Surrender

by Elana Johnson

  Trek turned, the dislike streaming off him like dirty water. “She’s fine. Word is she’s back home, still sleeping. Hightower has his personal physician attending to her.”

  Somehow that didn’t comfort me. I’d seen what Director Hightower made his physicians do to his daughter.

  “Gunn, I hear you have some hidden talents,” Trek said.

  I didn’t respond. I was afraid of what I might tell him to do. I felt Zenn lingering just behind me.

  Trek lifted his mouth into a half smile. “A technopath, I’ve heard.” His eyes flicked over my shoulder to where Zenn stood. Point taken. Zenn was Informing on me—to both sides.

  “Can’t you access the database to find out whatever you want?” Trek asked.

  I remained silent. I could, but I didn’t. So much surveillance in there. So many seeker-spiders. More bugs existed inside the system than in the streets.

  Trek looked me up and down. His eyes radiated coldness. “And Raine thought you were useful.” He stepped around me toward his office. “Zenn, see if you can’t teach the voice wonder something tonight,” he said before shutting the door with a bang.

  “Come on, Gunn,” Zenn said. “You brought your board, right?”

  I nodded, still staring into the office where Trek gestured to an e-board screen and spoke with a blond girl.

  “We’re flying to Rise Twelve.” Zenn shrugged into his coat, waved a few others over to us.

  “Whatever,” slipped out of my mouth. Life in the Insiders sans Raine sucked.

  I barely felt the chill in the air on the way out to Rise Twelve. I didn’t notice anything about the people with me and Zenn. A fishy smell came off the ocean, and I turned away from the water after we landed in the street just outside the Rise.

  I stepped forward, assuming my technopath services would be needed. But the door was unlocked. Everyone had already gone in except for Zenn. He pinned me with a stare unlike any I’d ever seen from him. “You’re going to see things in here you might not understand.”

  “What kind of things?” I peered through the doorway, but only darkness stared back.

  “It’ll be easier to show you.” Zenn stepped through the door. I followed.

  Rise Twelve had a foyer, just like Rise One. But this one was completely sittable. Well-used couches lined the walls. Bright rugs covered the silver floors. The projection screens broadcasted everything from wavy neon lines to billowy clouds to ocean waves lapping the shore.

  Lights strobed in the background, illuminating the people lounging on the chairs. Some held e-boards, some ate sandwiches, and some chatted—chatted!—openly with each other.

  All of this was happening at one o’clock—one o’clock!—in the morning.

  Nobody looked tired. And they weren’t wearing the typical clothing of the controlled. Bright colors assaulted my eyes from shirts and hats and ties and shoelaces.

  The idle talk faded into the background. All I could hear was the drumming of my heart. The pulsing of my blood through my veins.

  I blinked, expecting the crowd to morph into silver-suited Enforcement Officers who’d raise tasers and shout, “Freeze! Come with us so we can wipe your memory clean!”

  No one even looked in my direction. More people entered the fray from the hallway. They carried fresh cups of coffee, or tall glasses of juice, or bags of snacks. A sign near the hall directed people left, toward the bank of ascenders.

  The rest of Zenn’s crew had disappeared. He stood at a desk at the back of the foyer, speaking to a woman seated there. She kept flipping her long black hair, like that might entice Zenn to lean closer and kiss her.

  She was flirting with him. My mouth dropped open.

  These people, these people, they weren’t controlled. Not controlled. Uncontrolled. I rolled each word around in my head, trying to make it fit into my vocabulary.

  “The Thinker in Rise Twelve is sympathetic to our cause.” Zenn’s “explanation” snapped me out of the freaky place I’d entered. Somehow he wasn’t flirting with Desk Girl anymore. She looked at me sourly.

  “Sympathetic?” I squeaked.

  “He runs his Rise a bit differently. He allows for free choice.”

  I scanned the foyer again. This time I noticed two people in the corner of the room, dancing.

  Dancing. I’d learned in ancient civilizations that dancing contributed to the downfall of our society. Well, that and music. Too thought-provoking.

  “They think for themselves,” I said, as if the concept was completely foreign. In many ways, it was.

  “And they choose many things for themselves too,” Zenn added.

  “But, but how?” I asked. “How—I mean, who’s the Thinker here?”

  “Whoever he or she is, he doctors his reports, obviously.” Zenn motioned me forward. “Come on, I’ll show you the market. I like to come here when I can’t sleep. Rise Twelve is perfect for insomniacs.”

  I couldn’t stop staring. This place felt easy and light, like I could flop down on that completely normal couch and strike up a convo with those totally normal guys sitting there sipping perfectly normal coffees.

  Easiness and comfort aside, nothing about this place was normal.

  After we ascended to the fifth floor market, Zenn babbled about how the students here chose which tracks they wanted to study. How they trained for professions they liked, that they wanted to spend their life doing. How they shopped for the food they enjoyed to make their meals—they made their own meals!—how they chose clothes in colors they wanted to wear.

