The Isle

  Governor Voss steps out onto a balcony. Everyone hushes.

  With no mask, I’m a sitting duck. I weave through the crowd, back turned to the governor as long as possible. A woman in a wheelchair dressed entirely in black sits beside him. She’s hunched over, her face covered by a black lace veil.

  Emilce Voss . . . his wife. It must be her.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Governor Voss begins. He looks over the room, occasionally making eye contact with some of the media. I, however, avoid his eyes like the Blight. “My wife and I are overjoyed to have you in our home, documenting the new developments that have taken place in the UMI—more specifically, in the Ward. Hopefully by now you’ve come to learn that my medical team has found a cure for the HBNC virus. And, if you haven’t, I’d advise you find yourself a new career.”

  The journalists and reporters offer an anxious but well-timed laugh.

  Voss pauses, smug and self-satisfied up there in his ivory tower. “The HBNC virus, nicknamed the Blight,” he begins, “has ravaged the UMI’s poorer neighborhoods for years. Finding a cure for the virus was the only way to reunite our nation of islets. And, after years of hard work, we were finally rewarded. The cure was distributed and, one day later, the virus had been eradicated among the population by nearly seventy-five percent.” He looks at the closest camera, dead-on. “I thank each and every citizen for your support these past few years. Without your faith, this day would never have arrived.”

  The governor pauses, turning. “I’d also like to thank my beautiful, supportive wife, Emilce. She’s stood by my side while I made the eradication of this plague my priority, sometimes overshadowing all else.”

  Emilce stays utterly still. Everyone looks to her for a sign, a gesture, something to show she’s heard him, but she gives nothing. Voss sighs. With one final exhale and a tip of his water glass, he toasts to the room. Everyone mimics him, tipping their glasses. Quickly, I raise mine, so I don’t look like the odd man out.

  One man mumbling notes into his cuffcomm raises his hand. The governor’s jaw locks. “I hadn’t planned on taking questions today—”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a press conference if you didn’t!” the reporter quips back, laughing. “Now that you’ve got a handle on the Blight, will you consider a Second Appeal, Governor Voss?”

  A hundred pairs of eyes are on him, not including the cameras. Those count for everyone watching on the West Isle and the few with holos in the Ward.

  “Right now, my priority is to continue the search for viable freshwater aquifers within the UMI.”

  I almost choke on my drink, ’cause I know what he really means—“viable freshwater” is code for the spring.

  If he thinks that he can stamp out that question, though, he’s mistaken. Someone else, a blond woman, raises her hand, though he’s clearly not calling on anyone. “What if it doesn’t exist? You’ve exhausted the original budget for this search. When will you do what’s best for the UMI?”

  “Chief Dunn, what are your feelings on the subject?” another member of the press interrupts. My breath catches and I shift deeper into the crowd—I hadn’t even seen Chief from here. “What’s the point of having a military nation if the military has no say in decisions that affect us all?”

  The room goes silent. Chief and Voss exhange glances. Voss nods and Dunn steps forward, the trunk of his torso nearly taking up half the balcony.

  “I support Governor Voss.”

  That’s all he says.

  But as he disappears behind the banister, Dunn gives Voss a death glare to end all death glares. And he keeps his hands behind his back like they’re actually tied together. Like there’s nothing he can do.

  Chief Dunn wants a Second Appeal.

  The room devolves into a chattering mess. Reporters hold up their mics and shout over one another, determined to be heard.

  “Before the Blight hit, Chief Dunn once mentioned enlisting the Ward in a draft. Is that still a possibility?”

  “You could offer incentives!”

  “But they should want to fight for the cause!”

  All the hairs on my body stand tall, and my muscles tighten. I want to make human punching bags of these people. They really believe we’re disposable. Then I remember the protest, and that I shouldn’t be surprised.

  Gripping the banister with both hands, Voss looks down, his skin sallow and shadowed. Even under the chandelier’s soft light, his cheekbones form cutting angles. He stands at the white podium, waiting. The room settles.

