past his prime. A simple briefcase was the only luggage he carried tucked under a frail arm. And he was not alone. Sigrid spotted his escorts: three men, professionals by the looks of them. Mercenaries. They were armed, but that was to be expected. If her information was accurate, they would have to make their way across the station to the portside docking ring where the connecting transport to Vega IV awaited. Sigrid would need to relieve Mr. Wereme of the package he carried before that time.

It was all too easy. And that bothered Sigrid.

Keeping her distance, she followed the men as they made their way through the maze of intermodal containers that littered the lower levels. Sigrid wasn’t the only one monitoring their progress. The armed gangs who roamed the station took note of all newcomers. They stopped many of the travelers, questioning, interrogating, but more often than not simply shaking them down for money.

The gangs kept their distance from her target; Bernat Wereme’s mercenary escort made certain of that. There was easier prey to be had.

The thugs proved more of an obstacle than Wereme’s armed guard, Sigrid realized. Tangling with one of the groups would surely bring others running. Whatever she did, it would have to be off the streets and out of sight.

Not for the first time, she found herself wishing Suko was there. It would make things much easier—if not more pleasant. But of course, Suko wasn’t. She had remained on New Alcyone, her duties training the new girls of far more importance than a simple trade mission. Sigrid was on her own. She would have to make do.

And time was running out. Konoe was not so large; it was only a short walk to the transfer point. Whatever she did, she would have to act soon. The opportunity presented itself when Wereme pointed to one of the eating establishments on the main concourse. There was some discussion, but his escort relented, and the men went inside. Sigrid waited what she thought an appropriate amount of time and entered behind them.

Bernat Wereme sat at the counter, one of the cooks already doling out something that looked like soup and doing a fine job of spilling a generous amount onto the counter. The elderly financier seemed oblivious, digging greedily into the meal, lifting the spoon to his mouth in a trembling hand.

One of the mercenaries had already noticed her. She saw his hand fingering the handle of his sidearm; she logged the threat, continued her scan. The eatery was quite spacious, but she counted only fourteen patrons, six staff in attendance, all well dispersed—minimal risk of collateral damage.

Four shuriken dropped from her sleeve into the palms of her hands. She had already calculated the trajectory needed to take out each of the mercenaries quickly and silently when a completely different idea occurred to her. One that would solve two nagging problems.

Sigrid approached the banker, prepared for all hell to break loose. “Mr. Wereme?”

She was, however, not prepared for what happened next.

The elderly man looked up, more soup spilling from the shaking spoon. Bright, interested eyes greeted her. “Why, yes, my dear,” he said, blinking at her in a friendly fashion. “What can I do for you?”

The tallest of the mercenaries stepped forward and placed a meaty hand on her chest, pushing her back. “All right, all right… Whatever you’re sellin’, Mr. Wereme ain’t buying.”

“Selling?” Did they actually think she was one of the flesh traders, and dressed like this? It was obvious the mercenaries didn’t think much of this ‘little girl’ or suspect she might carry the arsenal of destruction she did beneath the bulky sweater.

“Actually, I rather thought I might have something Mr. Wereme might be interested in,” Sigrid said hopefully. “Some information.”

The mercenary, still with his hand on her chest—somewhat liberally, Sigrid thought—pushed her back again, ushering her along. “That’s enough, young lady. Mr. Wereme don’t need no information. Now bugger off before I—”

He never finished the sentence. Sigrid had his arm by the wrist, twisting it up and around, bringing the much larger man crumpling to his knees. Too stunned to cry out, he stared up at her, eyes filled with bewilderment. He reached for his gun—gasped as he found only an empty holster. Sigrid flipped the gun over, grasped it by the barrel and used it as a bludgeon to bring down the second of the mercenaries as he charged in. The first man struggled in her grasp; a quick jerk broke his arm; neatly, it would heal without difficulty.

The elderly Mr. Bernat Wereme seemed to find this of great amusement and put his spoon down clattering on the counter, and clapped his hands in appreciation.

“Bravo! Oh, well done. Well done, I say.”

The other mercenary wasn’t amused by Sigrid’s antics. He leaned toward her, but Sigrid held up a cautioning finger and wagged it back and forth before his face. Wisely, he placed his gun back in its holster, taking his seat at the counter, hands raised.

“Hey, I’m not even on salary.”

“Good man.”

Sigrid took the empty seat next to Bernat Wereme.

“Marvelous, dear,” the banker said. “Well done. You must be here to rescue me. Did my sister send you?”

“Your sister?”

Sigrid studied the strange, thin man; he smiled, beaming at her.

“Carol said she’d send for me. She’s such a dear. You know Carol, of course. She said I could ride on the ship. I do so love ships. They’re marvelous, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh…” Sigrid nodded, words failing her. She scanned the older man; a look to the third mercenary confirmed what she was thinking, confirmed her scans—not that she needed the technology to tell her the obvious; Bernat Wereme suffered from dementia.

“Excuse me,” Sigrid said to the mercenary. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake. Where is it you’re escorting Mr. Wereme?”

The mercenary shrugged. “It’s not a secret. The retirement community on Vega IV. Assisted living.”

Assisted…?

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Sigrid said. “Why the escort?”

Before the man responded, Sigrid knew the answer.

“He won’t go on his own,” the mercenary said. “He has a habit of running off. Isn’t that right, Mr. Wereme?”

“What’s that? Hmm…yes?”

Sigrid shook her head. “I’m sorry. I think there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”

And then the realization hit Sigrid like a brick. There was a misunderstanding, and it was hers. “Shit.”

Turning, running, Sigrid bolted for the door.

“Hey! Wait!” the mercenary called after her. “What’s this all about?”

Sigrid almost forgot, turned, and grabbed the old man’s briefcase. “Sorry—I’ll be needing this. And sorry about your friends!”

In a flash she was gone, heading quickly back toward the gentlemen’s club, leaving the startled mercenary to tend to his friends and the babbling Mr. Wereme to enjoy his soup.

She needed to have words with Corbin Price. Whoever Bernat Wereme was, he was harmless. His days of defrauding companies were long in the past. Was it possible he actually had something on his person worth all this trouble? Had he really cheated the Merchantmen? Wereme was hardly a threat, hardly worth sending someone of Sigrid’s skill and training for. Why was this worth so much? She had to inform the captain.

“Captain Trybuszkiewicz,” Sigrid signaled through her comlink. “Come in, Captain.”

Nothing. Static.

“Ōmi Maru, this is Sigrid Novak. Are you there? Andrzej?”

Again, nothing. Sigrid felt the panic well within her and quickened her pace. Her search through Bernat’s bag revealed little. Notebooks filled with illegible scribblings, empty meal wrappers, old tissues, a scarf. There was nothing here. Had she missed something? Perhaps on his person—perhaps him?

No. There was no package. The entire operation had been a ruse. But for what?

Sigrid stopped in her tracks. There was indeed something of value on the station? The bounty on her head was no secret, but Corbin Price had expressed little interest. If he was really after her, why not set a trap? Why send her on this goose chase—what purpose would it serve?

Sigrid felt the cold realization creep along her spine.

It was the ship. It was the Ōmi Maru, or rather, what it held. The freighter’s navigation computer held one thing of tremendous value: the location of New Alcyone.

Sigrid turned back the other way, ran for the docking platform as fast as she could. If only there was time.

* * *

The docking platform lay abandoned, the laborers gone. And the Kimuran crews were missing. Unstowed cargo lay strewn about, dropped and forgotten. Sigrid called with her comlink again, but still there was no answer. Her heart sank as she entered the hold. Blast marks scorched the walls, evidence of the recent skirmish—a skirmish that Sigrid knew she was responsible for.

Sigrid leapt up the ladder and ran down the narrow corridor, her boots clanking on the metal deck plates.

“No…”

Andrzej Topa, the ship’s chief engineer, lay slumped against the helm. Sigrid ran to him, sensed his pulse, the shallow breathing.

Alive. He was still alive. Sigrid lifted the man in her arms. His face was bruised, his shirt torn and bloodied where a shot had grazed him. But he was alive. Sigrid popped a stimtab beneath his nose and gently rubbed his cheeks. The chief stirred in her arms and stared up at her, eyes struggling for focus.

“The captain,” Sigrid said. “Where is he?”

Andrzej looked about, blinking, trying to remember. “Left. Told me to stay…to watch over you.”

She could see the stimtab taking hold, the chief regaining his faculties. He saw Wereme’s case by her side. “Is that…?”

“It’s garbage,” Sigrid said, kicking it aside. “Worthless. It was just an excuse to get me away.”

Sigrid took him by the shoulders, holding him firmly. “Andrzej—the captain. Where did he go?”

The chief struggled to stand; Sigrid helped him. “He went…he went to see the trader. Price. But then, his men…came. There were too many. We tried to defend… They took the crew.”

“Took them? You mean alive?”

“I don’t know—I think. I’m not sure.” More alert now, remembering, the chief’s eyes shot to the navigations console. “Sigrid, they got the—”

“I know!” Sigrid had already checked the navigations computer log, verified the breach and confirmed her fears. They had stolen the data—downloaded the location of New Alcyone. Corbin Price had exactly what he’d come for. And Sigrid had delivered it to him, boxed and wrapped.

“We have to stop him,” Sigrid said.

“Stop him? We don’t even know where he’s going.”

Sigrid rose, walked to the helm, and punched up the forward navigational monitor. “Yes, we do.”

There was little traffic in the space surrounding Konoe Station, fewer places to hide. There was no missing the single lumbering freighter, her bright colors garish against the black backdrop. Large and slow, she turned, her course taking her straight to the Warp Relay. Even without its transponder blinking out her identification code, Sigrid would know this ship; she was the Merchantman.

“We have to go after her,” Sigrid said. “We can’t let her escape through the Relay. If she does…” Sigrid didn’t want to think about it.

The chief leaned heavily on the console beside her, verifying the information. The Merchantman was already 1,500 kilometers out, every second increasing that distance as she accelerated away, blasting toward the Warp Relay and escape.

Andrzej reached for the com. “I’ll signal the other transports—get them to ward her off.”

Sigrid moved to the helm and initiated the startup sequence for the engines, clearing their moorings. The chief stopped her, his hand on her shoulder. He checked the monitor and shook his head. “She’s too far out. We’ll never catch her. Even if we could, we have nothing to stop her with. We have no weapons.”

“Sorry, Chief. That’s where you’re wrong.”

* * *

“Has anyone ever told you you may be clinically insane?” the chief asked, helping Sigrid fasten the faceplate to her pressure suit.

Sigrid considered the question and was surprised at the answer. “I suppose I’d be lying if I said the subject never came up.”

Sigrid zipped up the pressure suit. This was only her second time in space. She was grateful to have a suit that fit her this time, unlike the bulky, clumsy thing she’d worn during the action with the Agatsuma. Made to measure, her new suit permitted much greater mobility and featured harnesses and clips to accommodate her weapons and equipment.

Every light in the suit blinked green. She had pressure; she had air. She also had a plan.

“Help me with this.”

Together, they slid the freshly stolen joy-rocket on a skid toward the cargo airlock. This one seemed a particularly nasty piece of engineering. The hybrid rocket motor had clearly been salvaged from a thruster pylon from a much larger vessel. Two meters wide and five long, it took up much of the space in the hold. A simple acceleration couch had been laser welded onto its fairing; her only controls were a throttle lever and a kill switch. Pitch and attack angles were handled by four maneuvering jets taken from an old EVA unit. Once launched, she knew it would have one basic maneuver—straight ahead.

“You don’t have to do this,” the chief said as Sigrid climbed into the chair.

“This is my fault, Chief. I’ve endangered the crew. I’ve put us all at risk.”

“You’re being a fool!”

“And you’re wasting time,” Sigrid argued back, angry at herself, at Corbin Price—at anyone she could think of.

“You don’t even know if this contraption will work. Is it even fueled?”

Sigrid’s sensors could scan on a number of levels. Chemical composition was one of them. The rocket motor was fueled and ready; although she didn’t want to think too long as to its construction or its integrity. It could very easily explode when she ignited the mixture—her along with it.

“Only one way to find out. Now, unless you want to come with me, I suggest you go back to the bridge.”

The chief frowned in a pronounced fashion, as if struggling but unable to come up with a decent retort. “Bring them back alive, Ms. Novak.”

Sigrid felt the Ōmi Maru’s engine’s cut out as the freighter rotated 180º. Interfacing directly with the ship’s computer, Sigrid began the depressurizing sequence. Lights flashed green in her HUD; Sigrid opened the outer door to the cargo hold.

The Merchantman was there, visible now, but so was the Warp Relay behind her. There might still be time. With the doors cleared, she switched off the ship’s artificial gravity, allowing the missile on which she sat to float free.

“Here goes nothing.”

Sigrid ignited the fuel and squealed despite herself. The joy-rocket shot out of the hold, streaking toward her target, the Merchantman, accelerating to a nerve-rattling eight-point-two-six Gs. She looked at the throttle control in her hand; it was only at halfway.

Sigrid slowly pressed her thumb down, increasing the flow of the oxidizer. The leap in acceleration ripped the wind from her chest. Twelve-point-eight Gs, still accelerating. She squeezed her abdominal muscles tight, kept her breathing short. The acceleration registered, pressing her deeper into the couch, threatening to push her out the other side—the vibrations threatening to rip the entire chair off its frame. Worse, the heavy throttling seemed to initiate a starboard roll she couldn’t bring under control.

Leta has got to try this, Sigrid thought, watching the stars whirling around her, then cursed herself. This was hardly the time for such thoughts.

With her focus squarely on the gleaming hull of the Merchantman, Sigrid did her best to ignore the spinning, whirling star field. She could see the three other Kimuran freighters in pursuit. They were closing on the larger freighter, veering to cut her off, but the transports did not have the weapons to dissuade her from her flight. Sigrid would have to make their case.

She was slowly narrowing the distance, gaining ground, but not fast enough. Already at the limit of her endurance, Sigrid pressed the throttle switch all the way home, braced for the crush of the extra Gs. Nothing happened. Sigrid pressed it again, but the only response was the sudden sputtering of the rocket motor, its fuel exhausted.

“Shit.”

The maneuvering jets still had power, and she used them now to adjust her angle of attack, aiming for the top of the lumbering freighter. Eleven hundred meters—her trajectory was ballistic now, floating free, closing fast, but the Merchantman still blasted its way under full power, inching toward the Relay and escape. If her calculations were correct, she could still intercept the freighter; if she were wrong, she would float off into deep space.

There was nothing left for it. Sigrid braced and pushed, launching herself from the seat of her spent missile. She saw the flare of the Merchantman‘s turrets firing; her PCM picked up the ordnance aimed at her, too small and moving too fast for her optical module to pick up. The joy-rocket tore apart under the barrage of flechettes, but Sigrid kept on her ballistic path. The freighter was coming up fast now. Four hundred meters. Too fast. Red numerals flashed in her HUD, the distance counting down at an alarming rate. At her current velocity, impact would be fatal.

Arms spread wide, Sigrid fired her suit’s maneuvering jets, expending her entire reserve of fuel in one desperate burst. Braking hard, she aimed as best she could for a ‘glancing blow’ across the Merchantman’s hull. The sudden deceleration knocked the wind from her lungs. The jets sputtered, their fuel spent. It wasn’t enough. She was almost on the ship now, braced for the impact. This would hurt.

Sigrid remembered little of the impact. Only the pain. Her right shoulder took the brunt of it and was completely numb. Her head had taken a good smacking against the hull, and she’d blacked out. Nano swarms surged to the injured areas, effecting repairs to the damaged tissues. Her PCM prepared and released concentrated doses of stimulants. Sigrid was instantly awake and alert. She’d pay for it later, but that mattered little now.

She was spinning now, tumbling head over heels, skidding down the length of the freighter’s hull. She scanned frantically for handholds, reached out, arms outstretched desperately, missed, only to tumble helplessly back into space.

A grappling claw was clipped to the belt at her waist. Breathing hard, trying not to think about the freighter falling further and further away, Sigrid unslung the thin cord and attached the claw to the launcher. She aimed and fired. Using her PCM, Sigrid guided the claw’s trajectory toward a beveled edge in the ship’s hull. It hit, grabbing hold. Sensors embedded in the claw’s teeth instantly analyzed the surface composition, creating and injecting a bonding agent strong enough to hold better than a metric ton, more than adequate for Sigrid’s fifty-four-kilo frame.

The tether whirred, played out, first slowing her velocity then gently reeling her in. Steadily, it dragged her back toward the hull of the great freighter. Several indicators flashed yellow and red in her HUD. She’d sustained a concussion; her suit had been breached and was slowly leaking vital oxygen. But she was alive.

Now all she needed was to find a way in.

There was no ‘quiet’ way of gaining entrance to the freighter. Sigrid located a service hatch on the dorsal hull; it was a simple thing to interface with the crude lock, override its securities, and sever the safeties. The alarms made a terrible racket and brought crew running from all sections. But these men were not prepared for combat.

Shots from her high-caliber rounds echoed soundly in the narrow corridor; smoke wisped from the smoldering barrels of her twin 18 mm recoilless sidearms. Sigrid holstered the weapons, setting them back in their clips, and stepped carefully over the bodies of the merchant crewmen as she made her way deeper inside.

The designers of the Merchantman had kindly provided numerous signs to mark her way. Computer terminals were all too happy to dispense vital information—once she’d sliced the securities. The Kimuran crew was being held in a makeshift brig on C Deck, but she could find no sign of the captain or of Corbin Price. If they were even here.

There was no time to wonder. She had to disable the ship, and quickly. More bootsteps thundered toward her. These Merchantmen were not professional soldiers; a simple gas grenade plucked from her belt made quick work of the lumbering men.

A junction in the corridor held a ladder leading up and down extending to all decks. Bridge or engineering? Sigrid wondered. She might take control of the ship from the bridge, but there seemed little time for finesse in her operation. It was time for blunt action. Disable the engines; stop the Merchantman dead in her tracks.

Sigrid slid down the ladder two decks, landing softly on the floor below. The engineering section was visible ahead. She had but minutes to spare.

The corridor remained empty, the crew having learned to keep clear of her. But up ahead Sigrid’s optical implant revealed a number of thermal signatures—men, waiting for her. Her electrical scans told of the heavy weapons they employed. It was a textbook defensive position, and they seemed perfectly prepared to wait for her to walk into their trap. Unlike the crew that had rushed to meet her in the airlock, Sigrid knew these men to be professionals. So the Merchantmen were employing mercenaries after all.

Her pressure suit did not permit the use of her cloak. She could not rely on stealth here. Sigrid thought to discard the suit, but she suspected she would need its protection before this scenario played out.

The ship’s PA crackled. Sigrid heard the unmistakable voice of Corbin Price echoing in the corridor.

“Ms. Peters. There is no need for further violence. I have your captain, your crew. We will be through the Relay in moments. I have all that I came for. The information we carry will pay us handsomely. But I am quickly learning that you and your kind may well be worth more. It would be my pleasure to discuss this with you further. Perhaps we can still arrange a deal. Come to the bridge, and let’s discuss this in a civilized fashion.”

Sigrid cursed. She had learned her lesson; there could be no bargaining with the trader. She stepped toward the entrance of the engineering section—halted.

“I warn you, Ms. Peters. If you attempt to damage my ship further, you will only serve to kill your captain. Would you really allow that to happen? Is that something you could live with? Especially when there is no need? I still have something you want. You clearly have something to offer me. I see no reason why we cannot emerge from this alive and profitable. Those machines? They’re nothing compared to what I have to offer. I have information—information you might find of immense interest. Names, Ms. Peters. I can give you names. Names of the men who would do you harm. I would even give you the names of the men who I was to sell the location of your home to. Isn’t that of value to you, Ms. Peters?”

Sigrid listened to the fat man prattling on. Despite his offer, Sigrid had little intention of dealing with the man again. She’d learned her lesson. But all the while he talked, pontificated, reveled in the sound of his own voice, Sigrid was busy tracking his signal, routing it through the ship’s communications. Despite what he had said, Corbin Price was not on the bridge; another lie she’d failed to detect. He was here, in engineering, cowering behind the remnants of his mercenary guard.

“Very well, Mr. Price,” Sigrid said, standing, walking slowly forward. “Perhaps we do have something to discuss. But let us do so face to face.”

Sigrid emerged into the engineering section. With her arms raised, she tossed her sidearms to the side, hands held above her head in surrender and submission. The lights in the section had been disabled, but it mattered not; Sigrid could see as easily in pitch black as she could in the light of day, albeit in a hazy monochrome grey.

“I know you’re here, Mr. Price. The captain, too.”

Banks of floodlights flashed on—aimed at her. Sigrid lifted a hand to shield her eyes while her optics made their adjustment. She stood in the middle of the wide room in plain view. Armed men watched her from fortified positions on the raised catwalks above. A turret had been set up near the main reactor, manned by a fire team of mercenary soldiers. They tracked her movements, the muzzle of the great gun swiveling, whirring to follow her. Sigrid logged each of the targets in her PCM, marked them in order of priority. She smiled inwardly as Corbin Price emerged from his position of hiding.

He pushed Captain Trybuszkiewicz in front of him, a gun pressed to his back, careful to keep the Kimuran officer between Sigrid and his fat figure.

“I’m very impressed, Ms. Peters. The rumors of your skill pale in comparison to the reality. If I had known, I never would have attempted this ruse. We might have saved each other a lot of trouble. That is my failing, and for that, I apologize.”

“Agreed. Now, what are we going to do about it?”

The fat Merchantman furrowed his brow in concentration. “I would offer you a new proposal, if you will.”

“I’m listening.”

“I propose a service contract. Not binding. Terms would be negotiable. You would work for me and no one else for, say, a period of three years, with an option for two more. For that, I will return the stolen information and release your captain.”

“A generous offer. And during that time I would, what, gather your cleaning, or perhaps act as escort to private functions?”

Corbin Price found this of great amusement and laughed jovially. “I’m sure I can find something more worthy of your talents. But do not mistake me, Ms. Peters. This offer will expire shortly, and its terms are non-negotiable.”

“No,” Sigrid said, surprising the trader. “It is negotiable. Here are my terms. Halt your vessel here. Captain Trybuszkiewicz and the crew go free; the location of New Alcyone must be cleared from your computer banks. Do this and I will perform one task for you.”

“One task? Only one? I’m not sure if…”

“One, Mr. Price.” Recalling the trader’s own words, Sigrid added, “Should this go well—we can discuss terms for a second.”

Corbin Price laughed, his hand holding his immense belly. “Very well, Ms. Peters. I think your proposal sounds like a bargain.”

Sigrid could sense the man’s confidence. He’d relaxed his stance and allowed more of his frame to be exposed as he talked. The mercenaries picked up on this change of events, as well, and relaxed their guard, their focus more on the conversation than on her. Even now, the soldiers were looking to Corbin Price for direction rather than taking notice of Sigrid and what she held in the palms of her hands.

She opened her hands now, held above her head. The action was one of submission; the reality quite different. Eight tiny pinhead grenades sprung forth from her outstretched palms—Sigrid’s preferred mix of flashbang, concussion and fragmentation. The tiny explosives arched up and away, scattering to the sides of the engineering section, up onto the catwalks above. The three-second delay was all she needed; the eight explosions shattered the brief calm of the negotiation.

Men, parts of men, bits of shrapnel flew in all directions. Captain Trybuszkiewicz, seasoned soldier that he was, seized the moment of distraction and elbowed Corbin Price hard in the sternum, relieving him of his pistol and diving for cover.

The men manning the turret were left unharmed—too close to the captain for Sigrid to risk a grenade. They opened fire now, the fifty-caliber slugs piercing the air, ripping into the rear bulkheads.

But their target was long gone. The heavy turret could not track nearly fast enough. Sigrid was a blur, leaping, diving under its firing line, charging straight for the startled mercenaries. Three shuriken sprang forth from her fingers and sliced the air between them. One of the men screamed, a shrill, startled shout of pure fear. He ducked, too late; the star-shaped throwing knife caught him squarely in the throat. Sigrid was already on the survivors, directly in their midst. Her own weapons discarded, she leapt on the first of the soldiers, her booted heel on his neck, strangling him, pinning him back. She ripped the pistol from his grasp, firing into his chest, turning quickly, firing and dispatching the last.

Sigrid scanned the room quickly, infrared then thermal; eight mercenaries lay dead; four wounded, incapacitated. She sensed movement on the catwalk overhead—an injured mercenary reaching for a dropped weapon. Sigrid fired. All was quiet.

The entire fracas had taken but seconds.

Black smoke filled the room, alarms bleated, licks of flame marred the floor and walls. Captain Trybuszkiewicz knelt squarely on the back of Corbin Price. The fat merchant coughed, choking, wheezing for air. Sigrid retrieved her discarded pistols before making her way to him, staring down at his prostrate form.

“We—we had a deal!”

Sigrid pulled a set of plastic binders from her belt, fastened them to his wrists. “I learned from you, Mr. Price. I lied.”

Roughly, she hauled the fat man toward the reactor chamber and fastened him securely to its shielded outer wall. “What—what are you doing? Wait!”

Sigrid gave a quick look to the captain. “Are you injured, sir?”

He shook his head, squinting, coughing, waving to clear the smoke. “Quite all right.”

“Wait!” Corbin Price protested. “You—you can’t leave me here. The machines—the industrial platforms. I can still get you those. I’m not lying. You must believe me. Please, Ms. Peters, we can make a deal!”

Sigrid retrieved another frag grenade from her belt, twisted the top, and reset the delay for five minutes before slapping it onto the reactor’s outer wall.

“My name is Sigrid Novak.”

* * *

Captain Trybuszkiewicz led Sigrid quickly back through the ship to the holding cell where the three captured crew of the Ōmi Maru were held. There was little resistance left. The surviving Merchantman crew hurriedly abandoned the doomed ship, wisely preferring escape to combat—something Sigrid knew she had to do, and quickly.

There were weapons enough lying about, and Sigrid made certain the Kimurans were armed before heading for the lifeboats. Her PCM fed her a persistent, if somewhat annoying reminder as to the time left before detonation. Sigrid went from berth to berth, desperately searching for one of the remaining lifeboats. She had to haul a frightened merchant crewman out of the only remaining pod before pushing the captain and Kimuran officers inside.

The captain held fast, his arm braced against the door frame. He saw what Sigrid saw. The lifeboat only held room for four.

“Get in,” Captain Trybuszkiewicz commanded.

“Captain—”

“I’m an old man, Ms. Novak. Your time is not yet—”

There wasn’t time. Sigrid grabbed the captain by his belt and collar, lifting the older man off his feet, ankles kicking in protest, and thrust him bodily into the pod. “I’m sorry, sir. But there’s no time to discuss this.”

“Ms. Novak! Sigrid—”

Sigrid slammed the release. The lifeboat’s door crashed shut. She heard the series of thumps—pins holding the pod in place exploding free—then a pronounced bang as the lifeboat was ejected from the ship.

The numerals displayed in her HUD changed from amber to red. Ten seconds.

Shit.

Sprinting, Sigrid ran for the nearest airlock one deck down. She wasn’t going to make it.

She heard the first explosion, felt the deck plates buckle under her, then a surge that sent her tumbling upward. The ship’s gravity failed then, and she floated free, tumbling down the lengths of the corridor, banging her head solidly on a collapsed beam. She had just enough of a mind to close the visor on her helmet. The second explosion was far greater—the reactor breaching. She heard the thunderous roar beneath her, a rolling boil growing ever louder, then the shuddering surge of release. Metal groaned and tore like paper, shredding about her. The bulkhead and deck plates behind her broke apart, blowing anything not nailed down out into space, Sigrid along with it.

“Blast!” Sigrid said.

She was tumbling free at an incredible rate, end over end, twisting and turning, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. With nothing to grab hold of, no resistance, nothing could stop her as she tumbled out of control, moving deeper and deeper into the blackness of space. Stars spun by her fractured visor. Debris from the explosion had penetrated her suit, venting more oxygen, losing pressure. The splintered faceplate would not hold for long. Her PCM flashed the expected time of her suit failure in bright bold colors: eight minutes, fifty-eight-point-three seconds.

Nine minutes to live.

It was a fitting end to a failed mission. How was it possible she’d misread Corbin Price so badly? The captain had sensed his duplicity. The chief, too. Only Sigrid had missed it. Had she allowed the prospect of the industrial machines to cloud her mind, or had she simply grown so overconfident in her abilities that she thought it didn’t matter?

She had nine minutes to think about it.

Seven minutes, eight-point-nine seconds, her PCM corrected.

Sigrid cursed.

Another wave of debris blew past her; twisted bits of metal mingled with body parts. At least she had stopped the Merchantman. The ship would not reach her next port, would not report the location of their hidden home. Her friends were safe. The captain and crew were safe.

Or were they?

Sigrid pondered that question. They were safe from the Merchantmen. She’d seen to that. But how many times had they been attacked now? How much energy, time and resources had their enemies expended, all for the chance to control them? How many more attempts would they be forced to endure?

No. Her friends were not safe. Her friends would never be safe. Men would always come for them.

Because they were not afraid of them.

It was then that Sigrid realized the simple truth and her greatest failure. Her enemies were not afraid of her. They did not fear her.

They would.

She made a promise then, to herself and to her sisters. No one would ever harm them again. For the simple fear of their own lives. This she would make certain of. This was her promise. And she would keep it.

If she could survive past the next…

Two minutes, six-point-nine seconds.

“Blast…”

Sigrid felt a lifeline snaking around her waist, coiling, tightening. Her forward trajectory changed as the line went taut, and she found herself rotating end over end in a gentle twenty-five-meter circle. She craned her neck, looking up. On the other end of the line was a figure in a stark, white EVA suit. Behind him floated the welcoming bulk of the Ōmi Maru.

The tether on which she’d been snared was hooked to a winch. The figure waved as he began to reel her in, their orbit around each other ever tightening.

She closed with the figure. A hand reached out and grabbed her arm, his faceplate pressed against hers. It was the chief—Chief Engineer Andrzej Topa.

“Your comlink seems to be malfunctioning, Ms. Novak.”

Sigrid checked the system; she hadn’t noticed during all her tumbling. Too out of breath, too dazed, too numb to respond, Sigrid nodded and gave the standard thumbs-up signal. This satisfied the chief, who smiled back at her.

“Good girl. Now let’s get you home.”

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end of preview chapters

The adventures of Sigrid Novak continue in The Machines of Bellatrix

<<<<>>>>

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Visit Cary Caffrey at carycaffrey.com

Follow Cary on twitter @CaryCaffrey and on Facebook

* * *

THE NARROWING PATH, David J. Normoyle

Dystopian, by David J. Normoyle

It’s a dog eat dog world we live in. Throughout history, dystopian societies are more the rule than the exception.

We mightn’t want that to be true but a look through the history books doesn’t provide comforting reading. If history provides warnings from the past, dystopian fiction sends warnings back from the future; society tries to avoid repeating mistakes from the past, but also strives to avoid Orwellian futures.

In The Narrowing Path, we explore the concept of an extreme form of survival of the fittest. The population is limited, and the ruling class want to keep the status quo. They have plenty of children, and they want to ensure only the best males survive. But how to define best in this context, and how to test it? In this technologically backward world, the only way is to let the children prove themselves in a real world setting.

So just as the rulers of this world scheme amongst themselves, and trade, and try to build enterprises, so their teenage children are set loose in the city to show they can do the same. The rulers watch the progress of the teenagers, taking note of which of them are successful in their ventures, which of them are clever in their schemes, which of them are strong and ruthless in their dealings with rivals, and which of them show the leadership that will allow them to successfully rule the future generations. It’s a fight to the death, but with wits rather than weapons. Only about one in twenty of the sons of the noble families are allowed to survive and go forward to become future rulers. The noble daughters live longer, but life isn’t much better for them; they spend their days in harems until discarded by their husbands when they age.

But even when society as a whole is bleak, the human spirit often provides the strength to break free. In the world of The Narrowing Path, the lower classes work together and help each other, often sacrificing themselves so that others might live. They have to deal with not just the problems of the strictly limited population, but also the brutal regime inflicted on them by the ruling class, but their suffering makes them stronger rather than weaker, makes them love more than they hate.

It’s a dog eat dog world we live in. But it can and will get better.

The Narrowing Path

David J. Normoyle

Prologue

Dread coiled inside my stomach. It wasn’t that I would be seeing so many corpses; as ascor, we accepted death before we ever became Greens. But this was an ending beyond death. I shared a glance with Cenarro and could see that the old man felt the same as I did.

The heat, heavy and wet, pushed down on me. Each time the Infernam came, it seemed as though my spine curved another notch. I could no longer stand as tall as I used to. Today was a day for a bowed head, in any case. A sad day.

“Come on Kesirran, let’s get this over with,” Stenesso said to me. He stood erect and strong as ever. There was an edge of triumph in his voice that disturbed me. This was a night for regret and reflection, not gloating. He didn’t understand like Cenarro and I did. Stenesso was too young to lead, but the Greniers always favored raw strength above wisdom.

The three of us approached the mansion. Stenesso nodded to the marshals and they moved aside. He struggled with the door, and only when he put his shoulder to it and shoved hard did it lurch open. He slid inside and the door shut behind him. When I pushed through after him, I was hit with a wave of nausea as the stench of sweat, excrement, and vomit hit me. Children’s bodies lay piled up against the door and on the floor. I tried to avoid looking too closely at the small corpses, but the images burned themselves into my brain. Bile seared my throat. Some of their faces looked serene and peaceful; others’ were frozen into a rictus of horror. A black tongue poked out of one mouth. A red haired boy had scratches across his face. One child’s hands clutched at another boy’s throat.

It was such a waste for all these children to perish like this. The boys should have had a chance to die as Greens. It was our way.

“Helion’s shadow,” Stenesso said. “It’s a good thing we set marshals to guard the house, or we could have dead ascor children littered all around town. The bloody Bellangers couldn’t even do this right.” He kicked a body out of his way and moved down the hallway.

He was right. They should have taken care of the children’s deaths before seeing to their own. Cenarro and I followed Stenesso as he led us to the base of the stairs. Through a far doorway, I could see four men collapsed over a Harmony board. Playing the game until the very end—that, I could understand. It would have been a fine way to go, if they hadn’t left dead children strewn about.

“Why do we have to go through here?” Stenesso asked, looking about. “They’re all dead—the marshals could have told us that.”

“You still haven’t grasped it,” Cenarro said. “One of the four families is no more. One of the cornerstones of our society has toppled, and you seem to think it’s no more than a few escay dying in the fighting Eye.”

“You live in the past,” Stenesso said. “There were four ascor families; now there are three. Death comes to all things.”

I sighed. I couldn’t understand how Stenesso could think like that. We were elected Guardians, with a duty to mind not just our own families, but all the ascor, plus the lower classes—the marshals and the escay. We were responsible for the health of the whole of Arcandis society. Losing the Bellangers—who knew what ramifications that would cause?

Was this a failing of our way of life? I wondered. Each family schemed against the others—that was what the ascorim was all about. But balance was maintained due to each family being equally powerful and equally adept at the ascorim. The Green Path ensured that only the best of our sons survived to become ascor. It shouldn’t have been possible for a whole family to collapse.

We climbed the stairs. The wood creaked at every step. Many of the candles had been knocked down and extinguished. The remaining ones weren’t bright enough to chase away the gloom; they sent shadows fluttering into the corners. Portraits of ancient Bellanger Guardians lined the stairwell. Their previously noble and aloof countenances now seemed filled with scorn. A solitary table held a white vase, patterned with spiraling blue ivy, that had somehow not been knocked over. The flowers it held were withered and blackened.

When we reached the landing, Stenesso pushed open one of the bedroom doors, made a disgusted noise, and shut it again. I got a brief glimpse of intertwined corpses in a four-poster bed draped with white lace. “Bowe Bellanger died as he lived,” he said. “Pursuing his own gratification above all else.”

That wasn’t fair. Bowe Bellanger had been a fine leader until the moment of crisis. But when his family really needed him, he’d proven himself unworthy. What had seemed like a small food shortage had swiftly deteriorated and events had overwhelmed the Bellanger family. And once they became destitute—it had been shockingly sudden at the end—the family had no option except to commit suicide. But for seeing to his own pleasure while poisoned children ran amok—I felt some of Stenesso’s distaste for the Bellanger Guardian.

“Kesirran, you’ve been here more often than me—you know layout. Where else will we find bodies?” Stenesso asked.

I almost smiled. That was what the game—the ascorim—was all about: little barbs associating me with the Bellanger family as they lay dead around us. I found it strangely comforting. The ascorim went on; there was no true end here. Of course, it seemed Stenesso knew where everything was better than me; he’d even known the location of Bowe Bellanger’s bedroom. As I was about to defend myself, I heard something. In a house of the dead, the smallest sound seems magnified.

“What was that?” I asked. We waited a moment in silence until I thought I had imagined it. Then a baby started crying, followed by a loud crash.

We followed the baby’s cries down the hallway to a part of the mansion I had never been in before. Stenesso led the way in long strides. By the time I reached him, Stenesso held the baby aloft, his fist gripping the back of the baby’s white clothes. The baby, facedown, roared, kicking and punching at the air while blood seeped from several wounds. Below him were shards of porcelain from a broken vase. Stenesso shook him. “Look, they’re not all dead. Bellangers are as hard to get rid of as rebellious escay.” He pulled his knife from his belt.

Cenarro sucked in air. “What are you doing? You can’t just kill him.”

I turned sharply toward Cenarro. For once, I was on Stenesso’s side. There was no choice here.

“That’s a Bellanger child,” Cenarro said. “We don’t have the right to kill him. Give him to me.” Stenesso was too surprised to react as Cenarro took the baby and cradled him. The baby continued to struggle and cry.

“We’ve just waded through scores of the little buggers. Another corpse won’t make a difference,” Stenesso said.

“None of the rest were murdered. As a family, the Bellangers decided on mass suicide.” Cenarro rubbed blood from the baby’s cheeks. As he did so, I noticed that Cenarro wore a ring with a sapphire on it. I must have been terribly distracted to not notice that before. Why would he wear the Bellanger gemstone on this night?

“The Bellangers made a mistake that we have to correct. He was meant to die,” Stenesso said.

“If he was meant to die, he would be dead.”

“Don’t bandy words with me. You know what has to be done.”

“Yes. And I’m doing it.” Cenarro held out the child to me and I took him instinctively.

I should have calculated first. I played the ascorim in my sleep; I never did anything without thinking it through. And yet, there I was, holding the baby. I could still have handed him to Stenesso. But Cenarro knew me well—I preferred to let events follow their course when possible rather than change them. Everyone who played the ascorim had their style, and this was mine. Handing the baby to Stenesso was different from not interfering.

Stenesso’s grin disappeared as he realized Cenarro wasn’t joking, and might even have an ally. “You can’t agree with him,” he said to me.

“No…I don’t know.” Letting him live seemed a needless complication. But I feared the vacuum created by the missing family. I knew one child wouldn’t make any real difference, but maybe it would seem less final: make it feel like the Bellanger family was not gone for good.

“Will you take him in?” Cenarro asked me. “Let him grow up in your family and he can become a Green in his time like the rest? That will decide if he’s meant to live or die.” It was clear now that Cenarro had taken the loss of the fourth ascor family even worse than I did. Wearing the sapphire ring was his way of showing solidarity with them, and now he saw a chance to help them.

“He’ll have no friends, only enemies. He’ll have no hope on the Path.” But even as I said that, letting him live seemed right. It was the ascor way: let the Green Path decide who lived and who died. That would be a much more fitting end to the Bellangers.

Stenesso growled. He could see from my expression that I was coming around to Cenarro’s way of thinking, and that he was outvoted. “We don’t even know the kid’s name. He could have been spawned by any of them.”

“Does it matter?” Cenarro asked. The baby’s cries had quieted now, as if he understood that the danger was over.

“Let’s call him Bowe, after the last great Bellanger leader,” Stenesso said. “You know, the one presently rotting away in his grave of female flesh.”

“Very well,” I said. “Bowe, the last Bellanger. I’ll rear him at Raine Mansion. He’ll live until his first day as a Green.”

Chapter 1

51 Days Left

Purple light washed across the cityscape. Bowe Bellanger leaned against the railing on the highest balcony of Raine mansion, thinking of what was to come. He knew death to be a small thing, a simple stepping off the Path. And still he couldn’t stop fear from infecting his thoughts and tearing at his gut.

Footsteps sounded from behind and Vitarr joined him on the balcony, leaning down alongside him. “I’ve been searching for you. Dinner is already on the table.” There wasn’t much room on the balcony, and Vitarr was half a head taller than Bowe and much broader. He had a thickness to his body that encompassed his arms, legs and shoulders, but also included his nose, brow, and ears. Bowe tended to shy away from human contact, but Vitarr was an exception. He took comfort in the way their arms touched.

Bowe stared up at Helion, the purple moon that dominated the night sky. It was now over twice the size of the sun. It was to blame for what was to come, but it was pointless to curse at a heavenly body. It came every six years, and they had to deal with the consequences. He wiped sweat from his brow.

“Ever think about what might have been?” Vitarr gestured at the silhouette of the uninhabited Bellanger mansion off in the distance.

“I’d likely be enjoying my dinner over there rather than feeling sorry for myself here.” Bowe took a deep breath and stepped back off the balcony and headed down the corridor. “I guess hiding isn’t going to delay what will happen. Might as well get fed.”

Vitarr followed, clapping Bowe on the back. “That’s the attitude. Tomorrow, we can both step off the Path and leave our troubles behind. At least the heat will stop bothering us.”

“Before or after cremation?” Bowe asked with a grin. “Anyway, I’m stepping off the Path tomorrow; don’t count yourself out so quickly.”

“Ha. I have less chance than you,” Vitarr said. “At least you are skilled at Harmony. The Guardians admire that.”

“You can’t win the who-has-less-chance-on-the-Path game against me. I’ve been earmarked to be bottom of the lists for twelve years.” Bowe kept it out of his voice, but that blasted fear began to creep through his body again. The lists were controlled by the bet-takers and showed the odds of survival for each Green.

“Right now, I’m low on the lists myself. I know everyone expects the mentors to kill you off on the first day.” Vitarr hurried through the last part of his remark, then his voice turned serious. “If they don’t, though, you have the qualities to survive the Green Path. What do I have?”

“What are you talking about? You’ve been protecting me from bullies as far back as I can remember. You’re strong. And you’re older than most—you turned sixteen ages ago, while I’m barely thirteen. You have every chance.” Bowe put as much confidence as he could muster into his voice, but he could see that Vitarr didn’t believe him. His insides twisted at the look of sadness and resignation that shadowed across Vitarr’s features.

Then the shadow was gone and Vitarr grinned. “Hurry up. Whichever of us bites it first, we both deserve a good last meal. Come on, we should hurry. Likely, the rest of the Greens have eaten the best food by now.” He was never one to dwell on negative thoughts.

Bowe could do enough dwelling for both of them. Not that it did any good. Vitarr didn’t have Reyanu’s quickness of thought, or Tlirris’s quickness of body. A few years ago, Vitarr had been bigger than most boys his age, but now most of the others had caught up and made short work of him on the training grounds. His strength and size no longer made up for being slow and clumsy. Bowe needed to survive to help his friend. And for that, Ariastiana seemed to be their only hope right now. Only she seemed colder than ever lately.

It was unusual to eat in the ballroom, but there was no chance of the Greens treating the occasion with any kind of decorum. The raucous commotion could be heard long before they reached the entrance. Bowe felt like he needed to push his way through the wave of noise at the doorway.

Inside, the tables were overflowing with wine and food. None of the boys sat on their chairs. Some stood, some sat on tables. In one corner, five boys were involved in a general melee of shouting, shoving, and pushing. Most of the chairs were overturned. Bowe had expected mayhem, but he hadn’t expected it to be this bad. Though maybe he should have. Put thirty teenage boys in a room with food and drink, then add the knowledge that it could be their last meal, and mix in an amnesty on bad behavior—if that wasn’t a recipe for anarchy, Bowe didn’t know what was. Though perhaps the Greens should have been showing more restraint. At the head table, Kesirran, the Raine Guardian, and his chief wife, Ariastiana, watched everyone and everything.

As they walked in, Bowe brushed against one of the escay girls bringing out empty plates. His skin crawled. He hated touching the lower classes. He shot a glare at her departing back before following Vitarr.

They found a free place at one of the tables, but had to duck errant flying vegetables from a food fight to reach it. They righted the overturned chairs and sat. Wine from overturned pitchers stained large amounts of the tablecloth. Half-eaten carcasses of chicken and other cuts of meat lay scattered across the tables and the floor. The evening’s dinner was everywhere except on the plates.

Vitarr reached for an upright pitcher and Bowe knocked his hand away. “Eat the food, leave the wine be.” They needed to be clearheaded and ready to grasp at every sliver of hope to have any chance.

“Come on, Bowe, this could be our last night. If now isn’t the time to enjoy ourselves, I don’t know when is.”

“When we have safety survived the Green Path.” Bowe’s voice was firm.

Vitarr growled in the back of his throat as he knifed a leg of pork off the table and onto his plate.

Bowe glanced at the head table. Kesirran’s head was bowed, but his eyes darted back and forth. His head held only wisps of white hair, and his skin, yellowed and cracked like ancient parchment, hung loose from his face. Bowe wasn’t going to risk getting drunk in front of the Raine Guardian, and he wouldn’t let Vitarr do so, either. Kesirran was an old, but far from senile. He was a man of enormous power and influence as leader of one of the three remaining ascor families. Well, three if Bowe didn’t include his own family, the Bellangers, which currently contained a precarious total of one member.

Beside him, Ariastiana held her mouth in a disapproving pout and stared over the boys’ heads. She had straight black hair that reached halfway down her back. Her glittering black eyes reminded Bowe of a large beetle he had once seen. They could have been twins—if the beetle’s face had been plastered with heavy white foundation. Ariastiana always held her head steady, not allowing her makeup to crack. Her face was thin and she was one of the least plump of all the wives in the harem. Despite the frown, she must have been delighted to be here. Rumors that she was too old to remain as chief wife had been circulating, and the fact that she now sat beside Kesirran was a public reinforcement of her position.

Bowe glanced up at the window and saw Helion again, and he scowled at it. Every day it increased in size and pushed them closer to the sun. The heat would increase until it became unbearable. The Infernam. Only those who claimed a place in the Refuge, could survive those two weeks.

And that was why impressing Kesirran was so important. Everyone in Arcandis had their own narrowing Path to the Refuge but the Green Path was reserved for the sons of the ascor between the ages of twelve and seventeen. Only six Greens would survive, and one of those would be selected by the Raine Guardian.

Vitarr gave Bowe a nudge and put some slices of pork and a roast potato on his plate. Bowe picked up a fork and ate mechanically, looking around for the important Greens. Reyanu leaned against a wall, surrounded by his friends. He had blond hair, a handsome face, and natural charm. Reyanu was holding a goblet in his hand, but did not appear to be drinking. Now that Bowe looked more closely, most of the boys high on the lists were keeping themselves under control. Except Tlirris—the Raine Greens’ best fighter—who was red-faced. He was angry, too, clearly annoyed at Phevan, who was badgering him. That was unusual. No one messed with Tlirris, and Phevan was a small and clever boy, not one to get into fights.

A nearby pitcher moved and Bowe grabbed Vitarr’s arm to stop him from dragging it closer.

“Come on, give a boy a break. Last meal and all that.” Vitarr gave a lopsided grin.

“Have you noticed that Reyanu and the other important Greens aren’t drinking much? Kesirran watches everything.”

“You mistake me for someone high on the lists.” Vitarr sighed. “Never won an argument with you yet. Fine, have it your way.” He gestured to some food farther up the table. “That appears to be cake—want some?” What Vitarr pointed at was a jumbled lump of pastry and cream that looked like a face had been planted in it. Or a foot.

Bowe looked at the pastry and then back at Vitarr to make sure he was serious, then studied the mess of food that could once have been cake again before rolling his eyes. “I’m good.”

Vitarr muttered under his breath as he scraped some cake off the table and into a plate. Something about how Bowe wouldn’t know how have fun in a courtesan house with a fistful of gold coins.

Bowe continued to chew on the pork. The food tasted of ash, but this might be the last time he’d have a chance to eat so easily. Ariastiana was looking at Reyanu. Her expression was almost the same as earlier, but a slight upward crook of her lips had changed the disapproving smirk into a smug smile. None of Ariastiana’s other sons had survived the Path, and she showed obvious satisfaction at seeing Reyanu, her youngest, ranked highest among the Raine Greens and surrounded by likely Defenders.

Her head turned a notch, and Bowe managed to catch her gaze. He tried to put a questioning expression on his face—though he likely exhibited more of pleading manner than he would have liked, if the twist in his gut was anything to go by. Ariastiana’s mouth flattened, her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head once. Then she raised her chin and looked away.

The meaning was clear: Bowe would get no help from her. His heart sank. So that was that, his last hope gone. She had promised to intercede for him with Kesirran if he helped her in her scheme against Chalori. He’d feared she’d break her end of the bargain, and now she had. People kept their promises only when it was to their advantage to do so. The ascorim, the maneuvering for power among the ascor, was complex, but that much was simple. What benefit was there in keeping a promise to a boy who’d be dead the next day? Only desperation had driven him to help her.

He sighed. Perhaps Vitarr was right and they should both get roaring drunk and to Helion with the bloody Path and the blasted ascorim.

At that moment, a plate smashed on the floor and movement throughout the room stilled. Tlirris stood on a table, facing Phevan. Everyone turned towards them. Although Tlirris was high on the lists, Bowe didn’t like his chances on the Path. Perhaps Tlirris could make a name for himself as a Wolfling in the Eye, as he was a remarkably skilled fighter. But he was also extremely stupid, and wasn’t good at making friends and allies.

Tlirris was shouting at Phevan. “Of course the escay don’t have it better than us—they couldn’t be happier than the ascor. Look at their lives, look at the rags they wear, look at the hovels they live in! Not needing to face the Green Path doesn’t make up for that.” Tlirris’s face was turning purple and a vein throbbed in his forehead. He slurred his words; he was now clearly drunk. Phevan didn’t look as worried as he should have. He’d taken up the ridiculous argument that peasants had it easier than nobles in Arcandis, that the escay had better lives than the ascor. Not even a madman would think that, and Phevan was both smart and sane, so something was up. Bowe glanced at Reyanu, who had a smug expression on his face.

Tlirris lurched forward, knocking over a pitcher. Wine gushed out and soaked even more of the tablecloth. “How many escay die fighting in the Eye? How many go out on suicide barges? And,” Tlirris said, his eyes gleaming, “if the escay are so happy, then why do they have the Guild?” A dead silence descended.

The gaze of everyone in the room turned as one to the head table. Kesirran and Ariastiana were no longer there. When had they left? And had they heard Tlirris? A door at the back of the ballroom opened and a few boys began to drift out. Tlirris seemed to have just realized what he’d said. Phevan was gone, and suddenly Tlirris was isolated, standing alone on the table. His anger turned to dismay, then he jutted out his chin. “And why shouldn’t I say it? Guild. There, I said it again. Guild, guild, guild.” Those near him started to move away, and the trickle of people out the back door turned into a steady stream. “What are you afraid of? We are ascor—we don’t fear peasants or any organization they might form.” His voice became a despairing plea. “We do not fear the escay. We are ascor.”

Vitarr and Bowe exited the ballroom with the rest. We are not truly ascor yet, merely their sons, Bowe thought. And now you never will be. The Guild was only talked about in dark corners with trusted souls. Everyone knew a story or two of someone who had spoken about the Guild too loudly or too publicly and had disappeared. For that reason, details about it were sketchy. All Bowe knew was that it was an evil organization dedicated to destroying the ascor way of life.

The corridor was crowded with Greens streaming away from the ballroom. Bowe turned to Vitarr. “What do you think—?”

Vitarr raised his hand. “Best not to even mention it.”

Bowe stopped what he’d been about to say. Vitarr was right; there was nothing to gain from talking about what Tlirris had said. He cast his mind back to the earlier scene and remembered the satisfied smile from Reyanu. Was he behind this?

“I promised Chalori I’d say goodbye to her,” Bowe said. “See you later.”

Vitarr nodded and continued toward the boys’ quarters, and Bowe turned into the hallway that led to the women’s quarters. The harem contained the wives of all the ascor and some of the younger children. Mingled perfume gave the whole place a sickly smell. Several patrolling eunuchs cast him sidelong looks. If he were found in these hallways after today, he’d be lucky to leave lacking only his balls. The only men welcome in the harem were the eunuchs and the ascora’s husbands—the Raine ascor. After tomorrow Bowe would be considered more man than boy. All the silk doorway-coverings were tied up above the openings; they were only closed when the wives received visits from their husbands. Inside the bedrooms, plump ascora reclined on soft couches. Many had escay servants fanning them. Each room teemed with expensive baubles. The greater the ascora’s wealth, the more the room glittered.

Bowe’s pace slowed as he approached Chalori’s doorway. He had been putting off this visit. He couldn’t help but feel that helping Ariastiana against Chalori had been a betrayal of sorts. Even though it was just part of the ascorim and he knew he shouldn’t feel guilty, he couldn’t control his emotions as much as he would have liked. She and Vitarr were the only ones in Raine Mansion who showed him kindness. Perhaps it was natural that he and Chalori had become close when he was younger; she had been childless and he had been an orphan.

Chalori rushed to him and hugged him when she saw him in the doorway. Bowe was too old for motherly hugs and his body tensed up. But as the familiar warmth and smell of Chalori surrounded him, he relaxed against her, embracing her with all his might. His eyes stung and he blinked back tears. Ashamed of himself, he broke away.

He was surprised that she wore a simple white dress similar to something that one of the Greenettes might wear. Everyone on Arcandis wore light-colored clothing due to the heat, of course. The escay wore light grays and browns. Greens and Greenettes and the younger children dressed in plain white. The ascor and ascora used a white base material, elaborated with colorful patterns and trimmings, favoring designs that highlighted the house color—silver, in the case of the Raine family. The ascora always dressed well; he’d never seen any of them wearing something this plain before. Chalori wore no makeup, either.

She bustled away. “You’ll have some tea.” She was a small woman, so there was no hiding the excess weight she’d put on lately. She was still pretty, though, with curly brown hair and lively blue eyes. She’d been one of Kesirran’s favorites. Chalori’s room was smaller than most and just as overpopulated with knickknacks, but with a diverse mix of styles. In one corner, a carved mahogany insect leaned against a golden candlestick patterned with dragons; in another, a bonsai beech tree wilted from lack of water. When he was younger, Bowe had used to love inventing games with the strange objects he’d find in here.

He’d come to say goodbye to Chalori, and now he found he was bidding farewell to his childhood also. A cold chill went through him as he realized he’d get to experience less than a day of adulthood.

Chalori brought over an ornate silver teapot. On a small table nearby stood a metal platform with three candles underneath to warm the tea. As she set the teapot down, her hand shook and the teapot rattled against the platform.

Bowe had to take it from her. “Sit down. Forget about the tea. What’s wrong?” Bowe now noticed her red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. “You don’t have to worry about me, I’ll be fine; I’m always getting out of the little scrapes I get into. I’m sure the first day of the Path will be no different.” Bowe pulled her down beside him on the couch and clasped her hands in his until they stopped shaking.

She let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. “I can almost believe it. You always were the little rascal. So small, but overflowing with mischievous energy. The amount of times I had to put ointment on the little cuts and bruises you used to get…” She shifted her shoulders, turning more towards him, and ran one hand through his hair. “And look at you now, so big and handsome.

“Chalori, stop it. What if one of the eunuchs passes by?”

“Don’t be silly.” She rubbed him under the chin causing him to flush. “They know I’m your mother, or as good as.”

Bowe slapped her hand away, feeling another stab of guilt as he remembered Ariastiana. “I’m not a child anymore. Besides, you’ve got me confused with someone else. Or maybe two someones. Reyanu is the handsome one and Vitarr is the big one.” Bowe was not the smallest of the Greens, but he was far from being the biggest.

“My fine, strong boy,” she said, sneaking in another caress of his hair before Bowe could chase her hand away. She hadn’t treated him this much like a child in years. Despite himself, it gave him a warm feeling.

“Now.” She wiped her eyes and composed herself. “I am strong enough,” she muttered under her breath. And then louder. “I have a present for you. Open that box.”

Beside the teapot was a small wooden box that Bowe hadn’t noticed before. Bands of interlocking leaves were carved around the edges of the box. “No need for presents,” he said.

Chalori tried to open the box herself, but her hands were shaking so much that Bowe had to help her. Inside were two curious-looking gold rings. Both had single spikes on the outside surface, pointing away from the center of the ring. At her request, Bowe held his hand out, palm-up and put the ring on his middle finger with the spike facing upward. She put on its twin.

“I see by your face that you don’t know what these are. They are called Paradise Givers. Inside is a little chamber containing a black liquid called Paradise’s Kiss—a fast-acting and painless poison.”

Bowe dropped the box and jumped up. “This is a sick joke.”

Chalori looked at her palm in wonder. “Look—my hand is no longer shaking.” The spike protruded from the ring like a viper’s fang. “Many of your old family, the Bellangers, would have worn these just before they killed themselves. You were just a baby then.” Chalori smiled. “I thought this would be hard, but now that the time has arrived, it just seems…natural. A goodbye kiss.”

Bowe hand jerked as he remembered that he was wearing the other ring. He carefully removed it, placed on the table, exhaled, and took a long step back. “I know how my family died. I don’t know what you are doing.”

“I am feeling strong. Now you have to be, too, my son. You know what’s going to happen tomorrow. The mentors always kill one Green the first day. Kesirran said twelve years ago when he rescued you that you’d die on your the first day as a Green. You’ve known this your whole life. I know you’re a fighter. But this is the easiest way.”

“You want to kill me?” Bowe, for once, couldn’t get his brain to work.

“No, silly. A suicide pact.”

“Why would you want to kill yourself?”

“I’m not making it to the Refuge this year. Kesirran hasn’t visited me in months.”

Bowe went still with shock. Had he caused this? “That doesn’t mean you don’t get to go to the Refuge.”

“The ascora have their own Path. Once their husband stops visiting them, they aren’t brought to the Refuge when the Infernam comes. I’ve gotten too fat and too ugly and too old. I see no point in waiting for the inevitable while the heat increases day by day.”

Bowe’s mouth dropped open. Was this because of him? Ariastiana had maneuvered things so that Chalori and Kesirran didn’t run into each other. She knew it was more likely that Kesirran would forget Chalori if he didn’t see her. And Bowe had been one of those who had watched and warned for Ariastiana. He hadn’t known that this would be the result; he’d thought it just meant a loss of status. Bowe felt hollow inside. What had he done? All for the ghost of a promise.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Chalori said. “It’s not so bad. We go can go out together. It’s honorable to form pacts like this when the end is approaching. It’s what the Bellangers did. It’s so much easier with someone you love. We embrace, our fingers grip each other’s necks, and the spikes on the rings breach the skin with a gentle pinprick. We are saying we love each other and we are giving each other the gift of paradise. We all have to leave the Path sometime, and there is no better way to go. Mother and son together.”

“I’m not your son.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, Bowe wanted to take them back. Sadness flashed across Chalori’s face. Then she moved. Bowe dived at her and grabbed her arm, trying to stop her. He wasn’t quick enough. She slapped her hand against her neck. Her eyes widened in shock for a moment, and then she smiled.

Bowe buried his face into her shoulder, wrapping his hands around her neck and weeping. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You’re the only mother I ever wanted,” he sobbed.

Chalori’s fingers twirled through his hair. “I know you didn’t, my darling. My beautiful, strong son. I know you didn’t.”

Bowe held her tightly to him, crying. After a time, Chalori’s fingers stopped moving. He became aware of her heartbeat. He moved his head to hear it more clearly. After a time, it faltered, and then stopped beating. Bowe just lay there, feeling the heat leach from her body until, much later, a eunuch helped him to his feet and escorted him back to his own quarters.

Chapter 2

50 Days Left

The sun beat down with molten heat. Bowe stood alone in the one corner of the square that didn’t have any shade. Sweat flooded down his face; if the mentors didn’t hurry up, they’d only have a desiccated corpse to kill. At the other three corners of Drywell Square, the rest of the Greens squashed together against the walls, hugging the shade. Everyone knew to protect themselves from the sun, especially approaching the Infernam, yet all the Greens had been sent out here without any hats.

Drywell Square looked bigger today, cleared out of the escay who were usually there selling their wares. Now it held only the Greens, with marshals guarding the entrances. The Greens were separated into their families. The Bellanger corner held only Bowe. Opposite him were Reyanu, Vitarr, and the rest of the Raines. The Lessard and Grenier Greens stationed themselves in the other two corners. Without its usual marketplace bustle, Drywell Square didn’t seem interesting or impressive. Dust rolled along pockmarked paving stones. In the center of the square, a dry fountain was surrounded by a circular, knee-high wall. Two- and one-story houses, cracks running through their red walls, backed onto the square.

This was where the Path always began. Every six years, another batch of Greens were filed into this square, divided into their families and left to wait for words of wisdom from the mentors. Though if Bowe thought the marshals would let him leave, he’d forgo the mentor’s advice. He wouldn’t mind missing the famed tradition of the first day of the Path: the killing of one of the Greens.

Bowe glanced across at the corner occupied by the Greniers—the warrior family. Was it his imagination, or were many of those boys half again the size of everyone else? In the exact corner was the biggest boy of the lot. He had long hair, a flat nose, and prominent arm muscles. His body language, and that of those around him, announced him as a leader among the Greniers, though he had adopted a permanent scowl rather than Reyanu’s easy smile.

Bowe turned his attention to final corner, only to find one of the Lessard boys walking toward him. The boy whistled tunelessly. A marshal moved as if to stop him, but thought better of it. The whistling Green had spiky brown hair, a high forehead, and small features—and he wasn’t much bigger or older than Bowe. He was the kind of boy Bowe might expect to be mercilessly bullied, not the kind to brush past marshals with careless arrogance. His footsteps echoed hollowly against the paving stones, and the other Greens watched him approach Bowe.

“My name is Zidel,” he said when he reached Bowe. “And you are Bowe Bellanger, the only one here whose name everyone knows.”

“What do you want?” Bowe glared. The boy wanted to use him in some way and Bowe wasn’t in the mood. At least they weren’t speaking loudly enough for anyone else to hear.

Zidel laughed. “Would you believe I’m just bored?”

“No. You want something from me. I’m not interested in whatever ascorim game you want to play.”

“I expected more from you.” Zidel shook his head sadly. “If you aim to master the ascorim, you shouldn’t take it lightly. You should play it with every breath, with every gesture, with every word. The ascorim requires an artist’s touch and a dancer’s grace.”

“I don’t aim to master it. I’m about to die. What does the ascorim matter to me now?”

“When you’re about to die is when it matters the most.” Zidel bent down and picked up a pinch of dust from the ground. “We are nothing but grains of dirt picked up and let loose.” He released the dust into the wind. “Some particles fall immediately, others fly high then drift to the ground. They all fall eventually—no one cares where. But some, while they are in the air, will dance in the wind and soar higher than all the rest. For me, that is the dance of the ascorim. If I knew that I was to die soon, I would soar for those minutes I had left.”

“That’s beautiful,” Bowe said. “All my life I wanted to be a speck of dust, but only now do I truly feel like one.” The boy was talking utter nonsense. The ascorim was the scheming for power among the ascor. Important but not mystical like Zidel made it out.

Zidel smiled. “Feel free to interpret my words as literally as you wish. I am disappointed. I came over here because I heard you might be someone who could play, and perhaps even master, the ascorim. It seems I was misinformed.”

“Whom did you hear that from?” Bowe’s one attempt at scheming had led to Chalori’s—no, he didn’t want to think about that.

“Everyone is watched and evaluated before the Path. How do you think the lists are formed? I try to learn as much as I can about my fellow Greens. Let me see, who else is there from Raine mansion? Reyanu, of course, is the most important. Tlirris was a threat, but has plummeted down the lists since…” He trailed off. “You were there.”

So Zidel already knew about what had happened in Raine Mansion last night. Bowe couldn’t decide whether this guy was a prodigy or insane.

“In the Grenier family, Dulnato casts a large shadow over the rest,” Zidel continued. “He’s the big scowling guy in the corner—you can’t miss him. The other interesting character from that family is Jisri. Tall guy with a thin, narrow face, farthest away from the wall.” Bowe saw whom he meant. “He is a strange person though. You can’t see from here, but behind the marshals, in the crowd, watching him is his twin sister, Jadilla. The two of them have been inseparable since birth. She’s as thin as an escay; she trained in weapons with her brother and asked to be allowed to join the Path. And Jisri seems to support her.” Zidel laughed to himself. “A girl joining the Path. Going out in the world like a man. Maybe it’s just because she’s too thin to get a husband. In any event, Jisri is a fighter and has a good mind. He hasn’t attracted Defenders like Dulnato, but he could be a wildcard. I thought you might be one, too.”

Where was Zidel getting this stuff from? “Me? A wildcard. I’m the Deadbeat of Deadbeats. Last on the lists. Couldn’t beat a straw mannequin in a fight.”

“Never been one to do much fighting, myself. Except up here.” Zidel tapped his temple. “Sure, some will survive the Green Path due to their muscles and speed, but what’s behind your eyes is more important. Especially since your family’s collapse.”

“What does that have to do with surviving the Path?”

“The Bellangers weren’t able to deal with the crisis they faced. They lost their fortune and had no choice but to commit suicide. That focuses the minds of the remaining families to make sure that they select the smartest and best of the Greens. That’s why the Path is so important. There’s no room for sentiment. I bet most of the Raine children didn’t see their fathers much.”

Bowe frowned. That was true. The ascor, when visiting their wives in the harem, never showed any interest in the children.

“It’s the same at Lessard Mansion. The Guardians don’t care who a Green’s father is when they decide on the Selects; the ascor don’t become attached to their sons. The Greniers tend to select warriors, and it hasn’t done the strength of their family any harm. For the Lessards and Raines, though, it’s all about the quality of your brain.”

“I’m certain my brain will look impressive when it spills out onto the pavement later,” Bowe said.

Before Zidel could reply, a sudden flurry of movement at one of the entrances drew their attention. Three men walked past the marshals and moved towards the fountain.

“The mentors are here.” Zidel took a step away, then stopped and turned back to Bowe. “It’s expected that you’ll die today, but I’m not so sure. Kesirran said you’d live until your first day as a Green, but he didn’t specify that you would die then. Who knows?”

Zidel strolled after the mentors, and the rest of the Lessard Greens left their corner and streamed after him. Reyanu and Dulnato led out Greens from the other corners. Bowe hesitated. Whatever Zidel said, the mentors always killed one Green on the first day, and this year it would be Bowe.

Bowe had always been angry at the unfairness of it all. He was to die just because of his last name. He could remember, as a kid, pretending to find a magical potion in Chalori’s room that would make the Raines forget how he’d come to live with them, and make them think he was one of them. But look how he’d repaid Chalori for all her kindnesses. She was dead, and it was his fault. Perhaps he deserved to die.

Bowe took a step, dragging his feet. The three mentors now stood on the wall of the empty fountain with the sun behind them. The Greens gathered before them. Before Bowe had left that morning, he’d attended Chalori’s funeral in the Raine crematorium. Other than himself and Vitarr, the only mourner was Ariastiana, whose dark glittering eyes peered out from behind her usual mask of makeup. Bowe was sure she was simply there to gloat. He had almost boiled over in rage, but he knew he was angry at himself more than her.

Remembering back, his throat constricted. He shut his eyes and balled up his fists. He didn’t cry, though. There wasn’t anything he could control today except himself. He may not have done the best with his short years, but now he only had dying left, and by the fires of the Infernam, he was at least going to die well.

Plus, with sweat pouring from him, he couldn’t afford the extra water loss from tears. The hesitation left him, and he walked confidently the rest of the way to the fountain.

Bowe recognized the mentor on the left as Alandar Raine. He liked gemstones so much that it was said he ate them at night and collected them from his chamber pot every morning. At the moment, only the sheath of his gem-encrusted dagger showed his jewel fetish. The mentor beside him was obviously a warrior; he had a long scar down one cheek, muscles bulging in all sorts of unlikely places, and a large sword strapped to his back. The Grenier marshal. His hair was tied up into two long braids. The mentor on the right seemed more like two people than one, or perhaps one person who had eaten another. Bowe had never seen a man with that much fat on him, and he sympathized with the fountain wall, wondering if it would collapse. By process of elimination, the fat man had to be from House Lessard.

The mentors stood on the fountain wall and looked down upon the Greens who had gathered in a loose semi-circle in front of them. “Come closer,” the fat man said. “No need to keep such a distance. We’re all friends here.” The boys reluctantly pushed closer to each other and Bowe was startled to find that the marshals had come up behind them and now surrounded them. “My name is Veliro. This is Drakasi.” He indicated the Grenier ascor beside him. “And Alandar is beside him. We are your mentors on the Path.”

“This morning, you woke up a member of either House Lessard, the trading kings, or House Grenier, the warrior clan, or House Raine, the money wizards or, in one case,” Alandar said, glancing pointedly at Bowe, “House Bellanger, previously the lords of agriculture. You are no longer a member of that family. You don’t have that house’s protection, love, or support anymore. You are all Greens.”

“Walk or fall / Live or die / No one cares,” Drakasi recited.

“I see you are still divided into your families.” Veliro raised his hand and curled his fingers toward him a few times, gesturing for them to approach closer. “There is no need for that anymore. Come closer, mingle.” Squeezed in by the compressing half-circle created by the marshals, the gap between the families shrunk and disappeared.

“More importantly,” Alandar said, “you don’t have any right to a place in the Refuge when the Infernam comes. You can all see Helion filling the night sky. You can feel the heat increasing day by day.”

Bowe could barely remember the Refuge from six years ago. It had been a long twenty days. Everyone had been packed into dark caves with never enough torches for light. He recalled sensations and smells more than actual memories: the pull and release of surf overhead; the boredom; the loud sounds of breathing; the cloying heat; the low, whispered conversations.

“I can see the sweat dripping from your cheeks.” Veliro smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that we kept you outside longer than we should have. Unavoidably delayed. There were these cakes for dessert.” He touched the tips of his fingers to his lips. “Delicious.”

Suddenly, Drakasi jumped from the fountain wall and strode directly up to Bowe. A corridor seemed to magically open in the tightly compressed crowd. Then steel whispered, Drakasi’s hand clasped Bowe’s shoulder, and cold metal touched Bowe’s neck. Bowe’s breath caught in his chest. It all happened before he could react.

“Drakasi does like to get down to business quickly.” Veliro shook his head regretfully. “Now, I’m sure you all know that one of the Greens always gets killed by the mentors on the first day.”

“A ritual execution,” Alandar said, his gaze moving across the crowd. “To remind you how worthless your lives are now that you have become Greens.” The intensity of Alandar’s gaze made Bowe remember another rumor about Alandar: he liked to watch others suffer. The cold touch of Drakasi’s blade slid against Bowe’s throat. Bowe’s mouth was dry, but he didn’t dare swallow for fear of cutting himself with excessive Adam’s apple movement.

“We three were talking about the execution over dessert. Did I mention about the cakes we had for lunch? Mouth-watering. I may have to go back for more after I’m finished with you,” Veliro said. Bowe closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Just get it over with, he thought. I’m ready—just shut up about your infernal cakes and finish it.

Then the coldness was gone from his throat. He opened his eyes to find Drakasi in front of him with his arms folded, his sword already sheathed.

“We decided we didn’t need to kill anyone today. It’s an old custom, but it has outlived its usefulness. You grew up knowing about the Green Path. You all already know that most of you are going to die,” Alandar said. Bowe touched his fingers to his throat to make sure that his head was still attached and that there were no hidden wounds. He could barely believe he’d been spared.

“Cliffs edge, / Buffeting winds, / Truly alive,” Drakasi said.

“In Arcandis, life is only for the worthy, for those who’ve earned it,” Veliro said. “For you lot, that means walking the Green Path. Proving yourselves. Out of all of you here now, only six will be found worthy in fifty days’ time. Three will be selected by the Guardians. Perhaps it will be for their business skills, ascorim skills, or fighting skills. Maybe for ruthlessness, determination, or intelligence shown during the Path.”

“And then each of the three selected will each chose one more,” Alandar said. “The Path is not about Greens standing alone. Just as the Selects will need to show leadership, those who aid them will need to be dedicated, loyal, and industrious if they want to be chosen. You have been cosseted in the mansions all your lives. Now you are being sent out into the city to flourish and prosper, or…not. That is the Green Path. Not an artificial test, but a chance to prove yourselves in a real environment. There are less than twenty ascor in each family, and we can’t afford any weak links.”

“There are four common ways of surviving,” Veliro said. “The first is to become an Elect, gather Defenders about you, and build a successful enterprise. The second is to become one of those Defenders, and to make yourself chief among them so that you are chosen when your leader is selected. Most survivors of the Path are Elects or Defenders. The third way is to become a Wolfling by proving your fighting prowess in the Eye. The fourth is to become a Shadow and assassinate Greens high on the lists.”

Bowe remembered asking Chalori about the Path when he was much younger. “Be good at killing people or making money, or be the best friend of someone who is,” she’d told him. It was still the best description of surviving the Path he’d ever heard.

“Lick the blade, / Savor the sharpness, / Taste the blood.” Drakasi unsheathed his sword and, following his own instructions, stuck out his his tongue and licked the edge of his blade. Blood dripped onto his chin.

“We mentors will be available over the next few days to help you.” Surprisingly, the Lessard mentor moved easily along the top of the narrow fountain wall; with his bulk, Bowe would have thought that Veliro would have had trouble balancing on level ground. “We are here to help you young adventurers take your first tottering steps in this dangerous world. I trade a wide variety of goods, Alandar runs a bank that gives out high-risk loans, and Drakasi trains young Greens as fighters.”

“And, perhaps, before we go…one quick lesson.” The tone of Alandar’s voice made Bowe’s blood turn cold. Drakasi’s blade rose into the air once more. Bowe tried to back away, but crashed into the Greens behind him; there was no escape. The sword glinted in the sunlight, and then it descended in a blur. Bowe’s scream caught in his throat. Blood splattered his face and his vision clouded.

Death wasn’t like he’d expected. Important memories didn’t flash through his mind. His only thoughts as the world faded around him were of the fat man talking about his cakes. Nothing noble. He wondered why he didn’t feel any pain. Then, through the haze, he saw the wide, bulging eyes of another boy. He wiped at his eyes as the boy fell to his knees. Unexpectedly, Bowe’s vision cleared, and he saw blood cascading from Tlirris’s neck. The blood was dark red, almost black, and Bowe couldn’t see how one person could have that much of it. But looking around at the other blood-splattered faces around them, all frozen into masks of horror, he realized that Tlirris was the only one who had been attacked.

The blood on Bowe was Tlirris’s blood. Bowe was still alive.

A tittering sound came from the direction of the fountain. “That’s what I call a valuable lesson,” Veliro said. “Now, get out of here before we decide to teach you pathetic worms a few more.” Swords sang as the marshals drew their swords.

Bowe ran.

Chapter 3

49 Days Left

“You want me to bet on you surviving.” Alandar Raine leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped together in front of his chest. “Now, why would I do that? Smarter men than me have you at the bottom of the lists.” Alandar’s office was surprisingly bare—just a few wooden chairs and desk with some papers on it. No jewels in sight except for his scabbard.

Bowe was still getting used to the idea that it was day two of the Path and he was still alive. He sat opposite Alandar on a small stool. “I’m just looking for a loan—isn’t that what you do? Give loans to the Greens? That’s what Veliro said yesterday.” Bowe knew he sounded more cranky than diplomatic. But Alandar had kept him waiting long enough, and he wanted to get back to looking for Vitarr. No one apart from Tlirris had been killed yesterday—at least that Bowe knew about. But when the marshals had scared everyone into fleeing, Bowe had lost Vitarr in the chaos. After giving up the search for Vitarr, Bowe had sheltered in a doorway for the night, but hadn’t slept much. Having no plan of how he was going to survive the Path, he’d decided to visit the Raine and Lessard mentors today. He wasn’t any good at fighting, so maybe they could help him make money. But Alandar wasn’t proving particularly friendly.

“You seem like a smart boy. You didn’t see anything yesterday that would make you question our sincerity in helping you?” Alandar asked. “Not everyone who asks for a loan gets one. And not everyone gets the same terms. We have to make money on you, young Bellanger. How do you plan to repay me?”

“I beat the odds by surviving yesterday when all expected me to die. I can do it again. When the lists get updated, I won’t be at the bottom anymore.” Now that Bowe had survived the first day, he had to figure out how to prove his worth to the Guardians so he would have a chance. He was already far behind people like Zidel, Dulnato, and Reyanu. The Raines valued those who could make money, and for that Bowe would need capital. He also needed an idea to invest in, but one thing at a time.

Alandar unsheathed his knife. The gemstones were only on the scabbard; the handle was polished bone, and the blade had a blueish tinge. He took a piece of parchment from his desk. “Do you know how sharp a knife has to be to slice through paper at the slightest touch?”

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say very.”

“No need to use a sarcastic tone. Do you know what a soul is?”

Goosebumps ran up Bowe’s arms, and he suddenly wanted to be far away from this room. “I’ve heard talk of it.”

Alandar began to cut a thin column from one end of the sheet of paper. There was a ripping sound as the blade sliced through the parchment. “Hear that sound? I like to imagine that it’s the sound of a soul screaming.” He cut another thin column, causing the same ripping sound.

Bowe shivered.

Alandar smiled. “I’ll tell you how we make money on these high-risk loans: we charge excessive interest rates. To repay in full, you may need to pay multiple times the amount of the initial loan. You pay in installments in case something untoward happens to you over the course of the loan. If there is money on you when you die, we’ll claim it. Obviously, if someone else gets there first, that might not work so well. So we endeavor to be first at the death of an in-arrears Green. Do you know how we do that?”

“I can make a fair guess.” Bowe’s mouth was dry.

Alandar’s smile widened and his eyes took on that same hypnotizing intensity that Bowe had first noticed in the square. “I knew you were a smart boy. We make being paid a very high priority. A Green behind on his repayments doesn’t last long. Can you believe that many refuse our kind offer of a loan? So how much are you looking for?”

“How much are you offering?”

“The maximum we’ve ever given a student was two golds, but that was an excepti—”

“I’ll take two golds.” Bowe knew only one way to deal with fear: confronting it straight on.

“Two golds is for someone who stands high in the lists, not for someone like you.”

“Do you want to do business or not? I will not quibble over your rates. Give me the two golds.”

“I like that, young Bellanger. That gumption. That spirit. That moxie. You’ll have your money. When you leave, the marshals will make a special note of you so they’ll be able to recognize you, should the need arise. I shall look forward to collecting.” Alandar put his ear next to the sheet of paper and cut another thin column from it.

* * *

Bowe paced back and forth in Veliro’s antechamber. He was getting tired of being kept waiting. He now had capital, but needed to invest it in some venture. Who better than the Lessards, the trading kings, to help him with that?

A marshal watched him. Marshals wore a uniform in a lighter color than their house color. This meant that Lessard Green became mint-cream, Grenier scarlet became light pink, and Raine silver became silver-white. Bowe thought all the uniforms looked ridiculous. The most feared marshals wearing light pink—who thought that one up?

After a while, the door opened and the marshal gestured for Bowe to enter the main chamber. Inside, Veliro sat on a large couch, sunk down so far that Bowe thought he’d need to be excavated before he could stand again.

“So the last of the Bellangers,” Veliro said. “I’m glad I have a chance to meet you.”

“Not as glad as I am, I can assure you.” Bowe poked himself. “I still have to double-check that I’m still alive.”

Veliro reached out a chubby arm and retrieved a cream bun from a tray. Several plates of dessert lay within reach. The theme of the room was cushions. Small cushions, big cushions. Red cushions and blue. Patterned and plain. Cushions in the corner, cushions on the floor, cushions on top of cushions. Couches piled so high with cushions that a cushion mountain needed to be scaled before they could be used. Surprisingly, there were no cushions on the walls—only tapestries.

“Nice place you have here.” Bowe squinted at the walls to check if there were pictures of cushions in the tapestries. “But it needs something soft and cuddly to take the edge off.”

Veliro didn’t smile. “Not many Greens have come, despite the offer of help I made. Do you know why?”

“Perhaps it was the slaughtering of a random boy in the square. Some are squeamish about that sort of thing.”

“Always good to whittle away the squeamish. They have no place in the ascor.” Veliro took a bite of his bun, leaving dabs of cream around his mouth. He ate with his mouth open, and the sight of the cream and pastry churning inside that gaping maw made Bowe glad he had a strong stomach. “Before you ask for help from me, I must warn you: Lessards are traders; we deal in bargains. Greens who make bad bargains are taught a lesson.”

“And lessons are not meant for the squeamish?”

“Why not go to Alandar instead of me?” Veliro asked. “You lived with the Raines, after all.”

“Alandar already gave me money.”

“Let me guess: half a gold at two percent interest per day?”

“Two golds at five percent per day.”

The cream cake fell from Veliro’s hand and landed on the couch by his leg. He didn’t seem to notice. “Five percent? And you accepted? I guess the traders are not the only ones who punish Greens for making bad bargains. Alandar likes to draw out the punishment, of course. You have your money, so why did you come to me?”

Bowe hesitated. He didn’t want to admit how clueless he was. But it was surely better to admit it now, at the start of the Path, than suffer for the ignorance later on. “I don’t know what to do with the money.”

Veliro just looked at him. “I don’t know whether to laugh at you or feel sorry for you.” He reached for another pastry. “I suppose you’ve heard about your family’s last night? When you were found alive among the dead.”

“In snippets.” He’d gotten the gist of it from various taunts down through the years.

“You may not have heard this little detail: after the Bellanger family killed themselves, the three remaining Guardians walked through the Bellanger mansion. The old Lessard Guardian, Cenarro, wore a sapphire ring.”

Bowe looked at Veliro blankly.

“Helion’s fire, boy, do you know nothing about your family? The Bellanger color was—is—azure, and the family gemstone is a sapphire. Why did Cenarro show support for the Bellangers when the family wealth had just been destroyed and they’d killed themselves?”

“I don’t know. Why?” Bowe knew that the Raine gemstone was a diamond, but he’d never thought to wonder about the Bellangers’.

“No one knows. Or, if they do, they haven’t told me. Do you know why I’m telling you this?”

Bowe shook his head.

Veliro sighed. “Cenarro is no longer with us, but I’m not inclined to interfere in a long-term scheme he may have planned. House Lessard probably isn’t going to go out of its way to hurt you. That mightn’t help you much, though, since it sounds like Alandar wants you all to himself.” Veliro paused to lick some cream from his fingers. Bowe hoped that he’d wipe the daubs from around his lips; it was hard to take Veliro seriously when he looked like that. “Now, you wanted some instruction. It’ll cost you. Are you willing to spend some of the gold that Alandar gave you?”

Bowe didn’t have a better plan. The money owed was just going to multiply if he did nothing. If Veliro could give him some tips on how to wisely use it, he might have a chance. Some secrets that would help him invest the money. So he nodded.

“Now, there’s twenty-five silvers in a gold, so you have fifty silvers total. What if I charged you twenty silvers?”

Bowe didn’t have many options, but he knew he couldn’t do that. “I can’t pay you that much.”

“Looking for a better deal, are we?” Veliro said. “Name your price.”

“Two silvers.” Bowe could at least show Veliro he knew how to bargain.

Veliro’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t kid around here. You need me more than I need the money. Shall we say fifteen?”

“Four.”

“Ten. These cakes don’t come cheap, you know.”

“Five.” If you ate the other half instead of splattering it all over you, you might have to buy less.

“Eight,” Veliro said. “I should be insulted at how low you are pricing my services.”

“Six.”

“Done.” Veliro held out his arm. Bowe had to lean all the way across him to clasp it. Veliro’s grip was strong. Once the deal was sealed, Veliro settled back into his couch, looking worryingly satisfied. “Now, there are three things I must tell you before you go.” Veliro rang a bell that had been hidden between two plates of cakes. Two marshals in mint-cream uniforms entered. “One: you must pay the six silvers on the way out. Two: the number of silvers in a gold changes with the price of the two metals and is currently only twenty silvers to a gold, so you were paying more than you thought. Three: never pay for something until you see what you are getting. Now get out.”

Bowe felt woozy. What had just happened? “But you promised to teach me.”

“I just did. Twenty silvers to a gold. Never pay for something until you see what you are getting. Whether my lessons are worth six silvers, only time will tell.”

“So all that about the sapphire ring was a pile of ash?”

“No, that was true. And be glad it is true, because Greens have left Lessard Mansion in a coffin for making better deals than you. Now leave, before I come to my senses.”

* * *

The two marshals left Bowe outside in the street feeling like a fool. The Lessard meeting had revealed him as an idiot twice over. Veliro made him realize what a bad bargain Bowe had made with Alandar, only to coax Bowe into making a worse one with him. Bowe walked towards the Fortress. He’d find the final mentor there. The sun had almost set, and an evening breeze brought some relief from the heat. The light hadn’t diminished much, just changed color as Helion took over from the sun in providing brightness.

The Fortress was the Grenier mansion. It was built with black rock and was feared by the escay. Bowe hadn’t intended to go there before being dumped out of Lessard mansion for he was no warrior. Why would the warrior clan help him when the Raines, who had raised him, and the Lessards, who claimed they wouldn’t go out of their way to hurt him, had just left him worse off? But right now, he didn’t have much to lose.

As he got closer, he heard the mingled shouts, screams, cheers and thuds that were suggestive of a full-scale riot. Bowe decided that visiting was a bad idea and had begun to turn around when he noticed that a side gate on one black wall was ajar. It was where the commotion was coming from. He’d peek in and then move on.

A scream rang out, louder than the surrounding tumult. A scream of pain, and genuine fear. A scream that Bowe recognized. He squeezed through the gate and shoved through a circle of onlookers. Inside a training ring stood Dulnato, the scowling Grenier Green, with a sword in hand. At his feet lay Vitarr, whose own weapon lay beyond his reach. Vitarr was cut and bruised and curled into a ball.

Dulnato raised his sword and slammed it into Vitarr’s ribs. The sword’s edge must have been blunted, or Vitarr would have been cut in half. Vitarr didn’t scream this time; he just jerked where he lay.

Bowe knew that if he stepped into the training ring and picked up the sword, he’d just join Vitarr on the ground. He looked around frantically and spotted Drakasi watching. Bowe ran over and grabbed the mentor’s arm. “You have to stop this. He’s killing him!”

Drakasi turned and glared at Bowe’s hand until Bowe snatched it away. “Lions survive, / Insects die, / The Path persists.”

Bowe wanted to scream in frustration. Vitarr was about to die, and he was getting this poetry garbage. There was a sick noise as Dulnato landed another blow, this time on Vitarr’s arm. “I’ll give you two silvers to let him go,” Bowe said.

“Dulnato, stop.” Drakasi held up his hand. Bowe was glad to know that the warrior could speak in something other than a three-line poem.

Dulnato paused with his sword over his head. He glared down at Vitarr and didn’t seem inclined to follow the mentor’s orders.

“You won’t last long in training with me if you can’t follow instructions,” Drakasi said.

Dulnato growled and let his sword fall to his side.

Drakasi turned back to Bowe. “Just because I have interrupted the fight, doesn’t mean I’m just going to let your friend go. Why should I? After his performance in the fighting ring, he deserves to die. You think I care that much about a few silvers?”

Bowe searched his mind for some way he could persuade Drakasi. “It’s not the value that you place on the two silvers that I offer, but the value I place on them.”

Drakasi frowned. “What do you mean?”

Bowe knew that the Greniers valued warrior ideals, so he tried to appeal to that honor code. Loyalty and sacrifice for a companion was surely something that Drakasi would respect. “I borrowed money from Alandar and have already spent some of it. That money is now my lifeblood, for the Raines will see me dead if I cannot return it with interest. And I will freely give up some of my lifeblood to save my friend.”

“Blood and death, / To save another, / Exalted above all.”

Yes, I know you are a terrible poet, Bowe thought. Just give the word to free Vitarr.

“Did you know that you were the Green I was supposed to kill yesterday? We only changed targets on the day. Someone is looking out for you.” Drakasi said, considering.

Bowe held his breath. Several light pink uniformed marshals had arrived, and now watched at a distance.

Finally, Drakasi nodded. “Very well. I will release the Green. But not for two silvers. His incompetence has disrespected this place. I will require more lifeblood than that.”

“Four silvers,” Bowe offered, holding Drakasi’s gaze.

Drakasi didn’t blink.

“Six silvers, and you ensure that both Vitarr and myself get out of here safely.” Bowe offered his forearm.

Drakasi clasped it, and Bowe breathed a sigh of relief.

“If either of you return to the Fortress again, I may not be so merciful.”

Bowe threw Vitarr’s arm over his shoulder and dragged him out the same side door he had entered. Vitarr’s jagged breaths lapped against his neck. Despite the dangers the day had brought, at least they were both alive.

Chapter 4

40 Days Left

The wide-brimmed straw hat kept the heat off, but more importantly, it let him blend in. His white ascor clothes were now dirty enough to be indistinguishable from the everyday grays and browns that everyone else on the street wore. He jostled against a few escay as he crossed the street; he didn’t like having to brush against them, but he was getting used to it. He didn’t have a choice; he no longer lived at Raine mansion so apart from a few marshals and Greens, everyone he met was an escay.

Bowe ducked into a narrow alleyway. Halfway down the alley, he hinged open the wooden boards tied with string that served as a door to the room where he and Vitarr stayed. “Hot out there,” he said to Vitarr, who sat inside.

“Stop saying that.” Vitarr sat on a small stool, his back leaning against the wall. His arm was still in a sling, but he looked healthy. A small, square window high on the wall let in enough light for Bowe to see that the grayish tinge had left his face.

“Have I said it before?”

“Only every blasted time you’ve returned. You think you’re being funny, but you’re not. Just annoying.”

“Can’t I be annoying and funny?”

“Shut up already. Helion’s balls. Did you hear any news?” Vitarr massaged his arm under his sling.

“The newsbard didn’t have much to say about the Path. All the talk was about a shipment of red garnets that were stolen from the Lessards and a trading ship from Jarind that was impounded, suspected of allowing a spy into Arcandis.”

“Nothing to say about the Path? Seriously?”

“Seems to be quiet. Reyanu, Zidel, and Dulnato are all doing well, and no one has challenged their position. No Shadows or Wolflings of note.” With only three Greens deciding to be Elects, and no other strong contenders, the Path had become so uninteresting that the newsbards barely mentioned it.

“Any particular news about Dulnato?”

“No.” Several days ago, the newsbards had reported that Dulnato had promised to kill both Bowe and Vitarr after being denied blood in the training ring. Bowe now regretted revealing that news to Vitarr.

“What about you? I bet they still talk of you and your stupidity in rescuing me.” Vitarr tried to catch Bowe’s gaze. The newsbards loved making fun of Bowe, who had shot up the lists after surviving the first day only to plummet again when he had borrowed money at ridiculous rates from Alandar and then given it away to the other mentors. Bowe hadn’t begun to think about how he could repay his loan, especially now after the additional money he had spent on rent, food, and doctoring.

The boards at the entrance rattled, and someone shouted, “You in there?”

Vitarr and Bowe looked at one another. The escay who owned this place always came in the other way, and was quiet and respectful.

“Bowe Bellanger,” the voice said.

Bowe touched his fingers to his lips, quieting Vitarr. “Who wants me?”

“I’m Glil, a Defender for Zidel.”

“What do you want?” Bowe asked. He pulled the boards apart enough to stick his head out. Seeing the boy was alone, Bowe squeezed through.

“Zidel wants to invite you for a game of Harmony.” Glil leaned against the opposite wall. He was a weedy-looking boy with sparse, straw-colored hair and long, dangling arms. Wide eye sockets made him seem like he was constantly staring.

“Hasn’t he better things to be doing than looking for a Harmony partner? Avoiding the marshals, dodging Dulnato—just surviving?”

“Those are your problems. Dulnato and he have an arrangement, and he never borrowed from the Raine bankers.”

“Why would he want to play Harmony with me?” This could be a trap, but Bowe wanted to go. He was sick of just hiding.

“Zidel wanted to meet the wildcard again.”

There was obviously more to this than Glil would reveal, and it was likely that Bowe would never know what Zidel wanted unless he went. The first portion of the Raine loan would be due soon, so Bowe needed to start taking risks. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Not without me,” Vitarr’s voice said from within their room.

Bowe leaned his back against the boards. “I told you to stay quiet. Zidel has asked for me. There’s no need for you to go.”

The boards rattled against Bowe’s back as Vitarr tried to push his way out. Bowe leaned back harder. Then Bowe felt an almighty shove from behind, and he was flung into the dirt. He looked back to find the boards lying on the ground and Vitarr smiling. “Try and stop me,” he said. “Look, I don’t need the sling.” He flexed his arm and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt anymore.

Bowe scowled, looking up at Vitarr from where he lay in the dust. “There’s no way you are going with us.”

“This is no time to be lying around.” Vitarr sighed. “I may just have to report back to you on what Zidel says if you don’t hurry up.”

Vitarr wrapped his good arm around Glil’s shoulders and guided him out of the alleyway. “I don’t know what that young lad would do if I weren’t around to take care of him.”

Bowe pushed himself to his feet, picked up his hat, and ran after them. They had already joined the stream of people on the main street by the time Bowe reached the end of the alleyway, but it wasn’t hard to find them. Vitarr’s big head stuck out above a sea of wide-brimmed hats.

“You forgot your headgear,” Bowe told Vitarr when he reached them. The air was heavy with the dust kicked up by thousands of feet.

Vitarr smiled up into the sun. “The heat won’t bother me. Not after being cooped up inside for so long.”

Bowe shook his head. The sun was doing its bloody best to melt the skin from his face, and this big oaf was smiling up at it. A woman with a parasol had to dodge Vitarr at the last second, and Bowe nudged him. “Watch where you’re going.” You big dope, he added mentally, but it was hard to remain mad at Vitarr when he kept smiling with that doltish grin. Bowe just hoped that he wouldn’t regret letting Vitarr come with him. What could Zidel want?

Glil led them through Drywell Square. Stall owners advertised their wares in strident tones. Urchins dodged around and sometimes between the striding legs of the multitude. Pink-uniformed marshals circulated, keeping an eye on everything and everyone—the urchins, above all. Mouth-watering smells wafted through the air—exotic spices, grilled meats, fresh-baked breads. Bowe’s stomach growled, but he didn’t have any money to waste.

A crowd gathered by the fountain, and Bowe and Vitarr pushed their way through to see what was happening. A teenager—a Green, from his clothing—was being shoved around by a group of escay. Bowe’s mouth fell open; escay knew better than to treat their betters like this.

“We should help him,” Vitarr said.

“No.” Bowe grabbed Vitarr’s arm. “I can’t save every Green that gets into trouble.”

The Green ran at one of his attackers, and, to Bowe’s amazement, the attacker somersaulted over him. The boy stumbled, then turned and charged at the same escay. The escay somersaulted again. With a confused look on his face, the Green swiveled around. A row of escay lined up before him. He charged, and each of them launched themselves over him before he reached them. Vitarr laughed. The escay began to vault back and forth, always avoiding the Green who staggered from one group to another.

Vitarr clapped his hands in delight. Bowe was just glad that they hadn’t charged in like fools to interrupt the performance. The acrobats began to jump into one another and combine until they formed a human pyramid three people high. The Green looked around, seemingly perplexed, and then began to climb the pyramid, pulled up by spare hands. He climbed onto the shoulders of the two highest acrobats, completing the pyramid. He wavered back and forth for a moment, and Bowe’s breath caught. Then he straightened, and for the first time, his expression of confusion disappeared. He smiled, took three balls from a pocket, and juggled for a few moments. The watching crowd cheered and clapped. Then he bowed, and the human pyramid collapsed in an orderly way. Once they were all on the ground, the performers bowed. A few of them began to circulate through the crowd, holding out inverted hats.

Vitarr continued to clap even when most others had stopped. “That was brilliant.” His eyes sparkled. “Can you give them something, Bowe?”

“I can’t afford it.” Bowe turned back to where Glil was waiting for them.

Glil was less than impressed. “Can we continue now? Zidel doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Did you know the Green?” Bowe asked.

“Yes. He was a Lessard. Xarcon is his name.”

“He was incredible,” Vitarr said. “How did he learn all that in the few days since the Path started?”

Glil blew out a breath in a disgusted fashion. “He liked to practice little performance tricks when he lived in Lessard mansion. Always destined to be a Deadbeat.”

The dismissive way he said “Deadbeat” created a silence; in truth, that was what Vitarr and Bowe were, too—Deadbeats. They weren’t Elects, Defenders, Wolflings, or Shadows. And everyone else on the Path was generally considered a Deadbeat. Perhaps Bowe wouldn’t have been one if he had invested the money he’d borrowed from Alandar rather than using it to rescue Vitarr.

As they continued, Bowe fell into step with Glil while Vitarr lagged behind. Vitarr kept looking around him as if he’d never seen a market before.

“I heard you saved him—your Defender there—from Dulnato,” Glil said. “Why?”

“He’s not my Defender, just my friend. And as for why I saved him, I ask myself that at least once a day, and more often when he does stupid stuff.” Bowe glanced back and shook his head sadly. “Wandering around the streets like a lovesick calf for no good reason, for example.”

“Still, it’s nice that you treat him so well.” There was a pause, and Glil seemed to be making some decision before he spoke again. “Have you heard of the Thardassians?”

Bowe shook his head.

“They are a race that live in the center of the planet. They are made of rock and carry their heads under their arms. Each tribe is made from a different rock type. You’re sure you haven’t heard of them?”

Bowe raised his eyebrows. “No.”

“I guess it’s not surprising. Even if you went to the center of the world, you likely wouldn’t recognize them as a life form. They move so slowly that a single eye blink for them would take longer than a lifetime for us. Not that they blink often—they have eyelids, but no eyes behind them.”

“I see.” Bowe favored Glil with a wide fake smile.

“Anyway, there was this Thardassian from the yellow sandstone tribe. His name was CrispyButter. That wasn’t his real name, of course; they don’t use words such as we’d recognize, but that’s a rough translation.”

“Of course.”

“CrispyButter got into a dispute with other members of his tribe, and he fled and hid in the caves of the red quartz Thardassians. He remained there safely for a while, but he was easy to find for anyone who wanted to, for yellow sandstone is conspicuous in a land of red quartz.”

The story began to make sense. If Glil wasn’t being crazy, then perhaps he was trying to give Bowe a message. “Am I the yellow Thardassian with the red tribe?”

Glil’s lips twitched into a half smile. “Are you crazy? Didn’t I tell you that Thardassians carried their heads under their arms? Yours is—strangely, from a Thardassian point of view—attached to the top of your neck. No resemblance between you and CrispyButter at all. Anyway, after a time, one of CrispyButter’s friends came and found him. I shouldn’t say friend—Thardassians didn’t have friends—but DiamondBar wasn’t one of CrispyButter’s enemies.”

Glil suddenly stopped at a warehouse doorway. “Well, we’re here. I’ll have to finish another time.” Glil exhaled loudly and pushed open the door. “I probably shouldn’t have even started the story.” He ducked inside. Bowe waited for Vitarr to catch up, then followed.

Inside was less crowded than out on the streets, but there was the same buzz of activity. The sounds of hammering and sawing rang out as escay boys worked on various half-built wooden contraptions. A few Greens oversaw the work, and they watched Bowe and Vitarr as Glil led them up a small wooden staircase to a room that overlooked the warehouse floor. Zidel sat behind a desk, reading from a sheaf of papers in his hand. In front of him, more sheets of paper had been shoved into an untidy pile to make space for a Harmony board. So we are actually going to play.

Zidel left them standing there for a few moments before rising and holding out his arm with a wide smile. “Bowe, glad to see that you survived that first day. Very ugly, what Drakasi did to Tlirris.” Bowe and Zidel clasped each other’s arms. “And this is?”

“Vitarr.” Bowe nodded at him.

Zidel clasped arms with Vitarr. “I heard about how your friend rescued you from the clutches of Dulnato. You must be very grateful to him.”

“I’d prefer he just let me die next time. I don’t want him to put himself in danger to save me. I’ve already accepted that I won’t survive the Path.”

Zidel rubbed his chin with a finger thoughtfully. “If everyone had your attitude, this process would be a lot less painful. It’s hard for most to accept the inevitability of death.” He gestured at the board and the chair in front of it. “I hear you are quite the player, Bowe.”

Bowe sat. “Not sure where your information came from, but it doesn’t do me full justice. I am a great player.” Bowe decided he’d win no points by being modest. Bowe wasn’t sure how good he was, in truth. He usually played Vitarr, who didn’t grasp the game well. So Bowe experimented with getting into losing positions and winning, and getting into winning positions and losing.

Bowe sat, and he and Zidel bowed their heads over the board and began to play. There was silence during a brief flurry of initial moves. Patterns swirled in Bowe’s mind as he considered each move and the countering possibilities for his opponent. For each counter, he could see more options for himself, each possibility multiplying as he looked further ahead. The pieces seemed to blur as he considered each one’s present position along with all its possible future positions. Intending to make the game interesting, Bowe allowed a hole in his defenses, inducing Zidel to attack.

“The two player version is, of course, just a pale shadow of the full game,” Zidel said. “It’s hard to get four high quality players together.” From the condescending way he’d said “high quality players,” Bowe guessed that Zidel didn’t consider Bowe to be such a player. Bowe smiled to himself and retreated one of his pieces. The longer Zidel didn’t see his trap, the better.

“The Grand Sexennial Harmony Match between the Guardians has suffered now that the Bellangers are gone,” Zidel continued. Traditionally, a Harmony match was played between the four Guardians just before the Infernam. Now the Bellanger Guardian was no more. “A marshal takes the fourth seat, but it’s not the same.”

“The Bellangers aren’t completely gone yet,” Bowe said.

“Given your position on the lists…” Zidel trailed off and moved a piece forward.

“Isn’t Harmony limited once a certain level of expertise is reached?” Bowe wanted to change the subject away from the dire chances of Bellanger family’s continued existence. “Too many draws.” Stalemates were common among equally matched opponents at the highest level, and Bowe hated to draw.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s more of an art form than a game. The result doesn’t matter as much as how it’s played.” Zidel now had that same edge of fanaticism in his voice that he’d displayed when talking about the ascorim. “No Guardian has ever been less than a master of the game. The best players of the ascorim and the best players of Harmony are one and the same. Being great at Harmony can increase your chances of selection.” Zidel picked up a piece and placed it in the heart of Bowe’s defenses. “You, however, are far from a great player; far, even, from an adequate player. I find myself disappointed yet again.”

“After having Glil bring me all the way down here, I’d hate to be a total disappointment.” Bowe began his counter-attack.

Zidel’s smile slowly disappeared, and he bent to study the board closer.

As he did, Bowe glanced back to Glil. “You never told me what happened to that Thardassian.”

“What Thardassian?” Glil squeaked.

“You know, the yellow one hiding with the red tribe.” Bowe kept his eyes on Zidel.

Zidel looked up from the board to study Glil. His lips smiled, but his eyes were cold. “You haven’t been telling our friends here your children’s stories, have you, Glil?”

Glil said nothing, and, after a moment, Zidel returned to studying the board.

Bowe hoped he hadn’t gotten Glil into trouble, but at least now he was sure that the warning—if that’s what it had been—hadn’t originated with Zidel.

Bowe responded to one of Zidel moves and stood to scan the warehouse floor. “Impressive operation—do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“We’re making things.” Zidel didn’t look up from the board.

“What kind of things?”

“Things that will be needed for the Infernam. Extra carts for shipping supplies to the Refuge—that kind of thing.”

“And you set all this up in just ten days.” It certainly wasn’t surprising that Zidel sat on top of the lists right now.

Zidel smiled. “We all knew this was coming. I have prepared for this moment for years. Nothing has been left to chance.” He raised his eyebrows at Bowe. “I presume you have done the same.”

Bowe returned to studying the Harmony board, determined to find a way to wipe that smarmy look from Zidel’s face. Bowe’s counter-attack was in full force now, and Zidel was struggling to hold. However, Zidel’s next few moves were clever and set up the beginnings of a stalemate line.

A few further moves, and Zidel looked up with a satisfied smile. “I think I’ve recovered enough to claim the draw.”

Bowe realized he wouldn’t be able to breach Zidel’s stalemate line. He frowned, then forced a smile. “I hope I gave you a better game than you expected.”

“You are much better than I originally thought. However, you lack style. Your moves are crude, though effective. You don’t understand that how the game is played is more important than who wins. Thank you for the game. I assume you can find your own way back.”

Bowe stumbled to his feet. Zidel surely hadn’t brought him here just to play a game of Harmony, had he? Had Bowe failed some kind of test? He looked behind to where Glil and Vitarr leaned against the wall, watching them.

“I’ll just take Glil to guide me back. I’m not overly familiar with this part of the city.” Bowe grabbed Glil’s arm as he retreated, keeping a fixed smile aimed at the Lessard Elect. Zidel frowned at Bowe commandeering his Defender, but he didn’t object. Bowe turned as he exited Zidel’s office and started down the staircase. Under Bowe’s forced guidance, Glil stumbled at the first step, but recovered his balance and staggered down the stairs alongside Bowe. Vitarr followed.

“What happened to the Thardassian? The yellow one?” Bowe put his mouth close to Glil’s ear and spoke in a low, hard whisper.

Glil was hesitant. “It’s a sad tale. I’m not sure you want to hear the rest of it.”

Bowe practically dragged him from the last step of the stairs and pushed him against a wall by the door. “If it’s a sad tale, I especially want to hear the ending.” Bowe remembered something else Glil had said—that Zidel and Dulnato had an understanding.

“DiamondBar convinced CrispyButter that it was safe to return to his own tribe. It wasn’t. One of CrispyButter’s enemies caught him, killed him, and ground him into sand.”

That was enough for Bowe. He’d known that he had to be missing something when Zidel had let him go without any obvious reason for the meeting. Now he knew what it was: he had fallen into a trap. Zidel had to have a good reason for bringing him down here, and if that reason wasn’t in here, then it was waiting for them outside. An ally of Zidel who wanted Bowe dead: Dulnato.

Bowe felt like a fool. He should never have come, and he certainly shouldn’t have let Vitarr come. “Vitarr, wait here with Glil for a count of three hundred. Then leave. We’ll meet back at—wait, that place isn’t safe anymore.” He silently cursed himself; he should have organized a backup meeting place earlier. Bowe glanced at Glil, then leaned close to Vitarr’s ear to whisper, “Find somewhere to hide, then, when you get a chance, let the escay who rents that room to us know where I can find you. I’ll do the same.” With that, Bowe pushed the door open and went outside.

The crowds of the day were gone. The sun had set, and now only Helion provided light. Long, dark shadows dappled the buildings and street, interwoven with traces of purple light. Bowe turned right and burst into a run, hoping to take unawares whoever might be waiting for him. It didn’t work. Shouts and footsteps followed him before he had gone more than a few steps. Twenty paces down the street, two figures detached themselves from the shadows and moved to block his path. There were no side streets to take, so Bowe just ran straight at his would-be captors. They didn’t look particularly fazed by Bowe’s brazen stupidity; they merely spread out their arms and braced themselves.

They were bigger than Bowe, and a collision would just allow his chasers behind to catch up, so he changed direction at the last moment, swerving away just as the first one reached to grab him. Bowe clipped the other Green’s shoulder, spinning at the impact and stumbling. About to fall, Bowe reached down with one hand and pushed against the ground. He regained his balance and managed to keep running without losing momentum.

He turned into the first side street he saw, skidded, then sidestepped to avoid a shocked-looking woman, and kept running. He heard a thud. The woman had been carrying a basket of fish on her head, and from the sounds and curses behind him, one or more of his pursuers had gotten a mouthful or two of dead fish when they had run into her. Bowe turned left at the next junction, then right, then left again. He didn’t have a plan—he’d never been the fastest boy at Raine Mansion, so perhaps some part of his mind hoped that all the changes in direction would help him stay ahead. Pounding footsteps followed every turn he made. His ragged breath burned his throat, his lungs begged for more air, and the muscles in his legs quivered. The few people on the street managed to scramble away in time to prevent any more collisions.

He emerged out of a dark alleyway and ran straight at a forest of masts—the docks. As he bounced along the wooden quay, the sound of his footsteps changed to a hollow thudding. His pursuers’ footsteps changed tone an instant later—they were just behind him. He could hear their panting and sense their hot breath on his neck. A hand grabbed at his arm, and he swerved and ran up a pier. This was a dead end—he didn’t even know how to swim—but he was desperate now. He could only hope that he had given Vitarr time to escape. The pier vibrated from the impact of the running feet.

A figure came out of nowhere, and Bowe ran straight into him, and this time he was unable to keep his balance. He crashed against the wooden planks of the pier, rolling, and, with a sickening feeling, he realized that there was nothing under his legs. He started to slide off the pier, but stopped himself with his forearms. He panted heavily and looked up. Dulnato and four other Greens skidded to a stop in front of Bowe and the person he’d run into, who also lay on the pier. Around them, the sea shimmered with a lavender glow, waves lapping against the pier’s pillars.

“Look at this.” Dulnato said. “We set a trap for a rabbit and caught bigger prey.” Bowe now recognized the one he’d run into as Jisri. Jisri rose to his feet and pulled a sword from the scabbard at his side. Dulnato and his Defenders unsheathed their own swords. Bowe pulled himself back onto the pier, thinking he should have been able to outrun them if they were all wearing swords dangling at their sides.

“No matter what happens, stay out of sight,” Jisri said to Bowe. “For the love we bear each other. Remember the promise.” Bowe frowned. This one was as crazy as Zidel—Bowe had never met him before, and he certainly hadn’t made any promises to him. Before Bowe had a chance to reply, Jisri turned to Dulnato with a smile. “I suppose single combat is too much to ask. Me against you. You always thought you could take me.”

“Does this look like the Eye?” Dulnato said. “I’ll tell you what, Jisri. To give you a fighting chance, I’ll send two of the boys after the rabbit.”

Before Dulnato had finished the sentence, Bowe was up and running again. He heard a curse, then the pounding of pursuers’ footsteps. The collision with Jisri had created a delay, but not an escape route. He was still running farther out toward the dead end of the pier, and two of Dulnato’s Greens would kill him as easily as five.

Then he heard a shout. “Over here!”

He slowed, trying to make out where it had come from.

“Don’t slow, mush-for-brains, they’re just behind you. This way.” A shadow darted down the side of the pier and Bowe followed. He wouldn’t normally trust a random shadow that threw insults his way, but he didn’t have much choice right now. He saw the stairs leading down the side of the pier just in time to descend them on his feet rather than headfirst. The shadow below him seemed to fly down, vaulting from one landing to the next. The stairs chattered under Bowe’s feet as he followed as quickly as he dared. Dulnato’s Defenders started down after him. At the bottom, his potential savior was already in a small boat and rowing away.

“Jump,” the shadow cried.

Bowe hesitated, and the gap between the boat and the platform widened. His doubts disappeared at another curse from Dulnato’s Defenders behind him. He charged forward and leaped, but he’d waited too long. He flopped into the sea.

Water closed around him. He gasped for air, and salty water burned his throat. He threw his arms forward, trying to get purchase on something—anything—but he just kept sinking. Whenever he managed to get his head above water, he’d splutter, get half a breath, and then more water would flood his lungs. He was certain he was about to die, but he kept struggling, thrashing against the sucking pressure that kept dragging him down. He didn’t want to die in the water like an escay. He forced his head about the waves once more, and a sudden slap across the face stunned him.

A fist wrapped around the collar of his tunic and pulled him higher in the water. A girl’s face appeared. “Stop struggling,” she shouted.

He did, more out of shock than with any conscious thought.

“Lie back in the water and take deep breaths. Keep still.” The girl held onto his tunic with one hand and fished a rope from the boat in the other.

Bowe coughed up water and tried to do as she said. She maneuvered the rope under his arms. “Keep leaning back. I’m going to try and row you away from those friends of yours.” Bowe looked back at Dulnato’s two Defenders on the lower platform of the pier. They held swords in their hands, and didn’t look inclined to dive in after Bowe.

The rope tightened and pulled him away from the pier. Bowe tried to relax and this worked better than his earlier floundering. Waves washed over Bowe’s head, but the rope kept him high enough out of the water that he could spit most of it out.

“If you start panicking again, I’m gonna slap you around some more. You hear me, mush-for-brains?” the girl said.

That was when Bowe realized that he had to be dreaming. An escay girl had slapped him and was now threatening to repeat the dose. He allowed his exhausted muscles to relax as he drifted away from the pier, pulled by the rope.

Chapter 5

39 Days Left

Bowe floated in a coffin. Helion was sinking from the iridescent sky into the lavender sea. Just above the horizon, the purple moon looked impossibly big. On the pier, specters fought. Their ghostly outlines danced with one another, swooping and twisting and turning. As Bowe focused, he could make out the figures. Jisri, with a sword in each hand, was holding off Dulnato and one of his Defenders. A body lay off to the side. A gash across Jisri’s forehead dripped blood, and his right arm kept falling against his side; he seemed barely able to hold the sword aloft. A bloody wound marked his shoulder. He dodged back and forth between his opponents to keep them from attacking him together. All the fighters had an otherworldly aspect; they were ghosts, or memories, or dreams, their images flickering in and out of view.

Suddenly, Jisri dived toward the Defender, attacking with both swords at once. The left sword blocked his opponent’s blow, and his right skewered the boy’s torso. The Defender screamed up blood and fell. It was a crazy maneuver, leaving himself wide open, and Dulnato didn’t hesitate, swinging hard at Jisri’s head. Yet the ghost of Jisri turned in time, and, releasing the sword from his right hand, where it remained embedded in the Defender’s body, he raised his left sword to block. The swords clashed high above their heads, sparks flying at the thunderous impact. But the specter of Dulnato was not done with his attack; he stepped forward and struck with his left fist. At that moment, Bowe saw the knife he held. Dulnato stabbed the blade into Jisri’s left eye and Jisri fell from the pier, spinning into the lavender sea.

Bowe gazed at up Helion from the coffin and watched as the moon distorted, morphing into something else. Was that a face? Why did the moon have such a devilish grin? Feeling pressure on his body, Bowe blinked his eyes open. A person was leaning over him, touching him. It was her—the escay girl. He struggled, attempting to get away, but he couldn’t move. A horrible sensation of helplessness flooded through him. He felt defiled by the escay lying across him. The awareness that this was a dream hit him. He wasn’t in a coffin; he was having a nightmare. He focused on waking up, relieved.

He opened his eyes fully. And there she was again, still leaning across him. He jerked in shock. He managed to push her off enough to roll away and fell off the bed. He scrambled over to the far wall and attempted to push himself up, but his legs felt like jelly, and he let himself fall back into a sitting position.

“Do I give you nightmares?” She had that same mischievous grin that Helion had in Bowe’s dream.

“You…you were lying on top of me.”

“I was just checking to see if you were waking up.”

Bowe shook away the remnants of the dream. He remembered the docks and being dragged through the water away from the Greens, half-floating, half-drowning. Dulnato’s Defenders hadn’t given chase. Jisri had been stabbed and killed, though. That had really happened.

“Why are you bothered by me touching you?” The girl tilted her head, examining him. “What about when I slapped you? Or when we docked at the second pier and I pulled you out of the water? You were in a pretty bad shape by then; you could barely walk. I needed to half-carry your waterlogged ass here. It would have been hard to do all that without touching you, and you didn’t seem to mind then.”

Bowe shivered and looked around. They were in a dark cellar. Two candles burned in alcoves on either side of the room. The flames didn’t waver, burning the still, dead air. There were no windows, and only one door. Stones jutted out from the walls in places. Despite the cloying heat, the wall felt damp against his back. A few nailed-together boards of wood formed a makeshift bed and it held an uncovered straw mattress. A single sheet curled around one of the legs of the bed. There was no other furniture in the room, and in truth, there was barely enough room for the bed.

“What do you think my punishment should be?” the girl asked. “For touching you, I mean? Maybe you would like me sent to the Fortress—not many escay leave there alive once they are arrested.”

“Just forget it,” Bowe said. “What’s your name anyway?”

“The name’s Iyra. Do you want to write it down so you’ll know who to set the marshals on?”

He looked at her thin arms and small frame, wondering where she hid her strength. He only had flashes of memories of the trip from the docks last night. But he remembered the bone weariness, and the way he couldn’t get his legs to work right; somehow, she’d thrown his arm over her shoulder and managed to get him here.

“You saved my life. I’m not going to have you sent to the Fortress.”

“My. How noble of you. You’ll forgive my transgressions on account of my saving your life.” Her smug grin was starting to grate on him. Her hair was short, and a reddish brown color. She looked about fifteen, maybe two years older than him. Her eyes kept changing color in the candlelight, which accentuated her high cheekbones and symmetrical features. She’d be pretty, except that she was as thin as a boy.

“I didn’t mean to insult you. Why are you goading me?”

“Let’s start again. I’m Iyra, and you’re…?” She held out her arm.

Bowe mouth fell open. Did she expect him to clasp arms with an escay? Her grin widened at his expression, and she dropped her arm. Everything seemed a joke to this girl. “I saved your life, but you wouldn’t even consider clasping arms with me. That’s the way it is, is it?”

He’d had enough of this. Bowe stood, wobbling for a brief moment, and then walked to the door. He thought better of thanking her; she already thought too highly of herself. So he gave her a quick nod, and he twisted the doorknob—only to find it locked. “Open it,” he ordered.

“No.”

Bowe turned back to the smirking face, confused. “What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not letting you out just yet.”

“You are keeping me prisoner?” Bowe had thought that things couldn’t get any weirder.

“I thought we could talk a bit. Since you haven’t introduced yourself, I’ll tell you that I know you are Bowe Bellanger.”

He rattled the handle. “Let me out this instant!” The shout didn’t cause her smirk to budge an iota.

“I thought your company was tough when I was lugging your dead weight around. To think I missed out on all this ordering about and shouting.”

“I’ll have you—” Bowe stopped.

“Sent to the Fortress? You said you wouldn’t earlier. But I guess you barely knew me then. Most people think I should be sent there once they get to know me. Do you know how I know your name?”

“Probably from the newsbards.”

“The newsbards don’t mention you much these days. Just an insignificant little Deadbeat who should be dead soon.”

Heat rose in Bowe’s face. “Why are you still prodding at me? I never threatened you or did anything to hurt you.” Though the more she smiled at him, the more he wanted to strangle her. “But if you keep me locked up here, I’ll have to tell the Grenier marshals if I get free. Do you want that?”

“I don’t want it, but I don’t shirk from it. My death will come; whether it is at your hand or that of another ascor’s matters little. I’m dedicated to something more important. Your Green Path likely leads to your death. My Path leads down equally dark routes.” She sat on the bed, dispensed with the smugness, and sighed.

Now she sounded like a philosophizing Elect. Bowe was losing the ability to be surprised by anything she said or did. “You shouldn’t compare the Green Path to whatever you are dealing with.”

“Because the Green Path is so noble, right? It’s not just a glorified game in which boys are encouraged to kill each other.”

“Life is only for the worthy. We have to prove ourselves. It’s more than a game.”

Iyra snorted. “It’s so selfish. Killing and scheming against each other. Walking over the corpses of others so you can live. And so unfair. So many Greens have no hope from the start. The Deadbeats. When you saved that friend of yours from Dulnato, it didn’t increase his chance of surviving the Path much, did it?”

Bowe shifted uncomfortably. How did she know so much about him and the Path? “You don’t know what you are talking about. An escay can’t understand the Green Path.” Bowe grabbed the handle and rattled it again, harder this time. “When are you going to let me out?”

“It wasn’t just chance that I came upon you yesterday,” Iyra said. “I followed when I saw you being chased, and overtook you on the lower platform of that pier. I didn’t just happen by.”

“Why would you follow me?”

“We were told to watch out for you. You see, I’m not just an escay—I’m worse than that. Much worse.” The smirk was back.

“What could be worse?” The image of Drakasi dragging his blade through Tlirris’s neck popped into Bowe’s mind. All Tlirris had done was mention one name. “The G—” He slapped a hand over his mouth and backed away. “You couldn’t be.”

She grinned.

The Guild was made up of monsters, not smirking little girls. He looked back at the locked door. Who waited outside? Was that why she showed no fear? After what she had revealed, could she let him leave here alive?

“What do you want from me?”

“I—we—want to help you.”

“I don’t want any more of your help.” Bowe shuddered. “And I certainly don’t want theirs.”

“You know where you are on the lists. You have no chance of surviving the Path. We have something that could help you. Just hear me out.”

Bowe stared at the door. Should he attack her? Did she have a key? Were more of the Guild waiting outside? A ripple of weakness traveled through his limbs, and he realized in was in no shape to fight anyone.

“We have some garnets that we can’t sell.” Iyra said. “If you can help us, it could be profitable for both of us.”

“Why not just sell them yourselves?” He remembered the newsbard report about the Lessards being robbed of a shipment of garnets.

“It’s not straightforward; we need help. These garnets have a red color that makes them look like rubies, very rare. Because there were none in Arcandis previously, the Lessards were able to put a total ban on the sale, trade, and distribution of them. They don’t want the thieves who sold them to profit. I know you need money, and fast. If you figure out a way to sell them, we can split the profits and both benefit.”

“I’m not going along with any plan that involves you and your organization. If that means you have to kill me, then get it over with.”

Iyra shrugged. “If you insist. Now, where is my…?” She patted the pockets of her tunic. “Here it is.” She reached inside, and, with a dramatic flourish, produced a large key.

“I never planned on killing you, so I might as well let you go.” Iyra threw him the key. Bowe grabbed for it, and it fell to the floor. It bounced under the bed with a ping. He dived after it and scrabbled around in the dust until he found it. He rushed to the door and stabbed it at the lock, but kept missing.

Iyra placed one hand on his shoulder and the other over his hand. His skin crawled at the touch. She guided his hand so that it smoothly inserted the key. Bowe looked at up at her and his gaze locked with hers, trapped by her piercing eyes. Now that he could see their color, he realized that they were a smoky gray, and mesmerizing. He felt her body heat as she pressed close to him, and a jolt ran through his body.

“I thought you didn’t believe in anything greater than yourself,” she said, “yet you were prepared to die just now to avoid helping the Guild. So you are willing to give of yourself for a higher cause.” She twisted his hand and the key turned in the lock. Bowe broke eye contact and turned the handle. The door opened, and Bowe left at a run. She said something to his departing back but the words didn’t register. He ran down a corridor and up a wooden staircase. At every moment, he expected someone or something to jump out at him. He reached another door, this one open. He staggered through it and emerged, blinking, in the sunlight. He was in the middle of a busy street, and he began to stumble away from the dungeon. He’d escaped the nightmare.

It was only later that he realized he remembered Iyra’s departing words. “It’s just a pity that the cause you support is evil.”

And I thought she couldn’t get any crazier. How could someone in the Guild accuse others of being evil?

Chapter 6

38 Days Left

A crowd gathered halfway up the street. It was only when Bowe got closer that he saw they were gathered around a newsbard. He edged forward so he could hear. Perhaps he would get some word of Vitarr, though he hoped not; when a newsbard mentioned a Green, it generally involved bad news.

“And so Jisri was killed, stabbed through the left eye by the warrior Green, Dulnato,” the newsbard was saying. “But that isn’t the end of the story. Jisri had a twin sister, Jadilla; they were inseparable from birth. Even at the age when girls and boys diverge, nothing changed for them. Jadilla continued to wear boys’ clothes and trained with weapons. She even claimed she was going to walk the Green Path just like a boy.” The newsbard laughed at that.

Bowe got close enough that he could now see the newsbard clearly. He wore an eye-patch and a funny shaped hat; a skull and crossbones decorated his tunic. Newsbards liked to dress up to draw extra attention to themselves, and this guy had clearly adopted the uniform of what the old children’s books called a pirate.

“She was strong-willed,” the pirate newsbard continued, “and neither her mother nor anyone else in the Grenier harem could control her. But she couldn’t survive the loss of her beloved brother. She left a suicide note in her room and her clothing was found on the cliffs above the Refuge. A sad story. Though, I guess the twins have reunited in death, both claiming a watery grave. That’s all the latest news on the Green Path. The Lessards have made no progress in recovering their stolen shipment of garnets, and the ban on the sale, trade, and use of red garnets remains in effect.”

That reminded Bowe of Iyra’s offer. How dare she think he would betray the ascor for a few grubby gems! The memory of her and their meeting kept inserting itself into his thoughts even though Bowe knew he should be concentrating on looking for Vitarr. He shivered, remembering the jolt that had gone through him as their gazes locked. She wasn’t even attractive—she’d no flesh on her bones at all. Bowe knew that some ascor were said to favor escay girls, but he wasn’t a pervert. His thoughts of the girl broke off when he spotted Glil on the other side of the crowd. He began to make his way over to him—Glil might know where Vitarr was.

Bowe continued to listen to the newsbard as he walked. “On the docks, Peace Bringer remains impounded. The missing crewmember, now named a spy by the Grenier marshals, has not yet been found. No more ships from Jarind have been allowed to dock since the incident. Unless the spy is captured or surrendered, the crew will remain locked up, even through the Infernam.”

Bowe reached Glil and pulled him out of the crowd. “Do you know where Vitarr is?”

Glil nodded.

“Take me to him.”

“I can’t. I have a task to complete for Zidel.”

“Then tell me where he is.”

Glil was silent for a moment, considering. “There was this powerful black granite Thardassian called ShatteredRain who had too many apprentices.”

“Come on, I just want to find Vitarr, I don’t have time for this. Can you just skip ahead to the punch line?”

“It ends with some of the apprentices getting used as food for the rest of the tribe.”

“I totally get your meaning and I promise to help you in any way I can once I’ve found Vitarr.” Bowe wasn’t even trying to understand, but he could only think about his friend.

Glil nodded “Very well.” He led Bowe away from the market. When the crowd thinned, Glil turned to Bowe. “You don’t know what I want from you, right?”

“We can talk about it afterward.”

“I want to be your Defender.”

“I don’t have Defenders. That’s for the Elects. Not me. Deadbeats don’t have Defenders.” The air was freshening and becoming saltier as they approached the sea. What would Vitarr be doing down by the docks?

“You’re more than the average Deadbeat,” Glil said. “You got a large loan from a Raine banker. They don’t hand them out unless they think there’s a good chance of getting paid back. You almost beat Zidel in Harmony. You escaped Dulnato’s trap.”

“Just dumb luck. I ran straight into Jisri, and Dulnato decided he wanted to kill him more than me.”

Glil stopped and turned to face Bowe. “It’s not just what has happened since the Path has started. All the children in the mansions are watched. Only a handful show the promise that indicates a chance of selection. Only because it was considered certain that the Guardians wouldn’t chose a Bellanger were you ignored. Everyone thought you’d be killed off on the first day. Then the mentors decided to let you live so now, with the right Defender, I think you can become a strong Elect and challenge the top three.”

“Come on, let’s keep moving.” Bowe dragged Glil forward until they were walking again. “Promise is one thing, but I haven’t made any progress on the Path. More like the opposite. There’s no way I can pay Alandar back…unless you know how to sell those stolen garnets the newsbard mentioned.” Bowe shook his head. “Forget I said that.” Why had he even mentioned it? He had no intention of helping the Guild.

“So you do have the beginnings of an enterprise in mind.” Glil smiled. “I might know someone who could help you.”

“No. I don’t have any garnets or a plan to make money. It was an offhand comment—forget it. Where’s Vitarr?” They were on the docks now. Ships creaked in the wind. Up ahead, the walkways of a large ship with a black hull was guarded by Grenier marshals. This could only be Peace Bringer, the impounded ship from Jarind.

Glil started running. “It’s is leaving!”

Bowe sped up to catch him. Glil ran to the edge of the dock and jumped onto a departing barge.

This time, Bowe didn’t hesitate and end up in the sea. He jumped alongside Glil while the gap between the barge and its platform was less than a pace. His feet landed on the deck and he stumbled to a stop. The air was infested with swarms of flies, and an overripe rotting smell filled the air. “This is an escay funeral barge. Why have you brought me—?”

A sudden realization hit him. Was Vitarr among the…? No, he couldn’t be. Not Vitarr. Bowe ran to the first corpse and lifted its veil. A middle aged woman stared up at him. She was so thin that her skin seemed painted to her skull.

Bowe dropped the veil. Of course it wasn’t Vitarr—the body shape was all wrong. He dashed down the line of corpses, checking the bodies. His heart hammered in his chest. He was nearly at the end of the row when he saw one that was the right shape. He knelt down beside it, allowing his breathing to slow while his hand hesitated above the body.

He snatched the veil off. Vitarr’s dead face filled his vision, then disappeared behind an upwelling of tears. Bowe swiped at his eyes, and Vitarr’s face reappeared. A large bruise ran all the way down one side of his face, and a gash ran across his forehead, another down his nose. Blood congealed in his hair and crusted down one ear. A pressure in Bowe’s stomach made it difficult to breathe.

He looked up to where Glil watched him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He choked out the words between sobs. “Why didn’t you tell me he was dead?”

“You knew he was dead.” Glil looked confused. “The newsbard mentioned it while you were listening.”

Bowe blinked back tears, but more took their place. “I didn’t hear that. I didn’t hear the beginning of what the newsbard said. I thought we were coming to rescue Vitarr.”

“Dulnato found him and killed him. We’re here to save him from escay burial.” Glil leaned against the railing at the edge of the barge. “I’m sorry you thought he was alive.” He didn’t look sorry. “Dulnato declared that Vitarr fought no better than an escay, and threw him in with their bodies. I thought that’s why you rushed us here, Bowe. To take him back to Raine Mansion to be cremated.”

The flies and smell disappeared as the barge sailed farther out to sea. The deck swayed beneath them. Bowe looked back down at Vitarr’s lifeless body. He couldn’t see the death wound and didn’t want to look too hard for it. He should never have let Vitarr come with him to see Zidel.

Bowe leaned forward and tenderly touched his friend’s cool, pale cheek. He filtered out the wounds as he scanned the face again. Death had molded him into a noble marble statue with a serene expression. Perhaps he was finally at peace now, free from the worries of the Path. Bowe forced back his tears. It was too late to rescue him, but at least he could get him off this barge. Save him from Dulnato’s final insult. He was strong enough for that, at least. Bowe stood and noticed for the first time that many escay watched him.

“Send the barge back,” Bowe demanded. “This is a Green, and he shouldn’t be here.”

A hooded man approached, wearing a patchwork cloak of grays and browns. “I’m sorry for your loss.” A hood covered his face. “But we must bury everyone else before we return with your friend.”

Rage seethed through Bowe. Were all the escay he met going to defy him? “Just do what I said.” He shoved the man, trying to push him against the railing, trying to make him see sense. But the man didn’t budge; it was like shoving a wall. The man removed his hood to reveal a shaven head and a face of hard planes. Several long scars cut through his skin.

His smile showed more gaps than teeth. “No.” He didn’t shout; with a face like that, he didn’t need to.

Bowe now noticed how the cloth of his cloak was stretched over his shoulders, arms, and chest.

“I am a priest, and it’s my duty to see to the funeral arrangements. Threaten me as you wish, I have nothing to lose. When I became a priest, I gave up hope of a place in the Refuge. I live only to provide comfort to those around me. Death will be upon me soon, and I do not fear it.”

Plus, you could probably crush me with your little finger, Bowe thought. He’d always considered it a distinctly ascor trait to accept death, but both Iyra and the priest claimed to be ready to embrace it, as well. Bowe took a long breath. He no longer felt the urgency to get Vitarr off the barge.

“Very well,” Bowe said to the priest. “You’ll help take my friend to Raine Mansion when we return.”

The priest nodded. Bowe felt the weight of escay gazes on him. What must they think of him? The ascor knew that death was but a falling from the Path, and here he was, crying like a baby while they stood stoically over their own loved ones. Bowe concentrated on all those soft parts inside him that hurt so much, and tried to imagine them hardening. It didn’t seem to work, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore, and perhaps the effort had made him seem more ascor-like. “We’ll wait in the front cabin,” Bowe said.

The priest led Glil and Bowe to the front of the barge where a roof gave them protection from the sun. The man holding the wheel didn’t look up as the priest sat on a bench and gestured for Glil and Bowe to join him. They sat in silence, listening to the splash of oars in the water and the shouts of the captain to his first mate. The barge pounded through the water while in the distance fishing boats skimmed along, cutting through the waves. Bowe’s thoughts kept returning to Vitarr, so he turned to the scarred priest to distract himself. Glil seemed lost in his own thoughts. “What’s your name? You don’t look much like a priest,” Bowe told him.

“I’m Kaitan. And you don’t look much like someone who’ll become an ascor. Too young. Dare I even say, too green.”

Bowe smiled. “You’re not the first to think that.”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t make it. I overheard your name. Bowe Bellanger, right? I’ve been keeping my eye on the lists, and you’re moving up. If I intended to live beyond the Infernam, I might place a bet on you. Good odds and all that.”

“I bet you say that to all the tear-streaked Greens who try to hijack your funeral barge.”

Kaitan laughed. It was a full-bodied laugh that came from his stomach. It made his chest look like it wanted to explode out of his clothes, and Bowe made a mental note not to anger him.

“You must be a warrior of some kind. Why are you pretending to be a priest?”

“A year ago, I gave up everything and went to the order—I became a priest. They gave me clothing from the dead, which I sewed together to create new clothes. From that moment, that’s all I have ever owned.”

“No offense, but you are both a better fighter and priest than you are a tailor. Your clothes could do with being a lot looser.”

Kaitan laughed again. “Took me several attempts, I can tell you that. I never got the shape right, but I learned to make the stitches strong enough to hold it all together.”

“And before you became a priest?” Bowe asked. “You don’t survive that many scars without many interesting stories.”

“I was an Eye fighter. One of the best.”

The Eye was where public fights took place, with a mix of professional fighters and amateurs trying their luck. The fights were usually to the death.“Don’t all Eye fighters die in the arena?”

Kaitan revealed a gap-toothed smile. “We try.” One of his scars started at the top of his forehead and ran down the side of his face all the way to his chin.

“And you didn’t want to die like that?”

“It wasn’t fear of death that made me stop. It was an aversion to killing.” He sounded sad.

“You couldn’t have been much of an Eye fighter, then.”

The priest held Bowe’s gaze. “I didn’t mind fighting and killing fellow fighters. Blood coursing through you like fire…” He clenched his fists. “There was glory in that. It was the only life I ever knew.” A quiver ran through his voice, and for an instant his face took on a savage glare, then it was gone. “At this time of year, though, others step into the Eye—mostly untrained escay with no other way to gain money. No other way of getting themselves or their loved ones into the Refuge. Some Greens too—those who choose the path of the Wolfling. Experienced Eye fighters put on a show before slaughtering untrained fighters. When I was younger, I even enjoyed it.” He grimaced. “Now, the thought of it sickens me. I took up the patchwork cloak instead of taking part this year.”

There was a wistfulness in the way he spoke of giving up fighting. “And you regret it?” Bowe asked.

“For me, this is a half life. Just waiting for death. But it feels right.” He placed his fist against his chest. “All I’ve known in my life is how to inflict death. To kill and destroy. That was my joy and passion. But I have this chance to do something worthy before leaving this scarred hunk of meat behind. So I regret it and don’t at the same time. Does that make sense?”

Bowe wondered if that was what he should try to do. Find something worthy before he fell from the Path. He thought about the Deadbeats—they were made fun of for walking the Path in their own way with no hope of survival. Yet, they usually took part in something that gave them joy. Like that Green performer in Drywell Square, Xarcon. What had Bowe done with his time on the Path? He’d been trying to protect Vitarr. Perhaps he was seeking redemption for betraying Chalori. But now that Vitarr was dead, what was he to do? He was still a Deadbeat. Unless… He looked across at Glil who still was lost in his thoughts. Unless he tried to become an Elect. Only he’d need some way to make money. The only way he could come up with right now for that… No. He wasn’t willing to help the Guild, and that was that.

Bowe cast a sidelong glance at Kaitan. “You think I should become a Wolfling?”

“It would be quicker and cleaner to throw you overboard today.” He stood up. “I heard the anchor dropping, so the funerals will begin shortly. Come along if you wish.”

Bowe followed the priest out. It hadn’t been a serious question; he knew he had no chance in the Eye against virtually anyone, so a Wolfling was out. Becoming a Shadow—someone who successfully assassinated important Greens—was just as impossible. His only hope would be that Dulnato would die laughing at the thought of being hunted by a runt like Bowe. To become a Defender, he would have needed to have wormed his way into the trust of someone like Reyanu well before the Path began. Of course here were ways to walk the Path without choosing one of the main routes—that had been what he’d aimed for when he’d first visited the mentors. It hadn’t exactly worked out well for him though. That led him back back to Elect once again. Perhaps he’d be better off as a Deadbeat and not even trying to survive the Path.

Beyond the shade, the sun attacked with renewed force, and Bowe only now realized how pleasant it had been sitting under the awning with the breeze blowing the heat away. He looked back to see that Glil remained behind. A semicircle of escay gathered around the edge of the barge. Bowe felt out of place—unwelcome, almost—but didn’t want to push through them to go back and join Glil.

They were outside Arcandis bay now, out on open sea. The air smelled clean and wholesome. The barge bobbed gently in rhythm with the sound of water lapping against its hull. Even at this distance, the outline of the four great mansions within the city was unmistakable.

“Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” The escay began to chant and two patchwork cloaked men walked into the middle of the semi-circle. A corpse swayed in the cloth sling they carried between them. “Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” They lowered it to the deck. A young girl with a rock tied to her feet stared sightlessly. Her face was as pale as Vitarr’s, though her skin had more of a translucent quality.

A woman sobbed into the shoulder of the man beside her. Kaitan spoke. “Would one of you like to share a story with us?”

The woman disentangled herself from her partner’s shoulder and stepped into the semi-circle. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she looked down at the child. “One day, a few years back, Ana brought back an injured bird. One wing was broken—it had no chance of survival. It wasn’t even a pretty bird. Ana insisted we help it, and we let her put the bird in straw and feed it. She was inconsolable when the bird died.” The woman sobbed. “She had a kind heart. She was too good for this world.” Tears fell from the woman’s cheeks and landed on the face of the child. Her partner put his arm around her and led her away.

The priests took the straps and carried the body to the barge’s edge. One held the feet over the water and the other raised the head. “She goes to a better place,” the fighter-priest intoned. A priest pushed the rock overboard and body slid down over the edge. With a splash, it disappeared beneath the waves.

The two priests went back for another body. “Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” Bowe heard all their stories: the boy with the cheeky grin who shouldn’t have used it so much on the marshals; the grandmother who had decided to forgo her place in the Refuge and just help her family, but hadn’t allowed herself enough food to survive even that long; the child who always had a smile for her mother even when he fell ill; the man who drank too much but always had a joke on his lips and a smile on his face.

“Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” They were mourned and they were celebrated. They were all sent to a better place by the fighter-priest, and they splashed into the sea one by one.

Bowe knew they were just escay, so he clenched his eyes shut and concentrated on hardening those squishy parts within him. It was difficult not to cry, though; he was still raw over the death of Vitarr. The more he hardened himself, the less sad he became, and the more his anger grew. But he wasn’t even sure what he was angry at.

He thought back to Chalori’s funeral. The heat. The three mourners. The smell of ash and dust. Chalori’s large body had been beautifully dressed and her face had enough makeup that she was barely recognizable. He remembered his anger at Ariastiana, who had come to gloat over another wife she had outlived. There had been no celebration of Chalori’s life.

As the final escay disappeared, Bowe gripped the fighter-priest’s sleeve. “I’d like my friend—” The words caught in his throat.

His request was understood. “Are you sure?” Kaitan asked.

Bowe swallowed and nodded. The fighter-priest gestured to the bearers, and they went back for Vitarr’s body.

“Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma,” the mourners chanted.

Bowe joined in. “Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” He released his pent-up tears.

“Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” The priests placed Vitarr’s body on the deck.

“Would one of you like to share a story with us?” Kaitan asked, and Bowe stepped forward. He glanced down at Vitarr’s face, but that was too painful, so he looked out at the horizon as he spoke.

“I remember finding Vitarr out on a balcony in the middle of a storm,” Bowe said. “The curtains were blowing back, and droplets of rain flew into the room. Vitarr held his arms outstretched embracing the weather. “I love the feel of rain against my skin,” he told me. He could lose himself in a moment, find happiness in the littlest thing. He found joy in life, but knew life would hold no joy for him. He wasn’t made for the ascorim, for the Green Path. He was a better person than that. I think he’d like it here surrounded by water, away from the heat.”

“He goes to a better place,” Kaitan said. There was a splash, and he was gone.

The escay dispersed, but Bowe remained there, staring at the horizon. He realized what he was angry at: it was the Path itself. And he understood why he was having trouble accepting it. To be angry at the Path was tantamount to being angry at the core of what it meant to be ascor. Vitarr didn’t deserve to die, but making him walk the Path was a death sentence. Could the Green Path be evil? He shuddered to even think of it.

The barge was well on its way back to Arcandis by the time Bowe returned to Glil under the awning. Bowe was now prepared to make a decision that he wouldn’t have contemplated at the start of the journey. And he knew that what he was about to ask Glil would make the Lessard Green happy.

“How do I sell those stolen ruby garnets?”

Chapter 7

37 Days Left

Bowe kept his hat low over his head as he dodged through Drywell Square, with Glil walking beside him. Bowe was worried that the Raine marshals would be after him. His first payment wasn’t due yet, but since he was so low on the lists and didn’t have any way to repay, Alandar could have called it in early. He saw several marshals in Grenier light pink, but none in Raine silver-white, and he hoped it stayed that way. Glil’s mind was elsewhere; Bowe had already pulled him away from a near-collision several times. He wasn’t sure where Glil went when he fazed out like this—perhaps Thardassia.

He wondered if he could just choose the route of an Elect at this stage of the Path and have a chance. Dulnato, Reyanu, and Zidel had spent months—probably years—readying themselves. Recruiting Defenders, cultivating allies, creating plans. It wasn’t hard to imagine Zidel preparing from inside his mother’s womb. Bowe had only one Defender—a daydreamer who liked to tell children’s stories—and the vaguest of plans.

Bowe snapped his fingers in front of Glil’s face. “How do you know this Oamir can help us sell ruby garnets?”

“He probably can’t.”

“But you told me—”

“Did I ever tell you about the Thardassian from the red quartz tribe called FrozenFire?”

“Did I ever tell you that Thardassian stories are annoying?”

“You didn’t, but others have. They’re wrong, of course. The stories are part of my charm.”

“Charm? I’m beginning to believe that you didn’t decide to leave. Zidel kicked you out for maddening people beyond the limits of endurance.”

“When FrozenFire was chiseled into life, he unfortunately could not speak.”

“‘Chiseled?’”

“Rock people aren’t born into being like you and me, you know.”

“So they are made with a hammer and chisel?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Chiseled is just the closest word. I’m not going to describe the rock-people’s reproductive system. You wouldn’t understand, and I don’t want you to judge. FrozenFire was the most intelligent Thardassian to ever be chiseled into life. But he could only answer questions by shaking his leg from side to side for ‘no,’ or moving it up and down for ‘yes.’

“The other members of the red quartz tribe learned to pose their questions carefully so that they could make use of his knowledge and intelligence.”

“How nice. However this is Thardassia, so I doubt that’s the end of the story.”

“I’m afraid not. The red quartz tribe was never the most patient. One of the tribe, in a rage at not getting the answers he was looking for, pushed FrozenFire into a magma lake, where he melted and dissolved into nothingness.”

Bowe was looking around as he listened, and his gaze fell upon a stall of wooden animal carvings. He drifted toward it. There were many stalls selling similar things, but these were exceptional. They weren’t elaborate, but their artistry made them come to life in a way Bowe had never seen before.

“You like what you see, young man?” came the croaking voice of the hooded old woman standing behind the stall. She lifted up a carved lion and showed it to him.

Some memory clicked in his brain, but before it was able to fully form, Glil called out, “Bowe.”

Bowe turned back to Glil. “Yes, yes. Great story. I’m sure it’ll make sense when it’s too late to help me.”

“No. Keep your head down.” Glil’s voice was an urgent whisper.

The warning came too late. Two silver-white-clad marshals stood the next stall over. The nearest of them shouted, shoved aside an escay in front of him, and ran at Bowe. That answered the question about whether the Raine marshals were after him. Bowe turned on his heel and ran.

He crashed off the first person in front of him, driving him to the ground, and glanced off two others before a space opened before him. He increased his speed, knocking the hats from several escay as he passed. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw both marshals in full pursuit. No sign of Glil—they didn’t want him, so there was no reason to think he’d be in danger. Bowe, still looking behind him, crashed straight into a vegetable seller’s stall.

It sent him sprawling. He squashed several tomatoes underneath him as he fell. He scrambled to his feet to find the two marshals almost upon him and darted away, aiming for where the crowd was thickest, leaving a trail of cabbage leaves and celery stalks in his wake. He doubted he could outrun these men, but perhaps he could out-dodge them. Around him, the marketplace quieted—all nearby gazes had turned to watch the chase. At least no one moved to help his pursuers; luckily for him, escay were not in the habit of helping marshals.

