by Zoe Cannon
The interrogation was from less than an hour ago.
That meant the dissident was still in the building.
This was it. This was her chance. This was the prisoner she would save.
She sent the dissident a silent message. Whoever you are, however you ended up here… I’m going to rescue you.
She opened the video.
The dissident was staring straight at the camera. Jameson was staring straight at the camera. Straight at her.
Chapter Nine
Becca walked down the hallway like she had somewhere to be. The hard plastic of her mom’s keycard dug into her palm. She glanced to either side as she approached the elevator. Nobody in sight. She slipped the card into the reader, half-expecting a red light to start flashing and an alarm to blare. Instead, the elevator doors slid silently open.
She stepped into the waiting mouth, clutching the keycard like a lucky charm, repeating Jameson’s name in her mind like a mantra. Jameson. She was going to save him. Jameson. He would find a way out of here, would make sure they weren’t caught. Jameson. Everything was going to be okay.
The elevator doors closed behind her.
The buttons for each floor, one two three four five, gleamed silver on a panel to the right of the door. Beside them sat the buttons for the underground levels, a mirror image. One two three four five. Five underground levels packed with prisoners, each level filling far more space than the building above. Becca could remember staring down one of those hallways, seeing it disappear into infinity.
Jameson’s cell number had begun with a three. She pressed the second three in front of her. She had accidentally pressed one of the buttons for the underground levels in her first week here, and the elevator had buzzed a warning at her and refused to move. But this time she had used her mom’s keycard, not her own. The elevator descended with a soft whirr, and Becca’s throat ached with a rising scream. She clamped her lips shut to keep from calling out to no one that she had made a mistake, that she wanted to go back.
We’ll make it out. Jameson will get us out.
The elevator stopped.
For a moment she stayed where she was, unable to cross the threshold to the rough concrete floor on the other side. She had stepped into this hallway once before, on the day of her arrest. She had thought she would never make it out again. The echoes of her past fear, her past despair, rooted her feet to the floor.
Every second I waste is another second Jameson stays down there.
The colder part of her whispered its own version of the truth. Every second I waste is another second Jameson could give me up.
She stepped through the doors.
She strode past the guard next to the elevator as if she belonged here, angling her face away just enough that he wouldn’t be able to recognize her later. Jameson had taught her that—not that he had ever sent her to do anything where it might be useful. She kept up the brisk pace as she walked. She was an interrogator on a mission. She belonged here.
The hallway was unadorned concrete; the lights overhead gave the walls a dull yellow tint. That gray-yellow color, the way her footsteps echoed, the sharp smell of disinfectant mixed with uncirculated air… all these things had featured in too many of her nightmares to count. She pinched the skin of her wrist to make sure she was awake, and winced in pain. She was awake. If the Enforcers came for her like they always did in the dreams, it would be real.
She had always assumed her next trip down here would be her last. Now each footstep seemed to confirm it, seemed to whisper to her, You won’t leave. You’ll never leave.
The hallway stretched on and on, metal door after metal door. Each door had a cell number stenciled on in large black letters. Each number started with a three. She followed them in descending order until she reached a gap and an intersection. At the corner of the ceiling where one hallway met another, a camera slowly swiveled from side to side. She followed Jameson’s rules as she kept walking, timing her steps to the movements of the camera, head subtly turned away. Quick steps, but don’t rush. Head down, but don’t hide. Act like you have somewhere to be. Act like you belong.
She made the turn, and two more in quick succession a minute later. She watched the ceiling for cameras, avoiding their metallic eyes as best she could, hoping Jameson had taught her well enough. In her mind, she mapped out the turns she had taken, fixing them in her memory as carefully as the names she had brought to Jameson week after week.
A second set of footsteps echoed behind her. She spun around—No. Slow. Careful. Act like you belong—to see a woman with graying hair walking toward her, coming closer with each step. Her heart sped up, trying to beat its way out of her chest, trying to escape without her.
Act like you belong. She turned around and kept walking. Don’t look back.
A moment later, the woman passed her, head lowered as she typed something out on her phone. She didn’t even glance Becca’s way.
The cell numbers kept getting lower. Twenty more doors and she would be there. Ten doors. Five.
Another turn. An instant from rounding the corner, a familiar voice froze her in her tracks.
“I don’t know who let you down here, but I’m inclined to report them. These levels are restricted to authorized personnel only, and as much as you’d like to imagine you qualify, your clearance says otherwise.”
She peeked her head around the corner. There was the cell she wanted—and there, in front of the door, stood an incongruously familiar woman, guarding the cell like she had come down here for the sole purpose of stopping Becca.
Her mother.
Her mother shifted as the man in front of her tried to step around her. Something about his face triggered something in Becca’s mind; it only took her a second to place it. She had only seen the man with Heather from a distance yesterday, but she would have bet money that this was him.
She drew her head back as the man spoke. “My name is Milo Miyamoto,” he said, like he thought it should mean something. “I’m responsible for the capture of this dissident.” His words echoed through the halls.
