“And has been wondering when I’ll get a decent night’s sleep ever since.” Renu gives me a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach the dark eyes staring at me from behind angular red frames.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Meri.”
Atlas gives Renu a small shake of his head and explains, “She just hopped on the train tonight.”
“Really?”
Renu removes her glasses. The sleeve of her gray T-shirt shifts and that’s when I see the design on her upper arm. The dark strokes of ink pop against her lighter skin. Three lines on each side form a V—no, not just a V, I think as I look at the shelves around me. A book. A book as it is being opened. Licks of curved lines rise from the opening—like flames. And in the very center of the open pages is a small swirl. When I step to the side and look at Atlas’s arm, I can see that the design he wears is the same and that it isn’t a decorative swirl in the middle. It’s an S.
Renu frowns. “I didn’t think we were giving out any more tickets until all current passengers were accounted for.”
“We’re not . . . technically,” Atlas admits.
Renu looks over her shoulder and says quietly, “I know you’re worried about your father. We all are, but even if we weren’t running on yellow, the Engineers would flip. She’s what? Fourteen?”
“Sixteen,” I correct.
“Sixteen.” She shakes her head. “Get her out of here before they see what you’ve done.”
“They aren’t going to blame me for looking for my father. If the Engineers aren’t trying to find out what happened to him—”
“Telegraphers have arrived,” Renu cuts him off.
“There are Telegraphers here?” Atlas’s grip tightens on the shirt balled in his hands.
“Two. I didn’t get a good look at them. Holden and Scarlett hurried them through the Lyceum faster than I’ve seen them move before. You’d think they were Stokers.”
“Stokers?” I ask.
But Atlas doesn’t pay any attention to me. “How long ago did they arrive?” he asks Renu. “Where did they go?”
“They got in about an hour ago. The Engineers took them into the back room.”
Atlas turns on his heel and hurries toward an opening in the bookshelves that goes back even farther in the room. I have to run to keep up as he zigzags through the shelves, which are so tall and so narrowly spaced that the bright white lights from above can manage to push only part of the darkness away.
“Atlas,” I call as he ducks through another hallway. The murmur of voices comes from somewhere nearby and is getting louder. Not knowing who else is here or what’s happening makes my heart punch against my chest. “Where are we going?” I ask, to remind him I’m still here. “Hey, Geeze!”
He glances back at me. The intensity of his eyes—the fear, the worry, the need that I see there—causes me to stumble. “Be quiet and stay right here.” The words are like sandpaper—scraped and muted. “Can you do that?” His gaze shifts behind me. “Can you see that she does that?”
I turn and see Renu coming down the aisle of books after me. “I’ve got her,” she says, taking hold of my arm. She digs her nails deep into my forearm when I try to yank free. She nods to Atlas. “I’ve got this. Just fill me in later. I have an investment in all of this, too.”
Without another word, Atlas disappears around another bookshelf.
The murmur of voices grows louder. Loud enough to hear, but not enough to decipher the words.
“Stand still,” she hisses as I lean forward. “He doesn’t need more trouble. Not now.”
“I’m not going to stand still or stay quiet if you keep trying to draw blood.”
Renu releases her grip, and I step out of easy reach. She smiles at me in a way that says she knows I want to rub at the aches but won’t give her the satisfaction. “I keep forgetting my nails have gotten so long. For the first few years, I kept breaking them on typewriter keys.”
“Not a very quick learner?”
Renu’s smile flattens into a tight-lipped frown.
“Sorry,” I mutter. I’m not, but it would be stupid to antagonize her. I’d most likely get lost if I had to find my own way back out. Wandering dark spaces with the rats isn’t my idea of fun. So I use the excuse the guy at the door of the station gave to me. “Getting on the train isn’t easy.”
“It’s not supposed to be. Truth is hard at any age.” She shuffles her feet and sighs. “And having the Conductor in charge of sharing that truth bail on you in the middle of the night isn’t exactly easy, either. Atlas wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t important.”
“So this is all about his dad?” I ask.
She gives me a long look. “If he wants to tell you what they’re talking about in there, that’s his business. But since we’re both stuck here waiting, I can answer any other questions you might have.”
“Are you a Conductor?”
She laughs. “Hell no. I don’t have patience for that kind of thing.”
Well, that was something she and Atlas had in common.
“I’m a Porter,” she explains. “I create tickets for potential riders, make lists of supplies that are needed here in the station, sort papers, and help the archivist keep a running list of what books have been sent to what stations and which ones have ridden the rails to the Lyceum to the north. That kind of thing.”
“Why were you working on a typewriter?” I ask. Computers have spell-check. I’d think that would be useful.
“I asked the same question the first time I saw them and got seriously annoyed each time I was asked to retype lists because I had to make just one change.” She adjusted her glasses. “Since then, I’ve learned low tech is reliable. It can’t get hacked or traced. We use the typewriters for the official day-to-day stuff because it’s safer for everyone involved. In the early years, a lot of Stewards got caught because they were connected to the internet. We learned the hard way that the only chance we have to survive is to stay off the grid. There are too many Marshals out on the streets looking for us. We’re determined to avoid them and to stay alive.”
