by Tahereh Mafi
“That guy Nazeera killed,” I say, remembering. “She saved Juliette’s life.”
They nod.
Another spike of fear spears through me.
“All right,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, steady. I don’t want to freak them out with my own worries. “Okay. I’ll tell Castle to come find you right away. Will you be in the medical wing?”
They nod again.
And then, as I walk away, Sara calls after me.
I turn around.
“Tell him—” She hesitates again, and then seems to make a decision. “Tell him it’s about Sector 241. Tell him we think it’s a message. From Nouria.”
“What?” I freeze in place, disbelieving. “That’s impossible.”
“Yes,” Sara says. “We know.”
I take the stairs.
I don’t have time to wait for the elevator, and besides, my body is too full of nervous energy right now to stand still. I take the stairs two, three at a time, flying even as I keep a hand on the handrail to steady myself.
I didn’t think this day could get crazier.
Nouria.
Shit.
I don’t know how Castle will react to hearing her name. He hasn’t heard a word from Nouria in years. Not since—well, not since the boys were murdered. Castle told me he gave Nouria space because he thought she needed time. He figured they’d find their way back to each other again after she recovered. But after the sectors were erected, it became near impossible to contact loved ones. The internet was one of the first things The Reestablishment took away, and without it the world became—in an instant—a bigger, scarier place. Everything was harder. Everyone felt helpless. I don’t think anyone realized just how much we relied on the internet for literally everything until the lights went off. Computers and phones were taken away. Destroyed. Hackers were found and publicly hanged.
Borders were closed without clearance.
And then The Reestablishment tore families apart. On purpose. In the beginning they pretended they were doing it for the good of humanity. They called it a new form of integration. They said race relations were at their worst because we were all so isolated from one another, and that part of the problem was that people had built these extensive family units—The Reestablishment referred to big families as dynasties—and that these dynasties only reinforced homogeneity within homogenous communities. They said that the only way to fix this was to rip those dynasties apart. They ran algorithms that helped them manufacture diversity by rebuilding communities with specific ratios.
But it wasn’t long before they stopped pretending to give a shit about diverse communities. Soon, small infractions alone would be enough to have you taken from your family. Show up late to work one day and sometimes they’d send you—or worse, someone you loved—across the planet. So far away you’d never be able to find your way back.
That’s what happened to Brendan. He was torn from his family and sent here, to Sector 45, when he was fifteen. Castle found him and took him in. Lily, too. She’s from what used to be Haiti. They took her from her parents when she was only twelve. They put her in a group home with a ton of other displaced children. They were glorified orphanages.
I ran away from one of those orphanages when I was eight.
Sometimes I think that’s why I care about James so much. I feel connected to him, in a way. When we were on base together Adam never told me that his little brother practically lived in one of those orphanages. It wasn’t until that day when we were on the run—when James and I had to hide out together while Adam and Juliette tried to find a car—that I realized where we were. I took one glance around those grounds and I saw that place for what it was.
All those kids.
James was luckier than the other children—not only did he have a living relative, but he had a relative who lived close by, one who could afford to keep him in a private apartment. But when I asked James about his “school” and his “friends” and about Benny, the woman who was supposed to bring him his government-issue meals on a regular basis, I got all the answers I needed.
James got to sleep in his own bed at night, but he spent his days in an orphanage, with other orphaned children. Adam paid Benny a little extra to keep an eye on James, but ultimately, her loyalty was to a paycheck. At the end of the day, James was a ten-year-old kid living all alone.
Maybe all this is why I feel like I understand Adam. Why I fight for him, even when he’s a dick. He comes off as an angry, explosive guy—and sometimes he really is an asshole—but it must be hard to watch your kid brother live all alone on a compound for tortured, abandoned children. It slowly kills your soul to watch a ten-year-old kid sob and scream in the middle of the night because his nightmares keep getting worse, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to make it better.
I lived with Adam and James for months. I saw the cycle every night. And I watched, every night, as Adam tried to calm James down. How he’d rock his little brother in his arms until the sun came up. I think James is finally doing better, but sometimes I’m not sure Adam will ever recover from the blows he’s been dealt. It’s obvious he has PTSD. I don’t think he even sleeps anymore. I think he’s slowly losing his mind.
And sometimes I wonder—
If I had to live with that every day, I wonder if it would make me crazy, too. Because it’s not the pain that’s unendurable. It’s the hopelessness. It’s the hopelessness that makes you reckless.
I would know.
It only took two hours in the orphanage before I realized I couldn’t trust adults anymore, and by the time Castle found me on the run—a nine-year-old kid trying to keep warm in a shopping cart on the side of the road—I was so disillusioned with the world I thought I’d never recover. It took a long time for Castle to earn my trust completely; in the beginning, I spent all my free time picking locked doors and sneaking through his things when I thought he wasn’t looking. The day he found me, sitting in his closet inspecting the contents of an old photo album, I was so sure he would take a bat to my back I nearly ruined my pants. I was terrified, unconsciously flickering in and out of invisibility. But instead of yelling at me, he sat down next to me and asked me about my family; I’d only ever told him that they were dead. He wanted to know now if I’d tell him what happened. I shook my head repeatedly. I wasn’t ready to talk. I didn’t think I’d ever be ready to talk.
