by Deven Kane
There had been nothing lukewarm about his argument with Darcy earlier that morning. Connor respected his adoptive father, feared him at times, but this business about an alliance with the savages was driving a wedge between them.
Normally, Connor kept his opinion to himself, but ever since he’d seen Megan—alive but under the savages’ control—he seemed unable to control his emotions. Or his mouth.
You want us to play nice with savages? Connor winced as he recalled his impetuous outburst. Lure them inside the Enclave so we can Implant them? Fine. That doesn’t mean we have to pretend they’re our equals.
Darcy gave him a strange look, unaccustomed to Connor contradicting him, let alone with such hostility. His hesitation didn’t last long.
Use your head, Connor. Darcy’s rebuke had been swift and withering. We’ve just acquired two new Implants, but we need more. A lot more.
These savages aren’t going to waltz back to their ghetto and herd the rest of their group into the Enclave out of the goodness of their hearts. We need them to trust us, to see us as their allies.
Connor closed his eyes, resting the disposable cup on his knee, its half-empty contents sloshing. He was right, of course—Darcy was always right. His analytical mind could assess data and strategize faster than anyone Connor knew.
Darcy wasn’t swayed by Connor’s contempt for the savages. Their long-range strategy was more important. They couldn’t allow emotion to contaminate their resolve.
Until the Givers are destroyed, Darcy had answered when Connor demanded to know how long he’d be required to play his part in deceiving the savages. The Enclave belongs to us—to humans. Nothing will change until the aliens are gone. The savages share our common goal. We can use that to our advantage.
Connor opened his eyes, gazing across the wide pedestrian boulevard. The Arts and Culture Gallery dominated his view, directly opposite the Museum. Its unorthodox design was a dazzling counterpoint to the dignified columns adorning the edifice behind him.
A sizable crowd had gathered in front of the Gallery, milling around in the artificial amphitheater. Waiting for an outdoor performance of some kind, Connor supposed.
He downed the last of his tepid latte in one prolonged gulp, wishing he could drown out the memory of his foolhardy response to Darcy as easily. These savages are smarter than you think, Darcy. What happens if they realize you’re targeting the collaborators, not the Givers?
He grimaced at his own folly. Nobody talked to Darcy like that. Darcy wasn’t a warm person, even in his best moods, but Connor had felt his blood freeze at his foster father’s patronizing expression.
Are you that stupid? Have I raised an idiot? To get to the Givers, we have to remove the collaborators. It’s as simple as that. The Givers have Trackers as bodyguards, but their real protection is the Councilors who shield them. Please, tell me that’s not too difficult for you to grasp.
Tony’s arrival brought a merciful end to their verbal sparring. The chauffeur lingered just inside the door, looking uncomfortable as he picked up on the tension in the room. He kept his place, saying only what was necessary. Implants Twenty-seven and Twenty-eight are ready, sir.
Darcy had held his position, his icy gaze drilling into his adopted son. Their standoff ended when Darcy spun on his heel and strode to their front door. He paused to look over his shoulder, addressing Connor on the threshold of their villa.
By the time we return with our new Implants, Connor, you will have thought long and hard about your commitment to our cause.
And then he was gone. Tony hastened to catch the door before it closed, ducking out on Darcy’s heels. Connor didn’t miss the shrewd smirk Tony shot his way as he exited.
Connor sighed and set his empty cup on the bench. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The crowd across the street was growing larger. The imminent performance, whatever it might be, must be close to curtain time.
He reached inside his shirt, pulling out the archaic locket on its silver chain. The tiny picture inside smiled back at him. Megan in happier days, her wavy hair tousled by the breeze on the day the picture was taken.
A cold, hollow rage washed over him, a bottomless pit which threatened to engulf him. And Darcy expects me to ignore what the savages did to my sister. For the “good of the Enclave.”
A commotion across the boulevard caught his attention. Connor roused himself, annoyed by the intrusion, and was puzzled by the scene unfolding outside the Gallery. Curious pedestrians trotted past him, chattering as they crossed the boulevard to gawk at the developing spectacle.
