Author: Elana Johnson
Date: 2012-04-24 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Dystopia; Young Adult; Short Stories; Science Fiction; Fiction; Romance; Paranormal; Paranormal Romance; Novella
Description: Set in the world of Possession and Surrender, this riveting, original eBook reveals pieces of Jag’s mysterious past and the inner workings of the Resistance.When Jag, the leader of the Resistance, goes missing during a mission, Indy feels like her heart might break. But as Jag’s second in command, she must put her feelings for him aside and take charge. With Jag in the Thinkers’ hands, the Resistance needs Indy’s smart strategy and calm leadership now more than ever. Indy knows that wherever Jag is, he’s counting on her to continue the fight. But then Jag returns . . . with a girl named Vi. In

regret

Also by Elana Johnson
possession
surrender

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SIMON PULSE

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

First Simon Pulse eBook edition April 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Elana Johnson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Designed by Angela Goddard

The text of this book was set in Berling.

ISBN 978-1-4424-6781-1 (eBook)

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4: six weeks later

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

1.

Jag Barque moved with catlike grace. Even the way he waved away someone with an unnecessary question held a fluidity I admired. I wished I didn’t. My eyes burned because I hadn’t blinked in a while, but I couldn’t stop staring as Jag talked with my brother, Irvine.

Finally, when Jag refused to acknowledge me, I turned away with a muffled scoff. It was for the best, really. I didn’t want to appear obsessive, even if everyone already knew about my continued obsession with Jag, the leader of the Resistance. I reminded myself that I had broken up with him.

I felt eyes on me and instantly knew I’d find him frowning at me from across the living room. He’d certainly be able to feel my anger and annoyance at him from that far. His empathic genes really pissed me off sometimes. All the time these days.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his intense, blue-eyed gaze. Instead, I hugged myself and rubbed my hands over my upper arms, pretending to be interested in the conversation taking place next to me.

“Right, Indy?” Lex asked. When I looked at him, I found the glint of knowing in his eyes. I drew a deep breath in a too-late attempt to mask my irritation at Jag.

“Right,” I answered, though I had no clue what he’d said. I didn’t care what Lex Yardley and Winston Luthy were arguing over. They had been selected for the mission into the Goodgrounds, and I had not. Thanks to Jag and the reasons he wouldn’t explain.

But I nodded when they did and even pointed to something on the chart Lex had spread across his lap. He flashed me a quick smile, sweeping his shaggy bangs out of his eyes before focusing back on the task at hand.

His job was to make sure the border guards in the Goodgrounds had somewhere else to be while the Resistance infiltration team crossed into the forest. Lex was amazing at his job, and I liked working with him.

Ignoring Jag fully now, I truly engaged in the discussion with Lex and Winston. I settled on the arm of the couch and tuned out the hushed conversation around me.

Winston sported a hooked nose, and his voice came out too nasal for my taste. But he could run as fast and quiet as a panther, and he knew how to hot-wire anything. He could probably make a potato explode with a length of copper tech and ten seconds’ time. He was dead useful on missions, and while I envied him for his permanent status on the infiltration team, I couldn’t hate him for it.

So completely had I forced myself into the preparations for a mission I wasn’t participating in, I didn’t realize Jag stood before me until he cleared his throat.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Not interested,” I replied, leaning over to collect a handful of papers Lex had discarded. My hands didn’t even shake. Cramped handwriting filled each page, and I focused on the letters so I wouldn’t have to look at Jag.

Everything about him was big. His stature, his charisma, his ego. Let him wait, I thought.

He sighed, a sound that generally meant I’d won. But in this case I knew I hadn’t. Jag didn’t change his mind. Not about missions. Ever.

“Is this about the mission? Or Sloan?”

“The mission,” I said, and then immediately regretted saying it so fast. Keep it together, Indy. That definitely meant my stormy silence was about both. Stupid Sloan Washburn. She’d been after Jag since the day I had gotten together with him last summer at his fifteenth birthday party. Just like she’d petitioned for second-in-command in the Resistance when she found out I wanted the job. Just like she’d stayed up all night studying technological advances so she could score better than me on the test. Even though we were best friends, Sloan had this weird competition with me that I didn’t understand. And there was no prize bigger than Jag Barque.

He’d insisted nothing had happened between him and Sloan eight days ago. But I had seen everything for myself. The loud party music still pounded through my head, and the smell of stale water and rancid body odor still permeated my senses.

Jag had been dancing, drawing more than a few appreciative female glances. He’d snaked one arm around my waist and drawn me close. I remember smiling and breathing in the piney scent of him. Never one for displaying my affections in public, I’d stepped back and made an excuse about needing something to drink.

A true gentleman, he’d offered to get anything I wanted. But I knew how to play the game, and I knew if I left Jag, I’d leave him wanting. I’d felt his eyes on me as I’d walked away. I may have added a bounce to my step and a sway to my hips for him to admire. May have.

Five minutes, I’d told myself. He’d miss me after five minutes, and it would be the perfect time to return to the comfort and strength of his arms. At the refreshment table, I sipped tepid water and idly chatted with Lex. Every second away from Jag felt too long, filled with minimal oxygen and too much noise.

When I’d made my way back to the edge of the party, I’d found Sloan’s hands on his chest and his on her wrists. She looked to be laughing, and he smiled and leaned closer, and that’s when I realized I’d dropped my cup.

Water splashed my ankles and the movement around me blurred. I did not want to witness Jag kissing another girl. Especially not Sloan. Pain warred with fury inside my stomach, which cramped against the sight before me.

Suddenly Jag turned, jerked away from Sloan and her enviable multilength, multicolored hair, and started through the crowd toward me.

Just as quick, I twisted and sprinted away from the party, leaving my cup on the ground. Whenever Jag looked at me, I couldn’t hide how I felt about him, about anything. Better not to give him a chance to pin me with those bright blue eyes.

I hadn’t spoken more than a few words to Jag since then, and even those conversations had revolved around the Resistance. I couldn’t bear to discuss anything else.

“I wasn’t going to kiss her,” he said, bringing me back to the present. I stood and leaned against the wall, noting the quick exit of both Winston and Lex.

“I never said you were,” I replied.

“But that’s what you think.”

I met his eyes for a brief, fury-filled moment. “You have no idea what I think.”

“Nothing happened,” he said. “Not then. Not before. Not ever. I don’t want anything to happen with her. I just want—” He cut off, but I refused to look at him so I wouldn’t see the despair on his face. “I just want things to go back to the way they were between us.”

“I want to go on this mission. Sometimes we don’t get what we want.” I placed the papers on the couch in a dangerously controlled manner. I let my gaze slide over Jag’s face, looking at him but making it very clear that I wasn’t looking at him. “Good luck tonight.” I stepped past him, careful to leave a healthy distance between us.

He reached out and put his hand on my arm. I stared at it, wishing I didn’t crave the touch of his skin against mine. Slowly, he drew my chin upward until I had no choice but to look into the depths of his eyes. My heart thundered, painfully slow and heavy.

“Maybe you’ll feel like talking when I get back,” he said. Yes, definitely, whatever you want, I thought, but managed to keep the words silent.

Another moment passed before he released me and left the room. I inhaled a shaky breath and mourned the absence of his presence. I immediately hated myself a little more for feeling so strongly about him. For being so transparent with my emotions. For my inability to listen, and forgive.

Still, Jag hadn’t made it easy on me. He claimed I wore everything too close to the surface, allowing every emotion to skate across my face. And he’d said this mission required absolute iron. His implication: I was too soft.

He’d chosen only those on the permanent infiltration team to enter the Goodgrounds. He wanted Irvine to disperse tech and Winston to set up charges, but he’d been secretive about his own role.

He’d been extremely tight-lipped about everything since his return from Seaside. I knew he was looking for something important in the Goodgrounds, but I didn’t know what. I don’t even think he knew. But he’d never said as much, and he didn’t broadcast his emotions through his eyes the way I did.

I knew this was the most important mission Jag had planned. I’d heard it in the urgency of his voice. Seen it in the tension of his shoulders. And I wanted to go, because I longed to be as important to Jag as his missions were, as the Resistance was.

Realizing I was the only one left in the house, I left the Resistance hideout and strode down quiet streets. I didn’t need Jag Barque. I needed some of my mother’s cooking, and it was just about dinnertime.

By the time I reached my house on the northern limits of the Badlands, night ruled the mid-April sky. Cheery yellow lights welcomed me from the porch, and as I approached, the plaguing tension in my shoulders melted away. Warmth greeted me inside, along with the smell of roasted meat and curried vegetables.

Despite my argument with Jag, I smiled. I found my mother in the kitchen, wearing an apron and brandishing a spoon at my father, who was trying to sneak a taste of the duck.

“Indiarina,” he said. “Just in time.”

I ignored his use of my full name. I much preferred Indy, and my parents knew it. Yet they both continued to call me Indiarina. “In time for what?”

He snatched a piece of meat as Mom turned away from him. “You look terrible,” she said, her voice filled with concern, not criticism. Still, that didn’t make me feel any better. I hated wearing my emotions so close to the surface. I found it a weakness in others, and it was never a good idea to allow the enemy to know how you felt. Of course, I wasn’t in enemy territory right now. And I wouldn’t be tonight, either, no matter how much I longed to be.

I offered my mother a weak smile as I sat at the already set table. The fact that only three spots were laid out indicated that Irvine would not be joining us tonight.

In fact, Irvine was set to lead a mission out east that would require him to be gone for months. I missed him already.

My parents supported the Resistance, a movement against the Thinkers of the Association. They didn’t agree that those who were endowed with special gifts should be allowed to brainwash legions of people—or control peoples’ choice of occupation, spouse, and everything else. I felt lucky to be raised by two people who believed in the Resistance.

And not just because their belief led me to Jag Barque.

I’d joined the Resistance as soon as possible: the day I turned thirteen. My parents had been in it from the beginning, and they knew the risks involved. They’d spent hours at this very kitchen table counseling Irvine and helping him plan his mission to the southeast region. They’d financed his eye enhancements so the recognizers wouldn’t log his true identity. Now whenever I looked at him, I found green eyes instead of his usual murky brown.

“Is Jag coming tonight?” my mother asked, ladling soup into an urn.

I slouched and grunted. I had forgotten that Jag had a standing invitation to eat at my house—especially on the night of a mission. The infiltration team didn’t carry food with them, and it often took two days before they returned.

When I remained silent, my father stopped picking at the duck and sat at the head of the table. His bald head reflected the tech lights as he peered at me.

I’d have to say something. “He’s too busy.” With Sloan.

My parents exchanged a glance, but otherwise accepted my answer. They didn’t push me to talk as we ate, another reason I loved them. Stuffed in body, but desperately hungry in mind, I excused myself from the table.

The comfort of the kitchen did not extend far. Halfway down the hall, I heard my parents begin to whisper, and by the time I reached my room, the irritation of getting left behind on this mission was blaring through me.

I shut the door a little too hard, but it wasn’t like I had much to rattle. I tossed my high-tech phone on the thin blanket covering my bed. A closet I could fit in if I turned sideways housed my simple clothing, but I flung my shirt next to my phone and dropped my jeans to the floor.

I moved toward the armchair in the corner and nestled into it. The fabric, though threadbare, housed the scent of Jag. That same smell I’d inhaled at the party. The same smokiness and piney-ness I’d had to endure at headquarters a few hours ago. Even my mother’s cooking could not remove his smell from my chair.

He’d slept there too many nights.

I lingered in the chair a moment longer than was healthy before moving to the window and staring out into the darkness. Don’t go.

Just go, I told myself.

Quickly now, I pulled on my black jeans and a black tank top. I covered up with a black leather jacket with matching gloves in the pockets, and slid out the window into the night.

2.

I crossed the desert alone, with only the occasional drifting of the breeze and the promise of catching Jag and the infiltration team at the border. The Goodgrounds existed a good ten-hour walk from the Badlands, which was why the team left at nightfall. That way, they’d arrive for a dawn entrance into the controlled and guarded city. The Thinkers in the Goodgrounds didn’t exert too much authority over the Badlands, something I knew hadn’t always been the case.

Raids used to be a regular occurrence, and even now a trifecta of Thinkers sporting green robes could show up with their fancy iris recognizers and high-tech hovercars. When that happened, the streets emptied and doors were shut tight. I had only been out once during a raid, and that had been over a year ago.

Entering the Thinker territory of the Goodgrounds promised untold risks. The Thinkers sent brainwashing messages into the air. You could never be sure if your thoughts were yours or not. They employed hovercopters with pilots that underwent vision enhancements and completed Ask Questions Later courses in the Association.

Teleporters required codes. Buildings needed iris clearance for entrance. Even moving from one part of the land to another required the right permit. Luckily, the Resistance employed some spies, and we had people in several governmental departments inside the Goodgrounds.

I loved the rush, the thrill of sneaking around right underneath the Thinkers’ noses. The night air swelled inside my lungs, filling my life with purpose beyond going to school and fighting with my best friend over a guy.

I possessed useful skills for a Resistance member, though I had no special genetic talents. My keen sense of hearing and my dead-on gut feelings had helped me escape more than one pinch. And still Jag wouldn’t allow me to go on this mission.

The baked sand of the desert gave little under my feet. I marched on, desperate to make up the hour I’d spent at the dinner table. Perhaps when Jag saw my determination to come on the mission, he’d relent.

I clung to this hope, however small, and pushed my legs to move faster. While I walked, the moon made its arc through the early spring sky. The sight of that moon caused a rush of memories to overwhelm me. Each one featured Jag and me holding hands and kissing under a sky much like this one.

I could almost feel his skin and lips pressed against mine.

My stomach felt so tight as I forced back the pain threatening to bring tears to the surface. Those memories were too fresh, too real, too haunting. I swapped them out for happier ones about my brother, Irvine. Older than me by five years, Irv had been part of the permanent infiltration team for what seemed like forever. That could’ve been because of his ability to manipulate tech. Or maybe because he thought long and hard about things. Or perhaps because he only spoke when necessary, and when he did, everyone listened. We’d spent many nights reviewing mission notes and discussing tactics. He’d nudged me awake when I slept on the floor at Resistance headquarters, and he made sure I ate before my missions.

Irv had a magnetic quality about him, making everyone feel like they were in his inner circle of trusted confidantes. He learned more through his methods of unhurried questioning than Jag did with his hot-tempered fits of frustration.

And, once again, I found myself circling thoughts of Jag. Thankfully, my ears picked up a quick snatch of conversation, which eliminated all annoying thoughts of my stubborn ex-boyfriend.

I slowed my pace and rolled my steps through the sand to ensure silence. I breathed shallowly, unwilling to broadcast my presence just yet. Upon cresting a gentle swell in the desert landscape, I located a fire with several forms hunkered around it.

