I know that’s ridiculous. There were protests in Chicago today, too.
A soft chime sounds, then the pilot begins speaking through the intercom. “Attention passengers, we will arrive at the terminal in five minutes. I’ve been instructed to inform you that upon arrival in New Denver, everyone will be searched by law enforcement officials. No exceptions.”
“What? That’s ridiculous!” someone in front of me shouts. My stomach clenches. Why would they do that? Surely they realize that everyone on board is coming in from the Academy. What would we have to hide?
The shuttle begins its descent. I glance out my window and catch a glimpse of New Denver. I wish I could have seen it for the first time in daylight, but the nighttime view is still pretty spectacular. The skyline sparkles as if inlaid with neon jewels. It looks so welcoming.
Upon landing, everyone is ushered off the shuttle and directed to the white, two-story terminal building. This terminal is supposed to look pleasant and welcoming—it has chocolate-brown carpet, large digigraphs of exotic places dotting the walls, and potted plants located throughout the lobby. But it’s anything but inviting. Police in two-piece, steel-blue uniforms and black helmets, all carrying stunners, are stationed throughout the building. Attendants lead us to three long lines set up to our left.
Before we get in line, the dark-haired girl from shuttle catches up to me and Mom. A distressed-looking woman in a navy-blue uniform follows close behind her. “Excuse me,” the girl says. “Are you Alora Mason?”
“Yes,” I answer in a cautious voice. “Why do you want to know?”
The girl’s face lights up in a warm grin. “I’m Tara Martinez. I’m your new roommate at the Academy. We were supposed to be introduced this afternoon, but then everything went to hell.”
Despite the tense atmosphere here, I find myself laughing. “That’s the truth.” We introduce our parents, then I ask, “How did you know who I am?”
Tara’s mouth parts as if she wants to say one thing, but changes her mind. “I was given your profile when I was reassigned to room with you, so I already knew what you looked like. We also have … certain things in common.”
Tara’s mother gives her a sharp look. “That’s enough for now, Tara.” She shakes my hand and then Mom’s, saying, “It was so nice meeting the two of you. I wish it were under better circumstances. But we have to report to line one now.”
Before they depart, Tara says she’ll be in touch soon and promises to show me around campus. A part of me is thrilled. I might actually make friends. But a part of me is skeptical. What if she’s working with the DTA to spy on me? That wouldn’t surprise me at all.
Mom and I join our assigned line, and nearly an hour passes before we’re finally searched. I break out in a sweat as I step into the body scanner, then turn over my portacase so an officer can look through it. He tosses all my belongings on a table, scans everything with a gray handheld device, then carelessly shoves everything back inside. For some reason, that really pisses me off. I don’t have anything to hide, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I shouldn’t have to be subjected to this kind of treatment.
“It’s ten-thirty. We need to hurry,” Mom says when we finally leave the terminal. We set out at a brisk pace and try to ignore the military Space Benders and police that are on patrol. It’s unnerving seeing so many. After walking only one block, I count five of them.
The closer we get to Mom’s apartment, the more I find myself scowling at everything. This is my first time going home with her. My first visit to New Denver. I wish I could enjoy the scenery. Some of the Jumbotrons on the tall buildings are flashing reminders of the curfew, while others broadcast scenes from various protests that took place today, especially the ones that turned violent. We keep seeing reports of an officer in Seattle who shot and killed a Purist who was acting suspicions. Apparently, the Purist was wearing a device that allowed explosives in his portacase to detonate if his heart stopped beating. After the officers shot him, the case exploded and severely injured four bystanders. That terrifies me. Why would anyone want to use a weapon like that, much less one that could still inflict damage even after their own death? That’s horrifying. They’d have no way of knowing whether or not innocent people might be harmed. Do they honestly think that will make the government officials change their minds?
Mom and I are both breathing hard by the time we reach her fifth-floor apartment, just ten minutes before curfew. We had to speed-walk to make it on time. She pauses in front of the retinal scanner, then enters the room once the door slides open. I stop in the doorway and stare, all thoughts of the protests fading away for the moment.