As he charged into the heart of the crowd, some people froze and others dodged, though they moved into his way as often as out of it. Bowe scampered through the sea of arms and torsos, ducking into a gap here, spinning around an old man there. He hoped his small size would allow him to move through the crowd faster than the marshals, and from the shouts and curses behind him, it seemed to be working. Emerging at the far side of the square, Bowe ran down the nearest street and immediately turned down the first alleyway he saw. It was narrow and empty. He was panting heavily now. The slapping footsteps behind him showed that he hadn’t lost his pursuers, although they were now farther back. He turned left down another alleyway, and instantly regretted it. There was barely enough room for one person abreast.

He had no choice but to keep going. The alleyway swerved to the right, and then Bowe skidded to a halt. A dead end. He looked around frantically, but there was no escape. Had he passed a doorway somewhere? There was no other choice but to go back and hope. Bowe turned around and sprinted.

A red-faced marshal jogged into view with his companion just behind him. A wide smile spread across his face. “You’re caught now.”

But the smile disappeared from his face when Bowe didn’t slow down, but kept running full pelt at him. He reached forward, ready to grab. Bowe threw himself to the side at the last moment, diving for a doorway just in front of the marshal. The door crashed open, and Bowe fell through the doorway. A hand grabbed at the back of his neck, but he squirmed out of its grasp and slammed the door shut against it. The marshal let out a roar of pain, and Bowe was off and running again.

The house he had broken into was dark. He banged off two walls before the marshals pushed open the door behind him, allowing light to stream in. Dust kicked up at every step he made, causing Bowe to sneeze. He found a back entrance, jumped through, and shut the door behind him. He was in another narrow alley. Bowe was sweating heavily now and beginning to pant. He turned to his left and ran to where a rectangle of bright light and a rumble of noise indicated a busy street. To one side, he saw another door, took a quick glance behind him, and seeing that the marshals had not yet emerged, he dived inside. He closed it behind him and slid to the floor, sitting with his back against the door.

He forced himself to take shallow breaths to lessen the sounds of his panting. Right now, he was regretting his decision to hide rather than keep running. What if one of the marshals had emerged in time to see the door close? What if they decided to search the houses along the alleyway? As he sat, unable to do anything except hope, it seemed like a stupid gamble. He’d nearly gotten away. He should have kept running.

Glancing up, he realized he wasn’t alone. Slanted windows set high in the roof provided light, which shone down upon an old woman calming stirring a cooking pot. She was watching him, wrinkles crinkling around her eyes. Outside, the marshals were getting closer. The old woman’s gaze flickered toward the sound of the footsteps and back to Bowe. If she called out now, they would have him. It felt ridiculous to have his life in the hands of an escay once more. She has white hair, Bowe realized distantly. White hair was a rarity in Arcandis—generally only ascor lived long enough for their hair to turn white.

The footsteps increased in volume. Bowe sucked in a long, silent breath and closed his eyes. He waited for them to slow and stop. He waited for the old woman’s cry. Neither happened. The footsteps faded away until Bowe could no longer hear them. Bowe opened his eyes. The old woman had left her pot and now gestured him forward.

Bowe followed her. She led him to a back entrance. She stuck her head out, looked both ways, then nodded to him. Bowe didn’t know how to thank her. He ducked his head as he passed her. To his surprise, she grabbed his arm. He forced down his repulsion at the touch; he wasn’t that person anymore. She looked him up and down, then grabbed a cloak from where it hung by the door and placed it in his hands. Bowe stiffened. The house he’d walked through didn’t have much: a single pot with watery vegetable broth, the thin bedroll in the corner, empty spaces—no sign of spare clothes. Bowe tried to hand it back to her, but she shoved it into his hands again and pushed him out the door.

When Bowe turned back, the door had been shut behind him. He stood there for a moment, staring open-mouthed at the closed door. Why had she helped him? She didn’t know him and had nothing to gain from helping him, yet she gave him her only cloak.

He threw the light gray cloak over his shoulders and pulled it down over him. Thick and old, the cloak was slightly tattered, and rough to the touch. Bowe had lost his hat in the chase, but the cloak had a deep hood that hid his face. Wrapped in this, he was indistinguishable from an escay. He should have been wearing something like this long since, he realized. He moved out of the alleyway into one of the major streets and drifted along with the crowd.

He’d arranged to meet Glil later that night if something went wrong, but that wasn’t for a while, so with nothing better to do, Bowe continued with his original plan: meeting Oamir.

Bowe felt a lot more secure wrapped in the cloak, even if it was warmer. He kept his head down when he spotted two silver-white uniforms and managed to pass them without incident. He didn’t dare look at their faces to check if they were the same marshals who’d chased him. After a while, he realized that he couldn’t remember where the old woman’s house had been. He cursed himself. He had wanted to return later to thank her, pay her, or give her something in exchange for the cloak.

Bowe took a few wrong turns before finding the address Glil had specified. Evening had fallen; gone were the stuffy heat and crowded streets, replaced by long shadows and purple light.

Bowe pushed the door open and walked in. The interior was dark and dusty, and two candles burnt on a desk against the far wall. The desk was overflowing with papers, and an escay sat hunched over them. There seemed to be more dust on the man than the furniture.

“I’m looking for a Green by the name of Oamir,” Bowe said to him, throwing the hood back from his face.

“He’s in the back room.” He pointed through the door. “Are you going to take him off my hands?”

Bowe frowned. “No, I just want to talk to him.”

The man nodded rapidly. “I see. A scheme of some sort. The ascorim. No matter; he is useful, if somewhat tiresome.” The man’s eyes narrowed as he examined Bowe more closely. “May I be so bold as to ask your name, young man? No—wait.” He raised a hand in front of his face. “Allow me to guess.” He steepled his fingers in front of his brow. “Oamir’s knowledge would be most useful to an Elect. However, you come dressed as an escay and without Defenders, so you are unlikely to be one of the big three. Maybe you’re a Shadow.”

Bowe shifted under the man’s examination. He wished he knew how Oamir’s knowledge would be useful. All Glil had told him was the Thardassian story, which didn’t have much to do with selling the Guild’s garnets as far as he could tell.

“Or else there’s a new Elect on the Path. Unusual to have a new one arriving so late. Let me see.” The man picked up his candle and held it above his head so he could see Bowe better. “Of course. The hooked eagle nose of a Bellanger. Who else could it be?” The man moved back to his desk. “Bowe Bellanger possibly becoming an Elect—now this is news.”

He dipped a feather into an inkpot and began to scribble on one of his papers. “Are you a newsbard?” Bowe asked.

The man didn’t stop writing. “No, no, my boy. Used to be in my youth. I don’t have the energy to stand out in the sun all day anymore. I’m a newswriter. I collect the news. The bards come to me for their stories.”

Bowe went through the door the newswriter had indicated. It led to a big, empty room with most of the dim light coming from cracks in the ceiling. In the center, a wide board was balanced across two rocks with a boy sitting cross-legged beneath it. The rocks were uneven in size, causing the board to slope. Papers were piled on top of the board, and many had fallen off onto the low side of the makeshift table. The gaps in the ceiling created a spotlight of hazy purple light that shone down just where the boy was sitting, and evidence of scraping on the floor showed that the boy moved his table as the light moved over the course of the day. This was a bizarre, ramshackle version of the scene in the front room. The boy looked up when Bowe entered. He had wide, small eyes and disheveled brown hair. One of the few Greens—along with Glil—who was smaller than Bowe.

Oamir beckoned to Bowe. “The two best Harmony players of all time were Zull Lessard and Delnan Bellanger,” he said. “Delnan was the best, of course, though due to the demise of the Bellangers, some Lessards are beginning to dispute that. Now there’s some argument over the third best player, with three strong claimants. I’ve listed out the…” He began to rifle through his papers. “It was here a minute ago.”

Bowe was surprised to find him so talkative; from Glil’s Thardassian story, he’d expected a mute. On the other hand, he had no idea what Oamir was talking about. Bowe held out his arm, hoping to prevent the lecture from continuing. “My name is Bowe, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

Oamir looked up, frowned at the outstretched arm, and returned to searching his desk. “I’m leaning toward another Lessard—Fulton—as the third best. But, of course, the Raines hate that idea, and won’t listen to any argument that doesn’t have their man, Gway, as third best ever.” Oamir’s voice had a sleep-inducing, monotonous tone.

Oamir took a breath, and Bowe used that opportunity to break in. “How do I sell ruby-colored garnets?” He wanted to avoid hearing any more about Gway Raine and Lessard Fulton if at all possible. And avoid talk of any other long-dead Harmony players.

“They are banned. The color of garnets is generally considered unimportant, but red ones are unusual. Due to a mine discovery in Urni, a shipment recently arrived for trade. Because they looked like rubies, it was thought they’d claim a high price in Arcandis. The Lessard placed a total ban on the trading and wearing of them once the entire shipment was stolen so the thieves couldn’t profit. Garnets are among the least sought-after gems. Rubies are the most rare; only the high-ranked and richest of the Greniers have them, even though they are their family gemstone. When Greens are selected into the Raine family, they are gifted a diamond, and, similarly, an emerald for the Lessards. No one knows what happened to the Bellanger sapphires with the demise of the family. Certainly the trading ships no longer purchase them…”

Bowe rubbed his forehead and filtered out Oamir’s voice. He now understood Glil’s story. Oamir was knowledgeable, but Bowe would have to ask the right questions. Before Oamir could help him, Bowe needed to come up with a plan. He tried to fit the pieces together in his head. Who would buy these gemstones and risk the wrath of the Lessards? Marshals wouldn’t dare, escay couldn’t afford to—that left the ascor. There didn’t seem to be any reason that the other families would want to defy the Lessards, but there were always eddies and whorls within the ascorim. If only he could figure out how to nudge the current in the direction he wanted.

He was most familiar with the Raine family, but nothing suggested itself to him there. If he could understand the dynamic within the other families better, perhaps something would come to mind. Bowe tuned back into Oamir, who continued to ramble on about the early history of Arcandis. He waited for a slight pause and broke in.

“What’s the power structure within the Lessard ascor?”

“Historically—”

“I mean right now.” Bowe didn’t like to interrupt people, but it seemed like the only way to talk to Oamir.

“It is a two-headed beast. Sorani and Eolnar are the two eldest sons of Cenarro; they survived the Path together. Eolnar is the eldest, and was an Elect when he walked the Path; Sorani was his Defender.” Oamir took a breath. “Many expected Eolnar to take charge once Cenarro fell, but it was Sorani, strongly supported by his brother. They present a unified front, and attempts to drive a rift between them have failed.”

It didn’t seem to Bowe like he had much to work with there. “And the Greniers?” Bowe asked. “Also strong leadership and no malcontents?”

“Stenesso leads in his own way. He takes little heed of his fellow Guardians. His moves have been successful in growing the Grenier holdings, taking over much of what was previously controlled by the Bellangers, so his support within his own family is strong. To fortify the expanded holdings, he has raised many more marshals to ascor than is common. That has proven controversial, and some Raines and Lessards are beginning to treat these newcomers as less than full ascor. Normally only one or two marshals are raised every sexennium, but Stenesso has raised seven in the last six years.”

Perhaps the marshal-raised ascor was the key. Bowe needed to think about it further. He decided that he’d better make his escape soon, though, as Oamir had returned to discussing early history. He would come back to Oamir later when he’d figured out more. He needed to know the right questions to ask. The Green liked talking about what he knew, even if Bowe could only handle listening to it in small doses. “You want to become a newswriter?” Bowe asked Oamir.

Oamir broke out of whatever monologue he was reciting to scoff at the question. “Of course not. Peddlers of cheap gossip for the masses? I’m a historian. There’s been very few in Arcandis, and as a result, not much is known about our early history. Very little is recorded about where we came from. The oldest knowledge we have are ancient children’s picture books, which aren’t much use for history.”

A smile crept onto Bowe’s face as he remembered those picture books. He’d used to love reading them. Their tattered and faded pages; the simple stories full of mythical creatures like dragons, lions, and wolves. A thought occurred to him. If Oamir wanted to write history, what was his plan for survival? “What about the Green Path?” Bowe asked.

Oamir paused, blinking rapidly. “I have no interest in that. Teenage squabbling. Recording the histories—now, that’s an important task. I found something interesting recently…”

As he began to search through his papers, Bowe turned away and exited, waving to the newswriter as he passed, though the man didn’t look up. Outside, he thought of the strange Green, and it made him sad to think that he’d have no chance to write those histories. He was like Vitarr—he didn’t have the skills to walk the Green Path, but he deserved to live. Life is only for the worthy. There were different ways that people could be worthy, and most of those ways didn’t fit on the Path.

Helion was high in the sky and the streets were empty. Escay generally thought of reasons to be inside when the the light was purple. There was no logic behind it; Helion didn’t provide as much light as the sun, but it was still bright enough; it just wasn’t as hot. But watching the violet rays bending around the dark buildings, Bowe could understand. Everything looked creepier and most dangerous in the purple light. He shivered, though it wasn’t cold. There was one more thing he wanted to do tonight, so he put aside his irrational fear.

He pulled the hood back over his head and headed back toward Drywell Square. Likely the stall would be gone by now, but it was worth the chance. He kept his head down, his thoughts focused on what Oamir had told him and how he was going to sell those ruby garnets. He was still lost in thought when a shove threw him sideways. As he fell, he half-saw the light pink uniform of a Grenier marshal. He broke his fall with his arms, making sure that he landed facedown. He didn’t want them to see his face; he didn’t think the Grenier marshals were after him, but it was better to be cautious. “Watch where you’re going, escay,” a voice snarled.

Bowe lay still for a moment before turning to look up. Two marshals were strolling away from him. That’s a disadvantage to this disguise, he thought. Being treated like an escay. Bowe guessed they’d decided to shove him to the ground rather than walking around him; he should have been paying more attention. Bowe stood, brushed himself off, and continued on his way. That brought to mind another problem. Even meeting a Grenier ascor to give him a ruby garnet would be difficult. Drakasi had warned Bowe about returning to the Fortress.

Bowe spotted the stall he was looking for and moved toward it. Behind the stall, the old woman was packing up the carvings in boxes. He had been lucky to arrive in time to catch her; most of the other stalls had already been carted off.

“Closed,” the old woman croaked as he approached.

“Why do you pretend to be an old woman?” Bowe asked, picking up the lion carving again. It was made out of a dark, heavy wood, and the artist had caught the beast in mid-stride, its mane bouncing and its tail streaming behind it.

“If it isn’t mush-for-brains,” Iyra said, the croak gone from her voice. “How did you know it was me?”

“I didn’t until now,” Bowe said. “But I noticed your hands earlier—not the hands of an old woman. Something about them jolted my memory. And I wondered.”

“Hmm, evidence of intelligence. You can’t be the same waterlogged Green I dragged from the bay. Why did you kill poor mush-for-brains and steal his body?”

“Very funny.” Bowe didn’t let himself smile. She was still in the Guild. Even if they decided to make use of each other, that didn’t mean they were friends. “Why are you pretending to be an old woman?”

“It amuses me, and it helps with the haggling. Now I’m packing up. Give me back my lion or give me a gold piece for it.”

“A gold piece?” Bowe almost dropped the carving.

“Special price for you. Reports of your bargaining skills are legendary, and I wanted to get some of your money while I have a chance. I hear the Raine want their loan repaid.”

“Beautiful piece.” He turned it over in his hands, ignoring her barbs. “Who made it?”

Iyra snatched the carving out of his hand. “Give it back if you’re not going to buy it. What do you want?”

This was the moment. Was he was willing the work with the Guild? Whenever he thought about it, his mind went in circles. Was it a betrayal of the ascor? Was the Guild evil? Was the Green Path corrupted? If so, should he even try to walk it? He hadn’t figured it all out in his head. But on a deep level within himself, he’d accepted working with the Guild. He just had to go through with it. He took a breath and then blurted out, “I’ve decided to accept your deal.”

“Offer’s no longer on the table.”

Bowe jerked back. After all the soul searching, he hadn’t expected to get his acceptance thrown back in his face. But when he thought about it, he realized he didn’t believe her. “I doubt that. It took a great deal of effort to save me, and there was plenty of risk in making that offer. You want this more than I do.”

“Ah, now that’s more like the cocky little lordling I rescued.” She stepped around to Bowe’s side of the stall and shook her hood back. “Do you still fear infection from filthy escay?”

Those smoky gray eyes still had an effect on him. Bowe took a step back, which made Iyra smile widely.

He wasn’t going to let her get the upper hand this time. “You need me.” His voice wasn’t as firm as he would have liked.

“We can find someone else.”

That made Bowe pause. He’d been thinking about it from his standpoint, but what about hers? Why had she saved him? She’d said it hadn’t been by chance. Why were she and the Guild interested in him? And then it hit him—the way he was unique: he was the last Bellanger. He needed to use that.

“I want your biggest garnet set into a neck clasp and given to me.”

“You exp—”

Bowe didn’t let her finish. “Yes. That’s exactly what I expect,” he said. “And you’ll do it, too. That’s the only way you’ll get anything other than a cell in the Fortress for those garnets. And have the clasp brought to me in Bellanger Mansion.”

Bowe left before she had a chance to reply.

Chapter 8

35 Days Left

Glil followed Bowe into the tailor shop. “I still can’t believe you’re going ahead with this,” he said.

“I’ve done stupider things,” Bowe replied.

“That’s not something to boast about.”

The shop was dim and compact. It looked like a hovel from the outside, but it was clean inside. Cloaks, dresses, shirts, and pants hung from the ceiling and Bowe and Glil ducked under the clothes to reach the counter. Most of the clothes were white with a dash of color, as this shop mainly sold to ascor. A row of hats circled the ceiling, pegged on hooks set high on the walls. The tailor was so short that his head was barely above the counter. He rested his arms on the wood and dry-washed his hands. Behind him, rolls of fabric filled the shelves. “How may I help you?”

Bowe pretended not to see him. He peered behind the counter and looked around. After a moment, his gaze finally fell on the tailor. “There you are. What are you doing down there?”

“Oh, a comedian. Lucky me,” the tailor said dryly. “No one has ever made fun of my size before. That’s a new one.”

“No need to be short with me,” Bowe said. When the tailor didn’t react, Bowe continued. “Fine, straight to business. Some people are no fun. We are two Greens out on the town, and we’re here to have some fun and buy some clothes.”

“I’m not here to have fun; I’m here to remind you to take this more seriously,” Glil said. “You are being too rash, risking too much on this one plan. If you don’t care about your own life, at least think about your loyal Defenders.”

Bowe looked around. “Ah, my numerous Defenders. Why don’t I take them into account? Maybe because they are invisible.”

“Not to interrupt,” the tailor broke in, “Oh—wait. I do want to interrupt. Very much so. Please make it stop. Why do two Greens want to buy ascor clothes? Shouldn’t you be out killing other Greens or some such?”

“My killing hand is a bit tired.” Bowe shook his arm. “All that slashing and beheading—nothing like a bit of shopping to take your mind off the blood and gore. Do you have anything in Bellanger azure?”

“To show off the bloodstains to maximum effect?” the tailor asked.

“No, I’m serious. Something for the ascor ball in two days, in azure.”

“He’s serious,” Glil added. “Can you talk him out of it?”

The tailor’s eyes narrowed as he realized what Bowe wanted. “You have money?”

Bowe slipped a pouch from his belt and showed the tailor the glint of gold inside.

The tailor became more animated. “I think I have one roll left. I nearly threw it out recently. I mean, who is going to wear anything with…” He trailed off. “Wait here.” He disappeared down some stairs in the corner.

Glil turned to Bowe. “Come on, give up this Bellanger stuff. I went along with staying in Bellanger Mansion—and that’s only because it beats sleeping in a doorway—but this is too much. Dressing up as a Bellanger and trying to gatecrash an ascor ball—getting refused entry is the best thing that can happen. In which case, you’ll just have wasted most of our money on clothes. I don’t even want to think about the worst case.”

“No one walks the Path without taking risks.”

“There’s a difference between taking a risk and walking into a fire and expecting not to get burned. Those balls are surrounded by marshals. Even Zidel and Reyanu couldn’t get in, and you’re still a Deadbeat as far as most are concerned.”

“Shhh. My numerous loyal but invisible Defenders think I’m an Elect. Don’t disappoint them.”

“Come on, stop making jokes. Get real.” Glil smacked a nearby cloak, causing it to swing back and forth. In the small room, the cloak hit all the other garments hanging up, and Glil and Bowe had to duck to avoid the moving clothes.

“Stop that.” The tailor had returned and was now unrolling a wide swath of azure fabric. He was short enough to stand below all the clothes.

“Amazing how you’re able to avoid the swinging garments without ducking. Do you have magical powers?” Bowe asked.

“Now that you’re potentially a paying customer, do I have to laugh at your jokes?” The tailor smoothed out the blue cloth.

“Go with your gut.”

The tailor showed his teeth in a grimace.

Bowe jumped back and grabbed Glil’s shoulder. “I told you goblins were real—they’re not just monsters in picture books.”

“Glad that you’re still finding everything amusing.” Glil turned his head away.

Bowe grabbed Glil’s shoulder. “Come on, laughing is allowed. We all fall off the Path. Best to go out in style.” Bowe had joked with Vitarr like this all the time. Vitarr understood. It was the ascor way—understanding that death was a mere falling from the Path. Bowe himself had forgotten that recently. Perhaps he’d become too upset at the deaths of Vitarr and Chalori. No, that wasn’t right—they deserved to be mourned. Still, there was no reason that Bowe couldn’t set forth on the Path with a laugh for the dangers it held.

“There’s a difference between falling and jumping headlong to your doom.” Glil kept his face turned away.

Bowe turned to the tailor. “He’s no fun today. At least he’s not talking about his rock people, though.” The tailor raised his eyebrows. “Yes, be glad you don’t know what I’m talking about. Now, about this cloth.” Bowe ran his fingers along the soft material. The rich dark blue color was gorgeous; at least his family had good taste. “You were about to throw it out. That makes it pretty worthless.”

The tailor gave a small smile. “Might have been worthless yesterday. Today, the value’s gone up.”

“It’ll be worthless again in a few days, most likely. I have a wild thought: rather than wasting white cloth, why don’t you make my whole outfit out of this material? You’ve enough, and it’s not much good to you unless I buy it. How many other Bellangers do you expect to walk in?”

The tailor snorted out a laugh. “You can be funny when you want to be.” Then, seeing Bowe’s face, his eyes widened. “You’re not joking. You actually want me to…” He looked down at the azure cloth. “To use this as the base material for your clothing and not just as trimming? And you want to attend the ascor ball? Do you know how many fashion crimes you’ll be committing? Not to mention how you’ll be boiled alive wearing something this dark coming up to the Infernam.”

The tailor was right on all points. Bowe had never seen an ascor costume that wasn’t mostly white. And he knew that light-colored clothing was needed to deflect the heat. But now that he’d gotten the idea in his head, he liked it. Gatecrashing the ball cloaked in Bellanger blue—what a sensation he would cause.

“I’ll only be wearing it at night, so the heat won’t be too bad,” he told the tailor. “What do you say? Can you create an outfit for me in time?”

“Certainly not. I’ve got a reputation. If people found out I created the monstrosity that you are describing…” He shuddered.

Bowe jingled his pouch in front of the tailor. “I’ll give you a gold for it. And, providing that the quality of the clothing is top notch in all respects, excepting the color, I won’t tell anyone who made it for me. What do you say? You get to turn a roll of worthless cloth and a day and a half’s work into a whole gold.”

“One gold?” Glil asked. “Are you kidding me? For the ugliest set of clothes that will ever see the light of day?”

Bowe could see that Glil was calculating how much of the Raine money Bowe was wasting. Pretty much all of it. Bowe was gambling everything on this one shot. He held his breath as the tailor thought for a long moment. “One gold, five silvers,” he said finally.

Glil groaned. Bowe took from his pouch one gold and two silvers and placed them on the counter. “Now, I know we are supposed to do that haggling thing, but I don’t feel like it right now, so can we skip it? We’ll just pretend you fought hard for one gold and three silvers and I refused to budge from one gold and one silver. We battled long and hard, eventually settling on one gold, two silvers.”

The tailor looked at the money, sighed, then slid the coins from the counter into his hand. It was just as well; Bowe needed his last silver for transportation.

Chapter 9

33 Days Left

The rickshaw seemed to be making more vertical than horizontal movement. It bounced with every half-turn of the wheel, and Bowe clutched his seat tightly, wondering if there was any way to back out now. There wasn’t, though—not really. The rickshaw puller had taken his last silver, and even then it had been a hard sell. The puller didn’t seem too keen on transporting a Green to the ascor ball. Using an enclosed rickshaw was the easiest way to get though the outer ring of marshals around Lessard Mansion; most of the invited guests would be using something similar, so this would at least get Bowe to the door. After that…

At least the preparations—such as they were—had gone smoothly. He wore his new pants, tunic, and cloak. All in breathtaking azure. Beautifully stitched and perfected fitted. Except he wished they didn’t fit half so well when he realized how much the new clothes itched. Bowe checked his pocket to make sure the neck clasp was still there. Iyra had come through on that. Via several painfully long conversations with Oamir, Bowe had finally settled on a plan. He was to give the clasp to one of three newly-raised Grenier ascor: either Kirande, Odrassan or Roneor. They were the three who Bowe decided would be most likely to wear the ruby garnet.

The rickshaw gave another almighty jolt and lurched to a stop. Bowe peeked out the curtain—they were outside the main entrance. A rolled-out carpet in Lessard green led the way inside. Marshals wearing mint-cream uniforms flanked either side of the carpet. Bowe waited for the rickshaw puller to announce him. Bowe, of House Bellanger, he was supposed to say. Instead, Bowe heard a hushed growl from above him. “Get out,” the man said.

Bowe shook his head up at the puller as he opened the rickshaw door and stepped onto the sea-green carpet. The puller didn’t even glance down at him; he pulled off as soon as Bowe closed the door, leaving Bowe to face the double row of spear-wielding marshals unannounced. Still, his clothes proclaimed him better than a newsbard shouting his name from the rooftops. They announced the arrival of a crazy person.

Bowe strode down the carpet, pretending he belonged there, but he quivered inside. One of the marshals almost let his spear fall at the sight of him, but recovered in time. None of them challenged him until he reached the main entrance. There, a more senior marshal blocked his path. He was short, and though he was only in his thirties, he was already balding. He wore a long sword at his belt. The way he stood suggested that he knew how to use the sword; the way his hand hovered over the hilt showed that he wanted to use it.

“I am Tokanu, and you are lost.” He scanned Bowe up and down. “In mind as well as in body.”

Bowe smiled, trying to project confidence he didn’t feel. This was where his plan got murky. “I’m Bowe Bellanger, but you already guessed that, I’m sure.” He held out his arm, but the other man didn’t even look at it. He continued to stare Bowe straight in the eye.

Bowe searched his mind frantically for something to say. The rickshaw had gotten him past the lower-ranked marshals, and now he only needed to bluff his way past one more guy. At least, that was the idea beforehand. Now that he’d met Tokanu, he wasn’t so sure; he didn’t look the type of guy to bluff.

“One,” Tokanu said.

“Listen, I’m sure the Guardians will want me to attend. I’m the last Bellanger. One final time with representatives from all four families together.”

“Two.”

“You never told me what you are counting up to and what happens when you are finished. There are rules to this sort of thing.”

“Three.”

Another rickshaw rumbled into position behind Bowe, and two words rang out that made Bowe feel like he was the luckiest bastard on the whole damn island: “Kirande Grenier,” a puller announced. One of the three he had come here to meet.

“Four.”

“Enough counting—I’m going. I need to talk to the man behind me.” Three, five and ten seemed the most dangerous numbers. Bowe had survived a three, and he certainly didn’t want to risk a five. He went to intercept Kirande.

He reached the rickshaw just as Kirande was stepping out. The man was tall with thin limbs, and his body was all sharp angles from his shoulders to his knees to the hatchet-shaped thing that passed for a nose. Prominent swirls of scarlet slashed across his coat. He stopped short at the sight of Bowe, then threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter. He clapped Bowe on the back. “Look at you. Spectacular. And here I was afraid that the ball would be dull.”

“I’d like to talk to you privately for a moment,” Bowe said.

“Very well. He took a silver from his pocket and tossed it to the first of the two pullers. “Wait here a moment more.” He held the rickshaw door open for Bowe. “After you, young Bellanger.” Bowe got in and sank into the cushioned seat. His rickshaw had been nothing like this.

Kirande sat opposite him and rubbed the lapel of Bowe’s tunic. “This is great. I can’t wait to see the reaction to your outfit when we go inside. Stenesso, in particular. This is going to be fun. Now,” he said, leaning back, “what’s do you want with me?”

“To be honest, I only wanted to meet you. I have a gift that I hope you might appreciate.”

Kirande’s smile faltered. “Well then, let’s see it.”

Bowe produced the neck clasp. Kirande took it and turned it over in his hands. “Open the curtain,” he ordered. Bowe complied. The gem glittered as the torchlight reflected deep inside it.

“Remarkable. I had heard about the red garnets’ recent arrival, of course, but I never imagined their color would match a ruby’s so well. So why have you given me this?”

“I need to get selected. I hope you will look favorably upon me when the time comes.”

A smile played on Kirande’s lips. “A bribe?”

Bowe shifted in his seat, causing the rickshaw to creak. “More of an exchange of gifts.”

“I see.” Kirande examined the clasp closely. “There’s very valuable information to be gleaned from lies.”

Bowe leaned forward. “I wasn’t—”

Kirande raised his hand to stop Bowe from continuing. “You can often tell the skill of an ascorim player from the quality of his lies. In your case, they are rather unsophisticated. Given your bold choice of dress, I had hoped for more from you. Let me see.” Kirande steepled his long fingers in front of his face. “You have access to those garnets and need to sell them. And you think that having an ascor wear one at the ball will make them desirable. Why me?” He scratched his chin with his thumb. “You wanted someone who doesn’t care about annoying the Lessards. Someone who would actually enjoy it.” Kirande grinned. “Guilty as charged. And you needed someone independent, not someone else’s lackey. How am I doing?”

Bowe looked down at his knees and shrank back into the cushion. He was now aware of how clumsy his attempts to manipulate Kirande had been, and he realized that he’d been a fool to think he could outwit someone who’d been playing the ascorim since before he had been born. There was a click, and Bowe looked up to see Kirande adjusting the garnet against his neck.

“You’re going to wear it?”

Kirande smiled and stepped out of the rickshaw. “Just because I can see through your plan doesn’t mean it doesn’t suit my purpose. You got one thing right.” He helped Bowe out of the rickshaw. “Choosing me to wear it.”

“Kirande Grenier,” the puller announced again. Another rickshaw waited behind. Bowe looked around, trying to figure out how he was going to get off the Lessard grounds and back to Bellanger Mansion. Perhaps Kirande would let him—

A bony arm wrapped around Bowe’s shoulders, and the next thing he knew, he was being half-dragged down the green carpet. “Wait,” Bowe protested. “I don’t—”

“You don’t think you need to go to the ball now that you have already given me the garnet?” They were approaching Tokanu. “As it turns out, you do.” Kirande leaned down to whisper in Bowe’s ear, “Because I insist.” His tone made Bowe suddenly very aware of how many marshals stood on either side of him. Bowe decided he did, after all, want to attend the ball.

“Kirande, you are most welcome, as always.” Tokanu stepped in front of Bowe. “However, the walking blueberry hasn’t an invitation.”

“I just invited him.” Kirande barely glanced at Tokanu and guided Bowe past him and through the doors. Bowe couldn’t resist turning to wiggle his fingers at Tokanu in a goodbye wave. He mouthed the word, “Five.” Tokanu’s grim expression was the only response.

A long, arching staircase swept up and away from the entrance hall. To the right, a wide doorway led into the main ballroom. Bowe followed Kirande inside. Bowe thought that just seeing that expression on Tokanu’s face made attending the ball worth it. That feeling lasted for a few moments, and then people started to notice him. He felt naked. A ripple of turning heads spread across the crowd as more and more people became aware of his presence. Kirande had a big smile on his face, loving the attention.

What in Helion’s name had Bowe been thinking when he’d decided to come here dressed like this? And why hadn’t Glil stopped him? Shouldn’t Defenders stop their Elect from doing crazy stuff like this? Glil should have at least tied Bowe down until the ball was over.

The room contained many more women than men, since each of the ascor had multiple wives, plus all the Greenettes were here. The Greenettes had put aside their plain clothes and now wore dresses almost as elaborate as the ascora. As much makeup, as well. Everyone was dressed in finery, and Bowe had never felt more out of place in his life.

Kirande leaned down to whisper, “Wear your clothes—don’t let them wear you. You can either look like a clown who got lost on his way to the circus, or you can look like the person who owns this ball. The daring Green who everyone will be talking about long after this is over.”

Bowe straightened his shoulders and lifted his head. What Kirande was saying made sense, but it was hard to look confident when he felt all quivery inside. He glanced around the room, trying to ignore all the stares. The fact that everyone was wearing white with only small slashes of color was more noticeable than ever. He caught Ariastiana’s cold gaze, and it was almost a relief; she had looked at him like that all his life. At least there was something familiar. At her side, Kesirran was one of the few not staring at Bowe. That, too, went with the usual pattern of life in Raine Mansion.

Kirande led Bowe into the heart of the ballroom and stopped in front of Veliro and Alandar. “Ah, two of the mentors,” he said.

Bowe gulped, remembering his last meeting with each of them.

“Bet you’ve never been joined by one of the Greens at a ball before,” Kirande said.

“Definitely not.” Veliro had a pastry in his hand. “Nor have I met anyone as strangely dressed. And I’ve met all sorts of queer outlanders while trading.”

Alandar rubbed the fabric of Bowe’s cloak between his thumb and forefinger. “Despite its ghastly coloring, this appears expensively made. Good cloth, fine stitching, well fitted. Might have cost a gold piece. Where would a Green get the money to purchase such clothing?”

“You insult me,” Bowe replied. “I do not dress in cheap clothes. I am a Bellanger, not a Raine.”

Alandar gave a thin smile. His fingers circled a gem on his knife’s scabbard. “I hear you have some loans to pay off—I would consider that before buying expensive clothing. Some friends of mine tried to have a talk with you about that the other day, but lost you in the crowd.”

“Maybe you need more competent friends.” The confidence flowed through him as he bantered with the Raine mentor. As long as he was with Kirande, Bowe was safe from arrest. He lifted the side of his cloak and let it fall. “You are right about the fit, and both the quality and color suit me.”

“I’m going to have so much fun when I finally catch you.” Alandar nodded respectfully to Kirande and Veliro and walked away.

Bowe watched Alandar’s departing back. Making himself Alandar’s biggest enemy didn’t seem the wisest move, but Bowe couldn’t help himself. Veliro licked cream from his thick fingers.

“I’d like to thank you for that bargain we made early in the Path,” Bowe said to him.

Veliro frowned. “I got you to give me money for nothing. And you’d like to thank me?”

“Hardly nothing,” Bowe said. “Money is just metal; wisdom is priceless.”

Veliro smiled. “Never heard anyone value my words so highly. Though I fear you’ll find that Alandar and the Raines might not agree with that philosophy.”

“You let me worry about Alandar. I have it under control.” Bowe almost believed it as he said it. The confidence he was channeling was liquid fire in his veins.

Kirande laughed. “The boy is something else, isn’t he? To think, I wasn’t looking forward to tonight, and now it’s so much fun.”

Veliro studied Kirande. “Interesting gem you have around your neck.”

Kirande cocked his head. “Funny you should mention that. Quite the story behind it. The price was much higher than you’d expect to pay for a garnet. Must be the beautiful Grenier coloring. To purchase the gem, I had to go to a meeting place deep in the heart of escay Arcandis. I had to leave my protectors behind and was led with a cloth covering my head down a twisting series of alleyways. There, the exchange was made. I was led back and the cloth was removed.” Kirande rubbed at the neck clasp. “Quite the adventure. But it’s worth the high price to have it admired by you.”

“We have been looking for those who stole the red garnets.” Veliro licked the remains of the pastry from his lips.

“I suggest telling your marshals to keep their eyes open down dark and twisty alleyways in the poorest areas of the city.”

Veliro’s grunted. “A fake ruby for a fake Grenier.”

Bowe held his breath. Veliro must be among those who didn’t see Kirande as a true ascor, due to all of Stenesso’s recent promotions. Bowe didn’t know how Kirande had come up with the story about buying the garnet so quickly, but it was perfect.

Kirande smiled. “If I was not a real ascor, I don’t think you’d let me get away with wearing this Lessard-prohibited gem. But I am, and so you swallow it like month-old bread.” Kirande looked Veliro up and down. “A common occurrence around Lessard Mansion, I’m sure. Bits of food forgotten by the edges of the trough.”

A flush rose in Veliro’s cheeks, and Bowe thought he was going to explode. Instead, he nodded at Kirande, said, “Excuse me,” and walked away.

Kirande patted Bowe on the shoulder. “Now that was fun.” He scanned the ballroom. “Who else can we annoy?”

Bowe didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure he wanted to meet anyone else—he couldn’t afford many more enemies. Or even the ones he’d already made, truth be told.

“Wait, I’ve a better idea: circulate by yourself and see what happens.”

Bowe stiffened. “On my own?”

Kirande slapped his back. “Go on. You’ll be great. Just remember what I told you: wear the clothes.”

Bowe pushed back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and marched into the center of the room. He stopped a waiter and took some grapes from the tray he carried. He popped one into his mouth and looked around. Among the maelstrom of disapproving and calculating faces, Bowe saw someone gesture him over—a Lessard, judging by the sea-green patterns on the man’s tunic.

Bowe approached him and held out his arm. “Bowe Bellanger.”

“I’m Eolnar. No introductions were necessary on your part.” Eolnar clasped Bowe’s arm warmly. “As of this moment, you are the most famous person in Arcandis.”

“Famous or notorious?” Bowe asked. Eolnar was the elder brother of Sorani, and second in command after the Lessard leader, Bowe remembered. Maybe not the best person to talk to when Bowe seemed ready to insult anyone and everyone. “Tomorrow, I could be the most famous corpse in Arcandis.”

“Such are the vagaries of the Path.” Eolnar had a small, round face, a pointy nose, and a head of short, curly black hair. He reminded Bowe of one of the creatures from those picture books—a hedgehog. “And of the ascorim. The possibilities are endless. One choice leads to death and ruin, another to riches and glory. The skill is in knowing beforehand which choice leads where.”

“There seem to be many more paths toward death than ones to riches. What’s the direction that leads to a quiet life and a peaceful old age?” Bowe asked.

Eolnar chuckled. “Gatecrashing this ball wearing that outfit does not suggest a search for tranquility.”

Bowe didn’t know about that—he would have happily skipped the ball once he’d given the neck clasp to Kirande if he’d been allowed.

“Now, Bowe, I’ve been thinking. Before, you were a nonentity. A Deadbeat. Today, you are something much more. The ghost of the Bellanger family come to curse Arcandis, perhaps. Or the last shovel of dirt thrown on their grave. Or something we thought disappeared and dead, found hanging on the edge of the Path and coming back to life. Time will tell. You’ll have many more enemies after this performance. To survive, you’ll need friends. Maybe I can help you.”

“If you could direct your brother to select me, it would help a lot.”

“Not so fast.” Eolnar chortled, showing his little hedgehog teeth. “I’m not going to bypass the Green Path. If you survive until the end and you are at the top of the lists, who knows? But even then, I don’t make the decision. You’ll have to impress my brother to get selected by the Lessards.”

“So how are you going to help me?” Bowe was disappointed. Alandar was likely to be hot on his heels after tonight, and he’d hoped for more than moral support from Eolnar.

“I heard you were good at Harmony. Used to be that the four Guardians played each other in the Grand Sexennial Harmony Match. Now we give four marshals the chance to play for the fourth seat in a qualifying match. I thought it’d be nice to have a Bellanger back at the table. I might be able to replace one of the four marshals with you. Win, and you’ll play in the famous Harmony match the night before the Infernam.”

How in Helion’s name is that helping me? Bowe wondered. I probably won’t be alive by then, and even if I am, I will be unlikely to care about a stupid Harmony game. He bit his tongue and forced a smile. “Thank you—that’s just what I was hoping for.” He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Let me know if you manage to arrange a place for me in the qualifying match.” Bowe nodded to him and moved on.

He continued to circulate, but now the confidence was draining from him. Ariastiana caught his gaze. Her dark eyes and makeup mask seemed to fix him to the spot. I know you aren’t the great Bellanger ascor you are pretending to be, the gaze said, You are just a Deadbeat. Bowe began to see the same expression on the faces of others he recognized: ascor, ascora, and even Greenettes from Raine Mansion. They all seemed to be saying the same thing: You are a fake. His shoulders wilted. He began to drift to the edge of the room to get away from their stares. He found a small staircase and climbed it to a second floor balcony that looked out over the city.

He let out a long sigh as a breeze washed over him. The shadowed silhouette of the city lay before him. Helion had set and the white moon, Luna, was obscured by clouds. It was nice to have darkness without it being polluted by unnatural light. He allowed himself to relax for the first time since he’d arrived. Gradually, he became aware of someone else on the balcony with him. At the far edge, a girl was leaning against the ledge. She turned with a smile, but when she saw Bowe, it disappeared. “Oh, it’s you.” She leaned back over the ledge again.

“What’s wrong with me?” Bowe asked. She was clearly one of the Greenettes.

“Go away,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “Find your own hiding place.”

Bowe almost did. He figured he had to enough to worry about without adding a crying girl to his list. Then again, going back into the ballroom was more likely to add to his problems rather than solve them. “Why are you crying?” he asked. “And what’s your name?”

“Zofila. And I’m not crying,” she said fiercely. She whipped around and rubbed her finger below her eyes. “Look, no tears.”

“Bet you want to, though,” Bowe said.

“Why would I want to cry?” She sniffed. “Just because I’m ugly and have to figure out how to get someone to marry me?”

“You’re not ugly,” Bowe said, though she certainly wasn’t pretty. Her nose was too big and her eyes were too small and too far apart, but she did have a nice smile, from what Bowe had seen of it. “You’re a bit thin, is all.” She wasn’t as thin as Iyra, but she wasn’t nearly as plump as most of the ascora and Greenettes, either.

A tear rolled down her cheek and Bowe cursed himself for saying anything. “I’ve eaten for two all my life,” she said. “I just can’t seem to put on any weight.” She dashed the tear away. “And now you’ve made me ruin my makeup.” She slapped his arm. “Infernam’s ass, whoever heard of a blue Green anyway? It’s all your fault. All the men are doing this evening is talking about you. They don’t even notice a desperate girl simpering right in front of them.”

“It’s their loss.”

“What are you talking about? It’s my loss. Fool Green. What do you think happens if no one marries me before the Infernam? There aren’t that many social events between now and then. I’d better get back out there. How do I look?” She presented her face. “Why am I asking you? What would you know?” She spun on her heel and dashed down the stairs.

That went well, Bowe thought. I should probably leave on a high note. He tried to regain his earlier confident pose as he descended the stairs. Keeping his gaze fixed above head height, he strode to the entrance. He imagined himself as a king walking past his subjects, but didn’t think he pulled it off. Bowe nodded to Tokanu, then marched outside. As he passed between the double row of marshals, Bowe feared that an order would come to arrest him; but they remained still as statues. It might have been different if the ball had been held at Raine Mansion. A row of rickshaws waited to take the ascor and ascora away, but Bowe had spent the last of his money. He slipped past them and slunk away into the night.

Chapter 10

32 Days Left

Bowe awoke. The sun’s morning rays streamed through the window. He rose, dressed himself, and walked onto the landing. “Glil?” he shouted, but there was no reply. Where had Glil gone? Bowe wanted to talk about the previous night’s adventure.

Bowe looked around him and smiled. “Bellanger Mansion.” Saying the words gave him a thrill. Cobwebs, so thick that they were almost black, gathered in the corners and hung from the chandeliers. Dust clung to every surface, except where Bowe and Glil’s recent movements had tracked through it. It was impossible to make out the faces in the portraits that lined the stairs. One portrait had fallen, and the broken picture frame lay scattered in pieces at the bottom of the stairs. Yet Bowe could close his mind and imagine it as it had once been with the sparkling white bannister curving down into the hall, and hundreds of candles flickering from atop the chandeliers.

He wondered briefly why no one else lived here. The Grenier marshals must have chased out any escay who dared, he figured. There wasn’t a shortage of living space in Arcandis. Bowe started at the sound of running feet. He looked down the stairs to the main entrance in time to see Iyra appear.

She glanced behind her, then darted up the stairs. “You truly do have mush for brains,” she told him.

“What have I done now?”

“Quickly—there isn’t much time. Take me to one of the windows facing out the back of the mansion.”

Bowe led her to the east wing. “What’s going on?”

“The word on the street is that someone enraged Alandar last night. Someone who has unpaid Raine loans. It didn’t take him long to find out where you were hiding.” She walked alongside Bowe. “I arrived just ahead of the marshals. Why did I decide to warn you? I must have caught your brain mush disease.” She jabbed a finger in Bowe’s chest. “I’m not going to get caught, too.”

“This way.” Bowe led her into one of the rooms, catching a flash of a silver-white uniform entering downstairs as he glanced behind.

He reached the window an instant before Iyra. Below, more marshals in silver-white swarmed.

“You declared yourself a Bellanger, pissed off one of the ascor, and came straight back here to the bloody Bellanger Mansion, mush-for-brains.” Iyra put her foot on the window ledge and stepped up. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I didn’t tell anyone where I was,” Bowe protested.

“It’s not like it would be noticeable if a famous building that no one had entered for years suddenly had an occupant or two. It didn’t take much sleuthing on the part of the Raine marshals.” Iyra leaned out the window and wrapped her hand around the underside of the window frame.

“What are you doing?”

She scanned above the window, then to the left and the right, before pulling herself back inside. “If you have an escape route planned, don’t hold back.” Footsteps rattled through the house as the marshals searched downstairs. “No, of course not. Why did my bosses decide that the dumbest Green was the one to keep an eye on?” She climbed down from the window and moved away from it, pulling Bowe after her. “This is the last time I’m coming to save you. Come on. That window was no good, but the one farther down might work.” She ran into the room next door. Bowe followed.

As they passed the hallway, two of the marshals downstairs came into view. “Up there!” one shouted. “I see him.” They started up the stairs.

Bowe ducked into the room after Iyra just in time to see her disappear out the window. Had she fallen? “Iyra!” he shouted, running to the window. His mouth felt dry as he looked down. Below, marshals milled about in the narrow alleyway. No sign of Iyra though—how had she disappeared?

“Hey, mush-for-brains.” A voice from the heavens.

Bowe twisted his neck and looked up to where Iyra’s face poked out from over the edge of the roof. “How did you get up there?”

“A few bricks are missing above this window, creating handholds and footholds.”

Bowe examined the outside wall. It was true that there were a few crevices, some even large enough to have one or two small plants growing out of them, but they looked like they would crumble at the first touch. Still, he didn’t have much choice, and Iyra had already made short work of the exercise.

“He’s climbing up on the roof,” someone shouted from below as Bowe reached up and dug his hand into a crevice above his head. Dust ground beneath his fingers and fell into his eyes. The grip was even less firm than he had imagined. He glanced down, shaking the dust from his face. It was seven or eight paces to the ground. It wouldn’t be the fall that would kill him; it would be those nasty-looking marshals with swords in their hands.

“What are you waiting for, mush-for-brains? You want the marshals inside to cut off your legs so you have less weight to pull up?”

Floorboards rattled as the marshals ran into the room. Bowe reached up with his second hand and grabbed a handhold, turning his face away from the falling dust. He lifted his leg, but it couldn’t reach the ledge above the window. The marshals were closer now—only a few paces away, from the sound of their footsteps. He had to go for it and hope for the best.

Bowe took a breath, crouched, and sprang upward, pulling with all his might with both arms. At the peak of his jump, he kicked his toes against the wall. The first foot scraped back down to the empty window. The second one caught on the tiny ledge above the window and held. Bowe let out a breath. Putting his weight on his leg and upper hand, he let go with his lower hand and pushed upwards. His toe slipped, but not until after his hand had curled over the edge of the roof. He scrabbled both feet against the brickwork until they got purchase. He planted one arm on the roof, then the other.

Iyra pulled him up until his belly rested on the rooftop, his legs still dangling down. Bowe was finally feeling safe, but Iyra roared at him, “Lift your legs—now.” He raised them into the air and heard a clang from below—the sound of a sword hitting rock. The bastards must have tried to chop at his legs. Iyra pulled on his tunic and dragged him fully onto the roof.

Bowe stood and looked around. Before him was a panoramic view of the city. The three other mansions were the first thing he noticed: Raine Mansion with its distinctive four turrets, one on each corner of the building; the Fortress—the blackened, blockish building that the escay dreaded; and Lessard Mansion, similar to Bellanger Mansion, designed with four wings and a large courtyard in the center. Not far from the Fortress was the fighting Eye, with its distinctive circular shape overlooked by another black Grenier building, the Brow. The rest of Arcandis City consisted mainly of simple one-story structures. From up here, the expanse of rooftops seemed like a single red plain with cracks formed by the streets and alleyways. Grasslands led away from the city, turning into hills and then mountains. The island nature of Arcandis was obvious from here: in all directions Bowe could see the sea, except for beyond the mountains.

“Stop gawping, mush-for-brains.” Iyra was circling the rooftop. “We’re not out of this, not by a long shot. It won’t be long before we’re followed up here.”

Bowe thought about that for the first time. The mansion was surrounded by streets on all sides. “We’re trapped.”

“Not exactly.” She stopped above the little alleyway and looked down. “Here’s the best spot, I think. The rooftops are called Helion’s Highway by those who know them well, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to get caught here.”

Bowe joined her. “The best spot to learn how to fly?” The same marshals were still down there, watching. Not far away, a marshal was climbing out of the window that Iyra and Bowe had just come from. The marshal hooked his fingers on the edge of the roof. They might be able to stop one marshal from getting onto the roof, but they wouldn’t be able to stop them all. Trying to fight would just be delaying the inevitable. Iyra moved back to the center of the mansion’s roof. Bowe began to wonder about Alandar’s capability for mercy. That wasn’t a comforting line of thinking.

He sensed a movement beside him, and turned to see Iyra run past. He reached for her and opened his mouth to shout, but she threw herself from the roof before he could react. An instant later, she landed on the roof on the other side of the alley. Her legs folded at contact, and she turned her fall into a roll. She stood. “Your turn.”

Bowe mouth was still open, and he still held his arm outstretched. He stared in shock. Did I just see that? It took him a moment to get his brain working again so he could close his mouth and lower his arm.

“Come on, mush-for-brains, what are you waiting for? You’ve seen how it’s done. I don’t have all day.”

That was true. The marshal was already on the roof and drawing his sword. Bowe examined the width of the street Iyra had jumped. It seemed too far of a distance to jump, but the other roof was at a much lower level than this one. That had to be the reason it was possible. If an escay girl could do it, there was no reason he couldn’t. The marshal was busy helping his companion up, giving Bowe enough time to take several steps back. Before he had time to change his mind, he sprinted toward the edge.

At almost full speed, he saw the chasm opening up in front of him. Terror flooded through him, and he tried to stop. Only it was too late; he was going too fast to stop in time. When he reached the edge, he half-fell, half-threw himself forward. He knew he didn’t have a hope of making it. Nevertheless, he flung his arms in front of him, and, with a shuddering jolt, his chest hit the wall on the other side. His arms landed on top of the roof, and managed to stop his immediate fall, though they felt like they’d been wrenched off at the shoulders.

For a moment, his forward momentum kept him pinned against the wall, but his hands couldn’t grab onto anything. He began to fall back. A weight on his back halted his slide.

“Try to hook your feet into the crevasses. Quickly. Before both of us become too tired to save you,” Iyra said from on top of him.

Bowe scrabbled with his feet until first one, then the other foot found purchase. That eased the downward pressure enough to stop the slide. Iyra got off his back. She pulled him up by his tunic while he pushed with his legs. When his legs touched solid ground, Bowe rolled over onto his back and panted heavily. “Am I still in one piece?”

“Clever plan, mush-for-brains. You made the jump look difficult enough that our followers aren’t going to risk it.”

Bowe turned to see two marshals watching them from the top of Bellanger Mansion. They returned their swords to their scabbards and shouted something down at their colleagues below, pointing at Iyra and Bowe. “They likely don’t get paid enough to leap alleyways,” she said. “We’d better be off before they find another way up here.”

Bowe groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. His chest and arms were on fire. Iyra didn’t give him a chance to complain; Bowe had to break into a run to catch up with her as she sped off across the rooftops. She knew where she was going, and every time they needed to cross onto another block of houses, she led them to a place where the gap was narrow and they could jump across easily.

“This is a good place to rest up for a while.” Iyra led him to a room-sized structure nestled on the roof of a one-story building. The small structure leaned precariously against the wall of an adjoining two-story building. Iyra squeezed in through a small, square opening, and Bowe followed. The interior was bare except for a bundle of clothes in one corner. As Bowe looked closer, it turned out that the bundle of clothes was actually someone sleeping. Iyra gave the figure a shake.

The man woke, startled, and scrambled backwards. Then he recognized Iyra, and he sat up and grinned. “Iyra, darling! Always good to see you. You shouldn’t scare me like that.”

Iyra smiled at him. “What are you doing here, Sindar?”

“Dawn caught me on Helion’s Highway and I decided to rest for a while.” Sindar had wavy hair black and a handsome face. He looked several years older than Bowe, and dust caked his clothes.

“Are you a Green?” Bowe asked. “On the run from marshals?”

“I’m a Green, all right. Don’t think anyone is chasing me yet, though. I like the rooftops and the night, so I find myself staying in places like this now and again.” He touched Iyra’s shoulder and smiled at her. “So are you babysitting this child?”

Bowe bristled. “We have a business partnership. And whom are you calling a child? We’re both Greens.”

“Babysitting sounds about right.” Iyra grinned.

Bowe scowled. He didn’t like the way that Sindar touched Iyra and smiled at her. He liked the way Iyra smiled back at Sindar even less. “So what do you actually do?” he asked Sindar.

“He’s a thief,” Iyra said. “Already a pretty famous one in the right circles, even after only a few weeks.”

“You’re too kind, Iyra.” The lecherous bastard touched her hand this time. “It’s true that I’ve taken a few interesting items from the mansions of the ascor.”

“Stolen a few hearts, too, from what I’ve heard,” Iyra said.

“The ascor don’t treat their wives well. Coming up to the Infernam, a few ascora run the risk of allowing a thief of the night into their rooms. Some of them already know there’s no place in the Refuge for them.”

Bowe was sick of listening to Iyra’s glorification of the Green’s exploits. “So you’re nothing but a Deadbeat.”

Sindar’s smile didn’t falter. “Is there something wrong with being a Deadbeat?” he asked.

“Of course. Deadbeats are the lowest of the Greens.” Bowe felt guilty even as he said the words, thinking of Vitarr. “You have no hope of surviving the Path.”

“And is the Path a good thing?”

And the start of the Path, Bowe would have been certain it was. Now he didn’t know what to think. “What difference does that make? It’s the only way forward.”

“I tried to talk to him about this,” Iyra said. “He doesn’t get it.”

“I do get it.” Bowe clenched his teeth. “What difference does it make if the Path is evil? It’s still the only way forward.”

“The only way forward, but not the only way,” Sindar said. “You see the Deadbeats as the lowest of the Greens, but what if they are actually the highest? The truest, the most noble? To be an ascor is to be willing to accept death. Deadbeats accept death over the Path. We choose our own way. I’m not willing to suck up to Zidel and backstab other Greens just to save my own life.”

Bowe didn’t know what to say. It was a way of thinking he’d never considered; yet it tied into some of his recent thoughts about the Path. Maybe Deadbeats were the most noble of the Greens. Like Vitarr.

Sindar moved to the window exit. “I should be moving on. This place is too crowded for three. I’ve had my sleep, and I need to get some food.” The interior darkened as he crept over to the window, then brightened again.

“Maybe I should be a Deadbeat,” Bowe said.

“Bit late for that, mush-for-brains. You still have to pay off what you owe to the Raines. Plus, you owe us a neck clasp.”

That was true. Bowe needed to consider his options more carefully. Was there another way for him? “The neck clasp is gone,” he said. “Hopefully it’s done its job. You need to sell your ruby garnets for a gold each, or more, and add some spice to the sale. Try to incorporate dark tunnels, masked strangers—that sort of thing. Make it seem dangerous.”

Iyra snorted. “That’s crazy. These aren’t actual rubies. If I could get two silvers a gem, I’d be delighted.”

“Only sell them at a premium price. That’s the only way this will work. Hopefully Kirande has done enough to create the demand.”

“And how did you manage to get a Grenier marshal to help us?”

“He’s doing what he is for his own reasons. This time, his actions should end up helping you.” Bowe was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the confined space. “Should I stay here longer, or do you think it’s safe to leave?”

“Fear of infection once again, is it?” Iyra moved closer to Bowe. “Afraid of being touched by a diseased escay?” She grinned and inched even closer.

“I’m not afraid.” He didn’t step back. He wasn’t going to be pushed around by her anymore. He could feel her breath on his face.

“Are you sure?” She placed her hands on his upper arms. “Do I make your skin crawl?”

She made his skin burn. His gaze locked onto hers, and he couldn’t look away. He grabbed her. He had been intending to push her away, or he thought he was. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and clutched her to him. She didn’t push away; she melted into him. He felt dizzy. Some small part of his brain knew he was being crazy, but the larger part didn’t care, just wanted to revel in the sensations pounding through his body.

Since she was so skinny, Bowe expected her to feel like a boy, but she was nothing like that. She molded against him, soft and undulating and warm. His skin felt aflame where it touched hers. His heartbeat pulsated against his chest. His eyes were closed, so he wasn’t sure how it happened, but suddenly his lips were moving against hers. He could taste her. He had never thought it possible to taste another person, but he couldn’t describe the sensation any other way. It was a hunger he’d had all his life, one that he’d just never been consciously aware of, and only now was it being satisfied.

Warm, soft lips caressed his own, and he suckled on them. Something wet and solid pushed against the bottom of his teeth, and he jerked back.

Iyra had an expression on her face that Bowe couldn’t read.

“What was that?” Bowe question came out as an accusation. Disgust curled the edges of his mouth, and his brain still felt fuzzy.

“I’ve been warned about ascor nobles who take advantage of escay girls.”

“Take advantage? Me? Of you?” Bowe’s voice cracked. “If this place weren’t so small, I might have been able to get away from you. Do you think I’d allow a skinny escay girl near me if I had any choice?” Bowe could still remember the sensations that had surged through him when he’d touched her, but now that his brain was working, he realized what he’d done. “I’m not a pervert.” He shuddered. “Can I go? Is it safe for me to leave here and return to the society of people who aren’t thieves and scoundrels?”

“Probably not safe, but be my guest. Leave.” Bowe had never gotten under her skin before, but if he’d thought that he couldn’t, he was wrong. He could feel the anger radiating from her. “And don’t come looking for me next time you get into trouble.”

“You’re only saving me because your precious Guild needs me. Don’t pretend that you’re looking out for me.” Bowe climbed out of the window.

“That’s exactly right, mush-for-brains,” Iyra called after him. “You’re so clever that you understand the situation perfectly.”

Bowe wanted to have the last word, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. So he just left.

Chapter 11

31 Days Left

Inside the sandy circle of the fighting Eye, two men faced off against one another. Bowe tugged yet again at the hood of his cloak to make sure it covered his face. He didn’t see any silver-white marshals here, but he had to be careful. An ugly guttural roar burst through the crowd. He’d only just arrived, but already he knew that he didn’t like it here. It was a place for hard, angry men. He squeezed between two violent-looking men to find a free spot at the railing. One of the fighters in the circle was blood-streaked and staggering. He could barely hold up his sword. The other pranced back and forth in front of him, swiping his sword at his opponent whenever he got close. The fight was nearly over, and there was no doubt who would win.

Beyond the two fighters, a stand held most of the watching crowd. Among them moved food and ale sellers and bet-takers, shouting for business. Above Bowe’s head was the Brow—a tall structure that leaned toward the Eye whose upper story had been designed to view the fights. Made of black rock and controlled by the Greniers—just like the Fortress—it was the headquarters for those who ran the Eye.

Bowe couldn’t understand the crowd’s thrill at what remained of the fight. There was no competition or drama left in it, yet every blow that the stronger opponent inflicted on his opponent invoked another savage cheer from the crowd. The stronger fighter was toying with the other. Bowe remembered Kaitan telling him about this—how the experienced Eye fighters would put on a show before butchering their weaker opponents.

Bowe noticed another person on the opposite side of the railing who didn’t share the frenzied expression of the other onlookers. From his age and clothing, Bowe guessed that he, too, was a Green. Perhaps he was the Wolfling Bowe had come here to see.

Since his escape from Bellanger Mansion, Bowe had decided he needed more Defenders; he couldn’t keep relying on the Guild, and certainly not on Iyra. He’d gone to talk to Oamir and the newswriter and had found out that a Green was fighting here today. Wolflings surviving the Path was rare; perhaps he’d prefer to join Bowe rather than continuing to fight in the Eye.

Bowe pushed himself away from the railing and walked around the Eye. The other boy was leaving the ring of watchers, too, and Bowe moved to intercept him. Looking back into the circle, he caught a glimpse of the Eye fighter hammering his sword against the corpse of his opponent. Ignoring his queasiness, he hurried after the Green. The boy walked with a severe limp, so couldn’t be the fighter Bowe was looked for, but Bowe tapped his shoulder anyway. Anything to distract him from the Eye fighting.

“How are you?” Bowe greeted him. “I’m a fellow Green.”

“So?” He continued limping away.

Bowe followed.“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why? Just because we are both Greens doesn’t mean we have anything in common. It’s not like we are a brotherhood. In fact, more like the opposite.”

Bowe continued to walk alongside him. “Perhaps we should be more of one.”

“Perhaps we should all be thrown into the Eye for a melee to the death. That would be cleaner,” said the Green.

“I just saw that last fight. Didn’t look too clean to me.”

“I said ‘cleaner,’ not ‘clean.’”

“You don’t look like someone who’d survive long in the Eye,” Bowe said, indicating his leg. “No offense.”

He smiled bitterly. “The injury was given to me by a Green long before we became Greens. He wasn’t as good a fighter as I was, but he had the ruthlessness and animal cunning to knock out a future rival when we were young. Some brotherhood.” He turned to face Bowe. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

Bowe held out his arm. “Bowe Bellanger.”

“Sorrin,” he said without accepting Bowe’s arm. “I can see why you keep your hood up. And you aren’t entitled to the Bellanger name.”

“No?” Bowe dropped his hand. “Why not?”

“When we start the Green Path, we leave our families and names behind. You won’t be entitled to a family name unless you are selected or chosen by a Select. I’m no more a Grenier than you are a Bellanger right now. Perhaps we are in somewhat of a brotherhood. We’re both Deadbeats. The lonely brotherhood of the damned. Come on, let’s watch another of our brothers on the Path of the damned.”

He led Bowe up the steps of the stand and sat on a bench. Bowe squeezed in beside him.

Sorrin tried to call over a bet-taker, but was ignored. “We’ll watch the fight from a distance. You were looking green around the gills after the last one.”

They were high enough to see over the circle of onlookers and into the Eye. The last corpse had been dragged out and two escay were raking the sand. “So who’s fighting next?” Bowe asked.

“Cetu.”

“That’s who I came here looking for. How is he part of the brotherhood of Deadbeats? Isn’t he a Wolfling?”

“A Wolfling in name, perhaps, but just as damned.” Sorrin threw Bowe a sideways glance. “A Deadbeat has more chance of becoming a Guardian than Cetu has of surviving. I’d bet everything I have against him; unfortunately, it’s a fight the bet-takers won’t accept money on.”

“How do you know he’ll lose?”

“A few Greens train here. None of them are any good, and he is one of the least skilled. The Eyemaster likes to create mismatches between novices and his best fighters. That way, his good fighters don’t die and they get to put on a show for the crowd such as the one you just saw. Here they come.”

Two men entered the Eye. Or, rather, a man and a boy entered. The man—large, muscled, scarred, and tattooed—looked every bit a warrior. Cetu looked like a boy who was trying on his father’s armor for the first time. They faced each other over the blood-speckled sand. Bowe’s insides twisted at the thought of what was to come as the crowd roared its approval.

“If you know he is going to die, why didn’t you stop him?” Bowe asked. He didn’t like the thought of Sorrin profiting from the boy’s death by betting on his opponent.

“How could I?” Sorrin frowned. “He’s older than you. He’s a Grenier; he doesn’t know of any way other than fighting, and Dulnato didn’t choose him as one of his Defenders. What else is there for him? He’ll die sooner or later, and this is as good a death as any other. There’s honor in it.”

The warrior raised his arms aloft, showing off bulging biceps. The crowd cheered. Cetu raised his sword and growled, showing his teeth. Shouts of derision greeted this. Cetu deflated for a moment, then puffed himself up again, raised his sword, and charged his opponent. The warrior leaned forward, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. He grinned. Cetu’s sword flashed in the sun as it began its downward arc. There was an instant of silence, and Bowe’s breath caught in his throat. The warrior seemed frozen in position with the sword crashing toward him. Then he spun—fast as thought, smooth as silk. He dragged his sword across Cetu’s side as he flowed past him, and Cetu’s blade fell harmlessly into the sand. The Green grabbed his side, then looked down with a surprised expression at the blood on his palm.

“They go into the ring feeling invulnerable,” Sorrin said. “Even though deep down they know they won’t survive, they always manage to convince themselves that this time the odds will be overturned. This is their moment of greatness. This is the start of the journey that will make the Guardian of Grenier proclaim them a great warrior and select them.” He rubbed the side of his head. “After the fight has begun, a moment arrives when they realize this isn’t going to happen. I think Cetu just had that moment. It doesn’t usually come this early in the fight.”

The warrior, ignoring Cetu, pranced in front of the crowd, soaking up their cheers. Cetu charged again, and slashed down at his opponent. The warrior blocked Cetu’s sword above his own head and kicked the boy in the chest. Cetu fell onto his back, and the sword skittered from his grasp. The warrior darted in close, cut the boy’s cheek, and darted away again. He kicked the sword back into his opponent’s reach. Cetu picked it up and rose unsteadily to his feet. Blood welled in the gash on his face.

Bowe felt sick and turned to Sorrin, unable to watch anymore. “So what do you do here?”

“Like most Deadbeats, I await death in my own way. For me, it’s betting on fights. Although I cannot fight anymore, I can still read them. The bet-takers will be glad to see the end of me.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much point betting on something like this,” Bowe suggested. Intermittent shouts from the crowd indicated the continuing downfall of Cetu, but Bowe didn’t look.

“Some fights are set up like this. Others are much more even.”

“Ever bet on the Green Path?” Bowe asked.

Sorrin laughed bitterly. “Not much point in making a bet I won’t be able to collect on.”

“But you follow the lists? They are set by the bet-takers. I was on the very bottom and moved up. Perhaps every situation is not as bleak as you make it out to be.”

“So you moved ahead of some Deadbeats and hopeless Wolflings like the one down there. Doesn’t change much.” Almost on cue, Cetu released a heart-rending scream. Bowe gripped the side of the bench. I’ve never even met Cetu, so I shouldn’t be affected by his death, he thought. But he couldn’t help remembering Vitarr’s fate at the hands of Dulnato. He had promised to save Vitarr. Was he destined to relive that failure over and over again?

“I heard that you are calling yourself an Elect and have picked up a Defender,” Sorrin continued. “That’s enough to move you above many others, even if most still see you as a Deadbeat.”

Bowe was no longer insulted by that name. The Green Path was a twisted thing. Why was he still following it? “Perhaps that’s not a bad thing. I’ve met some remarkable people who call themselves Deadbeats. Oamir the historian. Sindar the thief. Xarcon the acrobat. They could actually be the best of the Greens. I’m sure there are others like them.”

“I get it,” Sorrin said. “You are looking to recruit Defenders but are late to the race, so have to settle for Deadbeats. Why are you telling me all this?”

“I want you to join me.”

“Even if I wanted to, you’d be getting a lousy deal.” Sorrin slapped his bad leg. “I’m not much good to anyone now.”

“That’s not true.” Bowe gripped Sorrin’s arm. “I need you.” Sorrin was a crusty old man in the body of a teenager. Bowe needed all the wise heads he could find.

“I want to laugh at you.” Sorrin scrunched up his face. “In fact, I’m amazed I’m not laughing in your face. You seem as earnest as Cetu was when he entered the Eye. And just as bloody innocent. I’ve never met anyone with less of a stomach for a fight. You went green, then white while watching Cetu. And now you can’t even look.” Sorrin paused. “But I’m not laughing. For some reason, I like you. But I don’t want to be a Defender. I’ve always hated the idea of that. All that infighting to be the chief Defender, the one who’ll be chosen—it’s not for me. I can respect Eye fighting, even when there’s a mismatch. It’s an honest fight, too, to be one of the top three selected by the Guardians. Unless, of course, your name is Dulnato, and you are the sneakiest, most evil son of a bitch ever to be born. But the fight to be chosen among a crew of Defenders? No. I don’t have the stomach for an underhanded fight like that.”

Bowe hadn’t thought about it like that. For the first time, he realized that Glil might not be happy if Bowe recruited more Defenders.

“And if I told you it wasn’t going to be that way?” Bowe wanted a brotherhood. He didn’t want a scheming nest of vipers.

“There is no other way. It’s the way the Green Path works.”

Bowe couldn’t deny that. Just as the rules of Harmony determined how the game was played, the rules of the Path determined how it could be traversed. Three selected by the Guardians. Each Select chooses one other. Another scream came from the Eye. This one was lower pitched, with less energy—Cetu wouldn’t last much longer. But Bowe didn’t want to play by the rules. Wasn’t that what he’d decided on the funeral barge? That the system that left Vitarr with no hope of survival wasn’t one he wanted to be a part of? Wasn’t that why he had decided to work with the Guild?

“I don’t want Defenders; I want a brotherhood. If selected, I will go into the Refuge with all my crew, or not at all.”

Sorrin barked a laugh. “You expect me to believe that? You’ll just use us until you become the Select, then choose your chief Defender as always.”

“No. I won’t choose one person. I will not accept selection unless all my Defenders are saved with me.”

“The Guardians will just select someone else.”

“I can live with that.”

“There is no living with that, only dying.”

“What Green fears death? It is the most common step on the Path. Do you have a belt knife? Take it out.” Sorrin took out a knife with a confused look on his face. Bowe lowered his hood and gripped Sorrin’s hand, moving it so that the knife was held to Bowe’s throat. “The Raine marshals are after me. Dulnato will kill me if he gets the chance. I do not fear death. Kill me. It will be one less Green on the Path for you.” Bowe took his hand off of Sorrin’s and waited. Sorrin held Bowe’s gaze, then jerked the knife against Bowe’s neck. Bowe didn’t flinch.

“I must sharpen my knife. I didn’t even break skin.” Sorrin smiled. “For someone so squeamish at other people’s deaths, you seem brave enough when faced with your own.” He sheathed his knife. “It’s a lot easier to accept death when it’s all that’s left to you. But if you are offered life, if you are selected, it will not be so easy to turn it down.”

“I hate the Path.” Bowe hadn’t meant to use the word “hate,” but as he said it, he knew it was true. “That Cetu has to—” Bowe glanced down to where the warrior was holding his sword aloft above Cetu’s corpse, acclaimed by loud cheers. “I hate everything about it. I don’t want to win—I want to beat the system. I want a brotherhood of Greens to walk the Path hand in hand. I’m not sure it’s possible, but it would be interesting to try. It’s not as if Deadbeats have anything better to do.”

Sorrin shook his head. “You know when I’m figuring out who’ll win a fight—I’m good at seeing the truth behind the bravado. Two men can confidently enter the circle, and I will sense that one is quivering inside, and the other feels untouchable. It’s only when I get people to take my bets on that fight that I know others don’t see what I see. And right now, you are telling me that if—by some amazing quirk—you win your life on the Path, you’ll give it up for me, who you just met, and others who you do not yet know. And there’s no way I should believe it. I can’t understand how it could be possibly true. And yet, I’ve never been so sure that someone is telling the truth. Or, at least, you believe yourself to be.”

“So?” Bowe held out his arm.

“And you did risk your life to save your friend, Vitarr, for no personal gain. Only an idealistic fool would do such a thing. The newsbards still like to joke about that,” Sorrin mused. “There was this one fight I still remember. A giant of a man, heavily armored, against this slender boy with a thin rapier. And I read from their body language that they were both confident. And I thought, The giant is looking at the boy; it makes sense he would be confident. The boy is looking at the giant and shows not the slightest fear. And I bet big on the boy. I won more that day than I ever did before or since.” Sorrin clasped Bowe’s arm. “You remind me of that boy.”

There was warmth and strength in that grip. And suddenly, subverting the Path didn’t seem so impossible.

Chapter 12

26 Days Left

Bowe paced back and forth in the narrow room. He’d been listening for footsteps on the stairs for hours, it seemed, and now he was jumpy. Sorrin should have been back by now with the other Deadbeats.

He’d never felt so confined in his life. If he’d realized what having Sorrin as a friend would entail, Bowe would never have approached him at the Eye. Sorrin lived in this little cubbyhole of a basement, and he had refused to let Bowe leave. It had to be safe enough to go outside with the hood up, but Sorrin wouldn’t listen to reason.

The Raine search for Bowe had escalated. Bowe wished he could have heard the news himself instead of receiving it secondhand from Sorrin. Apparently Bowe’s gatecrashing of the ascor ball had been a sensation. He was now the most talked about Green on the Path. The Raines were no longer satisfied with having Alandar searching for Bowe, and a more senior ascor by the name of Jeniano had now been tasked with tracking him down. Jeniano was the Raine specialist in recovering debts. That was the bad news; the good news was that ruby garnets were selling fast. The Lessards were forced to bite back their disgust. Sorrin had even seen a Grenier marshal wearing a ruby garnet on patrol.

Bowe stopped pacing and leaned against the wall. It was sand colored, dusty, and dry. Flakes came away at the touch of his fingers. He turned with a start toward the stairs, but there was nothing there. When would Sorrin get back with the others? Another piece of news that Bowe had received secondhand was just as dramatic: Jisri had come back from the dead. Bowe could still barely believe it, but after several similar reports from the newsbards via Sorrin, he had to accept it. Jisri now wore a white mask with an eyehole for his right eye. The knife thrust Bowe had seen must have injured Jisri’s left eye and perhaps that whole side of his face. Jisri was now called “the White Spider.” Sorrin hadn’t been able to figure out how that nickname had gotten started.

Why couldn’t Glil have stayed? Bowe wondered. If someone had kept him company, he wouldn’t be so jumpy. Glil had visited him here a few times in the last few days, but, as Bowe had suspected, he wasn’t too happy about Bowe’s attempt to increase his Defenders. He had decided not to attend this meeting.

Finally, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Bowe’s relief was short-lived, however. It wasn’t Sorrin’s limping gait. Bowe glanced to the back of the room, where a back entrance led to another street. It was why Sorrin had chosen this place. Bowe waited, expectant, ready to run as the footsteps descended. Then a face appeared that Bowe recognized. He exhaled and held out his arm to the newcomer.

“I’m Bowe,” he said. “Xarcon, right? I saw you performing in the marketplace once. Quite a show.”

Xarcon clasped his arm and smiled warmly. “I’m only learning. It’s the others who have the skill and do all the hard parts. I’m just lucky that they let me work with them.”

“So Sorrin asked you to attend?” Bowe asked.

“He did. I thought he and others were going to be here, as well.”

“They’ll be along. I’m not sure what’s keeping Sorrin.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Bowe spoke again. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Performers and newsbards have no income except for what people freely give them, yet most of the escay seem extremely poor and they surely need all of their money get into the Refuge. How do performers get enough to survive?”

Xarcon ran his fingertips along the wall. “Those who have extra always give generously to others. It’s the escay way. I don’t fully understand it myself. I’ve been living with them for a while now and it’s still a different world.”

Bowe smiled. “Yes, the escay I’ve met have been nothing like I expected. One of the biggest surprises for me since the Path began.”

Xarcon straightened. “Listen, Sorrin told me something about what you’re going to say. Getting us Deadbeats to be your Defenders and all that.”

“Not exactly like that,” Bowe said. “I want to wait until we are all here to explain—”

Xarcon raised his hands. “No, that’s fine. We don’t have to go into it now. You seem like a decent guy, and I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be a part of whatever this is. I’ve agreed to hear you out; I thought it was only fair. But words won’t make me change my mind. I remember what it was like in the harem. The schemes, the plans, the lies. The ascorim runs through the ascor’s veins. I’ve seen the most elaborate plans, heard the most barefaced lies. I know the value of words in the ascorim.”

“This isn’t the ascorim.”

“I’m sorry. Actions, I can believe, but not words. What you did for your friend, the other Green—”

“His name was Vitarr.” Bowe didn’t want his friend’s name forgotten.

“Saving him—that was well done. But it’s not enough.”

Bowe nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. I won’t keep you long.” Bowe heard Sorrin in the stairwell. He and others were descending. Bowe now realized how difficult this was going to be. Persuading Sorrin had been a once off. No one else was going to go along with what he was suggesting.

Sorrin came down the stairs, followed by two Greens. “No sign of Drenno or Sindar,” he said. “They promised they’d come, but in the meantime: this is Thrace and Edison. Both train at the Eye.”

“So you want to be Eye fighters?” Bowe asked. “I saw my first fights yesterday and I can’t understand why anyone would want to go in there.”

“Got no other choice,” said Thrace. He was large enough that even when he bent his head, his hair still brushed the ceiling. He didn’t seem comfortable in the small room.

“Well, we’re here today to talk about a choice,” Sorrin said.

“Sorrin, what you said earlier was a load of horseshit.” Edison was a tall boy. He wasn’t that skinny, but looked it beside Thrace. He had thick black hair and bushy black eyebrows that met over his nose. He turned to Bowe. “And if you aren’t going to talk more sense than him, this will be a short meeting. But about the Eye: let me tell you the appeal. Have you trained in fighting? No, of course you haven’t.”

“I have,” Bowe said.

“In Raine Mansion?” Edison blew out a mouthful of air and flicked his hand. “They don’t take it seriously. In the Fortress, fighting is an art form that we practice every day. Training for that moment where we dance on a knife-edge, another warrior and I. One will stand and one will fall. One receives the adulation of the crowd, the other their shouts of derision. A culmination of years of practice climaxing in that mome—”

“Except he’s too scared to go into the Eye and fight,” Sorrin said. “Or else he wouldn’t be here.”

Edison glared at him. “I just don’t want to face the kind of warrior that Legrand will put me up against. I don’t want to be the next Cetu.” He turned to Bowe. “What are you offering?”

“I want to form an alliance of equals. A brotherhood in which we all survive the Infernam, or none of us does.”

“And you would be the Elect of this alliance and we’d trust you not to accept selection,” Edison said. “That’s what Sorrin was trying to explain to us, but it sounded so monkey-ass crazy I thought there had to be more to it.”

Bowe had prepared what he would say in his head, but it seemed pointless now. It was clear they weren’t going to trust him. He couldn’t blame them; he’d have a hard time trusting himself if he weren’t inside his own head. “Just offering you a chance.”

“Who ever heard of Deadbeats joining together?” Edison asked.

“Yeah, because Deadbeats have such a good survival record, it’d be daft to try anything new.” Sorrin slapped his palm against the wall, causing flakes and dust to fall.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, and Bowe turned to see another face he recognized entering the room. Drenno, a Raine Green. The addition of the sixth person compressed them closer together in the small room. Meeting here had been a bad idea.

Drenno pushed his way around Thrace. This was the person that Bowe had least expected to come when Sorrin had told him who he was bringing. Bowe didn’t know him that well, as he was seventeen and hung out with the older boys. Despite that, he’d always been friendly, never one to bully Bowe. Still, he’d been one of Reyanu’s friends as long as Bowe could remember.

“I’m surprised you came,” Bowe said to him.

“Sorry I’m late.” Drenno stood in front of Bowe.

“I can understand why the Deadbeats would give me a chance. But you’re already one of Reyanu’s Defenders—why would you have the slightest interest in my monkey-ass crazy idea?”

“If only being one of his Defenders were enough.” Drenno gave a twisted grin. “Reyanu will be selected—that’s clear enough. But Phevan has been his number two ever since that stunt with Tlirris. Before the Path even began. Even without Phevan, others are more likely to be chosen chief Defender than I am. I have little chance of survival as a lowly member of Reyanu’s crew.”

“I know Drenno as he likes to bet at the Eye,” Sorrin said.

“Not as successfully.” Drenno grinned. “The bet-takers welcome my bets.”

“I got sick of hearing him complain about being a Defender in Reyanu’s crew, so I offered him this opportunity,” Sorrin said.

“And I jumped at the chance. Sounds like, at the very least, this could be more fun.” He held out his arm for Bowe to clasp. “I want to try something new.”

Bowe automatically reached for Drenno’s arm. This could be a breakthrough. Maybe others might change their minds when they saw a Reyanu Defender change Elects. But even as the thought entered his mind, he knew something was wrong. There had to be something more to this.

He studied Drenno closer—there was tightness at the edges of his warm smile. Even as Bowe’s arm continued to reach for Drenno’s, Bowe felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. His hand closed around nothing, and instead of clasping his arm, Drenno’s hand darted toward his face. Bowe flinched away, but it was too late. He caught a glimpse of a ring as the hand snaked past his face and slapped against the back of his neck. Bowe felt a sharp pain.

Thrace grabbed the back of Drenno’s tunic and dragged him back. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s done, it’s done,” Drenno shouted out the doorway.

Bowe grasped Drenno’s wrist and turned it palm-up. Blood glistened on the end of a spike that emerged from the ring. It was a Paradise Giver, like the one Chalori had used.

Rat-tat-tat-tat came the sound of marching on the stairs. “You guys had better go,” Bowe told the others. “Quickly—out the back. The marshals aren’t looking for you.”

Thrace shook Drenno roughly. “What do I do with him?”

“Let him go.” Bowe sighed. He was surprised at how calm he felt. “What’s done can’t be undone.” Rat-tat-tat. Louder and closer. Like the sound of nails in a coffin, Bowe thought.

“He betrayed you, it can’t be undone.” Edison touched the sword at his hip. “But it can be avenged.”

“No,” Bowe said sharply. “You don’t want to give the marshals a reason to chase you. Go quickly.” The worry on Drenno’s face turned into fear, then relief at Bowe’s words. The truth was that Bowe didn’t want to see any more killing on his account.

Thrace released Drenno, and he and Edison exited out the back. Xarcon followed with a final regretful look. Sorrin moved after them, then stopped and scowled. “I’m not leaving you.”

“There’s no more you can do for me,” Bowe said. “We all fall from the Path, and now is my time. The only thing that can hurt me now is if my fall knocked you from the Path, too. Please.” At bottom of the stairs, two silver-white marshals came into view. Sorrin balled up his fists and glared at them for a moment before turning and leaving. From the footsteps of his limping gait, Bowe could tell he didn’t make it very far.

A man who could only be Jeniano appeared behind the marshals. He already had white hair even though he wasn’t much older than forty. His hair was neatly combed back, and he was dressed like he was attending a ball. Tall and thin, he also needed to duck his head in Sorrin’s basement room. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Bowe. “I had hoped catching you would be rather more difficult. I haven’t had much interesting work lately.” He nodded at Drenno. “Good job.”

As Drenno turned to go, Bowe grabbed his arm. “Why?” he asked. Even as Bowe asked it, he knew it was a stupid question. It was just that—even now—Drenno seemed perfectly nice. There was none of the anger of Dulnato, or the zeal of Zidel, or the cunning of Reyanu.

Drenno turned back with a puzzled expression. “It’s just the ascorim. This will make Reyanu look at me more favorably when the time comes. Nothing personal. Same as you trying to trick those Deadbeats into helping you.”

“I’m not…” Bowe sighed. He wasn’t sure he even believed himself anymore. He watched Drenno disappear up the stairs. “So what now?” he asked Jeniano. “Do you just watch me die or help me along?” He leaned back against the wall, feeling woozy. He imagined the poison creeping through his veins like black ooze, spreading throughout his body. This is probably fitting justice for me, he thought, dying as Chalori did.

“You don’t have to die.”

It’s what I deserve, he thought, imagining the blackness invading his heart and his lungs. He shook his head, suddenly registering what Jeniano had said. “What did you say? Didn’t you just give me Paradise’s Kiss?”

“No. It’s a different type of poison called Shade of Helion; it’s slower-acting and has a cure.”

Bowe didn’t feel so woozy anymore. He straightened. “Why that poison?”

“This is why I was put on your case. Alandar had an intense hatred for you and didn’t care about recovering the loan. The Raine family didn’t make its fortune that way. Kesirran didn’t want you killed off without a chance to pay.”

“Tell me more about this cure.”

“It’s called Light of Helion, and we have it at Raine Mansion. I doubt you’ll find it anywhere else.”

Bowe blinked rapidly, thinking. “So I have to repay you to get the cure.” He still didn’t have any money. “How much do I owe?”

“Eight golds.”

Bowe staggered. “There’s no way I owe you that much. The entire loan isn’t even due yet.” If the mention of a cure had provided a gleam of hope, that number surely crushed it.

“You were on a rather high interest rate, and once you avoided our collection attempts, the whole sum became immediately payable. Plus, we’ve added penalties and charges as you’ve continued to avoid us.”

Bowe knew the system was loaded against him, but this was outrageous. “So all your efforts to track me down—you’ve charged that to my account. I’m basically paying to kill myself.”

“What a delightful way of looking at it.” Jeniano smiled. “I guess you are.” He turned to the marshals. “Search him, and then search the room. Take anything of value.”

The marshals roughly searched his pockets, taking the remaining coppers and handing them to the ascor. Jeniano poked Bowe’s coins about in his hand. “Not very much at all. There’s still time before the poison takes effect, though. You have money hidden anywhere? With associates?”

Bowe shook his head.

“I guess you’ll die, then. If you think of anything in time, bring eight golds to Raine Mansion and we’ll give you the cure. If you bring less than that, we’ll swirl the disk.”

Swirling the disk was commonly done with escay who only had partial payment when the Infernam came around. The disk had black sectors on it to represent the proportion of the payment missing. The disk was spun, and only if it came to rest on a white sector did the escay get a place in the Refuge. The payment was kept either way. The few coppers Bowe had given up so far wouldn’t have been enough to get any white sectors on the disk.

Sorrin limped back into the room. He ignored the marshals and Jeniano and grabbed Bowe by the arm. “Come on, we’ve no time to waste. We have to get the man his money.”

Bowe allowed himself to be dragged to the stairs.

“I hope to see you later, young Bellanger,” Jeniano called out.

“What are you doing? I told you to leave.” Bowe followed Sorrin as he navigated the stairs, stepping up with his good leg, then swinging his bad leg up after it. “There’s no way I can get that kind of money. Or any kind of money, for that matter.”

Sorrin didn’t seem to be listening, because when they emerged out on the street, he told Bowe to lead on.

“Where?”

“Those ruby garnets. Rumor is that you’re behind their sale. Your partners in that might have the money you need. Where can you find them?”

“At Drywell Square, possibly,” Bowe said. Iyra could be there. “But there’s no way—”

“Come on.” Sorrin turned and headed down the street. His half-limping, half-running gait looked ridiculous, but Bowe had to break into a jog to keep up. Bowe pulled his hood over his head and didn’t argue further, as he needed all his breath. He wasn’t sure Iyra would even look at him after their last meeting. Hadn’t he sworn he wouldn’t keep returning to her for rescue? He needed another plan before they reached her. Unfortunately, his mind was blank when it came to drawing eight golds out of thin air. As he ran, sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes. After a while, his breath came in jagged gasps and his heart felt like it was going to gallop out of his chest. He staggered, his legs almost buckling. After that, Sorrin slowed his pace and kept a worried eye on Bowe.

By the time they arrived at the square, Sorrin was holding Bowe’s arm and guiding him through the crowd. Bowe’s leg muscles felt like water, and it was all he could do to keep himself upright. He staggered with every step. Around him, the market was louder and more chaotic than he’d ever seen it. A hawker who had been selling his wares from a distance was suddenly screaming in Bowe’s face. Bowe tried to push the hawker away, but his hands went straight through the man’s head.

“Where’s your contact? Where’s your contact? Come on, Bowe,” someone said from far away. A nearby fruit stall became two, then four. Bowe turned away, but they continued to multiply until he was surrounded by them. The fruit stalls began to spin around him, and apples and bananas and grapes shot through the air at him. He covered his face with his arms trying to avoid them and fell to the ground.

A hand touched his arm. Then Sorrin’s voice: “Concentrate, Bowe. What part of Drywell Square? Who are we looking for?”

Bowe opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was too dry to form words. He swallowed and tried again. “Near the north end. An old woman selling carvings.” He wasn’t sure his words were coherent enough to make sense, but Sorrin pulled him up and led him on. Bowe kept his eyes on the ground, watching his feet, trying to avoid looking at the mayhem of the marketplace around him. Still, it was difficult to walk without stumbling when he wasn’t sure which of his multiple feet he wanted to hit the ground first.

Then he heard a voice—her voice. “What’s going on? What have you done to him?” Bowe looked up, but didn’t see her. Instead, he saw her carvings coming to life. The lion grew in size and its mouth opened, revealing a row of sharp teeth. It pulled back into a crouch. The eagle opened its wooden wings and launched into the air. It extended its claws and dived. Bowe screamed and threw himself away from it. He crashed against the counter and felt it give way. His head thumped against the ground.

* * *

A palm slapped Bowe across the face. “Wake up, wake up—I’m not going to let you die on me,” Sorrin said. “Drink this.”

Bowe felt his head being raised, and water trickled into his mouth. He gulped it down. “Thank you,” he said, “but it’s too late. The poison has already gone too far. I’m already blind.”

“You’re not blind, you idiot—your eyes are closed.”

Bowe thought about it for a moment, and then, concentrating on his eyelids, he managed to get them to open. He caught a quick glimpse of Sorrin leaning over him in a darkened room before the world began to spin, and he closed his eyes again. “Where am I?”

“We dragged you here when you knocked yourself out. The escay girl and I.”

“Where is she?” Bowe asked.

“She’s seeing if she can get the money for you. Your cut on the garnet sales isn’t enough to cover your whole loan, but she may be able to persuade her partners to advance enough to save you.”

Bowe sighed. “No, don’t bother. I don’t want to be saved by her again. How do you even know that Jeniano has a cure? Or that he’ll give it to us if we repay him?”

“Jeniano is known for using Shade of Helion. If he refused the cure to a paying debtor, no one would repay him again.” Sorrin’s voice seemed to come from far away, as if he were at the other end of a long tunnel.

“I deserve to die like this. By poison. For what I did.” Bowe was falling farther down the tunnel. “I deserve it.”

Sorrin gripped Bowe’s shoulder. “Maybe you do deserve to die, but I don’t. And you promised to help me along the Path. You may not have taken that seriously, but I did. There’s no way I’m going to let you die until you’ve fulfilled that promise. Do you hear me?” Sorrin’s voice got farther and farther away until it was swallowed up by time and distance, leaving Bowe alone in the darkness.

Chapter 13

23 Days Left

Bowe’s eyelids rolled open to reveal a blurry world. He tried to rise, but his neck didn’t have the strength to control his head and it flopped back and forth. He closed his eyes again.

“You’re awake,” said a voice. Bowe opened his eyes again, and this time the world came into focus. He was lying on the floor in Sorrin’s basement room, and Xarcon looked down at him with a concerned expression on his face.

“You’re Xarcon.” Bowe found that absolutely hilarious and roared with laughter. “We’re at Sorrin’s place, but you’re not him, you’re Xarcon.”

The furrows deepened on Xarcon’s brow. “I came to see how you are, and Sorrin asked me to stay while he went for some food. Are you okay?”

Bowe stopped laughing. He thought for a moment and then smiled. “I’m wonderful. Isn’t the world great?”

Xarcon leaned down and touched Bowe’s forehead. “Still a bit warm. The fever seems to have broken, but you…aren’t fully right.”

“I’m too hot.” Bowe threw his blanket off. “No, wait—I’m cold.” He shivered and laughed at the same time. “The Infernam is nearly here, and I’m cold.”

Xarcon replaced the blanket and Bowe snuggled into it until the shivering stopped. “I’m hot.” He tried to throw the blanket off again.

Xarcon held his arms. “Why don’t you hold on to that in case you get cold again?”

Bowe’s mind felt foggy, but that made sense, so he stopped struggling. He found it difficult to form thoughts, but he was so happy that it didn’t matter. He gripped Xarcon’s wrist. “Sit down. Talk with me.”

Xarcon sat on his heels, carefully removing Bowe’s hand from his wrist. “What do you want to talk about?”

Bowe smiled widely. “I’m happy. Isn’t life wonderful?”

“That’s what you want to talk about? The poison and antidote combination was strong stuff.”

Bowe put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t let people know, or everyone will want it.” He giggled. “Everyone will want to be poisoned.”

Xarcon shook his head. “To answer your question: no, life isn’t wonderful. Especially not if you are an escay.”

Bowe’s joy lessened. Fragments of thought surfaced out of the fog. “The escay have a hard life. But I’m helping them, I think. I’m working with the Guild.”

Xarcon leaped up and looked around. “What are you saying? You know it could mean both our deaths if a marshal heard you talking about that. Even in your state.”

“The Guild isn’t so bad. Or maybe it is, but I hope not. I think the Guardians don’t like it so they make us think it’s evil.”

“Shut up.” Xarcon stared at Bowe in horror. “Stop talking. Think about something else. Flowers. How wonderful life is. Anything.”

Bowe giggled. “Flowers. Flowers are pretty.” Sorrin entered and Bowe giggled harder. “I know you. You walk funny.”

Sorrin rushed over to him. “You’re awake.” He touched Bowe’s forehead. “And the fever’s broken.”

“His mind may also be broken,” Xarcon said. “You don’t want to hear what he’s saying.”

Sorrin turned to Xarcon. “I’m just happy he’s woken up. He was in an awful state these last two days. Hopefully his mind will clear when he recovers further.”

Xarcon’s mouth twisted. “It’s worse than just mindless babbling. We can’t let anyone hear him. He can’t control what he’s saying. If we’re lucky, he’s gone crazy, but I fear it’s much worse than that—I fear he’s telling the truth.”

Sorrin rubbed his chin. “He’s in a fevered state that makes him tell the truth?” He leaned down. “Bowe, what’s your biggest secret?”

“Don’t answer that,” Xarcon shouted at the same moment that Bowe said, “I killed my mother.”

Sorrin straightened. “He killed his mother. That’s excellent.”

“How’s that good? What’s wrong with you?” Xarcon asked.

Sorrin was already limping out the door. “The last time, you didn’t believe him. Neither did Edison or Thrace. I’m going to bring them back and we’ll find out for sure if we can trust him. Was he trying to play us, or did he truly mean what he said?” Sorrin clumped up the stairs.

Xarcon ran after him. “Wait. You don’t know what you are doing.”

“Keep an eye on him until I’m back.” And Sorrin was gone.

Xarcon returned to Bowe’s side and squatted down beside him.

Bowe grinned up at him.

“Are you feeling more like yourself?” Xarcon asked. “You better recover before Sorrin gets back. You just can’t talk about certain things.”

Bowe’s grin faded. “You mean the Guild?”

“Stop talking about that.” Xarcon rubbed his hand through his hair. “Come on, you can’t go around spouting stuff about the Guild. I don’t care how fevered you are.”

“You must like the escay, since you live and work with them now.”

“I didn’t become a performer because I liked the escay.” Xarcon sighed. “Maybe if I talk, I can stop you from telling too many truths. I knew years ago that I couldn’t survive the Path. There are others who are stronger, smarter, and more ruthless than I. They’ll be the ones selected and chosen. So I decided to spend the time I had left doing what I most enjoy. And I’ve always loved watching the street performers. So when the Path started, I went to them. When I asked, they took me in, taught me, and took care of me. I already have more friends among the escay than I ever had in the serpent’s lair known as the harem. But that doesn’t mean I want anything to do with the Gu…that organization.”

“I liked the escay I met, too,” Bowe said. “I didn’t expect to. The priest, the newsbard, and a girl. An old woman protected me from the marshals and gave me her only cloak. For no reason. And I don’t even know where she lives so I can go back and thank her.”

“Just because escay are nice is no reason to speak well of the—you know. That organization is dedicated to destroying the ascor way of life. Our way of life. Just a mention of it in the wrong company will have you sent to the Fortress, never to return.” Xarcon stood up. “I can’t believe I’m even talking about this with you. Shhh.” The sound of footsteps came from the stairwell. “No more talking about it.” Xarcon looked down at Bowe’s expression and groaned. “Seems to be no reasoning with you right now. I’ll just have to hope the conversation stays on safer matters such as matricide.”

Remembering Chalori, sadness spread through Bowe’s mind like tendrils of darkness in a fog. Then Sindar walked in, and Bowe felt joyous again. He beamed at the other boy. “Specter of the rooftops. Thief of hearts, and other stuff that doesn’t belong to you,” Bowe said.

Sindar bowed. “At your service.”

“Who are you?” Xarcon asked Sindar.

“I’m Sindar. I was supposed to meet Bowe here at the meeting a few days ago but when I checked out the place, the marshals were watching. Sorrin met me just now and told me to come here, that I wouldn’t regret it, then limped off faster than I could run. What in Helion’s name is going on?”

“I can see rainbows.” Bowe grasped at the air in front of his face. The bright colors dazzled him, but each time he grabbed at a rainbow, it disappeared. “But I can’t catch them.”

“I can see that.” Sindar edged away from Bowe, as if he had something that was catching. Bowe knew the thief couldn’t see what he did. None of them could. He wanted to share his joy with the others, but they couldn’t understand.

“Bowe was poisoned, then given the cure as he was dying. He was really sick for the last three days, badly fevered, and now he’s in a weird state of flowers and rainbows.” Xarcon glanced at Bowe and then back at Sindar. “Because none of us trusted Bowe earlier, Sorrin thinks we should question him now, since he always tells the truth in this state.”

“How do we know that?”

“That’s just what Sorrin thinks. Me, I think he’s just coming up with all kinds of craziness. Look, he’s trying to catch rainbows again.”

“I guess we should ask him a question that he’d never normally tell the truth about.”

Xarcon’s voice had a nervous edge. “No, that’s not a good idea.”

Sindar was already crouching down in front of Bowe. “You know that escay girl you were with the last time we met? Are you in love with her?”

Images of Iyra flashed though Bowe’s brain. Pulling him into the boat. Holding his shaking hand and helping him turn the key. The warmth of her as he held her and kissed her. “I think I am. I don’t even know her that well. And I know she is an escay and could never be for me, but—” He curled his fingers into a fist and placed it on his abdomen. “—deep down, I know I love her.”

“That’s your bellybutton, not your heart.”

“Oh.” Bowe raised his fist and placed it on his chest, but it slid back down. “Deep down…”

Sindar smirked. “Still your stomach.” He grabbed Bowe’s wrist and placed Bowe’s fist against his breastbone. “Deep down there in your heart—I get it.”

“Don’t you feel the wrongness?” Xarcon asked. “For an ascor to lie with an escay is bad enough, but to actually fall in love with one…”

Bowe tried to understand the feelings that Xarcon’s words induced, but he couldn’t make sense of them. “All that isn’t important right now. All that matters is that I love her.” He beamed up at Sindar and Xarcon. “I should tell her.” He tried to get up, but dizziness and weakness washed through him and he fell back down.

Xarcon shook his head. “He’s fallen in love with an escay. Is there anything that boy hasn’t done?”

“Sounds like Sorrin is back. No one else could limp down that stairs at that speed without falling.” Sindar pushed himself to his feet. “And what do you mean? What else has Bowe admitted to doing?”

Xarcon cleared his throat. “He said he killed his mother.”

Sorrin entered, followed by Edison and Thrace. The room became overcrowded once more, and Sindar was almost pushed out the back.

“This scene is familiar.” Edison looked down at Bowe. “Though, our would-be glorious leader is rather the worse for wear.”

Bowe was happy that all these people had come to visit, but found it hard to summon the strength to smile. Everything blurred and darkened, then disappeared.

“He’s falling asleep,” said a panicked voice from far away, and then a slap on his cheek gave him a jerk, and everyone reappeared. Sorrin was at his side. “Ask your questions,” he demanded of Edison. “If we let him sleep, the effect may be gone by the time he wakes up.”

“It had better,” Xarcon said.

“Okay.” Edison scratched his head. “I’m still not buying into your story that he can’t lie, but there’s no harm in asking a few questions.”

Xarcon made a noise deep in his throat. Edison glanced at him, then turned his attention back to Bowe. “What’s your honest opinion of this noble journey to prove ourselves worthy—the Green Path?”

A deep weariness pinned Bowe to the floor. He focused on Edison and tried to think about the Green Path. The images hit him much harder than Sorrin’s slap on his cheek. Vitarr’s inert body being pummeled by Dulnato, then his serene expression on the funeral barge; Jisri falling into the sea with a knife in his eye socket; Cetu being sliced to pieces by the Eye fighter while his screams cut the air. “The Green Path is a monstrous thing.” He threw the weariness from himself like a cloak and pushed himself up to a sitting position, looking at each of the Deadbeats in turn. “It is an evil beyond describing. To make young men walk is a terrible crime against the natural order. And the ascor who make us do it are perpetuating that evil.” Then Bowe started giggling. “‘Perpetuate’ is a funny word.”

“See, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Xarcon said. “It is not truth he speaks, but madness.”

“It is often madness to speak the truth.” Sorrin helped the patient back into a lying position. Bowe’s burst of energy had died as quickly as it had arrived. “Anyone with eyes can see that he speaks what he believes to be the truth.”

“Do you expect us to believe you when you say you won’t accept selection unless you can bring all your followers into the Refuge?” Edison asked Bowe.

“I don’t.” Bowe’s eyelids became heavy. He let them fall, and spoke into the darkness. “Anyone who follows the ascorim wouldn’t believe me. All I know is that I cannot—no, will not—walk the Path as it now exists. If there is no other way, death has beckoned me all my life. I don’t want Defenders; I want a brotherhood where we walk forward together—where either all of us survive, or none of us.”

If anyone replied, Bowe didn’t hear them.

Chapter 14

13 Days Left

Bowe twisted the azure cloak in his hands. He’d put on his tunic and pants, then taken them off after deciding they were too hot, and now had put them back on. He had nothing else to wear to an ascor event, so he would just have to suffer the heat. It was crazy to have an event take place in the afternoon this close to the Infernam, but he had to put up with it. This Harmony match was important—at least, he thought it was. Eolnar had, as promised, arranged a place in a qualifying match—if Bowe won, he’d play against the Guardians on the evening before the Infernam. Glil considered playing too risky, but Bowe tended to ignore Glil’s conservative advice. The Path didn’t leave much room for prudence.

Bowe walked onto a balcony that looked out over the central courtyard. He hoped that the fresh air would cool him. But the outside was worse—like a furnace expelling hot air. Beneath him, Edison trained alone, hacking and slashing the stuffing out of several dummies. In the center of the courtyard, Thrace was putting a row of escay teenagers through their paces. Bowe didn’t understand how they trained in this heat. Their arrival at Bellanger Mansion had been one of many shocks for Bowe when he had woken up.

He couldn’t even remember persuading the Deadbeats to join with him, though he’d heard the basics repeated by the newsbards many times since. How Bowe Bellanger had recruited a handful of Defenders while lying in his sickbed was their new favorite story. Only shards of his five fevered days in bed remained in his memory. Much good had come out of that fever, though—he’d achieved more in his short time of sickness than in all the time he was well.

He’d apparently insisted that they bring him to Bellanger Mansion in a stretcher. He didn’t have to fear the Raine marshals now that his loan was repaid. The whole brotherhood now resided here—plus others. He wasn’t sure why the escay girls had arrived to clean, or why escay boys had arrived to start training as guards—though he knew Iyra had something to do with it.

The escay boys barely knew which end of the sword to hold when they’d first arrived. Edison had tried to train them, and they’d all left nursing more bruises and cuts than they were willing to bear. After they had been coaxed back, Thrace had started training them. He shouted a lot, but he didn’t hit them as much as Edison. Things were improving. They were now able to pick up the sword by the handle instead of the blade nearly every time.

Bowe rubbed his fingers along the wooden balcony railing. It felt great to see the mansion coming back to life. In the courtyard, scrub brush had been cleared away to make room for the sparring. There were still many weeds, but it was getting better. The escay girls had started cleaning up years upon years of dust from the interior one room at a time. It had begun to look less like a derelict building and more like the grand mansion it had once been. Bowe hadn’t received any more gold from Iyra since she’d paid off his loan, so he assumed she was using the rest to pay the escay servants and guards.

The bet-takers had been impressed with his latest progression along the Path, and Bowe had edged up the lists into the top ten. Heady heights for someone who had been nailed to the bottom for so long. Perhaps Bowe should obtain more of that poison and antidote from Jeniano.

Jisri had moved up the lists, as well. The White Spider had developed a business that concentrated on selling to the ascora. By all reports, it was wildly successful already. Bowe was indebted to Jisri for saving him from Dulnato, so he was glad to see him doing well, but it meant more competition at the top. The Path was only going to get narrower, and Bowe needed every edge. That was why he needed to compete at this qualifying Harmony match. He had to win in order to be invited to the next ascor event. He couldn’t let the ascor forget him.

It was time for him to be off. He left the balcony and descended the stairs. In an alcove halfway down, an ornate turquoise vase rested. That was new. Courtesy of Sindar, expensive-looking objects had begun popping up throughout the mansion. In addition, one object that wasn’t from Sindar had appeared in Bowe’s bedroom. It was the lion carving he’d admired on Iyra’s stall. He didn’t understand why she’d left it. Their last parting had been acrimonious, yet she continued to help him.

Bowe heard the front door opening, and he looked up in time to see Xarcon exiting. “Wait up,” Bowe shouted and ran down the stairs two at a time. Xarcon looked like he wanted to flee, but thought better of it and held the door open for Bowe with a nervous smile.

“Where are you off to?” Bowe asked. “I’m on my way to that Harmony match I’ve been practicing for.”

“I’m just going to visit with the street performers.”

“You should keep training with them. Sindar still gets involved in nocturnal adventures and Edison continues to train for the Eye. We’ve started something great here,” Bowe said, gesturing at the revitalized mansion, “but I’m not sure exactly how to proceed. You may as well do what you enjoy. And the skills you learn could prove useful later on.” Bowe moved into the street. “Come, walk with me. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Xarcon walked alongside Bowe. Although he had joined Bowe’s brotherhood along with Sindar, Thrace, and Edison, he seemed more reticent than the others, almost afraid of Bowe. Bowe wondered if he had said something under the influence of the fever that had offended or frightened Xarcon. “I can’t remember much of what I said when I was sick, but Sorrin told me I said I killed my mother. I’m worried that you might have gotten the wrong impression. I didn’t really kill Chalori, my—well, I guess you could call her my foster mother. I blame myself, but I didn’t actually kill her. She committed suicide.”

Xarcon studied the ground as they walked; he didn’t react to Bowe’s words.

“Come on,” Bowe insisted. “Every time I look at you, I know there’s something you want to talk to me about. Let it out.”

“Okay, let’s talk.” Xarcon pulled Bowe down an alleyway, and Bowe was too surprised to resist. “You told me about the escay organization that you are working with.”

Helion’s blood, mentioning that was stupid. “I see.” Xarcon’s attitude made sense now. “And the others—Sorrin, Edison, Thrace—did they hear the same?”

“Thankfully not. You mentioned it when we were alone. I was sure you were going to blurt it out again, but it didn’t happen.” Xarcon didn’t meet Bowe’s gaze, but his expression showed his revulsion at talking about the Guild.

“I’m surprised you joined our brotherhood after what you learned.”

“Everyone joined together and I just went along with it. Hoping for some explanation, maybe. I don’t know.” Xarcon swallowed. “You don’t even deny it. I can’t understand how you can just stand there and be so brazen about it. You’re not sick anymore.”

Bowe paused for a moment before replying. “There’s a picture in a children’s book that I think about a lot.” Bowe let his gaze drift, visualizing it. “It’s a simple black and white photo of a candlestick, but underneath is the caption, ‘Look closer.’ After studying it for a few moments, you can see that it’s actually a picture of two women’s faces studying each other. Once I saw the women’s faces, I could no longer see the candlestick. Do you get my meaning?”

“That you are still fevered?” Xarcon suggested.

Bowe laughed. “I was hoping for more of a revelation about perspective. But maybe you are right. Perhaps I am crazy. Though, I bet your feelings toward escay have changed since you started living with them. What if everything you thought you knew when you lived in Lessard Mansion was a lie? What if everything you think you know about the…about that organization is distorted?”

“Let’s continue walking.” Xarcon led them back onto the main street. “You must be burning up in those clothes.”

“I’ll need a water hose inserted down my throat so I can be re-inflated when I reach Lessard Mansion.”

“We can’t have that.” Xarcon inserted a finger into each side of his mouth and whistled. A passing rickshaw pulled over. “No one is walking to Lessard Mansion—certainly not one of the competitors. You know that.”

Bowe had needed a rickshaw to get to the ascor ball, but he’d hoped to get away without one this time, since he was invited. But Xarcon was right—appearances were important. “I don’t have any money.”

Xarcon reached into his pocket, pulled out a few coppers, and gave them to the rickshaw puller, then turned back to Bowe. “I still make a few coins. If you can’t figure out another way of making money, I might have to get you out in the square with the performers soon. Always room for a good clown.”

Bowe swung into the rickshaw. “Thanks for the help. Does that mean you understand what I said? About…you know.”

“It means I’ll think about it.”

Bowe nodded and leaned back in the rickshaw, letting the drape fall across the window. It was a huge relief to be out of the direct sun, and Bowe tugged rapidly at the front of his tunic, fanning air against the skin of his chest.

He wiped sweat from his hairline. He now wished that he’d listened to the tailor. At the time, he’d never considered that he might need to wear the clothing more than once, never mind during the daytime this close to the Infernam. The rickshaw jolted back and forth, only slowing when the puller shouted at people to get out of the way. Bowe took deep breaths; he didn’t want to arrive hot and flustered. He wondered about Xarcon. Would he be too frightened of the Guild to keep helping Bowe? Xarcon was one of the few Greens who respected and liked the escay, so if he couldn’t accept the Guild, who else would?

“Lessard Mansion, sir,” came a shout, and the rickshaw jolted to a halt. Bowe stepped out of the rickshaw and walked inside, nodding to the marshals on guard. Out of the corner of his eye, Bowe spotted a face he thought he recognized, but when he turned, there was no sign of the man. He frowned. Had that been one of Dulnato’s Defenders? He was likely up to no good, but Bowe couldn’t be sure he’d even seen him, so he shook his head and continued into the mansion.

Bowe was directed into the ballroom. As soon as he walked in the door, Eolnar dragged him aside. “Sorry about this. I’ve done all I could, but the Raines and Greniers have combined to ensure that one of them will win.”

Bowe’s spirits fell. “You mean I won’t get to compete?” All the time he’d spent practicing the full four-player version of Harmony with Sorrin, Glil, and Edison now seemed a waste. Bowe looked around—ascor and ascora no longer stared at him the way they had at the ball. He was expected this time.

“No, the players are set. I had no luck in getting the other judges to agree with me. Normally there would be a three-way impasse between the three judges, and I hoped they would choose you as a compromise winner. But there’s a Grenier/Raine pact this year—Legrand will support the Raine candidate.”

“We haven’t even played yet! How can you judge already?”

Eolnar tilted his head and looked at Bowe with an amused expression. “We know what the outcome will be, more or less. All four of you are excellent players, so it’ll likely end in a three- or four-way draw.”

“Then the judges will decide who played the best, and he will be declared the winner,” Bowe said. “But they’ll have made up their mind already.”

“Exactly. The judges will, of course, decide based on the ascorim, not on how the Harmony game was actually played. That’s just the way the world works.” Eolnar touched Bowe’s arm. “I was looking forward to seeing a Bellanger as the fourth player once more in the Grand Match; it wasn’t the same last time with three Guardians and one marshal.” He shrugged. “But that isn’t to be.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Bowe muttered under his breath as Eolnar moved back into the crowd. There would be no four-way draw, not with the way Bowe intended to play. He might lose horribly, but if he didn’t, the other players would find themselves in a Harmony game such as they’d never played before.

“Players, take your positions.” Bowe recognized the voice—it was Jeniano’s. Bowe hoped he wasn’t in a poisoning mood.

The crowd swirled toward the edges of the ballroom, leaving the center vacant except for the large circular table with three marshals sitting at it. A large Harmony set was laid out, and Bowe took the fourth seat. The board was checkered black and gold. In front of Bowe were the azure-colored pieces. Opposite Bowe on the other side of the board were the sea green pieces, and behind them sat a marshal who Bowe recognized. Tokanu gave Bowe a nod. Sitting in front of the silver pieces was the Raine captain of the guards, Myro. Taking control of the scarlet Harmony pieces was a Grenier marshal Bowe didn’t know.

Behind Tokanu, a high table was set up with three chairs. Jeniano sat on the middle chair. As Bowe watched, Eolnar took his place to the right of Jeniano. Another man took the last seat. Bowe had never seen him before, but knew he must be Legrand, the Eyemaster and third judge. He had dyed his hair scarlet. Bowe had to force himself to stop staring.

“Welcome, all. Welcome.” Jeniano stood and waited for the room to quiet. “Welcome to the second ever sexennial qualifying match. After the demise of the Bellanger family—current company excluded,” Jeniano said, his eyes flickering to Bowe, “the Guardians needed to decide what to do about the Grand Sexennial Harmony Match. Some argued for the tournament to be canceled, but the Guardians decided to honor the marshals of Arcandis by offering them a chance to play in a qualifying match. Six years ago, the Grenier marshal, Kirande, won the seat. He went on to play in the Grand Sexennial Match against the Guardians and acquitted himself with pride, though he lost. He was later raised to become an ascor by Stenesso.”

Jeniano paused for a smattering of applause. There was clear division in who clapped. The Raines and Lessards were not happy about the number of marshals raised to ascor by the Greniers. “Today, three marshals have the honor of being selected to play for this great prize. Gentlemen, I’d like you to congratulate Xelu, Tokanu, and Myro.” Each stood for applause and bowed when their name was called. “In addition, we have an unusual fourth player. A baby was saved from Bellanger Mansion twelve years ago on the day the rest of his family died. The Guardians, in their wisdom, decided that the child should be raised in Raine Mansion and be given a chance to walk the Green Path. Having made great strides along that Path, he is here to fight for the Bellanger seat at the Harmony table on the final day before the Infernam.”

Jeniano gestured to Bowe, who rose to his feet and nodded. No one clapped. Someone coughed; another person cleared his throat. Both sounds were amplified by the silence all around. Bowe quickly sat again.

“In the event of a draw,” Jeniano continued, “we three judges will decide who played the best and deserves to go forward. We already drew for first move. Scarlet opens. Begin when you are ready.”

Jeniano sat, and Xelu made his first move, followed by Tokanu, then Myro. Bowe considered. The Grenier made an aggressive move—which was to be expected for the warrior family. Myro’s move, on the other hand, was cautious. This set up the perfect situation for one of the strategic plans Bowe had in mind. An extremely risky plan.

Bowe’s hand drifted over the board, but he snatched it back again. He could sense everyone watching him, wondering what was taking him so long. A lump congealed at the bottom of his stomach and a tightness squeezed his throat. He had experimented with various unorthodox strategies against the Deadbeats to varying success, but had never tried this exact one. And these marshals were likely superior players. He’d look like a fool if this backfired horribly in front of everyone. Bowe swallowed, reached forward, and quickly moved a piece before he could change his mind.

A rumble of noise greeted the move. Jeniano leaned forward and studied the board, frowning. Bowe’s move was lateral, almost backwards. Xelu’s lips curved into a smile and he advanced his original piece into Bowe’s territory. The initial stages of Harmony were usually marked by a grab for the center of the board. Xelu saw his opportunity to grab the central areas in front of both his and Bowe’s pieces.

Bowe found himself with time to glance around the ballroom. He didn’t recognize too many people. The Guardians and higher ranked ascor hadn’t attended. There were very few ascora about, and only a handful of the Greenettes.

Zofila was here, though. She was laughing in a forced way at a joke from an ascor who sat beside her. Bowe turned back to the table, but kept an eye on her whenever he got the chance. On the Harmony board, the game developed just as Bowe had hoped. Xelu had taken control of most of the central areas, giving the Grenier marshal a good strategic advantage. Bowe began an ineffective attack on Xelu’s flank. Both Tokanu and Myro developed their pieces in a waiting pattern.

Xelu now launched an attack on Bowe’s position. From his attitude, the Grenier marshal didn’t expect crushing Bowe to take long. Both tactics and strategy were important in Harmony—strategy for the board-level positioning and tactics for the actual close-in fighting. Xelu clearly expected Bowe to be as inept at tactics as he seemed to be in strategy.

Bowe allowed some of the conversations around him to filter through. There was much talk about the Jarindor spy, who still hadn’t been found. Some thought it too harsh to keep all his crewmates locked up, since they needed to return to their home country before the Infernam, but most considered this the best way to ensure that the Jarindors followed the laws of Arcandis and didn’t come ashore again.

Xelu’s pieces were lined up against Bowe’s. Bowe began to concentrate more; he leaned over the board, his hands trembling with each move. Xelu’s lips curled into a snarl as he realized his opponent wasn’t easy meat. Bowe was dug into a defensive shell, but couldn’t hold out too long against Xelu’s superior position. He just had to hope—and then it happened. Tokanu and Myro made their moves, attacking Xelu. Bowe sat up straight on his chair. Xelu’s strength was now his weakness. His control of the important central areas made him an appetizing target for the others, and with Bowe proving tougher than expected, Xelu was overextended. Xelu began to redeploy his pieces to deal with the new threat, but Bowe wasn’t going to give him time to regroup.

Bowe’s pieces on Xelu’s flank now launched a strong attack into the heart of his position. Spectators who had gotten bored and drifted away now returned and pushed in closer. It felt like fifty people were breathing down Bowe’s neck as they studied the board. Bowe won the next few tactical battles against Xelu, and, with both Tokanu and Myro attacking, Xelu’s demise was sudden. He went from having the most pieces to having none within a handful of turns.

“And with the elimination of Xelu, we’ll take a short break.” Jeniano looked like he couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

Bowe stood up, stretched, and pushed his way out through a knot of onlookers who still studied the board.

He spotted Zofila darting away from her companion and moved to intercept her. She turned sharply when he touched her shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be playing a game?”

“Life’s a game,” Bowe said. “We are always playing at something or another. How goes your game?”

“Since when do you care about what I do?”

“I was watching you talk to the ascor you were with. You didn’t seem happy.”

She was about to retort when her face seemed to fall into itself, and she burst into tears.

“Hey, hey—now there.” No one else had noticed her quiet sobbing, and Bowe put his arm around her and eased her out of the ballroom and into a corridor.

He waited, his hand resting on her upper arm while she dried her eyes. “You have some strange effect on me,” she said. “I never cry, but I’ve met you twice and I’ve cried both times.”

Bowe studied her. “I don’t believe you never cry.” Her tears came too easily.

She laughed at that, or tried to. It turned into a sob, and she buried her face into her hands and wept once more. After a few moments, she rubbed her hands down her face, wiping the tears away. “Right, I’m done crying. No time for it. My makeup must be a mess.”

That was an understatement—she looked like someone had dipped a mop into several vats of makeup and scrubbed her face with it. “It could use a touch-up.”

She laughed, and this time it didn’t turn to tears. “You’re right. I cry more than I should. Most nights. But not in public, except with you.”

“I’m sorry I upset you.”

“It’s not that you upset me; it’s that you are kind to me. I spend all day putting up this shield around me, protecting me from all the ascor can throw at me, and then you make me crumble by caring.”

Bowe turned away. “That might not be a good thing, you know. Bad things happen to those I care about. What do you need a shield for, anyway? It can’t be that bad, coming to events like this. Wined and dined by the ascor looking for your hand in marriage.”

Zofila snorted. “What would you know about it? Just because the Greenette Path doesn’t have the prestige of yours doesn’t mean it isn’t just as tough. For ugly girls like me, at any rate.”

“You aren’t…” Bowe tried to protest her self-proclaimed ugliness, but had difficulty finding the words with her face a mess of tears and makeup.

“The pretty girls have it easy.” Her eyes were focused on a point above his head. “In getting married, at least, and surviving past the Infernam. The senior wives make their lives hell after, I’ve heard, but that’s a problem for another day. After the initial flurry of selections of the attractive girls, the ascor men sit back and wait for the rest of us to come on to them. They have the power of life and death over us, and they enjoy watching us squirm. The only ones who have yet to select wives now seem to want to torture us. They treat us—they treat me—” She scowled. “—like whores. Whispering all kinds of perverted suggestions to us. Like we were just their escay women. Of course, if one of us goes too far before we are married, word gets round, and then that girl is shunned and might as well immediately take Paradise’s Kiss for all the chance she has of getting a place in the Refuge.” She looked suddenly at Bowe. “What am I telling you all this for? You probably don’t understand half of it; you are nothing but a boy.”

“You’re not much older than me,” Bowe said.

“Boys mature more slowly than girls.” She raised her hand to forestall Bowe’s protests. “I don’t mean in terms of fighting or playing your games; I mean with regard to marriage and the debased things that men do to women. Ascor don’t take a wife until they are at least eighteen. We Greenettes have to walk our Path at the same age you Greens walk yours—some of us are only thirteen.”

Bowe flushed slightly, remembering his kisses with Iyra. Zofila would surely consider that a perverted act with an escay woman.

Zofila studied Bowe. “But boys do get urges before then. They are watched closely in the harem section once they reach your age.” She smiled and tugged at Bowe’s cheek. “You look so cute when you blush all red like that.”

Bowe pushed her hand away. “Until you did that, I was going to offer you a chance to escape the—as you call it—Greenette Path.”

Zofila took a step back and looked him up and down. “There. You did it again.”

“Did what?” Bowe asked.

“Every now and again, you fill out that absurd blue outfit and make it look like kingly robes. And you look like a Guardian trapped in a boy’s body.” She laughed. “Now you’re blushing again and the effect is ruined.” She turned serious. “What was that about escape?”

Bowe opened his mouth and then closed it again. What was he doing making more promises when he had no idea how to keep his current ones? “I’m hoping to find a way to get all my Defenders into the Refuge. Perhaps I could get you in, too.”

She looked at him with a quizzical expression. “But you’ve no idea how you are going to do that, right?”

Bowe rubbed a knuckle against the side of his head. “Well…at this moment…”

Zofila tilted her head upward and roared with laughter. “Look at that, you’ve cheered me up completely. But the worst of the perverted suggestions from the ascor sound better than your escape plan. At least they’re real. I’d better get back.”

“Ah.” Bowe raised a finger. “You’re going back in there? You could use a touch-up of your makeup.”

“Helion’s daughters! Now that you mention it, I couldn’t be bothered going back right now. Not just after you’ve cheered me up. They can save up their torments for another time. I’m leaving.”

She turned back the other way. Bowe raised his finger again. “You’re going outside? People might see you. You could use a…you know…on your face.”

She laughed again, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “You’ve put me in such a good mood, I don’t know if I’ll even be able to cry tonight. How will I ever get to sleep?” She and strode away, still laughing.

Bowe went back to the ballroom, trying to understand how she had gone from tears to laughter so quickly. He hadn’t helped her with any of her problems.

Before he had a chance to get his bearings back inside the ballroom, Legrand intercepted him. The scarlet hair looked even more ridiculous up close. “There you are. We are trying to get the game started again.”

“Okay.” Bowe tried to move past him, but Legrand grabbed his arm and leaned in close.

“That was some stunt you pulled—Xelu was supposed to win today. I saw you talking to Eolnar when you came in. Did you two come up with this scheme together?”

Bowe opened his mouth to deny it and stopped. Perhaps it would be better to have Legrand annoyed at Eolnar and, thereby, at his house’s player, Tokanu. “Eolnar told me that he expected Xelu to win unless I could pull off something crazy. So I did.” Legrand released Bowe’s arm and Bowe returned to the Harmony board. All the other players were there, and once Legrand took his place on the judges’ bench, Jeniano instructed the players to recommence.

Bowe quickly scanned the board. Usually at this stage of a Harmony game with advanced players, many stalemate lines would have been set up at strategic locations. But because of Xelu’s sudden and unexpected fall, each player’s forces were much more jumbled up than usual. Tokanu had the safest position, hugging his side of the board. Myro occupied the center, making him stronger but more vulnerable. Considering that, due to the Raine/Grenier pact, Myro would be selected as winner in the event of a three-way draw, Bowe’s plan was clear. With his first move, he struck aggressively against the Raine player and his silver pieces.

Myro fidgeted with his fingers as he considered his next move. It was clear he’d never played a Harmony game like this before. Bowe’s best hope for a solo victory was for Tokanu to sit and hold his position. But it soon became clear that that wasn’t going to happen. Tokanu quickly launched his own attack against the silver pieces. Myro wasn’t able to put up much of a fight against the two-pronged attack. His position collapsed almost as quickly as Xelu’s had.

Jeniano stood. “Remarkable. Two contestants left. Tokanu Lessard and Bowe Bellanger.” He looked down at both the players. “Should we take another break before resuming?” he asked.

Bowe re-examined the board. Tokanu hadn’t made the mistakes of Xelu or Myro in overextending himself. Large parts of the board now had stalemate lines set, and Bowe could clearly see that the game would end in a two-way draw. Perhaps against Vitarr Bowe would have been able to win from this position, but Tokanu had proven himself to be an excellent player.

Bowe looked back at the judges’ table. Perhaps he could use a break in play to nudge Jeniano toward selecting him instead of Tokanu, the way he had done with Legrand. Bowe took one look at the ascor’s eyes and knew that wouldn’t work. They were the kind of eyes that could read the ascorim as easily as other people could see colors. Trying to manipulate him was bound to be ineffective at best and counter-productive at worst.

“No need for a break,” Bowe said. “The match is nearly over.”

And it was. Bowe and Tokanu played out the rest of the game without surprises, though Tokanu played like he suspected a trap at every turn. When they finished, Jeniano announced that the judges would confer before announcing their decision. Bowe tried to stretch his hearing toward their bench, but the room had descended into an uproar of arguing and discussion, making that impossible. Eolnar and Legrand needed to lean in close to Jeniano just so they could hear each other.

Tokanu reached out his arm to Bowe. “That was the most remarkable game of Harmony I’ve ever played.”

Bowe clasped his arm and grinned. “I was hoping to take you down, as well.”

“In both of our encounters you’ve surprised me. I’ll be wary at our next meeting, that’s for sure,” Tokanu said.

Jeniano stood, and the room hushed. “I have the pleasure to announce that, by a vote of two to one, there will be a Bellanger at the Grand Sexennial Harmony Match one last time.”

The ballroom erupted. If Bowe had thought the crowd was loud before, that was nothing compared to now.

* * *

Bowe’s elation gave him a floating feeling as he exited Lessard Mansion. Even the renewed blast of heat when he stepped outside and the realization that he had no money for a rickshaw couldn’t dim his euphoria. He wasn’t exactly sure how the Harmony win would help him survive the Path. Most of the Path was twists and turns, humps and hollows—it was often hard to tell victories from defeats. But this was a win. No one could take that away.

A familiar face appeared and disappeared in the crowd. Bowe stopped dead. One of Dulnato’s Defenders? People thronged through the main street in front of Lessard Mansion, and Bowe couldn’t find the face again. He suddenly felt alone and vulnerable. How could he have been so dumb as to forget whom he had seen on the way in? He should have asked Eolnar or Jeniano for an escort. He decided to return to the mansion, but when he turned, he saw two teenagers lounging close to the main entrance. They had the look of Grenier Greens about them, with black hair and thick limbs.

Bowe saw the face again. The man was closer, and this time he recognized him for sure. Clain, one of Dulnato’s main lieutenants. He closed in on Bowe from one side, and Bowe sensed another person approaching on his other side. A large rickshaw pulled in front of him. The two at the entrance were now approaching him from behind. He was surrounded.

The rickshaw window’s curtain was jerked to the side and a white mask with only one eyehole appeared. “Get in,” the White Spider said in an urgent whisper.

Bowe knew it could be a trap, but there was no love lost between the White Spider and Dulnato. And Bowe didn’t exactly have much choice. Even as those thoughts flashed through his mind, Bowe climbed into the rickshaw.

“Go,” the White spider said to the two pullers at the front. Through the crack in the curtain, Bowe caught a brief glimpse of Clain’s confusion before the rickshaw jerked forward.

“To Bellanger Mansion,” the White Spider called out to the pullers, leaning back into the cushioned seat. “They won’t bother us in this. They wouldn’t dare—two-man rickshaws are rarely used by anyone except the ascor.”

“So how come you have one?”

“I bought it. I like my privacy and this helps.” Due to the mask, his voice had a disembodied quality.

Bowe suppressed a shiver as he looked at the expressionless visage. The mask was all white and curved around his face. Contours on it drew the mouth and nose. Two eyeholes had been carved into it, but one had been blocked by the same white material. “I’m sorry, you know,” Bowe said, “about what happened on the pier that night.”

“Wasn’t your fault. We were on the same side at the time. Dulnato is the one who needs to pay. And he will—believe me, he will.”

“Is that why you saved me from Dulnato’s Defenders just now? What were you doing here anyway?” Bowe tried to get comfortable in the seat, but he was on edge. He still feared a trap within a trap, and having a guy in a creepy mask beside him didn’t lower the tension.

“I was here on other business when I saw Dulnato’s goons, and I decided to wait and see what they were up to. When I saw you about to be surrounded, I decided to intervene.”

It’s the second time that his intervention has saved me from Dulnato, Bowe thought. But he didn’t bring it up again. Bowe got the impression that the White Spider didn’t like talking about that night on the docks. “Thanks,” Bowe said instead.

“How did your Harmony match go?”

“I won.” Bowe grinned, but the smile quickly died when faced with the mask’s blank expression. “Well, actually Tokanu and I drew, and the judges declared me the winner.”

“Interesting.” The White Spider’s voice was as expressionless as his visage. “What do you think of alliances on the Green Path?” he asked. “Are true allies possible? Not between Elect and their Defenders, but between two Elects?”

Bowe frowned, thinking. “Zidel and Dulnato have an understanding, as I learned to my cost. But true allies? I imagine either one would stab the other in the back without an instance’s thought if they decided it was to their benefit.”

“Indeed. But you are made of different mettle than either of them, I believe. Either that, or your ascorim skills are beyond what anyone has thought possible.”

“Are you suggesting an alliance? I don’t see how we can help each other.” The rickshaw stopped, and Bowe peeked out the curtain. “We’re at Bellanger Mansion.” He said it in a surprised voice—he’d still been half-expecting a trap.

“The three who headed the lists on the first day of the Path are all still alive with thirteen days to go. Do you know how unusual that is?” the White Spider asked.

Bowe shook his head.

“Zidel, Dulnato, and Reyanu…” He trailed off. “You can go.” The White Spider gestured for him to leave, and Bowe slid out of the rickshaw and onto the street. A quick glance around revealed no sign of any of Dulnato’s Defenders.

“I may have something to show you in few days. Will you come if I send for you?” the White Spider asked.

“I’m not sure,” Bowe replied. Could a trap be elaborate enough to let him go simply to gain his trust? After all, the ascorim had many levels.

“Think on it,” the White Spider said. The rickshaw moved off and disappeared around the corner.

Bowe tried to follow the White Spider’s line of reasoning before he’d trailed off. Zidel, Dulnato, and Reyanu still led the lists. After them, the White Spider could be fourth. And I could be close to fifth after today, Bowe thought. Is he suggesting we eliminate the leading Elects?

Chapter 15

10 Days Left

The White Spider had asked to meet at a tavern and Bowe decided to go. “There’s no point in even giving you advice.” Glil was animated. “Like you ever listen to me.”

“I do, I even listen to your Th…Thar-something stories about trees or some such,” Bowe said. He was with Glil, Sorrin, Edison, and Thrace in one of Bellanger Mansion’s second floor rooms. The wooden floors had been polished. Old furniture had been cleaned, dusted off, and placed here. Now that it was revamped, this room wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of the other mansions. A mirror with a gilded frame hung on one wall, and an ancient portrait of a long-dead Bellanger Guardian glared down at the gathering.

Glil glowered. “Always happy to hear that my rock-people and I have been of service. Now that you’ve brought them up, you’ll get to hear one more story.”

“Please, no.” Bowe put his head in his hands. “Think of the others. They’re not all as strong as me.”

“The black granite tribe was at war with the yellow sandstone tribe. Its leader, CoalHeart, invited the leader of the yellow sandstone tribe, ChunkyTurnips, to a parley above a flagstone of peace.”

“ChunkyTurnips? Seriously, that’s the closest translation to his actual name?”

“ChunkyTurnips was suspicious.” Glil ignored Bowe’s interruption. “However, CoalHeart set up the meeting place on a rocky ridge which could be seen for miles around. No one could come to CoalHeart’s aid without the yellow sandstone tribe seeing them, and ChunkyTurnips knew he could defeat CoalHeart in single combat.”

“So are you trying to say I can defeat the White Spider in single combat?” Bowe suggested.

Glil glared at him. “When ChunkyTurnips met CoalHeart, he was confident. But he didn’t know the territory as well as the black granite tribe, and CoalHeart lured him to stand at a point where the surface was weak. The ground collapsed, and ChunkyTurnips fell into a deep ravine and was never seen again.”

“Good thing I’m not meeting those tricky black granite Thardassians,” Bowe said. “I’d never trust someone called CoalHeart.”

“Because White Spider is so much better. Yet you prance blithely into his web.”

“My instinct is that he means me no harm.”

“Do you not get that this is a competition where all of the Greens are trying to kill each other? No one trusts their friends, never mind their enemies. And you have already been betrayed and fallen into several traps.” Glil threw his arms in the air. “I give up.” He stormed out of the room.

“He always gets jealous when I trust someone new,” Bowe said to Sorrin. “Breaks into a mad Thardassian story rant.”

“He’s right—this is risky,” Sorrin said. “I’m not sure I disagree with him.”

“Don’t worry,” Bowe said, “I’ll have Thrace and Edison with me. At least they don’t think that I’m crazy.” Bowe turned around and saw both Thrace and Edison twirling their fingers to their temples and pointing at him.

“Stop that,” Bowe ordered. “You guys agreed to protect me. You can start by being more supportive.”

“We might be able to protect his body, but we can do nothing to save his mind. He’s one crazy fool,” Edison said.

“Shut up and let’s go,” Bowe said. “This brotherhood wasn’t created just so everyone in it could make fun of me. Though maybe it serves me right for thinking that anything useful could come from Deadbeats.”

Bowe led Thrace and Edison down the stairs and out the main entrance. As they exited, the force of the sweltering heat sucked the energy from him. Bowe stumbled, wilting, but forced himself to keep going. At least he was wearing plain brown escay clothing this time and not his ascor costume. No one did anything in the middle of the day anymore, and even now, an hour before sunset, being outside felt like being in a furnace.

Initially, Thrace and Edison walked just behind him and to either side, like marshals escorting an ascor, until Bowe insisted they walk beside him.

Edison cleared his throat loudly. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already did, but go on,” Bowe said.

“I want to fight in the Eye. Will you help me?”

“I don’t understand. You came to me so you wouldn’t have to fight and die there.”

“I’m not so keen on the dying part. But fighting—you don’t know what it’s like to be born a Grenier. Everything is about training to be a warrior. And I’m good, even if I’m not one of the best. Dulnato usually beat me, and Sorrin, before his injury. Perhaps Jisri was better, too. But I am a skilled fighter. And I enjoyed the old life I had before the Path. The banter, the competition. The weariness at the end of the day that meant you were asleep before your head hit the pillow. I even miss the constant array of bruises.” Edison rubbed at his arm, as if massaging a bruise that no longer existed.

“You can’t go back to that,” Bowe said. “Even if you fought every day in the Eye, you can’t go back in time.” Bowe thought about Edison training alone out in the courtyard every day. “Perhaps you can experience the bruises and the competition once again. But fighting in the Eye won’t bring back the camaraderie and the banter of living in Grenier Mansion.”

“I know. If I were training in the Fortress under Drakasi I might be happier, but Dulnato wouldn’t allow it. I still want to fight, though. None of Drakasi’s students have done much in the Eye; only a Lessard fighter called Kotara has showed promise as a Wolfling.”

Bowe thought about what Edison was saying, then tried to look deeper, beyond the words. In the ascorim, words were lies—only actions held truth. He tried to see through Edison’s eyes. It was a trick he’d learned from playing Harmony—by considering the board from your opponent’s point of view, it was easier to understand his strategy. Edison was without a role at Bellanger Mansion. Thrace trained the escay in fighting. Sorrin and Glil were Bowe’s advisers. From Edison’s point of view, if Bowe went back on his word and chose someone to accompany him to the Refuge, it wouldn’t be him. By proving himself in the Eye, Edison’s status and visibility would be enhanced. A prominent Eye fighter could be chosen by another Elect who didn’t have an obvious Defender, such as the White Spider.

Bowe turned to Thrace. “And you? Do you want to fight in the Eye?”

Thrace shook his head. “That’s not for me.”

He didn’t talk much, and Bowe understood him less than any of the other Deadbeats. Among the brotherhood he was the most quiet and shy, and he barely said a word, usually letting Edison talk for him. On the other hand, when he was training the escay guards, he barely stopped shouting. And the escay boys seemed more comfortable having him shout at them than having the other Deadbeats talk to them. Except for Sindar, of course—everyone liked Sindar. That turned Bowe’s mind toward the unpleasant thought of Iyra liking Sindar, so he decided to quash his line of thinking.

“You want to fight in the Eye, but…” Bowe studied Edison. “There’s always a ‘but,’ right?”

“The problem is that no one finds out who they are facing until the day of the fight, and it’s too late to back out then. I want a fair fight. In my first fight, there’s no way I could beat one of those scarred giants who have fought in the Eye for years. Even winning one fight would give me a huge increase in experience. I want to face someone else who has never fought in the Eye before.”

“You don’t want to face the guy who chopped Cetu into pieces, you mean. Or anyone like him.”

“Exactly. And since you know the Eyemaster, Legrand, I thought you might be able to help me.”

“He’s met me, but that doesn’t mean he’ll look favorably on me.” By now, Legrand might feel that Bowe had put one over on him at the Harmony match.

“We’re here,” Edison said. They stood in front of the tavern; it was called The Last Stop. It looked no different from all the other buildings along the street. With red clay walls and an air of dereliction, only the signpost displaying its name showed it to be a tavern.

Inside, it was dark and smoky. No one talked. Solitary drinkers occupied most of the tables, each sitting in front of a glass of ale. Several men lay slumped over tables. Only one person turned to the new arrivals, and he gave them an uninterested glance before returning to his drinking. The White Spider had indicated that he would be upstairs, so Bowe moved toward the wooden staircase that hugged the near wall. Thrace stepped in front of Bowe and took the lead. He kept his hand on his sword hilt and ascended carefully. Bowe and Edison followed.

The stairs led the way onto a rooftop terrace. The sunlight was momentarily dazzling after the dim light of the interior. Railings surrounded the terrace, and several chairs and tables were scattered about. The only person there—the White Spider—sat in a chair near the wooden railing.

“It’s just us,” the White Spider said as Thrace checked for hiding places. He wore a white robe and, of course, the white mask with only one eyehole. Even outside in the open air, his voice sounded otherworldly. “This place is popular in the evening, with great views of Helion painting the city in purple light. Too hot to be here during the day, though.” He gestured toward Thrace. “Tell your man not to worry. Today’s trap is not for you. Good to know you are using bodyguards finally. It’s likely that Dulnato will move against you. As you move up the lists, you become more of a threat, and Dulnato knows only force.”

“What about you? You surely must be more danger to Dulnato than I am. And what trap are you talking about?”

“Sit down. In a city this big, it’s hard to find one little spider. I don’t live in a big mansion. You came, so perhaps there can be trust between us. As for the trap, all will be revealed. Hard to trust one wearing a mask, isn’t it?”

Bowe took a seat opposite the White Spider. “Hard to even have a conversation.” It was difficult to communicate without the feedback of facial expression. Bowe wondered how bad the facial scarring must have been to make him wear it. He couldn’t imagine how hot it must be under there.

“Yet you came. Like many of your moves along the Path so far, it could be seen as either clever and calculating, or reckless and dumb.”

“Courageous and adventurous,” Bowe suggested.

The White Spider paused. Bowe imagined he was smiling, but who knew what went on behind that mask? “Well, your success in moving up the lists has been unparalleled so far.”

“Except for you. I wasn’t the one who came back from death,” Bowe said. “So what do you want from me?”

“Just your friendship. And to prove it, I have a gift for you. Look down there.”

Bowe couldn’t believe that the White Spider didn’t have ulterior motives. He looked down and studied the street below them through the gaps in the railing. It was hard to follow the gaze of someone wearing a mask, so it took Bowe a moment to figure out what the White Spider was looking at. Then he saw Reyanu striding down the street surrounded by some of his Defenders, including Phevan and Drenno.

A group of women approached them from the other direction. They wore bright pink, yellow, and peach dresses and decorative lace bonnets. It was unusual to see courtesans out during the day; they were usually only seen at night or in the Helion twilight. Each of them held a basket in one hand and threw flower petals into the air with the other. White cherry blossoms. Bowe glanced to the side where the White Spider looked down, gripping the handrail with one surprisingly petite hand. Bowe stood up and leaned over the edge, studying the scene.

By now, the courtesans were mingling with Reyanu and his Defenders. The boys laughed and moved aside for them. As one, the girls flipped their baskets upward, causing a cascade of flower petals to rain down. Then there was a flash of metal, and the woman in the peach dress pulled a knife from the bottom of her basket. Bowe’s breath caught in his throat and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing. He knew he should shout a warning, but he didn’t. And by then it was too late. The blade was thrust upward through Reyanu’s stomach and into his chest.

The cherry blossoms still fell. One of the women screamed, and they all ran, the woman in the peach dress among them. Only now that the bonnet had fallen from her head, she didn’t look much like a woman. She certainly didn’t run like one, holding the hem of her dress up around her thighs and sprinting at full pelt. Bowe remembered that one of the newsbards had reported that a Shadow named Nechil was allied with the White Spider. She…he turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Reyanu’s Defenders stood in confusion and shock with cherry blossoms stuck to their clothes, tangled in their hair, and carpeting the ground. The normal movement on the street had stopped, and the escay circled the scene at a distance. Phevan shoved Drenno out of his way and ran to Reyanu, kneeling at his fallen leader’s side. Phevan lifted his head. Blood spurted from Reyanu’s mouth and his body convulsed. Phevan clutched Reyanu’s tunic, his hand reddening from his leader’s blood. He looked up at the sky and roared with anger. In that moment, his gaze fixed on the White Spider and Bowe.

The White Spider waved to Phevan and stood up. “Follow me.” He led the way to the back of the roof terrace, where planks of wood had been placed to bridge across a road. “After you?”

Thrace stepped in front of Bowe and tested the makeshift bridge with his foot. It bounced but seemed solid, and he quickly walked across it. Bowe followed, then Edison, and finally the White Spider crossed. Checking first to make sure no one was underneath them, the White Spider then kicked the planks down and they crashed to the ground. Several nearby pedestrians got a shock, but no one was hurt.

“They’ll probably be too disorganized to come after us right now, but you never know.” The White Spider led them across the rooftops. “You’d better get back to your mansion. I’ll show you the best way from here.”

“How was that a gift?” Bowe asked, running to catch up. “I’m supposed to trust you more now that you’ve organized an assassination in front of me?”

“You knew what was going to happen. You knew it before you even came here.” The White Spider didn’t turn to face Bowe—not that it made much difference with the mask on. “This is what you wanted. You gain revenge for Reyanu helping Jeniano to capture and poison you, and you become the highest Raine left on the Path. Plus, we both get credit and move up the lists for eliminating a strong opponent.”

“I didn’t want this.” Bowe didn’t like how his voice came out whiny and weak. They reached a gap in the rooftops, and they all jumped across. The sun had nearly set and its rays were shining straight in their eyes, almost blinding them.

“This is the Path,” the White Spider said. “You want to walk it and keep your hands clean, but that isn’t possible. It’s kill or be killed. There’s limited room for partnerships, and anyone who isn’t your friend is your foe. Reyanu was your enemy, Dulnato is your enemy, Zidel is your enemy.”