After what happened at school, I sort of understand the concern. “But you still have computers and printers.”
She shoves her glasses up on her nose. “The computers that are used here in the Lyceum are old models. They don’t have webcams and they can’t be hooked up to any networks. They are as safe as they come.”
“Well, if they aren’t on networks, why not use them for everything?” I ask.
“We siphon off power for the lights from the buildings on the street above us. The rest of the Lyceum is powered by generators. Conserving that energy is high on the Head Engineer’s priority list. So . . .” She looks at her hands and sighs. “Smudges from re-inking ribbon are a small price to pay in the fight for freedom.”
“Fight for freedom.” Those words are stirring, but I still don’t understand how what the Stewards are doing will change anything or even if things really should be changed.
“Renu?” I ask quietly. “Atlas said you’ve been doing this for six years. If it’s dangerous, why are you doing it? Was your life that bad?”
“I get why you’d think that, but no. My life . . . the life I thought I had . . . was good,” she says. “I was a history teacher at DePaul University, which means I got to teach the classes most of the other faculty weren’t interested in. World History 101. That kind of thing. I loved it even if my students weren’t always enthusiastic. One of the more established professors came and observed me teaching. He was a legend in the department and I was really nervous. After the class was over he waited for the students to leave and asked me if I thought about whether the words chosen for our texts were as important as the information they conveyed.” She laughs. “I could have given him an honest answer and said not really. Instead I wanted to impress him, so I did some song and dance about how history is always told by those who write the books and the words they chose were clearly of importance to them, bu
t that the information they convey is far more important than the turn of phrase they use. He smiled at me and shuffled away.
“A few weeks later I was coming back to my apartment and saw him standing on the sidewalk. He asked me if I had given any more thought to how words shape history. If I had said no, I’d be living a very different life right now. Instead, I learned the meaning of ‘verify.’ I became a member of the Stewards, and now my life is down here. And no offense, if I’m ever going to get back out to a real life instead of one that involves paper cuts and a lack of sunlight, I have to get back to work. So why don’t we—”
“No!” The word cracks like thunder in the cavernous room.
Renu and I both move at the same time down the corridor of bookshelves and around the corner as Atlas shouts, “No way in hell!”
“Atlas,” a woman snaps. “Stop being emotional and think about what we are saying. You father would want you to think like a Steward instead of a son.”
“Don’t tell me what my father would want,” Atlas shouts as we step into a room in the back of all the shelves . . . a real room with a long, silver-and-black table spanning the middle of the space and with a high ceiling and walls that are covered with maps and whiteboards. Atlas stands at one end of the table with his back to us. He is ignoring the half dozen people standing along the walls and appears to be directing his anger at the short but sturdy woman with a cap of white-streaked dark hair and the tall, lanky blond man at the room’s other end.
“I understand you’re upset.” The woman’s voice is cool and controlled. “We don’t know how the Marshals learned of the Granville Station or whether your father is among those that were captured. None of them have turned up dead, yet.”
Yet?
I take a step closer to Atlas and get jerked back by Renu and her killer nails.
“The Telegraphers think they were targeted,” the woman says. The looks exchanged by three older, gray-haired men say that they believe it is more than possible. “It could have just been someone who turned them in to the Environmental Department, or someone could have been attempting to get at Atticus in order to learn the location of the Lyceum and the rest of our network. Regardless, after losing a dozen members in the last week, we have to assume the worst. We have to implement the Lyceum’s lockdown protocol before the new recycling program goes into effect and we lose even more.”
“Which is what Dad didn’t want you to do,” Atlas shouts. “He could be hurt somewhere. He could be in a hospital or hiding out and that’s why he hasn’t returned. And even if the Marshals took him, they don’t know who he is. He’ll never tell them what he knows.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If the Marshals really had forced Dad to talk, they would already have come for us. We wouldn’t be having this debate right now!”
“Our sources have told us that when the stepped-up recycling program starts next week, government agencies will be raiding the homes and businesses of anyone even suspected of having books or paper. It’s impossible to believe this is anything but a direct attack against us. They are determined to destroy the Stewards and the truth we’ve been protecting.” She takes a deep breath and clasps her hands. “Atlas, your father was against locking down the Lyceum, but I have spoken to the rest of the Engineers and we are all in agreement. The Stewards’ mission must be adhered to and protected. The doors will close and we will wait out this storm as Stewards have always done in the past. If there is no one left in our numbers to read the books we have stored here, or to preserve the truth of what we have lost, we will have failed ourselves, the city, and the entire country.”
“If they’ve taken my dad, we can find him and get him back. We can . . .”
The woman shakes her head. “I know you want him to return, Atlas. We all do, but we have done what we can. Anything else could jeopardize everything the Stewards have worked for. Your father would never want that. If your father has been captured, we can only hope he has done what all of us have sworn to do if they come for us. For the sake of the Stewards and all the work we have yet to do, we have to hope your father is dead.”
Nine
Atlas throws his balled-up shirt on the table and lets out a choked sound. His shoulders slump as the black fabric skids across the dull silver top and then unfolds, revealing the slash of red tie.