I’m finally home.
Mom looks back at me, worry etched into her features. She swallows, looking down for a second, then forces a smile. “Do you remember living here?”
I nod slowly and step inside, taking in everything. There are some differences, like the furniture and walls. The walls used to be a buttery yellow, but now they’re light blue. The floors are still covered with tan-and-white tile. Feeling like I’m in a dream, I walk over to a black table next to the couch and pick up a small digigraph. It shows me when I was little, laughing and hugging my father in one of the city’s Green Zones. I run one of my fingers along the side of the frame. We look so much alike. Same blond hair, same blue eyes, same smile.
I set down the digigraph, overwhelmed with sadness. This is the father I can remember: the one who loved me and tried to spend time with me, not the one who kidnapped me. It doesn’t make sense.
“Do you want me to get anything for you? Something to eat or drink?” Mom asks, gesturing toward a doorway leading to what I remember being a very tiny kitchen. I haven’t had anything since lunch, but I’m not hungry.
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you sure? I can make a sandwich, or something else if you like. It’s no trouble.”
“I’m sure,” I say, looking down the short hallway to my right, which leads to my old bedroom. I get a flash of memory: standing there when I was six, the very night that Dad kidnapped me. I remember all the shouting. I remember being terrified.
Fixating back on the digigraph, I try and fail to make thoughts of Dad disappear. “What was he really like?” I ask in a voice that sounds hollow, even to me. “The truth, not the same stuff I heard back in Chicago.”
Mom seems so weary as she crosses over to the couch and sits. She starts to talk, then hesitates as if she’s trying to find the right words. “He loved you with every ounce of his being. And I loved him, at one point. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, but then …” she trails off, tears filling her eyes.
I take the seat next to her and place my hands on hers. “It’s okay, we can talk about it another time.” I let out a mirthless laugh. “I mean, the world is going insane tonight. That’s more important than rehashing painful memories.”
Mom’s lips draw into a thin line, then she says, “There’s always something bad happening in the world, sweetheart.” She clasps her hands together, curling her fingers together several times before she speaks again. “The life that I wanted to build with your father may not have happened, but he gave me my greatest joy, and that’s you, even though that joy was gone all those years you were away. I hated him for that. But then I learned that he was a clone, and they’re too unstable.”
She doesn’t have to say more about that. Part of my lessons involved going back to witness firsthand how, at the turn of this century, newly minted clones slowly descended into madness. It makes me wonder why the government felt the need to clone my father in the first place. Sure, he was the first known Time and Space Bender, which led to me, but they took a huge risk bringing him back, knowing that he would ultimately self-destruct.
“What happened to him? Did you ever find out why he took me and then dumped me in Georgia, of all places?”
Mom stiffens, her eyes shifting away from me. In a careful voice, she says, “I guess he thought he was trying to save you. T
he DTA was trying to take you away. But in the end, he lost himself. I was told that he was killed, but I don’t know for sure. I just hope that wherever he is now, he’s finally at peace.”
“Yeah, I guess I feel the same way,” I reply, hating how shaky my voice sounds. Deep down, I feel cheated. I wanted my father’s actions to mean something, but it sounds like his good intentions were outweighed by his insanity.
Mom stands, drawing me up with her. “I know you’ve had a rough day, so I won’t keep you up. But if you need anything at all, don’t be afraid to ask. Even if it’s in the middle of the night, I’m here for you.”
She hugs me tight. I freeze at first, then wrap my arms around her, inhaling the lavender scent that clings to her. I remember this. It reminds me of home. For the first time today, I feel truly safe. I just wish I had been allowed to come here before now. I wish she had pushed harder for that right.
But instead of voicing those not-so-nice thoughts, I whisper, “Thank you.”