The White Spider’s monotone voice gave a slight inflection when he said Dulnato’s name. Even behind the mask, he was unable to hide his hatred for the person who had disfigured him. That was the key to understanding him. Bowe thought about the lists. After this, both the White Spider and Zidel would be ahead of Dulnato, leaving Bowe and Dulnato fighting for the third and last selection. And hadn’t the White Spider already said that Dulnato knew only one way? “You want me to kill Dulnato. That’s the point of this alliance.”

The White Spider didn’t say anything. He stopped at a trapdoor and opened it. “Go down here. This will take you out onto the street near Bellanger Mansion. Until next time.”

Edison peeked down. “It’s dark down there. How do we know this isn’t a trap? You could get rid of us and Reyanu in one go.”

“No,” Bowe said. “The White Spider doesn’t want to kill me and leave only three strong candidates for selection left in the field.”

“He understands,” the White Spider said. He gestured down the trapdoor again, and Edison reluctantly descended.

As Bowe followed Edison and Thrace down the dark stairway, the White Spider called to him. “You’re wrong. I don’t want you to kill Dulnato. I want you to draw him out so I can kill him.” He closed the trapdoor, leaving them in complete darkness.

Thrace found the exit door, and they were able to make it back to Bellanger Mansion without any mishaps.

Chapter 16

8 Days Left

The only furnishings in the small room were a desk and a stool. The desk held a number of carefully piled papers. Behind it, a marshal sat erect on the stool, reading. Bowe moved to the side so the marshal could see him, but the marshal shifted his sheet of paper to keep it between them. Bowe coughed loudly.

The marshal was a short man with a large nose. Scrawny arms and the lack of a sword indicated that he was more clerk than soldier. The marshals who worked as guards and police and soldiers were so noticeable, it was easy to forget that marshals also worked as clerks and administrators. Escay became promoted to marshals when they moved into positions of authority.

“Yes?” the marshal said, looking up at Bowe, Edison, Thrace, and Sorrin. He drew out the word in a long, nasal syllable and tilted his head in such a way that he seemed to be looking down his nose at them even though he was seated and they were standing.

“We want to see Legrand.”

“Let me check.” He shuffled through one of the piles of papers, took one out, and scanned it, then looked up. “As I suspected. Legrand wasn’t expecting any scruffy escay today.” He smiled. “Wipe your feet on the way out.”

“We’re Greens,” Bowe protested. “Not escay.” He had decided not to wear his ascor outfit; it was too hot out.

“And you make me thankful we have a system in place to prevent Greens from becoming ascor. The blessed Path.”

“Some Greens become ascor.”

“Only the right ones.” He looked Bowe up and down again to suggest that Bowe was as far from being a “right one” as you could hope to get. “Now, be off.” He flicked the back of his hand at them.

Bowe leaned against a wall. “I’m not leaving until you ask Legrand if he’ll see Bowe Bellanger.”

The clerk sighed deeply enough to suggest that the weight of the world’s afflictions rested upon his shoulders, then lifted up his sheet of paper and returned to reading. After a moment, he got up and went to a door at the back and ascended the stairs there. A while later, he came back down the stairs, returned to his desk, and sat down. He didn’t say anything, and Bowe had to suppress the urge to strangle him. After a long pause, he looked up again and pretended to be surprised to see them there. “Why are you still here? Didn’t I tell you Legrand would see you?”

Bowe ground his teeth. “No, you did not.”

“Well, hurry up. Through that door, up the stairs—don’t keep him waiting.” He pointed at the stairs he’d taken.

Bowe blew out a mouthful of air, then walked across the room and took the stairs, followed closely by the others. They emerged into the open-ended room that was the heart of the Brow. Bowe had seen it before, of course, from below. It looked rather different from this perspective. It was long and shallow, with only short walls on both sides and opposite; where the fourth wall should have been was a wide rectangle of sky, sea, and cityscape. Bowe felt a moment of dizziness. An optical illusion made it seem that the floor sloped downwards toward the opening. Several tables and chairs lined the edge of the room.

Legrand, the Eyemaster, was sitting at a large desk that occupied one corner. He looked very different from when Bowe had last seen him. His hair was no longer scarlet; instead, it was parted in the center, with one half dyed white and the other half black. It was long and straight and came down to just below his shoulders. He wore a solid scarlet outfit—similar to Bowe’s ascor ball outfit, except in Grenier scarlet instead of Bellanger azure. Four light pink-clad marshals stood at attention beside the door, two on each side.

“Hello again.” Legrand stood, approached Bowe, and extended his arm.

Bowe clasped the arm. He gestured to Thrace, Edison, and Sorrin. “This is—”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to the introductions shortly.” Legrand ignored Bowe’s companions and placed his arm on Bowe’s back and guided him to the edge of the room. “You started a trend with your colorful outfit at the ball. What do you think of mine?”

It’s like your clothes are screaming, Bowe thought. “Very nice. I can’t wait to see it in combination with your scarlet hair.”

Legrand led Bowe between the tables and chairs and they stopped at the precipice. They looked down into the Eye, where a fight was in progress. The fighters’ swords clanged as the closer one made wild swings at his opponent, who blocked each blow, stepping backward. Around them, the crowd roared their approval. “Scarlet hair with a scarlet outfit might be a bit much, even for me,” Legrand said. “I like the black and white hair for the Eye, though. Suitable, don’t you think?” He gestured down at the fighting men. “Two different sides. One will live and one will die. Who will it be today?”

Bowe could feel the subtle pressure of Legrand’s hand on his back. He was nervous about philosophizing about life and death so close to the edge of this room. He’d likely be just seriously injured rather than killed if he fell…or was pushed. Though a serious injury on the Path might as well be death. “What I dislike most about Eye fighting,” he said, “is that it is often clear who will die before the fight even begins.”

“Not at all,” Legrand said. “Not knowing who will win is essential to the drama of the Eye.”

Bowe frowned. “For example, I could take a guess that the man down there swinging his sword like an axeman trying to fell a moving tree isn’t going to beat the muscled warrior who is blocking his blows without breaking a sweat.”

“I don’t think that particular escay would have a chance against anyone. We might as well put him up against someone who can show the crowd some of the artistry of death. But not all fights are like that.”

“What’s in it for the escay besides certain death?”

“A chance. The winner’s purse might save him. At this time of year, there’s many people who won’t survive the Infernam without a few more golds, so the impossible gamble is preferable to boarding a funeral barge with a rock.” Legrand smiled. “Now what can I do for you?”

Right now, Bowe didn’t want anything to do with the Eye or fighting in it. Remembering his previous visit, the sight of the Eye made him feel ill, and the vertigo didn’t improve matters. But Edison wanted this. Perhaps Bowe could guide Legrand toward not giving Edison a fight while pretending to push for the opposite.

“What did you think of my Harmony skills?” Bowe asked.

“Most impressive. If someone had told me at the start of the day that we would decide in your favor, I would have laughed.” Bowe detected the hard edge of anger underneath his oily smile. “But now that you’ve won the match, I’m looking forward to seeing you in action against the Guardians.”

Bowe smiled back at Legrand. His words said one thing, but his eyes said another. Bowe no longer wondered if Legrand knew he had been manipulated at the match; Legrand looked like he wanted to tell Bowe to take a flying leap. Bowe took another look down at the Eye—the escay was clearly tiring, and the Eye fighter was moving in for the kill—and swiveled out of Legrand’s grasp. If Bowe were going to take a flying leap, he didn’t want it to be off the Brow. “After you voted for me in the Harmony match, I’m loath to ask another favor of you. But there’s something that only you can help me with, and I feel we have a—” Bowe moved his hands back and forth between Legrand and himself.

“A connection?” Legrand displayed the oily smile with the hard edge again—he was getting worse at hiding his animosity.

“A connection—exactly. Why you wear robes in your family colors just like I did. We think alike. Now, the favor: my friend Edison wants to fight in the Eye.”

“You don’t need my help for that. He can give his name to my man downstairs and he’ll get sorted out.”

“Yes, but—” Bowe paused, striding away from Legrand to the other side of the room, trying to build up the drama of the moment, hoping to antagonize Legrand even more. “Edison is not desperate like that escay down there. For him, the winner’s purse, while welcome—” Bowe turned and strode back towards Legrand. “—is not worth throwing his life away for. He has other options.” His last sentence was followed by a scream, and Bowe looked down to see the warrior’s sword skewering his opponent. Blood oozed from the escay’s mouth. Bowe’s stomach turned. He did another turn and a walk back and forth, this time to control himself. He hoped Legrand didn’t notice.

“This isn’t a civilized game of Harmony,” Legrand said. “He can’t fight in the Eye and not risk his life. The Eye isn’t for children to learn how to fight.”

“I—” Edison began, but Bowe held a hand up for him to be quiet.

“He doesn’t need to be babied. He wants a fair fight. He just doesn’t want to be on the wrong end of a fight like we’ve just seen—one where it’s clear who the winner will be.”

“So he wants to pick a fight he knows he can win? That isn’t what the Eye is about.”

“No. We just want to make things fair for his first bout. He wants to fight someone who, like him, hasn’t fought in the Eye before. Like you said, the fights where the outcome isn’t clear have more drama. They are better. And fairer.”

“Fair has nothing to do with the Eye.” Legrand rubbed several strands of white hair between his fingers. “And I’ve never heard of a deal like the one you’re suggesting. Fighters never know who they’ll get pitted against when they put their names in. But because of our—” Legrand moved his hands back and forth, mimicking Bowe’s earlier gesture. “—connection, I can make you a one-time offer. Have you heard of the mystery fighter?”

“No.” Bowe frowned. He had been sure Legrand was about to kick them out without offering any deal.

“See that square tent on the other side of the Eye?” Once it was pointed out to him, Bowe noticed the small gray tent guarded by two marshals. “Bet-takers and punters are always looking for something new. So some days, we have a fighter waiting in that tent in the morning—the mystery fighter. Sometimes it’s a seasoned Eye fighter, other times it’s an escay who doesn’t know a sword from a cow’s ass. The mystery fighter is always revealed at the very last moment, allowing bet-takers and punters to make their bets half-blind. I’m willing to let your man be the mystery fighter’s challenger today.”

“No, absolutely not,” Bowe said. “There is no way we will agree to that. You know who’s in there, and that’s the only reason you are offering this deal.”

“I know who is in the tent, yes. But I didn’t know you were coming today. You asked for someone who never fought in the Eye before. When we announce the mystery fighter’s opponent, we always give a tidbit of information about the mystery fighter himself. Something to encourage the punters to bet. And today I will reveal that the mystery fighter has never fought in the Eye before. What do you say?”

At that moment, Sorrin limped rapidly away. “Just remembered, I have to—” And then he was gone, disappearing down the stairs.

“That was the Green with the limp who’s always hanging around the Eye, right? What’s his name?” Legrand frowned at Sorrin’s departing back.

“Sorrin.”

“He probably saw a betting opportunity. I’d better announce the information to everyone else so he doesn’t get a head start. Will your man Edison be the opponent, or should I find someone else? Quickly, now.”

“Wait.” Something was in motion here, and Bowe didn’t trust it. “We came here to organize a fight for another day. Not—”

“I’ll do it.” Edison stepped forward. “This time is as good as another. Just give me time to get my gear together.”

“Fantastic.” Legrand turned to a marshal. “Announce that the mystery fighter has never fought in the Eye before and that his opponent is Edison, a Green, formerly of the Grenier family and currently living in Bellanger Mansion.” He rubbed his hands together. “That should get the bets flying.”

Bowe grabbed Edison by the shoulder. “Are you sure? This isn’t the way we wanted it.”

“This seems like the best we’ll get. I want to fight, and this is my chance.”

“This doesn’t feel right. There’s something going on here.”

“The mystery fighter has never fought in the Eye before. That’s all I asked for. I don’t expect the fight to be easy; I just want to have a chance. Legrand didn’t know we were coming today—the mystery fighter was already in place when we arrived.”

That was true, and it worried Bowe more than anything. There was some angle here, and he couldn’t see it. “If you’re sure. Let’s go back to the mansion and get ready.”

“Wait.” Legrand rested his hand on Bowe’s upper back again. “Your Eye fighter seems to have an admirable second already.” He gestured at Thrace. “Why don’t you stay here with me? Best place to watch a fight, believe me. I’ll have some ale brought up. We can discuss a bet, your man against mine, make it more interesting. What do you say?” Legrand applied an ever-so-slight amount of extra pressure to Bowe’s back, and Bowe became aware of the three marshals standing by the door. He realized that it hadn’t been a request.

“Edison, Thrace—you go,” Bowe said. “I’ll wait here.” Behind Legrand’s smile there was an edge, but this time it wasn’t anger. Could it be triumph? Bowe had fallen deep into a net and couldn’t see the strands that held him. He just hoped he—and Edison—would be able to fight through it.

* * *

Bowe paced to the far side of the room and back again. He was wearing out the floor. Legrand sat at his desk, writing. Every now and again, he’d look up and share one of his oily smiles. Their ales lay untouched on a table. Their talk hadn’t lasted long once Bowe had refused pointblank to make any kind of bet. Bowe had asked if he could go down and wish Edison good luck before the fight, but had been denied permission. Legrand didn’t even have the good grace to pretend that Bowe was free to go if he wanted.

When was this fight going to start? And how had matters gotten so far out of hand? Bowe paced back and forth. He tried to bore through the tent with his gaze. Who was in there? It wasn’t going to be good, whoever it was. Had Legrand somehow known that Bowe was coming? And where had Sorrin gone? The bloody Green had agreed to help Bowe; the least he could have done was keep Bowe company when he was captured rather than going off making bets.

Finally, Legrand stood and moved to the table holding the ales. “Come. Drink and be merry. The fight is about to begin. Should be very interesting.”

The crowd had swelled from the last fight, and they were more raucous and boisterous. They were clearly excited by the choice of opponents. Edison stood just outside the circle with Thrace beside him; he didn’t look confident. Then, at a lull in the crowd noise, the marshals opened the mystery tent.

For a moment, no one emerged. Then a warrior backed out, holding his fists aloft and flexing his biceps. This was certainly no escay. He held a sword in one hand. Then he swiveled around and Bowe could see his face. It was Dulnato.

Bowe sucked in a deep breath. This was even worse than he had thought. Below, Edison’s head bowed and he grabbed the railing to steady himself. Bowe couldn’t imagine what he was feeling—Dulnato must have been one of the last people he’d want to face. Edison knew that Dulnato was better than him.

Legrand’s gaze bored into the side of Bowe’s head, but Bowe didn’t turn to face him. He didn’t want to see Legrand’s smug smile. Dulnato raised his well-muscled arms into the air and looked straight up to where Bowe sat. He’d known, the bastard—he knew exactly where to find Bowe. A trap set and sprung. Bowe reached for the ale and took a chug. It burned his throat and the taste was bitter, but any distraction was welcome.

“The mystery fighter is Dulnato, a Green, leader of those training under Drakasi in the Fortress,” a marshal announced. “He’s a favorite to become an ascor, but first he has to face a former brother in a fight to the death.”

Dulnato pranced around the ring, receiving cheers and boos in equal measure. Bowe guessed the punters’ acclaim depended on whom they had bet on.

Edison looked a forlorn figure, but Thrace didn’t let him feel sorry for himself. Thrace put his hands on Edison’s shoulders and shouted at him. He shook Edison, pointed at Dulnato, and shouted again. Bowe wished he could hear him; he needed a pep talk himself. It seemed to work, because Edison straightened his shoulders before striding into the Eye. He wasn’t as big as Dulnato, but in that moment, he looked every bit the warrior. Though Thrace had to run after him and give him his sword and shield, which ruined the effect.

They didn’t waste time on formalities. Dulnato darted in, his sword aimed at waist height. Edison blocked it, spun away, and countered with a strike directed at Dulnato’s head. Dulnato took it on his shield, splinters exploding from it as the blade struck. The crowd went quiet; it was clear after only a few blows that this was an evenly matched fight between two skilled opponents. The ringing of swords and the grunting of the two fighters echoed loudly in Bowe’s skull. Could Edison win this?

“Your man is looking good out there. Are you ready to make that bet yet?” Legrand asked, taking a sip of ale.

“I told you, I have no money for betting,” Bowe replied. Dulnato launched an attack at Edison that drove him toward the edge of the circle, but Edison circled away and moved back to the center.

“We don’t have to bet money.”

“What makes you so sure that Edison isn’t going to win? Have you fixed this somehow?” Bowe turned his attention away from the fight and onto Legrand.

“Nothing is fixed. Your man could win, Dulnato could win. I like to have an interest in the outcome of a fight—makes it more exciting. Let me see. If your side wins, I will support your selection; if you lose, you will fight in the Eye.”

“How can you say nothing is fixed? You expect me to believe it was a wild coincidence that Dulnato was the mystery fighter?” A shout from the crowd diverted Bowe’s attention back to the fight. Dulnato was on the ground. Edison struck down at him and he spun away. Edison struck again, and Dulnato used his shield to deflect the blade into the ground beside him. He sprung to his feet and moved back. They circled each other.

“Dulnato being the mystery fighter—oh, yes, that was set up ahead of time,” Legrand said. “One of your Deadbeats is not as trustworthy as you thought.”

“One of my Deadbeats?” Bowe swiveled back towards Legrand. “No. Who?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you.”

Bowe peeked back at the doorway. Were the marshals standing directly in front of the door now? He couldn’t see them well since Legrand blocked his view, so he shifted to see better, but Legrand’s next word stopped Bowe dead. “Glil.”

“No. No, Glil wouldn’t.”

Legrand scratched his cheek. “What was it he said? Something about not being happy he wasn’t chief Defender?”

“None of the Deadbeats will be chief—” Bowe stopped. Best not to share too much information.

“So your Deadbeat went to Zidel about returning to the fold—he was with him earlier, I believe. As a price, Glil had to supply something useful. Zidel went to Dulnato with the information about your man wanting to fight against a fellow Eye virgin, they came to me, and a plan was born. Brilliant, eh?”

I might never hear another Thardassian story, was Bowe’s first thought. Why hadn’t Glil said he was unhappy with the new situation? Then Bowe thought harder and realized that he had, just not in words. Maybe if Bowe had talked to him, he could have made him understand. Could he have, though? Bowe wasn’t even sure himself what he was offering to his brotherhood: hope or certain death.

In the Eye, both fighters were clearly tiring. Their movements were slower; neither made the wild extravagant maneuvers of earlier in the fight. Most attacks were a simple strike with the sword, and most blocks were done with shields that looked ready to crumble.

“So…” Legrand leaned across the table, the bottom of both the white and black sides of his hair touching the surface. “About that bet. I don’t know who’s going to win. Even now, they look equally matched. You win, I help you with selection. You lose, you accept a fight in the Eye.”

“No.” Bowe didn’t see any way he was getting selected by the Grenier family, whatever else happened at the end of the Path. On the other hand, he didn’t see any way Legrand would let him just leave, either. “Wait, let me think about it.”

“Come on already.” Legrand leaned back in his chair. “The bet must be made before the fight is over.”

“Let me see.” Perhaps Bowe should ask Legrand to let him go if Edison won. But Bowe sensed that Legrand saw this bet as a game. Bowe wasn’t sure Legrand meant to let him go regardless of what happened.

The crowd let out a collective shout, and Bowe turned his attention back to the fight. Edison was on one knee and Dulnato slammed his sword down at him. Edison’s shield blocked the blade, but the force of it reverberated through his body. He stumbled to his feet and backed away, holding both sword and shield at his side. Blood wept from various gashes on both men’s bodies.

Dulnato advanced with a smile on his face. He threw his own shield aside, grabbed his sword with both hands, and swung at Edison’s side. Edison lifted his shield, but couldn’t maintain his grip on it during impact, and it skittered from his grasp. Bowe could now see that blood soaked one side of Edison’s jerkin—he had a serious injury to go along with the gashes.

Edison continued to retreat, looking to either side as if for help. But that wasn’t going to happen. The crowd howled for blood. Thrace stood clenching the railing. There was nothing anyone could do for Edison now. Bowe couldn’t even imagine what would happen to anyone who tried to intervene, but he knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

Dulnato swung two-handed again. Edison raised his sword in time, but didn’t have the strength behind the block, and his own sword crashed against his body before falling from his grasp, leaving Edison on his knees, defenseless. Dulnato didn’t hesitate. He swung again, a two-handed blow that cut deep into the side of Edison’s neck. Blood spurted from the wound, spraying all over Dulnato. Edison’s corpse toppled over. Dulnato didn’t seem satisfied with his opponent’s death, and struck again and again at Edison’s corpse. The crowd roared him on. Bowe stood and turned away, sickened.

Legrand was sitting in his chair, fingering the black side of his hair, watching Bowe. A quick glance showed that the marshals stood directly in front of the only door. Bowe swallowed, composing himself. “I’m glad I didn’t make that bet now. I wouldn’t do half as well as Edison if I had to fight in the Eye. I’ll be off now.”

Legrand smiled. “You can’t go just yet. Dulnato will be up shortly to claim his prize, and I’m sure you’ll want to congratulate him personally.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Oh, I insist.”

“Bowe,” came a shout from behind him, “over here.”

“What in Helion’s craters…?” Legrand stood and stared open-mouthed at something behind Bowe’s shoulder.

Bowe turned, and—no, it couldn’t be, that was impossible. Xarcon was hovering in midair in front of the Brow as if he were eight paces tall.

“Come on—quickly!” Xarcon shouted.

Bowe moved toward Xarcon, still not sure if he could believe his eyes. Only when he could see over the edge did it make sense. Xarcon stood on the shoulders of some of his acrobat friends. They formed a human pyramid similar to the one Bowe had seen in the marketplace.

“Marshals!” Legrand roared. “Don’t just stand there. Get them!”

“Give me your hand.” Xarcon reached out.

“What are you doing?” Bowe asked as he reached out to clasp Xarcon’s hand. Then Xarcon pulled him. “No,” Bowe shouted, his stomach trying to leap clean out of his body as the rest of him began to fall. Hands grabbed at him and slowed his descent. Even so, he crashed to the ground with a thump that took the wind out of him. Above, the human pyramid unfolded and people landed all around. They all managed to avoid stepping on him, however.

Xarcon knelt at Bowe’s side. “How do you feel?”

“Like I was just thrown off a building,” Bowe said.

“Sounds like you’re fine. Come on—we have to get out of here. This is no time to be lying around.” Xarcon helped Bowe to his feet.

A bloodied Dulnato was climbing out of the circle, and marshals were beginning to converge on Xarcon and Bowe. Some of the street performers disappeared around a corner, and Bowe and Xarcon sprinted after them. They only stopped to catch their breath when they were halfway to Bellanger Mansion. No one had followed them.

“Now, how in Helion’s shadow did you appear out of nowhere like that just in time to save me?” Bowe asked.

* * *

Inside the mansion, Sorrin waited for them. He let out a long sigh of relief. “Thank the Guardians. You made it.” A smile began to form on his face, then died. “Edison?”

Bowe shook his head. “Dulnato killed him.” He shuddered. “I’m not sure his body is in one piece anymore.” A thought hit him. “We left Thrace behind.”

“I told him that if things went badly he was to disappear discreetly,” Sorrin said. “Hopefully he did that.”

“What just happened?” Bowe asked. Edison’s death was only now beginning to sink in. Numbness permeated Bowe’s chest. Another friend had died on his watch.

Sorrin sat down on the bottom step of the stairs. “I suspected something was wrong the moment we stepped into the Brow. There’s normally one marshal standing guard there, but today there were four. Also, Legrand was wearing that scarlet outfit, as if he wanted to contrast it against your azure one. I figured Legrand knew we were coming and had something planned. As soon as he mentioned the mystery fighter, I was certain.”

“Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you warn Edison?” Bowe asked. Surely they should have been able to prevent it.

“I knew Legrand wasn’t going to just let all of us walk out. I figured that he didn’t care about me, so if I could get away, I could do something to help. I told Edison when he went to get his gear that I suspected a trap, but he had to go through with it. The Greniers hunt down those who agree to a fight in the Eye and don’t turn up.”

I should have tried harder to persuade Edison not to fight in the first place, Bowe thought.

“So I had to hope that Edison could escape the trap by winning his fight. I also feared Legrand wouldn’t be inclined to just let you out of the Brow, Bowe.”

“He surely wasn’t.”

“We couldn’t openly attack the Brow. And Sindar wasn’t around; I doubt he could find a way to sneak in there, in any case. That left Xarcon, and I didn’t trust my bad leg in a footrace, so I waited here, hoping that his ingenious plan would work.”

“I would appreciate more warning next time I’m pulled off a ledge like that.”

The door opened and everyone collectively held their breath. Thrace walked in. Bowe rushed over, and, to Thrace’s obvious surprise, threw his arms around him and hugged him.

Bowe released him and stepped back. “Sorry about that. I guess I couldn’t handle losing another one of you guys today, and I’m glad you’re okay.”

Thrace face was stone. “Dulnato had no right.” His hands were balled into fists, the knuckles white. “He won the fight; he didn’t have to chop up Edison’s body.”

“Dulnato will get what’s coming to him,” Sorrin said.

Maybe what’s coming to him is a life of luxury and ease as an ascor, Bowe thought. Wasn’t Dulnato the kind of person the Green Path was designed to reward? On the other hand, Dulnato might have picked up too many enemies.

“I’ll go and see how the boys’ training is getting on.” Thrace stalked out to the central courtyard. Bowe didn’t envy the escay who had to face him on the training grounds today.

“I don’t understand how they knew we were coming,” Sorrin said.

Bowe sighed. “Legrand told me. It was Glil. He wanted to go back to Zidel, become his Defender once more.”

Sorrin jumped to his feet. “That little weasel. When I get my hands on him…”

“He was just doing what he thought was best. For himself.” Bowe wasn’t angry about what Glil did, just sad.

“He sold Edison’s life, and almost yours, too, for a chance to get one step farther along on the Path. Maybe not even a step—Zidel will never name him chief Defender. All the while pretending to be our friend. Perhaps you can forgive him that, but I surely can’t.” Sorrin left, slamming his palm into a wall.

Bowe realized he should be angry about it. Glil had betrayed them all, and it had led directly to Edison’s death. But what Sorrin had said made him realize why he wasn’t. It wasn’t his fault—it was the Path’s. Following the Path rewarded monsters like Dulnato and turned people like Glil into turn-cloaks.

“Sorrin’s right,” Bowe said. Bowe had always thought Xarcon to be even-tempered, but he was anything but right now. Tension quivered through Xarcon’s body, anger reverberated in his voice, and fire burned behind his eyes. “Dulnato killed Edison in a fair fight. But what Glil did—betrayal from the shadows—that is the worst thing anyone could do.” Xarcon curled his fingers around an imaginary neck. “If I get my hands on him, he’ll be praying to Helion for a quick death.” Xarcon wasn’t much bigger than Glil, but, in that moment, Bowe had no problem imagining Xarcon tearing him limb from limb.

Chapter 17

7 Days Left

Bowe was descending the stairs in Bellanger Mansion when a street urchin ran past him. He looked around. “Do we let them run around here now?” he asked, though there was no one there to answer him. He waited until the urchin ran back down the stairs and out of the mansion, and then finished descending. Then Sindar arrived.

“I presume he had a message for you?” Bowe asked.

“Your roof rat wants to meet me.” Sindar trudged down the stairs.

“Why does Iyra want to meet you?” Bowe felt a sudden pang.

“Not sure. The message wasn’t specific. Just that she needs me. I might as well see what’s going on.”

“Wait, I’m going with you.”

Sindar shrugged and led the way outside. The sun had set, and Helion was high in the sky.

“I don’t think we should help Iyra,” Bowe said, walking alongside Sindar. “We’ve had a good partnership, but I don’t want to maintain it. The brotherhood won’t escape the Path if we are considered too close to the escay.” Sindar didn’t know she was in the Guild, of course, just that she had helped him sell the garnets.

“I thought you liked the girl.”

“No, I don’t.” The words tumbled out of Bowe’s mouth a little too quickly. “She’s an escay. I found her useful to me.”

“You don’t remember what you said when you were in that fever, do you?”

“There’s more?” Surely admitting that he’d worked with the Guild had been the worst of it.

“You said you loved the escay girl.”

“Infernam’s balls! I didn’t.” Bowe stumbled and almost fell. “Well, I know you all thought I was speaking the truth, but I couldn’t have been. I don’t even like her.”

Sindar smirked. “I saw the way you looked at her. That’s why I asked the question. No need to be ashamed.”

Bowe spluttered. “I never… I don’t know what you are talking about. And if I did, of course there would be a reason to be ashamed; I’m not a pervert.”

“‘Pervert’ is just what the ascora call it; they don’t like their menfolk to venture downtown. Have no doubt that many of the older Greens have visited courtesans. All of the ascor themselves, no doubt, have tried out an escay or two in their time.”

“What about you?” Bowe’s throat was dry.

“I prefer ascor women. But I’ve had a sweet escay girl or two. I haven’t had to pay, mind you.” The memory of Sindar touching Iyra’s shoulder and her smiling at him rose in Bowe’s memory, and he felt sick. “They are generally dirtier, but who doesn’t like getting down and dirty once in a while?” Sindar gave an earthy laugh.

Bowe smothered his sudden inclination to hit the thief. He decided to change the subject back to his original purpose. “I don’t think we should be helping Iyra anymore—do you agree?”

Sindar stopped and looked at him. “I think you’re a sucker for her charms and will end up agreeing to whatever she wants. But yes, I’ll follow your lead.

“I guarantee that won’t happen.” Bowe looked around. “So where exactly are we going?” They were heading in the direction of the docks.

“Helion’s teeth, we’re nearly there!” Sindar lowered his voice. “We’re heading to a clandestine meeting; we shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the road gossiping like newsbards. Come on.”

He guided Bowe to the side of the street and into the shadows. From there, Bowe followed Sindar down a series of alleyways, keeping close to the walls all the way. The streets were deserted. Other than one child peering out of a window, they saw no one.

Once they had reached the edge of the docks, Sindar ducked into a doorway. Most of what appeared to be a warehouse was shrouded in darkness, but a torch hung in a bracket just inside the door.

Iyra was there to greet them. “Why did you bring him?” she asked Sindar.

“He insisted on coming,” Sindar said. “I think he wanted to see you. Ouch!” Bowe had thumped Sindar on the shoulder.

“Well, we better get on with it, then.” Iyra looked up at the loft, then turned and spoke into the darkness behind her. “It seems safe. Come out.”

Bowe tried to follow Iyra’s gaze to the loft, but couldn’t see anything except for a window leaking purple light onto a railing. Were they being watched? When Bowe had helped the Guild, he’d only ever seen Iyra; he had no idea what shadowy figures lurked there. He had definitely been right to stop helping them. Even though, as he’d told Xarcon, he’d come to accept that the Guild wasn’t evil, that didn’t mean he had to keep associating with them.

A large man walked into the torchlight. He reminded Bowe of Drakasi even before Bowe noticed the large sword strapped to his waist. His features looked…different; in this light, however, Bowe couldn’t figure out exactly how.

“Allow me to present Washima,” Iyra said.

“It’s an honor.” He had a deep voice with an unusual accent. Washima folded his palms together with his forefingers touching his lips and bowed his head toward Sindar and then Bowe.

Bowe felt an urge to bow in response but stopped himself. Outlanders weren’t allowed to stay in Arcandis, so this man could only be the spy who had escaped the Jarindor ship, leading to the seizure of his crewmates. “We’re not going to help you,” Bowe said. “Iyra, our deal is over. I’m not even getting money from you anymore.”

Iyra frowned. “There is no more money—I told you that. Once you were able to pay off the Raines—and the word spread that it was because of the ruby garnets—Stenesso put a stop to any of the Grenier marshals or ascor buying garnets. It was a good plan while it lasted.” Iyra advanced on Bowe. “Did you think I was stealing your portion?”

Bowe didn’t like having her so close. Those smoky gray eyes caught his gaze and wouldn’t let go. He took a step back. “No, I didn’t think you were stealing it. I just thought you were giving it to those servants and fighting apprentices who turned up at the mansion. As payment.”

“No, I told you they wouldn’t require any monetary payment. Don’t you remember anything?”

“It would appear not.” Bowe scratched the side of his head. “When did you tell me all this?”

“It was just after you’d recovered from the poison. Or, at least, I thought you’d recovered.”

“Did I seem happy?” Bowe asked.

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Aha!” Bowe exclaimed. “That doesn’t sound like me at all. I must have still been fevered. Anything I said then shouldn’t be taken seriously.”

“You said you’d save the escay I sent to you.” Iyra’s eyes narrowed and she moved closer to Bowe. “You seriously can’t remember? You’re not just having fun at my expense? Because this isn’t the time.”

“It certainly isn’t. Time is running out,” Washima’s deep voice said.

“I said I’d save—” Bowe gulped and stepped back. “So that’s why they’re all there.”

“Did you think the girls just loved cleaning broken down old mansions? And that the boys wanted to get beaten black and blue by one of your Deadbeats?”

Now that Iyra mentioned it, the girls did work with an unusual intensity. They must think they are cleaning for their lives. “So you believed this uncommonly-happy just-out-of bed patient when he promised to save virtually the whole of Helion-bathed Arcandis from the Infernam? And you got others to believe it, too?” Bowe’s voice had adopted a high-pitched edge. Why did he have to sound hysterical whenever he tried to be forceful?

Iyra advanced toward Bowe once again. “Are you saying you can’t save them?” She took a step with each word, causing Bowe to retreat farther into the shadows. “Or that you won’t save them?”

Now that was forceful, Bowe thought. “I’ve promised to save nearly everyone else—why not them, too?” Iyra looked ready to advance on Bowe again, so he raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll do my best. I haven’t figured out exactly what I’m going to do yet, but when I do, I won’t forget the escay.” The beginnings of a plan had started to form in Bowe’s mind, but he hadn’t yet figured out the details.

Bowe moved sideways to get around Iyra and returned to the torchlight, where Washima and Sindar waited. I told you so, Sindar’s smirk said.

Sindar had nothing to smile about. Bowe wasn’t giving in to her. He had previously agreed to help the escay at the mansion; he’d just forgotten about it. He hadn’t agreed to help Iyra any further. “We’re not helping the spy.” Bowe glanced at Washima. “No offense. I’ve enough on my plate without committing treason, as well.”

Washima bowed his head again, and Bowe had to stop himself from mirroring the gesture. Why was it so addictive? And why was Bowe apologizing to Washima, an enemy to Arcandis?

“I don’t need your help.” Iyra rejoined them by the doorway. “I need Sindar’s.”

“I agreed not to help without Bowe’s say-so,” Sindar said. “Personally, I think he wants to be persuaded.” Sindar jiggled his eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”

Bowe thumped him on the shoulder. “It’s a pity I didn’t figure out how tiresome you were, Sindar, before you joined the brotherhood.”

Iyra glanced up at the window up by the loft. “Helion has set. We don’t have too much night left. This is what will happen now: Washima will explain to Sindar the plan, and I’ll explain to Bowe why he has no choice but to help us.” She grabbed Bowe by the arm. “Come this way.”

A flash of anger coursed through Bowe and he shook her hand away. “Don’t lay your hands on me.” He’d come here to assert his authority, not be pushed around by this infuriating escay. “Remember who you are and who I am.”

Iyra and Washima shared a silent glance. Then Iyra said quietly, “Please come with me.” She led him into a corner.

“Don’t stand too close,” Bowe said, raising his voice so Sindar could hear. He didn’t want more insinuations from the thief on the way back. The darkness hid Iyra’s face, which was good, but it accentuated Bowe’s awareness of her, which wasn’t. She smelled musky and wholesome and…nice. Helion, even his nose betrayed him! Why couldn’t he get rid of these blasted feelings about her? She was an escay, and he wasn’t a pervert.

“I understand that your emotions are a bit raw. I heard that one of your friends died yesterday,” Iyra said. The voices from across the room rose and fell as Washima’s deep voice was interspersed with Sindar’s higher pitched one.

“I don’t need your understanding,” Bowe spat out. “And I don’t apologize for any of my actions. What was that glance you shared with Washima?”

“What? Nothing, nothing.”

“If ever a glance spoke volumes, that one did. Don’t take me for a fool.”

“Fine.” Iyra’s voice rose in anger. “Washima hasn’t met any ascor, and asked me what they were like. I told him I’d only met their sons—the Greens. I said that those I knew seemed normal, but there was always a black thread running through them. A sense of superiority and a disdain for the lives of others. Especially when it came to escay. You were polite and considerate all along, so Washima didn’t see what I was talking about until you blew up on me when I touched your arm.”

“Of course we are superior.” Bowe’s own voice rose in anger. “Of course ascor are superior to escay. In birth and in breeding, all the way to our bathing habits.” Bowe made a significant sniff with his nose, turning it into a liar.

“Bathing habits?” Iyra’s voice was like the ice of cold fury. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We don’t all have time to powder our noses before the nightly ball. Some of us have to struggle to eke out an existence with the pittance of resources that the ascor leave the escay.”

“We give you too much if you still have time to form organizations like the—” He paused, lowering his voice. “Like the Guild.”

Iyra seemed about to explode, then stopped herself and took a breath. “This isn’t the time for arguing about that.” Her voice was calm, but Bowe could still sense her anger. “We need your help. I’m willing to put up with your insults to get it. Don’t think I’ll forget, though. We have a copy of the key to the brig of Peace Bringer. Sindar is the best thief I know, and the only one used to getting past marshals on a consistent basis. Plus, he can swim. Washima is explaining the layout of the ship to him right now.”

“He’s wasting his breath. I never should have gotten involved with you people. I’m not going to stand for any further treason. Why should I be helping outlanders over my own people?”

“Do you know what the ascor have planned for the outlanders?”

“They’re going to keep them locked up until the Infernam, I guess.”

“And then?”

“And then they will die.”

“The heat will rise and they will be cooked to death unless someone frees them.”

Bowe shrugged. “Many people will die during the Infernam.”

“They won’t even be given the chance of poison or drowning for a quick death. It’s seven days until the Infernam—if we free them now, they’ll have a chance to sail to their homeland and find shelter.”

“It’s not my fault they’re locked up. It’s his.” Bowe gestured at Washima. “The spy. The rules for outlanders are clear. He should never have left the ship.”

“He left the ship against the ridiculous rules the ascor have for outlanders. I have talked with Washima, and I know that his reasons were honorable. The other crewmembers did absolutely nothing wrong. Do they all deserve to die?”

“It’s not my decision to make.”

“Yes, it is. If you don’t allow Sindar to help us, then you are condemning them to death. I know the ascor love to dodge decisions. The Guardians won’t kill the outlanders, they just keep them locked up long enough to ensure their death. But right now, you have to decide if you are willing to let them die. Their lives are in your hands.”

Bowe wanted relent, but stopped himself. “I’m not going along with your plans anymore. I told myself that before I came here, and I’m sticking to it.”

“Your friend who died yesterday—what was his name?” Iyra asked.

“Edison. Why?”

“Did he have to die? Because of the Infernam, did he have to die?”

“No.” The image of Dulnato striking Edison down rose again in Bowe’s mind and he rubbed a finger against the corner of his eye.

“Would you have done anything you could to save him? Of course you would have. Those people in that ship have friends in another country hoping that someone will help them. A great many people on Arcandis have to die by the time the Infernam arrives. A horrific amount. No one can save them. But Washima and the people on the ship have a place in a shelter in their home country.”

Bowe ground his teeth. “This is the last time I will allow you to involve me in one of your Guild plots.”

“Thank you,” Iyra said.

Bowe couldn’t see her face, but he sensed she was smiling. “Let’s go back to the others.” Iyra and Bowe rejoined Washima, but there was no sign of the thief. “What happened to Sindar?”

“I gave him the key,” Washima replied. “He said he already knew how his friend would decide, so he decided to get started.”

“That infuriating bastard.” Bowe balled his hand into a fist. “This brotherhood thing was a terrible idea. I should have gone with more of a tyrant theme.”

“I have to be ready to board the ship when the time comes. Iyra, I’d like to thank you for everything.” Washima bowed deeply to her and she mirrored him. “And it’s been nice meeting you, Bowe. Thanks for your help.” He bowed his head to Bowe and this time, Bowe repeated the gesture. Washima left the warehouse and disappeared into the shadows.

“What’s all this bowing about? Can’t he just clasp arms like a normal person?” Bowe said grumpily

“It’s the Jarindor way.”

“Well, he’s in Arcandis now. Should be doing it our way. He’s supposed to be a secret spy—what’s he doing walking around with a giant sword?”

“He hasn’t been carrying it around all this time. But he’ll need it to fight his way back onto his ship. Come on, let’s go somewhere where we can see what happens.”

Iyra led Bowe out of the warehouse and along the docks, keeping close to the warehouses. Helion had set, but there were no clouds and Luna was half full. The white moon provided enough light for Bowe to be able to follow Iyra without tripping over anything, and after a while, his eyes adjusted and he began to make out the outline of ships tethered against the quay.

Iyra stopped at small staircase and held her finger to her lips. “That’s Peace Bringer over there,” she whispered, pointing at the black masts and hull of a large ship opposite them. “We can get a better view from the roof. Be careful on these stairs—they creak. We don’t want the marshals guarding the ship to get suspicious.”

Bowe managed to climb the stairs without incident. He might not have had as much experience skulking around rooftops as Iyra or Sindar, but that didn’t mean he was a clumsy oaf.

When they reached the top, Iyra sat on the edge of the roof with her legs dangling and Bowe slid down beside her. From here, Bowe could see even better. Luna reflected off of the sea, creating a ghostly shimmer. The outline of the black ship was clear, and as Bowe studied it, more details came into focus. Two marshals guarded the walkway while several others patrolled the deck.

In silence, Iyra and Bowe watched together. For once, Bowe was enjoying Iyra’s closeness. The ships along the quay rocked gently in the wind, the waves lapping against the hulls. The dark expense of the sky, pinpricked with stars, met the shimmer of the sea at the horizon. Peace Bringer, the ship was called and Bowe did feel at peace. Edison had just died—betrayed by Glil—a daring rescue was in progress with Sindar in danger, and Bowe still didn’t know how he could survive the Path. Yet, in that moment, Bowe was able to push away his worries and soak up the soothing sound of the wind rustling against furled sails and the rhythmic creak of the wooden ships. Moonlit silhouettes swayed back and forth.

Iyra turned to him. “It’s beautiful,” she said in hoarse whisper, and he knew she was feeling it, too. Her face was a tapestry of moonlight and shadow. A sheen of light outlined part of her hair, and several individual strands glowed. Her eyes glistened. Bowe lifted a hand to touch her cheek. Out of the blackness, there was a shout. Bowe withdrew his hand and they turned toward the ship.

The shout came from inside the hull of Peace Bringer. All the marshals drew their swords, the sound of metal scraping against metal almost painful to Bowe’s ears. A shadow ran at the two marshals at the base of the walkway, shouting. The shadow drew his sword, and Bowe could see him well enough to recognize Washima.

The marshals froze, and in moments, one had been kicked into the sea and the other was lying on the ground, clutching his midriff. I never thought about those who would die so the outlanders could escape, Bowe thought. I shouldn’t be involved in sacrificing men from Arcandis so that men from Jarind can go free. How had he let Iyra talk him into this? On the decks, the bowels of the ship disgorged shadows, who fell upon the patrolling marshals. It seemed Sindar had done his job, freeing Washima’s crewmates. There were screams and several splashes as men fell—or were thrown—overboard.

At the top of the walkway, Washima had released the ship from the docks, and it began to drift away. Shouts multiplied across the deck, and several men began climbing the masts. Bowe looked up and down the docks, but no further marshals were arriving to stop the escape.

Bowe clutched at Iyra’s sleeve. “Sindar—did you see him get off the ship? He must still be on board.”

“I don’t know.” Iyra sounded worried. “He should be off by now. Washima will make sure he’s safe.”

“The spy doesn’t care anymore,” Bowe said bitterly. “He’s saved himself and his men. A few from Arcandis had to die; what does it matter if one of them is Sindar?” Bile rose in Bowe’s throat. “I just lost Edison—I can’t lose Sindar, too. I just can’t.” He stood.

“It’s okay.” Iyra rose beside him and rubbed Bowe’s arm. “I’m sure he’s fine. Look over there!”

“Where?” Bowe scanned the ship.

“At the stern. Or the bow. Whichever pointy part is closest to land.”

“I see him,” Bowe said. A shadow climbed the railing and dived into the water. “It must be Sindar.” A short moment later they could see the shadow swimming for shore.

“He did it,” Iyra exclaimed, and they clutched each other and jumped up and down.

The clutch turned into an embrace, and before Bowe knew what he was doing, he was kissing her. Her lips were warm and welcoming. She swayed against him, and the same peace from earlier flowed through Bowe.

Then he realized what he was doing. He broke away and shoved her so hard that she fell.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, looking up at him from where she lay.

“You’re what’s wrong with me.” I’m not a pervert, Bowe said to himself, and you’re not going to make me one. The memory of Washima killing that marshal stoked his anger. Iyra had taken advantage of him for her own ends. She had done nothing but try to seduce him and use him since he’d first met her. “Don’t ever touch me again. Filthy escay. How dare you kiss me? How dare you take advantage of me like that? Remember your place.”

Iyra pushed herself to her feet. “Filthy escay—is that so?” she shouted. Her voice sounded raw. “What about you? You’re not an ascor.”

“I’m a Green. I’ll become a full ascor or die. I’d rather die than be an escay.”

“Ever think it was strange that we helped you? Why do you think we chose you to help? You were the lowest of the Greens when we first met, remember? It’s not because you are a Bellanger—who could have known that would turn out to be so useful? It was because you are actually an escay.”

“That’s a lie.”

Iyra put her hands up to her face. “Damn you, Bowe, why do you always have to turn me upside down and inside out? Forget what I just said.” She turned and ran, her feet slapping against the rooftops.

“Wait!” Bowe ran after her, but he soon lost her in the darkness. “What did you mean? Tell me it was a lie,” he yelled into the blackness. It has to be a lie. Bowe sank down on his haunches. A roaring filled his head. It has to be a lie.

Chapter 18

6 Days Left

Bowe woke up in his own bed at Bellanger Mansion. That was a surprise—he didn’t remember returning. Marshals had converged on the docks after Iyra had left him, but he’d managed not to run into any of them even with the roaring in his head. He still wasn’t thinking straight. A cloud fogged up his brain, preventing serious thought. He didn’t want to deal with what the girl had said. The last thing he could remember from the night before was wandering down alleys and streets in the darkness, stumbling from one corner to the next.

Someone shouted his name from the hall, bringing him back to the present. He noticed that he was soaked with sweat and feared that the fever had returned until he realized that it was well into morning. No wonder he was soaked: he’d slept into the heat of the day, and fully dressed, at that. Bowe stood and went to the door. When he emerged, he saw the brotherhood gathered at the bottom of the stairs, looking out the front door.

Sorrin called out to him. “Come down. You’ll want to see this.”

Bowe didn’t feel like he could deal with anything right now, but he descended to the hall. On the ground outside the door lay Glil, dead. His eyes bulged and bloody rents ran up and down his neck. His mouth was open and full of pebbles.

Bowe’s stomach recoiled. He turned away and vomited against the wall by the door. He hadn’t eaten much in the last day, so all that came out was watery yellow bile. His throat burned, and the dry heaving of his stomach felt like his guts were being pulled from his body. Another death on his account.

“We just found him here,” Sorrin said, handing him a note. Bowe read it.

A present. We couldn’t stomach any more Thardassian stories, and it seems Glil couldn’t swallow them, either. Someone who turns his cloak once is someone to watch, someone who turns twice is not one to know.

“That’s not a present. Why do the other Elects assume I want everyone dead? Can’t they understand I’m not like them?” Bowe leaned against the wall, looking down at his own vomit., turning his gaze away from Glil’s accusing face. The noxious smell of vomit was trying to induce him to throw up again even though he had nothing left in his stomach. He had nothing more to give.

“If Zidel wanted to give us a present, he should have given the traitor to us alive,” Xarcon said, “rather than taking revenge out of our hands. Dead will have to do.”

“He betrayed us, Bowe. This is all he deserved. Maybe you should consider it a gift,” Sorrin said.

“I’m not like them. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend.” Hot tears ran down his face and dripped into his vomit. A certain part of him wanted to fall to the floor and lie in it, repugnant smell and all, and never get up again.

“Come with me.” Sorrin grabbed Bowe by the collar and practically pulled him away from the wall. He limped to the nearest room still holding Bowe’s collar, forcing him to follow along. He shut the door behind them.

“Good; there’s a mirror here. Go over there and look at yourself.” They were in the old Bellanger ballroom; no other room was as large. It hadn’t been cleaned, so a layer of dust covered every surface. Bowe went to stand in front of a long rectangular mirror with a patterned frame. He rubbed dirt from a section of it so he could see his reflection.

“What do you see?” Sorrin asked.

“I see myself,” Bowe replied, sniffling. His face looked distorted in the grimy mirror.

“Describe what you see,” Sorrin ordered.

“I see a boy, thirteen years old,” Bowe said. “Blue eyes that have seen too much. Untidy brown hair—”

“Helion, I’m not looking for a poem. I’ll tell you what I see: I see a snot-nosed kid with vomit on his lips and tears tracking big, sorrowful tracks down his dirty, haggard face. I see a pathetic little runt of a Green who should have fallen from the Path long ago. Is that what you are?”

Bowe wiped at his face with his sleeve, cleaning off some of the snot and vomit. “Yes.”

“I told you once that I wasn’t going to let you die before you fulfilled your promise to me. And I’m certainly not going to let you be a sniveling boy. Do you hear me?” Sorrin shouted. “If it were just you, I wouldn’t care. But it’s all of us. You promised to save every Deadbeat in this place, as well as the servants and the escay boys that Thrace is training.”

“I didn’t even know I promised to save them until I was told last night,” Bowe said in a small voice. “How did you know?”

“I can understand not remembering—you were in a bad way for a long time after taking that poison, and I’m still surprised you recovered—but did you not think to talk to the escay after you were better? Ask them why they were working for us?”

“No,” Bowe said in an even smaller voice.

Sorrin snorted. “You’re an ascor in your attitude to escay, at least, if not in your attitude to death. We learn at an early age that death is merely a step from the Path. And here, you fall to pieces over the death of one person. An enemy of yours, no less.”

Bowe started crying again. He couldn’t help himself, even with Sorrin looking at him in disgust. “It’s not just Glil’s death,” he blubbered. Iyra’s accusation vibrated through him. She had said that he wasn’t an ascor. That his whole life had been a lie. More than his life. Sorrin was right: death was nothing. He’d accepted from an early age that he wasn’t to have a long life. But being an ascor—that was everything. He always knew that his short life as an ascor was infinitely preferable to any kind of life as an escay. Ascor could die, but they could never be reduced to being an escay. And now Iyra’s words felt like an implosion within him.

The image of Sorrin’s face, blurred by Bowe’s tears, scowled down at him. “If it’s not Glil’s death, what is it?”

He couldn’t tell Sorrin, of course. Even the suspicion that he wasn’t an ascor would destroy the brotherhood in an instant. His hands shuddered. “Not just Glil’s death. Edison’s death, Vitarr’s death. The Path before us is a black, twisted thing yearning for—grasping for—our blood, and everyone expects me to solve everything. I’m not who you think I am.” It has to be a lie. What Iyra had said—there was no sense in it. But why had the Guild decided to help him when he was last on the lists? Why had they chosen him as their ally?

“The pressure you’re under…” Sorrin knelt at Bowe’s side and held his shoulder in a firm grip. The shuddering in Bowe’s body eased, then stopped. “Don’t think I don’t understand how much has been put on your shoulders.” He wiped at the tears on Bowe’s cheeks. “But this has to be your release. Your one collapse. You must rise stronger, and never again fall. You must and you will.” Sorrin’s firm voice helped Bowe to get his emotions under control. The tears dried up.

Sorrin pulled Bowe to his feet. From somewhere he produced a cloth and gave it to Bowe. “Clean and dry your face.” Bowe did so. “You have set yourself an impossible task, and I don’t really expect you to succeed. But I and others have trusted you, and we expect you to light a fire under the ascor establishment and let them know that there never were, and never will be again, such Greens as Bowe Bellanger and his brotherhood of Deadbeats.”

Goosebumps ran along Bowe’s arms. Sorrin’s words washed the weakness from his muscles and he stood straighter. But it was all a lie. “Sorrin, I’ve been faking all along. Kirande told me to pretend I belonged in the ascor ball, and ever since then I’ve just been continuing to fake it. But I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry that I deceived you and the others.”

Sorrin threw back his head and roared with laughter. Bowe looked at him, dumbstruck. “I’m not joking.”

Sorrin slapped Bowe on the back. “You still don’t get it, do you? Wait there for a moment.” Bowe watched as Sorrin left the room. There was some shouting, and then he was back, Bowe’s azure cloak in his hands. “Put this on,” he ordered.

Bowe was too surprised to do anything but comply. When the cloak was on, Sorrin stood in front of him and poked him in the chest. Hard. Bowe took a step back, rubbing at his chest. “You think you’re faking this? You have walked with ascor leaders and even Guardians and come away with allies and respect. People who have trained their whole lives in the ascorim and are the best protagonists of the art. You think you can fool them so easily?” He poked Bowe in the chest again.

Bowe took a half step back. “Stop poking me.” He was starting to get angry now.

“Did you fool Sindar, Edison, Xarcon, and Thrace? I told you that I could read fighters in the Eye. That I knew which ones faked their confidence. Do you think you could fool me so easily?” Sorrin poked Bowe again, but he was ready this time and pushed back, his chest deflecting Sorrin’s finger.

“Perfect,” Sorrin said. “Now, come and stand here.” Sorrin used a cloth to clean a large section of the mirror. “Look—really look. Now what do you see?”

Bowe certainly didn’t see the same person as before. In his azure cloak with his chest swelled up, his back straight, and his eyes flashing with anger, Bowe saw a young man of presence. Nothing like the crying creature who’d stood in front of the mirror just minutes earlier.

“Do you see now?” Sorrin said. “Do you see what others see? Do you see the potential? The charisma? The inner strength? And we know you have the intelligence to back it up—who else could have manipulated that Harmony match the way you did?”

Sorrin was right. What Bowe could see now was a young ascor. If he were an escay, would not the Guardians have known that in an instant? Of course they would have. Iyra was mad at the rejection, and, in the way of women, wanted to hurt him. The Guild had chosen him at random, or because he was a Bellanger. He should never have let an escay get under his skin so. He was ascor.

Bowe clapped Sorrin on the back. “Thank you. This won’t happen again.” Molten strength had been poured into Bowe, and it now flowed through his veins. He opened the ballroom door. “Now let’s light that fire.”

Outside, the other Deadbeats remained in the hall. They were talking in low voices, but the way all their heads turned toward him when he emerged showed that they had just been waiting to see what Bowe would do. They straightened their backs when they saw that the broken, vomiting creature that had been dragged into that room hadn’t returned. Instead, an aspiring young ascor stood before them.

“Sorry about that,” Bowe said. “I ate some shellfish last night, and the smell of the dead didn’t mix well with it.” He smiled and received some smiles in return, but their gazes remained wary. Bowe could imagine the brotherhood drifting away unless he showed them the leadership they needed. He looked down at Glil’s body. He felt a catch in his throat but didn’t let it show on his face. He could feel them all watching him. It shouldn’t affect me so much, he thought. I’ve recovered from Vitarr and Chalori deaths, and they were closer to me. He remembered the escay funeral barge and how he’d changed during the journey.

“What happened to Edison’s corpse?” Bowe asked.

“He was cremated in the Grenier pyre.” Sorrin sounded worried, as if he feared Bowe would descend into tears once more.

“We know that death is a simple step. Nothing to be feared.” Bowe paused and looked at each of the brotherhood in turn. “It is just a step for the one taking it, but it can be harder to deal with for those left behind. A good man will leave behind those who miss him. Before continuing on the Path, I’d like to have a ceremony of remembrance for those of the brotherhood who have had to take that step.”

“A what?” Sindar asked.

“You heard. Can someone get some chairs? We might as well do it here, in the presence of Glil’s body. His corpse can be removed to the Lessard pyre after.”

The worry lines on Sorrin’s face lengthened, but after a few shouted commands, all of the brotherhood were seated in a circle in the center of the hall. The servants who collected the chairs didn’t return to their duties; instead, they gathered on the upstairs landing and looked down.

“I’d like for each of us to recall a happy memory about Edison,” Bowe said. The group didn’t need to know he was taking this idea from an escay funeral. “I’ll start. That spot in the courtyard just below my balcony will always remind me of Edison. You all know the one. While Thrace trained with the escay, Edison went under the shade of the south wing balcony and practiced by himself. Hour after hour, he sweated and practiced, practiced and sweated. He didn’t have to fight in the Eye, but he was determined to prove himself. I admire him for that more than I can say.” Bowe bowed his head and waited.

A long moment passed. Then Sorrin spoke. “Back in the day, when I still had two good legs, we were having a race. A big bunch of us at Grenier Mansion. Edison fell near the end, and we all turned to laugh as he pushed himself out of a big, dirty puddle. Brown water streamed from his hair and clothes, and he looked a fright. He was probably going to get into a world of trouble when he returned to the harem. I would have been fuming. But Edison jumped up with a genuine smile on his face and laughed harder than the rest of us. I’ll never forget it.”

“I didn’t know him that well,” Xarcon said. “But I always knew he was one of the good guys. He had a certain strength about him. I felt better about our chances knowing he was on our side.”

“We’re screwed now that he’s gone,” Sorrin said.

Bowe laughed, and looked up to see everyone else laughing along.

“Laughter: that’s how I’ll remember him,” Sindar said. “Making a joke and having fun. He’d like that we were laughing in his honor at this remembrance ceremony.”

There was a pause before Thrace spoke up. “I—” His voice broke. He paused, then continued. “I don’t know why he helped me.” He measured each word before he said it. “I’ve always been slower at understanding things than other people. Everyone knew I wouldn’t survive the Path. That I wasn’t worthy to be an ascor. I wasn’t smart, or one of the best fighters. But the more I was left to myself, the more Edison looked out for me.” Thrace took a long breath; Bowe figured that was the longest speech he’d ever made. “If there was some way I could bring him back and take his place, I’d do it.”

The silence had a weight to it that made it difficult to break. Finally, Bowe said, “We remember Edison.”

It was repeated in a chorus by the rest of the brotherhood. There was an expelling of breath, and bowed heads were raised. “Now for Glil.” Bowe’s words produced a scowl from Xarcon. “Thinking of Glil means thinking of his rock-people stories.” Bowe smiled at the memory of them. “He had a story for each occasion. If he wanted to tell you something, he had to turn it into a story. Some of them had obvious lessons. For others, there was a nugget of wisdom just waiting to be mined from its murky depths, if you’d the wit to find it. Still others were so ridiculous that they surely had no deeper meaning, but who knows? I made fun of his stories, but now that he’s gone, I wish I had written them down so they don’t die with him.”

“I remember how he pretended to be our friend, then betrayed us,” Xarcon said.

Bowe sighed. “Glil may have been corrupted by the Path, but I firmly believe he had a good heart. This isn’t the time for recriminations. If anyone has anything good to say about him, we’ll hear it now.”

“He was always nice to me,” Thrace said.

When no one else was inclined to speak, Bowe decided to end it there. “We remember Glil,” he intoned.

This wasn’t repeated, but Bowe still felt better. He looked down at the body again. Time to move on. “Now,” he continued, “there’s only six days left until the Infernam, so we’ll all be busy. Sorrin, there’s a Deadbeat called Oamir—do you know him?”

“I’ll find him.”

“He lives with a newswriter. See if he’ll join us. We’ll need someone to keep records, and I think he’s the guy for the job.” It was time to implement the plan that had been forming in Bowe’s mind. He hadn’t figured out all the details yet, but there was no more time for thinking.

“Thrace, keep training those escay boys. In fighting, mainly, but make sure they can march in unison, as well. Sorrin—can you get some better weapons for them? I know you’ve got some betting winnings squirreled away somewhere. Oh, and Sorrin?” New ideas were flashing through Bowe’s mind as he spoke. “See if you can get them marshal uniforms, only in the Bellanger colors.”

“Bellanger marshal uniforms?” Sorrin said. “What in Helion’s name are you planning?”

Bowe smiled. “We are going to light a fire on the Path such as has never been done before. Are you with me?”

Sorrin grinned back and clapped his hand onto Bowe’s shoulder. “Now this is what I’m talking about. I never doubted you, boy.”

“I’m a boy no longer.” Bowe winked at Sorrin.

“What do you want me to do?” Xarcon asked.

“Let me see. What else will we need?” Bowe tried to visualize what he hoped would happen. “Rickshaws. Two two-man rickshaws, with Bellanger colors and emblems. And,” Bowe said, turning to Sindar, “most importantly, I’ll need a certain door unlocked.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Sindar said.

“I hope not. But this won’t be as easy as you think. This is a rather unique door. It hasn’t been opened in eighteen years.”

Chapter 19

1 Day Left

Bowe shrugged into his ascor clothing. It was freshly washed and pressed and smelled of lemon; there was plenty to be said for having escay servants around. Likely the ascor were sick of seeing him appear always in the same clothing, but the azure robes had gotten him this far. He would go to the final ascor event in them and take his place as the fourth player in the Grand Sexennial Harmony Match. Bowe shivered despite the heat. The Infernam was upon them. This was it. So many people would die before another day passed—likely including himself and everyone in Bellanger Mansion.

No one could venture out under the full heat of the sun anymore. Yesterday at midday, Bowe had seen a sheet of paper left out in the courtyard curl up, blacken, then burst into flame and burn. He shivered to think of skin blistering in the same way. What a horrible way that would be to die. He surely had been right not to stand in the way of the Guild freeing the Jarindors.

Xarcon appeared in the doorway. “There’s someone here to see you. Sorrin took him to the ballroom. Come on.”

“Who is it?” Bowe asked as he followed Xarcon down the stairs.

“Sorrin didn’t tell me.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Bowe moved toward the ballroom door, but Xarcon stopped him. “He asked for you to be brought in the side entrance.”

“Why?” Bowe asked.

Xarcon shrugged and led him down a narrow hallway. Bowe didn’t particularly want to revisit the ballroom. The last time Bowe had seen its dust-covered floors and grimy windows, he’d been crying over Glil’s death. Xarcon opened a door and stepped back to let Bowe enter. Bowe walked in, then stopped in shock.

The room had been cleaned from top to bottom. The windows sparkled and Helion shone through them. Torches blazed along the walls, adding to a yellow light to Helion’s purple glow. Opposite where Bowe had entered through the side door stood an ornate wooden chair flanked by two of the escay marshals. The Bellanger marshals used to wear a uniform that was an extremely light blue called azure mist, and Sorrin had managed to get several escay outfitted in them, including those two.

In front of the throne—for that is what it surely was—Sorrin was arguing with the White Spider, who had one man in attendance. The Shadow, Bowe guessed.

“I don’t ask for a bloody show—are you going to have singers and dancers coming out next?—I just need to see Bowe. And it’s bloody urgent,” the White Spider said.

“You’ll just have to wait. Coming here with a Shadow the night before the Infernam. You’ll be lucky if I let you see him at all.”

“You have guards. Just get him here.” The White Spider’s voice quavered.

“I’m here,” Bowe said. He strode across the room, hesitated, then sat down in the chair. Xarcon followed Bowe and stood to the side, scowling at the White Spider.

Bowe was about to ask Sorrin what had possessed him to transform the ballroom like this, then decided against it. Questioning it would only ruin the effect. What Sorrin had done was perfect—Bowe only wished he’d thought of it himself. He had to look like he truly was the Bellanger Guardian if he wanted others to believe it.

“Look what has become of the frightened boy who ran down the pier.” The White Spider did a full circle, taking in the whole room. As he did so, Bowe noticed a large flag on one wall. Gold cloth with an azure sun: the Bellanger emblem.

“What do you want?” Bowe asked.

“I want to save you from Dulnato once more.” The White Spider leaned back on his heels. “I ask for only one thing in return.”

“And what is that?” Bowe asked.

“Shouldn’t you first ask why you need saving from Dulnato? Only the small-minded fear the price rather than valuing the prize. In any case, there is nothing to fear right now. Just as well, since your man was intent on delaying my warning. But Dulnato and his Defenders are on their way here. There is a strong rumor that you will be offered the third Select position along with Zidel and myself at the Harmony match tonight. Dulnato has declared that whichever of his men kills you will become his chief Defender. In return for the warning, I only ask that Nechil and I be allowed to remain here and aid in your defense.”

At that, Nechil gripped the White Spider’s arm. The White Spider turned, and Nechil stared into the mask. It was strange to see a staring contest between a mask and a person, and surprisingly, the mask lost. The White Spider turned away from Nechil’s gaze. “Nechil thinks that, if I stayed, I would be in as much danger as you, Bowe, but without the protection. I will therefore leave. Nechil will remain, with your permission.”

Nechil was short and handsome, so it was easy to see how he could pass for a woman with the right makeup and clothing. It was he, without doubt, who had killed Reyanu.

“To want us to allow your Shadow to stay here?” Sorrin asked. “This sounds like a trap, if I ever heard one.”

“What if Nechil is just here to get close to Bowe?” Xarcon’s face remained in a scowl. “Perhaps the White Spider won’t get selected unless Bowe dies.”

There was a blur of movement. Bowe jerked back and grabbed at the armrests. Nechil had leaped forward. Bowe felt a touch at his neck, and then Nechil scrambled back to his position beside the White Spider. Swords scraped against scabbards as Sorrin and the two marshals drew. But they were too slow—much too slow to have saved Bowe if Nechil had wanted to harm him. They were ready to make sure Nechil couldn’t do it again, though; they pointed their swords at him.

“Stop.” Bowe touched his neck as he stood. “Sheathe your swords. I am unharmed.” Nechil had simply touched him.

“If Nechil wished to kill you, he would have done it,” the White Spider said, moving Nechil’s cloak back to reveal a knife in a scabbard.

The two marshals sheathed their swords, but Sorrin continued to point his at the White Spider. “Don’t ever try a stunt like that again. Now hand over that knife.”

“It’s a bit late for that now,” the White Spider said calmly. “You should have been more worried about that earlier and less about putting on this…display.” The White Spider twirled his hand over his head to indicate the ballroom’s new decorations.

Sorrin’s sword shook slightly and he moved it closer to the mask. The White Spider didn’t react, but Nechil’s hand moved to his knife.

“Sorrin!” Bowe shouted. “Sheathe your weapon. We’re on the same side.”

“For now.” Sorrin slammed his sword into its scabbard.

The White Spider nodded his head at Bowe. “I’ll be off, then. Dulnato will be here shortly. Good luck.” He turned and exited. Nechil removed his hand from his knife and watched the White Spider leave with a wistful expression on his face.

“And I thought this was going to be a peaceful evening,” Bowe said. “Just invade another of the ascor social events, play an epic game of Harmony, and convince them to turn the Path on its head. Looks like it’s not going to be as easy as all that, though. We’d better prepare our defense.” Bowe realized he had no idea how to do that. “Sorrin?”

“We’ll need to know how they intend to attack. Xarcon, get Sindar, and the two of you take to the rooftop. One of you can report back while the other keeps watch.”

“We’ll take two bows, as well, and see if we can do any damage,” Xarcon said as he left.

“Good idea. Thrace and I will lead our newly promoted marshals. Knowing Dulnato, he’ll just charge straight through the main door. We’ll try to stop them just inside the hall. The most important thing is to keep Bowe safe. Bowe, you’ll have to stay as far away from any entrances as possible, yet within sight of us.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, thinking. “Yes, we’ll have Bowe wait on the upstairs landing. If attacked from behind, try to descend the stairs so we can protect you.”

“No, I’ll fight too.” Bowe didn’t want more people to die without being able to help them. That had happened enough. “Just give me a sword and tell me where to stand.”

“Give him your sword,” Sorrin said to the escay marshal to Bowe’s left. The marshal did so. Bowe frowned as he took it. Something about Sorrin’s voice made him suspicious. Bowe took the sword and held it up, letting Helion cast purple shimmers up and down its length.

There was a scrape of metal, and before Bowe could react, Sorrin had unsheathed his sword and struck Bowe’s blade. Bowe’s sword fell from his grasp and clattered across the floor.

“Do you see why we don’t want you in the middle of the fighting?” Sorrin asked.

“No fair. I wasn’t ready.”

“That’s right, you aren’t ready. How much time have you spent out in the courtyard practicing with weapons? How much time did you spend when you were in Raine Mansion?”

Bowe hadn’t been one of the best with the sword before he’d become a Green; it hadn’t seemed important when he was sure he would die on the first day. “We need everyone who can hold a sword.”

“Exactly. You’ve just proved you can’t. Disarmed by a cripple. All of Dulnato’s men trained in the Fortress before they became Greens, where training is more intense than in Raine Mansion. Their training has escalated under Drakasi, and several have died.”

Bowe wasn’t surprised, remembering Vitarr’s treatment at Drakasi and Dulnato’s hands. “The fact that a few are dead helps us, at least. How many are left?”

“Seven, including Dulnato,” Sorrin said.

“That will give them the advantage. I still think you need me—”

“No. If you die, we all die. None of us have a chance of survival tomorrow without you. Protecting you is our number one priority. All they care about is killing you. If you’re there, they’ll all charge you, one of them will kill you, and it’ll be over.”

Rather me than all the rest of you, Bowe thought. He didn’t want the death of anyone else on his hands. But Sorrin was right. He was the key to whatever small chance they had at survival. The last Bellanger.

“We’ll do it your way,” Bowe said finally.

* * *

Trickles of sweat crept down his body; the waiting seemed to make the heat intensify. Bowe cursed himself once again for not changing out of his dark clothing when he’d had the chance. Not only did it increase the heat, it also made him a big blue target that no one could miss. But it was too late now; Xarcon had just reported that Dulnato’s men were close. Bowe clutched the railing on the landing. Below him waited Thrace, Sorrin, and the six escay marshals. Nechil stood beside Bowe. Sorrin had wanted Nechil down in the hall, but Nechil had refused, insisting on staying with Bowe. Bowe glanced at the boy beside him. He didn’t seem nervous, just watchful. Bowe would have given a lot to have that composure right now as he clenched on the railing.

Bowe thought of Oamir. He’d been set up in one of the upper floor rooms with the ledgers that Bowe had asked him to fill out. And no one had remembered him when they’d discovered Dulnato was attacking. Just as well, Bowe thought, he was unlikely to be much good in a fight. Best to leave him alone with his studying and writing.

The main door had been left open. Sorrin wanted Dulnato to attack head-on, and figured that leaving the door open was a challenge of sorts. The door faced out toward the setting Helion. Rays of purple light flooded through the open door, though their intensity had diminished in the last few minutes. Sorrin must have been thinking the same thing; at that moment, he limped through the door. He held out his hands. “What are you waiting for? Nothing but a few cripples and escay here. Come at us!” Sorrin yelled. He clearly wanted them to attack while there was still enough light for the bows of Xarcon and Sindar to be of use.

There was a roar from outside, and a gallop of running feet. Bowe’s hand clutched his throat, afraid that Sorrin would be caught out on his own. Sorrin scrambled back away from the door, but his limp slowed him down. Dulnato’s Defenders charged the entrance, almost getting in each other’s way in their pursuit of Sorrin. There was a whirring sound, then another, followed by a shout. An arrow sprouted from the shoulder of the lead Defender, but he snapped the shaft off and kept coming.

The arrows delayed his pursuers enough for Sorrin to make it back to Thrace and the marshals ahead of his pursuers. An instant later, the whole hall descended into a melee of fighting. Dulnato wasn’t there; only five of his men were attacking. Where were Dulnato and his other Defender? Nechil had obviously had the same thought, because he was scanning the landing, looking for further attackers. They had Xarcon and Sorrin on the roof to alert them and Helion still hadn’t fully set, so there was enough light to see. That would have to be enough.

Below, although outnumbered, Dulnato’s men were having the best of it. Thrace was the only one who seemed evenly matched to his opponent. Clain had driven Sorrin into a corner, and he was struggling. The five escay marshals stood against the other three, but even then the escay were clearly at a disadvantage. Dulnato’s men were faster, stronger, and much more skilled. Moments later, even the numerical advantage disappeared. Almost simultaneously, one of the escay was run through the chest while another’s throat was cut. Both fell, bleeding, to the floor. The remaining three marshals backed away, fear in their eyes.

Bowe could see what would happen next as clearly as if he were considering Harmony moves. Those three would fall quickly and all five men would attack Thrace and Sorrin together. There were possibly only moments until all seven of Bowe’s men would be dead. Bowe had to do something. He jumped up and ran down the stairs.

“Stop!” Nechil reached out to grab him, but Bowe was already gone.

“It’s me you want,” Bowe screeched, grabbing the bannister with one hand and leaping down three steps at a time.

Bowe was a few steps from the bottom when he stopped suddenly. He had attracted more attention than he’d intended. All five of Dulnato’s men had disengaged from their opponents and now stared at him. They all looked at each other, and then charged blindly at the stairs. At him. Helion in a rickshaw! Bowe began to scramble backward, but he seemed to have lost all coordination.

“Bowe, your sword!” Sorrin shouted and Bowe realized that, in his rush, he hadn’t even drawn his weapon. He reached for his hilt, but only had time to watch as Clain’s blade crashed down at him. A sword appeared above Bowe’s head, blocking Clain’s, and then a leg kicked Clain in the chest. Clain stumbled back against his men and was shoved aside. He crashed through the bannister, falling back down to the ground floor. Behind him, another of Dulnato’s Defenders swung at Bowe. The sword appeared above Bowe’s head, again blocking the Defender’s swing. Bowe thought for one crazy moment that mystical forces were fighting Dulnato’s men to save him.

“Get back!” Nechil grabbed the back of Bowe’s shirt and pulled as he struck out at the Defenders below. Ah, Nechil saved me. That made sense. Bowe managed to get his legs to work well enough to allow him to scuttle up a few steps. Nechil stepped between him and Dulnato’s men. Below in the hall, Sorrin had stabbed Clain before he’d had a chance to recover from his fall. On the stairs, Dulnato’s men were now a single ball of legs, arms, torsos, swords, and screams. One of them had fallen back into the other three, and now they fought to regain their footing, fighting each other as much as their opponents. Thrace and the marshals now attacked them from behind while Nechil stood above them and prevented them from getting up.

Their screams and struggles lingered for a while longer, but they all died before fully regaining their feet. Red rivulets trickled down the stairs, pooling below the bottom step. Bowe and Nechil jumped through the gap in the balcony to avoid the blockage of bodies on the stairs. Blood was smeared all over the faces of Thrace and the three remaining marshals, and no one’s clothes were without at least several large stains. Bowe rubbed at the wet purplish stains on his own clothes. He felt strangely blank, as if two opposing emotions canceled each other out. He knew he should feel euphoric for winning, for still being alive. But the room stank of death.

Xarcon came in the front door, holding his bow loosely in his fingers. “You did it.” He said it like he was saying that the sun didn’t rise in the mornings anymore. “How?”

“Killing Bowe meant being chosen as Dulnato’s chief Defender,” Sorrin said. “They virtually fought each other in the end to try and kill him. Once Nechil stopped their rush on the stairs, we were able to pick them off.”

“What about Dulnato and the other?” Nechil asked Xarcon.

“One tried to creep in the back, but he ran off when we shot a few arrows at him. Dulnato was watching from the street, but he left once the battle turned bad.”

“Which way did he go?” Nechil asked, gripping Xarcon’s sleeve. Xarcon pointed down the street and Nechil ran off in that direction.

“I guess his main task was to kill Dulnato, not to save you,” Sorrin said.

“Yet he still saved me. He didn’t have to come down the stairs when I—”

“When you charged down like a lunatic.” Sorrin raised his eyebrows at Bowe. “Without so much as drawing your sword. I don’t remember that being in our plan to keep you safe.”

“Improvisation is sometimes called for, even in the best laid plans.” Bowe walked over to the corpses of the two marshals. Another two to add to those who had died on his account. Chalori, Vitarr, Edison, Glil. And he’d never even talked to these two. “What were their names?”

“Raef and Fern.”

They looked so young, even though they were only a year or two older than Bowe. They both had blond hair. One had blue eyes; the other’s eyes had been splattered with blood, so Bowe couldn’t make out the color. Bowe clenched his eyes shut, then opened them again. He had to be strong. He couldn’t break down over the death of a couple of escay. “Can someone see that their loved ones know what happened? And make sure they get a place on a funeral barge.” Bowe was glad his voice was firm.

“This is the last day—they don’t always have room for more corpses on the barges,” Xarcon said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

Bowe straightened his back and puffed out his chest. “Now, for the next task. Hopefully they won’t mind a few bloodstains in the ballroom at Raine Mansion, because I’ve got a Harmony match to play.”

* * *

Bowe leaned back in the rickshaw, letting the rumbling of the wheels and the steady movements wash over him. He had to stop himself from falling asleep. He knew he should be planning his ascorim moves for the hours ahead, but he couldn’t concentrate. At least he had a plan for what he wanted to happen on the Harmony board today.

The rickshaw stopped suddenly, and Bowe’s head jerked forward. Had he actually fallen asleep? “We’ve arrived,” a voice said.

“Thank you.” Bowe pulled back the curtain and stepped out. First time back at Raine Mansion since the start of the Green Path, he thought. Helion had set and Luna wasn’t in sight, but the walls and four towers of the mansion were outlined by numerous flickering torches.

Turning back to the rickshaw, he noticed for the first time that it displayed the azure Bellanger sun on the outside of the curtain. The two rickshaw pullers had been another surprise earlier. Xarcon had recruited a couple young men to fulfill the task with the usual promise of salvation. How many now relied upon Bowe to save them? Based on hopes and wishes, and faith in Bowe.

“You okay?” Thrace asked. He and another marshal had marched behind the rickshaw. They looked tired, but Bowe hadn’t been able to convince them not to come.

“Fine.” Bowe shook his head, trying to shake the tiredness from his mind. He couldn’t allow himself to be any less than his strongest now. “Find somewhere to sit and rest.” He turned and entered Raine Mansion, nodding to the marshals who guarded the entrance.

He blinked several times after walking into the ballroom; the light was dazzling. A multitude of lamps hung from the ceiling, and additional torches were bracketed to the walls.

Bowe stood at the entrance for a moment and waited. First, those closest saw him; then they whispered to those beside them, and the news of his arrival spread outwards in a wave until all gazes had turned toward him. A hush descended upon the crowd.

“Sorry about the bloodstains.” Bowe brushed dust from his tunic. “The Green Path isn’t always as bloodless as I would like.” He strode into the heart of the crowd and a corridor opened for him.

In the center of the room, a decorative Harmony board had been set up. A large chair—almost a throne—had been placed in front of the silver pieces. Bowe stood in front of the blue pieces. “Shall we begin?” he asked.

Stenesso detached himself from a group of Grenier ascor and moved to the board. “We would have started earlier if you’d been here.” He was a tall man, and his head seemed bigger than it should have with his large forehead, the thick ridges over his eyes, and his wide, flat nose. His hair was black and shoulder length. Like many other Grenier marshals, he wore a large sword strapped to his waist.

“Unavoidably detained.” Bowe rubbed at a bloodstain on his sleeve. “I wish I could have arrived on time and in pristine condition.” The rest of the crowd returned to their conversations. A space between the Harmony board and everyone else meant that Bowe’s conversation with the Guardians was private.

A man stepped up to the board; he looked so much like Eolnar that Bowe knew him to be Sorani even before he came to stand in front of the green pieces. The main difference from his brother was his hair; it was longer: thick and curly. He reached his arm out across the board. “We haven’t met before. Nice to finally meet you, Bowe Bellanger.”

“And you, Sorani Lessard.” Bowe clasped his arm.

“Enough of this Bellanger stuff,” Stenesso said. “He’s a Green, remember? Gives up his family name until he’s selected. Then he adopts that family.”

“This seems to be a rather unique case,” Sorani said. “I hear that he’s reopened the ballroom in Bellanger Mansion and sits on a throne with the Bellanger flag flanking him. And he arrived like royalty tonight in a rickshaw with Bellanger-uniformed marshals guarding him. Hardly your average Green.”

“Word travels quickly.” Bowe wondered how Sorani knew all that already.

“I had not heard,” Stenesso said. “Perhaps we should reconsider our decision.”

“Perhaps it is too late for that,” said another voice, “now that Dulnato has failed so badly.” Bowe turned to see Kesirran tottering toward them, leaning heavily on a cane. “If you’ll allow an old man this comfort,” he said as he sat on the chair in front of the silver pieces, “we can begin.”

They began to play.

“What decision do you mean?” Bowe asked after a moment.

“Our choice for selection. Zidel, the White Spider, and you.”

“Provided,” Stenesso broke in, “that you prove your Harmony skills by not losing in this match.”

Bowe’s heart beat faster. He’d been selected. Even though he knew his position on the lists and Dulnato’s failed attack made him a favorite, only hearing it from the lips of the Guardians made it real. Bowe now had a decision to make. “Have I not already proved my Harmony skills by getting here?”

“We looked at the record of your last game.” Stenesso advanced a scarlet Harmony piece. “Very clever, but crude. I’m not sure you understand how your game looks to us, who have played Harmony for so many more years than you. Imagine a dance competition: there are a number of ways to win. You could bludgeon the other dancers so they can’t compete, or you could dance better than them. You bludgeoned.”

Rubbish, thought Bowe, I played within the rules. A tactic wasn’t ugly just because it was new. “And if I don’t accept selection?” Bowe asked.

Stenesso laughed. “Why would anyone not accept selection? What would you do instead? Die?”

“Will you allow me to bring all my followers into the Refuge? I promised I would not enter without all of them.”

“An interesting tactic,” Stenesso mused. “So there is no infighting among your Defenders? They believed you?”

“I was serious.”

Stenesso smiled. “Serious or not, that’s not how the Green Path works. If we let you do that, all the Selects would be demanding extra Defenders, and we’d soon be awash with ascor. There’s not enough room in the Refuge.”

“There must be some extra room with the demise of the Bellangers only twelve years ago,” Bowe said.

“That space will be filled in a natural way. Each of the families will expand as their power dictates. You get to choose one Defender, just like Zidel and the White Spider.”

Bowe had known he’d be refused, but he’d had to ask all the same. He looked down at the board. Everyone had made standard opening moves so far, and he was confident he could play well enough to draw. He could be become the Select. He could choose one person to be his chief Defender and move on. There would be no one to hold it against him after the Infernam.

Or could he give up selection and his guaranteed survival for a chance to save more than just one other person. Bowe scanned the ballroom and noticed Zofila. Beside her, Alandar clutched her arm tightly. Bowe noticed the sadness and resignation in her eyes. No, he couldn’t just accept selection and let everyone else die. He remembered Vitarr on the funeral barge. Edison, Tlirris, Glil, Reyanu—everyone killed by the Path. He wasn’t going to continue walking along it and let the other Deadbeats die. Nor the escay who had risked their lives because of his promise, two of whom had died just hours ago to save him.

Bringing his attention back to the Harmony board, he chose his strategy. He launched a double-pronged attack against the two players on either side of him, Kesirran and Sorani. An all-out attack. No thought to defense; no thought to survival. He made his first move to that end and watched additional wrinkles form on the brow of each of his opponents as they bent to study the board.

“Stenesso, you mentioned about the excess room in the Refuge being filled as each family gains power,” Bowe said. “Is that why the Grenier family has promoted so many new ascor recently?”

Stenesso’s eyes narrowed. “Your selection isn’t confirmed yet. I’d worry more about your position on the Harmony board and less about internal Grenier matters.”

Bowe could sense the anger under the surface of the Grenier Guardian’s words and smiled to himself. He allowed a few rounds of moves to unfold before speaking again. This time, he addressed Sorani. “The game Harmony—it’s unique to Arcandis, isn’t it?”

Sorani nodded. “As far as we know. There are some similar games in other countries.”

“It’s a curious name. Do you know where it comes from?”

This time, Kesirran replied. “It speaks of the way in which all four sides can maintain equality in a well played game. Each player plays only to advance himself. But once a balance is maintained, all four players can harmoniously prosper.” His mouth twisted into a smile. “From how you play, that seems to be something you don’t understand about the game.”

“Oh, I understand. I’m just not sure the rest of you do.” There was no harmony on the board today—only chaos. Bowe’s pieces were entangled with Sorani’s and Kesirran’s. Because he was fighting two opponents, he wouldn’t last much longer. Stenesso was untouched, and taking control of large areas of the board.

“I’ve played a two-person version of this, but never a three-person one. Why didn’t you adapt the game for three people and use that for the sexennial tournament? Beats having to invite a marshal or a Green to take the fourth seat, no?”

There was no reply. Bowe already knew from talking to Oamir that Kesirran had famously demanded that such a three-person version be developed, but no one had figured out how to create the proper balance to make it workable.

Another few rounds of moves, and Stenesso captured Bowe’s last piece. Bowe had lost. Both Kesirran and Sorani’s positions were weak, but it was hard to tell if Stenesso would be able to force a solo victory, or whether one—or both—of the others could recover enough to claim a draw.

Bowe took a step back. “Look at that. The Bellanger pieces destroyed, and the Greniers in the ascendency. I wonder if balance can be reclaimed, or if harmony will come about only through single-family domination. The future will tell.” Bowe nodded his head to each of the Guardians in turn. Stenesso looked furious, but the other two didn’t give their feelings away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have the last day of the Path to prepare for. I assume I’ve lost my chance of selection on the Green Path and will have to attempt a different Path.”

He walked away, heading back towards the entrance. Several people from the crowd craned their necks forward so they could study the Harmony board. It was considered a good sign for the upcoming six years when the Grand Sexennial Match was well balanced. That certainly hadn’t happened this time. Bowe was about to exit the ballroom when he spotted Zofila out of the corner of his eye.

He went over to her and nodded to Alandar, who was tightly squeezing her fingers. “Can I borrow Zofila for a moment?”

The Raine ascor reluctantly released her and Bowe pulled her aside. “Are you married yet?” he asked.

“No. Last chance tonight.” Zofila grimaced. “I’m in luck, though: Alandar will have me. As his sixth or seventh wife, I’ve lost count.”

“Why do I get the impression that that’s not a good thing?”

“He likes them young, so he marries a new batch every six years.” Dark shadows showed under Zofila’s eyes, despite the makeup. “He likes inflicting pain, too, so the additional six years I buy with this marriage could be more bad than good. I have to decide soon.”

“The offer I made to you before is still open.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve followed the news. You’re about to be selected.”

“That’s not happening now. I have a number of followers—both Greens and escay—and a plan to get us all into the Refuge. It might not work; likely we’ll all be killed. But we intend to at least make a bit of noise. And you’re welcome to join us.”

Zofila hesitated, then smiled. The dark shadows lifted. “My blue knight.” She wrapped her hands around his arm. “That’s my best offer yet. If you’re willing to guide me into certain death, then I’m willing to follow you there. Lead on.”

Chapter 20

Infernam

The coverings on both sides of Bowe’s rickshaw were tied open at his insistence, letting the last rays of the sun stream in. His whole life had been leading up to this day, and he wanted to soak it in. To look at Arcandis, perhaps for the last time. Sorrin sat beside him. Zofila and Xarcon were in the rickshaw behind them, the coverings down, displaying the azure Bellanger sun. The pullers were waiting word to start the journey to the Refuge.

The brotherhood had done an incredible job of turning the whole group into the Bellanger family—in appearance, at least. Each rickshaw had two pullers. Everyone wore wide-brimmed hats and modified shoes with a finger of wood cobbled to the bottom to protect leather—and skin—from the sunbaked ground. It was necessary, even now with the sun about to set.

“Please, can we have the coverings down?” Sorrin asked. “I’m being boiled alive.”

“We’ve been over this. You can last until we reach the Refuge—it’s not far. It’s worse for me than it is for you.” Bowe indicated his azure clothing.

“No one’s making you wear that. I spent all morning trying to talk you out of it.”

It seemed right to Bowe that he finish this wearing his azure costume; it had stood by him. Plus, if things went to plan, he’d meet the Guardians again. He couldn’t show up dressed as an escay. Bowe tapped the shoulder of one of the rickshaw pullers. “Let’s go.”

They began to pull, leaving Bellanger Mansion behind. The second rickshaw followed, then everyone else on foot—Sindar, Oamir, Thrace, the marshals, the servants, and a number of children belonging to the escay. Children under twelve were always allowed in the Refuge if their parents were. Everyone moved forward at a slow shuffle, sweat dripping from their faces. Behind them came two carts piled high with food, water, and belongings, dragged by two further sets of pullers. The rickshaw pullers were gasping for breath before long, but Bowe didn’t want to stop too soon. Considering the speed at which they were moving, he now realized that they should have left earlier.

The sky was an intense blue, even now as the sun set. Bellanger blue, Bowe thought. The fiery-red, almost blood-red sun shimmered as it descended into the sea, meeting and being eaten up by its reflection. The heat was like an open furnace. It should have been unbearable, but each day they’d been getting used to the incremental increase. Still, it was hotter than he could have imagined just ten days ago.

The streets were mainly deserted. Most of what was left of the evacuation had happened in the early hours of the morning. A few escay shuffled toward the docks, where the funeral barges were still being shuttled out to sea and back, overseen by the priests. For escay at this time of year, walking to his or her funeral was much more common than being carried. He wondered what had happened to Iyra. That was an uncomfortable thought; Bowe had no idea if she had found a place in the Refuge. It would serve her right if she didn’t, said a small voice deep within him as he remembered their last meeting, where she had accused him of being an escay. A larger part of him suffered a painful pang at the thought of her death. She will survive, he told himself. If he lived, he would see her again.

They passed Raine Mansion. Bowe wondered if those left behind had taken poison already or if they’d wait until the last possible moment. His answer came immediately, for he caught a glimpse of a face in a second floor window with a pair of dark, glittering eyes. Ariastiana. So her schemes to remain the chief wife had failed. Bowe knew it was what she deserved, but on this day, with death like a vulture of fire consuming life after life, it was hard to be glad at any death.

Drywell Square was empty, and the scene reminded him of the first day, when Drakasi had killed Tlirris, when the four corners had been occupied by each family’s Greens. He looked over at the corner where he’d waited, the Bellanger corner, and wondered if that would be empty for future Paths. A line of escay walked through the square, led by a figure in a patchwork cloak. He had large shoulders and a bald head. “Kaitan!” Bowe called out. The figure turned, and Bowe could see that it wasn’t him. Bowe waved him on and the line of escay resumed winding its way toward the docks and death.

Helion’s purple light gradually replaced the sun’s yellow one. The procession continued until Bowe noticed the pullers beginning to drag their feet. “We’ll stop here for a few minutes,” he said. “Get some water into you. We’ll be at the Refuge soon.” What awaited them at the Refuge was left unsaid. Death or life?

Bowe got out of the rickshaw, and Oamir moved to intercept him. He held a ledger in his hand. “I’ve filled this out as you asked; there’s just one problem—her.” He pointed his thumb at Zofila.

She overheard and walked over to them. “So I’m a problem, am I? I’ve never heard that before. What is it this time?”

“Everyone has their role in here,” Oamir said, tapping the brown leather cover of the ledger, “except for the Greenette.”

“I told you: she’s an ascora now.” Bowe was handed a waterskin and took a drink. The water wasn’t exactly refreshing; in fact, it almost scalded his throat, but it was needed. He’d surely sweated out more than a waterskin’s worth since he’d left, even just sitting in the rickshaw.

“But whose wife is she?” Oamir said. “Someone has to stand for her.”

Bowe looked hurriedly around and caught Sindar’s gaze. He beckoned. “Sindar, come over here. You like women, right? How about a wife?”

Sindar smiled at Zofila and touched her arm. “It would be an honor, but I’m afraid I’m spoken for by another.” He turned towards Bowe. “Several others, in fact. I fear it would be dangerous for me to marry right now. If word got out…”

“It’s the last hours before the Infernam starts, and we’re trying to bluff our way into the Refuge,” Bowe said. “Helion! How much more dangerous can things get?”

“You know little of women.” Sindar shook his head sadly. “If you’d seen the look they can get in their eyes sometimes, you’d never again think that things couldn’t get more dangerous.” He turned to Zofila. “Back me up here.”

“It’s true,” she said. “I’ve seen that look.”

Bowe looked around. “Um, Thrace—?”

“Am I to be handed around like a sack of vegetables?” Zofila’s eyes narrowed. “A rotten sack of vegetables that no one wants? I’m too late to go back to Alandar, but there’s still time for me to return to Lessard Mansion and take Paradise’s Kiss.”

Bowe cleared his throat. “Of course not. Listen, Oamir, put Zofila down as my wife.”

“Is that what you call a proposal?” Zofila’s voice had an edge to it now. “Alandar made a better one. He was offering me six years of Infernam followed by certain death, but at least he asked.”

Bowe sighed. Didn’t Sorrin and Zofila know they were almost certain to die soon? But Zofila wasn’t laughing.

Sindar put his arm around Bowe’s shoulders. “Listen, Zofila. You’re fully within your right to slap him in the face and leave us after that. But I know Bowe. Though he’s useless around women, he’s got a good heart. Give him a chance. You’re older than he is, and I think he’s embarrassed and feels he’s too young to be able to satisfy you. His equipment hasn’t fully matured.”

Bowe blushed. He hadn’t thought it could get any hotter, but now smoke threatened to pour out from under his collar. And now Zofila was smiling, blast her! “Given the circumstances,” she said, “I wouldn’t expect—”

“Nothing wrong with my equipment,” Bowe squeaked. He couldn’t see any way to get out of this with his dignity intact. He might as well get it over with as quickly as possible. “Zofila, will you marry—will you give me the honor of marrying you?”

She gave a little squeal, grabbed his hand, and kissed his cheek. “Of course I will, my shining knight.”

Bowe’s ears burned. Both Zofila and Sindar were grinning from ear to ear, making Bowe almost certain that they had planned this just to torment him. At least Oamir was oblivious to it all. He opened his ledger and began writing in it.

“Let’s move out,” Bowe shouted. Their impending death couldn’t come fast enough right now, as far as he was concerned.

The rest of the journey passed without incident. The entrance to the Refuge was just outside the city, and the smell of blood and fear was heavy in the air. Escay waited their turn in three lines. Bowe had been here before, but it looked different now, with both the rocks and the shadows between them darker under Helion’s light. Four large doors had been built into the small cliff face. The cliffs overlooked the sea, but the waves churning against the shore were far below. The ground all about them was rocky, but a well-worn cart path allowed easy travel for the rickshaw pullers.

The Refuge itself was, of course, below the sea. Cooled by the ocean’s waters, it was the only place in Arcandis where people could survive the Infernam. And this was the only way in. A single entrance with four doors, each ten paces apart. The Bellanger door was first, then the Lessards, then the Raines, with the Grenier door at the end. He hoped the layout would work in his favor.

Three of the doors were open, with marshals processing the line of escay. To the side of each door, several bodies lay piled up. The blood that pooled on the ground suggested that many more than just those he could see had been killed here today. Either they had tried to get in without the proper permissions, or the marshals thought they had. On this day above all, the marshals were told to kill first and ask questions later. There were more bodies at the Grenier door than at the others.

Bowe gagged at the smell. He looked at the ground to avoid seeing the dead bodies, but noticed rivulets of blood running down towards the cliffs. Bowe took a deep breath and forced all thoughts of the dead from his mind. He was here for the living.

The Lessard line of escay watched as Bowe and his procession neared the Bellanger door. They clutched their belongings and their children nervously as they waited their turn. When the Lessard marshals noticed the Bowe and his caravan, several bows were pointed their way.

Bowe tapped on the puller’s shoulder to get him to stop. “Set the table up here,” Bowe said to Thrace.

Thrace took down a small table from one of the carts and placed it beside the door. The Lessard marshals whispered among themselves, and then several broke off and moved towards Bowe. Bowe was glad to see that he recognized the leader. Tokanu had brought two swordsmen and two bowmen with him, and the rest of the marshals watched them warily from the Lessard door. They stopped processing the escay.

“Oamir,” Bowe said.

Oamir took a chair from one of the carts, placed it beside the table, sat down, and opened his ledger. Two of Bowe’s marshals moved to flank him.

Bowe stepped out of the rickshaw to greet Tokanu. “Greetings, and thank you for your offer of help, but we don’t need it right now. We have everything in hand.”

Tokanu stopped two paces in front of Bowe. “My offer of help? I’ve come over to kill you and your people if you don’t leave right now. I know you have not been offered a place in the Refuge by my family or by any other.”

“Of course I have. It’s right in there, if you want to check.” Bowe indicated the ledger in front of Oamir. “I believe all of the people here with me have been offered a place here by the Bellanger family. But we’ll check and double-check before letting anyone in. I only hope we don’t have to kill as many as the Greniers have.”

Tokanu gave a little smile. “People can get very imaginative when they have to lie to save their lives. I thought I’d heard everything.”

“But it’s true,” Bowe lied. “Did no one tell you? You must have heard that I was offered selection. Instead the Guardians decided to revive the Bellanger family. Why would I have turned down selection otherwise?”

“Zidel Lessard, Jisri Raine—the White Spider—and Dulnato Grenier have been selected.” Tokanu gave each of the Selects their new family name.

“Yes, and they have chosen Pamil Lessard, Nechil Raine, and Kotara Grenier. I know all that.” Rumor had it that Dulnato had killed his last Defender for failing to attack Bowe before choosing the Wolfling, Kotara. “This has nothing to do with that. You know what happened in the Grand Sexennial Harmony Match. Not a good sign for the future prosperity of Arcandis.” Stenesso had declared a three-way draw once Bowe had left, refusing to play anymore, leaving the game with an unsatisfying conclusion. “With the Bellangers destroyed, there can be no harmony, no balance. The Guardians realized that and know that I’m the last chance to revive the Bellanger family. Look, I can prove it.”

Bowe walked up to the Bellanger door and took the handle. “You know this was locked, right?”

Tokanu nodded.

“Hasn’t been opened in eighteen years. Six years ago, there were no Bellangers, and six years before that, the Bellanger family committed suicide just before the Infernam. It was six years earlier again that this door was last used.”

Tokanu nodded again.

“The Guardians ordered it unlocked for us.” Bowe looked at Sindar for comfort, but he just shrugged. Bowe wanted to strangle him—he could at least look more confident than that. Sindar had picked the lock during the night, but he couldn’t verify that it had worked. If Sindar had tried to test it, the Lessard marshals would have seen him.

Bowe pulled at the handle, but the door didn’t budge. He glanced at Tokanu, cleared his throat, and tried again, giving the door an almighty wrench. Nothing. Bowe cursed Sindar under his breath while he tried to figure out a new plan. Only he couldn’t see how anything would work after this.

“Bloody thing must be rusted shut,” Thrace said, moving forward to stand beside Bowe. “Let me give you a hand.”

Bowe smiled weakly at Tokanu. “Yes, that must be it. Sorry about that. Give us a moment.” The fingers of Tokanu’s marshals were creeping towards the hilts of their swords. Bowe faced the door, planted his feet, and took a firm hold on the handle. Thrace did the same. Bowe noticed that a sun, the Bellanger emblem, had been carved into the center of the door. “Hold on a second,” he told Thrace, reaching forward to rub the carving while he sent up a prayer to his ancestors. You bloody bastards have royally screwed me up, and if you can’t help me enough to let me open this door, then so help me, I’ll track you down and strangle the afterlife out of the lot of you.

Bowe planted his feet once more, took a breath, nodded to Thrace, and pulled. For a moment, there was nothing. Then there was a squealing sound, and a release. The door opened so fast that Bowe fell backward, landing hard against one of the rocks on the ground.

Bowe jumped to his feet, gave Thrace a big clap on the back, and beamed at Tokanu. “Just a bit of rust. Never any doubt.” He mentally decided to curse his ancestors more often—perhaps every night before bed. He rubbed at his back where he’d hit the rock. “Now I’d better start processing the rebirth of the Bellanger family.”

But Tokanu wasn’t smiling back. He told one of his marshals to go and ask the Raines for reinforcements, then walked over to Oamir’s desk and picked up the ledger. He flicked through it and snorted before throwing it back on the desk.

“Careful with that,” Bowe said. “You know how important it is to get the numbers right.”

“Looks exactly like our ledger, only with fewer names.” Tokanu paced back and forth in front of Bowe. “And you mean to tell me you prepared all this in one day?”

“We were hoping something like this might happen.” Bowe’s spirits were sinking again after the euphoria of getting the door open. Several Raine marshals were rushing to join Tokanu.

“I don’t believe you,” Tokanu declared, stopping to stand in front of Bowe as the Raine marshals added to his forces. “However, I don’t understand what’s going on. Everything you’ve said has added up and I have underestimated you before. This is too big for me. So you will go inside with me, and I’ll take you to the Guardians. The rest of your people had better do nothing untoward, or they will be slaughtered.”

“Of course.” Bowe held his hands up, palms out, then turned to the brotherhood and the Bellanger escay. “Everyone move away from the door, back against the cliff there. Sit down and wait. There seems to be a problem. I’ll go inside and get it sorted, then come back and get us all in.”

Bowe followed Tokanu across the Bellanger threshold with two marshals flanking them. Inside the Refuge, all four entrances fed into the same large cavern. The walls were too smooth and the dimensions were too regular for it to be anything but man-made. As they entered, an escay family was being admitted through the Grenier door.

Tokanu marched immediately toward the back of the cavern, which opened up into a tunnel with a steep downward slant. They descended. “We’d better hurry. Helion will set before long, and I still have many people to process.”

“As do I.” Bowe quickened his pace to match Tokanu’s. He took a quick look back to the entrance cavern, where four distinct pools of purple light marked the four doors. Then they turned a corner, and it was gone from view. The torches that lit the tunnel were widely spaced, so most of the time there wasn’t much light. With the steepness of the descent and the sudden turns, Bowe had to concentrate on watching his feet to make sure he didn’t trip. The tunnel was wide, though—two two-man rickshaws would easily be able to pass each other, and the ground was more even than most streets in Arcandis. Tokanu kept up his fast pace, and after a while, Bowe needed to jog a step or two every few paces to keep up with him. As yet, the heat hadn’t diminished much and the air was heavy, making it hard to breathe. Bowe was soon panting. Luckily, Tokanu noticed and slowed.

Bowe lost all sense of direction after a few turns, but by their frequency and regularity, he could sense the tunnel spiraling deeper and deeper down into the rock. They had passed several groups of escay by the time the descent eased and then stopped. Bowe could see several torches up ahead as the tunnel straightened. Now, at last, he noticed a refreshing coolness in the air and heard a rhythmic rushing sound above his head.

Did the tunnel lead to Bowe’s salvation or to his death? The first part of the plan had gone as well as could be expected, rusty hinges notwithstanding. He was going to get an audience with the Guardians. Now it came down to their decision. Could Bowe persuade them—or at least two of them—to make an exception to the rules of the Green Path just this once?

At the end of the tunnel they entered a large chamber; they were now in the Refuge proper. A number of smaller tunnels met here, and various people were going about their business. It was like a busy crossroads in Arcandis, only a darker version, since the number of torches was still sparse. Tokanu knew where he was going; he immediately led Bowe and the two marshals down one of the tunnels. They needed to lean against the wall at one point to allow herders to bring a cow and calves through. They passed several openings before reaching a place where six marshals stood. Two marshals from each family. Bowe swallowed.

“I need to see the Guardians,” Tokanu announced to the marshals.

“About what?” a Grenier marshal replied.

“I am asking permission to execute him.” Tokanu pointed his thumb at Bowe.

Thanks for the support, Bowe thought.

“Since when do you need permission to execute Deadbeats?” The Grenier marshal touched the hilt of his sword. “If you’ve become too squeamish to do your job, I keep my blade sharp.”

“So you haven’t heard of this Bellanger family revival business, either,” Tokanu muttered. “This could be a big mistake.” Then, louder, he said, “This is more complicated than simply executing a Deadbeat. I need to talk to them.”

“Very well,” one of the Lessard marshals said, moving aside for him, and the rest of the marshals grudgingly did the same. The Grenier marshal gave Tokanu a glare as he passed, but didn’t object further.

Tokanu entered the chamber. Bowe waited expectantly. There was a decent chance Tokanu would return and run him through by way of answer. By rights, that’s what the Guardians should do. Bowe had lied in their name, claiming they had given him permission to open the Bellanger door.

So when Tokanu re-emerged, Bowe held his breath and tried to read the Lessard marshal’s eyes. Tokanu moved to stand in front of Bowe, and…nodded. “The Guardians will see you now.”

Bowe released a long sigh and walked into the Guardians’ chamber. It was a small room with three thrones, each holding one of the three Guardians. Kesirran’s wrinkled skin had the color and texture of melted candle wax in the low light. Beside him, Stenesso, half a head taller than the other two even sitting, glared at Bowe. Several marshals flanked the thrones.

“Leave us.” Sorani waved away the marshals.

The marshals looked at each other for a moment. Then Stenesso pulled a broadsword from the scabbard at his hip and laid it across the arms of his throne and addressed the marshals. “Do you think I am unable to defend myself against this boy?”

The marshals swiftly exited. There was a moment’s silence before Kesirran spoke. “Who could have known that saving that baby twelve years ago would lead to this moment?”

“I should have argued harder for his death,” Stenesso said. “Things would be simpler for us now.”

“Simpler, indeed. But perhaps not better.” Sorani studied Bowe. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The exchange gave Bowe confidence. It seemed that Sorani and Kesirran at least were not totally hostile to this development.

“First, I’d like to apologize for telling Tokanu that I had your permission to enter the Refuge when I did not.”

“Deception is the milk that nourishes the ascorim,” Sorani said, “and nothing to apologize for. I’m surprised that Tokanu was taken in so easily. His life, of course, hangs in the balance, depending on what we decide here.”

Another person whose life I’ve risked on the whisper of a hope, Bowe thought. “I’m offering you an opportunity,” he said, “and I think you already know what it is, and why it is needed. The structure of society in Arcandis has remained unchanged for centuries, led by the four great families. Twelve years ago, one family fell. Since then, the imbalance has grown. It might take another few sexennia, but the stasis of the three families will not hold.”

“What do you base such grand claims on?” Stenesso rubbed a finger up and down the flat of his blade. “A game of Harmony?”

“I cannot prove the imbalance. But I think it is as evident to the three of you as it is to me.” Bowe didn’t want to actually accuse Stenesso of making a power grab; he was sure that Sorani and Kesirran were more aware of the situation than he was. “Now I have a solution. I have formed the genesis of a new Bellanger family. New ascor, new marshals, escay loyal to the Bellangers. Even a new ascora. Bellanger Mansion has been reoccupied these last few weeks. The Bellanger colors and emblem have been dusted off and redisplayed. I told those at the gate that the Guardians have revived the family. All you have to do is go along with that story and it will be done. The Bellangers will be back. Once more there will be four families. That is your opportunity. It could very well be the last chance you have to regain the old balance in Arcandis.”

Stenesso stood up and began to pace back and forth behind Bowe. He held his sword in his hand, making Bowe feel nervous. “Sorani, Kesirran—you agreed to this audience against my advice. I will now tell you what is wrong with his assertions. First, change isn’t always a bad thing. There were four families, and now there are three. More power to go around.”

Bowe could see a tightening around the eyes of both Kesirran and Sorani, and he knew that Stenesso had made a mistake. If three were better than four, it wasn’t a big jump to suggest that one was better than three.

Stenesso continued to pace. His sword swung loosely in his fist, and Bowe could only hope he didn’t decide to end the diplomacy by taking matters into his own hands. “Second, the boy talks about reviving the family as if it’s already done. When, of course, it’s not. It takes more than emblems and pretty clothes.” He gave the back of Bowe’s cloak a swipe with his sword. “The Raine family’s fortune and power are based on their banks and mines. The Lessard family’s, on their ships and trade. The Grenier family controls the Eye, polices the city, and provides the military to defend it.” Plus, they now control the farms that were once the remit of the Bellangers, Bowe added silently. “The Bellanger family committed suicide not because they lost their emblems or their marshals, but because they lost their fortune and their power.”

“This is true.” Kesirran leaned forward toward Bowe. “What do you say about that?”

“I haven’t had enough time to regain the Bellanger fortune, but look at how far I’ve come in just a few weeks. Give me until the next Infernam. If the Bellanger fortune has not been restored by then, then seal the Bellanger entrance to the Refuge once and for all.” Bowe paused. “If, on the other hand, the fortune is restored, then the four families will once again rule Arcandis in harmony.”

“And third,” Stenesso continued, “this little stunt subverts the Green Path. The Path is designed to only allow the very best Greens to become part of the ascorim. Bowe here has recruited Deadbeats who are in no way worthy of becoming ascor.”

“All those I’ve chosen have ascor blood,” Bowe said, leaving unmentioned the fact that Stenesso had promoted a number who hadn’t. “Each of them provides skills that have proven useful to me and will in the future, should you allow us to proceed. An excess of ascor died twelve years ago, and if an excess is promoted today, it doesn’t mean that the Green Path has been subverted—just that an exception has been made to restore the balance. If the new Bellanger ascor revive the family within one sexennium, then surely that will prove that they are worthy.” Bowe could feel sweat creeping down his chest, but managed to keep any desperation from his voice. Kesirran and Sorani were listening, but it was hard to read their intentions.

“Very well,” Kesirran said, “We shall consult about this in private and make a decision.”

“No.” Stenesso placed his sword on Bowe’s shoulder. “We will decide here and now. I vote that he dies.” He moved the blade along Bowe’s shoulder until it touched his neck.

I started the Path with a blade against my throat, Bowe thought. It seems fitting that it should come to an end in the same way.

“I agree we should decide immediately,” Sorani said. “Helion will set soon, and we must either let Bowe’s new family in or kill them all. I vote we give this new Bellanger family the six years Bowe has asked for.”

Kesirran leaned back. “So it comes down to me.”

“Don’t make the same mistake you made twelve years ago, old man,” Stenesso said. “The Bellangers made their mistakes and paid the price. We need a clean break from the whole family. His presence caused this uncertainty. He creates this imbalance he is spouting about.”

“So you admit there is an imbalance?” Sorani asked.

As an answer, Stenesso growled in the back of his throat and edged his blade against Bowe’s skin.

Kesirran addressed Bowe. “I don’t see how it’s possible that you can recreate the Bellanger fortune. You start with almost nothing, and you already have many dangerous enemies and not many allies.” Kesirran didn’t have to clarify that remark with Stenesso standing at Bowe’s back with a sword at his throat. “You have no money or resources to call upon, and just six years. It’s a hopeless cause.”

“In a mansion of dead people, a solitary baby cried,” Bowe said. “How hopeless was the survival of the Bellanger family then? The baby has grown and the house now contains more than ghosts. There is a chance of rebirth. All I ask for is that chance.”

Kesirran nodded. “Very well. I, too, vote that he be given another sexennium. But only one. They must either truly become one of the great families in six years’ time, or there will be no place in the Refuge for any Bellanger, new or old.”

Bowe raised his fists, and elation exploded inside him. He’d done it. Then he realized that Stenesso hadn’t removed his sword, and, in fact, the pressure from the edge was tightening against his neck.

“Stenesso, the majority still rules among the Guardians of Arcandis, does it not?” Sorani asked. “Unless I missed something.”

There was a moment of absolute stillness in the chamber, and then Stenesso removed his sword from Bowe’s shoulder, sheathed it, and returned to his throne. Bowe allowed the elation to return, and this time it was matched by relief.

“Tokanu, get in here,” Sorani called out.

Tokanu entered and Sorani addressed him. “We had to iron out a few details, but what Bowe told you earlier is essentially correct. We have decided to revive the Bellanger family. Allow him to admit people through the Bellanger door.”

And as Bowe followed Tokanu out of the chamber, Sorani had one more thing to say.

“The upcoming sexennium promises to be an interesting one.”

Links

Book 2 of the series, The Treacherous Path, is now available.

Powerful forces threaten war and rebellion throughout Arcandis, and Bowe faces a terrible decision that will decide not just his future, but the future of the entire society.

Find out more details here:  http://davidjnormoyle.com/the-treacherous-path/

The third book in the planned trilogy, The Collapsing Path, is due out in December 2014. The best way to find out when it becomes available is to sign up to my new release mailing list. Join up here: www.davidjnormoyle.com/mailinglist

A prequel novella, The Cruel Path, is available as a free ebook. It is set thirty years before events in the main series. http://davidjnormoyle.com/the-cruel-path/

Check out my website http://davidjnormoyle.com/ to find out about me and my other books.

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* * *

THE RAIN, Joseph A. Turkot

Dystopia, by Joseph A. Turkot

Think of a utopia, and in your next breath you imagine a perfect society. Harmony unending. The living ideal. And something inside of us says we can never reach such a place by our own efforts. Any attempt at perfection falls short, by whatever degree.

Think of a dystopia, and in your next breath you imagine the worst mankind has to offer—or more terrifying yet—the worst that will still come.

It is within the compromise of both these extremes that we find the dystopian novel. Some kind of hope for progress, contrasted against a great decadence, whether it be man’s own doing, or the nature he is formed from.

It is in such a struggle that our two friends find themselves. They are to each other more than they know, but a catastrophe that has ravaged the old progresses of civilization forces them to find out how much more, and what left of humanity remains alive in them.What does it mean to persevere? To possess resilience? To combat the loss of one’s own values? These are the kinds of questions I am interested in. These are the kinds of questions that Tanner and Russell face.

If everything we suppose to be good about our humanity slowly starts to decay, merely because it has to, what do we throw away first? What do we decide to take with us to our graves?

Some dystopian stories work upon the fantastical, and for that effort, produce a sense of wonder and awe. Some work upon the mundane realities of normal events, but push them so consistently that endurance itself is the last and only virtue. The Rain is a story about endurance in a dystopian world, where nature isn’t the reliable nurturer we egotistically assume it to be. Something awful has happened, and endless rain has drowned most of what was once called civilization and humanity. Russell says it’s the veneer. And he believes there is a place where it’s still thick. A place where it’s stopped raining. But as in all dystopian stories, weakness works ruthlessly upon the characters thrown into such dire hopes, and utopian fantasies are often never what they seem.

I wrote this story as an exploration of the human spirit, and its willingness to find some kind of negative capability within the compromise of two ideals—the utopian and the dystopian—the very reflection of which has more to say about our own society than we might have ever imagined possible.

THE RAIN

A Post-Apocalyptic Story by Joseph A. Turkot

Part 1

Chapter 1

There are a lot of stories about how the rain started.

The thing that always comes to mind first isn’t the how though, it’s the how much. Back when they were taking measurements still, according to Russell, the numbers to know were 15 and 5,400. Now he’s slapped a new number on after those two: 8,550.

15 inches a day, 5,400 in a year, and 19 years since the rain started. That’s 8,550 feet of rain. He still does the math, keeping track after all these years with that old formula. We have no idea if it’s accurate. But it’s important to think about it, he says, because it reminds us to keep moving.

We’re camped again tonight in the Bighorn mountains as I ponder the numbers for the millionth time. Our tent isn’t much—a leaky spread of canvas on some aluminum poles. The bandits that have been trailing us for the last few days don’t seem to know where we’re at anymore. Russell says they used to call this mountain Hesse. He thinks the highest peaks on the range are still several thousand feet above the water, but right now we’re only a few feet from the edge, in case we have to move out quick—in case they find us. All I know is it’s cold as hell up here. And out there, on the water, it looks like the dirty canvas that our tent is made out of, except it goes on forever. I can see a couple other spikes rising out of the canvas—other mountain tops. Some more rock than mud, some only mud. Our boat’s no good though. It won’t make it much farther. And I think ice has been forming on the water for the past few days, but Russell says it’s my imagination.

When I can get Russell to talk about it, the time before the rain, he doesn’t give me too much. He only likes to talk about why it started. Which theory he buys. Since Rapid City though, he doesn’t want to talk about anything but Leadville.

When he found me, and my dad died in the rain, he took me because he was worried someone might try to eat me. That was fourteen years ago. He said it didn’t matter that I was a happy baby girl, with bright blonde hair and a smile that vanquished the gloom of the rain. They’d eat me as soon as burp me.

He usually mentions the solar flare first—he says it was a sunburst, something that comes once in a long time. The scientists talked about it on TV he said—TV is when there are pictures of people that move. So the sun shot out a long branch of invisible something, messed up the Earth’s magnetic field, currents, or jet streams, or something like that. And then it happened—the great Pacific started swooping up into the sky, as he says. And everywhere else, the rain started.

It came slow at first, and sometimes, not even every day. Russell seems to like telling this part, but I have a hard time believing it. I’ve never seen the rain turn off. He said no one even wore plastic yet, covered their skin, worried about exposure, hypothermia, or the rubber flesh that forms and slides off like a glove. And then it became clear to everyone that the rain wasn’t going to stop. It was just going to keep on coming. And everyone thought that there’d be some explanation, something that would help fix the problem. But there never was.

The other theories are bullshit, he’s told me a thousand times. Conspiracy theories. Weather manipulation, manmade effects of pollution. All of it bullshit. Only the sun could cause this, he says.

I don’t really care too much about the reason it started. I guess, since it’s been this way my whole life, it would be like contemplating that you fall down after you jump up. You accept that it happens, and you move on.

And that’s what we’ve been doing for the last fourteen years. Moving. One place to the next. I remember when I was a little girl, and we walked on the roads a lot more. Russell says where we’re going, there are whole towns that are still above the water. We’ll be walking roads again. And there’s a place where it’s stopped raining. That’s when I know the bullshit has started coming from him instead of the conspiracy theories. It’s raining everywhere. I’ve never seen anything to make me think otherwise. And we’ve traveled from New Jersey to Wyoming. But now we have to move 520 miles south he says. Leadville, Colorado. He hasn’t stopped talking about it for the last year. We’re going to Leadville, there’s a whole city there, thousands of feet above the water. Where the veneer is still thick.

But we couldn’t go directly there, because the route across the Great Plains is flooded. Thousands of feet of water, but moving water. I don’t mind the still water. I hate the moving water. And the worst are the waterspouts. Used to be called tornados, Russell says. But there are too many of them on the Plains, tall and clear and deadly, spinning arms to heaven, and we had to move north first. And that’s how we picked up this crew of face eaters, as he calls them. They’ve been following us for days, but suddenly, they haven’t been in sight. Each time we cross a valley of water along the Bighorns, they’re behind us, rowing after us in their boat, a canoe similar to ours. There’s three of them, so they can rotate bailers more often, and they move a bit faster over the brown. I thought we’d hit a patch of water too wide, and they might overtake us, but we didn’t. We’ve kept them at bay. But now they’re gone. Russell thinks they drowned. But I haven’t seen any bodies floating by.

I think the canoe has about had it—it’s made out of some kind of manmade stuff, fiberglass, I think. He says that it will make the trip to Colorado. How long will we have to be on the water, I asked him. A week he said. We’ve never been on water for more than a day, and we stop when we can, so a whole day is a lie. A day with rest stops.

The exposure is worse than the face eaters. It’s creeping down again today, I can feel it. Cold wet sickness. And this is the longest we’ve been without a fire. Russell says he’ll find what we need for one tomorrow, but I don’t see how. All the trees are ripped away or waterlogged up here. And now, while the sun’s showing behind the gray, he’s sleeping. Sleeping during the day is a waste, he says. So I adopted his attitude. Looking at him, it’s a waste to me, because he’s breaking his own rule. But he needs it after all the rowing. I let him be.

The numbness in my left foot is getting a little bit worse. It comes and goes. He says at these altitudes in Wyoming we’re too far north, so we can’t stay here long, and winter’s coming. Going south to Colorado won’t be much better. If the winter comes early, we won’t have a chance. It used to be that we could camp on rooftops for months at a time, keep a fire throughout the winter. Back in Philadelphia we did that. And Pittsburg. Then again in Chicago. Indianapolis. Sioux Falls. Rapid City. But Wyoming is like no man’s land. To the east, like a high island, is Yellowstone. But Russell says we can’t go that way. There’s nothing on those mountains. To me they look like rescue. And when I look south, I don’t see any more peaks. Just the canvas of water. Little dancing splashes all over it, letting me know the rain is at medium. When it’s on high, there is a mist that rises up, like a low-lying cloud that kisses the surface. The rain never goes to low anymore. The last time I saw a drizzle I was six.

If the skin is left out, it prunes at first. Then it becomes rubbery. Eventually, the skin slides off. It’s like it’s been all filled up, like it absorbed all the rain, the constant sloshing, and there is no other way for the body to expel the moisture. So the skin slides right off.

It happened to part of Russell’s left leg. He keeps the plastic on that leg real tight. But the infection comes and goes. He says he’s never seen the rain this bad. He thinks it’s getting worse.

I wear plastic gloves, but there are a few small holes in them now, as always come with shitty plastic gear. My fingers are constantly wrinkled, and when we’re in the rain for too long, I start to think of Russell’s leg. Sometimes I worry that when I take off the gloves, my hand will slip off with it.

He showed it to me once. Normally I just look away when he changes plastic. It looked like a dark red hump, as if it was still swelling up after all the years. Only the skin is gone. And the hump is something else. I don’t know if it’s muscle or tendons or what. I never really asked for the science on it, and he’s never volunteered.

Although Russell hasn’t said anything, I know we’re almost out of food. Our last major pickup, a high rise apartment near Rapid City, had a crate full of hardtack. That and some cans of beans, rice, lentils, and some kind of powder soup. A survivalist’s den. But we lost half the hardtack. The canoe tipped over. I can’t believe Russell managed to get the pack on the hull in time to save any of it.

The waves are what really scare me. They used to be called avalanches, Russell says. They would come sliding down the mountain. Now, it’s the swells. They rise up, and the blank stretch of brown canvas gets rolly, like something is boiling down there. And then the white foam starts up, and the howling wind. And he calls it a gale. We both row, and I do my best. I’m sixteen years old and as strong as any boy I’ve ever seen. Stronger. He says we have to point into the waves, and I listen, although it doesn’t make sense to me with how much the swells seem to want to drive us under.

Once there was a waterspout right next to us. It started in the sky, coiled down, touched the water, then disappeared like a sharp snarling tendril of storm cloud. Then it came back down, stuck, and started to draw up water. It threw us away from it. I was afraid it would drag us in, down, to the forgotten cities below us, the graveyard, as Russell calls it. It was beautiful though, clear, miraculous, powerful, like something apart from the rain, something that was fighting the rain. It kept up the fight for almost ten minutes. Then it fell away, just like everything else does.

I’m still stronger than any boy, but I’m a lot skinnier than I used to be. I can tell by looking at my legs, my arms. I’m glad we don’t carry the mirror anymore. That was when he shaved. I still try to. But the razors are lines of rust now, useless, dangerous. I should stop using them.

Russell thinks the antibiotics are no good from the rain. He thinks his leg infection might come back. And he worries about me. I’m not sure why, but he’s always worrying about me. He thinks that if I get sick now, the antibiotics won’t work. He doesn’t want me to use the razors anymore, so I do it at night. I use the rain. It helps keep me sane. If he’s noticed my legs are still bare, he hasn’t said anything.

I tried to get an age out of him twice, and from his replies, I gather he must be twice as old as me. Maybe older. I can’t tell. But all he said was, “Old enough to be your Dad.” And I told him that no he wasn’t. Then he said, “Close to it.”

We don’t celebrate birthdays. But we used to celebrate food. Whenever we found a survivalist’s stash, we would celebrate. He would sing, I would try to. We tried dancing sometimes too. He’s no good. He thinks I’m pretty good, but I know he’s full of shit. But now that we’re out past the Great Plains, we don’t celebrate anymore. It’s like we’re too close now, too close to something that can save us.

It took Russell a long time to figure out we had to keep moving west. He thought we could stay in the cities. We did for a lot of years. But the soil stopped draining the water. And the rain kept going.

We lost the contact we had with the radio. It’s hard to keep anything working in the rain. When we find a pack of batteries in an apartment, Russell goes nuts. Only thing is we have nothing to put them in, nothing to use them on. I kind of remember the electricity, when it was everywhere, like Russell says. He even goes on about the invisible internet, and how it connected everything with moving pictures and sounds. It sounds pretty made up, and I think he’s been sacrificing food on account of me for ten years, and it must be adding up. He has to be losing his mind a little bit. We need to find vitamins, he says.

He thinks they’re dead, the bandits. We’ve had a couple close calls, and it seems like they come more and more since we passed into South Dakota. It’s the higher elevation, Russell says. Before we hit Rapid City, it was low country. But the water hadn’t risen so high then. There were more dead bodies. They were everywhere. We saw a raft of them once. A boy and his dog on the raft, floating somewhere. All tied together, the bodies. Some drift wood, probably a house. It looked pretty safe and sturdy. I wonder about how far he made it sometimes.

Our years in Rapid City were different. More people were alive there. We moved to Harney Peak before long, just over 7,000 feet. Then there were too many people alive. We were traveling on foot more again then, which was a change, but everyone came to the same spots. That’s the problem out west. There’s only these peaks, rising out of the brown canvas. They’re easy to see, and so everyone goes for them. The bandits come to feed.

When we passed the Great Lakes, coming up from Indianapolis, there was a giant steam powered ship. We lived on it for a long time. I thought we were never going to leave. It was home. The water was calm for such a long time, and we sailed from skyline to skyline. Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee. We had more food than we could ever want. There were no bandits, no face eaters. There didn’t have to be. Russell says society is a veneer, made up of all the human principles. The ship was building the veneer again, he’d said. But when it comes down it, people eat and drink. Anything they can. No veneer.

On the steamer, the Sea Queen Marie, I thought we were done moving. The daily struggle, finding the next meal, higher ground, avoiding suspect wanderers, was over. No one talked about a place where it didn’t rain because we didn’t need to—the ship had a hundred rooms and a giant galley, and a roof. We had a few attacks after we reached capacity, but nothing much. They couldn’t scale the gunwales. They never even made it halfway up. We were a unit. But it wasn’t the face eaters or the rain that destroyed the Sea Queen. It was a gale, Russell says. All I could tell that day was that the sky had blackened to charcoal, and behind me the sun was out and shining. Two different worlds. It was the first time I’d seen night come during the day. The waves started, and being in deep water like I never had been before, and old enough to be aware of it, I felt scared of dying for really what must have been the first time. I can take a lot, and I can row all day. But I can’t take the waves.

They started out small at first, swells everyone was calling them. And then the wind came. A lot of arguing happened. Russell had the ear of one of the guy’s who controlled everyone else. His name was Wallace. Everyone called him Cap’n though. Cap’n was arguing with Russell, I remember that. Something about changing course.

But old Cap’n told Russell there was no more fuel for any kind of moving, and the ship would have to hope that the storm turned, because the ship wouldn’t. Then Cap’n started talking about the direction of the wind a whole lot. He started to say that it was changing, hitting us at first from the east, and then, when the black took over the sky, from the north. I didn’t quite take the meaning of that, but he sure seemed to think it was a big deal. Russell did too, eventually. They called it a hurricane.

It took the bow of the ship right down into the swells, snapped it off. The only skyline in sight was Chicago. The tower was there. It still stood way above the water. But I thought we might knock right into it, that’s how bad the waves were pushing us. And when the bow went in and snapped off that way, I knew we were going to die. I made peace with it. I thanked Russell for taking care of me. Sometimes, I feel like death would just mean leaving the rain. And then it’s not such a bad thing, death.

But he wasn’t ready yet. And I guess I wasn’t either, because when the fights over the boats started, I helped him. That was the only time I think I really hurt somebody. Maybe I killed him, I don’t know. Russell won’t talk to me about it, because he said I shouldn’t think about it. We do what we have to and move on, to higher ground, to where we can get warm and dry.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been warm or dry. And I think I’m dying now, too, but just really slowly this time. But maybe not, because I can still row, and I can still run. But I know we don’t have much food left. And Russell’s been acting too serious, and we have a week on the water till the next land, and I know we won’t make it.

And I don’t for one minute think those face eaters drowned. We haven’t had a gun that works since Rapid City. Now it’s knives. That’s it. And that’s what they’ll have to, if they’re not dead.

The ridges of Bighorns poke up in about a thousand places, puncturing the brown canvas. We’re on one of the lower parts of the Hesse. Some of the islands drop into the water real steep, and that’s how we messed up the canoe. Sometimes you can’t see when the ground comes back to you, up out of the brown. Then it jumps up on you, smacking the boat. We almost drowned six times I’d guess since we hit Wyoming. At least Russell says it’s Wyoming, and the Hesse mountain, and the Bighorns. I couldn’t tell you if we were in the Himalayas or not. But I trust Russell.

The canoe smacked into a sharp rock when we tried to land it, and it cut a long line along the side. The cut is near the top, so it doesn’t draw water. But the line is getting deeper, even though Russell won’t mention it. I feel like it’s splitting the whole thing in half real slow, and that it will finally happen when we’re out somewhere on the water, somewhere where we can’t swim back. Then we’ll just go under. And we’ll go right down, I know.

I see the thin little layers of frost that Russell doesn’t, clear blue, like purity is trying to conceal the canvas of pattering sea. It’s cold enough up here. I can barely keep my hands from freezing. If we go into that water, I’m out. It’s not that I can’t swim half decent, but I’ve stuck my finger in along the way, all the way since Rapid City I’ve been touching. I tried to tell him it’s getting colder, and too cold, and that we need to go south, or back west. But he said no, we have to push on. There’s nothing else to go back to, and the water is running too fast through the Great Plains in the south.

I don’t know how he knows all this. I think he learned it in Rapid City, and maybe even as far back as the Sea Queen Marie. People were always trading rumors, as if they were news, something that just happened. But it was always the same tired legends. A place where there’s no rain. A place where a city is entirely above the waterline. Leadville.

When I first noticed the crystals on the water, as we drew close to the Bighorns, Russell started to put his own finger in the water. I yelled at him, “Told you so!” I meant it to be playful, to cheer him up, because I could tell he’s been getting sicker. When I was little, he had chubby red cheeks. Hell, he was fat. He was a smiling fat person though. I guess I was 8 or 9 when I realized he wasn’t fat anymore. It was like I hadn’t noticed. But then, when he kept getting skinnier, and I didn’t, I thought he was dying. I thought he had cancer, or a parasite. But he didn’t. He kept on just fine. But he was skinny. Now, he looks skeletal. And paler than I’ve ever seen him. He has dark olive skin—he used to anyway. Now, he looks like some of the bodies I’ve seen floating past the canoe.

There was a bodyjam outside of Sioux Falls. We’d just come over a rise, and there it was, a million bodies all clumped together, blocking the whole sea. We had to turn around, head south for a bit, but not into Nebraska, he’d said—never into Nebraska. There are a thousand waterspouts there, spinning up to the sky all the time. Waterspout alley was what he calls it. Everyone knew that. It was the talk of the Sea Queen Marie. Waterspout alley, from Nebraska all the way down to Oklahoma, rushing water and waterspouts all the time. Nobody survives that way anymore.

He lifted his finger out of the water though, and he just scowled at me. But now that I’m sitting here, and we actually made it to the Bighorns, I don’t think he was scowling at me because I said he was wrong. It was the turn of fate. We didn’t need any ice. We had enough other things to deal with. But there it was, and here it is. If we fall in now, we die. It’s that simple. There are no more life vests. Just the crack in the canoe, and the mounds of rock that spring out of the canvas. At least it’s daytime.

We finally decide to start moving again, before Russell even has the sleep he needs. I stare at his face, the long shaggy, brown mane, the emaciated, sunken eyes that when he’d been just a little bit plump were pretty and mesmerizing, even attractive. I try not to think about the fact that I’m attracted to him—that I was. Now, it’s hard to be. But every once in awhile, when he’s asleep like this, I can still feel that way. Like I want to cuddle against him like I normally do, but find something more there. Of course I could never say anything to him. He could be my Dad, he says. It’s clear he’s not interested in me. And those kinds of thoughts are artifacts anyway, part of the veneer. It’s been eroding. Despite the fact that we’re still going, that he still has hope we’ll make it across the water, all the way down through Wyoming, past Denver, and to Leadville, and find the city above the waterline, I can’t help but acknowledge that it’s all part of the veneer. That’s Russell’s source of strength, it seems. The veneer. He talks about it like it’s an artificial piece of shit, and like we’re animals, and that everything is random, and we’re fucked and all—but at the same time he still makes the veneer sound like something romantic. Like it amounts to humanity, and all that we are, and that if we can get to Leadville, we can be a part of it again.

The way he talks about it sometimes, I don’t know why he wants to keep it going so bad. The veneer is stripped away when nature takes over, he says. It’s really like a thin surface we’ve built up over millions of years on top of our primitive minds. And the rain has washed it down to nothing. Yet we move on, and he keeps worrying about me.

It’s not that I don’t think I’m attractive either. I’ve had a lot of offers for sex, and the food that goes along with giving it out. But Russell hasn’t let me do it. At first I never wanted to anyway, from everything he told me. Sex is part of the veneer. A layer that’s gone. Meaningless now.

But part of me wanted it, to at least try it. I felt ashamed about it after awhile, when I got into an argument with him that we needed the food, and that we could get medicine for it this time. The offer had come from a young man in Rapid City who didn’t look deranged, or creepy like all the others. I had wanted it so bad. But Russell said no. And since then, I haven’t bothered to think much about it.

I’ve seen him watching me while I sleep. The first time it happened I started up, bolted away, and he had to calm me down. It wasn’t that I was scared of him—it was that I thought he was a bandit. Every other time when he watches me sleep, and I notice, I pretend like I don’t. I let him keep on looking.

It’s now, when I’m looking at him, I realize that, even with the ghostly face, he’s still as attractive as ever to me. It’s as I wonder how he could never have wanted me when I’m lying asleep and he’s watching me that I see the face eaters.

There are two of them. Then three. They stand up atop a ridge about two hundred feet from us. They’re moving fast. I know right away they want us. They really do want to eat us. The veneer is all gone in them. I move over to Russell and shake him. He’s usually quick to respond, knowing we have to be on our guard, but the trip from Rapid City has worn him down. He’s no longer himself. He slowly opens his eyes, slowly recognizes what I say, as if the altitude has gotten to him. But he’d said we wouldn’t get altitude sickness, we are acclimatized. It doesn’t seem that way with how slow he stands up. I look back to the face eaters. They’re running now.

“They don’t have a boat,” says Russell finally.

He’s right. They’re charging, but we’re right at the water, and our canoe is right here.

“They should have waited till dark,” he says. He goes down to the water line. I stay up behind a boulder watching, keeping an eye on things while he unties the rope. The nylon rope is about as precious as our hardtack. If we lose that, we lose the canoe. He takes his time. He has to. I break down the tent in less than a minute and fling it in. The runners get a little bit closer. I think I see them squinting. They’re running west, right into the smear behind the clouds that is the sun. There is a lot of daytime left, but Wyoming’s sky is huge, and things in it change too fast for me to be sure.

I see one grinning. He looks mad, like if he doesn’t get us he’ll turn on his friends and start eating them right away. The others just look sickly. Like Russell’s starting to look. They trip a few times, but keep coming. Only about fifty feet away now and Russell calls my name. I turn around, and he’s waving me down. I run to the edge, watching my step, eyes glued to the trash bags taped around my sneakers. It’s easy to slip on the rocks with these plastic shoes, and it’s even easier because the mud’s flowing. As I hear grunting, I descend a bit faster, and too fast, and start to slide. Somehow, Russell jumps out of the boat, steadies me, and guides me the rest of the way to the canoe. I don’t know how he risked it, because the canoe could have pushed off without us. But he did. I fall back into the canoe and it rolls heavily to one side. Immediately, I start bailing.

When you’re not rowing, you’re bailing. When the rain’s on medium, you can take a break once in awhile, unless there are waves. When it’s on high, you can’t. A week in it and we’ll die, it’s just that Russell doesn’t see it that way yet. I dump the water over the side using one of the bright orange buckets we picked up in Rapid City. Its color is the only life here. The four inches of rain on the bottom of the canoe start to go down. I look up. Russell is heaving, worse than usual, thrusting the oars into the water, pushing us away from land. Gaunt faces stare at us, and one looks as if he’s ready to jump into the water after us.

I’m about to say something to Russell to make him laugh, because these depraved face eaters have become so common now that there is a delirium that starts each time you escape from them. But before I can speak the mania-ridden comes in. He goes wading in to his knees, then just dives forward, dropping his head into the frigid water. I see his soaked head pop back up about ten feet away, and he moves deeper into the brown to get us. I look around to see where we might find refuge. Another one of Hesse’s heads is poking up a couple hundred feet away. We can make it there in ten minutes. But this guy just struggles into the ocean of rain. The others, desperate but not insane yet, watch with him hope, as if they expect him to reach us.

He starts to swim in a direct line toward us. Russell doesn’t even look back—he just keeps pumping, and his breaths sound horrible. I think he’s worse than he’s been telling me. I wonder if he really is getting the infection again. Rain splashes in little fountains on the back of the man’s head when it protrudes from the brown, and he raises his arms to stroke. Then another stroke. He is trying very hard to catch up to us, and he’s moving fast enough that I say something to Russell.

He’s coming.

Usually, saying something just works in reverse, and slows Russell down, so I let him work silently most of the time when we’re running for our lives. But I’ve never seen anyone this possessed. He plows through the canvas at about half our speed, making tiny swells. I realize that in just a couple more strokes, he’ll have come too far out to make it back.

When the first gasp comes, Russell finally turns his neck to look back. He only gives the man one second of his time though, just enough to recognize that he’s drowning, and then he returns to the oars. He rows, pushing us along through the water, no faster and no slower. The hope in the faces of the man’s friends, back on the rocky shore, looks like it’s fading now. I can’t be sure, but I think I see one of them close his eyes. The gasps get louder, and I can’t take my eyes away from the drowning one. The maniac strength is gone now, but his head is still above water. He’s realized how far he went, and how cold it is. He knows it’s the end. His eyes look wild, and he stares at me. I hear him whimper, and wonder if he’s crying, but the sound isn’t coming out right because of all the water he’s spitting up. Maybe he’s thinking about the mistake he made, and how it will be the last thing he knows in the world.

I watch the head go under for the first time, and he makes a turn, like he’s going to try to make it back to the island. But he can’t, he doesn’t even move that way. He just sort of jerks and rotates, his body frenzied and writhing, clawing at the sky, like a magical ledge might materialize to keep him alive a little while longer, maybe even save him.

Then his head goes under again, and we’re almost thirty feet away. I stopped thinking about saving people a long time ago, after the Sea Queen Marie went down, and I don’t even beckon Russell’s attention. I know if I do, he won’t look anyway. But still, even though I’m cold, ruthless, conditioned now to feel nothing, except the need to keep Russell and me alive, I shudder when I hear the man yelp, a cry that’s crystal clear. He says, “Help me!”

I listen to the plea no one cares about, and watch the head go under for the third, and then fourth and final time. He swallowed a big gulp of water that time, I could tell. Aboard the Sea Queen Marie, Cap’n had told us all one night, after a long festival of plays and songs, with a roaring fire to dismiss the notions that we were living in a hell, what drowning is like. He said you don’t actually breathe in water most of the time. I had a hard time believing that, but some of the others had seconded the fact. He said you try to breathe, and that your throat closes shut, because it’s a reflex, the body’s last desperate attempt to save itself. Then, you suffocate. It might even be pleasant, Cap’n said. When the brain stops receiving oxygen, it’s only be a minute until lights out.

The man’s flailing body doesn’t seem pleasant to me. But then, right at the end, it kind of does, as he gently slides underneath the brown. The wet forms on the shore start walking back the way they came, almost sad, maybe not because they lost their friend but because they lost a perfectly good two day’s sustenance. Either way, Russell finally speaks.

“They’re getting the boat,” he says. I already know that. I want to mock him, remind him he was wrong about them being drowned, mainly because I’m mad at how much he’s heaving. He never used to struggle so much to row. Now, it’s as if he’s faking it, pretending like he has no strength. But it’s real. And I can’t deal with that, so I mock him anyway.

“Told you they were alive,” I say.

But he doesn’t look up like normal. No flash of his handsome smile. He keeps his head down, like he’s really concentrating. And he keeps on grunting. I don’t know if he’s thinking about me worrying that he’s not doing so good, and that I might ask to take over rowing, so all he says is “Bail.” He’s tired. His voice is gruff.

I start to bail, and watch the permanent gray overhead. It’s medium gray, which means medium rain. The sunset, really just a smear of brighter gray, golden in one long band, doesn’t cheer me up like it usually does. I worry about the week on the water, but even more, I worry about tonight, and how we’re going to fend off the second attack if they come back and find us. Looking south, in the direction we’re heading, I don’t see any more islands past this one we’re going to. Just open brown, and rain, and gray forever, all the way to the Rocky Mountains, that I’m told exist somewhere that way. If we have to shove off again, there’s no going back. I take away the horizon, the view of the future, and clear everything out in favor of the bright neon bucket, and I bail.

Chapter 2

I watch the mountain we’re leaving behind recede. It’s dirty, a mound of muddy rock, a lot like my clothes. I haven’t had a change of clothes in three weeks. Russell thinks that we might get sick a lot faster if we don’t find new clothes soon. I really don’t give a shit, because right now Russell seems like he can’t even row. He slumps down, then picks the oars back up, pushes them again into the water, digging, but it’s like he doesn’t find anything there to push against.

I ask if he’s okay, and he nods, but we’re not moving anymore. The blear of the sun is still high, so I’m not afraid of stalling out on the water in the dark. That happened a few times. Every time it’s happened so far there haven’t been any waves. It wasn’t too bad. But I realize now that I’m going to have to take over the rowing. And I don’t know if he’ll be able to bail.

“Take the antibiotics,” I say, and I take the oars from him without any protesting, pushing his body off of the rowing seat, sitting in it myself. Two inches of water sloshes around at my feet as I move. The ice is gone. Maybe I imagined it. He moves to my seat and lies down.

“Russell, bail,” I say. He still doesn’t respond. I look ahead to the mountain top we’re heading for. It’s a mix of stone and slush, one of the lowest lying strips I’ve seen in the Bighorns. Sometimes I can’t tell if we’re in a lake, or if we’re in the real water—the everlasting stretch. But I’ve never had to deal with the rain alone. And he looks like he’s about to die on me.

“Bail, bail,” I say. I press into the water with the oars, feel the familiar ache in my back and my legs. The water cooperates and the canoe starts to move again. We’re gliding to the last edge of the mountain range. Beyond this, there’s nothing. And I know I can’t make it over 500 miles south alone.

On my head I’m wearing a plastic tarp, taped around my shoulders to keep it in place. The rain slides off, funneling right into the canoe. I can’t even keep my eyes on the island ahead because I’m too worried about the rising water at my feet. I don’t know how high it would have to get to sink. But with each stroke, the canoe is feeling more sluggish, like its struggling to move.

“Russell!” I yell. I only hear the rain in response. Everywhere are a million tiny fountains splashing freezing cold water. The key to life. The thing that wants us dead.

When I first met Russell, and he was plump, jolly, and altogether unconcerned with the bleak world that surrounded us, he used to talk about God a lot. He said he was quite a religious man once. He believed in the spiritual power of a connection with God. He used to tell me I should pray, and sometimes I pretended to for him. I could never help but feel like I was talking to nothing, the rain maybe.

Some people said that Poseidon was the only god now, and that he had killed all the other gods. Russell explained that they meant the ancient god of the sea, the one that had caused all this to happen. But it wasn’t Poseidon, he’d assured me. It was just the sun.

The numbers he always talks about, 15 inches a day, 5,400 a year, stopped being accurate a long time ago. He confesses this once in a while, and declares that we really know nothing about the real depth of the rain sea now. He says he can’t be sure that what we’re looking at is really the sea at all—maybe it’s just like this east of the Sierra Nevada mountains, he says once in a while. The Pacific hasn’t connected yet. Just a Great Lake. I don’t really care one way or the other. I just want something warm, and something dry. The Sea Queen Marie had been those things for such a long time, and then after that, Sioux Falls and Rapid City. But when we left Rapid City, I sort of knew we would never be dry and warm again.

The gray clouds cover the sky night and day, and I can tell its past noon because the smear of the sun, visible on a good day, is starting to fall again. It’s telling which way is west, and we can tell from that which way is south. As long as a gale doesn’t blow up, Russell started saying three days ago, a new mantra.

The crack on the side of the canoe looks a little bigger, as if its widening somehow, even though we haven’t hit anything. The water is growing higher in the boat. I think about the timing. Russell says the timing of things is everything. Because it won’t be winter for another month, we can make the trip to Leadville in time. But I’ve already seen ice crystals. No snow though. That’s a good sign, he says.

I dig the oars in again, and watch the last island grow bigger as we approach it. Russell is useless now. I hear him breathing really loud, like he can’t catch his breath. He coughs a little bit. I’ve been ignoring his cough for the last few days, because I know he won’t take the antibiotics. I’m thinking about forcing them in when he’s asleep. I don’t want the cough to mean what I’ve seen it mean for everyone else—the long fever, the sweating when it’s cold, the in-between period when life and death separate and leave a pale, rolling eye nightmare that trembles through the whole body.

I know we can make it now. The muddy rise is showing itself, the place where I’m going to attempt to land the boat. I’ll need a rocky bank, something to throw the nylon around. This last island looks all mud, like it’s ready to wash into the brown canvas, slowly pushed down by the endless drops.