The infiltration team. All guys, they spoke little as they passed water bottles around the circle. Based on the liveliness of the fire, I estimated that they’d arrived only ten minutes ago.

I mentally congratulated myself on making up so much time. The celebration was short-lived, however, as one form separated himself from the fire and walked toward me.

“Walked” isn’t entirely the right way to describe Jag’s canter. Each step spoke of extreme confidence, with a touch of swagger. I stopped and waited for him to come to me. As he grew more corporeal under the moonlight, I found frustration welling with the admiration in his eyes. He stopped just out of my reach, far enough away to suggest coolness, yet close enough to make me yearn to feel his arms around me.

“Indy,” he said softly, inviting me to speak.

Just when I wanted him to rave, he’d gone for the caring, compassionate guy I’d fallen in love with last summer.

“I want to come,” I said, making my voice strong so it wouldn’t give away my nerves. As if Jag needed to hear to know how I felt.

“I need you in the Badlands,” he said. He took a step closer and skated his fingers up my forearm. My breath stuttered in my throat at the familiar touch. Way too familiar. I couldn’t stamp down the emotions fast enough, and Jag saw.

He saw everything.

“I led last month,” I said, only a slight tremor in my tone. “I have intel you need.”

“I read your report. More than once.”

I cursed myself for being so thorough. “I can—”

“If anything happens to me, you’ll need to take over,” he said, removing his fingers from my arm and regaining the distance he’d closed between us. He looked over my shoulder as if he expected a hovercar to appear and swallow him right then and there.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I said, angry he’d played that card. As second-in-command, I’d accompanied him on missions before. It had never been a problem. Until now. I schooled my expression and stared at him coolly.

“Maybe not,” he said, backing up another step, his face completely blank—the way mine should’ve been. “But I can tell you’re furious with me.”

“That’s because—”

“I told you I needed iron on this mission.” He ducked his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. I had no idea what his body language meant. “If something happens to me, you’ll know what to do.”

He turned and went back to the fire, leaving me wrestling with my emotions once again. I stood watching the team as they waited for the new day to wake. They extinguished the fire and ran the remaining three hundred yards to the ravine marking the western border of the Goodgrounds.

Never once did any of them look over their shoulder. I realized, maybe too late, that the reason I wasn’t on the permanent infiltration team had nothing to do with my status as second-in-command.

No, as Jag had told me several times, I wasn’t sufficiently shut down. I wore my feelings too close to my eyes, too easy for a Thinker to see and hear and know everything. It had only taken Jag four seconds to sense me watching him.

I waited until the tears didn’t threaten to spill down my cheeks, and then I began the day-long trek back to the Badlands, determined to contain the emotions I knew warred across my face. By midday I’d constructed the first flimsy barrier around my heart, shutting Jag out. But I couldn’t erase his words echoing in my mind.

You’ll know what to do.

Three days later I sat at the kitchen table breaking the ends off the beans my mother had brought home from the market. With no Resistance work to be done and school a waste of my energy, my insides squirmed constantly. I needed more than making my bed and the few menial household chores my mother inflicted upon me to keep my mind occupied.

I began planning what I could do to release some of my pent-up energy and frustration. There had been no word from the infiltration team, and with the closing of the third day, rumors were beginning to circulate. I decided I’d head over to Lex’s house after dinner and ask his little brother if he’d heard anything new.

A knock interrupted my plans, and I glanced at my mother stirring something on the stove. She waved the wooden spoon at me, her way of saying Go get the door, dear.

I tossed the beans to the table before moving to the front door. When I opened it, a body fell into my arms, and the weight brought me to my knees.

“Mom!” I called, turning the person—Lex—so his head lay cradled against my thighs. I quickly rubbed his hair out of his face to find his eyes closed and his breathing labored.

My mother bustled in from the kitchen, still brandishing the wooden spoon. “I’ll get your father,” she said immediately and left.

I peered out the front door and found the street empty. A sense of foreboding snaked through me, and I scooted backward, pulling Lex with me, until I could get the door closed.

“Lex,” I whispered, “what happened?”

His eyelids fluttered and he made a strangled noise. Mom returned with a glass of water and the promise that Dad was on his way. He’d bring his bag of herbs and be able to diagnose Lex’s condition with a few touches of his fingertips.

I tipped Lex’s head up and ordered him to drink. He complied, indicating that he could at least hear and process directions. I threaded my fingers through his. “Squeeze once for yes, and twice for no,” I said. “Is Jag with you?”

Two squeezes, and I jerked my eyes to my mother’s. I saw the same fear I felt inside.

“Irvine?” my mother whispered.

“Did anyone else make it out of the Goodgrounds?” I asked.

Two squeezes. My heart skipped two beats.

“Did anyone else make it out?”

Two squeezes. I couldn’t breathe for two seconds. My skin didn’t quite feel right over my bones—not without Irvine and not without Jag. I took a deep breath to force logic back into my brain.

As the border control, Lex wouldn’t have actually crossed into the Goodgrounds with the rest of the infiltration team. That must’ve been the only reason he hadn’t been captured with everyone else.

“Do you know how they were caught?”

“Hov—” Lex coughed, a dry rasping hack that sounded like it hurt something fierce. “Hover—”

“Hovercopters?” I asked.

One squeeze. This couldn’t be happening. Irvine can’t be hurt.

“Did you see any lights? Iris recognizers? Anything?”

Two squeezes. Jag couldn’t be gone/captured/dead. I can’t lead the Resistance.

“Just lots of hovercopters,” I supplied, my voice ghosting into the room. My head felt so light.

One squeeze. And now the weight of the world—or at least the Resistance—settled on me, and everything felt too heavy, including Lex’s hand in mine.

“Okay, rest now, Lexile,” my mother said, holding the glass to his lips again. He drank and settled back into my lap. We sat that way until my father burst through the door with his bag of medicines.

You’ll know what to do. You’ll know what to do.

But I didn’t know what to do. I paced the length of my room, feeling more and more caged as the seconds clicked by. Lex rested on the couch in my living room, a poultice of something green and foul-smelling smeared across his throat and face. My father had also applied the paste to the inside of Lex’s wrists and pronounced that he hadn’t been injured. He’d simply been too long in the desert without anything to eat or drink. All he needed was a nice long nap and plenty of food and water when he woke.

If my mother knew how to do one thing, it was cook. She’d been in the kitchen for the past two hours, baking and deboning and sautéing. I had sat with Lex for the first hour, but when tears had threatened, I’d retreated to my room so I could cry in private. So not the picture of nonemotional.

I strode from one end of the small room to the other, caged by more than walls. On one turn, I felt a profound, desperate sadness at the thought of Irvine and Jag in prison. Or worse. On the next, anger blossomed. Anger was an emotion I’d been dealing with more and more lately, but it still felt foreign to me. I didn’t know how to stuff it back inside myself so I could think clearly.

Contact Zenn. The thought came to my mind unbidden, and I shoved it away. Zenn Bower used to work for the Resistance, and he’d implemented our communication lines inside the Goodgrounds. His father worked in the teleportation unit in the Transportation Department and supplied the Resistance with coordinates, maps, and invaluable information we’d be blind without. I’d once served a mission with Zenn where we’d hidden from a hovercar by submerging ourselves in the river that flowed through the forest in the Goodgrounds. Zenn held his breath for over four minutes. I’d sputtered and choked after only three.

But he’d defected over a year ago. I hadn’t heard from him since Jag cut him off. I couldn’t contact Zenn, even if I knew how, until I knew exactly where his loyalty lay. I stared out the window as a helplessness I could not endure engulfed me. Before when bad things happened, I’d relied on the steadiness of Irvine. A hole gaped in the house, as if the heart of it had been ripped out and all that remained was a shell.

I felt my worry permeate the air, pressing the walls closer. Not able to stand another second in the now-suffocating house, I shoved up my window and climbed out. My stomach growled, but even my mother’s cooking could not ease my discomfort.

My feet led me to Jag’s house, the hot spot for the Resistance. Any files he might have kept would be there. Both the front and back doors were locked. The windows were dark patches reflecting the moonlight. But I knew Jag and Jag knew me, and I shuffled into the narrow corridor separating his house from the neighbor’s.

I could barely slide between the walls, but I moved with unfailing precision, my senses on high alert. Something felt off, but I couldn’t tell if it came from the street, the Resistance headquarters, or somewhere else.

Halfway along the house, I stopped and scanned what little of the street I could see. The orange streetlamps burned steadily, with no unwarranted shadows. My pulse quickened as I neared the window set in the corner of the living room, about a third of the way back from the front corner of the house. Jag never locked it, something only a handful of people knew.

With the disappearance of the infiltration team, I was the only one left who did know. My fingers found the miniscule seam in the wood and hefted the window open. The familiar scent of burnt tech and something fried escaped. I hoisted myself over the sill and landed with a grunt inside the house.

I eased the window down and crouched in the corner by the couch. My heart beat wildly, muffling any other sound I might have been able to discern. I took several calming breaths and forced myself to settle down. As the panic faded from my system, I heard the familiar sounds of the refrigerator humming and the clock ticking in the hall.

The headquarters provided me with a sense of safety, so I stood and made my way through the sparsely furnished living room and down the hall. Two doors led into two bedrooms on the right side, and one door opened into a bathroom on the left. The kitchen took up the back end of the small house, and that’s where I went.

I found a dirty cup in the sink and rinsed it out in the semi-darkness. Then I filled it with cool water and gulped it. The chill sliding down my throat calmed me further, and I managed to flip on the light.

The kitchen sat dormant, complete in its normalcy. The faucet dripped, and the fridge housed only the most meager of supplies. Jag never was one for cooking, and he almost always ate at my house or at another Resistance member’s table.

I turned on the lights in every room, my fear easing out with the shadows. I entered Jag’s room last, knowing it would hurt the most. And it did. I couldn’t help but breathe in the piney scent of his hair gel.

I’d been in his room before. Many times. Jag didn’t own a lot, and what he did, he kept organized. His bed was made; his clothes had been draped over a desk chair; a bare bulb already burned in the closet. Some called him a neat freak. I’d once called him OCD as he’d consulted a list of equipment we needed for a mission to Seaside. He’d been there countless times and didn’t need a list. We’d laughed, and he’d pulled me close and planted a kiss near the corner of my eye.

My chest constricted with the memory as I moved to the brightly lit closet. Two pairs of jeans sat in a pristine stack. Four semitattered shirts hung on black hangers. An extra pair of boots lingered on the floor. Typical Jag.

The spare bedroom where I’d spent more than one night had been empty as well. The only piece of furniture in the living room—a couch—didn’t even have garbage under the cushions. I sat down on the floor in Jag’s room and did the only thing I could think of.

I cried.

Ten minutes later, I limped toward the door as the blood rushed back into my legs. I flipped the light off and was halfway into the hall before I realized the light from the closet still shone.

I hadn’t turned it on, but I wondered if I ought to turn it off. As I took the few steps to the closet, I had the thought that it was odd for Jag to leave the light on at all. What with his OCD and all. Unfailingly meticulous about details, Jag didn’t do anything without a reason.

You’ll know what to do.

Without thinking, I slid into the closet and swung the door around to seal myself inside. From this vantage point, I discovered a shelf nailed on the back side of the door. It rattled when I pushed the door shut, drawing my attention to a stack of notebooks and a smattering of writing utensils.

I almost laughed. Jag and his stupid notebooks. He was forever writing something down, but I’d never seen him show anything to anyone. Not even me. There had been many barriers I’d tried to get him to break, and he had refused. I sympathized—no, empathized—with him on many things, but I didn’t know the pain of losing both parents, or of losing one brother and living apart from another.

Jag’s feelings and inner thoughts weren’t high on his list of things to share. He didn’t let anyone all the way into his life. I’d hoped to be the first, and I’d been very disappointed.

Now I ran my fingertips along the spines of his journals, almost afraid to touch them in case he suddenly burst into the closet with that knowing glare on his face. Somehow, though, I felt as though he’d left this light on just for me. Maybe he did trust me. I immediately chastised myself. Of course he trusted me—with Resistance information. I was the second-in-command.

That’s when I knew these weren’t his personal journals. I gathered them into my arms, desperately hoping they’d provide some insight into what I should do next.

3.

The journey from Jag’s house to mine felt eternal. Every noise spooked me until I found myself clutching the notebooks to my chest and avoiding the dangerous pools of light on the corners.

By the time I climbed through my bedroom window, my fingers ached and I felt drained. I stowed the notebooks under my mattress and went to check on Lex. I found my father spooning thin broth past his swollen lips. He smiled at the sight of me, and I returned the gesture.

“Can he talk?” I asked my father as I sat on the arm of the couch.

“Not tonight, Indiarina. We will convene in the morning.” The broth seemed to need his utmost attention.

“We?” I asked.

“With Jag’s disappearance, we’ll need to decide how to proceed.”

“We?” I asked again, a brick of dread settling in my stomach. The way my father wouldn’t look at me spoke volumes.

“The second-in-command will decide,” he said.

“Dad,” I choked out.

Finally, my father looked at me. A fierceness I only saw when he was worried resided in his eyes. “Not now, Indy. We’ll talk after I finish here, all right?”

I nodded and cradled my head in my hands, hoping to fall asleep in the few minutes it would take for him to finish up with Lex. But my mind churned, and I hoped that when my father said “we’ll talk” he meant “I’ll tell you exactly what to do.”

I soon found that wasn’t what he meant. At all. I convened with my parents in the kitchen, where my mother placed no less than four dishes in front of me and sat down without her usual, “Eat up, Indiarina. You’re much too thin,” which only added to the worry seething in my gut.

“What’s the last thing Jag said to you?” my father asked.

I told him everything. How I’d snuck out three nights ago and crossed the desert (I noted the exchanged parental glances); the last conversation with Jag (my mother sighed); the brief cry-fest in his bedroom (nobody blinked); and the discovery of the notebooks.

“Ah, perfect,” Dad said, pulling a bowl of steamed rice toward him. He piled it on his plate and doused it in tandoori chicken. “You’ll know what to do, then.”

The way he mimicked Jag wasn’t lost on me. I wasn’t sure if I should feel angry or dissolve into tears again. “That’s it? You’re not going to advise me?”

Dad waved his fork at me. “The notebooks will advise you. We’ll be here if you have any questions.”

I locked eyes with my mother, who patted my arm. “I will make up a plate for you, Indiarina. You’re much too thin.”

I watched, numb, as my mom piled pork, chicken, rice, and vegetables onto a plate. I let her guide me by the elbow to my bedroom. The only thing I noticed was the tightly closed door to Irv’s room.

