Stealing Liberty

by Jennifer Froelich

  “Wait! There. Back up and pause. There, on the side of the building. What number is that?”

  “Eighty-four?” Sam frowns at the screen. “Is that an eighty-four?”

  Riley crosses the room, squinting at the television. The picture is not as clear as pixel paint and none of us are used to the fifty-inch display. It’s so tiny. Our entertainment fills up walls, larger than life. “Yeah, I think it is Warehouse Eighty-Four. Does that help?”

  Sam starts typing on his tablet. “We’ll see.”

  Reed stands over Sam’s shoulder, biting his nails. Meanwhile, Oliver paces in the corner, reading out loud from a huge book on World War II.

  “Did you know more than sixty million people died during World War II? More than 400,000 were Americans.”

  I smile sadly at him, but he doesn’t notice. Just as many Americans died during the second civil war. Four times as many died from the outbreak, just before the UDR was established. It feels like a vengeful cycle, leaving a scar we all feel and fear. Adam played an old song for me yesterday: something about Death always returning and bringing his friends.

  Will we ever learn how to stop it?

  “Got it,” says Sam. “An inventory list for potential buyers.”

  He hands his tablet to Reed, who begins scrolling through the list. Riley moves closer, frowning over his shoulder.

  “Car, car, jewelry, painting, Jeep, car, truck.” She turns to me, shaking her head. “A bunch of antique junk, just like I thought.”

  But Reed has stopped scrolling. “What’s that?”

  Riley grabs the tablet, ignoring his protest. “Hey! I’ve seen it in one of our books!”

  “Where?”

  She turns to me. “Do you remember the book with the Statue of Liberty? Where is it?”

  I point to a shelf by the piano. Riley starts digging through a stack of books and pulls one from the bottom, ignoring those that teeter and almost slide to the floor. As she begins flipping through the pages, Reed moves closer, peering over her shoulder. After a few seconds, she stops and tilts her head toward him. “Do you mind?”

  His lips twist, but he stays where he is. “Not at all.”

  Riley ignores him, tapping the page with her finger. “Here. It’s the Liberty Bell.”

  “That’s it.” Reed leans closer, reading aloud. “It says: ‘The Liberty Bell was commissioned for the Pennsylvania State House in 1751, but had to be recast two years later after it cracked. It was rung on July eighth, 1776, at the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence.’”

  Sam frowns at the inventory list on his tablet. “But it’s still cracked.”

  Riley nods. “It cracked again in 1846. It hasn’t been rung since.”

  “Play the broadcast again,” Reed says.

  We all watch in silence. When Jez Rodriguez says all the items in the warehouse were confiscated from terrorists, Reed makes a noise of disgust.

  “She’s lying,” he says.

  “Or she’s been lied to.”

  “Isn’t it the job of media to find out what’s true? What’s a lie?”

  “You sound like your grandmother,” Riley says. “This is why you wanted to see the list, isn’t it?”

  Reed nods absently. “One of Floodlight’s articles was about American treasures being locked up by the government. They claimed to do it out of sensitivity. People were complaining, saying they were offensive or needed trigger warnings.”

  I nod. It’s the same reason the American flag is illegal, why it’s illegal to read a Bible in public. “Did Floodlight ever mention the Liberty Bell?”

  Reed shrugs. “I didn’t see anything about it, but she wrote about other public treasures that ended up in the private collections of government officials, or disappeared altogether.”

  “Here’s something.” Paisley’s studying her own tablet. “This says the Liberty Bell was displayed in Philadelphia for hundreds of years, drawing millions of tourists, but after several terrorist attacks, including the one that destroyed the Statue of Liberty, it was locked up for safe keeping.”

  “When?”

  “It doesn’t give a date. Another article claims someone tried to get it added to the national museum on the Eastern Sand, but…hang on.” She taps a few more times. “Yep. This links to Floodlight. There was a stink about it. Protests. People said it was a symbol of hate and tyranny.”

  “So it gets erased from history?” Reed’s lip curls. “We don’t even get to know it ever existed?”

  Oliver nods toward our bookshelves. “These books are full of things we were never supposed to know.”

  “So why would someone want to buy it now?” Adam says. “It’s just an old, broken bell.”

  Riley stops flipping through her book and stares at him. “No, it’s not. It was a symbol of freedom. Freedom from oppression.”

  “The Declaration of Independence said the government should be ruled by the people,” Reed says, “not the other way around. Not the way it is now.”

  “There’s an inscription on the Bell.” Riley reads from her book. “‘Proclaim Liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.’ It’s from the Bible.”

  Everyone focuses on me.

  “I don’t actually have the whole Bible memorized,” I say.

  Reed digs through our stack of books and finds a Bible, which he brings to me. “Can you find it, though?”

  “From Leviticus,” Riley adds helpfully.

  “That’s close to the beginning.” The Bible is super old, so I turn the pages carefully.

  Oliver fidgets nearby. “Does anyone know if the auction is over? Or who bought the Liberty Bell?”

  “I’ll find out,” Sam says.

  Reed turns to me. “Any luck in Leviticus?”