He didn’t get angry.
He didn’t even seem to mind that I’d ransacked his personal belongings. Instead, he picked up the photo album in my lap and told me about his own family.
It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry.
SIX
When I finally find Castle, he’s not alone. And he’s not okay.
Nazeera, Haider, Warner, and Castle are leaving a conference room at the same time, and only the siblings look like they’re not about to vomit.
I’m still breathing hard, having just raced down six flights of stairs, and I sound winded when I say, “What’s going on?” I nod at Warner and Castle. “Why do you two look so freaked out?”
“Let’s discuss it later,” Castle says quietly. He won’t look at me.
“I have to go,” Warner says, and bolts. Down the hall and far, far away.
I watch him leave.
Castle is about to slip away, too, but I grab his arm. “Hey,” I say, forcing him to meet my eyes. “The girls need to talk to you. It’s critical.”
“Yes,” he says, and he sounds strained. “I just saw all their messages. I’m sure it can wait until after the symposium. I need a minute to—”
“It can’t wait.” I hold his gaze. “It’s critical.”
Finally, Castle seems to grasp the gravity of what I’m trying to relay. His shoulders stiffen. His eyes narrow.
“Nouria,” I say.
And Castle looks so stunned I worry he might fall over.
“I wouldn’t bring you a bullshit message, sir. Go. Now. They’re waiting in the medical wing.”
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And then he’s gone, too.
“Who’s Nouria?”
I look up to see Haider studying me curiously.
“His cat,” I say.
Nazeera fights back a smile. “Castle received an urgent message from his cat?”
“I didn’t know he had a cat,” Haider says, his brows furrowing. He has a slight accent, unlike Nazeera, but his English is flawless. “I haven’t seen any animals on base. Are you allowed to keep animals as pets in Sector 45?”
“Nah. But don’t worry, it’s an invisible cat.”
Nazeera tries and fails to force back a laugh. She coughs, hard. Haider looks at her, confused, and I watch for the moment he realizes I’ve been screwing with him. And then—
He glares at me. “Hemar.”
“Say what?”
“He just called you an ass,” Nazeera explains.
“Wow. Nice.”
“Hatha shlon damaghsiz,” Haider says to his sister. “Let’s go.”
“Okay—wait—that sounded like it might be a compliment.”
“Nope.” Nazeera smiles wider. “He just said you’re an idiot.”
“Cool. Well, I’m glad to be learning all these important words in Arabic.”
Haider shakes his head, outraged. “This was not meant to be a lesson.”
I stare at him for a moment, genuinely baffled. “Your brother has no sense of humor, huh?” I say to Nazeera.
“He’s not good with subtlety,” she says, still smiling at me. “You have to knock him over the head with a joke or he doesn’t get it.”
I place a hand over my heart. “Wow, I’m so sorry. That must be so difficult for you.”
She laughs but quickly bites her lip to kill the sound. And she sounds serious when she says, “You have no idea.”
Haider frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“You see what I mean?” she says.
I laugh, staring into her eyes for just a second too long. Haider shoots me a murderous look.
I take that as my cue to leave.
“All right, yeah,” I say, and take a quick breath. “I better get going. Symposium starts in”—I glance at my watch; my eyes widen—“thirty minutes. Shit.” I look up. “Bye.”
This thing is a scene.
There are around six hundred commanders and regents—officers at the same level as Warner—in the audience, and the place is buzzing. People are still settling in, taking their seats, and Juliette is up at the podium. The group of us are standing behind her, onstage with her, and I’m not going to lie—it feels a little risky. We’re perfect targets for any psycho who might show up with a gun. We’ve taken precautions of course—no one is supposed to be allowed in here with any kind of weapon—but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. But we all agreed that standing united like this would send the strongest message. The girls remained back on base—we decided it would be best for them to stay safe long enough to save us if we get injured—and James and Adam are MIA. Castle said that Adam doesn’t want to participate in anything even remotely hostile anymore. Not unless he has to.
I get it.
In my less charitable moments I might call him a coward, but I get it. I’d opt out, too, if I could. I just don’t feel like I can.
There’s still too much I’m willing to die for.
Anyway. Juliette is pretty much invincible, so as long as she keeps her Energy on, she should be fine. The rest of us are vulnerable—but at the first sign of danger we’re supposed to scatter. We’re too outnumbered to fight; our best chance of survival is to spread out, spread far.
That’s the plan.
That’s the whole goddamn plan.
We hardly even had time to talk about the plan, because everything has been so insane lately, but Castle gave us all a quick pep talk before J took the stage, and that was it. That was all we were going to get. A quick good luck and I hope you don’t die.
I’m definitely nervous.
I shift my weight, feeling suddenly restless, as the crowd goes still. It’s a sea of military faces, the iconic red/green/ blue stripes of The Reestablishment emblazoned on every uniform. I know they’re regular people—blood and guts and bones—but they look like machines. And they turn their heads up at the same time, eyes blinking in unison as Juliette begins to speak.