After my mother left, I sat in the armchair with my plate of food, and I felt like screaming. Instead, I did what I should’ve been doing all along. I swallowed all emotion and looked at myself in the mirror on the back of my closet door. My face gave nothing away, just as I’d hoped.

After all, the leader of the Resistance is an enigma. Unreadable. Unpredictable. Jag had provided a perfect example for me over the years. As I stared at myself in the mirror, I thought I’d never become the leader he was.

Is, I corrected myself, but that thought disintegrated as fast as it had come.

The next morning found me already awake. In fact, I hadn’t yet gone to sleep. I knew Jag had slept very little as leader of the Resistance, and I figured I might as well start adapting to my new role.

The notebooks had been filled with Jag’s pressed handwriting, but nothing was in order. I couldn’t believe it. He lived his life according to straight edges and tucked corners. I suppose he’d found a way to let the chaos out through the notebooks. Figures it would be me left to find a clue in his mess.

Some pages were filled with long paragraphs of writing. Jag had been documenting the missions. Three notebooks were filled with the things he’d done in the Goodgrounds and the oceanic region to the west.

Two more notebooks simply contained lists: clothing, food, tech. I wasn’t sure what they were for. Another book, written in a different hand, made no sense whatsoever, with strange numbers and names of cities I had never heard of. But that book gave names too, and I felt certain I’d need to know those people. Most likely, they were Resistance contacts around the Association. I wondered who had given the notebook to Jag, and briefly thought of his long-dead father.

I found a blank page at the end of the notebook. I ripped it out and copied the names and the cities they were paired with.

And that was it. Jag didn’t have a notebook that said, “When I’m gone, do this. Then this.”

I hated him for it, just for a moment. A long moment. I stared at the writing on the page, desperate for a line that would tell me how and where and when to rescue him. But I had no way of knowing where he was, or if he was even still alive. I swallowed that fear back.

He’d wanted me to run the Resistance if he didn’t come back. Not rescue him. So I would run his stinkin’ Resistance—if only I knew how.

I flipped a page, realizing that the Resistance was a living, breathing, changing identity. Jag likely didn’t know what those left behind without him would do or how they might react.

I was on my own. With the meeting looming in the next few hours, I spent the remainder of the night puzzling over what I might say or do.

As I entered Jag’s house behind my parents, I still didn’t know.

I began by clearing my throat. The fifty people convened in the living room seemed to inhale as one, and every eye swung to me. I caught Sloan Washburn’s eye, and upon seeing her rainbow hair and supportive smile, some of the nervous energy drained out of my body. No matter what Sloan had or hadn’t done with Jag, she was still my best friend.

“I need someone to act as second,” I said. Jag would like that. Everything about the Resistance was done with an organization, with a hierarchy in mind. Sure, things sometimes got chaotic, but that’s because people were involved, not because the system was flawed.

Half a dozen teenagers raised their hands, some at the prompting of their parents. Jag had established teens as the leaders years ago. He’d taken over Resistance efforts at thirteen. His reasoning was sound, and would be followed.

Adults had paying jobs and families to support. They were also monitored more closely by the authorities, and though the Badlands didn’t have Thinkers broadcasting rules and messages each night, we did have security details and laws. The adults in the Resistance played supporting roles by using their employment to aid the missions, infiltrating networks, and guiding their children.

The infiltration team was all teens. Teens had more freedom to hang out with different groups of people in different locations. They didn’t carry as much social responsibility. They could act rebellious and it would be zinged up as simply trying to “find themselves.”

I scanned the pool of volunteers and found both Sloan’s and Lex’s hands up. “Lex,” I said, without mulling it over. As the only remaining member of the infiltration team, he had knowledge and experience Sloan didn’t. I tossed a sympathetic look toward Sloan, who waved me away as if to say You made the right choice.

The room exhaled, and one of the younger girls giggled. I almost allowed myself to smile, but I caught the emotion and buried it. I wished Jag were there to see me. I could shut down. I could lead without displaying emotion.

“Our directive for the next several weeks is to visit the cities on this list.” I smoothed the pocket-wrinkles from the list I’d copied from the notebook. “I need runners who are willing to fly day and night and meet with people we don’t know.”

I expected parents to protectively put their arms around their kids and break eye contact. The atmosphere in the room shifted from passive to high-alert, but no one shot me dirty looks.

“I need hoverboards. Anyone who has the resources to borrow or purchase the boards, please let me know.” I fought the urge to clear my throat. I didn’t want to give the impression of nervousness. Or weakness. “I will be available in the kitchen for volunteers and questions.”

I half expected to sit at Jag’s kitchen table by my sad self, sipping a lukewarm bottle of water while the Resistance members gossiped about me in hushed tones in the living room.

By the time I’d pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and sat down, the line stretched down the hall and snaked through the living room.

six weeks later

4.

A vibration jolted me out of the weak sleep I’d managed to find. I’d been getting an average of four hours each night. I’d slept at Jag’s house, at Sloan’s, at Lex’s—wherever I happened to be when the exhaustion took over.

Tonight I’d made it home before collapsing into my own bed. I sat up, listening hard. Maybe the sound had come from the kitchen. Couldn’t be from Irv’s room. He hadn’t come home yet. There’d been no word from anyone on the infiltration team.

Meanwhile, I’d been busy gathering hoverboards and sending my people to the cities listed in the notebook. I’d been taking reports and writing down every detail of every mission. I’d been analyzing my notes and comparing them to Jag’s, trying to make sense of things I didn’t understand.

I’d learned that the Resistance existed on a Union-wide scale. Jag hadn’t been the beginning of the movement; he was just the most passionate leader we’d had in a long time. The most driven. I’d learned that my contacts in the other cities were waiting for Jag to give them the go-ahead.

The go-ahead for what, I didn’t know. I hadn’t been to Freedom yet, and though a name was listed (Starr Messenger), I didn’t dare send someone to the capital of the Association without more concrete information.

I got up and looked out the window, hearing nothing and feeling as empty as the house had felt since Irvine hadn’t come home. I used the sadness to fortify myself, make the walls around my heart stronger. My reflection in the glass showed a fierce person I didn’t recognize. I would’ve never known she missed her brother. She didn’t broadcast her longing to feel Jag Barque’s arms around her. Her eyes gave no indication that she had no idea what she was doing leading a Union-wide effort against a genetically talented government.

I congratulated myself and went back to bed.

A male voice distracted me from my phone. The way the person had spoken with inflection and desire wasn’t lost on me. I knew that voice. . . .

Sloan squealed and launched herself at none other than Jag Barque while I watched. I fortified the weakening walls around my heart, using the jealousy burning through me as best as I could. I’d gotten good at keeping everyone out too. I’d learned real fast not to let the tears of a mother sway my decisions. And the pleading of a twelve-year-old who wanted to fly to White Cliffs alone now fell on deaf ears.

The barriers I’d placed between myself and everyone else quivered, but held, as I analyzed the guy I’d thought about every stinkin’ day since I’d last seen him. He looked semirested and showered. He’d had time to shave, and his hair stuck up in precise angles, just as I’d expect if he were picking me up for dinner.

Jag spun Sloan around while she squealed with joy. Another girl hovered nearby, clearly with Jag. I wondered how together they were. Another one of his refugees from the Goodgrounds? Just friends? Or something more?

The way the sunburned girl twisted her hands, I guessed she was all three, which only added betrayal to the envy inside. And anger and hurt. I hated that I couldn’t just let my relief at seeing Jag wash over me. I took a deep breath as he set Sloan down, and reminded myself that I had broken up with him.

Sloan retreated to my side, something that caused a flame of gratitude to ignite in my gut, while Jag made the introductions. He wore a clean pair of jeans, but they weren’t his. I scanned the black T-shirt and instantly recognized why it hung strangely off his frame. It belonged to Irvine.

Jag had been at my house. I remembered the thud I’d heard last night. Had that been him? Had he slept in my armchair without waking me? Somehow that hurt more than seeing him now, with yet another girl. He’d had a chance to explain everything in private, and he hadn’t taken it. Why didn’t he take it?

I struggled against the tears, willing myself not to cry right there in the open street. Not in front of Jag. Never in front of him again.

Vi With-No-Last-Name said hello in a polite-ish way, and Sloan said what I wanted to. “Another Goodie?”

I noticed the way Vi cringed, and though Jag defended his new girlfriend, I was more than happy when she wandered away. Immediately, Jag pulled us into a tight huddle and began talking.

“Who’s second?” he asked.

“Lex,” I said, looking at a point just above his shoulder so I wouldn’t have to look into his pretty face. I wanted to hurt him so badly, the way he’d hurt me. I kept that emotion hidden, utilizing my newfound strength.

“Did you find the notebooks?”

“Yes.” I wanted to tell him that they were nonsense, that I’d done next to nothing with them, but I was determined to speak as little as possible.

“I found what I needed,” Jag said. “I’m going to Seaside with Vi, because we escaped the Goodgrounds and now we’re sort of fugitives.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m stopping by my house for some supplies.”

“You won’t find much,” I said, suddenly angry with myself for not keeping the Resistance headquarters better stocked. “Your phone is on your desk where you left it. I plugged it in for you. There might be some water bottles in the fridge.”

He looked right at me, and I felt pinned by the intensity in his gaze. “The fewer people who know I was here, the better.” Which translated to “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you last night.” I understood Jag and his hidden messages.

I appreciated his way of apologizing, but my fingers still tightened into fists. He noticed, and one eyebrow quirked up.

“Thane Myers is tracking us,” he said, and that snapped me out of my personal problems. A higher-up in the Association of Directors, Thane Myers could cause serious complications for me, Jag, and the Resistance.

“I’ve been sending runners to the cities you had listed,” I said. “None of them have reported Thane leaving Freedom.”

“Indy, you’re a genius. Keep the Resistance running.” He checked something over his shoulder. “Send me word in Seaside with your runners.”

I nodded, wishing a compliment from him didn’t rock my world. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t.

Jag gestured with his hands at his surroundings. He leaned closer. “Gather as many supplies and people as you can. I have a feeling life is going to change in the Badlands. Soon.”

“Will we have to evacuate?” Sloan asked. A tremor of fear bolted through me at the question.

“Possibly,” Jag said. “Be prepared for anything. Our people cannot survive in a brainwashed city.” He looked at me again, and I didn’t need empathic genes to feel the urgency behind his words.

“Why Seaside?” I asked suddenly. “Why can’t you come with us?”

He shook his head. “Vi needs—”

The rest of his explanation was cut off by the sudden crimson glow of an iris recognizer. Screams pierced the night, and I got jostled as people began scattering.

Jag gripped my hand and pulled me to him. I couldn’t resist pressing my nose to his chest and inhaling deeply. The forest smell of his gel and the flowery scent of my mother’s fabric softener punctured the walls around my heart. “I’m sorry, Indy,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Then he stepped back and said, “Run,” in that freaky calm voice of his. Sloan slid her hand into mine and pulled me toward a sidewalk that went between the post office and the general market. “My house!” she yelled over the noise. “It’s closer!”

I paused in the safety of the shadows next to the post office, the red light pulsing against my face. I searched the fray for Jag, but couldn’t find him. I felt cheated that I hadn’t had the chance to ask him about Irvine. About anyone else on the team. Or the success of the mission. Or anything.

“Come on.” Sloan pulled on my hand, and this time I turned my back and sprinted toward safety. Along the way, I determined to enter Irvine’s room and search every corner.

Jag had been there. Maybe he’d left something for me. That thought drove me on like nothing had before.

Irvine’s room held nothing but an empty hanger and a dresser drawer that hadn’t been shut properly. Even the smell of Jag hadn’t lingered. My chest caved in at the thought that Jag had been so close and had chosen to stay so far away.

I closed the door to Irvine’s room and stood in the dark hallway. I couldn’t tell my parents about Jag. I couldn’t tell anyone in the Resistance. I’d made Sloan promise not to breathe a word about him, as he didn’t want people to know.

I didn’t quite understand his motivations, but I knew he had them. He always did, whether he chose to share them with me or not.

Once again, I found myself in a situation where I had no idea how to proceed. I returned to my room, took my phone out of my pocket, and sent a message to Lex asking him to recall the runners from their various cities. I’d sent them as far east as Castledale, about halfway across the Association. I told Lex to have them gather supplies if they could.

He didn’t question me. Ten minutes later, he messaged that it was done. Then he asked when we were leaving.

As soon as we gather enough supplies, I sent back. That’ll be everyone’s job at first light. Clothing, food, water, everything.

I tossed my phone on my bed, ignoring the incoming message. I didn’t have the energy to explain anything to Lex right now. Jag had never taken the time to give me his detailed reasons. It was a Resistance leader perk.

I reclined the armchair and snuggled into it, pretending Jag lay beside me with his strong arms encircling me. With his scent embedded in the fibers, I almost believed the fantasy.

5.

The next morning I left my house at dawn and headed toward Resistance headquarters. I hoped Jag had been able to find the supplies he needed, and I half thought I might find him sleeping in the house.

Two blocks away from my home, I spied two Greenies sweeping the sidewalk with handheld devices. They seemed unconcerned by the deathly silence on the street, and I shrank behind a hedge in someone’s front yard, watching.

They spoke in carrying voices, though I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. A prickle of discomfort stole down my spine, and I crouch-walked down the hedge and into the backyard. Then I straightened, doubled back the way I’d come, and chose a different route to Jag’s.

I stuck to climbing fences and dashing through backyards instead of moving down the sidewalks in plain sight. I emerged midblock and needed to cross one more street before I’d be able to slide through two more backyards to reach Jag’s. I sucked in a breath and pressed myself against the fence I’d just climbed.

Four Greenies clustered at the corner of Jag’s block, wearing their official Association robes. One held his projection screen out for the other three to see. I couldn’t see their faces, but I felt their frowns. A truck ambled down the street and I took advantage of the noise to mask my footsteps slapping against pavement.

Once in Jag’s backyard, my chest heaved with more than labored breathing. Countless questions circled in my mind, including the one that asked: Did Jag make it out of the city last night?

I watched the house for ten minutes, looking for clues as to whether anyone was inside or not. The foliage around each window had been trampled, and geared tracks tore up the dirt. The Greenies had brought their robots with them. I swallowed back a curse.

Stepping in someone else’s footprints so I wouldn’t leave my own, I crept to Jag’s bedroom window. Steeling myself for the worst, I peered over the lip. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of the emptiness.

Everything was gone. Totally and completely gone.

The house held a sense of desolation, like no one would be using it for a very long time. A strange sensation rippled across my skin, and I knew I wouldn’t be entering the house again. And now I would need a new location for the Resistance efforts.

As I made my way home, I kept thinking, At least Jag was gone too.

