by Zoe Cannon
So close. We were so close.
“These people know all about me,” her mom was saying. “It stands to reason that they would know you exist—and what you mean to me. The prisoner was trying to get one last bit of revenge, that’s all. I underestimated her, and she took advantage of that.” She grasped Becca’s hands. “But you have nothing to worry about. I had her executed immediately. All copies of the interrogation recording have been destroyed.” She tightened her grip to emphasize her words as she spoke. “I will always protect you, Becca. Always. Never doubt that.”
It took Becca a moment to process what her mom had said.
Alia. Executed.
And the plan…
The plan was safe.
“Then you didn’t…” She sent the words out cautiously. Hesitant. Testing. “You didn’t believe her?”
“Believe that you’re a dissident? That you engineered the breakout? Don’t be ridiculous, Becca. I know a dissident lie when I hear one.” She gave Becca a tight smile; it quickly faded. “But when I heard her say your name… when I realized what could have happened to you if that prisoner had been assigned to anyone else…” She stopped talking. Her breaths came shallowly; the heat drained from her hands, leaving them as cold as corpses.
“It’s okay.” Becca folded her mom’s hands in hers, trying to transfer her warmth. “I’m okay. Nothing happened.”
“For years you’ve been insisting I haven’t gotten over what happened to me in 117—the interrogations they put me through. You’re wrong about that. They did what they had to do; I understand that, and I put it behind me a long time ago.” She paused. “But that’s not all they did.” Another pause. A gulp of air. “They almost executed you, Becca. They almost took you from me.”
“But they didn’t. I’m here.” No matter how tightly she held her mom’s hands, they wouldn’t warm up. She kept trying anyway. “It wasn’t so bad, you know. They didn’t interrogate me, not after the first time. Even then, they never…” She couldn’t say the word torture. Even that one word could reveal too much about how she saw 117. “They just talked to me. Nothing else. And it only took them a few days to figure out I had nothing to do with the conspiracy to frame you.”
“Five days. For five days after they released me, I didn’t know whether you would live or die. And there was nothing—nothing—I could do. All my connections, all my influence, and it wasn’t enough. No matter who I talked to, the answer was the same. ‘We’re still evaluating the situation.’ And every morning I woke up wondering if you were still alive.” The last word bubbled from her lips in a half-sob, a weak and broken sound that couldn’t possibly have come from her mother.
“I didn’t know.” All her mom’s strange behavior over the past three years. The dent in the wall, the carpet worn thin from pacing. The haunted look in her eyes.
Her constant demands for Becca to tell her what was wrong. Her threat to go to the directors. Her desperate words—I’m going to help you. I only want to help you.
Becca hadn’t known. But she should have.
“Neither did I,” said her mom. “Not until that prisoner named you. Not until I almost lost you again.”
“It’s all right.” Using her mother’s voice again. Playing her mother’s role. “You didn’t lose me. You’re not going to lose me.”
It was far from the first lie she had told her mom. But it would be the last.
Her mom would lose her. In a matter of hours, she would lose her.
And this time there would be no ‘evaluating the situation.’ There would be no prisoners to execute, no recordings to erase. No way for her mom to save her life.
She studied the lines on her mom’s face. Thought back to the way she had looked when Becca had first seen her outside the apartment. The cold of her mom’s hands seeped into her own.
It’s going to break her.
She lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“No, Becca. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m the one who needs to apologize. I crossed a line, threatening to go over your head at work. When I saw you slipping away, and I couldn’t do anything about it…” Her hands spasmed with another shudder. “I thought I was helping you. I thought I was doing what any good mother would do. I didn’t realize part of me was still living through those five days, waiting to hear whether I would lose you.” A sigh. “But I should have. I should have seen it, and I should have trusted you.”
“And I shouldn’t have pushed you away.” They had lost so much time. “I wish…” She paused, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “I wish we could have this again. You and me, just… talking. The way it used to be.”
“So do I,” said her mom. “I wish you were five years old again, sitting on my lap and looking up at me like I was the center of your universe, and I could fix everything with a hug and a kiss. I wish I could know everything you’re thinking, and solve all your problems for you, and protect you from the world. But that’s not what you need from me anymore. The only thing we can do now is…” She hesitated, as if unwilling to finish her sentence.
“Let go,” Becca supplied.
Her mom nodded as fresh tears welled in her eyes. “The only thing we can do now is let go.”
Remember that, Becca said silently. Remember that, when they come for me.
Remember that, when you lose me.
That was all Becca could give her.
No. There was one more thing.
“I know you probably have to get back to 117,” she said. “But… do you want to stay here for a while? We can talk. Catch up.” She offered a hesitant smile. “Like we used to.”
Through her tears, her mom smiled back. “I’d like that.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Becca squinted down at the paper in front of her, moving her lips as she read silently to herself. Jacqueline Bell. Leah Soto. Ryan Watson.