A confrontation appeared to be brewing between a small group on the front terrace of the Gallery, and a much larger crowd gathered in the amphitheater below.
Connor snapped the locket shut and stowed it inside his shirt. Additional people streamed past his bench, intent on learning what the noisy disturbance was about.
He jogged across the boulevard, halting at the edge of the sidewalk. The outdoor amphitheater boasted an assortment of tables and benches, rapidly filling with curious onlookers.
A block-wide concrete staircase descended below street level, providing public access and additional seating. Connor chose to remain on the sidewalk, gazing over the crowd to the terrace in front of the Gallery.
A small cluster of people had gathered there, some waving placards. Others were distributing leaflets, but judging by the crowd’s growing hostility, their message was not well-received.
The hair on the back of Connor’s neck bristled. Trouble was brewing.
Seventeen
A PROTEST. HERE, IN the Enclave? Connor was fascinated. He was familiar with the concept of protestors—he was a history major, after all—but an actual protest was foreign to the Enclave’s smooth-running society.
And with all the surveillance, the protesters will be identified before they sit down for supper. Connor shivered in spite of himself. I wouldn’t want to draw the Givers’ attention.
The protestors’ placards made their purpose clear: They were opposed to the Anodyne Initiative. Connor was intrigued by the idea. Were other Citizens waking up to the implications of the security chips?
“Punish the offenders, not the innocent.” One of the protesters raised his voice, striving to be heard above the murmuring of the restless crowd. His voice carried loud and clear, aided by the amphitheater’s natural acoustics. “Nobody has the right to monitor me like a criminal.”
His listeners were growing agitated.
“If you’re not doing anything wrong, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” a voice called from the crowd. “Unless you’re hiding something.”
Connor marveled at how easily the question morphed into an accusation.
A second protestor rose to the challenge before the first could respond. “I’ve never been outside our walls—even once—and I have no intention of ever leaving the Enclave. Why bother, when we have everything we need right here? So why do I need a node?”
The crowd closed in, the mood morphing from curiosity into belligerence.
Connor had read about mob mentality, studied it in class, but the speed at which it developed was both mesmerizing and disturbing. He scanned the faces around him, fascinated and repelled by what he saw.
A new voice arose from the crowd. “Enclave security is every Citizen’s responsibility.”
Others shouted their agreement, taunting the protesters, who clustered close together as the crowd advanced. Connor could tell they hadn’t anticipated such a strong reaction to their message. Their frightened expressions were clear to see, despite the distance between them.
“You’re either for the Enclave, or against it.” A female voice rang out above the buzz of the crowd. Connor stood on tip-toe, trying to spot her. She sounded like the girl who’d argued with him at the café. “True Citizens will have nodes.”
They’ve bought into the propaganda.
The first protestor dropped his placard, raising his hands over his head to get everyone’s attentio
n. He needn’t have bothered—all eyes were on him. “If the Enclave’s walls aren’t secure, or if savages are forging documents to get inside, that’s what the Council should focus on. How does monitoring us put a stop to that?”
“Haven’t you heard the Infomedia?” A tall figure pushed his way to the fore, climbing the steps to confront them.
He stared the protestors down for a long moment, and whirled to address the crowd. “When every Citizen has a node, it’ll be child’s play to isolate the terrorists. The savages will be the only ones unable to enter any public building—no node to scan, no entry.”
He raised one fist in triumph, and the crowd fastened on his every word. “No access to anything. They won’t even be able to buy a cup of coffee. No node, no Citizenship!”
The crowd, riled up by their spokesperson, shouted in solidarity with his declaration, applauding and hurling abuse at the protestors. The beleaguered group retreated to the far side of the terrace, cowed and fearful.
The spokesman followed them, clearly enjoying himself. “The Council’s already made their decision. You don’t want to live like a Citizen? Then live outside the walls with the rest of the savages. The Enclave doesn’t need your kind.”