On the Sea Queen Marie, Cap’n said that the climate has changed too. It isn’t as cold anymore. There is less shielding or something, and despite the constant clouds, the sun is getting through in a worse way than ever before. I’d seen some of the boils on the passengers, the ones who said they’d come up and east from the top of Texas, Amarillo I think. They had come through The Great Plains nine years before getting to Marie, through part of waterspout alley. By now it’s a raging crush of water there, they had warned. Russell took it to heart. We have to avoid the Plains at all costs he said after that, and has continued to say ever since. But the Bighorns are on the edge of the Plains, and I know it. Really close. We can’t drift too far east when we push out for Leadville. We’ll be swept in.

I pick the softest-rising slope on the mud heap and try to put the boat in. The canoe nudges along the underwater hill, then grinds to a halt. Then it rocks back and springs off the mud bank, as if the land is trying to cough us out. I look behind, even though there’s no way they could be following already. There’s nothing out there in the permanent fog, just gray and brown. I don’t know how those face eaters could possibly follow us any farther. I try again and get the canoe lodged in place, and walk over to Russell and start shaking him. Get up, I say, we’re here. He comes to life like a zombie. He grabs the tent, the poles, and takes the nylon. The water in the canoe is too high, but we’re off the sea. The boat will be under water when we wake up tomorrow, but if we tie it up good, it won’t be gone. We can flip it. Keep going.

We didn’t used to live like this. When the electricity was still on, back in Philadelphia, we barely noticed the rain. We lived in an old castle of a building. It was once an Art museum Russell said. Giant columns, rising high above the low lakes surrounding it. Low risk of flash floods. Plenty of food around and in the city. A lot of streets you could still walk through. That was almost eleven years ago.

I remember him taking me to see the bridge. We walked on it. It was called the Walt Whitman, he’d said. It still looked like a bridge then too, but you could see the low-lying building tops under the water, the endless rows of cars, submerged, and the tipped container ships. The ships were important. We went down as close as we could to the docks then, hauling as much food and supplies as fit in our packs. There seemed to be an endless amount of everything then.

Philadelphia had animals too. I saw deer running around, over hills, sliding sometimes, jumping like they couldn’t figure out where to go. Then they all disappeared. Russell said they found a burrow somewhere. I didn’t buy it.

Russell finds a nice jagged rock and loops the nylon rope around it. Then again. Three times in all. But he needs my help to do it. I ask him if he thinks they’ll keep following us.

“If they’re starving,” is all he gets out.

I want to take care of him, but I can’t. He’s kept me safe my whole life. When he was still happy, and believed in God, he would discuss the pieces of humanity, the veneer, he calls it now. Art, music, culture. Politics, governments, wars, history. Charity, rescue organizations, the army.

After the Sea Queen went down, he just called it the veneer, and he never goes into it more than that now—he doesn’t talk about the pieces. For a long time we’d been able to ignore the rumors about the place where it doesn’t rain, the city above the water line. We didn’t need to go there. It comforted me to know it was out there, even though Russell called it a matter of faith. But when we lost the Cap’n and our family on that boat, long after we’d left our homes in Philadelphia and Pittsburg, he said that crew was the last humanity we’ll ever see. I don’t know how he meant that if he really believes we can reach Leadville.

I used to ask him, “Won’t it be too hot there?” I’d heard the horror stories about the heat for years. No, he’d replied. That was way south, past Texas. The equator. And I’d been relieved. I never thought we’d see ice though. Now I’m not so sure how relieved it makes me feel.

I have to help Russell up the mud bank. There are barely any trees on this island. Our tent will have to be naked. He sits down and puts the tent and the poles on the ground. I look at him and I want to scream. I want to demand that he tell me what’s wrong with him. But I don’t want to hear about the infection, the bad antibiotics.

I work as quickly as I can getting the tent up. I’ve done it so many times that I could do it in the pitch black. Russell doesn’t even get the plastic food sack out of the canoe. I have to go down.

I walk slowly, carefully to the edge of the bank. I feel like I can see the underwater valley below, descending for thousands of feet to some dark graveyard where millions of skeletons decompose, disperse like dissolved salt. I’m almost to the boat when I slip. One foot tries to steady the mistake of the other, but it doesn’t work, because this island is all mud. Barely any rock for grip.

I stick my hand out to break my fall and smack my shoulder into the ground, then tumble down toward the water. Freezing needles stab me as I realize water is rushing over me. I’m in the water. I feel like I can’t breathe. I can’t even pull myself to the surface. But then I find the ground again, it’s still there. I stand up, already numb. I don’t feel the cold at all anymore. I just pull the nylon line to draw the canoe, grab the bail buckets and the plastic bag, then let the canoe drift back out into the brown.

Up until Indianapolis, we didn’t have to worry about exposure. In Pittsburg, we didn’t even wrap ourselves in plastic. I remember looking at my hands then, and seeing them start to prune. I remember wondering for the first time if the texture of my skin would ever return to normal. I don’t care if I look like shit, except to Russell. And I don’t want my skin to slide off. I’m always better about keeping my plastic on than him. He is stupid like that sometimes, like he’s invincible.

He used to talk about the exposure—how it will get colder as we go west. He said even in the warm waters though, if we get stuck in them, we’d become hypothermic. The human body is 98 degrees. The warmest water we’ll see, he said, will be around 70 degrees. That temperature will suck the life right out of us in a few hours. Walking back to him, I wonder what the temperature of the water is here. Maybe 50? And we don’t have anything to make a fire with, and a week ahead on the flat brown sea. If there is a Poseidon god, I think it’s time to ask him that the brown stays flat. I can take medium rain. Even heavy rain. If there are no waves.

I walk back to Russell. He hasn’t gone inside the tent yet. Just lying in the mud. I kneel next to him and study his face, and notice the sinking feeling in my stomach is coming back. He looks like he’s sleeping, but his breathing is slowed. I put my hand on his forehead, like he’s done so many times for me. But I’m no good at it, and I can’t tell if he’s too hot. His eyes look sunken, and his skin is soggy. He’s not even leaning away from the rain.

“Russell,” I say, trying not to let my stirring anxiety show. I glance over at the sea, realizing that if the face eaters appear out there, we’re not running anywhere. I reach into my pocket, careful not to punch another hole in the plastic glove, and feel for my knife. He has one too. But his won’t be any good to us if he keeps acting like this. No boats are out on the water. Maybe they’ve given up. Maybe that run across the last rock was the last of their strength. Maybe they decided to just eat each other.

“C’mon, let’s get inside.” I nudge him. He doesn’t respond. I really start to worry, and I can’t help but let it show in my voice. “Russell! Get the fuck in the tent!”

Usually he gets excited when I use bad language. He always tells me never to curse, because it’s a way to keep ourselves close to the veneer. But sometimes I need to know he’s alive, still feeling, and I curse to get a reaction from him. He never smiles about it, but he always reminds me not to do it. Over the last few months though, he’s barely protested at all. I almost think he’d let me have sex with someone for food now if we had another chance. It’s like he’s not caring as much anymore about me, or anything, just Leadville.

I grab his wrist, then bring it close to his other, and start to pull him to the tent flap. He finally rolls his eyes open, watches me, and apologizes. I don’t want to hear it, so I just keep pulling him toward the tent. But he’s too heavy. At first he sort of slides across the mud, and it’s only a few feet away, but now it’s too much. Even though he’s a skeleton, I can’t move his body. If he doesn’t start moving on his own, he’s going to stay out in the rain. I realize that with a panic and do something irrational. I start shaking him as hard as I can.

“C’mon you heavy bastard,” I say, my voice quavering. It’s as if he recognizes who I am again. Maybe the terror I’m sounding like. And he starts to crawl to the tent. I push his butt behind him until he’s in and get inside after him. I close the tent flap. He lies down on the mush, and I lie next to him. Above our heads, the splotches of the rain appear and disappear, a hundred times a second, each time in a different place. The canvas is leaking in two spots, a steady drip. One of the drips is right in the center of the tent, the other by the tent flap. I roll him on his side, getting him as close to the far wall of the tent as I can. The drone on the roof makes the rain sound hard, loud, like it’s on heavy. I start again with panic, wondering if it is turning heavy, if maybe a gale is blowing up, but I stop myself—it’s just being in the tent. I’ve been in the tent hundreds of times. Not this tent. We picked this one up in Rapid City. But the sound always gets louder in the tent, the rain always feels like it’s on heavy when we’re inside.

I try to talk to him again, and he still isn’t responding. I realize his face is pressed into the mud from how I rolled him. I pull him back and make sure he’s on his back. He smiles at me.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” I say, feeling the weight of the world slide away at the sight of his smile.

“I just need some sleep,” he says, and then the smile disappears. He’s out. I push myself down into the mud, turn him against the wall of the tent, and press my stomach against his back and butt. I push in close, as close as I can. Usually he’s really warm. Some nights, when we first started staying in the tent a lot, in Chicago, he was too warm. I had to stay on the other side of the tent because of how much heat his body put out. He told me to stay close anyway, that when we were sleeping the temperature might drop suddenly. But I couldn’t. He was too hot. I would wake up sweating every time and have to disentangle myself from his body. Sometimes he wrapped me up, really right, so I couldn’t get out. I used to hate that. And sometimes, I really didn’t mind. But ever since Sioux Falls, I can’t stay far from him in the tent for more than a minute. The second we set it up, he goes right to sleep. No conversation. And I get right on him, right away. But now he doesn’t feel like he used to. It’s like he’s taking all the heat from me instead of giving it. And I’m happy to give it to him, as long as he doesn’t get sick on me. I tell him he’s not allowed to get sick. He agrees.

Sometimes, when we talked about the veneer of humanity, and he still seemed to enjoy indulging in the idea of it, he would bring up love. He’d mention a girl he used to know. She had been his girlfriend. He said they wanted to get married, but they could never get the money up. He said he regretted that they’d never just settled for a cheap wedding. I didn’t really know what a wedding was, and he told me it used to be a giant waste of money. But it was part of the veneer, and so he had tried to save up for it. She died before they could get married though. They had a kid too. He doesn’t talk about that at all. A picture fell out of his jacket once in Pittsburg, and he wouldn’t even tell me who it was. After the Sea Queen Marie went down, and we survived by the hand of god, as he put it, he admitted that it was his daughter. He’d wanted to get married most for her. But more than just for her. He said he really loved his lady. We were soul mates, he had said. That one took a lot of explaining. I got out of it that two people pretended like they’d be together forever. He said forever was one of the veneer ideas, easy to embrace when you don’t have to struggle through the rain for food, higher ground, warmth, a dry place to lay down.

It sounded really silly to me. But part of me is jealous. It sounds like something I am sure I will never have. Love. Soul mate. Wedding. A baby. And then I start to feel the attraction to him. I start to take all those things he has said and place them on him and me. But he won’t talk about any of it with me. Just Leadville.

She didn’t drown, his daughter. It was that there were no hospitals around to take her. They’d all been abandoned. There were militia hospitals. But they couldn’t do anything. Bad antibiotics. Now he won’t touch them. Says the rain’s gotten to them all. I don’t think that’s the real reason he doesn’t take them.

I push into him, begging in my mind that the warmth return, that his warmth come into me, like it was always there before. Too hot. But it doesn’t. And I lie awake thinking, watching the drab nothing above the tent, noticing that it is darkening by degrees outside. At first I think it’s getting dark too fast, and I remember the charcoal black sky of the hurricane that sank us. But it’s not, it’s getting dark at normal speed. And the rain is on medium. I calm myself back down.

I know that if the face eaters left ten minutes after we did, and guess right about which mudslide we crawled up onto, they’ll be arriving any minute now. We’ll be easy prey inside the tent. We won’t even hear their footsteps. But our normal guard duty where we take turns on watch is out—it has been for the past few nights. And I don’t have the energy to watch the water right now. I can’t leave Russell. I hope they miss us, find the wrong island. I try to recall how many other islands are around this one, how many they’ll have to choose from. Two, three? Really only one though. One that’s big enough to set up a tent on. Maybe they’re dead. Drowned now for real this time, the last two. I don’t remember the bandits ever being this persistent, not even in South Dakota. Something’s different here in Wyoming.

Just to be safe, I take out my knife, and I accidentally hit Russell with it as I put it into my fist while trying to stay as nestled into him as possible. He doesn’t move, and he doesn’t moan. He just breathes, real soft like, which at least is better than how he sounded on the boat. Some people can get sick real fast, he’d told me. One minute they’re in top shape, and the next they’re near to a coma, and before the night is out, they die. That’s just the way it is in the rain, he says. But not him.

I start to wonder if maybe Russell is my soul mate. He says he’s my dad’s age, as if my dad is alive or something, and he never tells me I’m pretty. But I know he watches me. I see him watching. At least I used to. When I’m walking away, and I turn back, he’s there, not even smiling, just looking at me like an animal. But I’m not scared, and I know it’s something besides watching out for my safety. I started doing it on purpose, walking away and turning back, just to make sure he is watching. But he doesn’t act interested. It’s like I’m his kid. He doesn’t want to be my soul mate. And for some reason, he keeps taking care of me. I asked him once if he leaves me, would he get to Leadville faster. He didn’t even answer. I thought he couldn’t say it, because it was true, and what was the point in bringing it up. But that night, when we were cuddled together in the tent, and he still had the warmth, he told me that he’d die without me. I made a mistake then. I asked him if we’d be together forever. I know it was veneer. Pointless. Unhelpful of me to bring it up. “Will you always be with me?” I asked him after he admitted he needed my help to make it to Leadville. He said yes for some reason. I said “Forever?” He said yes. It sounded like he meant it. I squeezed him, wanting him so bad.

I push my hands up along his back, into his stomach, wrapping tightly to him like some kind of cub. Then I reach up and feel his face again. I put my fingers against his lips, and wait for the breath. It rolls out slow. A small rush of warmth, and I know he’s still with me. Then I go up to his forehead, and feel it again, but I only feel the cold wet of his dripping hair. I can’t tell if he’s burning up. That’s when I hear something other than the rain. It sounds like someone’s splashing in the water outside. We didn’t pitch the tent very far from the water. It sounds very close. I shake Russell and ask him if he heard that. He doesn’t reply. I’m scared, and think for sure that it’s the face eaters. They have to have found us. But I don’t think I can fend off two of them with my knife. I take it into my hand. It’s only about six inches long. I don’t even know if I can hit one of them, and if I do, I don’t think I’ll kill him. I don’t want to go to the tent flap to look outside and check. I think I’d rather let them come kill us, end the rain forever. But that fear subsides as I continue to listen because I don’t hear any more sounds. And then I hear something again, a bigger splash. I know it’s them. They’ve found us, and they’re trying to land on the banks. Maybe they’ll just cut away our canoe and push on, head back north where there’re more peaks. But I know they won’t. They need to eat. We have hardtack, and our bodies. That’s what they’re after.

I crawl on my knees to the tent flap, ready to try one last struggle with Russell to wake him when I see my fears confirmed outside. The rain pelts the roof, drips cold on me as I get to the flap. I open it and see nothing but gray, then I recognize the difference between the sky and the mud. I see the long stretch of brown canvas water, but I don’t have a good enough angle to see down to where the rocks meet the water, where our canoe is. “Russell,” I whisper, but I know it’s useless now. I say it so softly that he probably doesn’t hear it even if he is awake and alert and not pretending to be sick anymore. I peel the flap back further and poke my head out.

Everything looks blank. Just dull sky and flat water, endless pattering on it as far as I can see. The rain hits. There’s not even any wind. The sky is getting darker, but I can’t see anything out there, and that gives me enough courage to step out of the tent. I rise on the mud, careful not to slip again.

I rotate all the way around, expecting to see something, a boat, men climbing the rocky banks to get to us, the greedy, deranged look in their faces like the one who drowned. But there’s no one. Just the gray and brown. Then I hear the splash again, and I look because I know exactly where it’s coming from now. I see a dark blue body moving in the water. It’s twenty times the size of our canoe. Water shoots into the sky, really high, and falls back down in a wide splashing arc. Then the body disappears again. An animal. It’s just an animal. I think about what Russell’s taught me about sea animals. Sharks, dolphins, squids. They’re all just magic to me. This one was too big though. Whale. It’s a whale.

I wait a long time, and it never comes back up. It’s strange for me, like the whale is some glimpse of hope, and I feel as if we aren’t totally alone anymore. I wonder if the whale minds the rain, or even notices it at all, and if all this that has happened to the human veneer matters one bit to it. No, it hasn’t even noticed we’re here. I have the compulsion to call to it, grab the oar and paddle out to it. Like it will know we need its help. And it will take us down into the rain sea and be a submarine for us. Carrying us south, straight to Leadville, no stops. It can probably have us there by the morning. I wait a long time for the whale to come back, until it’s almost dark. As tired as Russell seems all the time lately, I feel like I have more energy. Like now that everything is so close to death, I am constantly energized. He used to make fun of me because I sleep in. He says it’s like wasting your life, sleeping in. Sleep is for the dead, he says. But since Rapid City, I probably could have done without sleep altogether. And when I do sleep, it doesn’t do much for me. It usually brings me to some warm, dry place, like Philadelphia was, and Pittsburg, and for a time even Indianapolis. But those years are gone forever. And I always wake up, angry and depressed that we ever left there. But I have always trusted Russell’s judgment, more than my own or anyone else’s. He had said that there was a place where it wasn’t raining. Some people said, and he tended to believe them, that some countries are completely dry. But they can’t help anybody else. It used to be our country that helped everyone else he said. And when it came to the time after the rain, once people learned it wasn’t going to stop, and the veneer started to erode, and people started to starve, and lose power, and die, and get lost in mile long bodyjams that floated west, no one place that is dry can afford to do anything but help itself. That’s why we don’t hear about a rescue. But we can’t worry about the other countries, Russell says. The other places where it isn’t raining. Only Leadville.

And once it became clear that Philadelphia was getting bad, and the east coast was all too low, and we had to start moving west, we would never be able to turn back. Just stay on the move, seeking elevation. When Russell said we couldn’t stay in Philadelphia anymore, I accepted it without question. Even though we could still walk most of the streets there. And then again, when it happened in Pittsburg, I knew he was right. But in Indianapolis I fought him. Things didn’t seem bad there yet, it seemed dumb to move, but he said we had to go. We’d only been there two years. The rain didn’t seem to be taking as much then. But he’d said he knew we’d be in trouble in another year if we stayed.

And you never hear about how those places are doing after you leave them. They’re just gone, like they weren’t real, fading memories of a drier, warmer past, forsaken for the sake of faith, as Russell had called it. That’s what my dreams are. The memories of those decisions that I question now. The roofs over our head, the food in the cabinet, the streets to run through, the other normal people to talk to. The mistake of moving on when it isn’t that bad.

The sky is telling me that it’s almost night now, as the sun smear dips to my left, making some of the gray endless mass of clouds glow red and pink. The whale has forsaken us too. He doesn’t need to help, for what connection does he have to the veneer? What favor does he owe people like us? Even still, I can’t force myself to go back in just yet. The sight of its body, now the memory of its body, eases my mind. The same ease it had moving through the death pool all around us. I need it to come back, just so I can see it again, be filled with its grace, its lack of concern, its playfulness. I strain my eyes looking for it over the canvas of brown, imagining it will come back. I think about Russell and his wife and his daughter. I wonder if this is how he feels about them. I wonder if because he said forever to them, and had meant it, if now he feels like I do about the whale not coming back. It doesn’t make any logical sense that it will return, but I cling to the idea anyway. I look out over the muddled horizon for the whale, but instead, I see a boat. I think it’s a boat. I move down to the water, and all at once it’s like the fear from before has jumped back into me, but twice as strong, because after I double check, and triple check, I realize it really is a boat. I tell myself it’s a different boat, but I know it’s not. It’s the same one. It’s the one I’ve seen for days now trailing us in the open water. And it’s moving toward our rock of mud. I almost run back up to the tent, but I know that if I go in the water again, I might not come back up. I slowly climb up the rocks, onto the mud, walking between the little streams leading down to the sea so they don’t send me flying down along with the rain into the brown.

I open the tent flap. Russell’s still sleeping, but he’s rolled over onto his other side, facing the tent flap now. It sounds like he’s not even breathing, and the double fear of that and the face eaters launches me across to him. I grab him violently on his arm. He wakes up right away, like he isn’t even sick one bit.

“What’s up Tan?” he says. Hearing my name makes me feel like I’m suddenly awake again, like the whale never happened, the trip I took down into the sea with it. I try to choke out the words, but I can’t. I feel paralyzed, like I’m going to fall down and start crying. It’s a combination of the fact that he’s okay and the fact that we’re going to die anyway. He sits upright, concern gripping his gaunt face.

“Tanner!” he says, angry, desperate to know what’s happening. He’s awake, and he seems fine. I point outside the tent and finally mutter, “They’re coming.”

But he’s not fine. He goes to stand on his knees, like he’s always done at the first sign of danger when we stay in the tent, but he grunts and sits back down.

“What is it?” I say, panicked.

“I’m just dizzy, give me a second,” he moans. Then he reaches into his pocket, and it takes him forever but he finally takes out his knife and tries to stand on his knees again. He falls a little bit but I grab him, hold him upright until he can find his strength. It seems like he won’t find it though, and I know the boat is getting closer. It’s not so dark that they won’t see where our canoe is tied up on the bank.

“How close?” he says, weathered, but ready to move. I tell him a couple hundred feet. He starts to walk on his knees to the tent flap, and as always, I get behind him, waiting for his direction. I’ve never had to take charge, and I don’t want to start now. He’ll tell me what to do—either we run, or we stand our ground. But I don’t know how we can stand our ground, and I don’t know where we can row to. We’ll be on dark water if we row out there now. And we’ll have to backtrack north to find a patch of land to escape onto. And before all that we’ll have to flip the canoe because it’s half sunken.

Russell opens the flap and peers out, and then he steps out and stands up. I follow after him, locking my eyes right onto the sea. The boat is a lot closer now, or maybe I didn’t call it right, and it hadn’t been hundreds of feet away. I can see the blue plastic of their body suits. One of the men is limp, the other rowing. That must be what we looked like, with me at the oar.

“They’re low,” Russell says. I see what he means—the edge of their boat is perilously close to the water line, because the limp guy isn’t bailing. They’re moving slow, taking on rain, and it looks like they might sink before they reach us.

“What should we do?” I say, because it’s taking way too long for Russell to decide. He’s thinking slower than usual. He usually has a plan by now. He has them ahead of time. But he just looks out there, judging something silently to himself. I push into his chest, out of fright, out of having no words to express my need for him to make the call—to tell me to break the tent down again and tip our canoe over to empty out the water. But he always tips the canoe at the first sight of danger, because I usually can’t handle the weight by myself. But he isn’t moving yet. I squeeze him.

“Russell, I’m scared,” I say. The storm had hit us so fast in the Sea Queen Marie that I hadn’t had time to register my fright. It was just one minute we were okay, and the next, we were fighting for the rafts, and then we were knocked around for two hours in swells that rose as tall as houses. But ever since we’ve been in Wyoming, and the face eaters started showing up everywhere, I notice my fear more. Maybe it’s related to the sinking feeling I get in my stomach now, that we are forever beyond all the warm and dry places in the world, forever beyond the veneer. And in the total dreariness of the place, I start more and more to fixate upon ideas. Like the idea of Russell and me being together forever. Maybe even in the idea, now separated from everything else, that I love him. And he might never know it. Love, the word, hasn’t passed his lips since Philadelphia. I think it stopped after his family died. He’s never told me he loves me. But the love is in me now, and alive, and it drives the fear of death to a pulsing and horrible swelling inside my chest—I don’t want to lose him, and I don’t want to die. Even if the rain doesn’t ever stop, I don’t want us to end. I tell him I need him again. “Russell, what are we gonna do?” I say.

“They’re too low,” he says. He leaves me, pushes me off of him, and walks down to the water’s edge. I follow right after him and wait, hoping he’ll tell me what the plan is. He just stares, and I look too. They’re waists are level with the water.

“Can they make it?” I say. They’re so close. Russell doesn’t say anything, but he kneels down for a minute, like something’s wrong. I kneel next to him, put my arm on his back, rubbing it, but he just keeps looking at the mud. He’s not even checking the water anymore. I ask if he’s okay, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s breathing really loud again, like the short walk to the water was too much for him. They see us I tell him, but he already knows that. My hope that they might miss, get swept in the wrong direction, or not see us altogether evaporates.

“You have your knife?” he finally asks me. I show him it, and try to remember the way to stab that he taught me. You go across, not down. You keep the blade pointed toward your feet, not up to the sky. You swipe, not stab. I rehearse everything. I can’t believe he sounds like I’m actually going to use it.

The silence and rain stay united, until finally, after a long torment, the splashing of oars interferes, and the boat can’t hold any more water. The limp man looks like he’s dead. He isn’t moving, bailing, even opening his eyes. I wonder if he will even try to get off the boat. The other man has a look on his face like the one that died earlier today. His eyes are spread way open, unblinking despite the rain, like he’s had a last shot of adrenaline, the final push before death. Sea water starts spilling over the rail of the boat, and the whole thing tips over. They fall out together with a quiet splash. The limp man doesn’t even try to swim, he just sort of bobs for a bit, and then floats back out into the brown, like a current is dragging him south. The other one knows how to swim and he isn’t too tired to do it.

“He’ll make it,” is all Russell says. He stands back up, holds his knife ready, and looks at me. His face isn’t blank like before on the boat, and in the tent, or even a minute ago when he was kneeling in the mud. He looks concerned, like life’s back in him, a last fight. I stand behind him, scared to death.

“Get next to me,” he says. I obey him immediately. We stand side by side right at the water’s edge. The man makes good time swimming in. But he’s not crying for help like the last man. Finally, he reaches our canoe, where it’s half-submerged, and uses it to hoist himself up for air. He gasps loudly, destroying for a moment the consistency of the rain taps. Then he moves again, back into the water, walking underwater right up to our feet. His hands come onto the bank first, and they find a small rock to cling to. Russell steps up and stomps on his foot. The crushing pain makes the man scream. I cringe, unsure whether or not I should jump in. Then, like the pain brought him back to full strength, the man rises to his feet and ducks his head down way low, and charges at Russell like a bull. The head rams in. Russell stumbles from the blow before he can force his knife forward. The man falls on top of Russell. I finally snap alive and run to them.

I can’t tell who’s screaming. I reach the back of the wet animal and he throws his elbow backward at me as soon as I’m close enough to stab him. White flashing pain stuns me for a second. I can’t focus, I don’t know if Russell is pinned. I hear them grunting, a fight for life between the walking dead. I rise again, feeling undead myself, and try again to save Russell. Only he doesn’t need my help. He stands up all on his own, pushing the man off his chest. The man rolls over, both his hands firmly gripping the handle of a knife. It’s deep in his belly, right in the middle. Russell stabbed him in the gut. He doesn’t even make a sound even though the sight of it hurts my own stomach. It’s like he’s numb to it. And he starts to rise again.

I think I should stand next to Russell but I can’t. I can’t take my eyes off of the face eater. He looks like one of the rotting corpses. His whole face is a beard, a dripping mop, funneling rain onto his gut where the red is streaming out. He doesn’t act fazed by the wound. He looks at Russell, and Russell steps back a couple feet. And then Russell slips when he tries to back up even farther. He falls, hits a mud stream, and rolls down, all the way down, out into the water. The man pauses, both hands still feeling the knife handle, testing it, like he wants to try to loosen it. But he decides to leave it in, and he looks from Russell to me and then back to Russell. Russell doesn’t move in the water. I panic, thinking he hit his head and he can’t breathe. And then the man walks toward me, ignoring the knife sticking out of him, raising his hands toward me, moving in with like giant claws to make sure I don’t escape.

When I was little, and I first learned that I don’t have a real family, and back then some people still had real families, I felt sad. I felt sad for a really long time. I couldn’t remember my mom, or my dad. Russell filled me in with some details about my parents over the years, but I don’t know for sure if he just made them up because he knew I was sad then. He always cares if I’m sad. But Russell is my family, the closest thing to it I’ll ever know. And I turn away from the man coming at me because I can’t take my eyes off Russell, helpless in the brown.

I used to talk him up to anyone I met. The other boys, girls, older men, women, it didn’t matter. He was the toughest guy around. Who is he? they’d ask me. I never called him Dad once, always just Russell. He’s Russell I’d say, like they were idiots for not knowing that. Back then he was stocky, but he was tall and stocky. Enormous really. A bear of a man. Six foot three. Maybe two hundred and seventy five pounds. I was always safe when he was around. He’d beaten the shit out of a boy once who’d tried to get me to go home with him. Russell told me that boy had no intention of taking me to his house. He’d been about my age, and I was more curious than anything—I’d never really had a friend my age. He was after my body, Russell said. For food or sex, it didn’t matter. Though things were relatively calm in Philadelphia, and Pittsburg even, and the rain didn’t mean yet what it means now, the reports of cannibalism had already started. Despite those warmer, dryer times, people hadn’t seen the reason to wait, when it was necessary to survive, to eat other people. Society crumbled so fast, Russell says, that it makes the veneer disappear in many before the environment dictates that it has to. Some had different caveats about eating human flesh—they only do it in near-death situations, only if the person is already dead from natural causes, only if it is the thigh muscle, or the bicep, or the breast. Most of those rules about eating human flesh faded by the time we reached Chicago. By Rapid City, all the caveats were gone—and now it’s just the face eaters. Some of them I’ve seen, the ones who hunt in packs, have pieces of their faces missing, and other parts too Russell says, but those missing chunks are concealed under the plastic suits. Russell told me that they’d just as soon cut a block from each other’s arms for a meal than risk the rain some nights. I had thought it was bullshit. But then I saw the bodies—large sections missing, bones with teeth marks, faces with the serrated punctures of canines and molars. Until Rapid City, we were once removed from the face eaters, all the cannibals, because we played it safe. We stuck to the high rises, where food was more plentiful. We stuck to the Sea Queen Marie. We stuck to the towers and the skylines and the towns on mountain tops. It was in the backcountry you ran into the face eaters, Russell told me then. We avoided backcountry like the plague. But after Rapid City, and even long before that, the cannibals weren’t the minority anymore. If a body floated by in the rain that hadn’t been dead for more than a day, it simply meant another day of life for someone else. But we’ve managed to make it this far without doing it. It’s one of the last pieces of the veneer Russell will talk about. That we don’t eat other people. The veneer was so strong before the rain, he says, that no one ate people. I can’t imagine that. We’re just another food source, like any other animal out there.

The man steps carefully on the mud, then again, moving toward me his food source and ignoring Russell in the water. He’ll eat every part of me raw is all I can think as he comes. But I hear water splashing, and movement at the bank—it’s Russell. I watch him trample up the mudslide on his hands and knees, weaponless, but seething. The face eater halts and turns to Russell as Russell barrels into his legs. I charge at him too. I see the knife handle sticking out of his stomach and grab it and push as hard as I can, wedging it deeper in. It slides in, like his skin has no measure of resistance anymore, like he’s one big sponge soaked in red water, and the whole handle disappears inside him. He falls, almost on Russell. He misses and rolls off to the side. I run to him even though I think he’s dead now, and my fear disappears, and I stomp on his face like it’s a big spider. I do it over and over again until I slip. Mud smacks my mouth and I bite my lip. I taste the blood, very different from the rain. I stand back up immediately, expecting to have to continue, but the man is dead. I walk over top of him and look down at him. His eyes are still wild, and they’re still wide open. He looks just like he did when he was coming after me. But all the other life has gone out of him. And maybe it’s traveled somewhere else, like Russell used to say happens, but I don’t think so. I pause at my instinct, which screams that I roll him down into the water. The pause comes because for a moment I think that he’s food. We don’t have any food, not much. Not enough for the trip to Leadville. It’s five hundred some miles to Leadville. It’s a wasteland out here. But I can’t look at Russell, can’t bear to ask him. I know he’ll refuse. I follow my gut and kick the man, then get down in the mud on my knees, rain smacking my back, and push. I grunt, and I cry, and I push him down into the water. He floats away some, then his body drifts back toward the bank, like the gravity of our living bodies is pulling him toward us, because our bodies need him for nourishment. But then he is sucked away, captured by the same current that took his friend. He disappears before I realize I haven’t heard Russell move.

I turn around and race back up the mud, careless, forgetting to watch my step so I don’t tumble down into the water myself. It’s getting really dark. But I see Russell. His eyes are closed. He’s lying on his back. And his chest isn’t rising up and down. No, I think I scream, but nothing comes out. I just go to him and fall on top of him. Rain falls on us.

Part 2

Chapter 3

The rain is freezing cold. I talk to Russell, quietly at first, pretending I don’t notice that he’s not breathing, then I start shouting at him. I start slapping his chest. Then I stop everything because it’s all useless. He isn’t responding. But I see up close that he still is breathing. Really softly, but he’s alive. I’m shivering, and I look around, as if someone will spring out of the gloom and help me. Help me carry him to the tent. But no one comes.

When I was eight or nine, there were two people who lived with us. We moved together from Philadelphia to Pittsburg, across the flooding farmlands, where by the end, we navigated by the sight of the grain silos that rose from the water. But when we reached Pittsburg, we found a high rise building. We were safe from the rain.

Delly and Jennifer were their names. They came with us and settled next door in the high rise. Russell really trusted them, and so I did too. It was the first time I learned you could still trust an outsider—that not everyone was out to get you or what you had. Their two kids, I can’t remember their names, tagged along with us everywhere we went. We’d go out into the rain together sometimes—supermarkets, abandoned warehouses, militia hospitals, radio towers to check for transmissions. There were never any transmissions, but it was enjoyable then to go out, running through the rain, like it made everything an adventure, and not the cold advance of death that it really was. When Russell got sick back then, with a cold, or a headache, or his leg infection, Delly and Jennifer helped out. I tried my best to contribute—make him soup, find some extra cookies somewhere, trade for ice, anything I thought might cheer him up or make him better faster. Sometimes I found Tylenol that was still dry and edible. But Delly and Jennifer were really the ones taking care of him, as much as I thought I was helping. Most of the time they left us alone, and they worried about their own small space in the high rise, keeping anyone from getting too close to their family in case things became too desperate. That’s how things became in Philadelphia, Russell says—too desperate. But I remember feeling a sense of comfort knowing they were around, within shouting distance, neighbors even. Getting the Tylenol for Russell was really going to Delly and asking him for some. Or maybe running down into the gutted supermarkets by myself, climbing through the ransacked pharmacies, though Russell didn’t like me doing that. He said it was too risky.  Despite the distance they kept from us, I felt like Delly and Jennifer actually cared about us. After Pittsburg, we left Delly and Jennifer behind because they refused to travel through the open rain again. They’d had enough moving from place to place like nomads without a home, even though all the streets were flooded by then, and the militia hospitals were falling apart from disease, and the rampant mindset about heading west was in full fever. We didn’t have anyone else that cared about us for a long time after that. Not until the Sea Queen Marie. In Indianapolis, Russell did the work: he traded for food, weapons, clothing, and medicine. That’s when we had a gun. I’d help scavenge, and we’d have extra to trade sometimes. He’d always trade for books with the extra, or let me pick out board games to play with him. But there, in Indianapolis, when I was twelve, I realized no one gave a shit anymore. No one actually cared about us. It was every man for himself. No one would help you there unless you helped them in what they considered an equal way. And that was the best case scenario. If it wasn’t that, it was more often someone who would just try to take what you had. Russell used his gun sometimes, but he didn’t talk to me about it when he did. I could tell he didn’t like that he had to use it. Still, he did use it, and he thought it was important I know how to use it too. He taught me how to shoot then.

If something had happened to Russell then, I don’t know what I would have done. Probably went and asked someone to help me move him, get him medicine, and I would give whatever we had in our tarp house. I would give them anything they wanted. We lived in a ratty tarp house then, in a tarp city, on a rooftop. But I could have traded something there at least, and someone would probably have helped us, even if they didn’t give a shit about us. People at least gave a shit about your supplies. Only Russell stopped getting sick for a long time, so I never had to look for help. And when we got to the Sea Queen Marie, I started to feel like I used to around Delly and Jennifer again. On that ship, people even helped when you didn’t have anything to trade. They’d let you owe them, and they trusted you to repay them. That’s how close we all became on the Marie.

But after the storm, after the ship capsized, and we passed through Sioux Falls on our way to Wyoming, there was no one to ask for anything. Just salvage what you can and keep your distance from people. There was a selfish, dangerous hunger in everyone we met after the sinking, and I started to feel like the West was the opposite of what Russell said it would be—instead of the veneer, it was the absence of the veneer. I held onto Russell’s hope though, like things would eventually turn around. We never brought it up that everything was getting worse. Just keep moving. Leadville.

I look at the great expanse of brown water surrounding our crust of raised mud. Here, there’s no one in every direction forever. Because the face eaters don’t count, they’re not people. No one cares out here. Not the rain, the cold, or the wet. It’s just us.

Russell coughs, and it sounds really weak. He coughs again, stronger, and I realize he’s trying to talk to me. I lean down against him and listen, but nothing comes out. I get on my knees, rain pounding my back, and as I start to slide down the bank into the sea, I push against Russell, trying to roll him up toward the tent. I dig in and press hard but his body goes nowhere, and the force works in reverse, sending me sliding down to the edge of the water. I sink my heels into the mud hard enough to slow down and finally stop before spilling in. The canoe’s right next to me—it’s taken a beating from the rain and it’s sunken all the way under now. It looks up at me like a murky ghost, mocking the fact that we’ve considered it our best and only hope to make it to safety. And I know that even with all my might I can’t get Russell into the tent. Not if he’s not moving himself to help me. In all my years, I’ve never slept an entire night outside in the rain. It’s hard to believe, but we always find a roof. I wonder if Russell ever had to sleep in the rain all night before we teamed up. But tonight, I can’t see any other way for things to go. And it terrifies me because I know the rain’s too cold to spend the night outside. Hypothermia is guaranteed.

I look out over the dark water and I feel overwhelmed and utterly useless. I want to jump in. Go down and find the whale. I can’t deal with Russell dying. My whole body starts to shake from the cold and the wet. Then I hear a moan, and the sound of movement. I turn around and see Russell try to get on his knees but he slips. He can’t get up. The rain drives in rivulets down my head, onto my arms, and my neck. I want to give up. Everything in me is telling me I can’t do this anymore. The warm, cozy days of the past are gone forever. I’ll never find a real home. I’ll never have love. Just the bleak gray, and the wet, and the cold, until I die. Which now looks like it will be shortly after Russell dies. And there’s nothing I can do. I don’t see a point in going on.

And then it hits me as I stand up again. I’m an idiot. I was almost ready to curl up on the mud beside Russell and let myself fall asleep, leave this place, let the cold pull me gently into the permanent nothingness. It’s so obvious I could slap myself.

Just move the tent, not him.

The thought collapses my panic into a singular focus, and I tread back up the slippery bank. I pass Russell but I can’t bear to look at him. I think I hear him breathing, and that’s good enough. I go through the motions, pulling out the tent poles, collapsing the canvas, dragging it over to him, and setting it up all over again. I struggle at first because of the slope, but in just five minutes it’s up, and he’s underneath the canvas ceiling now. We’re perilously close to the water, and I think a mudslide could take the whole tent into the sea while we sleep. But I can’t resist sleep. It’s the only thing that makes sense now. I roll Russell over as best I can and pull myself into him. He is breathing regularly again, and without the groans that were coming before. I hug him and stare at the brown canvas wall, wondering what tomorrow will bring. I think about the canoe’s crack, and the fact that Russell doesn’t seem like he can bail or row. Without him, I don’t know how I’ll make it back to the bigger sections of the Bighorns where there is better shelter, where we still had a chance of finding fuel for a fire. I can’t even think of the sea voyage to Leadville. It seems out of the question now. We’ve pushed ourselves to a point where we can’t turn back, but we can’t go forward either. Every problem at once is too much for me to take, so I stop thinking about how messed up it all is. At least we’re in the tent again. I let my mind dissolve into the noise of the rain, its steady patter on the ocean just a few feet away from our heads, its soft patter on the mud all around us. The cold starts to slide away because the rain is no longer hitting me. I’m getting warm again, but Russell is taking most of it, it seems, faster than I can generate it. I close my eyes and think of the face eaters floating away, and wonder about what direction they’re drifting. Will they pass through Colorado? And what about the whale—what magical place will it visit?

I have a really hard time sleeping. The morning comes after a long time. I can’t help but feel nervous about the new day, and what it will mean for me if Russell isn’t revived by his rest. It’s the only thing I can hope for—that the night of sleep will get him moving again.

I disentangle from him and poke my head out of the tent. The smear of the sun is visible again in the gray sky, near to the floor of the flat brown horizon. It’s rising from the East, taking its time, filtering through the endless layers of clouds.

I wrap my plastic suit around my body tight and step outside to survey the water. I don’t expect to see anything out there and I don’t. I’m glad I don’t see any waves, and it feels a little warmer. There is no sign of ice on the water. Something like hope floods my spirit for a moment, but it only lasts until I go back inside to wake Russell up. He doesn’t move. Russell, I say. He jerks at his name and sits up slowly, rubbing his head. I put my hand to his forehead. He’s hot, even I can tell.

“You’ve got to take the antibiotics,” I say. He ignores me and starts to move toward the tent flap. He pulls his plastic hood down over his face and pokes his head out. Canoe’s still here, he says, and he sits back down and coughs. I ask if he thinks it’s his leg or just a cold. He doesn’t answer me, and he lays down, blocking the tent entrance, like he’s going to go back to sleep. He lies right under the leak and lets it drip on his shoulder.

Russell used to have endless energy. After he started to grow thinner, and I wondered if he wasn’t sick with how thin he was, he started to run. It was his favorite thing to do. First thing in the morning, he’d go out running. Running through the rain, through the streams, hopping the puddles and the little torrents that laced the streets. He would always try to convince me to come, and he would say that it was the only thing that cleared his mind, brought him back to center. It does for me what God once did, he said. But he still seemed to believe in God when he said that, even though running was replacing his belief. I think he believed right up until the Marie sank.

But he was never tired. His leg injury happened when I was too little to remember. He’d been out on a run, like normal, when a flash flood hit. It was just outside of the tarp city we were living in outside Pittsburg. Tarp cities are the places where people gather up together and try to build a giant network of roof, to keep the rain out, and where, in those times, people helped each other by trading supplies. Getting new clothes, restocking food, keeping weapons on hand more and more as the bandits grew in number. Group after group of bandits started popping up then for the first time. Organized, and always after the innocent tarp city dwellers. The flash flood took Russell under an old bridge and then sucked him right out into a giant lake. The lake stretched way to the middle of Ohio the ones who found him said. Russell was gone for three days, floating in the water, clinging to jetsam. Exposure gave him the rubber skin. Eventually a motor boat saw him. They moved in close and talked to him, taking his word that he’d repay their favor if they saved him. They took off his skin when they hauled him out of the water. Then they took him back to the edge of Pittsburg. He paid them in gasoline. I remember that he wore gauze for a long time after that, but then he just wrapped it in plastic and started running again. It’s like he knew he’d have to be in shape for what was to come. And the nagging pain of the disintegrating, infected leg didn’t matter. He could run through the pain forever. But it hasn’t really worked out. He’s withered away to nothing now. Skin and bones. His legs are of no use anymore. In my head, I picture him when he looked best, and that’s still how I see him now, when I stare long enough. But he’s going back to sleep and it’s blocking us from leaving.

I don’t argue, I lay down next to him. I’ve barely had any sleep myself. I wonder if there could be more face eaters following the three. But no, they were the only ones we’d seen for days. They must have thought we were crazy for heading to Leadville, those families that stayed behind in Rapid City. But the water was getting too high there. It was one place I was glad to leave. I’ll forever question our first few departures, but nothing we left behind after the Marie. The West, I am convinced, has it worse than the East. And the rain is higher and higher out here. I close my eyes and finally get some rest.

When I get up, Russell’s already awake and the sun’s directly over the canvas at the center of the tent. He’s sitting up and reading his soggy, barely legible map. On it, he’s tracing with his mind the route he’s envisioned for us, the 520 mile trip to the south, on which we don’t count on seeing any land above the water. But there might be, he says. He tells me about the theory of some of the men on the Sea Queen Marie, the one where the rain sea is uneven. It has to do with the composition of the ground he says, the soil, the layers underneath everything. I ask him to go on and tell me more, because I feel hope in the idea. Maybe there will be land along the way. He says certain kinds of sediment absorb the water and send it way down into the Earth’s core, where it evaporates, and so the water level is lower in some spots. He says the mountains keep the water together in certain areas, making it higher, and that the former world is a bad model now because the plates of the Earth are shifted. Some of them are raised way up. It used to be that the Bighorns were 13,000 feet above sea level, he says. Now, we have no idea how high they are. Then he tells me there’s probably no such thing as sea level anymore, not like the old map says. It’s all rearranged. I ask him how the solar flare could have done all that. He says it’s more than just the solar flare. Much more. But it doesn’t matter. I wonder if he’s delusional with sickness, because he sounds like he’s started buying into the conspiracy theories he hates. He reminds me that we’re focused on getting to Colorado, and it doesn’t really matter much how the rain started. I ask him if the veneer is in Leadville. He doesn’t say anything. I want to ask him about his family, his daughter, his old girlfriend. Love and forever. Ideas that humans create, that mean so much to them, but are invisible, and as useless in the rain as the thought of a fire, or the idea of being dry. Impractical and useless leftover pieces of the veneer. But I can’t bring myself to bring any of it up, maybe because he’s finally acting okay again. But then he coughs, doubles over, and coughs again. He grabs his head, like he has a tremendous splitting pain inside it, and that’s when I decide I will sneak him the antibiotics. I’ll do it the next time he’s asleep. I remember his fear, that they’re spoiled, and I think about the bad antibiotics that killed his little girl. Maybe that will happen to him—what if you kill him? I push away the thought.

I start to imagine how old he must have been when he had his baby. How old he is now. It’s a mystery. And then he lies back down again and I ask him what we’re going to do. He closes his eyes and turns his head away from me.

“We have to get going,” he says softly. But his action is the opposite of the remark. He shows no sign of moving or going anywhere.

“Do you think we can really make it there now?” I say, unable to voice my real concern, and say that he is too sick to bail and row.

“Come on,” he says, and he tries to move out of the tent. I have to help him. We crawl out together. He half leans on me and then finally stands up outside in the rain. I start breaking down the tent because there’s nothing else to do on this barren rock of slime. I want to yell at him for lying about our chances of making a fire. He’d said he’d find something to make a fire today. But there’s nothing. Just the endless sea and a week’s worth of hardtack. For a second I remember that sleeping in the rain for seven days will kill us both. He’s weaker than me now, and he’ll die first. Just me alone, the last to die, only the canvas of brown to see it. And the rain. I’ve never thought of suicide, and I can’t bring myself to think of it now. But I can’t imagine staying on the boat without him.

Russell walks very slowly down to the canoe and leans into the water. I watch him nervously as I carry the tent and the food sack. I put everything down and help him raise the canoe and tip it. The rain fights us both but we finally get it done. The thing is floating again, taking on water again. I throw the bags and the tent in, the neon bucket. But then, just as we’re about to push off, and I think Russell has regained some of his strength, he sits down, his butt right in the mud, his feet nearly in the water, and puts his head into his hands. He starts crying, really quietly, and then he starts to laugh a little. I sit down next to him and he looks at me. He turns away and the crying starts over. I ask him what’s wrong. He doesn’t tell me, but he keeps crying, and he’s doing it like it’s using up the last of his energy. Then he admits to me what it is. We are committing suicide, pushing out like this. But it’s our only choice. He mentions something about Frank Worsley and an open boat journey from Elephant Island to South Georgia Island. He says they made it through just like we are going to do, and that they went 800 miles, and through Drake’s Passage, the roughest sea in the world. He says he’s worried because they had stars. And we don’t have stars. We won’t know where we’re going. It doesn’t matter anyway, because even with them, we’re in a canoe. And we couldn’t make it that far in such a small boat. With a crack. And the rain. But we have no other choice. We had to come this way. There was only rising water, empty pantries, and the face eaters in Rapid City. One nearly took you, he reminds me.

I remember it. Russell killed it, bludgeoned its head with a pipe, and we ran away. And the rest of its pack followed us. All down to that last three. And even they’re gone now, claimed by the sea.

But we can’t go back, I tell him. We can only head off this last step, into the long canvas of rain, and hope that Poseidon grants us mercy somehow. That’s what it’s come down to.

He can’t bring himself to do it—to finally leave the last piece of land. But there’s no wood here, no fire, no warmth, and nothing dry. And I don’t want to stay either, because he’s getting sicker.

We can make it, I say, trying to stop his sobs. It does nothing. I lean into him, press against him, wrap my arms around him, and try to get him to look at me but he doesn’t. I force his jaw around so that he’s looking into my eyes. His hair is running down past his eyebrows, clear across his face. “We’re getting in the fucking boat,” I tell him. I ask if he understands. His eyes seem to start to clear up and he eventually comes back to life. We have to do it—there’s nothing else anyway. We’re not going out without a fight, I tell him. I’m giving him everything I have, because that’s what he’s done for me.

He stops crying. I ask him if he remembers what he told me. His ignores me and says that it’s all his fault, that we shouldn’t have moved so fast to the West. But he’s second-guessing because he’s forgotten that we did what we had to do. I remind him of that but he ignores it. I ask him again—do you remember what you told me? He stands up and looks down at me. He’s quieted, ready to push out on one last quest for the veneer. I remind him about what he told me.

“We’d be together. Always,” I say. “You remember that?” He wobbles like he might fall back down and he coughs violently. But then he nods. He remembers.

“Well, I’m getting in this god damned boat. And I’m leaving. So if you stay here, without a tent, and without anything, then you broke the promise, didn’t you?” I turn around before I see if I get any reaction out of him. I check my pockets to make sure I still have my knife, and then I leap into the canoe, steadying it as it rocks after I land. I turn back and see him untying the nylon rope on the bank. He carefully brings it down and gets in the boat. “Bail,” I tell him, letting him shuffle past me to the stern bench. I slice one of the oars into the water, through to the firm earth beneath us. I push with everything I have and tell Russell to get me something out of the bag for us to eat. I hear water splashing behind me. Thank god he’s bailing. Alive. Still with me. We drift south, leaving the islands. As the smear of the sun wears across the sky, everything leaves us behind but the rain and the gray and the flat brown water.

I say a prayer to Poseidon that we don’t get any waves. I think that maybe we’ll pick up a current, and get there before we even know it.

An hour passes and I think we’ve already gone twenty miles, but I really have no idea. Everything looks the same. But the sound is different. Suddenly, I realize what has changed. The bailing has stopped. I turn around. Russell’s leaning back, asleep sitting up, and his hands loose, the bucket floating around in the accumulating water in the bottom of the canoe. He won’t say anything when I instruct him to keep bailing. And the pale of his face is gone. Instead, it’s bright red.

The canoe looks like it’s filling up faster all of the sudden, and Russell is out cold. I move over to him, walking through several inches of water, carefully placing the oars down in the center of the boat. I feel his cheeks. They’re hot. And then his forehead. It’s hot. He’s closed his eyes and he isn’t responding to me. I tell him I can’t keep rowing if he doesn’t bail. I glance over at the crack and see that it’s the same size as before. But all around us now is open water, a flat lifeless stretch of dropping rain bursts. And I have no idea what direction we’re heading. The smear of the sun is almost directly overhead, maybe even starting to fall westward, I can’t be sure. I want to cry because Russell won’t talk to me, and his breathing sounds really shallow. I move back to the oars, leaving him asleep, and sit down. I just sit and don’t do anything. No rowing, no bailing. Just watch the rain rise up on the floor of the canoe. I wonder if this is it. I don’t see a way out. But maybe if I can get Russell better.

I go to the food sack and open it underneath my plastic shirt to keep the rain out. I dig around inside and find the antibiotics Russell thinks have gone bad. But I have no other option. I take one out and put it into the neon bucket. I push my thumb into it, then harder because nothing happens, and finally it smashes into a fine powder. I do another pill. Then a third. I don’t know what kind of antibiotic it’s supposed to be, but I remember we spent four cans of beans on these pills. They better be good. I scoop some water into the bucket and swish it around as best I can, mixing the powder in, then move over to Russell. I look at him. He looks sad. A pathetic shadow of his former self. I push his head back and slip my fingers into his lips. His mouth is warm. I pry his mouth apart and start to pour the water down. It causes him to gag and he wakes up. You’ve got to drink something, you’re dehydrated, I tell him. I don’t say it nice. I mean business and he’s too sick to argue. He opens his mouth and I let him take a couple sips, but I keep going until it’s all gone. He makes a sour face like the water tastes awful but he drinks it anyway. I check the waterline at my feet—there’s maybe three inches of rain in the boat now. At least the crack’s not getting any bigger. I look out at the gray. Uniform death is everywhere. I look up to the sky, hoping some miracle break will show me blue.

In my life, I remember seeing blue sky one time. It was in Pittsburg. We were out camping on the ridge of Mount Washington. Hunting for food back when there was food to hunt. It was a long miraculous sliver that rolled across the sky in one single finger, saying goodbye to me. It was like the rain could have stopped right then. We talked for a long time after that about what was happening directly beneath that blue slit in the gray. Whether or not it was raining underneath it. If the sky was dry where it moved across the horizon.

I pick up the neon bucket now that Russell has drunk everything he can from it. He closes his eyes again, his expression unchanged. I try one more time to talk to him but get nothing. I think about looking at his leg, peeling back the plastic and the cloth to see what it looks like. If it’s infected again. But I don’t have the nerve. I dip the neon plastic into the canoe’s water and start to bail. I’ll have to rotate between bailing and rowing myself. I don’t know how I’ll sleep, or what will happen when I can’t stay awake anymore. But I don’t want to think about that. That’s the end. Right now, we’re still going. Heading to Leadville. Although to which direction we’re really heading, or the canoe is drifting, I can’t say.

After about twenty minutes I’ve got the water line down as low I can get it. I’m way ahead of the rain. But it’s as if Poseidon didn’t like that I made progress, and he throws a swell at the boat. We rock up and then down, very gently, but enough of a rise and fall to freeze me and start the vicious cycle of panic. I scan the sky and start to question the darkness behind us. In that direction, the sky looks darker than in front of the boat. I convince myself it’s just night time, and that we’ve shifted directions because I haven’t been rowing. That’s the East, and the sun is setting in the West. Nothing ominous. But I can’t be sure, and I grab the oars with blind panic, as if there’s somewhere I can get us safely ashore tonight if I row really hard. But as I start to furiously row I know there’s no safe harbor anywhere. And there’s no navigation. This was the long shot Russell hadn’t wanted to talk about since Rapid City. There is nowhere to go. Nowhere to stay. And no way to navigate the enormous stretch of sea all the way to Colorado. We can only float on.

The swells roll one after the other under the canoe for an hour, but they never get bigger, and they never get smaller. Two inches of water sloshes over my feet on the bottom of the boat as I row. The darkness hanging in the sky behind me is just the night time, not a storm coming. And I suddenly feel way too tired to go on. I turn to Russell, expecting him to feel revived. I’ve let him sleep all day after all. Let him break his most time-honored rule, to never waste the daylight. He especially shouldn’t be doing it now that his strength is really needed—when our combined strength is really needed. But he doesn’t even stir. It’s like he’s forgotten all about his rule. And the sleep hasn’t rejuvenated him one bit.

I put the oars down and move over to him, kneeling in the water at the bottom of the canoe. I ask him if he’s hungry, but he doesn’t say anything. I shake him a little bit. The way he’s tilted his head, his plastic hood isn’t draining the water into the boat, but right down onto his chest. I realize some of it has been flowing underneath his plastic, right into his dirty cotton shirt, soaking it. I turn around so my butt is right in the water on the bottom of the boat. In front of me in the sky, the band of the sun is starting to fall, but the sky is so enormous that it looks like it will take a long time to get all the way down. I wonder if the whale will come visit us when it’s dark tonight, and I’ll miss it.

I put my shoulders and my back in between Russell’s legs and lay back against him. He doesn’t move. I turn a little bit to look at him. I look up at him. He’s rolling with the swells now, like he’s going to topple over, but he doesn’t. I ask him if he’s okay, and surprisingly, he looks like he understands, but he doesn’t say a word. I stand back up and pull him down between the two canoe benches, into the center of the boat, so he’s secure and doesn’t fall right over the rail and into the water. You hungry? I ask again. He keeps his eyes shut and his only response is to just bob up and down with the swells. He’s sitting in the water in the center of the canoe now, and I sit back down between his legs, and lean back into him again. He’s sturdily against the edge of the seat now. I lay back, my back along his chest. Next to me is the canvas tarp for the tent. I pull it alongside us and unroll it, spreading it out like a blanket. I hoist it as high as I can, getting us both out of the rain. The rain grows louder, angry at the cover I’ve provided, and slams off the canvas and into the floor of the boat. 15 inches a day, I tell myself repeatedly. If that’s right, Russell’s old formula, then I can take a nap. There’s about three feet of canoe. I have a lot of time before I need to get up to bail. I already lost the right direction anyway. Or I never had it. Rowing is useless. It’s just drift and bail now. Keep us alive, keep us floating long enough to find something. Land. A motor boat. Anything.

“We’re going to Leadville,” I say. “Russell, you hear me?”

He’s the same as he has been all day. I say a prayer that the antibiotics start to work. That when I wake up, he’s up already again, like this morning, feeling better, ready to work together again. I tell him I love him. I think about giving him a kiss. I know he won’t mind right now. And I think there might be magic in it. I love you Russell, I tell him. I reach up, hoisting myself on the edge of the canoe seat, and lean into him, and kiss his hot forehead. Don’t die on me, please. Don’t break the promise. We’re in this together.

I close my eyes and the gray turns to black. I try not to think about the fact that this might be my last night alive as I fall asleep to the sound of the rain hitting our tent blanket.

Chapter 4

I wake to the sight of a clear tube of water rising from the sea all the way up into a hanging cloud. It’s far away, a long spiral stretching into the sky, hundreds of feet high. A waterspout tornado. I pull the tent off of my face and sit up a little bit, moving between Russell’s legs to get a better look. It looks like it’s a mile away but I can’t be sure. Then I realize the water in the canoe is up to my waist. I look left and see the water line of the sea. I’m almost at eye level with it, like the canoe is sagging so low that we’re about to go under. A swell hits the boat and cold spray splashes my face. I see the neon bucket floating around in the pool I’m lying in. I grab it before it slips overboard. Once it’s in my hand, I turn around and see Russell. He’s still lying against the edge of the seat. His eyes are closed. I see his chest rising and falling. I pull the tent back over him to keep the rain from pelting his face.

I realize I can’t feel either of my feet, they’ve gone entirely numb. But I can’t stop to think about it because we’re going to sink. I start to bail as fast as I can. It looks like the morning but I don’t stop to check for the smear of the sun. I call Russell’s name as I bail, just to see if he’s recovered at all. My heart sinks because he’s acting the same and doesn’t say a word. I see the crack of the canoe is dipping underwater with each cresting swell, and I can’t make progress with the bailing. One big roll and we’ll go down. I fixate on the giant waterspout, a monster on the water, far away enough that it doesn’t paralyze me with fear and I recognize how beautiful it is. I bail and stare at it to distract myself. My hands pump in and out, over and over, but I’m too tired to keep it up much longer, like I haven’t slept in a week. And I haven’t. I’ve just lived nightmares. But somehow we didn’t sink last night. If I’d slept another ten minutes, I’d have woken up in the sea, maybe with the canoe over my head. Russell’s in no condition to swim. I keep bailing, and my eyes turn to the food sack. It’s floating around at the other end of the canoe, knocking against the lip and bouncing back against the seat. It won’t go over unless a big swell hits us.

The waterspout is the smoothest, most perfect thing in nature I’ve ever seen. It would chew this hunk of fiber glass up and spit it out, I know, and then send us spinning down to the bottom. It’s so beautiful though that I can’t stop looking at it as I bail.

My body reminds me with pangs and numbness that I’m cold and hungry. And above the waterspout, even though all other signs point to it being early morning, it looks dark and gray—grayer than the surrounding gray, and darker than the foggy brown swells hitting us.

I keep going like a machine fueled by the majesty of the spinning column in the horizon. Bailing. Waiting for Russell to snap into life. I yell at him to get me some hardtack to eat. Take a turn bailing. But he doesn’t do either. He just stays asleep, breathing softly. I remember the antibiotics. I gave them to him last night. But how long do they take to work?

I remember waking from a nightmare last night. I had nearly forgotten it. The boat was sinking, water was rushing in. A storm had hit—swells the size of the islands. I woke up, bailed the canoe down in the middle of the night, half-conscious, and went right back to sleep. How had I woken up? And now again in the morning, just in time? Thank you Poseidon, if it’s you. Keep us alive just a little bit longer.

I bail until the water is nearly gone from the floor of the canoe. My arms are lead. Finally I drop the neon bucket and turn to the food sack. Russell’s still out cold. The waterspout is receding in the distance, and I can’t tell if the current is pulling us away from it, or if the thing itself is repelling everything in a wide arc. Either way, it slips away. Its beauty, and the terrible sight of the dark storm cloud it descends from. I stop worrying that a storm will spread out from it and swallow us up. Enough so that I rest against the seat and open the food sack. The rain runs down my hair and into my eyes and my mouth and I slurp it up. I carefully untie the food sack, move the nylon rope out of the way, and find the double-wrapped stack of hardtack. I open it and take a couple pieces out. As wet as everything around me is, the hardtack dries my mouth instantly. I eat more than I should, but I can’t help it. I feel like my bones and muscles are screaming. I scoop some rain water into the neon bucket and drink from it, washing down the last of the stale crackers. I look at Russell. He doesn’t look as red as he did yesterday—his face looks like it’s almost the regular shade of pale again, the color it has been since the Marie went down. Not the beat red color of fever and death. He hasn’t eaten in a long time, so I get out some more hardtack, close up the plastic sack, and move up to him and try to lift his head so I can slide in some food. His eyes move under his lids, and the very subtle hint that he’s alive reminds me to feel happy. It’s like the veneer is vanished completely now, even the love I feel for him, but his eyelids remind me for some reason of hope. I put my finger into his mouth and pry apart his lips. He groans a bit, opens his eyes, and stares at me. You need to eat something, I tell him. It’s cold, he says. I know, I say. I’m relieved to hear him talk. I want to squeeze him but I can’t. I just crumble up some of the hardtack and put it on his tongue. He tries to swallow and has a really hard time, so I lift the bucket to his lips and dump some rain in.

One day down, I tell him, trying to cheer him up, like he’ll snap back to his usual self. Only six more to go. And then Leadville. But the name that’s raised such excitement in him over the past year, that’s meant hope and a return to the veneer, does nothing for him now. He just moans again, acknowledging me, and then opens his mouth, like he’s hungry for more. I put in another bit of hardtack and repeat. I do it over again and again until it’s gone. I ask if he wants more out of the sack, or if he wants me to open one of the cans of beans. He shakes his head no.

I seal everything, float the bag back into the inch of water on the floor of the canoe, and then survey our surroundings. I expect to see a landmark for some reason, some sign of where we’re going. But there’s nothing. Even the enormous waterspout is gone, vanished into vapor and nothingness, like it never was. I have no idea which direction we’re going, or how far we’ve drifted. I look at Russell and wonder if he’s concerned about the route anymore. He had been very clear that we had to navigate by the sun—he said we just needed to go directly south. Keep the morning sun on our left, and the afternoon sun on our right. I look for the smear behind the gray after I remember this. It’s almost directly behind us. The swells have started to calm down, and the great canvas of water is nearly flat again, so I take the oars and give it a shot, trying to get the sun on our left side. After a few pumps we’re riding with the sun on the left, heading south again.

“Heading south,” I say.

He opens his eyes and starts to move for the first time in almost 24 hours. He hoists himself out of the cold floor of water and sits on the bench. You ready to take your turn? I say, more as a joke than anything else. I just need to get a reaction out of him, to know he’s getting better, even though that’s what the color of his face tells me. No more bright red. Regular pale. Yea, he says.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” I say, almost with anger. I’m disappointed he even considered dying, as if it was a choice that was his to make—the decision to quit. That he would leave me out here, stranded. Break his promise.

“It’s just a headache. It’s going away,” he says. He coughs after he’s done talking, which reminds me that he’s lying, and it’s way more than just a headache. He almost falls off the seat because he’s coughing so hard. But he asks for the oars anyway after he’s done hacking. No, just bail if the water gets high again, I tell him. He doesn’t argue, probably because he doesn’t have the strength to. Sun’s on our left, like you said it should be, I tell him. Good job, Tan, he says.

Time passes quietly except for the rain. I row for as long as I can, until the fiber of my arms is shredded, and the pain is long numbed, and now there is just the futile command I give my arms to work, but they simply refuse to comply. Nothing happens. I can’t push the oars anymore. Before they slip out of my hands and into the rain sea, I reel their length in and drop them along the center of the canoe. It’s your turn, I tell Russell. He’s fading out again though, and he hasn’t bailed one bit. He’s holding the sides of the canoe again, like he did yesterday, steadying himself so he doesn’t fall overboard or into the center of the canoe. I tread the several inches of water in the center of the canoe to get to him, put my hand on his shoulder and rub. I rub and I can’t feel my fingers. They’re as numb as my toes, my entire feet. I’ve forgotten how cold the rain is. All I want to do is go to sleep again, even though it’s the daytime, and it would mean breaking Russell’s rule, and drifting off course again, to god knows what emptiness.

Hey, I say. Russell opens his eyes and looks at me. You want me to give it a go? he says, like he’s been awake the whole time. I look at the rising water, the crack in the canoe, the sun that’s dead overhead now. Yea, you better. I can barely move anymore, I tell him.

It’s the truth. If I’m ever going to bail again, I need to rest. I pull Russell off his bench and help him get to the other one. Really slowly he grabs the oars, like his whole body is protesting it, and he pushes them softly into the water. I sit down across from him and watch. He pushes them in, but it looks like he can’t bring them back up. He tries really hard, and he grunts, and they finally return to him. He repeats this over and over, but so slowly that he’s not preventing the current from turning the boat. The sun is rotating above us, I’m sure, and we’re no longer going south. I watch the oars extend out again and Russell almost lets go and loses one of them. I move back to him quickly and steady his hand. You’re going to drop it in the water, I scold him. It’s hard for me not to be angry at him because he’s never shown any sign of weakness before. But he can hardly get the oars in and out of the water. I have to lie down he says. He doesn’t wait for me—he just moves in between the two seats and lies as flat as he can, his neck half underwater on the canoe floor, his legs rising up onto the rowing bench. Your head’s going to be underwater if you lie like that, I tell him. Lift it up onto the bench. I say this as I get the oars back in my hands. I sit between his legs, put the oars back into the water, and try to row. But it’s no use. My arms feel like gassed rubber. All I can do is get them back into the canoe without losing them.

You hungry? I ask him. He doesn’t make a sound. He’s lying face up, looking right into the sun. Rain is hitting his nose, running into his parted mouth. I decide all I’m going to do now is bail. Rowing takes up too much energy. Trying to keep us in line with the sun so we’re heading south is pointless now. I can’t do it alone. And Russell isn’t really better. It’s a false hope. I get down in the center with him and grab the food sack. I open it and find one of our cans of beans. It’s rusted around the edges. I root around, praying the can opener hasn’t somehow been lost. I find it and open the beans. I don’t know how I’ll conserve the leftovers. I just start spooning beans into my mouth with my fingers, and the taste is indescribable. I put a little bit on Russell’s lips to make sure he won’t choke. He opens and closes his mouth to show me he can still chew. I feed him as much as he’ll take, then finish off the can. I know I should have conserved them, but I can’t help it. My whole body is dead. I look at the rain in the canoe, the crack, then the sky for signs of any storms. There’s nothing out there. And I still have time before I need to start bailing again. I lie down right in the middle on Russell’s chest so the rain will wake me up when it’s time to go to work again. I lean into him so I can hear his breathing. It doesn’t sound too bad. I whisper to him, Are you okay? He seems to murmur something in response, and I take it to mean yes. I look up for a moment, see the tent which is crumpled against the side now and grab it. I pull it over our heads to keep the rain off. Underneath the canvas, the sound of the drops is magnified a hundred times. As loud as it is, it helps to drown out every other thought I have, and my tired body does the rest of the work. I fall asleep again.

When I wake up, it’s to the sound of rushing water. I feel it hit my face, and I hear Russell coughing violently. It’s the crack. Water is flooding through it. It’s widened, so that it reaches almost halfway down the side of the canoe. A shot of adrenaline sends me after the bucket. It’s still in the boat, near the back, banging up against the wall. Russell sits up and wraps his arms over the edge of the canoe to sit himself upright and prevent water from going down his lungs. I start attacking the water, sending bucketful after bucketful over the side, hoping it’s not too late. The crack is pouring in the brown sea as fast as I can bail it out. We’re almost level with the water again, and if I stop bailing for a minute, we’ll go under. I can’t stop. I tell Russell we’re going to have to take turns. Or else we’re going to sink. He seems alert enough to understand. He starts cupping water out of the boat with his hands. He does it like he’s half frozen solid, and he doesn’t realize he’s not really getting anything out.

It feels like an hour passes by, but it’s probably only been a few minutes. I see that I’m getting ahead of the crack, and the canoe is rising above the sea again. If I keep it up, I think I’ll get us light enough so that the crack is above the water line again. Russell’s all but given up on cupping the water out, instead rubbing his temples like his headache has come back. He asks me, You didn’t give me any antibiotics, did you? I tell him no and keep bailing. The smear of the sun is on our backs again, so we must be drifting west. I keep going, my numb hands and arms ready to fail again, but I get more and more water out. I’m making progress. At last, just as I’m about to let Russell take over or drown trying to get him to, we’re above the crack again. The canoe is light enough that the level of the sea is lower than it. It gives me energy to keep bailing. I don’t want anything on the floor of the canoe, not a single drop of rain.

I want it all out so I can go to sleep again. But this time for a long time. Russell is one step ahead of me, lying against the seat, arms spread over it, his head resting against his shoulder.

Within half an hour I’ve gotten as much rain out of the canoe as is possible. I can’t even scrape the bucket along the bottom close enough to collect anything, so I drop it and sit up on the seat. I can’t believe we’re still winning against the rain. Is this all you’ve got? passes through my head. It’s directed at Poseidon. I regret it as soon as I say it, remembering how fast the swells can come. And there haven’t been any real waves yet. Reminding myself of the sea’s temper, I scan the horizon for a sign of dark clouds, anything that seems like it might be a storm. There’s nothing. But the small rise of dark gray protruding from the distant muddiness where the clouds meet the sea. It’s a long sliver of a bump. But it’s protruding, higher than it should. I think it’s the tidal wave I heard Cap’n Wallace talk about. It’s passing round the Earth every three months, hits a random spot each time, and it wipes away anything in its path. Could that be it? Its darkness seems much darker than the water’s though, the more I look at it. We’ve only been at sea for two days, but my brain starts to tell me that I see land. It’s land. Unmoving.

“Russell,” I shout. I scream his name again. I run to him, almost too fast, and rock the boat so much that water pours through the crack for a moment, until the boat rolls back to center. Look, I say over and over again until he’s half conscious. I grab his shoulders and start to turn him until he realizes what I’m trying to get him to do. Finally he commits on his own and turns to look. Leadville, he says scratchily. I look at him and see a smile flash across his face. I can’t bring myself to tell him it isn’t Leadville, and that I have no idea what it is. Even if it really is land. But it’s not moving, and it has to be land. Russell tells me not to let us drift by and miss it. Then his smile fades and he’s out again. His face is beat red again. He looks like death. I won’t miss it, I tell him.

I take turns with myself, rowing and bailing, renewed energy burning in me from the vision of hope on the horizon, even though I can’t feel anything. My hands are numb, my feet are numb, my face is numb. I’m convinced I feel the rubber forming like a crust over my leg at the same spot where Russell had it happen. I know when I peel off my plastic suit, the pants, and finally look at my naked body, I’ll see the markings, the rubbery pink welts, the sign that the skin is ready to pry loose at the slightest prodding. But I see the blue on the land, a blue stretching back and out of view, just on top of the rise of the land. The sun is setting behind us, but we might make it there before it gets dark. As long as the water stays calm, and the current doesn’t pull us too hard, I think I can steer us into it, like a train wreck coming out of the abyss. The blue is the roofs of tarps, and there ahead on the island is a tarp city like I haven’t seen since Sioux Falls. Face eaters don’t live in tarp cities. People do. Real living people. A small piece of the veneer is on that muddy rock, I tell myself, and I intend with every fiber of my power to get us there alive. I bail, and then I row. We’re on our way, Russell.

Chapter 5

The blue tarps spread across the top of the island, which was once a great mountain, but now is just a long slope rising out of the water and I can’t see where it ends. Near the edge of the land, where it glides down into the water, there’s nothing. The tarps are near the top. I think of how warm it must be under them, how dry, and how much food there must be for so many to be living together. We’ve been alone for so many weeks now that the thought of company almost frightens me, and I don’t even know if my muscles will hold out to get us there. Russell is still incapacitated, so I sacrifice my body, because it’s all I can do to get him off this godforsaken boat. I start getting ahead of myself. I think about the tarp dwellers. I’m not sure if we should go right up to the tents—or at least I’m not sure if I should make the call without Russell’s input. But he’s in no condition to advise me. Even though I’ve never heard of face eaters living in organized tarp cities like this one, that doesn’t mean they can’t exist. Communities of death. And there are plenty of non-face eaters who hate strange folks coming on what they consider their own piece of the warm and dry. Russell and I know all too well how thin supplies are, especially in the West. There’s only so much to go around. I debate what to do as I row, digging with the last bits of my strength into the rain sea, pushing us along much slower now, but with the last of my energy making sure we don’t drift past the bank I’ve been eyeing for the last half hour. It’s the only spot where the rise looks gradual enough that I won’t lose the canoe if I try to park it there. Everywhere else it’s like the land rises straight up, like on the mountain there had been a sheer face. As we get very near to the bank where I intend to put us in, I lose sight of the blue tarps. They are only visible from a distance because they’re so high up on the land, along the top ridge. I wish Russell was well enough to help me land the canoe, because I’m no good at it. But I’ve seen him do it enough, and I’m happy to hear the sound of his breathing, which is shallow but steady.

I stroke in, then push the oar into the water and hold it broadside to try to slow the boat down. Rain punishes the muddy rise that I wedge the canoe into. She sticks into the bank on the first try and I collapse. It’s like I don’t even have the energy to get out of the canoe. I slump down in the seat and take it in—we’re off the water. No more swells. No more bailing. At least not for the moment. But the sooner we get onto the land, the sooner we find out if we have to go right back into the sea, and I can’t bring myself to get off yet to find that out. Lying down as best I can I turn to Russell and tell him we made it. He responds by trying to get up. Hold on I tell him, and he obeys. I rest. I need to rest before moving onto the land. I check for my knife, and thankfully, it’s still in my pocket. I have no idea if Russell has his, but it doesn’t matter because he couldn’t use it even if he did. He’s much too weak now. If this is an organized dwelling of cannibals, it’ll be just me to defend us now. And my best defense is pushing out to sea again, as shitty as our boat is. Maybe I can take one face eater, if I sneak up on him. But we can’t take an ambush, and that’s how the face eaters usually operate—surprise attacks from behind rocks, bushes, trees, from anywhere where they have an unfair advantage.

I finally decide we have to get off. I’m tired again. The boat’s sinking. I need to sleep. Russell needs to get out of the rain. Hypothermia is setting in, I’m sure I feel it in my bones. I thought I saw a lot of green near the blue tarps, like there were trees, or some other kind of vegetation. If that’s the case, the tarpers will have some of it, as much of it as possible, under their tarps, dried out. That means there will be fires. The thought of fire pushes my legs down into the floor of the canoe and makes me stand up. I take the nylon rope out of the food sack. I walk up through the shallow water and find a large root slicing through the mud.  It pokes out at just the right spot for me to tie the nylon around it. A root is never as good as a rock, but I don’t care. The canoe seems stable enough. Come on, I call to Russell, as if he’ll just get up and walk off with me. But he’s much too sick now to do that. I take the tent off of him and bring it with the poles up onto the first flat patch of earth I reach. It’s about twenty feet up the bank, but still way down from the tarps, out of sight. I get to work setting up the tent, realizing that this time Russell will have to get in it himself. I can’t pitch the tent over top of him while he’s lying in the boat. The tent is set up in no time, because the thought of being under a roof surges in me. To rest under all its leaky canvas spread like a haven of the dry and the warm.

We used to carry fuel with us all the time. But we haven’t had any in weeks. There’s not much fuel left in Wyoming it seems. I wonder if they have fuel up in the tarps, and if I could avoid interacting with them at all, and just sneak up later and try to steal some gasoline.

I check the tent poles to be sure they’re in where they won’t slide out while we’re sleeping. They seem sturdy enough. I head back to the canoe. It’s starting to collect too much rain, losing its buoyancy. I step in again and walk up to Russell. I touch his face, but I give up trying to tell if he has a fever or not anymore. His eyes open at my touch. Hey, come on. I can’t get you out of here on my own. You have to help me. He obliges without so much as a groan. He stands up like his bones need oil, and he’s rusted beyond repair. I let him keep his left hand on my shoulder for balance and together we tread the low water up the muddy rise toward the tent. He does pretty good, only stumbling once, but leaning on me to prevent the fall. When we get to the tent flap I pull it open for him and he is really slow to get down on his knees. He gets wet and dirty again moving in, because he’s too spent to move carefully. He drags a long patch of mud and water across the bottom of the tent, but it doesn’t matter too much because cold rain is dripping in from the two holes in the roof anyway. I get in behind him and close the tent flap immediately. I ask if he still has his knife. I think so, he says. Then he curls up in the fetal position and faces the far wall of the tent. The sky is gray, and so gray that I can’t even tell what time of day it is anymore. But the idea of real sleep overtakes all other thoughts. On the sea, sleep was a temporary fantasy, where water would eventually rush in to remind me that I can’t really leave. But now, we’re on solid ground, and the lack of motion, the pure stillness beneath my body, puts me into a trance. It’s almost like I’m done, and I can stop struggling now, and I can finally go away from this all. There won’t be nightmares this time, I know. Just a dream of warmth. I miss having a blanket. But I have hope for the tarps. Even if it’s just stealing some gasoline. At least we’re not on the water, I tell myself. Then I pull my body in close to Russell’s, loop my arms around his chest. I think I feel warmth again coming from him. It’s a sign that he’s getting better I tell myself. We made it, I whisper in his ear. He utters a long mmmm, and I think he’s as content as me to be off the water. I pull myself even closer into him, sharing my own heat, pushing us further into the tent wall so we’re not touching the rain that’s pooling in the center of the tent. For a moment, I think the hypothermia is setting in really hard now, and the rubber skin, and everything else, and it’s no time to go to sleep. It’s time to panic. Something screams in me to go get help right now from the tarps, and risk everything for the chance to be saved. But my closed eyes are like an elixir that I can’t escape from, and the blackness pulls me like a vortex into the cusp of the sweetest sleep I have ever known. We breathe in sync, and the sound of the rain on the tent fades away.

I hear really heavy breathing and open my eyes. Something is nudging against the other end of the tent. It’s breathing hard, in bursts. Something wants to get in. I look at the tent wall and see a silhouette moving along the outside of the tent. The floor of the tent is covered in water. I have no idea what time it is or how long we’ve been sleeping. Then the shape moves again, walking close to our heads. It huffs, pushing a long snout into the canvas. It’s a dog.

“Russell,” I say. “There’s a dog outside the tent.” I shake him a little. It must have wandered down from the tarps. I can’t believe they’ve got a dog living here, and as much as I want to meet it, I’m scared it might want to eat us, or that it might bark and send the tarpers to our tent. Maybe they’re already here, right behind the dog. Watching it investigate us for them. I prod Russell until I get a reaction out of him. Surprisingly, he sits up on his own and looks at the dog.

“I’ll be damned,” he says. It’s like he’s feeling all better until he coughs. The dog jumps back and barks once. Russell responds by heading to the tent flap, opening it and poking his head out.

“What are you doing?” I ask him, questioning his sanity. But he shushes the dog, calling it to him. I don’t want it to attract attention, he says. How do you know people aren’t with it already? I ask. I don’t, he says. Then the dog pokes its head into the tent. It’s a dirty blond mutt. Its fur is soaked through but it doesn’t look cold. It starts to wag its tail now that it’s pushed itself into the tent some, and before Russell can calm it further it starts to lick him. Good boy, Russell says. He’s smiling, like he hasn’t done in days. He’s getting better. The antibiotics must be working. The dog pushes its wet body past Russell as soon as it gets in far enough to see me. A giant tongue lolls out and slides across my cheek, then my nose, and then my mouth. I back up and spit for a second, but he’s persistent and pushes in again, happy for some reason to meet me.

“Alright, let’s go boy, out,” Russell says, tugging the dog’s chest a bit, trying to point it around, back out into the rain. It doesn’t seem to want to go and Russell doesn’t have the strength to make it. I can’t believe this creature. Everything around us is awful, bitter cold, gray, desperate, and this dog is in ecstasy at meeting two strangers who, as likely as not, would eat him for food before pet him. But he stays with us, wagging his tail, expecting something like love. And I think of the veneer, almost enough to ask Russell about it, but he’s just getting better, and it’s too soon. But I really want to ask because I think of something—the dog seems to have it. Love. So what could the veneer be then, if it’s supposed to be a creation of humanity and yet animals have part of it in them? Maybe it’s a lot simpler than that. Or maybe love isn’t even a part of the veneer like Russell says it is. Maybe it transcends the veneer. Maybe things will work out in the end. I almost trick myself into thinking we’re in Leadville. And then I hear the shout.

It comes from up the hill, a distance away, but clear as day even despite the smacking of the rain on the roof of our tent. The dog jerks his head at the shout. “Marvolo!” it comes again. The dog looks confused, unsure whether he really wants to leave so soon after meeting us. The call comes for the third time, this time, “Voley!” The dog darts out through the tent flap. Through the canvas I watch his silhouette bound up the ridge and well out of sight, and then I hear talking. It’s his master, asking him what he’s found. I turn to Russell, wondering if he’s well enough to fight if we have to. Have your knife? I ask him again. He starts looking in his pocket but can’t find it. I remember now. Shit, it’s in the guy, isn’t it? I say. Stuck in his chest, floating somewhere out on the canvas brown. There’s only mine now. I almost give it to him, but he doesn’t look like he’d be any good with it. He’s just strong enough to sit up and talk, but not to fight anyone off.

“He’s coming,” I say as the silhouette of a person appears, coming down the ridge the way the dog left.

Russell tries to move to the edge of the tent, but he does it so slowly and awkwardly that he slips on the rain that’s pooled on the canvas floor. “Shit.” He asks me what the island looked like, where I think we are. I tell him I have no idea, but I describe the blue tarps, all connected at the top of the island’s highest ridge, like one of the tarp cities we saw in Sioux Falls. How big is the island? he asks. I tell him I have no idea because I’ve only seen it from the front. But it looked pretty big. And the tarps stretched on and on. That’s a good thing, right? Means it can’t be face eaters, I say. Right, he says. But he’s not convincing. Give me your knife, he says. I tell him no.

“Who’s in there?” calls the dog’s master from a safe distance in case we’re maniacs. But we’re not, and he might be the maniac. Stay, says Russell. Give me the knife. You stay, I tell him. I’ve kept him alive for two days, and I can’t bring myself to let him risk his life now, after coming through all that. I stand a better chance of protecting us now and he knows it. All I can think as I step out of the tent, knife in my hand, is that this person might have fire to share. That thought alone bears me out into the rain, and I stand up and turn, looking up the hill. The soaked dog is wagging its tail next to a man holding a gun. He’s young, but I can’t tell how young, because he’s in a full plastic suit, one much better than mine. He’s pointing a rifle right at me, unconcerned with the rain that’s hitting it, waiting for me to say something—to identify myself. He asks again who we are. Don’t move and tell me who you are.

“We’re friendly, not face eaters. Heading to Colorado and got lost coming out of the Bighorns.”

“You came all the way down from the Bighorns in that?” he says, his face half concealed under the plastic hood he’s wearing, once bright green, but now dirtied to a brownish tint. He’s looking at the canoe at the end of the nylon rope. The sea is attempting to bury it.

“Yea,” I say. Russell coughs violently in the tent. After he’s finished coughing, the man, unmoving and keeping the gun trained on me, his dog still obediently at his side, says “Who’s we?”

“Me and Russell. My name’s Tanner. He’s really sick. We have some antibiotics and food if you have fire.”

The man starts to walk down the slope but he doesn’t lower the gun, like he’s expecting me to try something at any moment. He tells me to call Russell out so he can look for himself. I say I don’t know if he’ll make it outside right now because he’s too weak. Do it, he tells me. I can’t just trust anyone, he says.

“Russell, can you come out?” I ask. He must have been listening because he’s already crawling around the side of the tent on his hands and knees, and when he gets close to me he stands up, balancing on my shoulder for support.

“We’re heading to Leadville,” is all Russell says. “Don’t mean to trespass.” It’s like he’s out of gas after that short crawl and admission. The man watches us both, wondering if we’re telling the truth. It must be our appearance that confirms it for him, because he lowers his gun and takes off his hood. He’s just a boy, not a man. He can’t be much older than me. But the back of my head tells me he’s beautiful. Dark eyes, hair falling across his face in a wet mess, and skin that’s alive, even from twenty feet away I can tell. He’s not dying. Bright life in his cheeks, his eyes.

“Come on,” he says. “Can you make it up on your own?” Yea, I tell him. And he keeps his distance, never putting the gun away, but no longer keeping it aimed at us, and we walk up the hill together. The tent and canoe stay behind, sentenced to endure the rain, which seems to have gotten heavier a bit. But it doesn’t feel as cold all of the sudden. Marvolo, the dog, finally leaves his master’s side again and runs to us and circles around our legs, as if the rain is a playful thing to him, and we’re his best friends, even though he’s just met us. Every once in a while the boy looks back at me, and then Russell, who walks by leaning on me. I can’t tell if he’s mad we’re taking so long, or if he’s still wondering who we are, or where we came from, or what our intentions are. There’s no one left to trust, Russell started saying in South Dakota. Nobody. Face eater or not. But we’d trusted Cap’n Wallace. And we’d trusted Delly and  Jennifer. So I know there are exceptions to the rule, even if Russell won’t say it anymore. I watch the boy from behind, moving up the slope with ease. His body is fit, not emaciated like the rain does to people, like it’s done to Russell. He’s alive, and though he’s so far away from us, I feel a strange energy rolling off his body. It’s the warmth, somehow I can tell, even from all the way back here. He’s got it. It’s pulling me in.

We make our way up the slippery brown ridge and to a flat expanse where the tarps start to appear. At first I’m surprised when I see people going about their business, moving around, carrying bags, but then it starts happening so much it becomes common. The place is huge. Then I see a fire. And another. The place is alive. The boy slows down and Marvolo trails back to me. Russell just keeps breathing hard and staring at our feet, leaning against me. The boy stops me by walking right up to me and he puts his hand near my head. I flinch for a moment, then realize what he’s doing. He pushes my hood off so he can see my face. He smiles at me. Like there’s nothing wrong in the world, and we’re not surrounded by the great grave of the sea and the empty gray forever sky and the barren ridge of mud. And sickness and wet and cold. He tells me we’d better get Russell to the doctor. I’m still in shock, and wonder if this could all be a setup to eat us. But his gun’s lowered now, enough that I could jump on him and wrestle it free if I didn’t think the dog would bite my neck defending his master. But Marvolo seems as friendly as the boy, and runs around at our feet, endlessly excited to see strangers, licking my hand.

I say we have some supplies in the tent, and I ask if we can trade our antibiotics for the fire I see under some of the tarps. Most of the blue tarps connect, fastened together by rope, stitched tightly to each other like a large quilt roof. Some of the tarp houses stand alone, not connected to the main artery. Then, as we push on and the boy doesn’t answer my question, I see some tin roof houses. The roofs are tiny ripples of aluminum, and the rain beats louder upon them than the tarps. Underneath, the people look as clean and healthy as the boy. It’s like I’ve been transported back to Indianapolis, the way this place feels. The life is filling me up. But Russell’s wary of all folks in the West, because he thinks the majority of them have become face eaters, and that’s what we’d been told on the Sea Queen Marie. But as I watch the boy in front of me, I can tell he’s not a face eater. He looks too content, sure of himself. Despite the stretch of nothing surrounding this village.

I can see beyond the tarp city now, past the last of the tin roof houses, and it’s all glistening brown. No trees and no rocks. Just bare soil that’s soaking in the endless rain. No man’s land out there. We walk right up to a large section of raised tarp where there are some wooden chairs and a table. Cans line a shelf and I can’t believe all the supplies I’m seeing. Rope, tape, cans, flashlights, knives, pans and pots, gasoline drums, dry towels, clothes, cardboard boxes that aren’t ruined by the wet, sealed up with god knows what inside.

“Wait here,” the boy says, and he looks at me as he says it, as if he wants to make sure he’s made eye contact with me. I tell him okay and get Russell to sit down in one of the chairs. Russell lays his head on the table, his arms wrapped around himself, and he mutters that we made it. I tell him we did, and that he’s going to get the help he needs. Marvolo stays with us and I pet his wet fur. He licks my hand and his tongue is warm. It’s like he’s never thought about the rain once. I notice some of the passersby looking in at us and I feel like we must look out of place, especially because of how dirty we look compared to everyone else. I haven’t seen myself in a mirror for a long time. I start to let the luxuries this place might hold in store for us creep into the secret place where I hide my desire—a fire, a hot meal, a shower, a warm bed.

After a long while of sitting and watching everything around us, the boy returns with an older man. This is my dad, he says. I introduce myself and he asks about our trip. I explain everything in ten minutes, all the way up from Philadelphia. I talk about where we’re going, Leadville, and the man tells me that we’ve landed ourselves in Utah, probably because of the crossing currents. He tells me that the southern Great Plains sweep east, into waterspout alley like we’d heard, but the northern Plains sweep west. And it’s no wonder that we ended up near King Mountain riding on a tiny canoe like his son told him we had come in on. Any face eaters on the way? he asks me. I tell him about how we lost Russell’s knife. Then the man comes over to Russell and tries to talk to him. I help.

“Russell, I’m goin’ to get you over to the infirmary tent. Now you think you can stand up with me here a minute?” the old man asks. The old man is withered in his face, a false appearance of weakness, because he lifts Russell out of the chair with ease. And in a moment, with very little protest, they’re walking together through a network of tarps, tunnels protected from the rain. I can’t see a single hole in the roofs, just patches here and there. Panic rises in me and I move like I’m going to follow after them to make sure nothing happens to him. I’m tired, and relieved, but I can’t be lulled into a false sense of security and let him go with complete strangers.

“Sit,” says the boy. “He’ll be fine.”

“That’s your dad?” I ask, slowly sitting back down, realizing I have zero strength left.

“Yep. He’ll get him whatever help we can give.”

“We have some food and antibiotics,” I say, ready to rise and get the food sack from the canoe. He sits down on the chair across from me and puts his hand on mine to keep me still. Through the plastic I can feel how warm he is. His touch stops my thoughts dead in their tracks. He says not to worry about it. They help anyone who’s not one of the face eaters out here. It’s nothing I need to pay back. He takes his hand off and leans back.

I ask him about the place, this miracle island that’s saved us. He summarizes the history of what he calls Blue Island. He first came when he was thirteen from Salt Lake City. Since then, supplies are ferried across from Grandview Peak, where there are still trees that have been tarped over. A lot of Salt Lake City’s population is still up on that range he says. I ask him why they moved off then, and he says because the face eaters were getting worse. Because of the supplies, the bandits started coming from everywhere. At first just thieves, out to steal your gasoline, or your food, or your canvas and plastic. But after a while, the reports were coming in every few days. Mutilation, bodies floating by with teeth lacerations, half-finished corpse meals gone adrift. He says that now, the bandits have been coming even farther east, toward King Mountain, and the raids have been occurring much more frequently. That’s why he has to approach castaways with the gun. He says he didn’t mean to scare me.

He asks me about Russell—who he is in relation to me, and how he got sick. I tell him Russell has a leg infection, and I’m afraid it may have come back. But it could be the exposure. He could be sick from the cold. He might have a fever, but I don’t know, because I’m no good at checking. Then he asks how I know Russell again, like I didn’t answer his question. Who is he to you? He doesn’t say it angrily. His tone is even cheery, a shocking contrast to the blight of our surroundings. But still I struggle to answer him. His dark eyes study me, his smooth bright face undimmed by the rain. He looks like he’s happy to be with me and it’s blindsiding me. He isn’t looking at me like the burden that could cost him his own life. Emotions rush up in me, and worry about Russell. I know I could say he’s my father, but I’m in love with him. I don’t know what to say. The idea of what love is supposed to be has been one confusing mess, but I can’t say that. Russell has helped me get to higher ground since I was little, I say. He’s pushed us all the way out here from the East. We’ve had each others’ backs for a long time, I say, and we’re going to Leadville together.

The boy looks confused at the mentioning of Leadville. It’s the second time I’ve mentioned it now, but the effect it has on Russell and me isn’t shared by him, I can tell. What’s in Leadville, he asks? I try to explain everything Russell and I believe in—it’s stopped raining there, the whole town is still above the water line. It’s the highest town in the United States. Not a tarp town, but a regular town with brick buildings and electrical power. The boy laughs until he realizes it’s hurting my feelings. It’s like he thinks I’m full of it, or I’ve been conned. But he doesn’t say any of that. Just that he’s met a few castaways from Colorado and they hadn’t wanted to go back that way. Said the whole region sweeps down from the Rockies with a great push, shoving everything east and into the great waterspout rapids. Where everything boils, and the water is more foam than brown. He thinks we’re crazy to push anywhere but west. But you fled from the west, I tell him. He tells me that they’re going to go back, that they’re building a great big barge. Something as big as a small island, along with a lot of smaller boats. And that they’re going to head straight out to the Sierra Nevada mountains. That’s where it’s at, he says. Then he looks me dead in the eyes and tells me I should come. I can’t believe what he’s asking, especially since I’ve just told him my whole life has been about Russell and me getting to Leadville. Everything depends on getting there. I tell him I can’t and I look away. I don’t know why he’s looking at me so long, and so hard, like something’s wrong with me. But I look up and he’s still there, watching me, half smiling too. You need a shower, he tells me. Come on. I can’t resist the thought, and I follow him. He leads me through a narrow strip of tarp. Then we come to a hanging flap and he tells me to get in. Turn the knob on the left. You’ll have hot water. I don’t know what to say, except that I can hardly believe him about the knob. That there’s hot water that will come out of this rusty pipe hanging over my head. There’s a hook in there that you can hang your clothes on. And I might have some stuff that’ll fit you when you’re done. Just holler for me, he says.

I’m torn. Already I want to try to convince Russell that we need to stay here, with these people, and go with them, wherever they do, because they’ve got it all figured out. And as I hear the footsteps recede, I realize I don’t know the boy’s name. I call out to him.

“What’s your name?” The comment is unnatural, because it seems entirely unnecessary. It’s like names that aren’t Russell or Tanner are just missing pieces of the veneer, inconsequential and unneeded until we reach Leadville. No point in knowing any of them. They haven’t mattered since the Sea Queen Marie.

“Dustin. I mean Dusty,” he says. Then he keeps on walking away.

I take off my clothes slowly, peeling first the plastic away, and then the wet cotton, dirtied and shredded in most places. I think I must really stink but I can’t tell. I think about how awful I must look. I look around and thank god there’s no mirror in here, just four blue walls and the silver pipe hanging over my head. I see my legs, my chest, my arms. They’re caked in brown. I think of Dusty, and then my razors in the food sack back in the tent. I almost run to get them, but then I stop—I’m naked. I feel exposed for the first time in forever. Open and alone. I turn the knob and the water comes out freezing cold and I jump back, thinking that it was too good to be true anyway. But then it starts to steam, and it gets too hot, and I have to turn the knob the other way. Then I get under it, and my whole body melts. There’s nothing to clean myself with so I use my hands and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it. How are they getting hot water? But I can’t stop to think it over, it feels too good. I run my hands over every part of my body and rub it all away, let the almost scalding water dissolve the dirt and grime and the rain. No welts on my legs, my arms. No rubber skin. I breathe easier. I open my mouth to the running water and let it pour inside. It bounces off my tongue and my shoulders, runs down my hair. Dirt-streaked water falls off me at first, but then it becomes clear. I stop thinking about what’s going to happen next, and every other thought. I become one with the water, and all I know or feel is the heat.

Chapter 6

I call out for Dusty. He brings me a towel, poking his arm in so he won’t see me. I tell him thanks and dry myself off. I feel cleaner than I ever have in my life. Be right back with clothes he says, and then he’s gone again. The tarp door starts to open and I jump back, startled, wondering if he’d try coming in. But it’s just Marvolo. He’s curious and I tell him to wait outside, pushing him back. Dusty returns and hands in some clothes. I grab them and say thanks. He says to leave the dirties on the floor and we’ll get them later. Then I bring the new clothes up to my nose. They smell like clean nothing. I breathe deeply into them, taking in the blank scent again and again. Just plain dry and clean. There’s a pair of sweat pants and a sweater and a pair of boxer shorts. And dry socks. I put everything on and head back out, thinking about Russell. At the door of the tarp house, Dusty is standing by, his plastic suit off now, just in a sweater of his own. His hair is dry again, but he’s holding his rifle. What’s wrong? I ask him. There’s been a report of a raid coming in. Might hit tonight. Where’s Russell? I ask. He’s still in the infirmary he tells me, and then shows me how to get there if I want to go. I ask him what he’s going to do. I have to stand watch on this end of the tarp entrance, he says. Standard procedure. Do you have a weapon? he asks me. Just in case, he says. I go to show him the knife.

The shower has created more hope than I can deal with. I just want to stay and talk to Dusty, find out what he’s like. But I have to see Russell so I follow the way he showed me, down a long connecting series of tarps toward a split, and take the left, like he told me. I run into Dusty’s dad in the room of moving people, the only face I recognize.

“He’s pretty sick,” says Dusty’s dad. I look over at Russell who’s lying on a white bed. He’s dirtied the blanket. “But he should get through fine now that he’s on medicine.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say. Dusty’s dad tells me I can make up for it by standing guard for the raid, and he asks whether or not Dusty told me about the raid. I say he did, and that I just want to talk to Russell. He tells me I can try, but he’s in and out. I lean down at the side of the bed.

“Russell,” I say. He comes to life at the sound of my voice, turning his head to me, opening his eyes. “Hey.”

“It’s warm here,” he says, then he closes his eyes tightly like he’s got a sharp headache.

“They’re fixing you up.” I grab his hand to see if he’s any warmer. He feels just as cold as before. And his face is still beat red.

“They are?” he says, like he has no idea what’s going on. “Tell them I don’t take antibiotics.”

“I will,” I say. I press my lips to his forehead, kiss him. I can’t help but tell him I love him, because I’m so overwhelmed with everything, that we’ve arrived somewhere safe, warm, dry.

“Tan,” he says. I look at him, his eyes are open again.

“Yea?”

“We’ll get out on the boat again tomorrow. It’s not Leadville.” And I don’t even begin to answer him. It must be delirium. I can’t imagine Leadville will stick in his brain once he sees where we’ve landed. How good we have it again now. But he just repeats it again, that we’ll leave tomorrow, and that he’s sorry to have delayed us on the trip. I tell him it’s okay, and I grab his hand again. I feel like he’s going to make it now. A woman and a man walk up and eye me over. Who are you? they ask me. I explain it in as brief a way as I can and ask how he’s doing. I gather they’re the ones who are working on the sick bodies that crowd this part of the tarp town. He’s got an infection in his leg, one tells me. I cringe. It’s back. And he’s got pneumonia, says the other. But we’ve given him the strongest stuff we’ve got, and we think he’ll pull through. I hear the loud report of gunfire interrupt the steady rain, and I look around for Dusty’s dad, but he’s gone. I remember what he told me, to help watch for the raid. The face eaters are coming. And I look back to Russell, but he’s asleep again, the gun didn’t even wake him up. Before saying goodbye to the man and the woman working in the infirmary I run back the way I came, toward Dusty’s house. The tarp goes by in a blue blur, the rain pattering over my head, and no more gunfire. But when I get there Dusty stares at me and for the first time he doesn’t look like his calm peaceful happy self. Can you use a pistol? is all he says, and his rifle is raised up to his shoulder, pointed out into the long expanse of muddy brown land where there are no more tarps. The wilderness of the ridge.

I tell him I’ve used one before but I don’t tell him I never shot at a person. He points me to a rack behind him and tells me to grab a gun quick.

“Get behind me,” he says urgently, like something is seriously wrong now. “Two of them coming up this side.”

Marvolo runs out into the rain, like he’s scouting ahead. But then I see a face in the distance, it rises over the brown hill of the ridge, and it looks like the head of every other face eater I’ve ever seen. Except as this one rises up a gun rises up with him, a rifle a lot like Dusty’s. The face eaters are armed.

“Marvolo, get back!” yells Dusty, and he crouches and hides inside the blue tarp to get out of sight. I get down and move behind him. I wait, afraid I’ll hear some kind of painful yelping and Marvolo will be shot. I hear a gunshot and there’s no yelp. Marvolo comes bounding back into the tarp, unhurt.

“Don’t move, boy!” Dusty says, anger and firmness in his voice for the first time. Marvolo obeys and walks around to the hall leading to the shower. Dusty looks at me, staring deep into my heart, confident, unafraid, and asks me if I’m ready. I nod, but I’m not sure if I am. I look at the gun in my hands, and I remember to check the safety but it’s already off. At that moment, Dusty leans around the edge of the tarp entrance, pokes his head and shoulder out where the face eaters will be able to see him, and takes aim in the rain. The loud bang of a gunshot splits the sky.

Part 3

Chapter 7

The rifle fire tears through my head. It’s the loudest thing I’ve heard in months. A bullet pierces the tarp wall with a plastic pop, just above our heads. Dusty ducks down and moves back inside the tarp. He didn’t get a shot off. I stay behind him, afraid to look out because I think I’ll see the face eaters charging at us, pointing their guns, ready to fire at first sight of anything. I almost tell Dusty not to poke his head back out but he does it before I can utter a sound. He nests his face against the sight of his rifle, takes aim and fires. The bang feels like it’s making my ears bleed. I poke my head out for a second to see if he hit something. Out there on the brown hill are two face eaters, both of them running full speed toward us. He didn’t hit either one of them.

“Shit,” he says, pulling back inside and sitting against the tarp wall. “We have to move.” I don’t object and follow him as he races away into the tarp hallway that leads in the direction of the infirmary. As soon as we leave, another gunshot sounds from the hill. I hear the same plastic ripping pop above our heads that means a new hole has opened in the tarp. They must see our silhouettes moving.

Halfway down the tarp hall Dusty kneels down and pulls up a tiny flap near his feet. He ushers me and Marvolo out of the way and squats on the plastic floor. I keep my eyes down the hallway on the room we just left, expecting the face eaters to come charging inside at any moment. But they were far away enough that Dusty has another chance to shoot one of them. On the ground he raises the rifle to his eye again and slides the barrel through the tarp, out into the rain. I have no idea if they see it coming. He fires.

A loud cry of pain breaks the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. Got one, he says. Let’s go.

And he stands again and tugs me for a second, just enough that I know he means it’s life or death. I follow behind him and look at the pistol in my hands. I put my index finger on the trigger very lightly, because I don’t want to accidentally kill one of us. But I know I might have to use it. How many are there? I ask him. Lately it’s been waves of ten or twelve, he says. They’ve started to work together more and more. I glance back as we near the split in the corridor. To the left is Russell and the infirmary room, to the right, I have no idea. My heart sinks as Dusty leads me to the right.

“We have to get Russell,” I say. Dusty pauses and looks at me, his face full of fright. “What is it?” I ask at the same time as he yells for me to duck down. He reaches out and grabs my shoulder and forces me hard to the ground. I hit my knees and feel a shock roll through me, twisting around to see what he did it for. I don’t have to see anything though because I hear another gunshot. It came from the surviving face eater. He’s fixed aim on us from the end of the hallway, and as I look, knowing he missed with his first bullet, I realize he won’t miss again. Instinctively I raise my pistol and pull the trigger. The sound of my gun deafens me further and smoke rises from the tip, a silver shell flying into the wall next to me. The face eater ducks down. At first I think I’ve hit him, but he just stands up again. Dusty lines up his rifle over my shoulder and fires. The face eater collapses to the ground with a loud groan, clutching at his stomach. Direct hit. Come on, Dusty tells me, keep moving. He runs back the way we came, to the face eater writhing on the ground, clutching its stomach. Marvolo and I chase him back. Dusty stops over top of the man and looks down. I look too. I see pleading eyes, desperate from madness, or hunger, or something else entirely. I can’t say what, and I almost look away but I can’t. His skin looks like it’s overexposed, a rubber crust, ready to fall off. I watch the life pass from his body as Dusty shoots him close range, directly in his heart. He stops squirming. That might be all of them, Dusty says. And he’s gone, back to the tarp door to check the ridge. He freezes there and looks out. Shit, he says. There’s no panic in his voice, just calm disappointment. What is it, I ask. But I get there in time to look out for myself and he doesn’t have to say anything. There are three, then four, then five coming over the hill. Each one has a gun. Shoot! he yells. Then he yells at Marvolo to get back again as the dog tries to run out into the rain again toward the invaders.

I don’t think I can hit anything that far away but I try. I hide behind Dusty until he moves out into the open again to take his own shot. He edges just slightly past the tarp wall and puts one of the face eaters in his sights. I flop onto the ground and edge past his legs, pointing my pistol straight out into the brown abyss. I see the face eaters running like it’s a race. They look haggard and worn out and I can’t understand how they’re moving so quickly. We fire at nearly the same time. One of the face eaters topples to the ground. I can’t tell who hit him. Another one appears from behind the ridge, replacing the one we killed. Too many, Dusty says. He backs up and bolts into the tarp hallway for escape. Come on, he commands me. Can’t defend this on our own.

I chase after him and Marvolo, who has gone ahead of both of us. We veer right again at the fork and hear more gunfire. It’s coming from in front of us now, where it shouldn’t. I shudder and realize the face eaters are attacking there too.

“They’re hitting the other side,” Dusty mutters, checking his rifle, making sure it’s ready. We walk into a large square room with boxes and shelves. On the opposite side of the room are two entrances to more tarp hallways. A loud scuffle sounds from the one on the right. It sounds like someone’s in a fight, and metal cans are getting knocked over. Wait here, Dusty says. He pulls me over to a pile of boxes. I duck down and look around, waiting for one of the face eaters to explode into the room but nothing happens. Dusty gets down behind a box next to me, waiting for some clue to give us a sign whether we should advance or not. They’ll be here any second, he alerts me, and he rotates around to face the hallway we came from. Keep an eye on that side, he tells me. I can’t argue because I know they might come from both the front and the back, but I know how many are coming the way Dusty’s watching. There are too many for him to take on alone. I’m dying to look in the direction he is guarding, but I keep my eyes focused on the front.

Footsteps start stomping somewhere down the hall. They’re racing up, the five face eaters we saw on the ridge, a herd moving toward us. Then some seem to trail off in a different direction and I panic. They’re going for Russell, I whisper urgently. Dusty doesn’t react except to quiet me. He puts his finger to his mouth and glares at me. It means there’s nothing we can do. But I feel like I have to do something. What if no one is in there with Russell? What if he’s all alone on the bed, still passed out? A set of footsteps is too close to us now for me to think about playing the hero and running to find out. I sit and wait next to Dusty, concealed as best as I can be by the boxes. Marvolo sits silently like he understands that we have to be quiet despite all the racket. Aim, whispers Dusty.

Two face eaters rush into the room and run by us, directly for the hallways at the opposite side. They look possessed by demons and they don’t even bother to look around the room. You hit right, he whispers. I stare at the backs of the face eaters as they diverge, one running to the left hall and the other, mine, to the right. I raise my pistol and aim squarely at the back of the mindless runner. Dusty fires first, and the sound startles me, but I steady my hand and shoot before I lose my target. My face eater crumples to the floor just after Dusty’s. Good shot, he says, but leaves me the second after they fall. Come on, he calls softly. He heads back to the hallway leading to the infirmary. I bolt after him, Marvolo on my heels, and we take a u-turn toward where Russell should be. We rush into the hospital room with our guns drawn and see one of the face eaters is in there, but he doesn’t take notice of us. He’s bent over one of the white beds, only the bed is splattered with blood now. He’s put his face down into the body of one of the patients. The patient isn’t fighting back.

“Oh my god,” I scream, thinking it must be Russell. The face eater hears me and turns, blood drool flopping from his mouth, his gun momentarily out of reach on the bed. I see the lifeless body beneath him is not Russell. Dusty raises his rifle and shoots but all I hear is a click. Something’s wrong, his gun is jammed or out of ammo. The face eater pauses, finally understanding it must react to us or die, and it reaches for the rifle on the bed. I raise my pistol and fire, the recoil rocking me. My shot is higher than it should have been. I see a beam of light shoot through a tiny hole where I missed in the far wall. The face eater raises his gun and fixes aim on Dusty just as Marvolo reaches him. The dog’s leap is as high as the man’s neck. His jaw latches on and brings the man down in one snarling thump. Marvolo growls and shakes, over and over, while the man’s arms flail around, at first trying to peel the dog away, and then just in random moans of futility and death. Blood spits from his neck and pools around the feet of the hospital bed. Marvolo releases the man at Dusty’s command and he comes back to us. Good boy, Dusty says, but then he silences all of us to listen for movement or scuffle. Where is everyone? I whisper, looking around the empty infirmary. He doesn’t answer me because more footsteps drift through the tarp, and more noises of a struggle, and then more gunshots that sound like they’re ahead on the left. Come on, Dusty finally says, and he slowly starts toward the far exit of the infirmary. I keep the same pace as him, listening closely to the rain, listening for a break in it, any sound that might mean more face eaters coming from behind us. We have no idea how many there are, but I get the feeling this isn’t an ordinary attack. The numbers are too high. What do they want so badly here?

We enter another narrow blue hallway. Nothing in front or behind us. I keep looking outside through the tarp, expecting to see a shadow streak past, someone running by, but no one passes. Marvolo wants to run ahead, but Dusty keeps him back. Take it easy boy, he says. We work our way down to the end of the hall where it breaks into a new large room. Dusty looks back at me, steeled to ice, and asks if I’m ready. I nod yes because I know Russell is somewhere on the other side.

Rifle pointing the way, Dusty leads into the room. I follow behind him with both hands on my pistol, aiming at eye level. I wonder how many bullets I have left in the chamber, but I don’t ask. I don’t want to give away our position in case one of the face eaters is in here. The room is another large supply tent with shelves and boxes and crates, but there’s a fire going in the middle. It’s centered beneath a tin pipe that lets the smoke out through the ceiling. It’s really warm and I want to stop moving here.

“No one’s here,” Dusty says. Almost at the same time as he says this, we hear more gunshots. They’re coming from the next room over. We run into the hallway and as we reach it, I hear a terrible, pained moaning. Then I feel something. It’s a hand tugging on my ankle. I almost trip but I slip out of the thing’s grasp. It’s a downed face eater. Downed but not dead. It’s slugging along on the floor, in its death throes, but with enough energy still to come after us.

“Fucker!” I say, recoiling in anger and fright. I take aim, about ready to shoot, when Dusty pushes my hands down. No, he says. Don’t waste ammo. Then I have to look away, because Dusty steps forward and stomps down, squashing the face eater’s head with his boot. I hear a sickening crunch, and then the spilling of guts and blood. I open my eyes to see the cracked remains of the man’s head. They’re on something, he says, but I don’t get what he means. It’s some kind of drug, he says. It makes sense now—how else could that one have kept coming, it’s lower half already blown away.

We move into the tunnel, waiting for more noise, then proceed into another large room. There are two bodies on the floor, both covered in blood, stark against the blue plastic floor of the tent.

“Fuck,” Dusty says. I think I recognize the faces of the bodies. They look like the nurses I saw who talked to me about Russell’s condition. But where’s Russell? I ask Dusty and he ignores me. He’s focused on moving into the next room, like if we stop for too long we’ll die. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a clip. Here, he says. Then he checks his own ammo. I look around at the empty room we’re in. No fire here. In the infirmary, the face eater had stopped to feed on the patient. Here, it looks like they killed and moved on, shooting the nurses but not stopping to feed on them. It’s like Dusty understands my thoughts because he says that some are hungrier than others. Some want to collect and store. Some can’t help but eat right away.

We carefully walk into the next room, Marvolo leading in front. I don’t see anyone, but then I hear Marvolo yelp, a high-pitched squeal. My heart sinks. I think he’s walked right into a gunshot, but there was no noise. Then Marvolo runs back, lifting one of his paws up as he comes, retreating behind me. Dusty is furious and runs into the center of the room. As he swings around, looking for what hurt Marvolo, a face eater lunges from the side of the room. I charge in but can’t take a shot because they’re too close to each other. The face eater is on him. It doesn’t have a gun but it’s trying to force its head down to Dusty’s neck, working its mouth to bite down right on his neck muscles and veins. I raise the pistol again but I can’t shoot. I look at Marvolo and tell him to help, but he just whimpers in response. He’s scared and his paw hurts. Then I remember my knife. Dusty falls to the floor, the face eater on top of him, when I finally get the blade out and the handle in my fist. I switch the gun to my left hand and run forward with the knife in my right. The man’s back is a giant raised hump in front of me, pushing down on Dusty, trying to take his life. I can’t tell from the noises if he’s already bitten him, but I raise my hand and slam down hard. The knife slices into the man’s back muscle. I pull it out and wait for the face eater to fall over but he doesn’t. Dusty! I yell. The face eater is losing strength but still pushing in to bite him. Marvolo comes up behind me and bites the face eater’s left calf, tearing through the dirty plastic suit wrapped around his leg. But the face eater doesn’t even moan or cry out in pain. It’s like he’s on some kind of drug too. I don’t know what else to do but stab down again. The knife hits the back again and probably the spine because it doesn’t sink in so easily this time. The face eater finally takes notice of me and turns around to look at my face. I point my pistol at his mouth but I don’t fire—Dusty is right below him and I don’t know if it will go through his head and into Dusty. It’s enough time for Dusty to make a move. He jumps up and shoves into the face eater. They fall together into a shelf, crashing, spilling bottles and cans in a loud rattle. Marvolo starts barking and I look at him—with a fright, I realize he’s not barking at us—he’s looking down the hallway and his hair’s on end. More are coming.

I get my gun ready and watch Dusty struggle against the face eater, waiting for a clear shot. Get back, I yell, but Dusty doesn’t listen. He keeps trying to overpower the man, who finally seems to be losing some of his strength. Get off him Dusty! I say. Dusty finally gets it. He rolls away, kicking into the man to create as much distance as possible. Then I have a shot and I pull the trigger. Russell taught me to aim for center mass. Forget head shots. I hit the man squarely in his chest. He finally catches on that he’s dead and falls to the ground and doesn’t move anymore. I put my knife into my pocket and help Dusty up from the floor.

We have to keep moving he says when he’s back on his feet. I look at his face, his beautiful eyes, and thank god that he isn’t bleeding from his neck like I thought I’d see. Marvolo is still barking at the hallway and we hear a gunshot. Marvolo yelps again, this time much louder than last, like he’s in real pain. I feel my chest cave in as the he falls to the ground under his own weight. He starts whining and can’t get back up. Mother fuckers, Dusty roars. He runs forward and I yell at him to stop. Wait for them, I say. And he knows I’m right. He moves to the side, out of sight of the hallway. But Marvolo is lying there in the open, in view of the hall, unable to push himself away. He circles around with his good legs, but can’t raise his body enough to get away.

I think about what Russell’s taught me about the veneer. How in the end, we’re on a mission to find it again, even though it’s superficial, and disappears with the rain. He used to say that the veneer can get scraped off by a lot of things, and it just happened to be the rain. But it could have been anything. That’s how frail the thing is. But I’ve come to the conclusion that it lives in all things, and it’s not just a thin human construction. It’s alive everywhere, and right here, and in Marvolo on the ground. He’s fighting for his life and I can’t let him die. I won’t let Dusty risk himself, but for some reason, I can take the risk myself. I run out with my pistol pointed down the hall. And there in front of me, with a gun of his own, is another face eater. He takes aim and fires. I feel a searing bolt of pain in my right arm and I drop my gun, doubled over in pain. It’s like my whole arm is on fire. I look at it, the source of the blinding pain, and see a gushing red waterfall of blood. I lay on the ground, looking up, wondering if this is it—after how far I’ve come, I lost it all for a stupid dog. But then the face eater collapses right next to me to the sound of another rifle blast. Dusty got him. He’s on the floor next to me, staring into my eyes, blinking endlessly. Then he starts to move, even though he should be dead, because Dusty hit him in the forehead. His arms stretch out for me, ready to suck me toward him, to his mouth, which has a blistered tongue hanging out between crusted lips. His pupils are as big as his whole eyes, a large well of black emptiness. Dusty’s boot swings into view, kicking relentlessly, pounding the man’s skull against the plastic tarp. Something disgusting sprays into my eyes and I look over again, feeling like I’m about to pass out. The man’s head is a squashed pumpkin. Dusty lifts me up and raises my arm. He takes off his sweater. Through a daze I realize how perfect his skin is and I think for a moment that its silly to notice such a thing with my own death about to occur. But I can’t help it. It’s like he’s a sculpture—his stomach and his chest. I’m delirious. He starts to wrap his sweater around my arm where I’m bleeding and yells at me to keep it up high in the air. Then he tells me to sit down and puts me against the tarp wall on top of a crate. I watch him go to work on Marvolo, carrying him over to me, putting him behind the same crate I’m sitting on. He strips down to his underwear now and wraps his pants around the dog’s leg where it’s bleeding.

“What are we going to do?” I ask, on the cusp of fainting just from the sight of all the blood.

“Wait here,” he says. Then he goes and grabs my gun and puts it in my left hand and tells me to hold it. “Don’t let it go, okay?” he says. But I realize he’s not going to wait with us, because he disappears down the hallway. I try to keep my arm up but it’s so hard to do. The blood feels really warm and it’s running down my arm onto my chest and I wonder if I’m losing all my heat with it. Marvolo is crying on the floor behind me. I watch Dusty’s underwear as he moves away down the hallway. I think about how funny it is that I’m attracted to him as I’m about to die. Why is he leaving us? I ask Marvolo. Where’s he going? But Voley doesn’t reply. He’s more worried than I am because he can’t help anymore. But soon his whimpers die down and he’s softly breathing, not making much of any kind of sound. I remember Dusty’s orders, that I have to keep the gun up in case someone else comes. And then I hear it. Footsteps. It snaps me as close to reality as I can come right now with my arm losing blood like it is. But I realize I barely have any strength. The footsteps aren’t coming from the way that Dusty left us. They’re coming from behind, where the face eaters first started pouring in from the wasteland outside. Be quiet boy, I tell Voley, even though he’s barely making any sounds. I realize that Dusty put us into the corner, positioned on crates blocked by other crates, so we are hard to spot if someone just walks into the room and doesn’t really look around well. I keep my head trained on the sliver of the door that I can see behind us. Then the footsteps grow louder and closer, and I see someone walk into the room. The man moves through the room, keeps going, ignoring the blood and the bodies, right past me and Voley. He’s about to head down after Dusty. The dirty, torn plastic suit he wears tells me he is another face eater. I point the pistol, hoping I have enough energy to nail him squarely in the back, and I pull the trigger. The bang that I think I’ll hear comes out as a click. My clip is empty. I remember the clip Dusty gave me and dig in my pocket for it but I drop it and it clangs on the floor. The face eater turns around and sees me. His jaw drops open and his eyes widen in excitement like he’s found a present. His lips let a disgusting tongue slip past in anticipation of what he thinks he’ll soon taste. I know right away how hungry he is and it wakes me up. I struggle with my bad arm, bending it in lightning pain to pick up the clip and put it in, but it hurts too much and I drop the whole gun. The only thing I can do is go for my knife. But the face eater is charging at me now. He doesn’t have a gun, or any weapon other than his mouth and his outstretched fingers, which want to bring me toward his face. He pushes up to me in his run, so electrified by finding me that he nearly spills into the crates, but he steadies himself, grabs my shoulder, and drives in to bite my neck. It’s like a second life comes into Voley, or the primal urge to defend a friend, even though we’ve just met, and he lunges from his three good legs and bites down on the face eater’s thigh. I kick with all my might to help him and get the face eater onto the ground so he can make the kill. But the face eater must be on the drug because he just jumps back up, kicking Voley away. He looks around, unsure whether to take on me or the dog first. But he can’t resist me and comes again. Everything starts to flicker and I feel flashes of white numbness swell in and out of my consciousness. But I’m aware enough to see Voley charge in again, this time biting the back of the man’s knee, piercing all the plastic and dirty cloth, shredding the tissue that connects the man’s knee to the muscles that control his legs. He spills to the floor and it’s like Voley won’t let up no matter how hard the man pounds back into the dog. Voley growls and growls, ignoring the pain of the man’s fists, and I use my last ounce of life to jump off the crate and stab my knife into his ribs as far as it will go. I push in and push in deeper, feeling the anger I know Russell would feel if he knew what this man was trying to do to me. Feeling the anger at the things that tear off everything good about what it means to be human. I keep hitting the man with the knife long after he’s dead. I forget to keep my arm up and Dusty’s sweater is soaked through. Voley limps over to me. We’re lying out now, exposed near the edge of the hallway, but I don’t have any energy to get back into hiding, and neither does Voley. He curls up next to me and we lay down together, like it’s all been a game and now it’s time for a nap. I try to keep my arm pointed straight at the ceiling, but it’s impossible. I can’t. It falls down and rests on the ground next to the face eater. I turn my head to look at the man’s face to check his eyes. I thank god that his eyes are not blinking. His pupils are no longer dilated. He’s dead. I look up at the blue ceiling of the tarp and listen to the rain that hasn’t noticed or cared about any of this. I think I hear more gunshots, shouting, and another scuffle. But I can’t be sure. I’m drifting in and out. I fall asleep, wondering if I’m dead.

Chapter 8

Everything is blurry. I can’t tell if I’ve been asleep for a day or an hour. The first thing I see is blue, blue everywhere. But it’s not the beautiful deep blue that Russell says the ocean used to be—before it was all brown. It’s bright, glaring. I realize I’m still inside the tarp city. I remember my arm from the throbbing pain there and look. Gauze is wrapped around so many times that it’s like there’s a bump rising out from where the bullet hit me. There’s a tiny spot of red on the white, a small reminder of how much blood I lost. My emotions return to me as I hear a whimper. It’s Voley. He’s across the room. He has gauze on his leg too, but he’s not whimpering in pain. He wants someone to play with.

Out of the blurriness I see someone walk over to Marvolo and start petting him and he quiets down at the attention. Then the figure turns and comes toward me. I notice the warmth now. It’s almost too warm—I turn my neck and see a fire behind my bed, burning in a gray steel oil drum, its smoke rising up through an aluminum chute in the roof. I watch her come toward me and I try to recognize her face but I can’t. I swivel my head around, trying to see if anyone else is here, but the room’s empty. A sinking feeling starts because Russell pops into my head. I wonder if he’s okay, and if Dusty is okay. She comes and stands over me and tells me to lie back down. I sat up and she doesn’t like it.

“Where are they?” I ask. She looks puzzled, like she doesn’t know if I mean the face eaters or one of the good guys. I tell her Russell and Dusty. They’re okay, she says. I listen to the rain hitting the roof and hear a tiny drip inside the room every few seconds. Where are they? I repeat, and I stay sitting up because I don’t feel like I’ve just been shot. I feel warm and fuzzy, like there’s no pain. She must have given me medicine.

“Russell’s back in the infirmary. Dusty is with his dad. They’re surveying the damage.” The word damage rings in my head and I remember all the face eaters. How many had there been? I can’t believe they came in such numbers. And some of them—they acted like they had some kind of superhuman strength. I save my questions and stand up from the bed. The woman, not unattractive, but much older than Russell, tries to tell me again to stay put and lie down. You’re still recovering, she says. But I feel fine and I don’t need to hear a stranger’s advice right now. I need to see Russell and Dusty. Marvolo sees me get up and whines, licking the air, looking longingly at me. I walk over to him and bend my right arm to pet him, forgetting it’s all screwed up, and wince at the painful movement. I steady the arm and use my left instead to let him give me kisses. Good boy, I say. Suit yourself, says the woman behind me, not anger but disappointment in her voice. I ask her which way to the infirmary, but I recognize where I am before she can answer me. I head down the blue tunnel at the end of the room.

As I head down the hallway, I keep expecting to hear guns start firing again, the sound of more fighting somewhere far out in another part of the tarp city, but I don’t. I don’t hear anything but the rain. Then I’m reminded of what happened as I walk through the next room. On the ground are long streaks of dried blood, and wooden boxes that have been broken to bits. Two people are attempting to clean the room up as I walk past. I glance at them and look away. I don’t want anyone to question me. I just need to see Russell.

When I get to the infirmary, I see Russell sitting up on a bed. His skin looks normal pale again, and his eyes are open. It’s like whatever they’ve been giving him is working already. He doesn’t see me and I run up to him. I put my good arm out and wrap it around him as hard as I can. He coughs a little bit and smiles wide, recognizing that it’s me. He puts his arms around me and squeezes me tight, drawing me in. Then he pushes me away but keeps his hands on my shoulders, watching my face with his smile, and his face looks alive again. I don’t know what to say—I want to ask him how he got out of there, and tell him about the body I saw being eaten that I thought was him. I look around at the thought, expecting to still see the blood soaked bed somewhere, the half-eaten corpse lying there. But everything is cleaned up. It’s like nothing happened in this room. Someone is wandering around near two beds at the back, both of which have new bodies in them. They both look like they’re unconscious.

“I hear you did good,” he says, watching me, unable to take the smile off his face. I nod and tell him I kicked ass. But that it was nothing special, in mock humility. And then I ask him how he’s feeling. He tells me that they say his leg infection is back, and that he’s got a cold, but that’s about it. Nothing that should prevent us from leaving for Leadville. My jaw drops and I step back, escaping his hands. I can’t believe he still wants to go. I expected it when he was delirious, but now he looks half fine. And he still wants to go. He must not have talked to Dusty or Dusty’s dad yet. He must not realize what this place is like yet.

Before I can tell him how angry I am that he’s suggested leaving safety, Dusty’s dad walks into the room followed by the woman who was there when I woke up.

“There you are,” says Dusty’s dad. I nod and look at the woman, thinking she’s gone and gotten me into trouble, as if I owe them good behavior for having treated me. My old defenses rear up, and I look questioningly at Russell, as if we’ll have to snap into action, because they might want to start with us. But they continue to talk and I realize that they don’t want any trouble, just to see that I’m alright. I tell them I feel fine. Dusty’s dad tells me it’s the pain medicine, and he says I shouldn’t be out of bed. I ignore him. The woman puts her arm around Dusty’s dad, and I figure it out that they’re together. I wonder if it’s Dusty’s real mom because she looks nothing like him. He looks just like his father though. Russell speaks up and asks how the rain is. He says he wants to go check on our canoe.

“What do you want with that canoe?” Dusty’s dad asks, alarmed that Russell is worried about it. Russell tells him we have to get going soon, hit the water and start south for Leadville. Dusty’s dad tells him we’re a long ways from Leadville, and we’d be pushing east as much as south now. And there’s a great current drawing in that direction, pushing things way too far east. He says we’ll be swept up in the waterspouts on the Great Plains sea. It’s a never-ending gale there, he says. Russell doesn’t seem to care, or at least he doesn’t respond with a counter to that point. He just looks antsy, like he’s rejuvenated enough that he’s feeling his old motto roar back to life, and now that we’re sitting in some infirmary unit, he’s wasting precious daylight hours.

“We plan on doing a little trading here, and then we’re getting on our way,” Russell says. The woman leans forward and puts her arm on Russell, like she’s going to calm him down from the ridiculousness of his mission. She says he should just relax for tonight. He shouldn’t go worrying about anything too much for now, while he’s recovering. There’ve been a couple deaths, she says, and the whole place isn’t likely to be interested in trading at a time like this. We’ll rest tonight, and then we’ll be on our way, Russell says. And he’s dead serious. I see the flicker of the fire in the other room through the tarp, a lighter blue against the blue, and I think Russell’s gone mad. He just doesn’t know there’s hot water here. And fire. And food. And good people. And Dusty.

Dusty walks in from the other end of the room toward us. He’s still got his rifle with him, and his face is lit with joy to see us—but I notice he’s looking more to me than anyone else. He tries not to let it show, but he keeps glancing back to me. For a moment, I forget Russell’s insanity and melt at the sight of his face. I can’t bring myself to want to leave Dusty for some reason. There’s something magnetic about him that I’ve never felt before in all my life. I worry that my feelings for Russell are getting screwed up, but I push the thought out of my head. I can’t deal with it. The pain medicine has me too cozy inside right now.

Dusty is so filled with excitement that he tells us everything that happened after I passed out. He first recounts everything we did before that too, making sure Russell hears every detail of my heroic attacks against the face eaters. Dusty says that after I was shot and he sat me down, he ran into another room that was packed with them, but there were a group of tarp dwellers too, and there was a short gunfight. And they all went down, the last of the face eaters. One of them they kept alive to try to question, he says, but it wouldn’t say anything that could be understood. The man was foaming at the mouth, and it’s true what folks have been saying, Dusty says. The face eaters have taken a great big supply of the drug. What’s the drug? I ask. He tells us it’s a stimulant they take, something to keep the hunger off their minds, but that it really ends up making the hunger worse, and makes them keep going long after they should be dead. And sometimes, it stops their hearts straightaway, but most of the time it just makes them more crazy than they already are.

I think about the one that was blown apart but still crawled toward me on the floor. It had to have been on the drug. The thought scares me. And Dusty then says they’re banding together more and more, making their assaults in unison for some reason. He can’t explain, and his dad hangs his head like he’s right, and there really is no explanation. Then the woman just looks at us and says they must want our flesh all the more now. All the more. And that’s all she says and then she walks right out of the infirmary and leaves us all alone. It felt like she was holding something back and I wonder if Russell felt it too but I can’t ask right now.

“What happened to you?” I ask Russell, still not having heard a word from him about what happened in the infirmary.

“He’s a hero too,” says Dusty’s dad. I look dumbfounded, unsure of what he means. Then he goes on to tell me what happened. He says after the gunshots got closer, Russell shot right up out of bed, high fever no matter, and went to the rear shelf looking for a gun to help defend. And that’s when one of them burst into the room. I was there too, with my gun, but it was Russell that took him down, this face eater. It was crazed. One of the deranged ones. High on the speed. Russell just took up one of them chairs there, and I never saw a head explode from a chair before. But this man’s did. He looks at Russell and grins, and Russell looks down, showing no happiness at the reminiscence of what he did. He looks distracted all together, like he’s thinking of Leadville, and somehow, he’s seriously considering taking us out into that boat again. His face shows a puzzle, like he’s figuring out what’s so wrong about all this.

“Look, Tan and I need a minute alone. Is that alright?” Russell finally says after Dusty’s dad finishes up his story about him killing the face eater and then apparently running around like a madman trying to find me. Yea, sure, says Dusty’s dad. And Dusty just smiles at me, like he’s sure he’ll see me later, and then he turns. I watch him go, his rifle hanging down from his side, out the door toward his father. Marvolo appears in the hallway and Dusty shouts in excitement at the sight of his friend. Their voices fade as Russell pulls me close to him. He’s serious now, and he makes sure I’m looking right at him.

“We can’t stay here Tanner. I don’t know what it is yet, but something’s not right,” he says. And all of the sudden, all the beauty I know in him vanishes with those ugly words because I’m scared to death to leave. And I know he’s somehow lost his senses, and he’s still sick, and the defense against the face eaters was a fluke, because he isn’t thinking right. I don’t tell him that I felt something odd about that woman too, like she had a secret, and instead I tell him we have to stay here, and that there’s fire, food, hot water, clothes, and good people. And there’s no reason to move anywhere. He looks upset with me and says, No reason to move? He tells me what Dusty’s dad told him: the face eaters are coming from the west, heading east, and there’s been more and more. More together, operating like a team almost. He says that west of here is a death trap. And if we stay, the attack we had will only come again, but it’ll be worse, and one of us won’t survive next time. I stop and think about what he’s said. I know he’s partially right, and the face eaters are coming from the west, and that we did get attacked on our first day here, and that Dusty’s dad did say things are getting worse. And I realize I’ve never seen face eaters that are high on drugs, and it’s much more terrifying than the old cannibals I’ve come to expect since Rapid City. But still, with all of that, the alternative is the open brown nothing. The cold rain and the endless ocean. The swells that I know are waiting for us. Some of them a quarter-mile long. I tell Russell this, but I don’t just tell him. I plead with him. I explain how hard it was on the boat alone, how we almost died. How Poseidon spared us, and if we fuck with him again we’re going to die. How our canoe is screwed, how we don’t have anything to trade anyway even if we wanted to get enough supplies to move south. And how do we even navigate to get there? Then I hit him where it hurts: Do you remember when you were crying? How bad it was? Look at what’s happened since then. We’ve been saved. Even if a hundred face eaters come tonight, at least we’re on land. And we’ve got guns. And people to help us.

It’s like he doesn’t hear any of my reasons, but he’s also lost the will of his own to fight for his decision to move out. We’re at a stalemate, and he rocks back a little bit and puts his hands on his head. Then I realize it’s not that he’s starting to give up on Leadville, it’s that his headache is back. I move up to him and start to rub his back, his arm, and ask if he’s okay. He says he’s fine. If we go anywhere, I’m not going until you’re better, I tell him. He doesn’t say anything to this. I remind him I can’t do it alone again. I tell him he almost killed me, both of us. Then he compromises with me, and I feel my spirit soar as high as it’s been since my hot shower. He says we’ll wait a couple days and feel things out around here. See if his hunch is right. But then, we’ve got to make a decision. And as far as he can see it, he says, Leadville is the only real option. He reminds me that it’s the highest elevation city in the country, something I’ve heard a thousand times so it doesn’t even mean anything anymore. He reminds me of the whole town being above the water line. He says that it might not be raining there. Even Cap’n Wallace believed that, he says. I don’t let him get away with all that this time though. I tell him we’ve found a piece of the veneer right here in Utah. It’s alive and well, I tell him. In Dusty and his dad, in that woman, and Marvolo. He doesn’t say anything, and he breathes in real deep and lets out a long sigh, like he’s upset by something but won’t say what. I wonder for a second if he’s psychic, and he’s upset by my new feelings for Dusty. But I know that’s not it, because he finally says, We think we have. We think we’ve found a piece of it. But we don’t know what this place is all about yet, do we? And then he reminds me about what happened in Rochester. I don’t want to think about it. I hate thinking about what happened in Rochester. But he spells it out for me, because he’s afraid I’m seeing all the bright colors of this place, and not the thing that’s producing them.

Russell starts out by saying that the plan of these people, as far as everything he’s gathered, is to float a barge west to the Sierra Nevada mountains. He asks me if I remember the barge in Rochester. I don’t nod, because I don’t want to remember it. But he goes on anyway, like it’s something we need to remember right now.

After the Sea Queen Marie sunk, and we had floated on a whale boat for a week, we were picked up by a small gas powered motor boat. They lifted us out of the water and asked where we came from. There were two of them, a man and a woman. They didn’t hesitate to save us.

Both of them were about Russell’s age, and with smiles on their faces they told us about how lucky we were. They just happened to spot us, and had they not, we would have floated on to god knows what terrible hump of raised land in the West. The West, where the face eaters are everywhere, they had said. They took us on that boat and we drove for a long time, in a direct line over blank water, to an enormous steel barge that was raised high above the water. It looked like a big stinking pile of shit just floating there. But it was a tent city pile of shit, and all the tents were high off the water. They said it used to be an aircraft carrier, and Russell told me that meant planes used to land on it. Now it just floated aimlessly, but the people on it could head out on their small boats and gather up supplies and food from even as far north as Canada. But up there the rain has turned to snow, they said. So they’d stopped getting supplies from the north, and even the south. Snow and ice in the north, and strong currents in the south. Once we were hoisted onto the carrier, everything looked like a dream. There was a long line of white plastic that had turned a dirty shade of brown, tied high around poles to form a long triangular tunnel. Underneath were bags and bags of supplies, a lot of it food. What Russell and I couldn’t understand was why so much it smelled rotten, like it had gone bad. We couldn’t understand why all the food would go bad with as many people as there were living on the carrier. The ones who took us in had told us on the way that there were just over a thousand people.

Once we got off the motor boat and started exploring, it became clear that there weren’t that many people. It was more like a ghost town. We went through the stinking piles, looking at wasted food, and that’s when Russell started to say that things didn’t seem right. But there were pockets of the tent packed with people, and fresh supplies, and they were happy to give us what we needed—shelter and food and warmth. They even told us we didn’t have to pay them back. Russell grew more and more wary because he said no one gives you something for nothing. Not in this world. We slept the first night under the triangle, and I couldn’t even tell we were on water, the barge was so quiet and still. The man who rescued us came over once in the middle of the night and asked if we were hungry. I felt like he was almost catering to us. It was all too good to be true after the Sea Queen. Russell told me he thought the man had been watching us sleep, and made up the food excuse once we startled awake. I fell under the spell of that place in the first two days, but Russell never eased up, and never let me know he disapproved of my feelings. He started walking the edges of the barge endlessly, watching where the motor boats came in at, how they hoisted themselves up to the carrier surface, studying where the drivers went. Where they put their keys.

I kept telling him everything was alright, and that he’d grown too skeptical and cold toward people. The world wasn’t as bad as he’d grown to think it was. I was still in the afterglow of our Sea Queen family and thought it wasn’t strange for people to be good-natured. And after the loss, I felt like the carrier could be the replacement family we needed. But it was only the next night that we heard the scream.

Russell reminds me about the sound of the scream. I say I remember it and he doesn’t have to remind me about it. It came in the middle of the dead night. Russell got up and walked over to the edge of the tent and peered out into the rain. The cry was coming from somewhere far away on the other side of the carrier. Where are you going? I asked. He didn’t respond, just told me to wait a second. I told him hell no and followed after him. We didn’t have our knives yet.

We walked through wet darkness for about ten minutes until we reached the edge of a steel tower, some high building built right into the carrier floor with a couple doors at the base. Russell kept looking around, like someone was going to see us sneaking around, but no one was out there but us. I didn’t think that was strange because it was the middle of the night.

He looked into a few of the windows on the tower and didn’t see anything, and neither did I, so we went inside. I wanted to know what the hell we were doing, why we were nosing around when they were treating us so good. All he said was because something isn’t right. And we have to make sure it’s all wrong here so that we can steal a boat and take off tomorrow. I followed him through a dark hallway to where a thin line of light shone, and then we heard the screaming again but it was very loud, right near us. We’d found the source of the painful noise. It was a room with a large glass window. The strangest part was, it was all frosted over with ice. Like a giant freezer. And then Russell crept up to it and pushed his face against the glass and I can still remember his breath hitting the iced glass and melting a small spot of it. He looked in through the spot. I pushed against him to see too. There was a long tube coming out of someone’s body. The body was jacked into some kind of pump and it was making a small noise. And what the screams had been, he knew right away: the person had woken up when they should have been dead. That’s what Russell said afterward. But either way, it was red, the tube. It was a line of their blood, Russell says. And that was a freezer. I remember all the barrels in there, lined in a row, neatly stacked, iced over, one after the next. Frozen blood. All of it stored for whoever the hell is really running this ship, Russell said in the triangle tarp after we got back. We both stayed awake all night. He talked about what probably happened to the rest of the bodies after the blood was gone. They don’t waste one bit of a body. They’re in this for the long haul. Professional, clean living face eaters.

I don’t know how no one caught on that we knew what was happening on that barge. I know I must have worn it on my face over the next two days as Russell planned our escape. But we were never caught. We looked into the faces of the ones who rescued us and told them how lovely it was on their barge, and how nice things were. Each day we were on board, at least another two or three people were found and brought back to the barge, plucked from somewhere out on the eternal ocean surrounding us.

We never found out how they kept the freezer room working, or where the rest of those bodies were stored after all the blood was extracted, or why that one person woke up during the pumping. Russell had it figured that we only had a matter of days before it was our turn on the pump. He stole a pair of motor boat keys, a rifle, and we left in the middle of the night. There was a gunshot, and then another in the empty gray night as we sped away over calm waters, but nothing hit us. They let us go, like we didn’t matter. No one chased.

I asked Russell what he really thought was going on there. He said it’s a way to survive. And that they might have let us in on it, or made us part of the supply, but it was no way we were going to survive. That’s no veneer either, he kept saying, as if they’re appearance of having survival all figured out was just clouds and smoke. It didn’t matter, he said, that they seemed nice and everything was working well for them on the outside. It had to do with the way they were getting by. That’s no veneer. And the stinking food. Their preferences have changed—they would rather have human, Russell said. No veneer.

I can remember the long island shape of that carrier disappearing in the black as we sped west, not knowing where the hell we were going, totally unaware that the horror of Sioux Falls lay in wait for us. The rain hit us, but there was a tarp on the boat, and we’d taken enough food to last two weeks. And the motor boat was full of gas. And everything was quiet on that water, and the beautiful hope that had come into my spirit had been killed just as fast as born. I kept thinking I’d hear a motor boat coming after us, but none came. They had it too good on that ship to care.

Russell finishes reminding me about Rochester and tells me we don’t know anything about the people here in Utah. He says he’s known me for fourteen years, and I’ve known him just as long, but these are strangers, and the sooner we can get out from under their generosity, the better. He asks if anyone’s done anything for me that they said I wouldn’t have to repay the favor for. I say I think Dusty did. Russell isn’t happy to hear it. He says there’s something that doesn’t feel right about the blind kindness these people have. Something that doesn’t feel right at all. And he’s downright ready to go find our canoe right now, way down on the muddy ridge, and flip out all the water, and break our tent down and grab our sack and jump in and head out into the canvas. Leave all this uncertainty behind us, and head for the one thing that’s certain. I tell him Leadville is just as certain as that barge was. Clouds and smoke. He doesn’t say anything because he knows I’m right. And he’s starting to feel sick again so he lies back down. I climb right on the bed with him, just barely fitting, and lie with my bad arm across his chest. He sighs again and I tell him that no matter what we do, we’ll do it together. I don’t know if this comforts him or not, but he falls asleep just when I say it. And the warm fuzzy feeling of the pain medicine rolls through me, up my body in happy waves, and then into my brain, settling it, and I’m out too.

Chapter 9

I wake up to the feeling of a hand on my arm. It’s tapping me. I open my eyes. Dusty is staring at me. I see the top of Voley’s tail wagging behind him. Come with me, he says. I slowly dislodge from Russell, who is still sleeping. The sky is dark through the tarp around us, and the fire has made it warm everywhere. I stand up, still groggy, and Dusty drags me off through one of the hallways. Pretty soon we’re back in his home, and we sit down at the table. I look to the tarp flap that leads out to the mountain ridge, where the face eaters attacked from. I wonder if there are more out there. It’s like Dusty senses my thoughts though, and he tells me they’ve set an extra watch tonight, but there shouldn’t be any more attacks. I fix on his face, studying it, the curve of his chin, and his lips, and his eyes that look  like they’re feeding on me. I think of Rochester, and Russell’s warning, and I realize how right he is. We don’t know anyone here, and we can’t trust anyone here. But even when I’m looking for it, I don’t feel any malice in Dusty or in Marvolo. I’m torn. How does your arm feel, Dusty asks. I almost forgot about it. I look it over, following the white gauze, noticing with relief that the red blood spot is still the same size as it was earlier. I feel okay, I say. And then he loses his smile, like something urgent has come into his mind, and everything up until now has been a pretense for something he wants to tell me. He doesn’t say anything though, so I look away before it becomes awkward.  I look at the hard plastic flooring, miraculously dry. I ask what’s wrong. I ask because I feel like he’s sitting on some big problem, but he’s not coughing it up unless I prod him.

“You were really good,” he says. I look back up to him, and his smile’s back. Russell taught me to shoot, I say, even though I know I missed as many times as I hit with the pistol. I think of the gun, and where it might be now. I didn’t expect them to just give me a gun, but when I’d had it, I felt a lot safer. I almost ask Dusty if I can have it back to keep, but I know better. And I grow cautious about asking for anything we might have to pay back later, and I’m on alert for any offers that seem too good to be true—gestures of help that don’t need to be repaid, like on the carrier in Rochester. But there’s already been a lot of those. The shower, the medical care, the shelter, the clothes. I’m becoming more and more paranoid. And Russell’s in the other room. Where’s your dad? I ask to break the silence. He’s with Linda, says Dusty. He tells me that Linda is his dad’s girlfriend, and that his real mom died a long time ago, but that Linda’s been like his real mom ever since. She’s the one who took care of your arm, he tells me. I almost regret the help that probably saved my life, like the bandage on my arm is a debt. But Marvolo comes up and licks my hand and sits right next to me, and I look down at him, and he’s calm and happy. Innocence in his eyes. I look at Dusty and I think I see the same thing. But I’m all mixed up now from what Russell said. Then Dusty finally admits why he woke me up.