Pulling back, she blinks rapidly. “I’ll let you get some sleep now. Do you remember where your bedroom is?” I nod, and she continues, “Okay. Everything is exactly the way you left it. If you want, we can redecorate.”
She wasn’t kidding, I think when I step into my bedroom. It’s like stepping directly into my past. The walls are the bright blue I loved as a child. The bed is covered with a blue-and-white flowered quilt, with several throw pillows on it. An antique white chest stands at the foot of the bed.
I take off my coat and toss it and my portacase on the bed, then walk over to a white dresser on the opposite side of the bed and open the drawers. The upper ones are full of too-small clothes that I can’t remember wearing, but the bottom two are filled with different items. I find a large, deep-blue notebook with stars painted on the front and flip through it. Even as a child, I loved drawing. I glance back at my portacase, where my current sketchbook and drawing supplies are stored.
Near the back of one drawer, I find a polished wooden box. I open it, and it begins to play a haunting melody. The box holds several pieces of jewelry, all lying on a bed of midnight-blue velvet. I pick up a shiny silver bracelet with an infinity symbol pendant. My dad gave it to me on my fifth birthday. I remember him telling me that the symbol represented his love for me. I bite my lip and set it back down. How am I supposed to feel about him? He’s been painted as such a monster, but that’s not the man I remember.
I almost set the box back in the drawer, but a folded piece of paper catches my eye. I pick it up, noticing that it’s lying on top of a small, black, circular object. My eyes widen. It’s a Mind Redeemer, an object that I know the DTA uses to erase memories.
It’s also used to restore memories.
I wonder what it’s doing in my room. Who put it in here?
My first thought is that I should go and get Mom. I can’t have this in my possession. Only DTA officials are allowed to hold or use them. Then I remember the paper, which appears to be torn from my old notebook. I unfold it, then my hand begins trembling. A short message is scrawled on the page, in my handwriting, along with instructions on how to operate the Mind Redeemer:
If you can’t remember Aunt Grace or Bridger, then use this to restore your memories!
5
BRIDGER
FEBRUARY 11, 2147
“Hello, Mr. Creed,” a chipper voice says, while a hand pats the side of my cheek.
My eyelids don’t want to open. I pry them apart, and instantly squeeze them shut again. Bright sunlight pours in the windows. And the room is all white and filled with an antiseptic scent. I’m in the med center at the Academy. After every mission, each cadet is required to have a checkup to make sure we haven’t suffered any ill effects from time traveling, or picked up any type of disease from the past. Why does it have to be so bright?
“Oh, no you don’t. You’ve been sleeping all night. Time to wake up!”
Wait … sleeping all night? My eyes fly open. I’m lying in a bed, dressed in a flimsy tan medical robe. Next to me is a man with bright orange hair, dressed in a white uniform with a large blue stripe across the chest and down the sleeves. He must be a new nurse. I’ve never seen him before.
I start to ask him why I’m here, then the memories return with a jolt. The protests yesterday. Seeing the girl I thought was Vika. The panic attack—the first I’ve had in over five months. Of course they would toss me in the med center overnight. I groan and cover my face with my hands. This is not good. I bet Chancellor Tyson is regretting his decision to promote me. I wonder if he’s ready to demote me back to Professor March’s group.
“You look like you might vomit, Mr. Creed. Do you need a nausea patch?” the nurse asks.
“No, I’ll be fine,” I say, forcing myself to inhale slowly. I have no idea what kind of meds I’ve been given since yesterday. Plenty of Calmer, for sure. But I don’t need anything else. What I need is to get out of here.
The nurse shrugs. He takes my vitals and punches the information in on his DataPad. Before he leaves, he points to the tiny closet in the corner of the room. “Your uniform is in there. Once the doc comes in to officially clear you for release, you can get dressed.”
I can’t wait that long. My head swims a little as I push up from the narrow bed to stand and stretch. Cold air creeps through the paper-thin robe, and my skin erupts in goosebumps. I wonder how much Calmer I was given. Clearly enough to knock me out in the middle of all that chaos.
