“I need rest.” Cap bends over with his hands on his knees.
“You’ve been a trooper with your leg.” Kaphtor settles on the icy ground, cross-legged.
Cap rolls his eyes. “Says the man who was shot in the thigh.”
“We ’ave one gun wound, one broken leg, some broken ribs, and one smashed foot.” Frenchie looks around at us. “We ’ave a good range of injuries to be proud of.”
Solomon lowers me to the ground, careful not to knock my foot against anything. I’m surprised it’s not hurting more than it is. I try wiggling my toes, but they don’t obey. Still, they don’t twinge too much either. He presses the collar of his Brawn suit and it detracts into matchbox-size. Now he’s dressed in normal clothes, borrowed from the albinos.
We are in a copse of wide-based trees. Gnarly rope vines hang from them, sprouting from the ground and climbing the trunks like long snakes. The ground is stiff and frozen, but there’s no snow.
Solomon rolls his neck. “Those suits are great but . . . I’m glad to be out of it for now.”
Everyone else removes theirs, and while I’d like just a moment of winter air on my skin, I like being in my suit. I feel so safe.
Still, I retract both Brawn and Armor and hold them in my hand. They look identical when shrunk, except for a stick-figure on the face of each square. Brawn shows a stick man with enormous muscles. Armor shows a stick man in medieval armor. Cute.
My loose and crazy hair tickles the back of my neck. Mother’s not here to braid it for me. I dig a ribbon from my pack and use my teeth to get the knot out of it.
“Need help?” Solomon takes the ribbon from me and scoops my hair up before I can answer. “Want it braided?”
Frenchie snorts. “You know ’ow to braid?”
Solomon’s fingers move through my hair, separating it into three thick strands. “Learned in an orphanage. Lots of little girls with no mothers.” As he combs my hair away from my face with his fingers, I imagine him braiding the hair of all the little orphans . . . being the big brother.
Gabbie hasn’t spoken since we left the Wall. She settles on the ground in silence, rubbing her hands together and then tucking them under her armpits.
“Gabbie?” I venture. “How are you doing?”
She shakes her head. “Do you think . . . Skelley Chase died?” A tear slips from the corner of her eye.
I imagine Skelley’s bored smile just before I destroyed the Wall. After that explosion, it’d be a miracle if he weren’t crushed. “I don’t know.”
“I hope so,” Cap growls.
Gabbie throws a rock at him. “How can you say that? He’s been deceived by the Council just like us!”
Not this again. I reach back and pinch the ribbon knot with my thumb and forefinger for Solomon to tie it off, my two matchbox suits still clenched against my palm. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, Gabbie, but he pretty much leads the Council.”
Still, it doesn’t settle well with me that I might have killed Skelley. Why not? Shouldn’t I hate him?
She lets out a huff and turns her head away from us. “I don’t believe you.”
“Parvin’s right.” We all jump as Skelley Chase himself steps out from behind the trees.
A dozen Enforcers surround us with their rifles leveled.
38
“How did we not see this coming?” Cap slams a fist into the ground as we all freeze.
Maybe because we were too careful for this to happen. How? How did he find us? It had to have been Gabbie. We’ve been caught.
Skelley dabs a handkerchief against a bloodied spot on his head, just under the rim of his green fedora. “It’s all thanks to Parvin, really.”
“What?” I need to do something. Could I slip the Armor and Brawn suits back on and attack him?
Not with my hurt foot.
Skelley steps forward and extends a hand to Gabbie. She leans away from him, even though she looks flattered. She glances at us, panic on her face, then slides her fingers into his hand and allows him to pull her to her feet.
He hands her to an Enforcer, who presses the collar of her suit and catches the matchbox before it falls to the ground. How did he know to do that? The Enforcer then shackles her wrists and presses a gun against her head.
Skelley holds out a hand toward the rest of us. “Let’s have your suits, too.”
I have two in my hand, which hovers above my hair from holding the ribbon for Solomon. As smoothly as possible, I wedge one suit square into the folds of my thick braid, sliding strands over it, praying it’s concealed.
In the time it takes me to do that, the Enforcers advance and haul each of us to our feet. I cry out as my foot gives way. The Enforcer handcuffs me and then peels my fingers out of their fisted position. “Here’s one.”
I can’t see which suit it is, Brawn or Armor? He tosses it to Skelley. “Don’t you see, Parvin? You can never run. We always know where you are.”
“How?” My tracker chip is out and, to my knowledge, they never put another one in me. Then I gasp. I’m daft. “The medibot.”
“You’re getting brighter by the day.”
It was me. This whole time I was the one giving away our locations. I blink rapidly. “But . . . if there’s a tracker inside my medibot, why didn’t you blow up the cargo ship?”
“I think this one’s going to need a gag.” Skelley waves toward me and an Enforcer complies. The gag pulls the corners of my lips back and my mouth fills with rough material.
Once we’re all cuffed and contained by Enforcers, others search our clothing, the ground, and our packs until they have a handful of matchbook Brawn suits.
Skelley examines one and then puts it on. It melts around his body, forming to his clothing, covering him from neck to toe. “Fascinating.” He gives me his bored smile. “Let’s go.”