“We’re going to be leaving here,” he says. I’m not sure what to say, or why he’s telling me. The tarp city here is huge, and has so many supplies, that I can’t understand why anyone would even consider leaving. The next thing I think is that if they are leaving, and everyone’s abandoning this place, Russell and I can stay behind and make it our own fortress. All alone, just the two of us, our own Leadville. I don’t ask if that would be okay.

“Reports say the face eaters are going to keep coming. More of them than before,” he says. They’re getting desperate he explains, and the drugs they’re getting near Salt Lake are different now—they’re able to go long distances without food. And the manner of their killings has changed. It’s rape and cannibalism now, Dusty says. The two urges mixed into one terrible act. They’ve bent up their brains, he says. The types of killings that have been happening are too horrible to describe. And the attack we just fought off has become the norm here. He says that his dad told him the barge is going to be stocked and everyone able will move out on it in a couple days. West to the Sierra Nevada mountains. He asks if we’ll come. I wonder what able means.

“I don’t know,” I say after another awkward moment. I don’t admit that I know Russell won’t go. It’s a mistake, he’ll say, to keep going west from Utah. We’d be going to high seas, too close to the Pacific. Russell has told me again and again that the oceans are the last place we want to go near. The Pacific is swooping up into the sky, he’s always said. Like a giant vacuum, and it’s carrying anyone stupid enough to go that way up with it. And that’s where the rain’s coming from. We have to go south. Dusty looks at me without saying a word, like my uncertainty isn’t good enough. Let me show you it, he says. He’s got a look of excitement and adventure that doesn’t fit the terrible news he’s just told me. But there it is, like he’s optimistic about the voyage into the sea that will lead away from this beautiful place. A home with fire and hot water and food. A home that’s dry. A home that’s shown me a mirage of the veneer.

Show me what? I ask. And the question is enough to bring his hand down on top of mine. He pulls me up to my feet, brings me over to the shelf, gives me a plastic suit to slip on, picks up his rifle, and drags me out into the rain.

The night air isn’t too cold, and neither is the rain. It’s like it’s warmer down here in Utah. But I don’t trust it. The rain is still coming down at medium, and it pelts off the hood of my suit loudly. Dusty takes my arm again and tugs me a little bit. Voley is bounding ahead of us as if his leg isn’t bothering him very much, his own gauze wrapped under plastic that covers his injury. We’re going right out into the brown wilderness where the face eaters came from. Are you sure this is safe? I ask. I look around, then back at the comfort of the blue tarp behind us, wondering what the hell he’s thinking. Everything I want is in there. But he’s leading me away into the blank nothing, the muddy slopes that go on into death country.

We follow a thin trail up the ridge where the face eaters first appeared from. The darkness blends the sea and the land and I realize I don’t even see the tarps behind us anymore. It’s like I’m back in Wyoming on the empty Bighorns. But he leads me on, getting a couple feet ahead. Voley has disappeared in front of both of us, running ahead like he’s been this way a thousand times before.

I push through rocky mud streams, soaking my feet before long, wondering when the hell the scenery will change, and where the hell we’re going. Where are we going? I ask, but Dusty ignores me and keeps going. He just looks back to make sure I’m following him. And I suddenly feel like something’s not right about this. Panic rises in me and I consider sprinting back to the tarps and waking Russell. Could Dusty be tricking me? My mind wanders to the bank where we landed the canoe and put up our tent. Our supply bag is still down there. I feel the sudden pressure of time, like there’s a small window of it that I have now to get free and escape, and if I don’t act now by running back, everything will be lost. We have to get back to the canoe and push out, start south again, a voice whispers in my head. But I pause and ignore my apprehension at the sight of the summit. I’ve almost caught up to Dusty where he’s standing still, looking forward and then back to me eagerly, like he’s now able to see something important. I forget my plan to escape and race up the last few feet to get next to him and Voley.

The brown flat canvas of water stretches out to infinity in front of me, and I can see everything. The wide expanse of water, the rising ridges of the Utah mountains that surround our island, and there, directly down the hill before us, an opening bay. In it, there is a light colored square extension from the bank. It’s an enormous barge with several small boats tied up together. The barge looks like it’s been put together from random pieces of aluminum and wood, with two high poles stretching into the night sky on either end of it. From the poles are limp coils of canvas, which I guess are makeshift sails. It looks far from sea worthy, but it excites Dusty beyond words.

“That’s what you’re going to take to the Sierra Nevada mountains?” I say. It’s hard to believe. It looks like it’ll go under with the smallest crashing swells. I want to tell him about the Sea Queen Marie, and how well built she was, and how that didn’t matter when a hurricane hit. Its nose broke into the water and it flooded and sank. This thing wouldn’t survive even a small gale. But I don’t say anything, because I’ve already decided I would never set foot on the thing. But he asks me if I think it’s beautiful. And to look at how big it is. I tell him it is big, but I don’t say anything else.

“We’re going to load her up over the next couple days,” Dusty tells me. His dad’s been funneling him all the information, he says. The final plan has been made, and everyone will pile on that giant raft, and the small boats, and head west. I almost plead with him, What do you think is out there? In the west that close to the Pacific?

He looks at me and thinks about his answer but never gives it. He just tells me he’s asked his dad if I can come. His dad said yes. He doesn’t even mention Russell. I ask him why he’d want me to come. He says I’ve proved my worth. I shoot well enough. I know he’s lying. His face is dark under the night sky and the lip of his hood. Rain rolls down his plastic and hits a tiny stream that snakes down toward the bay. The alarm that he hasn’t mentioned Russell creeps into my mind. I tell him I could never leave Russell, and he tells me Russell is coming too. You don’t know Russell, I say.

We stand for a moment in silence. He’s clearly in awe at the sight of the barge, like it’s been a long process for him, for them, the tarpers here, and it is the culmination of some long effort. It’s some sort of twisted salvation for them, despite that it looks to me like suicide. I can’t get past how sloppy the thing looks, and I think of the much bigger carrier, and how sturdy that looked in comparison. I have to wait until Russell is better to decide, I tell him. But it’s a lie. I don’t want to go. I’ll stay back with Russell on this island. We can hole up, defend against the hordes of face eaters. Keep close to the fire. Found our own Leadville. But I don’t say any of this. I can help you convince him, Dusty tells me. And he comes closer to me. I look at Marvolo so I don’t have to see his beautiful face. Voley runs down the hill some, splashing up muddy water. Hey, says Dusty. I feel his eyes watching me. I want to ask him a million questions, tell him my fears about our situation, even Russell’s fears that this place isn’t what it appears to be—Dusty, his dad, all the tarpers. I want to tell him places like this don’t exist anymore. And it’s all a con, too good to be true, and somewhere along the way, we’re going to be used up for something evil, some broken version of the veneer. But I don’t tell him any of my thoughts or ask him any more questions. I can’t because he wraps me in his arms. At first it’s strange, because the rain is running off his suit and hood and some of it is splashing in my face. I feel like I’m betraying Russell for some strange reason, just by being here alone and talking about all this. But Dusty reaches under my chin and points my head up so I have to look at him now.

“When I first saw you…” Dusty starts. I look at him, taking in all of him, and I feel my attraction for him flare. I wonder about what love really is. Or if it is the same thing as emotions. And what I feel burning in my body all of a sudden, and how does one really know if they love a person. “I’ve never seen anyone like you,” he finishes. I don’t even know what he means, but there’s something about how he says it that makes me want to tell him that’s how I’ve felt about him. That I can’t understand why but my body is telling me it wants him to stay this close.

“Don’t you think it’s all pointless?” I ask him, the gnawing idea that the veneer is dead erupting in the back of my mind. That whatever this feeling is, it’s useless and pointless because it doesn’t help keep us alive, keep us moving, keep us heading to a place where it isn’t raining. But Dusty doesn’t know what I’m referring to, I can see by the confusion that lights up in his eyes. I tell him I mean love. I admit the word. And it falls out of my mouth like a forbidden artifact from Philadelphia and Pittsburg, something that’s been long ago laid to rest and been made a forever taboo.

“I don’t know what love feels like,” he says. He says he’s seen it in other people, and he’s seen it in his father and Linda. But it’s never been in his life before. And I can’t tell if he means the emotions in his body or the feeling I feel. They start to blur together in my mind too, like a mirror of his words. I tell him I don’t know what it feels like either. I’ve thought I might have it someday, if we ever got to Leadville. Where we’re going is as good as Leadville, he says. He just watches me, for a long time, and the rain keeps hitting us. He pulls my body so close that it’s pressing into his, my stomach against his. Do you feel this? he asks me. I want to tell him I think he’s beautiful, but I remember Russell, and the thought works to stop my words. I can’t say anything, I feel like he’s captured me against my will. But I know I feel it too. So I nod. Come on, he says. And he races back, away from the bay with the barge and the boats. Marvolo flies to us again at the sound of Dusty sprinting. I run after him, desperate for the feeling to come back, mad that I didn’t speak up more than I did so it didn’t go away. I think that maybe it would be worth it to take the risk, despite that it’s useless, and that it’s unimportant, and that it won’t help us get to Leadville. And I can’t stop chasing after him because I still feel whatever it was that lit me up inside. It’s on him and it’s pulling me after him. I go as fast as I can, afraid I might lose them both and get lost in the mountains with the face eaters. But before I know it the blue tarps are in sight again, and we’re back inside Dusty’s house.

I step in and he’s looking all around, like he’s checking for something. Then I realize what he’s doing—he’s checking to see if anyone else is there. But no one’s home. He pulls off his plastic suit and I do the same thing, because I’m caught up in some strange dream and I’ve stopped caring about the trip over the ocean, and the face eaters, and the exposure that threatens us whichever path we choose, barge or not, canoe or not, and I wait for Dusty to say something. But he doesn’t say anything, he just takes my arm again, and his hand slips down to mine, and he pulls me along the hallway. He pulls me right in front of the shower. I look at him, and all the thousand cries inside my spirit are stifled because I feel still the same as I felt on the mountain. It’s like I’ve felt a hundred times before except Russell was always there to deny me, tell me it’s wrong, and useless, and something that we shouldn’t think about anymore. But I can’t help it. Dusty asks me if I feel the same still, and I just nod, because I can’t make words. It’s like a spell has taken control of me, and he takes off his shirt, and the sight of his chest and stomach melts me. He reaches in past the tarp door of the shower and turns the knob. I hear the hiss of water, and soon feel the steam coming from beneath the flap at my feet. He grabs my sweater and slides it up, then throws it on the floor. A singular feeling wells up in me, and I know that I can’t change the course of this now, so I stop thinking about Russell, and everything we have ahead of us. I collapse into this moment, and I look back now confidently into Dusty’s eyes, ready to go forward. His eyes are dark, but a tiny star of light hangs in them, and he breathes on me close, and then he just closes them and pushes his mouth in toward me. I feel soft warmth press against my lips, and then a stronger warmth, and his arms pull me into him. He sends his hands out wandering over my body, each touch sending electricity and heat through me, and I can’t help it—I move over him too. I move around the curves of his body, his chest, his stomach, his arms, and his butt. He pulls me into the shower, and it’s like the rain is now coming from a fire, and I feel his tongue and lips on my neck. I look at him standing naked in front of me, and it’s like I understand some hidden piece of who I am. I can’t stop to correct myself, and to clean up my irrational thinking, because the singular force driving me has limited all cognition, and I feel like I’m an animal, just mindless, with only my body. All of my questions are gone. All of my fears.

The warmth rolls down our bodies into the floor, and I feel like an eternity passes. We kiss. He leaves the shower abruptly and I stand in the hot water and feel hungry for him, watching him go with the hope that this isn’t all a dream. He comes back in and turns the knob off and hands me a towel. We dry off. My doubts have been cleaned away, and I feel like he could never be like the people in Rochester. But he won’t let me start to think again, because he starts pulling me into the hallway, and down to a room with a bed. The air is cold until he pulls me close again, his skin warming mine, and together we fall onto a blanket. Do you still? he asks, almost pausing. I look at him and tell him yes, but that I don’t know what it is, but that I feel it. He seems satisfied and presses into me, kissing me hard. The sweet flavor of his mouth fills me and I feel like I might lose consciousness. His hands find every part of me, and I am sure now that I have been my whole life starved of a part of love I have only dreamed about. The rain hits the roof above our heads, and again and again we find each other, in our eyes, mouths, and bodies, and I want nothing ever to happen again but this. But it stops before I find out what happens next because Marvolo barks. It isn’t one of his friendly barks. Dusty jumps up from the bed and pulls on a pair of pants. He runs out into the hall and yells at me to get dressed. In a moment, he throws my clothes down and stands in the hallway with his rifle, watching toward the outside door flap. What is it, I ask? But he doesn’t even answer me. Instead he raises his rifle, pointing down into the hallway where I can’t see.

The blast of his rifle jolts me coldly back to reality. There’s no time for depression to set in, I just pull on my clothes and panic because I don’t know where my knife is. I don’t have any weapon. Dusty reloads in the hallway and Marvolo barks again. Shit, says Dusty.

I run out into the hall behind him and look ahead. There’s a dead man on the floor, but he’s not dead—he’s crawling toward us. And then someone runs into the room from the rain outside. The man is haggard and soaking wet. But he’s alive with evil, unarmed, and charging to kill us both. Dusty raises his rifle and I plug my ears. The shot fires and I watch the face eater fly back, a line of blood flying up from his chest. Then Dusty turns his rifle down on the floor and fires at the crawling body. It finally stops moving. Your pistol’s on the rack. You think you can still shoot it with your arm? he asks. I don’t have time to answer because I hear Dusty’s dad shouting from behind us. He’s coming up from the infirmary. Dusty! he yells. But Dusty’s concentrating on the tarp door. He’s moved out into the center of the room so I can get past him to the gun rack. He’s pointing out into the night shaded expanse of barren mountain. I jump over the two bodies and grab the same pistol I used before. Suddenly, out of nowhere, it feels like my arm is throbbing with pain again. It’s all in your head, I tell myself. And I raise the pistol next to Dusty, ready to fire if anything appears out there in the darkness. Finally Dusty says, without turning to look, Yea Dad?

“They’re hitting from both sides,” his dad replies, rushing into the room with his own rifle in his hands. “They were testing us before. This one’s going to be big—really big.” Dusty’s dad just looks at Dusty, nods, looks at me and does the same, and then he runs back the way he came. No! hollers Dusty. What is it? I ask. Marvolo! shouts Dusty and I understand. But Dusty’s already run out into the rain without his plastic suit, chasing Marvolo, but Voley is nowhere in sight. I run out after them.

Part 4

Chapter 10

I chase out after Dusty, who’s chasing after Marvolo. The rain is hitting harder. The darkness makes it hard to see anything on the slopes. Marvolo isn’t coming back at Dusty’s command. And there are at least two more face eaters out there—I can see their shapes rising over the ridge that we came down on the way back from the barge. Their black bodies are running at us, just enough darker than the clouds to be seen. Then they dip into a valley and I can’t see them anymore. Shit, I shout as I slip on a bank of mud. My butt slides down about six feet, and I dig my left hand, pistol and all, into the mud to slow myself down. I’m not wearing my plastic suit either. Exposure and my stitches ripping open cross my mind. It’s cold and I’m soaked and my arm is hurting again. I stumble to my feet and lift the gun up to see if mud’s jammed in the barrel—it looks clear but I can’t really tell in the dark. I wipe it off on my sweatpants. Then I look toward the face eaters—they’re still charging, about fifty feet away now. I shout out for Dusty. He doesn’t reply. He’s gone.

Dusty! I try again. Then I take my eyes off the face eaters long enough to spin around and look over the brown mud hills at the glowing blue tarp. He’s nowhere in sight. Neither is Marvolo. I start to panic. Chasing Voley and he left me alone with the monsters. I look back at them and point my pistol. It’s useless, I’ll never hit when it’s this dark. I know it. But I try anyway. I line up the gun in my sight and aim for the one on the left. I pull the trigger until the noise and flash erupt. The blast throws my hand up and I almost drop the pistol. The maniac doesn’t slow down one bit. But it’s much worse than missing—I realize as they turn they hadn’t even seen me before, they were going for the tent flap. I blew my cover. They’ve turned course, and both of them are converging in a line straight for me.

I debate whether to race them back into Dusty’s tent and run down the hallway, or head to my left over the bank and try to find Dusty on the hills. One more slip and I’m dead. My body freezes like it won’t do either, and it wants me to stay still so that I die tonight—so that they eat me alive. For a moment, the idea of them biting my skin paints onto my brain before I can stop it—it’s too visual and painful and real—I see parts of me in their stomachs, digesting, before I’m even dead—tearing into me by strips—or something worse. The horrible nightmare pushes my legs down and toward the tent, but a nearby rifle blast stops me before I get inside.

Dusty! I call again. It has to be him. Even though he still doesn’t respond to my cry, I run toward the gunfire instead of back inside. Maybe it’s better to stay outside since I know that there are probably face eaters inside the tarp too, rushing through the halls like they did last time, coming from every side like Dusty’s dad warned us they would. The thought that I’ve got to get to Russell flashes into my head—just make it to him, and I’ll be safe. I jog carefully with my gun arm cocked at my waist, ready to shoot at the first thing I see over the ridge. My feet climb quickly over the sliding terrain and I mount the bank. On my left is the fire-lighted blue city of tarp. Ahead and to my right is the murky abyss of mud desert. No one is out there. I hear the panting gasps of the frenzied cannibals charging at my back. They must be so close now but I can’t bring myself to look back. Just keep moving. Can’t waste a second.

I crest the hill and look in the direction where I think the gunshot came from, expecting to see Dusty and Marvolo. Instead it’s a face eater. He’s stumbling toward a door flap along the tarp tunnel, a rifle in his arms. He’s beaten up by the rain and the cold. Worn to shreds. He can barely move. But he’s still pressing on like the rest of them. A dead energy that never stops. Maybe the drug.

I pick up the pace and run at his back while he doesn’t know I’m there. I only slow for half a second to pull the trigger when I’m a few feet away, too close to miss. He never even knows what hit him. He doesn’t even groan as the bullet strikes. He just flops over on his stomach, his body burying a little into the mud. I want to check behind me so bad but I can’t because they’re too close—they’re feet beat the ground, rhythm for the rain, and I wonder why they haven’t fired their guns. They must not have any, a wild stroke of luck. But they’ll have knives.

The tarp flap blows out into the night, revealing a slit of yellow fire-light inside. I race toward it like it can save me. Just to be inside again. I call out for Dusty, and then for Russell. No one answers. I keep expecting another gunshot from somewhere to steer me toward people, but nothing sounds. I reach the tent flap and bolt inside without hesitation. I hear the flap swish again a moment later as the face eaters run through it after me.

Two loud bangs glaze my vision to white and my hearing to a high siren. I think I’m dead, that I’ve been shot. But I’m not hit. The shots hit the face eaters that followed me inside, I see as I turn around half-blinded. There’s my savior—it’s the woman, Dusty’s dad’s girlfriend. Go! That way! she yells. And she’s pointing with her rifle toward the farthest hall that leads to one of the supply rooms. I want to go the other way, back to the split so I can get to the infirmary and find Russell. But with how she yells at me to move, it doesn’t sound like an option. She steps to the two face eaters on the floor and fires another bullet into one of them that’s still wiggling. Then she kicks the other one sharply. Now! she yells angrily after she’s done, noticing I’m still there. Where’s Russell? I say, backing up toward the hall as I ask. But she’s done talking to me, she’s fixed back on the outside, the great brown. She has more face eaters in her sights. The rifle blasts again, and then again. She kneels to reload and I turn and run, a mad dash down the hallway. I don’t know where I’m going or who I’m going to find. I notice the throb in my arm now that face eaters aren’t bearing down on my back. I clench the pistol tightly in my left hand. The room opens up before me at the end of the hallway.

“Tanner!” comes Russell’s voice. It’s a miracle. He’s somewhere to my left, but I can’t see him at first because there’s a stack of crates. I turn toward him and sprint, crashing into the boxes in my excitement. I turn over on the ground and try to hoist myself up, but I can’t. Russell wasn’t calling me over to him, he was warning me that something else was in the room. I look right up into the face of death. Its mouth opens, dry, ready to push down into me. The eyes are wide, the same look I’ve seen a hundred times, wet glass desperation. He drops down on top of me, his knees hitting my leg, pinning me. I holler with pain. And then his arms go to mine, pressing me against the ground. His left arm pushes against mine right at my stitches. Searing pain lights my body, traveling away from the arm and into my back and legs. Then the blur of a boot sweeps across my vision—it’s Russell’s. He kicks all his weight into its gut. Gun! he yells, and he just takes it from me. He points and fires. Again my ears ring. Through the hissing I hear the labored breaths of the face eater finally stop, and Russell’s hand drops and grabs me and lifts me up. Come on, we have to hide. Up. He tugs me with the strength of his old self, like he’s completely recovered. We go through another hallway that opens into a room. I look around at the new destruction. There are more bodies but it’s all a blur and he’s pulling me so fast that I can’t tell if they’re all face eater corpses or if some of them are tarpers. Dusty! I say, jerking back for a moment, wanting to get a look at the room and see if he’s dead. But Russell won’t allow it. He’s got the strength again, the life force is back, and he’s dragging me on whether I want to or not.

“Did you see him?” I ask. No. Stay with me, he says, and then he starts to run. I follow at his heels. He lets go of my arm. We run into a wide room with four aisles of metal shelves that rise up to a pointed ceiling. In the corner, he says, and he darts to the aisle at the end, the last row, secluded more than the others. It only has one way in and out. We go to the dead end and push through a couple piles of supply crates. Russell starts to stack them up in front of us as high as possible. What are we going to do? I ask. But I get the sense he’s building a wall. And he doesn’t say anything, so I try to help him by making it wider.

We stack crates and boxes until we’re out of sight except for a tiny slit to see through. A face eater would have to come down the dead end aisle and knock into our crates to know we’re in here. No noise, says Russell. He watches through the slit between the crates, waiting for something to pass through the hallway. A scuffle starts somewhere far away. We hear feet stamping, more shouting and gunfire, but I can’t see a thing. Just the back of Russell’s shirt. Then the footsteps start moving our way.

They’re so close that I think they might be in the room with us now. But they’re not, they’re just outside the room. Russell nudges me to be on guard. But I don’t have any weapon, he’s got my gun. All I can use are my fists and my feet now. I start to look around at the crates surrounding us. They’re all sealed. I want to pry one open to find something sharp and made of metal but I know I can’t make any noise or else the thing will come at us. The footsteps move into the room. It’s a face eater. Russell sees it through the slit and signals. Then my worst nightmare happens.

It starts as a tickle, then it becomes an itch. I shove my finger across my nose to bar any air from entering so I won’t sneeze. I stop it, no noise. But the footsteps stop anyway, like the thing heard me press my finger to my face. I look to Russell, waiting for some sign of what’s happening out there. He doesn’t move and I can’t see anything. He turns his head as the footsteps start up again. It’s walking out, leaving the room. I want to sigh in relief but Russell looks concerned. He’s locked his eyes on the aisle next to ours as if something is about to spring at us. I follow his eyes and see what it is. I want to ask, but I know better than to make a sound. I think I see what he’s staring at. Under a pile of boxes on the floor of the next aisle there is a metal plate. It looks like the tarp flooring has been cut away around it, like it’s a door leading underground. We can only see the edges because of the boxes on it. Russell turns his head back to the slit to look out, listens to make sure there are no more footsteps, then whispers to me.

“That might be a cellar,” he says. “Can you fit through?” He wants me to climb through the shelf to get behind the boxes at the back of the next aisle. I whisper that I’ll try to squeeze through, but that I don’t have any weapon. I’m scared as shit that as soon as I get through there’ll be a face eater waiting for me. It will hear me knock over a box. And then I’m cornered, alone. Russell can’t follow me.

“I got you covered,” Russell reassures me. And he’s right—the shelving has enough open space that he can shoot anything before it gets to me. I tell myself that as I start to wriggle my way through the middle shelf. I stick my elbows onto the cold steel, then use my good arm to hoist my body in. My head pops through, and then it falls down to the ground. Russell guides my legs through and I’m in. I twist awkwardly on the ground and upset some of the crates, but none of them fall. Even still, it sounds like thunder to me and I look back to Russell, hoping his face doesn’t confirm what I fear. His eyes dart back and forth, from me to the hallway, and he nods because I’m okay—no one heard anything. I kneel down and start to push everything off the metal flooring but the boxes are too heavy. I tell Russell I might not be able to move them. Shove hard, he says, ignoring my desire to give up and squirm back to his side. I know I’m risking knocking the whole pile over, but I trust Russell. I dig my feet in and press my shoulder against the bottom crate, guiding the ones above with my outstretched left arm. Slowly, the stack moves. Then it stops again. It’s stuck on an edge—the metal on the floor has a raised lip, like a rim, and the boxes are stuck on its outside edge. I slip for a moment as the momentum slams to a halt, and my elbow falls down to break my fall. It touches the corner of the metal floor with a thump, and I pull back at a strange sensation. I touch my elbow where it hit the metal and look at Russell like he can read my mind. He looks back, confused, waiting for me to tell him what it is. Only I’m not sure what it is. Just that the metal was freezing cold, so much so that frost melted on my elbow, leaving it wet. Cold, I mouth to him. His lip drops for a moment, then his eyes open wide, like he’s figured something out. He doesn’t say what. Stay where you are, he tells me, then he starts to recklessly push boxes out of his way so he can escape the aisle and come around to me. Don’t, I whisper, but he’s already made up his mind.

I watch him get past the boxes without spilling one, barely making any sound at all, and he runs around the end of the aisle and down mine. He gets to the crates I’m squatting behind and together we move them off the metal flooring. It’s a door to something. There’s a latch that can be pulled up, and it doesn’t even look like it has a lock. But Russell sees what I felt, a thin layer of frost on the metal. And now I know what he’s thinking. It’s exactly what he reminded me about earlier. In my imagination I still see it—the frost on the glass window. Aboard the carrier. The lines of red tubes, the steady pump motor, the screams. It can’t be that, I say finally. Both of us have become distracted from the scuffle in the tarp behind us, even though it’s come back louder, closer. Gunshots blast and they seem like they might be coming from the very next room. But Russell is oblivious for the moment, and he doesn’t settle for my dismissal—he kneels down quickly and grips the latch and pulls up. At first nothing happens, like it’s sealed shut, but then with a groan it opens. A cloud of frost curls up from the exposed cellar, the frigid air below released toward our faces.

At first I can’t make out any shapes past the door—it all looks dark. There are no stairs leading down, just darkness and what I focus to see as reddish squares. They have a white plastic sheen. Russell drops the door before I can see better. Hey, I say, angered that he didn’t let me look. But he ignores me like he’s figured it all out in that three second glance. Quiet, he says, looking back out to the fray in the other room. What was in there? I whisper. But he gives me an angry stare, and I shut up and think the worst.

I can’t imagine that Dusty and his family would eat people. What had those plastic squares been? Dark and cold, buried in there—hidden. Russell says it as I’m thinking it—bodies, he says. Bodies in there. Can’t be, you didn’t even look, I say. I did, chopped. They’re chopped and wrapped. Frozen in blocks. But his sudden willingness to tell me what he thinks he’s seen stops when two bodies storm into our room. I peer out from between Russell and the boxes. I see Dusty’s dad and a face eater. They’re grappling right at the opposite end of the room. Get down! Russell yells, and he slaps away the top box, revealing us, but gaining a clear shot at the face eater. Dusty’s dad turns to see us for a split second, his own arms stiff and out, keeping the face eater away. Down! Russell shouts again. Dusty’s dad sinks to the ground, the face eater falling right on top of him. This one has no hair on its head, like it’s old, or it’s all fallen out for some other reason. It’s scalp is red and scraped. The thought of an old face eater crosses my mind just for a second, the idea that someone could live that way for that long, but I can’t grasp it because the pistol goes off right in front of me, deadening everything else. Russell fires three times. The last shot sends it rolling off Dusty’s dad and into the tarp wall. Dusty’s dad scurries away down our aisle. Russell sidesteps around him and fires again at the downed man.

Where’s Dusty? I ask as soon as I realize we’re safe again. I don’t know, he says. I saw him, he starts, but he can’t finish because Russell turns around and the gun is pointing at both of us. Down Tanner, says Russell. He’s got the gun trained on Dusty’s dad’s head. I duck and scream no. And I know the look on his face. He’s ready to kill.

“What’s down there?” Russell asks. What? replies Dusty’s dad. Under there, Russell clarifies, and he points with one hand. As he does this, I slide through the shelving again to the last aisle and run to the front of the room. Watch the hallway, Russell tells me. I look for a moment and see nothing there, and I hear nothing, and I come back to hear what Dusty’s dad says about the metal door.

“There’s no other way to survive,” Dusty’s dad says, catching on to the reason for Russell’s anger. Not out here in the West, he continues, hoping that’s logical enough for Russell to put the gun down. Russell’s face contorts, like he’s thinking up a reply, some kind of reason why it really isn’t necessary to eat people, like he’s always believed. But he doesn’t say a word. He just walks up to Dusty’s dad and whips the pistol across his face. A cry of pain fills the air and he goes down on all fours. Russell lifts his head up and says, Keys! Dusty’s dad doesn’t seem to understand because he’s dazed from the hit. Blood is running to the floor from his lip. Russell, don’t kill him! I shout, fearing his impatience. Then I hear someone coming toward us. I take a few steps to look who it is. I hear Russell again from behind me say, Boat keys! and finally the clinking of a set of keys. Then I recognize who it is that’s approaching. It’s the woman—Dusty’s dad’s girlfriend. She looks relieved to see me. Are you okay? she asks. Then she tells me there are more coming and we have to keep moving to get to the north tent. Where’s Dusty? I ask. She doesn’t know. But she hears her boyfriend shouting in the other room.

“Kelly!” Russell’s dad yells. Daniel, she calls back. She runs into the room and I chase after. Together we see Russell at the edge of the aisle holding Daniel with a gun to his head. What are you doing? Kelly yells, terrified. She doesn’t understand. Only I do. And I can’t stop it. Drop it, says Russell. I can’t see what he means, but he points the pistol away from Daniel and toward Kelly’s chest for just an instant. I get out of the way, dodging back into the hallway. Then I hear a gun blast and a body hit the floor. Russell! I scream. I run back in and almost trip over Kelly and the blood pooling out from under her body. She’s still alive, groaning, but she’s losing a lot of blood. And by her outstretched left hand is a pistol. Pick up the gun, Russell tells me. Then he starts walking with Daniel still wrapped in his arm, like a human shield, his own pistol pushed against Daniel’s head. As Russell is about to step around Kelly’s body, Daniel loses it. He spins free in a fit of rage. He turns on Russell and barrels into him, throwing him headlong into the edge of one of the shelves. Stop it! I yell. Words are useless now. I charge in and kick Daniel in his ribs, putting everything into it, but it does nothing to stop him. It’s like he’s gone mad because Russell’s killed his Kelly, and he’s immune to pain. All he wants is to kill Russell in revenge.

I drop to my knees so I won’t shoot into Russell, and I fire my gun point blank into the side of Daniel’s chest. He rolls off Russell. Get up, get up! I tell Russell. He rubs his head for a moment, no longer feeling the urgency he had just a moment ago. Then he snaps back, grabs his gun again, and stands up. Time to go, he says. We’re taking a boat? I ask. Yea, he tells me, leading me over the bodies and into the hallway. We pause to listen for noises. I can’t even look back, and I can’t think about Dusty anymore. The only thought that keeps coming through my head is did he know about the door? But I can’t bear to think through the possibility.

Russell leads us into another supply room. Keep an eye on that hallway, he directs me. Then he grabs a canvas sack off one of the shelf posts and starts throwing in everything he can get his hands on. Water, cans, unlabeled bottles, small boxes. He doesn’t even know what’s inside most of them. He’s trying to give us a chance on the open sea. Hundreds of miles under the rain. And then our time runs out, because a bunch of footsteps erupt all at once in the next room down. I step to the edge of the hallway and see that the footsteps aren’t more face eaters—they’re a group of tarpers. Most of them have rifles, and there’s Dusty in the pack. I tell Russell and then I slip back before he sees me, but it’s no use. He spotted me the moment I stepped into the open. The group goes left to the bodies and starts to talk loudly. But Dusty’s seen me, that I’m still alive, and he doesn’t turn with them. I know what the talk is, and that the rest of the group has seen the bodies. They’ll think it was the face eaters, says Russell behind me, as if he’s psychic and understands the garbled discussion coming from the other room. We’re okay. But he doesn’t know that Dusty saw me. And he’s coming up the hallway with a smile lighting up his face. Then as the last of the pack has turned to find Daniel and Kelly’s bodies, another form comes charging, even faster than Dusty, toward me. It’s Marvolo.

But before they can reach our room, Russell, as if sensing the presences coming, figuring things out, tugs on my arm. He hands me one of the canvas bags—he’s filled two—and tells me to carry it and run after him. I pause for a moment, because I know Marvolo and Dusty want to see me so badly. Dusty’s smile makes me think that the face eater attack is over. But Kelly said more were coming, so he must just be happy to see me—that I’m still alive. Russell shouts at me for lagging, Tanner! He slows to jerk me so hard I almost trip. I start to sprint after him and I don’t look back again. I can’t. It hurts too much to know what I’m leaving behind.

We break through the blur of blue tarps and out into the rain again. The brown mud surrounds us and I realize in just a moment that something’s still following us. It’s Marvolo. He saw us run and chased after. Now he thinks it’s a game as we move out into the rain and over the hills. Hey! someone calls from behind. It’s Dusty. Where are you going? he shouts. He’s still unaware, he hasn’t figured it out yet. I can’t do anything but turn my head halfway, just enough to see Voley. I yell at him, Go home boy! But he won’t. He keeps chasing after me like he has to protect me. The docks are this way, Russell says. And I figure it out because he already knows the way—he’s been cooking this escape up ever since he had the strength to sit up. He’s seen the same barge I have, and all the motorboats surrounding it. And now, he has keys from Daniel.

I fight off the question of whether or not Dusty will continue chasing after us. Soon, I catch up to Russell because it’s slow going over the wet hills and the dark makes it so that he’s not absolutely sure we’re going the right way. Then I recognize the giant hill I climbed earlier with Dusty. I know the way, I say. And I lead him on. Russell turns back and shoots at Marvolo. He misses on purpose, shooting to scare him so he’ll stay back and stop following us. Russell’s afraid Marvolo will give us away. And he will. He will lure Dusty. And I don’t want to know the truth about the bodies in the cellar, and I don’t want him to know the truth about Russell killing his dad. I just want to get off this rock now. As much as Russell does. We keep rushing and I think I hear footsteps racing along with Voley now. There’s a bark. We almost slide as we turn down the slope that heads all the way to the bay. The water opens up before us, a black and silent forever. We aim for a spit of rocky shoreline, to the barge and the motorboats.

Russell charges again with full speed, reaching the edge of the water. This way, he yells. I follow him out onto a piece of wooden planking that floats on the water. I look back because I know the wide hill and spread of land is behind me now, and I’ll see the truth. And there it is. Marvolo and Dusty are at the top of the hill and speeding down after us. Russell throws his canvas sack into one of the motorboats and hops aboard. I follow him. Dusty has to realize now what we’re doing, that we’re stealing a boat. I can’t take my eyes off them as they trace our path down to the bay. Russell starts trying every single key in his clanking loop, working frantically for one that fits. Come on, come on. Damn it, he says for the third time as the key he tries won’t turn.

I hear Dusty shouting at us but I can’t make out what he’s saying. It’s just him and Voley dashing together down the hill. No one else came with them. And then something startles me. At the top of the hill two forms appear. They’re following. Shit, they’re on to us, I tell Russell. They’re coming. Make it work. I’m trying, he says. But he can’t get a key to start the boat. And there are three figures now rushing down the hill behind Marvolo and Dusty, who are nearly halfway. They’re all coming because they know we killed Daniel and Kelly. But then something strikes me about the way the tarpers are running. I figure out what it is—they’re not running with Dusty and Voley toward us, they’re running at them. And the way they’re running. The crazed, wild stride. Face eaters! I scream to Russell. He’s totally in his own world now though, going through the last five keys on the loop, waiting for one that will turn the boat’s engine. I can’t wait for him to understand what’s happening. I lift my pistol and point into the rain, then jump off the boat and onto the plank. It wobbles for a moment. As soon as it steadies I run toward the hill to intercept Dusty and Marvolo, screaming, Behind you!

Russell turns to see what I’ve done and he shouts at me, No! Get back! It’s at the same time that I hear the motor of the boat roar to life. He found the right key. I can turn around and leave, but that would be the end for Dusty and Marvolo. Behind you! I yell again. Dusty’s smile slides off his face as he realizes what I’m saying. He turns around to see the three forms closing in on him. Voley bounds toward me, then turns around and starts barking. Keep moving! I yell at Dusty. I fire my gun and miss. I fire again and they’re still coming, faster, enraged by my attempt to shoot them. Get in the fucking boat! Russell yells from behind me.

Hurry, into the boat! I tell Dusty as he reaches me. And he thinks it’s just to escape the face eaters, and he doesn’t seem to understand that we’re leaving for good. I wonder if he even knows about his dad and his mom yet. I shoot one more time, the last chance I’ll have, and I hit one of the freaks. He slides along the mud, then slowly rises again. He limps forward. Together, we turn and run back toward the boat. Russell is standing at the wheel, the engine purring now, and he’s pointing his gun out into the brown slope. For a moment, I think he’s going to shoot Dusty down before he can climb onto the boat with me. But he fires and Dusty’s still alive and next to me. He’s shooting the face eaters. Then, he fires again and I hear a wet thump. I know he’s hit one of them. We reach the planks and jump into the boat. It rolls heavy to one side, almost dipping into the water. Voley jumps in after us. Russell kicks on the gas and a rush of white foam shoots out from the stern and pushes us into the rain sea. More dark figures crest the hill in the distance. A chorus of rifles fire. The remaining face eaters drop by the edge of the planks. It’s really the tarpers now. But they’re too late to get to us. We’re on the water now, speeding past the barge monstrosity, leaving its ugly fake hope, and the beauty of Blue City. I feel then for sure that I’ll never see the place again, and probably never again the fire and the warmth and the dry. Somehow, I know this was the last of it. The illusion of the veneer that this place had going. I look shamefully at Dusty as he asks me, What the hell’s going on? It’s like he really hasn’t figured it out yet. He watches Russell steer us straight out to sea, not along the coast. I see it set in on his face. He gets it. We’re not just running from the face eaters. We’re gone for good.

Russell slows the boat down, confident he hasn’t heard the sound of another motor boat pursuing us. What do you know? he asks. Dusty looks confused and Marvolo looks afraid of the swells that rock the dead motorboat. What do you mean? replies Dusty. I mean, what do you know about what’s going on? You asked what’s going on? Well—what do you know about it? Dusty looks like he’s still confused, and then Russell and I realize by the delay that he doesn’t know about his mom and dad. He has no idea. But the fact that we’re stealing a motor boat and leaving the tarp city has come to him now, and he says that. He asks us why we’re doing this.

“Because we’re going to Leadville. That’s where we’ve always been going. And you don’t have to become a face eater to survive, do you understand me?” But Dusty doesn’t, and I can’t decide if he’s playing dumb because he doesn’t want us to shoot him, or if he really has no idea about the body meat stored under the metal door. For a moment it crosses my mind that Russell wasn’t sure either what was under there, but then I remember what Daniel said. He practically admitted it. Said it was necessary for survival. That angered Russell so much because we’re the evidence that it isn’t necessary, but he didn’t say that. There had been no point then. You can’t change their minds once they’ve started, Russell says. They’ve grown used to an easier form of survival. Something more basic, and somehow, more barren. Stripped.

Dusty still acts like he has no idea why there would be any reason to leave Blue City. He starts to persuade us to go back. He says that it’s insane to try to go back east, toward Colorado. He explains about the current, and he looks at me pleadingly, like he loves me, and he doesn’t want to see me go. Like I have the power to alter all this. Then Russell tells him his options.

“You can still make it back to shore. I’ll let you off here. Go back if you want. Otherwise, you’re stuck until next land.”

I look at Marvolo. He looks terrified. Whining. I wonder for a moment if Marvolo would be able to swim back that far. I look to the mountain that rises out of the sea behind us. I think about how cold it is in the water. The rain is freezing, but the sea is much colder. I look at Russell and think about how glad I am he’s recovered his strength, but how scared I am now that I’ve lent out some of my heart to these two. He’d warned me not to ever lend out my heart, not while the veneer’s stripped. If you do that, you’ll slip and fall. And you may never get up, he’d said. But I screwed it all up already because I feel that part of my heart is in them now. I care about what happens to them now. I have no choice about it anymore. But I can’t make the choice for them. I watch Dusty’s face. He’s working through the option. Then he finally says, I can’t leave my dad behind.

Off, Russell orders. Dusty looks at me and I think he’s crying. Or it’s the rain. He takes off his shirt and his pants and jumps into the rain sea. The water splashes back at me. I think about how he’s risking his life to see his dad but his dad’s dead. Then Marvolo, as scared as he is, wants to protect Dusty so much that he jumps right in after him. I watch them start to swim. Voley paddles right beside him, working through the freezing brown, back toward the distant barge. Russell doesn’t watch. He turns away and steps on the gas. The propeller blasts them with foam.

I watch them swim, unable to look away. It looks like they’re going to make it back just fine. Their movement is steady. But my heart is ripping in two. I feel like I should have listened to Russell, and never dared to latch on to a piece of the veneer when I knew there was none. And then I think I see Voley’s head going under the water, like he’s struggling to stay afloat. His paws can’t keep up. It’s too cold. And I’m sure it’s happening because Dusty turns to start swimming toward him. They get smaller. They’re wrapped up together now, one mess of struggle, splashing, only halfway back to the shore. Then they start to go under. They come back up. They’re drowning together.

Russell hears me start to cry. I make it extra loud. He asks me what’s wrong. I know it’s the wrong thing to do, but I cry harder. I put every ounce of my energy into my tears, make them as loud as I can. It’s some kind of instinct that has been suppressed forever. You can’t leave them, I sob. They’re going to die.

He doesn’t reply. And I know how much Russell loves me because I feel the boat start to turn. He’s figured it out, that I’ve become attached to them, broken his rule, lent out my heart, but he’s forgiven me already. He heads the boat in a straight line for the two struggling bodies, desperately rising for breath. He guns it. We can drop them off on a farther shore, I tell him, trying to make him feel okay with his decision, one that I know must toss his own gut. But he still won’t say anything. And I wonder if somehow he understands what I’m feeling. We pull up and stop fast, splashing them both with a wave. We reach our arms over the rail and haul them out of the water and back into the rain. Soaked and alive.

“You’re not going back, kid,” Russell tells Dusty. Then he just points the boat back out toward the dark, cloudy sky. Dusty can’t say anything because he’s fighting for air, and Marvolo recovers long before Dusty is able to talk again. I look at him, his dark eyes, bluish skin, and pull him close to me to warm him up, not even nervous that Russell will see. I tell him it’s okay. He’s safe now. His body feels like ice, so I open my shirt and bring him up against my own body. Voley is running around the boat in circles, rolling his fur into the floor and then shaking, trying to get the excess wet off, even though the rain just keeps putting it back on him. Fear eclipses my joy—none of us have our plastic suits. And the rain is coming down colder than it has in days. And we don’t really know if we’re going the right way.

But Russell’s alive again. And we’re still with each other. And the boat has a rubber tarp and oars for when the gas runs dry. And we have two canvas sacks of food. And two guns. And a boy and his dog.

Looking at Dusty, his breathing finally slowing down again, I can’t help but feel okay. A sweeping calm that doesn’t make sense given our surroundings. Like somehow, everything is going to work out in the end. As if Leadville does exist, and this is all meant to be. Russell would kill me if I say my thoughts out loud, so I don’t. I keep them all to myself. Maybe it’s the delirium from everything that happened on that island, but I don’t care. Voley gives me a bunch of kisses, like he was never scared that he was going to die, and I lie down next to Dusty for a moment. As soon as I do, Russell calls me. Get up here, he says. Something’s not right. I can tell from his voice.

He doesn’t have to explain. I look ahead the same as him at the horizon. It’s much darker than it should be, even at night. Normally the night sky is dull black, as if the bars of clouds can’t completely conceal the stars that I’m told are shining behind them. But the sky ahead of us is perfect black. It’s not even a bit gray. And what’s worse is the flash that I see the next moment. It lights up a thunderhead that looks as wide across as the sky itself. Russell says we’re going to turn to avoid it. But I’m hyperaware of the swells already. I feel the boat rock more than it should, not having noticed it until now. Looks like a strong gale, he says. I feel queasy, like I might throw up over the rail before I even feel any real waves. We’ll be okay, Russell says, knowing my fear of bad weather. But I don’t see how we’ll turn to avoid it. Another flash lights up the distant dome of blackness, and for a moment, the clouds are all blue and white, and they’ve funneled down to the dead sea below them. Only the sea isn’t dead out there, I know. It’s foaming, ripping in every direction. Swells as tall as houses—taller. I think about the Sea Queen again even though I know that’s a downward spiral pattern of thought.

The Cap’n had drowned with a giant crashing wave. Russell said those are the ones that spill over because of a confused sea. Rogues. I saw him go sliding down the ship. We’d rolled so hard to the side that I had hopped up on a bulkhead and I could stand upright on its side. We were helpless to do anything. One minute he was rattling off orders, and the next, his head slid into the rail and he went limp. And then it was like he was all soaped up, the way he slid up and over the edge, right into the white teeth of the wave. Russell held me so I didn’t go over too. She righted herself one last time and we made it off. It was that simple. A chance escape. Most lost their lives. And I’d sworn that I would never see a rough ocean again.

I try to take my mind off the storm by turning back to Dusty. Then back to the storm. Russell’s turning the boat and I feel us roll just a little bit as we make a new line through the water. The storm is shifting to our right at last as I look away and back to Dusty on the floor. He’s soaked, still in just his underwear, because he left the rest of his clothes on the boat so he’d have a better chance to swim ashore. His eyes are open and he’s looking up at me like I owe him an explanation. I know I can’t give him one. Voley comes over and gives Dusty a kiss, then another, right on his mouth, like he’s urging him to get up. Then a clap of distant thunder hits our ears. And it’s my face that needs an explanation now: How the hell are we going to get by this thing? I look away from Dusty and to the storm cloud again, only ten seconds after I told myself I wouldn’t look again. The immensity of it unnerves me but it’s magnetic. Russell turns his head to see how we’re doing. You better get your clothes on, he calls back to Dusty. There’s a pump. Start pumping.

I see the pump and I’m almost glad to be pumping again because I don’t need to use a bucket. The rain is pooling slowly in the center of the boat. Dusty stands up and starts to put his heavy clothes back on. I walk over to the pump, eyes off the horizon, and start to drive the water out of the boat. I feel Dusty’s presence hovering over my back.

What’s going on? he asks me loud enough that Russell hears it. Russell doesn’t reply. He knows I can handle it. He knows I’m not to tell the truth about his parents. We don’t know how he’ll react, if he’ll go crazy and try to take the boat from us. I remember he doesn’t have his rifle, and we both have pistols. He’s outgunned. It’s unlikely he could do anything. But I still won’t tell him. I don’t even say anything because I know that there’s nothing to say that won’t just lead to more questions. I just keep working the pump, and the water drops fast. The tarp is latched to a center pole coming out of the boat so most of the rain is sliding off into the sea. Much better than our canoe. We just might make Leadville in this thing. As long as I don’t look to my right.

“Hey,” Dusty says again, angry I’m not giving him anything. He repeats his question. I look at his chest instead of his face. I tell him what Russell would tell him: we’re heading to Colorado. And that we’re going where there’s a city above the waterline. So you stole our boat to do it? he yells. The anger’s rising now, and I glance over to Russell. His head is slightly cocked, like he’s paying attention even while he’s steering the boat. Just in case I need him. In case Dusty loses control. Voley comes into the center of the boat under the tarp where I’ve rid most of the water that was there. I look at Dusty’s dripping clothes, and I realize all of our clothes look that way. None of us have a plastic suit. That was the one thing we forgot in our getaway. Exposure. Wet skin. The centimeter of tarp over the boat, pointed up at the dead sky, is the only thing that protects us. Russell is exposed in the driver’s seat. But right now he doesn’t care, because the thunder claps are coming regularly. They’re not getting louder, and I thank Poseidon for that, but I think they’re coming at shorter intervals.

Dusty looks at Russell now, realizing I won’t help him. And you? he asks Russell. Can’t you tell me what the hell you did this for? He’s more upset now than angry. Hurt. It’s like Russell said. He did expect something in return for his kindness. Always something, Russell says. No one does something for nothing anymore. He expected our kindness in return. I see all the hope he had about leaving in that piece of shit barge burning up in flames. All the grand dreams he had about living somewhere better with his family. With his dad. All of it blowing up in his mind. The island behind us is just about out of sight. He’ll never see it again and he’s feeling it hard.

Russell turns to Dusty and says very calmly, Relax kid. There’s a storm coming and I’m trying to keep us from capsizing. Then he says no more. He’s at ease. Confident we won’t sink. I try to let that feeling spill into me. Borrow some of it. But then it’s gone. I can only feel the rise and fall, hear the thunder. And I’m caught somewhere between fear and anxiety. The boat rocks to its side a little as we hit a swell. It seems higher than the ones we’ve been hitting. Then another. Definitely higher. I look out and see the ocean moving like a collection of tiny hills that are pushing toward us. All of them taking aim. I’m happy there’s no white—no foam—nothing that’s breaking.

“Take me back,” Dusty demands helplessly. Neither of us pretend to pay attention to him. He says it again, stern this time, like he means there will be consequences if we don’t obey. What do you intend to do about it, boy? says Russell. He turns around this time and points his pistol at him. Dusty bites his lip and stares at Russell, through the beating rain, and the rising seas in front of the boat, and the endless gray before us. Then he concedes and sits down under the tarp. Voley comes over to him and they sit together. Russell turns back to the wheel. We move up and then twenty seconds later we go down again. Thunder claps. I sit under the tarp across from Dusty.

“We didn’t mean for you to come,” I say. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m weak. And it’s no comfort at all anyway, he doesn’t even acknowledge me. I wonder if the feeling we had is gone now, just an illusion, just like Russell had warned. Don’t go chasing the veneer where there isn’t any, he’s told me countless times. I’d done it though, it had been a force beyond my control, a spell that pulled me into Dusty’s body and wouldn’t let me go once I’d touched it. It had come before I’d touched him. When I’d first seen him there with his rifle on the hill, looking down at our tent. But now there was no feeling. Just the cold and a driving wind that cuts through the tarp strings and starts to scream, a gust that reminds me about what’s on our right.

Dusty lies down on the seat, puts his hands over his head. He doesn’t seem to care one way or the other about the storm. Like he isn’t one bit frightened of it. He looks like he’s just going to sleep. There with Voley right beside him. Every few minutes Voley whines with the rocking boat, or the clapping thunder, or the beating rain that flies sideways under our protection. The spray of metal salt. The endless canvas brown, now its own mountain, blasting us.

I’m jealous of him. His ability to block everything out—the terrible sea and the wind and the water. Russell does it too. But I know why Dusty can. He’s battling something else entirely. And then Russell comes from the steering wheel and asks me to relieve him. He says he needs to sit down out of the rain for a minute. I tell him that’s a good idea without a suit on. You’re just getting better, I say. I feel guilty I didn’t ask sooner. He nods and sits down. Then he tells me to keep her heading the way she is, and keep the storm on the right of us. I head out into the rain. I’ll have to look.

I open my mouth to the cold water and let it run into my throat. I’ve forgotten how hungry I am. The boat is cruising up and down the swells but they don’t seem to be getting any bigger, and the thunder isn’t getting any louder. I’m even staring at the sky monster now, and the storm is as big as ever, covering the whole sky, but it’s way out there on our right. A lot of miles between the center mass and our small tub. And we’re passing it. I truly believe we are. I look to the edge of the tarp and see the two sacks of canvas. I walk over and grab one and come back to the steering wheel. Russell and Dusty both look like they’re sleeping. Voley is not. His tongue is hanging out and he’s staring out at the rollers that are lifting our boat. He doesn’t seem so nervous anymore about the weather, just terribly interested in it. He’s curious.

I rummage through the bag for something I can shove right into my mouth. I find a plastic tube of crackers and open it. In about five minutes I eat them all. I hear something behind me, and I become alarmed, thinking maybe Dusty woke up and he’s going to try something. But he just appears out of nowhere right next to me, and sits down in the passenger’s seat.

“Did you plan it all along?” he asks me. I look at him. Then I look back at Russell. I really want to open up to him but I know I can’t. Russell looks like he’s passed out, his head against the rail. The swells seem to be dying off a little bit. The fear of dying in a rogue wave has started to recede, enough so that I take my eyes off the wheel and look at Dusty. His big dark eyes are staring right into me. I knew they would be. The only thing we had planned was going to Leadville. Nothing else. It was planned a long time before Blue City too, I tell him.

So you’ll steal whatever you need to get there? he fires back. We’ll do what we have to do. And we have our reasons why. Do you know what the veneer is? I ask him. He looks at me dumbly. I tell him it’s what he’s still trapped in, and he’d better realize it’s gone, and sooner than later. But that does nothing to clear up his confusion. He’s still trying to find reasons. But I won’t tell him we killed his parents because they’re cannibals, and I won’t confront him about what he’s eaten himself. I decide he was probably fed people all along and never knew it anyway. That’s what I tell myself anyway because he can stay innocent that way. And I can’t bring myself to ask. I’m not answering his questions honestly, so I don’t expect he’d answer mine that way.

We were going to go away on the barge, all of us together, he says. He says it to himself. Didn’t you feel like I felt? he asks. I don’t respond, but check that my pistol is still at my side. It is. And I think about what I felt, and how real it was for me. But I can’t tell him a word of it. Not when my attention is on the swells. I look at the gas gauge. The needle is still near full even though we’ve been on the water for a while. So do you have any idea where we’re going? he asks me. I tell him away from the storm. That’s all he’s getting from me. I feel too mixed up inside to tell him anything more than I already have. He’s asking dumb questions. He seems to get the point and he retreats back to the tarp. All I can think about is whether or not he’ll try something, try to kill us or throw us overboard and steal the boat back and go back home. I know I would if I was him.

Russell! I yell. It’s been long enough, and I feel like we’re past the worst edge of the storm. The thunder is barely audible any more. He slowly comes to life and relieves me again. You okay? I ask as he gets to the wheel. Yea, he grunts. Then I head back to cover under the tarp. He tells me we’ll rotate, and first chance we get, we’ll raise the sails. Conserve gas. I tell him okay, then I toss him the canvas bag so he can get something to eat. He starts to look through it when I get under the center of the boat again. I work the pump for ten minutes so the floor is drained again, and then I lie down sidelong on one of the seats. Dusty is across from me, his eyes closed. Voley is up on the seat with him, somehow bundled up in a ball small enough so that they both fit. I wonder if he’s thinking about me, dreaming about me. Or if he’s plotting to kill me. I close my eyes and slip into a dream, confident we’ll make it through the night.

It’s still the middle of the night when I wake up. The first thing I see is the empty seat across from me. Dusty’s gone, and so is Voley. Slowly I come to, rubbing my eyes. I get the weird feeling that Russell has let me sleep for too long. I look to the wheel and the first thing I notice is the tarp. Russell must have extended it somehow because less of it is covering the center, but the driver’s seat is partially covered by a sliver of it. And the sails are raised. I don’t even hear the motor. I realize just how quiet it is out here on the open brown sea. Just the old rain. And we aren’t rocking anymore. I sit upright and my feet go into the water in the center of the boat. Going to have to pump again. I look back to the front of the boat because something isn’t right—there’s Dusty standing up behind Russell. Then I realize what’s happening. Dusty’s got one of our guns. His arm is outstretched and pointed at the back of Russell’s head.

No! I shout instinctively, and then I lunge forward. Voley, hanging near the stern, sees me jolt and follows me to the front with excitement, sloshing water as he follows. Then it’s like Russell wakes up, as if he’d fallen asleep at the wheel, and he turns to see the gun in his face. Dusty doesn’t react, but he’s shaking. Like he can’t decide whether or not to pull the trigger. Don’t do it! I yell as I almost reach him, heading to dive into him and throw him to the ground. Over the rail. Anything to stop him. Take me home, Dusty says limply, still shaking. But he can’t ever fire the gun because Russell slams him one deep in his gut. Then Russell gets up and slaps the gun out of his hand. I stop before I reach them to watch. The space at the wheel is too cramped. The gun clanks loudly and skids across the rain on the floor of the boat. Russell bends to pick it up and then he shoves Dusty back. Dusty’s so off-balance from the first gut punch that he rocks backward and right over the rail into the water. Water splashes me. Voley bounds up on top of the passenger seat and puts his paws on the edge of the rail, whining and watching Dusty drift past us. He starts flailing. Ice daggers stabbing him in that freezing water.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know whether or not I should keep trying to save him now. He was about to shoot Russell. And it hurts because some part of me understands why, and thinks I’d be doing the same thing if the circumstances were reversed. But the words don’t come out of my mouth one way or the other. Part of me wants to watch him die. I go to Voley and tug him backwards so he doesn’t spill in too.

“Son of a bitch,” Russell says. Then he scares me, not because of how angered he is at Dusty’s attempt, but because he can barely get the words out before he coughs loudly. Then it’s like a chain reaction and he’s in another coughing fit. He can’t stop. Finally he calms down after I walk up to him. I see Dusty behind the boat now, and I hear him calling for help. He’s slipping out of sight and I know he’s freezing to death. Are you okay? I ask Russell. I hope that we accidentally threw more antibiotics in the canvas bags we stole. What are the chances though that Russell packed them? He’d never throw them in. But maybe he would, for me he would. How long does a course of antibiotics need to go for? I ask him. He tells me he’s fine and not to worry about it. Five days or something, isn’t it? I ask, knowing we were only in Blue City for a couple days. And there’s no way he completed all the medicine he was supposed to.

I start to think about him getting sick again, and even though our motor boat is a little bit more seaworthy, I don’t care for the thought of bailing alone, getting caught in high seas alone. Are you sure you’re okay? I urgently ask him. It’s not like him to fall asleep at the wheel—not when he’s okay again. It only makes sense if he’s still sick. He tells me he’s fine, and from his confident tone I decide whether or not to plea for Dusty’s life. But it’s not me who turns the boat around. I don’t even prompt it. Russell just sits down in the driver’s seat and does it all himself. Like he knows something and he’s not telling me. The boat glides in a wide arc, riding a few gentle humps, repelling the rain with her roof and sails, moving under soft wind, and Dusty’s calls for help suddenly grow louder again. He sees that we’re returning and he tries to swim toward us.

Part of me wants to ask him why, but I don’t because I’m scared it has to do with him lying about his health. Maybe he thinks I’ll need Dusty. The thought of losing Russell passes through me, like it did before when he was very sick, and I tremble. Then I think that maybe it’s some part of the veneer—to prevent unnecessary loss of life. Russell said once that humanity learned over time to harm less and less. It still did it, harmed all kinds of things. Groups of people, animals, the environment. But there was a momentum, an evolution. Empathy, he’d called it. And we were somewhere on the arc of that evolution, working all the time to increase our empathy. He had told me that the ancients used to watch humans get eaten alive and fight to death in arenas, all real and live and everything. After a long time, humanity learned it was less harmful to do the same thing through movies. Moving pictures. And people learned that the harm could be less harmful, but humanity wasn’t past needing it. Intimacy with violence.

Of course all of that was before the rain. And who’s to say if the evolution would ever start up again? The idea of not creating harm, being as least harmful as possible. In fact, that increasing empathy was a luxury of the veneer, he’d said. Without it, there’s nothing but survival of the fittest. The same as the hawks and the deer. But as I remember this all, he’s turning the boat around. And something about it makes me think Russell is clinging to more of the veneer than he lets on. Because we pull up to Dusty, and it’s Russell whose hands extend, haul him out of a watery grave. Dusty just lies on the floor of the boat, stunned that he’s alive, and that the man he planned to kill saved him.

I help Dusty get under the center of the boat. Marvolo comes over. I pump the water dry and let him recuperate for a minute. Russell is back at the wheel and I hear him coughing again. He hasn’t said a word since picking his assassin out of the water. The sky is changing a little bit, and I can’t help but feel like this long darkness might be lifted before long. Smear sunrise. The thought of another surprise land sighting crosses my mind. A place like the one we just left, except where they won’t resort to eating people to survive. Wishful thinking. Like believing in whales.

Are you okay? I finally ask Dusty. He says yea, he’s fine. Russell tells me he needs me to take over so he can get some sleep. He walks over, stepping right over Dusty’s stretched out body.

“You know how to work the primer stove?” asks Russell. I realize he’s talking to Dusty. Dusty is as startled as me to realize it. We’ve all forgotten how cold we are, completely numb and nearing frostbite. The thought that we have a stove floors me and Russell pulls out the equipment from one of the canvas bags. There’s a canister of fuel and more in the boat, he says. Dusty finally sits up and says yea, he can work it. And he gets to work. I walk up to keep the boat in line.

“Which way are we headed?” I yell back to Russell, wondering if he really knows without any landmarks. See the sunset? he calls back to me. Yea, I tell him. It’s starting to lighten a few bands of the gray. Keep it on our back. Just a little to your left, but mostly on our back. All the way to Colorado. A straight line. The Rockies, you hear me Tan? he says. It’s like some new spirit of life has come into Russell. He sounds happy about Leadville for the first time in a week. It’s the old familiar hope. The belief. A city above the waterline. And we’ve traded a broken canoe for a motor boat with sails. And a tarp. A stove. Food. And there’s three of us. Four I mean.

There’ll be a fire for you when your shift’s up, Russell tells me. I steer us in a line, and it feels like the wind is hitting just right. I wonder how far we are from Leadville, what our speed is. Somewhere there’s an invisible number counting down. The rain is glancing away from me, off the narrow band of tarp Russell’s draped above the driver’s seat. I glance back and see the glow of the primer stove. It’s right in the center of the boat. And a nylon blanket has found its way across from one rail of the boat to the other. The sides drape down and I realize they’ve build a fort. A fort of warmth. And I’m out here freezing. I want to end my shift right now. It’s not fair. But Russell needs the sleep. I wonder if we could trust Dusty enough to take a turn at the wheel. That would end my shift right now. I steer us on in a line, keeping the smear of the sun in the proper place at our backs, happy that the skies are as clear as they’ll ever be. No more signs of the storm.

After I’m ready to ask for relief myself, because my fingers are starting to freeze in place, Dusty emerges from the blanket. He walks up to me and tells me to go get warm. You know which direction to steer? I say. He nods and I get up. I head off to the makeshift tent, watching with great anticipation the line of smoke rising from its center, the sign of burning fuel, heat, and life.

Chapter 11

I pull the pull the flap of blanket aside to enter the little hut at the center of the boat. Immediately a rush of warmth hits me. With the roof overhead, the floor is almost empty of water. Marvolo is curled up right in front of the primer stove, his eyes closed, dead asleep. Exhausted or just cozy, I can’t tell. And Russell is lying near him, his own eyes closed. I look him over once and then find my spot on the opposite side. He’s not really asleep though, because he asks me a question as soon as I lie down. You think he’s going to turn us around? he asks. I listen to the beating rain hit the roof over our heads. I think about his question because it hadn’t occurred to me until now. I almost want to check that we have the guns safely away, because he could try to kill us both this time while we sleep. But something about how Russell asks me, his voice, makes it seem like it wasn’t a real question. Like it was almost a joke. And that Dusty would never think of it somehow, despite what he tried to do just a little bit ago. I don’t think so, I say. It must be the answer Russell wanted because he doesn’t say anything more. We lie in silence and my body melts with the warmth of the primer stove. I keep my hands right on it for about five minutes, moving my fingers back and forth. Then I give my feet a turn. Everything is coming back to life.

I turn onto my back and look up at the blanket above, the tiny hole where rain is dripping in and the primer stove smoke is escaping up. I see lines of rain running down the sides of the roof, little veins of light and dark, reminding me that it’s daytime again because I can see them. The boat rocks a little bit, up then down, and the swells are so gentle now that they’re rocking me to sleep instead of terrifying me. Something about having Dusty out there guiding us makes me feel safe. I don’t want to say anything about that to Russell, because I know he must at least feel the same way. He saved him, after all, when Dusty had tried to kill him. And he’d sent him out to steer instead of getting me. For a moment I wonder if it was out of pity he’d done all this, but I remember that he says pity is gone. It’s a relic. You can’t feel sorry for people or you’ll get yourself killed. Not anymore, not anymore can you pity the bad guys. That message has been pretty clear ever since leaving the Sea Queen Marie. Don’t have feelings for anyone. Feelings are liabilities. Worthless as they concern survival. Yet my mind wrestles against some of Russell’s truths, like it always has. I’ve always felt feelings for Russell. And they seem to drive me on, especially since he’s been weak. They’ve actually helped me act stronger. And so my mind plays with the idea of feelings being important to survival, and maybe I still do have feelings for Dusty too. Even after what he tried to do. And I know I have feelings for Marvolo, I can’t even pretend I don’t. But still, I understand Russell’s attitude about feelings—if we started getting too attached to people, even on the Sea Queen, we would have done more to help others when it couldn’t have been done. We’d have gotten ourselves killed twenty times over since Indianapolis doing that. And finally, as I drift off at last into needed sleep, I think that maybe it’s not so bad to be out and moving on the canvas brown again. It feels like we’re back on track on some level. Even though it was beautiful in Blue City, it was an illusion. A mirage of the veneer, not the actual thing. We’d seen the proof with our own eyes.

“Hey,” says a voice from some kind of heated womb. It comes again and again, trying to raise me from my peacefulness. Back into some harsh reality. I open my eyes and there’s Dusty. He’s sitting up under the blanket across from me. I’m awake again. We’re under the blanket together. The stove’s still going. It’s still light out above the roof. How long have I been sleeping? I ask. A couple hours. Russell took over again. Says he’ll come to get you in a few more. You can go back to sleep. I wonder why he woke me up then, just to tell me I can go back to sleep? But I can tell from his face he wants say more.

“What is it?” I ask, purposely trying to keep my voice empty of emotion. Voley is gone I realize. He must have crept out into the rain to take in the sea from the edge of the rail again. I almost want to poke my head out to see that Dusty isn’t lying, that Russell really is out there steering us still, that Voley is with us still.

Dusty takes a long time to say something, and when he does, it doesn’t mean much. Can’t get back, you know? he says. I almost sympathize with him. He just wants to see his dad again. He’s probably known that place for a long time. It’s his home. They moved from Salt Lake City, but he hasn’t moved nearly as much as Russell and me. At least I don’t think he has. He has a concept of home in the first place. I feel my sympathy slip away. I’ve never had that. Russell and I are each others’ moving homes. I remember he pointed the gun at Russell’s head and I can’t say anything.

He moves closer to the primer stove, but he gets closer to me too. I know it’s intentional, but he doesn’t act that way. I want to ask him what he’s doing. What he’s trying to pull now. Then he just pushes right into me. His legs are right against mine. A flash of electricity runs through my body, and I’m wide alert. And then alarmed. I think about Russell right outside. And whether or not he can make out our silhouettes. And if he’s checking at all. I almost draw back, intentionally move away from his touch, but I can’t. I can’t bring myself to. He finally starts to answer my question. He looks into my eyes and I have to look away because I’m afraid my anger at him will melt away instantly. I have to keep my feelings dead. Forget what happened between us on the hill, in the shower. It was all a slip, and it almost cost us our lives. I sit up, moving my legs off of his.

It’s—I know you’re not telling me something. You won’t tell me something, he says. He’s fishing for information that I can’t provide. Maybe if we reach land again, or maybe not until Leadville. But on the sea, I know it’s too unpredictable. If he knows the truth, he’ll get too upset. I almost follow through on a kneejerk reaction to ask him if he eats people. If that’s okay to him the way the tarpers do it—frozen in small pieces, so you can’t tell what it really is. Does the change in appearance somehow make it okay? But I don’t ask him anything. I tell him he knows everything there is to know. And that I need to get some more sleep because it’s probably over four hundred miles to Leadville. I pull that number out of my ass.

He gets the hint and moves back to the other side of the primer stove. I hear a rustling, then see a bulge press against the edge of the blanket wall. It’s a nose. Voley wants to come in. Dusty opens the blanket and lets him in. He comes over to me for some reason instead of Dusty and circles around and then drops down right on top of my arm. I holler in pain and bolt up. There’s nothing covering the stitches now. And the skin is bright pink all around the bullet hole. A bit of blood is still seeping out. Are you okay? asks Dusty. He looks really concerned, but it’s hard to care because the pain’s shooting. I hear Russell walking across the boat floor fast. The flap opens again and it’s him. He asks, What’s going on? Voley sat on my arm, I tell him. His face is washed in relief and he leaves for the wheel. Get sleep. You’re up soon, he says as he heads back to the wheel.

Voley moves away, sad that he hurt me. He finds a spot by Dusty and lies down. Can you tell me what Leadville is like? asks Dusty after a minute of silence. I almost thought he’d gone back to sleep. Sure, I tell him. It’s a whole city. But a normal city, working just like they used to work. Before the rain. The highest elevation in America. And they have electricity still. Hot water just like you had. But everything else you’d ever want too. And there’s something more about it but I’m not sure if I buy it.

What? asks Dusty. I can tell he’s curious now. It’s a distraction for him. It’s like he has to believe in Leadville because what’s happened to him is so awful that he can’t not have hope for something. I tell him the bit that Russell tells about it not raining there. Dusty laughs. It’s the only thing he doesn’t seem to be able to hope for. You don’t buy it either? I say. It’s raining everywhere, he says. Maybe in Europe, or China, or Australia, it’s not raining. But in America, it’s raining everywhere. We got hit the hardest.

Hit? I ask. He tells me this whole story about a comet, and how it came too close, and dumped all this ice that turned into rain. I say I’ve heard that one before with a snicker. So what do you think it is? he shoots back at me, upset I’m taunting his idea. Easy, I say. Solar flare. It moved the axis of the earth. Now the Pacific is evaporating and flying up into the sky like a great big vacuum. And it gets slung across the sky and dumped on the land here. Dusty laughs again. It’s the first time he’s heard Russell’s favorite theory. And it just confirms for me a gut feeling that I’ve had my whole life—that believing you know the real reason behind the rain is like believing in hokey pokey religion stories about angels and gods and prophets and devils. Because the truth is that no one knows. And everyone has a theory. But what it all boils down to is eating, staying warm, and staying dry. The rest is an afterthought. I tell Dusty this, hoping it’s as profound for him as it is for me, since Russell has pounded it into my head for as long as I can remember. The impact isn’t quite the same though. Dusty just nods a little bit and acts like he understands, but I don’t think he gets it. Then Russell shouts “boats!” He shouts it again, and Dusty and I run out to see. We rush into the rain and there are seven dots. They’re all boats, and they’re moving toward us.

I edge under the tarp, right against Russell, and Dusty is left in the rain watching the horizon. All of us look at the tiny fleet moving over the brown sea toward us. Are they face eaters? I ask. Dusty says they can’t be, since they’re coming from the east. Doesn’t matter, Russell says. We came from the east. They dogged us all the way to your tarp town.

None of us say anything and we just wait. Marvolo lets out a bark because none of us are doing anything. Shut him up, Russell says. Dusty gets down on his knees and tries to lead Voley back under the canopy with the primer stove but he’s not having it. They both return to the bow. Gun? Russell asks me. I tell him yea, it’s under the seat compartment so it won’t get any more wet than it already is. He tells me I’d better go get it. I run off and leave them, duck under the blanket, feel for a moment a wind of warm air, lift the door under the bench seat, grab the pistol and return. They’re talking when I get back. Trying to plan out what to do.

If it is face eaters, there’re too many of them, Dusty says anxiously. I don’t even have a gun. Those aren’t motor boats, Russell says. They look like whale boats. No engines. Why aren’t the sails up? I ask. They’re heading into the wind, says Dusty. But something strange is going on out there on the foggy sea. And we all seem to feel it together. Russell finally says it out loud.

“This isn’t right,” he says. He explains that we’re close enough now that we should be able to see something, someone, standing on the decks, moving, even sitting. But there’s nobody. No one moving. No one steering. No oars hitting the water. It’s like the seven boats are ghost ships. But I don’t say that. I just crowd in under the sliver of tarp and start to shiver, no longer used to the permanent cold because I’ve been spoiled for hours by the primer stove. Russell wraps his arm around me and draws me into his chest. We need to move away from them, says Dusty. The boats are getting close, and with the direction we’re going, we’ll run right by the southern edge of the group. But Russell doesn’t listen to Dusty’s idea. Dusty starts to fidget, used to having way more control than he has over our boat. Russell, he says. Russell tells him he’d better be quiet, because they could all be sleeping. And if they wake up, and they have guns, we’re dead. And if they’re face eaters, it’s worse than dead. We’re eaten alive. He cuts off the engine and we’re drifting now. Then turn us away, Dusty whispers. This time Russell doesn’t reply at all. There’s a cold steel silence. The only thing breaking it is the rain pattering the swells, so constant that it’s almost as if there’s no sound at all. And I know now that Russell plans for us to just slip past all seven. Because somehow, he’s convinced they’re no threat to us. But I get the feeling something went terribly wrong on those boats.

We glide slowly up a swell, then down. The two closest boats of the seven come right alongside us. I feel a jolt of fear strike through my body as Russell turns the engine back on. He does this so he can drive us right up to the nearest boat. I get my gun up in the air, despite the nagging pain in my arm. Russell has his half-raised, almost like he thinks it’s pointless to keep it at the ready because he’s already convinced there’s no one there.

Then he suddenly climbs the rail without warning us and jumps into the boat. It’s a long wooden whale boat with three long benches and two oars. I lean over the rail and look in. There really is no one on board. From the boat he’s in, Russell can see the next one. All empty, he calls back. Then he starts scouring the floor of the boat for supplies. Anything of use. The oars are better than ours. Catch, he says, and he throws one at me. I grab it midair and set it down, then repeat for the second. It’s good wood, he says. Dusty comes under the tarp sliver with me, Voley pushing through our feet to get a glimpse. Russell starts to paddle himself from one whale boat to the next. He calls out for us to bring her around. I sit down in the driver’s seat and steer.

“What happened to them?” asks Dusty. He’s no longer frightened. He’s mystified. He hasn’t been on the road as much as Russell and me. Not nearly as much. Things still surprise him. I’ve seen mile-long bodyjams and schools of empty boats. I don’t really care what happened to them. But I know something probably killed them, so that’s what I tell Dusty. He seems more alarmed, like he’s completely out of his element on the sea. He can’t take the mystery of it. How much have you traveled? I ask him. He tells me he’s been around Salt Lake City. Grandview Peak and then to King Mountain. And I know for sure now that he hasn’t seen anything. I pull up alongside Russell and he gets back in with a plastic duffel bag and a gun. It looks like an automatic rifle. Don’t know if it’ll still work, he says. Then he tells me to steer us around to the other five boats. He wants to check each one, get whatever’s left in them. Dusty can’t help but ask Russell now. He asks what happened to the people that were on these boats. I pull up to the third boat, rocking it away from us by pulling in too fast. Russell turns to look at Dusty, maybe just to make sure he’s serious. He sees Dusty is serious. All he says is that they’re somewhere, dead or alive he doesn’t care, but that they’re not here on their boats. And he jumps onto the next whale boat to look for anything more we can take. We go through every boat and get another bag of supplies and we take another two oars, barely getting them to fit by sliding them under the primer stove canopy.

Things quiet back down and I take a turn at the wheel while Russell tinkers under the canopy with the automatic rifle. The boats are gone. After almost an hour, when my hands start to lock in place, frozen, I hear a loud bang of a gun. It’s the rifle and it scares the shit out of me. But he’s got it working. Russell comes out and tells me there was a cache of ammo in one of the bags, and he’s managed to dry it out and it works just fine. Then he disappears back under the blanket to get Dusty for a turn at the wheel. The smear of sun behind the gray clouds is hanging above us, hesitant to drop. I retreat to the warmth and Dusty tells me there’s food and it’s warm as he passes. I move faster and start to smell it. Beans, heated over the primer stove. I start to shovel them into my mouth. Russell is still rooting through the bags he’s found. Anything good? I say after my throat clears. I’m shoveling everything from the bottom of the can down with my fingers. Can opener, those beans, some medicine, pills, I don’t know what they are. Another knife. More cans of food. A radio of some kind. I look at Russell’s face, smoky and shadowed around the edges. He’s smiling. He’s happy. And he hasn’t coughed in a long time. Whatever they gave him in Blue City, it was enough to keep him alive and get him better. Then he takes out a crumpled piece of paper. He smiles, as big as he did when he used to be able to run for miles over land. He would come home smiling after his long runs, cleared, freed, happy. He looks the same way as he straightens the paper out. He moves closer to show me. I look at it. It’s a map with elevation numbers and a bunch of squiggly circles and bendy loops inside of more circles and loops. I can’t tell where it’s supposed to be until he says, “Look.” He points with his finger. Look! he says. Right where he points it says Colorado in bold capital letters. Where’s Leadville I ask him. It’s marked, he says. What? I ask. Do you know what this means Tan? I look more closely and see what he’s talking about. It’s a giant cross marking the town. Leadville. There it is. Hand-written numbers show the elevation. 10,152 feet. But it doesn’t say anything about the rain, how high the rain is there. What do you think it’s marked for? I ask. Because that’s the place. The destination. The treasure. I stop and think about it and it makes total sense. These boats had been trying to get to Leadville. They’d marked it on a map. It was their destination. My train of thought comes to an end that upsets the remarkable excitement of the discovery. I realize that we’re well to the west of Leadville. I ask Russell about this. Could it mean they passed Leadville, that there was nothing there? I say. Why else would they be drifting so far west of the spot they marked? Russell ignores my idea, like it’s a setback he doesn’t need. He’s got it all figured out and he explains it to me as clear as day. Don’t you see, Tan? These boats did make it to Leadville, but when there were people on them. Hell, they may have been in Leadville for a long time after. But they broke loose, maybe in a storm, or maybe the line was cut some other way. And they drifted out. That’s why there are no bodies. These boats drifted in a straight line to us all the way from Leadville! he exclaims like a child. He pulls me into his chest and kisses my forehead. Then he hugs me really hard so that I feel my chest closing up. But I let him do it. I love him. And I believe it too now. They did come all the way from Leadville. And I can’t believe how dumb I was to not think that the obvious explanation was that they’d simply broken loose and drifted. How far away do you think we are? I ask, pulling back just enough to look into Russell’s eyes. They’re big and bright and filled with hope again. In the back of my head, even in the warmth of Russell’s hug, I think about what this might mean for Dusty and me. Maybe we can reach part of the veneer, at least just enough so that we can be together one more time. The feeling again, one more time. Things will work out washes through my brain. Things are going to work out. Finally. We can’t be too far. Those boats were all close together still. They couldn’t stay that way for very long on the open water. So we have to be close.

As I keep thinking about it, something about Russell’s logic makes no sense to me. We had hundreds of miles to go, at least a couple weeks’ journey. But now, he’s saying we’re very close. Unless the location of Blue City was wrong, according to the people who lived there for years, then it makes no sense for the whale boats to drift all the way from Leadville in a tight pack. Unless they had people in them to manage their direction. Unless it was recently that they left their boats. I tell all this to Russell, opening up every fear, even telling him he might be getting too optimistic. He stops and considers my reasoning. He says I’m right, but that it doesn’t matter. Either way, they marked Leadville. It’s real. It’s really the place we think it is. And the explanation for the boats being so close together doesn’t matter.

In the back of my head appear horrible scenarios for the boats. Maybe they got to Leadville and there was nothing there—it was all under the rain. And they kept on moving. Maybe they were forced off. Exiled. Maybe they got there and it’s nothing like we think it is. Maybe it’s a face eater city. Even a clean-cut face eater city, like Blue City. Russell wouldn’t have anywhere else to say we can go after that. There’d be nowhere left in the world to shoot for. And we’d have to starve and die, or live like everyone else. Give up the last bits of the veneer we’re clinging to. Give up the bond that keeps us close to each other. But all of my dark ideas don’t seem to even slightly run through Russell’s head. He moves back against the wall of the blanket and he stares at the map. Tracing its lines, figuring things out in his head. That’s when Dusty shouts. He sees something new. It doesn’t sound good. We can’t catch a break in an ocean that’s supposed to be as barren as a desert. Russell and I head to the wheel. We don’t need any explanations. Just to watch as bodies bob on swells. They go up and down lifelessly, and we steer the boat right at them. Then we pull alongside two of them and look down. The one I look at has his eyes open. They’re looking straight up into the rain. No more blinking to shut out the wet. They’re swollen a little bit, absorbing too much salt. But it’s not the eyes I get stuck on. It’s the open chest. And legs. And arms. Empty cavities. They’ve been scooped of all their muscle. Like empty cages, sacks of flesh emptied to the core. I look away. For all I’ve seen of bloated, rotting corpses, I can never get over these kinds. The ones with teeth marks.

We roll with our engine off now past the rest of the bodies. There are about sixteen in total. Each one we pass is checked and it’s the same thing. Some look normal, but they’re the ones floating face down in the water. And I know they’re carved out ribcages are exposed to the depths of the sea. That somewhere deep under the murky brown, the whale sees the mutilation when it swims up for air. And I can only know it’s there. As if we needed the clarification, Dusty says that these are the bodies of the people from the boats. Russell looks undisturbed, and I know he’s debating whether or not to search their clothes, their pockets, for anything that might provide information. But he doesn’t have time to tell us to draw one of the bodies in with an oar because Voley starts barking loudly. We all look up from the eviscerated bodies to the horizon and see what he’s going crazy over. At first we only hear something though. Nothing to see. It sounds like the distant hum of a motor, like our own boat’s. But it’s coming from nothing. Then we see the source. A line of trimmed cloth. Black as night. Rising from a dipping swell, then revealing two more triangles. Clinging to masts. Trimmed sails. And I see figures, even from this far away, moving on deck. Out of the way, Russell says, and he shoves past Dusty and me and sits in front of the wheel. The engine kicks on and he turns the wheel hard. We’re flying hard and to the right, heading south, and just barely, using my full concentration, as I wipe the rain out of my eyes, I think I see the ship turn too. They see us.

They’re following us, I say as soon as I’m half-convinced about what I see. Russell doesn’t care. He’s transfixed, his foot pressing the pedal as far as it goes, the motor whining in protest, as we dip and rise over swells. Dusty disappears and then he’s back. Keep our back on them, says Dusty. He’s got the rifle in his hands. Russell listens to Dusty.

Part 5

Chapter 12

Foam spits up into my face as I lean out over the stern next to Dusty. We’re both in the rain, out from the tarp’s protection, watching the phantom ship slice toward us like a razor through the swells. Its motor is stronger than ours. And it’s gaining on us despite Russell giving our boat everything it has.

I can see three figures now, all out on the deck of the boat. They’re watching us run. I think I see guns in their hands too but we’re still too far so I can’t be sure. How we doing? shouts Russell from the wheel. I tell him that they’re too fast, we can’t outrun them. Voley quiets down again, hanging at the back of the boat with us, his tongue hanging out, his eyes looking out at the horizon as if he knows just what’s going on, just what’s at stake. They’re the ones who did those bodies like that, aren’t they? asks Dusty without taking his eye off the rifle sight. He’s like ice, staring down the biggest man on the enemy deck. I look at his finger and it’s gliding along the trigger. He’s waiting to fire until they’re close enough, or maybe it’s the swells we’re bumping over. Maybe he won’t be able to hit them. Part of me wants to ask Russell if it’s smart to open fire—what if they’re not face eaters? But what else could they be. There’s nothing out here. And Russell gave permission the moment he listened to Dusty’s order. I start to shiver because the spray is hitting me now with every hump we crest. The water stings. It’s getting colder—too cold. Our boat glides up a high swell and then dips suddenly into the trough. I taste salt metal drops and the wind beats my face. This is it. It boils down to this.

And then, when we’re so close that Dusty can take his first shot, he lowers the rifle. What the hell are you doing? I ask him. He’s giving up for some reason, and I move my arms in to rip the rifle away from him. I’ll have to do it myself, because maybe he thinks this is somehow his salvation, that they’re his ticket back home. He’s lost his nerve or his mind. But he pulls away from me. He won’t let me have it. Look, he tells me. And I stop focusing on him and turn out to the gray to see something white. The reason he’s put the gun down. A white flag. A trick.

It’s a trap, I tell him. How do you know? he says. You saw the bodies! I scream sense into him. Russell hollers back, What’s going on? He can’t leave the wheel. He has to keep the pedal on the floor. He’s doing everything he can to keep us alive. His hope is back. It sprung up again with the map, and he’s not going to let my scuffle with Dusty ruin our chance to get away. I run up to the front of the boat.

“They raised a white flag and he won’t shoot,” I tell him. He’s coughing when I reach him, softly, purposely trying to muffle it. How close? he asks. In range but he won’t shoot—he won’t give me the damned gun! Take the wheel, Russell orders. What? I ask, but I know now—he needs to see for himself. He carefully slides out, leaving his foot on the gas as long as possible. Keep her straight, ride into the swells, he tells me, and then he races back to Dusty. Shit, I mutter as I sit down in the seat. I hadn’t realized how big the sea had become. Or it’s just how fast we’re moving over the water. Either way, the boat’s a lot harder to handle than before. Everything feels loose.

I hear loud talk but I can’t make out any words with the wind screaming into my ears. I try to turn my head to get a glimpse of what’s going on but I can’t. I keep waiting to hear a gun go off, so I know Russell beat the rifle out of Dusty’s hands and started shooting at them. Keep them off us, Russell, I mouth. I think of the bodies—the floating shells. And I know that’ll be us next unless I hear a gun go off soon. But nothing comes. I can’t help it—I turn my head again and almost look for too long. When I turn back the boat has veered sideways and we nearly meet the next swell sideways. I jerk the wheel to get us straight and I hear Voley whine in complaint. Then Russell yells loud and clear, even above the numbing wind: Shut it off, Tan!

“What?” I yell. I can’t believe what he’s saying. How can he give up too? I think for a second that Dusty’s turned the gun on him again, has him at gunpoint, giving orders to stay put until the ship catches up with us. His ticket back to Blue City. But that’s not it, I find out as I let off the gas and the boat goes into a long glide. We cruise up another long roller and I’m confident we won’t roll, so I get up. I run to them to find out why I’m the only sane one left.

I jump around the tarp, past the line of dark smoke rising from the primer stove, and reach them at the back of the ship. The black-sailed ship is right there. And I see them all clearly—there are three men, and the one holding the white flag starts to wave it. Give me the gun, I tell Russell. He’s gotten it from Dusty, but now he’s just holding it limply at his side too, completely useless, giving up. Throwing in the towel over a white flag. I can’t believe it.

Russell holds it back out of my reach. Alright, I’ll get my own then, I tell him, and I head to the tent to get my pistol. Don’t shoot it, Russell says. You going to give me a good reason why not? I say. I’ve made up my mind and he has just one moment to change it. It’s like they’ve forgotten the bodies we’ve just passed, like the map has them all mixed up with hope. He can’t give me a reason, he just looks at me, his face that means I’m supposed to trust him. That there’s not supposed to be a reason. It’s another one of his gut feelings. He’s had them so many times. I know that he’s usually right. But this one’s too hard to buy. We’ve never been out this deep in the rain sea. This far west. This close to Leadville. And he’s putting it all on the line, everything we’ve been clinging to, not to call their bluff.

I get the gun and run back to them. A soft throb of pain shoots through my arm as I squeeze the handle, but it’s not as bad anymore. I almost think it’s healing.

The ship pulls up right alongside of us. Russell is aiming the gun now, and relief comes back to me that he hasn’t given in yet. He raises it high, pointing at the men who stare out from the bow of the ship. They watch us like we’re some kind of curiosity. Keep your pistol on them, but don’t shoot it, Russell repeats. Wait for them to make the first move. I watch the men. Just the white flag. None of them have guns.

Dusty has Russell’s pistol now and he’s aiming at them too. I point mine up at them as they finally get within shouting distance. We rise and fall on the waves and study each others’ faces. I try to work out by their complexion—their eyes—whether or not they’re face eaters. But how could they not be? The bodies had teethmarks…

Russell says the first words. He plays along: We’re alright. Don’t need any help. Thanks, but you can move on.

Then they speak as normal as any tarper from Blue City sounded. At once half of my fears dissolve. I’ve never heard a face eater speak in a calm, collected manner. And they’re unarmed. They raise their hands in response to Russell’s command to show us the white flag was genuine. Then they speak.

The biggest one talks to us. He stands to the right of the flag holder, and looks like a giant compared to his crewmates. By his tone, I know he’s speaking for the whole crew. I’m afraid we didn’t mean to help you, says the big man. Rain splashes off his soaked beard and onto his plastic suit. We wanted to see what you know about the country to the south. Despite the tension choking my throat, and the fact that our lives are hanging by the balance of a sudden movement, Russell laughs. I don’t get the joke and I think he’s lost his mind. Russell tells the man that there is no country to the south. It’s all rain. Brown sea. Just that.

All of us still have our guns trained on them, but for some reason they don’t look concerned. Fear starts to rise in me, the feeling I had when I first saw the flag—that this all has to be some kind of trap. I want to talk alone with Dusty and Russell so bad but I can’t right now. We’re locked in the stalemate. Yet the ship’s crew doesn’t seem to care. There is only the invisible trust of Russell now.

There most certainly is. Rainless country at that, says the big man. His beard is black and wild and untrimmed, but his skin is clear and rose-colored. The realization sinks in—he is no face eater.

Bullshit, replies Russell. Then he asks the man to explain the bodies we passed, and I watch  his finger dance on the trigger. I know the sound of his voice, and they seem to get it now too. He’s ready to start shooting, even though he has to know by now, like I do, that they’re not face eaters. But that doesn’t really matter. There’s a long way to fall before you become one of them. Steps along the slope. The carrier people were on one step. Blue City tarpers on another. These three might be halfway down, the sophisticated face eaters. Maybe not mad on the drugs, but stripped of the same rules. The ones Russell and I think still matter.

The big man motions to the one who stands on the opposite side of the flag holder. He must have ordered him to do something because he runs off, disappearing somewhere in the ship behind. Keep him in sight, Russell tells us, but it’s impossible to see where he went on the ship. And the bearded man doesn’t seem to fear our threat. He just looks at us and says, Bait. Russell’s face lights up like somehow he’s understanding something from that word. Dusty fidgets and turns because he sees the man who disappeared coming back again. He raises his gun to him and so do I in case he’s come back with a gun of his own. I’m ready to pull the trigger when I see he’s got something else. Dusty shouts out, Drop it! but Russell tells him to relax, that it’s okay. It’s a net—he raises it high into the air so we can all see it. Only it’s not empty. It’s stuffed and moving.

“Jesus,” says Russell, and he almost falls to the floor of the boat. I put my arm on his shoulder. Fish, he says. Jesus, fish. And I look back up. It is—a bag of fish. For how wretched they look, the fish think they taste great, says the bearded man. Russell stands back up and looks at us and tells us to lower our guns. How did you know? Russell asks. How did you know we weren’t…

Because face eaters aren’t men, the big man says. And you are a man, he continues. He winks and motions toward the side of the boat. I don’t get it, but I follow Russell’s glance. He stares at the side rail where Voley is standing over the edge, wind blowing his ears back, calmly watching the tense exchange, wagging his tail. Man’s best friend, Russell mutters. Of course.

So can we talk belowdecks, or do we have to do this over open water? the big man says. He waits for Russell but Russell hasn’t made up his mind. We’re pushing on south, but we’d like to talk. Like to know what you’ve seen, the big man continues. Russell turns to us, as if we’re part of the decision making process all of the sudden. He motions us to come in close, but keep our eyes on them. What do you think? he asks us. I know that Russell is getting greedy now. He wants information on Leadville. He wants to know what they’ve seen as much as they want to know what we’ve seen. But I don’t feel like we can trust anything they’ve said. One of them stares only at me.

I don’t know, says Dusty. Your dog does, says Russell. Marvolo has stopped barking. I wonder if they’d let us have some of their fish to eat. Still, I second Dusty’s wariness. And it’s usually Russell who is most cautious of strangers. Somehow this all doesn’t make sense. He’s getting desperate because we’re so close now. It’s not the exposure, Russell used to say, Desperation is the rain’s killer. He’s gullible now though. I tell him we should move on. We need to keep going. Let them tell us what they have to over the water, but not on board their ship.

Rain’s getting colder, says the big man. I see him scan over each of us as we talk. He’s working something out. Finally, as if deeply considering my point of view, Russell figures out what he wants to do. You two stay here. Keep all the guns. I’ll go talk to them. We have an extra can of gas we can trade for food. We need that gas, I say. We have more gas than food. They’re catching fish—do you know what that means? Russell says. And I stop to think about it. I haven’t seen a fish in a year. I thought they’d all died. That the sea wasn’t blue enough for them anymore.

It means maybe I can get a rod and tackle, Russell says. There’re a lot of miles to Leadville still. I know he’s right, but I can’t let him go alone. Alright, to hell with it, I say. I’m coming then. He knows me too well to try and stop me. Dusty looks at us. You want me to stay here? he asks, perfectly willing. Do whatever you want, Russell says. He looks at Voley, our boat, and then back to the three waiting for our response. Just because we’re getting close doesn’t mean we can start trusting people again, I tell Russell. You’ve got to remember that. I know, he says.

Russell leans in close to me and kisses me on the forehead. He makes sure they see this for some reason. Then he turns to the big man. Throw us a line, Russell says. The man sends one of his crew to grab rope, and in a couple more minutes we’re tied together with the strangers, for better or worse.

Chapter 13

Russell hands Dusty the rifle and goes up first. The bearded man helps pull him up a rope ladder. I feel like they might try something as soon as Russell is out of our sight, but they don’t. We follow him up and they don’t seem to mind that we’re bringing our guns aboard. They understand the need for caution, or at least that’s the act they’re putting on. Everything I’ve seen—from the carrier to Blue City, makes me skeptical that there are any good people left in the world. Good without an ugly secret.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Altruism is dead, Russell says, but it doesn’t mean people can’t exchange goods—food, medicine, weapons, or now, information. We’re coming on board to exchange hope.

I reach the deck and the rain hits my neck. It feels light now, like Poseidon has loosened up on us. Maybe he’s taking a nap. Spending time on the sea floor. But in his sleep he’s left the temperature unchecked. It’s dropping too fast. I start to think about slipping away to search the ship for plastic suits I can steal for us.

We’re led down a staircase to a wide room below the deck. It’s like liquid air fire underneath. A cocoon that softens all of my apprehension. Dangerously softens. One of the men leaves us at the boss’s instructions, and we all find a seat around a wooden table. There’s a stove, much better than ours, with a steel pipe running its smoke out the side of the hull. That’s the first thing I realize as I sit down—the warmth is like a drug. It slows me down too much. And everything in this room is dry. Dry all around. A watertight ship.

I watch enviously as the bearded man and his other remaining partner sit down in their gray plastic suits. They’ve got it good here. Russell starts up the conversation right away. He asks about the bait. He’s fact-checking, I know him. But it doesn’t come across that way to them. The big man gets defensive, like he’s mad Russell didn’t believe that’s what he used the human bodies for. He explains that they’ve had more than a couple run-ins with face eaters since heading south from Montana. All the way from Montana! I want to exclaim, but I keep my mouth shut and glance at Dusty and Marvolo. Voley is quiet, sitting at Dusty’s feet next to the rifle which is lying against his chair. Still close enough to be used. Voley’s calm is a good sign. Dogs sense evil—or I’ve always heard it said. And he isn’t so much as making a sound.

Dusty looks back at me, his face wrapped in some of the same emotion I’m feeling, but I can tell he’s distant. He’s back in Blue City. Probably thinking about how quickly this big ship could motor him back home. Maybe the will to return isn’t dead in him yet. Maybe he’ll secretly try to bribe this grizzly when Russell and I aren’t paying attention. It would only take a moment. He could tell the man about the treasure of that stocked island. A place with everything. And he could leave out the part about it being target number one for the coordinated attacks of the Utah madmen.

“Never waste good bait,” says the bearded man. He goes on to explain to Russell that every time they’ve hit a group of bandits, they skin and gut them. Just like you would a fish. Because that’s what they are—somewhere down there on the food chain. Not humans anymore. They gave that up with their choices, says the big man. Too low on the ladder now to have any kind of sympathy for them. But their bodies are far too useful to waste. It’s just we don’t eat them, says the man. He knows that’s just what Russell wants to hear. He talks for a moment about how the rain has made people sink to it—the necessity to waste nothing. He even admits to understanding it. Says he might do the same, if it ever came to it. But it hasn’t. Not yet. Because it’s the one thing he’s bent on making sure doesn’t happen. They’re going to find the Rainless Land. Russell smiles at this, like it’s an affirmation of everything his gut was telling him.

Why’d you leave? asks Russell. Dusty slides his chair, loudly grating the floor, moving closer to me. The bearded man and his mate look at us, as if we’re edging close to try something, but then he just leans back again. Before the long tale, and the idea that we’re in a great rush to survive separates us in the rain sea, I’d like to know your names. At least, I’ll give you mine. The giant man leans forward in his chair and smiles, his rosy cheeks rising with his lips, his black beard still dripping a bit from the wet. He lowers the hood of his plastic suit. The black of his beard is mirrored in a nest of hair that falls well off the rest of his head. His eyes are wrinkled by the weather, but they’re alive. My name is Ernest, he says. And that’s all he gives us. No one says anything, and the room becomes awkwardly quiet. Russell might be struck dumb because we haven’t had to tell anyone our names in a long time, even on Blue City. No one asked. I sure as hell don’t want to be the first of us to do it. But Ernest, who looks about twice as old as Russell, but stronger from the aging rather than weaker, turns and puts the pressure on his man to speak. My eyes fall for the first time on his mate. He’s taken his hood off and I hadn’t really noticed. His face is somewhat drawn and stretched, but it’s filled with the same hue of life that Ernest’s has. He’s well-fed, and lively, and still filled inside with hope, I can tell. He has soft blue eyes and curled lips, all packed into the calm appearance of innocence, and I’m startled to realize that, until Ernest’s interruption, he’d been staring directly at me. He’s older than Dusty, I can tell, but younger than Russell. I can’t tell age very well anyway, so I could be entirely wrong, especially because when he speaks, it’s with a voice I would with my eyes closed think belonged to a much older man. At Ernest’s prodding, he sits upright and looks at Russell, who seems to have noticed where his eyes had drifted previously, and says his name is Clint. Clint’s my name, he says. One by one, starting with Russell, we mutter our names. There’s false cheer in Dusty and me when we say them. And him? says Ernest. That’s Voley, Dusty says.

Good to meet folk without the devil eyes, says Clint. Devil eyes? asks Russell. Ernest chimes in that those are the face eaters, as most of them look anyway, especially with their drug. So that’s all true then? asks Russell. And Ernest just points to a wooden crate in the corner of the softly glowing room. Against the wood planking of the hull rests several crates together, all marked with a giant Y. That’s the stuff right there, he says. The drug? asks Russell. Sure enough, Ernest says. And it might come in handy. I don’t know how. And you know, the ones that don’t use it—they’re the ones I really fear. Once they slip into that stuff, and it takes away their hunger or distorts it to something else, they’re sloppier. Pain doesn’t deter them any longer. At least, it’s been that way through Montana and Wyoming.

The sight of the drug gives Russell pause, like he doesn’t know what to make of it. I think he’s deciding if it moves the captain down a notch in his notion of the man’s humanity. Wondering if the captain’s ever used it. I’m good enough to know Russell’s thinking that clear, because in the next moment he asks: Have you taken it? Of course, says Ernest. Russell’s scowl forms fast, and he studies the eyes of the captain and his mate. Ernest laughs, knowing well the look of judgment. I’ll never touch it again. Unless it comes to the time before I have to eat a body to survive. Not sure which I’ll do first. But there’s no sense figuring on that until the time comes, right? Russell still doesn’t reply. He’s unsure. And so am I. Part of me is curious what the drug does. What it feels like. If it really takes away hunger and pain. I’ve never taken any kind of drug other than antibiotics and Tylenol. Nothing with this kind of reputation. But it is, after all, their drug. The ones who are completely stripped. No vestige left. To take it can only mean taking a step closer to them.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m not one of them. You can relax a bit, if you have a mind to. Although I know you won’t. And I don’t blame you. If you hadn’t had that dog on board, says Ernest, looking to Voley with love in his voice, we’d have opened fire on you. Yes, we do have weapons on board. God’s honest truth. But God’s been with this ship since it sailed, and that’s no coincidence your dog was on deck and in plain sight.

Russell recoils at the mentioning of God. I know when he thinks of it he remembers his daughter. He used to tell me he believed in the bullshit. The great lie that something invisible is taking care of you. Survival is what we make through our own stubborn effort, and our deaths through nature’s, he says. That’s how he sees it now. But he doesn’t criticize Ernest for his belief, not out loud anyway. This man is carrying too much of the veneer in him, most of its weight in honesty, and it’s overwhelming all of us. Except for Dusty. I look at him, and his eyes are stuck on Clint. I trace his line of sight to Clint’s, and I look away immediately, because Clint’s blue eyes are still on me. Just watching me. I can’t help but look back, but there he is again, still looking at me. The fact that he knows I see him watching me doesn’t break his stare, and it’s angering Dusty. I feel the anger. And then, finally, Ernest tells us what we really want to know. He tells us what happened in Montana.

We left Cooke City when the supplies ran dry. Used to be relatively dry there, and warm. Rain was lighter. I swear to hell it was. And a hell of a lot warmer. Things really took a turn last year.

More and more of the people we knew, some of them loved, started to turn to people for food. What else could they do? There’s no more fish there. The sea’s too brown now. So the talk started, all of it based on some old broadcast. Broadcast? Russell cuts in. Yea, something coming over the radio. My eyes glue to Ernest’s face. The idea of a radio signal triggers the thought that we have a radio, taken from the face eater boats we just passed. I don’t butt in though, I wait. He goes on: It was a looped recording, and it was about the Rainless Land. Russell is fidgeting and he coughs. Ernest pauses and looks him over. He’s making an assessment of his health, I know. I’ve been doing the same thing for weeks. Maybe he needs to know how easily he could take us out, if he has to. How weak we’ve really become. That our guns are just props holding us up so the wind and rain doesn’t blow us away. But he’s made it clear that face eaters would have eaten a dog before taking it on a sea voyage. Long before doing that. So he’s made up his mind that we’re not the enemy. And maybe we’re the same.

What did the recording say? Dusty asks, finally his attention shifting from Clint. Ernest explains that it was just a broken voice, in and out of static, claiming that there was a safe haven, somewhere in Colorado. It wasn’t raining there, said the radio voice, Ernest goes on. Russell can’t contain it any longer and he says Leadville. Ernest doesn’t seem to know the name, or at least it doesn’t mean anything to him. That’s your Rainless Land, Russell fills in. We don’t know, says Ernest. That recording had been going for years. But a lot of us there, in Cooke City, got to talking. Talking about our options. There’s nothing left of the law in all of America, you know? he says. So the idea for a grand expedition started to eat at everyone. It took us about two years to get the boats together. And all the supplies. We had—what did we have when we first set out, Clint? All eyes turn to him, whose silent gaze is finally upset as he looks up in thought. Finally he retrieves a number. Fourteen I think, he says. Ernest tells us that fourteen ships left, staggered some of them, together some of them. Resilience had five other ships with her. Resilience? Russell asks. Our ship, says Ernest. A good crew of men. Ernest rocks back again and starts to fidget under his plastic suit. You all left in a hurry without suits? he asks us. We’re not ready to answer though, because we don’t know what he’s looking for under his shirt. But it’s just a tiny wooden tube, a pipe. He waits for us to answer, as if he wants us to now tell our own story before he’s finished with his. He takes out a small bag and a box of matches and puts them on the table. His eyes fall down to stuff his pipe with tobacco. He lights his pipe and then he looks again at Russell, waiting.

Where are all the other ships? Russell asks. Ernest draws from his pipe and then tells us about a gale. A waterspout gale. We lost them, he says. Monster seas. It was black as night, and the swells were crashing. Couldn’t see them by the next morning. They might have reached the Rainless Land for all we know. More likely they’re on the bottom.

I want to press him because I can’t believe that all those ships could disappear in a storm. One or two makes sense, but not that many. Ernest is reeling in thought, like a sadness of thought, as he smokes. Russell understands and waits. I look back at Clint, expecting his blue eyes to be on me again, but they’re not. His eyes are closed now. There is something painful in his mind, but I can’t tell what. Memories. The bane of people with hope. At least if they’re not stored properly, out of the imagination where they can return as real as the day they happened. I’ve learned to ignore most memories when they come up, because all of mine are about the East, where it was better. Where we should have stayed. Finally, Ernest goes on.

So we couldn’t do anything else but sail on, right? We’re making a go of it anyway. The three of us. Keep her flying south. See what we find. Ernest is done, even I can tell. He won’t tell us anymore. And he makes it clear that it’s our turn with a fixed and blank look. He grunts as if to say that that’s the reason we’re all sitting here anyway—to exchange information. What we know. So that some kind of hope can be kept alive, despite how painful such a thing is.

Russell summarizes our journey. Dusty listens intently, learning about us for the first time. Russell only spends a moment on each city. How the water rose, the flash floods started coming all the time. The chaos of panicking millions. He just tells about how much worse it got: Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Indianapolis, the Sea Queen Marie, Sioux Falls, Rapid City, Wyoming, and he stops at Blue City. He doesn’t talk about Blue City. He knows Dusty is hanging on every word. Russell tells our entire lives in the span of five minutes, and he comes to the point of Leadville. It’s the same as your Rainless Land, he says.

“So you’ve come all this way for the same thing?” Ernest says. “And come a much greater distance than we have.” Ernest asks about the law in the East. He asks if there was any. Russell tells him there hasn’t been law since two years after the rain started. Ernest tells him it’s the same everywhere then. Then a great silence comes into the room, because all the information that we were hoping for, and that they were hoping for, seems like dead weight. It all amounts to nothing. Nothing more concrete than what we’d each already known. And all of the sudden the thought seems as obvious to everyone else as it is to me—that we’re completely useless to each other. But Ernest says something that knocks me back, and I’m hit harder even by Russell’s reply to it.

Ernest just leans back in his chair, like he has been doing every few minutes, takes another smoke, and looks at each of us. So then it’s settled, isn’t it? You won’t get far in that little boat. The seas are rising. It’s getting colder. His meaning is clear to me, and I see Clint react in surprise, as if the underlying suggestion is as unexpected to him as it is to us. Dusty misunderstands, and thinks that Ernest means to gut us too, clean out our insides and throw it in a barrel for fish bait. He moves toward the rifle. Join us, Ernest clarifies. Dusty stops and realizes. It all sounds like a trap still, in part of my mind, but I haven’t heard a man talk the way Ernest talks in a long time. He sounds like Russell used to sound on board the Sea Queen Marie. Filled with optimism despite the rain, the exposure, the cold, the face eaters. More than just gnawing pressure. More real than anyone had sounded in Blue City except for Dusty. He means what he says. And Russell understands this immediately. He says we have things on our boat. Gas, food, medicine, a stove. He forgets what else we have—what they missed on the face eater boats—the map, the radio.

Ernest tells Clint to help us get everything that can’t be lost on board the Resilience. We should keep both of the boats, he says. We don’t know what we’re up against in the South do we? A man from the North and a man from the East.

I want to ask about the strong currents, waterspout alley, and the fact we’re heading right for it. But there’s no time. Russell is up right away, following Clint back up into the rain. Hold on a moment, says Ernest. He stands at last from his chair and walks to the corner of the room where shelves are lined with gear and barrels. He fetches a rain suit and tosses it to Russell. Standing at the stairs, Russell looks at him and just nods. He can’t say thanks. We haven’t shown them our worth yet. And that’s the way of things. Nothing comes for free. But he puts on the plastic suit anyway and heads out into the rain. Come on, Russell calls, and I know he’s saying it to me. There’re more here, hold on, Ernest says, and he walks back over and tosses Dusty and me dirty plastic rain suits of our own. They’ll be too big I think, but they’ll keep the saltwater welts off. Then he disappears up into the rain, leaving us alone. Complete trust. Dusty and I look at each other, and Voley stands at attention, ready to chase after everyone who went up the stairs.

My body screams at me that it’s starving, and I wonder if Dusty is thinking about food too, with how worn his face looks. But it’s something else. I can get that radio to work. If he has batteries, I can get it to work, he says as he pulls on his plastic suit. I believe him for some reason. Ernest’s optimism is contagious. He’d acted sure we’re going to be okay without ever saying it. It was just the tone of his voice. And I saw it filling Russell up. We’re so close to Leadville. And it’s starting to infect me too. Do you think that recording is still going? I ask. Dusty tells me that in Utah there was never anything coming over the radio. I spent days listening, he says. But nothing ever came on. But who knows he says? And then he gets up and leads Voley up into the rain.

I pause and look around the room. The warmth is with me again, against all odds. We’re still going. I pull over my plastic suit and I’m struck blind by a memory. My mom. I feel like I can remember her for a second. It’s strange, because I know I don’t have any memories of her. I was too little when she died. It’s like the flooding memory is just a feeling. Family. But it’s produced a face I feel like I recognize. It’s still there, deep in my mind. The idea of her love. That I had a mom once.

I see her there very plainly. She’s warm and right next to me and gently touching my hair. I love you, she says. And then I shut it off, or it shuts down on its own, because it’s all made up. Delirium from hunger and fatigue. You have to stop cracking, I tell myself. I climb the stairs into the cold again. I know I’ve been slipping, ever since I met Dusty. I haven’t told Russell, but he’s guessed it. I know he has. And the problem is that he’s cracking too. We’re both getting too soft when there’s nothing to prove we’re any closer to hope than we’ve been in years. It’s all an illusion, I have to remind myself. And then I help get what’s needed off the boat and we tie it up nice and strong and Ernest calls the other member of his crew in from the wheelhouse and we eat more fish than I thought were even alive in the great brown sea.

Days start to slip by, nearly a week. It’s the longest time we’ve had company since the Sea Queen.

Russell is up in the wheelhouse as usual with Ernest and his men. Dusty and I are under the deck tinkering with radio again. It’s the same thing—no life, when all of a sudden, static erupts out of a speaker. I got it! shouts Dusty. Voley chases his tail in a circle and barks, like he’s congratulating him, kicking bad batteries that roll across the planking. No one above hears us and no one comes down.

We move in close and bump into each other. It’s the first time we’ve touched since we were under the tent on the boat together. I move back but we still huddle close and listen in. The radio is crackling, in and out, but I can’t help but feel like someone is suddenly going to start talking. But nothing happens. It’s just static. But at least it’s on. We wait forever and nothing comes. Finally Dusty says he wants to conserve the batteries. These were the last ones I had to check—there are no more, he says. I think about the tent we left on the bank of Blue City island. Batteries in there, brand new. But all that has probably been blown in a mudslide to the bottom of the ocean with our canoe by now. Dusty shuts it off.

I look around the room. We’ve got a couple bunks that we sleep in, tucked in the corner. Ernest and Russell have taken to each other with great enthusiasm, discussing Leadville and poring over the map. Looking for the best path in through the Rockies so we’re not grounded on shoals. Ernest was upset he’d overlooked so much good gear on the face eater boats. We weren’t intending to slow down for anything, he’d said. But a map and a radio and a gun was a big oversight. He was quite upset about it when we brought it aboard and showed him.

Everyone calls Ernest’s other crewmate Clemmy. So I do too, if I have to get his attention. He is quiet, and acts like Ernest, but with fewer words. I can tell he’s battling something inside, some kind of loss. Just like Clint. Russell thinks they lost something in the gale. Maybe their families. But I wouldn’t dare ask Clemmy. And I don’t like to talk to Clint at all.

I’m still trying to prevent the feelings of bonding, but it’s become very hard. The crew is filling a void of some kind that I shouldn’t need filled. Dusty has had more trouble than me. I can tell he doesn’t like Clint at all. He thinks there’s something going on with him. I think it might have to do with Clint always looking at me. Like he’s attracted to me. Russell said something to him once, when we were trading shifts steering the motor boat. Every day we have to go down and get on it so that it doesn’t get dragged sideways against the swells and slow the Resilience down.

It had been my shift. I was climbing down the rope ladder and Russell saw Clint watching me. I couldn’t quite make out their exchange. But when I turned back to look, I could tell as clear as day what was happening. It was over his stares. Russell was tearing into him. I saw Ernest walk over and I almost panicked. I didn’t have a gun on me. I didn’t know where Ernest’s loyalties would fall. But Ernest went up and ripped right into Clint, just like Russell had been doing. He seems to understand something—they both seem to understand something that I don’t. It’s not that I think he’s evil, or strange, but that he’s attracted to me. I’m sure I’ve felt it before from men. But I can’t be so sure that I doubt Russell’s judgment over mine. At least with Clint. I think about Dusty, and how Russell never shows that same sentiment. And there’s something about Voley—the way he acts around Clint. He won’t just go up to him, looking for attention, the way he does with the rest of us. For some reason, he keeps his distance. But when all of us are together, it’s often Clint that Voley watches.

I’m looking at our bunks when Russell comes down the stairs. He hasn’t coughed in days. He’s rejuvenated by the fish. That’s what he says it is, anyway. And he says he can’t wait to start running again. As soon as we hit land. Leadville. I’m going to run every day. And that’s what he’s come down to talk to us about.

“According to Clemmy, we’re going to be there tomorrow. Leadville. You hear me Tan?” he says. He holds his smile for a long time and looks at me, and then, he just rushes in. Years of struggle are in his hug. He’s brimming with it. I feel it flow through me. I think of all of our long shots, and the terrible and endless moving, just to make it through each day. All of it finally coming to an end. He pushes me back and kisses my forehead. Then he lets go and turns to Dusty.

We still haven’t told Dusty about what happened on Blue City. I don’t think he’d try to turn us around anymore if he knew, but neither of us will tell him. And we don’t talk about it either, it’s just an unspoken decision, a psychic understanding between Russell and me. It has to be kept secret. Our own ugly secret.

Russell extends his hand, out toward the boy who tried to kill him. He keeps it hanging until Dusty finally takes it. It’s like Dusty has somehow started to let the optimism of Leadville get to him too. They shake hands. Both of them smiling, and Dusty starts to laugh. He’s laughing for the first time, and I hear the beautiful sound and drink it in—it’s relief. I want to squeeze him, and to take him to the bunk. But I can’t. It’s all too overwhelming. And I think for a moment of a startling insight about our drastic turn of fortune—the man above, Ernest, must be Poseidon himself. He has to be.

Russell once told me the story of the Old Gods. They could come down from their great mountain, even though theirs wasn’t covered in rain. And they could appear as people. They could help whomever they saw fit. It was some sort of divine justice. If you made good choices, you were taken care of. But Russell never said he believed in that—it was just how those stories went. But somehow, in this moment of happiness, I think about it, and it makes sense. I half believe in it. We’re being repaid for all the months we’ve gone without sinking to the worst levels of human behavior. We’ve kept some sense of right and wrong, and that’s the veneer, and everything it’s built around. And now, this ship, this crew, it’s all here to reward us for how we’ve endured everything—the rain, the wet, the cold, the empty driving force that compels us to live despite the hanging question that we don’t know what for. Even if we got to Leadville, what would it be for?

And I realize—surely it’s for this. A sense of family. Community. Love. Being here for each other. And all the armor that’s helped us survive, as we reach the doorstep of Leadville, is thrown out the window. We’re heading towards something other than Leadville—we’re heading toward being real live people again. I kneel down next to Voley as Russell tells Dusty he’s proud of him for sticking with us. He doesn’t go into anything more detailed than that. He just goes quiet and looks at us both. Then he reveals it, what he’s really been holding back from us. You ready to see it? he says. And we’re completely ruined because we get it—they’ve spotted land, there’s land up there and no one’s told us. We’re down here toying with the radio, and the reality of the dream is in their vision above. I can’t get mad though, I just run up the stairs past him. He laughs. So does Dusty, but he’s chasing at my heels. And Voley somehow gets there first.

There it is—the vast range of the Rocky Mountains. I don’t have to ask. Everywhere in front of us are the spiking tops and vast tabletops of the mountain range. Many of them appear high above the water, and it looks like the rain sea is much lower than it was in Wyoming. I can’t be sure until we’re closer, but I think there’s more land than I’ve seen since Indianapolis. Ernest comes out of the wheelhouse and into the rain. It’s so much colder than it’s ever been. The water slaps my face, but I don’t pay it any attention. I can’t. The view has paralyzed me more than any freezing water could. And I throw my arms around Dusty in a fit of joy, and Ernest smiles. He’s smoking his pipe. He’s a man of endless fish and tobacco. Poseidon himself. He smiles and tells us what we know—Over that pass, somewhere back there—and he points to nothing I can see—is Leadville.

Russell has had plenty of time to work over Ernest. And Ernest is sold on Leadville now too. Both of them have given up the idea that it’s not raining there, because we’re too close now for that to be true. But it doesn’t matter. The sight of these mountains is enough to squash the last doubts. The matter of the face eaters—whether they had been coming or going from Leadville, is no longer debated. It’s a downer, a remnant of the hopeless past. The lawless, reckless life of gloom. Ernest and Russell are on the same page, and they’ll have none of it anymore. Dusty turns to me, apprehensive because Russell has come up behind us. And somehow, my love of Russell has changed. And his love of me is completely clear to me for the first time: He puts his hand on my shoulder. And his other goes to Dusty’s. He understands.

I look back at him, and he’s smiling, even while I’m wrapped around Dusty. Clint and Clemmy come up. I catch Clint’s glance but look away—I can’t think of him now. I can think of nothing other than these gorgeous mountains. All of them ours.

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” says Ernest. He explains that if there is no Leadville, if it’s all bullshit, then we’ll make our own Leadville. There’re enough fish to be had in this sea. And we’ll build up a nice place to live in the mountains. Nothing will stop this man.

Alright, that’s enough, says Russell. Your turn on the boat. We’ve got to keep going. No time to slow down.

I know it’s my turn on the motor boat. I slip off of Dusty and go to the stern. I pull the rope to get it close and climb down the ladder and hop in. Then the Resilience’s motor starts up and I’m dragged along from the back, seeing only the butt of the ship. I keep her straight. Dusty appears over the rail of the stern. He wants me to pull the boat up close to the stern. He has something to tell me. The mountains start to come into wide view around the edges of the ship, spreading out like arms to welcome us. I turn the motor on and pull up. He jumps right down into the boat. We rock and almost catch a wall of water and I ask him what the hell he’s doing. But it’s obvious because he pushes into me and the wheel, grabs me hard, and presses in with his mouth. We kiss and it lasts forever and I can only think that I love him. And I’m sorry for everything, though I can’t say it out loud. I lit the spark again with my hug, but the fire had been waiting. And it’s okay now. Everything is okay.

We push against each other and I feel his body close against mine. I feel him and how warm he is, even though the rain is colder than I’ve ever felt it before. And then he’s gone—that fast, he climbs back up the boat. Unseen. I’ve let love live. And part of me still knows I will regret it. That the Gods aren’t real. That the logic we’ve always clung to made more sense than this fantasy we’ve all fallen into. A trap. Something too good to be true. I fall behind the wheel, and it’s impossible to let the negativity stay. I have a full belly, relatively dry clothes, new friends, Voley, Russell—who is my entire family—and a boy I’m in love with. And I haven’t seen a living face eater in over a week.

Chapter 14

We have the slowest, happiest dinner. I could eat fish for every day of my life. And the face eater body bait is all used up, but Ernest is recycling fish for more bait. Clemmy is the best fisher in Montana, Ernest says as we carefully suck the flavor out of every morsel. I’m sitting next to Dusty. Voley is under the table, waiting patiently for his scraps. Everything is warm under the deck. Ernest says we have enough fuel to keep the stove going for two more weeks, and that’s much more time than we’ll need. By tomorrow, he thinks, we’ll have Leadville in our sights. Russell talks more about the map, and how they’ve used it to figure out the mountain range, figure out exactly where we are in relation to the town. But there’s more to do, and they go up to the wheelhouse to discuss tomorrow’s plan in case we have find a spit to land on before reaching our real destination. Clemmy follows them up. Clint remains with us at the table, long after we’ve finished eating. It’s like he senses we want to be alone and he doesn’t like it. It’s giving him trouble, seeing us together. But he knows better than to say anything now. Not after the way Russell came at him earlier. We wait, in case he wants to talk, to say anything at all.

“Seems a bit too good to be true, doesn’t it?” he says. I want to kick him. He’s a downer, and he’s become more irritating to be around. Even Ernest seems to have noticed it. I’ve heard them arguing twice since the time Russell came at him. I almost thought I overheard something about the drug storage containers, but I can’t be sure. My paranoid imagination can still flare up, even at heaven’s doorstep. Still, I have visions of him sneaking into that stash when no one’s around and taking a pinch of it. Eating it, getting a touch of the crazed mind. Not the full thing.

He waits for us to say something. Dusty does it first: I’m going to mess with the radio. Then he just stands up and leaves the table. It’s your shift isn’t it? I ask him. I know it is and he does too. In another ten minutes, Ernest will come down and holler if he’s not out on the motorboat, keeping her in a straight line.

The shifts have become worse. They’re much harder, mainly because it’s grown so cold so suddenly—the rain and the wind. And with the wind, it’s also been the swells. The boat has to be manned every time the Resilience moves forward, otherwise it will hold her up in the sea, and knock into her. It could split her hull if we’re not careful, says Ernest.

Clint fidgets at my silent request that he leave. But he continues to stare at me with his pale blue eyes. They’re looking right through me—looking for something that I don’t have for him. I can’t tell what it is. And it’s not time to start making accusations the night before we get to Leadville. I can’t mess things up. He’ll be easier to deal with on land. That’s what I tell myself. And there always has to be something, doesn’t there? I say to myself as he still sits, refusing to take his shift. One person, one thing. Always something. And now it’s this asshole.

Clint looks at Dusty, who’s huddled on the floor by the radio. I hear it clicking on and I hear the static start up. Voley has stayed next to me, and even nudged up against me under the table. The last thing I like doing anymore is turning my back to Clint, but with Voley here, I know I’m okay. Voley’s leg is as good as it was before he was shot, just like my arm. At least we’re both acting that way. And I know he would protect me if anything happened. He would strike Clint dead in a heartbeat. And Voley licks my hand. Like he’s letting me know that what I’m thinking is accurate. Then Clint slides his chair back and sighs. He stands and heads up the stairs.

I remind Dusty how much I really don’t like him. Voley and I crowd around the radio, and Dusty just nods because he knows. I’ve told him a few times already. And Dusty doesn’t like Clint either. But we’re all stuck together. And he’s one of Ernest’s men. And Ernest is the best thing that’s happened to us in a long time. I lay my head in his lap, and then start to fall asleep. I think about how even my dreams have started to change. They are no longer the shapeless, dark nightmares of South Dakota and Wyoming and Utah. In my dreams now I see us all growing old together somehow. It’s too much to dwell on while I’m awake. I get too fearful. But in the dreams it’s all so natural and expected. Like it’s the usual way things go. And I want to go there now. The white noise carries me away.

When I wake up, Dusty’s asleep. It’s dark in the cabin because the stove is on low. It’s still hot, but no one else is down here with us. Voley is asleep nearby on one of the bunks, curled tightly into a ball. And I think I’m dreaming when I hear a voice I don’t recognize, but it’s not a dream—it’s coming through the white noise. The radio. It’s someone talking on the radio. At first, I don’t even wake Dusty up, the shock is too much. I listen, my brain on fire for every syllable:

…everything out. If you’ve come this way, we’ve moved south. Again, do not approach the area surrounding Leadville, Colorado. This is Leadville. We’re reporting one last time. The New Fort Saint Vrain Power Plant has exploded. Don’t approach the city limits. The radiation is everywhere. Repeat, radiation everywhere. We’ve moved everything out. If you’ve come this way, we’ve moved…

And then, as magically as the voice has come on, it cuts out, returning into the static from where it came. I wake up Dusty immediately and tell him and we sit patiently in silence waiting for it to come back on. He starts to get impatient, as if I’m making it up, or that I was dreaming. But I insist—I wasn’t dreaming. Someone came on and said not to go to Leadville. I’m in disbelief. We’re at the doorstep. How could someone tell us not to come in?

We have to tell Russell, I say. Listen, Dusty says. He pulls me in close. He just wants to go back to sleep. Lying next to me. Underneath the pattering deck roof above us, in the warmth. Voley opens his eyes and looks over, half concerned and half upset we’ve disrupted his peaceful sleep. But Dusty can’t tell me not to. He doesn’t have the heart because he senses something in my voice, that I must not be lying. He asks me, Are you sure you want to bring it up? You know what it will do to them.

I think about it. Russell will be upset. And he’ll probably believe me, but he won’t care. He’ll just make sure we keep heading in the same direction. I don’t know anything about radiation. I don’t know how dangerous it is. And I haven’t made up my mind if it’s important enough to bring it up. I ask Dusty what he knows.

I only know that it’s one of the main ways people used to get their power. But it was way before I was born. I’ve never seen a power plant in all my life. Only heard about them. But what about radiation? I ask. What’s so important about it? Dusty has no idea. He’s never heard it talked about. He says there was a great dam, a wonder of the world, it was said, somewhere to the south. And they got their power in the old days right from the running water itself. Like magic. But he’s never heard much about radiation. Nothing to make him pause about going to Leadville. Keep it on, I say. You hear me? Keep listening. Wait for it to come back.

Where are you going? he asks. I don’t want to tell him. He already knows anyway. I have to ask Russell about radiation—what it means. I don’t have to tell him why I’m asking. What are you going to say? Dusty calls as I ascend the stairs. I ignore him.

The rain feels like frozen daggers as I come out onto the deck. It’s freezing outside. I half want to stop and peer out into the horizon and look for ice, but it’s too dark, visibility has dropped to near nothing. And the swells that I could barely feel below deck at the center of the ship drop my gut out from under me as I enter the wheelhouse. Despite the cold and the rising wind and seas, Ernest and Russell look positively delighted to see me. By morning we’ll be on the outskirts of the town, Ernest says. Russell nods. He’s holding Ernest’s pipe. They’ve been celebrating. I think I see a bottle of liquor, but Ernest moves so he’s blocking the view. What is it Tanner? asks Russell, immediately losing his smile. He knows me too well.

I ask him what he knows about radiation. They both can tell the question has come out of left field and they want to know why I’m asking. I heard Dusty mention it, I pretend, something about how they used to get power in the old days. They either used big dams, or they used radiation. But he doesn’t know anything more about it. I thought maybe you remembered…

Russell knows I’m lying. Ernest doesn’t, and he starts to tell me a story about a place somewhere in Russia. Across the world. He says a funny word—Pripyat. An old story about a ghost town. It was the radiation that did it. He tells me all these details that don’t make sense. The only word I get is exposure. I know it all too well. And he says roentgen, and it has to do with the invisible exposure. He says you can’t see it. A silent killer. Russell sees the color draining from my face, but Ernest still hasn’t made the connection yet. He’s still buying my story—the random curiosity. Russell hands him his pipe back and tells him he needs to tell me something. Then he ushers me out into the ice rain. It stings and his words cut right through me with it. What the hell’s going on? he says. He can’t play around when we’re this close to Leadville, and I know I have to tell him. I explain everything I heard. The transmission that came through, the warning, not to go to Leadville. The radiation. Russell runs right past me, like I’m a ghost all of a sudden, right down the steps to the deck below. I chase after him.

When we enter the dry warmth, Voley and Dusty are sitting by the radio. The batteries are starting to go, Dusty says. They’re the last of them too. I know he’s not lying because he’s looked high and low for more, and even asked Ernest if there might be anymore stored somewhere. Ernest had said he didn’t think so, but that it didn’t matter because they’re no good for anything anyway. There’s nothing coming over the air. But I heard it.

Russell goes right up to the radio and says, Where did it go? Dusty looks up and says he hasn’t heard anything come back on. He’s decided to back me up, I can tell. Did you hear it too? he asks. Dusty looks at me for guidance and that’s enough for Russell. He knows it was only me who heard. We wait in painful static for another five minutes. Finally we hear footsteps coming down the stairs. It’s Ernest. He’s known all along. He was playing it cool. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows something is wrong. He looks at us, all huddled like addicts over the white noise. Well? he says. Someone going to give me a clue?

I tell him everything I told Russell. Maybe you were dreaming, says Russell. He’s reaching now. Part of him already believes me. I wasn’t, I say. And that’s all there is to it. I can’t say anything else. I have no evidence.

Ernest looks like he’s deep in thought. But then his face lights again. He’s come to some kind of conclusion. Clemmy ran charts on the power grids, all up and down the mountain zone stations. He worked on them for a long time. I bet he knows. Ernest disappears and in another minute he comes back with Clemmy. Clemmy’s already been partially filled in, and he has a straight-faced verdict for us.

No nuclear reactors in Colorado. That’s all he says. And he’s written me off that fast. I like Clemmy, but I want to smack him right now. Because now everyone’s written me off. That fast. There was one, he suddenly goes on. Called…and he stretches out into a long, paused thought. Finally he comes back with a name that sets off a bomb in my head. He says, Fort Saint—and before he finishes, I finish the sentence with him—Vrain.

How’d you know that? Russell says, seriously alarmed for the first time since I told him what I heard. I say it’s what they said on the radio. Impossible, Clemmy chimes in. It was decommissioned a long time ago. Taken apart, all the nuclear components cut apart and buried. Trust me, I used to work—and I can’t stand it so I cut him off. I just heard it. And it’s clear. It’s the word that he forgot. Was it New Fort Saint Vrain? I ask. Clemmy looks confused. Was new a part of the name of the power plant? I repeat. No, says Clemmy. Just Fort Saint Vrain. Everything stops dead.

How much spent fuel did they bury? asks Ernest. Clemmy thinks again, and then he says he has no idea. But could they have built a new plant? Russell asks, and he’s turned to Clemmy now too for answers. I don’t see how, not with the rain, he says. But I just checked the power grids on a computer. I don’t know anything about how the plants work. What’s going on? Someone going to tell me what the broadcast really said? Clemmy asks. Ernest repeats my story for him. Impossible, he says. I heard it, I say. And then, the radio crackles loudly. My spirit jumps because the white noise has disappeared, and it’s a clear line of static now, ready for a voice to come in. Only it doesn’t. Nothing comes. And instead, the radio dies completely. No more juice.

What if it was before the rain? I ask Russell. And only he gets what I mean at first. We’ve always thought of Leadville as Ernest’s Rainless Land. The place above the waterline where it doesn’t rain. No, Russell finally says. Can’t be. And I think about the legend, and if it had been true, and the city had existed for a time without rain, they might have built another power plant. Something with this radiation in it. Something that will kill us all. We have to turn back, I say. Russell looks away from me. It’s too much to ask. He loves me, and he knows I’m serious, but with every ounce of his being he’s denying me. He lets Ernest handle it for him. Even if that’s what you heard, it has to have come from someone, right? It can’t mean that we really can’t go there, Ernest says.

“It was a fucking loop,” I say. I tell them the voice repeated itself. I’m sure it did. I heard it start over. It was no one. A phantom. A recording, nothing more. Leftover. They’ve moved south, I say again, for the third time. That’s what the recording said. No one says anything. They don’t know what to say. It’s the most absurd possibility. The only exposure we have to deal with is the wet cold rain and the mindless face eaters. Anything beyond that is unfathomable to anyone. And not at the doorstep of salvation. Russell says all that in his glare, and he means to tell me he can’t let it go. Not when we’ve come this far. But he comes up with a compromise.

Then I’ll go in first. On the boat. Everyone else will stay back, Russell says. Ernest doesn’t reply. He’s seriously considering it. Clemmy speaks up. I’ll go with you, he says. I feel only partly relieved, because I don’t want it to be Russell. Send Clint, send Clemmy, send Ernest. Not you Russell. But I don’t say it. I’m frozen inside. Tortured. It’s like Russell said used to happen with the Gods. When you weren’t in their favor. They toyed with you. Like a game of chess. Bring you so close, every time, just to screw you in the end.

Dusty’s mom and dad pop into my head. I see their faces briefly. They didn’t deserve to die. And so this is the punishment. The invisible killer. Something we can’t fight back against, and we can’t even be smart enough to avoid. We’re magnetized to Leadville, its pull is way too strong. A giant swell rocks the boat, like we’ve fallen into a trough at a bad angle. Shit, Ernest says. He rushes back up to the wheelhouse. In a moment the ship is gliding up and down like normal again, but I hear a new sound. It’s the whining of the wind that cuts through the ropes above the deck.

There’s a gale coming in, says Clemmy. He follows after Ernest. Finally, alone with Russell, I work on him.

You can’t go, let him go, I say. I plead with him. And he doesn’t say no. He knows he can’t say no that fast. But he’s decided the answer is no. That was an old recording, Tanner. Maybe a hoax to keep the face eaters away. Trust me. We’ll check it out, and then we’ll be back. And we’ll all go in together. But something in me can’t let him. I grab him. Russell they said not to go there! Let’s go south! But the old trick, the one that saved Dusty’s life, doesn’t work twice. It’s me or Leadville in my mind, but to him, I’m just panicking. A scared little girl he’s known all her life. Everything’s going to be okay, I won’t let anything happen to you, he says. Then he looks at Dusty and says, Get that thing working again, you hear me? Whatever you have to do. Dusty nods, even though he knows it’s impossible without new batteries. He starts fiddling with it again anyway. Clint starts walking down the stairs.

“What’s going on?” he asks. The room falls silent again and Clint says that it’s Russell’s turn at the motor boat. And to be careful because the waves are coming in fast and hard now. Russell nods and leaves, checking me one more time, hoping I’ve calmed down. But I haven’t. It’s not me who needs protection. It’s him. He’s the one going in there. I begin a frantic search for more batteries.

Chapter 15

In my dreams I see the snow. It’s falling like angel tears, carpeting everything in white. I haven’t seen white in forever. I’ve only seen brown and sad and gray. But this place is pure. At peace.

But there’s something dark in the distance, eating up the sky. It’s spreading too fast. Like it’s going to consume everything. And now I notice that the sky, what’s being eaten, is actually skin. The dark storm rides high. And then everything in the sky becomes skin. It turns pale, pale white skin, matching the snow beneath it.

Part of me registers that I’ve never seen snow before. How am I seeing it now? And part of me realizes I’m asleep on the bunk, rocking with waves inside the hull of the Resilience. Then the sky transforms—it’s no longer white, and it’s no longer black. It’s red. Bubbling skin. And then the snow disappears. It’s transformed too. The sky is ripping open. Bursting. Great big sores rupturing. And the rain is back. Endless rain. But it’s red. Falling from the punctured flesh. There is no healing for this sky, something in my gut tells me. No antibiotics. No cure. Just endless invisible death. It falls on me until I can’t take it anymore—it’s too hot. Hotter than anything I’ve ever known. It suffocates me, the blood. And then there’s nothing left. The white comes back. The sky is blue. I’ve never seen a blue sky, I think. The blue is gorgeous.

When I finally nudge myself out of my nightmare, there’s a face above me. Blue. But it’s not the sky of my dreams. It’s the blue of someone’s eyes. Clint. He sees that I’m awake and he presses his hand over his mouth, signaling that I should be quiet. I kick my knee up, trying to pound it into his gut, but his body’s positioned so that his weight has me pinned down. I can’t move. Then his hand moves from his own mouth to cover mine because he sees I’m going to scream. I scream into his hand, but no sound escapes. And his other hand starts to work its way down my sweater. He’s pulling it up. And then my pants. I can think of nothing but the face eaters. The madness. I bite like I’m one of them. I taste his blood but he doesn’t even flinch. He’s got my pants down and he’s finding my underwear. I can’t stop him.

Where is everyone? I scream silently. My eyes catch the room for a moment and it’s dark and empty. Not even Voley is here.

I think for a moment this is all part of the nightmare, but I know it’s not. It’s something else entirely. It’s a waking nightmare. Quiet, he says softly, groping his way inside—I bite again. Just enough to get his hand off my mouth. And I let out the scream of my life. And then, in startled confusion, his hand slams down on my face again. White light, like the snow. I’m stunned. I wait in terror for someone to save me. But maybe he’s already killed everyone else. It’s just me and him on the ship now.

I hear footsteps. Someone has heard. Clint jumps off my bunk and looks to the stairwell. It’s Ernest. What’s going on? he asks, as if he only half heard the terror in my scream. Clint begins to explain, but Ernest has figured it out all on his own by looking at our faces. I’m afraid he’s in on it, and that he’s going to come in now too to finish me off. And together they’re going to steal the last bits of my soul. He walks up, but instead of going to me he grabs Clint and slams him against the wall. Clint goes to his pocket, like he’s after a weapon, but Ernest punches him squarely in the face.

Remember that you did this to yourself, says Ernest, as he stands over top of Clint. Clint is dazed, his hand feeling his crushed jaw. And then I hear another set of footsteps. I look over, through the dim light. Clint must have turned the stove down because it’s very dark, darker than it’s ever been below deck. But I see enough to know who it is.

Russell.

Ernest just walks away. Russell walks straight for Clint, glancing at me just for a moment to confirm his suspicion. He punches Clint in the face, and then again. I see blood running down from Clint’s eye. And then Russell yanks him to his feet and throws him at the stairs. Up! screams Russell. His foot nails into Clint’s back. Clint stumbles up the stairs. The only other thing I hear is a splash. And that’s it. I lie in terror, waiting for someone to come back to me.

Russell returns. I don’t want to talk about it, and he knows this. He just sits by my bed. Finally, after almost an hour, when I think he’s starting to fall asleep, I say something, just so I know he won’t fall asleep on me. Please don’t go there tomorrow, I say. He perks up just for a moment. He wipes the tear off my cheek in time to catch the next one coming from my other eye. It all starts to come out. Then he holds me tight and says nothing. We cling to each other. The last strips of the veneer.

When I wake up in the morning, Russell’s gone. Dusty and Voley are sitting by the side of my bed, both of them asleep. They’ve been keeping me company all night. I sit up, trying to make sense of everything that happened last night, but I’m so exhausted that I can’t. And I don’t want to.

Ernest suddenly appears at the top of the stairs. But something’s wrong because he disappears back up the moment he sees I’m awake and looking at him. I rush up out of bed, because I know he’s avoiding me, and didn’t mean for me to see him. I know what he’s hiding.

I accidentally kick Voley and he yelps as I jolt out of the bed. Sorry, I mutter, and Dusty’s awake. Tanner, he says softly. Tanner, he shouts again. But I’m gone. I run up the stairs and out into the blurry gray of daytime. Freezing razors slice me. The sea is furious. All around us are mountains. They’ve got us trapped in. More land than I’ve seen since I was little. And it’s just what I feared.

The motorboat is already gone, a disappearing dot heading out into the rain sea between two tables of mountain. Russell! I yell. I do it over and over until it hurts to breathe in the cold air. Ernest walks over to me but doesn’t say anything. Russell! I keep crying. He’s too far away to hear me.

The tears all come again. They’re warm at first but the wind strips them of that in an instant. Ernest stands by me for an eternity as I watch the boat disappear altogether. I hear Dusty and Voley coming up the steps behind me. Ernest finally says something.

They’ll be back before lunchtime.

But it’s strange. It’s the most sure thing I’ve ever known all my life. They won’t be back. And I’ll never see him again.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE SNOW

AUTHOR’S MESSAGE TO THE READER

Thanks for reading The Rain. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it, and that you check out my other stories. It would mean a great deal to me if you reviewed this story on Amazon. Reviews are the most important way indie authors like myself find readers. Sign up for the MAILING LIST to know when the next book comes out.

I write in horror, science-fiction, dystopian, and fantasy genres. Check out my ALL MY BOOKS.

Contact me @ joeturkot@gmail.com.

FACEBOOK / TWITTER

* * *

VIRULENT: THE RELEASE, Shelbi Wescott

Dystopia, by Shelbi Wescott

VIRULENT was born from a challenge.

After years of writing literary fiction and querying and meeting rejection after rejection, I hadn’t thought of delving into genre writing. Then I met Kevin. In many ways, Kevin saved me—he was the catalyst for a shift in the way I viewed story and the way I approached fiction.

Kevin was a struggling freshman with an attitude, a potty mouth, and litany of complaints against reading. He arrived to my class five years ago hating every book I tried to pitch him, and he was so vocal about his hatred that I almost gave up hope. We had just finished a post-apocalyptic book that I was certain he would love, but even that one fell short of his lofty expectations.

“That book was so bad,” Kevin told me. “I bet even you could write something better than this.” He meant it as a dig, but I took it at face value. I asked him to craft a list of his desires, and a year later, I had the first draft of VIRULENT sitting in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Prior to Kevin’s literary request, I had thought of myself as a reader of the dystopian genre, but not a writer of the dystopian genre. However, now that I have spent time in the speculative fiction world, I’m a convert. There is something thrilling about the creation of new worlds and engaging in the decimation of old worlds. Speculative fiction at its core draws readers into the depths of the human experience.

There is so much to explore about human nature and behavior, and that is what I love the most about dystopian literature. When I wrote VIRULENT, I wanted to start pre-dystopia and show how a dystopian society could develop, and I wanted it to feel like something that could happen tomorrow with no warning. The idea that we don’t know what tomorrow will bring is not a source of anxiety, but excitement when looked at through the lens of fiction. It gives us a blank slate to imagine any multitude of possibilities.

For speculative fiction writers, the plot may be dystopian, but the story is about the people. What started as an experiment for a student ended with a trilogy whose scope and sequence sets out to look into the heart of a holocaust and explore the humanity of the survivors. Thank you for reading.

Virulent: The Release

Shelbi Wescott

Copyright 2013 Shelbi Wescott

All rights reserved.

To Matthew:

My love, my support, my voice of reason and strength

To Elliott and Isaac:

Everything is for you

PROLOGUE
365 days before The Release

One thousand feet beneath the surface of the earth, two men stood on the edge of a dirt walkway. The generators around them hummed with vibrant energy, and the lights flickered in a syncopated beat. The rich smell of mineral-fresh dirt, mixed with the softer and foreign smells of clean plastic and cut lumber, filled their hearts with equal parts longing and anticipation. They exchanged a fleeting look before venturing further into their creation—stopping to peer over the handrails and the expanse of a white domed ceiling where sporadic ‘sun’roofs let the men sneak a peek at the hard-hatted workers below.

“Our face-time conference is in five,” the younger man said to the older man, and he checked the time on the tablet he kept tucked under his arm. He swiped a finger across the screen activating the device and typed in his password. “Ready to ascend?”

The older man took a long scan of the dome and nodded. Then he cupped his hand around the younger man’s shoulder and gave it three small congratulatory pats. “This is good, son,” he said. “This is very good.”

“It’s coming along,” the younger man answered and slid out from under the touch. “But my concern is not with the shelter. Come on, the call. We can’t miss the call,” he turned to the vertical lift, a metal box with exposed sides, and climbed aboard. He entered a secondary code, pushed a bright yellow button, and they rose—foot-by-foot—back up to the bright morning sunlight, which spilled over the yellow grass and porous dunes of the Sand Hills.

The two men stood together—not speaking. Beneath their feet, the younger man thought he felt the rumble of their generators, but he assumed he was imagining phantom vibrations. Everything was secured underground, meticulously hidden away from all detection and threats of discovery.

The tablet beeped with a chipper ding ding ding, and the young man answered without delay. “Hello, good morning,” he said to the man whose face materialized on the screen.

“Good morning,” the clean-shaven man with gray on his temples replied, delivering a perfunctory smile before reaching down to adjust his screen—his hand looming large in front of the camera, springing out at them then retreating. He sat at a desk, his white lab coat opened to expose a blue and green plaid shirt, a red Pilot pen stuck in the front pocket. “Calling in for confirmation meeting at an undisclosed location, employee code on your command.”

“Go ahead,” the younger man repeated with a glance backward.

“Seven Two Four Eight Three Zero.”

“Validated. Hello, Scott, hello. Sorry if you tried to catch us a second ago. We were touring the system and the service underground is lacking. By the time we reach the release date, however, we should be wired for all communication needs. Our best men are on it. The dome is coming along nicely. It’s an impressive work of art.”

“Sorry, art is not my area of expertise,” Scott replied, putting his hands up in mock surrender, then dropping them to the desk, a nervous laugh covering his failed joke. “No, no; I caught you on the first try.” Scott paused and then cleared his throat. “Well, I have good news this morning. We’ve made significant progress. I can brief you again at our next scheduled conference…to confirm…but as of this morning, control group six has responded successfully to the release.”

“That is wonderful news,” the older man answered.