Oh fure. What will my mother say about this? Over the past year, she’s tried to play the part of “nice and supportive parent” more, but her usual witchlike nature claws its way to the surface when I don’t perform to her expectations. At least I don’t have to hear from her right away. A few days ago she left for New Orleans. She’s one of the artifact retrieval experts on a mission to salvage artifacts from the Hurricane Katrina disaster in 2005. She’s scheduled to return this Tuesday.
I cross the small room and open the narrow closet. Inside, I find my uniform, freshly laundered. I’m sliding on my boots when the door to my room opens. “Will I be able to leave soon?” I ask, thinking it’s the nurse or doc.
“Well, I don’t know, but I really hope so.”
I turn around to find Zed standing in the doorway. He stands there looking all awkward. “So, are you going to invite me in, or just stare at me?”
I can’t help but laugh and wave him in. “Sure thing.” Once Zed is seated at the chair by the bed, I ask, “What are you doing here? This place has to be cramping your style.”
Instead of cracking a smart retort, Zed claps his hands together and stares at the floor. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the way I acted yesterday. I know you’ve had it rough since last year, and I’ve been pushing you to be the same old Bridger. And that was wrong. I guess it took me seeing you wild out yesterday for it to really click with me. So … I’m sorry.”
His face is bright red, even to the tips of his ears. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen Zed act like this before. Zed, who’s super confident and always joking around. Zed, who thinks being serious is overrated.
I clear my throat. The air feels thick in the room all of a sudden. Awkward. “Look, man, don’t worry about anything. We’re good. We’ve been friends for a long time now, so I know you don’t mean half of what you say.”
“Yeah, I guess. I just … I just thought I needed to apologize to you. And I promise I won’t be such a dick anymore. Elijah and I had a long talk before he went home, and we both agreed that we need to give you whatever time you need to get better. But we also don’t want to abandon you. So, whatever you want from us, just ask.”
A warm feeling engulfs my whole body. I’m grateful that someone, especially Zed, is reaching out to me. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
Zed seems like he wants to say something else, but then a familiar, deep voice fills the room. “Well, well. What is going on in here?”
My head snaps up. Standing in the doorway are two men. Cha
ncellor Tyson, in his ever-present black uniform, and a tall man with pale skin and gray hair, dressed in dark-brown pants and a plain white button-up shirt. It’s Dad’s old boss, General Thomas Anderson. I’m shocked. I haven’t seen him since I wilded out last year.
Why are they both here now?
I straighten as the two men cross the room. Chancellor Tyson asks Zed to give us privacy. After Zed makes a hasty exit, the chancellor sits on the chair next to the bed, while General Anderson comes up to me and extends his hand. I stare at it for a few seconds, wondering if I should shake it. He was always pleasant to me when Dad was still alive. But after Dad’s death, the general became secretive and wouldn’t tell us what happened to him. Said it was classified. I didn’t believe him then, and I still don’t.
Now, my feelings go beyond mere annoyance. I feel a sudden surge of loathing. But that’s irrational. Probably nothing more than a side effect of everything that happened yesterday. I square my shoulders, then reach out and give his hand a firm shake.
“It’s nice to see you, sir,” I say, trying to inject some warmth into my voice, despite the chill I feel.
The general smiles. More wrinkles appear around his eyes and mouth than I remember. Maybe the conflicts with the Purists are taking their toll on him, too. “It’s good to see you too, son.”
Something tries to crawl to the surface of my memories when he says this. Son. Something about that doesn’t sit well with me. But why? General Anderson hasn’t done anything to me, other than keeping the truth about Dad’s death from my family.
“So, I guess you’re wondering what we’re doing here,” he says, his eyes flicking momentarily over to Chancellor Tyson.
“Yes, sir, I kind of was,” I reply, sitting on the edge of the bed. I wish they would leave. Something about their visit feels off.
On Through the Never Page 4