The crowd reacted just as Connor would have predicted. He was taken aback by the level of animosity the spokesman was able to provoke in a span of minutes.
Connor took a step or two back, wary of the fickle crowd. Things could get out of hand at a moment’s notice. He glanced around, covertly checking for potential escape routes if the situation deteriorated.
He froze when he caught a glimpse of it. About twenty meters to his right, another figure stood on the same step as Connor. The newcomer was peering in all directions as well. But not for an escape route.
He was roughly Connor’s age, standing stock-still as his gaze swept back and forth over the crowd. Connor averted his face at the last second, but not before catching sight of the red glow around the other’s eye.
A Tracker—here? Connor’s mouth went dry, and he heard his heart pounding in his ears. We haven’t activated any of the new Implants yet. There’s nothing here for him to scan.
Connor moved to his left, anxious to remove himself from the volatile situation, and stopped short, eyes widening. A second Tracker, her scanning eye alight, stood an arms-length away, an over-stuffed backpack slung over one shoulder.
What—who—are they looking for? None of this makes sense!
The second Tracker, so close Connor see the pulse in her neck, jerked back without warning, her impassive expression morphing into one look of stark terror.
Connor whipped his head around to see the first Tracker ploughing through the crowd. His fixed stare, outlined in ominous red, didn’t waver as he shoved people aside, ignoring their heated cries.
He’s going to start a riot. Mob mentality is ready to boil over.
The first Tracker increased his pace toward Connor, driving with relentless purpose through the human sea. If the second Tracker was fearful, this one possessed confidence to the point of recklessness. Connor recognized the predatory look.
His stomach knotted. They’re not spying on the crowd. They’re scanning for each other.
The female Tracker bolted, clawing her way through the crowd, heading deeper into the amphitheater and toward the Gallery’s front entrance.
The first Tracker altered his course to intercept her, even more violent as he fought through the crowd. The indignant rebukes escalated into cries of pain and outrage.
Connor backed away, almost tripping over his own feet. He caught his balance, avoiding a fall at the last moment. His reaction was pure instinct. He had to get away, now.
Two Trackers racing into the riled-up crowd, intent on the terrace and the protesters cornered there—the inevitable confrontation didn’t bode well.
The first Tracker, slicing through the crowd on a diagonal route, caught up to his target. One claw-like hand snaked out, seizing the female Tracker by the shoulder. Connor watched as the Tracker buried his fingers into her flesh. The Tracker yanked his prey backward, and Connor imagined the sound of bones cracking.
The female Tracker half-turned, her face contorted by fear and agony. She swung her free arm at her assailant, but didn’t strike him.
Instead, she pulled the Tracker close in a fierce embrace. As Connor stared, dumbfounded, she squeezed her eyes shut, ducking her face against the other’s shoulder.
Twin detonations rocked the amphitheater, the concussive explosions echoing between Gallery and Museum. A stunned silence followed as the echoes died away, and then the screams began. The crowd, panicked and unreasoning, stampeded outward from the explosion’s epicenter.
Connor fell to his knees, hands clasped over his ringing ears.
She blew herself up—caused a chain reaction. Connor reeled at the implications of the two-pronged atrocity. How many Citizens just died? Are the Givers trying to create hysteria, to increase demand for their nodes?
Connor struggled to his feet, sickened by the calculated slaughter, but savvy enough to join the fleeing throng. It was vital he blend into the crowd, for the sake of the inevitable video review by the authorities.
Adrenaline and fury fueled his headlong flight, but his thoughts were remarkably clear. The Givers’ heinous actions had given him the answer he needed.
The Givers must be destroyed. Therefore, I’ll play nice with the savages, at least until the aliens are gone.
His stride lengthened, and his lips tightened into a grim smile. If any of the savages survive, then they’ll pay for what they did to Megan.
Eighteen
“ARE YOU SERIOUS? This is your so-called secret entrance into Hoarderville?”