“We’ve been pleased, yes. It appears that our initial projections were not far from reality.”

“Incubation period?”

Scott nodded and consulted a yellow legal pad in front of him. “Our observations seem to put it anywhere between twenty-four hours and six days. The average around thirty-six hours after exposure.”

“Any immunities?”

“None in the first six control studies, but it will be impossible to know for sure until we graduate to a more representative sampling.”

The younger man turned and stole a look before focusing back at the screen. “Does that mean we are ready to begin the next phase?”

Scott scratched at the corner of his eye. He blinked and nodded. “Yes. On your word, my team will begin to test the subjects your company has procured for our next stage.” Scott closed his eyes and sighed—the deep exhale of breath rushed against the microphone and was audible to the gentlemen. The younger man bristled and glanced backward to the older.

“Scott,” he said, his voice tight and terse, “I hope that sigh does not indicate that you are having second-thoughts about our work? Because you guaranteed me…” the man’s voice rose, but then he paused. Stopped. “Your work with us is invaluable. We never said this would be an easy road…but—”

Leaning closer to the screen, Scott waved his hand to silence the impending speech. “May I talk to your father please?”

The younger passed the tablet off, his arms crossing over his chest, his dark eyes storming.

“Hello, Scotty,” the older said.

“Huck. Good morning.”

“Are you for our cause?” Huck asked. “This is what I asked you when we met the first time and this is what I ask you now. Every other question is of no consequence to me. Are you for the cause?” He waited and the wind rustled the grass.

“I am,” was the reply.

“Then we are united in good. We are bound in blessing,” Huck said with a grandfatherly smile. “Now, do you have a concern to address?”

“None with my work…our work, I mean. I am only making sure that our agreement—as you move to the final stages—is still good. You see, as my job here becomes more,” Scott paused and searched for the appropriate word, “trying…I need validation that when the time comes we will be protected.”

Huck knit his brows. “I will ignore this question of my integrity, Scott. The worry that I would betray our agreement is alarming. I am a man of my word. Our agreement stands,” the man said with swift decision and handed the tablet back to his son without a formal goodbye.

“So, then. All set?” the younger asked to the man in the lab coat, his jaw tight.

“Yes, we will begin tomorrow morning with control group seven,” Scott said. “Conference in one week to go over results. Same time?”

“As always.”

The screen faded to black and the man tucked it under his arm. He turned to his father who faced the horizon with his eyes closed. “You are too generous, Dad,” he said. “It would be easy to dispose of him after his work with us is complete. Especially considering his tenuous grasp on the importance of our next few stages. You know he’s only concerned for himself. What good will that do us when we move into the dome?”

“He has earned his freedom.”

The younger snorted. “Freedom? Don’t be foolish.”

“If I thought you didn’t believe in our cause, I wouldn’t hesitate to end our partnership either,” Huck drew out every syllable. “But I know that is just my paranoia, right?”

“Please, Dad, I’m your biggest fan,” the son said without missing a beat and turned toward their waiting car, a sardonic smile spreading across his thin lips.

CHAPTER ONE
Release Day

Lucy King leaned her right hip against the side of Mrs. Johnston’s metal desk. She held her black and white composition notebook with both hands and re-read the signs and posters taped to the wall for the sixtieth time since September: Shakespeare’s ubiquitous portrait with scripted letters underneath proclaiming, “Lord, what fools these mortals be who don’t turn in their homework!“, and a picture in the shape of a dachshund—Groucho Marx’s famous inside-of-a-dog quote twisted along its insides.

Concrete poetry.

If you write a poem about a light bulb, you make the whole thing look like a light bulb.

Lucy might not have remembered the definition except Mrs. Johnston had crafted a giant red arrow pointing toward the dog and had written “Concrete Poetry!!!” with three exclamation marks. Loose-leaf notebook paper hung precariously next to the Marx quote; it was a gathering of student samples with poems about cats that in no way resembled cats and a horrible poem about rainbows written in alternating gel-pens. The names on the papers were from students who had graduated years ago. Whether Mrs. Johnston failed to take them down from laziness or true admiration was anyone’s guess.

A redheaded boy in a baseball hat and athletic shorts sat with Mrs. Johnston as she mumbled superlatives and then passed him back a notebook.

“So, let’s rewrite that topic sentence, AJ,” Mrs. Johnston said as the boy rose, stretched, and shuffled away. Then Lucy sank into the available chair and passed her own notebook to her teacher. Johnston didn’t even glance up at her as she poured over the pages, scratching them with red marks that looked like a star-circle crossbreed of a shape.

“Good, good,” her English teacher mumbled. A flourish. A star. A circle. A plus-sign. An ink blot where she had rested her pen while reading a passage. “Okay. Good. Thank you. Nice comments,” she said, and she handed the notebook back with a smile.

“Thank you,” Lucy replied, but she stayed seated. “Um, Mrs. Johnston…I was wondering if I could grab my work from you?”

For a moment, Mrs. Johnston looked confused and then she grimaced and clicked her tongue. “That’s right, that’s right. Mexico? No, wait…it was more obscure. Tahiti? Fiji?”

A flame crept up Lucy’s cheeks and she lowered her head. “Seychelles.”

Mrs. Johnston put up a single finger and pointed at Lucy as she pivoted on her ergonomic office chair; leaning over a pile of paper, she brought up a search engine on her computer. When the results materialized, she whistled low and loud, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t Fiji have been closer?” her teacher asked attempting a joke, but the result just made her sound bitter.

“My dad won it,” Lucy answered.

“How?” Mrs. Johnston asked, curious and hopeful.

“Through work.”

She wrinkled her nose and waved a hand around the classroom without comment then turned back to Lucy. “Two full weeks? Jeez. Maybe this job would be better if they sent us all away for tropical vacations during the winter break!” Mrs. Johnston said with a boisterous laugh and the students raised their lazy heads to glance at her before huddling down over their notebooks again.

Lucy nodded and picked a piece of lint off her jeans; she rolled it into a tight little ball and then tossed it to the ground.

“We’re starting this,” Mrs. Johnston said and procured a tattered paperback from a stack by her desk. Its spine was reinforced with yellow tape and Lucy took the book from her and idly flipped through the pages. Someone had left a series of lipstick kisses across the title page in various shades next to the declaration: Derrick Chan Forever.

“Fahrenheit 451.” Lucy ran her hand across the cover. The image was bizarre; a man made of pages from a book buried his head while flames licked at his limbs. The title sounded vaguely familiar and she wondered if the novel sat among her family’s bookshelves in her father’s study, tucked between his science textbooks and National Geographic magazines and her mother’s beloved hardback editions of stuffy 19th century British authors: Dickens, Austen, the tragic Brontes.

“A classic,” Mrs. Johnston launched, her trademarked pout spreading across her plump lips. The bottom lip made an appearance when a student demonstrated an act of disrespect or before her lectures about their poor performances on tests. Like a moody second-grader, she would jut her lip out in protest. Lucy prepared herself for a lecture by taking a deep breath and dropping her eyes to piles of paper on the desk. “And, frankly, while our lessons will be no contest with Seychelles…I really wish you could be there for them. It wouldn’t be fair to extend the amount of time you have on this unit because you’re leaving on vacation. I hope you understand.” She pulled two papers out from a pile by her desk and handed them to Lucy. “An essay. Due when you return.”

“Not a problem,” Lucy replied in a faux-chipper tone, a rote and mandatory response to each of her teachers who handled the news of her vacation with a mixture of jealousy and anger. Those who opted for straight admonition usually said something along the lines of, “Don’t your parents value education? There is a lot of learning that takes place in two weeks.” At which point, Lucy would feel the heat rise to her cheeks, her unavoidable blush making its embarrassing appearance, and she would say, without a hint of impertinence, “If you’re upset about the trip, please call my father. I understand that my absence is a hardship.” All teachers, with that line, would mumble surrender, handing her legitimate or bogus work, waving her away, wishing her well, encouraging her to have fun—despite their clear desire that she have as little fun as possible.

Lucy held Fahrenheit 451, the essay assignment tucked into the center pages, and rose from her seat. Another student slithered behind her to present his notebook for grading and Lucy scooted out of the way; she walked back to her seat in relative silence.

The bell was minutes away, but her classmates were actively shoving papers and pencils into backpacks and messenger bags and lining up outside the door decorated with a “What are you reading?” sign and a pocket-chart where students were supposed to write the names of books they would recommend to other classmates. Someone had recommended “your mom written by me” and another had just drawn a crude picture of a penis, but two students took the task seriously with favorable endorsements for Harry Potter and some book about teen pregnancy.

Lucy’s cell vibrated in her pocket and she glanced at the screen. Salem. Like clockwork. She answered it and held it to her ear, unafraid of reprimand.

Salem’s voice carried on mid-argument with someone in the hallway. “I said just put it in my locker! Lula? Lula? You there?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Lucy replied, answering to Salem’s nickname for her—an endearing take on the alliterative hell her parents saddled upon her at birth: Lucy Larkspur King. The Larkspur was generously hidden between two normal names, but she shivered to recall that the obscure moniker had almost been her first name. That was before her parents came to their senses and settled for something cute, simple, and normal.

“Meet me at our locker now,” Salem instructed and then ended the conversation. Lucy rolled her eyes at her own blind allegiance to Salem’s orders and elbowed her way to the front of Mrs. Johnston’s door, stopping long enough to remove the two offending reading suggestions and stuff them into her back pocket. It was a small gesture, but it was the right thing to do. Jealousy over the Seychelles notwithstanding, Mrs. Johnston was one of the good guys.

* *

Salem opened and shut her locker in an animated fury—her dark curls, placed in ringlets around her shoulders, moving with a small bounce. “I hate getting in the middle of dra-ma,” Salem lied. Drama found its way into Salem’s everyday existence. It wiggled there and nudged its way into any open space it found, creating nests and reproducing at an alarming rate. If it wasn’t Salem’s personal drama, then it was her magnetic attraction to the drama of others—breakups and hookups, infighting among social groups, who had a crush on which teacher, who had slept with a teacher, whose parents were getting divorced, who was flunking algebra. Inside Salem’s brain was a catalogue of crisis covering their classmates from kindergarten to the present.

She remembered that:

Haylee Hij peed her pants in the third grade during that field trip to the Aviation Museum and that was why Jordan Warner didn’t ask her to prom: Because when he thought about asking, all he could remember was sitting next to her on the way home and she was wearing athletic shorts that were three times too big and holding a freezer bag filled with her wet and pee-ripe clothes.

Or that Tristin James bought his then-girlfriend, Jackie, a golden bracelet that had “together forever” engraved on the inside. Then, post break-up it was Salem who noticed Cassidy Blaga wearing the same bracelet—jangling it with pride to her girlfriends during physics and swooning over Tristin’s unbridled commitment. And while she could’ve let it go, turned a blind-eye, and let teenage love run its course, it was Salem who tore a picture of Jackie and Tristin out of the yearbook, Jackie clad in her telltale bracelet, and sent it to Cassidy.

Salem knew about Craig Moss, all-American water polo player, and his secret Internet boyfriend, Pedro, for months before the rest of the school even began to whisper about the scandal.

If something bad happened to you, Salem Aguilar would find out.

If something good happened, she would know too. But she might not tell as many people about it.

“Explain,” Lucy commanded, shifting her black and white herringbone book bag up on her shoulder. She shoved her books into the open locker, her three-ring binder, and the mounds of work that would inevitably ruin her vacation.

“Grant Trotter.”

Lucy shook her head. The name didn’t mean anything to her.

“Oh, really? Tall. Blonde-ish. Pole-vaulter. Dated Bianca-dad-buys-everyone-beer-Nelson?” She paused for a second. “Anyway, he dumped Holly during their first date. Just told her that it wasn’t going to work and took her home. Right then and there. That’s like some serious movie crap right there. Who does he think he is?”

“A guy who knows what he wants?” Lucy replied, feeling her phone vibrate against her leg and ignoring it.

Salem stuck a bony finger into Lucy’s face. “Don’t get cheeky with me. That’s a major self-esteem deflater. She’s going to require so much coddling now just to get out of the house! Boys are so stupid. Lie. Right? Just lie like the rest of them? Hey, Holly, I’m totally into you. Kiss her. Then don’t call. Am I wrong here? Wait,” she hushed her voice and drew her mouth close to Lucy’s ear, her breath warming the side of Lucy’s face in short bursts, “that’s him. Look. Look.”

With a furtive glance, Lucy followed Salem’s line-of-sight and spotted the offender; leaning against a locker, his hair flopping to the side, haphazardly whisked away from his eyes and his hands shoved deep inside a Pacific Lake High School hooded sweatshirt, shoulders rounded as he slouched. His group of friends laughed at someone’s joke, but Grant only smirked, rolling his shoulders forward even more and eyeing the ground. When he glanced up, he looked straight to Salem, pulling his hand out halfway for a noncommittal wave.

And just like that, the war was over. Salem waved back and twirled a long curl between her ring and middle finger. “I guess he’s not so bad,” Salem declared. “Holly’s a total bore one-on-one anyway, and she does have that misshapen nostril.”

Lucy snorted. “What are you talking about?”

“Just wait. Next time you see her, check it out? It’s freakish.”

“You notice her nostrils?”

“Bike accident.” Salem shrugged as if this common knowledge disinterested her.

When Lucy turned back toward the group at the lockers, Grant was still looking in their direction.

She smiled. A crooked-tight-lipped smile and then cast her eyes toward a neighboring bulletin board, exercising an interested stare at the ripped motivational posters encouraging her to “Look to the future! Attend college!” with multi-racial friends all sharing a toothy laugh.

The bell rang. Lucy muttered a goodbye and kissed the air in Salem’s direction, then skipped and drifted to her next class.

* *

Halfway during Trigonometry, after Lucy had endured a short geography lesson with her Seychelles-ignorant math teacher and promised that she’d plug along through the four chapters of work, (even though she was certain that was more than they’d complete in her absence, especially considering Mr. Hegleton’s tedious review sessions and a tendency to dedicate entire class sessions to discussing Doctor Who) Ethan sent her an urgent text.

“In trouble. Ride home with Sal.”

A command. Not a suggestion. Ethan was a reliable ride home, so trouble was good for no one.

“Explain. Mom and Dad?” Lucy texted back.

“Anna.”

Lucy’s older brother Ethan had an evil girlfriend named Anna.

She may not have been the embodiment of evil, but vilifying her had morphed into a pastime that neither she nor Salem was willing to abandon. Ethan had graduated two years ago and instead of venturing to the University of Colorado where a handsome scholarship awaited him, he enrolled at Portland State and became a commuter student. He was eager to leave his part-time job and his once close-knit group of friends, but for some inexplicable reason, he was reluctant to leave his clingy, cloying, and altogether horrific high school girlfriend.

Anna, a senior, already acted like she was marrying into the King family.

She would say things like, “How are Mom and Dad?” which made Lucy’s stomach flip-flop.

And Anna was popular on the basis of merely being involved in everything. A random assessment of the school day would determine that she never attended an academic class. She made posters with the leadership class, delivered notes as an office aide, sang soprano in the choir, ran the fastest mile in gym class, and made key-chains in Exploratory Metals. One thing that Anna could not do, however, was basic math or construct a passable essay.

Things had taken a turn for the worst when Lucy showed up in the library during her peer tutor hours for National Honor Society and it was Anna who needed assistance. If she hadn’t hated her before, spending two hours trying to eke an intelligent thought out of her on the theme of Hamlet was enough to do the trick.

Lucy growled at her phone. A few heads snapped up to look at her and she ignored them. “Jerk,” she typed.

“Shut up,” he quickly shot back.

“Break. Up. With. The. Bitch,” Lucy suggested.

Ethan didn’t text back.

* *

“Thanks. Eternally,” Lucy said as she climbed into Salem’s decade-old Honda Civic. The interior smelled of stale French fries and vanilla body-spray; the passenger side floorboard was littered with half-full soda bottles that rolled around with each turn, hitting Lucy’s feet with soft thuds.

Salem pulled out of the school parking lot and traveled past the strip mall and the Lutheran church, up the hill, and into the row of tract homes where Lucy and the King brood lived.

“Have fun,” Salem said, as she pulled into the long driveway lined with well-groomed shrubbery. “I’m trying not to be jealous.”

“You should just own your jealousy,” Lucy suggested. “It’s healthier. Besides, I’d be hate-filled and moody if you were taking off for two weeks and leaving me to fend for myself in the trenches.”

“I’ll keep good notes on all major events.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“When you come back it will almost be Spring Break. Do you know what happens in April?” Salem asked with mock-excitement.

“It stops raining.”

“It never stops raining.”

“It will be our last full month of high school?”

Salem nodded, “Yes. That. Then May. And then prom. It will be our senior prom.”

Lucy groaned and reached for the handle. Dresses and corsages, awkward conversations with boys who needed remedial dating lessons from their mothers—the whole institution of prom was a frightening prospect, but at some point in her attempt to be a quality best friend, Lucy had agreed to attend with Salem. Sometimes she would lie awake at night already regretting the evening.

Salem’s phone broke out into a pop ballad about feeling trapped in love. It was the ringtone she selected for her mother. She held her finger up to deter Lucy from sneaking away and answered the call.

“Hello Mom,” she said. In the quiet of the car, Lucy could hear a shrill and riled voice; Mrs. Aguilar barked on the other end of the line with indecipherable syllables of anger and grief. Salem looked confused, then worried, but soon she erupted into full shock—her mouth a slack O—she gasped and bit her lip. “Ay Dios mio.” She shook her head. “Mom. Wait. Mom. Are you sure?”

Lucy leaned in, concerned for her friend. “What?” she whispered. “What?” But Salem turned her face to the driver’s window; she kept her back to her friend, and it was then when Lucy noticed that Salem was shaking. Small tremors rippled down her back and her hand couldn’t keep the phone steady. Fear and concern overwhelmed Lucy. Instinctively, she placed a comforting hand on Salem, waiting for the conversation to end. Lucy was self-aware enough to know she was ill-equipped to traverse the delicate minutiae of other people’s grief. Something big was happening with Salem, and she sat there like an awkward lump, already hoping that there would be appropriate words to say.

“I’ll be right there. Mom. Mo-m. I’ll be right there,” Salem finally got a word in. She hung up the phone and dropped it into her empty cup-holder. Her eyes were wet when she turned to Lucy.

“Sal,” Lucy started. “What’s wrong? I’m so sorry. What’s wrong?” She heard her own voice waver and she took a deep breath to steady it.

“It’s Bogie,” Salem replied. Lucy let out a slow breath. Bogie was the Aguilar family dog; he was a Rottweiler beagle mix whom Lucy had known since he was a puppy. Bogart was a prized possession, a member of the family. He was young and healthy and every night he slept curled up at Salem’s feet. Salem loved that dog more than anything, and Lucy searched for perfect words of comfort while gearing up for tragic news.

“Oh. Sal. Please…don’t tell me…”

“My mom came home and found him…just gone.”

“Missing?” Lucy held her breath, hoping that maybe he’d just gone exploring, he’d return. Catastrophe averted. Histrionics unnecessary.

Salem let out a small sob. “No Lucy…gone. Gone. Like, dead. Just in the middle of the kitchen floor, like he was asleep. But he wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving. My mom looked around, thought maybe he had eaten something bad for him.”

“And?”

“Lucy, I don’t know. I don’t know!” She stared at her friend wide-eyed and frantic. “I mean…what’s happening? What is this? Some cruel joke?”

“I’m so sorry,” was all Lucy knew to say, and she reached out again to put a hand on Salem, but Salem pulled away.

“No! You don’t get it! Listen to me. They just are all gone. All of them.”

There was a pause and Lucy stopped. She gathered her hands into her lap and wrapped them in a ball; dread formed in her stomach, uneasiness replaced pity. “What do you mean?”

“My mom called the vet, but the line was busy, so she went over to our neighbor’s house. She was distraught, right? And our neighbor opened the door just sobbing.”

The car fell quiet. Outside a motorcycle roared passed. Its engine grew louder and then faded away.

Salem turned to Lucy. “All the dogs, Lucy. All the dogs are dead.”

CHAPTER TWO
24-hours after the Release

Matriarch Mama Maxine King was short and stocky with wide hips and a helmet of full-bodied brunette hair. Her home was run with military precision; mixed with equal parts tenderness, unabashed sarcasm, and a healthy dose of profanity (usually directed at people on the television, rarely her kids, but sometimes her kids). Her kids’ ages spanned fourteen years with Ethan at twenty to Lucy, the second-oldest at seventeen, followed by Galen at thirteen, and the twins Monroe and Malcolm at ten. The baby, Harper, was six years old.

Strangers liked to ask Maxine, in grocery lines or at restaurants, about the size of her family, usually to offer sainthood or astonishment disguised as praise. Maxine would smile and say, “After you’re outnumbered it doesn’t really matter how many kids you have. And I certainly don’t deserve an award for having a well-used uterus.” It was her oft-repeated line to strangers that made each kid groan with embarrassment not only because they never wanted to hear their mother say the word uterus, but also because they wished she would come up with a different joke.

But while Mama Maxine, as friends of the King kids affectionately called her, handled her six children with tough-love lectures, peppered with facetiousness, she was also the picture of equanimity. And love. Mama Maxine loved each child who entered her home as her own, prompting scores of Pacific Lake teenagers to declare an unyielding allegiance to the woman.

Lucy had handled the news of the nationwide dog crisis with panic. What had been deemed a “Targeted Dog Massacre” by local reporters, the televisions networks exacerbated the story even further, which catapulted the craziness to the Internet, which led to conspiracy theorists pontificating about doomsday scenarios. For dinner that night, her mother put a moratorium on discussion about the dead dogs—angrily shooting an evil eye at any child daring enough to mention the atrocities in front of Harper.

And when Lucy was caught texting and messaging Salem into the wee hours of the morning, comforting her weepy and inconsolable friend, Maxine made a surprise visit and threatened to confiscate the phone. Even through her agitation and worry, Lucy allowed her body to sleep and dream about lounging on white sandy beaches and working on her tan.

She awoke to the rambling of her mother’s to-do list as her mother stood by the foot of her bed, pulling her comforter off her body and exposing her skin to the cold house.

“I need your carry-on bag and your monogrammed tote in the hall in twenty minutes. Hair-brushed, breakfast eaten, schoolwork packed. Limo arrives in an hour to take us to the airport and I will not be delayed. Lucy Larkspur King, I swear to the Lord Almighty that I will leave you behind. Do you hear me? I let you sleep in beyond all reason. Now get your bony ass out of this bed and into gear. Come child. Chop, chop.”

Then she was off, her feet clomping down their carpeted hallway like a whole herd of mothers, off to rouse her next child with empty threats of abandonment.

Lucy rubbed sleep out of her eyes and swung her feet down to the floor. She leaned over and grabbed her phone—as per her morning ritual—checking for late-night missed texts from Salem, but there was nothing new from her friend.

But a second-glance at her feed made Lucy gasp. Tragedy abounded. The dogs, and now other beloved pets, were falling to some mysterious illness, and someone’s grandma had passed on during the night too while a few others complained of an impending flu. Several people linked to an article about the animal deaths and someone suggested contaminated drinking water was the cause. The feed was a veritable plethora of honest-to-God sadness and bandwagon melodramas.

She heard her mom walking back in her direction and Lucy darted out into the hallway, phone in-hand, and tripped over the line of luggage—set up like soldiers marching off to war.

“Mom,” Lucy said and brandished her phone like a weapon. “Have you heard about all of this? Now they say that someone poisoned our water. The water! Mom, someone thinks that people are going to die from this! Like…actual humans now? Mom! This is serious.”

Maxine put her hand on Lucy’s phone and pushed it down toward the floor. “I already talked to your dad. He says there’s nothing to worry about. If we needed to worry, he’d know Lucy.”

“He’s not here?” Lucy gripped her phone tighter. His absence made her anxious—her father was a masterful voice of reason, a beacon of calm. He never used profanity.

“He’s meeting us at the airport. Some meeting he couldn’t get out of.” Maxine made an attempt to scoot around Lucy, but she remained rooted, legs outstretched, hands across her chest. “Fifty-minutes Lucy. Fifty-minutes.”

“Mom,” Lucy repeated. She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Mom.” Then just, “I’m scared.”

For a brief second, she thought she saw her mother’s own fear flicker across her face, but then her mom smiled and leaned in, kissed her on the forehead, and moved her out of the way. “Look, maybe some sicko poisoned all the pets. And I hope they catch him, or her, and throw them into the far reaches of hell…but when it comes to disasters, I trust your father. By the time we land in paradise, we won’t be thinking about any of this fear mongering. I haven’t had a vacation in six years…six years! So. Get.” She swatted her hand against Lucy’s backside and with a nod took off grabbing one suitcase with her.

Lucy watched her mom walk out of sight and then ducked back into her room and shut the door; she dialed her father’s phone without thinking. She needed to talk to him, needed to hear the reassurance herself. It rang and rang before her dad finally picked up.

“Morning sweetie,” her dad said as he picked up the phone. Before Harper arrived, Lucy was the only girl in a house of smelly, fighting, dirt-loving boys. Her father doted on her, but he never called her princess, never made her feel like she was special just because she was a girl; he always said awkward things like, “Hey, darling, I just wanted to let you know that I’m so proud of you for your eighty-six percent in math class. You’re trying so hard.” It was like he read a chapter in a parenting book about raising strong, self-confident daughters and followed it to the letter. It would have been more helpful if he had read a book on how to deal with painfully self-aware and awkward daughters with moderate ambitions.

“Dad? Have you seen the news? Mom is all on some Seychelles-inspired happy-juice, but Dad…Dad. This is ridiculous. Are we actually just going to pretend that this isn’t happening? Did someone poison the dogs, Dad?” She took a breath.

“Lucy—”

“Does that mean that someone poisoned all the animals?”

“Please, Lucy—”

“It’s a big deal, Dad. And why aren’t we talking about it? And why did you have to work today? Didn’t your job give you this vacation as a reward? Can’t they let you actually have the day your vacation starts off from work?” She flopped herself back down on the edge of her bed and bounced her knee in agitation.

“It’s okay to be worried, sweetheart,” her father’s calm voice said back to her. “I think the news is worrisome. But you are not in danger. I am giving you my word. And, as an added bonus, reason number fifty-two why I’m glad we don’t have pets.” He chuckled, but then trailed-off. “Darling, I’m sorry. But I don’t know what you want me to do. You have a limo to the airport in a bit. Focus on that for me.”

“Can’t a poison that hurts animals also hurt people?”

Lucy’s dad drew in a quick breath and then let out a sigh. “Yes. It’s very possible.”

“Then how can you say—”

“My sweet girl,” her father was quiet for a beat. “I don’t know anything that could help you here and I have to go. I do. I have a plane to catch too. Okay? See you at the airport. Vacation of a lifetime. Right?”

She grumbled into the phone a defeated growl. “Fine. The rest of the world will be in shambles,” she glanced down again at her phone and scrolled through some new articles, “with some new strain of flu virus? The news is saying that…Dad?” There was no answer.

Then he said, “Lucy. Make sure you get in the limo so you don’t miss the plane. Go help your mom with the little ones. Turn your phone off. Start daydreaming of scuba diving. I’m hanging up. I love you.”

Lucy waited for a long moment to see if he had really hung up—but she heard the distinct click and saw the flash of their call time. He was not a dad well suited for her panic and worry; Lucy knew that if there was reason to worry, her father would tell her in calm, well-managed tones. She pushed the fear aside and grudgingly rose to her feet.

Out in the hallway, Ethan nudged her on his way to the bathroom. She turned on him. “Have you seen the news this morning?”

He yawned. “Yes,” he answered.

“Aren’t you worried?”

“No,” was all Ethan replied before shutting the door with a deliberate slam.

Paranoia was a trait that Lucy had inherited from her deceased grandmother. When she was alive, her mother would always sit the two of them together at the dinner table—co-conspirators in a world where every stranger is a serial killer and mild-joint pain is incurable cancer. Her grandmother would whisper things to her, a mouth full of mashed potatoes, spittle dribbling on to her neon flowered shirt. “Your father is a spy,” and then with furtive glances, “I think someone is poisoning my food.”

Everyone else treated grandma like a senile pet, but Lucy loved to hear about the bears that sneaked through her apartment at night and delivered the poison for the “agents” and how her husband, a grandfather that Lucy never met, was the actual inventor of the microwave and that the government stole his plans and set “that Percy Spencer up as a puppet.” When Lucy repeated the story, her father rolled his eyes. “My father did not invent the microwave. He had no knowledge of radar technology. I respect that Grandma wants to idolize him, but my dad was a mediocre scientist at best.”

Grandpa King’s lifelong goal was to prove the existence of time travel, but Grandma King said he failed. “A life’s work down the drain,” she would sigh. “I know because if he had figured it out, wouldn’t he have come back to visit me? I could go for a visit with a younger man right about now.” Then Lucy would blush and motion that Grandma was wearing a piece of fruit on her chin, which the old lady would brush to the floor and then say with disdain, “If your parents had a dog, they wouldn’t need a vacuum.”

When Grandma died peacefully in her sleep one night, Lucy mumbled something about wanting to inscribe on her tombstone: “Poisoned by bears.” But the rest of the family was vehemently against the idea and Lucy was outvoted.

As Lucy dressed for the day, she channeled Grandma’s obsession with conspiracy. Her heart tightened in her chest as she pondered the worldwide implications of a petless world. It seemed like an unfortunate time to board a plane. She wished she could comfort Salem and offer some semblance of a rational explanation, but none came to her. There was nothing she could say that would explain the tragedy. Nothing she could say to stop what had already happened.

With great reluctance, she began to pack her carry-on—a gift from her mom for Christmas one year. In the embroidered bag, she tossed in some books and her writing journal. But when she went to her backpack to retrieve her mountains of class work, she found a math book and nothing else.

With dread, Lucy tore through her room. But her homework was nowhere in sight. “Idiot,” Lucy mumbled and slapped her forehead. A locker drop before last period and then the distracting text from Ethan had resulted in her leaving two weeks worth of homework at school. Granted none of it actually mattered; but that was not the point—if one of her teachers had asked her to say the alphabet backwards while performing an interpretive dance, Mama Maxine would make sure it was completed before any fun was had.

This oversight would not go over well.

From downstairs, Maxine blew a whistle. It was a rape whistle that she had acquired while taking a community self-defense class; Maxine wore it around her neck for protection in public and as a parenting tool; the shrill peal was a non-negotiable call to her side. Some of her friends mocked the whistle, but no one could deny its effectiveness. Lucy tromped down the steps, depositing her half-empty bag on the landing with a pout.

Maxine paced in front of her children, as they lined up, leaning, slouching—each possessing varying degrees of excitement about their travel day. She carried a clipboard mod-podged with scrapbook paper. Some craft site on the Internet had turned their mother into a maniac, especially when she had access to hot-glue and an entire bookshelf dedicated to scrapbooking paper. She tapped a purple pen against her personalized travel list—printed freshly that morning, adorned with a stick figure version of their family in the top left corner.

“Anti-nausea pill time,” she announced and pulled a white bottle out of her pocket. “Hands out.” Then she tossed them all a Sesame Street juice box, watching with an eagle eye as each child gulped and choked down the bright orange pills. “Tongues out,” she demanded and then nodded. “Fantastic.”

Her father had stressed repeatedly that the vaccines and pills for the trip were important and that they would be facilitated without complaint. “No child is coming home with typhoid or yellow fever. God forbid you get bitten by some rabies infected wild boar,” their mother had added. Monroe and Malcolm took great interest in the promise of wild boars on the islands.

In general, their father’s disdain for illness of any kind had become a family joke. Maxine was the cleaner of vomit, the giver of medicine, the filler of humidifiers in the middle of the night. Their father worked on the effects of communicable diseases on living tissue—and his work had created a monster; he would visibly bristle at people who coughed and sneezed in public; he refused to shake hands and he applied hand-sanitizer by the buckets. Even though he could bring up disgusting tales of gelatinous tissue in jars and oozing boils growing on lab rats at the dinner table, one mention of a sore throat and he would raise a crucifix at you and back away in fear.

Maxine checked off the first item on her list and continued. “Let’s do a carry-on check.”

Ethan flipped his phone open, glowered at the screen, and with flying thumbs sent off a text and shoved it back into his pocket.

“Anna?” Lucy whispered in a mocking tone as their mom started with the younger kids, rifling through their bags and suggesting additions while tossing out a wayward pirate hat and Monroe’s Ziplock bag full of mismatched Legos.

Ethan rolled his eyes in response.

“You should just dump her,” Lucy said. “Then go hook up with an island girl without regret.”

He turned to his sister, seeking solidarity. “She’s threatening to break up with me because she thinks I had time to show up to the school today to say goodbye but chose not to.”

“Has she never met Mom? Ridiculous.”

On cue, Maxine was in front of Lucy, bending down for her bag. “Thirty hours, Lucy. We won’t land in the Seychelles for thirty hours. We’re staying overnight in Dubai tonight. And all you want to bring is two books and a notebook? Wait. Wait. Where’s your homework?”

Lucy grimaced. She had noticed. In less than ten seconds.

Maxine’s eyes flashed. “Oh…don’t even tell me.”

“It was an accident. I was sidetracked. Animals were dying Mom.”

Her mother ignored the last part and raised her purple pen to Lucy’s chest. “This was a condition of the trip…a condition I made with your teachers, with your dad,” her voice began to rise. “I said to each of them that you would arrive back to school with your work completed, not in a state-of-completion. Com-plee-ted.” She glanced at her watch and swore loudly. “Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes Lucy until our limo to the airport arrives.” She glanced at Ethan and then turned back to Lucy, the wheels visibly churning. She swore again, then sighed, defeated and agitated.

“I can take her,” Ethan offered, keys already in his hands. “Five minutes there. Five minutes to her locker. Five minutes home. I won’t even shut off the car. We’ll be back with time to spare.”

Without hesitation, Maxine pointed to the door, as if it were the offer she was hoping for—the saving grace. “Fifteen minutes or I’ll kill a kitten for every minute you’re late.”

Lucy paused, “A worthy threat if all the kittens weren’t already dead.”

“Are kittens dead now too? I haven’t been paying attention because I have been getting ready for a trip. I will kill something. Be sure of it.”

“We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” Ethan added.

Maxine’s eyes narrowed. “You will be back in fifteen minutes or will wish you were dead. So help me God.”

Like a flash the two oldest King children flew out of the house—speeding down the road with manic intensity, focused on their goal and their timeframe, and fully unaware that the world was collapsing all around them.

CHAPTER THREE

Ethan pulled his refurbished 1962 Ford Fairlane up through a small gravel driveway hidden between the Pacific Lake High School’s football field and the metal shop. The car bounced along, navigating the narrow stretch—the main building of the school extending out in all its beige and brown glory.

They were headed to their secret entrance—a forgotten door hidden behind overgrown trees and shrubs that led to a small staircase that opened up to a supply closet next to the defunct swimming pool. Since the pool had been closed down years ago due to budget cuts and the doors only locked from the outside, it was the perfect way to sneak into the building after the doors had been locked after the first period tone.

Their campus was a closed campus. The main entrance and two sets of double doors leading to a turnaround stayed open during the day with a security guard watching as students and visitors filed through metal detectors. It seemed like an unnecessary precaution for a school on the outskirts of Portland without a history of violence, but somehow it made the parents feel safer. After a gun-related shooting down in rural Oregon, panicky parents lobbied for hyper-vigilance. Within one year they ousted the mild-mannered, mopey, and much maligned principal and replaced him with a fast-speaking, bright and shiny wizard of Pacific Lake; he was quick with a dazzling smile and had a never ending bag-of-tricks. Principal Spencer was tall and thin with a perpetually trimmed buzz-cut, five hundred dollar suits, and perfected glower. He seemed to loathe teenagers and treated them with the exact same annoyance reserved for houseflies.

With Spencer came a high-tech camera system and intricate new security policy and a heavy duty key system that made getting in and out of the high school a challenge only James Bond could conquer.

Ethan’s promise that Lucy would be “in and out” in five minutes was hindered by the closed-campus, the small army of security personnel whose main priorities were to enforce it, and that Anna had texted that “some sort of weirdness is going down today” after Ethan told her that she had exactly five minutes to be outside at the secret entrance or she would miss her opportunity for a goodbye.

If Lucy was caught roaming the halls without a note, she’d be relegated to In-School Suspension. Security was trained to ignore teenagers’ myriad excuses; so running into a security guard would be the end of getting back on time and pacifying Mama Maxine. Eventually, the school would realize their error and set her free, but that mistake was not allotted for in the timeframe. Lucy wished that all the subterfuge and deceit wasn’t just for collecting homework because it felt like a giant waste of energy.

The Fairlane rolled to a stop and Anna materialized from the side of the school. Wind blew her tangled bleach-blonde hair around her shoulders. She walked toward the passenger-side door, her arms crossed against her body, her eyes red. Lucy looked at Ethan, but he looked away, entreating her to leave without mocking him. Where Anna was concerned, Ethan was temperamental and touchy; always so defensive and irritable.

“Five minutes,” Ethan reminded her.

Lucy opened the door and crawled out, grabbed her brother’s black backpack to transport her work and left the door ajar for Anna, who slithered beside the door without saying a word.

“Morning, Anna,” Lucy said to her as she walked away, impressed with her own civility.

“It’s crazy in there,” Anna replied without turning around.

Lucy pivoted and opened her mouth to ask how, but Ethan motioned her away. “Go! I’m leaving in five minutes if you’re back or not. It wouldn’t be fair for Mom to have to kill two children in one day.” Anna mustered a weak smile before climbing into the car beside Ethan and shutting the door, a mopey argument ensuing before Lucy was even out of earshot.

Slipping in through a small patchwork of shrubbery, Lucy walked with purpose and determination toward the door—which had been tagged some time ago with bright neon green spray-paint. She tugged on the handle and the door pulled open, leading to a damp, dark stairwell. A dim light guided her forward; the handrails were sticky with used gum wads and crushed soda cans were abandoned in the corners—the smell of mildew, dirt, and urine permeated the air.

When she pushed on the door leading to the supply closet, the door opened and then crashed back into her shoulder; she groaned. Someone had placed the old pool cover against the door. She aligned her shoulder, grabbed the handle, and pushed with all her strength—the metal cart rolled inch by inch with each well-placed body-slam. Lucy squeezed her body through the opening she had created and then, because she couldn’t get back out that way anyway, shoved the pool cover back against the door. Then for good measure, she toppled some dusty chairs down too. She let her imagination play out what would happen when Anna tried to get back into the school after her rendezvous with Ethan—the daydream ended with Anna sporting a bruised shoulder while seething in In-School Suspension.

It made the unfortunate events of the morning seem a little less ominous.

While Lucy navigated the supply and the pool, she grabbed her phone. Four minutes. And still no texts from Salem. Even in mourning, Salem would make an attempt to connect. Salem allowed herself to feel no emotion unless it could be experienced with someone else. Where was she and why was she silent? No lamentations, no messages with excessive capitalization and punctuation. No farewell wishes or “Bon voyage!” or “Bring me back a necklace!”

With her eyes on her phone, Lucy checked her feed.

She stopped walking because she was unable to process what she was seeing and move forward at the same time.

All over the country, people were sending and posting alarming updates. In just thirty-minutes everything had gone from sad and speculative to real and nightmarish. A sickness was spreading. Hospitals couldn’t handle the intakes of the ailing who were arriving at steady-intervals. Someone who worked in an ER posted a photo of a crowded hallway, the caption reading: “Busy day. Damn this flu.” So-and-so had heard that 9-1-1 was jammed. A friend who went to another school updated her status to read: RIP Aunt Rosemary.

Lucy’s phone buzzed and she almost shrieked, juggling the device before checking her text. It was Ethan: “Anna says teachers were reporting they were going into lockdown. Get. Out. Homework not worth it. Mom will deal.”

Lockdown.

They had done a lockdown drill during the first week of school.

It meant there was an immediate threat to the student body within, or around, the school. All students would be held in classrooms until the lockdown was lifted. Lucy took a step forward around the empty cement cavern; she could see from her vantage point the long stretch of hallway dedicated to the science department. The lights were dimmed. The entire place was clear of movement. If she could get straight down the hallway, closer to the English classrooms, she would be able to get to her locker and exit out the double-doors that opened toward the senior parking lot.

The high school was built as a giant rectangle. Students could start walking in one direction and the school would eventually lead them back to their starting point—classrooms lined the inside and outside of the rectangle. There were small hallways off the ends leading to the pool and the library on the opposite side. The science hallway ran at one end and directly down from the main office; the other end of the hallway passed by the gym, the cafeteria, the counseling center, and eventually the social studies hallway. Then came the English and math hallways. At her present location, she could not be further from her locker, but at least her exit would be close.

“Go to senior lot. By double-doors,” she texted to her brother and then opened the door from the pool, aware of the clunking echo of the metal swinging open. For good measure she added a text: “I can do this.”

She had never heard the school so quiet. On her tiptoes, she crept forward, moving at a fast enough pace to make it to her brother on time, but slow enough to watch for a patrolling guard or a teacher on-watch. But after fifteen feet, Lucy realized that the classrooms were abandoned. The lights were turned off; the desks were empty. She pressed her face against the glass of one room; there were discarded backpacks scattered on desktops and on the floor—books and papers without owners, a solitary shoe, coats still hanging on the backs of chairs. Students had been asked to leave in a hurry.

She shivered.

The clock showed that it was partway through first period. With great trepidation, Lucy moved forward, inch by inch, stepping along the white tiled flooring, her feet tapping along, the only sound in earshot.

Down the hall, Lucy heard the distinct crackle of a walkie-talkie. She pushed her body into a small opening between a locker and a drinking fountain and held her breath. Her phone vibrated in her hand. In the absence of all other noise, the vibrating seemed loud and commanding while drawing attention to her hiding space. She pushed the ignore button with her thumb and closed her eyes.

There had to be rational explanations. Students and teachers were frightened by the news and had been called to an emergency assembly. Perhaps the grief over pets and sick loved ones had impeded any valuable learning and the students were ushered into an impromptu counseling session. During Lucy’s freshman year, a senior football player was killed in a car accident. The administration canceled every class and held a series of honorary assemblies and meetings with counselors—they even held a vigil out by the flagpole.

Occam’s Razor.

Her father taught her that.

The simplest explanation was usually correct.

They were under lockdown out of fear, not necessity. The students were at an assembly, perhaps to alleviate or control the rising worries. The pets were dead because someone had poisoned them. People were not in danger.

Her father had told her: She was not in danger.

Back on her feed, all the doomsday prophets were broadcasting their end of the world theories as a full-fledged assault. Several of her feed items were calls to faith in the midst of judgment day. If Lucy believed in evangelical Christianity, she would have guessed her classmates had been spirited away through rapture. But Lucy shook her head and scowled—she may not be perfect, but she had a hard time believing that God would leave her behind and take the entirety of Pacific Lake High School instead.

This was ridiculous. The overreacting. The fear.

“Bears are not trying to poison me,” she thought to herself. “Bears are not trying to poison me.”

There was no way that any of this amounted to anything remotely exciting. She just needed her damn homework so she could go on vacation with her family. For a moment, she thought of just walking with confidence down toward her locker, and if a guard stopped her, she would just say with calm precision, “My ride to the airport is waiting outside. I just need my Ray Bradbury book and I’ll be on my way.”

The walkie-talkie crackled again, but it was moving away from her. Further down the hall it traveled. A man’s voice, some security guard, sounded an “All Clear” for the science and main hallways. The talking turned a corner, toward the cafeteria, and away from her.

Two minutes.

With a deep breath, Lucy hesitated. Then, without thought, she sprinted, running as fast as her legs would carry her, shoes slapping heavily on the tile. She closed her eyes and ran; straight by lockers and classrooms, past the front of the building and the main office, they were all a blur as she sped down the wide stretch of hallway.

Then, she rounded the corner toward the English hall. Within eyesight of her locker, she slowed her pace, her heart beating with rapid thumps against her chest, blood pounding in her ears. Then her body flew forward. Pain shot up her legs and arms as she hit the tile with a crash, knocking the air out of her body. She landed on her elbows and knees and slid forward several feet before stopping. Her head caught the metal of a locker—a burning pain traveled from the top of her ear and all the way down her neck.

After a few moments, Lucy collected her composure and took in a giant gulp of air. She hoisted herself into a sitting position and then turned to see what had caused her fall.

And that was when she saw the body.

Crumpled in a heap, like someone dropped a wet rag on the floor and left it there.

She scooched herself backward, her feet slipping against the tile, until she felt her back hit the hardness of the lockers. It was a boy, his face turned in her direction, his eyes open and staring past her; one eye, one-solitary eye, was filled with blood, the blackness of the pupil still peeking through the bright red. It was a freshman she didn’t recognize.

One minute.

Lucy stood up, viscerally aware of how her knees wobbled together. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest; pulsating outward all the way to her fingertips. As if walking on a small ledge, she high-stepped along the row of lockers, until she reached her own and only then did she turn around, her hands shaking as she spun the lock.

Nine.

Twenty-six.

Seventeen.

There was a dead boy in the hall.

A dead boy in the hall.

Someone left a dead boy in the hallway.

And yet she was still fully fixated on her homework and getting the hell out of there.

She couldn’t shake the boy’s image as she pulled up and opened the locker with a click. Lucy grabbed her big purple binder that was covered in Salem’s doodles, political cartoons, and a photo of her family stuck on one side and a picture of her holding Harper on the other. She dropped the binder into the backpack and then grabbed her copy of Fahrenheit 451, sliding it into the bag and zipping it up. Only then did she realize she had been holding her breath and she let it in one giant hot gush. Voices down the hall snapped her to attention. Men’s voices, conversational, but hushed.

Time was up.

The voices were gaining on her.

No more than thirty feet away were the doors leading outside. Lucy could hear the distant sounds of sirens traveling up the street. Ethan was out there, waiting for her, and her mother and her family were at home. They had a plane to catch. This couldn’t be happening; she had a plane to catch.

Lucy struggled to wrap her mind around the evidence—the lack of students, the dead classmate. The lockdown. Her fear was intense; Lucy gnawed on her bottom lip until she tasted blood.

Her time was up.

The voices approached. To run to the door now would risk exposure. To wait would risk abandonment. She ducked into the closest classroom, grabbed the handle and shut the door without making a noise. Then she reached for her phone. It blinked with three unread messages. Amidst the panic she had not felt the phone pulsating in her pocket.

The first was a cryptic message from her mother:

“Not what we expected. Please come home. Please come home. NOW.”

The second was from Ethan:

“Mom needs me. She called. She was frantic. Bawling. Screaming. Going home. Taking Anna. We will come back for you. Sit tight.”

The third was from Salem:

“My family is dead. They’re all dead. It’s the end of the world.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Lucy collapsed against the door.

She closed her eyes and listened as the footsteps reached her and then passed her without incident.

When she opened her eyes, she cried out and then flung her hand over her mouth.

Splayed outward in the center of the classroom was another body. A man. His green Levis crept up to his mid-calf, exposing pink and gray argyle socks. The acidic smell of vomit wafted from his direction. Dried blood pooled on the floor, it had trickled down from the twisted mouth, opened wide as if in protest. His skin was yellow and waxy, and his eyes glassed over with a thin film, giving them the appearance of having cataracts.

Lucy knew that she was looking at Mr. North: Senior English teacher, recently married, advisor to the chess club. He was young and funny and impeccably dressed—a combination that added up to an adoring fan club of bright-eyed girls. She turned her head and then she saw the other bodies. A girl, head on her desk and a boy right next to her. And more. Six people altogether.

Some looked like they had sat down and fallen asleep, but others were a twisted mess of limbs and clothing.

She shook her head. A scream caught in her throat.

Lucy dialed her house number on her phone and hit send, but the phone beeped angrily at her. She dialed again. It beeped. Her screen flashed an angry All Circuits Busy message. Busy. Busy. Busy.

Lucy stuck the phone in her pocket and stood up; she gathered up her white shirt and pulled it over her nose and mouth—the futility of this act was not lost on her, but Lucy didn’t know what else to do. She pushed her anxiety away and focused as best she could. Was this related to the dogs? What was happening? Would this happen to her? Had it happened to her family? Where was Ethan? Would he really come back? The questions flooded her brain, and ran in a loop, like a clip playing without stop.

Staying in the room with the dead was not an option, and it was not a fear of the bodies, but a fear of what killed them. Lucy peered out into the hallway and discovering it quiet, left the room with her bag hoisted up on her shoulder. She rounded the corner toward the social studies hall and froze.

Scattered up and down the long hallway were more dead students.

Like the ones before, many of these victims had thrown-up prior to collapsing. They bled from their eyes, noses, and mouths; under the bright florescent lights of the high school, their skin took on a green tint. For the first time, Lucy noticed that one boy was covered in hives. The sickness did not bother her, but the smell was overpowering. While Lucy was certain from her biology classes that decomposition wouldn’t begin for hours or days, these bodies already seemed to bloat and smell like decay. Frozen in the hallway, she watched one boy, eight or ten feet away, and waited to see the subtle movement of his chest—waited to see his breathing resume.

This is what she did during movies after key characters died. She ignored all other dialogue and just watched and waited to see if she could spot the imperceptible movement of life. A short breath or small twitch. Most of the time, the camera cut away before she could see it, but sometimes she was rewarded with the slight rise and fall of an actor’s chest. Then she would clap her hands and jump the scene backward, watching again, pointing out the subtle movement to anyone around.

It was a reminder that this death was not final.

But the boy in the hallway didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He didn’t sit up and laugh and wipe away the blood—corn syrup and food coloring—from his mouth and ask if that was it for the day. This was real.

Her mother’s text haunted her.

In some way, she was comforted by being at the school and staring at this lifeless body of a stranger, instead of facing the grim reality that someone at home had fallen ill after she and Ethan ran off.

Where were all the living people? Where were her friends and teachers? Why was the school achingly quiet? When would Ethan come back for her? Her nagging questions changed direction. She now had one singular focus: Wait for Ethan.

“No one can see me,” she muttered to herself. “No one can know I’m here.” Her hand shook as she raised it to her face to wipe away a flyaway strand of dirty-blonde hair.

Lucy glanced inside the small rectangular window of a door to a social studies classroom and found it void of bodies and movement. She stepped inside and pushed the closest desk against the door, then another, barricading herself from the multitude of unknown threats with nothing more than cheap furniture. World maps covered the walls, stuck into the thin cardboard walls with multi-colored tacks; a globe had been knocked from its perch on a front table—it had broken open and rolled a few feet and a large cavernous gash extended from the Atlantic Ocean and cut down into South America. Lucy kicked it to the side. Then she climbed up onto a table and tore down an American flag hanging uselessly next to the clock. Using masking tape, she affixed the flag over the small window—blocking the view from the outside. Security on patrol wouldn’t spot her easily and that was comforting.

On the inside of the door, the teacher put up an old World War 2 propaganda poster. “He’s Watching You” it read, with a shady man peering out under his helmet. Lucy turned away from the figure’s militant stare.

The large canvas blinds had already been drawn over the large windows, per lockdown instructions. While everything inside of her wanted to peek out and catch a glimpse of the parking lot, Lucy worried that even the slight rustle of a curtain would give away her position. So, she steered clear. With the lights off, the room was dark. Heat funneled through large vents above her, creating a warm, womblike atmosphere, which made Lucy feel claustrophobic.

Creeping on her tiptoes, Lucy reached her hand up and flipped on the television in the corner. She pressed her pointer-finger on the volume button instantly, lowering it to just barely above mute.

Then she stumbled backward and watched the images flood the screen.

The emergency broadcast system ran below—a ticker of bright red, following by instructions. Stay inside your house. Threat origin unknown. Do not drink water from the tap. Avoid all fruits and vegetables. Avoid contact with infected people. Stay away from populated cities. This is not a test. Stay inside your house.

Above the warnings, a young woman sat behind an anchor desk; her hair pulled up into a sloppy pony-tail; thick black glasses pushed up to the bridge of her nose; she was wearing a college sweatshirt, a coffee stain in the shape of the state of Florida above her right breast.

“I’m getting word…” the girl said tentatively. She squinted her eyes—they darted back and forth as she tried to read the teleprompter, her lips curling around letters she hadn’t yet said. “That…” she leaned forward, adjusting her glasses, “the…center for disease control…is linking these attacks to several sources.”

Attacks.

“There is no…clear indication…of how the…vi—vi—virus,” she stopped and sighed. Then she glanced off camera, her eyes pleading.

“I can’t do this, I’m sorry.” She started to tear at the microphone hooked on her sweatshirt. From the left, a man with a headset appeared, shaking his head and trying to get her to stay in her seat. But the young woman pushed herself past him and left him alone on the set. He turned toward the camera, his eyes wide. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Someone shouted something indecipherable; the man inched his way behind the desk and sat down, fumbled with the abandoned microphone, and pinned it on his own shirt. He then smiled a non-smile; his lips pulled upward, but his eyes were frantic.

“Sorry ladies and gentleman about that. We’re experiencing some difficulties in studio. That was our sound design intern Jennifer. I am Tim…managing editor of KPSV news. Forgive our scattered delivery. We are trying to get everything to you as fast as we know it, but our communication is spotty. If you are just joining us, we can tell you, that many regions of our world today are experiencing great loss of life at the hands of a deadly, fast-acting, virus.”

Lucy took a giant step away from the television. She lifted herself upon a desk, her legs swinging over the edge, and watched as the screen bathed her in a blue and green tint.

“We are posting your updates and pictures now…if you can, keep sending them in. Our audience is our…are our…men and women in the field today.” Tim gulped, the microphone picking up on the sound of his swallow.

Then the screen went blank for a long, agonizing, second, and an electronic hum replaced the frenetic voice of the newscaster. The silence was jarring, but Lucy didn’t move; she remained planted on the desk, sitting on her hands, her legs twitching.

An image popped up. A familiar man. A nightly news anchor from some East Coast station—he was in his seventies with two hamsteresque eyebrows and a bad comb-over. Studio lights cast a yellow pallor over his face, and he wiped his brow while the sweat beads dripped down the side of his face. He addressed the camera, his voice strong and steady, and the familiar tone of it put Lucy at ease. In a world falling apart, here was something she knew and something recognizable she could cling to.

“Good morning,” he said. “It is with a heavy heart that I address our nation today. The news is grave beyond these walls.”

From outside the school, Lucy heard the unmistakable blast of a shotgun. She jumped, her heart pushing out painfully against her ribcage. She reminded herself to breathe and sucked in a shaky breath. She checked her phone. No new texts. She pushed her call log and tried to dial, but her phone would not relent to her request.

The anchorman continued.

“It appears our nation is under attack. Details, at this time, are few and far between. And we do not present this information to you to frighten you and your loved ones, but to express the importance of binding ourselves together to fight this unknown enemy.”

A scream. A siren wail. From the street outside, a crash of glass breaking, tires squealing. Then nothing. An eerie disquiet followed. Lucy glued her eyes to the man talking to her, just her, from the box on the wall. A country away, he sat and addressed her fear. His authority comforted her and she was happy that he had answers. She felt a hot tear roll down her cheek.

“It appears that over twenty-four hours ago, our water systems and the very air we breathe was contaminated. By what, we don’t know. By whom is only conjecture. While the sickness claimed its victims, nations began to place blame. It appears that some of the loss of life today is based on retaliation from our political enemies as well as the initial biological threat. But to be honest, viewers…” The man dipped his head. Lucy saw his grief in the wrinkles around his eyes, the quivering of his chin. And then his heavy brows lifted and sank, but he continued.

“We are a nation at war with several enemies. The bioterrorism is our first threat. The government is asking that you stay inside. Do not leave your house. If you find yourself away from home and need shelter, then schools and churches are our sanctuaries. Find one. Stay there. Our…”

Thunk. Thunk. Lucy jumped. Someone was pushing against the door and sliding her carefully positioned tables forward. The flag came unfettered from the tape and drifted downward and an angry face from one of the school’s security guards peered through the glass, his eyes darting around the room—landing on the television before finally locking on Lucy. She dropped off the desk and rushed to the window, throwing wide the curtain, before realizing that these windows would never grant her an escape. But her eyes caught a glimpse of the world outside for one brief moment. It was long enough to see a tower of smoke billowing into the sky, and even the clouds looked yellow and green and hazy. This vantage point had her looking across the football field where a storm of people gathered huddled in masses, their tiny bodies approaching the school like a death-march.

The security guard gained access to the room and he placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her toward him. She stumbled into his grasp and felt her hopes of reuniting with her brother slipping away from her.

On the screen, images from around the nation and around the world surfaced in a slideshow. Nurses in biohazard gear treating the sick, a man slumped over a steering wheel in the middle of traffic, the wreckage of a downed plane, and a young mother carrying a small bundle out of her house, agony written on every angle of her face.

Lucy looked away.

How had so much happened in such a short amount of time?

The man caught a glimpse of the TV too, and his face collapsed a bit, softening in all the right places, before he toughened himself, shook the image from his mind, and tightened his hold on her. “All students in the auditorium. We’re in lockdown,” he stated.

“I just got here,” Lucy said.

“School is secure. Has been since ten minutes into first period. So, no way, darlin’. Come on,” he pushed her forward, pulling a walkie-talkie from his waistband. “McGuire here. Got a hider in Havs old room.”

It took a moment before someone radioed back. “Is she symptomatic?”

The guard looked her over. His finger rested on the button. “You feel sick?” he asked Lucy. “Feverish? Nauseated?”

She contemplated a snide reply, but then thought better of it. She shook her head.

“If you start to feel achy or if you start to get a headache or blurred vision,” he continued rattling off a list of ailments associated with the flu, while Lucy dropped her eyes to the floor. He led her into the hallway, maneuvering past the fallen, “You tell someone immediately. Understand?”

“Are people contagious?” she asked when he was done instructing her about what to expect upon entering the school’s self-imposed quarantine. She stepped in something wet and slimy; she refused to look down and tried to drag her soiled shoe along the floor to wipe it clean.

The guard shrugged.

Together they walked past a small alcove and Lucy turned her head. The doors and windows leading to the outside were covered in long strips of bulletin board paper. The guard followed her gaze.

“It’s part of the lockout procedures,” he offered. “Cover all windows and doors.”

“The news said that schools were a sanctuary,” Lucy said. Aware of her own impertinence, she blushed.

“Not this one.”

She felt tightness in her legs, and she kept her head low, looking at the ground. The guard’s walkie-talkie came to life with a booming distinct voice, a man she recognized as Friendly Kent, a tall man, with extreme biceps and a closet full of V-necked sweaters. He was the administrator in charge of student discipline, but his nickname was derived from the fact that Kent couldn’t, and didn’t, really enforce anything—excuses and sob-stories were laid at his feet and Kent ate them up greedily, walking students back to the same class they were just kicked out of and telling frustrated teachers to “give the kid a break.”

“Pablo Vasquez was hiding in the staff lounge,” Friendly Kent crackled through.

“Not a chance. Checked it twice,” Lucy’s guard answered.

“In the ceiling,” was Kent’s reply. “Fell through a piece of sheetrock tile trying to move himself to the edge.”

Lucy’s guard chuckled. The sound of his small amusement at a student’s legitimate fear and panic was grotesque to her.

They approached the cafeteria and she noticed all the lights were off and the long windows along the courtyard were also covered out and blackened. The second-period bell rang out into the empty hallways. It was a sound that normally signified chaos and excitement, inciting masses of students scurrying from one end of the school to another with sounds, squeals, yells, and shoes hitting the floor with clacks and squeaks. But now there was nothing. No laughter, no eagerness. No sounds but the two of them walking down the hall in isolation.

Lucy followed in silence past another row of covered windows. Shadows approached the paper and moved carefully along the outside wall like rows of zombies in old horror movies, sniffing and nudging for a way inside, aware of the warm bodies within. Lucy wanted to rush to the paper and pull it free, but the guard edged his way between her and the windows, as if he read her mind.

They rounded the corner past the gym and finally, after opening and closing two sets of double doors, closed upon the auditorium.

Friendly Kent came into view, escorting a sullen Pablo Vasquez, who was covered from head to toe in chalky sheetrock, and he reached the doors to the auditorium before them. He swung them open and sounds and smells poured outward—a roar of energy, hushed, intense—with voices lifting in anger and worry.

And then the meaty aroma of teenage stink burped toward them. Lucy turned her head away. She could almost taste the hormones and the racing fear. Then the doors crashed closed and everything was gone. It was like the opening of Pandora’s Box: Allowing the evils of that room to tease them for a moment before being contained back inside.

Lucy took a step backward, unaware that she was shaking her head.

Her guard pushed her forward, her feet tripping slightly on the outdated red and blue checkered carpet.

“Go in here. Find a place to sit. Don’t be a problem,” he commanded, switching tactics and grabbing her hand.

Lucy stole her hand back and shook her shoulders away from him as he reached back toward her shifting body. “Please don’t touch me,” she whispered. In her own mind, she had made the command with power and aggression—her words dripped with the vitriol rising within her. But instead she had sounded meek and unsure. “I’ll go in by myself,” she added, hoping to ease the temper she saw flare up in the guard’s eyes—a flash that dared her to run, dared her to defy him.

She reached forward and grabbed the door, the smell and the sound bursting forth a second time. And with a deep breath she walked into the darkened auditorium. Even with the lights on full-blast, the whole room was dim and the corners and walls lined with shadows. The stage was in a state of half-construction for the play Into the Woods. The pieces of buildings were flat on the floor while a mural of a dark forest with black twisty trees rising up to a yellow moon was nearly complete. The trees kept reaching backward into a dark unknown. Lucy resisted the urge to climb up on the stage and crawl her way into that forest. Even though it was black and uninviting and full of the unknown, it seemed safer than being forced to congregate with her peers.

All around her, people gathered in various levels of distress. Many students sat, staring straight ahead in the stadium seating with phones lighting up their faces. Another group sat huddled in a semi-circle, hugging and crying into each other. Lucy watched a girl with a long streak of red in her hair stroke the head of a boy bawling in her lap; she shushed him and rocked back and forth, her eyes closed tight.

Many students cried out, but most sat in stoic silence, waiting and waiting for someone to tell them what to do. In the back of the room, several teachers stood around the glow of a television. The old newscaster was still talking, his face drawn in a perpetual frown. The crowd spoke intensely, like a wave rolling from the back to the front, and Lucy just stood, planted firm, eyes wandering for a familiar face. She was desperate to see Salem.

But Salem wasn’t there.

Stepping away from the doors and up the first aisle, Lucy meandered. She looked at every face and tried to find a friendly one among them. There was a girl from science class, a boy she used to know in elementary school, a boy in her math class, a girl in yearbook. This one was in band. That one was a cheerleader. She used to talk to those three girls her freshman year at lunchtime—during the year that Salem’s family moved themselves to Texas and she found herself bereft of friendship—but they had all fallen out of touch. Lucy chose to distance herself from the crowd of “fakers,” as she labeled them, brilliantly loyal to your face and the quickest to sell you out to anyone who would listen. Lucy responded to their hurt by eating lunch in her math teacher’s room for two whole months, before, she assumed, that teacher tattled on her and Ethan came and rescued her by dragging her off to eat with his upperclassmen friends. Her entire freshman year was marred with navigating the murky waters of varying degrees of social ostracism. Then Salem’s family decided that they hated Texas and they found their way back to Portland. A move that Lucy credited with saving her life.

Lucy made eye contact with one of her former friends on accident, and as if she had conveyed some social cue that she needed to talk, the girl lurched forward from her seat, stumbling over the back of the chair in front of her.

“Lucy!” the girl screamed and then wrapped her arms around Lucy’s shoulders.

She had forgotten the first girl’s name. Under different circumstances she might have remembered, but her brain was a mess, a total fog. The name slipped away before she could grab ahold. It was Kylee. Or Keeley. Kyra. Kiyah. There it was just hiding in the back of her brain, pushed to the side and momentarily irretrievable. “I am so glad you’re here. I’m so glad to see you. I’m so glad you’re okay.” The other girls stood up from their seats and wandered over, their heads nodding in agreement, eyes wide.

“We saw you walk in. What happened? Were you hiding?”

“I got to school late,” Lucy mumbled and then tried to extricate herself from them by walking backward. She stumbled on a backpack without an owner.

The girls exchanged glances.

“You weren’t locked out?” one whispered conspiratorially. Maddy or Molly, McKenzie. Michaela.

“Found an open door near the cafeteria,” she lied. It was a silly lie. Who cared now about the secret passageway in the pool? Who cared about any of it?

“Wow,” one girl said.

“Unlucky, I guess,” said another. “Been better if you never got inside.”

Everyone paused and then sighed in unison.

“But it’s chaos outside too,” Lucy replied. “Maybe we really are safer here.” She regretted it as soon as it left her mouth because it aligned her with their common enemy—the girls turned on her; all but baring their teeth under throaty growls.

“We’re hostages,” one of the Kylees said.

“They have us locked in this room.”

“My parents must be worried sick, I just want to get home.”

“It’s awful. This is against our rights,” the maybe-McKenzie seethed and glared down at Lucy. “We still have rights.”

Lucy didn’t want to disagree with them, but she didn’t know if she agreed. She didn’t entirely disagree though. Confusion overwhelmed her. But she nodded anyway, mumbling something about just wanting her parents, which sent the trio into a blubbering mess. The middle girl, short, with a sleek dark bob and peacock inspired eye shadow, buried her head into Lucy’s arm, staining her shirt with a thin streak of snot and tears.

“I’ll be right back,” Lucy said, pulling herself away.

She noticed Mrs. Johnston in the back, her arms crossed over her shirt. She was shaking her head at the television and wiping away tears. Briefly, she conversed with an older male teacher, and he leaned a protective arm around her and she collapsed against him. Then, as if she knew she was being watched, the English teacher turned and spotted Lucy.

Lucy took three giant steps toward her teacher, and for the first time since setting foot in the school she began to feel untethered. She watched Mrs. Johnston’s shoulders shake with the heaviness of silent sobs, her legs trembling under her. This adult was falling apart. Her whole face was swollen and puffy from crying; her eyes, normally outlined in the perfect balance of liner and mascara, were now bare, giving her face a thinner, paler look. Lucy almost looked away, as if she had caught Mrs. Johnston naked.

Mrs. Johnston stared at Lucy with a lost expression. She didn’t smile warmly or beckon her closer. Instead, she just lifted her hands from her chest and dropped them to her side, letting her arms dangle next to the pockets of her jeans.

And only then did Lucy notice that Mrs. Johnston’s entire shirt was soaked with dark, dried, streaks of someone else’s blood.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Oh my goodness,” Lucy said and she walked forward toward her English teacher. But before she could maneuver herself closer, a burly Health teacher, still wearing a whistle around his stump-like neck, swooped forward with his hands out.

“No students in this area. Back to your row please,” the man said, swollen with self-importance.

With no energy to protest, Lucy turned on her heels and turned her back to Mrs. Johnston, who probably had no memory that Lucy wasn’t even supposed to be at school at all. Pulling her phone from her pocket, Lucy had no new messages. The time broadcast itself in large block numbers at the top of her screen. Their initial domestic flight to the East Coast would be in the air within the hour. Lucy entertained the notion in the back of her mind that sunny island weather and fruity drinks in coconut cups were in her future. She clung to those images as a last thread of hope that anything familiar could be salvaged. Halfway down the aisle, Lucy found a clearing of seats and wedged her way to the middle of the row, plopping herself down.

Lucy watched as their principal Spencer took the stage. He sauntered forward, leading with his forehead, one hand shoved into the pocket of his pants, the other one holding a wireless microphone. A pimply theater tech student assumed command of the follow spotlight and flooded the stage with a bright white light. The principal blinked into the orb and then blew into the mouthpiece of the microphone, a whoosh of sound shrieked across the seats. Like sheep, those standing, chatting, and crying filed into empty rows, all eager to hear the news, to hear the plan.

There wasn’t an ounce of compassion on their leader’s face as he stared down at them with flat eyes, gnawing on the inside of his right cheek.

“Sit down,” he commanded, his mouth close to the microphone. “Find a seat and sit down.” He pointed to the group of sobbing and cuddling kids near the front rows, so engaged in their own dialoguing that they had ignored his initial call to disband. “Get up and sit in a seat. You have sixty-seconds,” he barked at them. When it was clear they had tuned him out, he motioned angrily toward the school’s Resource Officer, a city of Portland policeman, his cop uniform bright and clean and his badge shiny.

The officer nodded and with quick precision, stalked forward and grabbed the closest boy to him by his back collar and tossed him backward like a ragdoll. Then he began to pull each of the students apart by force, throwing them toward seats, stepping around their huddled masses without regard for toes and fingers or long-braided hair. Only then did the kids begin to migrate toward the red cushioned seats, nursing their sore arms where the officer unceremoniously pulled them to their feet. A young girl began to wail and a boy, who had seconds earlier been cradling her, hushed her.

“Shut up,” their fearless leader hissed, his voice echoing up the aisles.

No one dared to breathe. The officer crossed his arms and glared back out at the students, now huddled like potato bugs against armrests and seatbacks, all curled up into balls of arms and legs and messy hair.

Principal Spencer cleared his throat into the microphone. His speech started in a soft voice, and despite the microphone, some auditorium congregants leaned in to hear. While he spoke, he paced up and down the length of the stage. The follow spot moved with him, bouncing slightly and catching the dust particles floating like snow across the auditorium.

“You will follow orders. You will follow orders the first time we ask. There is no room for argument, for disagreement. There is no protocol for this and we are not writing futile referrals. We cannot simply call your parents to take you home,” he said with disgust instead of empathy. “In order to function, we will operate with absolute obedience. And understand that the decisions I am making on behalf of the student body and the staff is for our mutual benefit. Whether or not you agree is a non-issue. My goal is protecting the people in this building.” He paused.

Someone raised a shaky hand, but Spencer didn’t notice.

Then a teacher called from the back, Lucy thought the same power tripping man with the whistle: “No questions.”

And the student lowered the hand with resignation.

Spencer continued. “As you are aware, lockdown is in effect. We will open the outside doors for no one. No one out. Absolutely no one in. Am I clear?” he asked rhetorically.

Pockets of protest erupted around the auditorium, but teachers began to move toward the noise—silencing people and demanding attention.

“The major threat is outside these walls. Until we know more, I will not needlessly endanger you,” he said.

“Himself,” a boy behind Lucy said in a quiet non-whisper. “He will not needlessly endanger himself.

Lucy turned and saw Grant Trotter sitting behind her; his sandy blonde hair a mess of tangles, with bangs falling into his eyes. He half-smiled at Lucy—the facial equivalent of a shrug. And she acknowledged him with a nod and a sad smile-like response.

As Spencer droned on about expectations and rule following during this “fragile moment in our lives,” Grant’s body fell forward and his head hit against the back of the seat where Lucy was sitting. She could feel the pressure against her back, the bump of flesh hitting plastic. She turned again, her arms going rubbery, as she braced herself for the worst. She peered down at him and resisted the urge to reach out and grab his shoulder while she looked intently for the rise and fall of breath.

“Hey,” she whispered, leaning toward him, but still keeping her distance. “Hey…are you okay?”

Grant’s head snapped up, his eyes red, bloodshot, but his cheeks pink. He smiled an actual smile, one small dimple forming in the center of his cheek. “That’s sweet,” he said to her. “You thought I died.”

“Yes,” Lucy replied. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it like it’s strange that I would think that.” She blushed out of embarrassment.

“I feel fine,” he said. Then he shook his head. “No. I don’t. I don’t feel fine. But I feel alive. Very much alive.”

Lucy wondered if she felt alive. Certainly she could feel her heart, her heavy limbs; her head ached right behind her eyes and her stomach growled. She exhibited all the signs of a living human being, but something wasn’t right. Were the crying kids in the corner more alive than she was? Because Lucy couldn’t bring herself to sob or yell—instead, she felt lost, trapped in perpetual murkiness. Fear hovered just below the surface, but it hadn’t created a stronghold yet, hadn’t clawed its way in and nested itself among the hunger and the hope.

“I guess I don’t feel alive,” she said. “I don’t feel real.” Lucy didn’t even know if that made sense, and after saying it out loud, she felt foolish. Grant didn’t respond, only looked at her with his dark brown eyes in an assessing way.

She turned away from his gaze.

“Numb,” he answered to the back of her head. “You feel numb.”

Lucy couldn’t even bring herself to nod.

Two rows in front of her, a boy leaned in to kiss his girlfriend on the cheek. A sudden sloppy decision, uncoordinated, and initially unnoticed. The girlfriend turned to him as he leaned in and then screamed loudly, a mixture of complete alarm and blind disgust as blood rolled down his cheeks. Dripping from the corners of his eyes, like a stream of tears, staining his shirt with growing circles of crimson. Even under the dull auditorium lights, Lucy could tell his skin was fading from pink to a pale, grass-stain green.

“I’m just…I’m a little queasy,” Lucy heard him mumble to the girl as she scrambled away, her head turning in every direction.

“Help him! Help him!” The girl shouted, scooting backward as he reached for her, on his knees now, stuck between the chair and the row in front of him, cupping his hands around his mouth and heaving into them. Her squealing interrupted Principal Spencer’s continuous droning about the consequences of insubordination.

It was the first time she had seen someone fall victim to the virus, and the instantaneous nature of this silent killer filled her with such dread that she buried her face in her hands—pleading with herself not to look. How could it work like that? One minute he was fine, just a teenage boy sitting next to his girlfriend, hoping, even among death and destruction, for a kiss, a sign of unwavering affection. And the next minute he was sucking for air, losing control of his bodily functions, spilling blood in pools like ink stains on the carpeted floor.

Teachers flew in from the corners and launched themselves over seats and into the row. Each one donned rubber gloves, pulling them from pockets and snapping them on in haste. They approached him with speed, but without worry. They would go to him, lean him back, exit others away from his body, but their faces told the truth they couldn’t say aloud: This boy is gone. There is nothing we can do for him.

This had been their entire morning, and this student was just one of many. Already they had adjusted, adapted, and molded themselves into their new roles. Earlier their focus might have been mitosis-labs and Steinbeck-essays, parent-emails, and Special-Ed-meetings, but now they were body-collectors and lockout-supervisors. How easy it all became the new normal.

“Let’s move him back,” a large math teacher told the others, his belly exposed, bursting through bulging buttons. After some maneuvering around the row, a male teacher and a male counselor grabbed the lifeless boy and paraded down the aisle. Lucy only then noticed that someone in that madness had been generous enough to close his eyes. Or maybe he had closed his eyes in the end—she could only guess as she had kept her own eyes trained away from the boy in his final moments. Working together, the adults hoisted the body on the stage, and then carried him off behind the set. It was as if it were all a giant play and the boy was an actor, the charade nothing more than directions in a script.

“Where are they taking him?” Lucy asked to Grant, not bothering to turn around, just leaning her head back.

“They’ve been taking everyone to the dressing rooms, I think,” he replied. “Confining the bodies for the uprising.”

Lucy swiftly turned. “What?”

“Zombies? When everyone comes back as zombies?”

“This can’t possibly be a joke to you. Is this a joke to you?” Lucy asked. “That boy died. I just watched that boy die!”

Grant ran his right hand through his hair, mussing it up near the crown. “First time you’ve watched someone…” he made a face as he trailed off. “Yeah, well, you’ll get used to it. Watching it all morning will make you…what did we say? Numb. Right.”

Lucy bit her lip. “This morning I was at home.” She wanted to explain, but the thought of her mom—her frantic, unexplained text—and of Harper with her lopsided pigtails, her brothers and their own unique smells and smiles, was too much and she couldn’t go on. There was no place she would rather be than with her family. She couldn’t bear the thought of them suffering. In her mind, everyone was still packing for the trip and her mother was still pacing with her clipboard, irate at Lucy’s thoughtless tardiness. Ethan was furtively kissing Anna goodbye while Galen argued that his lucky-never-been-washed Beatles sweatshirt had a place among the lavender infused suitcases. The twins were off to run reconnaissance for each other while sneaking the plane snacks.

This is how they were right now.

At her house.

Safely supported in a bubble protecting them from the chaos she heard—the gunshots, the loud crashes, and foundation rocking, earth shattering booms. Whatever was happening outside of this school was not happening at her house because it could not be any other way. It just simply could not.

“I wasn’t trying to joke,” he replied with a sigh. “I’m well-versed in zombies. It starts with some unknown sickness that wipes out the population and ends with the walking dead.” He paused, waiting for Lucy to chime in. She just looked at him, softened, but incredulous. “I’ve been watching everyone at school fall all morning,” he told her, leaning closer, eager to share. “Spanish class, first period. Mary…Mary?” he paused, waiting to see if Lucy knew the name.

“Bishop? I know her.”

“We were watching the news. Just glued to the news, right? Senora Cochran was just sobbing and we were all just…sitting there…and Mary gets up and says she doesn’t feel so good and can she go to the bathroom.” Grant pauses and closes his eyes. “I’d never seen anyone die before. Before that moment, you know? It was so fast. We didn’t even get up out of our seats. We thought she had fainted. Or that she was just being stupid and dramatic. Some people actually laughed. At first. They laughed at first.”

Lucy didn’t know what to say. She looked down to the back of the seat. “I’m really scared,” she admitted.

While it could have seemed like a non-sequitur comment, Grant didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I’m terrified too.”

The body-collection team reappeared empty-handed, and Spencer demanded the attention back as he tried to calm the escalating conversations through the microphone.

“You will be escorted by a teacher into their classroom,” Principal Spencer said. “You will not be allowed to leave the classroom until we have a better understanding of what we’re facing or until we have support from local law enforcement.” Groups began to talk with rushed anxiety. “Remain seated until a teacher comes to collect you.”

Voices of dissent carried through the auditorium.

“Remain seated!” Spencer instructed again straight into the microphone.

But the panic was escalating. A teacher made his way up on the stage and whispered into Spencer’s ear and as he did, a boy, a tenth grader, slipped up onto the stage and crawled over to him. It was clear to everyone that the boy was ill. He vomited near the edge of the stage, but despite the fact that the virus was taking hold, he kept trying to work his way to Spencer. By the time the student had reached the principal’s pant leg, he was already starting to shake.

Lucy could hear Spencer scream to get the boy away from him.

“Remove him. He’s infected! Remove him now!” came the screams, increasing in intensity as the child moved closer to death. But the boy didn’t relent. He kept a grip on Spencer’s pants, keeping the principal rooted to the ground even as he tried to tug and pull himself away.

Then they all saw it.

And the auditorium gasped in unison when Principal Spencer, in one swift motion, kicked the boy with his free leg. It was a solid, well-placed swipe at the dying boy’s jaw, and the boy’s head lopped to the side after impact. Whether or not the child was already close to death did not matter, Spencer’s kick had demolished him, and his head flung backward and then hit the floor with a sickening thud.

Everyone stopped and watched as the man looked out over the crowd, his face contorted in a mixture of alarm and growing defensiveness.

“Get it out of here!” he cried, but no one moved. “Students…listen…your lives are in danger. And you will follow my directions or suffer the consequences.”

Lucy stiffened and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

He called the names of some of his cronies—other administrators with whom he could form an alliance of power and hatred. But none of them stood forward immediately, and for one long moment, Spencer was left standing alone, the dead boy at his feet. He dropped the microphone to the stage, and it caused a loud crash that reverberated through the speakers. Several people threw their hands up over their ears. All around the auditorium people grumbled their resignation or agitation.

Without amplification, Spencer yelled, “Follow the orders! Just follow my orders.” And then, as he noticed other children coughing and slumping, reaching out to him for assistance and reassurance, he shot down the stairs of the stage and flung the auditorium doors open wide, running quickly away from the kids with whom he was instructed to protect.

For a second everyone looked at each other with confusion. But then the teachers moved into position—determined to follow the protocol even in the absence of their leader. Some walked swiftly, stern faced, and eager to take charge. It was not surprising that even amidst the turmoil outside, some of the adults found comfort in supervision. They could push aside their own fear and assuage their growing worry with a false sense of control. Lucy closed her eyes and sent up a prayer, a hope, that she would not get stuck with some adult with a superiority complex.

When her eyes fluttered open, it was Mrs. Johnston standing next to her. Blonde hair loose in wavy curls that fell to her shoulders; she was playing with a silver chain around her neck, twisting it around the fingers of her right hand, dropping it, twisting it again. Her normally bright skin was dull and pale, and a dried glob of mascara had latched itself near her cheekbone. With a shaky hand, she ran her hand over a section of five rows.

“You all. From here to here. Follow me,” she called to them, but her voice was small, absent of authority.

Ten of them, Grant included, rose from the chairs—the seats swung backward with repetitive whack-whack-whacks until they slowed to a stop. Lucy grabbed Ethan’s backpack, still weighted down with the textbook and binder, swung it high on her shoulder and stood beside her English teacher. Mrs. Johnston reached out as if to pat Lucy on the arm, then dropped her hand, a shuddering sigh escaping before she turned and began to walk down the aisle, each of the kids in her charge falling into single-file line, the old elementary habit returning.

“Mrs. Johnston?” Lucy asked when they had left the auditorium and were making their way back up the long hallway toward the English hall. The other kids from the auditorium disappeared into other hallways, other classrooms, out of sight. “Mrs. Johnston?”

“Yes…Lucy,” she answered, breathless, slowing her pace, dropping back to walk side-by-side.

“How long can they keep us here?”

“They can keep me until the end of my contract hours and then I’m gone,” Mrs. Johnston responded through clenched teeth. “I have a family.”

“But what about us? They can’t keep us here. Right? They can’t force us to stay against our will.”

Mrs. Johnston hung her head. “You don’t understand. I have to go. I have to go home. But principal Spencer isn’t wrong…it is safer in this building.” She glanced back at the ten students following her as each one sped up to walk in a huddle, hungry for news.

Grant leaned closer, “Before…when we were watching the television? Someone reported that military planes were flying over cities and dropping a green gas into heavily populated areas. Is that true?”

“I don’t know anything,” she said and put her hands up in surrender. “No one knows anything.” Her heels clipped on the tile, picking up her pace to a brisk walk.

“Who attacked us?” said a sophomore girl toward the back of the group—she clutched her bright red leather purse in front of her like a shield, knuckles turning white. “Do they know who?”

But Mrs. Johnston had decided she was done answering questions, so she did not acknowledge the growing bombardment of worries. As each student lobbed up a theory or a snippet of news, she just walked faster, until the whole group shuffled along at a near-run to keep up with her. It was clear that she was taking the group to her own classroom, steering them back through the trail of bodies that Lucy had traversed earlier. As they hit the long corridor littered with the dead, some of the students slowed. This carnage was new to them, and some of these people were their friends. The sophomore girl closed her eyes tight and stopped moving entirely. She just stood there in the middle of the hallway, her red purse covering her stomach, her feet shoulder width apart, unmoving. She kept her eyes scrunched closed, her mouth grimacing, her teeth showing.

Lucy recognized a boy named Clayton from her biology class among their small group. He called down the hallway. “Mrs. Johnston! Wait up!” Then he walked back and stood next to the girl, touching her purse and gently leading her forward.

“I won’t. I won’t go,” she said and stiffened her body even more.

But Clayton was patient. “I’ll lead you. But you have to take my hand. Like those trust walks, right?” But she wouldn’t lift her hand up, wouldn’t take it off the purse, and wouldn’t open her eyes or budge.

By that time, Mrs. Johnston had noticed half the group wasn’t keeping up with her quickened pace. She stopped and turned, eyes red, new rivulets of black running down her cheeks.

Then Lucy felt it.

Not the quick buzz-buzz-buzz of a text.

But the long and sustained buzzzzzz of an incoming phone call.

At first she thought she was imagining it—that all of her hoping and daydreaming had turned into an auditory hallucination accompanied by phantom vibrations. Frantic, she dug her hand into her pocket and retrieved her phone. The phone slipped, but she caught it against her jeans, and her sweaty fingers attempted to grab ahold.

As the other students noticed the action, each one looked to their own phones, scampering to send a text, place a call. Hope. Lucy saw it in an instant in all of their faces. Technology was back, so there was hope.

Without even looking, Lucy answered. A lump rose in her throat as she waited for her mom’s voice to hit her ear. Please just tell me everyone is okay, she thought. Please, Mommy, please.

She pleaded for the news to be good.

“Lula? Lula? Are you there? Are you there?” The voice was high-pitched, rushed, and jumbled. Voices swirled in the background and there was a distinct gunshot again—it was louder in the phone, but the blast echoed in the school too.

From outside, this call was from somewhere right outside.

Salem.

“Sal? Sal?” Lucy answered. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the school,” Salem said and Lucy hopped up and down when she heard the news.

“Thank God! Sal, I’m here too! It’s a long story…but I’m inside Pacific right now. No one can get out, Salem. They have everyone locked inside! It’s a total nightmare.”

“Lucy, listen. I’m outside. I’m right outside the cafeteria, by the big doors. We can’t get in Lucy. No one can get in!”

“No one can get out!” Lucy said overlapping. Then she paused and processed their conflicting wishes.

Another gunshot. Again, she could hear it both in the phone and in her ear. There was a slight delay between one and the other—a small disconnect, as if two shots were ringing out upon each other.

“Salem? What the hell is going on?”

“They’re trying to shoot the card lock off. They’re trying to shoot the glass. I tried to tell them it’s bulletproof, but it’s madness here. God, Lucy, help me! Help me, please!” Salem’s voice was beyond begging, her sobs shot through the phone in short bursts of pure panic.

“I’m coming! Okay, okay! I’m coming,” Lucy yelled into the mouthpiece and, with only a quick look to Mrs. Johnston and the rest of the group—all of whom had frozen to listen to her conversation—she took off running back in the other direction, her phone still pressed to her ear, her backpack rising and falling as she ran, the gravity of it threatening to pull her to the ground. She didn’t know what she would do when she got there, and it only occurred to her that she was running toward gunfire as the cafeteria doors came into view.

“I’m almost there, Sal. I’m almost there,” she said into her phone.

“Lula. You have to get me inside the school. You have to get me inside the school right now.”

CHAPTER SIX

Lucy slowed to a stop in front of the windows and doors in the cafeteria. They were covered in thick black paper, and even though she couldn’t see the people outside, she could hear them—yelling and crying and pounding on the glass. Part of the district’s safety plan included upgrading all the windows to war-grade fortification, thick, resilient, bulletproof glass. Before the update, an angry student on a rampage after a suspension broke an entire windowpane by throwing a metal garbage can into the center of the cafeteria door. It shattered during the school day and wasn’t replaced until the following evening at which point an assistant principal found a homeless man curled up in the waterless pool.

In an instant, Lucy reached as high as she could and grabbed hold of the paper and tore it down. The strip slid to the floor and bathed the area in light. She tore another and another, swinging each discarded piece to the side.

Then she stepped back.

Forty. Maybe fifty—she was never good at estimating—people congregated outside in the alcove beyond the cafeteria doors. They were everywhere, pressing up against the glass, their fists pounding in earnest. A woman near the door was pushed forward, the side of her cheek flat against the smooth surface, and in her arms she held a toddler. The child was wearing a blue backpack, and his face was stoic, shocked, and he clutched to his mother out of necessity, trusting that she was leading him to safety.

Lucy scanned the crowd and finally saw Salem a few people deep near the door, waving at Lucy with wild abandon, tears streaming down her face. Salem was still in the clothes she wore yesterday. And for a moment, Lucy wondered if perhaps Salem had never gone to bed. Perhaps she had laid in wait, pondering Bogart, crying with her mother, and snuggling in her mom’s bed. Salem’s mom was a large woman and the soft folds of her body were perfect for hugging. Or maybe, Salem had merely thrown on the first clothes she saw this morning—the ones she had shed the night before near her laundry basket.

The crowd breathed in and exhaled as one, so Salem seized her chance and pushed against the flow, rushing forward to reach the door. Against the glass at last, she reached her hands up and placed them flat. Lucy sprinted forward and matched them—the two-inch thick windows separated them, but their hands touched nonetheless.

“What can I do?” she asked. Her voice was loud, booming in the cafeteria; she was shocked by the sound of it. Salem couldn’t hear her, but she understood.

“Please, please, please,” was all Salem said in return. Over and over she said it, begging for Lucy to do the impossible. She took a step back and the crowd surged and what Lucy saw scared her. She could feel her classmates, Clayton, Grant, and the group, assembling behind her, but she dared not turn to look at them. She knew she would see on their faces what she already knew in her heart: There was no way to open that door.

Lucy felt a hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t look to see who had approached her. She stayed staring straight ahead, her eyes on Salem and the others, her stomach twisting.

“Lucy—” she heard Grant say in a voice hovering above a whisper.

“I know,” she replied without looking at him. But her heart ached for everyone who left the pandemonium of the outside world and turned to the high school for shelter and help. The people arrived there hopeful and scared, seeking solace and aid. Some of the people outside, relegated to the perimeter of the crowd, sat huddled with suitcases and other mementos. What had they expected to find? No place was protected from death.

But this was her friend. Her best friend. This was the girl who convinced her to sit on the uppermost part of the jungle gym in the third grade, a book of mythology in their hands, and pretend it was a book of witch’s curses. They sat for an entire recess casting down spells on unsuspecting second-graders. This was the girl who first introduced her to nail polish and told her, in a whisper-voice one night during a slumber party, to be proud of her laugh. Salem was in every major memory from her childhood and into those petrifying and awkward junior high years and into their high school. College was next—shared dorm rooms, double dates: These were the things they dreamed about. And as she watched Salem’s body ebb and flow outside like a wave, Lucy just assumed that it would be her and Salem forever.

She rushed forward to the doors, not even sure of what she would do once she got there. But she stumbled when she felt a rough hand latching on to her upper arm, forcing her backward. Lucy tripped and ended up on the cold tile of the cafeteria—the floor was littered with dried ranch dressing, crushed corn chips, and strings of wilted lettuce.

Before Lucy could get up, she felt Grant kneeling down next to her. “I’m on your side, Lucy,” he said into her ear. “But this is not the way.”

She paused. Lucy hadn’t even known Grant knew her name. She looked up at him, pleading. “What if there is no other way?” she asked.

“This can’t be the way,” he repeated and he gestured toward the mob.

Lucy crawled back to the window. She was still clutching her phone in her hand and she sent Salem a text.

“Pool door?”

But her phone kicked back an error message.

“Send. Send.” She willed it to go through, but it was no use. The phone gave her error message after error message every single time.

Lucy decided to press her phone against the glass, only for a second, while Salem, and others scrambled to read the message.

Then Salem froze. Her face fell, her shoulders slumped, and she allowed those around her to toss her around.

Blocked. She mouthed. Or locked. Then distinctly—No.

Salem stared directly at Lucy. She motioned around the chaos and someone bumped her. An arm hit the glass, then Salem’s head, and she rocked backward, reeling away. Salem’s body was pitched downward and someone pulled her arm behind her back and flung her to the ground.

Salem cried out. Then she shut her eyes tight; she tried to wiggle upward, and when she opened her eyes, she stared right at Lucy.

She shook her head. Just once. Fear flooding her face, defeat and worry settling around the dark pockets of skin under her eyes.

It was just a small look, but Lucy’s insides twisted with guilt.

“I will get you inside,” she called, squatting to put herself close to Salem’s face. She pointed at her friend and then put a hand on her heart. “I will.” Lucy tried to communicate dedication and strength with her body and facial expressions alone; she tried to send Salem comfort instead of fear. She could not open the door, but she would not leave her friend outside to die. “I will!” Lucy screamed and she pounded the glass.

And that was when Lucy felt heavy hands upon her, closing in around her collarbone and dragging her away from the window. Not the gentle redirection of Grant, but strong adult hands that dug into the flesh on her shoulders. The security guards poured around the windows, armed with duct tape and the discarded black paper. Working swiftly—place, tape, repeat, place, tape, repeat—the men covered the windows again and the cafeteria succumbed back into the shadows, the muffled shouts from the people outside emanating from beyond the blackness.

Salem was lost behind the partition.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy sobbed into her hands, even though Salem couldn’t hear her. She kicked her legs and tried to pull away from the hands that held her. “Sal…I’m so sorry.” Fingers dug deeply into her bone and the pain radiated down her chest.

The mother and her son. The faces of that mother and her son burned into Lucy’s brain. Salem. Everyone. It was unfair.

“Those people…all those people…” Lucy mumbled. She turned to see that it was Friendly Kent who held her back. He loosened his grip, but kept his hands on her, wary and watchful. Seeing the anger flash across Friendly Kent’s face, Lucy felt doubly betrayed.

Grant watched Lucy from a few steps behind. And it was only now that Mrs. Johnston made an appearance, the staccato clip-clap-clip-clap of her heels full of reprimand.

A larger security guard, who had helped place the paper over the windows, pivoted and turned toward Lucy. He raised an angry finger, poised to launch. But Grant raised his voice instead, preventing the verbal onslaught. “That’s a Pacific Lake student out there. And I bet she’s not the only one,” he took a step forward. “Principal Spencer said his main concern was keeping students safe. So, then why aren’t we keeping all students safe?”

“Enough,” Friendly Kent said. “Back to your rooms.”

“Those people didn’t look infected,” Lucy added. “They’re just scared.”

“They’re armed. Are you out of your minds?” Friendly Kent replied. Then he settled back and crossed his arms across his chest. “I’ve waited my entire career to say this. You teenagers are idiots. Complete and total scum of the earth. Everything we’re doing is to protect you, but you think you’ve got a better plan? Of course you do. Look, I’d be happy to unload the lot of you right back out into the fray.”

“We aren’t protected in here either,” Grant responded. “Look! Look around.” Two more students emerged from their original group of ten, but no one else. Four had succumbed to the virus in the last ten minutes.

“We’re not keeping anything out! The sickness is already here. Don’t you see that?” Grant continued.

Friendly Kent raised his eyes to Mrs. Johnston and pursed his lips. “Get them back. Now.” His command was swift. He yanked Lucy to her feet and shoved her forward, Grant followed behind.

Even their teacher bristled from his tone, but she nodded and obeyed. Mrs. Johnston grabbed Lucy by the arm and turned her toward the group, then she motioned for Grant, Clayton, Purse Girl, and the others to line up, follow along. They exited the cafeteria, back to following the letter of the law without question, and everything about the situation made Lucy sick.

“Don’t you see?” Mrs. Johnston asked when they were out of earshot. “Isn’t it clear by now?” She waited, for an answer, but no one answered. “There is no great master plan. It’s chaos. Inside and outside.”

Slower this time, they walked the long corridor. Purse Girl’s eyes were wide open as she shuffled along, but Clayton still kept a firm hand on her elbow, propelling her forward.

“Those people will find a way inside,” Grant muttered. “Two administrators and a small team of failed mall cops?”

Mrs. Johnston nodded. She took several steps forward and stopped, her voice shaking, “Everyone’s lied to you. Your whole lives. See what happens when the world falls apart…see what happens when everything you know crumbles?” Her eyes were wild. “You realize. You will see. It’s the assholes who inherit the earth.”

* *

Room 126 felt like a tomb. Mrs. Johnston kept the lights off, and she huddled at her desk, refreshing the Internet browser on her computer religiously and keeping her phone situated in her line-of-sight, next to a picture of her husband and her kids. For the most part, she ignored the students in her charge. If anyone tried to talk to her or lean over her shoulder, she shooed them away, relegating them back to the uncomfortable chairs or coarse carpeting. Pretense melted away—there was no time for comforting pep talks. They could tell they were in danger and no one was trying to spin it any other way.

Every ten minutes a security guard popped his head in and did a quick head count, then he shut the door and moved on. Every ten minutes. Like clockwork.

When Mrs. Johnston taught her English classes, she was like a puppy dog—full of boundless energy and eager naiveté—and it was something that Lucy always appreciated. This notion that someone still woke up enthusiastic about Jonathan Edwards’ “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” and would read it in dark and somber tones, burning plastic spiders over open flames and then erupting afterward into joyous giggles, making them, with hands over hearts, promise to never tell the administration about her fire hazards. She was light and bright, and she was counselor and coach. They taught her new slang words, and she snickered with embarrassment, unbridled, genuine.

But since they had locked themselves into her room, Lucy couldn’t find any of that Mrs. Johnston left in the space where they once held spirited slam poetry competitions and waxed philosophical about Emerson’s Transparent Eyeball. The new Mrs. Johnston was taciturn and cold; she barely spoke a word and didn’t try to hide her disgust toward each of the children in her care.

After an hour, they were down to five.

The security came by and took note of bodies and survivors; then a group of surviving teachers carried the dead away. But even the number of adults seemed to dwindle as time passed. Six teachers, now only two, continued to act out their roles despite the futility of it all. Mrs. Johnston never moved from her desk; her eyes never wavered from her computer screen as she clicked and clicked and willed the news on her screen to be different. She moved between the news sites, their updates slowing down as the time slipped away from them and then on to her own feed and her email. Lucy watched as she went through her pattern. Site one. Site two. Site three. Wait. Look. Repeat. As if it was not the intake of information that interested her, but instead the cathartic nature of the ritual.

A phone buzzed in the room.

The sporadic nature of sending texts and receiving calls made it impossible for her to communicate with Salem, but Lucy looked down at her phone, disappointed that her screen was blank. Even so, Lucy’s fingers flew into action. She fired a note, “Stay strong friend. Working on a plan.” And she watched, stomach in knots, until the little green arrow indicated success. If Salem could read it, if she was still out there, she would know that Lucy had not abandoned her. Lucy would never abandon her.

Even if that was not entirely true because she had abandoned her—she had left Salem crumpled on the ground with hoards of scared people tearing around her. Scared people with guns. Lucy took a deep breath and held her phone to her chest. She felt it apropos to pray, but specific requests eluded her, so she just repeated over and over inside her head: Help me, help me, help me, help me. Less like a prayer and more like a mantra.

“I have to get home,” Mrs. Johnston said. It was the first thing she had said in hours. Everyone turned to look at her and gawked, as if she had grown a tail and barked wildly. She looked at the students in the room, assessing their faces and then to the clock. Jumping up, her chair crashing backward behind her; she rushed to the window and pried it open—the bottom half was designed to open only an inch, and she ran her hands over the metal. Unless they could remove the entire pane of glass from the window, that was not a viable escape route. “Can’t. I can’t. I can’t!” Mrs. Johnston hit the metal radiator beneath the window in frustration and immediately cradled her hand. She spun around and leaned back, breathless.

Clayton, who had been slumped in the corner of the room, using his backpack as a pillow and drawing doodles in a notebook, sat up. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

Grant had moved himself under the television and he turned his head. He’d been watching the news without saying a word for most of the time they were trapped in the room, but at one point he had sidled up to Lucy and put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. She shrugged him off and then apologized. It was easier to think Grant had single-handedly stopped her from rescuing Salem than to accept that any course of action was futile.

“You have an idea?” Grant prodded and Clayton nodded.

Purse Girl, who also hadn’t said a word since they got to the room, raised her body off the floor, alert. They each stared at Clayton expectantly.

“You have a master key? You know, from coaching?”

Mrs. Johnston’s shoulders slumped as if she was already preparing for this plan to fail. “It doesn’t unlock the main doors. They have control for the locking mechanism in the security office and outside the main office. My keys are worthless,” she said. She took out a rubber band and tied her hair up into a high ponytail, her blonde hair cascading down her back. Lucy marveled that somehow throughout the entire day it had not lost its curl.

“No. I’m not interested in using them to get outside,” Clayton answered. He stood up and brushed his hands off on his jeans. “Does your key unlock the doors in the East wing?”

Mrs. Johnston clamped her mouth tight for a minute and peered at Clayton curiously, as if she were trying to guess what he had in mind. Then she reached into her pocket and produced her keys, turning them over in her hand. “Yes,” she nodded. “They do.”

Clayton broke out into a huge smile, and he flipped his long blonde hair forward over his shoulders. “If you can get me into the metal shop, then I think I can get you out of this school.”

“Wait!” Lucy popped up from her chair by the desk, forgetting she was holding her phone and it skittered away from her across the floor. “Can you get someone into the school the same way?” She bent over to retrieve her cell and admired a fresh crack across her screen. It seemed, even amid everything else, a tragedy worthy of tears, but she pushed them away and tried to keep her head clear and focused.

He nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “Trickier, but yes. But if we don’t want to get caught, we have to work in shifts. I’ve been plotting it since they trapped us here. Do you trust me?”

“What choice do we have?” Lucy answered and then realized it sounded harsh and unfair. She opened her mouth to add something softer, nicer, but Mrs. Johnston stepped forward—her open palm extended toward Clayton, handing him her keys.

“Just tell us what to do,” Mrs. Johnston said. “I’ll do anything.” Her eyes were supplicating and she walked right up to Clayton. Standing next to each other, she looked so tiny, fragile, and afraid and he towered above her, a man-child, with massive, calloused hands, broad shoulders, and a smattering of acne.

He turned to Lucy. “If you can get your friend on the roof, leave everything else to me.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The East Wing was entirely its own entity. Separated from the rest of the school down a long and often forgotten-about hallway, the tiny square plot of school that held the metal and wood shops, the art studio, and the journalism lab, seemed to function as an independent school within Pacific Lake. Many students didn’t even know the wing existed—it was easy to miss the narrow hallway leading to the classrooms. The East Wing was so independent and often ignored that it took administrators two years to notice that the teachers had converted an abandoned storage room into a sitting lounge complete with couches and a coffee maker.

The metals kids were their own group; funneling in and out of the metals room at all times during the day, dressed in dark hooded sweatshirts and skinny jeans, sporting lip-rings and tattoos, half-inch ear gauges, and congenial dispositions. They made electric cars after school and entered robotics competitions and their skills with blowtorches, drills, and the foundry unparalleled in the entirety of East County. And often they were outcast, huddling at the periphery of the other social groups, always humming along toward escape. They smoked weed in their cars in the parking lot of the LDS church next door and respected their mothers.

Metals kids were different from those who took woodshop. That class attracted football players on the hunt for an easy elective and entire collections of skinny little Romeos who wanted to make velvet lined jewelry boxes for girls on their buses.

The art studios were brightly painted and cluttered with decades of abandoned projects. There were bookshelves shoved with forgotten pottery and closets stuffed with unfinished canvas portraits. Mobiles dangled from the ceiling and the desks were covered with a rainbow paint splatter. The art students were shy and unassuming with their own inside jokes and general disdain for those without appreciation for the French Impressionists.

Lucy was familiar with this area of the school from Salem, who, not surprisingly, had found a niche in journalism early in her high school career as she channeled her penchant for gossip into a career as the Living Editor for the Pacific Lake newspaper The Herald. She would go and collect Salem from the journalism lab after school hours, meandering into the dimly lit East Wing with trepidation. It was the only section of the school exempt from the last remodel: The roof was leaky, the linoleum flooring was tearing up at the seams and entire banks of florescent lights blinked on and off, which made the entire area feel like the set of a campy 1980’s horror film.

But despite its cosmetic deficiencies, there was something powerful about the East Wing. It was the only place in the school entirely dedicated to creation. A birdhouse. A watercolor. A ceramic vase. Key chains. A newspaper.

Immediately after the last round of security, the whole group left the confines of the English classroom and darted up the hall with Clayton leading them down the hallway, left toward the art studio, up to the woods workshop and the metals room. They twitched eagerly as Mrs. Johnston opened up the door and led the group inside, hushing them, and pushing them, until she could close the door without a sound. Then Clayton hit a switch and the room tumbled to life—overhead lights flickering, the room awash in a golden glow, illuminating shiny metal from one end of the room to the other.

The room was large, expansive. Row after row of long workbenches and tented workstations, each equipped with tubes and wires, stools, machinery. A staircase at the very end led to a narrow walkway where large sheets of metal were stored, each placed upright against the wall, reflective and bright. The entire room echoed as the group walked around inside, and when Lucy ran her hand over the nearest table, small shards of aluminum collected on her skin, and she brushed them off on her jeans.

“I’ve never been here,” Grant said, peeking his head into a work station, the large green plastic curtain crinkling loudly as he pulled it back. “Four years in this place and I’ve never had a class back here. I didn’t even know it existed.” Lucy understood—she hadn’t known about the East Wing either until Salem joined journalism.

“I live here,” Clayton replied with pride. He walked over to a section of the room and pulled back on a white bed sheet, exposing a fiberglass body of a racing car. “I’ve been working on this for my electric car competition. Hours and hours,” he said with a touch of sadness. He ran a hand through his long hair and then shook away whatever was going through his head. After a prolonged glance at his handiwork, Clayton threw the sheet back over the car body and turned to the group.

Mrs. Johnston’s foot tapped by the door. “Get what you need and hurry!” she instructed.

Clayton pointed toward Grant. “In that closet, grab the ladder. You,” he pointed at Lucy, “help him carry it to the hallway.”

Then Clayton disappeared into the belly of the workshop, and after a moment he emerged carrying wire-cutters and a cordless blowtorch. He motioned for everyone to follow his lead back out into the hallway and Grant and Lucy lugged the full-sized ladder after him.

“Alright,” Clayton said as the door to Metals clinked closed. “Open up this room. Hurry,” he instructed, nodding toward the journalism lab.

Lucy raised her eyebrows, perplexed, but she followed them inside all the same, shuffling her feet along the tile, the ladder heavier than she had originally assumed it would be.

The lab used to be a drafting classroom. It was large with heavy cement walls, which the journalism students had painted pink and green. She had been in the room dozens of times, waiting aimlessly for Salem to finish a column or meet a deadline, and she had made a home of the dark blue couch in the corner and perused the journalism teacher’s books out of boredom on many occasions. And once, while Salem argued about her advice column with her adviser, when no one was looking, Lucy stole a book of Joan Didion essays. Her intent was to read it and return it, but the book was lost somewhere—it had wandered off and adopted a transitory lifestyle, which Lucy always thought was better for books anyway.

Trancelike, Mrs. Johnston walked inside and straight into the center of the room, not even bothering to flip on the lights. There was no need to engage the overheads because the room was bright enough from a giant skylight in the ceiling. Made of milky plastic, the skylight served an aesthetic rather than functional purpose, and Lucy remembered when it rained the sound of water hitting the material amplified the drops to an alarming degree, making conversation with someone right next to you nearly impossible.

“Of course,” Mrs. Johnston said as Clayton and Grant hoisted the ladder upright and stood it up on top of the long tables under the skylight. One leg on one table, the other leg on another table, and when it wobbled, Lucy sucked in a breath. Clayton climbed up onto the table and grabbed hold of the ladder, sliding it this way and that way, and testing its ability to hold someone’s weight as it towered to the ceiling.

“She didn’t even come to school today,” Mrs. Johnston said, crossing her arms over her chest, and wandering to the journalism teacher’s desk. “Yesterday we talked about starting herb gardens and taking the kids on a play date.” Mrs. Johnston trailed off. She sat down in a big squeaky black chair and leaned back, and she trained her eyes on a row of pictures in frames—smiling faces on the beach, a Pomeranian dog licking a little boy’s face.

Lucy remembered that Mrs. Johnston and the journalism teacher had been good friends, always huddling with their heads together at assemblies, sharing class adviser duties, bringing each other lattes in the morning.

It was strange that people were lost instantaneously and their lives released from the world in a moment. Those people were held in memories and nothing more. Best friends absorbed into bedlam in a single breath and simply—poof—gone in one startling second. Lucy was most alarmed by the fact that so many people had died and not any of them could be properly mourned. She grieved for mankind and for herself, but she knew the individual people were already turning into a collective.

Clayton climbed up the first few rungs and held the blowtorch and wire-cutters in his hands. Grant and Purse Girl each held a side of the ladder while Lucy looked at the clock. She watched as Clayton reached his hand up until he could touch the plastic segments, and when he pushed up on them they gave slightly under the pressure. He put the wire cutters down and grabbed the blowtorch, turning it on so the blue flame sprouted up a few inches and hissed angrily. He began to work on the plastic around the edges of the first panel, melting away the sides—they curled under the heat—their edges turning black. The room began to reek of burning plastic, but if anyone cared, no one said anything.

“Are we going back to your room?” Lucy asked Mrs. Johnston. “We have three minutes.”

Mrs. Johnston stood up. The chair turned in lazy circles behind her. “Clayton?” He turned the blowtorch off and looked down.

“Five minutes?”

“Keep going,” she instructed and she sat back down.

Lucy took a tentative step forward. “Why risk it?” she said. “Let’s just go back. Then we’ve earned another ten minutes.”

No one answered her.

She hadn’t heard from Salem, but she had sent three texts about getting to the roof in the East Wing. Lucy hadn’t thought through the next stage of their plan. If they could get Salem inside, that would be fantastic, but what happened after that? One thing seemed clear: The entire plan would be easier if they didn’t already have security looking for them. The journalism lab didn’t have windows and the entire room was isolated, and while that worked to their benefit as they plugged along, burning the plastic ceiling away, it seemed to be a detriment if they couldn’t plot an escape.

Her tendency to overthink and dwell in restlessness was a trait inherited from her mother. But at least her mother was strong enough to transform anxiety into action. She wondered how her mom would have organized the troops if she were here and she couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Mama Maxine swooping in and taking charge, charting their course without room for error. Mama would have already set up camp somewhere, hunkered them down and have them eating an elaborate lunch. She would have found a way to help the people trapped outside while still protecting herself. She would have all the answers. But she was not there; Lucy had not heard from her since her frantic text. All the text messages sent to her mom and Ethan remained without reply.

Her apprehension grew as the second hand on the school’s wall clock made its rounds.

They were zeroing in on the point of no return.

Around. Around. Mrs. Johnston circled in the chair. Her face appearing and disappearing in even intervals. Then she threw her foot down and the chair stopped. “Are we close?” she asked and, from atop the ladder, Clayton said he only needed one more minute. He had burned around the perimeter of the whole first panel and now his hand was the only thing keeping it in the air. With impressive dexterity, he handed the blowtorch to Grant and then grabbed the piece with both hands and lowered it down.

Everyone looked up. They had a perfect view of the sky—blue, virtually cloudless.

A mesh of chicken wire covered the four-foot by three-foot hole, but in a moment, Clayton was snipping the metal into pieces, where it fell with small plinks on to the table below. He seemed to sense the question before anyone asked, and he turned to his audience. “Last year, I almost got suspended for climbing up onto the roof during metals class. We spent over an hour up here exploring,” he shrugged. “We could hear everything from this classroom on the roof and that’s when I realized it was just plastic. I kept thinking, if the wires weren’t there and I stepped wrong, I’d just fall right through. It was kind of a funny thought.” With a final snip, Clayton had created a large enough space for any of them to fit through.

If they stood on the very top of the ladder, it wouldn’t take much to grab the side of the roof and hoist themselves upward to freedom.

Clayton looked down at everyone. “Well?” he asked. “Do we just…go?”

Grant looked at Lucy. She marched over and climbed up on the table, swinging her legs off the floor. She stood and stared up at the hole, frowning.

“Someone should go and check for Salem.” Lucy pulled out her phone and punched in Salem’s number.

The All Circuits Busy message beeped at her. Frustrated, she sat atop the table and felt the cool wind rustle down through the hole.

Then as loud as an air-raid siren, the two-tone announcement bell jolted them into attention.

They all froze.

The microphone clicked and Principal Spencer’s voice filled the room.

“Nikki, Nikki. Where’d you take your room of kids?” He cleared his throat, and the noise crackled through the temperamental sound system. “Either you defied my instructions or dead bodies just learned to get up and walk away. Whether you like it or not, you are still under my leadership. You have one minute to get back to your rooms…or…”

He paused, baiting them. Lucy stood up. Clayton remained motionless at the top of the ladder. Mrs. Johnston rose from her colleague’s chair and walked over to the room’s speaker. She stood directly beneath it with her hands on her hips. She looked up at the box expectantly as the intercom hummed.

Then Principal Spencer hiccupped, his words slurred together. “Never mind. Forget it. Forget you. You don’t want my protection? You don’t want my help? Then leave. Go ahead. Come to the front doors and I’ll let you out myself. I want everyone out of this building. DO YOU HEAR ME?” He screamed so loudly that the intercom clicked off, obscuring the end of his rant.

Mrs. Johnston shook her head. “Moron,” she muttered and rolled her eyes.

“Is he drunk?” Grant asked.

“Absolutely. He keeps a bottle of single-malt scotch in his coat closet,” Mrs. Johnston replied and then turned swiftly and climbed up on the table, where she just looked at Clayton, her big eyes wide and waiting. “Well, Clayton, you heard the man. He wants everyone out of the building now.”

“Sure would’ve saved me some work if he’d just invited us to go out the front door ten minutes ago.”

“You want to go out the front door, be my guest. I’m not holding that man to his word. I’m going up.” Mrs. Johnston started to climb the ladder, but she stopped when she traffic jammed with Clayton. “Are you going up?”

Clayton looked down at everyone and saluted. “Best of luck comrades,” he mumbled and then climbed the rest of the way up the ladder. He grabbed the edge of the exposed roof and using all his upper-body strength pulled himself to the black tarred surface.

“Do you see Salem?” Lucy cried out, grasping the ladder’s leg and peering up into the sky.

Clayton didn’t answer.

Mrs. Johnston took her turn next. She reached the top and swung herself up. Then she popped her head back down. “Everyone,” she started and then her voice broke. “Take care of yourselves,” she told them all and then was off. They could hear her footsteps trailing away with the creak of the ceiling and the steady thump-thump above them. They could make out every other word of Clayton’s instructions as he directed her to get down. “That way…a dumpster…you…jump.”

Purse Girl ascended next. Lucy took over holding the ladder as she wobbled upward—throwing her purse on the roof and then taking Clayton’s hand as he helped her past the lip. The girl ran across the roof toward the edge and her running shook the tiles above them.

Grant looked at Lucy and held out his hand.

“I’ll hold it steady. Promise,” he said and grabbed on to the ladder with both hands.

Lucy stared at the sky through the ceiling. She looked at Grant and patted his arm. “No, you go first,” she said.

Grant dropped his hands to his sides. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. Just go. Clayton can help you up if you’re worried. I don’t mind climbing up without someone holding the ladder. I’m a pole-vaulter,” he paused. “Was a pole-vaulter? Look, I’m good at balancing, so I’ll go last, and I don’t mind. Let me hold it for you.” He reached up and grabbed the side, giving it a little jiggle to show that it was sturdy.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not worried about falling. I’m not arguing chivalry. I’m just…” Lucy looked at him and her shoulders slumped. “I’m not going.”

He let his hands slide from the sides of ladder. “Not going?”

“My family knows where I am. Ethan said he’d come back for me…what if…we miss each other. What if he comes back and I’m not here? Plus, Salem.” She motioned upward, “She was scared out there and she was trying to get inside. Maybe it really is safer in here.”

“But…Spencer…?”

“He’s one guy. And this is a big school.”

Grant looked upward; Clayton popped his head back down. “Hey, are you two coming? You should see it up from the roof. The whole world is just eerie. And it’s quiet,” Clayton said to them in a hushed voice. “The world is really quiet.” He disappeared again, his long hair sliding up and out of sight.

Then they heard it.

A distinct knock against the door. Softly at first, tentative, and then more aggressive. Building, building, and escalating in intensity and loudness.

“Oh great. Just what we need,” Grant mumbled and motioned to the ladder. “Okay, no more arguments. Just get up there now.”

Lucy looked from the ladder to the door.

The knocking was growing and it sounded like flat fists against the metal door.

Grant looked torn.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he said. “It’s not chivalry…it’s like basic human kindness. But can you please climb this ladder. Right now.” He reached out to touch Lucy’s arm, but she pulled away, slid down off the table, and took tiny steps toward the door.

“Wait. If it were Spencer, he’d just open it. He has a key.”

“Lucy—” Grant banged his head against the ladder. He sounded panicked now. “It may be…there’s a possibility that it could be…”

Lucy spun and looked at him. “Please tell me you were not going to say zombies.”

“It is a very real threat and I wish you would stop thinking that it couldn’t happen,” Grant said in a long rush. He hopped down off the table and followed after her.

“Zombies knock?” She couldn’t help but smirk.

“Nothing good is on the other side of that door, I promise you,” he said and he took her hand and tried to pull her backward.

“Stop!” Lucy hushed him.

A voice was calling through the door—its tone hurried and hushed. “Dios mio. Abre la puerta. Lucy? Lucy? I am going to punch you if you don’t let me in right now.”

Salem.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Salem tripped into the room as Lucy yanked the door open wide. Her eyes traveled from Grant and Lucy to the ladder standing on the table. She took a tentative step forward and raised a finger. “Oh,” she said. “You wanted me to come down that way?” Then she smiled. “Thanks, but I found a door.”

“A door?” Lucy asked as she wrapped her arms around Salem and gave her a giant hug; she could hear Salem’s vertebrae crack as she squeezed.

“Easy, easy. Yes. There are all these large metal chutes up on the roof, they are large enough for a person, and for a while I thought maybe you wanted me to slide down those? But then I found this door and when I opened it there was a staircase bolted on to a wall. Dropped me into the boiler room.”

“No one saw you? No one followed you?” Grant asked.

Salem looked at him, her mouth closed, assessing his presence and then realizing there was an absence of anyone else in the room. “Grant Trotter,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Hey Salem,” he said back and then: “And no one saw you?”

“Jeez, the inquisition. No one saw me.” She collapsed on to the couch and rubbed her eyes with her heels of her palms. “You have no idea how happy I am. I am really glad to see you two,” she said, with her eyes still covered.

And then her chin began to quiver.

Lucy sat down next to her friend and watched as Salem let loose and her shoulders shook with rolling sobs. Salem hardly ever cried. She got angry and scared and she yelled and kicked inanimate objects, but she rarely turned her sadness, fear, or nervousness into tears. It was Lucy who was the crier—misting up when teachers corrected her in stern tones, spilling tears over poor exam scores or if her parents wouldn’t let her go to the movies. But these twenty-four hours had turned Salem into a blubbering mess. No one could blame her.

Salem turned. “I walked to school, you know? Walked here. I tried to drive, but after I got off my street, it was a total traffic jam. People were getting out and just abandoning their cars. Sirens everywhere and yet the ambulances couldn’t get through.” She let out a small gasping hiccup and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. In a swift motion, Salem clutched at her crucifix necklace and held the small golden Jesus tightly in her hand. The necklace was a prized possession given to her by her father at her quinceañera. Her mother had wanted to give her a locket, but Salem helped pick this necklace out herself. The icon was a rich gold, the cross, encrusted with tiny diamonds.

Ethan once mocked the necklace one day while Salem lounged on their couch after school. “You’re wearing a dead guy around your neck,” he said. “And that doesn’t make you creepy?” But Salem’s response was quick and ruthless; catlike she pounced, slapping Ethan across the face with an open-palm. Not hard enough to hurt, but he recoiled and rubbed his cheek.

“Que dios tenga pieda de tu alma,” she spouted as he nursed his wound. “I can forgive a lot. But never blasphemy.”

“My God is better than your God,” he replied, standing up and running behind their couch. Reckless teasing always turned into a game for him. But Salem wasn’t laughing.

“The Kings have no God,” she muttered. Then sulked back to the couch; staring blankly ahead, waiting for Lucy to intervene, but Lucy never knew what to say. Salem’s faith was a novelty in their household and they tolerated it like she was an exotic pet, allowing her bizarre rituals out of curiosity.

Out of the hole in the ceiling, Clayton lowered his head, his hair tumbling downward and obstructing his face. Salem screamed when she saw him and scrambled off the couch toward the door, continuing to let out worried cries until she saw Grant and Lucy’s confused stares.

She put a hand over her chest and inhaled. “It has not been a good morning for surprises,” Salem said between gasps. “Next time. Warn me. If you know there is a guy in the ceiling.”

“Thought I’d check again. Y’all coming?” Clayton called. “I didn’t know if I should wait or not?”

Grant made a move toward the ladder. “Yeah, wait up,” then he turned back to the girls. “Coming now?” he asked, looking first to Lucy, then to Salem.

Lucy stared at the ladder and she stood up as if she was ready to go. She paused, looking back and deferring to Salem.

Salem let out a low whistle. “I’m not going back outside there. Took enough effort to get inside today, I don’t think I’m up for a repeat attempt.”

“Lucy?” Grant asked expectantly.

Lucy shook her head. “I’m with Salem. I stay with her.”

“This place is a prison. And Spencer said he wanted everyone out,” Grant replied.

Without saying a word, Salem lifted the side of her shirt. She held it high enough to expose a patch of skin along her ribs and then she tucked the loose end into her bra. Running from her stomach, up her side, was a long red stripe; her skin puckered at the end, a dark hole covered in dried blood.

“What is that?” Lucy asked, rushing over. “Sal! What happened?”

“A man tried to stab me today,” Salem responded.

“What the—” Grant muttered and took two steps back toward the girls. “How? Why?”

“Over my water bottle. When I got out of my car, I took a water bottle for the walk. Halfway to school and this guy comes from nowhere and demands I give it to him. I refuse and he tries to grab at my clothes, we struggled, I don’t know what happened, and then I just feel this pain in my side. When he was gone, I looked down, and I had this long scratch.”

“A scratch?” Lucy looked at Salem her mouth open. “My friend Salem would never call this a scratch. You’d have called me and told me you were bleeding to death.”

Salem moved away from the door and back to the couch, she untucked her shirt and let it fall back over the slash mark. “You weren’t out there when the news broke today. You didn’t see everything with your own eyes…the bodies, everyone so afraid…” Salem choked on all her words.

“Go,” she motioned toward the ceiling, “go if you need to. But the threat outside is unknown…the sickness, the fear, the fighting and rioting and the looting. It’s war out there. There are guns and fires. People are assaulting each other.” Salem’s eyes went vacant, remembering. Then she rolled on to the couch, tucking her knees up along her belly.

Lucy sat down beside her. Grant hesitated.

“Grant, the threat inside is known. One man. Honestly, the fact that he wants people out of here is helping us. Maybe that’s what we want.” Salem closed her eyes and then continued, “We can make it work here. You weren’t out there today, Grant, Lula. You didn’t see it. You survived the hardest part and now we just need to survive the next part.”

“Survive what?” Lucy asked. “What are we surviving?”

Salem pointed a shaky finger at the room’s TV and Lucy walked over to it and stood on her tiptoes and hit the power button and then she took a giant step back. Grant looked at both girls for a long minute and then he climbed up the ladder; he rested at the top, closed his eyes, his shoulders slumped. Then he motioned for Clayton to continue on without him, and he descended back down to join Lucy and Salem as they glued themselves to the footage of a world descending into mayhem.

The emergency broadcast ticker still scrolled its perpetual warnings.

The pictures were from around the world. Houses in flames, bodies in the street. The US military sprinting into action—armed with gas masks and semi-automatic weapons.

But the picture that made Lucy sick was that of a downed plane; its tail was upright and the body was almost fully submerged in the Columbia River with waves licking and slapping the sides in poetic rhythm. No survivors, the caption read.

They wouldn’t have.

They wouldn’t have boarded that plane without her.

Maxine King would never have allowed it. There was solace in that single thought—her mother would never leave a child behind. She shook away the image of her family in that plane with their terrifying last moments and life flashing before their eyes. This was not the way it ended, not for her, and not for them. Lucy felt like she would know if her family was gone because she would feel the loss inside her. And she didn’t feel hollow and empty; she didn’t feel limbless and alone. In her marrow she knew the King family was thriving, and they would come for her as Ethan promised. But knowing that didn’t cure how much she missed them. It was an ache so powerful that her legs started to give out, and she tumbled to the floor, the coldness of the tile seeping through her pants.

“Sal?” Lucy asked, turning toward her friend. “Momma and Dad Aguilar?”

Salem didn’t move a muscle; her hand still glued to her necklace. After a long moment of silence, she looked down to Lucy. “I’m not ready…I can’t.” Then Salem turned to Grant, wiping her nose, “How about you? Your family?”

He shook his head. “Normal when I left.”

“Nothing was normal,” Lucy replied. She pointed at the screen. “This was a planned attack against us. It was totally calculated.”

The screen skipped and buzzed—a jolt of static, a mechanical purr. A stark studio appeared and the newscaster from before faced the audience. Again, there was comfort in his appearance, by this small idea that something out there was still up and running like it was supposed to; the world had not quit yet. Here was someone, someone familiar, who was not gone.

But when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice wobbled dangerously.

He addressed his audience.

“We are in a dire place my fellow Americans. We are at a place untraveled before in our history. By the time the sun sets tonight, it is estimated that over ninety-seven…perhaps ninety-eight percent of our earthly population will have succumbed to the act of bioterrorism unleashed upon us. No group has come forward to take credit for the attack, but it is clear that this group was not trying to send a message. They were simply trying to destroy the earth and everyone on it. The loss of life today has been staggering either through direct contact with the virus or as part of a side effect. That means…if you are watching this…you…me…we are one of the few. The very few.”

Salem reached out and grabbed Lucy’s hand, sliding her fingers between all of Lucy’s fingers until their skin melted together with body-forgetfulness—as if their hands didn’t know where one person started and one person stopped. Lucy let those numbers sink in. Ninety-eight percent of their city was dead or dying? In Portland, that meant there were no more than twelve thousand people still trying to cope in the aftermath of the virus. Not enough to fill up even half of the city’s soccer stadium. The statistics were overwhelming.

“It is the decision of our dwindling numbers to cease broadcast. Whatever was released upon the world was a well-executed attack by a patient and cautious enemy. Our crops are contaminated, our water supply no longer safe to drink. The misting of some cities with a live virus was a secondary attack. I ask you, those of you here and with me, to remain aware and kind.”

Grant slumped against the back of the couch. Lucy saw him wipe his eyes and she turned to look at him. Then with her free hand she reached out to him too, enveloping his clammy hand into her own. They sat there, connected in a line, bonded together with sweat and pain.

“Whatever is left of our grieving earth will be divided into two. Victims of a senseless genocide and those who perpetrated this crime against humanity.”

Off-camera someone spoke and a row of lights flickered and the newscaster’s eyes watched the studio dim. The TV station’s soundstage rumbled and the anchor desk swayed.

“Earthquake?” Salem asked.

“As we speak, this city is under attack. Fires are sweeping up streets destroying what is left. What you hear are…” the desk shook again, a facade of a cityscape toppled backward. “…bombs. It is unclear from where this particular…” A resounding clap; the camera shook and glass broke. “…attack is coming from. But we call to you to be ever vigilant and kind. We will rise from the ashes, but we cannot rebuild on the back of evil.”

The screen erupted with golds and yellows, oranges and then nothing. Only blackness.

The trio sat in stunned silence before Salem peeled her hand free and disappeared to the computer. She tapped the mouse and watched the screen come to life; then she opened a browser and scrolled.

“It’s like there aren’t any journalists left,” she said. “None of the news sites have been updated in hours.”

“But the feeds?” Grant asked. They hoped the Internet was not gone completely, although they all knew it was a matter of time before that piece of their world disappeared too.

And Salem’s head moved up and down slowly. “People are still updating as they can. And I can’t even process it. Come read this stuff.”

Together Lucy and Grant walked over to her, peering over her shoulder. They read the statuses and saw the pictures. Each of them gasping or turning away as the realization dawned on them.

Someone had dropped a nuclear bomb on New York City.

The virus had decimated the city first. And the fires and the fallout wiped it off the planet.

CHAPTER NINE

Ding-Dong.

The group jumped at the interruption.

The intercom clicked on.

In that nanosecond between the end of the tone and the start of Principal Spencer’s slurred voice, each of them raised their head in anticipation. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then he launched, his breath hitting the microphone like a punctuation mark.

“If anyone is out there…if anyone is left…you have five minutes to reveal yourself at the front office. After that time, I am closing the gates. Do you understand? I am closing the gates. You will lose access to an exit, to food, and to protection. And this will be my fortress. And I will not allow or tolerate intruders.”

There was a loud crash. A shuffling. And then he returned to the intercom.

“Am I clear? Five minutes. And if you don’t believe that I’m serious about protecting this place…my health…my building.” A shot rang out.

Grant pointed at the ceiling speaker, “Did he just fire a gun?”

Lucy nodded.

“Please show yourself at the front office…because I am very welcoming with this gun!” Grant mocked, but his eyes were wide with shock and disbelief.

Lucy nodded again.

“A gun.”

“He wants the school all to himself and if he can’t do that then he wants supreme rule over the minions,” Salem said. “Megalomaniac Spencer till the end. I never trusted that moron and I’m not about to deliver myself to him on a platter.”

“I don’t think he’s crazy,” Grant challenged. “I think he’s scared.”

Lucy looked at them and grimaced. “A man who is afraid for his own life is way more dangerous to us than just some power-tripping jerk,” she said.

Despite the warning, they didn’t move.

The metal gates were thick metal garage-like doors that descended from the ceiling and locked into the floor with the help from powerful magnets. They were impenetrable; designed to herd students like cattle away from classrooms and into community areas like the gym or the cafeteria. Once Lucy had attended a football game and wandered into the school during halftime. She didn’t get very far, stymied by the metal walls. Each time she tried to work her away around them, she encountered another and another.

From the East Wing, the gates would lock at the start of the English hall and math halls and end just past the computer labs before the main part of the school. They would be left with a ‘U’ shape of accessibility, and Spencer’s warning rang true: The cafeteria, the teacher’s lounge, the front office—areas with access to food and water—the nurses station and the security office, all would be behind the gates which made it infinitely more difficult for them to sustain themselves for long periods of time.

As the minutes ticked down, none of them made a move until Lucy rose from her crouched position in front of the screen and walked over to the door where a school emergency disaster plan booklet hung in a plastic cover. She took it out and walked back to the journalism teacher’s desk, rummaged for a highlighter, and then slapped the paper down in front of Salem and Grant.

“Look,” she said and took the cap of the highlighter off with her teeth. “The gates will come down here and here.” She drew a line separating the hall to the gym and the auditorium and from the pool to the main office. “And here.” She highlighted the gates’ locations separating the English hall and the computer lab. “We’re locked in.”

“Right,” Grant said. “Clearly.”

“It’s to our benefit,” Lucy replied. “Spencer is keeping himself in the main office. And why not…he walks down the middle hallway and he has cafeteria access and with the exception of the cafeteria courtyard doors and the main entrance, he’s isolated himself from intruders too. But—” Lucy ran the highlighter over the English and math hallway and the East Wing. “He doesn’t have access to us either.”

“That’s fine, but how will we eat?” Grant asked.

“Easy,” said Salem. She pointed at the Boiler Room on the map. “Boiler Room. Next to the cafeteria. The gates going down don’t affect us. We have no reason to let him know we’re here. It’s a big building. We can hide.”

Grant looked up to the ceiling and then down at the girls. “How long before he figures out we have open access to the roof and shuts us down?”

“We’ll have to be careful, of course. And quiet. Figure out the best times to sneak in and back without detection, but it’s entirely possible to hunker down here and fly under the radar,” Lucy added. “I’m a little concerned about the roof though. We’ve created open access for anyone to get inside and people seeking shelter here won’t be deterred easily.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Salem said sadly. “If what the news guy says is true, then there won’t be many people left wanting to get in. Even by the time I climbed up, the numbers outside were…”

“It’s about resources,” Grant interrupted, “not how many people are still alive. People will know the school has food. Eventually people will want inside.”

“Then we make it hard for them.” Lucy walked over to the gaping hole and pointed at the ladder. “Without the table and the ladder, it’s a what…twenty foot drop? If we move everything away from the skylight and…I don’t know…glass shards?”

At this suggestion, Salem laughed. “Glass shards? You been watching action-adventure movies in your spare time?”

Lucy sat down on an empty chair and plopped herself into it and stared ahead. “It’s not like I’m good at this. It’s not like I woke up this morning and suddenly I’m an expert on how to booby-trap the journalism room. None of us are equipped for this. If we even live until morning, I don’t know how we’ll make it to the next day or the next.” Her tone was sharp, cutting in all the right places. Little daggers of truths wrapped in fear.

It was Grant who approached her, standing next to her knee, waiting for permission to speak or help her up.

The tone sounded again. This time they had expected it and they calmly waited for the announcement.

“Ten…Nine…Eight…Seven…Six…Five…Four…Three…Two…One…Zero.” Spencer counted down in a lazy drawl. “So. If I’m the only one standing…” he trailed off. “Or if those of you still here don’t feel a need to coexist.” He spat the word like a curse. “This is where I leave you.” The intercom did not click off, but Spencer got up from his seat, humming an incoherent melody that trailed away and then came back and then trailed away again—they imagined him pacing along the length of the front office—the microphone for the intercom situated on a box at the front secretary’s desk.

Lucy knew that Spencer couldn’t hear that he was still broadcasting his movements to the school. There was no speaker for the intercom in the office, so there was no way for him to hear himself. It was to their benefit that he could not detect this because it provided them a distinct advantage.

Students at the school were aware that sometimes the intercom system remained on blast when the people around it thought they had turned it off. Their cheerful and grandmotherly school secretary was most famous for forgetting to shut off the intercom. Once she was overheard calling a particularly rude parent a “douche bag” to a fellow teacher while the intercom still broadcast every word.

Grant, Lucy, and Salem heard a distinct click of a door opening and then a slam as it shut. Spencer was leaving the main office.

Then, in the stillness of the school, they heard the rumble. From the security office, Spencer had flipped the gate switch and the metal bars tumbled downward.

Without fear, they sprang up and ran out of the classroom, Lucy remembered at the last second to shove the doorstop beneath the door before it slammed shut and locked them out. Then they rushed to where the East Wing met the English hall and peered into the openness of the hallway. To their left, they could see the gate hit the magnetic metal locks. Then they braved exposure and wandered down the hallway to their right, peering around the corner only long enough to see that gate shut them in and lock with a distinctive click. Hearts pounding, they scooted back away into the safety of the English hall. Now, unless the gates lifted, they were sealed off from Spencer.

Lucy looked at the empty floor where the young boy’s body had been that morning. Someone had moved it. Dried blood and vomit remained stained on the tile, but the boy himself was gone. Moved to his final resting place without fanfare.

And then Lucy noticed something shift in the corner of her eye. Subtle at first, a small twitch, and then a longer sweep: The security camera above them was rotating and scanning the hall. Spencer, sitting in the security office, was on the hunt. Unaware of the camera’s range, Lucy grabbed at Salem and pushed her backward into the wall, then pulled Grant’s shirt.

“What?” Salem asked in a whisper and Lucy pointed above them. The red light was pulsating and the purr of the lens rotating around was barely noticeable.

“This complicates things,” Grant mumbled. He watched the camera and took a step. “Wait,” he said. “Wait.” The camera whirred to capture the other end of the hall and they had a second to move—the girl’s bathroom was mere feet away. While the camera could easily capture the bathroom entrance, it was common knowledge that the bathrooms were free from video. Which was why in her four-year tenure as a student, Lucy had witnessed three girl-fights and two drug deals during routine bathroom breaks.

As the lens scrolled over the top of them, in the second after it could no longer see the bathroom, they bolted and scrambled inside and shut the door, leaning against the back of it, holding their breath and waiting.

“How will we know if he saw us?” Salem asked.

“He’d say something,” Lucy whispered. “Call us out on the intercom.”

“Maybe not,” Grant replied. “Maybe he’d just come for us.”

Salem moved away from the door and walked over to the mirror. Someone had scrawled, “You are beautiful to someone” in Sharpie on the expanse of wall between the two mirrors above the sink. Salem put her finger on the writing and traced the words. “We’ll hear the gates go up,” she replied. “Simple. He says he sees us or he puts the gates up and comes to get us.”

“There are three of us and one of him,” Lucy noted. This gave her confidence.

“But he has a gun,” Grant reminded them.

“He has a gun,” Salem repeated.

“But maybe it’s just for show,” Lucy said.

As soon as she said it, they heard a second shot as it echoed down the hallway and rang out over the intercom.

Spencer’s voice yelled and called as he retreated back into the office. “Stop, stop where you are!”

A group of voices called out, distant at first, but then getting closer to the office.

“Get him!” someone shouted.

“Go around! All sides, all sides!”

There was the sound of breaking glass and then a struggle.

A mob had moved in and Spencer was shouting, his tone vacillating between wrath and sheer panic.

“What’s happening?” Salem pushed herself against the bathroom door, as if the fight was bearing down on her, getting closer.

Grant’s eyes landed on a spot on the bathroom wall, and he stared at it as he listened intently. It was just noise raining down from above; and it was the noise of things falling apart. “Students. Has to be. I think other students are on the attack.”

One of the voices, female and young, screamed something indecipherable before someone else yelled, “We’re losing Sarahi. She’s down…oh no, help her…Somto…wait! Wait! Don’t…”

There was another shot and screams. And then they all heard Spencer’s voice clear above them. “Get. Out.” He was breathless and angry. Something scraped along the floor; there was the sound of muffled shouting and doors opening. “Get out!”

Then: Nothing.

Each of them paused and then at once they let out long breaths.

“Why?” was all Salem said, she looked to each of them.

“This is not good for us,” Grant added. “Any kid is now a potential threat to resources and his life. Was it too much to ask for everyone to just hide?”

Lucy walked to one end of the bathroom and back—peering into the stalls, with their graffitied walls and dwindling toilet paper supplies. A deserted binder perched precariously against one of the toilets and the wall. There was a picture of a baby taped to the front that reminded Lucy of her binder, which was still in Ethan’s backpack left abandoned in Mrs. Johnston’s classroom. She made a note to retrieve it when it was safe to go in the hall again.

“There could be others still in the building,” Grant continued.

Salem’s shoulders slumped. “But maybe they don’t have roof access?”

“And maybe they do. What do we know?” Grant kept his back firmly planted against the door. His feet fell outward, his toes pointed up. He stared at his shoes.

“I realize this is neither the time nor the place to announce this, but I have to pee,” Lucy said. She turned to face them and then shrugged.

“Well, I’m not stopping you,” Salem replied as if the act of urinating annoyed her and she motioned for Lucy to head into a stall.

Lucy glanced over at Grant. He smiled, his single-dimple appearing in a flash. “I’m definitely not going outside to wait if that’s what you want. I’m not getting shot over girly privacy issues.”

“I have four brothers. So, I’m not embarrassed to pee in front of you.” Lucy marched into the stall and slammed the door, locking it for good measure. She pulled down her jeans and underwear, careful not to pull them too low so that Grant, if he were so inclined, would notice the bright blue and pink argyle pattern of her undergarments. After a second, Lucy sighed. “Salem…can you turn on the sink water or something?”

“What? Need inspiration?” Salem asked and soon the sound of the sink filling with water echoed in the small bathroom and Lucy allowed herself to go to the bathroom—she realized as her bladder released, how much better she would feel and she rested her elbows on the exposed flesh of her thighs and closed her eyes. After she was done, she just sat for a long second. It was a second that belonged only to her.

Then she felt wetness hit her exposed flesh; a gush of lukewarm water bubbled up, pouring over the sides, spilling at her feet.

Lucy shrieked and scrambled off the toilet, pulling up her pants and underwear in a quick motion and clawing at the door, yanking it with force. The water had pooled below her feet and Lucy slipped, sliding forward into the side of the bathroom wall; she turned to look as the toilet overflowed—the water was clear at first, and then it turned a murky brown, and it began to spew like a geyser, sending a spray of water and sewage into the stall, drenching the wall and the floor—creating a stream that ran down into the drain in the floor.

Then the other toilets followed suit by gurgling and belching up waste and water. Salem and Grant sprang up and huddled together on a tile near the door while the water crept slowly toward them. But every time Lucy tried to move, she would slip and tumble back down into the wetness. When the water calmed down to a mere trickle, the explosion subsiding, Lucy regained her footing and stood sopping wet in the middle of the bathroom. Her jeans clung to every inch of her skin, scraping along the inside of her thigh like a razor as she took a step forward. She lifted her arms up and watched the water drip with a repetitive plop-plop-plop to the floor.

Salem cried out, “Oh no, Lula!”

She wanted to laugh—her instinct encouraged her to let out a giggle. Embarrassment usually garnered this type of response; she wanted to laugh and blush while she wished for reprieve. Her pants were still unbuttoned and she reached to fasten them, but as she looked up she saw Grant and Salem huddled in the bathroom corner, close together, pushing themselves as far away from the water as physically possible. Lucy stifled her smile when saw the fear in their faces.

Lucy took a step toward them, her shoes swishing.

“No, Lucy, wait,” Grant said and put up his hand. “Just wait.”

The water was contaminated.

The water was poison.

They stared at her as if she were already dead.

CHAPTER TEN

They stood there for a long moment and then Lucy lowered her arms a bit, feeling the weight of her clothes pull her body toward the floor. The intercom right above her broadcast the banal sounds of an empty office. Then they heard a door click and Spencer started to hum again. Not happy, jaunty humming, but a focused and intense hum. There was an edge to his musical interludes, a hardness to the melody that seemed entirely for show.

It unsettled her.

Lucy opened her mouth to speak to Grant and Salem, but as she opened her mouth, she saw Salem flinch and draw back and place her hand immediately on Grant’s arm with her long fingers wrapped around his biceps. Grant regarded Salem’s grip for just a second and Lucy saw his eyes flit to his arm and then back up at her, as though even among the tragedies of the day, he was still aware of being touched by the opposite sex.

“No,” Lucy replied to a question that hadn’t been asked. “No. This is not the way it’s going to happen.”

Grant took a tentative step forward, “How do you know it’s not contaminated?”

“I don’t!” Lucy answered him and her eyes locked in on his. “But we’ve been around the dead all day. All day! All of us, all day, and we’re still here.”

“We’re allowed to be worried,” Salem said in a small voice.

Lucy’s eyes flashed to her friend; she swallowed hard and blinked back tears. “Worried for me?” Her eyes flashed. “Or worried for you?”

When Salem didn’t answer, Lucy bit her lip and nodded. “Right. So, we’re all just still alive because we haven’t been exposed yet? The bioterrorists polluted our water, our food supply, our air and we just lucked out?”

“I don’t know how it works,” Salem’s hand still held on to Grant. Lucy took a giant step forward, her legs stiff. “We just don’t know.”

“Fine,” Lucy tore off her shirt, exposing a thin white camisole beneath. She balled it up tightly and then tossed it into the sink. Bending down she held the heels of her swollen canvas sneakers and slipped out of them too, picking each one up individually and throwing them over to the wall. One hit the wall and bounced back, and it landed on its side, empty and ownerless.

Then she walked right past them, while Salem buried her head into Grant’s armpit and cowered as if she were expecting Lucy to hit her, and stormed out into the empty hallway.

Waddling, Lucy walked to her locker and opened it without taking her ears off of the hum, which was now some bizarre arrangement of a familiar Mozart Waltz, and as she approached it, her eyes zeroed in on the camera—the red light was still blinking, but the angle of its lens was abandoned in the other direction. She knew that the cameras were live-feed only. There was a master record of the camera feed, but it was a convoluted series of tapes and buttons and memory cards. Spencer would figure out how to watch the recordings eventually, but they were safe for a small, limited, finite amount of time.

She knew about the camera’s issues with recording because last year she had been an unwitting helper in Anna’s quest to recover a stolen cell phone. Over an hour she wasted in that tiny security office, the bumbling men scrambling over the camera system struggling to locate the right disk that recorded the right hallway during the right time. It was a total mess and eventually the effort and Anna’s prized possession were relegated to paperwork and nothing more.

Lucy knew that an old pair of yoga pants and a tight leopard print exercise shirt, from her first semester PE class and purchased by her mother, who had no sense of style, were stuffed down under the weight of unused textbooks and discarded papers. When she felt the soft fabric hit her fingers, she grabbed and yanked, sliding them out, and catching anything that fell in the process. Her eyes scanned the hall. Grant and Salem were still holed up in the bathroom, no doubt discussing her septic state. Grant, perhaps, bringing up his undead theory to her and bravely volunteering to be the one to attack Lucy with the wire cutters from metal shop if the need arose.

Maybe turning into a flesh-eating monster wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. For a juicy moment she realized the idea of attacking her friend and burying her teeth into her arm or leg sounded deliciously evil. She wondered if Grant and Salem really were going to avoid her until they knew if she was infected. It seemed childish and born of irrational fear. Or maybe it was rational fear; maybe their decision was smart and cautious. Either way, it hurt. Then she let the thoughts slip away and slammed her locker shut, the echo bouncing down the hallway. Arguments between close friends were always riddled with personal hurt. Salem, out of all of them, probably had the most exposure to the virus—she arrived from a diseased house and was outside among the infected. Those barbs could have stung, and she wanted them to sting, but she would have never said it out loud to her friend. What good would it have done?

Living would have to be her giant middle finger to them both.

With the clothes in her hand, Lucy walked slowly back to the journalism room and once she was alone, she shed her jeans and her underwear, and pulled the stretchy black fabric of the pants over and up her legs. She took off her bra for good measure and put on the tank top. Then she sat with her back against the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest, and waited. Goosebumps prickled her skin.

Her toes were cool on the tile.

She concentrated on her body. Did she feel sick? What would it feel like? Did people know they were about to die or did it just happen suddenly? If it happened to her, would she have time to say goodbye?

Lucy found a discarded hoodie with their school mascot on it and used it as a blanket. She stretched along the couch and listened to the background noise of the office. She felt her brain pulling her body toward sleep and she resisted. The room was getting darker and she realized she didn’t even know what time it was now. Her phone was still in her jeans pocket and it was possibly wet and beyond repair. While her thoughts spun with worry, all her energy left her body and Lucy couldn’t even bring herself to check if the phone had survived the flood.

