I knew in that moment I hadn’t really believed it could happen and all my brave words to Jon weren’t worth the paper they were written on.
“Are you sitting comfortably, everyone? Then I shall begin. The Thousand and One Lives of Annabel Salford, by Susan Crofton.”
***+***
20
THE POSTSORT NOVEL
I was in such a daze of terror and triumph it took a moment to register. Sue’s name? How could he be reading Sue’s name from the manuscript? Jon gave my hand a questioning squeeze.
Doctor Renquez was beginning to read my story out, but I didn’t want to hear it. Bad enough everyone else would have to. I slipped away to lie on my bunk and think.
Susan Crofton. If Doctor Renquez actually was reading from the manuscript—and there was every reason to suppose so, when the program was being televised—then Sue’s name must be on it.
“Margo?” Jon had followed me. I pulled my legs in so he could climb up and sit beside me. “Has this Sue done what I think she’s done? Or could it be... the EGD?”
Planning to use my story for its propaganda value while quietly disposing of its naughty author…
“Well… The EGD are mostly real fanatics, aren’t they? I don’t think they’d be willing to hold up a reAssignee’s work as the winner, however useful it seemed. I really think it must’ve been either Bane or Sue.”
“Bane? You think?”
“He might have reasoned that my name anywhere at this stage would put the publication of that all-important novel at risk. But he would’ve told me, y’see.” My mind skipped back over the contents of the last month’s letters. No. There’d been nothing that might mean, by the way, I took the deception a little further than you wanted, sorry but tough ‘cause I think it’s best. “And he hasn’t. So, yeah, it was Sue.”
I think I’d known from the moment I heard it. She’d read the story, and like Jon and Bane she’d thought it stood a chance of winning. So she’d stolen it. Re-typed the cover page with her name.
“Why’d she do it? Revenge on you, for managing to hang on to Bane even from inside the Facility? Caroline seemed to think she fancies him something awful.”
“Well... yeah, she always has, rather. But it could’ve been simple greed,” I said bluntly. “Even the most mediocre novel published as a postSort Comp prizewinner will sell enough copies to make one comfortable for life. Comfortable by Salperton standards, anyway.”
Jon raised his eyebrows bleakly, this time. “A tempting dish of money and fame, with a garnish of revenge?”
“Maybe. No, that’s not fair…” I rubbed my temples. My head was starting to ache. “We don’t know that. What if she did it to make sure my book got published?”
Jon raised his eyebrows for a third time, skepticism all over his face.
“Gah,” I waved a hand in frustration. “We can’t know, Jon! I’ll give Sue the benefit of the doubt, ‘cause she’s my friend, but I’ll also ensure there’s absolutely no way she could stop me proving my authorship of the book. ‘Cause I’m not stupid. I just hope Bane stops and uses his head before trying to skin her with his tongue.”
“Whatever you want to say about ‘benefit of the doubt’,” said Jon, the triumph of the moment still illuminating his unseeing eyes, “I’m sure this must hurt. But I rather think it’s the best thing that could’ve happened, you know!” Then the happiness slid from his face. Ah yes. He’d just remembered he’d no longer wanted me to win.
“From the point of view of that damn book, anyway,” he went on grimly. “The worst thing that could’ve happened in pretty much every other respect.”
Yes… my heart gave a happy-fraid lurch. It seemed safe to assume my name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Had it really been high-mindedness and concern for Sue that made me insist Bane typed my name on the manuscript? Or had my subconscious been laying a little safeguard? A safeguard unwittingly eliminated by Sue. The Lord always brought good out of evil. It was one of the reasons why, in the end, evil could never win.
Assuming I could get the novel manuscript to the publisher without Sue seeing it and panicking, they’d publish it without the slightest suspicion. Perhaps it did take a rather different view of Sorting, but…
“You do think they’ll publish it?”
