The story I told her about the tackle code is partially true, though it’s not Adam and Oliver who use it. It’s Brock, Xu, and a couple of their friends. It didn’t take me long to figure it out. There are certain player names they use as code triggers. Ajawara is a signal meaning “listen up.” Bishop means “behind the dorms,” Randall means “on the roof”, and Franklin means “tackle field.” Then there are the fake stats, which translate into time intervals, after which certain girls get up and leave the common room, followed after a while by the boys who started the conversation.
By linking Oliver to the code, I’ve bought Xoey some time — but at what cost? Kino’s anger at being deceived will no doubt be worse in the end. Then we will all pay.
You better come up with another story.
Easier said than done. I rack my brain, but everything I think of — real or not — will get someone shipped off to the front lines.
So who is it okay to sacrifice?
I guess I’m quiet today with everything going on in my head because Riley keeps frowning at me. I’m sure she’s suspicious. Why wouldn’t she be? We’ve been working together in the basement for the last half hour while Adam and Oliver are upstairs, unloading another panel covered with rubble. Xoey is talking to Sam across the room, trying to sweep small scraps onto another piece of paneling, but Sam is agitated and pointing at the elevator. I know she’s trying to listen to him and keep working, but she’s so pale, I’m afraid she’ll fall over.
Riley drops a handful of broken sheetrock at my feet. “Are you working today, Paine, or ogling your girlfriend?”
“What?”
“You heard me. We’ve got tons of work to do. No time for Xoey daydreams.”
Suddenly I’m mad. Furious, actually.
“That’s what you think? That I’ve got nothing more important to think about than…what? Nick-nacking?”
I laugh. I’d like to say it’s scathing or even hateful, but it’s not. It sounds desperate verging on panicked, even to my own ears. Riley’s brows push together in concern, but I’m too furious to stop.
I move closer, lowering my voice to a whisper. “You’ve seen her in the munitions plant. Quietly taking it when Haak browbeats her for moving too slow. If she can’t pick up the pace, she’s gone soon. Gone. I’m doing what I can to help, but it’s not...I can’t…”
“Okay. I get it.” She puts her hands up. “Calm down.”
Calm down?
I feel my eyes begin to sting, so I walk away, mortified. I wish I was dead. For the first time, I just wish it had all ended the day they broke down our front door. Then I wouldn’t be here, trying to figure out how to keep everyone safe and not betray my crew, while also betraying my crew to keep my mom alive. But even now, in this embarrassing, frantic moment, I know my thoughts are running where my actions never would. I take a deep breath and swallow the knot in my throat. I’ll keep fighting one way or another until there’s nothing left to fight for. I just don’t know how.
When I return to the pile, Riley is back at it, reaching for another piece of shelving to add to the load. It’s lodged pretty tight, though. Rather than let her tug at it for half an hour, I grab the other side and we pull together. It comes free with a loud crack and we’re both knocked off our feet — a good thing since the pile shifts to fill the gap, crumpling in on itself and spraying us with bits of drywall and splinters.
We both come up coughing, thoroughly dusted in white, sitting in a cloud of poisonous filth. While Xoey hobbles over to see if we’re okay, Adam and Oliver thunder down the stairs. By the time they reach us, the dust has settled and they’re all smiling stupidly.
Oliver elbows Adam, confirming my suspicion — we look like naughty toddlers who broke into a bag of flour. “Look, hon. Aren’t they cute?”
Riley scrambles to her feet. “Save it, Oliver!”
I’m about to get up too, but something catches my eye — an empty space beyond the new pile of debris in front of me. I rock forward and crawl to one side, tilting my head. I reach for a nearby Readybeam and aim it into the darkness.
Oliver squats next to me. “What is it?”
A tunnel?
I twist around to say it out loud, but don’t get the chance. Sam tackles me and covers my mouth with his hand.
Chapter 13
Riley
* * *
Whatever Reed saw, Sam saw it too. But he also remembered something Reed forgot about: we’re always being watched.
It happens to all of us. When you first get to the House, you’re hyper aware of the cameras and microphones. You cringe when you change clothes or take a shower. You choose your words carefully. Pretty soon, you start measuring privacy in degrees, regarding any gaps as a kind of freedom.
For example, no mics can reach us in the potato fields. We are just little red dots. Tracked by our nanochips, watched by Sentribots, sure, but free to talk. I doubt we are watched in Sam’s blackberry bush either (not regularly, anyway, though I’ve seen Haak walking around with a dish microphone). Still, after a while you stop thinking about it so much. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.
Every now and then, you forget they’re watching.
I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to Reed. I can’t blame him, even though being reckless is one of his stupider traits. We’re in a basement normally off limits to students, left on our own for hours at a time. It gives you a false sense of security. Plus, I made him mad, then he got knocked to the ground, buried in toxic dust, and laughed at.
It’s enough to unsettle anyone, even cocky Reed Paine.
I give him credit for keeping his cool with Sam. Still, he kind of glares at him while he brushes white dust off his uniform. Sam doesn’t notice. He just takes off for the stairs, picks up his tablet, and then takes two awkward steps backward until he’s pressed against the wall. I follow him.