Amos hunched his shoulders, tucking his chin into his jacket collar, trying to stay warm. Mateo crouched beside him, sheltering behind a windswept outcropping of jagged rocks.
“Not my secret entrance, no,” he replied, his voice a terse monotone. He gestured to the gate at the far end of the man-made channel, filled with churning ocean waves. “This is one of the Enclave’s main seaports.”
The western side of the Enclave faced the open ocean, and a stiff offshore breeze magnified the pre-dawn chill. It had taken the better part of an hour, on foot, to reach their current vantage point. The service road running parallel to the Enclave’s southern face—abandoned after the completion of the wall—terminated at the ocean shoreline. They’d camouflaged Mateo’s truck as best they could, and picked their way over the rocky terrain to the nearest marine gate.
“Shipping is a vital factor in the Enclave’s economy,” Mateo said, his voice barely audible above the pounding surf. “This seaport’s existed since construction on the Enclave first began, two generations ago. I’m surprised it’s never occurred to you the Citizens would need to import supplies and raw materials.”
“Of course, it occurred to us,” Amos replied, resenting his patronizing remark. “We also knew the marine gate would be well-guarded. There wasn’t any reason to waste time hiking over rocks just to look at it.”
“The Enclave has always taken advantage of the sea routes to facilitate the importing and exporting of goods.” Mateo continued as if he hadn’t heard Amos’s acerbic response, settling into his familiar role of lecturer. “Not every Enclave has the good fortune to be situated on the coastline.”
Amos rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“I hope this doesn’t come as a shock.” He raised his voice to be heard above the waves. “But I’ve never been interested in how Hoarders do their hoarding. On the other hand, I’ve seen first-hand its effect on the rest of us.”
Mateo ignored his bitter comment. He dug into his pack and pulled out a pair of binoculars, offering them to Amos. “You’ll no doubt notice the similarities between this entrance, and Gate Seven.”
Steep rock walls flanked the channel on either side, a stark contrast to the pearly smooth surface of the Enclave’s walls. The sides of the passage were steep and
devoid of vegetation, with the exception here and there of a stunted pine tree, clinging in defiance to the rocky slope.
Amos peered through the binoculars, adjusting the focus. The gate zoomed closer in the lenses, revealing the stark details he expected to see. “It’s got the same security as any other gate, which means guns. Lots of guns. What are they afraid of—a mutiny on one of their supply ships?”
“It was attempted once,” Mateo replied, as if he relished answering the question. “A ship was commandeered, and its crew was more than willing to join in—the level of animosity against the Enclave is quite pronounced. Their attempt to storm the gate was a complete and utter failure, and the savagery of the Citizens’ response has been a most effective deterrent.”
Amos lowered the binoculars, his resentment rising as he listened to Mateo’s dispassionate recounting of yet another Hoarder atrocity. “How can you expect us to work with people like that? I don’t trust them, and I don’t think they trust us, either. You’ve met Darcy—the guy’s certifiable.”
I could see it in his eyes. It’s always in the eyes.
“The Givers are your common enemy.” Mateo defaulted to his favorite mantra. “Why is this such a difficult concept? The Givers are embedding security chips in every Citizen. As a result, Darcy and his followers are desperate. They’ll no longer be able to move about freely. They need your help.”
The surf broke on the rocks, showering them with its salty spray. Mateo continued as the water receded. “I brought you here to infiltrate the Enclave. But once inside, where will you go? Do you know the Givers’ exact location or the stronghold they’ve built—their ‘Citadel’? Not every Citizen, or their Councilors, will appreciate our opposition to the Givers. Quite the contrary. People, in general, do not release their grip on power once they have it. The Council is no exception.”
Amos bit back a hot retort. It was best to not say anything further.
Mateo cocked his head to one side. He sounded irritated. “I could go on, but I believe I’ve made my point. You need each other. This small-minded bickering is a distraction from our true enemy: the Givers.”