by Gates, J.
I pretend to understand. Really, what I want to talk about is myself.
“You wouldn’t believe everything I’ve learned here, Randal. I’ve learned to shoot; I’ve been shot at, I’ve seen people killed, I’ve killed people, I’ve rescued people, saved lives! And I’ve met some really amazing friends—the people who are with us in the Protectorate, some of them are just incredible. Even old Grace. And the prison, some of the prisoners we freed, you wouldn’t believe what the Company’s done to these people. And in the work camp, there’s one in the old city called In-something . . . Indianapolis! These people there are real slaves, not just indentured workers like the rest of us were, but slaves ”
“I know,” Randal says with a distant sigh. “I saw.”
“What do you mean, you saw?”
“Company c-cameras. Everything everywhere is on camera. Of course, if there’s an important Protectorate mission going on, I’ll black out the c-cameras in that area when Ethan asks me to, but for something like your trip to the work camp, it’s all recorded. You just need to know where to look.”
“I see,” I say. Something in Randal’s demeanor disturbs me, no matter how hard I try to shake the feeling. Still, I feel like a piece of tinder about to catch fire. I’ve had so much to say—and nobody to say it to—that I can’t hold myself back.
“I’ve been reading, too,” I continue. “About the American government. Did you know they used to break Companies up when they got too big? It was called antitrust legislation, the big companies were called monopolies, and it was illegal! Then the Companies took over the government and put a stop to it, the bastards. And . . . Kali, Randal. Kali is alive. But of course you know all that, don’t you? You know everything.”
Randal nods distractedly. When I look at him more closely, I see that he’s about to cry.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He sighs, sniffs. “I missed you,” he says.
“I missed you, man.”
He opens his arms and we embrace. I give him a hardy pat on the back, and we pull apart.
The lamplight flickers. In it, I see a cavalcade of emotions cross his face, from yearning, to anger, to worry, to regret, to anger again. He stares into my eyes, his gaze more intense than I ever remember it, and his lips form silent words—threats, maybe, or an accusation.
“What Randal? It something wrong?” I ask him. “Say it.”
But he only shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to smile.
“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he says. “I’m just t-t-t-t-t-tired.”
“Okay. Should I let you get some rest?” I ask.
He nods, and I take a blanket from the corner and help him lay it out on the floor. I fold another one up for him to use as a pillow. I throw a third one over him, letting it fall over his face playfully.
“Get some rest,” I say. “You want me to turn out the lamp?”
He shakes his head emphatically.
“Alright.” I take a few steps toward the door, then stop. “Hey,” I say. “So, I won’t tell anyone before the big meeting, but what’s so important that you came all the way here? I mean, that was a big risk. And if it was that important, why didn’t you tell Ethan right away? Why are you waiting for the council to assemble?”
“My message is for the whole council, not just one person.” Randal says. “You’ll see. . . . ”
I don’t know why, but I’m overcome again with a strong sense of concern for him. Now, after all this time, after all I’ve learned, it’s easy for me to see what I was afraid to admit to myself before: Randal and I really are friends. Despite what happened all those years ago with him and Blackwell and Kali, we always have been. We are connected. In some way I still can’t completely comprehend, we are the same. And I care about him, deeply.
“Well, whatever it is,” I say, “we’ll face it together, alright?”
The only answer is his breathing, slower now, and steady.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word . . . ” I sing softly, playfully. That’s all I can stomach of my singing voice, so I stop. I can’t see him in the shadows, but I imagine his eyes closed and his pudgy, pale, sweat-slicked face finally relaxed and cherub-like in sleep.
I smile. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world to have friends. Too bad I found it out so late. I walk out the door and pull it shut very slowly behind me, releasing the knob carefully so that even the tiniest click won’t disturb Randal’s slumber.
Then, as I turn to leave, I hear it. The sound is low at first, low and heart-wrenching, then it rises in pitch and volume like a siren’s wail. I lean close to the door and listen.