“Oh, yes. Positive. It’s just fiction, isn’t it? Fiction made up by an eighteen-year-old New Adult who’s never been near a Facility in her life. Just a work of the imagination. With an exciting subplot about the Underground. With whom she obviously hasn’t the least connection or she wouldn’t dare to write about it! The EGD may be rather less thrilled with the novel than with the short story, but they won’t actually stop it being published. After all, there isn’t the slightest reason for anyone to take it seriously, is there?”
“Except, once it’s safely published, you’re going to give them one, aren’t you?”
“Yes. That’s been the plan all along, remember?”
Jon’s lip turned down unhappily, then he brightened.
“Suppose it’s too much to hope Sue has a novel lined up already?”
“Hand on my heart, I didn’t think I was going to win. When would she have written one, anyway? She’s been in school all day. And she’s certainly never written anything longer than a short story before, or she’s kept very quiet about it. And without meaning to be rude, I honestly don’t think she’d keep quiet. So she needs mine.”
Jon looked disappointed, but before he could speak Rebecca’s voice rose above the crackling speech from the radio.
“Ugh, this is horrible! I’m not listening to this!” And she spun the tuning knob until she found some staticky music. A few people who clearly hadn’t yet understood where the story was going looked disappointed, but soon got up to dance. I went to join them, my arms lifting, spinning in a slow circle. I had some thanks to express. Surely among my incredibly mixed feelings I could find some thanks? Appeal there was no problem with. A really, really big appeal. Strength, Lord? Give me strength to see this through!
By the time everyone got fed up with the ghastly racket and Rebecca put the radio away again, I’d danced into stillness and stood by the window, feeling eased and uplifted, as I usually did after that mode of prayer, but... Bane, I miss you so much…
Pushing away painfully happy memories, I fetched my ‘art case’ and began to type. If I wanted two weeks to polish and edit, with all the necessary re-typing, then I had just two weeks to finish it. I’d no time to waste.
That night, I lay on my back, staring up into the darkness. Jon had lain awake for some time, clearly almost as troubled by the competition result as I was. But he slept at last, his breathing deep and even beside me.
The thirtieth of April. The result wasn’t the only reason I’d been dreading this day. Time to try the Act of Acceptance again. No. Not time to try it. Time to make up my mind to do it or not do it. And if to do it, then to simply… do it.
I just sort of contemplated the prayer for some time. I wasn’t being paranoid now—if only—the fear had become all too rational. But unless I actually meant to chicken out and not send the manuscript in, the worst might happen whether I said the prayer or not.
In a strange way that actually made it easier. I no longer felt I’d risk inviting it because I’d already done that, in every word and line and paragraph of my book.
My terror was still there, undiminished. Grown. An appalling monster of fear, much larger than Bane’s dragon. Would I really send it in? Could I?
No, I must admit no doubts into the process. I had to send it in. My fear must not be allowed the upper hand or it would run away with my spine and I would turn to custard like poor Father Faintheart. Even Father Faintheart beat you, I told the fear, and I will too. And to give the fear the finger, I decided I would say the Act of Acceptance.
And did.
Friday morning. Early Friday morning. I smothered a yawn and straightened my letter in front of me. I had a little bit to add.
Dear Sue
. Wow! I hope you were as delighted with the result of that competition as I was. I was absolutely flabbergasted. Thank you so much for keeping me informed about it, and everything else you’ve done!
It was only yesterday I appreciated just how generous you’ve been and I’m so happy for you. I can’t wait to see the novel out with your name on it and I bet you can’t either! I can’t say thank you enough, but you really shouldn’t have, you know, I’d hate for you to get into trouble! Still, you’ve won!
My own little project is coming on very nicely and will be all finished in the next few weeks, so please don’t worry about that. Bane can keep you posted. I bet you’ll be having some sort of party to celebrate, your parents must be thrilled! I imagine the school is pretty delighted as well. Anyway, I’ve got to go, congrats again!
“Well?” asked Jon, emerging from his bunk bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Autumn-haired and fully-dressed, anyway.