Gathering clothing, food, water, and medical supplies took much longer than I anticipated. Resistance supporters sent any excess they had, but most didn’t have much lying around to begin with.

My mother helped, cleaning out Irvine’s room and using it to store bottled water and canned peaches. Medical supplies took up four crates in his closet, and jeans and jackets lay in heaps across the bed. After two solid weeks of gathering supplies, I stood in my brother’s bedroom with a checklist, chewing on the tip of my pencil.

“Not enough,” I murmured, comparing the list of people I needed to evacuate with the supplies I’d gathered. “Nowhere near enough.”

I wasn’t sure how to get more. In the Goodgrounds, the people were allotted identical supplies and food stores. Only enough for their needs, nothing more. Everything was provided by the Thinkers.

I didn’t know what to do, but I did know one thing: I was running out of time.

“The evacuation team will take the medical supplies we have and leave tonight,” I instructed everyone that night at the Resistance meeting. An itch I couldn’t satisfy skimmed just below my skin. “My mother will be acting as lead on this mission, as she has the next three days off work.”

The five people on my mother’s team nodded, their faces grim. I appraised them with sharp eyes. Two fourteen-year-olds with the stamina of lions, two interns at the hospital who’d been able to secure another bucket of first-aid supplies, and my mother.

I tried to have faith, and ended up rubbing my eyes instead. “Lex, organize our people into groups of five or six. We’ll start leaving in shifts at the end of the week.”

He nodded as the evac team pushed back from the kitchen table and headed down the hall to Irvine’s bedroom. The items we’d collected had been bagged and organized. Between the five of them and one hoverboard, they loaded up.

I waited until everyone had left except my mother; then I clutched her arm and gripped her in a hug. “Be careful, Mom,” I said, my voice low and thick in the first display of emotion I’d shown in almost two months.

“And you, Indiarina.”

I stood in the doorway and watched my mother shoulder the heavy backpack of bandages and antiseptics. I joined my father at the front door, and together we watched her disappear into the night.

A frantic hand shook me awake. “Indy, wake up! Thane Myers is here.”

Those words spoken in any voice would startle me from sleep. They’d startle the dead. That’s how far-reaching—and terrifying—Thane Myers was. I leapt up, nearly knocking heads with Lex. His blue eyes were wild, and the panic I felt was clearly written in his stature.

“Time to go,” I said automatically. I grabbed the backpack I’d prepared last week. “Send the word, Lex.” All communication that concerned locations was passed verbally, thus no rendezvous points would be sent. Lex simply messaged the code word for evacuation; anyone reading it wouldn’t know what it meant.

For a brief moment, I considered changing my clothes. I’d gotten into the habit of sleeping fully dressed, something I was now thankful for and disgusted with at the same time.

Lex’s fingers flew over his phone as he gave the order to leave to the dozens of Resistance members across the Badlands. I decided against wasting time changing my jeans and instead pulled on my boots.

Shouts sounded in the street, so I opted for the window. I ushered Lex through and then turned back. My father stood in the doorway, wearing his brown plaid pajamas and a stricken expression.

“Peace goes with you, Indiarina,” he said. “Please send Mother home safe.”

There were no sweet good-byes to be had. I darted across the room just as knocking sounded on the front door. I held my father in a two-second hug—long enough to convey my love for him and short enough that I wouldn’t break down—and sprinted back to the window.

This time, I didn’t look back.

The grass looked gray in the predawn light, and Lex’s footprints shone like oil. I stepped in them so that it appeared like only one person had fled this house and vaulted the wooden fence at the edge of the backyard.

Behind me, probably standing on my front porch, a dog barked. I tightened my backpack straps and recited the emergency evacuation instructions Jag had put into place years ago. “When the code word for evac goes out, get to the forest as quickly and inconspicuously as you can.” I’d been drilling it into my people for the past two weeks as well.

The forest was a temporary safe spot; Jag had always intended to provide the second location himself. I reminded myself that I was in charge, and I would be giving the second location. If I arrive in the forest alive.

I silenced that troubling thought as I scampered next to Lex behind a dog kennel. I’d jumped my fence and stolen through this particular yard many times. Only one more street lay to the north before the desert took over, but the narrow strip of trees that constituted the forest blanketed the west side of the Badlands. A couple of miles separated me from the protection of those branches.

I tapped Lex on the arm and motioned with my head for him to push further back. A narrow space existed between the kennel and the fence, and we could almost make it to the house without being exposed.

Lex squeezed himself into the tiny space, only issuing a single grunt of complaint. He turned at the corner and yanked on his pack as it jammed. I had to do the same thing, but hardly a sound met my ears as we moved. At the edge of the kennel a ten-foot expanse separated the safety of the shadows we stood in now from the dark area along the side of the house.

Lex sprinted across first, without incident. I waited until I couldn’t see him in the darkness. I waited five more seconds. Then I pumped my legs and flew across the space too.

A motion-sensing light flicked on just before I met the shadows, casting a long triangle of light into my hiding place. Lex shuffled further along to provide more room for me to hide. Nobody came, but even if they had, Lex and I didn’t wait for them. Taught to constantly move forward, we peered into the street together, only our heads poking around a rain gutter.

Orange puddles of light adorned the corners of the street but otherwise it was quiet. Too quiet. In the distance, another dog barked. Somewhere a door slammed. This early in the morning, nobody was out jogging or driving to work.

“Across?” Lex asked.

“Across,” I answered. As I pounded the pavement, I wished I’d had the time and foresight to grab my jacket. The dampness of predawn settled under my skin, chilling me despite my physical exertion.

With every yard we crossed and every fence we jumped, I thought of Jag. He’d made the journey to the forest many times, claiming it was the only place he could truly think. I’d followed him once last fall, desperate to carry some of the burdens he bore as leader. He’d let me follow him, silent and brooding, through the streets.

But he hadn’t allowed me to step foot in the forest. “Please, Indy,” he’d said. “Sometimes I just need to be alone.”

I’d stood apart from him, tears welling in my eyes and frustration burning in my blood. “Why can’t you let me help you?”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“I can take some of the councils. I can read some of the reports. I can make some of the decisions. You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”

He’d started shaking his head almost as soon as I’d started speaking. I’d wanted to make him stop. Actually, I would’ve done whatever it took to make him stop.

“You don’t understand,” he’d said. “When you’re in charge, you will.”

And I had. In the past two months, I’d often wished for an escape. For somewhere I could go that only I knew about, where no one could bother me with news, suggestions, or endless questions.

Jag had his forest, and now I understood why. I regretted trying to force him to share it with me, though I’d been beyond desperate at the time for him to let me in.

He’d kissed my forehead and asked me not to follow him. Then he’d entered the forest, and I’d turned and gone home, like he’d asked.

This time, when I stepped into the forest, it was for a very different reason. I wouldn’t be alone, and I wouldn’t find comfort. I did, however, find a group of bright-eyed Resistance members.

I gave them the coordinates to the safe house in the Abandoned Area of the Goodgrounds and set Lex to the task of organizing their departure.

Near midday everyone had arrived except for Sloan. I gnawed at my fingernails, not caring that they were filthy. I’d sent Lex out with a group two hours ago, making sure that if I was caught, the second wasn’t compromised too.

I remained alone among the trees, having just sent the last group south, where they’d give the main city a wide berth and cross into the Goodgrounds near the central area of the Southern Rim. All told, forty-seven people had been evacuated. I worried over my mother’s evacuation team and if they’d run into any trouble the night before. Thane and his goons had most likely arrived via teleporter or hovercar, so I hoped the supplies I’d spent weeks gathering would be waiting in the Abandoned Area.

Where is Sloan? I peered through the trees, willing her to come dodging through the trees with her feel-good hair and easy smile. She didn’t.

Suddenly a man’s voice shattered the silence of the forest. Amplified and broadcast for all to hear, he said, “No one shall leave their home today. All men, women, and children shall turn on their radios and listen to today’s headlines.”

The sound echoed through the treetops, and a profound fear crept along my skin as my mind emptied and I felt the need to return home and listen to today’s headlines. I struggled against the power of the man’s voice and managed to keep control of my mind. So the brainwashing messages would begin right now, right here, in the very place that should be safe. I felt ill, and wondered what my father would do to block the brainwashing. Surely he had something to cancel the sound.

But Sloan wouldn’t. I moaned and raced toward the edge of the forest. I stopped behind the last tree before the landscape gave way to low shrubs and waving grasses. Asphalt claimed the ground very soon after that, and across the street, I saw the flutter of curtains in a window.

The streets were empty as I sprinted through them, heading south toward Sloan’s house. The closer I drew, the louder everything became. A woman was yelling; red and blue light pulsed against the noonday sun; dogs barked and chains jangled.

I stopped at the edge of a fence and snuck a glance around the corner.

Thane Myers stood in the middle of the street, wearing a black leather jacket and issuing orders like he owned the place. I also recognized the white-blond hair of none other than Zenn Bower. He stood straight as rod, not flinching from the scene before him.

I found it difficult to swallow, and even harder to breathe. With a jolt of terror, I realized Thane did own everyone and everything around him. Already.

Two men advanced toward the house, each holding the leashes to a pair of dogs. The dogs whined and snapped their jaws, eager to be loosed so they could run, jump, bite. Sloan’s mother sat on the front steps, her hair sticking up and her eyes closed. She held someone close to her chest, dropping fat tears into their multicolored hair.

Sloan, I mouthed, unable to give sound to my words. Pain I didn’t know I could bear threatened to crush me into the ground, and a sharp sting in my knee told me that I had fallen down.

Time slowed into nothing but the sight of Sloan’s unmoving body and the wails of her mother. I knew my best friend was dead.

Thane Myers jerked around, searching the corner where I sat with his precise green eyes.

I pulled myself back around the fence and forced myself to stand up. He’d sensed either my thoughts or my emotions, I wasn’t sure which. I didn’t know everything about Thane Myers, and certainly not the details of his talents. But I knew that he brainwashed people, that he thought for them, that he decided everything for those living in his cities. I knew he was the reason the Resistance existed. I knew I’d been fighting against Thinkers like him for years.

Tears flying from my face, I ran.

Horror settled in my bones when the whirring fans of a hovercar buzzed behind me.

6.

The desert loomed before me, looking black in the fading sunlight. I’d hidden first in a root cellar, then in a muddy ditch, and then inside someone’s garage as Thane’s men searched the city for me. I’d heard Zenn’s voice more than once, but I didn’t attempt to talk to him. He’d made his loyalty pretty clear.

Thankfully, no one seemed to be equipped with emotional sensors, and I’d been able to evade them for the past eight hours. Now all that separated me from the relative safety of the Abandoned Area was the sprawling desert.

I stepped into the sand and began the journey. The fact that I was marching into enemy territory wasn’t lost on me. Whenever I’d asked Jag about our safe house in the Abandoned Area, he used to say, “They never look right under their noses. Trust me, Indy. We’ll go to the Goodgrounds if we ever have to evacuate.”

With each step I took, I used the fury and pain accompanying Sloan’s death to reinforce the barriers around my heart. By the time I illegally crossed the border into the Goodgrounds, I didn’t think I’d even flinch when I saw Jag again.

If I saw him again.

1.

Good girls don’t walk with boys. Even if they’re good boys—and Zenn is the best. He strolled next to me, all military with his hands clasped behind his back, wearing the black uniform of a Forces recruit. The green stripes on his shirtsleeves flashed with silver tech lights, probably recording everything. Probably? Who am I kidding? Those damn stripes were definitely recording everything.

Walking through the park in the evening is not technically against the rules. Good people do it all the time. But walking through the park with a boy could get me in trouble.

When darkness fell, another rule would be broken.

The whir of a hovercopter echoed high above the trees. In this park, the saplings stood an inch or two taller than me. Some trees in the City of Water are ancient—at least a century old. But the forest is off-limits, and even I know better than to break that rule.

The filthy charcoal shade of the sky matched the impurities I’d filtered from the lake in class today. I imagined the color to be similar to the factory walls where my dad worked, but I had never been there and hadn’t seen him for years, so I couldn’t say for sure.

People don’t return from the Badlands.

“Vi, I’m glad you finally answered my e-comm,” Zenn said, his voice smooth, just like his skin and the perfectly fluid way he walked.

“You know my mom.” I didn’t have to elaborate. Not with Zenn. “I told her I was coming whether she said yes or not.” I tried to hide how desperate I’d been to see him, how happy his e-comm invitation had made me. He could’ve asked me to the moon and I would’ve gladly gone. And taken whatever punishment followed.

I’d left school during the afternoon break. The Special Forces compound is a two-hour walk south of the City of Water. I’d crossed the border and trekked for half a mile in the Fire Region just to see him. Crossing borders is also against the rules, but Zenn was worth every step.

I watched the hovercopters circle closer, comfortable in the silence with Zenn. Sometimes it said more than we did.

The sidewalks had stopped functioning thirty minutes ago, clearly curfew for this park. As one hovercopter dipped nearer, it took every ounce of courage I had to keep from reaching out, grabbing Zenn’s hand, and running.

Before, I might have done it. But there was something different about him. Something that made me think he wouldn’t run with me this time.

Another quick glance confirmed it. His eyes. They held no sparkle. No life. Maybe the Forces worked him too hard.

My sweet, wonderful Zenn. I hoped he was okay here. His eyes worried me.

“Well, now that you’re here, I’ve got something for you,” he said, smiling.

I angled my body toward him. Zenn’s e-comm had said he had a surprise for me—surely something he’d tinkered with until it was absolutely perfect. Like he was.

“The Forces have kept me busy,” Zenn continued, reaching into his pocket. He didn’t seem concerned about the circling hovercopters, but he wasn’t always living one breath away from getting arrested. “But we might not get to see each other again for a while. Your birthday is in a couple weeks, and you’re my—”

“You down there!” An electronic voice cut through Zenn’s throaty tone. I flinched and took a half step behind Zenn. A one-manned tech-craft, the hovercopter was invented especially for ruining lives. No one ever escapes from one. Not even me.

On the bottom rudder, a red rose winked through the twilight. My breath shuddered through my chest—I’d been caught by this hovercopter before. Maybe since Zenn was a Forces recruit and had invited me here, I wouldn’t get in trouble.

Yeah, right. Fairness isn’t something the Director cares about.

“Cards!” the mechanical voice shouted. Zenn pulled out his lime green activity card and held it straight up. An electric arm grew from the side of the police vehicle and flew down to scan the bar code on the back of Zenn’s card.

I slowly retrieved my own ID. No one in the Goodgrounds can so much as step onto the sidewalk without an electronic record of their activity.

My card was blue for the City of Water. I raised it halfway as the arm jangled at me, trying to get a better angle to scan the bar code. Then I’d be busted for being out of bounds—after dark.