  “The First Appeal devastated our population and Magistrate Harcourt still refused to reopen the aqueduct. Chief Dunn agrees that a search for a local water source is of preeminent importance.”

  Translation: Voss will never stop looking for the spring.

  I knew this was true, but to have him say it to my face? I have no choice. I could let Kitaneh do the job—if I thought for a minute she’d succeed. Considering how the Tètai have had over a hundred years to bury this guy and he’s still here . . . well, I wouldn’t put my money on them.

  I have to do something. Now.

  Dunn ushers a visibly agitated Governor Voss out of the spotlight. The two disappear abruptly behind the balcony.

  Sometimes opportunity presents itself. Sometimes, you have to hunt it down.

  Time to hunt.

  I discard my tray on a table next to a decorative bowl of nice-looking rocks. Where did he go? I can’t see Voss wanting to rub elbows with the reporters, not after that show—educated guess says he’s still on the second floor.

  Backtracking, I scan the banquet hall for another way up. At the far end, past the kitchen, I find a second stairwell. Though it’s been blocked off, it don’t even look like it’s trying. A thick, velvety rope droops across the banisters. I hop over and race up the stairs.

  At the top, I find a drink cart stocked with bottles of liquor. Voss’s personal stash, I imagine. You don’t drink the stuff if you don’t got the money or the means to rehydrate yourself later. And Voss has the money.

  Wheeling it down the hall, I peek into room after room. They’re all empty. I pick up my pace. At the final room—the one closest to the balcony—I hear a voice. I crouch low and listen.

  “Ungrateful—I’m finding it for you,” a man growls. Voss.

  I slip inside the room.

  It’s long, with a rich burgundy ceiling and gold molding. In the center, a glass chandelier hangs. A mirror hung horizontally above a set of drawers gives the illusion of an even larger space. I lower myself so I can crawl in. The silk rug gives nothing away. I don’t even allow myself the luxury of breathing. My chest is brick-heavy, clenched and tight.

  Could I really do it?

  At the sound of a woman’s voice, I go stiff—he’s not alone. I scurry past the drawers, toward a plush armchair tucked into the corner. Sliding behind it, I arch over the armrest and listen.

  “Can’t you just be patient? I’m doing this for us,” Voss continues, insistent. In the center of the room, the woman dressed in black, his wife, lays on a cot. She looks more like she’s about to attend her own funeral than a gala thrown in her husband’s honor.

  He’s gripping her ankles like she’d run if she could.

  A nest of plastic tubes connected to an IV snakes out from her forearm. Inside the IV bag, a muted greenish liquid drains into her body. It’s the serum he stole.

  Governor Voss picks up one of her hands, but he may as well be holding a corpse.

  Actually, a corpse would be indifferent to his touch. Her hand tightens into a fist. “Old age is not a disease,” I hear her rasp. “Let me die.”

  The governor drops her hand, backing away from the cot.

  From the bar in the corner, he pours himself a drink the color of caramel, which he downs in one sip. The crystalline glass drops like a hammer onto the table. Without offering his wife another look, he strides toward the door—about to pass my hiding spot.

  I reach for my blade—I’m too slow. Been
wasting my time, listening to their pathetic saga. Can I still do it?

  Slipping back behind the plush ivory chair, my heart beats so fast I can barely feel a rhythm at all. Hilt in hand, I wait until Voss faces the door. He lays his hand on the knob, about to turn.

  I could do it like this, a blade in his back.

  Except . . . I’m a statue. Worse than that—I’m wallpaper. I don’t move. I don’t know if it’s fear or a random bout of morality kicking in, but I can’t move.

  The door opens.

  The door closes.

  The governor is gone.

  27

  AVEN

  5:15 P.M., FRIDAY

  Will he do it? Will he hit her?

  Eye-to-eye in a standoff, neither Sipu nor Lucas shows any weakness.

  Lucas lowers his hand.

  When Sipu turns away, I catch her wiping the corner of her eyes. They’re red from tears she won’t allow, but her face is feral. Wild, unforgiving.

  “I’m getting our prisoners some water so they don’t die before we kill them,” she says abruptly, shutting the door behind her.