“Well, I’ve given her the benefit of the doubt. Which conveniently happens to be the sort of thing I need to say to make sure she’ll take my novel without getting suspicious. And also feels a lot like lying through my teeth, if I’m truthful. Listen…” I read him the offending missive.
“Well,” Jon was grinning by the time I’d finished. “That’s quite some benefit you’ve got going there.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“That’s it! We put the log swing here and a rope there...”
The doorbell rang. Bit late for visitors, wasn’t it?
I hastily began marking my new innovation onto Bane’s and my plan—before I could forget!—but heard Mum heading along the hall. Okay, no need to get up then...
“We’ll need a bit of chain for this bit...”
I broke off—Bane was staring at the front window and his expression made my stomach turn over. What...? Colored lights bouncing off the room walls... Blue and red. Uh oh...
We reached the doorway together just as Mum opened the front door. Police. Not pursuivants, but... O Lord protect us, what did they want? My hand found Bane’s behind my back; we held tight.
“Mrs. Verrall?” said the policewoman. She was using one of those gentle, gentle voices, and her male partner was standing there looking like he’d much rather be storming a Resistance hideout, alone, with a toy gun. Oh no...
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Mrs. Verrall, I’m afraid we have some very bad news. Is there... someone with you?” The policewoman’s eyes found me and Bane; moved on. So bad fifteen-year-olds weren’t enough? But Dad was coming down the stairs...
When Dad reached Mum’s shoulder, the policeman held out a small object on his palm.
“Is this the RegCube of your son’s vehicle?”
Mum snatched it, looked closely—it was already open. Only the side of her face was visible, but I saw her go white—the blood drained from my own face.
Kyle.
He’d come to my room earlier to chat—I’d confided to him my intention to marry Bane for about the thousandth time—he’d smiled and eventually hugged me and said, ‘I love you, little sis’. And I’d hugged him back and said, ‘Love you too, big bro.’ And after a moment, added, ‘I’m really going to miss you when you do leave.’ And he’d smiled sadly and kissed the top of my head. ‘I’m late, I’m supposed to be meeting Eliot in Westen,’ he’d said, and off he’d gone in the old banger he’d scrimped and saved so hard for.
“Where did you...?” asked Mum, in a thin voice. The policewoman opened her mouth to reply, but Mum took a step back, clutching the opened cube defensively and shaking her head as though to ward off the answer.
“No, no, I see, it’s fallen off...” her voice was shaking too. She showed the cube to Dad. “Look, George... look, Kyle’s RegCube’s fallen off. They’ve brought it back... Sorry about that, officer... He’ll... he’ll put it back on, soon as he gets back. Soon as he...” Her voice broke, she clasped the indestructible cube to her chest and closed her glistening eyes.
“What... what happened?” Dad asked, his voice low and strained.
“He was going too fast. The car hit a tree. The... the tank exploded. I’m so sorry, Mr. Verrall, Mrs. Verrall.”
He didn’t need to say any more. When a hydrogen tank went up, there was nothing left but ash. And you can’t DNA test ash—no way to tell if it’s human... or pork. By far the safest way to fake one’s death. The safest for those one left behind. There was only one more thing Kyle could do to protect us—I realized that now, too late.
“If it’s any comfort at all, it was so quick, he must have scarcely felt a thing,” the policewoman was saying, still in that gentle, gentle voice. I could hardly understand her words. Everything was numb. Kyle was gone. We would never see him again. Never know when he died. Or where. Or how. It was the same as if he was actually dead.
I broke from my paralysis at last and turned, clung to Bane, shaking.
I thought we’d get to say goodbye! I thought we’d know you were going. Kyle, how could you do this?
But even in my anger and grief I knew why. Because our shock, our pain—genuine, unfaked—was the best protection he could give us.
***+***
21
SIMPLE TRUTH
Two weeks, gone in a flash—there I was, taking the pile of manuscript pages out of Jon’s clothes’ chest and placing it on top of the sheets on my lap, my heart pounding ridiculously hard.