Behind it, Randal is crying.
~~~
Something is horribly wrong with Randal. I decide the only one I can share this concern with is Ethan, but McCann tells me he’s indisposed. I consider finding Clair at her lookout post, but at the thought of our last encounter my resolve to find her wilts and I turn away at the foot of the stairwell.
So I walk aimlessly for about an hour or so, tangled in restless thoughts.
The battle is coming. The words ring in my brain like a bugle blast and my heart beats as fast and steady as a marching cadence. Though I can hardly admit it to myself, I am in love with war. The feeling of firing a gun, like holding thunder in my hand, is intoxicating. The power to kill compensates for all I’ve been deprived of in my life. The love, respect, and freedom I’ve missed out on all amount to nothing compared to the force I wield with the simple, one-millimeter movement of a trigger. I remember the cries of the men I killed in the prison, the way their bodies twisted in agony as they fell, and all I can think is: good.
I never wanted to hurt anyone, of course; I could never want that. I want to be happy. I want others to be happy. But in the absence of that happiness, I want revenge. I want the curtain separating “what is” from “what should be,” torn down and I want to do the tearing with my own bloodstained hands. Let the war come. I’m ready.
When Grace finally finds me, I’m lost in thought, watching Michel and a group of young boys playing soccer in a corner of the great room.
“May,” she says, and I turn. “Stop disappearing, would you? Come on!”
She tells me the council has assembled, awaiting Randal’s news.
“Thought you might like to be the one to wake him and bring him in, since you two are such great buddies. . . . ” Her tone is laced with an even more lethal dose of sarcasm than usual, but I ignore it and go to get Randal. This time when I approach his closed door, there is no sound on the other side. I enter slowly, not wanting to wake him abruptly, and am startled at the creak of the door’s hinges. I’m even more startled to find Randal not sleeping as I had expected, but sitting up, staring at the lamp’s wavering flame.
“Hey,” I say. “No sleep?”
His jitteriness seems to have ebbed in the hour since I last saw him, and there’s even an air of weariness as he shakes his head.
“Randal,” I say, “what’s going on?”
He looks up, making eye contact with me for the first time since our reunion. His smile seems fragile. “You’ll find out soon,” he says. He bites his lip, seems to consider something, then says, “So, so, are you and that old grizzly bear Grace an item, or what? I saw you checking out her caboose back there. ”He laughs a wheezy little laugh.
“Jackass,” I say. “I’d hook up with you before her, and that’s pretty bad.”
He laughs harder.
“Come on,” I say. I walk over to him, hold out my hand, and pull him to his feet. His hand feels plump and moist as bread dough in mine. On his feet now, he blinks at me without moving. “Let’s go before we piss them off.” I put one hand on the lamp to turn it off, but Randal stops me.
“Wait—” The urgency in his manner catches me off guard. “I need to gi
ve you something.” He holds a hand out to me, with something pinched between his fingers; it’s small and flat, the size of a small coin but triangular in shape. I recognize it instantly: it’s a data stick for the new IC. We don’t use them much—it’s far easier to transfer files using the Company network. But for the rare times when greater security is needed, like if we don’t want someone to hack in and look at a new ad campaign before it’s released, we use data sticks like this one.
“What’s on it?” I ask.
“It’s my gift to you,” he says, chewing on his lip, tapping one foot. “I was going to g-g-give it to Ethan, but he won’t want it anymore. Just remember, no matter what happens . . . I always loved you.”
“Randal, what’s going on?” I’m not surprised by the “I love you” part coming from him—it’s the “no matter what happens” that’s a little too ominous for my taste.
He stares into my eyes, his smile fading. “I know, May. About her.”
“Know what? About who?”
“About Rose,” he whispers, his lips trembling, “I know about our daughter.”
I’m too bewildered to reply. First, he isn’t the father. Second, how could he possibly know about Rose?