Zenn watched me with a wary eye. “Vi. Don’t give them a real reason to lock you up.” He stepped close enough for his body heat to permeate my senses. Touching was against the rules, but he’d broken that one lots of times.

I smiled, even though he was right. Lock Up is not a fun place. The stench alone is enough to set rule-breakers straight. Still, I almost threw my activity card into the brambles where no one would ever find it.

Zenn’s face stopped me, his mouth drawn into a fine line. My bar code would be attached to his—we were in the park after dark (gasp!)—and if I got into serious trouble, he might not be able to advance in the Special Forces. And I couldn’t have that weighing on my conscience.

I rolled my eyes at Zenn, something he didn’t see because of my oversize straw hat—another rule, one I actually followed. The scanner beeped, and a horrible squeal erupted from the hovercopter.

“What have you done now?” Zenn’s voice carried a hint of laughter amidst the exasperation.

“Nothing,” I answered. “I’ve done nothing this time.” I’d been good for two months.

“This time?” he asked.

“Violet Schoenfeld, stay where you are!” the mechanical voice boomed. “The Green demands a hearing.”

“Vi! The Green? Seriously, what have you done?”

“Can I have my present now?”

Everyone knows the Green is just a fancy name for the Thinkers. They’re the ones who broadcast the transmissions and categorize the people. The ones who do the thinking so regular people won’t have to.

Zenn would join Them when he finished training with the Special Forces. He’d wanted to be a Greenie for as long as I’d known him, but that didn’t stop our friendship. This arrest might—SF agents didn’t hang out with criminals.

Inside the hovercopter, large panels with multicolored buttons and complicated instruments covered the dashboard. Glass encased the entire bulb of the body, allowing the pilot to spot rule-breakers from any angle. A window in the floor beneath the single—and occupied—metal chair provided a good view of the ground below. Since I had nowhere to sit, I stood next to the tiny doorway.

I felt trapped in a bubble, with the charcoal sky pressing down around me. My throat tightened with each passing second.

After cuffing me, the pilot scowled. “This return trip will take twice as long. We usually send transports for arrests.”

I made a face at the back of his head. Like I didn’t know that. Almost as bad as Lock Up, transports are twice as uncomfortable as the cramped hovercopter. And the filth and stink? Nasty.

With my extra weight on board, the pilot maneuvered the craft awkwardly and zoomed back toward the towers on the south end of the Goodgrounds. “I have a break in twenty minutes. I don’t have time for this.”

Then let me out. I watched Zenn fade to a distant dot, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time I saw him.

The hovercopter slowed and the pilot turned to glare at me. “Don’t try your tricks on me, girlie.”

I had no idea what he meant. I gripped the handle above the doorway as he swung the hovercopter to the left. Toward the towers.

The Southern Rim is only accessible to Goodies with special clearance or important business. I’d never been there, not that I hadn’t tried. No one I knew had ever been—water folk didn’t make trouble.

True fear flowed in my veins as we approached. Maybe sneaking to see Zenn had been a bad idea. The thought felt strange, almost like it didn’t belong to me. It grew, pressing me down with guilt. You shouldn’t have risked your freedom to see Zenn.

The voice in my head definitely wasn’t my own. Damn Thinkers. I shook the brainwashing message away. Zenn had risked his freedom for me last summer.

Below me, fields wove together in little squares, some brown, some green, some gold. Crops grown in the Centrals provided food for those in the Southern Rim and the rest of the Goodgrounds.

The fields gave way to structures standing two or three stories high. Constructed like the other buildings in the Goodgrounds—gray or brown bricks, flashing tech lights, and red iris readers in every doorway.

Windows were blinded off from the outside world. We certainly don’t want any sunlight getting in. No, that would be bad. According to the Thinkers anyway. Sunlight damages skin, no matter what color. Our clothes cover us from wrist to chin, ankle to hip, and everywhere in between. Suits for the business class. Jeans and oatmeal-colored shirts for everyone else. Wide-brimmed hats must be worn at all times.

Goodies are walking paper dolls, devoid of personality—and brains.

Yeah, that doesn’t work for me. I don’t want to be a paper doll. That’s why I broke the rules and stopped plugging in to the transmissions.

The pilot swerved and twisted around the tall buildings. I’d never seen the city up close. My eyes couldn’t move fast enough from one shiny structure to the next.

The pilot steered toward the last and tallest building on the border of our land. The one with the symbol that can be seen anywhere in the Goodgrounds.

The olive branch is the symbol of good. It signals our allegiance to the Association of Directors. More like Association of Dictators, if you want my honest opinion. But no one does.

“So now you’ve seen the Southern Rim,” the pilot said. “Was it everything you expected?”

I didn’t know how to answer, so I kept my mouth shut—a first for me. That was the Southern Rim? No magic, no golden pathways, no perfect escape from my sucky life. The wall now towered in front of me, closing off any thought of freedom.

The hovercopter hung in midair as a door slid open in the wall. Darkness concealed whatever waited inside. And what would I find on the other side? Could I come back? Maybe I would never see Zenn again. My mouth felt too dry.

“We’re going in there?” I asked.

“After I process your file,” the pilot said. He made a note on a small screen. A long list popped up.

“I’ve cited you before,” he said, smiling slowly. I remembered the last time: I’d left the City of Water after dark, crossed through the crops growing in the Centrals, and tried to enter the Southern Rim. I’d dressed up real nice in a fancy white dress and old platform shoes—which were the reason I’d been caught. No one can run in shoes like that.

I endured six rounds of questioning until I admitted I’d stolen the shoes from the basement of a house in the Abandoned Area—another off-limits place—another violation of the rules. Wearing contraband (which I didn’t know about at the time) from an illegal area, trying to enter another forbidden district, and then there was all that nasty business about lying. Like it’s the worst thing on the planet or something.

You see, Goodies don’t lie. Ever. Honesty is sort of bred into us, but somehow mine got out-bred. Maybe when I stopped listening to the transmissions. Or maybe because I just don’t give a damn.

And I’m a good liar, but that’s all been properly documented in my file, which the pilot was now reading with interest. “Mm-hmm,” he said. “A liar, a thief, and now the Green wants you. It’s no small wonder, Vi.”

I absolutely hate it when strangers use my nickname like we’re old friends. I ignored him as he eased the hovercopter closer to the wall. A red beam scanned the rose on the bottom and a signal flashed. The pilot steered into a long tunnel with black walls, hardly a wall and more like a building. As we careened through it, panic spread through me—something I hadn’t felt since learning Zenn would be leaving me behind to join the Special Forces. I wished he’d given me my birthday present before the stupid pilot arrested me.

When we finally cleared the tunnel, I gasped at the view below me.

A second city loomed behind that wall—an entire city.

People swarmed in the streets. Silver instruments and shiny gadgets winked up at me from the vast expanse below. My stomach clenched painfully, and I forced myself to keep breathing so I wouldn’t faint.

The fierceness of the advanced tech burned in my brain. I can feel technology, I’ve always been able to. And this whole new part of the Goodgrounds produced some serious tech buzz. My head felt like it was in a particle accelerator set on high.

“So here we are,” the pilot said. “The Institute—the birthplace of tech.”

No wonder I felt like throwing up.

2.

Everyone knows prisons have row after row of identical cells where the good-turned-bad live with concrete beds, toilets in the corners, and no projections to pass the time. Mechs escort rule-breakers to meals, and criminals are only allowed outside at certain times. I’d seen all this in school. Be good, or we’ll put you in here.

But prison wasn’t anything like what I’d learned in class. A silver floor stretched into stark, white walls that glared down at me as I followed a wheeled Mech through a door labeled WARD A.

I stopped just inside the entryway, staring down the hall. Numbered doors hid the cells beyond, but I didn’t detect any hint of puke. This was far better than Lock Up. In there, it’s everyone for himself. Or herself. Girls don’t normally get put in Lock Up, but I’d been there four times. The rules are really stupid. Like it matters if I don’t lock my window at night. Who’s going to come in? It’s against the rules to be out after dark.

I had to wait for a hearing. Mechs took me to the bathroom and back. (No toilet in the corner—I’d hit the big time.) They brought me packets of food that I mixed with bottled water, which tasted funny. Metallic, almost. Tech-cleaned. One wall projected the scenery outside, and I wondered if the weather was accurate.

My mother wouldn’t come. She’d been notified, but I knew she didn’t care. The Southern Rim was a long trip for a daughter she didn’t want. I’d broken the rules one time too many the first time. She could have at least sent an e-comm. Even Zenn—trapped in the den of Special Forces agents—did that.

His message was short, only a few lines about how he couldn’t get away for the trial, how he was trying to get me out of prison. But he’d signed it Love, Zenn and those two words provided all I needed to endure prison and whatever it held.

I don’t remember time passing. It was just gone. Finally, I followed a shiny Mech down a wide hall, my heart beating furiously fast. Mechanical whirrings from its wheels scratched against the polished steel floor. The only other noise came from a motionless Mech in the middle of the hall. The oily smell of burning gears filled my nose as the beeps became one constant alarm.

Two guards emerged from the room at the end of the hall. Their gray uniforms almost blended into the surrounding walls. I twisted to watch them deactivate the malfunctioning robot by reaching under the chest cavity. So that’s how—

My Mech tugged at my collar, forcing me to turn around. It had rolled out of line and stopped in front of a door. Another robot-guard already waited there, and next to it stood a guy who made my every sense pause.

His sun-stained skin gave everything away. He was bad.

He wore the uniform of someone who’d been in prison for a while. A name had even been sewn on the shoulder: Barque. He couldn’t be much older than me and stood almost as tall as the six-foot Mech, completely relaxed. Maybe he knew something I didn’t.

He looked at me and grinned like we were going to a fabulous party together. Alarm spread through me when my mouth curved up in response. Raising his tech-cuffed hands to his spiky black hair, he tapped his head. “Nice hair,” he mouthed to me. One glance from his Mech, and he dropped his suntanned hands and stared forward again.

The shiny metallic doors widened, ready to devour me whole.

“Violet Schoenfeld,” a voice boomed. “Jag Barque. Come forward.”

The name of the bad boy echoed in my head. What kind of name was Jag Barque? I’d heard stories about how sometimes the Baddies got to name themselves. Surely this Jag guy was one of them. Who would torture their kid with a name like his?

The Mech swiveled forward and stopped at a table as tall as its canister-chest. It opened a briefcase, pulled out a black cord, and plugged it into the podium. The briefcase rotated and the top half flopped back, revealing a touch screen. My picture filled the wall in front of me. My name ran along the bottom, followed by a list of my offenses. Crossed a border. Illegal electro-comm. Broken curfew. In the park after dark, with a male. Resisted arrest.

My jaw tightened. I’d climbed that damn ladder to the hovercopter, swaying in the gusting wind. It was a miracle I hadn’t fallen to my death. Now I was being accused of resisting arrest. As if all the other offenses weren’t enough. What a joke.

It took everything I had to keep my mouth shut. This was court. My Mech representative would speak for me, unless someone asked me a direct question.

A man sat high up in the middle of a long row of seats, a glossy black counter in front of him. He rested his arms on it and stared down at me with a look. The don’t-mess-with-me kind. I hated him immediately.

Projection screens filled the wall behind him, and he kept glancing down at something. Probably another list of my broken rules.

Next to me, Jag’s Mech-rep lifted a significantly bigger briefcase and plugged two feeds into the silver podium. Jag’s picture appeared next to mine. His jaw was strong and square, in contrast to my rounder features. His skin was colored by the sun, while mine remained pale as eggshells. Our hair was practically identical, and my stupid lips curled up again. He had wicked hair too.

Several more projection screens lit up with pictures of Jag, each different. In one, his hair had the black all washed out. His white smile and bleached hair clashed with his brown skin. For some reason, he laughed beside me.

The Greenie in front of us frowned. Another of Jag’s pictures showed him with his hair all shaved off. What little remained looked brown, and I wondered if that was his natural color. His shirt was open at the throat, the short sleeves exposing his bare arms. His blueberry eyes sparkled like he’d heard something funny.

My traitor mouth betrayed me again.

“Something amusing, Miss Schoenfeld?” the Greenie asked.

While I tried to straighten my lips out, Jag chuckled again. The quiet sound echoed off the high walls of the courtroom. My Mech-rep looked at me. “Answer him.”

“No, sir,” I choked out. Another picture revealed Jag passing out phones to Goodies, easily recognized by their umbrella hats and long sleeves. And then I knew. Jag was from the Badlands, and he’d been caught here, distributing illegal tech.

But . . . why was he at my hearing?

“Let’s get on with it,” the Greenie said. “Full council convening in thirty seconds. Mech-749? Your recommendation?”

Mech-749 had obviously been assigned to me, because it spoke. “Removal, your Instituteness.”

“Mech-512?” the Greenie asked Jag’s Mech-rep.

“Unrehabilitational, your Most High Institute.”

“Not worth the time?”

“No, sir,” both Mechs said together.

I had no idea I’d have to learn lame Mech-language to understand the conversation, but the man up front didn’t seem confused. I seriously needed to scratch my arm, but my hands were bound in tech cuffs, which sent a shiver of current through my bones.

A door behind the “Most High Institute” opened. Ten green-robed men walked in. They moved behind the MHI and settled into seats on his right. Ten women entered through a different door—decked out in the same green Institute robes—and took the seats on the left.

Yikes, twenty-one Greenies in one room. Whoever this Jag Barque guy was, he was in deep.

In unison, they looked at built-in projection screens on the counter, the glow illuminating their faces.

“Violet Schoenfeld?” they asked in chorus, like they’d rehearsed it a dozen times before.

Then I knew. I was the one who was in deep.

“Miss Schoenfeld,” the middle Greenie said. “Do you have anything to say?”

I looked at Mech-749. Did I have anything to say? What kind of stupid question was that?

“Not really,” I said. “I was just walking in the park with a friend.”

“A boy,” a woman said, leaning forward.

“Yeah.” I looked at her. “Zenn’s my match.” Surely being with Zenn wasn’t against the rules.

“This is the”—the middle Greenie glanced at his p-screen—“seventh time you’ve been apprehended.”

I counted quickly in my mind. Eighth, actually, but I wasn’t going to bring it up. My first crime happened before I’d turned twelve and wouldn’t be on my Official Record. Not sure if I was supposed to speak or not, I opted for not.

“Violet, you are aware that many on this council find you unrehabilitatable.”

“That’s a long word,” I said, which roused a low chuckle from Jag.

The Greenie creased his eyebrows and scowled at the counter. He typed something that couldn’t be good for my case. “It means that you no longer fit in the Goodgrounds.” He spoke each word with care, so softly the sound didn’t echo in the courtroom. It took several seconds for them to sink in.

