Luke found a pan and oil and figured out how to turn one of the stove burners on. He hunted up a fork and a bowl and scrambled five eggs together, then poured them into the pan. The eggs solidified quickly, the clear parts turning murky white. The smell of cooking egg rose from the pan, taking him back in time.
Last April: my farewell breakfast. Mother promised the chicken factory forty hours of unpaid work just to get two eggs for me. . . .
Suddenly he was overcome with homesickness, almost as bad as he’d experienced when he’d first left home to go to Hendricks School. He just wanted to go home again. And if the Population Police were truly out of power, that was possible. Luke’s presence wouldn’t endanger his family anymore. They wouldn’t have to worry about hiding him; he wouldn’t have to worry about being seen.
Luke flipped his scrambled eggs.
But who’s going to take care of the horses if I leave? he thought. And are the Population Police truly out of power?
The eggs started to burn. Luke slid them out of the pan and onto a plate. He couldn’t find any forks in the kitchen, so he went back into the dining room.
“Wow! Where’d you get that?” It was the same kid who’d complained about the fruit before.
“Made it myself,” Luke said, feeling a little proud. “There’s a lot of eggs and milk in the kitchen.”
His words—or maybe the smell of the eggs, wafting through the dining room—set off a mini stampede. People rushed into the kitchen. Luke chuckled to himself as he sat down at an empty table and began to eat.
Just beyond the table, someone had wheeled in a television, hooked up with extension cords to a plug in another room.
“This is breaking news,” a man was saying on the TV. Luke recognized the voice: Philip Twinings, the newscaster he’d heard on the radio the night before. On the TV screen, he looked old and decrepit, with white, ghostly hair sticking out from under a tweed hat, and a white beard and mustache covering most of his face.
“Our researchers have been working feverishly through the night, trying to put together the story of this coup,” Philip Twinings said. “This has been a most unusual event. History tells us that in most governmental changes, no matter how many people are involved, there’s almost always one person who stands out, who leads the charge to strike down the previous regime. Until now, this coup appeared to be an instance of the will of the people overcoming a—am I allowed to say this now?—a totalitarian government. But now, we’ve uncovered the details of the plot behind the coup . . . and the mastermind who coordinated it all.”
Philip Twinings paused, as if to give the people watching him a chance to gasp in amazement. Luke peered at the TV screen, and then through the window behind the TV. Distantly, through the trees, he could see the spot where Philip Twinings was standing in real life, in real time. The cameraman stood in front of Philip, and another figure stood beside him, though still out of range of the camera. Luke squinted. Something about the way the person was standing seemed familiar.
“We here at Freedom News have landed an exclusive interview with that mastermind, who’s graciously agreed to talk with us now. I present to you—”
The camera panned away from Philip, then slid over to focus on the person beside him. Luke dropped his fork. He stopped listening to Philip. He didn’t have to.
The “mastermind” was someone he knew.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Luke would have been overjoyed if the person on the TV screen with Philip Twinings had been Nina or Trey or Mr. Talbot or Mr. Hendricks or Nedley, another man who’d helped with their cause. He would have been proud; he would have stood up and shouted to the whole dining room, That’s my friend! I helped, too!
But the person beside Philip Twinings was a muscular man whose face still sometimes haunted Luke’s dreams.
It was Oscar.
Back in the fall, when Luke had witnessed the death of two people right in front of this building, Oscar had been the one who’d killed them. Oscar had tried to manipulate Luke, tried to get him to betray an innocent boy, maybe even tried to kill him, too. Before Oscar had slipped away into the darkness that awful night, some of his last words to Luke had been, “You’re a good kid, even if you aren’t ready to work with me yet” and, “You owe me now.”
Oscar had always confused Luke.
And terrified him.
Now Luke peered at the TV screen, trying to understand. Could Oscar have been involved all along? Did he help destroy the building where all the identity cards were stored? Did he coordinate the rebellions in the rest of the country? Have I been working with—for?—Oscar the past few months without even knowing it? When Luke and his friends had first decided to go undercover to sabotage the Population Police from inside, Mr. Talbot had warned them about the need for secrecy. “The less you know about the other people you’re working with, the better,” he’d said. “If you are ever caught, God forbid, you wouldn’t mean to betray your friends, but things might slip out . . . during torture. If you don’t know much, you can’t reveal much.” So Luke had never known the fake names Nina and Trey were using at Population Police headquarters; he’d never known when or if his brother Mark had showed up to help; he’d never known anyone else’s role in the plans they carried out. He’d been a cog in a wheel, and he’d never been able to see the whole wheel or where they going.
Could Oscar really have been the one steering?
“I must say,” Philip Twinings was saying on the TV screen, “it’s very courageous of you to step forward at this point, when there are still rumors that the Population Police haven’t been fully, um, eradicated. For the benefit of our TV audience, I’d like to point out that Oscar Wydell is standing here at the former Population Police headquarters without any security around him.”