“You should have t-told me, May,” he says, shaking his head. “You should have told me. For a s-spy and a rebel, the worst thing in the world is having something to lose.”
Still confused, I open my mouth to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but before I can, Grace barges in. “You gonna keep the whole council waiting while you two play grab-ass? Let’s go.”
I glance at Randal, hoping to catch his eye, to get some clue about what my daughter has to do with the council meeting, but he’s not even looking at me. Head bowed, he follows Grace through the doorway. I slip Randal’s data stick into my pocket and follow.
~~~
All eyes are on us as we enter the meeting room. At the council table, Ethan sits in the middle seat, with McCann on his right and Clair on his left. Grace takes her seat with the rest of the council, while I take the folding metal chair near the door, leaving Randal standing alone under the scrutiny of the assembly.
Ethan sits up very straight. His expression is grave. “You know how much danger you put us all in by coming here, Randal, so I’m sure your news must be urgent. Speak.”
My heart beats fast. I’m nervous for Randal, standing up there all alone. I know how terribly shy he is, how lousy he normally is at speaking in front of people. For the first time, as he shifts from one foot to another and wipes his brow, I truly pity the odd genius standing before me. Then, all at once, he pulls his shoulders back, straightens up, and takes a deep breath. His voice is clear and his eyes firmly fixed on the council as he begins:
“For years, we have all been brothers and sisters together. I would have d-died for any of you. I will die for you. But,” he looks down and seems to be biting his lip. When he raises his head again, there are tears in his eyes.
“I have betrayed you.” The room holds its collective breath. “The Company was going to kill my child. A ch-child I didn’t even know I had until a few months ago, and . . . I know I’m weak, I don’t need anyone to tell me that. I know I’m selfish, but to me, that one life was worth more than all of yours. Blackwell found out about me altering a security code. When he interrogated me, he threatened my daughter, and I agreed to cooperate—but I told myself I would only tell them a little bit. I thought I could lie to them, maybe even throw them off your trail. But . . . ” His voice cracks. Snot and tears drip from his face. “They changed me. My b-b-brain. There was a surgery—and—I told them where you are. I told them everything. I couldn’t stop myself. After they let me go, I knew I had to warn you. I couldn’t just let you all die. So here I am. And now they’ll probably kill her anyway, my Rose. . . . ”
Ethan is standing now. Several other council members are on the verge of rising, too, but he stays them with a gesture. “What are you saying, Randal? Be very clear.”
Randal meets Ethan’s glare. “By sunset, we’ll all be dead,” he says. “It’s over. They’re coming.”
From outside, the sound of first one air horn, then another, bleeds through even the concrete walls. Alarms. We hear screams. In a blur of motion, Ethan draws his gun. Two deafening cracks cut through the air, and Randal is on the ground, writhing and squealing. The room is in a tumult, some council members dashing for the door, some standing and looking around in confusion, others still sitting, frozen in morbid disbelief.
Ethan turns to me: “Get your friend out of here. Send him out the front door, now. He resists, shoot him. The rest of you, spread the word and evacuate the building. Scatter throughout the city. Go underground if you can, and try to stay in tight quarters where the Ravers can’t get to you. Go!”
In an instant, the room is empty, save for the now-disordered furniture, me, Ethan, and Randal.
“Ethan,” Randal says, writhing in his own blood, “I’m sorry. P-please! I’m so sorry!”
Ethan pauses in the doorway. “No,” he says. “I am.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I walk over to Randal, standing over him as he moans on the floor. Right away, I can see he’s not dying. Ethan’s two shots were not meant to be fatal. Randal has only been wounded—in both his hands.
He notices my puzzled look. “If any a Benedict Arnold becomes, shoot both his hands so he can’t hold a gun,” he murmurs, holding his blood-soaked hands in front of him. “So says the P-Protectorate.”
He sits up, trembling violently. “I t-tried to redeem myself by coming here . . . . ”
He looks so pitiful sitting there, but I’m so angry at him at the same time, I don’t know whether to hug him or kick him. He destroyed us all. Maybe ruined the whole revolution. But he did it for our daughter. My daughter.