  I shake my head and then start coughing. I hand the Bible to Oliver, who helps me to my feet.

  “Enough for tonight, don’t you think?” he says. “It’s almost curfew.”

  We say goodnight. As Riley, Paisley, and I wade through the snow and back toward the dorm, I remember the night Oliver carried me to the Med Center, the way he sat with me, holding my hand as I passed in and out of consciousness.

  I frown, remembering something else.

  “Riley? When you and Oliver took me to the Med Center the night I was sick, was anyone else there?”

  “No. Just the three of us.”

  But as we go inside and get ready for bed, my hazy memory distracts me. I wonder if Albuterol has any side effects, like hallucination. I remember waking up on the examination table with the nebulizer mask on my nose. I could not see anyone, not even Oliver, who had let go of my hand, but I could hear him talking to someone on the other side of the room.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” the voice said. “You’re the one.”

  I fell into fitful sleep while I lay there, trying to breathe. Images from a dream mixed with their conversation, creating nonsense.

  But one thing I know: Oliver wasn’t talking to Riley. The other voice belonged to a man.

  Chapter 25

  Reed

  * * *

  The door clicks, unlocking. Zak and I push through.

  “Well?”

  Monica’s lips curve in smug satisfaction. “I spotted you. Twice.”

  “What? No. Where?”

  I circle Kino’s desk. The smooth surface is lit up from edge to edge with an interactive map of the school. Kino left for her cottage an hour ago, bored with our cat and mouse game. Monica was thrilled to be left in charge.

  “There.” She points to the southwest corner of the old gymnasium. “And there.” This time she points to the eastern fence, five meters south of the nearest Sentribot tower.

  Zak warms his hands by the fire. “Can we just wave the white flag? This is a waste of time.”

  He’s been saying that all evening. All week, actually. I keep quiet this time. I’ve already explained why trying to reach the fence without detection will help us understand the bomber�
�s movements.

  “Even if it doesn’t lead us to him, it might scare him,” I told Kino. “We don’t want him getting his hands on another mine and using it against you.”

  As usual, she was skeptical, but she gave me access to video monitors anyway. With supervision, of course.

  I don’t know if I’m making progress with the bomber’s identity or not, but at least I can pass along what I’ve learned to Sam, Paisley, and the others. They are using it to map out several routes through campus any one of us can travel without detection. I’ve been so focused on the bomber, I haven’t had time to think about what they do with the information. I’m terrified he’ll find another way to hurt people if I don’t find him first.

  Every evening I share my findings and theories with anyone willing to listen. Sometimes it’s just Luna. Sometimes it’s Xoey or Oliver. When I talk to Zak, he stays quiet. I’ve started to filter what I tell him, which is for the best. Everything I say out loud gets back to Kino.

  She denied me full access to her student records, but at least let me pull lists matching certain characteristics. I started with anyone whose parents were actively involved in revolution, figuring they might have taught their kids a thing or two about mines, ammunition, and evasion tactics. Of course, that group includes most of the student body, so I’ve been cross referencing it with psych evaluations suggesting disregard for human casualties. From there, I’ve broken it down into subsets — students from the Dirt, students from the Sand, students who score high in science. The lists are still long and I spend most of my evening scrolling through names, trying to see something I’ve missed.

  Paisley and Sam tracked Kino’s hate mail. It originated inside the House, like we suspected, but each one came from a different outdated tablet gathering dust in one of the classroom cabinets. It tells me nothing, so tonight after I leave Monica and Zak, I focus on the wording of each threat. Xoey helps me.

  “He’s angry,” she says. “Specifically angry. The hate he feels for Kino is personal, not general.”

  I grunt. “True for most of us.”

  “Yes, but check this out.” She scrolls through the third threat. “He wrote about ‘years of pain.’ Then here in the fourth one, he wrote about ‘years of planning.’”

  “So he’s been here a while. Which means I can cut all new shells from my list.”

  “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Have you ever investigated Kino’s background? Where she came from? What she did before becoming the school’s director?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “She’s young,” Xoey says. “This isn’t a glamorous job, but it is one for someone with rank, seniority.”

  “Yeah. So how did she get it?”

  “It’s worth looking into.”

  “Hey guys.” Oliver calls from across the room. “Check this out.”

  He and Sam connected the television to a disc player and have been arguing about which old movie to play. After several minutes, they settle on one. The screen turns bright blue and a burst of obnoxious music accompanies a disembodied voice announcing “Our Feature Presentation.” After several logos cross the screen, a movie starts. It’s about a group of small-town teenagers who discover they are witches. I lose interest after a couple of minutes, though I glance up from time to time. There’s a pretty girl who curses another pretty girl. Eventually one of them saves her boyfriend from the bully, who turns out to be a werewolf. Ridiculous. The most fascinating thing is how much food they eat — how much they throw away.

  I can’t believe people thought this stuff was entertaining.

  The next night Monica is scowling when Zak and I get back from the fence. Chad stands next to her, silent as always, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “You didn’t see us at all?”

  Monica ignores me and glares at Zak. “Tell the truth. Did you go all the way to the fence and back again?”

  “Yep.”