The names Jared had given her. The names she would give her interrogator. She had hoped for five volunteers, maybe ten; Jared had brought her twice that number. The resistance had no shortage of people willing to sacrifice their lives.
Ian Hollison. Jody Delgado. Owen Lee.
Her gaze drifted from the paper. Drifted to the arm of the couch, and the phone balanced at its edge.
Focus. She forced her eyes back to the list. The sooner she memorized it, the sooner she could destroy the evidence. Claudia Ramos. May Shelton. Jacob Hans.
She picked up the phone.
Stop.
Stared at it.
Focus.
Started to dial the sane number she had half-dialed at least twenty times in the past half-hour.
You can’t. You know you can’t.
And just like all the other times, she erased the numbers and set the phone down again.
Back to the list. Dinah Stanton. Noah Carr. Lena— The text blurred in front of her, the letters bleeding into one another. She wiped her eyes and kept reading. She didn’t let herself look at the phone.
How long had it been since she had talked to her dad? Had she even called him since the liberation? Their once-a-week phone calls had turned into a once-a-month obligation by the time she had reached high school, and after she had moved out it had become a voicemail every few weeks and a five-minute conversation a couple of times a year.
She loved him—of course she did. But she loved him the way she loved the grandparents she saw every couple of years on holidays, or the great-aunt who sent her a birthday card every year but had never met her in person. He had moved across the country after the divorce, desperate to put as many miles as possible between him and her mom. His visits to her, and hers to him, had long since gone the way of their phone calls.
It made sense, really. She had figured him out years ago—a dissident in denial, as horrified by his own disloyal thoughts as he was by Internal’s actions. His daughter was, to him, an uncomfortable reminder that he used to love a torturer. It was easier for him not to think about it. About her.
B
ut Becca still thought about him sometimes. She only had vague and blurry memories of the time before the divorce, memories that slipped away just when she thought she had one in her grasp. But sometimes they came to her at unexpected moments, triggered by a snippet of conversation or a fragment of a dream. Becca wriggling on the couch—the scratchy brown couch her mom had gotten rid of in the move—as he tickled her until she couldn’t breathe. Him standing between her and the snarling dog next door, barking his head off at the bewildered dog until she started laughing instead of crying. His lips on her forehead, kissing her goodnight.
She didn’t want to die without telling him she loved him.
She picked up the phone again. Started to dial.
She put it down.
She hadn’t talked her dad in months. Maybe years. What were the odds, she imagined 117’s faceless analysts thinking, that she would call him today of all days—unless she knew about the arrest ahead of time?
She couldn’t call him. She couldn’t risk it.
What would he think, when saw her name on the news and learned what she had done? Would her crimes remind him too much of the thoughts he kept hidden even from himself? When the shock wore off, when the sadness faded, would he regret not fighting like she had fought, or would he push it out of his mind and try to forget?
If he had been a little braver, or a little less uncertain, could he have been like her?
Her mom had taught her how to listen to her conscience. How to fight for what she believed. She had taught her how to do the right thing, and the hard thing.
But maybe her dad had given her something too. Maybe there was more of him in her than she knew.
Her hand twitched toward the phone again.
Maybe, in another life, it could have been different. Maybe he would have taught her to resist. Maybe he would have fought alongside her.
Maybe they could at least have said goodbye.
But this was the only life she had, and making the call would put the entire resistance at risk.
She reached for the phone again—and slipped it into her pocket. Where she couldn’t see it. Where she couldn’t be tempted.
She blinked until her vision cleared. Then she smoothed the paper in her lap and began where she had left off. Another name. Another sacrifice. And another. And another.
* * *
Becca was so busy listening for footsteps that she almost didn’t hear the knock.
The first tap barely registered. The second stopped her halfway through her latest recitation of the names—all done from memory now, with the list safely shredded and washed down the sink. The third, when it came, froze her in place. They’re here. It’s time. It’s over.
But Enforcers didn’t knock.
She checked her watch. After midnight. Too late for visitors—and everyone in the resistance knew better than to risk themselves by coming here tonight.
She watched the door without blinking. Waited for it to open.
It didn’t open.
The knock came again. Three soft taps.
Enforcers don’t knock. Enforcers let themselves in.
Before she could lose her nerve, she strode to the door. She flung it open, still half-expecting—despite everything she knew about Enforcers—to see a fleet of their faceless helmets on the other side.
Instead she saw Ramon.
She started to smile with relief—but something in his face stopped her.
“What are you—” she started.
He shook his head. With a finger to his lips, he pushed his way into the apartment. She stood back as he crossed the room to the TV. He didn’t turn it on; instead he examined each side, kneeling to get a better look as he ran his fingers along the surface.
“Ramon, what—”
As he stood, he raised his finger to his lips again, the gesture more urgent this time. He moved on to the coffee table, giving it the same scrutiny as the TV.