Nails dig into my arm and Renu hisses, “Let’s go” in my ear, but I don’t move. The words I hear every night in my dreams echo in my head. We’re sorry. Your mother, Gillian Beckley, is dead.
The blond man steps forward. “You have to accept that he’s gone, Atlas. That’s what your father would want.”
“No!” I shout, yanking free of Renu’s iron grip. “You can’t mean that.”
Atlas whirls around. “What the hell? You aren’t supposed to be in here. Renu, get her out. Now.”
“No one is going anywhere,” the woman with the white-and-black hair snaps. Renu steps away from me as the woman sweeps around the table in my direction. “Atlas,” the woman says in a quiet tone that sets my nerves on edge, “who is this girl? What is she doing here in the Lyceum? Who authorized this?”
“She’s no one, Scarlett. I’ve got this,” Atlas says.
“I’m Merriel Beckley,” I say. “My mother was Gillian Beckley. She was one of you—one of the Stewards.”
“Gillian?” The woman Atlas called Scarlett shifts her gaze to him.
“Folio.” Atlas glances at me. “Here in the Lyceum your mother was called Folio.”
Folio? As in a portfolio of artwork? Before I can ask, Scarlett crosses the room and stops a foot from where I stand. “This is Folio’s daughter?” She’s shorter than I am, but the way she stares at me—as if she can see the thoughts swirling in my eyes—makes it seem as if she is the tallest one in the room. “I wasn’t aware Folio had a daughter old enough to be introduced to the Stewards or that any Engineer granted permission for a ticket to be issued in her name.”
“She’s not old enough, and the Engineers didn’t grant her a ticket. I did.” Atlas steps next to me. “I had reason to believe her mother might have shared information with her and that she might be exposed and . . .” He sighs. “Screw it. You weren’t giving me any information, and I thought because Folio and Dad were working together that she might know something.”
Scarlett stares at him with unblinking eyes. “And did she?”
Atlas straightens his shoulders. “No.”
“So you risked the mission and everyone in the Lyceum to bring this child where she doesn’t belong.”
“I’m not a child,” I shoot back.
The woman doesn’t even bother to glance in my direction. “The rules are in place for a reason, Atlas. The Stewards have survived because we avoided the mistakes other, similar groups have made throughout history. Your father understood that—even if people like Folio were causing him to doubt our true purpose. The Stewards only choose members who are wise enough to be able to handle the choices we are forced to make—”
“My dad is missing. I couldn’t just wait around and do nothing. I need him! We all need him. I know we are losing more members every day to the Marshals. I know the Stewards have to be protected at all cost, but I can’t just assume Dad is dead. Would he use the deadman’s switch if he thought he didn’t have any other choice? Yes. But if he did, I have to think the Telegraphers would have found a record of his death by now. So don’t tell me to hope he’s gone. Unless one of the Telegraphers verifies that my father is dead, you can’t make me believe he isn’t ever coming back.”
The air crackles as Scarlett shifts her gaze to study him. Finally, she says, “I understand your position, but our decision has been made. The rails are set to yellow. In two days at midnight, they will be turned red.”
“For how long?” he demands.
“For as long as it takes for the government to stop hunting for us,” Scarlett says, cutting Atlas off. “That’s the protocol our grandfathers helped create, and all e
levated to the position of Engineer, including your father and me, promised to uphold. All Stewards who wish to get into or out of the Lyceum will have the weekend to do so before we initiate the lockdown. Those who want to leave the city can go to the exit station up to a week after the lockdown and a Conductor will see they are relocated safely. If your father or the other missing Stewards are alive, they will anticipate this. They will do what they can to get back to the Lyceum or an exit station within that time frame. Otherwise, they will have to take their chances with the Marshals on their own.”
She turns and adds, “From now until the lockdown, all stations will be manned around the clock. Telegraphers have already started to spread word to those on the outskirts of our network. As of now, all operations will be designed to help those who need to go underground or who wish to be relocated out of Chicago. Under no circumstances will new tickets be dispensed or new riders allowed. Anyone who disobeys the signals will be confined. There will be no exceptions. I don’t care whose son someone might be.”
Atlas silently stares at Scarlett, his hands balled into fists at his side.
She straightens her shoulders and asks in a steely voice, “Does everyone understand?”
A chorus of murmured assents tumbles in the air. Several sets of eyes shift to Atlas and then dart away.
Atlas looks down and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Scarlett gives a satisfied nod. Her tone turns warm as she says, “It’s late. Anyone not on the night shift should get some sleep. We need everyone working at full power to prepare to close the doors and wait out this storm. And, Atlas . . .” She glances at me and back at him. “I hold you responsible for this new rider. You broke the rules. You brought her in without clearance. Now that she’s here, it’s up to you to make sure her ride does not put the Stewards in deeper jeopardy. If you fail, I will have no qualms about ripping the ticket you gave this girl right out of her hands.”
The flat, calm tone streaks an icy finger down my spine as Scarlett slowly turns and strolls back to where the tall blond Engineer and several other Stewards are waiting for her. They begin to speak in low voices as Atlas snatches his shirt from the middle of the table and snaps, “Let’s go.”
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