“Randal . . . ” I say, shaking my head, fighting my anger. “You probably killed three thousand good people today.” I haul him to his feet.
“Come on.”
He rises on unsteady legs and follows me. As we head out of the meeting room and into the main corridor, there’s a deafening explosion somewhere. The air seems to crackle and the building shakes all around us. Dust descends like a veil.
Randal gazes up at the blank, white ceiling of the corridor. “It’s b-beginning,” he whispers.
I give him a little push, herding him ahead of me.
The hall soon opens into the high-ceilinged lobby, the conference center’s grand foyer. The room’s massive skylights were all blown out by the explosion, and the marble floors under our feet are slick and crackling with broken glass. From above, a few shards still drop like falling stars, hitting the floor around us with what might be lethal force. There’s a ferocious screaming sound and, looking up, I see two sleek, black drones streak past, preparing for a second bombing run.
Randal is talking, but whether the nonsense he’s prattling on about is directed to me or only to himself, I can’t tell.
“All this blood, this drug. I . . . I just wanted to live! All I wanted, and n-never could . . . ”
To the exit, now. The doorframe is a sagging parallelogram. The doors are half fallen from their hinges. I push Randal gently through one of the openings.
“Go.”
He turns back to me, suddenly very lucid. “We . . . we had a lot of fun, right May?”
Tears rise in my eyes. “Ah, don’t get all sappy. This isn’t goodbye. It’s just . . . ”
Randal takes a small step toward me. “I did it f-for Rose,” he says. “We c-could have been together, May! Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
I clamp my teeth together, trying to hold back the torrent of conflicting emotions I’m feeling. Because the world is ruined, I want to say to him. Because I don’t love you, Randal. I can’t. I love someone I can never have. Because Rose isn�
��t even yours. She was conceived in blood and tears. Because Jimmy Shaw was right, we are a fallen people. But not fallen for want of hard work, like he claims. We are fallen because of greed, endless greed. Endless selfishness. And as for redemption . . .
The blood on his hands shines, thick and slick. He reaches out to me, pleadingly. “D-d-do you think . . . maybe I could just stay?” His eyes are full of tears. He looks so sad, my old friend. This is killing me.
“Randal,” I say, “I can’t.”
“No one w-would know!” he says, taking another step forward. I can see a frenzy building within him, the Peak-fever rising. “P-please, May! They’ll kill me out there! They have a thousand ways!”
“I’m sorry—” I begin, but he lunges forward and grabs my arms. His face is inches from mine, now. He’s trembling, spitting, desperate.
“I don’t want to d-die alone! I want to be here, with you! Just another J-J-Judas—the ones and zeroes—over and over and over again!”
“Stop!” I shout, and shove him.
He falls to the ground and blinks up at me, as if startled out of sleep. My hand rests on my gun. We stare at one another, both of us fighting to catch our breaths.
Finally, he cracks a smile and I know he’s himself again. “May Fields, Protectorate soldier!” he says. I can tell that despite everything, he’s proud of me.
An instant later, the smile has already faded. He stumbles to his feet.
“I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll go.”
He looks at me, and for a moment his eyes are the same as they were in our childhood.
“You get that data stick to an IC,” he says.
“I will,” I say. “I promise.”
“And if you see Rose again . . . ”
“I’ll tell her that her daddy loves her,” I say.
Randal smiles through the prism of my tears. We clasp hands for a moment, then he pulls away and heads out the doorway and down a long, concrete footbridge leading from the convention center entrance to the parking lot below.
Something on my hand is sticky and moist, and I look down to find my fingers reddened with Randal’s blood. Down the causeway, he grows smaller with each step. Though I somehow hate to take my eyes off him, my responsibility lies with the others—so grudgingly, I turn away. Back across the foyer now I hurry, dodging bits of falling glass.