Her mom’s voice was dry and unforgiving. “If you’re responsible for his capture, then you’re also responsible for the premature deaths of his compatriots. That may not be something you want to advertise. Questioning prisoners is not the domain of Investigation, and since you seem to be unfamiliar with Processing protocols, you should know that accessing these levels without authorization is considered dissident activity.” Unlike the man, she pitched her voice precisely, so that no echo could be heard.
Most people would have backed off. He didn’t. “No one in Processing has the familiarity with this investigation that I do. There are aspects your interrogators might not understand. I can’t trust that your people won’t execute him before—”
“You’re welcome to send a memo.” Her mom’s tone didn’t change in the slightest. “But if you don’t leave in the next ten seconds, you won’t be leaving at all.”
The man’s voice was stiff with anger. “I’ll be speaking to my superiors about this.” Then came the sound of footsteps receding. Becca poked her head around the corner again, just long enough to see the man’s back disappear around a corner.
With a sigh, her mom pulled out her phone. “Someone granted an investigator access to the underground levels,” she said as she walked away. “I found him trying to get in to see one of my dissidents. Find out who’s responsible, if you would, and make sure it doesn’t happen again. No, I don’t want him arrested—he’s a nuisance, not a dissident…” Her voice faded as she disappeared into the distance.
Becca counted to a hundred before turning the corner. She looked up. No cameras. She glanced to the left, then the right, half-convinced her mom was about to appear out of nowhere with a contingent of guards in tow.
The hallway was empty.
She fumbled with the keycard, and nearly dropped it as she tried to slide it into the reader. Before taking it out, she brought her hand down to the
keypad below the reader and, with clumsy fingers, tapped in the override code that would disable the cell’s cameras. At least she hoped it was the right code. She had gotten a list of them from her mom’s computer last year, in the heady first couple of months of joining the resistance, back when she had thought the information she could give them would change everything. She had repeated them all in her head for days, but a lot of time had passed since then.
She hoped she at least hadn’t entered the code to call security.
The reader’s light flashed green. The door clicked. She rested her fingers on the handle and hesitated.
She didn’t want to know what she would find in there.
I don’t have time for this. The longer she delayed, the more likely it was that her mom would come back to finish what she had started.
She closed her eyes and pushed open the door.
* * *
The cell looked exactly like the one she remembered. Gray walls. Gray concrete floor. A camera in the corner, unmoving, its light dead. A metal cot lay against the far wall.
Jameson hadn’t made it there.
He sat slumped against the wall, head bowed; Becca couldn’t tell whether he was conscious. He—
She flinched and looked away. No. This was all wrong. Jameson didn’t belong here. He belonged in the park, back straight and eyes cold as he chastised her for showing too much emotion. He belonged in that little room above the bookstore, calculating the worth of her life. He couldn’t be this broken heap on the floor in front of her.
And her mother had described him as one of her dissidents. Whatever had been done to him, her mother had been the one to do it. She had no illusions about what her mother did. Hadn’t in a long time. But knowing was different from seeing, and if she saw, she would never be able to gloss over it in her mind again.
But she had to get him out of here. And for that she had to talk to him. And for that…
She had to look.
Slowly, cautiously, she lowered her gaze.
Jameson was still wearing what she assumed were the clothes he had been arrested in. But the white shirt was stained with blood, the collar scorched where they—her mother—had burned the side of his neck. The skin was raw and bubbly all the way up to his ear. His hands lay loosely in his lap, half the fingers twisted and swollen. His feet were clubs of flesh attached to his legs, and raw skin to match the patch on his neck traveled up his ankle to disappear under the torn leg of his pants.
She took tiny steps forward until she stood in front of him. She knelt down beside him; he didn’t stir. Behind her, the door slowly swung shut. The lock clicked into place, and Becca squeezed the keycard in her hand to reassure herself that it was still there, that she could get out again. The edges dug comfortingly into her skin.
“Jameson,” she whispered. It didn’t seem to fit. She wished she knew his first name, or a nickname. She wished she knew what his friends called him. What his mother called him.
No response.
“Jameson,” she repeated, a little louder.
Still nothing.
A sudden fear came to her, and she brought her fingers to the uninjured side of his neck to check his pulse. He jerked away from her touch with a whimper. Startled, she yanked her hand back.
Jameson’s head moved in small twitches back and forth until his eyes found her. He blinked at her a few times. His eyes defocused, then locked on her again. “Becca,” he said thickly.
Becca nodded. “It’s me. I’m here.”
“Did you…” He mumbled the rest. It took her a moment to decipher. Did you turn us in?
She drew back, horrified. “No! No. I never betrayed you. Micah showed up at my apartment, after I thought I had lost my chance to get close to him like you wanted. We were talking, and then there was traffic, and when I finally got there it was already…” She swallowed.
“Then they caught you too.” His eyes drifted shut. “I hoped they hadn’t found you. I didn’t give them your name. Planned to hold out as long as I could.”