  Lucas returns to his chair, but the press conference is over. He fumbles with some buttons on a remote, and it plays again from the start. I wish I didn’t have to watch. I don’t like seeing that man, even when he’s made of pixels and light.

  Groggily, Ter lifts his chin. He shakes his head and forces his eyes open, then winces. Glancing around, he asks, “We’re really still here?”

  “We are,” I say under my breath, wiggling my new half hands. The snake wire is too tight—it’s cutting off my blood. I rotate them around but have to stop a moment later as Sipu walks back into the room.

  “Kitaneh’s asking for you on the wall comm upstairs. She wants to talk,” Sipu says to Lucas, canteen in hand. “Something to do with . . .” Her voice trails off and she nods in our direction.

  “I didn’t miss any messages,” Lucas says, checking his cuffcomm.

  Sipu shrugs.

  He crosses the room, watching her. “I have the water. Don’t forget that, Sipu,” he says.

  Lucas leaves the door open behind him.

  Kneeling in front of Ter and me, I spot the knife she’s holding behind her canteen. She brings one finger to her lips. “Get in the Omni,” she whispers, taking the blade to my wrists first, then to Ter’s. The wires burst open and blood rushes back to my hands, numb by now.

  Under Lucas’s desk, Sipu reaches for a button. Ter meets my eyes—we share one second of hesitancy and reach the same thing. The steel door gasps open.

  We rush for the airlock.

  Upstairs, Lucas crosses noisily from one end of the floor to the other, stampeding for the stairs—he’s caught on.

  Sipu races behind us, spinning the airlock’s wheel closed. I hop into her mobile first, followed by Ter. Sipu is last. She jumps into the front seat, and as the moonroof closes, she lowers the Omni underwater.

  Red lights flash all around us, but the airlock’s filling up—the door can’t open, or the basement will flood.

  Lucas is too late.

  Sipu steers the Omni through the strait without even turning on the high beams—she knows the waters by heart. We veer through underwater alleys and parks, slowing down only when she’s sure we aren’t being followed.

  “I’m sorry,” she says as she lowers the Omni onto the Hudson’s muddy bed. She flips on the lights inside the pit. “When I brought you there, I thought I had no other choice. I was wrong—I had two choices and liked neither.”

  Outside, seaweed dances in the current. As it grazes the windshield, I lean closer to her. “Why did you decide to help us?”

  Sipu sighs. “Is guilt an answer when it doesn’t change anything?” she says, leaning back against the headrest. “There are things I wish I never knew. For years I did nothing, when the water was right there . . . right under my feet. And I would have continued, had Lucas not raised his hand to me. I could have waited for him forever. Now I see, he belongs with Kitaneh.”

  Her answer is too vague to understand completely, but the word guilt is clear—she wishes she’d done something with the water.

  Sipu pauses and lifts her head, as if remembering she’s not alone. “Where should I bring you?” she asks. A current gently sends the Omni sideways, and both bags of water roll over my feet.

  My promise.

  It comes beating back to life inside of me.

  “What if there’s something we can do?” I say, and both Ter and Sipu pause. “The FATE Research Center. We wanted to get the cure to the prisoners in Quarantine.” I hold up a bag of water for them both to see.

  Sipu takes the bag from me, turning it around as she inspects it. “Leftover stolen goods,” she says.

  I shake my head. “Callum, Ren’s friend, made more.”

  “You’re mistaken,” she says, passing the bag back. “The spring’s ecosystem is impossibly delicate. It would take years of trial and error to re-create it artificially. I know. We tried. We gave up.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Then this must be apple juice.”

  She takes the bag again, this time inspecting it even harder. As if it could speak to her and prove what I’m saying.

  “Look,” I say, showing her my hands. “Voss cut them off . . . at the wrists. Now see?” I wiggle all ten of my half fingers.

  That must be proof enough—Sipu laughs into her palm, brushing aside a few blond strands. “You were going to bring it to the prisoners?” she asks, when something else occurs to her. She narrows her eyes at the bag. “But there isn’t enough. Four people, maybe. Not hundreds.”