She closed her eyes. Her body sunk into the cushions of the couch.

Sleep claimed her.

* *

Her eyes snapped open.

The room was bright and light.

Lucy tried to sit up, but her body resisted, pulling her back down into the comfort of the fabric. The inside of her mouth was dry and she smacked her lips together and swallowed. It hurt to swallow and she needed water.

Lucy was totally disoriented, forgetting where she was and what had happened to her in the past twenty-four hours. She reached out to silence her alarm clock and felt nothing but air where her bedside table was supposed to be. She tried to tug her comforter around her body, but the fabric slid off and wouldn’t cover her shoulders or reach her feet.

“Mom?” she called and then she cleared her throat and sat up. Rubbing her eyes, she looked around and recognized the journalism room and her brain began to make sense of their surroundings. Tossing the flimsy Spartan-themed sweatshirt to the floor, she put her feet on the tile. For a moment she sat with her head in her hands as her stomach growled, and she put her hand over it to silence it.

It didn’t take long to reconnect to her reality. She was in the journalism lab at school and she had been sleeping on the couch, there was a hole in the roof, and outside the world was dying. She was cold and shivering, hungry and confused, and to make matters worse, she was alone.

Grant and Salem were not asleep in a corner of the room and they were not awake and waiting for her. If they even came back to the room that evening and had seen her sleeping, she didn’t know, but they weren’t there now and the anxiousness and heaviness in her chest felt oppressive and unmanageable. The terror of day two was here and Lucy woke up abandoned.

Lucy stood up and stretched. For good measure, she walked to the computer and tried to refresh the Internet pages, check on the status of the world, but it was futile. Not only would the news pages not refresh, they simply did not exist.

They were off the grid.

She tried to check her feed. Nothing. In that moment, more than any other, Lucy felt her brain grow fuzzy from the realization that she was cut-off. There was no way to connect with the outside world and without the news, status updates, feeds, her endless salvo of human contact would come to an end. Now she realized how much she needed Salem and Grant, without them she would be left with only her overactive brain.

She hurried back over to her pants and found her phone in working order, but empty. Void and lifeless. Not a message, not single a notification. And to top everything off, her battery life was diminishing fast. With a fast-building fury, Lucy tossed the phone to the couch and let out a primal growl.

It was then she heard the journalism door slide open. In the silence of the morning, it was impossible to disguise the subtle squeak and she spun her head toward the sound and eyed a tentative Salem poking her head through the doorway, the rest of her body planted in the hallway. Salem’s eyes were wide with worry, but Lucy recognized the look—it was not the fearful expression of someone expecting to find a dead body, but the hesitant mien of someone who was guilty and afraid of being yelled at.

“Good morning,” Lucy said, her words clipped and dripping with as much sarcasm as she could muster. She would not yell at Salem, but she didn’t feel like acting particularly warm toward her either. Salem looked behind her, nodded to an unseen lurker and then ventured inside—she was frowning as she walked back over to the couch. Her clothes were wrinkled and her hair matted in the back; her lips were void of her trademark lip-gloss. Salem collapsed upon the couch and leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Her hand found an errant thread, and she began to pull at it mindlessly.

“I’m alive,” Lucy said. “Not what you were expecting?”

Salem’s face collapsed and she tipped her body over on the couch and she let out a giant, far-reaching wail. Lucy rushed over and sat herself down beside her and stroked her hair. All her plans for stoic and coldhearted responses leaked out of her and Lucy felt only compassion for her crying friend. It was, she supposed, a consistent reaction based on the last few days; there was comfort in knowing what was expected of her.

“Lo siento. Lo siento,” Salem said over and over. She sat up and her eyes were bright red, a thin stream of snot dripped from her right nostril and she let it fall until it passed her lip. “Forgive me. Please?”

Lucy looked down. Then she took Salem’s hand and held it. “I didn’t leave this school for you. I stayed with you.”

“I know, I know,” Salem said. “I was afraid. I can’t lose you Lucy don’t you see? I’ve got nothing else.”

She sat up. She had wrapped the thread around her index finger until the skin around it turned white.

“Yesterday, when I woke up, my dad was just hovering over my mom. He was just screaming at me and screaming and I didn’t understand. And I ran to call 9-1-1 and the recording said that the hold time was over an hour to reach a dispatcher,” Salem looked at Lucy, pleading. “He wouldn’t let me near her. All I wanted to do was just touch her…feel her for myself. But he just grabbed me and shoved me.”

She grabbed her shirt and lowered it over her shoulder, exposing her collarbone, where a deep purple bruise in an abstract shape materialized. When she was sure Lucy had seen it, she pulled her shirt back up, hiding the pain. Knife wounds, colorful bruises: Salem’s adventures seemed so violent compared to her own. Here was her friend and every comfort in her life had been violated.

“Whatever happened to you yesterday…you didn’t see your own parent scared, Lucy. I could just see it all over his face, this fear…this total fear. And I said, ‘Papa, que pasa? Que pasa?’ And he just sat down. In the middle of the floor. Sat down. He sobbed and sobbed because she was already gone…Lucy…there was nothing we could do. She was gone and he thought I was next. But dear God, I wasn’t next. And there’s no way you can understand that.”

From somewhere outside, they heard a crash and a boom. The boom shook the school and the leftover plastic on the skylight rattled.

The girls jumped. Lucy picked the sweatshirt up off the ground and wrapped it around Salem.

“I was afraid.”

“I know,” Lucy answered.

“Don’t let me watch you die.”

“That’s out of my control.” Lucy didn’t say it meanly, but she realized as the words left her mouth that it was the truth. Nothing was safe.

“I can’t watch you die,” Salem said and she grabbed Lucy’s hands.

“I’m not going to die,” she said and she smiled to help cover the unease she felt in saying it out loud. She wondered if it was like birthday wishes: Saying it out loud ruined the chance of it happening.

“It’s just us now,” Salem continued. “It’s always been us and now it’s just us.” Then she looked over to the wall and smiled. “Well, us and Grant Trotter.”

Lucy leaned her head back. “Strange,” she muttered. “Grant Trotter.”

“Strange,” Salem echoed.

In a swift motion, Salem tucked her feet up under Lucy, connecting their bodies in a tangle of limbs.

It was an apology.

Lucy accepted and she reciprocated by lifting her right leg and laying it over Salem’s body. She reached over and tried to untangle a mass of her hair with her fingers, but she didn’t get very far; her fingers latched themselves into Salem’s waves and got stuck, so she released her grip and then tried to smooth her own hair instead.

“And where is Grant?” Lucy asked. “And how long did I sleep? Did I miss anything?”

Salem gave a half-chuckle and closed her eyes. “Did you miss anything?” She repeated the phrase, amused. “Let’s see…Kelsey asked Domo to the prom and that made Kevin Yourn, you know, from ninth grade bio, really mad because he’d been planning to ask Kelsey. Made a video to put online. But she jumped the gun…poor Kevin.”

“You don’t say.”

“Mercedes works at Safeway and told me that she ran into Mr. Russo there and he had Magnum extra large condoms in his cart.”

“That’s really gross.”

“And…I know this is going to come as a huge shock,” Salem said in a calm voice, “but I spent the night with someone last night.”

“I’m riveted.” Lucy didn’t even blink.

“It’s not what you think,” Salem continued with a sly smile.

“It never is.”

“Lucy,” Salem said, her voice changing—softening, switching, allowing the genuine to poke through. “I think I could like him someday. When everything calms down. When I can get my head straight, you know?”

“Sal—”

“No. I’m just saying it out loud. I know it doesn’t mean anything.” She closed her eyes and put her head against the back of the couch. “I think he’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lucy answered and grabbed Salem’s hand. “So, if you two didn’t come back here last night…where’d you go?”

Salem’s eyes opened. “You know that little teacher lounge across the hallway from here? The not-so-secret secret one?”

Lucy nodded.

“Unlocked. And there are couches and a mini-fridge. Bottled water in there too. Not much. We worked for a bit last night trying to get it situated as a more permanent hideout. Even started the morning with coffee and some stale crackers.”

The news that Grant and Salem had let her sleep in a cold drafty room while they waited for her imminent demise by equipping a more suitable living space across the hall created a heavy cold ball in the bottom of her stomach. She tried to look excited, but she could tell her mouth was drawing into an inadvertent frown. Salem noticed.

“We thought we’d let you sleep. I didn’t think it would be all night,” she replied in a quiet voice.

“It’s okay,” Lucy said. She gave up the moodiness as quickly as it had arrived. There was no way it would do them any good.

“We should’ve come to get you.” She untangled her feet and swung them to the floor. “I was a jerk,” Salem leaned her head against Lucy’s shoulder. “Lo siento, por favor perdóname mi amiga.”

“No, really. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t have to be…and it’s my fault too. Grant asked if we should go get you like a million times—”

“Stop,” Lucy said and put her hand up. “It’s over.”

Salem let out a long sigh. “Then I propose breakfast as a peace-offering.”

* *

The crackers were stale and mushy, but Lucy ate them ravenously, shoving one after another into her mouth and swallowing them without tasting. She had not had a bite to eat yesterday and Lucy couldn’t remember what they had eaten for dinner the night before; something frozen and overly processed—not because her mother didn’t care about her health or about their rapidly-disappearing family dinners, but because trip preparations and concern over dead dogs consumed their evening instead.

She longed for her mother’s sweet and sour meatloaf and goat cheese mashed potatoes, honey-drizzled asparagus spears. It was the dish, along with a smooth as silk lemon-lime cheesecake, Lucy requested for her birthday dinner every year. With six children, birthdays were not large-scale affairs. Instead, every child received a dinner menu of their choice, without snarky side comments from siblings and the fear of complaining.

A lump formed in Lucy’s throat and she bit back tears. She would not cry over eating mushy crackers and drinking cold instant coffee made from bottled water because she did not want to appear ungrateful.

The room was a find. Windowless with a thick wooden door that blocked out most of the speaker sound, which was currently broadcasting Principal Spencer’s throaty snoring, emanating through the speakers in evenly paced intervals, interrupted by jolts of snorts, then settling back down, consistent as clockwork.

The walls were decorated with tacky inspirational posters. A scared looking teacher holding a math book, the message below: Teachers are people too. A young girl with tears in her eyes holding out the remains of a broken vase: Take RESPONSIBILITY for your actions. Another one reading: Effort, not excuses, is the key to success.

Lucy rose from the one of the couches, it smelled vaguely of citrus scented air freshener, and walked over to the first poster. She examined it and then yanked it down off the wall, and the loud rip filled the small space with a big sound. Then she tore each one down, ripping the paper at the corners, leaving little remnants stuck under the imbedded staples.

“There,” she said. “Better.”

No one replied. Spencer’s snores still persisted.

“How can he sleep like that?” Grant asked and he rubbed his eyes, which still looked heavy from sleep, with bags forming in the sockets, the skin tinted black and blue like bruises. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.” He looked over at Lucy with a questioning gaze.

“I can sleep anywhere,” she replied. “It’s a defense mechanism. When my grandma died, they found me asleep in the back seat of our van. I had just crawled there and fallen asleep…”

“I couldn’t shut off my brain,” he said and closed his eyes. “Wondering if I made the right decision.”

“About?” Salem questioned, taking a sip of their cold coffee and grimacing as she swallowed it down.

“About what’s going on out there,” he said. “Maybe I should go home.”

“No!” Salem looked stricken. “We decided to stay. Together.”

“Salem—” Grant started, but he stopped himself. He walked to the door of the room and opened it a bit, peering out into the hallway. “Have you thought that maybe we’re just taking longer…to die.”

“That’s an awful thing to say,” Salem said softly.

“It’s what I’ve been thinking about all night.”

Lucy ate another cracker. She had thought the same thing, but she abstained from entering the argument. Grant’s decision to stay or go was his own, and she could not begrudge him his desire to leave. They were relegated to eating leftover teacher food in a glorified closet while a principal with a gun lurked nearby. It was far from ideal.

“We’re not helping anyone in here,” Grant said. “I feel like a coward. There might be people who need us.”

“No one out there needs us,” Salem pleaded her case. “How many times do I have to tell you? There’s nothing out there but corpses, car crashes, chaos and crazies.”

“Maybe my family is out there,” Lucy said after a long moment.

Grant looked down at his shoes and kicked his toe against some invisible object.

“Is that why you want to go? Grant?” Salem asked. “To look for your dad?”

“I already told you I don’t care about that!” Grant snapped and it was the first time Lucy had ever seen him get upset. Then he hung his head, remorseful. “I’m sorry. But no. I just feel like I could be doing something.”

“You are doing something!” Salem replied. “You’re surviving.”

“It’s not the same. You don’t understand,” Grant said and he moved back an inch, half his body in the hall, half of it in the room and he leaned against the doorframe.

“You’re absolutely right it’s not the same!” Salem was getting fired up. And in typical Salem fashion she had shifted the argument right out from under him. Like a brilliant chess player, she had maneuvered her pieces without anyone noticing and then went in for the kill. “You still have the possibility of a family out there somewhere. You’re scared and worried, but you don’t know. Maybe a friend died yesterday or someone on the track team, but you didn’t see your parents take their last breath. So…what then? You want to go be someone’s freakin’ hero? Go be a hero. But we are not the same. You’re not completely demolished yet.” She took a breath and pointed a finger to Lucy and Grant. “When you’re a shell of yourself…then you’ll see. There’s nothing to conquer out there but more loss.”

Lucy’s heart beat in her ears as she contemplated replying. Grant looked close to tears, or close to throwing a punch, Lucy couldn’t tell which. His whole leg twitched and he bounced it up and down. She knew Salem. Knew that a little pushback would calm her down.

“I won’t speak for Grant,” Lucy interjected, glancing in his direction, and he nodded his thanks. “But for me? Don’t you dare make me feel guilty for having hope that my family is alive. That doesn’t take away from your grief…”

“I’m not a monster,” Salem interrupted, lowering her finger, her voice still on edge. “I’d never take that away from you. I want you to be right. I want them to be alive. Who do you think I am?”

Lucy stood up. “I don’t think any of us know who we are anymore. And maybe we should be allowed some time to figure it out.”

It was truth, spoken in kindness. This sudden detour from the ordinary unmoored them from reality and thrust them into a disquiet about the future too difficult to digest. Underneath it all was a permeating worry that their time too was short and that they were treading water until the next wave of loss and horror crashed down on them. Lucy could see it on all their faces, playing out in the blank-glances, the dark circles: The sagging weight of loss.

Grant opened his mouth to respond, but then he turned his head and he opened the door wider. The snoring had stopped. There was rustling on the speaker and they knew what that meant. The man was waking up.

* *

“Food is our first priority,” Salem said. “We can stay put and away from the cameras if we have food.”

They had listened to the office sounds for fifteen minutes. Spencer left and came back twice. He hummed and mumbled to himself, but the specifics of his one-way conversations were indecipherable. None of his current actions struck them as alarming or worrisome; he had not fired the gun again or sent menacing messages out over the intercom. In many ways, they hoped he stayed away from the intercom, lest he should ever notice it was helping them track his every move in and out of the office.

“So, we need to get to the cafeteria,” Lucy stated. “And we can’t just waltz through the hallway.” It had been a bit since Lucy had checked her phone; she had set it on one of the couches and she grabbed it, but the low battery light blinked and blinked, warning her and threatening her. But there was still nothing but silence. Lucy shoved the phone in her pocket and willed it to keep itself alive for a little bit longer. She didn’t even know if cell phones were working, if her wish was wasted.

“Go up the ladder,” Grant instructed. “Boiler room is on the inside of the gates. It’ll be easy, as long as Spencer doesn’t leave the office. If he goes on the move, we should abort the trip and head back.”

“Agreed,” Salem said.

Back they trudged to the journalism room where the door was kept ajar with the doorstop. It was easily ten degrees cooler in there with the open roof funneling in wind and elements. The trio worked to move the tables back under the skylight and then drag the ladder upward.

Grant went first, pulling himself up to the roof with sheer upper body strength, his legs following after. Lucy went next, bracing herself each time the ladder wobbled under her weight the higher she climbed. When she reached the top, Grant lowered his arms and pulled her up and she scrambled to the hard surface the second her legs could catch the side of roof. For a prolonged moment, she rested on the cool roof, flat on her belly against the tar. Then she stood and blinked.

Scanning the landscape, Lucy’s shock caused her to nearly stumble backward through the hole in the skylight. She regained her composure and took a step forward. The sky was altered, filled with the bright yellows, purples and pinks of an early-morning sunrise even though the sun had been up for hours. Above the colorful hues, the rest of the sky was dark and dense with smoke, and as Lucy opened her mouth to call down to Salem she could feel a sharp taste on her tongue and in the back of her throat. Everything around her took on a subtle orange tint—as if she were wearing thin filtered glasses. The effect of the colors and the smoke and the orange created a dreamlike atmosphere—otherworldly.

She clamped her mouth down and took a tentative step forward. Then another. Walking to the edge of the roof and peering down on to the parking lot below to the dozens and dozens of deserted cars, dead bodies, discarded backpacks, and other personal items littering the area. It was then Lucy realized the earth was strangely quiet, just like Clayton had said. There were no planes in the sky and no cars rushing down the street. The screams and torment of the survivors from yesterday were all gone. Only a few sporadic sounds remained—a crash, a sudden car alarm—and their appearance was jarring, unexpected, frightening, causing each of them to jump and seek out the source with their hearts pounding with fear.

She closed her eyes and listened to the wind. From miles and miles away, she heard the distinct sound of a dog barking.

Then she realized with sadness that she must have imagined it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They climbed down into the boiler room and out into the small walkway that connected the room with the main hallway. With their hearts racing and their ears trained on the intercom, they moved with cautious precision. And when they rounded the corner to the hall, Grant leading the front, Salem huddled at Lucy’s elbow a few steps behind, they all stopped short and gasped.

Splayed out on the tile was a dead man. He had brown hair and was wearing a blue button-down shirt, jeans, and a walkie-talkie was still in his hand. A thick key ring with at least fifteen silver keys dangled from a belt-loop. The man still looked like a man, but his skin had a greenish and cloudy quality along his bloated cheeks and extremities, as if he had been submerged in a vat of soured milk.

This decomposition was not normal. Not even the Ebola virus could arrive without symptoms, kill in minutes, and reduce the body to rotting tissue within an hour. Lucy knew if her father was around, he would be looking at this virus with curiosity, examining it with a scientist’s eye, and she longed for his strength and whatever answers he could give her. Not having him within reach was alarming—she had questions. Who would answer them?

It was difficult to look away, despite the disgust. Grant coughed into his shoulder and then leaned forward, inspecting and assessing the body. He dropped down and squatted, turned his head away from the stench, and started to reach forward, his eyes watering.

“What the hell are you doing?” Salem asked.

With one quick motion, Grant unhooked the silver key ring and swiped it off the belt-loop with a small tug. The keys jangled in his hand and he held them up triumphantly. “Master keys. Locker keys. All keys. This,” he jangled them, “is a treasure.”

“I wonder why his body was left here,” Lucy said out loud.

“One of the last adults to get sick, probably.” Salem crossed her arms over her body and looked up and down the hall with nervous, shifty eyes. “Come on, I feel exposed.”

“Wait,” Grant said and his shot up to the cameras. “Where’s Spencer?”

They all strained to listen, but the office was quiet.

Then they heard the ring of a telephone. One long ring, another long ring. Then Spencer answered it—off somewhere in the office, away from the microphone.

“The phones!” Lucy exclaimed and she reached her pocket, scrambling. Pulling it free, she stared at the screen, waiting for dormant text messages to start pouring through. A beep signaled that she had a message and Lucy clicked on it quickly. Salem’s name popped up: I’m in the building. Journalism room? But that was all.

“What? What did you get?” Salem asked, leaning over to look at the screen.

“Just you. From yesterday.” Lucy didn’t even try to mask her disappointment. She dialed Ethan’s number. After five long seconds, the call clicked in. “It’s ringing! It’s ringing!” she said and she took two long strides back down the side walkway toward the boiler room, shoving her left hand over her left ear out of habit, even though there wasn’t any noise to drown out in the background. After four rings, it kicked her to voicemail. Ethan’s voice on the message was bright and chipper—and so clear, like he was standing right beside her. She wanted to cry.

“Ethan? Ethan. It’s me. I’m at the school. I haven’t left. I’m still here. If you make it here, I’m in the—” the phone kicked her off. Lost signal. Lucy growled and shoved the phone back into her pocket. Salem was looking at her and she tried to smile.

“He’ll hear it. He’ll get the message,” she encouraged.

Grant had positioned himself directly beneath a speaker in the hallway; his head upturned, his eyes squinting.

“Who could he possibly be talking to?” Grant said as Salem and Lucy joined him, stepping around the dead janitor in the process.

“Family?”

“No. He’s angry. Can you hear the tone?”

Grant was right. The conversation happening halfway around the school and just out of range of their intercom was not a happy one. Spencer’s voice raised and lowered, with growing levels of intensity.

Occasionally they heard a snippet.

“I will control that. Only me,” Spencer had snapped once. Then a few seconds later, “No. I will not help. But we can talk.” Lucy, Grant, and Salem exchanged puzzled glances.

Then there was nothing. A lost signal, an angry hang-up, they could only speculate what ended the discussion and who was on the other end of it. But they now heard Spencer opening and shutting drawers and files with a fury, shouting to himself as he went: “No. My school. My rules.”

Salem lowered her head from looking at the ceiling and scowled. “I don’t like this.”

Grant took one look at the camera. “Me neither, but while we know where Spencer is…” he pointed to the red light blinking at them, “let’s get what we need and go.”

The three of them bolted into the cafeteria—running together against the wall; trying to stay on the outskirts as much as possible, crawling behind tables and using stacked benches for cover. Out of all the areas in the school, the cafeteria was most covered with cameras. Every corner boasted a device—sometimes several—and there were limited blind spots. Ducking behind a metal food cart, the trio the scooted to the back of the cafeteria, where the industrial refrigerators hummed.

None of them had entered the kitchen before and they stood in awe of the prep area and the pantry, the freezers, and the endless rows of stainless steel pots and pans. Sterile and polished, everything gleaned brightly.

“I never actually thought any cooking happened in this kitchen,” Grant mused. “Like these have to be just for show.” He pinged a hanging saucepan with a flick and drew back, rubbing his nail.

Lucy walked over to the walk-in freezer and unlatched it, opening the door wide—a cloud of cold air billowed up at her as she walked inside. She was instantly freezing as she rummaged around boxes of frozen peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwiches, the kind with the crusts removed, all the ingredients jammed into a bread pocket. The frozen options were limiting: Meat patties, chicken nuggets, pre-cooked French fries, burritos. Lucy didn’t know how they would cook the frozen items or if there was some cooking rule on letting a frozen meat patty defrost in a refrigerator for an unspecified amount of time. That was a question for a mom or the Internet and neither of those things were readily available.

“Take what you can carry,” Lucy instructed the others.

A drawer near the back yielded industrial size garbage bags and Grant handed one to each of them so they could start collecting food. They flipped them open, spreading the top wide and started filling it with anything that could be stored, consumed, and transported with ease. Salem grabbed milk cartons and sandwiches and then she turned her attention to a metal rack that held small bags of pretzels and corn chips.

“What about the fresh stuff?” Salem asked, palming an orange.

Grant shook his head. “Too risky.”

“How long does it take to get scurvy?” Lucy asked.

“Like sailors or whatever?” Grant shrugged. “Months?”

Salem dropped the orange back into the crate. She took a few steps and opened up a refrigerator and examined the shelves stocked from top to bottom with juices and water in plastic bottles. She smiled and started dumping then two at a time into her bag.

The bags began to drag on the floor, heavy from an abundance of food, snacks, and bottled water.

“This should last us. What a goldmine,” Grant said excitedly.

“A statement that has never been said about a school cafeteria in the history of school cafeterias,” said Salem. She hauled her bag over her shoulder and started to walk forward, hunched over from the weight.

“I wish we could get into the vending machines,” Lucy said. “Swedish fish and red vines, chocolate chip cookies, and peanut butter cups.”

Spencer’s voice erupted above them, the cafeteria speakers echoing in the empty space. They jumped and it reminded them that their time was limited. Each heaving their loot, they began to work their way back to the boiler room—taking slow and deliberate steps, like cartoons figures tip-toeing away from a snoring enemy.

They climbed back up the metal ladder embedded into the boiler room wall and pushed open the small square on the ceiling that allowed them roof access. Then they skipped and ran back to the skylight in the East Wing, keeping their bags hoisted on their backs as they slid down the opening, their feet blindly searching for the ladder, kicking this way and that until the wooden steps materialized and guided them back down to safety. Then Grant carried the ladder down and shoved it up against the wall and slid the tables away as well. The skylight still offered a wayward outsider entrance, but they still hoped the long drop on to the tile floor was enough of a deterrent.

Without a word, they meandered across the hall like weary roommates arriving home from a shopping trip. Grant swung the door wide, the girls sliding inside as he fumbled for the light. Lucy dropped her grocery bags and walked to the far corner. She sat down on one of the small red couches, her bag between her legs, and she opened it wide, rummaging around, counting and assessing.

Her cracker breakfast left much to be desired and Lucy couldn’t resist the thought of thick peanut butter and sweet jelly; she grabbed a sandwich, still partially frozen, and began to gnaw on it, succeeding in breaking off pieces of bread and hardened jelly between her teeth, and she rolled it around her mouth, warming it with her tongue.

As if she had reminded each of them that they were hungry, Grant and Salem also descended upon the bags like a pack of wolves. They crouched over their plundered food and began to eat it on the spot. Grant opened a bag of pretzels and a water bottle and Salem downed a bottle of juice, each of them depositing their garbage in the corner.

“We’ll dump our garbage next door,” Lucy suggested. “Grab a bag and then lock it up in the wood shop or something.”

Grant dangled the keys. “This might help,” he replied. “Locker keys.”

“Nice,” said Salem, making a grab for them, but Grant whisked them out of her reach.

“What do we need?” Lucy asked. She surveyed the room again. They had two small couches and a big leather chair, a small wooden desk with the coffee maker, a half-empty bookshelf, a large built-in cupboard with paper cups, a stack of computer paper, and a box of old t-shirts advertising a canned food drive from six years ago.

She turned to Grant. “I want a classroom key. I want my backpack.” Grant wiggled a key free and slapped it into her upturned palm.

“I’ll open all the lockers in a section and we can go through them piece by piece. Save anything essential, right?” Grant asked.

They nodded.

They made the trek down to the English hall. Lucy let herself into Mrs. Johnston’s room and went straight to Ethan’s backpack, slipping it up over her shoulder, holding on to the strap tightly. More than anything, Lucy wanted to be reunited with her pictures. She looked around the room and assessed the familiar quality of it. Everything now seemed so foreign, so strange, and so empty. Pausing by Mrs. Johnston’s desk, she scanned the pictures, the notes from students and the ungraded papers.

She hoped that Mrs. Johnston made it home. Hoped that her family was waiting; hoped that she had water and food and a plan. Some people deserved a happy ending, Lucy thought. And Mrs. Johnston was one of those people. She stopped for a second and opened up Mrs. Johnston’s desk drawers. She nabbed a bottle of ibuprofen, but couldn’t find anything else of use—various office supplies, a thank you note, a tube of lipstick, and a nail file. She left the remaining detritus undisturbed.

When Lucy exited the room, she saw Grant opening lockers wide with the key and Salem swooping in to plunder. They worked as a team, standing side-by-side, yanking and pulling, flipping things over and tossing it to the ground.

It felt so wrong. But it was also so necessary.

Maybe the items in the lockers were important, but these were still artifacts of someone else’s life, tucked away for them to discover and judge. Within minutes Grant and Salem were tittering over some of their finds: Packs of condoms, a locker turned shrine for some overly auto-tuned pop star. Salem unearthed a collection of phones and music devices, treasure trove of technology, stuffed in a shoebox under unused textbooks and half-eaten sandwich.

Grant spun to Lucy. “Hey, I unlocked a row over there,” he pointed to a section that included Lucy’s own locker. “Want to start on those?”

Lucy gave pause to the instructions; she took a long look at Grant and Salem’s tag-team duo. Right then, Salem shrieked as she pulled out a pair of bright pink thong underwear and held it between her pointer and thumb fingers and she tossed them at Grant, who sidestepped away from them as if they contained the virus. The chumminess bothered her, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. She couldn’t command them all to stay morose and depressed, it wasn’t healthy. It was fine to smile, find distraction, but still Lucy couldn’t escape how tactless the playfulness felt.

Stewing, Lucy walked over and pulled the first door open wide, letting it crash a little louder than she might have wanted. Then she went to the next, then the next, and then the next: Garbage, books, binders, chewed-down pencils, magnetic mirrors. Love notes from boyfriends, girlfriends, lunch bags, rotten fruit. The more lockers she searched, the more she realized how unsurprising the items were. When her classmates were reduced to things in a locker, they were impossible to differentiate from one another.

She stopped and leaned her head against one of the doors. It moved under the pressure and she could feel the metal digging into her forehead.

“Find anything? Salem called to her. Then without waiting for an answer, “Oh, gross…Grant…look at this one…”

Lucy raised her head from the door and sighed. She went to the next locker and rummaged through the usual assortment of items. Then she shoved a paper bag out of the way and realized that it didn’t budge. She picked it up, unnerved by the heaviness, and looked inside. It was then she caught the shiny flash of silver and the black handle. Roaming around at the bottom of the bag was a handful of copper bullets, clinking against each other.

In the background, Grant and Salem expressed amusement and intrigue over someone’s large collection of American flags. They found a small pill bottle filled with Vicodin and high-fived at the find.

Lucy reached into the bag and took the gun in her right hand, and she let the bag fall to the floor where it fell to her feet. It was a revolver, like the cowboys in Westerns used to shoot. She examined it, rolling her hand over and she noticed the tremors in her fingers. She had never held a gun before, never felt the weight of it against her skin. Lucy recalled, with embarrassment, when her mother first dropped her off at Salem’s house for a play date, she took Mrs. Aguilar aside and asked brusquely if they had any guns in the house. “No. Of course not,” Mrs. Aguilar had answered in return, her face struggled against showing her offense. Only then did Maxine leave Lucy, kissing her for a second too long on the forehead and whispering instructions to call if she got homesick.

They did not own guns. Her father did not hunt.

And here she was, holding this gun and wondering—what did it mean? Why was it here?

Hidden in a lunch bag, with bullets.

Who did it belong to?

Lucy pondered the danger of it all, and she tried desperately to place a person at this locker mere feet from her own. Who opened it? Who sat under it in the morning? Had she ever been in danger?

But then the realization poured over her: Whoever brought this gun to school was likely dead now. Their intentions—to intimidate a bully, self-harm, bragging rights to friends—didn’t matter anymore. She pondered putting it back in the locker and shutting it back up, burying it under a geometry book and gym socks, hidden out of sight. Then Lucy realized that this could be a blessing. She spun and held the gun resting in the palm of her hand.

“Sal? Grant?” Lucy called, aware of the rise in the timbre of her voice. “I found something,” she said and turned to her friends.

“Is that a—” Grant started and he took a step. Sal turned around. She was holding a giant fleece blanket in one hand and a bulk container of hand-sanitizer in the other. She opened her mouth to speak, but then her head snapped quickly to the right.

They all heard the clank and rumble of the gates as they moved upward, unhooking from their magnetic bases. They were exposed. Lucy’s eyes darted to the camera and it was trained directly on them.

“The intercom is off,” Grant shouted and he scrambled forward to collect the items he had set aside. “We didn’t even notice…dammit…we didn’t even notice!”

Spencer had spotted them. He had been watching them and he knew they were there; knew they were hiding. But more disturbingly, he knew they had a gun.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Shit!” Grant yelled and he tugged Salem’s arm toward the East Wing hallway, pinning a collection of confiscated locker items to his side. “Lucy, come on!”

Lucy leaned down and grabbed the paper bag of bullets and darted forward, her bare feet slapping against the floor. But instead of turning up the narrow hallway, Lucy ran straight past them and down the English hall, toward the opening gates and toward Spencer.

“Are you crazy?” Grant called after her. “We gotta get out of here.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the camera and its subtle shift following her.

She slowed at the turn and then peered around the corner.

“Wait,” she yelled to her friends, her voice was shrill and panicky. “Don’t go anywhere!”

Salem and Grant stood waiting at the edge of the hallway, ready to run, but Lucy kept peering around the corner. It was a long hallway to the main office and security office, roughly one hundred feet, but she had a perfect view. Unless Spencer was lying about being alone, there was no way he had time to man the cameras and also bolt after them.

“He’s still in the security office, just watching,” Lucy called to her friends.

“You sure?” Salem called.

Lucy nodded. “He put the gates up so we would run…so he could watch where we ran to.” Her heart pounded as she kept her eyes trained on the hallway, watching for Spencer’s lanky body to come barreling down upon them.

“I have an idea,” she called back to them. “Go to the lab, put the tables back and the ladder up. Then wait by the door for me. Don’t leave the lab until I come for you.”

Grant shook his head, just once, a quick and sudden shake and stepped back out into the hallway. “What? You’re bait?”

“I’m bait,” she replied and then drew in a tight breath.

Salem opened her mouth to protest, but Grant saluted her. “Good plan,” he said with admiration. The tone encouraged her, helped stay her shaking hands a bit. Lucy didn’t have a real plan other than to draw Spencer out of the security office so she could get them safely in their hideaway without detection. And if that didn’t work, she was fresh out of back-up plans.

Grant and Salem darted out of sight.

Lucy took a deep breath and with her back to the camera, she dropped the gun back into the paper bag. She crumpled up the top and then held it tightly in her hands. The gun was not an asset if Lucy didn’t know how to use it. She knew that Spencer was armed and she was not, but it was a risk she had to take.

She slid back out of view and pressed her back against the wall. The camera was on her. It moved, zoomed in, zoomed out. Spencer was no doubt watching Salem and Grant lead him to the journalism room, but there was Lucy, unmoving, a sitting duck. He had to wonder why.

For a second she wondered if Principal Spencer recognized her. If he knew her name or her year in school. She wasn’t an athlete or a drama kid. She never took a student council class and despite Salem’s pleading, she never wrote for the newspaper. Before all of the madness started, Lucy assumed that she would graduate from Pacific Lake with relative anonymity. She would be the person her classmates years later would sort-of remember as that “one girl in that one class”. People would try to pin down a list of defining characteristics, but they couldn’t.

Then she heard the echo of a door shutting. She peeked around the corner and saw a flash of movement and a blur of gray and black. She glanced at the camera and stood up, she sprinted forward a few steps and then turned—the camera had stopped following her. At that moment, she could recognize the loud pounding of feet racing down the extended hall. Her breath catching in her chest, she made a dash for the East Wing.

And that was when she heard the shot.

A blast echoed down after her and Lucy jumped.

She ran wildly, hitting her shoulder against the wall as she turned the corner, her body unable to keep up with her feet. Lucy ran up the East Wing hallway, around the corner, and up to the lab where Salem stood guard in the doorway and Lucy yanked her out, motioning for Grant to follow, but he was still carrying the ladder into place, holding it with outstretched arms, wobbling forward with obscured vision.

“Who has the keys?” Lucy asked, out-of-breath.

Salem shook her head and pointed at Grant.

They heard Spencer’s footsteps pound down English hall and then heard him turn into the East Wing hallway. Like a honing pigeon—he knew where they were. A second shot rang out and the blast seemed much louder and menacing than before.

Lucy ran back into the lab, terrified that they were too late. Her plan was failing, instead of leading them all into security, they were going to be caught and shot by a crazy man.

“Keys Grant! Keys!” she whispered, cognizant that Spencer could now hear their voices echoing. But Grant was positioning the ladder under the skylight with both hands and unable to grab them. “Hurry, hurry!” Lucy commanded and Grant stepped back, dug into his pants, and pulling out the jangling janitor’s keys he ran toward the door.

Salem was wracked. Her face was flush with spotty red circles and her hands had gone ghostly white. Lucy opened her mouth to talk, but Salem shook her head violently to stop her. Spencer was close.

They all heard him and his shoes on the tile in the East Wing. He was walking with purpose, but no longer running, as he stopped to peer into rooms. The art room door had been propped open with a garbage can and Lucy only now registered the luck of that. As they pushed themselves to become one with the wall, they listened as he yanked the door open and then disappeared inside.

“Now,” Lucy mouthed and Grant opened the supply closet door. They flew inside. Shut the door and locked it without a sound. And sank to the ground.

“He’s going to find us, he’s going to find us,” Salem mumbled.

“Stop,” Lucy said and crawled over in the darkness to her friend.

A sliver of light was all they had—illuminating a few centimeters of carpet beyond the door and nothing else. Lucy waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they never did. It reminded her of her freshman photography class, when Kyle Ingwood took her into the tiny rooms where they unrolled their film, and tried to kiss her in the complete darkness, his lips groping the air and then the side of her chin before finally landing on her lips. Photography class suffered extinction at the hands of budget cuts the following year and Kyle never spoke to her after their messy make-out session in the dark.

But she still could taste the dark in that room. With her eyes wide open, she could not register anything around her; the thickness of the dark was oppressive.

Pitch-black.

No outlines of the couches or of each other’s bodies as a reference as the room pressed down on them. It weighed on them like a heavy blanket—the sound of waves inside a seashell hummed near their ears. Lucy struggled to take a breath, her head pressurized like she was in an airplane.

Spencer was done with the art room and he paused outside the woodshop. They collectively held their breath. And Lucy had to cover her mouth to keep from screaming when they heard the rattle of the doorknob into their hideout. He turned it once and then twice, pulled on the door, found it locked, and soon gave up the idea. Spencer then must have seen the door ajar to the journalism room, because they heard the door creak open, and without warning or fanfare he was walking away from their hiding spot. For a brief second, the fear of discovery left them like a deflating balloon.

They heard the tumble of the ladder as it crashed to the floor and hit the desk along the way, then the scraping of desks, the push and screech of metal on tile. And afterward: Nothing, just silence. They waited to hear him exit, waited—holding their breath—to see if he would examine every room in the East Wing. After a long moment, the journalism door swung open, hitting the wall with blunt force and then shutting with a distinct click. Spencer’s heavy footsteps walked away from them—away, away—until they couldn’t hear anything anymore.

“Is it safe to turn on the light?” Salem asked.

“No,” Lucy answered. “Not until we know he can’t see us for sure.”

“The cameras in the East Wing don’t show this door,” Salem added. “I don’t want to sit here without being able to see…it’s suffocating.”

Lucy waved her hand around until she felt the cotton of Salem’s shirt and then felt for her hand, grabbed it, and gave it a squeeze. “He might come back.”

“We’ll wait,” Grant said, his voice floated to them from somewhere near the door. “We have no intercom now. No way of knowing what’s happening out there. So, we wait.”

They listened intently, but couldn’t hear a sound.

For minutes, long hour-like minutes, they waited.

Lucy curled up on the floor, the scratchy carpet rubbing against her cheek, as she felt her body melt against the fibers. Even though she struggled against it, Lucy found herself succumbing to sleep. She wished she would will herself to stay alert, but sleep dragged her down into a fitful abyss.

* *

She dreamed Spencer found them. Yanked them out by their hair and dragged them to the auditorium where the boy who had died right in front of her was inexplicably alive, but bleeding out his nose and eyes. The blood pooled at his feet, thick, red, and sticky and his mouth was moving, but no sound came out. As they were pulled past him, his arms shot up he reached for Lucy’s kicking feet.

Defying physics, Spencer hoisted them all on stage and tried to deposit their broken and tired bodies into the dressing room, which was filled to the top with bodies like a hall closet shoved with piles of junk and clothing. But Friendly Kent sent them away. “No room. No room. No room.”

So, Spencer grabbed them back and took them to the pool. The cement cavern was now a mass grave of tangled bodies. He threw them into the sea of limbs and blood. Lucy tried to get out, flapping her arms forward and gaining leverage against the dead, but she couldn’t make any progress forward. The dead pulled her down into them and she sank, as if their mushy decomposing bodies were quicksand or a riptide. Frantic and calling for Grant and Salem at intervals, Lucy gripped a body and the head rolled over to her.

It was Ethan.

She screamed and pushed his bloated features away. Her scream echoed, carrying on for ten full seconds and it appeared to trigger something as select tiles in the ceiling slid out of the way, creating cavernous black holes.

From the ceiling, green and orange snakes descended. Their blood red fangs gripped dead rats in their mouths. But even Lucy could see that the rats were also decaying, clumps of their fur was missing, holes in their sides oozed thick white pus. Down the snakes, with their prizes, slithered, sliding in and out of the masses, appearing and disappearing and reappearing.

As Lucy tried to pull away from the creatures, she saw a mass of dark hair the same color as her mom. The body ebbed and flowed toward her and away from her. Lucy reached out to touch the hair and get a closer look. She needed to know. She had to know.

The face started to shift toward her and Lucy put a hand on the back of the dead woman’s head.

But as the face rolled into view, Lucy scrambled backward. The woman had no face; there was just a giant gaping hole where her features used to be.

* *

It was the pounding that woke her.

Vigorous strikes of a hammer against wood. Thunk-thunk. Thunk-thunk. Thunk-thunk.

Grant mumbled and his clothes rustled in the dark as he fumbled around, trying to sit up.

Then they heard the creaking of footsteps on the roof, the dragging of material across the tar, a crash, and then more hammering.

“He’s on the roof,” Lucy said, sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

“What’s he doing on the roof?” Salem asked sleepily.

“He’s on the roof!” Lucy said again and shot up, stumbling forward, kicking an empty juice bottle, and reaching for the lights. When she hit the switch, the room lit up brightly and they all groaned and covered their eyes, squinting and adjusting. Grant and Salem looked at her, failing to grasp Lucy’s urgency. “He’s blocking us in. He’s taking away our escape route. Between the gates and covering our roof access? We will be stuck in the East Wing.”

“You think he knows we’re still here?” Grant asked, standing up and stretching.

“No,” Lucy shook her head. “I think he thinks we bolted.”

“Good, then we’re safe!” Salem let out a long breath.

“No,” Lucy said again through clenched teeth. “We’re not safe. And we are definitely trapped.”

“We need to get the stuff we dropped when we were running away.”

Salem confessed that she had dropped the loot from the locker cleanout on to the blue couch in the journalism room. “But I suppose we can’t go in there now…it’s lost forever.”

Lucy opened the door slowly, just a crack, and waited for the hammering to start to open it wider. “Grant…unlock the journalism lab.”

“Are you crazy? Spencer’s right up there,” Salem put an arm out as if to stop Lucy. “I want the stuff too…but we should wait.”

“You’re right. You’re right,” Lucy nodded. Then she turned to Grant, “Unlock the woodshop instead.”

He nodded and worked fast, sneaking out into the hall, with the hammering above them as a beacon of safety. Grant let Lucy into the workshop and then took off down the hall, running out of sight. Lucy turned on the lights and scanned the shop for what she was looking for: Any block of wood that could cover the small gap between the door and the floor of their hideout. She found a pile of scraps and among them a sawed down two-by-four. She estimated it was four feet long and so she grabbed it, lugging it out into the hallway and back into the closet.

Salem was sitting on a couch, her knees tucked up, waiting. Her hair was matted on one side. Lucy shut the door and set the board down across the floor. It was a perfect fit and it blocked out their light. Since the door opened outward, this was the board’s only purpose, but it gave Lucy a small bit of relief about keeping their light on during times when Spencer, on patrol, could see it.

The hammering stopped, but they could still hear Spencer on the roof, his heavy feet walking around the perimeter of the East Wing. Lucy imagined he was exploring for other points of entry. If the stairs in the boiler room were the official roof access point, then Lucy knew that he would take care of that too. She had to give Spencer credit, if he wanted his school secure he was doing everything in his power to make that happen.

When Spencer resumed hammering, Grant singularly recovered their blanket and hand sanitizer, a box of Kleenex, a deck of cards, and an assortment of sweatshirts and pill bottles. He shifted in and out of the journalism room swiftly and undetected.

Then they sat back.

“What do we do?” Salem asked.

“We wait,” Grant answered.

They pulled out the deck of cards and played a lazy game of Go Fish; Salem had to be told she won and she barely registered the news before dumping her winning collection in the middle of the floor. For an hour they heard the incessant pounding and dragging above them before all went quiet.

When everything had been silent for a long time and they were certain Spencer wasn’t returning, they darted across the hall to assess the damage. The ladder was still on its side on the ground, the tables tossed over too. Where the room used to glow with the light from the open hole was now dark. The skylight had been covered with long slabs of wood, but not just the hole they had created—Spencer had nailed wood over the entire plastic skylight section, blocking the sun entirely, and preventing them from recreating their escape route on another section.

This time, there was no announcement—no intercom interludes to give them peace of mind. He had locked the gates, he had closed their escape and he could watch and wait for them to make a mistake and reveal themselves. They had a small gun and limited bullets and a small room with limited resources to sustain them. Eventually they would run out of food and water; and that worry nagged at Lucy most of all.

* *

Darkness fell over their second night.

They wouldn’t have known it was dark, except their phones broadcasted the time for them. Lucy’s phone had a live background that displayed an open field and a sun moving across the sky throughout the day. The background was now darkened shadows and stars, a crescent moon. Her battery life was now at 5%. The phone hadn’t succumbed to its low-battery or cracked screen. It was a miracle.

Every once in awhile they thought they heard something outside, but they couldn’t tell if it was inside or outside or from which direction. Their cubby was insulated.

They devoured another round of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drank bottled water. They discussed the problems of where to pee and decided that the faculty bathroom mere feet away was too risky. So, Grant set up buckets in the woodshop—each of them claiming a canned food drive shirt to use as toilet paper. It was disgusting and inhumane, but it was the reality of their situation.

“When should we turn out the light?” Lucy asked. “Just to be safe?”

Nobody responded.

“Patrick Miller,” Salem said the name slowly as if it had just come to her—as if she had been trying to remember it for ages.

“What?” Grant asked. He stopped playing basketball with the torn up pieces of poster paper. He had been lobbing them upward and trying to land them in a paper cup on top of the refrigerator. “What about him?”

Lucy turned on her belly so she could face Salem and propped herself up on her elbows.

“Patrick Miller was a crush I had sophomore year. Right after I got back from Texas. Just this total goofball. Moved here from somewhere in the South and had this thick Southern accent. Do you remember him at all?” Lucy shook her head. “He played piano and wore a tie to school sometimes for no reason. And he was totally unpopular, but I liked him. I felt like I should maybe go on a date with him anyway, even though I was nervous, didn’t know what people would say. How silly does that sound…but I thought it would be too big a risk to my social standing. So, then he started dating Brittney Phillips and I just got pissed.”

“The cheerleader?” Grant asked. He resumed his paper-shooting game. Aim. Shoot. The paper bounced off the rim, the cup toppled over and fell to the floor. He looked at it like he wanted to pick it up, but didn’t move.

“Yeah, that beautiful, perfect little cheerleader. Who—on top of being the only cheerleader who could pull off stunts—was also like super nice? And she took calculus. Super nice calculus taking cheerleader. Ugh. And she really liked him, you know?”

“I don’t remember her dating anyone,” Lucy said. Just to say something, anything. Just to be a part of the conversation, but she knew better than to question Salem’s recollection of events.

“Well, it was like a six month thing. Went right into the summer. Then something happened and they broke it off the next school year. That doesn’t matter. Brittney, true to form, never said anything bad about him. And he dropped the ties and started hanging out with the student council kids and joined yearbook. One day I had to go ask him for a yearbook photo for an article I was writing and I just felt all clammy. Like, well, here’s my chance. But I mean…seriously…Brittney Phillips? I convinced myself that my first crush on him was because I felt sorry for him. But that he was gonna be alright, you know? He survived that first year here, got a hot girlfriend, made some friends. And I wanted to be like, you know, I liked you first. I liked you before. Hey, Patrick. Remember when you would sneak into the band room and play Beatles songs on the piano? I stalked you and would listen. And I kinda fell in love with you. And I’m kinda sorry you’re popular now. Because I kinda, actually, want you all to myself.”

Salem shrugged and picked at lint on her pants.

“You never told me about him,” Lucy replied.

“Yeah, well, I thought you might tell me to go for it,” the corners of Salem’s mouth turned up into a soft smile. “And what-might-have-been is always easier than well-that-was-a-disaster.”

“The dream is better than the reality,” Grant affirmed.

“Exactly. But it wasn’t entirely just in my head. He was the coolest kid I ever wanted to be with. And I never told him.” Salem looked to all of them. She sniffed. “Here’s the thing though. He was out there today trying to get into the school with me.”

Grant and Lucy looked down at the floor—Lucy lowered her upper body to the floor and rested her head on her forearms.

“One minute, he was there. I saw him and I was going to talk to him. The next minute, gone. Just like that. People moved him out of the courtyard and just dumped him on the grass, like he was garbage. Patrick Miller, the boy I still thought well, maybe, in the future. After college even. Or maybe I could just say, I don’t know, just admit that I liked him. And now it’s not even that I’ll never get to say it. It’s not even that. It’s this idea that he’s completely gone. And I want to remember him. I just keep thinking of everyone who will never be remembered. How sad is that? And there won’t be memorials or funerals or…I mean…they don’t even get their own time to be remembered. Just another body.”

Lucy felt the tears building. She sniffed and let them fall. “Yeah. I thought that too,” she said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Salem paused. “It’s just—” her hand went up to her crucifix and she spun it along the chain.

“I get it,” Grant said. “I understand. Their lives mattered.” There was a long pause and then he added, “Amanda. Amanda Starr.”

“I knew her,” Salem said and closed her eyes.

“Yeah. She was my first love. For a whole summer she came to my dad’s farm and we swam in the little creek by my house and we’d ride horses. Then in September, the day before school was starting…she came out to me. She was too embarrassed to tell anyone. She said she always knew since she was little, but that her parents told her she just needed to find the right guy. We talked for hours. It was actually a really good moment. I told her I loved her. And she asked me not to tell anyone. She said she wasn’t ready. That we’d take it to our graves.”

“I didn’t know that. Amanda was gay,” Salem repeated the news slowly and shook her head. “What else didn’t we know about people? People we saw every day.”

There was a bit of jealousy in her voice; here was a juicy piece of someone’s life that Salem was not privy too. Something she had missed, that someone else knew. She looked at Grant with adoration and begged for him to keep going. “What else? What do you remember? What were you too afraid to tell someone?”

So Grant cozied up, wrapping the fleece blanket around his legs and leaning his head back. “I don’t know…what do I remember?”

Slowly, slowly, they brought classmates back to life with humor and anecdotes. The spilling of secrets that no longer mattered.

Lucy contributed when she could, but mostly she listened, feeling heartsick. She wondered what they’d say about her if she had been one of the fallen.

It was human to want people to remember you; human to want to feel heard. With her last remaining battery life, Lucy opened up her profile page and her fingers hovered over a status update. She typed, slowly: I’m still alive. Then she poised her finger around the send key and contemplated if it mattered if she sent it, if anyone would see it, or if just saying it out loud made it feel like a victory instead of a loss.

Then Lucy gasped. Just as she was about to exit out, her phone buzzed in her hand.

She had a text message.

Lucy’s heart stopped and her veins ran cold. Her hand was almost too heavy to click on the smiling-face icon. That little emoticon so bright and cheery and so full of hope.

She looked.

It was from Ethan.

Ethan was out there and he was alive.

His message was from mere seconds ago and it just read: “Don’t leave. Stay safe. I’m coming for you.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Five days after The Release

Ethan’s imminent arrival gave Lucy hope and equipped her with temporary patience. She had tried unsuccessfully to send him a text in reply, but the network kept bouncing it back. Out of anger and frustration she just sent a message that said, “Waiting!” Both as a battle cry for her frustration and an exclamation of her excitement. Of course, that text slipped away and sent. The last message she could get to him was neither revealing nor warm, and she hoped that Ethan would not think her text was implying she had been anxiously expecting him for two days.

They all worried about immediate details. How would Ethan find them? How would he navigate Spencer’s supreme desire for a school absent of all other life? And then the most dangerous thought of all—maybe the text had been sent days ago and only now found its way through the fickle network. Then their hope and plans would be futile and in vain, entirely rooted in misconception.

It didn’t help that it had been three days since Lucy began expecting Ethan. Her phone died not long after the text arrived and Salem and Grant’s phones didn’t last much longer. She was vigilant and aware, but losing confidence that Ethan was safe.

“Something must’ve happened. It wouldn’t take him this long to get here,” Lucy complained. It was day five. Grant’s baby-face began showing subtle signs of fur as pale blonde whiskers poked up on his chin and under his nose, barely noticeable, but still there.

It was morning. They assumed. Hours and minutes weren’t important, only daylight and darkness. Spencer periodically marched the halls, which kept them confined to their hideout for extended periods of time. Lucy had ventured to the journalism lab on two occasions to check the Internet and found that sites no longer existed. There was an endless hourglass, in perpetual thinking, never connecting to a world outside. She occasionally ventured to the woodshop to use their makeshift bathrooms, but for the most part, over the past few days, Grant, Lucy, and Salem had stayed hunkered down.

“Do you think he got here and Spencer shot him?” Lucy asked. “Possible, right?” Sporadic gunfire was now a normal sound and they regarded it with annoyed eye-rolls and when it interrupted naps or sleep and they growled in frustration. They never assumed Spencer was actually shooting at anything in particular, but they could have been wrong.

“You’re being paranoid,” Grant said. He clicked a confiscated zippo lighter open, running his thumb over the flint wheel over and over again.

“Am I?” Lucy paced. “We’ve been shot at.”

“We don’t know if he wanted to kill you,” Grant replied. The wick erupted into flame for a brief second and Grant closed the lid tight.

“It takes an hour to walk to my house.”

“Lucy—” Grant said her name slowly with an undercurrent of warning. “You’ve been having this conversation for days now. Days.”

Salem, who had been watching Lucy pace, her head moving left and right like she was in attendance at a slow-moving tennis match, stood up and walked to the mini-fridge. Flipping it open, she grabbed a peanut-butter-sandwich and bottled water and she opened the package with an exaggerated rip, the crinkling of the wrapper was the only sound in the tiny space. Lucy’s stomach soured a bit as she watched Salem eat, the smell of peanut butter filling their small room. At first it was welcome nourishment, but now Lucy could barely choke one down.

Salem paused, mid-bite and then she rushed back over to the fridge and sat on her haunches, legs folded under her. She began to pull out the food with both hands and sorting it into three piles. When she was done with the contents of the fridge, she moved to the garbage bags, adding whatever bags of chips or granola bars they had left. She worked with determined efficiency—pull, stack, sort—her jaw still working her breakfast.

“What are you doing?” Grant asked.

Salem, mouth full, glanced sidelong at him. “I am seeing,” she answered.

“Seeing what?” Lucy spat, angry that her own issues were temporarily ignored and invalidated.

“Food,” was all Salem said. She took the three piles of sandwiches and waters, juices and thawing chicken nuggets, yogurt squeeze tubes, and then counted. She looked to the trio wide-eyed. “If we eat three meals a day and drink 2 bottles of water a day…this will last us…only three more days.” She sat back, and then sprang up, reached for Ethan’s backpack and started rummaging through it, tossing out Lucy’s books in distracted ambivalence.

“Stop,” Lucy said and when Salem ignored her, she put her hand out, touching her friend on the shoulder. “Stop!”

Then Salem’s hand landed on what she was looking for—a yellow thin-tipped highlighter—she walked back to the food and marked it: L, S, and G. After branding their piles, she stood up and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Wait, wait, wait. Wait a second,” Grant said. “But you already ate a sandwich this morning and Lucy and I haven’t had anything. So, that isn’t even. And you ate three bags of the popcorn last night when I didn’t have any. So, it’s not like we’ve been equitable until now. Why the sudden concern over fairness?”

“I’m not concerned with fairness,” Salem replied, her hand still hovering over the sandwiches. “I’m concerned about eating. And making sure we can eat. And here,” she hoisted herself up and walked over to her half-eaten sandwich, broke off two pieces and handed them to Grant and Lucy. “Fine. Now we’re even,” she said.

Lucy handed her piece to Grant and walked over to the couch and plopped herself down; she grabbed a thick chunk of her hair and began to spin it around her pointer finger. It was oily and slick. She caught a whiff of her own body odor and turned her head away.

“There’s no more food. Don’t you get it? We’re trapped in here. This is all we have. So, your pile is your pile. You can eat it all at once or ration it out. But your pile is your pile.”

Lucy looked to her stack of food and then to Salem, wondering what nightmares Salem had encountered in the dark to wake up so changed and rattled. They each had their share of waking up mid-scream. As time passed, they got closer to each other every evening, sleeping in a mass on the floor, pulling each other close for warmth and comfort. The room was suffocating and small, but the people of history had often waited for the world’s atrocities to end while hiding in small attics, basements, and closets.

They would be fine.

Ethan was coming.

They would be fine.

Lucy wished she could convey this mantra with enthusiasm to her colleagues in waiting. In an act of boredom, she reached into Ethan’s book bag and pulled out the copy of Fahrenheit 451. She read the first line. She read the line over and over fifty or more times before moving on to the next section. The words floated before her—her eyes scanning those six simple words before she moved to the next part.

But she couldn’t get her brain to focus. Lucy shut the book on her finger. The room had been silent for too long; Salem’s sullen expression made Lucy furious.

“Come on, I can’t let it go. Ethan is out there!” Lucy said on the verge of tears. “And I don’t feel like any of you give a rat’s ass about it.”

“Salem would like to carve up a rat’s ass into three perfect proportions for dinner,” Grant quipped unsmiling and then ducked as an empty water bottle careened toward his head.

“You think he wants to get us out? Maybe he wants in,” Salem said. “You haven’t thought of that, have you?” She leaned her back against the wall and slid down, resting her elbows on her knees. “Then I’ll have to reconfigure the food.”

“Really? You’re still just worried that we might run out of peanut butter and jelly? What the hell is wrong with you? My brother is alive and you can’t even pretend like you’re happy about it. Screw you, Salem. If you don’t want to leave when Ethan gets here that’s on you. But me? I’m out of here. And guess what, when I’m gone, you and Grant can split the food pile. Have an extra bag of Cheetos. Merry Christmas.”

“Lucy—” Salem started to say, her eyes wild. Then she stopped herself and put a hand up. “Never mind. Just never mind.” And with that Salem stood back up, marched over to a chair where the classroom keys were resting, grabbed them, and stormed out of the room. Grant and Lucy listened as Salem unlocked the journalism lab door and went inside, the second door shutting behind her.

“I can’t handle her drama today.” Lucy tucked the book under her leg and kept twirling her hair.

“That might have been a little harsh,” Grant replied, he scratched the top part of his scalp and grimaced apologetically.

“Wait,” Lucy looked at him. “Which one of us was too harsh? My brother is coming for me. He is.” And she didn’t know if she believed it or if she just wanted to believe it.

It took a while for Grant to answer and when he did, he changed the subject. “What does it feel like?” he asked, not looking at her, his eyes wandering to the door and then to the carpet.

“What does what feel like?”

“I don’t mean anything by it. I just want to know. Ethan…he’s alive…to the best of our knowledge.”

Then everything clicked all at once; the last pieces of the jigsaw sliding into place. “Oh.”

“I’m not being passive-aggressive,” Grant replied. But maybe he was a little. Or he was tactfully steering her toward the truth. “It’s just…you know…it’s like we were all sitting around playing our lottery numbers. And you won.”

Lucy didn’t say anything. Color and heat rushed to her cheeks.

“What did I win exactly?”

“A survivor.”

“Oh, come on,” Lucy tried to calm herself down and she tried to push the seeping defensiveness away. “Your dad could still be—”

“No. He’s not. My dad is a coward. He didn’t really care for me. I mean, not really. He made it mighty clear that I was just a burden to him. If the virus didn’t get him, I bet he took his own life…without a single thought about me. But hey…at least he’s consistent. Didn’t care about me from day one, why start now?”

“I’m sorry.” But Lucy didn’t know what she was apologizing for: Ethan being alive or Grant’s father being dead.

“It’s hard,” Grant continued, “not to be hurt that you have something we don’t.”

They sat without speaking, Lucy resisting the urge to spill out her defenses. She sighed shakily and swallowed.

“It’s not like…you know…we…me,” he quickly corrected, “wanted you to have lost everything too.”

“I get it,” Lucy said kindly. And she did. She could understand the jealousy and bitterness, the anger. “But you’re right. You were all right. Maybe he’s…maybe the message was from that first morning and he’s gone now too. Maybe I’m chasing a phantom. But—”

“But,” he cocked one eyebrow, “maybe he’s not gone.”

“I can’t help but hope,” Lucy answered, willing herself not to cry.

Grant sighed and crawled over. Hesitating, he put an arm over her shoulders. “We don’t want to take away your hope,” Grant said in a whisper. “It’s envy.”

“I should go to Salem,” Lucy said and rose on her haunches, but Grant put a hand on her knee and kept her from rising the full way.

“Nah, just let her be by herself,” he told her and Lucy listened. She settled back down on the floor and eventually stretched her whole body out on the ground, staring at the ceiling. She saw her book and grabbed it, flipping through the pages, her arms stiff above her, just flipping, flipping, not really reading, but scanning the words, taking in bits and pieces.

She noticed a phrase and it caught her off guard. Spilling from the page some character asked another character about the life before. It was an interesting concept. Some day, maybe, people would wonder: What was life like before the virus? Before the virus. The world wasn’t always demolished, broken, and full of fear, she wanted to scream. Lucy let these words and ideas percolate through her.

“I’ve read that book,” Grant said. He was leaning against the couch now, his eyes closed.

“Uh-huh,” Lucy responded. “Mrs. Johnston gave it to me. To read on my trip.”

“That’s right. Your family was going somewhere really far away, right? Some place in Africa? I heard about that.”

“Kinda. Near Madagascar.”

“Why?” Grant asked.

Lucy flipped through more pages. Flip, scan. Flip, scan. “My dad was leading a team that had some major breakthrough at work. And he’d worked without a vacation for like three years. So, the company got him this trip. I think my dad picked the destination. He had written some report or something about the island a long time ago…they said they’d send him anywhere.”

“Nice,” Grant replied. Then he opened his eyes and grimaced. “I mean—that would’ve been nice…it still sounds nice.”

“It’s okay,” she stopped him from saying more. Let him off the hook. “It was nice.” She paused. “So, did you like it?”

“What?”

“The book.”

Grant nodded. “Yeah, sure. I still remember, you know, we read it in class and our teacher, Ms. Houshmand, had this one quote written on the board for the whole unit and I just stared at it. I don’t remember what it said exactly…but something about infiltrating people’s brains or souls. Or something like that. It was up there, like a command.”

Lucy didn’t say anything for a second and then in reply she repeated the quote back to him, trying to make sense of it. “Huh,” she shook her head. “That’s funny.”

Grant raised an eyebrow incredulously.

“I mean,” Lucy plopped the book on the ground. “I get it, you want control and so you limit what people think. But…look at us,” she motioned around the room, “someone out there found a different way. Infiltrate our bodies.”

He let the phrase linger and then nodded, “Maybe you want absolute power, but you know you can’t control the people.”

“Destroy the people,” Lucy finished.

“Are we ever going to be safe?” Grant asked.

“No,” Lucy answered.

Someday people would wonder what the world was like before. Someday people would dream of a world free from the memories of bioterrorism, death, and fear.

Life would never be the same.

This was the new world.

* *

Salem didn’t return right away. They gave her space and time; they set her rationed lunch outside the journalism door and knocked and then retreated. But an hour later her corn nuts and peanut butter and jelly were still sitting there and she hadn’t made an attempt to come back to the room. While it wasn’t completely strange for Salem to allow a perceived wrong to fester, Lucy was usually the one who had to crawl back to her with an apology—deserved or not—and this typed of prolonged nonappearance was unusual. Salem needed to make her dramatic exits, needed the weight of her absence to be felt by everyone, and then she waltzed back in, accepted apologies, and went on with life as if nothing had happened.

She was the quintessential drama-queen, still trying to cause a scene in a world with a dwindling population.

It was aggravating to be her best friend sometimes with her sense of self-entitlement and her lack of self-awareness. It grated on Lucy. But Salem’s quirks notwithstanding, she was a good friend. A great friend, even. Sacrificial. Supportive. Fun. It was true Salem’s inflated ego caused problems, but she at least had inflated opinions of her friends too. If Lucy needed someone to go to bat for her, Sal would be there. No doubt.

“She’ll be back,” Grant said numerous times. “Maybe she’s sleeping. Where could she go? She’ll come back when she needs to,” he mentioned with softness and deference. Like he knew her and was protecting her—because they shared pain and loss and because Salem had already fallen in love with the idea of falling in love with Grant while they wasted their hours in a glorified storage closet, among garbage and stolen treasures, surrounded by the constant stink of processed peanut butter.

Lucy knew her.

Salem didn’t need to say that she wanted Grant’s attention or his arms around her while she cried. Somehow the ache for love’s magic was made even more real by their proximity, their shared experiences, and their limited options. Throughout their entire friendship, Salem had longed for a boyfriend to sweep her off her feet. She was a romantic and a believer in love at first sight. She was the girl who needed an epic story to pass down through generations. You’ll never believe how your grandfather and I met. There was no dose of reality Lucy could administer and this made Lucy irate and irrationally angry. But Salem was Salem.

“She’s waiting for you,” Lucy replied. She picked up her book again and pretended to become immediately engrossed in a particular passage, but she occasionally lifted her eyes to watch Grant’s expressions as he processed. “Pouting probably. Just go. Get her.”

Grant sighed.

He waited a few more minutes and then sighed again.

“Are you sure?” he asked. He ran a hand over his stubble. “Why me?”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Fine, fine. Close the door after me. Four short knocks to get back in.”

“I know the drill.”

* *

Lucy sat and waited for their return. It was nice to have a small moment of total aloneness. She thought back and tried to think if she had been fully alone since the first night at the school and she realized that she hadn’t. But after fifteen minutes, Lucy wondered what would be taking so long. She slid off her couch and walked over to the door and as she neared it, she realized that there were voices in the hall, hushed and whispering. Opening the door a fraction of an inch, Lucy spotted Grant and Salem standing in the small alcove outside the journalism lab. Salem’s foot was holding the door open and Grant held the keys. She could barely make out their conversation, but Lucy realized that they were oblivious to her and there was something about their body language and tone that suggested to Lucy she shouldn’t be privy to their dialogue. Yet she couldn’t turn away.

“How long will we stay here?” Salem had asked in a whisper. “I’m going crazy.”

“Is this the moment I remind you that this was your idea? To stay.”

“It can be my idea and I can still hate living like an animal in a cage.”

“A very big cage with a lot of peanut butter and jelly.”

“Are you going to make a joke of everything I say?” Salem complained, but she didn’t sound too angry with him.

Lucy’s heart quickened. And even though she knew that tone, that mischievousness, and the mechanics of Salem’s flirting, she couldn’t turn away. She wanted to interrupt them, shout at them to get back into hiding, but she knew that it would be pointless; Salem would only get more persistent and obvious.

“I’m diffusing,” was Grant’s reply and he must have smiled. Salem smiled back.

“You did a good job. It’s not that I don’t love Lucy,” Salem started and Lucy felt suddenly sick, she closed her eyes tightly, not wanting to hear what came next, but unable to shut the door and turn away, “but she can be so self-absorbed. It’ll be great if Ethan is alive…but this entire thing is not about her. We have big decisions to make.”

That attack wasn’t even true. But she just breathed deeply. It was so plotting, so transparently manipulative, an attempt to damage her character as a precaution against Grant ever liking her instead. She was not a threat to their blossoming love affair and she wanted to yell at them to just get back inside already. Lucy wasn’t even angry, she saw the gears working and knew that in many ways Salem wasn’t capable of stopping herself.

“Like what?” Grant asked and Lucy felt so sorry for him in that moment. He was so oblivious to her scheming.

Salem tucked her dark hair behind her ear and leaned in. “I like you,” she whispered. “So, now I’ve said it.”

From her vantage point, Lucy couldn’t see Grant’s face. He hadn’t moved away or said anything in return. Instead, it looked like he was frozen, waiting for her to continue, but Salem didn’t say anything else. She leaned in and kissed Grant gently on the mouth and then she coyly pulled back, biting the corner of her lip.

Lucy’s heart sank.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Grant replied, his voice nervous. “I didn’t know…you felt that way.”

“Confining spaces,” Salem giggled.

Grant cleared his throat. “Or maybe you just realized I might be one of only a few teenage boys left in the world.”

Salem found the comment funny and she hit Grant playfully on the arm. “It’s not like that.”

“It could be a little like that.”

“Then you got me. You’re the last one left and I want you.”

Lucy grimaced at Salem’s boldness. She wished and hoped Grant could see through the shtick.

“You’re fun,” Grant mumbled. But Lucy wasn’t convinced that was a ringing-endorsement for dating. “I’m surprised…and wow, I guess. Just wow, Salem. Wow.”

She had heard enough. As she watched Salem position herself to go in for another kiss, she shut the door again without a sound and retreated backward.

It wasn’t too many minutes longer until they both entered, knocking to announce their impending arrival. Lucy searched them for sheepishness or embarrassment, but if they were feeling awkward about their interactions, they gave no indication. They didn’t act particularly starry-eyed either and if Lucy hadn’t spied on them, she would’ve never guessed that they had shared a kiss in the doorway. But she had seen them and now she wondered what happened next. Would they attempt a clandestine relationship right under her nose?

Salem hugged herself as she walked into the room and walked past Lucy to the corner, where she pulled up a blanket and fluffed it into a pillow. Grant closed the door shut and stood next to it.

“It’s raining outside,” he said. “You can hear it in the other room and it’s dripping through the wood over the skylight.”

Salem sniffed and looked to Lucy. “I’m sorry. For storming off. Sometimes it’s just too much…”

“We all feel that way,” Grant said and he smiled at them both. Lucy looked down to the ground.

“Maybe it’s asking too much,” Lucy started, “but maybe we shouldn’t be mad at each other for things that we have control over.” She had a speech planned in her head, a series of plans and procedures—places to go if they needed a break from their claustrophobic living situation, code words for expressing a desire for someone else to be quiet. But as she opened her mouth to continue, the long dormant intercom switched on with its telltale two-toned ding ding.

Lucy scrambled off the couch and Salem jumped up from the floor and Grant swung the door to the hallway open wide as they poured outward toward the speakers.

“Well, well, well,” Spencer’s raspy voice called outward. “It has come to my attention that a certain Lucy Larkspur King is a stowaway in my building.”

At the mention of her name, Lucy jumped and took a gulp of air. She reached out and grabbed Salem’s arm, her eyes wide.

“Naughty. Naughty,” Spencer continued, the slow drawl of his voice apparent as he clipped the end syllables.

None of them dared to speak. They held their collective breaths.

“If it were up to me, I’d shoot you on site for your insolence, and for wasting my precious air and resources. But it appears,” he paused, cleared in throat with a hack, “someone has purchased your freedom. And who am I to turn that offer down?”

Lucy finally let out a breath. Ethan. It was Ethan. The use of her middle name was a giveaway, a hint, because only her family and Salem knew of her flowery moniker. Her older brother had arrived at last. His text was not an accident and not irrelevant. She turned and hugged Salem and then turned to hug Grant, uncaring about any potential jealousies or complications.

“Don’t think I didn’t know about you,” Spencer spat. “And your little friends—” he trailed off. “You have five minutes, Lu-cy.” The breathy quality of her name on his tongue made her shiver. “And your friends, if they’re alive and still here, should come forward too. I offer up a onetime cease-fire and guarantee of safe passage. After that, should you choose to trespass…I will hunt you down like the dogs you are.”

Then they heard the rumble of the gates, rising up into the ceiling, beckoning them.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Salem shook her head. “What if it’s a trap?”

Grant walked back up to the hideout and opened the door and he ducked inside, leaving Salem and Lucy alone in the hallway.

“He knew my name, so it has to be Ethan…but you’re right. I wouldn’t put anything past him.” She and Salem locked eyes. And they both recognized each other’s fear and worry.

Salem nodded. “We have to go, I guess. He’s right. He knows we’re here now. Staying isn’t safe. It would only be a matter of time before he sniffed us out.”

“Maybe we don’t go. Maybe we find another way out and meet up with Ethan on the outside. My brother’s smart. He’d find us.”

Grant came back out into the hallway. He was carrying Lucy’s black backpack and two other small bags, filled with supplies. In many ways the call to the front office made Grant look relieved. He handed Lucy her bag and she swung it over her shoulder. They took a moment to regard each other all disheveled and tired. Lucy was still barefoot. They each wore some article of clothing pilfered from a student’s locker and they were worse for wear and drained, but still they mustered up the courage to face the man they had been hiding from for nearly a week.

“We’re going,” Lucy stated. She took a deep breath. “Is it weird that I might miss our little room?”

“Nah,” Salem smiled. “I think I might miss it too.”

Their five minutes were ticking down and they were conscious that they were running out of time.

“Where’s the gun?” Lucy thought to ask.

Grant patted the waistband of his jeans.

“Good. Let’s go.”

* *

Lucy walked with purpose down the English hall and around the corner. The bottoms of her feet slapped against the floor. Grant and Salem kept pace with her in a straight line, and they were silent as they moved forward.

Spencer was waiting for them. He had changed out of his trademark suit coats, and even from afar Lucy could see that he had replaced his button-shirt with an oversized athletic pullover. He had a gun trained on them. It was a long-barreled rifle and he kept the butt of it flush against his shoulder.

“Hands up!” Spencer called to them. In unison, they each raised their hands in the air.

He didn’t move as they reached him. They stood regarding each other with his narrowed eyes never leaving Lucy and barely acknowledging Grant and Salem.

“So. My trespassers,” Spencer finally said after a beat. “A little predicament…what to do with the two of you who have not been mentioned by name or desired.”

Lucy cringed. If her friend’s jealousies over Ethan’s survival were already fragile, Spencer’s blatant announcement that they had no one out there fighting for them was too painful a reminder. Her heart pounded. She shot a glance over to Grant’s waistband, hoping that his raised hands did not expose their one and only weapon against Spencer.

“We’re not leaving Lucy,” Salem called out. She sounded strong and brave. Lucy felt a swell of admiration for her friend. Whenever her relationship with Salem became tenuous, she did have a way of making it all better with a single declaration of friendship and support.

Spencer shook his head, barely, and cocked the rifle. “You will do exactly as I say.”

He nodded over to the front doors.

“The doors are unlocked. Go. You two…the non-Lucys…go.”

Grant hesitated. His bag slipped from his shoulder a bit and he moved to grab it. Spencer pivoted the rifle straight at him.

“Hands back up or I shoot! I have a huge cement pool down the hall filled with the bodies of your former friends, enemies and teachers. I will not hesitate to add one more to the pile.”

Lucy shuddered. So, her dream had been true.

“Toss your backpack to me.”

She balked at his request. “I’m not doing anything you say unless you let my friends stay.”

“Slide it over.” He repeated. “I am not negotiating.”

“I want my friends—”

Spencer raised the rifle and fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Tiny bits of sheetrock and plaster fell to the floor. Then he fired again, this time aiming at the window that led to the athletic office. The window burst and glass shot out in every direction. Tiny shards made their way to where Lucy was standing and she looked at her bare feet.

She shed the backpack and put it on the floor, then gave it a gentle toss in his direction, it hit the ground and the sound of it echoed back down the hall.

“Lucy,” Spencer said her name again, quietly drawing out the syllables. “Tell your friends to go.”

Lucy turned to Grant and Salem and when she registered the fear in their faces, she started to cry.

“Where’s my brother? I want to see Ethan!”

She recognized the glimmer of confusion as Spencer tried to process her request. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know your brother.”

“You said that someone bought my freedom. That I’m free to go! Right? Right?” She began to feel panicky and weak and her head was spinning. It had been a trap; Ethan was not here, they were not going to walk out of the school and into the daylight, laughing together, leaving the small room and a gun-wielding principal behind them.

Spencer fired the rifle a third time and this time he shot at a display case a mere foot away from where Salem was standing. Salem shrieked and covered her ears and shut her eyes tight as the glass fell around pennants and trophies from athletes and teams from years gone by. When the sound from the shot died away, Salem looked up Lucy, her eyes wide.

Grant took a breath. “I can’t.” He nodded toward the gun. “He’ll kill me before I can reach it.”

“We’ll go,” Salem said loudly. Then she turned to Lucy, her eyes wet. “We’re going.”

“No!” Lucy cried out. “No!” She turned to Spencer, raising her hands out toward him in supplication. “There has to be another way!”

Spencer took two long strides forward. “There is no other way,” he replied. “They have ten seconds or you can pick which one I shoot first.”

Letting out a gulping sob, Lucy spun back to her friends. “Find Ethan!” she cried out. “Stay safe and hidden. And don’t—”

“Five…four…”

Grant and Salem began to run. When they reached the front doors, they grabbed the metal door handle and pushed the door swung open, a gust of spring air blew into the foyer of the school. It was the first breath of fresh air, full of moisture and wet earth, that they had experienced in days. Grant pushed Salem forward over the threshold and then turned to look back at Lucy.

“Three…two…”

Grant opened his mouth to say something, but then watched as Spencer moved the gun on him. And before he could even wave goodbye, Grant was out the door. The heavy door closed quickly with a bang. And Lucy was alone.

Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He tossed them over to Lucy and nodded. “Put one end around your wrist.”

“Why?” Lucy asked, her voice shaking. “My friends are gone. When do I get to leave too? I thought you said—”

He aimed the gun at her and took a step forward. Lucy trembled. “Handcuffs. One wrist.”

Breathless, Lucy obeyed. The unattached end of the handcuff dangled at her side. Then Spencer lowered the gun, his finger dropping off the trigger. He marched over to her and wrapped his hand around her upper-arm.

He tugged her over with him to the door, where he inserted a key into a plastic covered security box, lifted the lid, and then entered a seven-digit code. Metal bars and locks slid back into place over the front doors of the school; the high-tech automated system, which cost taxpayers millions of dollars, had not gone to protect the students from any real threat. The locks and bars and bulletproof glass had not kept the virus out. Instead all the bells and whistles continued to facilitate the supreme rule of a maniacal madman.

“Tell me what’s going on. Why are you keeping me?” Lucy asked as Spencer began pulling her toward the office. Terror rose in her throat like bile and she wondered if she screamed if he would shoot her or if he would ignore her. He pushed her to the floor and then hooked the other end of the handcuffs to the underbelly of a table in the middle of the room. Gravity pulled her hand and arm toward the floor, and her wrist went limp against the metal.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Lucy yanked her hand and rattled the handcuff. “You said. You said! Why am I here? Let me go!”

Spencer placed the rifle flat on a desk in the corner. He walked over to a filing cabinet and poured himself a drink out of a tall clear bottle with a brown label. Tipping his head back, he downed the drink in one gulp.

“You…Lucy…are a commodity to me.” Raising his drink in a toast, he took another sip and then took a step forward. “I will not let you go.”

“A commodity. What the hell does that mean?” Lucy adjusted her body. She slumped against the table leg. He turned his back and walked back over to the cabinet; he took a new glass and poured another, then he walked it over to her and tried to hand it to her, but Lucy turned her head away.

“Drink,” he instructed.

“I don’t want to drink anything you give me.” Lucy pushed the drink away. But he shoved the glass closer to her face and leaned down, his rancid breath spilling over her face. She inhaled deeply and then held her breath.

“Drink,” he said again, slower, his mouth leaning closer.

Taking the glass in her hand, Lucy noticed the liquid sloshing against the sides, dangerously close to spilling over. She shook her head and tried to set the drink down on the floor, but Spencer pushed her hand to her face. Then he pinched her cheeks and took the glass back and poured the burning alcohol into her mouth. She tried to let as much dribble down her chin and to her shirt as she could before she spit the rest on the floor. It burned her tongue.

“You wasted it, you little bitch,” he seethed. “Do you know what this cost me? This,” he gestured to the bottle, “was two Tasers. And twenty bottled waters.”

For a second, Lucy couldn’t process what that meant. Then she turned her head sharply to him, her mouth dropping open. “You’re trading the school’s supplies…for alcohol?”

Spencer laughed, a grotesque, throaty laugh, his unbrushed teeth bared. “And weapons. And pills. And other food. But that doesn’t have much to do with you, now does it?”

“It does when you think you can trade me!” Lucy said, practically screaming.

He dropped to her level and grabbed her chin. “The moment you chose to stay in my school, you became my property. It’s just my luck that someone seems to think you’re worth trading for.”

“Who?” Lucy asked while Spencer’s hand still gripped her. “If it’s not my brother, then who?”

“Doesn’t matter to you.” He let her go violently and Lucy’s head snapped backward and hit against the metal edge of the table. Her head burned and a shooting pain traveled down into her neck. She took her free hand to rub the spot and realized that the back of her head was wet and when she looked down at her fingers, they were smeared with blood.

Spencer frowned. “Oopsie,” he glowered, “accidental damage to the goods. Such a shame. I hope it doesn’t hurt your value.”

“Who are you?” Lucy asked. She was too shocked and scared to cry, but her whole body trembled.

“I am a man. A fighter.”

“An opportunist,” Lucy spat.

“You see,” he smiled, “yes. And you say it like it’s a bad thing. But I’m alive. You and me…we aren’t supposed to be alive. And yet, here we are. I realized…quickly…all those people.” He stopped to drink and then he walked back over to Lucy, squatted down, his eyes were bright and wild. “All those people…they wanted into our building. For food and water and shelter. The limited survivors need me.”

“You made yourself important.”

“I am important. I am needed.”

“So you abuse that need?” Lucy’s head felt thick and achy. “What about your own family?”

Spencer broke into a sinister smile. He rose and waltzed over to his office. Lucy could only see only a corner of the room. He leaned over and swiped a picture off of his desk, walked back out, and tossed it to her. In a fancy metal frame, was a wide-smiled and white-toothed brunette, the ocean in the background, wind whipping her hair into her face.

“Fake. My girlfriend, I’d say.” He shook his head and laughed. “Some picture off the Internet. But teachers are kinder to you when you have a family. Paint yourself as a family man; tell people how eager you are to start a family. I was always this close to marrying her, settling down. Do you know how eager all the young female teachers are when they think they get to offer up some dating advice for their boss?”

“You’re a sociopath.”

“Opportunistic.”

“You lied about having a family?”

Lucy noticed the flash, however brief and fleeting, of self-awareness passing over Spencer. She wished he would drop the act, but the drinking wasn’t helping anything.

“Please.” He drank. Then added, “I’d say I’m lucky.” He stared off at one of the office walls, his eyes glazing over. “Who did I have to mourn?” And even though it was a fact that was supposed to have spared him pain, Lucy watched as Spencer closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.

“The world,” Lucy answered in a whisper. “We have the entire world to mourn.”

This did not even garner a response. Spencer went and drank another tumbler—his back to her. Then he slammed the empty glass down and grabbed his rifle, taking an exaggerated step over Lucy’s legs, and walking five feet away to a small table. Sitting on top was the head of the school’s mascot, Spartan Joe. Without an owner, the head took on a freaky vacant quality. Grabbing Joe by his foamy crown, Spencer walked out of office. Lucy could see from her vantage point the front windows, still taped over with black construction paper.

First, Spencer loosened some tape around the edges and then he kicked over a black crate to the window. He placed the mascot head on top of the crate, its empty eyes staring outward. Then he let the black paper fall around it, creating an obscured view back into the school. Onlookers from the outside would just see a giant head in front of a black background. Then Spencer yanked up on his long sleeved shirt and checked a wristwatch.

After several minutes, Lucy heard a knock on the front door. Four short knocks right in a row, then knock followed by a beat and two more knocks. Spencer raised his gun and walked forward. He unlocked the plastic covering the security panel and punched in his code again. The large mechanical bolts slid open; then Spencer hit a second key code and one of the front doors starting to swing forward automatically.

Lucy hoped that Salem and Grant would be the ones to enter the school. That somehow in that short amount of time they would have planned a rescue.

Instead, a single body ducked through the doorframe.

It was a tall, slender young woman with raven hair. A large single stripe of faded pink framed her face. Spencer pointed his gun at her as she entered with one hand and typed in a key code that slid the metal back over the doors.

The woman had a gun of her own in a holster around her hips; her hand hovered over it like she was about to engage in a duel. She wore black lace-up combat boots over black leggings and a white long sleeve t-shirt—a clear mixture of every video-game heroine Lucy had ever seen. If the new visitor was trying to adhere to some cliché of a badass female, she was succeeding in the category of costuming. She held a bulging messenger bag across her body and her eyes shifted as she watched Spencer’s every move.

“Afternoon,” Spencer mumbled to his guest, he lowered his gun and then walked over and kicked the Spartan head away from the door, the paper flapping back into place.

The new visitor did not return his greeting. She looked at him with nothing but suspicion and potential loathing, her big bright eyes moving quickly from Spencer to the office and ultimately to Lucy.

“You got the girl,” she said. Her voice was smooth and deep.

“Just like you asked. I can see her appeal,” Spencer grumbled as if Lucy couldn’t hear.

The woman slid the messenger bag off and strode with wide, far-reaching, steps into the office, where she tossed it on to the desk where Lucy was handcuffed. Without even a single word to Lucy, she began to pull out various items from the bag: A bottle of whiskey, bottles of pills, a stack of magazines, a box of bullets, and other sundry items.

“Everything on your list, plus some extras thrown in for good measure,” she said as Spencer examined everything piece by piece.

“And what do you want?” Spencer asked.

She snapped her head at him, annoyed. “The girl. And two water bottles for the road. That’s all. Per our discussions and negotiations. That was the deal.”

Lucy saw the girl’s hand itch above her gun, then she slid her hands to her hips, standing there looking at him squarely, her mouth drawn into a thin, tight, frown.

“We didn’t have a deal,” Spencer said. He picked up the whiskey bottle and palmed it, then he tossed it up and down, the brown liquid splashing around inside. “We were in talks. And now that Lucy Larkspur King…that was the name you gave me, right? Well, now that she’s here, in the flesh, in my office, I feel like perhaps she’s more valuable than all of this.”

The woman’s eyes flashed with unmistakable rage. She let out a small huff and then gracefully recovered. Taking a breath, she then gave Spencer a tight-lipped smile. “I see. You want to play a game.” She said it as a statement. And then she nodded, as if giving Spencer credit for his using Lucy as a pawn. “What could you possibly want? Try me.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “No, my creativity is limited. I want this to be challenging. I want to be surprised.”

The girl in the black leggings laughed. “I could pull out my gun and shoot you before you even knew I had moved a muscle,” she said with a smile. “Let’s remember something and be real clear about it. I’d much rather kill you and get on with my life.”

“Is that a threat?”

The girl dropped her voice down to a whisper. “A threat? Oh no, Spencer…it’s a promise.”

She even spoke in clichés and sound bites. Lucy watched wide-eyed.

Spencer was quick and he swung the rifle he had been holding a few minutes before off the table and into his hands—but the girl didn’t move and she didn’t reach for her gun, didn’t aim it at his head, and didn’t do anything. Instead, she took her right hand and lowered the gun to the floor.

“You want to keep her?” She asked.

“No. But you want her and that makes her worth more than my usual assortment of loot.”

“Your lack of imagination is hindering my ability to fully comprehend what you think I can get for you…”

He took a step forward, his breath, hot and reeking of alcohol. Lucy watched as he extended his hand and swiftly tucked a long lock of the girl’s hair behind her ear.

“I do have an active imagination after all,” he whispered. “I can think of a few things.”

The woman took a deep breath, but she remained frozen and unfazed by his closeness. “Don’t touch me ever again,” she whispered in a soothing voice. Then she leaned in, her lips a half an inch away from Spencer’s scruffy cheek. “Or I will blow your brains out.” She made the sound of a gun exploding.

Lucy rattled her handcuff against the table, annoyed and frustrated from being ignored, bartered, and a witness to their sick tête-à-tête.

“It doesn’t matter what you give this man because I’m not for sale,” Lucy interjected, but she sounded insecure and frightened. The woman turned her gaze downward and narrowed her eyes as if she was noticing this human for the first time. She looked disgusted at Lucy’s timidity.

“Do me a favor,” the woman said, turning her attention back to Spencer. “Give me another day. Same time. I think I have something that might interest you.”

She then bent down and examined Lucy, pulling on the handcuffs, patting her down for weapons. When she saw the gash on Lucy’s head, she shot Spencer a frustrated look.

“I need her compliant. And in good condition. Handcuffs, good, fine, whatever. Violence, bad. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spencer pointed to the door. “Tomorrow. And I better not be disappointed.”

“That’s entirely up to you,” she replied. “But what I’m prepared to offer you is so rare it has no value. It might be the single most important item left on our Godforsaken earth. And you’ll take it. Eagerly. Then I get the girl in excellent condition. I mean…for the love Spencer…fix her a decent breakfast, share your deodorant.” Then she turned to Lucy, looked her up and down one last time. “Tomorrow.” She started to walk away.

Spencer followed her back out to the doors, his rifle raised again. He started to punch in the code to slide the metal locks apart.

“Who are you?” Lucy cried out after the stranger, her voice full of anguish and fear.

The girl spun. She paused as if debating whether or not she would answer. “I’m Darla,” she called and then disappeared back outside.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Six days after The Release

Lucy wasn’t able to sleep that night. Her mind kept spinning around thinking of Salem and Grant out there in the world for the first time since the attack. She wondered if they found it cruel or peaceful, and while she hoped they had located her brother, she was not optimistic. But more than anything, she kept imagining that kiss, and she pondered whether or not she would be rescued. After waiting and wondering, she just assumed they had forsaken her for more romantic pursuits. It pained her to think of their closeness while she was so alone.

Her hand ached above her head and she could not find an ounce of comfort. Occasionally she dozed, but when her body pulled on the chain, she would jerk awake to the sound of metal rattling on metal. All through the night, her anger and pain increased, but Lucy didn’t cry. Five days ago, she wouldn’t have stopped crying, but she could not find it in herself to shed tears. Spencer watched her like a caged pet—balancing his interest with both fascination and indifference.

When Spencer attempted conversation with her, Lucy turned her face away from his and stared off at the beige office walls where pictures of former students had been taped up in equally numbered columns and rows. Tiny squares of smiling faces, painted and plucked, wearing brand new outfits, without a hair out of place. Lucy’s own senior photos were sitting at home, already distributed to her mother’s friends and distant relatives.

Spencer never wanted to talk about anything that made sense. Instead it seemed that he was excited just to hear himself talk to a human being at all, even if that person was his prisoner. He held court in front of her and recounted movie plots and stories of crazy students and he told her the details of teacher scandals—all of which might have interested her a few days ago, but not anymore.

After he realized it would be a perpetual one-way conversation, Spencer retreated to his office with his bottles and his pills. In no time at all, he was snoring. His rattling breath kept Lucy wide-eyed and awake until the wee hours of the morning.

When Spencer rose with the sun, he was slow, grumpy and suddenly silent, but otherwise fine. He fixed them both a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and French toast sticks drowned in maple syrup from a collection of tiny plastic packets, which he opened for Lucy without so much as a good morning.

But even if he handled himself in virtual silence, Spencer abandoned his antagonistic banter. He didn’t have to be nice to her, but somehow Darla’s instructions were weighed with authority. They spent the morning like awkward houseguests—one not sure what to do with the other—even though the reality of her situation was never far from Lucy’s mind.

After hours of waiting, Darla was back. Right on time. Her four short knocks, beat, two knocks. The song and dance of raised guns, sliding bolts, mutual distrust, locking doors. When she returned, he seemed jittery with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning. His morning moodiness was lifted.

“Easy, easy,” Darla said. Her messenger bag was empty and light. She set it down on the table slowly and then kicked out a chair and sat down. Plates with the remnants of their breakfast were beside her, and Darla took her pointer finger and made lazy circles with the leftover syrup. Then she brought her finger to her tongue and licked the syrup off with a deliberate smack. Lucy had left a bite of sausage and Darla ate that too. If it bothered Spencer, he didn’t say. Instead, he watched her curiously and anxiously as he leaned against one of the walls, his gun at his side.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Enough. I’m waiting.”

“I’m about to honor your request.”

“I hope so. Or why are you here?”

“An unobtainable, rare, valuable product. For your own personal use, if you desire. Or for sale. I don’t care what you do with it once it leaves my hands.”

“My curiosity is piqued.”

“Sure, sure,” Darla waved him away with disdain. “Let’s set the ground rules. First, let her out of the cuffs.”

Spencer blinked. “I don’t know. She’ll bolt.”

“Let her out of the damn cuffs.”

“Tell me what you brought for—”

Darla pulled her firearm out of its holster like lightning and pointed it at Spencer; only her hand and arm had moved—the rest of her body had remained positioned calmly in the chair. “You’ll want what I’m selling and if you don’t then you lose the product and the girl.”

With Darla’s gun still pointed in his direction, Spencer bent down and unlocked one side of the handcuffs. Lucy’s hand fell into her lap. It was numb and sore, a red, raw indent surrounded her wrist and she cradled it gingerly against her body.

“Come over by me,” Darla instructed to Lucy. Whether or not she wanted to bolt, Lucy realized that fighting her request would be useless. So, Lucy slid herself over to Darla’s feet and then wobbled upward. Her legs ached.

Darla pulled her messenger bag down off the table and flipped it open. She reached inside and pulled out a brown box with a lid. Dropping her bag on the floor, she lifted the lid, and Lucy saw that the box was packed with packing balls. They fell to the floor as she reached in and grabbed a plastic baggie. She ripped open the top of the bag, held out her hand, and rolled out four vials.

“This better be good,” Spencer mumbled, clearly unimpressed.

“This,” Darla held the vials in her hand, “is a cure.”

Spencer looked at her uncomprehending. “A cure.” He ran the back of his hand over his nose and cracked his head to the side.

She rose to her feet and held the vials outward, but when Spencer took a step forward and tried to reach for them, she drew her hand back and waved her free pointer finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah…not so fast.”

“You mean…a vaccine.”

Darla smiled, her large, evenly spaced teeth flashing. “Now you’re catching on. I’m holding the only known and only available vaccine against the virus that was unleashed on our dearly departed Earth. Four vials. There is one for you for sure. I have three more…but we’ll discuss their fate next.”

She let the news settle and when Spencer opened his mouth, she continued, without waiting.

“I know you’re incredulous.”

“To say the least,” was his response.

“Of course. I waltz in here, purport to have some cure for a quick-killing tool of genocide used by bioterrorists. Hard pill to swallow?”

Spencer motioned for her to continue.

Following every word with growing anxiousness, Lucy slid her body down into Darla’s now empty chair and rested her elbows on the table.

Darla reached into her bag once again and pulled out a sheet of white computer paper and a digital camera. Still with the vials in her grip, she brandished the paper, like a gift, and placed it in Spencer’s hand. He shifted his rifle to his back and held on to the sheet with two hands, his brow furrowing as he read. “This could be forged,” he mumbled.

“Oh really? With my endless hours of available free time and design experience?”

“You could have traded for it. How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“It’s not a forgery.”

“It’s a scare tactic.”

“You’re right. It’s scary…but it’s no tactic.”

“What does it say?” Lucy said and she stood up.

With a sigh, Darla turned to acknowledge Lucy. The strange woman had deep, dark brown eyes with a tint of green along the edges and long, make-up-less lashes. “It’s a document from a government-run laboratory. Some timeline information about experiments involving the virus.”

“How did you get that?” Lucy asked. But Darla shot her a murderous look and Lucy lowered herself back down into her seat. “I was just asking,” she tried to add, but no one seemed to hear her.

“It says that most victims die between twenty-four hours to thirty-six hours after exposure. Quickly. Instant death. Ninety-eight percent of all…human subjects…did not last beyond that timeframe. Then there is a second wave. The outliers. After exhibiting no symptoms, no reaction to exposure at all…after one-hundred-forty-four hours to one-hundred-sixty hours…another two percent.”

“One-hundred percent death rate?” Lucy said and she looked up. She let that tidbit of truth wash over her. No one would survive this without that vaccine.

“Excellent math skills. Did our fine establishment help you with that ability?” Spencer shot a look upward and then back down at the camera. “So, what Darla,” he said her name with a sneer, “is trying to say is that we just entered a time period where we are all at risk again. Is that right?”

Darla shrugged.

“And how opportune…I mean, what a great fortune for me that she has the perfect recipe to save my life.” Spencer rolled his eyes. “I don’t buy it.”

“The way I see it,” Darla answered without missing a beat, “is that I can win this thing two ways. One, you realize I’m right, and you let me buy Lucy with the vaccine. Or two, you think I’m wrong and you die of the virus. I walk out of here with Lucy either way.”

“Then wait for me to die,” Spencer invited with a toothy smile.

“Happily,” Darla replied. “That was certainly my vote anyway. However, here is the problem.” She frowned. “I need some things. Some big things and unfortunately, you’re the only one I know who can get them for me.”

Lucy’s heart began beating ferociously. She didn’t want to interrupt and ruin Darla’s rehearsed dialogue, but she needed to know if she was in danger. She thought of Salem and Grant out there, outside, somewhere, not knowing that a second wave would soon hit them. Getting out of the school and finding them was key, even if she hoped that Darla’s dog-and-pony show was an act.

“That is an interesting predicament,” Spencer said, assuming his administrative tone, a cross between condescending and authoritative. “So many coincidences. I’m in danger today, but behold…you have just what I need.”

“And if you don’t give me what I need, then yes, you will die.”

Spencer debated, his eyes flashed. “So, what do you need?” he asked.

“Antibiotics. And a doctor.”

He laughed at her. “Those are no easy feats. What makes you even think I can do that?”

“Because if you don’t agree to it…you’ll die,” Darla answered.

“Right, I see. Well, I don’t have antibiotics right now,” he told her unapologetically. “And you think I can just call up a doctor? How exactly do you suppose I go about making that happen for you?”

Darla leaned in closer. “I know how this works. You need specific things and you put different items in the window to call the looters. The traders. The Raiders, like I call them. Right?”

He didn’t answer her.

“You do this for me and you live. The payment is handsome,” she continued.

“Darla the Great, peddling her magical elixirs, preying on fear and a sense of urgency. And of course you need the girl, but wait, if I don’t give you the other things you need you’ll let me die. A sham. I don’t believe you, so I will call your bluff. No girl, no antibiotics, no doctor. Let’s wait and see what happens. Do you need me to show you the door?”

“Are you done?” Darla asked, unmoving, and when Spencer failed to answer immediately, Darla nodded once. “Good.” She grabbed the digital camera and turned it on, its tiny ding indicating it was ready. She passed it to Spencer, who regarded the first picture with confusion and then disgust.

Lucy stood up and walked over so she could see the screen. Quickly, Spencer clicked through pictures. At first it was just pictures of dead rats in various stages of decay. In front of the rats, someone had labeled them: Day1, hour 2. And then as the rats disintegrated into fur and bone, Day 5, hour 10. But at some point the subjects changed and what Lucy saw—despite the horror of the past six days—made her gasp. She clasped a hand over her mouth and her eyes began to water. She hated what she was seeing, but she couldn’t look away.

Bodies. Real people. Dressed in paper-thin white robes. Men and women. Girls and boys. All ages, shapes, colors, nationalities. Dead. With signs. Day 2, hour 5. And on and on. Some subjects were shown alive. Day 1. Alive. Day 2. Alive. Some people held their signs in front of them without emotion, staring forward. Some of them had a hint of a smile on their lips. Lucy wondered if they knew what was happening to them; if they knew that they were going to die.

Sure enough, Darla’s clear assessment of the paper’s report rang true in pictures. Out of the people who lasted through the first phase, none of them survived Day 6.

Spencer finished the last photo, compelled to press the forward key until the first picture flashed back into view, and then he set the camera down at the table. His brusque manner had diminished and now he appeared pensive and, Lucy thought, afraid.

He opened his hand.

“Take the girl,” he stated and open and closed his palm.

“Wise choice,” Darla answered. “And—”

“I need two days for your other requirements.”

“Everyone will be dead in two days,” she replied.

“I understand,” Spencer said between his teeth. “Two days and all those vaccines. If you expect me to deliver you a doctor, I’m going to need a way to keep him or her alive and the people who assist me.”

“Deal. The vials are yours. Work fast. I’ll be back.”

Spencer turned his head to the side. “How do you know I won’t just take the vaccines and run?”

Darla smiled. “Because I’m giving you a chance at life. Even when you get me what I ask for, you will still owe me. I’m trusting that has to count for something.”

Then without waiting for a reply, she dropped the vials into Spencer’s outstretched hand. And as they rolled from her hand to his, Lucy noticed they were marked with long strips of masking tape. Each one was clearly labeled with a name: Galen, Malcolm, Monroe. And Harper.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The clean air hurt Lucy’s lungs at first. She breathed it in too deeply, too quickly, and her chest ached. She gulped for another breath of air and then another and soon she felt light-headed. With a hand placed firmly against her lower back, Darla led Lucy to a red bench outside the school and sat her down.

“Put your head between your knees. You’re hyperventilating.”

“Don’t…tell…me…what…I…am…doing…” Lucy replied between heavy breathing, her ribcage rising and falling.

“Fine,” she replied, nonplussed. “We don’t have long. It’s not wise to stay out in the open like this. Come on, stand up. You’re fine. “

“Give me a second.” Then Lucy raised her head and examined the woman standing before her. In the sunlight, Lucy could see that her skin was flawless and she was tan. Not the orange glow of Oregonian girls, but the deep golden browns of someone who developed a bronzed body over time. After a deep breath, Lucy looked straight at Darla and steeled herself up to ask the question she needed to ask.

“Those vials in there…with vaccine.”

“Let’s be careful here, Lucy,” Darla answered and she looked past her, into the parking lot, her eyes scanning the rows of cars with diligence.

“I need to know. Where did they come from? Why were my brothers’ and sister’s name on them…you have to tell me.”

“Sorry,” was the curt reply. “Those are questions you’ll have to ask later. I don’t have answers.”

“Liar,” Lucy muttered under her breath. She was seething. One night enduring Spencer’s craziness, handcuffed to a table, and the woman didn’t have the decency to give her a straight answer.

“Excuse me?”

“You know. You just told Spencer all of that stuff in there.”

“Come on, Lucy Larkspur King.” Darla said the name with a mix of kindness and amusement. “Let’s get going.” She put her hands on her hips. Then she took her thick black hair and tied it up into a spiky ponytail.

“Who are you?” Lucy asked. She tucked her hands up under her thighs and bounced her legs; the cement in the parking lot, still full of cars, was wet from the showers, but the clouds temporarily parted revealing blue sky surrounded by threatening, ominous dark gray rain clouds on the horizon.

“I already answered that. I’m Darla,” she replied, annoyed.

“You know what I’m asking.”

“Yes, I do. Well, a week ago I was a resident of Los Angeles, working as a wealth manager for a small capital management firm. But seeing as how all my clients are dead and there’s no more stock market and I’m pretty sure currency is pretty much invalid, I found myself unemployed. So, now I’m a Raider. Among other things.” Darla smirked. She wiped a stray hair out of her eyes and then put her hand back on her hips, standing with a wide stance above Lucy, her presence large and assuming, invading Lucy’s personal space.

“I heard you use that word in the office. What’s a Raider?”

“It’s a term I made up.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Lucy looked around.

“Professional looter. Raiding people’s houses for items of perceived value to trade for other items of perceived value. In less than one week after the annihilation of mankind, it didn’t take much longer than twelve hours to set up a pretty intricate web of black market trading. Although, I suppose it’s not a black market if it’s the only market. Principal Spencer here…he knew he had it made.”

“Which is why he didn’t want anyone near the school.”

“You did the right thing by staying at the school. It’s not pleasant out here,” Darla added and she looked down on Lucy with mothering warmth, her affirmation the vocal equivalent of a pat on the back. “The first three days were the worst. Killing people who came on your property without so much as a pause to see if they were armed or hurting. Violence, disaster. You know the basics.”

“My brother sent you?” Lucy asked.

“He did.”

“He’s alive.” Lucy sighed and smiled.

“He is.”

“Is he the one who needs a doctor?”

“I don’t think I need to answer any more questions right now.”

“Am I going to die?”

Darla paused and cocked her head to the side. She looked genuinely perplexed and then a wave of realization passed over her face. “You’re fine sweetie. You’re not in danger.”

Lucy let out a small hum. “Yeah, people keep saying that to me. So far I’m not convinced.”

“You aren’t going to die.”

She thought of the vials and the fact that her name was not among them. But what did any of it mean? The questions seemed too big and unanswerable, and Lucy kept breathing deeply, trying to calm the heaviness in her chest.

“That’s all I know, so you’ll just have to live with that.” Darla reached into her messenger back and pulled out a pair of canvas slip-on shoes that Lucy immediately recognized as her own.

“I noticed you were without footwear yesterday. You own a surprising number of shoes…none of which are great for walking. So, what, the King family doesn’t like to hike? Whatever, we’ll make do.”

Lucy mumbled a thank you as she slipped the shoes on her feet.

“Come on. Follow me.”

* *

Darla moved toward the bushes, pushing long branches with leaves out of the way and ducking under the greenery. A twig caught in Lucy’s hair and as she moved forward it tugged on her scalp; she batted it away. Then something wispy and thin brushed her cheek and it felt like the remnants of a spider’s web. She shivered and ran her hand over the tingling skin. She hadn’t given much thought to the survival of all living creatures. Did spiders even still exist now or had they also been banished from the earth?

Lucy kept pace with her and matched her step for step. Their feet crunched along gravel. They passed some school storage buildings and one of the doors was wide open, the glass broken on the windows. Next they crawled through an open space in a fence and found themselves in the bus barn—fifteen buses parked for service in their usual spaces, bright and yellow. Darla put out her hand and stopped Lucy, then drew her gun up, flipping the safety off.

When Lucy opened her mouth to ask something, Darla snapped her fingers and motioned for Lucy to stay quiet.

With every step, Darla would pause.

Then even Lucy heard the crunch of gravel that continued after they had paused. Behind them were a set of secondary steps trying to match their own, but the attempt was imperfect. While Darla turned her head around one of the buses, her back flush against the exit door, Lucy felt someone grab her arm and she shrieked loudly. Darla spun back, aiming her weapon.

“Put down your gun!” Darla called. “I’m a better shot. I can already tell just by looking at you.”

Lucy staggered forward and pulled out of the person’s grasp. Then she turned to see Grant’s sallow face as he stared down Darla. Grant stood there, holding Lucy’s revolver in his hand and his whole arm was shaking.

“Let our friend go,” he commanded, his voice breaking. The threat of using a weapon seemed to be making Grant physically ill. Sweat beads formed on his forehead. Lucy wanted to go over and hug him. Her heart was overjoyed at his act of bravery on her behalf, but she saw the glimmer of agitation on Darla’s face and realized that Grant might be in real danger.

Lucy ran and stood between them with her arms outstretched. She spotted Salem hovering next to another one of the buses and she motioned for Lucy to run to her.

“Stop!” Lucy yelled. “Just stop! Both of you. Grant…it’s okay…this is Darla. Ethan sent her. Darla, these are my friends. Don’t shoot them.”

“You know these kids?” Darla asked and she lifted her hands up in a show of faith and holstered her gun. “You have no idea how close I came to just shooting you. Maybe a warning next time.”

Lucy dropped her hands and placed them on her knees, taking a moment. “How does a wealth manager know so much about guns?” she asked.

“Why shouldn’t a wealth manager know so much about guns?” Darla replied.

“Spencer?” Grant asked, looking relieved to lower his gun too. And the moment the scene settled and everything seemed safe, Salem emerged and rushed over to Lucy, wrapping her arms around Lucy’s shoulders and squeezing her tightly.

“He let me go,” Lucy said, her breath constricted from Salem’s monster embrace.

“We’ve been so worried,” Salem said. “We spent all night trying to get back into the building.”

“Fort Knox that place,” Grant said.

Lucy wanted to believe it was true. She searched their faces and saw their exhaustion and worry and knew that they were being honest. Her rambling daydreams of Grant and Salem leaving her with Spencer so they could kiss unencumbered were unfounded. She let out a relieved sigh.

Darla cleared her throat. A noisy, exaggerated sound of frustration. She motioned for them to wrap up their hellos and hugs and then turned back to her original task at-hand, clearing the bus barn, taking glimpses of the undercarriage, peering into the windowed exit doors. The friends walked together after her and Salem grabbed Lucy’s hand as they walked.

“I’m sorry we left you—”

With a small squeeze, Lucy smiled. “You didn’t have a choice. He would’ve shot you. I’m certain of it.”

Salem noticed the raw cut in Lucy’s right wrist and she brought it up to inspect it. “What did he do to you?”

They heard Darla’s feet speeding toward them across the gravel and when Lucy looked up, she saw the dark haired woman bearing down on them, her face contorted with rage and fear. “Shut up,” she seethed. “Seriously. The chummy reunion dialogue can wait until we’re inside somewhere. Safe.”

Grant stopped walking and tilted his head at Darla, blinking. “Why are you paranoid?”

“Where’ve you been the last week?” Darla asked. “That’s right. Holed up in the school. With water, right? Food? Your basic needs were met that entire time. So whatever perceived hardship you think you might have experienced? No. You don’t know what’s going on out here.”

Salem bristled at Darla’s tone and let go of Lucy’s hand. She took a small step forward and raised her shoulders. “We’ve been outside for twenty-four hours…and if you haven’t noticed…there isn’t ANYONE LEFT.” Salem yelled, her voice echoing down the street and carrying into the abandoned houses and buildings that surrounded them.

No one moved for a long second and then Darla leaned in closer to Salem’s face, she lowered her voice. “This corridor is used for people like me…making a beeline to that school to trade with your former principal. You’re right. There’s hardly anyone left. But those that decided to survive by shooting you, taking your little bag…with your last little bit of water…they’ll be around here. You want to yell? Yell. But when they come, I’m not saving you from them. Not even if you beg me.”

“Fine,” Grant replied, not harshly. He looked at Darla and raised his hands in surrender. “So, you’re the boss.”

“I’m the boss?”

“You’ll get us somewhere safe?”

Darla shook her head. “No. I have one task…to get Lucy back to her own house…back to Ethan. You two,” she pointed to both Salem and then Grant, “have nothing to do with this. But if you’re tagging along? Shut up.”

* *

The walk was serpentine. It might have taken an hour to walk straight from the high school to Lucy’s house, but Darla kept them off the main streets. Without a word, they cut through yards and parks and crouched along abandoned cars in the strip mall. The shop windows were nonexistent, reduced to piles of broken glass and the furniture from the stores had been tossed outward into the parking lot. There were bodies everywhere: Against the steering wheels of cars, across the sidewalks, inside the stores. And everything was quiet. Their footsteps echoed down the covered corridor as they passed by a shoe store, a fabric store, and a clothing boutique. Darla nodded for them to head into a darkened drug store.

“No power,” Darla warned. “From this grid and upward. Most of Oregon is out of power actually. Just a few zones left. I can’t tell you why they’re hanging on.”

“Is there power at my house?” Lucy asked and Darla shook her head no.

“Power has been out there for a few days now.”

The drug store was stripped clean. Shelves emptied of all essential and nonessential items. Even the rack of greeting cards was empty.

“Why would someone steal a congratulations on your bar mitzvah card?” Grant asked.

“To burn,” was Darla’s reply and Lucy’s mind wandered to the book in her backpack. Then she cringed. She had left the backpack in Spencer’s office. It seemed that leaving things at school was becoming a theme. This time, however, she would let it stay there.

They turned down an aisle and stepped over a man’s decimated body. Lucy noticed that his hand was curled in a perfect circle around an imaginary object and she couldn’t help but wonder if someone had actually pried a medicine bottle out of his cold dead hands. It was an expression she never imagined having a literal use and yet there was the evidence that nothing was sacred in the wreckage.

Darla, with the ease and speed of someone familiar with the landscape, pushed her way through two thick double-doors leading into a cavernous and nearly pitch black storage room. The back of the store was windowless and so they might have been blinded by the darkness, but the loading dock had been left open and the entire area was washed in natural light. They made their way down the cement stairs and found themselves on the back part of the strip mall.

Beyond the mall was an open field. A fence warned trespassers that the land was a nature preserve and violators would be prosecuted, but Darla held a flap of cut chain-link back and let the kids climb through one by one before following herself, shutting the small fence back into place with a loud clink. The field was muddy and wet and Lucy’s canvas shoes kept getting stuck. She slurped her way forward, yanking one foot and then the other. When they reached the other end of the field, they were at a wooden fence leading to a soggy backyard.

Darla marched them over the wet grass and through a gently rocking swing set. Lucy let her hand linger on the chain of the swing and then let her fingers slide down. Grant and Salem were trudging along behind; Salem held her hands around her stomach and her eyes watered, Grant kept a hand poised to catch her if she fell. They were out of breath and weak, but they did not complain.

The next backyard was littered with rusting lawn furniture and several green plastic garbage cans filled with yard debris. The house sported an abandoned porch- a product of owners who had decided their home didn’t need attention long before the world decided to crash down around them. In months, maybe years, the houses around this one would fall into the same sad state of disrepair. What had once been an eyesore to the manicured lawns and flower-basket neighbors was now just one more empty house.

Peering through the unwashed windows, Darla motioned for them to join her. Then she moved to the door, grabbed the handle and twisted it slowly.

“Probably empty,” she said, as if she were a bloodhound, and she swung the door open wider and motioned for Grant, Lucy and Salem to follow. “Let’s go. Inside,” she instructed like they were half-cognizant toddlers.

“We’re going inside? Why?” Lucy asked in a hushed voice as she stepped on the porch.

“To sit,” Darla said. “To watch,” she nodded toward the front of the house. “To wait.”

“Watch and wait for what?” Grant asked.

“For what and for whom,” she answered ambiguously, and then took three giants steps into the house, passing through a small mud room, filled from top to bottom with cardboard boxes, black sharpie labeling them—tax papers, kitchen utensils, Christmas décor—all in flowery, capital letters, script.

They entered after her and followed her into a kitchen. The blinds were drawn shut and the house was dim and stale. Lucy allowed her hand to travel over items dumped on to a wrinkled red and white gingham tablecloth. Among the debris, a dog collar. The tag read: Einstein. Lucy held the collar for a long time before setting it back down in the exact place it had been before. Each house was now a graveyard and its evidence of loss and grief was so clear and profound.

“Are they home?” Grant asked. He was standing near the counter. He reached for a coffee mug and picked it up, the coffee sloshed around—it had not been around long enough to mold.

Darla cracked her neck. “No one’s ever home,” she replied. “No one will ever be home.” She opened the fridge and the front of the kitchen flooded with light spilled from the appliance. She tossed aside cardboard boxes filled with leftovers, mushy vegetables, and went straight to a can of soda, popping open the tab and sucking the whole thing down in gulps. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she crushed the can and dropped it to the floor where it clattered and rocked; the echoes of tin on linoleum reverberated throughout the house.

Lucy waited until Darla had moved into the living room before she bent down and picked up the can. She set it on the table gently and looked around.

“This doesn’t feel right,” she said. “This was someone’s home.”

Salem nodded.

From the other room, Darla had found a piano and was plunking out a clunky melody; the strings were in dire need of retuning and the song pealed out its tinny tune through the whole house.

Grant moved past Lucy in the kitchen and made his way to the living room, where he sat down on the couch and picked up a discarded book, left open, mid-page, on the coffee table.

When Darla was finished with her piano playing, she wandered to the front window. She hooked her finger along the floral curtains and parted them and watched for a long moment, then let the curtain fall. The window looked out to the main street, and in front of that, a small corner market.

“We have to travel this way. But I know of a small group that’s been hanging out across the way. Just a group of kids. Once I know the coast is clear, we’ll just cross the street quickly and head up through the park. Lots of tree cover. Nothing to steal in the park,” Darla said.

Above the mantel were pictures of an older couple surrounded by children. One framed photo stood out above all the others. It was a photo of a boy with a chocolate-smeared grin and missing teeth, his face smashed up against the wrinkled cheek of a chuckling loved one. Lucy walked over and took the frame in her hand and then flopped it facedown, the back-stand still sticking straight up in the air. She moved to the next picture, the people were so full of life and clueless about their future. They were smiling and hugging, cherishing moments together and Lucy pushed those downward also until the entire mantel was scrubbed cleaned of the memories of bright futures and happier times.

“Where’d you meet my brother?” Lucy asked, turning to look at Darla, then she sat down next to Grant and watched as he flipped the pages of the book mindlessly.

“The airport.” But Darla shot Lucy a look that implied she wasn’t in a chatty mood.

Threadbare nerves racked her and she wanted to shake Darla and demand all the answers. It had been a long time since she started following Darla’s orders and still she had no idea who this woman was and how she knew Ethan. Lucy’s eyes must have betrayed her agony, because Darla took note and exhaled. She leaned her head against the wall.

“Ethan was there, at the airport, looking for your family,” Darla said. “They had grounded my plane to Seattle. There weren’t any gates available, so they evacuated us out of the emergency exits. Those little slides aren’t as fun as you would think,” she paused, but then took a long look at Lucy and continued. “And when I was in the terminal, I saw Ethan trying to get out to the tarmac to look at the planes. He was convinced that one of the planes might have your family inside.”

“My family made it to the airport?” Lucy asked. She didn’t know what she wanted the answer to be. Was there a chance they made it out alive? Could it have been their plane submerged in the Columbia River? Was it possible the plane never left?

“They weren’t at the airport. Either weren’t there or they weren’t able to be found,” Darla continued without missing a beat. “Security was so diminished that it didn’t take long for Ethan to find his way to the tarmac. He was running like a madman. Going from plane to plane. They had grounded flights by then. Whole planes of people just sitting there, with the infected, waiting to die.”

“But Ethan thought my family was at the airport. So, they weren’t at home?”

Darla waited and then she nodded.

“How many planes did he check? It’s possible that they still left. Right?” Now she didn’t know which version she wanted to be true. If her mom could have left her daughter and son behind or if somehow they had never made it to the airport, both versions seemed awful.

She gave a non-committal shrug. “Nothing was happening smoothly over there. It wasn’t like he could just ask someone about a plane and they could point him in the right direction. But…Ethan believes the plane left. Took off. Escaped Portland.”

She didn’t know what that meant.

“So, you see this guy looking for his family and you decide to help him?” Grant asked.

“Not exactly,” Darla replied. She swatted at an invisible fly, fully aware that she was being vague.

No one said anything. Salem shuffled her feet and stared mournfully at the ground. Grant reached into his bag and pulled out his water; he had only a sip left and he dripped the last few drops on to his tongue.

“Wait, was there a girl with him?” Lucy asked and she couldn’t tell if she was hopeful for survivors or indifferent. Grant went back to reading and he flipped another page in the book.

“He was alone.”

This was not surprising news, but Lucy took a moment to process the implication that Anna was gone too. All those times she had encouraged her brother to end that dead-end relationship, her evil thoughts toward Anna’s idiocy and her false friendship. And now, somewhere between leaving her standing outside the secret door and the airport, Anna and Ethan had been dealt a forced separation.

Lucy was sorry that Anna was dead. But she felt worse for Ethan and she selfishly hoped that he had been spared watching her die in the end. There were too many people to weep for; even if she felt a pang of compassion, she would not shed tears for Anna.

“Tell me about the vials,” Lucy finally asked again. “Where did you get the information you shared with Spencer?”

“What vials?” Salem asked.

But before either of them could answer, Lucy heard the floorboards squeak. It was the familiar groan of a house bearing weight. They all heard it and paused, eyes, ears and heads pointed toward the ceiling. Their bodies shifted and they all went on high alert.

“What was that?” Grant asked and he stood straight up, crossing his arms over his chest. Darla stood up next to him, her gun slipping back into the palm of her hand.

“Nothing,” Lucy said because she wanted that to be the right answer. “Don’t houses just settle, make noises?”

But they heard the creak again, and then the shifting and shuffling and footsteps above them. Unmistakable, distinct.

They had entered an occupied house.

“No way,” Darla said and went to the window, moving the curtain back and peering out. She grumbled and nodded outward. “And there are the other Raiders. Fantastic.”

Lucy darted to the window and stole a peek. A ragtag group of boys and one girl ambled up the street. There were four of them in a line. One held a semi-automatic weapon, another a baseball bat. They were dirty and weathered and none of them was over thirty. A boy on a motorized scooter with a wagon attached to the back was leading the crowd. They stopped in front of the storefront. The girl holding the baseball bat took a whack at one of the neon signs in the window and it cracked upon impact with the sound of breaking glass; she pulled it free, the cord trailing behind, and jumped on it for good measure. The group laughed, encouraging her. She batted at another sign and then took the bat to the hood of a car in the parking lot.

The steps above them had also paused. The movement ceased.

Two of the four people ducked into the store, shouting indecipherable messages to each other. It was just a lot of noise and consonants. Lucy made a move like she was going to back away from the window, but Darla put her hand out, commanding her to stay.

Grant, still standing between them, had no view of the outside, but he watched the ceiling with interest—his ears trained on the movement above.

Outside, with a swift motion, the girl raised her bat in mid-swing and then she stumbled forward. The steel slipped out of her hand and it hit the sidewalk with a clang. She clutched her stomach and slid to the ground. The boys watching guard rushed to her as she sank, then they recoiled. They called out and the looters rushed from the storefront.

Watching wide-eyed, Lucy covered her mouth with her hand as the boys dropped the goods in the wagon and took off. The boy on the scooter pulled ahead and the rest followed quickly on foot. There was a single boy who stayed and he held a gun in his hand. He spun wildly looking for something to shoot. Someone to dare cross his path in his moment of anger and surprise. He sat next to the girl, talking to her.

She doubled over in the street on her hands and knees and her body shook against the heavy burden of the virus. It was crippling her.

“Why?” Lucy croaked and took a tentative step back.

“Why what?” Salem whispered.

“The girl,” she said, but she couldn’t find the words to express her anguish. Lucy spun to Darla, “But I thought…” Lucy ran her fingers through her hair and kept her fingers tangled near her scalp. “You were just lying to Spencer. The stuff you said at the school.” She couldn’t even begin to formulate the words necessary to ask the questions on her mind.

“Day six,” Darla answered as if it pained her too. “It’s real, Lucy.” And then her eyes shifted to Salem and Grant, who stood and sat respectively without comprehension.

Grant raised his hand up toward the ceiling. And then put a finger to his lips.

“On the move,” he said.

The steps were heavy now and labored. A single thud and then another; Lucy’s heart quickened, but her arms hung like lead weights at her sides.

There was no escape.

They could see two slippered feet appear at the top of the landing and they watched as the feet slid to the next step and the next step, with rigid and jerky movements.

“Zombie,” Grant whispered. “It’s finally the zombies.” He yanked the gun out of his waistband and held it up at an angle toward the steps. Lucy noticed that his arm didn’t wobble and he pointed the gun up the stairs with marked self-assuredness. It was as if Grant had never imagined he would have to shoot a person, but shooting a zombie came without effort.

“Don’t you dare shoot me son,” came a rough and steady voice, gravelly from sleep, but unafraid.

“Not zombies,” Lucy said and pushed herself back toward the front door, her eyes trained on the emerging figure of a man in a salmon bath robe, bare, skinny legs, socks rolled down around his ankles and worn-white slippers. His hand gripped the railing and he took each step deliberately. When he had reached a spot where he could see all three of them, he paused and made eye contact with Darla and stared at her without blinking until she lowered her gun. Then he looked to Lucy, his blue eyes striking and bright despite the weathered, wrinkled face.

Outside, they could hear the boy cry out and the pop-pop-pop of rapid gunfire. Each of them ducked, expecting the bullets to rain in their direction. But the man stayed firm and upright, unmoving. As they rose, he cleared his throat.

“Houseguests,” he mumbled. “If you’d have called beforehand, I could have put on pants.”

* *

Leland Pine’s wife was still interned in their upstairs bedroom. After they had heard news that most of their children and grandchildren had perished, she retreated to the room where they had shared a bed for more than fifty years, finished off a bottle of pills, mixed with some clear alcohol from their freezer and drifted off to sleep.

He was planning on burying her in their garden, but arthritis and the constant threat of the Raiders across the street thwarted his attempts. He had given up hope that she would receive a burial and had taken to sleeping on the floor beside their bed for long hours. He’d been unable to take his own life in return and so he just waited for the illness to come claim him. Praying that he’d feel the unmistakable symptoms of the virus, he wished for death, but it never came.

Leland handed Darla a coffee mug with an illustration of an American Eskimo dog on the side filled with sweet tea that they had made with the all their remaining water and heated on Leland’s old gas stove. She placed her lips on the rim then sucked up the hot liquid between her teeth, then raised mug in a cheers after swallowing, and smiled a thin smile, tight and still suspicious.

“I haven’t seen many survivors beside the Raiders…the looters,” Darla corrected. “Especially not anyone…”

“Older?” Leland finished for her.

“No offense,” she shrugged.

“None taken,” he replied. “Virus wiped out most the older population first. And the little ones too, I suppose. When you think about who was dying early on it makes it even more difficult to comprehend that someone could do this to us.”

“Unfathomable,” Darla agreed.

Lucy took a mug next; the sweet tea had an overpowering fruit smell and she gagged it down. She was thirsty, but fruity drinks always reminded her of the long road trips to her grandparents’ house where her mother shoved juice boxes and packages of gummy bears at them to quiet the rivalry and announcements of boredom.

They all stood and sat around, drinking the sticky-sweet mixture out of an assortment of dime store coffee mugs and weighing their words. The clouds had rolled back over the area and everyone paused to listen to the sound of rain running down the gutters. Grant was the first to finish his drink and he set his mug down on the table and mumbled a sincere thank you. Leland raised his glass in reply.

“I never thought I’d have anyone in my kitchen again,” Leland said. “Raiders, as you call them, would come by periodically and I’d watch them and it would just make me sad. Seems like such a shame. I’ve lived this long life, seen so many things. Served my country and raised my kids. And here I am, one of the last ones standing? A waste if you ask me.”

No one said anything. Then Grant turned, “What branch of the military?”

“Navy,” Leland replied, then he chuckled, wiping the corner of his mouth with his finger. “Cook. Oh boy, I was a mean navy cook. When I met my wife, she was this wispy little thing, all eager and excited to go on a date with me. Didn’t take me long to fatten her up. Plump little gal she turned out to be after we got married. She blamed me and I knew it was true.” His eyes were misty, but his smile was wide.

Lucy couldn’t help but realize that maybe the Pines, in their old age, had pondered a life without each other. Mortality had to play an important role in their everyday thoughts; death was certain for everyone, but the closer you neared to the end of your life, you had to prepare your heart for imminent loss. Maybe Leland had hoped he’d go first and here he was, alone, without anyone.

“My dad wanted me to go into the military,” Grant said and he slid his eyes to the table. He played with the edge of a paper napkin. “Threatened to send me to military school if I couldn’t keep my grades up.”

“Military isn’t the same now,” Leland said and he stretched his hands above his head. “Long ago, you didn’t have a choice. You had to serve and you had to give up youth and plans. But now? Young people have all sorts of options. You have choices.”

Leland’s words were fresh in their ears when Darla laughed without missing a beat. It was loud and abrupt, but she cut it short when she saw their expressions. “I’m sorry,” she then said, looking to each of them. “It’s not funny.”

Leland nodded. “I see my mistake. It’s easy to forget.”

“The opposite is true for me,” added Salem from the back of the kitchen. “I can’t forget. Not even for a second.”

Grant looked at Leland with sympathy, bypassing Salem’s comment. “But I guess we’re in a war now though, right?” he asked.

“Oh really son?” Leland shook his head. “No, no. No war.”

“There’s nothing left to fight for,” Lucy said. But Darla disagreed by sighing and shaking her head.

“We have plenty to fight for. It’s just a matter of how to fight for it,” Darla added. She turned to Leland. “You seem like a good man. Honest. And I’m sorry for your losses, I am. We can’t take up too much of your time though. We really were just passing through.”

Leland put his hands on the table. “Don’t rush away on my account. The company is nice.”

But Darla started to stand, taking one more sip of her drink before presumably announcing the group’s departure. Lucy watched as Darla put the chipped mug to her lips. Then her eyes grew wide and her breath quickened. She was looking at something beyond Lucy, something that had caused her to freeze.

Without a word, Lucy turned and looked behind her, where Salem was standing. She had dropped her hand to her side, her fingers still gripped the porcelain of her I-Heart-Grandma mug, but her breathing was labored. Her face had gone an eerie shade of white. Her skin was milky and green and her eyes moved to each of them in turn, shifting, darting, afraid.

“Lucy?” Salem whispered. “Grant?” There was a tremor in her voice and it rose with panic.

“Salem!” Lucy jumped from her chair, knocking it to the ground, and started toward her friend.

She reached her just as Salem slumped forward, her mug hitting the kitchen floor with a crash and shattering into tiny pieces.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In an instant Lucy knew exactly what was going to happen next. She knew because she had seen it many times before and she knew because Salem was not looking at her, but looking past her, like she was on the other side of a two-way mirror. She had never been so close to someone succumbing to the virus before and never watched someone she loved in the act of dying. Lucy wiped her hand across Salem’s brow and her friend’s skin was on fire, clumps of her dark hair stuck to her forehead. A small trickle of blood started dripping from Salem’s left nostril and without thinking, without regard for her own safety, Lucy wiped the blood away with her bare hand; she only succeeded in smearing it down across Salem’s cheek.

“Hey, Sal. Come on…please look at me. Sal?”

Salem was trying to talk and Lucy cradled her head, lifting her up into her nap, but Salem groaned and shook her head. Lucy set her head back down onto Leland’s kitchen floor.

“Give it to me,” Lucy cried over her shoulder. “Give me the vaccine.” She was screaming, but her voice sounded foreign and strange.

For a second, she turned her head from Salem and looked around the room. Leland had pushed himself backward and he stood next to his refrigerator; he still clutched his tea with white knuckles. His wife had not died of the virus and Lucy realized that perhaps this was the first person he had seen succumb to it firsthand. She was sorry that Salem was in his house, sorry that he would never be able to look at this spot without remembering this moment.

Grant had taken a tentative step forward, but he looked lost and confused and he had started to cry. The look on his face made Lucy angry. She read resignation and futility in his eyes and she hated him for it.

Astounded by everyone’s inaction, Lucy turned to Darla with tears dripping down on to her borrowed sweatshirt and she pleaded.

“She needs it now, Darla. I need it quick.” But when she turned to Salem, her breathing had already started to slow. She fought for breath, her chest rattling with fluid with each attempt to draw air into her lungs.

“Please, please, please, please,” Lucy begged. And then, with a voice that was nearly inhuman, she yelled with rage and fear. “Why won’t you help me? Give me the rest of the vaccines!”

“Even if I had it, Lucy,” Darla said, her voice calm and quiet, hovering at normal volume, “it wouldn’t do her any good. It’s too late.”

“I don’t…believe you,” Lucy replied and she took a shaky breath and then screamed. She stopped when she felt Salem’s hand wrap around her wrist and attempt a squeeze. “I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you!”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Darla continued. “She would’ve needed it hours ago. Before it reached this point. I’m sorry, Lucy.” She slunk back to the rear of the kitchen next to Leland and rested her head against the side of the wall.

Lucy seethed and she watched as her tears dripped on to Salem’s shirt creating a little pattern of slow-spreading circles. Then she looked straight at Darla, who didn’t even try to break eye contact, and raised a shaky finger. “You wasted them.”

“Lula, he…saved me,” Salem mumbled, drawing Lucy’s attention back down toward her friend. Turning back to Salem, she slipped her clammy hands into her own and held on to them tightly.

“I don’t understand,” Lucy sniffed. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“That summer. At the beach.”

Then Lucy remembered. She knew what Salem was trying to say.

She remembered this story perfectly.

Her parents had always instilled a healthy fear of the ocean—the Oregon coast riptides were not trivial and insignificant. A King family friend lost his son to a sneaker wave the same summer Salem now remembered—it was a long Indian summer and they all loaded up the car for a day trip to the beach on Labor Day when the weather hit close to one-hundred degrees in Portland.

They were bodysurfing, pushing past the coldness of the water with the sun beating down on them; their bodies shivered, while their hair absorbed the heat from the sun. Her father yelled that they were going too far out, and Lucy dutifully obeyed his command by spinning around, treading water back until her feet could touch, and finding safety on the sand. It was Salem who pushed out further and ignored Lucy’s and the King family’s pleas to paddle back.

“He saved you,” Lucy said now, finishing the story, even as her shoulders heaved. “You were drowning. And he saved you.”

Salem had slipped below the surface and Lucy was terrified. Screams and shouting filled the beach and she remembered the alarm in her own voice, her fear of losing her friend. And Lucy’s father had sprinted from the blanket, waded into the ocean fully dressed and pulled her up, paddling back to shore with a gasping Salem in his arms. He had lost one shoe in the sand; it was absorbed into the muck. Maybe it resurfaced later and was discovered by an early morning jogger. One lone shoe without a partner, bobbing in the surf, resting in the foam, or tangled with seaweed.

“I can’t save you.” Lucy dropped her head on to Salem’s chest. Her forehead dug into the sharp edges of Salem’s gold crucifix. “I’ve never been able to save you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

“But he saved me,” Salem said again. “El me salvo.”

And Lucy curled up beside her best friend, their bodies touching. She kept her hand placed squarely on her heart until the distressed breathing stopped and the rise and fall of her chest slowed to a stop.

Salem was gone.

* *

The room didn’t move.

Then Grant took a tentative step toward them and Lucy, sensing his approach, lifted her head. “No. Stay back.”

“Lucy—”

“I said stay back,” Lucy cried out.

A great and terrible fury passed through her. And in an instant she was on her feet, scrambling across the kitchen to Darla. Her foot slipped in blood that had seeped beneath Salem’s body and she lost her balance, tripping into the table. Her body knocked around the plates and glasses as they clinked together. She ran her hand over the table and threw the items to the floor, where they shattered or bounced, and then gripping the sides she flung herself forward, pressing her weight against Darla’s body and pushing her to the floor.

Darla darted out from under her and rolled to safety and then she lifted herself up and held her hands up in defense. She had the poise of someone who knew how to fight, but Lucy—who had only engaged in mock wrestling matches with her brothers—fought with blind rage. When she lifted a hand to scratch at Darla’s tan face, she felt a firm grip around her wrist, digging into the same spot where she had been handcuffed. And Lucy crumpled to the floor, allowing Darla to stand up straight and catch her breath.

“She let her die,” Lucy gasped. “She let her die! We had everything we needed to save them and you just let Spencer have it. How could you let me believe I was safe?”

“You are safe,” Darla said again. “You are safe. Ethan told me—” she stopped, sighed. “I didn’t know there were other people. I had one task.”

“It’s fine to be angry. It is normal for grief to look like anger,” Leland’s voice said near Lucy’s ear. “But you should not fight with your friends in a time like this,” he elucidated in a parental tone.

“She’s not my friend,” Lucy responded quickly and she yanked her hand away from his grasp. But she did not move from her place in the ground.

No one spoke. Grant wandered over to Salem’s body and stood looking at her—a sliver of sun filtered through the window fell over Salem’s legs. Then he turned back to the group, his skin red and blotchy and his eyes puffy. “What vaccine?” he asked.

* *

Lucy stood by the window and looked out on the street. The boy had gone, run off somewhere, so the girl’s body was alone on the wet concrete. The rain had not lifted and the water ran off her body like tiny streams.

Grant sat at the piano. He ran his fingers over the fake ivory keys, stretching them out, and then settled them into position. He hit a chord and another, running them together into a melody that Lucy had never heard before, even though it had the quality of something familiar, something memorable. Grant finished the song, sustaining the last note throughout the house until he lifted his foot off the pedal suddenly and he spun on the bench and stared at Lucy.

“A Grant Trotter original,” he said in a half-whisper.

“You made that up?” Lucy asked, too tired and sad to even muster an impressed smile. “I didn’t know you could play.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I should’ve said something.” Lucy turned back to the window. “I should’ve put it all together and realized. I should’ve warned you both.”

Grant stood up and stretched. “No,” he said. “In some ways, it’s better not to know. But I want it stated for the record. I was right. That first morning when I predicted that we were just taking longer to die? I don’t know why I didn’t take bets.”

Lucy began to cry again.

He walked over and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I feel like you should be consoling me right now. I am the one that just learned I’m going to die sometime today.”

Lucy leaned into his arm.

“I’m not afraid to die,” Grant said.

Pulling back, Lucy looked at him and wiped her tears on her sleeve. “I don’t understand. We’ve been fighting so hard to stay safe and alive…for almost a week…”

“You misunderstood.” He took a step back and placed his hands on Lucy’s shoulders. He was taller than her by almost a whole foot and he had to stoop his shoulders to look in her eyes. “I want to live. But I’m not afraid to die. This new world is much scarier than death, Lucy.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Amen.”

“We have to go back to the school and get one of the vials back from Spencer.” Lucy mentioned this is in a rush of importance, begging him to agree. She had been thinking about the trip back and how they could pull it off. She had a plan. The vaccine in Spencer’s possession was a travesty, especially since Grant was just playing a waiting game.

“No,” was Grant’s swift reply.

“Yes,” Lucy replied. “Yes. We can do this. And if Darla won’t help…I’ll go alone.”

“Lucy—” he shook his head. “I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting you or anyone else risk your life for me. There’s no guarantee that it would work or that…in the time that it took…” he trailed off and she knew what he was going to say. She cringed.

“Please.” She cried harder.

Grant shook his head and squeezed her shoulders tightly. “We’re not talking about it. And you won’t change my mind.”

“What do you want to do then?” Lucy asked and she tried to harden herself, stop the blubbering, and regain control.

Grant laughed. His genuine amusement shocked her and he put a thoughtful finger to his lips. “You mean…on your last day to live? What do you want to do?”

“No,” Lucy stammered. Then, “Maybe.”

Without missing a beat, he replied. “I want to bury Salem. Give her what no one else in our school or our lives got when they died. Something proper.” He then looked at her with a sad smile. “Then I want to see you get home.”

* *

Abigail Pine’s body had already started to decay. Not the rapid decomposition the virus caused, but the normal human rate of putrefaction. In an attempt to mask the smell, Leland had dumped two entire boxes of baking soda over her. Everywhere, except her face. And despite her whiteness and bloat, she still looked peaceful as she lay on top of their floral comforter.

With Leland watching, twisting his hand in his robe nervously, Darla wrapped her in a white flat sheet; her body was stiff, but still moveable. They rolled her onto the sheet in stages and then secured it at the ends. Grant grabbed her upper body, lifting her with a mixture of tenderness and sheer strength, while the girls congregated at her legs and feet. Then they shimmied and shifted, maneuvered and backed their way down the stairs, through the family room, out the kitchen, and into the garden—where Leland met them holding two shovels.

They dug two holes. The rain made them a muddy mess and the further down they got, the harder the earth was, slowing down their digging process. After fifty minutes, they had created large and deep enough holes to fit Leland’s departed wife and Salem.

Grant bent down and picked Salem off the floor on his own and laid her to rest in the earth. Mud splattered on her cheeks and clothes and the sides of the grave started caving in almost immediately. Salem’s golden crucifix peaked out of the earth and, spotting it, Lucy dropped to her knees. She reached down into the grave and she dug her hands under the mud until she was able unclasp the necklace from around Salem’s neck. She held it tightly in her hands, the sharp edges of the cross digging into her palms.

Then Grant covered the bodies as quickly as he could. With Darla’s help, they slung the thick sludge over the bodies until nothing on their bodies remained visible.

“I’ll say some words for my wife,” Leland said and gathered them together, where they huddled and listened to his praises, his prayers.

“My wife was a giving soul. And she had a spirit of fire and passion. And love. She loved. With everything she had. This is not how we imagined our end. But here we are. Here will she rest…with me by her side as long as I am able.” Leland stopped. He turned to the group, “You go,” he instructed and he pointed to Lucy.

Rain dripped on her head and she shivered, her teeth chattered. “Salem was my best friend. She…” Lucy stopped and took a second to compose herself, “gave everything she had to me. She was fun and loving. For many years, she was my sister…my only sister. I feel like I’ve lost my heart, my other half. I can’t imagine a world without her.”

Grant walked over to a rosebush and looked to Leland, “May I?” he asked and Leland nodded. He broke a single red rose off of the vine, between the thorns. It snapped easily in between his fingers. Tossing the rose on to Salem’s grave, Grant cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and said, “God our Father, your power brings us to birth, your providence guides our lives, and by your command we return to dust. Lord, those who die still love in your presence, their lives change, but do not end. I pray in hope for my family and friends and for all the dead known to you alone. Wipe away all our tears. Unite us together. And all God’s people said, amen.”

Lucy stammered out a belated amen. And then she looked slowly over to Grant, her eyebrows questioning.

He shrugged. “Catholic.”

“Full of surprises,” she said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After they left Leland’s house, it took one hour to reach Lucy’s street.

Loaded down with bags of canned peaches, pickled green beans, baby corn, and strawberry jelly—something the old man insisted upon, despite their numerous objections—they wound their way through empty houses, a looted coffee house, a smoldering police station, until they reached Lucy’s neighborhood. Passing by familiar cars and facades, they trekked down the road in the open, their heads panning from side-to-side in an effort to catch movement.

It didn’t surprise anyone that the street was silent.

When Lucy’s house came into view, she tossed her bag with Leland’s food to Grant, who caught with a clumsy grasp. “Take this,” she said and then bolted. She ran, full speed, down the street.

It pained her how much she needed to see Ethan and how much she needed to ask him. They had remained mostly silent as they made their way to the house. Lucy tried to pry details out of Darla, but she had remained focused during their journey, trading only barbs and not information.

Lucy ran past the front door and straight to the side-door to the left of the carport and crashed her way through into their laundry room, pushing off the washing machine, and then she took the steps into her house two at a time. She ran across the family room, past the stairs, calling his name loudly and without reservation.

“Ethan! Ethan!”

“Here Lucy! I’m in here!” came the reply and Lucy followed his call into the den. Ethan rested on their father’s leather couch, the giant throw blanket from their mother’s alma mater tucked up around his legs. He looked at her bleary-eyed and then broke into a giant smile and threw his arms up in response. Lucy rushed into the embrace, crouching down near the edge of the couch to get the best grip and Ethan held his hands tightly across her back and squeezed.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said and Lucy was too overcome to respond, so she just tried to melt her body into his.

From the back part of the house, she could hear Darla and Grant enter from the carport and then slam the door. The house was alive with footsteps and muffled conversation.

“Who is with her?” Ethan asked and he dropped his arms, raised himself up on his elbows and craned his neck.

“Grant Trotter. A friend. But Ethan…” Lucy’s chin trembled and she bit her lip.

Ethan interrupted, “Wait…there’s someone else alive? Did you bring anyone else?”

Lucy shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away. She wasn’t ready to talk about Salem yet, the death was too recent, too fresh and too painful to mention.

Ethan blew air out his nose, muttered an expletive, and went back to lying down, crossing his hands over his chest and staring at the ceiling. “This is a mess.” He reached a hand out and locked hands with his sister.

“Ethan—”

“We do have much to talk about little sister. So much.” His tone implied disagreement, exhaustion and, Lucy thought, fear. But Darla swung into the room with Grant following behind. He slipped into the matching leather chair in the corner, and she walked right over to Ethan, ignoring Lucy’s presence on the ground beneath him. Without a word, she reached behind his head and grabbed a prescription bottle of pills from a side table and shook the orange container, counting them audibly as they rolled around.

“There are extra. You haven’t been taking them.” She dropped the bottle on Ethan’s chest and it started to roll, he caught it with his left hand and tossed it back up in the air. Swooping in, she caught it on its way back down. “I told you. No skipping.”

“We will run out of the supply,” Ethan groaned and sat up. He cracked his neck one way and then the other. “I’ll make them last.”

“No one likes a martyr,” Darla sighed and opened the bottle. She rattled it until two oblong white pills tumbled into her hand and she thrust them toward Ethan. He didn’t take them at first and then she moved her hand in closer, her body an inch from Lucy’s. He grabbed the pills, popped them in his mouth and swallowed them dry—opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue for effect, like a petulant teenager.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Let me see,” Darla said and made a motion to tear the blankets off his legs, but Ethan ducked his body in front of her hand. Then she paused, looking between Ethan and Lucy, and back again. “You didn’t tell her.”

“She’s been in this room for sixty-seconds!” Ethan replied, his tone angry and combative. “Come on Darla, give me a break.”

“I’ll ignore the opportunity for a joke,” she replied and then she looked around the room. “Where is he?” she asked, softening. She unhooked the holster from her hip and gripped the gun, then placed it on a high bookshelf, standing on her tiptoes to store it out of reach.

Ethan pointed above him to the second floor. “In the twins’ room. He discovered the Legos.”

Darla ducked her head out of the den and called up the stairs, “Teddy? Mommy’s home!”

Confused, Lucy looked between Ethan and Darla, and then she stood and wandered to the center of the room where she had a clear view of her family’s staircase. Then she saw the little boy. Carrying her brother’s tiger flashlight in one hand and a fireman hat in the other, the dark-haired child, with large eyes and a rash of freckles, bounded down the steps in a rush of energy and extremities. Arms flailing outward, feet stomping and jumping, the child didn’t stop until he reached his mother as a barricade, moving Darla back a few inches as she absorbed the hug.