“No,” she said again, gentler this time. “They didn’t catch me. They don’t know I’m down here. I came to rescue you.”
“Can’t walk. Can’t leave.” His words were growing thicker, more indistinct. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“I couldn’t leave you down here. And I’m not going to. I’m getting you out.” Her gaze drifted to his feet again. He was right—he wouldn’t be able to walk. But she was going to get him out of here, because there was no other option. Panic settled in her chest, heavy and fluttery at the same time. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it, and she had to.
“Did any of the others make it?” she asked. “Are any of them down here with you?”
He shook his head in a motion so faint she almost missed it. “All dead. I should have been too. I was looking for you. Left right before the Enforcers showed up. I saw it happen. Madeline… the baby…” His face contorted in pain. “I went back to the house. Kara—my daughter—she was gone. I tried to run. Knew someone who might have taken me in. Made it a couple of hours before the cops pulled me over. They called Enforcement.”
Of all the times for the police to start playing nicely with Enforcement. If they had maintained their usual apathy, ignored Jameson’s car to avoid the hassle of dealing with Enforcement, he might have been someplace safe right now.
“You said you knew someone who could help you. Someone from another resistance group? Is there a way I can get in touch with them?” It doesn’t matter. He can get in touch with them himself. I’m going to get him out.
His eyes blinked open again, but when he tried to focus on her, he couldn’t. His pupils expanded as his gaze took on an eerie stillness. “Can’t.” His voice was nearly as still as his gaze, like he was using stale breath to speak. “Could be a trick. You could be working with them. I think I can trust you, but… have to be safe.”
She couldn’t waste time arguing about this. He wasn’t going to stay conscious much longer. He wasn’t going to survive much longer. He would die right here in front of her and there was nothing she could do. “I have to get you out of here before it’s too late.” Her mother would come back soon, but even if she didn’t, Becca was going to lose him.
He gestured toward his feet with the less injured of his hands. “Not possible.”
“But what they did to you…” She couldn’t make it she instead of they, couldn’t acknowledge what her mother had done. “You’re going to die if I don’t get you out soon.” And what was she going to do after that? Take him to a hospital? He was right. It wasn’t possible.
But he couldn’t be right, because he couldn’t die down here. Couldn’t stay here to be tortured until he gave up her name. She had found him just in time to save him, she had stolen that keycard just so she could save him, and what was the point of all that if she abandoned him as if she had never come at all?
He made a tiny twitchy motion with his head that might have been a negation. “Won’t die. Not until they want me to. She’s too good at what she does to kill me accidentally.”
Her mother. She flinched.
Life stirred in his still gaze. His eyes locked on to hers; she couldn’t look away. “You have to do it.”
“Do what?” Panic beat its wings against her ribcage. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Don’t say it. Don’t say it don’t say it…
“You have to kill me.”
“I came here to get you out.” Not to kill him. Not to do her mother’s work for her. “And that’s what I’m going to do.” Impossible. Like an infiltrator evading Internal for more than a few years. Like stopping the reeducation program.
“You can’t. You know you can’t.” His eyes lost focus again; his words were barely more than breath. “I’ll hold out as long as I can, but I can’t hold out forever. If you don’t do this, I’ll give you up to them before long.”
“I’m not going to kill you to save myself.”
“Find Ka
ra.” A long, shuddering exhalation. “Don’t let them take her to that place.”
“I won’t kill you.” Pleading now.
“You know how it works. I’m going to die either way.”
And the worst part was, she could see it. The horrible logic of it. She couldn’t get him out. He would die here no matter what she did, and if she didn’t do what he was asking, she would die too. She had typed up enough transcripts to know they always ended the same way.
She had told him she would help the resistance however she could.
She nodded, but Jameson’s eyes had drifted shut again. The words caught in her throat. It took her a moment to speak. “I’ll do it.”
Jameson didn’t respond. She didn’t know if he could hear her, couldn’t tell if he was still conscious. Maybe it was better if he wasn’t.
Her mom would be back any minute. If Becca was going to do this, it had to be now.
She edged closer to him. He sat unmoving beside her, bruised and broken but alive and breathing, and she was supposed to take his life. She couldn’t. If she did this, she would be her mother.
She had to do it now. Do it or leave him to whatever her mother had planned for him.
The panic in her chest exploded, a bomb of blood and feathers. For a moment she thought it might stop her heart. But her heart was still beating, and so was Jameson’s, and she was the one who had to change that.
“I’ll find Kara for you.” It was all she could offer him. The only comfort she could give. “I’ll save her. I promise.”
She placed one hand over his nose, another over his mouth. Held tight enough that no air could get through. She held him against the wall as he started to struggle. He fought softly at first, like he was trying to hold himself back. Then more violently. His desperate gasps for air tugged at the skin of her hands. He tried to close his broken fingers around her arms, tried to push himself off from the wall, and for a moment she didn’t think she could hold him. But her mother had done her job well, and even using all his strength he was too weakened to fight.