We’re blindfolded, dragged through the trees, then shoved into cars. All the while, I’m crying like an idiot. Though I don’t feel sad in that way. Oddly, I feel very little worry.
You are still with us.
The drive takes a long time. I lose track of the hours. No one’s in my car and I spend the drive praying for Solomon, Cap, Kaphtor, Gabbie, Frenchie, and Elm. Beseeching God to allow them to live. Begging Him to speak to their hearts and show them that He’s worth this.
At some point, the Enforcer holding a gun to my head must get tired of doing it, because he slams the butt against my skull and I’m out.
“Wake up.”
Something nudges my side. I blink several times until a cell comes into view. It’s not like the cells in Unity Village. This one has no windows or doors. Everything is white. How did this Enforcer get in here?
My pack sits in the corner of the cell, looking flatter than normal. It’s been searched and purged. The gag is gone and I now wear a white t-shirt and sweats. Who changed my clothing? I dare not ask.
“Follow me.”
I look at the four solid walls. “Where?”
The Enforcer turns on his heel and walks through the white wall, as if it doesn’t exist. But I know better.
It’s probably like the projected Wall in Antarctica, ready to destroy me the moment I touch it. He steps back in, grabs me by the handcuffs, and pulls me toward the projection.
“Won’t that . . . screen thing kill me?”
He yanks me through. I feel nothing and find myself in a long white hall with numbers spaced along the walls above screens. Are all of these prison cells? “Where are my friends?”
He says nothing. We travel down the length of the hall. The walls are peachy-white, with screen monitors and keypads every fifth step or so. We pass them all until we come to a thick door leading into a larger white room. In the center of the room is a sickly-green plastic recliner chair. I saw one when reading about dentist offices.
I have
a feeling I won’t be getting my teeth worked on today.
Along the wall, across from the feet of the dentist chair, are a bench and a door. A few roller tray-tables holding boxes and gadgets are pushed against the walls. The Enforcer thrusts me into the chair and tightens a strap around my legs and upper torso. Too tight. It’s hard to breathe, let alone move.
He straps my arms to the armrests. There goes my chance of grabbing the suit from my braid. I hope it’s Brawn. God, please let it be Brawn. Armor won’t help me escape. I need magnified strength.
I’m too confined.
Vulnerable.
Then they come in. Skelley Chase, Elan Brickbat, President Garraty, and the two other Council members . . . all wearing our Brawn suits. They stand along the bench and look at me. Should I say something? Probably something witty or defiant.
“Let my people go.” If I didn’t have to keep a straight face to back up my demand, I’d giggle at how Moses-like that sounds.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.” Brickbat’s lips barely move as he grinds out the words.
“Oh, I think I do.” A smile creeps over my face and I let it loose. “I saved hundreds of Radicals from Antarctica, turned off the projected Wall for an hour, destroyed a portion of your stone Wall, and freed people from your oppressing and unconstitutional control.”
Brickbat slaps me.
My consciousness blinks out.
“Try not to do that with the Brawn suit on.” Skelley Chase’s voice.
“She deserved it.” Brickbat.
I scrunch my face. The left half of it shrieks in sharp pain. Something’s broken. My jaw? My cheekbone? My . . . skull? Everything is tight and swollen from his strike. I whimper.
The pain reminds me of my crushed foot. It doesn’t hurt at all. I wiggle my toes. They almost feel normal. Way to go, medibot!
“She’s awake.” The woman Council member’s voice is close, as if she’s bending over me. “Let’s get to it, then.”
My eyes flutter open. I barely make out the two blurred forms of Brickbat and Skelley when one of them—Brickbat, I think—swoops toward me and grabs the front of my shirt. “How dare you undermine us with that video?”
He shakes me, but all it does is grind my bindings deeper against my skin. My blurry vision clears enough to see Skelley grab Brickbat’s wrist. “We need her functioning. Any more bruises and the public will know she’s being forced.”
Brickbat releases me and I slump against the chair. He practically spits words at me. “You’re a danger to society.”
I strain against the bindings. “You’re the ones destroying the Low Cities and sacrificing the poor.”
Skelley releases a two-beat laugh. “We’re just doing what you wanted in the first place with your biography—we’re eliminating the sacrifice of Radicals.”
“No, you’re not!” Spit flies from my mouth. I hope it hits them in the faces. “You’re making Radicals by requiring an impossible fee for a new Clock. Then you sell the Radicals into slavery—out of sight, out of mind, right?”
“Now she’s getting it.” Brickbat cracks his knuckles.
“But that won’t work.” I want to push Brickbat’s buttons. I want to change Skelley’s smirk into shock. The Council needs to know they can’t control everyone. “You saw my video. Dusten Grunt’s Clock was overridden.”
“You put a false Clock on that boy!” Brickbat bares his teeth.
“I did not! His name is on there for all to see!”
That does it. The vein in Brickbat’s temple pulses so large that I’m sure it’ll pop and he’ll die from a brain hemorrhage. “Because of you the High-City people are hesitant to be Clock-matched. You’ve poured doubt into the minds of our entire country!”