  Of course, she doesn’t know about Ren’s blood—and I don’t know if I should tell her. “Callum found someone who’s immune,” I say instead, “and he added their blood to the water. It works in one dose now. It’s the same cure Ren and the other racers got out to everyone in the Ward.”

  Ter leans forward, elbows resting against his knees. “With all the doctors and scientists invited to the gala, the lab will be half-staffed,” he says. “But . . . it could also be doubly guarded because of your escape.”

  “These prisoners . . . ,” Sipu says. She’s actually considering—I bite my lip. “They were arrested for transmitting the virus?”

  Ter and I nod.

  “And they wouldn’t be in there if they themselves hadn’t contracted it?”

  More nodding.

  “You’re sure?”

  I don’t know why she doesn’t believe us. “I was in there with them. . . . I’m sure.”

  “If that’s true,” Sipu says finally, “I want to help you.”

  I bite my cheeks to keep from grinning too hard—she wants to help me. I’m not just asking her for help . . . she’s asking me to let her. Like I’m the mastermind. I feel brighter than a dozen roof-garden fireflies.

  “Wait,” Ter says, deep in thought. I whip around to find him eyeing me warily. “Ren expects me to keep you safe, not hand-deliver you to the same people responsible for doing that.”

  I flush, angry and embarrassed, hiding both hands from him. “Well, that’s your problem. Maybe I don’t need to be kept safe. And even if I did, there are more important things to worry about. Like this. Getting a cure to Mrs. Bedrosian and everyone else. You know Miss Nale’s in there too?”

  Ter exhales and drops his eyes. I think he agrees, he’s just afraid. “So, do we have a plan, or are we gonna wing it? ’Cause I vote plan,” he says, raising his hand.

  “I have a way in.”

  “Really?” Ter and I say together.

  We’re sitting in a DI Omni . . . of course she does. This can’t be the only trick up her sleeve. She nods and smiles weakly. Helping us hurts. She’s lost her family for us, for this.

  “Yes. I know how,” she says at last.

  My promise beats louder. It’s so loud, it’s a hundred heartbeats in one. Hundreds of heartbeats trapped in a prison cell made out of ribs. They’re in there, waiting to be let free.

 
We’re getting them the water.

  28

  REN

  5:40 P.M., FRIDAY

  “Don’t need to see you, child, to know you’re there.”

  I curse from my hiding place, silently (or not so silently) punching the armchair. How’d she know?

  “Closer,” Emilce Voss says, exhaling. “Come closer.”

  I should make a run for it—things just got a whole lot trickier now that I’ve been found. And yet I don’t run. I push the chair out of my way and walk toward the woman on the cot. I watch her black veil rise, and then fall against her face. Her dark, clawlike hand trembles as she lifts it away. But the lace is too heavy. With one weak tug, it falls to the side, and I can see not just her features, but the outline of her entire skull.

  Ashen, papery dark skin. Dark freckles. The smattering of spots along her cheeks stands out like dirt. Veins line her neck like waterway maps. Her insides may as well be wrapped in brown plastic.

  I try to hide my disgust, but I don’t know that I can. In the one day since I saw her at the lab, she’s turned into the walking dead. “How—” I stammer.

  “Time, it seems,” she says weakly, “is finally catching up with me.”

  I can’t help myself—I glance at the serum.

  “You know about that, do you?” Emilce nods. “Then you know it’s not the real stuff. It’s a serum my husband retrieved by some means or another. But it’s been altered. It’s effective against the virus, of which I have been cured, blessed be.” She brings her hands together in fake prayer. Even in her condition, she’s managed to keep a healthy dose of sarcasm. I can’t help but laugh a little.

  “Its other properties, however, are . . . diminished. Nonetheless, he keeps pumping the stuff into me. Nothing can turn back the clock. Even the unaltered water is merely a pause button. I would like to remove the batteries.” Here, she laughs. It’s an unnerving sound. Like hearing Death laugh at his own joke, but he’s the only one in the room.