I glanced down the row of Greenies, trying to decipher their cold glares and tight lips. “What?”

“When did you stop plugging into the transmissions?” A bald man at the end of the row leaned forward and stared at me, unblinking.

“I plug in,” I lied. Another projection screen jumped to life. Not sure what all the red lines meant, I tried to calm my heart and breathe normally.

He smiled like an indulgent parent does when they catch their child eating a chocolate TravelTreat. “Not for a year, I believe.”

“Check the records,” I challenged. “My comm is linked in every night. Mandatory eight hours.”

All twenty-one Greenies touched their p-screens and clicks echoed through the ridiculously huge hall.

“She’s right,” a woman said. Her voice was low and her eyebrows high. “Still, such a Free Thinker . . .” She made a face like she’d tasted something sour and typed into her notes.

“What happened to your hair?” Another woman fixed her tiny black eyes on me. Her long silver hair lay like a frozen waterfall of tech filaments against her dark skin. She had a large nose with high cheekbones. She looked like a hawk.

“My mother made me cut it,” I lied again.

“Why?”

“She didn’t think I was plugging in either, even when I showed her the printouts.” A projection of the evidence in question replaced my picture on the wall behind the Greenies.

As if. Like I listened to the transmissions. I quit maybe a year ago, maybe longer. I’d figured out how to disconnect my communicator. So technically, I did plug my comm into the transmissions every night. I just wasn’t listening.

After that, I wasn’t in Their control—but I was tired. I didn’t sleep well, living in constant fear that somehow They’d find out. Brainwashed before I could speak, I was terrified of Them. Even now.

“Miss Schoenfeld?” the Hawk prompted.

I glanced at my Mech-rep. “Pay attention. She asked why you had to cut your hair.” The robotic voice did nothing to settle my nerves.

“Umm, my mother used perma-plaster to secure the link in place. It got all caught in my hair.”

That brought a belly laugh from Jag, and the middle Greenie threw him a furious look. The sound died instantly, but the echo remained.

“So I had to cut it.”

“Then you had to dye it?” the Hawk asked.

“Yeah.” I stared back at her, daring her to ask another stupid question.

They all started typing like crazy. Whatever. It’s my hair. At least that’s what I told my mother. As much as I didn’t want to, I wished she had come. As much as I wished it wouldn’t, my throat burned with unshed tears.

“Mech-749? Do you maintain your recommendation?” the middle Greenie asked.

“Yes. Badlands.”

Several of the Greenies nodded, and I wondered what that meant. Would I have to go there to serve my sentence? I didn’t even know the Badlands had prisons.

“Jag Barque?”

“Yeah,” he said lazily. I looked over, but our Mechs stood in the way, so I couldn’t see his face.

“Your opinion has not changed, I presume?”

“Nope.” Jag acted like he’d been here countless times before. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands hanging loosely in their tech cuffs. I wished for his calmness; my heart kept trying to bust through my chest.

“You are required to appear before the Association of Directors,” the Greenie said. “In Freedom.”

A moment of silence passed, a definite threat hanging in the air. Then Jag said, “I will not,” and I imagined the glare he carried in his voice.

“It is your duty, Mr. Barque. You will leave next week,” the Greenie said. “The council has some matters to discuss before your release. Violet, I have no alternative but to banish you to the Badlands.”

Banished? For walking in the park with Zenn? “What?” I blurted out.

“Permanently.”

Everything moved too fast. The walls shifted inward. “What does that mean?” I shouted. “I have to live there? Forever?” I took several steps forward. Two security guards emerged from the woodwork, and I realized I’d crossed a line. The one too close to the Greenies.

“Sir, I think the girl would be more dangerous in the Badlands.” The bald guy who’d asked about the transmissions leaned forward. “She is a Free Thinker. Imagine the problems.”

“What the hell is a Free Thinker?” I asked.

Mech-749 slapped a patch on my neck. A silencer. Cursing is always silenced.

“Nonsense,” the middle Greenie said. “She is more dangerous here, amidst the tech, and given her family history—”

“My family history? You mean my dad? Where is he?” Only silence echoed off the walls. I took another step forward, very aware of their eyes on me. “I’ll do whatever you want! Don’t send me there!” My words flickered on the projection screens, scrolling across the bottom from one to the next.

The middle Greenie smiled without sympathy. His eyes flashed as he shook his head. I stepped forward anyway.

Don’t do it, a voice warned. Hearing voices isn’t all that abnormal. But the same voice—and this was the same voice as before—meant someone was monitoring me.

The middle Greenie’s eyes narrowed, almost like he could hear the voice too. For just a moment, I thought he must be the one infiltrating my thoughts. But his voice had been distinctly higher than the one still echoing in my head. Don’t do it, don’t do it.

I took another step forward.

The middle Greenie raised his hand, causing security guards to swoop in and pull me back toward the Mech. I thrashed and kicked, and even with my soft-soled sneakers, one of them fell. I clobbered another one in the face with my tech-cuffed hands. I desperately wanted to rip the silencer off, but I couldn’t get my fingers up high enough. It would’ve hurt—a lot—but I didn’t care.

“I won’t go!” I shouted so loud, my throat ripped. “You can’t!”

Someone must have pushed a button or raised the alarm, because the courtroom swarmed with guards. Four of them tackled me before I went down. I finally stopped struggling when a taser sparked in my peripheral vision and someone kneeled on my spine. The guard cuffed me a second time, and I winced as the tech burned my wrists. Two pairs of advanced tech cuffs would cause blisters and a severe rash if I wore them for very long. My flesh was already tingling with techtricity.

“There’s your evidence,” the middle Greenie said. “We’ll give you one week.” He snapped his projection screen closed and stood. The other Greenies mimicked him, and as one, they marched out of the room.

One week for what? I glanced at Jag, my chest heaving in anger. He held my eyes, studying me like I was a difficult projection puzzle he couldn’t figure out. Refusing to look away, I stared at him until the guards yanked me backward.

Just as they pulled me through a door, a man asked, “What are we going to do with you, Mr. Barque?” The voice dripped with disdain, but somehow it sounded . . . familiar.

As I was escorted down the hall, I made the connection: The real-life voice speaking to Jag matched the one that had been talking in my head.

Gunner

1.

Someone is always watching. Always listening. Freedom doesn’t exist in the city of Freedom, what with the glinting silver surfaces recording thoughts everywhere and the surrounding walls keeping everyone and everything in—or out.

On the east, the ocean hugs Freedom, but no one knows how to swim. That’s against protocol, and all Citizens follow protocol.

Identity also doesn’t flourish in Freedom. Which was why, on this crap Monday, I escaped the confines of the Education Rise amidst a stream of other students, hopefully unnoticed by Raine she’d be easier to ignore if she wasn’t so gorgeous Hightower.

Up next: snacking and flying.

Or so I thought.

Raine materialized out of nowhere, her stark-as-snow hair falling over one shoulder. She adjusted her hat as I cast my eyes around to see if anyone was watching us. We seemed to be as alone as two people could be in a city where Thinkers monitored everything, from what job I’d do for the rest of my life to who I’d marry.

I wished They’d chosen Raine for me.

“Hey, flyboy,” she said. Her voice made my insides flip. She stepped off her hoverboard and fell into stride beside me.

I fought the urge to look behind me, see if any of my buddies saw me talking with this amazing girl. I managed to stall the smile before it gave my feelings away.

“Hey.” I pocketed my hands against the February afternoon chill. I could’ve mouthed Raine’s next words.

“We really need you, Gunner.”

I didn’t respond. Not a sigh, not a shrug, nothing. Now, if she’d say “I really need you,” I’d probably reconsider everything. But she never did.

I’d heard her recruitment speech before. Raine belonged to a group called the Insiders, and apparently they were working to enact some “governmental change.”

I was pretty sure that meant she snuck out after hours to drink contraband coffee with either her match/best friend Cannon Lichen or her tech guru Trek Whiting.

She wouldn’t tell me anything about the Insiders until I joined, and I wasn’t joining until she told me something.

The conversation felt stale, but this was the first time she’d approached me in person. The other petitions had happened over my cache. I’ll admit, I liked this way better.

I snuck a glance at Raine and admired her sea-foam-green eyes. Immediately afterward I heard her voice over my cache. Are you even listening to me?

Every Citizen in Freedom is implanted with a cache when they’re born. In childhood, they were more of a nuisance, as they took special concentration to use. I couldn’t hear every thought someone had—I’m not a Thinker or a mind ranger. Those people can hear thoughts and read minds—and so much more.

No, a cache was a mental communication implant. After I learned to focus my thoughts, thanks to the introductory course we all took as first-year primary students, caching was dead useful.

I could talk to my buddies on the hoverboard track without yelling. I could send a friend a message without my mom knowing. Over time—and a few more caching lessons—sending and receiving messages became as easy as thinking.

My friends and I exchanged conversations mentally while together. After we went home, messages were easily transcribed just by thinking and could then be sent as electro-communications. E-comms could be kept in the cache’s memory and accessed later.

The Thinkers could monitor a cache stream, but They maintained a very exclusive Watched list. And trust me, you knew if you were on it. Saved e-comms, however, could cause problems if they fell into the wrong hands.

I’d deleted all of Raine’s, some of the most recent ones without even reading them.

Of course I’m listening, I chatted back to Raine, trying not to let her proximity derail my annoyance at her for asking—again. This issue was nonnegotiable. It’s just that I can’t join.

Raine fidgeted with the fingers on her gloves, her agitation thinly disguised under a layer of frustration. I could feel it coming from her, though she didn’t know that, and I didn’t want her to find out.

Not everyone appreciated an empath.

“Your mom,” she said out loud.

“My mom,” I repeated. I couldn’t leave her. She and I, we’d always been there for each other. I didn’t want to get her in trouble. She had a good job in the Transportation Rise. Sure, she worked until five, but no one needed to be home to monitor my afternoon snacking and flying sessions.

Besides, Director Hightower—that’s right, Raine’s father—did all the monitoring in Freedom.

Raine paused, one foot on the grass of the green area across from Rise One and one foot still on the sidewalk next to me. I looked at her properly, almost flinching with the beauty I found in her face.

“So,” I said, working hard to keep my voice from breaking.

“So, I’m worried about you, Gunn,” she said. A secret flashed in her eyes; her words held more than concern. I realized how little I really knew about this girl, despite my crush on her.

I frowned. “Worried?”

“My dad . . .”

Now, her dad I knew all about. Technically he was a Regional Director, presiding over many cities in the nearby area. Not that I’d been to any of them. I didn’t know how close they were or what they were called. I just knew that Van Hightower owned a lot more than Freedom.

Rise One loomed before me, making late-afternoon shadows drip across the green area. “I didn’t know you lived in Rise One,” I said. “I thought you had a student flat.”

Raine’s mouth tightened at my blatant change in topic. “There’s a student section on the second and third floors.”

“You have a flatmate?” I asked.

“Yes. You want her picture?” Raine adopted her power stance: left hip out, arms crossed, eyes challenging me to say something.

I held up my hands in surrender. “No, no picture.”

Pictures could also be sent over the cache, attached to an e-comm. Everyone in Freedom was fitted with corneal implants, which allowed us to view things on an individual basis on our vision-screens. It wasn’t really a screen, more of a movie or picture displayed before our own eyes. Of course, you could forward images through the cache, or you could load them onto microchips and pass them around physically.

See, every Citizen of Freedom also had a wrist-port. This was a simple, inch-wide band of black around the left wrist. On the top, just below the back of your hand, was a slot for microchips, and then you could watch memories on your vision-screen.

We’d eliminated almost all handheld devices in Freedom. It’s something Assistant Director Myers was forever bragging about. “We’re down to just the electro-board!” he boasted from the roof of the Technology Rise—his beloved home just beyond the taller central Rises.

The e-board was cool; I’d give AD Myers that. It was this tiny little thing, about four inches long and two inches wide. A screen could be brought up to hover above the device if you wanted to show your buddies a particularly entertaining memory. Other than that, we used the e-boards in school to store class notes. Simply compose a message in your cache and send it to your e-board. Notes: taken.

Educators could send items to their class lists, providing students with an endless supply of study materials. Free-time hours: gone.

“Anyway, she’s not a student,” Raine was saying. She took a few steps backward, committing fully to crossing the green area to Rise One. “Well, I should go.” She didn’t seem too enthused about leaving, but that could’ve been wishful thinking on my part.

“Wait,” I called. “What’s your flatmate’s name?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Just some chick named Vi.”

I watched Raine walk away, wondering why Vi, a non-student, was living on a student floor, with a student. I needed to learn more about the real Raine Hightower, stat.

I glided through the remaining Rises, covering mile after mile easily on my hoverboard. Each Rise—and there were twelve situated in the center of Freedom—took up an entire square mile and created silver canyons, even with all the green areas. On the outskirts of those Rises, more buildings reached for the sky.

My mom worked in the Transportation Rise, and there were others: technology, energy, water purification, protocol enforcement, medicine, and evolutionary development, just to name a few. Each Rise had a Thinker who ran the affairs in that particular area, but only one of them was Assistant to Director Hightower: Thane Myers.

As I drifted through the Rise-canyons toward the Blocks, I forced the Directors from my mind, focusing instead on something more important: my snack selection. On Mondays, my two options included crackers and cheese or raisins. I chose the crackers every Monday.

By the time I made it to Block Three, I’d moved on from snacks and spent a more than healthy amount of time fantasizing about Raine. I swept my palm across the panel on my front door and pushed into the living room, where my mom knelt in front of our safe, a slip of microchips in her hand.

Everything froze, as if the Director had pressed the pause button on my life. Mom stalled with her hand halfway inside the safe. Her face held shock and fear and guilt, all of which I actually felt as my own emotions.

I stared, my mouth still watering over the promise of crackers and cheese.

Just as fast as we’d paused, life rushed forward again. The safe slammed shut, and Mom stood in front of it. Like that would erase the secret she’d just put inside. Like I wouldn’t be able to see the hulking black box behind her. It’s always been there, and I’d always been involved in the decisions about what we hid inside. Until now.

“Gunner, you’re home early.”

“Not really.” I dropped my backpack and hoverboard and headed into the kitchen for that snack. The safe screamed at me to look at it! but I kept my eyes on the floor. “Why are you home?” I called to Mom.

I pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and ordered up the crackers from the food-dispenser. Mom didn’t answer and she stayed in the living room, her frustration about my slobbish behavior a thin veil of normalcy over my heavy curtain of anxiety.

“No reason,” she said when she came into the kitchen. “You’re going flying?”