It’s creepy as hell.
We always knew that no one outside of Sector 45 would willingly accept Juliette as their new supreme commander, but it’s chilling to witness in person. They clearly have no respect for Juliette, and as she talks about her love for the people, for the hardworking men and women whose lives were stripped for parts, I can see them strain to contain their anger. There’s a reason so many are still loyal to The Reestablishment—and the proof of it is right here, in this room. These people are paid better. They’re given perks, privileges. I never would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but once you see the things people are willing to do for an extra bowl of rice, you can’t unsee it. The Reestablishment keeps their higher-ups happy. They don’t have to mingle with the masses. They get to keep their finery and live in real homes on unregulated territory.
These men and women sneering at Juliette as she speaks—they don’t want her version of the world. They don’t want to lose their rank and the privileges that rank affords. Everything she’s saying about the failures of The Reestablishment, about the need to start over and give the people back their homes, their families, their voices—
Her words are a threat to their livelihood.
So it’s really no surprise at all to me when the crowd decides they’ve had enough. I feel their restlessness growing more wild as she speaks, and when someone suddenly stands up and screams at her—makes fun of her—I worry this won’t end well. Juliette keeps cool, keeps talking even as more of them jump to their feet and shout. They’re shaking their fists and demanding she be removed from the podium, demanding she be executed for treason, demanding she be imprisoned, at the very least, for speaking against The Reestablishment, but her voice can hardly be heard over the crowd.
And then she starts shouting.
This is bad. This is really, really bad, and my instincts are telling me to panic, that this will only end in bloodshed. I’m trying to look around and still keep my cool, but when Warner catches my eye I know, right away, that he gets it. We’re both thinking the same thing:
Abort mission.
Get the hell out of here as soon as possible.
And then—
“This was an ambush. Tell your team to run. Now.”
I spin around in an exaggerated motion, so freaked out I nearly lose my balance. I’m hearing Nazeera. I’m hearing Nazeera. I’m sure I’m hearing her voice. The problem is, I don’t see her anywhere.
Am I dying? I must be dying.
“Kenji. Listen to me.”
I freeze in place.
I can feel the warmth of her body edging up against mine. I can feel her mouth at my ear, the gentle whisper of her breath against my skin. Jesus. I know how this works. I invented this shit.
“You’re invisible,” I say, so quietly I hardly move my lips.
I feel the tickle of her hair against my neck as she leans closer, and I have to suppress the urge to shiver. It’s so strange. So strange to be feeling so many emotions at once. Terror, fear, worry, want. It’s confusing. And her hand is on my arm when she says, “I was hoping to explain later. But now you know. And now you have to run.”
Shit.
I turn to Ian, who’s standing to the left of me, and say, “It’s time to bail, bro. Let’s go.”
Ian looks at me, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second, and then he grabs Lily’s hand and shouts, “Run—RUN—”
The sound of a gunshot splits open a moment of silence.
It feels like slow motion. It feels like the world slows down, turns on its side, and swings back around. Somehow I think I can see the bullet as it moves, fast and strong, right at Juliette’s head.
It hits its mark with a dull thud.
I’m hardly breathing. I’m beyond pretending I’m not terrified. Shit just got real, super fast, and I have no idea what’s about to happen. I know I need to move, need to get the hell out of here before things get worse, but— I don’t know why, but I can’t convince my legs to work. Can’t convince myself to look away.
No one can.
The crowd has gone deathly still in the aftermath. People are staring at Juliette like they didn’t believe the rumors. Like they wanted to know if it was really true that this seventeen-year-old girl could murder the most intimidating despot this nation has ever known, and then stand in front of a crowd and peel a bullet off her forehead after an attempted assassination, looking for all the world like the experience was no more annoying than swatting a fly.
I suppose now they know that the rumors were true.
But Juliette looks suddenly more than annoyed. She looks both surprised and furious as she stares at the ruined bullet in the palm of her hand. From this vantage point it looks like a mutilated coin. And then, disgusted, she tosses it to the ground. The sound of the metal hitting stone is delicate. Elegant.
And then—
That’s it. Everyone goes apeshit.
People lose their goddamn minds. The crowd is on its feet, roaring threats and obscenities, and they all pull weapons from their bodies and I’m thinking, Where the hell did they get them from? How did so many of them get through? Who’s our mole?
More gunshots split the air.
I swear, loudly, and move to tackle Castle to the ground—and then I hear it. I hear it before I see it. The surprised gasp. The heavy thud. The reverberations of the stage under my feet.
Brendan is on the ground.
Winston is sobbing. Desperately, I push through my teammates, falling to my knees to assess the wound. Brendan’s been shot in the shoulder. Relief sags my body. He’ll be okay.
I toss the glass pill bottle at Winston and tell him to force a few down Brendan’s throat, tell him to apply pressure to the wound and remind him that Brendan’s going to be okay, that we just need to get him to Sonya and Sara—and then I remember.