  Kino rises from her desk. “Fine. Well done. Everyone out!” She points to the door. “Not you, Reed.”

  Chad and Zak head toward the door. After stalling a bit, Monica follows. My stomach begins to churn. Kino sits down again and frowns at her desktop, tapping the map with her red fingertips.

  “We need more than this. What he’s done, where he’s been — it’s not enough.” She raises her icy blue eyes to mine. “I want to know who he is.”

  “The rosters—”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Not much,” I admit. “Hundreds of students have motives for targeting you.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “But last night I noticed something interesting in the threats you received.”

  “What?”

  I circle her desk and point to the controls. “May I?”

  She nods and I swipe left, minimizing the school map and opening two threat messages. I drag one to the left side and one to the right. “Here and here.” I highlight the word “years” on both messages.

  “This student’s vendetta is old.” I study her face. “Something that has festered over time. Are there any kids here you’ve encountered before? Maybe somewhere else, when you had a different job?”

  The effect is immediate. Her pretty face drains of color and her eyes flicker to mine. I see hate and fear. I’m not sure which is stronger.

  “What is it? Who?”

  “I don’t know.” She says this softly, to herself. Then her eyes narrow and refocus on me. “Never mind. You’ll mention this to no one. Do you understand me?”

  I nod. Kino turns toward the window and stares at her reflection. I stand on the other side of her desk for several minutes, but when she doesn’t move — when it’s clear she’s forgotten me again — I leave, closing the door behind me.

  I lie in bed for a long time tonight, unable to sleep. Something about Kino’s reaction has left me sick to my stomach. I can’t explain it. If I have uncovered a clue leading Kino to the bomber, it’s a good thing, right?

  So why do I feel like I’ve made a horrible mistake?

  I give up on sleep and reach for my tablet. For the next hour, I search for Kino online. Like any name, it returns thousands of results, so I spend the next hour filtering, narrowing my search. Scrolling, filtering, narrowing again. It must be past three in the morning when something catches my eye — an article on Lucas Kino, a four-star general in the UDR army who retired about three years ago. The picture shows a white-haired man in full uniform with a younger Wanda Kino at his side. She must be his daughter. The article about his retirement is benign and vague, which peaks my curiosity. My grandmother’s blog has taught me that fuzzy journalism is often evidence of a cover up.

  After searching more State Press articles, I begin to piece together Lucas Kino’s history. He spent his last few years of service commanding a civil affairs battalion, which provided security for the Division of Family Planning. We know them as DFP.

  Oliver shifts in the bunk above me, then hangs his head over the edge.

  “What are you doing?”

  Oliver’s not one for lowering his voice, which explains the shoe that comes flying across the room from the direction of Brock’s bunk. “Shut up, mickpots!”

  “Meet me in the hall,” I whisper to Oliver. “Bring your tablet.”

  A minute later, he’s squinting against the bright hall lights while I bring him up to speed.

  “So Kino’s father was a general?” He leans against the wall and lowers himself until he’s sitting on the floor.

  “Yeah.” I sit next to him. “More to the point, they worked together — or kind of. Before she came to the House, Kino was the director of Mobile Family Planning in the Western Sand, with her father’s battalion providing strong-arm support.”

  “There was some kind of MFP controversy a few years ago,” Oliver says. “Maybe some rioting? I don’t remember the details. It was pretty hushed up.”

  “Right around the time Kino was in charge? Then her father g
ets the axe — but quietly? I want to know why.”

  Oliver turns on his tablet. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  For the next hour, we search. State Press outlets only produce a few results, all of them vague or cautionary. There was an uprising at a farm along the border between the Dirt and the Western Sand, attributed to enemies of the state, controlled quickly by our brave UDR forces.

  “MFP is only mentioned in one of these articles,” I say. “A spokesperson said, ‘The riot was caused by ignorant terrorists whose goal was to undermine the best society practices of Mobile Family Planning.’”

  Oliver lifts his head. “This dark net article claims MFP began using harsher tactics when Kino took over. They relied on informants to track down what the government calls non-sanctioned live births, or NSLBs.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My guess? It’s connected to those ‘best society practices’ the MFP official was talking about, but I’ll look it up.”

  “This says there was a three-day standoff at a Dirt farm, ending in the death of a mother and her three-year-old daughter,” I say. “It happened when she refused to hand over her child, designated an NSLB by the state.”

  I read further then stop, the hair standing up on the back of my neck.

  “Oliver! The little girl’s family held off General Kino’s forces with firepower. Guns, homemade IEDs, mines! They blew one soldier’s arm off.”

  “Mines,” Oliver repeats. “Just like—”

  “Our bomber.” I summarize while I read, my words tripping over each other. “The father was arrested along with an adult son. There was another kid too — a teenager. He evaded authorities then disappeared into the Red Zone.”

  I set down my tablet. “What if he’s here? Is it even possible?”

  “Here,” Oliver says after several minutes. “The government’s NSLB policy is part of the law stating fetuses must be aborted if any defects categorized as a ‘sustained drain on society’ are noted during pregnancy — any fetus designated AT for atypical.”

  “What kind of defects?”

  “This lists physical, neurological, chromosomal, sensory…”