“Sam? What are you doing?”
He frowns at me. A warning to stop talking. Now no one’s talking, but we’re all scanning the corners, searching for cameras. Xoey finds one above the elevator.
Of course! No wonder Sam was upset earlier. And now he’s found its blind spot. I glance over his shoulder as he types multiple sequences of letters and numbers into his tablet, all necessary to access the Cit-Track system.
Just last week he figured out another flaw in the Cit-Track. Not only are students taken offline in random batches for as much as thirty minutes at a time, the Cit-Track only monitors us from a bird’s eye view, assigning no depth to our locations. So it looks like students are standing on top of each other when some are actually upstairs, in the basement or on the roof.
Still, it’s not going to be easy to work around it. Our student ID codes change every time we go offline. Sam had to write a cipher to track the changes, at least for our detention crew and a few others, like Brock, Xu, and all of Kino’s aides. It’s what he’s searching for now. Which of us will be offline next and free to discuss whatever Reed saw without being overheard.
“The two Rs,” he says. His head bobs between me and Reed. If we’re being monitored, it’s not sophisticated code. It doesn’t matter, though. I can work with it.
“What are we talking about?”
Sam tucks his left hand under his tablet and taps his arm three times. Three hours from now, I’m guessing. I nod at Reed. He stares back at me, clueless.
This is not going to be easy.
“Listen, this isn’t the time for this,” I say. “Can we just save it until after dinner?”
Reed opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, his brow crumpling. Neither Oliver nor Adam seem to be catching on either, but Xoey is.
“Yes. Argue on your own time.” She winks at Reed and taps her wrist three times, just like Sam. “For now, can we get back to work?”
Three hours later, we are all heading toward the common room after dinner when I grab Reed by the arm and push him around the outside of the cafeteria. Xoey keeps the other guys moving along with
out comment. I imagine she’ll figure out a way to explain things to Adam and Oliver.
I’ve spent the last three hours considering the best place to have this conversation, finally settling on a narrow strip of concrete between the two fans venting the kitchen stoves. I intended for their noise to mask our words from prying ears or microphones, but it’s almost too loud to hear each other. Reed’s confused eyes dilate to shock when I move in close and put my lips near his ear. I don’t know how to start the conversation, so I just tell him everything. How Sam has hacked the Cit-Track and how some of us go offline every now and again, giving us time to move around without detection.
“You and I won’t be tracked for the next twenty minutes,” I say.
“The two Rs. And three taps meant three hours?” He laughs. “I am so dense.”
I take a step back. Standing this close to Reed is awkward and the kitchen fans are pressing away the cold night air, creating a bubble of damp heat around us. Maybe that’s why I feel so warm, but I can’t think about it now. Anyway, it’s just because I don’t trust him. I step close again.
“What did you see down there?”
“A dark, empty space,” Reed says. “I think it’s a tunnel. Boarded up and hidden a long time ago.”
His eyes shine like it’s been killing him to keep this to himself all afternoon. He wants to explore the tunnel. So do I.
But with Reed Paine?
“You’re sure?”
He scowls. “Sure of what? That it’s worth the risk we’d be taking? Yeah.”
I only hesitate for a second longer. There’s no way I’m letting him go down there without me. We’ll be offline for another eighteen minutes. Enough time to explore. I tap my tragus implant, starting a timer.
“Let’s go.” I take off toward the library. Reed follows me.
No one should be curious if they see us running through the courtyard. Curfew isn’t for another hour and it’s not uncommon to see two people sneaking off together after dinner. I’m sure it would help the illusion if we held hands, but that’s not happening. Instead, we circle the library and head to the side door (the one closest to the dumpster). Adam jimmied the lock so it’s easier to get in and out without help during detention.
We’re in the library basement in no time. Hugging the walls in just the right places so the cameras don’t catch us, we make our way past the pile of debris.
“Fifteen minutes,” Reed whispers. He grabs two Readybeams and hands one over. We have to crawl a bit then squirm our way through the hole in the broken paneling, but once we’re in, we can stand upright. I swing my Readybeam in a big arc, lighting up concrete floors and gray block walls continuing straight in front of us until they are gobbled up by the dark. Damp pipes line the walls while the rest of our path is littered with junk (boxes of illegal light bulbs, an ancient chalkboard, and a pile of broken tiles). I don’t wait for Reed, but sidestep the mess and head toward the darkness. He follows me.
Before we get far, another tunnel branches off to the right.
“That would take us east,” Reed says. “Maybe toward the old gym?”
I nod. “Do you want to turn, then, or keep going?”
“Both.” He smiles stupidly. I shake my head and we keep walking straight until we meet a wall, forcing us to go left or go back.
“Twelve minutes,” I say. We turn left and take a dozen steps before our path is blocked.
“Holy—”
“Yes,” I breathe.
Books. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe. Stacked every which way, on the floor, in boxes, on top of an old piano, from the floor to the ceiling. I move in close, shining the light through a gap.
“There are even more behind there. A lot more.” I hand Reed my Readybeam and begin shifting books off to the side, moving as quickly as I can without damaging them.