“You’re standing here without security too, Philip. You should be complimented on your courage as well,” Oscar said, with a comfortable laugh. “I used to work as a bodyguard, and I learned to have a sixth sense about danger. I do not feel that I am in danger now. These are my friends here—my colleagues.”
“I see,” Philip said. “It’s certainly been a very happy crowd, and everyone has been glad to find out about your role in the elimination of the Population Police. Do you feel that the overthrow is complete? Or are you concerned at all that the Population Police leaders might be consolidating their forces for a return to power?”
“Philip,” Oscar said, leaning earnestly toward the camera, “I understand why people are afraid. Our country has been through a very dark time, ever since the first drought and famine nearly twenty years ago. In the past six months, the Population Police have achieved new heights of oppression. But one of the reasons I agreed to speak with you this morning is to assure the entire country that my people and I are in control. We have Aldous Krakenaur and the rest of his . . . his henchmen locked up in a secure location. In due course, we will hold a trial, and anyone who wishes to will be allowed to testify against them.”
“And where might that secure location be?” Philip asked eagerly.
Oscar shook his head regretfully.
“I don’t feel that I should reveal that, because of the extreme—and quite justifiable—anger so many people have against the Population Police,” he said. “We will punish the Population Police through legal means, not vigilante justice. We plan to hold trials.”
“But there are no laws in our country right now,” Philip said. “There is no government. What standards will you use to try them?”
“The standards of basic humanity,” Oscar said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to accomplish this morning.”
“Of course,” Philip said, stepping back.
Oscar turned to go, the camera shot lingering on his muscular back. Then he turned back around.
“One more thing,” he said. “What you’ve been doing, interviewing people about their experiences with the Population Police . . . That could be helpful, as we form our new government. We want
to make this truly a government of the people. I have a vision of people standing right here, testifying, talking about the mistakes of the past and their hopes for the future. It could be . . . cleansing.”
“What an excellent idea!” Philip gushed. “We’ve accumulated so much footage already, which we’ll be showing momentarily . . . ”
Luke watched Oscar disappear from the TV screen. Through the window, out on the lawn, he could see Oscar striding away from Philip and the cameraman, toward the headquarters building.
If he came in here, into the dining hall, would he recognize me? Luke wondered. Does he know what I did? Would he call out, “Oh, yes, my brave friend, I’m so proud of you, so grateful for the part you played. Come and help us plan our government”?
Would I want him to?
On the TV screen, Philip was introducing the footage Simone and Tucker had taped the night before of people entering the gates of the big celebration.
“Here’s one of the more humorous responses we got,” Philip said.
And then Luke saw his own image on the TV. Onscreen, he had Eli’s quilt clutched around his shoulders and a desperate look in his eye.
“You—you’re calling this Freedom News, right?” he was saying on the TV.
“Yes, that’s right,” Simone said. “We are.”
The TV glowed with her loveliness, the camera clearly illuminating her lustrous blond hair, her bright blue eyes, her confident stance. Too quickly, the focus slid back to Luke with his wild hair, wild eyes, and ragged quilt.
“Then I’m free not to talk,” the televised Luke said. When he’d spoken those words, he’d thought he sounded dignified and noble, like a legal citizen claiming his rights. But on the TV screen his voice came out squeaky, shifting from high to low ranges just in the course of six words. He sounded crazy. He sounded like he deserved to be mocked.
Luke blushed and slid lower in his seat.
Hiding again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The first time Luke had come to the Population Police headquarters building, when it was still the Grant family’s private home, he’d spent a lot of time wandering around wondering who he was supposed to be and how he was supposed to act. After he finished his scrambled-eggs breakfast, he found himself doing the same thing. Before, he’d been plagued by servants watching him, asking him questions about his math grades and scolding him for not changing into his tuxedo in time for dinner. Everyone acted as if they knew everything about him, and he worried that they really did. He worried that they knew he was a fraud.
This time, no one seemed to take any notice of him at all. He was just another kid without an identity in a country full of kids whose identities had been erased.
“I suppose we can be anyone we want to now,” Luke overheard a girl saying as he walked through the crowd outdoors.
“And we can do anything we want. That’s freedom, isn’t it?” the boy beside her said. He leaned over and gave her a kiss, dipping her down as if they were dancing.
“Or not,” the girl said as soon as he released her. She wiped the back of her hand against her lips, as if she were trying to wipe away his kiss.
Wandering past, as good as invisible, Luke wondered if this really was freedom, this sense of being lost. A year ago, hiding, he’d felt like he’d had no choices; now he felt like he had too many. He could keep wandering, he could go back to the horse stable, he could go to Mr. Hendricks’s house, he could go home, he could go find Oscar . . .
What’s the right thing to do? he wondered.
Now that he’d seen Oscar on TV, heard him claim credit for the coup, Luke didn’t feel like he could leave. In his mind, Luke kept seeing Oscar as he’d looked on the TV screen: powerful, confident, his muscles bulging, his hair slicked back. He’d been wearing a suit. Luke kept holding that image up against the way he himself had looked on TV, huddled in the quilt, his hair in disarray, his voice cracking as he tried to say, “Then I’m free not to talk.”