“Are you all right?” asked Jon, wrestling with the knots that bound his stick together.
He really was an emotional thermometer, wasn’t he?
“I’m fine.” But my voice was slightly strangled. I took the stick from him and it came apart at once. Definitely time to be rebound. I started picking at the knots myself and tried to speak casually. “I’ve… finished it.”
“Congratulations,” said Jon flatly, and was silent for a long moment. “It… really is too late for you to write something else, isn’t it?”
“You know it is, Jon.”
“Yeah. But why did you decide to write… that? It’s supposed to be a novel.”
“Yes, but novels are made up. And when I was trying to think what to write—and couldn’t—Bane said I should sock the world over the head with a hundred thousand words of the truth. This is the only truth that is truly mine to tell. And if truth can’t change the world’s mind then nothing can.”
Jon found the pile of pages and patted it.
“No pressure, little book!”
“Ha ha.” But his flash of humor was welcome. “Look, I’m not saying one little book’s going to change the world. But if it changes even one person’s mind about Sorting it’s a start, isn’t it?”
“I hope it might do more than that, considering,” said Jon vehemently. After a moment, he added more calmly, “Have you arranged to give it to Bane yet?”
“Not yet. I need to do some more work to it still, but then… I want to get it to him in good time.”
More importantly, get it out of my keeping before I chucked it down the trash hatch in a fit of terror. Not that Bane’s keeping was likely to be much safer, in the circumstances. Perhaps he wouldn’t read it. Hah, fat chance of that. He’d read everything I’d ever written, ‘til I came here.
I seemed to be tearing headlong down a path to destruction, but how could I stop?
“And this is the simple truth. I am Margaret. I am just like you. If I were not, you would not be going to kill me, for I would be no use to you. But I am, and so you are. May God have mercy on you all.
“Er… the end,” I added.
“Perfect,” exclaimed Jon, fists clenching in triumph. His face fell again. “Or it would be…”
“It either is or it isn’t. Now let’s for pity’s sake be positive or we’ll go out of our minds! I know I will! The book is going in and we are getting out. Right?”
Jon looked away.
“Right. Well, good luck tonight.” I hope Bane can talk you out of this, hung in the air unsaid.
“Thanks,” I
said, ignoring the unsaid, and busied myself placing several sheets of paper all around the manuscript and binding it up with string. Part of me was busy going Bane, Bane, Bane, yay! Another part, Bane and machine guns, no, no no! And yet another, Bane and manuscript, uh oh… Could be an interesting night.
“Wait,” said Jon suddenly. “Don’t wrap it up yet. You’ve still got some re-typing to do.”
“No, it’s all done…”
“No, it’s not. There’s a little bit of truth missing, isn’t there?” I knew what he was going to say. He’d heard the whole book now and I’d wondered how long it would take him to pick up on it. “I’m in that book,” he went on. “And it’s all in there, how I got almost killed, and put in here, and dragged off again and brought back, all of it except that I’m in the Underground too. Why not that?”
“Well, doh. If we don’t get away…” I paused to clear my throat, the two sides of which were trying to stick themselves together. “If we don’t get away, there’s no point dumping you in it as well.”
“Well, think again. They can’t blame me for it being in there, if that’s what you’re worrying about. So they’ll only dismantle me early and they might not even do that, with my scarcity value. So get typing, please.”
“Your parents will have to go underground, like mine…” I warned him. Assuming I’d interpreted my letters correctly, my parents planned to do so just before I went public about the book or just before we escaped, whichever happened sooner.
“You know Bane’s been in touch with them already,” replied Jon. “They’ve already closed the safe house, and if the escape comes off I reckon underground will be the safest place for them. Entire Facilities of reAssignees do not escape. Individual reAssignees don’t even escape. The EuroGov will be very pissed off.”
I Am Margaret Page 21