When he removed the shade from the lamp beside the couch, she figured it out.
He was searching for listening devices.
He replaced the lampshade. “You’re clear.” She couldn’t read anything in his voice.
She started to speak, but paused, unsure of what to say. She had too many questions—and most of them she couldn’t ask without revealing too much. After another second of hesitation, she settled for, “What’s going on?”
“Public Relations got an alert from Investigation this evening.” His eyes were two black pools, dark and impenetrable, as he turned to face her. “Three hours from now, you’re going to be arrested.”
Careful. Be very careful. Responses honed from years of hiding snapped into place. She widened her eyes. Parted her lips. Injected a note of stunned disbelief into her voice. “Why would they—”
Ramon interrupted her with a shake of his head. “Let’s not play this game anymore, Becca.” His voice sagged with sudden weariness. “We don’t have the time.”
His words hit with the dull thud of inevitability.
He knows.
Of course he knew. All the times she had caught him watching her, noticing things he shouldn’t have noticed… all the little things he had said… Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had realized it a long time ago.
She tried to protest anyway. “I don’t know what you mean.” Even to her, the denial rang hollow.
“I think we can both agree that with Enforcers on their way here in a matter of hours, it’s a little late to worry about whether I know your secret.” Those unreadable eyes didn’t leave hers. “I don’t want explanations. I don’t need them. But this charade has served its purpose, don’t you think?”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “How long have you known?”
“A couple of years now.”
“What have you figured out?”
“Everything.”
Everything. Did he mean—
“I know you’re more than just a dissident,” he said, answering the question she hadn’t asked. “I know you lead a dissident organization—and I know your organization is responsible for the breakout.”
“How?”
One corner of his mouth twitched up in a shadow of his usual half-smile. “Do you know what Public Relations does? What our real job is?” He made a noise of rueful amusement. “That’s a stupid question, I suppose. You of all people must know.”
“You twist the truth,” said Becca. “You make people believe what the regime wants them to believe.”
“We don’t twist the truth,” Ramon corrected. “We create it. We build illusions and we make them real. And to do that, you have to know what illusions are made of. You have to know how to see through them.”
“And so you knew how to see through me.” She had been so careful. All her self-control, all her well-crafted lies—and Ramon had cut past it all as if none of it mattered.
Ramon nodded. “Don’t worry. You’ve been very convincing. Even after I knew you were hiding something, it took me a long time to figure out what it was. I wasn’t completely sure until after the breakout.”
But he hadn’t turned her in. “Are you…”
“A dissident?” He shook his head. “You dissidents may not be the monsters we say you are, but that doesn’t make you any less dangerous. People like you place freedom of thought above all else—above the greater good, even above your own survival. A society built around ideals like that would collapse. Ideas, like truth, need to be managed. Public Relations does both.”
His words were solemn, with no trace of his usual flippancy. Looking at him, Becca wondered—how much of his usual persona was just another illusion?
“But you never turned me in.” A question.
“I believe in the work I do,” he said. “But I also believe in what I told Vivian the other day. I made a choice when I found out what you were, and I’m making that same choice now. Whether it’s the right one remains to be seen—but even if I knew, I do
ubt I could choose anything else. I’m not Raleigh Dalcourt, after all. I’m only human.”
“Thank you.” Becca met his eyes. “For choosing what you did. For warning me.”
His face still gave no hint of what he was thinking. “I didn’t only come here to warn you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I said I made a choice when I found out what you were,” he said. “It was about more than whether or not to turn you in. Ever since I learned the truth, I’ve done my best to use my influence in Public Relations to protect you. There was only so much I could do—but if not for the information we put out, you might have been arrested months ago.”
At that, Becca didn’t try to keep the disbelief from her voice. “Public Relations demonized us. They turned the country against us.”
“We accused you of crimes that had nothing to do with you,” said Ramon. “And aside from a few people like your mother—people who understand how the world really works—the rest of Internal believed it. Every day Investigation spent on a downtown bombing was a day they didn’t spend tracking down the dissidents responsible for—to use a hypothetical example—an escape from Enforcement 260. Every undercover agent Surveillance sent to stop the next attack was an agent they didn’t send into a support group in 117.”
“The bombings.” Becca spoke through numb lips. “You didn’t—are you saying you ordered—” If he had engineered the bombings to protect her… if those people had died to save her…
“I don’t have that kind of power,” Ramon assured her. “Low-level analysts in the backwater that is Public Relations 103 don’t give those orders. Just setting foot in the same room as the people who do would probably get me thrown in 117. But you’d be amazed at what the right word in the right memo can accomplish. I didn’t order the bombings, or the murders that we blamed on escaped prisoners after the breakout, or any of the rest—but I made sure our focus stayed there.”
Becca’s breath hissed out in a relieved sigh. Ramon hadn’t caused the bombings. He hadn’t sacrificed innocent lives to save hers.