“Yeah, be back for dinner.” I ate on the way to the hoverboard track, but the crackers held no taste. The icy air I sliced through at the track felt just as restrictive as the rest of the city. As the rest of my life.

All I could think about was that blasted sleeve of microchips, what they were, why my mom had hidden them without telling me.

I flew my regulated hours, returned home at the appointed time. Just like always.

Bedtime couldn’t come fast enough. At exactly ten o’clock, I plugged my cache into the mandatory transmissions, closed my eyes.

Like I slept.

After an hour that felt like forever, I unclipped my transmissions and crept downstairs to the safe. I had four minutes to plug back in, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Like I said, my mom and I didn’t used to keep secrets, so I knew the combination to the safe.

Three minutes later the sleeve of microchips lay under my pillow and the transmissions reblared in my head.

I needed time to think. So I lay awake, trying to imagine what I might see.

I couldn’t.

I popped the first chip into my wrist-port. My vision-screen filled with my mom’s remembrances. My past birthdays and, as I got older, my performances at the hoverboard flight trials. The second to last one held my victory last year. Mom was hiding her fondest memories of me, almost like she couldn’t hold them in her head anymore. Why would she secure these without telling me?

I slid the last chip into the port and nearly choked. Director Hightower sat at his desk; the surface glittered with clouded glass.

He leaned forward to speak, and while he looked kind and fatherly, his voice came out full of steel and sternness.

“Hello, Ms. Jameson. Our records indicate that the child we entrusted you with, Gunner, has considerable talent. The Association needs to begin his training as soon as possible. He will be summoned next Saturday, at six thirty a.m., for a personal appointment with me. His afternoon classes will be moved to Rise One to aid in this new academic direction.”

Director Hightower paused as he sipped clear liquid from a tall glass. I couldn’t work up enough saliva to swallow. He’d called me “the child we entrusted you with.” What the hell did that mean?

When he looked into the camera again, I felt like his eyes burned through the lens, the microchip, my vision-screen, and right into my soul. Like he could see and hear and feel everything and I was utterly exposed.

“You will not be able to see him again, Ms. Jameson. But know that he will be of great service to the Association of Directors, not only here in Freedom, but throughout the entire union.”

I dug my fingers into the pillow in an attempt to escape from his penetrating eyes. Numbness spread from my fingers into my arms, but the Director wasn’t finished yet.

“You’ve done a superior job with his upbringing.” He bowed his head for a moment, then raised his chin again. “You will be notified of his new address no later than Sunday evening. Until Saturday at six thirty. Good day.”

The image went black, but I still felt the Director’s eyes lingering on me.

My hands shook, and my head buzzed. The Director’s words raced through my mind. You will not be able to see him again.

The last person who’d left her was my father. I didn’t want to put her through that again. I knew what had happened, even though we’d only spoken about my dad once.

She’d forgotten him.

Once I moved out, would she forget about me too?

“Tell me everything,” I whispered to Raine Hightower the next day before genetics class began. Briefly, I thought about my mom. We’d always protected each other, and I was more determined than ever to keep her safe, even after my forced relocation on Saturday.

Raine pushed her ice-colored hair over her shoulder, focused her eyes on me. I didn’t know what she saw there, but her expression softened. “What did you find out?”

I shook my head in a universal gesture of it doesn’t matter. Like I wanted Raine to know I’d fallen apart over a memory.

“You’re on the list, aren’t you?” She leaned closer. So close, I smelled something warm and sweet coming off her skin.

I cleared my throat and moved away. “Just tell me what to do.” Maybe if I joined the Insiders, I’d be able to breathe without this band of tension constricting my chest.

“The Director has his new recruits coming in on Saturday morning,” Raine whispered. “Friday night, one a.m. I’ll forward you the coordinates later.”

Then she turned away.

On Friday night I unplugged from the mandatory nightly transmissions so I could sneak downstairs. In four minutes an alarm loud enough to wake the dead would fill the Block. I couldn’t have that, and since I wasn’t planning on coming back, I clipped my transmission feed into the e-board I’d configured to simulate my sleep patterns.

Then I slipped down the stairs, knelt in front of the safe. I took a deep breath, not sure I could handle the contents of this thing again—not after that creepfest recording of the Director.

An invisible weight lifted as I replaced the sleeve of chips I’d “borrowed” and pressed my thumb against the scanner to close the door.

That’s when I saw the single chip at the back of the safe. Jabbing my hand into the gap to stop the door from latching, I could only stare. That chip hadn’t been there on Monday night. My mom had told me about the approaching appointment with Director Hightower on Wednesday afternoon. She’d been leaning against the safe during the conversation, and no tears were shed, though I’d felt her profound sadness.

Quickly, I eased the chip from the slot, slipped it into my jacket pocket. When the safe closed, the beep echoed so loud I squeezed my eyes shut. But no one stirred upstairs. My mom’s transmissions would block the sound; she never slept without plugging in.

It’d be so easy to simply go back to bed, plug in, show up for my appointment tomorrow morning at six thirty.

But I couldn’t go back. What I’d learned had changed me, and the old me was gone for good. I felt like I should mourn him, and in a way I did. Sure, he’d known his world wasn’t perfect, but he’d been happy. Or at least willing to go with the flow.

With my backpack shouldered and that one new chip resting in my pocket, I had a feeling any semblance of contentment lay solidly in my past. I stepped toward the front door. My mother had locked it down last night at ten, just like she always did. Beams of light swept from one side of the entryway to the other. Nothing I couldn’t handle.

Step-step-shuffle. Pause. Step-back-pause-leap. I stood at the door, wishing I could say good-bye to Mom the right way. I’d tried last night, but it pretty much went like this: “Night, Mom.”

“Good night, Gunn.”

And then I’d stood in her doorway while she’d linked into her transmissions and closed her eyes. I didn’t get to hug her or tell her I loved her or anything. I buried the troubling good-bye; I couldn’t go back and change it.

With one click and one scanner sweep, the front door hissed open. I’d barely melted into the shadows when someone spoke over the cache and straight into my head. Nice to see you.

Trek Whiting = Raine’s tech genius. Every muscle in my body tensed. I was really doing this. Whatever this was. But I’d finally made my own choice. And it felt wild, dangerous. Perfect.

First rule out here, Trek said over my cache, which echoed inside my mind because he’d used my personal cache code. I’d given it to Raine after school, secretly hoping she’d be the one to contact me. My dreams crashed and burned, even though Trek’s reverberating voice over the cache meant the code had worked. He’d insisted that a coded cache wouldn’t be as detectable, and I had no experience to argue.

No names. Do you know your location?

Yes, I chatted over the cache to him, completely ticked at his condescending tone. Are we secure?

Yeah, but there are always seeker-spiders lurking somewhere.

And he spoke the truth, even if he wasn’t my favorite person on earth. I shivered at the thought of meeting a seeker-spider in the dead of night. Truth be told, I didn’t want to get in the way of a seeker at any time. Programmed by the higher-ups in the Tech Rise, seeker-spiders had a fourfold mission: find, detain, record, report.

If I was found, well, I didn’t want to think about the “detain” part. I’d seen a few too many projections detailing exactly what the fist-sized spiders could do to a human body.

As if the seeker-spiders weren’t bad enough, I could meet Enforcement Officers or trip some silent alarm or throw too many thoughts into the air. Any of those could bust me before I’d even begun. I couldn’t afford that. Director Hightower wanted me—but he wanted me clean.

His daughter wanted me too.

I wish she wanted me in more ways than one, I thought. But Raine just wanted me to join the Insiders. Earlier today she’d sent her instructions. She’d take me to the Insiders and make sure I got hooked up in an Insider-monitored flat.

And I’d get a few hours to enjoy my life before it belonged to someone else. I seriously hoped Raine had something amazing planned for the night.

Just then I picked up on her emotions. Wisps of feeling flitted across my awareness, telling me of her confidence and calmness. I shivered, but it had nothing to do with the freezing temps.

I allowed Raine to fully form in my imagination. She rarely smiled, but when she did, my heart pulsed in my throat. She could wait, though. I had one more thing to do before I joined her rebels.

I extracted the chip I hadn’t watched. With the tiniest of clicks, I slid it into the port on my wrist. My mom’s face filled my vision-screen, brightening it with her pale skin, dark blue eyes, and strawberry-blonde hair. Something like a sob gathered in my throat.

I should’ve said good-bye the right way, whatever way that was.

She looked at the camera for a few seconds without speaking. She swallowed. Then she said, “Gunner, I’ve loaded a letter onto this chip. It’s from your father. He instructed me to give it to you when you were ready.”

While she paused, my mind raced. Letter? My father = a man I’d never met. A man who’d been dead since before my birth.

Mom jerked her head toward a sound only she could hear. She leaned forward; her voice hushed. “Compare it with the journal. I love you, son.”

Then the memory went black. A second later a scan of the letter filled my v-screen. The writing looked faded, but I could still read all the words, decipher all the numbers. It made no sense, but since it’d come from my father, I longed to feel it in my hands.

I watched my mom’s recording again. And again. Every time, part of my being leeched out when she said “son.” At some point during the viewing, I’d slid to the ground. Cement-cold crept into my legs, my lungs.

What journal? I wondered. The only answer came from the glow of crimson seeker-spider eyes. An intense fear pounded in my veins. I leapt to my feet and turned quickly down an alley, only to see additional pinpricks of red. More recordings being made.

In six short hours the Director would own me.

I wanted to own my last six hours, dammit.

I knelt, reached down to my ankle, lifted the cuff of my jeans. Four sets of lasery eyes moved closer. I kept my chin pressed to my chest so they couldn’t capture my face and beam it back to whoever would dispatch the Enforcement Officers. The wide-brimmed hat helped conceal my identity. For once I was glad protocol dictated hat-wearing at all times.

I extracted a small canister—a scrambler—from my shoe and set it on the asphalt. Just a little closer . . .

I felt the eyes behind me, above, below, on all sides. Claustrophobia pressed in unexpectedly. After all, I felt like this everywhere. In school. At home. On the hoverboard track.

So many cameras watching. Always watching.

The scrambler vibrated under my fingers. I traced over the two looping figure eights on the top to control the shaking in my hands, waiting one—more—second.

When the metallic legs of a spider touched my elbow, I smashed the scrambler with my fist.

An electromagnetic pulse sent the seeker-spiders flying backward, their eyes winking into oblivion as they—and everything they’d managed to record—shorted out.

Then I ran.

Raine

2.

My new flatmate has nightmares every stinkin’ night, which creates a mountain of work for me. Not that she knows that, but still. I sorta wished her dreams would dry up already.

The first couple of nights I’d jerked awake to her anguished cries and muttered words about someone she’d forgotten.

I’d knelt next to her bed, careful not to touch her while I tried to wake her up.

Fact 1: Violet Schoenfeld is a very deep dreamer.

My brief-sheet hadn’t said anything about her violent midnight behavior. Instead, the b-sheet provided a detailed analysis of Vi’s personality—uh, quirks—and included more than I should ever know about someone else’s match.

Zenn (the aforementioned match) came and collected Vi every morning, and most days I didn’t see her again until lights out. Because of their identical rings, I knew Zenn had a checklist of responsibilities regarding Vi too. Jewelry is forbidden in Freedom, but rings like Vi’s and Zenn’s screamed of monitoring. They meant my dad was simply waiting for either of them to slip up. Then the ring would record everything he needed to know.

My responsibilies re: Vi included filing a report if she had a nightmare. Now I prepared the form every night before bed. When she started thrashing and calling out, I recorded the time. Sent it off to Thane Myers, the man who loved to make my life more difficult if he didn’t wake up with his precious report.

Fact 2: Violet can’t remember anything of substance. I made sure that detail made it into all my reports. Whether it was true or not remains to be seen.

I tried not to dwell on Vi. She wasn’t my problem, even though my conscience nagged me in my quiet moments. The way Thane kept her brainwashed for so long (over eight months now) just didn’t sit right with me.

Of course, that was one of my responsibilities too: Keep Violet close. Close and under the influence. Thane said it’d be better that way. I was still trying to figure out what it was.

Fact 3: Violet did not attend genetics classes—at least not in the Education Rise—though it was clear she had talent. And all Citizens with talent were required to enroll in genetics classes. In fact, anyone suspected of maybe-possibly having talent was required to take genetics.

I’d been in the class for ten years, yet I hadn’t formally registered any talents. Several of my classmates had. I’d watched them go from suspected to confirmed to registered. Then my father put them on his list and moved their afternoon classes to Rise One.

They still attended genetics in the morning. We endured lectures and projections about the superiority of talented Citizens. We took field trips to the premier Rises—the Evolution Rise, the Technology Rise, and the Medical Rise—to see which jobs our talents could benefit the most. We learned to control those Citizens without talents.

I’d seen people go from hunched over in desks to avoid eye contact, to waving their hands to control the wind (or detecting passcodes, or commanding the Educator in powerful voices), to looking everyone straight in the face and flying to Rise One after lunch.

I’d seen people go from the Education Rise, to Rise One, to a job in one of the premier Rises, where they continued to brainwash the general population.

I didn’t want to be one of those people. I didn’t want Gunner to be one of those people. I was thrilled he’d agreed to meet, agreed to learn more about the Insiders.

I watched Violet’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Lines of exhaustion marred the (once sunburnt) pale skin around her eyes. I should do something, I thought. But I didn’t know what, and even if I did, I’d never get away with it. So I filled in the time on the form—12:13 a.m.—and blitzed it off to Thane.

Then I slipped out the door into the darkness.

Gunn had agreed to meet me at oh-one-hundred, which worked out perfectly with Vi’s nightmare schedule. Convincing him to join the Insiders took for-freakin’-ever. Even for me, and that’s saying something. And not something good.

Now, outside in the dead of night, I leaned against a medical kiosk across the street from our agreed-upon location. I thought of him, of the careful way he’d avoided me at school today. He’d been hiding something. Something more than his voice talent. I mean, I’d heard him use that many times on his victims admirers.

Other girls are such suckers for a nice voice and a sexy smile.

But not me. I’d known Gunn for practically ever, and while he had all the right stuff in all the right places, he wasn’t really my type. I mean, who likes the dark, silent type anyway?

Not me, I told myself, even though Gunner’s face came to mind every time I thought about my match. That boy—Cannon Lichen—had these freaky eyes that saw way too much.

Cannon was perfect for me—as a best friend—because I had a freaky habit of wearing gloves all day, every day, no matter the season. Cannon and I have never held hands in a romantic way. I don’t allow people to touch me, and besides, it’s Cannon.

Neither one of us dreams about kissing the other. It’d be way too weird. No one knows me better, though. Not my father, not anyone. Cannon knew I went out after hours, but he’d never tell. Our loyalty to each other bordered on insane.