Again and again Luke told himself, Obviously Oscar has everything under control. It’s not like he needs your help. But there was always an echo in his mind, a tiny voice that asked, But do you trust Oscar?
Luke remembered how Oscar had told Luke that he’d been born poor, like Luke, and that he hated Barons, the people who had all the money. But Oscar had told Smits Grant, who was a Baron, that he was a Baron himself. Luke remembered how little concern Oscar had had for Smits’s fate, how calm Oscar had been when Mr. and Mrs. Grant had died, how he’d scoffed when Luke had asked if it was possible to fight the Government peacefully.
If I could just see what Oscar was doing right now, Luke thought, then maybe I’d feel better.
Luke turned around and went back into the headquarters building. He used the back door again, but this time he went past the dining hall, out into rooms he hadn’t seen since the house belonged to the Grants. Back then, he’d thought of the house as an impossible maze, full of passageways that doubled back on themselves and rooms that didn’t ever seem to stay in the same spot when he walked past. He knew the rooms really hadn’t moved around; he knew the real problem had been his own fear and panic.
I’ve got nothing to fear now. I’m free, remember? I’m not trying to be somebody I’m not. The Population Police are out of power. Nobody’s got any reason to want to kill me. I don’t even have to talk to Oscar if I don’t want to. I can just . . . watch.
The rooms he passed through were empty of the lavish furniture the Grants had once owned. Luke didn’t know if the Population Police had taken it away, or if looters had carried it off after the Population Police left. Certainly nobody else seemed interested in these rooms now: Luke hadn’t seen a single other person since he’d left the dining hall. Luke wondered about the contents of the filing cabinets that lined some of the walls, but when he pulled out the drawers, he discovered they were all empty.
Oscar said there would be trials, Luke remembered. Maybe these drawers held records that proved all the crimes the Population Police officials were guilty of, and the records have been taken somewhere else safe, to be evidence.
Somehow, though, the sight of all those empty drawers bothered him.
He moved on, looking for stairs. The really important Population Police officials had had their offices on the second floor, so it made sense that Oscar would be established there too. Didn’t it?
Then Luke came to a doorway he remembered very well, and he stopped in his tracks.
“The secret room,” he whispered.
Three times Luke had stepped through that doorway, each time with a different person. Three times he’d watched somebody type a special code into a panel on the wall, sealing off the room and making it soundproof and secure. Three times he’d sat in that room struggling to make sense of some new, devastating revelation. Once he’d held a key to the room in his own pocket, but he had no idea where that key was now. Too much had happened to Luke since then.
Luke was sure the door would be locked, but he reached out and tried the doorknob anyway.
It came off in his hand.
Luke gasped and looked around fearfully, as if expecting someone to yell at him. But nobody was in sight, and who would scold him for a broken doorknob when the whole government had fallen apart?
Luke put the doorknob back in its socket and gently pushed the door open. The room was windowless, and the lights were off. But there was enough light coming in through the doorway for Luke to see how this room had been transformed since the last time he’d been in it. The mahogany desk that had once dominated the entire space had been pushed to the back to make way for dozens of posters and signs stacked against the walls. One of the signs nearest Luke depicted a baby with the number three emblazoned on his chest. Luke moved the sign a little so he could see the words written below: HE’S THE REASON YOU WERE STARVING.
Luke turned away from this sign, and his gaze fell on another one depicting sullen figures with the words BEWARE THE SHADOWS. Another simply showed a woman
and a man with two children playing at their feet and a third peeking out from behind the woman. The whole scene was stamped with a huge caption: THE WORST CRIMINALS OF ALL. Another sign, featuring a similar family, carried the words THEIR FAULT.
Luke sank weakly back against the wall and covered his eyes with his hands. He shook his head and moaned, “No, no . . . ”
Luke remembered Jen telling him about signs like these. Propaganda, she’d called them. Lies the Government had made its citizens believe. She’d said there were signs about illegal third children posted at train stations and on billboards, in all sorts of public places. At the time, Luke had never been off his family’s farm: He’d never seen a train station or a billboard; he couldn’t imagine a public place. He hadn’t even quite understood what a sign was. Since then he’d traveled between a very small number of places: his home, Hendricks School, the Grants’ house, the Population Police holding camp, Chiutza. A small, tight circle of places, each trip taken at a time of shock and horror. He’d had no time to sightsee. He could have passed a million signs and not known it, because he’d always been too engrossed in the turmoil inside his own head. So he’d never felt the waves of hate that radiated from signs like these—hate that was directed at him.
No wonder he didn’t feel capable of standing up again, of stalking out of the room and closing the door behind him.
These are old, he told himself. This is just where the Population Police stored their signs when they were in control. But they’re not in control anymore. They’re out of power. These signs shouldn’t have any power over me, either.
Still he stayed slumped over in despair, surrounded by the signs’ stark accusations, lost in his own fears.
Luke didn’t know how long he sat there—maybe minutes, maybe hours. Even when he heard footsteps approaching the room, he didn’t move.
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