It’s rare to see books at all anymore, much less books like these. They’re old. Paper and hardbacks. Some are beautifully bound, others are falling apart. Part of me wants to stop and examine them closely, but I resist, intent on seeing whatever might be behind them. I catch a few titles as I move them to the side. Books I’ve never heard of with intriguing names like The Hiding Place, Huckleberry Finn, Fahrenheit 451.
“Hurry.” Reed balances his Readybeam on top of the piano so he can help me.
It takes us eight minutes to clear a narrow gap. I try to squeeze through.
“Three minutes.”
“I’m almost there.”
“We need to go now!”
I know he’s right, but I want more, like just a glimpse of what’s beyond the books. It’s no use. The gap is too narrow. All I can do is reach into the darkness. I touch something soft. Something made of fabric.
“Riley!”
“Okay, okay!”
I close my hand around the fabric and pull, tucking whatever I’ve found under my arm before following Reed back along the tunnel at a run. Our beams of light bounce against the grey blocks like ticking seconds. We squeeze through the hole and scramble upstairs. Our time runs out just as we skirt the dumpster in the parking lot. I slow to a walk and imagine our Cit-Track IDs lighting up in Kino’s server room.
“Well that was—”
I grab Reed’s shirt, pulling him back. “Someone’s coming!”
Reed peeks around the dumpster. “Haak,” he whispers.
It’s too late for us to avoid him and I can’t think of any good explanation for being here. But no one would ever accuse Reed of over thinking things. He grabs me and folds me in his arms, burying his face in my hair in a fake embrace. I’m too stunned to react.
Haak turns the corner and comes to a stop in front of us. “Okay, you two. Back to the dorms before curfew.”
Reed pulls away and grins lecherously, his arm still thrown over my shoulder. “Sure thing, Mr. Haak.”
My cheeks are flaming as we wind toward the courtyard. I’m thankful for a few more seconds in the shadows before we step onto the well-lit sidewalk. As soon as Haak is out of sight, I wriggle away from Reed.
“Don’t you ever—”
But his expression stops my tirade. He pulls the object from under my arm and turns it toward the light.
“Do you know what it is?” I can’t tell. I see only a thick triangle of blue fabric covered in white stars.
Reed’s jaw tightens and he pulls it quickly back into the shadows, hiding it from anyone who might see. He nods slowly.
“I think it’s an American flag,” he says.
Chapter 14
Adam
* * *
I help Reed hide the flag. First, in a utility closet no one uses, then under my uniform when I cross campus to return it to the library early in the morning. I’m taking a risk, but it’s my turn to be offline.
Anyway, I don’t do it for Reed.
I put the flag behind some thick books in the law section, far from the fire damage. The cobwebs tell me no one has touched them in years.
I have to hoof it to reach the munitions plant for morning shift. There, I am weighed and scanned before I check the schedule. I’ll unload lead from a cargo container today. Hard work for the strongest students. Someone else will melt the lead, then spin it like yarn onto huge reels. A machine will cut it in small pieces. Other students will put the pieces into copper jackets that another machine will form into bullets. There’s more to it, but the end is the same. We’ll ship the bullets to the front line, where UDR soldiers will use them against the Resistance.
Reed stops me near the annealing machine. “Thanks for your help.”
I nod and get back to work.
It’s more of the same all weekend.
Our crew meets in the cafeteria for breakfast on Monday morning. It’s only half full. A lot of kids are too sick to get out of bed. Vardelos appears green himself, hurrying by, trying to figure out if this is food poisoning or stomach flu. He isn’t sick, though. Just off the bottle until the crisis passes.
I sit across from Riley. She smi
les.
I try to return it, but joy never comes easy for me. I wonder if anything else happened when she and Reed were offline last night. She’s not looking at him.
She’s not even glaring at him.
Xoey says good morning. Sam stares out the window. Oliver sits down after everyone else and bumps my elbow, making me splatter wheat mush across the table. We all laugh.
“Check out my tackle stats.” Reed passes his tablet to Riley.
“Brag much?” She’s still avoiding his face.
“It’s hard to hold it in.” He leans toward her, taps the screen. She pushes away from him, but keeps reading.
“Yeah, well you’re no Madden, but duplicate those numbers, and our team would be unstoppable.” Riley taps a few times then passes the tablet to Oliver. “What do you think, O?”
We study it together. It’s a matrix of tackle statistics making no sense whatsoever.
Until they do.
“Impressive,” Oliver says. “But there’s room for improvement.”
He taps in a few changes then passes it to Sam and Xoey, who study it together.
Sam is the first one to look up, his eyes wide. Riley winks at him.
“Enough about tackle,” Xoey says. “Can anyone help me understand those quadratic functions Mr. Reynolds gave us for homework? They hurt! I’m worried about the final.” Her fingers move across the screen. She hands the tablet back to Reed.
“I’ll help you,” Oliver says. “But only if you’ll help me with our writing assignment.”
“Deal.” Xoey high fives Oliver.
Sam begins to laugh.
“Maybe we could all study together,” Riley says. “After detention?”
We all nod in agreement. Sam’s still laughing, but he puts a hand over his mouth, trying to hide it.
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