“Raine,” someone hissed, out loud, not over my cache. I hated all the talking in my head, but I couldn’t very well have this convo out in the open street—especially after hours.

“No names,” I whispered through clenched teeth. I straightened, embarrassed (and irked) that I’d been caught with my guard down.

Encode the cache, I chatted to Trek Whiting, one of the best technicians on the Inside. I peered into the darkness, unsure of which direction Gunn’s voice had come from.

“There’re spiders. It’s me, Gunn—”

“No names,” I repeated, annoyed. Gunner was already screwing things up, and had he seriously brought spiders with him? “Come on.” I slipped into the darkness, sure he’d follow. I pulled my coat closed at my throat, protecting myself against the bitter wind blowing in from the ocean. My gloves hid my talent, and while I never went anywhere without them, they didn’t provide much in the warmth department.

Gunn fell silently into step beside me. He never says much. People with voice power are sorta like that.

I’d joined the Insiders almost a year ago in a (possibly lame) attempt to make my own choices. Because in Freedom, no one makes choices. My dad—the Director—does that for them.

I played his game. I let him think he owned me—and in many ways he did. He didn’t know about my midnight activities, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Where are we going? Gunner chatted over my cache.

I tugged at my gloves, trying to keep the chill out. Problems leaving? I asked, ignoring his question. Last good-byes and all that?

He cast me a sidelong glance and shifted the hoverboard he carried. Leaving his mom behind wasn’t my fault. He’d have been shipped off in the morning anyway, and that was the real problem.

Instead of living in a student flat, Gunn still lived at home. I didn’t really get that (okay, I didn’t get it at all), but he’d told me once that his mom didn’t have anyone else, and hey, he liked living off-site.

If she knew you joined the Insiders, she’d have to report it, I chatted him. Protocol dictated it, and everyone living in Freedom follows protocol.

Everyone except the Insiders.

I did what you said to do, he messaged, his thought-voice tense, angry. There were still a dozen spiders at my place.

Did you pulse them? I asked as we turned down another alley.

Had to. Gunner grabbed my arm when a particularly nasty gust of wind threatened to unseat our hats. I yanked my arm away, even though I wore a thick coat. He didn’t touch me again, and he didn’t speak.

Disabling the spiders would buy us a few hours at most. My dad employed technicians round the clock. Sooner or later, they’d know their seekers had been destroyed and send Enforcement Officers to investigate.

Definitely not good.

I ran through the hideout possibilities. We needed to go off-grid for the next six hours, and we only had about three before the city would be swarming with EOs.

I led him through the Blocks, turning whenever I felt like it and striding through random alleys in case we had a spider tail. Trek would’ve warned me, but Gunn didn’t know that. He didn’t know anything—as per the rules of the Insiders. No information is given until commitment is confirmed.

Gunner trailed behind me, his body heat a slow, familiar burn. At least he knew how to move silently.

Unbidden, I thought of the two of us, matched and assigned to a town house in the outer Blocks. I stopped short, and Gunner stumbled into me. He caught me across the shoulders to keep both of us from falling. When he didn’t let go, I turned and looked up at him.

The moonlight shone on his pale face. His eyes held the same secret I’d seen at school today. My feelings spiraled up, down, and around. First from the intimate way he touched me (against protocol), then to how I’d fantasized about him being my match (totally against protocol).

He ducked his head, concealing his face in murky hat-shadows. But I held his features in my mind. I knew the way his lips curved. The slant of his shoulders. The way his pulse bounced in his throat. How he chewed on his fingernails when he didn’t know an answer in calculations, how he lingered near the back of the class on field trials. And, seriously, the guy can fly a hoverboard.

Why did I know all that? I thought of Trek, my technician for the last year. I knew just as much about him. More, maybe. Cannon flitted across my mind. I could definitely name everything about him too, right down to the ridiculous boots he wore. All. Winter. Long.

Gunner Jameson wasn’t special.

Sure, he had inky hair. It sometimes curled from under his hat because he let it grow too long—a direct violation of protocol. His eyes were the color of tea, deep and dark, like looking into the middle of a storm.

I have to tell you something, he messaged, using the encoded cache so his voice seeped into my mind. He stepped closer. I inched toward him. We stood, mere breaths apart, studying each other. I traced the strong edges of his face with my eyes.

I swallowed hard, trying to regain my composure. Crushing on him in his last hours of freedom wasn’t great timing. I employed the tactics I taught the Insiders and folded my feelings into a neat box inside myself. That way no one could use them against me.

We need to get off the street, I chatted back, forcing a measure of nonchalance into my message. You can tell me then. I stepped away from his touch and took another random turn.

What’s going on? Trek asked. Your vitals are vibrating.

Nothing, I grumbled, Gunner’s intense stare still burning my senses.

Doesn’t register as nothing. Trek’s chat carried a frown, as if his equipment wasn’t telling him the truth.

Look, techie, I said it was nothing. I moved faster, trying to put more distance between me and Gunn.

Whatever you say, Rainey.

Don’t call me that. Only my dad used that nickname. I hated it, and Trek knew it.

Left at the corner, and then the alley on your right, Trek said. I have coffee.

Halfway down the appointed alley, I opened a door and motioned Gunn inside. He raised his eyebrows, something I pointedly ignored, and stepped past me.

The darkness was twice as thick inside the hallway. “Am I supposed to grope my way forward?” he asked out loud.

A soft chuckle escaped my throat. Not a giggle. Not a laugh. I don’t do stuff like that. I’m cool and calm and not crushing on this Gunner guy. “Ten steps, flyboy.”

He counted off the steps and waited. I came up behind him, stopping just as he turned. “Now what?” he asked.

“Open the door already. I’m freezing.”

He grumbled but groped the wall for the latch. Thankfully, he found it after only a few seconds and opened the door to a brightly lit café. I squinted into the tech lights and blinked away the spots from my vision.

Two dozen people loitered at the crowded tables. They all wore winter hats and gloves and nursed cups of coffee. The oldest one was eight years older than me—twenty-five. Their eyes, sharp and focused, swung toward me.

I pushed past Gunn and settled at a table across from Trek, in all his mousy-hair and hazel-eyed glory. I grinned at my tech handler and the leader of this group, the Lower Block Insiders.

“Close the door!” someone yelled from a table in the corner. I rolled my eyes as I removed my hat and peeled back the fingers of my gloves. Gunner stood in the doorway like he’d never seen a café before. He pushed the door closed with a little too much force, then cringed when it slammed.

“Newbie,” someone nearby muttered. But playfulness lingered under his grumpy expression. Most Insiders were very good at being two different people. We had to be. We lived one life during the day and a completely different one at night.

“Yup, someone new,” Trek said, standing up to address the entire café. “Guys, this is Gunner Jameson, Raine’s newest recruit, and number one on Director Hightower’s list. Voice candidate.”

The Insiders shifted. None of them had voice talent. And, seriously, it’s a pretty freaky talent. Very rare. My dad’s been looking for voices for a while now, which was why I’d been trying to get Gunn on the Inside these last few months.

“Thanks for that smashing intro,” he mumbled to Trek as he slumped into the chair next to me. He scoffed in a way that said Really? A coffee shop?

Trek simply grinned, pocketed some piece of tech that kept this location and all its inhabitants off the radar, and settled back in his seat. I ignored them both and drummed my navy fingernails on the table.

Protocol fact: Nails are to remain unpainted. We can’t have piercings either.

Raine fact: I paint my nails every Friday night. Usually blue. Sometimes purple. Never pink.

Gunn studied my discolored nails, a mix of disbelief and something else I couldn’t identify on his face.

“What?” I snapped.

He cleared his throat. “Your nails are tight.”

I squinted at him, trying to decide if he was going shady on me or not.

“I like them,” he added, a hint of amusement seeping into his expression. I watched his smile form, thinning his lips and revealing his perfectly white teeth.

I squeezed my eyes shut when I realized I’d been staring too long. “Coffee?” I asked Trek as I opened my eyes. He got up and moved toward the counter in the back, poured coffee into three cups, and returned to the table.

Trek dumped an obscene amount of sugar substitute in his and frowned at me. He flicked his gaze to Gunn and then back to me, raising his eyebrows. For a moment, a flare of embarrassment shot through me. But it’s not like Trek knew why I’d gotten all flustered outside.

“So Raine’s gonna be your trainer on the Inside, your main contact,” Trek said after a long swig from his mug. “That cool with the both of you?”

“Fine by me,” Gunn mumbled into his drink. I stirred my coffee without speaking, without even looking up from the curling wisps of steam.

“Check-in is at six thirty, Raine,” Trek said. “There’s a spidered flat in Rise Nine. Your dad is expecting Gunner.” He looked at Gunn, who didn’t react.

“Done deal,” I said, wishing I’d brought my hoverboard so I could fly to Rise Nine, get Gunn all set up, and then spend the rest of the night on the track. Six thirty seemed impossibly far away. “Gunn used the scrambler.”

“I had to,” he said again, this time with a major dose of not my fault in his tone. He shot me a glare before relaying the details to Trek.

When he finished, silence settled over the three of us. I nursed my coffee, feeling very un-rebellious. While Trek messaged Gunn the hideout possibilities, I daydreamed about the flight trials. My feet itched to be out flying, and I replayed Gunn’s performance at the competition last fall. He’d—

Did you have to bring him here? Trek’s voice came over an encoded cache signal—I could tell from the high-pitched whine in the background.

Annoyance swept through me. He has a top-notch voice. He’s on tommorrow’s list. He gets his one night of freedom.

Trek leaned so close I smelled the fabricated jelly doughnut on his breath. “This is one of our last unknown locations,” he whispered—so loud it wasn’t a whisper at all—as the encoded cache collapsed. “And he’s . . . dangerous.”

Trek had no idea who was dangerous and who wasn’t. Even with his feared voice power, Gunn had nothing on me. But Trek didn’t know that. Only Cannon did, and he’d die before he told anyone.

Everyone with talent could be labeled as dangerous. Everyone in this café. Everyone in my genetics class. If Trek meant “dangerous” in the way the Insiders did, then anyone with talent was a threat.

We wanted the government to ease up. The Great Episode had happened a long time ago; the fires were a distant memory; the sun shone again; the Earth was renewing itself. Those in power wanted to keep their power, and They were using the talented to do it. I glanced around the room at all the talent/danger within. None of them looked like they thought Gunn would be a problem.

“I’m your top recruiter,” I hissed back. “We need him a whole freakin’ lot. He just wanted some freedom before his check-in tomorrow.”

Trek cut a glance at Gunner, who acted like he couldn’t hear us. “Just get him hooked up and outta here.”

I waved him away before meeting Gunn’s gaze. No doubt he’d heard the venom in Trek’s last statement. Instead of noticing the accusation on his face, I saw him flying with the wind hitchhiking in his hair, the concentration riding in the lines across his forehead.

“How’s Cannon?” Trek asked me, interrupting any thought I had of talking to Gunner like a normal person.

“Fine. How’s your brother?” I countered.

Trek made a noise of disbelief, but anger shone in his eyes. He didn’t like talking about his brother. He and Trek didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, one of which was the level of control the Thinkers currently held. His brother worked in the shining jewel of the Rises: the Evolutionary Rise.

The Evolutionary Rise employed the best scientists. They worked on genetic manipulation, trying to fabricate environmental conditions that would produce talented people. So far, all we got from their experiments were clones. They served in the most menial jobs, if they survived at all.

“Cannon’s not your brother,” Trek said, practically growling.

“He might as well be,” I said in a cool voice, but really a rumble of anger grew in my stomach.

Gunn watched us, keeping up with the conversation, which only made me embarrassed on top of furious. He shifted toward me a tiny bit. “Raine—”

“I saw you win,” I blurted out, tearing my gaze from Trek’s. “Last fall, in the flight trials. I used to watch your memory every night.”

Gunn just stared at me. I could tell his brain was working hard to catch up. To think of something to say.

I picked up my mug, my hand shaking—how ridiculous was that?—and gulped my coffee. A slow heat crawled up my neck and settled into my cheeks.

“Raine’s real into flying,” Trek mocked, like it was today’s megaheadline. Ignoring him—and the surge of anger—I turned back to Gunn, who now wore that winning smile all mindless girls love. I wasn’t mindless, but that smile still made the coffee in my stomach boil.

“You won first in the girls’ league,” he said. “I should be watching your memories. Got a spare?”

“She’d love that.” Trek volleyed his gaze between me and Gunn. Now I know why your vitals were all screwy. He all but laughed over the cache.

I choked and coughed, causing the fire in my face to intensify. I leapt from the table and clicked off my cache. “Let’s go, flyboy. No copy, Trek,” which meant Try to message me or turn my cache back on and you might die tonight.

I moved toward the back room without waiting for Gunner. I grabbed a fistful of pills and stuffed them in my pocket. When I turned, Gunner stood there, watching. “I’ve got the hideout coordinates,” he said. “What’s with the pills?”

“You’ll need them to stay awake in school. You take the lead with the coordinates.” I stepped carefully around him so we wouldn’t even be in breathing distance. Trek watched our every move, almost like he was cataloging the exchange to review later. He probably was.

With Gunn behind me, I headed toward the door, glaring at Trek as if to say, Pills, check. Spidered flat in Rise Nine, check. Anything else?

Trek simply shook his head, a tiny grin not quite concealed behind his coffee mug. Just because he was currently in charge of the group didn’t mean he had to be a high-class jerk. We usually got along fine; Trek just didn’t like Gunn because of the whole flight trials loss. I’ll admit, that’s why I brought it up.

Once out in the pitch-black hallway, I groped my way along the wall to the door. I pushed it open to find bright tech lights illuminating the alley. Several seconds passed before I could see the three men standing there. Two of them held tasers at the ready. The third wore his I’m very disappointed in you face.

Time slowed as I tried to process the scene. Words raced through my mind. Excuses tripped over each other—what would he believe this time?

“Raine, this is wrong,” my dad said, taking one parental step forward. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

“Dad, you gave me permission to fly at night.” My voice verged on panic, but Gunner had to be right behind me, and he didn’t need to get caught mere hours before reporting for his training. And Trek and the other Insiders . . . our last unknown location was now known.

With my cache off and my dad blocking my only exit, I gathered my raging emotions and tightened them so he couldn’t read how I felt.

“Yes, you and your flying.” Dad pinched his lips together in a way that screamed disapproval. He looked at the ground, searching for something. “Well, where’s your board?”

Damn.

elana johnson wishes she could experience her first kiss again, tell the mean girl where to go, and have cool superpowers. To fulfill her desires, she writes young adult science fiction and fantasy. She lives in central Utah, where she spends her time with many students, one husband, and two kids. Find out more at elanajohnson.com.