“You were good for Ethan while I was gone?” she asked and the boy nodded vigorously. “And did you eat?”

“Hamburger,” Teddy answered.

Darla looked over her shoulder and saw Lucy staring. She put a protective arm on the boy and moved him into the light from the windows.

“Lucy, this is my son Theodore. Teddy, we call him.”

“You have a son,” Lucy stated and then immediately regretted not having anything else of value to say about it.

“I have a son.” For the first time since she met her, Lucy saw emotion in Darla’s eyes: A flicker of fragility underneath the comic-book persona. “He’s five. He’s sweet, and he loves to sing…and he’s intuitive,” Darla stopped and swallowed. “And he is alive because of your brother. We are alive because of your brother.” She picked the boy up and he wrapped his legs around her middle and placed his head on her shoulder.

“Mama,” Teddy whispered loudly. “What’s the girl’s name?”

“Lucy,” she answered. “Her name is Lucy. She’s Ethan’s sister, sweetie. Go ahead, say hello.”

“Hello,” Teddy said and then he buried his head into his mother’s shoulder, shielding his eyes. Then he lifted his head again and smiled, displaying a neat, straight row of perfect baby teeth, before burying his head again.

The child was around the same age as Harper. Lucy crossed her arms and smiled at the boy, her lip trembling. Then Lucy turned to Grant and she looked at him apologetically.

“I’m sorry, but can everyone just give me a moment with Ethan? Alone.”

She waited until Grant had risen from his seat and wandered off with Darla before she turned her attention back to her brother. The discharged duo followed Teddy up the stairs, their footsteps echoing overhead. It amused Lucy that this was the quietest she had ever heard her house. She kept waiting for the rowdy shouting from her brothers, the crashing and tumbling, or Harper’s whining that someone stole her toys.

“What’s going on?” Lucy’s voice was on edge. She took a giant step toward Ethan. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I don’t know how any of this must appear to you…” Ethan started and then frowned.

“Let’s start with this vaccine. With our siblings’ names on them? Can we start with that, please?”

“Okay.”

She gulped. “Okay, what? Just tell me what you know. Tell me everything.”

“I can’t. It won’t work like that. I don’t think you’d believe me.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Wait until you feel like filling me in?”

Upstairs, Teddy dumped out what sounded like a crate of blocks.

“I’m really glad you’re home and that you’re okay. You don’t know how much I worried that I would lose you forever.”

“Darla said that I was safe. Are we safe?”

“From the virus, yes. We were already vaccinated.”

“When?”

“You don’t remember being vaccinated lately?” Ethan asked with his eyebrows raised. When Lucy’s stare remained blank, he sighed, and then added, “For our vacation. Our injections.”

“The ones for the trip? But…” she lowered her eyes and her head began to hurt. Her father had been the one to supply them with their inoculations and, at the time, it seemed reasonable and normal—par for the course of living in their household. After a rant about lobbyists and health-care costs, their dad had convinced their mother that he could talk his co-workers into providing him with the vaccines on the cheap. Lucy was starting to gather the facts, but still there was a shadow over what those facts implied.

“The vials we gave Spencer were back-ups. A precaution. A safeguard.”

“Where did our vials go then? The Ethan and Lucy vials?”

Ethan looked to the ceiling. Darla and Teddy’s voices drifted downstairs.

“Oh.”

“I couldn’t—” he struggled with his words. “She helped me. And Teddy is so young.”

“Of course.” The decision seemed reasonable. There was no way Ethan could have predicted Salem and Grant surviving to Day Six. While she wanted to respect Ethan’s compassion toward these strangers—especially a child—she fought the instinct to be angry with him for giving away the only way she could help her friends. It was too late for Salem, but she felt so impotent and lost with Grant, upstairs, just waiting to die. The power to stop that death was in Ethan’s control and he squandered it.

“You should have kept some back,” Lucy said.

“We had no way of knowing.”

“That isn’t the point!” She felt her cheeks blush. Arguing with Ethan always felt so personal.

“Spencer wasn’t going to let you go. There were talks happening with Darla before he even got you to the front office. Don’t you think we tried everything? You don’t know what it would’ve taken to get you out of there. And besides…how was I supposed to know about the boy?”

“Grant.”

“Grant. Right.”

“He’s going to die and we could have saved him.”

“That isn’t my fault,” Ethan said to her, his voice rising.

Lucy threw her hands up in the air. “Then whose fault is it?”

Ethan shook his head. “Lucy. Just stop. It hasn’t been a picnic for me either. Can we stop? Let’s back-up.” Whisking away the throw blanket from his legs, Ethan exposed the broken, beaten, and bloodied mess that lay beneath. His left leg dangled unmoving to the side; there was a swollen mass above the knee that seemed to float to the side, which defied Lucy’s understanding of human anatomy. The skin was yellow and black like someone had attempted to paint him into an exotic animal.

Recoiling at first and then moving her body closer to inspect the injury, Lucy held out a tender hand and it hovered above the wreckage.

“This looks horrific,” she said. “Ethan…what happened?”

He took a breath and then launched into his story. He had gone to the airport looking for their family and encountered Darla and Teddy there. It was the boy that Ethan encountered first; the child was calm, but rattled, and Ethan wanted to get him somewhere safe. Compelled, in the absence of his siblings and his mother, to do something good amidst the disaster, Ethan convinced Darla that he could offer them shelter.

“She wasn’t convinced at first. But as soon as we got out of the airport and to a side street, this truck comes out of nowhere, barreling toward me. The driver…impaired by the virus…is—”

“Dying?” Lucy asked, interrupting, and the question drew Ethan out of his storytelling daze.

“Or dead already.”

“He hit you.”

“Pinned me to the side of another car.”

Lucy gasped and looked down at his legs, imagining her brother stuck between two vehicles, scared and facing the realization that there was no one there who could help him. “You could have died.”

“I should have. Darla…she had to pull the dead man out of the truck and put the car in reverse to get me out. But my legs were broken. Shattered, I suppose. Not like we could just call 911 and hightail it to the ER, right? And poor Teddy. Just standing there…so concerned. But so brave too. That’s a brave little dude.”

Lucy waited for him to continue.

“Good Samaritans brought me home eventually. Some couple in their forties, driving a minivan. Carting people around obstacles like some sort of taxi service. By that time, I think Darla figured she was stuck with me. She really did save my life though, by helping unpin me, flagging down the van. And then everything she did afterward to get me medicine. I was in shock. I should have died, but she just, I don’t know, made it a priority to get me better and she didn’t have to. She didn’t know me.”

“You owed her.”

“Yes.”

“And now she owes you?”

“Maybe she sees it like that, but I don’t know. It was…” Ethan paused, “it was awful out there…Lucy…everything about this. And I feel so…I felt like I couldn’t help you…” Ethan began to cry. He collapsed forward and buried his head in his hands. She had never really seen Ethan cry before and it took her by surprise. “I just keep thanking God that you’re alive,” he said after he composed himself. “After everything…Mom’s phone messages, the house…”

Lucy had put a hand on her brother’s back and was patting him gently, but she paused.

“What phone messages?” Lucy blinked.

“I have a lot to tell you,” Ethan said, his voice quieter and more alert.

Both heads turned in unison as Darla reappeared in the doorway. She had changed her clothes and she was now wearing a pair of sweatpants that belonged to Lucy’s mother and a hooded sweatshirt that belonged to Galen; she stood barefoot clad from top to bottom in gray.

“Grant?” Lucy asked, attempting to make her question sound as casual as possible.

Darla shrugged. “He’s playing with Teddy. He said if he starts to feel sick he’ll leave the room. But Teddy knows what to look for. Teddy will tell us if anything changes.”

“That’s really sad.” Lucy didn’t mean it to sound harsh, but Darla bristled.

“The world changes and you change with it,” she answered, clearly defensive. “A lot can happen in a week.” She spun a lock of her hair between her fingers.

Lucy thought of poor Teddy, only a year younger than Harper. He seemed so oblivious, so fixated on his own needs, but also so aware that things had changed. Her heart ached for the children abandoned and orphaned, lost and confused. Those who, unlike Teddy, had no parents left to protect them. It was unfair.

“Ethan’s been telling me about how you helped him,” Lucy said. “Thank you.”

“Yeah well. It worked out that way. And he’s helped with Teddy and anyone who can be so nice to my kid, well, you know.” She smiled, but it was reserved and lacking. It was difficult to get a read on her.

“Does Teddy understand any of this?” Lucy asked. And Darla took a step forward. She shoved her hands into the pouch of the hooded sweatshirt.

“Teddy? Sure. A little. He knows he’s suffered a loss. He knows that our lives feel different.”

“I’m glad he has his mom though,” Lucy tried to smile. She meant it to be comforting, but Darla’s face fell.

“He has only one Mom,” she replied and she closed her eyes. “And I haven’t come to terms yet with that…with the idea of doing this by myself. I never thought I’d have to.”

“And you know? That—”

“That she’s gone?” Darla nodded. “Yes. It happened at the airport. Right away after landing and before Ethan and I saw each other. She went so quickly. It was the three of us and it was chaos and then she slipped away and I couldn’t stop to stay…I couldn’t have Teddy see. Couldn’t have him watch his mama die. Above all, he couldn’t see that.”

Ethan sniffed. “That’s how we met,” he said.

“I asked Teddy to stay by this trashcan to wait for me while I said goodbye.” Darla looked straight at Lucy, her emotion was raw, but she didn’t break. “And when I looked back, he was gone.”

“I found him crying about thirty feet away. He was disoriented. Wandered a few feet, got pushed around, ended up down the terminal. I picked him up,” Ethan added.

“Then I saw this guy holding my kid. I just lost my wife, I was a mess, and I thought someone was kidnapping my son. So, I took a swing at him.”

Ethan smiled. “I’m glad you missed.”

Darla returned the smile and then she closed her eyes. “Teddy was bawling for his mama. Over and over…just mama, mama, mama…and I couldn’t help him. Ethan—it was Ethan. He said he had to find his sister, who was his age, and did Teddy want to help him on an adventure? It was the only way to distract him from the fact that we both just…left her there.” She stopped, overcome with emotion and then she pulled her hand out and put it up as if to say, “No more.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Lucy said and it felt so small and trivial.

“Me too.” Then Darla let out a thoughtful hum. “You never think it’ll be you who’s left behind to pick up the pieces. And then all of sudden you realize it is you and you didn’t get a choice. And maybe if you had the choice, maybe if someone had let you make the decision, you would have picked yourself to be the one to die. I mean, yes, I’m grateful to your brother.” Darla nodded toward Ethan with a smile. “What I did is no repayment. If I hadn’t decided to follow this kid around who was helping me with my son, we’d be dead. I may question how hard things are, but I can’t imagine a world without Teddy.”

Darla attempted to fill in some of the gaps of her and Ethan’s story. Like Lucy’s and Grant’s, it was one of survival against the odds. Once they got back to the house, Darla had left Ethan, with Teddy as a guardian, shivering and feverish, aching and unable to move, to raid the local super store a mile from their house. Luckily for them, the looting was just beginning and Darla’s tenacity and bullying got her right into the fray. During this Herculean task, she managed to locate heavy-duty painkillers and gauze. And she also happened to steal a wheelchair. She had marveled at the people still running out of the store with TVs and videogames, sporting equipment, clothes.

Food. Guns. Medicine. This was what people needed and those who knew what to steal were the dangerous ones. “Anyone using manpower to lug a fifty-inch plasma to his or her car was missing the point,” Darla had said.

Lucy realized that, if the car had killed Ethan, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had been vaccinated. From start to finish, the fact that they were alive was a testament to something larger than them. The thought reminded her of Salem’s crucifix, shoved into her pocket. She took it out and held it in her hand, then put it on and clasped it around her neck.

With the sun setting, the house slipped into darkness. Darla started a fire in the den and then yelled upstairs for Grant so they could work together to get Ethan into his wheelchair for the first time—something Darla couldn’t do on her own. He barely passed through the study door and into the living room, but out in the open he could move about freely. While Darla hunched over the fire burning brightly in the fireplace, Teddy ran matchbox cars over the hardwood floors. Between the fire and a collection of candlesticks, the room was lit in a flickering orange hue.

Everyone’s features were cast in shadow.

Grant was quiet and staring at the wall. Occasionally he’d connect with a piece of conversation but, for the most part, he remained stoic and apprehensive. Lucy couldn’t blame him. She wondered what she would be thinking about if she knew she had hours left to live. She hated that Grant was spending this time with the rest of them trying to carve out daily routines. They were catching up with each other and plotting to move forward. She got up and sat next to him and placed a hand on his knee.

Right as Lucy was about to ask him if he wanted to take a walk with her, sneak away to the darkened kitchen or the family room, Ethan cleared his throat.

“Darla,” he said and she looked up at him. “Could you get the video camera? I think it’s time to show Lucy everything.”

Following Ethan’s orders, Darla rose and went over to the bookshelf and grabbed the video camera her parents used years ago to record first steps and school outings. Handing it to Ethan, he opened up the tiny screen and handed it to Lucy and instructed her to press play.

“What am I watching?” Lucy asked. Her hand shook and she wished that she could hold it steady.

“Mom left me a message. I didn’t know if I would still be able to access my voicemail when the network went down, so I videotaped it.”

She pressed play.

The camerawork was shaky and she could hear a news report broadcasting in the background. In the video, Ethan’s phone was on the kitchen counter and he had put it on speakerphone. The Ethan holding the video camera leaned down and pressed a button to access his voicemail. Lucy deeply drew a breath as she waited anxiously to find out what she’d hear. The moment the message clicked through, she heard her mother’s voice—it filled the kitchen on the video and as Lucy held the camera, her voice filled the den as well—the first syllable was immediately recognizable as her Mama Maxine. And Lucy bit back tears. For the first time she realized that she truly believed she’d never hear her mom say another word to her again, but there was her voice, captured for her to listen to again and again.

“Ethan. Ethan. There’s no time. They took us. Dear God, they took us. Some guys, from an agency…I’m calling you from a car…a transport…I tried to get them to wait. But…” the voice was indecipherable for a moment. And then there was a click.

Lucy kept watching.

From the videotape, a woman’s voice announced a second saved voicemail and said the date and time, mechanical and rote, like any other day. Like it was just any other message.

It was their mom’s voice. Again.

“Ethan. Listen to me. Get to the airport. Get to the airport now. Get to the airport. That’s where we’re going…but I don’t know yet…”

Another click.

Another announcement of a saved voicemail.

“No time. I’m sorry. You need this message.” In the background, there was a rumble. It was the distinct and unmistakable rumbling of an airplane funneling down a runway. “I called your dad. I…your dad says…” there was a bump, a pop. Their mother was yelling and the phone was far from her mouth now, but her voice trailed after it, barely audible. She was yelling two words over and over again, screaming them, with vigor and intensity, until the line went dead and her voice disappeared.

The automated woman announced: “That is the end of new messages…to replay this message press four…” and Ethan in the video pressed four and listened to the last message again. Zooming in the camera to the front of his phone screen. Hearing it a second time didn’t make her mother’s panicked voice any less haunting.

Then Ethan turned the camera on himself.

“Lucy…I’m in a rush…I’ve got to get to the airport. But in case you get back…I need you to see this.” He jostled the camera back toward the house and out of the kitchen and through the dining room to the entryway. At the time of the video, it was only a half hour or hour after Lucy had left that area. Ethan zoomed in on Lucy and Ethan’s monogramed bags. The only bags left at the foot of the stairs. A lump formed in Lucy’s throat when she saw those—their things had been left behind.

They had been totally and completely left behind.

Then the camera panned to the entryway. And when Lucy saw it on the camera, she opened her mouth in horror and turned to Ethan, who confirmed with a nod. There had clearly been a struggle. Lucy had watched enough cop dramas on TV to know the signs—the mirror was broken, a potted plant on the floor, the vase shattered, the roots exposed. The entry table was turned on its side.

Lucy hadn’t gone through the front door when she came home, she had gone through the side door through the carport. Was this chaos still there?

Would it be a permanent reminder that something bad had happened at their house?

Not taking her eyes off of the camera, she spoke—shocked by the waver in it. “What was Mom saying?” she asked as video-Ethan opened the front door and panned to muddy tire marks in the grass which right led up to the door. A car had pulled up on their recently mowed lawn.

If what Lucy was seeing was true, then people got out and grabbed her family. In the midst of nuclear war, a deathly virus, and the end of the world and life on the planet, her family had also been kidnapped. It was mind-boggling.

“What was she saying?” Lucy asked again. The video had ended. She slammed the monitor shut and held the camera against her chest. “Do you know? Did you figure it out?”

Ethan nodded and glanced to Darla and Grant.

“Ethan?” Lucy asked again.

“Yeah,” he finally answered, his voice small. He sniffed and looked at his sister and then tilted his head. “She was saying fruit cellar.”

“Fruit cellar?” Lucy couldn’t hide her incredulity. “Fruit cellar.”

Their mom canned fruits and vegetables. As kids, she took them cherry picking and blueberry picking and made them go out and play on long canning days. Then she meticulously stored her goods in a dirt-walled fruit cellar in their basement. It was slightly raised off the basement ground and could be accessed by climbing up and over a two-foot wooden barrier. It was a fruit cellar—and their mother referred to it as such—but the children called it “the dungeon” and loathed stepping foot inside the tiny space. Monroe and Malcolm always chose to hide there during games of sardines or hide-and-seek; but they usually were left to discover on their own that no one was coming for them because none of the other kids wanted to open the giant wooden door to see if they were there or not. It was the only place in the house that elicited nightmares and phobias among each of the King kids. They hated the fruit cellar.

In her final message to her lost children, Maxine King had been shouting for them to go to the one place they dreaded more than anything.

“The dungeon.” Lucy reworded. And then she shook her head. “Mom was sending us to the dungeon? No, I don’t get it.”

Ethan and Darla exchanged another look.

“Grab a flashlight,” Ethan instructed. Then he turned to his sister, as the color drained from her face. “Lucy…Grant…there’s something in the fruit cellar that you two need to see.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The fruit cellar. It sat in the pitch blackness with the wooden door slightly ajar. It was cool and quiet and isolated. Every horror movie had a scene like this: Three shuffling people moving forward in a dank basement toward an eerie looking door—their flashlights only creating a small circle of concentrated light and leaving the rest of the space full of dreaded mysteries.

If Lucy had been afraid of her mother’s dungeon before, she was petrified now. Without power, they had no secondary light to illuminate the way, and every box or broom or any other basement belonging seemed particularly foreboding and potentially murderous in the dark. Ethan had demanded Lucy just go explore for herself, like he had, without any warnings or hints about what she would find. Darla, who clearly already knew about the fruit cellar’s contents, tagged along, but even she seemed turned off by the darkness of the basement combined with the growing momentum of fear and worry.

Unable to travel to the basement, Ethan stayed upstairs with Teddy and waited for their return. Teddy seemed to adore Ethan; he was conscious of Ethan’s pain and before they had opened the door to the basement, Teddy had climbed into Ethan’s lap with a collection of books.

They approached the door to the fruit cellar and everyone slowed to a halt.

“You open it,” Lucy said to Grant and gave him a small push toward the door. “This is massively frightening to me.” Grant responded with a resounding no and, as the holder of the flashlight, turned the object onto Lucy and Darla, blinding them—their hands flew to their faces in protest. “Stop. Get that out of my eyes,” Lucy complained.

“Make Darla open it,” Grant said and when Darla sighed and consented, he lowered the light and lit her path to the door. Darla peeled back the door and it squawked at them.

“There,” Darla announced and stepped out of the way. “Boys first.” She motioned for Grant to crawl up and through, he hesitated and then took a step forward, sticking just his upper body into the cellar first and shining the light all around.

“It’s a normal, boring fruit cellar,” Grant called back to them, annoyed. He then climbed in all the way and shone the light on the door so Darla and Lucy could watch where they were stepping as they followed him inside.

All three of them shoved together in the confined space was suffocating—Lucy could move, but every time she did, she ran into another person. There were arms and legs and hands touching. Darla tried to scuttle away to the corner to give them space, but she stepped on Lucy’s toe in the process. Grant tried to control the light, but viewing the fruit cellar through the lens of what Grant deemed important was making Lucy nauseous. She reached over and took the flashlight gently and then began to illuminate each area of the small space in turn.

The entire space was the size of a walk-in closet. Lucy noticed almost immediately that one of the shelves was empty. The cans their mother had carefully prepared over the summer had been moved to the floor. And the whole shelving unit was moved away from the dirt wall, giving just enough room for a body to slip behind it. Ignoring the tickling on the back of her neck, her warning beacon of intuition, she stepped over the grape jelly and peaches and asparagus spears and slid herself behind the wooden shelving unit. Up close, she realized that the wall was not dirt and earth, but wood. And there, sparkling brightly underneath the flashlight was a long, thin door handle.

“Oh my goodness,” Lucy breathed out in a gush. “There’s another room back here.”

Darla’s disembodied voice rose to her from the darkness, “Took me ten minutes to find that door. Go ahead now,” she instructed in a small, sad voice. Lucy paused. It bothered her that Darla knew her family’s secrets before she did; she hated that Darla knew what was waiting for her in the next room and hadn’t made an effort to tell her, warn her, keep her involved in the story. What did Darla gain from being secretive?

She closed her eyes, her hand wrapping around the handle. It was cold against her palm.

In the dark, Lucy could make out the sound of Grant’s feet shuffling around, moving closer to the empty shelf.

“You okay, Grant?” she asked.

“I feel fine,” he answered with a subtle hint of contrition—as if he was sorry that the unknown nature of his future caused a burden.

“Are you coming?”

He paused and cleared his throat before saying; “I just think…I feel like…you should do this by yourself.”

She didn’t feel like arguing with a dead man.

That whole day, Lucy wanted to know the answers. Who and what? Why? But as she stood on the precipice of discovery, Lucy was sure she didn’t really want to know anything.

She was the child who went on massive searches around the house to discover Christmas presents, who always snooped out surprise parties. Her mind was finely tuned to disallow people from dropping startling revelations. She hated secrets and suspense. What lurked beyond the hidden door, in her mother’s fruit cellar, seemed far too overwhelming.

“Darla?” Lucy called again. “I need to know…I can’t go in…you have to tell me if it’s awful. You have to prepare me for this. I’m begging you.”

With a sigh, Darla spoke. “I suppose, in a way, it is awful,” she said in a near-whisper. “It’s petrifying. It’s devastating. Because all secrets are.” And then she paused, cleared her throat. “But then…it’s time to know the truth. You’re ready to hear it.”

“You didn’t actually answer anything,” Lucy complained.

Darla’s silence was her response.

Lucy turned the handle downward and door popped open. She adjusted her placement so that she could open the door wide enough to slide her body inside. Once inside, the door slammed closed and she spun; she had left Grant and Darla in the fruit cellar in total darkness. Unnerved and worried, she ran the light over everything, trying to make sense of this room, the space, the message it was sending her. A solitary cord attached to a single light bulb dangled from the ceiling of the room and Lucy tugged it out of habit. The light didn’t engage, but the exposed bulb still swung gently, casting shadows as it moved back and forth. She scanned her flashlight over the room.

As she inhaled deeply, she instructed herself to calm down. The room was virtually empty except for a desk along one wall and a row of shelves along the other wall. Stored on the shelves were dozens of cardboard boxes. Lucy walked over and inspected a single box. On the outside in bright red lettering it read: Apack-Ready-Meals. She tugged one down to the floor and pulled open the top. Inside the box were more individual cardboard boxes marked with labels that read: chicken and feta; lasagna in meat sauce; cherry turnover sandwich; pepper steak; pot roast. And then in another box on the shelf, hundreds of pouches of purified water. Lucy held one under the light and gave it a squeeze; she could feel the liquid roll between her fingers.

She was standing in a doomsday shelter.

It was appropriately and secretly stocked with, what Lucy could gather, was at least a year’s supply of food and water. She pocketed the water and turned to the desk. Her heart was racing as she approached.

The desk was small and it had been pushed up against the walls (which were nothing more than thin panels of sheetrock). On the desk was a single piece of paper; its edges were crinkled a bit. And above the desk was a map of the United States, taped with crude strips of masking tape to the wall. There were no marks, no circles, no arrows. No messages. One corner had been lifted free from the wall and the corner was bent. She lifted the map upward and it revealed a small cubby cut into the wall, which contained a shoebox.

She started to reach inside, but then pulled her hand back and waited. Lucy recognized the box from a pair of shoes she had purchased a while ago—a pair of sequined flats that she begged her mom to get for her. Of course she had never missed the box, but here it was, inside a hidden cubbyhole in a secret room in the back of their fruit cellar. She closed her eyes. Everything inside the room seemed to be pointing Lucy toward the truth. Darla assumed that she was ready to hear it; Lucy doubted she would ever be ready.

She slid the box out of the wall and heard its contents roll and shift. She opened the lid and inside were two syringes and two empty vials. The masking tape labels across the tubing read: Ethan and Lucy. Here were the other two vaccines. Her thoughts went immediately to Darla outside the door and little Teddy upstairs. These were the vaccines that saved their lives. She held them up to the flashlight, searching for a fraction of leftover vaccine—a hope that there would be something for Grant, but they were light and dry.

Inside the box was also a note, typed, that read: Attn: Box Contents. Lab results. Photographic evidence of data. Instructions for Administering upon the following circumstances: If we failed to complete your immunizations for our trip to the Seychelles. Take immediately.

Lucy exhaled. None of that was new information and she braced herself for the next piece. She set her old shoebox down and shifted her attention to the paper on the desk.

She saw that it was a letter dated four months ago. Four months ago, when the biggest worries of her teenage life were winter formal and AP psychology tests, Salem’s boy chasing and Ethan’s clingy girlfriend issues. She almost laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it all.

The note read:

.

My dearest family, if you are reading this note it means that our plans have not quite gone the way I hoped. If you are reading this note and it doesn’t make sense to you, then perhaps the plan failed completely and totally. If that is the case, I can’t even begin to imagine my fate. There is a chance you are reading this letter too soon, but I feel very secure that this room behind the fruit cellar will go unnoticed. I am sorry that this note is vague. It is best not to speak of things explicitly that are rooted so firmly in the future. I am sorry I cannot communicate to you fully. It is my greatest wish to explain how things came to be. You will likely have questions and I hope that I can someday answer them for you.

.

My heart is heavy with the knowledge that all that I have tried to do to protect you may not matter in the end. I suppose that is the greatest burden we carry as parents, no matter the situation. But there are two things you must rest in: Know that I love you all more than anything. And also: Know that I tried to shield you as best I could. It is not for lack of love that you may find yourself in a trying and difficult time. If, as you read this, and you understand the trials I am speaking of and you also find yourself without me, I am leaving you two things that will help you. The first thing is in this room: They are labeled for each of you, should you find that my initial protection efforts were not enough.

.

The second you will find if you follow my words. I cannot stress this more to you: Do whatever you can to reach this place. It is the only safe place. I hope to be there, waiting for you. Find this place and you will find me. I know that all of this will not be enough, but it is all I can give you for now.

With much love, Dad or, affectionately, Scott.

.

And on the bottom of the vague letter in her father’s distinct handwriting was a small quote that read: “When you are real you don’t mind being hurt.”

Lucy clutched the paper to her chest and spun around the room with the flashlight once more, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. The food. The note. The vaccines. Food and water to sustain them should a virus wipe out a food and water supply. A note that pointed them to the vaccines. A note that seemed rooted in regret and apology.

A fire grew in her stomach and it seemed to want to burn her from the inside out. She didn’t know if she should scream or throw up. With one last long look around, she took a deep breath and left the room behind, back out into the fruit cellar, where Grant and Darla waited. She trained the flashlight on both of them and they startled at the sudden light. Lucy didn’t pause or hesitate; instead she shimmied out from behind the shelf and then walked straight to the wooden door, the light bobbing out in front.

“And? What did you find?” Grant asked, following on her heels. “Lucy, wait up! What was in there?”

Lucy didn’t answer as she climbed out of the fruit cellar and on to the cement basement flooring, pausing only to light the way for Darla and Grant and, after they successfully navigated the small step, she kept moving.

“Lucy,” Grant said, his voice turning breathless as he picked up his pace to catch up with her. “Lucy!”

She spun, still clutching her father’s note to her body, “I need to talk to my brother,” she answered as she reached the steps. Then she bounded up two at a time and left the others down in the darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ethan looked pale and his eyes were sunken and watery. He regarded Lucy with a thin wave and then he sunk lower into his wheelchair.

“Help me back to the couch?” he requested and Lucy pushed the chair back through the doorway and into the study, Teddy still along for the ride.

“Again!” Teddy instructed. “I like the wheelchair ride, uncle Ethan,” the young boy said as Ethan tousled his hair. “My mommy took me to Disneyland when I turned four. They had rides there and I went on a fast one that went zoom-zoom-zoom. Do you know which one?”

“Lots of them go zoom-zoom, don’t they? Disneyland is fun, huh?” Ethan replied. “I’m glad you got to go, Teddy. I’m glad. Hey buddy, you want to hop down real easy now?” He picked the child up under his armpits and lowered him to the floor. Then Lucy stepped in and snapped the side of the chair down and helped Ethan slide his body over to the couch. He winced the entire time, groaning in pain, but powering through the bumps and jolts.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Lucy asked him once he was settled. She tossed him a pillow and he shoved it behind his back.

“Tell you? Like…hey…there’s a secret room hidden next to the fruit cellar and dad left us some cryptic note from around Thanksgiving that pretty much predicted the end of the world. Oh, and, right, like there’s also a ridiculous pile of food and water there too. And some men in a van kidnapped mom and everyone else and took them to the airport. Where they clearly took off in an airplane despite the fact that all the planes were grounded.” He closed his eyes. “And I haven’t heard from them. Or dad. I’ve heard from no one. So.”

“When you say it like that,” Lucy replied and Ethan mustered up a small smile in return.

“You had to discover it like I did. You just had to.”

Darla and Grant made their way back up to the main floor and worked their way into the room. Teddy whined about a snack and Darla whisked him off to the kitchen. Grant followed her, shooting Lucy a sympathetic look as he exited.

“Okay, but what does it mean?” Lucy asked. She had an idea, but she wanted or needed Ethan to say it first. She wanted him to be the one to admit it out loud, because for her to say those words felt like an immeasurable betrayal.

“It means our dad knew.”

Her heart sank. Ethan did it. He said it and he validated the fear and uneasiness that she couldn’t shake. She wished he could take it back, say that he was kidding, that he didn’t know, but Ethan looked straight at her and kept going.

“He knew this was going to happen. And it means he didn’t do anything to stop it,” Ethan said. Lucy closed her eyes and felt the letter crinkle in her grasp. She resented how easy it was for him to speak those words to her, as if it weren’t damning their father with one big swoop. But then he added, “And worse than that…”

“Please don’t say it,” Lucy said quickly, her anger rising. “I’m not ready yet.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she waved her hand in front of him and made a shushing sound.

“I’m begging you,” she said and she blew air into her cheeks and then let it go slowly.

“Lucy, please, that’s the whole thing. That’s everything.” Ethan looked sad, but she could tell he was going to take it further anyway and there was nothing she could say to stop him. “You have to connect the dots and understand why we are alive. Right? Why our family was taken.”

“We have some pretty big blind spots. There’s no way we have all the information. I can’t make that jump with you. I can’t!” Lucy’s voice started to increase with intensity.

“That doesn’t make me wrong.”

“Just tell me the next part,” Lucy said and held the paper out. “Tell me what he said. Where we’re supposed to go.”

Ethan looked confused. “There’s no other message. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Lucy cocked her head at him. “Dad said he was leaving something behind to help us and to do whatever we could to reach that place. Right? You honestly didn’t find the next clue?”

“The next clue?” Ethan asked and shook his head. “I honestly thought he was just talking about the food.”

Lucy took a deep breath. “He said, find this place and you’ll find me, and you thought he was talking about chicken quesadillas? This is why you were such a bad student,” she said, exasperated. Thrusting the paper out for Ethan to look at, she continued, “The message. On the bottom. It’s a clue.”

“I didn’t catch that,” Ethan said with a shrug.

She had known immediately because she had internalized that quote; it was as much a part of her childhood as playing with her American Girl dolls or watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas every year as a family on Christmas Eve. For a second, Lucy wondered if maybe the clue was just for her—a single nod to a shared memory. But then, she realized, that would’ve meant that her father expected her to be the one left behind and that he intended the note for her and her alone. That, she rationalized, was ridiculous.

“Wait here,” Lucy said and she flicked her flashlight back on and scooted around the observers, heading back out into the main area, through the dining room, and up the stairs. At the top of the landing, she took in a deep breath and pushed the fear of the dark aside. She bypassed her own room and scooted into Harper’s room and shined the flashlight over her sister’s books. All of Harper’s books had been inherited from her siblings and they arrived to her already dog-eared and missing pages, falling apart at the bindings, and scribbled in with crayons. The stories were unmarred, but the books themselves had seen better days before traveling down to the youngest King.

And yet their soiled appearances had not stopped Harper from devouring them just like her brothers and sister before her.

Finally, after a prolonged search, Lucy saw the tan binding with purple lettering. She pulled it down gently as to not disturb any of the other books on the shelf. She held the hardback in her hand, trembling.

Without opening it, Lucy tucked the book under her arm and went back downstairs. Darla and Grant had returned and moved to the couch, they formed a semi-circle in her absence and were discussing something in low voices as the candles flickered around them. Teddy devoured a granola bar and a bag of fruit gummies. He asked if he could watch television and Darla said, “No power Theodore…you know that…let’s just use our imaginations tonight.”

With a full lower lip, Teddy huffed, “My imagination is too tired.”

“Here,” Lucy said and showed Ethan the book.

“The Velveteen Rabbit?”

“My mom used to read that to me,” Grant said. “It’s really sad.”

Lucy turned and regarded Grant. His mom. It was the first time he had mentioned her the entire time they were at the school. His dad, whom he lived with, he mentioned in anger. His mom hadn’t existed in conversation at all. She opened her mouth to ask about her, but Darla interrupted.

“But it’s hopeful too,” she added.

“Sad, but hopeful. Thanks Dad. Your stab at symbolism is bursting with heavy-handedness,” Ethan muttered.

“I had a bunny,” Teddy said.

“The quote at the bottom of dad’s note. It read…’When you are real you don’t mind being hurt.‘ It’s from this book.”

“I had a bunny and it died,” Teddy continued. Darla got up and sat down by her son and gave him a hug. She kissed his cheek.

“The rabbit in the book had to die, right? To become real? Or something like that.” Grant remembered as he reached for the copy of The Velveteen Rabbit and Lucy passed it over to him.

“Did my bunny become real?” Teddy looked up at his mother.

Darla smiled, “Your bunny was already real, little man. Now shush.”

“Dad didn’t strike me as a children’s book guy. Mom was always the one who read to us,” Ethan said. He reached for the book next, but Grant shied away from his hand. “Come on, pass it over.”

“Did you say there’s supposed to be a message in this book?” Grant asked, his voice tight.

“Help,” Lucy stated. “He said he was leaving help.”

“Like…maybe…coordinates?” Grant opened to an illustration of the rabbit enjoying a picnic outside. And written in marker over that idyllic image in her father’s handwriting: 42°1′16″N by 102°5′19″W.

“Oh my goodness,” Lucy grabbed the book back and studied the numbers. “He left us directions.”

“To where?”

Ethan laughed, a sardonic, quiet laugh. “Too bad we can’t just Google it, right?”

“It’s called an atlas, dumbass,” Darla replied in jest and stood up, walked over to the myriad bookshelves and scanned the titles. Finally she found a spiral-bound atlas tucked away near the door. She tossed it to Ethan who looked at it and flipped it open.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Seriously?” Darla asked. “Longitude. Latitude? Teachers don’t teach you anything nowadays. High school graduate can’t read an atlas?”

“Here,” Grant reached up and pulled the atlas down off of Ethan’s lap. “I got this. Shine the light.”

Lucy directed the flashlight over to the open book and Grant flipped to a page with a map of the United States. He marked an area with his finger and then looked at another area. “Nebraska,” he announced with a triumphant grin.

“What?” Lucy leaned down.

“The coordinates…are…for,” Grant looked around him for a pen and Darla tossed him one from the desk, “right here…in Nebraska.”

“Do we know anyone in Nebraska?” Ethan asked.

“Who knows people in Nebraska?” Darla replied.

“Turn to Nebraska in the atlas,” Lucy said and Grant turned, finding the state with ease, and he looked up the coordinates again. “This is in the middle of nowhere.”

“Brixton, Nebraska,” Grant read, squinting. “If the map is right…it’s like a two-street city. But, hey, according to the key…at least there’s a post-office. Good thing there are so many people left in the world to send letters to.”

“What the hell?” Lucy growled. “Dad leaves us with a confusing letter and directions to Nebraska. Why not just tell us what to do? Or tell us what we’re looking for?”

“Maybe he couldn’t,” Ethan posed. “Maybe he was afraid.”

Lucy realized her brother had to be right. “I’m sure he had a reason. Do you think the people he was afraid of took Mom? Oh Ethan…I can’t imagine…”

“Let’s not go there yet, Lucy. Okay?”

“But this is real, Ethan. Right? This is where Dad is telling us to go. Brixton, Nebraska.” As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, she realized they sounded like agreement, consent to go there.

“Nebras-ka,” Teddy repeated.

Looking over at Grant, who was still holding the atlas, Lucy noticed his eyes were closed. He swayed and threatened to tip-over.

“Grant? Grant!” she cried and flung the atlas away, scrambling and shaking him.

He smiled a lazy smile and opened one eye and then the other. “I’m fine, Lucy. Just sleepy. Sal—” he stopped himself. “We didn’t sleep last night. We waited for you,” he pointed to Darla, “to come back for her.”

No one spoke. But Lucy’s face burned; she was grateful for the dark.

Then Grant rose and stretched, his lanky body reaching tall, casting shadows on the walls. “I—” he started. “I think maybe I should go lie down somewhere. I wish—” he stopped again and then sighed. “I feel like I should say something profound. But I’m not one for big speeches.” He smiled. “So. Maybe I’ll just say…I’ll be upstairs.” He ended the sentence softly, sadly.

“Grant—” Lucy whispered. “Stay.”

“Here,” said Ethan. “Lucy?”

She lifted her head to him and waited.

“Dad’s Victrola?” Lucy smiled. She slipped up and walked to the corner, where their father had kept an old Victor Talking Machine phonograph from 1921. It had belonged to his great-grandmother and had been given to her as a wedding gift only a few years before his grandma was born. It was a wooden cabinet, equipped with a crank handle and tucked inside the doors were shelves, where their dad kept all his records.

When Ethan and Lucy were little it was a treat to sit in the den and listen to the music. But they outgrew the pleasure. Only now did Lucy realize that this must have broken their father’s heart. She couldn’t even remember the last time her dad had played a record for her, letting her dance on his feet, swaying and swinging her this way and that.

She wiped away a layer of dust off the top of the phonograph and lifted the top. Leaning over to wind the machine, she placed the fiber needle on the record that was already in there. And when the music filled the den, Lucy’s heart swelled with melancholy nostalgia. The melody was familiar. It was her father’s favorite.

The song was Ethel Water’s rendition of “Moonglow.” It was a beautiful melodious love song, so pure and happy.

Unable to move from her spot by the Victrola, Lucy watched the record spin and spin, the scratchiness of the needle amplified through the internal speakers. She listened to the plucky trombones and the lazy drawl of the trumpet. When she turned back to the group, she had tears in her eyes.

Darla picked up Teddy and placed him in her lap, where the child’s eyes began to close in increments as the song progressed. She stroked his hair and rocked him softly; her subtle swaying may have been instinct as she comforted her child or a response to the music, but it was clear that the song had transported her away from an Oregon living room, sitting with near-strangers.

The record stopped.

But the needle kept spinning.

Teddy’s eyes remained closed and Darla shifted him to her shoulder and stood up. “The munchkin and I are heading to bed. Ethan,” she said in a motherly tone, “pain killers in two hours.” Then she disappeared upstairs.

“Where should I sleep?” Grant asked and at first no one answered him. “If you’re concerned about—”

“Stop!” Lucy said quickly and firmly. “No. You’ll sleep in my parent’s room…if that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect,” he replied and he walked over to the doorway and turned around one last time. “Night. And…” he looked at Lucy, “I’ll see you.”

Lucy couldn’t bear it and she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him. “I’ll stay up with you, if you want. A game of Monopoly? You haven’t even had dinner…some of those meals downstairs didn’t sound so bad.” She knew how she sounded, but Lucy couldn’t help it; the thought of losing him and Salem in the same day was too much. “I’ll stay with you.”

Grant kissed the top of Lucy’s head in a brotherly way and smiled. “Let me be alone.” He took a breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had that much.” And he turned and ascended the stairs, taking each one with slow deliberate steps, looking down at his feet. Then Lucy watched as he disappeared down the hallway.

* *

Ethan requested a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner and Lucy couldn’t help but gag as she spread the peanut butter on their mother’s wheat and honey oat bread.

For the rest of the evening they danced around sensitive subjects and discussed their mutual horror stories. And Lucy even cried upon Ethan’s retelling of Anna’s death—although it happened as she hoped. He dropped Anna off at her house before heading back to their mom because he was too afraid to show up with Anna instead of Lucy and suffer the consequences. Anna’s mother outlived her daughter and that was the heartbreaking moment: Ethan returning to take Anna with him as company to the airport and discovering her mother screaming in the street.

No one knew what was happening. It had only just started then.

Talking with Ethan felt natural, but every once in awhile he would wince, and Lucy was reminded of his pain.

“Is it bad?” Lucy asked.

He nodded. “The painkillers don’t help. If we were dealing with a normal, everyday situation, I think I would lose my legs, but Lucy, I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“If Spencer can do what we asked of him, I’ll have a doctor take a look at them soon.”

Lucy was reminded of what those four vials bought them—a chance to save Ethan’s life.

“You think he can do it? Find someone?” Lucy asked and then as she watched Ethan’s face fall, she immediately regretted it.

But he didn’t respond. After a long moment, Ethan reached over and grabbed her hand.

“I love you,” Ethan said. “Have I ever said that before?”

Lucy smiled. “Not recently.”

“Well, I do.”

“I love you too.”

“Yes, I think he can do it. I have to believe that he can. And we’re going to survive this. We’re going to figure this whole thing out.”

“Sure,” Lucy said with a smile. “As soon as we figure out what this is.”

* *

Lucy wanted to sleep in her own bed. Ethan, sleepy and loopy from a cocktail of Vicodin and some of their father’s scotch, passed out on the couch. For several minutes, she stood outside her parent’s bedroom and pondered going inside to check on Grant, but the darkness and the distressing prospect of finding him already gone, kept her from fearlessly waltzing over with a flashlight. She opened the door and whispered, “Grant? Grant?” but he didn’t answer. And with a heavy heart, Lucy retreated, prepared for the worst.

Lucy, who had navigated her bedroom and the upstairs hallways during power outages and darkened lightless nights before, was not afraid of retreating to the shadows of her own room to sleep under her own sheets, under her own blanket. However, something about her house felt different than the other times she had been seeped in darkness.

She thought perhaps she could sleep and convince her brain that this night was just like any other night: Her parents downstairs, discussing the day in the absence of children with hushed voices. Harper asleep in her princess bed. Malcolm and Monroe tucked into their bunk-beds, trading fart jokes and brotherly quips. Galen reading contraband books by flashlight under the covers until someone caught him and forced him to bed. These were the rituals. This is what the house was supposed to feel like. Instead it felt like a tomb.

Their house was large and cozy, even if it had paper-thin walls and décor regulations through the HOA. Her parents paid for parks and atmosphere, the promise of safe streets and cozy cul-de-sacs. Whispering Waters, their little neighborhood was called. The name implied peaceful joy, happiness, and comfort.

If only her neighbors had known that the congenial scientist, quick with a smile and always available to offer a ladder, an hour of service, or a kind word, was starting a doomsday shelter in his fruit cellar. What would they have thought if they had known that somehow he had predicted the end of the world? That he was clandestinely spiriting away food and water and vaccines and pictures of top-secret experiments right under the noses of his unsuspecting family.

Unsuspecting. It was a true and frightening word.

Ethan had a theory that their mother was in the dark. Otherwise, he pondered, why would she have ever sent Lucy back to school for her homework in the first place? And while it wouldn’t be the first time in history that a man kept secrets hidden from his wife, Maxine’s potential blindness pained Lucy greatly. And it was this lack of knowledge cost her mother both of her eldest children. No doubt their mom assumed they were dead.

And that was even operating under the assumption that her family was alive. It was a stretch and a myth; an idea born from panic and an inability to understand a world where just she and Ethan had survived Armageddon upon the human race.

All these things ran through her brain in a loop and it occupied every second of her time, keeping her alone with memories and flashbacks. She tossed, turned, flung her blankets off, then sought them out and covered herself again. Below, she could occasionally hear a muffled voice. Ethan. Moaning in his sleep. And she kept listening for Grant, a snore or a rustle of the bedsprings—but her parent’s room was silent.

Lucy, back in the room she had dreamed of and wished for while trapped at the school, felt fully alone.

Careful to keep her voice small, Lucy prayed what she could remember from Grant’s prayer at Salem’s memorial and sobbed herself to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Seven days after The Release

Teddy’s high, little voice roused Lucy from sleep.

“My mommy’s making pancakes with syrup,” he said and he poked her in the shoulder with a plastic sword from the King siblings’ communal dress-up bin. “And I’m going to have an orange juice!”

“Oh?” Lucy wondered how this was possible, but she didn’t question the child. She picked up her pillow and flipped it over to the cold side and then rested her head, closing her eyes again.

“I’m a pirate,” Teddy continued.

Then Lucy’s eyes snapped open and she swung her feet to the floor. Slipping past Teddy, who didn’t seem too fazed by her quick departure, Lucy darted up the hallway to her parent’s room and swung open the door. The quilt on their bed had a Grant-sized indent and a blanket that her mom usually kept at the foot of the bed for decoration was tossed to the floor. But Grant himself was nowhere to be seen. Lucy rushed back down the hall and got held up on the stairs as Teddy made his way down step by step. She grabbed him by the waist and then stomped down with him, Teddy protesting with, “Let me down. Pirates like to walk!”

Darla made pancakes over a refreshed fire. She held a skillet over the flame with both hands and then set it down on floor to flip them.

“Pancakes,” she announced without enthusiasm.

“Where’s Grant?” Lucy asked, setting Teddy down beside his mother.

Darla and Ethan exchanged glances.

“Did you take him outside without me noticing? You couldn’t have. No. Tell me…where is he?”

Flipping a pancake, the thick batter sticking a bit in the pan, Darla nodded toward the back of the house. “He’s outside,” she answered, as if this news was mundane and expected.

“He’s okay?” Lucy shrieked and she ran off without waiting for an explanation.

Lucy ran toward their kitchen and then out to their back porch. Grant sat by himself on the steps leading down to the backyard. The air was still damp, but it wasn’t raining. He turned to her and then patted the step next to him. His hair was a mess of tangles and his scruffy chin was growing fuller, the whiskers more defined.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning,” Lucy said, breathless.

“I wasn’t expecting it either,” he replied. “When I opened my eyes this morning I wondered why Heaven looked so much like your parent’s bedroom.”

She laughed and leaned into him. But she was overcome with worry—Grant’s original theory, that they were taking longer to die, seemed to ring in her ears. Maybe he was just an anomaly, maybe it could still happen.

“What does this mean? Are you scared that—” Lucy stopped herself from asking the full question.

“Ethan and I talked this morning. The information your dad,” Grant hesitated, “well, the information that they found was very definitive. No survivors. None. Not ever. In every single study.”

“The virus was created with that endgame in mind, I imagine,” Lucy said and she stared out into the sky.

“So, the fact that I’m still here. It means something. It’s not an accident.”

“Like I keep saying…”

Grant smiled. “Yeah, well, apparently I’m superhuman. This surprise replaces the piano playing I think.”

“So…”

Grant nudged her with his elbow and he smiled. “I’m not going to die today Lucy Larkspur King. I think this means you’re stuck with me.”

“You promise?” Lucy asked.

“Pancake time!” came a cry from inside and then Teddy’s little feet pitter-pattered over to the screen on the kitchen door and the little boy pressed his face against the netting. “Pancake time,” he repeated. And they followed him inside.

* *

“We have to go to Nebraska,” Lucy said over breakfast. They crowded around the dining room table with Ethan in his wheelchair. “Dad told us to get there if anything happened and that’s where we need to go.”

“How?” Darla asked, cutting up Teddy’s pancake pieces into smaller bites, even as he shoved her hand away. “The abandoned cars and all the wreckage? You can’t get out of the city. On top of that it’s…what…a month of walking? Two months?”

“Try three,” Grant said as he shoved a pancake into his mouth.

“Ethan,” Lucy turned to her brother. “We have to do this.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Ethan replied, instantly angry, and the table fell quiet. “Really? You want us to go? How can I do that? I can’t go. How can I go? How can I travel like this?” The timbre of his voice rose and fell, as if he were fighting back a wave of tears. “It’s not like you can just put me in the back of a car and drive out of here. It’s impossible. I can’t do it.”

“We can get you there—” Grant said after a long pause. “We can do it.”

“I can’t even take a dump by myself,” Ethan said and Teddy asked what that meant, Darla whispered a reply in his ear and he snickered. “But you guys want to take me on a cross-country road trip? No, Lucy. I need a doctor. I need medicine…and we’re working on that, but I can’t go anywhere. Not for a long time.”

The room grew silent.

“Besides,” Ethan continued, “what’s in Nebraska? Our family? If they’re alive, why aren’t they coming for us? Have you ever thought of that?”

“Dad went to the effort…”

“Writing some coordinates in a children’s book.”

“…to give us help on what to do if we got separated.”

“From something he might have had caused?” Ethan’s eyes flashed.

Darla drew in a sharp breath and then sucked her cheek against her teeth. “He has a point, Lucy,” she interjected. “I think you’re forgetting what you know to be true here. Nebraska could be dangerous.”

Lucy looked down at her plate. “We don’t know the truth. None of us know.”

“Well, I’m beginning to think that the truth isn’t going to help me,” Ethan replied. He clattered his fork against his plate and reversed his chair away from the table and wheeled himself back into the den. They watched him go and then turned back to their breakfasts, each of them waiting for someone else to resume eating first.

Lowering her voice, Darla leaned in and narrowed her eyes. “You’re just going to show up in this town in Nebraska and knock on some doors until you’re reunited with your family? That’s not a great plan.”

“I don’t have a plan,” Lucy said in a small voice. “But I don’t want to sit here at the house waiting for us to run out of the meals my dad left and not doing anything to try to find the people I love. I’ve already done that. I just stayed at that stupid school waiting for someone to come rescue me.” She looked at everyone and put down her fork. “No more. This is something we can do. No more waiting around, I’m done with that.”

The fire popped.

“You know you can’t risk Ethan’s life by asking him to go with you,” Darla said with her mouth full. “Eat the pancake, Teddy.” She looked at Lucy and raised her eyebrows in expectation of a reply.

“We can’t just stay here. So, then what?” Lucy asked and she turned over her shoulder toward the den. She pushed her chair back away from the table and started to make her way to Ethan.

“Right,” Grant answered. His voice was strong and confident. “Well, that makes it easy.”

Lucy paused and turned to look at him. “What?”

“Lucy and I will go,” he said to Darla.

The offer hung in the room, palpable and tense. Everyone collectively held his or her breath.

Then Darla looked thoughtfully toward the ceiling and then back toward Grant. Her eyes went between the two of them, assessing. Finally, she assented. “It’s not the only way, but I suppose if you’re hell-bent on going…it is the best way. You can drive once you get out of the city. Gas is an issue because you can’t pump without power…but cars should be easy to come by.”

“But you just said—” Lucy started, but Darla raised a fork at her.

“Look,” she interrupted. “I’m not going to tell you not to take a risk. And I think you’re crazy, but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want some answers. I lost the love of my life and everyone on this planet I cared about with the exception of my son. You think you can do this? Then go.”

“Is this happening?” Lucy asked and she took a step forward. “Everyone is okay with this?”

Shrugging, Darla looked over at Teddy. “I’m not leaving my son. And I’m not taking my son. Your brother can’t travel. Neither of you should go alone. If Nebraska is in your future…then this has to be the way. I don’t think it’s safe and I am petrified about what’s waiting for you there. But if you want to go, I’m not going to stand in your way.”

* *

Inside the den, Ethan flipped through records. Lucy entered and stood near the doorway, the sounds of the others clearing breakfast dishes in the background.

“You know what shocks me most of all?” he said with his back still turned to her. “Why would Dad just walk away from the life he built here? Why leave this heirloom? And his wedding pictures,” he nodded toward an album on the edge of their father’s work desk. “How could he risk losing us?”

Lucy sat down on the couch and leaned her head back—she stared at the white ceiling and the overhead fan above them—the blades decorated with some flowery design that had always looked like an abstract drawing of an owl’s face. She turned to face Ethan.

“I’ll ask him that. When I find him. He’s got to be out there Ethan…I believe that. I think he wants us to find him.”

“And you really want to do this?” Ethan asked.

Lucy exhaled out her nose. “This is our family. Our mom. And I can do this. Please trust me.”

“I trust you. But it’s scary…to let you go. What if you—” he couldn’t finish his thought.

Teddy swooped into the room and made a leap to the couch. He jumped and jumped until Darla came in and swung him off the leather and planted his feet on the ground.

“Legos?” she suggested and he rushed away, shouting about building an all-blue spaceship. Grant came in and sat by Lucy and he gave her a reassuring smile.

Pushing her back against the bookshelf, Darla crossed her arms. “We heard before the communication ended that the bridge is down between here and Washington. Car backup along all major highways will be impossible to navigate. You could walk out…but Grant is a living testament that you might still run into Raiders…who knows what type of people are lurking at the major entrances and exits to the city.”

“Sounds lovely,” Grant said. “What if we head north?”

“Fine. But still I-84 is a traffic jam up the Gorge. You’re walking out of here and that alone carries all sorts of risks,” Darla explained as she rubbed her temples. “Too bad you can’t just fly out over the wreckage. Land yourself beyond the miles of corpses and cars.”

“What if we could?” Grant asked, alert and looking between everyone, his eyes flashing with excitement.

“Fly?” Darla laughed. “Oh yeah?”

“Well, more like float,” Grant replied and he smiled.

* *

From Up Above Tours was family owned and operated for thirty years. Grant’s uncle was a commercial pilot frustrated by an aggravating schedule that kept him away from his wife and young children and Grant’s aunt was a strong woman with an entrepreneurial spirit and unstoppable business acumen. For years they ran sunrise hot air balloon tours over the Willamette Valley, storing their massive equipment during the off-season in Grant’s family’s storage barn on their large lot with acreage. Abandoned and ready for flight, just miles from Lucy’s home, were a collection of hot air balloons. Grant’s aunt and uncle kept the balloons in trailers next to the stables, where Grant’s horses grazed and slept.

“Horses? You have horses?” Lucy asked and she raised her eyebrows with a knowing look.

“Don’t say it…just don’t. I think the point’s been made.” Then he frowned as he remembered. “Had horses, though. We lost two the night before everything. Not all of them. But if it was just a precursor to everything else then I doubt I have any horses anymore.”

“Wait, wait,” Ethan turned to Grant. “So, you can fly these things?”

“Yes,” Grant replied quickly. Then he shifted his eyes to Lucy and lowered his eyes. “I mean…I’ve helped fly them. I work every summer with the company. Setting up the balloons, assisting with flights. I can do it. I know how. I’ve done it a hundred times over the years.”

“But you’ve never actually flown one solo?” Ethan wheeled closer and looked at Grant incredulously.

“I can do it,” Grant said, his eyes lighting up, moving between each of them - eager to convince. “I’ll need some extra hands, but I can fly us out over the wreckage. Right? That’s all we need?”

“How far do they go?” Lucy asked, imagining a stress-free ride through the skies all the way to Nebraska.

“Depends on how much fuel we take, which balloon, which gondola. I think I can get us like fifty miles. But maybe more, I can push it to more.”

“That’s all?” Lucy crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not even a start to the trip.”

“Well, I don’t want to walk fifty miles instead if those are our options,” Grant replied.

“Where will you go?” Ethan asked.

“Well,” Grant paused, “we don’t have a choice. We go where the wind takes us. But from here? I’m hoping to catch the wind that travels south. Head toward Central Oregon…plenty of open landing space.”

“This is brilliant, Grant,” Ethan reached forward for a high-five, which Grant reciprocated. He turned to his sister with appraising eyes. She looked to Ethan, Grant, and then Darla who picked at the bed of her fingernails with the tip of a paperclip.

“I can’t even believe we’re talking about this as an actual thing,” Darla muttered. She flicked the dirt and grime to the floor and bit off the top part of her fingernail on her right pointer finger.

“A freaking hot air balloon,” Lucy added and Darla smirked—they shared a moment bonding over their skepticism.

“This can work, Lucy,” Grant said, turning to her. “I am promising you.” He lowered his voice. “I will get us to your family.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re following a cryptic letter. Nothing more.” Ethan replied. “For now, we’re following the hint of my family. That is what we’re chasing. A hope. In a hot air balloon.”

“A hint, a hope, a hot air balloon,” Lucy mused out loud. She thought of Mrs. Johnston’s alliteration poster and smiled to herself. Yes, fools, all of them, thinking that in the end knowledge of literary terms could ever be useful. “You’ll need this for a successful future,” some of the more idiotic educators pontificated. What future? Lucy thought. Apparently for her future she needed to know how to navigate a hot air balloon. And she shook her head, exhaled long and low, and then turned to the group. “When do we leave?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Eight days after The Release

The day before the big trip, they planned and prepped and enjoyed their last full day together. Anxious to hear if Spencer would be able to uphold his end of the bargain, Darla had paced the length of the den while brainstorming a backup plan, while Ethan sat morose, dipping into their father’s liquor cabinet again and self-medicating until he had passed out on the couch. Lucy could not blame him for wanting to check out. They could all see that Ethan’s health was deteriorating and without antibiotics and someone to look at his legs, they all feared the worst.

Darla tucked him in and then asked them not to be too hard on him. “He wishes he could be the one to do this,” she said. “He feels like he’s failing you.”

For the first time since they concocted the hot air balloon idea, Lucy felt guilty for her quick willingness to leave him behind. “If you think I should stay, please tell me,” Lucy begged Darla.

“No, you should go,” Darla replied. “Spencer’s network was intricate and vast. I would never have saved his pathetic life and offered him our most precious resource if I didn’t believe he would help us save Ethan.”

Lucy had to trust that she was right.

When sleep finally found her that evening, she crashed. There were no dreams. No midnight awakenings. And now, in this early morning, her body refused to budge and her mind kept shoving her back into the darkness. She could feel Grant’s hand push on her shoulder, his voice call her name, but she refused to acknowledge his presence.

“Lucy? Lucy?” Grant said to her. “It’s time. We have to go.”

When she was able to pry her eyes open, Grant’s shape was blurry in front of her as he knelt down by her bedside. Outside, it was still dark.

“Don’t make me pour a bucket of water on you Lucy, please?” Grant pleaded and his words hovered in the place where sleep beckoned her, but where her mind was aware, but not awake.

“No—” she protested.

“Wake up, please. We have to go. I’ve checked the wind…heading south…at sunrise. It’s a mile to my house, Lucy. We have to hurry. Who knows if the weather will be right tomorrow. It’s Oregon after all. We have to catch the wind just right.”

“I don’t want to go—” she slurred. But she felt Grant reach a hand under her back, lift her forward. “Okay, okay,” she said when her body was upright.

“Pack a bag. Light. I’ll be downstairs.”

Lucy nodded, her eyes still closed.

She thought of the last time she had been awakened and then told to get her bags ready. She shivered at the comparison.

“Are you getting up?” Grant asked her in a parental tone as he stood in the doorway.

She nodded again, but felt her body slink back toward the warmth of her bed.

From outside she heard the sounds of heavy footsteps, her door banging backward, and Darla’s exasperated sigh.

“Please Grant, this is not how you do it,” Darla spat at him. “You’re being too nice.”

Lucy resisted and Darla grabbed her by her hands and pulled her to the floor, her chin hitting the carpeted floor with a thud. Then Darla sat her up and yanked all the remaining covers free.

“Five minutes. Go downstairs, Grant. I got this.”

Grant mumbled a protest, but then retreated.

Alone with Darla, Lucy started to move.

“Not even nearly fast enough sweetheart,” Darla said and pulled her to her feet. “Such a ridiculous life you lead. Bet your mommy got you up every morning with some soft rock and butterfly kisses, right?”

“Hardly,” Lucy replied. Then her thoughts went to her mom.

Her mother was in Nebraska. She knew it, felt it, like she knew that she was going to take another breath or blink. Her mommy was in Nebraska.

“I’m up,” she said and walked to her closet. She knew she had been wearing the same clothes for the past few days and she could smell the stench as she shed them without a hint of self-consciousness. Then Lucy changed into a pair of cargo pants and a black hooded sweatshirt. She grabbed a change of clothes and shoved it into a backpack. The other night in the den, she found her father’s copy of Fahrenheit 451 and for comfort and reading material she packed that too.

Tying on Galen’s hiking boots, which she was pleased to discover fit her quite comfortably, she was ready to leave, but Lucy still felt disoriented.

“You good?” Darla asked and then she retreated.

When she finally made it downstairs, she saw everyone waiting.

Now Lucy could see that Grant had changed too. He was wearing a combination of clothing items from Ethan and her dad, including a weather-resistant jacket with Ethan’s college logo displayed across the back.

Off they marched into the middle of a war and they both just looked like co-eds heading to a rainy football game.

“I’m ready,” Lucy announced.

Grant shimmied into a hiking pack. He nodded toward it as he lifted it up across his shoulders. “The ready-to-eat meals. Flashlight and a blanket.” He leaned down and handed Lucy a pack of matches and a handful of glow-sticks. “These didn’t fit in my pack.”

She shoved them into the front packet, the crinkly packaging echoing loudly in the quiet front room.

“We’ll be heading through unfamiliar neighborhoods,” Darla said. “We stay close. We don’t know who’s alive out there. Grant has proved that much.”

“And there definitely could be zombies,” Grant whispered.

“No zombies.” Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Grant, you’ll have to lead the way,” Darla continued.

Teddy sat on the steps, a found stuffed animal in his hand. He was sucking his thumb and his eyes were heavy with sleep. “Mom,” he asked. “When are you coming back?”

“Later sweetheart. Stay good for Ethan.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, baby boy.”

“Can we go to the park to play when you get home?”

Darla looked at him and smiled softly. “I’ll see. Let’s just say maybe.”

Grant and Darla started toward the side-door, but Lucy hesitated. “Go on, I’ll be right out.” They exited out into the carport and left the two of them alone. She turned to Ethan and walked over to him, kneeling, but careful not to touch his legs. “I don’t know what I should say here,” she mumbled.

“I thought I was the only one,” he replied. “The lone survivor. When I realized there was a chance you were alive too, I’ve never been so happy.”

“I always hoped. I never gave up hope,” Lucy said.

He reached out and grabbed her hand. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t. And I can’t lose you.”

“I have no immediate plans to die. Spencer will come through. I’m more worried about you. Be safe, Lucy. Please?”

“I’m doing this for us, Ethan. It feels like I’m abandoning you…but…I want to do this for us. See that and feel it. Believe it.”

“I do.”

“A hot air balloon,” Lucy said and smiled.

“The great and powerful…” Ethan trailed off and then he looked up at her—his blue eyes searching hers. “But you are. You really are. So, it’s fitting, I suppose.”

“There really is no place like home,” she said back, wanting to assure him she understood.

After a long pause, Ethan gave her hand a tight squeeze. “What home?” he asked. Then as she started to pull away he added, “Find them, Lucy. Find them.”

“I will.” She stood up and hugged her brother tightly, avoiding the dark thoughts of impending loss that flooded her and she hugged him until she couldn’t anymore.

The others had generously offered her precious moments to say goodbye.

But now it was time to go.

* *

The Trotter farm was a legitimate farm with a small grove of apple trees and a pasture for grazing horses. Just a mile away from sprawling housing developments, and only a few miles away from the buzzing metropolis of Portland, a more rural part of the city lived and thrived. The streets were empty and vacant, but everywhere they walked, they could not avoid the stench. It reminded them that once upon a time, people were alive. Rot and death wafted in from all angles and it blended with the early morning air, bowling them over.

Only their soft footsteps, sinking in mud or thudding along on the streets, made any sound at all. Occasionally one of them remarked at a sight—a person’s body in the front yard, pajama clad, and left abandoned among the growing grass or a person in the middle of the street, or behind the wheel of a car.

All signs pointed to the fact that many people tried to go about their lives the day the virus claimed them, unwilling to let the disease stop them from going to work, watering their lawn, checking the mail. Everything happened so quickly. One minute they were walking to pick up a newspaper, the next, gone.

“Cut through here,” Grant said and his voice broke up the silence.

They followed him, leaving the developments, cutting through backyards, until they reached a long drive flanked by well-manicured grass.

Grant paused.

“This it?” Darla asked and started to walk forward.

He nodded.

“Let’s go,” she demanded. But Grant refused to step forward. Suddenly tender, Darla went back and took his hand. “We do what you say,” she announced. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s just, um, just go to the barn.”

Darla nodded once. “You got it.”

Lucy took in the sprawling estate with wide-eyed wonder.

Halfway up the drive, Grant walked straight through the yard and spotted a patch of yellow fur nestled among the green. He knelt down and hung his head, and then he stood up more purposeful than before.

“A pet?” Lucy asked.

Grant shook his head. “A stray,” he replied. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m just tired of all of this.”

“Do you want to go inside?” Lucy asked and then immediately regretted it. “Never mind,” she said, backtracking, realizing it was a ridiculous suggestion. “We’ll just get the balloon up.”

“I don’t need to see my dad to know he’s dead,” Grant said with determined nonchalance. “Besides…we weren’t close. And—”

“You don’t have to talk about it now,” Lucy saved him. “We have a balloon ride ahead of us.” Lucy hiked her backpack upward and her foot hit a mound of mush, her boots sinking, but she ignored it and kept following Grant and Darla up the yard toward a large brown building to the left and steering clear of the main house where the blinds and curtains were all shut tight.

When they reached the barn, Grant pulled the doors open one at a time, exposing a darkened stable on one side with empty stalls and on the other side a wall of harnesses, saddles, and riding helmets. Stored against the front wall were three small trailers, decorated with advertising from his uncle’s company.

From Up Above Tours: Beautiful Adventures Daily.

Grant opened the first trailer and stood for a long time starting into the dark. Then he turned to the girls—his face determined, focused, transformed.

“It’ll take all of us to get this thing in the air,” he commanded. “I’ve never been in charge before.”

“Now you tell us,” Darla teased, but she clapped him on the back to give him courage.

Together they dragged a large blue tarp back out to the yard, smoothing it out across the grass and muddied land where piles of horse manure disturbed the landscape. They went back for the basket and Darla and Grant balanced it, dragging the bottom toward the tarp and then tilting it one way, then another. Grant looked up to the sky, pursed his lips, and then directed them again. They hooked in uprights, laid the basket flat, and while Grant tinkered with the burners, Darla and Lucy worked swiftly with the envelope containing the balloon and pulled it freely and outward onto the tarp.

The sun was now rising into the morning sky, turning the few clouds purple and pink.

An inflator fan hooked up to a generator blew cold air into the balloon and the nylon began to take shape. Only now could Lucy see a visible pattern on the outside—rainbow argyle. The loud hum was deafening and even more shocking since the world had gone quiet.

Grant watched the balloon start to rise over the landscape as he held a rope tightly in his hand, and then he beckoned to Lucy.

“Hold this,” he instructed, handing the long white cord to her. He wrapped his hand around hers and pushed her hands tightly down around two handles attached the rope. “Hold tight. If it sways, pull it back. This is the crown line,” he told her in an educating tone. “Have you ever been waterskiing?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Well, it’s like in the movies. Just hold it tight. Pull back.”

Then Grant rushed forward, checking lines, pulling on the balloon, rolling it, inspecting it, and pushing gauges. Lucy watched him and realized that he was in his element and he was good at this.

After a few minutes, Grant called, “Switching to heat!” And with the fan off, the world seemed quiet once again and they could only hear the rustling of the fabric, swaying in wind. Grant directed Darla by the shoulders and positioned her to stand on some cables; then he switched the burners on and a large flame spewed upward.

The balloon began to rise.

Lucy kept a tight hold on her crown line as the balloon lifted off the ground, filling and rising, obscuring the entire yard with its size. Grant tied down the basket and when the balloon filled, he called to her. She rushed to him and they set the basket upright, where it lifted and bobbed, the balloon anxiously pulling itself toward the sky.

Lucy hoisted her bag into the basket—a woven undercarriage that looked like it was designed to fit six or more people—and Grant followed suit. He helped her climb in and Lucy oriented herself on the inside. She could feel the heat of the burners only feet away.

She was suddenly terrified.

“Grant—” she started and then stopped. What use would questioning do now?

He must have read her face. “We’ve already done the hard part,” he said, allowing a smile. “My uncle let me fly before when we’ve been up alone. I’ve never put a balloon together before by myself. So, that was kinda cool,” He ran his hand through his hair and broke into a proud grin.

Darla’s eyes scanned the landscape and then she checked the watch on her wrist.

“No time for heartfelt goodbyes you two. Here,” she reached into her waistband and pulled out one of the handguns. She reached up and handed it to Lucy. “And Grant’s already got one of the guns packed. Be wise.”

“For a world mostly empty…there sure are a lot of dangers,” Lucy said.

“Curb the philosophizing for when you’re flying,” Darla suggested. “The world’s no different than it’s always been. Maybe you just never saw the danger before, but it was always there. Now go you two.”

Grant climbed into the basket next.

Lucy looked at Darla, who started to work on releasing the lines. “Darla—”

“I got it kiddo,” Darla answered. “I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said to her and she put her hand over her heart.

Then Darla let the last line free and Grant blasted the burner. Up they rose, straight over the barn and the house and into the mild morning wind. Lucy had never been afraid of heights, so she peered over the edge, her hands gripping the basket and watched as Darla’s shape shrank. The phhhhsssshhh of the burner carried them upward and upward and Lucy’s mind drifted to a particularly imbedded memory from her childhood: Losing a birthday balloon into the sky and begging her parents to follow it.

“We’ll catch it when it lands,” she had begged.

Her mother stroked her hair. “Baby girl…when it lands, the balloon will be all out of helium. It won’t be the balloon you want anymore. We’ll get you another one.” But she hadn’t wanted another one, she wanted that one and she couldn’t quite understand why that wasn’t possible.

As the hot air balloon rose, Lucy had the feeling that they were staying still, rooted in one place and that the world pulling away from them. The revelation dizzied her and she pushed back a bit from the edge.

“You okay with flying?” Grant asked, not taking his eyes off of the gas tanks, watching their height.

“Uh-huh,” she said and nodded. When she had regained her composure, she peered down again and let out a small gasp.

The world below was marked with the evidence of its destruction.

Fires still smoldered in the distance. The roads were littered with abandoned cars with open doors. Small lumps and shapes dotted the landscape and Lucy could only assume they were bodies. As they had walked along the roads and parks and backyards, she had seen the devastation, but to look down on it from the sky was different. Here were miles of bodies. Not just snapshots of a scene, but a full picture of an entire city laid waste.

“How high will we go?” she asked and Grant closed the burner lid, reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle of shaving cream. Leaning over the edge, he sprayed the cream and watched as it traveled in the wind. Then he surveyed the landmarks and he clicked his tongue.

“Southeast.”

“That’s the way the wind is blowing?”

“Yes.”

“How far will we go?”

“Until I can’t fly it any longer or until we run out of fuel. I’m determined to get us as far as I can.” He paused. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Lucy took another look out over her beloved city. The buildings of Portland were off in the distance. She could recognize their distinct, postcard-worthy shapes. The city itself was quiet, abandoned, but it was still there—a picturesque skyline, the west hills in the distance, the river bifurcating the east from the west. If Lucy wanted to, she could’ve tried to convince herself that her fellow Portland residents were slow to wake, that they were just bumbling along sleepy-eyed, half-awake, shuffling through another day. From above the ground, it was hard to notice the difference between a slumbering city and an annihilated one.

But then she gasped.

“All the bridges are gone,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?” Grant asked and he walked over to her side.

“Yes. Look.”

He boosted them up higher with a blast of propane to give them a clearer look.

“My God.”

Wreckage jutted out of the lapping waves of the river. Submerged cars bounced and bobbed. Up and down the waterway were mounds of twisted metal and each and every bridge was gone—only remnants remained. Portland was a city known for its bridges and now there was nothing to look at but rubble.

“The bombs we heard. They were taking out the bridges. What does that mean?”

Grant stared at the debris, the absence of something they had taken for granted as they journeyed from one section of the city to the other. “To trap people, I suppose. Isolate the neighborhoods. Contain a virus that was uncontainable. Or maybe…just to destroy.”

It was only then that Lucy noticed the full extent of their city’s devastation. She could see the marina and capsized boats and the other vessels adrift on the Willamette River without a captain, unmoored and unanchored. Her eyes traveled to the tram—a bullet shaped vehicle that transported patients, doctors, and tourists to Oregon Health Sciences University. It was suspended above the trees, stopped midway up the track, and it swayed gently with the wind. Someone had written HELP in lipstick on the windows and a crack on one of the windows indicated someone had tried to break through the glass.

She looked away. With the horrors of the school still fresh in her memory, Lucy’s hand shook with the understanding that her own personal terrors were only one small glimpse, one small moment.

The ethereal quality of their ride, combined the visual confirmation of the mass genocide was overwhelming.

“This is like floating…up here,” Lucy whispered as they turned around 360-degrees, slowly, and her eyes surveyed the blue on the horizon and the glory of Mt. Hood in the distance. “All this beauty. Our world is so amazing…and yet…”

“I’m going to concentrate,” Grant interrupted and brushed by her back to the center of the basket. But he only stood there, his eyes outward, his arms by his side, his right hand clutching the bottle of shaving cream.

Lucy watched him and she bit the inside of her lip. “Can you imagine? If you’re a survivor and you look up in the sky today and see a hot air balloon floating past? It would be dreamlike, I suppose. Surreal.”

Grant didn’t answer.

“Grant?”

He didn’t turn toward her, but he lowered his head. “Survivors?” he called back. “This was done to us so there wouldn’t be any survivors. We aren’t meant to be here.” Then after a moment, he added. “No, well. Maybe I’m just not meant to be here.”

“Don’t say that,” Lucy said.

“It’s true, though,” he replied. Then after a moment, “What do you think we’ll find in Brixton, Nebraska?”

“Nothing, maybe.” She waited, then added “or everything.”

The balloon spun and drifted and Grant boosted them higher up. They followed the path of the river and at this height, the tragedies beneath them were easier to ignore.

“Thank you,” Lucy said after they had ridden in silence. He raised an eyebrow. “For coming with me.”

Grant set the shaving cream on the floor of the basket and rubbed his eyes with both hands. Then he smiled, his single-dimple appearing for a brief second. He reached his hand out and Lucy grabbed it. It was an awkward, sideways grab, and she felt how cold and clammy his hand was and the small tremors from his fingers vibrated against her palm. She gave his hand a squeeze and he squeezed back, pinching her fingers down upon each other.

“Together,” he said and his eyes scanned the horizon. “Whatever happens now…we’re together. You’re not alone. You need to know that, Lucy.”

She nodded, biting back tears. “Together,” she repeated. Then she closed her eyes and realized that she could not feel the wind or hear anything beside the hum of the balloon drifting effortlessly into the vast unknown. Lucy thought of her sister and her brothers and she saw their faces as she left them that fateful morning, poised and ready for adventure. Then she thought of her mother.

Strong. Resilient.

And waiting for her.

Lucy opened her eyes toward the horizon and intertwined her fingers with Grant’s and held his hand until she could no longer tell where her hand started and his hand stopped. With her other hand, she grabbed the crucifix and held it inside her palm, pulling the chain tight against her neck.

“Together,” she said again. “Wherever this takes us.”

“Whatever happens.”

“No matter what.”

END OF BOOK ONE

About the Author

Shelbi Wescott is a high school Language Arts, journalism, and creative writing teacher. She is also a mother of two, a television junky, a table game connoisseur, and an enthusiastic participant in Reddit gift exchanges. She wrote her first book, “Virulent: The Release”, for her students after they asked her to write a post-apocalyptic book that took place in their school. When she isn’t writing, she is wandering the aisles of Powell’s Books, throwing elaborate birthday parties, officiating weddings, and avoiding cleaning her house. Shelbi lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and her two sons, and an aggressively cuddly hound dog named Darby.

You can find her in all these places:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ShelbiWescott

Tumblr: http://shelbispeaks.tumblr.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Shelbispeaks

Website: www.shelbiwescott.com

And you can find her books on Amazon

Find out about upcoming releases here: http://www.infiniteinkauthors.com/shelbi-wescott.html

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As a reader, I really love the acknowledgments page. It’s like a writer’s Academy Award speech, except no one can play you off with an orchestra and you are likely thanking people who helped you while you are still wearing pajamas instead of a fancy ball gown. And that’s the thing about writing; I can just tell you that I’m writing this in a beautiful bright yellow Oscar de la Renta dress and you could believe me. But you shouldn’t. I am clearly in sweat pants and a maple syrup stained t-shirt.

Here we go:

First of all, thank you Kevin. Thank you for hating every single book I tried to get you to read when you were in the ninth grade; thank you for your never ending barrage of fourteen year-old opinions and your challenge disguised as an insult: “Ms. Wescott, I bet even you could write a better book than this.” Challenge accepted. I hope I did okay. Sorry it took four years, but I’d like to think this is a pretty unique graduation gift. Plus, I feel like I’ve offered you a very cool pick-up line for college girls, “So, my freshman Reading teacher wrote a book for me. You wanna go out?” Now that I wrote that down, I realize that you can probably think of better pick-up lines, but that is why I wrote a book about people dying of a virus instead of a book about pick-up lines.

To every other student of mine at Centennial High School, past and present: I didn’t become a teacher because I liked to hear myself talk about The Great Gatsby. I went into teaching because I think there is something special and amazing and powerful about teenagers. That little speech I give about being your teacher and your mother? It’s true. Thank you for indulging me by letting me name characters after you and for stealing gossip from your own life and giving it to the people in my fictitious high school. Thank you for being early readers and being honest about what worked and what didn’t work for you. Thank you for your excitement and for forcing me to finish when I was tired and didn’t think I had it in me. I’m especially grateful to my creative writing students, who inspire me with their own talents, and to the Talon staff who believed in me first.

Book Club: You are more than a book club. You are my best friends, my confidants, my support, and my lifeline. You are readers and thinkers and you are my biggest cheerleaders; you challenge me personally and professionally and have proven that there is nothing in this world better than amazing female friendships. Without hyperbole I can tell you that I don’t know where I’d be without you all. I’ve decided that the best decision I can make in my life is protecting my heart. I give my heart to you without reservation or regret. Book Club is the best thing I’ve ever done. Thank you. Words are not enough. But from the bottom of my heart, thank you: Allison, Christy, Claudia, Lorrie, Melissa, Molly, Sunshine, Suzy, and Toni. (I know that Sunshine needs a specific shout-out for forgoing sleep to give me honest feedback that forced me to admit to my semi-colon problem.)

Nicole—we are the dynamic duo. Thank you for reading this first and championing publication. And thank you MOST for thinking of a title. Otherwise this would be called “Swimming Pool Full of Dead Teens” or “Trapped in a School with an Evil Principal” and no one would want to buy it ever. Your questions were the catalyst for major changes that made this book FAR BETTER than it was before and I am eternally grateful that I work with you and can call you a friend. Rana—your laughter and willingness to love me, despite knowing all my deepest and darkest secrets, is the best gift. Thanks for letting me put this book into your student’s hands.

(Is this where the orchestra starts? Don’t play me off! I have more!)

Mom and dad: When I told you at age four that I wanted to be an Arthur and you thought that I meant I wanted to be an aardvark, but then you realized I meant author, you have always told me to go for it. You let me wake you up at 3am to read you things I was excited about and you always pretended it was the best stuff ever, even though I’m pretty sure you were sleeping when I read it and only woke up when I asked, “What do you think?” Thank you for raising my brothers and me to be creative, musical, and passionate. Dad, thank you for the jazz music and the introduction to Science Fiction. Mom, thank you for reading everything I’ve ever written. Thank you for being a voracious reader of other people’s books and saying more times than I can count, “You could’ve done that book so much better” even when it was very clearly not true. But that’s what moms are for. Also, THANK YOU for never censoring my reading material, especially when I was in junior high and all I wanted to do was stay up really late and read Stephen King books.

I will be forever grateful to Samantha Lynn for saying, “Um, my mom wants the next chapter right now” and it kept me writing. Thank you to Sam’s hotel bar at the Monarch for providing a mostly-quiet place to work without distraction. Thank you to all the screenwriters who write the amazing television shows and movies that get me excited to tell my own stories! Deborah Reed, thank you for offering me the encouragement I needed to try this publishing thing on my own. Thanks to Carin for your unbridled enthusiasm and cheerleading; I’m sorry sending you new chapters as I wrote them crashed your phone. And a huge thanks to the creative community to which I belong—I have supportive and awesome and exceptionally talented friends. I don’t deserve you, but I’m grateful you exist.

Lastly (as they push me off stage): To my little family. Matthew, Elliott and Isaac. In the event of a disaster, we will be together—fighting side-by-side. Actually, no, that’s inaccurate. I will fight and Matt will be the comic relief. Elliott, you are my gifted storyteller. My heart bursts with love and admiration whenever I listen to you telling me a story you created. You are my inspiration. Isaac, you are so funny and your snuggles make all my hard days better. You don’t understand why mommy is busy and doesn’t want you hitting the keyboard. I’m sure your additions would’ve been spectacular, but readers usually get confused when sdhjdf;lksdf is in the middle of a sentence.

I love you all. I am loved. I am blessed. I thank God for this journey. And I’m ready to start the next adventure.

* * *

EXTERNAL FORCES, Deborah Rix

BONUS CHAPTERS!

Dystopia, by Deborah Rix

Welcome to Dystopian High

I didn’t set out to write a dystopian story, but once I imagined teenagers in a not-too-distant future I don’t think it could have been otherwise. Dystopian stories can seem to be about wildly imaginative yet impossible futures, but they are really a version of what is happening in teenage lives right now.

The world is a nice enough place (if you live in the first world,) most decisions are made by others, and the future is a bright and shiny place. But, along comes high school and teenagers are questioning rules that suddenly seem arbitrary and can randomly change. Their bodies are no longer under their control and seem to operate independently from their brains. They are watched, assessed, and assigned to a social group they may or may not want to be a part of. Adults are constantly monitoring communication channels, and nonconformity attracts bullies. No one cares who they really are, even though they themselves haven’t quite figured out who they are yet.

And then they discover the Big Lie. There are things going on that no one told them about, and there are places in the world that, for good or ill, are utterly different from their own existence. They realize that it’s their turn to change the world.

Plus, kissing.

Reimagine all of that and you end up with young adult dystopian fiction.

My reimagining began with Scientific American.  It has fascinating articles from every branch of scientific discovery. It also has a lot of bad news. Well, potential bad news. I began to ask myself what would happen if those dire warnings came true, or if those breakthroughs led to something unexpected.

What if scientific theory could be challenged and declared untrue by people with no scientific background? What if Creationists gained political power?  What if big pharmaceutical companies ran the American FDA and approved whatever they wanted to? What if all those potential problems with genetically modified food actually happened? What if genetic information was collected during a vaccination program from an unsuspecting population under the guise of national security? What if all the pollinating bees began inexplicably disappearing, threatening food crops? What if there was mass starvation and genocide on the other side of the world and we didn’t do anything about it? What if personal privacy was eradicated and all of our communication was monitored?

All of those things have recently occurred in some form; my imagination only had to take it one step further. And I have to say, it was hard to stay ahead of developments because the future kept catching up with me as I was writing.

None of those possibilities could cause TEOTWAWKI (The End Of The World As We Know It) on their own, but what if they happened all at once? What if TEOTWAWKI comes not as an apocalyptic bang, but instead we watch it arrive without giving the slightest whimper?

Reimagine all of that, and, again, we end up with dystopian fiction, the sort that likes to warn us of the consequences of staying calm and carrying on. If those teenagers out there don’t stop and turn things around for us, this is how the future could turn out.

  Deborah Rix

BONUS!

First four chapters of External Forces by Deborah Rix

The Laws of Motion

Lex I

EXTERNAL FORCES

Deborah Rix

––––––––

LAWS OF MOTION

Lex I: Every body perseveres in its state of rest or of uniform motion in a right line unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impress’d thereon

The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy

By Sir Isaac Newton

Translated into English by Andrew Motte, 1729

PROLOGUE

––––––––

I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.

It’s part of the Special Operations Assessment and Selection course, twenty-eight days of grueling work. The two days of no sleep are meant to disorient us, part of discarding our former selves. There are three hundred of us trying to figure out how to do what we’re told, when we’re told to, and how to do it correctly. Jay and I weren’t assigned to the same platoon, which was unexpected. I’m in the “civilian” platoon; we’re the ones with skills that don’t generally require brute force. I think Jay is in some kind of elite group because I haven’t seen him, I’ve only seen the G-men platoon. They are all about brute force; they’re the ones that opted for genetic enhancement at age thirteen without the supervision of the Devotees. But Special Forces is, well, special, so they have to prove they’ve got more than muscle and I’ve gotta prove I’ve got more than a quick mind.

If I don’t make it to Special Forces, my life expectancy in the regular army could be pretty short. And if I’m a complete washout, I’ll have to go to my assessment with the Devotees and they’ll find out about me, making my life expectancy even shorter. I seriously need to pass.

Zero dark thirty is when I have to haul myself out of bed in the so-called morning. My drill sergeant has been yelling at me for most of the past two days. The word “why” has been surgically removed from everyone’s vocabulary. Any individual hesitation in following orders means at least one private is getting smoked, if not the whole platoon, which usually means push-ups. We’ve done a lot of push-ups. I stare straight ahead as the drill sergeant walks by me and continues down the row of privates. I made the mistake of “eyeballing” him yesterday.

Never. Eyeball. A drill sergeant.

1

––––––––

Three weeks earlier – May, 2125

My mother thinks I’m a Deviant.

It’s the kind of thing that can really throw a girl for a loop.

The Devotees missed it when I was born, she said, but one day they would come for me. That was a few years ago, she didn’t know I was home when I overheard her; I got out of there lickety-split.

And it’s not as if I haven’t noticed the way my mother looks at me sometimes. If they had taken me when they had the chance, maybe her other baby would still be with her. I’m pretty sure that’s what goes through her head when she looks at me.

So the early assessment notice wasn’t entirely unexpected. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of kids are called for early assessments and nothing happens; they show up at school the next day. Some of them are all excited because they got called to become a Devotee.

But some of them, well, they don’t come back.

—

I‘m in the parking lot of my high school, West Liberty. It’s prom night, and I came with my best friend, Jay. He’s still inside; he likes this sort of thing. I haven’t told him the early assessment notice came this afternoon. I didn’t want to ruin tonight for him. The humidity has made my dress even more uncomfortable than it was inside. Jay owes me. At least he won’t mind if I go home; it’s not that kind of date.

A car door slams shut. There aren’t a lot of kids who can afford the fuel to drive their own car to the prom.

Uh-oh. Blake.

I take a step back. Blake is a popular kid, with the right look, the right home, the right pedigree.

Right.

Despite my attempts to blend in and stay in the background, Blake noticed me this year. When I didn’t respond like all the other girls do, I became his target.

His car keys jangle as he drops them in his jacket pocket. I stand still; maybe he hasn’t seen me.

“Hey, freak,” he calls as he comes around the blue pickup I was hoping would shield me. “Not leaving, are you?”

I smell alcohol as Blake backs me up against the truck.

His slicked-back hair smells slightly astringent, and his tongue slides over his upper lip as he looks me over from top to bottom. A shiver of revulsion goes through me. I can’t imagine what girls like about him. I can hear some voices, but they’re at the other end of the parking lot. It’s just me and Blake.

“I’ve got an early graduation present for you,” he says quietly. His face is close to mine, and I can see beads of perspiration on his forehead. Slick from the humidity, his hand glides down my bare shoulder, as if he’s entitled to touch me.

I don’t think I want a present from Blake.

I’m surprised when my hand moves. There is a wet sound as Blake’s head snaps back.

Blood spurts, and it seems as if time has gone into slow motion. The blood sprays toward me. I move my head to the side to avoid it, and watch it slowly drift by, suspended in the air.

I turn back to Blake and a thrill zips through me. Thick, glossy blood creeps down his chin from his mashed nose. His mouth is open in shock; blood colors his teeth and gums. He moves sluggishly, and each blink seems to take effort.

Drip by slow drip, the blood falls from his chin onto his shirt. Fascinated, I watch each droplet burst on his crisp white collar.

A wet plonk hits my forehead as a sudden coldness envelops me. The grin I’m shocked to find on my face sags. Fat droplets of rain release the pressure in the air and mix with the blood on Blake’s shiny shoes.

Hands to his face, he doubles over as time suddenly speeds up again. The rain pelts down now. I take two steps to the side and run. I hear a sob and realize it’s me.

What just happened?

—

It’s the morning after prom, and Jay saunters along beside me as we walk back to my house. I met him half way, as per my usual. His t-shirt is a bit wrinkled, but that’s on purpose, to go with jeans that are a little baggy in back. He’s over six feet and gets asked if he’s a model, which he laughs at, but I know he’s pleased. He could be quite popular if he wanted, but he hangs out with me instead.

Jay and me are Fifth Generation. We’re the ones born between 2100 and 2120. We found each other in the seventh grade. We were the last two kids left when we all paired up for gym class. He asked me why I wasn’t moving when we were supposed to be heading out to the field. I explained that I was trying to activate my special powers so that I could use them to transport me far away. Usually that kind of talk would send kids running, and they’d whisper that I must be a Deviant. But not Jay. He blinked at me, then asked if I would take him with me, should my special powers ever actually work. We’ve been best friends since, and tell each other pretty much everything.

“So, can you come to the thing?”

Uh oh.

I think I’m supposed to know what he’s talking about.

“Uh, when is it again?” I stall for time. What thing?

I push my hair behind my ears to help me think. It doesn’t always work. I have shoulder-length brown hair, parted on the side. My no-nonsense look is how I think of it. I still don’t know what the thing is.

“Wait. Jess. You’re joking, right?” Jay says with a laugh that’s on the edge of anger.

“I’m sorry.” I do my best pleading cringe. “I’m a little distracted.”

The early assessment and whatever that was with Blake last night are the distractions. I can’t quite believe I punched him, broke his nose by the look of it. He’s probably going to have two black eyes. But more than that punch, as surprising as it was, is the way time seemed to slow down around me. I want to say it was shock, or some kind of temporary fugue state, but that’s not what it was. Something happened.

“My mother’s thing, remember?” Jay practically yells at me.

“Oh, that,” I say with relief. Jay’s mother is hosting a party to celebrate his seventeenth birthday. That’s what the thing is. It’s going to be awful.

“We met up, what? Five minutes ago? And you’re already trying to drive me crazy?” He pinches my butt. Hard. He’s pretty worked up about this party.

I yelp and dance around. “No way. You are not blaming your crazy on me.” I give him a solid punch in the gut. “You had years of exposure to your mother before we even met.”

I go rock climbing, so my arms are strong. I’ve never needed to go to the gym to work out and “stay in shape” like some of the other girls do. I’m five feet ten and a half inches and the coach at school said I have an athletic body; he tried to get me to go out for track and field. I don’t like the idea of people watching me like that.

But hitting Jay is like hitting concrete. He doesn’t even notice my punch.

“And of course I’m coming, I already told you. That’s why I didn’t know what thing you were talking about. I thought you meant some other thing.”

“You didn’t actually confirm with my mother,” he complains, “and I know how you feel about people, in general.”

“I don’t have a problem with people, in general. Just the idiots,” I say. “And your mother.”

It’s kind of a toss-up, I suppose. A mother like mine, who actively avoids you and has already decided you’re not worth the effort, or one who pays too much attention and has too many expectations.

Jay nudges me as an unfamiliar dark-haired boy, a bit younger than we are, walks toward us. He doesn’t look right at us, but he flashes us two crossed fingers with his right hand.

I look up ahead and see them coming our way. Three Devotees. Jay and I mumble the greeting in unison, “Blood of our blood, flesh of our flesh, soul of our soul,” and we look down as they brush past us in their crisp white lab coats. It’s best not to be noticed.

The Devotees work for the Department of Evolution —everyone just calls it Devo— and they do the work of Creation in partnership with God. The Department of Evolution is under the direction of Secretary Galton. Basically, she’s God’s voice here on Earth. In the midst of the genetic revolution a hundred years ago, when the Genetic Integrity Act closed America’s borders, strict protocols for border biosecurity were instituted to stop genetic contamination. But we were still in danger of being overrun by the Deviants on the other side. Galton took control, ordered the fortification of our borders and gave the military the authority to do what they needed to do. Most people agree; she did what was necessary for our survival by relinquishing certain powers to the military to ensure our protection. Including the ability to create proprietary, genetically enhanced soldiers. The G-men. Since then, Galton has been leading us through the current stage of evolution, Regenesis, removing unwanted traits and improving and enhancing our best traits with the guidance of God.

In Social Biology class, Devotee Theresa taught us that we must all work for the common good, whether we like it or not. The less intelligent are more fertile and must be discouraged from breeding. Only those with desirable traits are allowed to produce the next generation.

There’s this section, practically a whole semester of tenth grade, where we studied pedigree charts, and DNA, RNA, proteins, and ribosomes. DNA is a double helix that carries the genetic information for all life. If only one part of one gene is wrong, it can create a whole generation of imbeciles, and that is not in God’s plan. Or in Devo’s plan. All Devotees have that DNA double helix tattooed on their forearm, as a constant reminder of their purpose in life.

That’s what the crossed fingers warning represents, the double helix tattoo.

We come up to the old Palace Theater. It’s been shut down for a long time, and the large sign that hangs out front lost its first A, so it says PLACE. Someone found a way in down the side alley, and now kids hang out there. They say, “Meet me at the place.” If they’re overheard or an adult sees a message, it only says “the place.” So far it’s stayed secret. I’ve heard they have illegal sim-seats in there, ones that can scramble the biometrics and mask what you’re doing.

“Jess,” Jay says as he slows right down, “something’s wrong.”

“It’s time to wake up!” a skinny boy with curly red hair yells. He’s standing on a wooden crate, and people are hesitantly milling about. “People are dying! Out there, children are starving, and you send them poison. People are sick, and you send them plagues. The blood of our blood is on your hands!”

There are gasps at his blasphemy, but a few people cautiously move toward him in morbid fascination. His eyes are wild, there’s spittle on his lips. Jay grabs my arm to tug me backward.

When the bullet enters the boy’s left temple, it’s as if he doesn’t know it’s there for a moment.

He’s about to yell, his mouth opens, his lips form a word he will never say. Then he topples backward, and I hear the terrible thud as his head hits the ground. The people closest to him quickly step back. No one screams, no one looks up to see the Guardian with the rifle on the roof across the street. Everyone wants to blend in.

Another Guardian comes toward the Palace. The Guardians work for Devo and protect us from Deviants. The stiff collar somehow makes his slightly rumpled, brown uniform shirt look crisp. The yellow double helix is on the front of his cap, and above his left shirt pocket.

“Move along,” he says. “It was just a Deviant.”

We all know that the plain fact of his yelling out crazy stuff in the street like that is proof of his deviance. It’s what happens sometimes, but it’s most prevalent during adolescence. The deviance manifests and people become dangerous, psychotic Deviants, intent on our destruction.

The Guardian rests his hand on the butt of the holstered pistol hanging from his belt and waits for the brown panel truck with the whooping siren we can hear approaching.

Jay swears at him under his breath and keeps hold of my arm. We hurry off with the rest of the crowd, wanting to move as far away as possible. I look back in time to see somebody dart in behind the Guardian, dip a hand in the boy’s blood, and leave an angry red handprint on the front of the Palace Theater. A red hand. I’ve heard the whispers but never thought it was true. As I stare at it, I bumble into Mrs. Yamoto, one of my neighbors. She walks fast, gripping her daughter’s hand tightly. Last year, I saw the brown truck with the double helix on the side parked in front of her house. The Guardians had come to take her son.

Wes.

That was his name.

2

––––––––

No one is home when we get to my house. Jay and I like to hang out here a lot. When my mother is here she’s always in immersive simulated reality or simmersion as it’s called. From her sim-seat she can enter her simbody and experience her personal programming as if she is right there, in it. Although they don’t see her, she can sit in at another family’s table and engross herself in the drama of someone else’s life. And if the real people aren’t exciting enough there’s always orchestrated reality to go visit, where she doesn’t just watch, she participates.

Every night you can immerse yourself in the news broadcast as it updates us on the Deviants and the security of our borders, sometimes you catch glimpses of the abominations on the other side. You can even sit in when a Traitor to Humanity is paraded out. I don’t like watching that, when they strap the traitor down and give them the injection. But a lot of people like to be up close and personal, want to really see the traitor’s eyes as they die.

My dad only comes home on weekends because he works in Minneapolis, for Cortano. They do lots of things, but my dad works in the agriculture division. Cortano, with Davenport Technology, provides elite seeds for all the food crops. Their slogan is Breeding, Biotechnology and Agronomics. Cortano keeps America on the right path. The Devotees control Davenport Tech. They are the only ones allowed to be trained in biotechnology, which means they actually control everything.

My Dad has a pretty big job in distribution, making sure all the seeds are delivered where they need to go. He’s responsible for the big four—corn, soybean, cotton, canola. He’s been working most weekends for a while now. I think he wants to avoid my mother and I can’t say I blame him. Maybe he’s avoiding me, too.

I think I’ve mostly figured out the arcane algorithms that govern our personal programming, but they’re always changing, adapting, monitoring. I make sure I subscribe to the right realities, even the occasional teenage rebellion program because that’s what is expected. If you’re too squeaky-clean and dull or too outside the norm, they’ll pick up on it.

I make sure Jay is subscribed to the correct realities too.

“That boy…” I start, finally finding the courage to say it out loud.

People think that every single thing we do or say is monitored, watched for signs of deviance. There can’t be hidden cameras in every single room of every single house and on every single square inch of sidewalk. There’s a lot of surveillance for sure, but even that can’t be reviewed in any detail, there would need to be one person watching for each person being watched. And then who’s watching the watchers when they go home at night?

Our sim-seats are a two way feed, collecting information and adapting our personal programming and purchase profile. Wherever there is a sim-seat there is routine surveillance. I’ve conducted a few innocent experiments, watching the reactions, the subtle changes to my personal programming. Key words can increase the level of surveillance. And even when it’s triggered, it’s the complex algorithms that determine the reaction. It’s got to be a pretty sizeable reaction or a singular, specific trigger before an actual person is watching and the real tracking begins. All the biometric data collected through the sim-seat means that even without retinal scans, fingerprints or DNA, you can be tracked anywhere by how you look, how you walk and by the sound of your voice. So caution is necessary, and certain words are to be avoided without eliminating all key words. The absence of those words is just as noticeable as their use.

“What about him?” Jay asks.

“His hair was an unusual color, did you notice?” I say, asking him if he saw the red hand. I suspect that those words together, red and hand, are one of those singular triggers that automatically bring close surveillance.

“Very unusual, but becoming more popular I think. I’ve heard other people say they’ve seen similar coloring, appearing all over the place,” Jay replies, telling me that he saw, and that the hand has appeared elsewhere.

“Do you think the boy got the idea for his hair from someone else or did he do it on a whim?” I ask, because I want to know if Jay thinks the boy was part of the Red Hand or not.

Jay shrugs. “He probably saw it on someone else,” he says. “But it was a strange way to show it off, he must have known what the reaction would be.”

I nod in agreement. There was only one possible ending to the drama in front of the Palace. If it was some misguided suicide attack, it seemed to serve no purpose, so maybe he really was a crazed Deviant. But then again, I have no idea what the Red Hand wants.

There have only been whispers about the Red Hand, a secret, underground group whose goals are murky at best, and seem in opposition to Devo. There are escalating rumors of suicide bombers and other outrageous tactics. But only near the border, never here, right where I live. And we’re always told it’s crazed random Deviants that are attacking, but what if it’s organized, what if it’s the Red Hand? It’s extremely exciting and frightening at the same time.

I march to my sim-seat and pull up the list of possibilities for my future. It hovers in the air in front of us.

THE LIST

Devo – Get called to be a Devotee and dedicate my life to the work of Creation.

Settle Down – Find my match and produce the next generation.

A Career – Become a career girl, move to Minneapolis and work for Cortano.

The Military –The opportunity to serve my country and defend our borders from Deviant attacks.

And that’s the list. It’s a pretty short list.

I made the list yesterday, with Jay, before I knew about my early assessment. Number Four seems like the path in life most likely to get me killed. Just after you turn seventeen is when Devo normally schedules your assessment. At the interview, the Devotees ask some questions, there are tests and measures, and they take the blood sample for the epigenetic scan. This way they can make the right choices for your Good Match list if you’re going to settle down, or they can figure out what your career is going to be, based on your aptitude.  A few weeks later, once they’ve decided, you find out your path in life. I guess I’ve always assumed I’d be put on a career path, Jay thinks so too.

If you settle down, then you have one or two children. We can’t overpopulate, so no one has more than two. Once the Devotees have approved the genetic partnership of a couple, then it’s left in the hands of God. From conception to birth, human interference is not allowed. When a baby is born, a Devotee examines it before it is even held by its mother. If it shows any sign of deviation, then it is God’s will, and the Devotees take it, as a kindness to the mother. This is what happened to my mother’s second baby. It’s not a subject I have ever discussed with her. But if you had a sibling that was a Deviant, it increased your chances of being a Deviant too. That’s one reason you could get an early assessment notice, if they think something might be wrong with you.

Jay’s mother is practically a Devotee, the way she acts. She already has her own list of girls for Jay to settle down with, and hopes a few of them will be on his official Good Match list. They are all invited to his party, except Jay isn’t interested in girls. We have a bet on who will kiss a boy first. Jay will win. But Jay’d rather go along with his mother for now than deal with any histrionics about him not settling down and producing the next generation. I’ve been over to meet his mom, and I’m Jay’s “date” whenever he needs one. Which makes it easier for me, too. But we never hang out at his place with her around. She doesn’t approve of me. And I don’t suppose I approve of her, either.

Jay is properly horrified when I tell him about my assessment. We can be less circumspect now because this is all any seventeen year old is talking about right now, so it’s expected.

“What if they want you to be a Devotee?” Jay asks as he paces, jumping to the most obvious explanation.

“Don’t even think it,” I moan as my finger traces nervous circles in my quilt. “What am I going to do? I need some sort of a plan.”

Besides having a deviant sibling, you can also get an early assessment if someone recommends that you become a Devotee. If the looks she gave me in class count for anything, Devotee Theresa did not put me on her list. If you do get called to be a Devotee it’s an honor, and not the kind of thing you can politely decline.

Jay throws his shoulders back and crosses his arms as he considers my situation. But he knows there isn’t anything I can do, and there is no plan B.

“It’ll be fine,” Jay decides, and waves a hand to dismiss my concern. “Maybe they don’t want you to be a Devotee, maybe they only want to check you out because of your sibling, and it’ll be nothing.”

Jay’s not convincing me, though. Plus, I haven’t told him about Blake yet. Or that strange thing that appeared on my skin. This morning, as I was getting dressed, I spotted a brown mark just below my ribcage, on the left side. It’s like a freckle, but not. It’s small, about the size of a flake of oatmeal with the same kind of rough edges. It’s nothing. It won’t wash off. It will probably go away. I’m not even thinking about it. At all.

There are deviations that don’t manifest until the teenage years, like that boy earlier today. That’s why they double-check you at seventeen with the epigenetic scan, to detect any unexpected alterations in gene expression. That brown mark I’m not thinking about, at all, has got me worried. Plus, there’s what happened with Blake and the slow-time thing. If the mark is still there when I get to the assessment, I’ll have a different kind of problem than having to join the Devotees.

Jay just turned seventeen, so his assessment will be soon, too. He brings up the last possibility from the list, the military. He says that instead of the Devotees making him into something, he can make something of himself. He tells me again about the Special Forces. If you have the right skills you can enlist as soon as you turn seventeen, before the Devotees get to you. The only thing Jay has ever seriously wanted to be is a pilot, and the only way he can do that is in the military. He’s been prepping for it, doing a lot of physical training and practicing in the sim-seat.

If he qualified and passed the evaluation, then he could join the Special Forces Airborne. They are the elite, and it’s extremely difficult to qualify. The military is also the only path that isn’t controlled by the Devotees.

There’s a recruitment center near school. We always walk by real slow, to catch a glimpse of what’s going on inside. I can see the longing in Jay’s face whenever we pass by. Some kids have even talked to the soldiers. There’s been several thirteen year olds that were recruited, and I’ve seen them disappear inside after their parents sign them up for the Genetic Enhancement program. There is a substantial signing bonus.

Around here, no one ever wants to stand out or look different, but with the soldiers it’s as if they don’t even care. Sure, they’re all neat in their uniforms when they’re on duty. But when they’re not, when they’re hanging out in the yard between the recruitment building and their small housing unit, they do whatever they want and the Guardians can’t interfere. They talk loud, and they cuss even louder when they’re wrestling each other or betting on their frequent competitions.  They have wild outfits and haircuts, and some even have tattoos that we can glimpse when they walk around all shirtless like nobody’s business. You’re only supposed to make improvements to the body you were born with. Why would they want to look as if they might be Deviant?

It makes them seem dangerous. And surprisingly enticing.

“I wish I could do that, enlist right now, before my birthday. I’d be gone before my assessment,” I say.

Jay stops pacing around my room to stare at me.

“What?”

“I just thought of a plan,” he says, a bit reluctantly.

“Is it a good plan?” I say. “’Cause you know that’s the only kind of plan I like. The good kind.”

“Two things. Shut. Up.” He says it in that voice that makes me do just that.

“This is probably stupid as hell, but I’m going to say it anyway.” Jay runs his hands over his face, which makes me nervous. “There’s a phantom, in the place,” he says, but he’s being careful and only mouths the word “phantom”.

“Can you fix it so you don’t have to wait until your birthday? Can we both enlist now so you can come with me?”

I’m stunned. Not only because Jay is suggesting this but because there is a phantom sim-seat. A phantom is completely anonymous, no feedback, no tracking, and there’s end-to-end encryption. I’d be able to move through the network undetected. If it’s real, it’s immeasurably more dangerous than any unregistered, illegal sim-seat. We’d have to move fast, that sim-seat won’t stay an entry point for very long.

“Do you think you can do it?” Jay asks with narrowed eyes.

I slowly nod my head as I think about how I could change my age in certain files. “I’m pretty sure I can.”

“Pretty sure is how you feel just before something goes very wrong,” Jay informs me. “You need to be sure sure.”

—

I have certain capabilities with digital data. When I’m immersed, I can exert some control over the flow of data instead of passively allowing the exchange of information.

When I’m in there, I sense the interactions happening and I can track the ones and zeros, the yes and no responses, and I can follow the patterns they make. This is the crucial thing. Where other people see only a door for their simbody to walk though, I also see the tunnel under the door. It makes me an excellent infiltrator. Jay is the only person who knows I can do this. I can’t use my sim-seat at home; it would be too easy to track me. I managed to disable certain security protocols on a sim-seat at school, though. I don’t do much because I’m too afraid of getting caught, but sometimes I’ll look at what my father’s up to, let his shipping schedules flow around me. Stupid, I know.

“Hurry up.” Jay sounds nervous. “And don’t make any stupid mistakes.”

He stands watch for me because I can lose awareness of my surroundings pretty easily. I pull the head gear down from the compartment above and tighten the strap around my forehead. The familiar feel of suction secures the helmet to my cranium.

“Listen. I don’t make stupid mistakes,” I say, trying for humor because I’m jumpy too. “Smart mistakes? Okay. But never stupid ones.” I flip the visor down, and it too secures itself in place. The real world disappears, and all I can see is the faint blue glow of the system in standby mode.

“Would you hurry up?” Jay says between gritted teeth before I’m enveloped by silence. I slip my hands into the glove-like armrests. There’s a tingle on the tips of my fingers as the connections are made. The faint glow becomes momentarily blinding, and I’m in. I stretch my arms out in front of me, but I can’t see them. I don’t have a shadow and I don’t leave any footprints behind. I’m a phantom.

I’m not going anywhere near the military nodes, why risk it? I track down certain files and make some changes that will propagate out. In a couple of hours, I should show up on a recruitment list that indicates I turned seventeen last week. We hotfoot it out of there once I’m done. A couple of blocks away we see a red hand print on the wall of a store. Beside it, someone has scrawled The Blood of our Blood is on Your Hands.

—

My orders arrived yesterday. I qualified for the Special Forces evaluation. By the time my altered file is scrutinized, I’ll probably be seventeen and old enough for the military anyway. Or dead. When I told my mother she looked relieved. She didn’t ask how I was able to enlist before my birthday. It just reminds me that I’m never going to be who she wants.

There’s this thing I do, in my head. I have a grey box and I shove all the stuff about my mother in it and then slam it shut. And when those things are in the box, it’s as if they don’t exist. I don’t ever open it and I can’t consciously think about it, or it won’t work. That brown mark is still there. It didn’t go away. I might need to cram that mark in there too.

Jay got his invitation to try for Airborne two days ago, so we’re leaving together. He’s very pleased that he’s leaving before his mother’s party. She, however, is not. I requested a posting to Intelligence. I think I’d be okay there. Intelligence is not a combat position, and I’d be pretty decent at it. Maybe even like it. I’ve been expecting the worst for so long that it’s strange to feel optimistic.

We’re going to a base somewhere near the border in the Arizona desert. I left a message for my father at his office. He hasn’t responded, and I have a train to catch in the morning.

3

––––––––

Present - June, 2125

It’s the end of the second week of the Special Operations Assessment and Selection course, and we’re down to 150 candidates. Half of us made it halfway.

I hear “Private, you think that’s funny? Beat your face, all of you!” and I sigh.

We all drop and start the twenty push-ups. Barry, my battle buddy this week, can’t do it. He’s struggling. Barry shouldn’t be here, and he’s making it difficult for the rest of us. I want to get this over with. I just want to pass.

“I said give me twenty, you ugly skid! There’s no one here who’s going to do them for you!” The drill sergeant’s face is a bright scarlet, skin stretched taut as he yells at Barry. I recently figured out that a skid is a skinny Deviant. Our enemy.

“This private will, Drill Sergeant,” I find myself saying loudly as I continue my push-ups. I don’t dare eyeball him.

“Will what?” he screams at me.

“This private will do her battle buddy’s push-ups, Drill Sergeant.”

I still don’t look at him because I’d probably chicken out if I did. Barry is my battle buddy, which means our fates are intertwined this week. If he’s held back, I’ll be held back too, which will make it that much harder to qualify, and I don’t have a lot of room for error. And, since he’s my battle buddy, he’s my responsibility this week. Not that I think he’d do the same for me. I finish my twenty and stand at attention. My heart beats loudly as I wait.

“Then let’s make it sixty,” my DS shouts, an inch from my face. “I want to hear you count ‘em out, skid. You’ve got sixty seconds.”

The rest of the platoon has finished the twenty and stands rigidly at attention, waiting to see what happens. They must think I’m crazy. Maybe I am. Barry hesitates for a moment before climbing to his feet, wobbling a little. I drop and count out loud. It’s harder to do push-ups while yelling. My muscles screech at me to stop, but I block them out. I fix on the tip of the drill sergeant’s polished black boot in front of my face. At fifty-four my body prepares to mutiny, but I think about what the DS could do to the whole platoon as punishment for my failure. I finish the sixty. I get up and stand at attention, breathing heavily, as I force my arms not to tremble.

I don’t know if I made things better or worse for myself.

Recall is announced, which means training is over for the afternoon.

“D-fac!” the DS orders, and I exhale.

D-fac is the Dining Facility. He’s going to let us eat. Maybe even sit down for the five minutes allotted for chow time. I take off before he can change his mind.

—

I‘m on my bunk in the barracks. We got permission to sleep. I can’t lift my arms. I have never done anything like that before, and I hate people looking at me. Desperation, combined with temporary insanity from lack of sleep, perhaps. They have to give us four hours of sleep per day now, but they do not have to be consecutive hours.

Tonight, because of the number of washouts, two barracks were consolidated. Barry got himself into sick bay so I guess I’ll have a new battle buddy tomorrow. Those of us remaining are a bit cocky. Well, the boys are, anyway. Some are practically naked, showing off muscles and brand new tattoos and making up stories about their fresh scars.

Ugh.

They swagger noisily around their side of the barracks trying to act like men, putting choke holds on each other and pulling stupid pranks. One boy was quietly and thoroughly taped to his bunk when he foolishly went to sleep before the others. Now he’s cursing and promising revenge as he struggles to get out of his bindings. A bunch of the other boys stand around laughing and cracking jokes. I need earplugs or something.

There’s a girl from my platoon in the bunk beside me who’s trying hard not to cry. I noticed her today because she wouldn’t give up. Even when she was falling to pieces, she kept marching or standing at attention or whatever pointless thing we were ordered to do. I surprise myself by slipping over to sit on the edge of her bed.

She jerks away from me.

“I don’t want anything,” I say quietly. “I only want to tell you to hang in there. I watched you today, and I know it’s hard. It’s hard for me too, but we both gotta stick it out, okay?”

The girl wipes her nose with the back of her hand and nods at me with wide eyes. “I’m Anna.”

“I’m Jess. We should get some sleep.”

“Why did you do that today?” Anna asks me. She means the push-ups.

I shrug, a little embarrassed. “I couldn’t let that boy hold me back.”

She nods. “I’ve really gotta make it. I want to get out there, waste some skids, and do my part to safeguard this country. My brother did it, and now it’s my turn to do my duty.”

Her voice is surprisingly fierce.

Then she asks, “Will you stay here?” The scared little girl inside her has returned.

I shake my head. “Then neither of us will make it. We’ll look weak. We can’t afford to depend on anyone else in here, or we’ll be like Barry.”

“After today, you don’t need to worry about anyone thinking you’re weak,” Anna says quietly.

I slide back into my own bunk.

—

Anna is a bit down the line from me as we receive a lesson on land mines and other explosives. I nod at her. She nods back but looks a bit embarrassed. I gather she doesn’t want to be friends or anything; that’s fine, I’m used to it.

We’re at the border on a stretch of barren red sand, a few miles out from the base. I’ve never been this close to the dark, looming wall that keeps the Deviants out. To the south, I can see the strange protruding formations of the badlands, but it’s hard to tell how far away they are. It’s humbling to think how long this desert has been here, that dinosaurs once walked the very earth I stand on…

And that’s just the kind of thinking that can keep a girl distracted from more immediate problems. Such as land mines.

There are land mines hidden between us and the wall, and we need to clear the area. We’re shown several methods, and my group uses all of them. We believe the area’s clear.

“Someone needs to walk across, or tell their team to do it all again,” our instructor says.

No one reacts. The instructor was expecting this. She crosses her arms and waits. She’s got all day. There is some furious huddling in the groups around me, but I know my team has done everything properly. We swept the entire area, but we concentrated on clearing a corridor down the middle to allow us to walk single file. I think this exercise is about fear. We could check and check again while the enemy advances on us, but at some point we have to trust that we’ve done it.

“I’ll go,” I say, and step outside the safety area without waiting to see anyone’s reaction.

I’m right, or I’m wrong, but at least we’re no longer paralyzed by indecision. I have a suspicion that the mines aren’t live. Why would they spend so much time and money training people, just to blow them up? Down the line, Anna watches me. I step gingerly, but move at a fairly rapid pace, and soon enough I’m at the other side.

Bolstered by my easy crossing, Anna follows my lead. She moves too quickly, though, without enough caution. When she’s about a third of the way across her group’s section we all see her freeze; she must have heard the click that tells her she depressed a trigger. Anna stands there for a moment and the finality of her predicament registers. Did they use live mines? She could stay where she is forever, but we all know that’s impossible. I hold my breath, willing a different outcome. She slowly lifts her foot.

She does not die in combat, doing her duty, defending something she believes in. Hers is not a heroic death. This is a stupid training exercise.

I can’t depend on anyone, and I can’t take anything for granted, I tell myself as I gather up Anna’s belongings and load them neatly into her pack. It’s still sitting on her stripped bunk in the morning, looking alone and forgotten.

—

Less than a week left and I’m about to start the Victory Tower, which I’m looking forward to. As it stands right now, making it to Special Forces could go either way for me. I need to perform exceptionally well here, and my rock climbing experience gives me an edge.

I have to complete an obstacle course at extreme heights, using ropes and ladders and my own strength, and finish by rappelling down a fifty-foot wall. This is to prepare us for traversing the barren, crumbling world on the other side of the border. Two people are still ahead of me. I want to yell at them to hurry up.

The dark-haired boy in front of me eventually takes hold of a rope and begins to pull himself up. He doesn’t look like he has much experience at this. I hope he doesn’t hold me up. My hands clench in anticipation. I hadn’t realized how much I missed climbing.

I finally get the nod and haul myself up the thick rope, hand over hand, my feet holding the rope taut beneath me. I climb higher and higher. A rope ladder is just out of reach. I rock my body to begin swinging, and my momentum builds until I can grab the ladder. I transfer and continue to climb. Next is a series of suspended rungs, like a schoolyard jungle gym. I grasp the first and use my abs to swing forward, grab the next one, and move rung by rung across a chasm, the bottom unseen, far below. My feet find a solid surface, and I pause for a moment to take deep breaths. This is great, exhilarating! I see a trapeze swing and grasp it firmly with both hands. I use the available space to take a running leap and swing out. I soar back and forth, arching my body to increase my velocity. I let go and fly through the air to land on a platform below. I continue to move, climb, swing, crawl.

Up ahead I can see the finish. The platform ends, drops off to nothing. The dark-haired boy is there, preparing to rappel. He has the ropes set up incorrectly and will have no control over his descent. I don’t know if I should intervene or not. Will I lose or gain points for helping? Around here it’s hard to tell.

“Wait,” I shout.

I make my way over and correct the ropes. Our times are critical, that’s what made my decision. I don’t want him to delay me by injuring himself.

“Okay, go,” I tell him. He looks at me, a little incredulous.

I quickly hook myself in and wait impatiently for him to drop down.

“Go!” I urge him. “Push off with your feet. You can control your own speed.”

He begins hesitantly; drops only a few feet each time, but eventually gets more daring and makes it to the bottom. I swiftly follow in two drops and hit the ground beside him. I disengage myself and look at him. Why is he still here? I leg it. I need a strong finish time.

—

I have another day of qualifying, but I’m almost done. I managed a first-time Go on everything so far: swim, march, obstacle, navigation, even physical fitness. Everything except the firing range; that was a No-Go. I have to try again. I have psychological now, and then tactical, which includes hand-to-hand.

It’s a relief to slide into the sim-seat and I reach for the helmet. This is the one that will make me eligible for Intelligence. I am very confident of my abilities.

My fingers tingle as the connection is made, and it starts. The IQ test comes up, twelve minutes allotted. I whip through it, maybe missed one because I ran out of time. Next is a battery of multiple-choice scenarios aimed at gauging your personality. They claim it’s impossible to manipulate it.

Wrong.

Here’s the fun stuff now. Analyzing text and parsing, sorting clusters, identifying patterns. My body goes limp as I enter the stream. Last is the cryptography, with random-number-generated encryption, hashing, that kind of thing.

Ooh, they added in some steganography, encryption within encryption.

The helmet relinquishes its hold on my head and I realize I’m finished. I leave with a smile. I know I did exceptionally well.

Chow time. I look glumly at the food on offer as a pretty girl brazenly cuts the line in front of me. She sneaks extra crackers and two apples into her pockets and disappears. Stealing food from d-fac is a major infraction.

—

It’s been one hundred years since the half-mile-long chunk of celestial ice known as God’s Fury fell out of the sky and into the Arabian Sea. The tsunamis that followed were relentless in their devastation. We saw footage of them engulfing vast shanty towns all over fourth-world countries. A lot of them didn’t even have governments anymore. They’d lost control. Refugees were overrunning the functioning countries, setting up those shanty towns, and eventually causing the collapse of those countries, too. And then they were gone, swept away.

The Devotees tell us this is proof that Devo set America on the right path. After the Genetic Integrity Act was passed and the borders were closed, God sent his Fury to cleanse the Earth, leaving us with the task of improving the human race.

I was born during the total eclipse of the sun on October 5, 2108. An eclipse can last for hours as the moon passes in front of the sun, but totality is when the moon appears to block out the sun completely, and the earth goes dark. Totality was only three minutes and fifty seconds long, but that’s when I was born. The date and time are on my right foot, which means I got the Devotee’s seal of approval when I was born. My mother still took the eclipse as a bad sign.

I suppose that’s why I started looking up. I want to be ready to dodge whatever is coming for me.

I have about fifteen minutes until lights out. I’m not supposed to be out of barracks, but there’s a clear sky, and this might be my only chance to see the June Bootids meteor shower. It’s usually pretty weak, but this year promises a zenith hourly rate of up to a hundred. My insides thrum with excitement.

I never talked about my stargazing to anyone at home because they’re all afraid to look up. My telescope is about the only thing from home I miss. I know about tonight’s meteor shower because I secretly have an espenak, a database with a five-millennium catalog of celestial information.

How I got it is kind of strange. I was on a school camping excursion. I hated it until it got dark. The night sky was so beautiful there. I snuck off to be by myself and look up. Jay was not on that trip, so it’s not as if anyone would notice I was gone. I was being goofy, measuring how far apart the stars were with my fingers and then pretending to squish them.

“Don’t squash Jupiter, it’s my favorite,” a voice beside me said.

I was too surprised to be scared.

He was an old man, at least to me. His hair was still jet black, though, and his eyes were a shining dark gold. Anyway, he started telling me about the stars and the planets and how you could navigate with them. He was talking about angles and degrees and orbits, and I got it right away. I’m good with patterning and everything up there follows its own pattern. It all makes sense.

“Whenever I look at the stars, I know they haven’t noticed that I’m here. They’ve been up there since long before I came along, and they don’t even know I exist. That’s when I remember not to take myself quite so seriously,” he said.

And then he gave me the espenak. It’s a silver-colored sphere on a chain, and it looks as if it should be heavy, but it isn’t. It has lines etched into it. Except they aren’t actually etched; sections move if you know how to do it. He said it was like a puzzle box, and he showed me how to move the parts to open it up. Somehow, the small sphere becomes a flat box with a compass design on its surface. A holograph pops up when it’s opened correctly, and he said I could retrieve whatever data about the stars I needed. Then he showed me how to use the information.

“It’s yours now,” he said when we saw the sun on the horizon. We’d been at it all night.

“Mine? Why me?” I couldn’t believe anyone would give something so wonderful to someone like me.

“A teacher of mine gave this to me, and now it’s time for me to pass it on,” he said. “I’m glad I finally found you. There aren’t too many of these around, and every generation needs a few good people to keep an eye on Heaven. When it’s your turn to pass it on, make sure you find someone worthy, someone like you.”

That was the best night of my life, the best thing that anyone has ever said to me, and I never even asked him his name.

The thing is, now I know when certain things are going to happen. Things other people don’t want to know about. It made me question a whole lot of things that I grew up thinking were absolute truths. For instance, I’m pretty sure the meteor named God’s Fury came from the P100ST comet and not necessarily from God, and the comet’s hundred-year orbit is bringing it back this summer. The Devotees aren’t talking about the comet, but they are preparing for the centennial celebration of God’s Fury. They are expecting God to let us know if we’re still on the right path.

In the meantime, I want to see tonight’s meteor shower.

I’m much better at sneaking around than firing a rifle, and I have a stolen apple in my pocket in case I need a bribe. One building over from my barracks, with my back against the wall, I edge my way to the corner and a ladder that goes up into darkness.

Soundlessly, I climb up and over the parapet onto the roof. Before I can turn around an arm snakes around my waist from behind, trapping my arms, and a hand closes tightly over my mouth. My legs kick uselessly as I’m hauled behind what might be a heat exhaust and dragged up against a hard body.

“Can you be silent?” a voice hisses at me.

OK, stay calm, maybe I’m not going to die.

I get a sharp squeeze. “You were about as quiet as a grenade coming up here. Can you be silent now?” he asks again, with more urgency.

I nod quickly. It’s hard to breathe. The hand loosens, but is positioned to clamp back down. Two breaths, in and out.

I manage to turn my head enough to see a uniform. His grip on my waist relaxes a little.

“I’d have noticed if you were following me, so why are you here?” he asks in a low voice.

I’m momentarily distracted and whip my head around when the first meteor streaks across the night sky.

“Why would I want to follow you?” I ask, both indignantly and a little too loudly. “Look. I didn’t expect anyone to be up here, okay? Why are you up here?”

Who is this guy?

“I can tell how hard you’re trying to be quiet,” he says softly and gives me a sharp squeeze. “Try harder.”

I struggle to break free, and quite unintentionally my foot kicks the vent. Loudly. I need to try harder.

“Are you simpleminded all the time or does it come and go?” He is angry now. “This isn’t hide and seek. You could be dead right now.”

I can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, against my back. I don’t think he’s going to kill me. His pulse would be accelerated, wouldn’t it?

He suddenly pushes me face down, flat against the roof, and half lies on top of me. It happens fast and feels impersonal, as if it’s a practiced move done without thinking. I squirm and try to complain about the rock jabbing into my abdomen, but he presses his fingers firmly on my lips as he pins me to the roof. “Be still,” he commands.

He’s lost interest in me and turns toward a movement down on the ground. I can make out a transport backing up to a hangar bay. A few soldiers hop out, and then three civilians stumble from the back of the vehicle. The soldier on top of me curses under his breath when he sees them. There’s a woman with matted auburn hair, and one of the men has lost a shoe and limps along unevenly. They’re in torn, dirty clothing.

I get a blinding flash of the perfectly obvious and give up my resistance. This isn’t about me sneaking around. Not even close. It’s a little late, but the fear finally creeps in and I start to sweat. I’m acutely aware of his body pressed into mine as we watch the people below disappear into the building.

He remembers I’m here, and his fingers leave my lips but he keeps me pinned. “Okay,” he says, his chin over my shoulder as he speaks in my ear. “Tell me again why you’re here?”

“The meteor sh—”

He squeezes me tightly before I can finish. “Wrong answer,” he whispers in my ear, and I shiver.

His breath is warm, it tickles my neck and I inhale his scent. My brain is now mush and my eyes are squeezed shut.

Think!

Wait a second. He’s not supposed to be here either.

“I wasn’t here.” I exhale quickly a few times, trying to expel the fear that is mixed with a shaky desire.

“And while you weren’t here, what did you see?”

“I wasn’t here, so how could I see anything?” I answer as my eyes fly open.

He finally rolls off me and we sit up.

“I guess your simple-mindedness does come and go,” he says, amused.

“Jackass,” I mumble under my breath.

I think he smiles, but I’m not sure all my senses are working properly.

He nods to the ladder. As I step over, I realize I miss the feel of him pressed against me. I head down and he follows. Back on the ground we look at each other for a moment. I have to look up because he is tall, taller than Jay. His eyes are the silvery-gray color of ashes. There’s a hint of a lazy smile as he shakes his head.

“A meteor? I’ll be keeping an eye on you… J. Grant,” he says slowly, and walks away at an unhurried pace as I stand in a state I believe is called catatonic.

Over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought, he says, “And you most definitely did not see me.”

He disappears and I lean against the wall, dazed. I can still feel his fingers on my lips.

Hang on.

How did he know my name?

4

––––––––

It’s dawn, not yet six in the morning, as I trudge over open desert to the range. There are ten narrow lanes marked by metal fencing, with various people-shaped targets positioned at the far end. This is not virtual training. These are real targets and real weapons for the real world that is out there, on the other side. At the entrance, a private, hand on her hip, talks to a tall sergeant. He’s in black fatigues, which makes him Special Forces. When the sergeant turns to look my way I recognize him from the rooftop last night. He’s got his arms folded across his chest and he says something to the private as he watches me approach. He makes me nervous, which ticks me off, and I’m not sure what I should say. Before I reach them he turns to leave, and I scope him out as he walks away. His pants are belted low, so they hang off his narrow hips. He has this long, ground-eating stride that makes his movements seem effortless, and makes it difficult for me to look away. It turns out he’s even better looking in daylight than he was in the dark.

Somehow I’m both relieved and disappointed that he’s walking away.

“Jackass,” I mutter, which makes me feel better.

“You Grant?” the private asks, sizing me up as I approach. I nod, warily. “I’m Sheree LeSalle, your new battle buddy,” she announces.

This is weird, and I’m a little scared. It’s the girl who cut in line last night to steal apples.

She’s very pretty, and something in her attitude makes her seem kind of tough. Her light brown hair is pulled back, like mine, but she makes it look good.

“Let’s practice,” she says. She sounds cheerful about it.

She walks like a cat, quick, but not in a rush. Her hips sway, even with combat boots on. It’s just the way she’s built. She must drive the boys crazy.

We proceed down the range to number six, and she stops.

“Let me see what you’ve got,” she says bluntly.

I reach for the ear protection, and she rolls her eyes.

“You know they don’t hand those things out when it’s time to shoot for real, right?” she deadpans.

I stare at her for a moment and toss them away, which produces a little smile on her face.

“Are you here to kill me?” I ask.

Her big eyes open wider. “Now why would I want to do that?”

Hmm. Because you were talking to the guy who doesn’t want anyone to know I saw him last night, and now I’m conveniently on a firing range with lots of loaded weapons that could “accidentally” go off.

I shrug and remind myself that I wasn’t there last night, and neither was he.

I get into position and aim my pistol at the target. My hands are a little sweaty. Everything is uncomfortable. I take a deep breath and squeeze. Nothing happens. I look at my weapon curiously and hear a big sigh.

“So you got a No-Go, did you? That’s really surprising.”

I could get annoyed, but she’s kinda funny, in that sarcastic-but-not-mean way I’m used to from Jay. I might be starting to like her.

She steps over, pushes me to the side. Her hands glide in one smooth movement to get her pistol in place, and squeeze off two shots to the heart, one to the head. The sound makes me jump, but she is rock solid.

“That is what you should be trying for, but let’s start with firing a bullet from a weapon,” Sheree says. “Use your middle finger for the trigger so that your index finger is aligned with the barrel. You are now pointing at your target, increasing accuracy. Point and shoot.”

She demonstrates and tells me to try again. The bullet exits, but it’s not what you’d call an accurate shot.

“Like my daddy says, if you’ve got to kill a man you’d best kill him quick, and if you want to be sure he’s dead, you’d best be dead sure. So. You want to stop the breathing, start the bleeding and induce shock. That makes your targets the brain, the heart and the spine.”

Sheree shoots them on the target in quick succession to punctuate her words.

“Now, that means the kill zone on the human body—front or back— is about 36 inches long and six inches wide, from the top of the head to the groin. One bullet, anywhere in that zone, will incapacitate the target. Two is better.”

I spend four hours with her. She’s surprisingly patient. There’s still no way I’m going to get a Go. I’m seriously worried. I have to qualify for firearms; that one is non-negotiable if I’m going to make it. And I should have used protection—my ears are ringing.

As I head over for chow, I spot Sheree with the tall sergeant again. He’s rubbing his chin, and she’s shrugging and shaking her head. They’re up to something. Then she cuts in line and tells me that my weapons qualification has been pushed back, so I have one more day to practice.

“What’s going on? Who was that sergeant?” I ask her as I look around, but he’s gone.

She shrugs and loads up her pockets. I’m grateful for the extra day, but this is just downright weird. I mean, what’s it to him?

—

Somebody shakes me awake. I’m confused, but jump up and stand at attention, thinking it’s a middle-of-the-night locker check. When I finally focus, it’s Sheree, gesturing to keep quiet and follow.

Now what?

Apparently I had three hours of sleep, and she says that’s enough. I’m back at the firing range at zero dark stupid o’clock. Sheree sets me to work. I know I need the practice, so I go along, but I use the ear protection this time. I watch the moving target, bite my lip, and squeeze. I might have hit it!

“It is difficult to hit the head when you’re in actual combat,” Sheree explains. “As your heart rate increases, your motor skills diminish. In order to inflict extreme violence you require an inner calm to do it with any accuracy. That’s why you use the double-tap tap. Two rapid shots in the heart, one in the head.”

“The target could be wearing body armor, so the double-tap to the heart is to focus you, then you only have to raise your rifle by a hair for the kill shot.”

Sheree demonstrates the double-tap tap and steps aside. I imitate her and yell “Heart! Heart! Head!” as I shoot. I don’t hit the heart, or the head.

I have aimed at every kind of target—stationary, moving, simultaneous engagement of multiple targets—and from every position—prone, crouching, behind barricade, single-handed, low light. I still have terrible aim.

Now it’s grenades. Sheree reminds me that, without the firing pin, the grenade is not our friend. Grenades sound easy.

“Buddy, cover me while I move,” I say.

“Gotcha covered, buddy,” Sheree replies.

I go through the steps, say them in my head.

Proper grip.

Thumb to clip.

Twist, pull pin.

Sneak a peek.

“I’m up,” I yell as I throw it. “I’m down.”

“You did it!” Sheree says in exaggerated disbelief.

I stick my tongue out at her, but I’m pleased. I want to go back to bed now, but I have pugil fighting. All the platoons are together for the pugil fighting, and I’m desperately hoping to see Jay. It’s only been three weeks, but it seems like three months.

—

I pull on the hard jacket, the helmet, and the groin guard and get fitted with the big gloves. There are four combat areas, marked by low walls made from piled sandbags. The sun is already too bright, and it’s only eight in the morning. It goes fast. I bash about with the giant padded stick for three rounds, and it’s over.

I make eye contact with Jay and he grins back at me. He looks fantastic, even with his buzz cut. He motions to me and we sneak to the back of the watching crowd, where we won’t be seen. I jump at him, arms around his neck, fat wet kiss on the cheek. Jay gives me a little swing around, tells me how terrific I look.

I do? I haven’t seen a mirror since I got here, part of that losing our personality thing. We catch up quick. He, of course, is qualifying at expert level for everything. I tell him about my terrible aim. Jay says I have to pretend I’m shooting at Blake. I give him another hug and feel a prickle on my neck. I turn to see that sergeant, leaning lazily against some sandbags, watching me. My eyes skid over to his and then away.

I guess he meant it, about keeping an eye on me. But why? It makes no sense and I wish he’d just go away. I turn back and give him my best glare.

“Jess.” Jay nudges me. “Something’s up.”

Four jeeps and a tank come tearing across the desert toward us. The soldiers on board are all whooping and hollering like mad, one of them is pounding the SAW, the machine gun, shooting at nothing. They’ve come back from a mission, Jay tells me. Everyone around us cheers them on as they make a wide arc in front of us.

“How many skids they got?” a boy in front of us asks as he goes up on his toes for a better look.

A thick metal chain hangs from the back of one of the jeeps. A cold, awful, wave of revulsion runs through me when I see what that chain is dragging across the desert. Bodies. Their arms are stretched out above their heads, bound to the ankles of the body behind them. A mangled, monstrous, human daisy chain. There are seven of them. The first one in line, with his legs bound to the metal chain, has one arm stretching at an impossible and unnatural angle behind his head; it is going to rip right off. I hope they were dead before this grotesque parade started.

I bite down hard on my lip and I look away, wondering why those two officers that were just here have disappeared. That sergeant is still here, he’s moved up a bit. He’s watching with crossed arms, and his face is set in a hard expression. He’s not cheering them on. That makes me like him a bit more. Not that I already like him. I don’t even know him.

—

After the horrific scene in the desert I took an extra-long shower but still feel dirty. I walk toward the psych-testing building to check on my score. It’s blistering hot out and the sun beats down, but I try to recapture my good mood. I anticipate excellent results. I locate my access code and pull up the report. I have to go back to the beginning to make sure it’s mine.

My stomach drops about a mile. How can this be?

I look around, confused, and look it over again. I scored forty out of a possible fifty points? I know it is wrong. I ask the clerk who I can speak to about this. She makes a call and tells me Sergeant Anderson will see me. She sends me to the office at the end of the hall. The door is closed, but I march in without knocking and stop dead.

Oh, come on.

It’s him, of course. That sergeant. He comes from around his desk.

“Please. Come in. Don’t let my closed door deter you in the slightest,” he says. “Since you are such an unusually loud girl I heard you coming, and had time to put away all that pesky top-secret stuff.”

He’s making fun of me?

Don’t. Throttle. The sergeant.

He leans back against the desk, his long legs stretch out in front and cross at the ankles, his hands splay out behind him. He looks too casual. I’m a bit disconcerted. This is not normal protocol.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“My score is wrong,” I insist. “My access code is Triple-Three Charlie Eight Foxtrot Tango.” I make extra sure not to eyeball him, but I’m fuming as I add, “Sergeant.”

When he says nothing, I look up at him. He has a lazy kind of smile that starts on one side. One corner of his mouth twitches a little when he’s trying to hold the smile in. Like now.

I suddenly think I must be the victim of a practical joke, and suffer a wave of embarrassment. My mouth goes dry as I look around. Is someone watching? I look back at him, eyes narrowed. He looks way too young to be a sergeant, eighteen or nineteen, maybe twenty.

“The report stands,” he says with confidence.

Before I have a chance to object, a quartermaster warrant officer around my mother’s age walks right in. Warrant officers rank between officers and enlisted, and the quartermasters control everything considered a necessity. Fuel, clothing, transportation, where you sleep and what you eat. Everything.

She has a matte grey gauntlet on her left forearm that extends from wrist to elbow. Known as the Master Sleeve, it’s more commonly called the Slave Master. She controls it, and it controls inventory. So if you know what’s good for you, you never want to piss off a quartermaster.

“There you are, Matt. I’ve been looking for you,” she scolds him, and taps air with her fingers, sending internal commands to the device on her arm. She flicks her hand, a virtual requisition appears, and she extends her arm to Matt.

“Approvals, please,” she says, clearly not expecting him to question her.

“Hello Joan.” Matt slides his index finger into a depression near her wrist and tilts his head toward her. “Glad you’re in your usual cheery mood. And I’m well, thank-you for asking,” he chides her in a slow drawl.

She gives him a scowl that turns his smirk into a sheepish grin that immediately disappears.

This isn’t a joke, but it’s all too casual and friendly to be army. No one is saluting, and she called him Matt. At least I have a name now, Sergeant Matt Anderson

Joan gives her arm a shake, the requisition disappears, and she walks smartly out the door. Matt looks at me as if he’s surprised I’m still here.

“The report is wrong. My score was better than that, and I want it changed.” Now I’m mad, and I glare at him. “And I think you had something to do with it,” I announce.

“And I think you shouldn’t do so much thinking,” he warns. “You’re already troublesome enough.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“As I said, the report stands. Hit some of those targets tomorrow and you’ll be fine,” Matt says.

A door on my right suddenly swings wide, accompanied by a loud, deep laugh. The laugh belongs to a very tall, redheaded boy with wide shoulders and lots of freckles.

“If it’s stupid, but works, it isn’t stupid!” he yells over his shoulder as he enters. “Hey Matt, I’ve got a line on some—” he says, but stops short when he sees me.

Matt sighs and says, “Boyd.”

Boyd looks sheepish and comically takes giant steps backward through the door. Matt pushes himself away from the desk and takes a step toward me.

“Did you know your eyes turn greener when you’re angry?” he says, and follows Boyd out the door, pulling it closed behind him.

I stand alone in the office, totally bewildered and thoroughly ticked off.

Why would he say something like that? You can’t be all arrogant one second, and then tell a girl you noticed her eyes.

Honestly.

I stomp out to the clerk, and ask as nicely as I can if Matt is actually a sergeant.

She laughs and tells me that, yes, he is indeed a sergeant; in fact, he’s the recipient of the Army Distinguished Service Cross for extreme gallantry and risk of life in combat with the enemy.

“Well, that explains everything,” I tell her as I leave.

—

I finish hand-to-hand-combat qualifying.

No-Go.

No surprise, either.

I don’t need hand-to-hand to work in Intelligence, but I need to find someone else to talk to about my psych score. I head over for chow even though I’m not hungry.

“Matt!” I hear someone shout. It’s a kid, maybe nine or ten, tearing along ahead of me. And there he is. Matt. My feet slow as I watch the kid jump onto Matt’s back and they wrestle around. Matt is laughing and acting goofy and it makes me smile. I guess he’s not Mr. Arrogant with everyone. Just me.

I’m not following them; I’m just going in the same direction. They jump into a jeep and the boy is whooping at something Matt said. The tires spit gravel as they take off. I miss Jay.

—

It’s the last day. No matter what happens, I will be extremely happy to get out of this barracks. It’s loud, it stinks of teenage-boy sweat, and although no one has tried to pull anything on me, I’m done with the short sheeting and other pranks.

Today, tactical is first, lots of “buddy, go buddy” stuff and I manage to get a Go.

Firing range next. I can already feel the beginnings of a muscle spasm in my right calf as I wait for my turn. I make my shoulders fall, trying to relax them as I adjust my sweaty grip on my rifle.

It hits me, like a punch in the stomach. This is it. There are no more chances after this. The next hour will decide if I’m in Special Forces or not. And this wouldn’t be such a close call if my psych score hadn’t been tampered with. My guts clench painfully at the thought of failure.

“You’ll do good,” Sheree says from behind me.

I’m disoriented, my heart is racing. Where did she come from? It’s as if she appeared out of nowhere. My name is called, so I don’t have time to say anything. I try not to think and just do what I practiced. As it turns out there is no time to think, so it’s not a problem. The whole thing is a mad jumble of loud noises and moving targets and a charley horse in my leg.

Heart, heart, head.

At least I know how to fire my rifle now.

I’m breathing heavily; it’s loud in my ears as I wait to hear my score. I need twenty-three to qualify. I’m not going to make it. I know it. I feel numb. My eyes widen as Sheree emerges from the course and stands beside me with a wink.

“Grant!”

I step up to the qualifying sergeant with a lead weight in my belly. He says, “Twenty-nine, you’re a Go.”

I absorb the word Go, and the relief hits me like a wave. Except I think I might puke.

“Harnett,” the sergeant calls, and Sheree steps forward. Harnett is not her name. “Seventeen, you’re a No-Go.”

She grabs my arm and steers me outside before I can react.

I don’t know how, but it’s obvious the scores were switched.

“I was the one who got seventeen, and somehow you only got a twenty-nine, Harnett,” I say accusingly, knowing she should have had a perfect score. I’m all topsy-turvy as I struggle to figure out what this means.

“Look, I was following orders. And it was kinda fun to miss all those targets,” she says happily.

I guess if she did hit all the targets, they’d never believe it was my score when she switched them.

“See you in Special Forces.” Sheree waggles her fingers at me and strolls off.

I want to chase after her, but my feet won’t move. None of me will move.

I made it.

I’m going to be in Special Forces! A grin spreads across my face, and I look around for someone to tell.

Sigh.

—

I‘m in d-fac with Jay and two of his platoon buddies. Everyone who made it is here tonight and a celebratory mood is the air.

I filled Jay in about my qualifying, and he’s just as stumped as me about why Matt would sabotage my psych score, but then get Sheree to qualify me on the firing range. Because I’m pretty sure that’s what he did, and I have no idea why. I’m keeping an eye out for Sheree so I can corner her.

Jay tells me a joke that is very funny… if you are Airborne. I can’t quite stifle a yawn.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jay complains.

I yawn again, a whopping wide-open one this time. Jay teases me, says I’m acting like a civilian and I should suck it up. But I’m honestly dead on my feet, and tell Jay I’ll see him in the morning.

“Um, do you think you could leave already? I want to talk about you behind your back?” Jay urges me.

“Har de har har. You’re just a laugh a minute, aren’t you?”

“It’s one of my more endearing qualities,” he declares.

I wrap an arm around his neck and give him a kiss on the cheek.

As I turn to go I see Matt, so naturally I freeze. I’m hit with a fierce rush of anticipation, and I have the urge to talk to him. Or kick him. I can’t decide.

He saves me the trouble. He strolls over, and one of Jay’s buddies says, “Oh, hi, Matt. Do you know Jay? And that’s Jess.”

Matt nonchalantly nods to Jay, who stiffens when he realizes who Matt is.

“J. Grant,” Matt says to me as his gray eyes meet mine.

I’m suddenly incapable of speech. My catatonic state has returned.

Matt leans in to me a bit. “You’re unusually quiet,” he murmurs.

And he winks at me. He winks and strolls off.

Kick him. I most definitely want to kick him.

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DEBORAH RIX

External Forces is the first book in The Laws Of Motion trilogy, to be followed by Acceleration and Opposition. I hope you enjoyed these preview chapters. External Forces is available in paperback or digital download from your favorite bookseller. Come say hello.

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