“How can I do that?” I fix wide, innocent eyes on him. “I’m controllable, remember?”
Skelley leans forward. “We are going to fix what you started.”
“You can’t fix it!” I try to put oomph behind my words. “You can’t always win—this is the truth we’re talking about. The new Clock system is broken. You can’t keep that from the people. This is one situation where you can’t do anything you want, Skelley.”
“Oh, I won’t be the one fixing it.” Skelley’s bored warble shoves my heart into a black hole. “You’re going to undo the damage you’ve done—in a new video to the public.”
“I won’t do anything for you.” My voice is high and frantic.
Brickbat’s face grows a deeper and deeper shade of red with each hissing breath. “Then your friends will die.”
39
Friends. Dead.
Can I call them friends? People who joined me on a death-mission and are now imprisoned by the most dangerous power in the USE? Do they think of me as a friend?
Not Solomon. We’re more than friends. We’re . . . well, I don’t know. But we’re more.
But that doesn’t matter if he’s killed. “Please . . . don’t.” Futile words. Why do I even say them? Doing so reveals my weakness.
It shows them . . . they’re winning.
“Here’s how this is going to work”–Brickbat’s wet, throaty voice makes me want to scream–“You will cooperate with us and speak to the public, undoing the fear you’ve sown. You will remain with us, doing what we ask of you—”
“Oh yeah?” I challenge. “And how will I explain away the broken-down Wall?”
Here, Brickbat smiles, and my breath turns icy in my throat. “We’re already working on that. Don’t you worry your little head.”
I close my eyes and fall back against the chair.
“If you don’t work with us”—Brickbat’s breath hits me in the face—“then your friends here will die, Willow will die, and every other orphan in that orphanage will die. But no matter whether you cooperate or not, your Clock will be . . . tested.”
That last word comes out of his mouth like whiplash to my emotions. Tortured, is what he means. The Council Clock-matched orphans and then tortured them to see if they’d die before their Clocks.
Now it’s my turn.
I take a deep shuddering breath. “Okay.”
But it’s not okay. How can this be okay? This time, Brickbat’s going to hold a gun to my head and actually pull the trigger. This time I’ll be strapped to a table as Skelley unrolls a long display of torture devices. Either that, or . . .
This time, I’ll be allowing my friends to die.
But which sacrifice is asked of me? Do I sacrifice people’s freedom by lying to the entire USE? Or do I sacrifice my friends? Brickbat will probably kill Solomon and the others anyway after I cooperate. I’ve seen it happen with Skelley. Return or else I’ll kill Reid. Well, I returned. And Reid’s dead.
No matter what I choose . . . I’ll be tested. Every form of torture I’ve ever read about zips through my mind. I mentally tick off each one with a Yes, I could handle that or a No, I couldn’t handle that. It doesn’t matter. I won’t have a choice and, from what I know of Brickbat’s character, it will be all the tests I can’t handle.
I trust in you, O Lord . . . You are my God. My times are in your hand.
Brickbat’s voice drops a notch, sounding even more menacing in a gleeful sort of way. “We might just televise your testing . . . to show the people what happens to rebels.”
Skelley steps forward. “You’ll turn her into a martyr if you’re not careful, Elan.”
Brickbat rounds on him. “You’re the one who said she was easy to control! You’re the one who got us into this mess, publicizing her life and rebellion. And now the world has seen a video about all of this and that boy’s Clock!”
Sorry, but I have no way to erase the minds of a hundred million people.
“The people adore her and follow her. They want her voice and her face. You still don’t grasp her importance.”
Br
ickbat leans close, spittle flying from his mouth and flecking Skelley’s face. “You don’t understand the leader you’ve made her into. We are the leaders. She . . . will be constrained.”
I look to Skelley. I can’t explain why my gaze is drawn to him—maybe because, in this den of lions he’s the beast I’m most familiar with, the one I can read. “I want my friends free before you film me or do the testing. After I watch them stride away free, I’m all yours. I’ll speak for you.”
I almost choke on the word speak. God’s been echoing it in my mind nearly every day, but this can’t be what He meant. Every time I’ve spoken, it was for shalom. This . . . if I speak for the Council, then I’m lying. I’m going against shalom.
The woman Council member stares at Skelley, then moves her gaze to Brickbat. I know who the leaders of this band are. The question is, who makes the final call?
Brickbat pops a thumb knuckle. “Absolutely not. You’d only refuse to cooperate. Our terms, our way.”
At least I tried. I lift my chin. “All right then.”
A pause. Brickbat cracks another knuckle. “So you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s get to it.”
I take a deep breath. “May I . . . may I say good-bye first?”
Skelley looks as bored as ever, but he stares at me for a long moment. Finally, after I’m sure he’ll say no, Skelley—the true leader of the band—nods. “Only to one.”
One is all I need. “Solomon, please.”
“What are you doing?” Brickbat opens his mouth, possibly for another shout, but Skelley takes him by the arm and steers him to the corner of the room. I catch a few words like information and opportunity.
I’m not dumb. They’ll probably try to torture information about Solomon and his family ties from me, as well as anything I might say during this “good-bye” to him.
A Time to Speak Page 41