  In the market, my eyes flew from one uncontrolled person to the next. I’d been to the Transportation Rise with my mom, and I’d gotten milk shakes from the kiosk while the clones tuned my hoverboard. The waiting room held metal furniture and an e-board docking station.

  This market was something completely different. People—real people, not clones—worked in the shops, wearing aprons and asking people if they needed help. It seemed to be meal time, as many people were ordering sandwiches and soups and salads.

  Further down the row, the shops gave way to booths. Each one provided a space for people to create. My mom would’ve loved to live in Rise Twelve and dye cloth or mold pots or bake pies or paint sailboats.

  I continued thinking of my mother when Zenn showed me the greenhouse on the roof. So many plants, some with broad leaves, some with flat branches, some with tiny little buds. Trees towered in the corner, contained in enormous wooden tubs. I’d seen trees like this in the green areas. I had no idea they’d come from the roof of freaking Rise Twelve.

  Zenn fingered the leaf on an unknown type of flower. “I like coming here, but sometimes … I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

  I wandered down the neat rows of plants inside the greenhouse. The flowers gave way to vegetables, the delicate stems just poking through the soil. Suddenly the air turned cold; Zenn had moved to the edge of the roof.

  I joined him in the winter air, gazed out at the ocean the way he did.

  “What’s ‘it’?” I asked.

  “What?” Zenn asked.

  “You said you wonder if it’s worth it. What’s ‘it’? What’s worth it?”

  He swept his arm across his body. “You know. This. Rise Twelve. Is it worth going against Director Hightower and the Association? Does it really make a difference?”

  A million more questions lurked behind the ones he’d voiced. Could we implement the culture of Rise Twelve into the rest of the Rises? Into the entire city of Freedom?

  The entire union?

  Could the Darwinian Episode come to an end? They had a lot of talent on their side. The Evolutionary Rise had a team of dedicated scientists, all searching for a way to tweak exactly the right genes in exactly the right way at exactly the right time to produce more talented beings. So far, all we got for their hard work were clones.

  So much for natural selection, I thought. It didn’t seem natural if we were scientifically engineering it.

  �
�I think it’s worth it,” I said, softly, almost to myself.

  “Maybe,” Zenn said. “Maybe not.” He exhaled hard, his breath steaming out of his mouth and into the night. He yanked his attention from the city, stepped toward the descender—which did not require a passcode to use.

  “They don’t get caught, because most of their activity takes place at night, contained here in the Rise, where the Thinker manufactures the reports sent to Director Hightower,” Zenn said after all the Insiders had reassembled in the foyer. I could barely keep my eyes off the group of people dancing in the corner.

  “The Insiders do the same thing,” Zenn continued. “Trek falsifies our feeds, providing Director Hightower with prerecorded conversations and old projections. Of course, that’s if he’s watching at all. Often, he relies on his reports. That’s one of Director Hightower’s flaws. He doesn’t believe his subjects will defy him.”

  For good reason, I thought. Because if Van Hightower knew about what the people were really doing in Rise Twelve, they’d all be dead.

  Raine

  18.

  I’m running. Fast. Faster than I’ve ever run before. I’m trying to keep up with Vi, and man, she’s fast. She pauses every now and then, chest heaving, searching.

  We dodge into the doorway of a building that feels too small for two people. Vi can’t seem to get a proper breath, and if she can’t, then I’m screwed.

  I wheeze while she touches the bricks real careful, like they might whisper secrets to her if she caresses soft enough.

  Before I can ask her what’s going on—or where we are—the doorway disappears and we’re walking in the desert. The sun beats down too hot. The craving for a cool drink of water starts immediately.

  Next to Vi walks none other than Jag Barque. He holds her hand and rubs cream into her sunburned shoulders.

  She looks at him. No, through him. She says, “Why can’t I remember your name?”

  “Vi,” I say, trying to get her attention.

  She turns her head to look at me. Right at me. “Raine?”

  I glance over her shoulder at Jag, but he’s gone.

  “How did you get here?” she asks. “Where’s—?” She gropes for the name and comes up silent.

  Even though I’m trapped in this ridiculous dream, I know I shouldn’t tell her. My brief-sheet said not to tell Vi anything.

  I shouldn’t tell her, but “Jag” comes out, strong and sure.

  Vi halts, her eyes wide. “Jag.” The name fits inside her mouth. “Yeah, that’s it. Jag.” She grips my shoulders, and I see the desperation in her eyes. “Where is he?”

  The words flow out before I can censor them. “Thane has him.”

  “No.” Vi shook her head, as if that would make what I said false. “No, he can’t.” Tears fall down her face, and she doesn’t move to wipe them away. “I saved him.”

  “I saw him here in Rise One.”

  “No!” Vi shoves me away, and I fall into a void so deep and dark that nothing exists except the echo of those two letters.

  * * *

  The dream looped. Over and over. Always the same. I ran. Caught Vi. Walked in the desert. Told her Jag’s name. Fell.

  Four times. Five. Six. Ten.

  Forever.

  * * *

  “Wake up,” a hoarse voice croaked. “Come on now, Raine, wake up.” Hands that felt like liquid ice brushed over my forehead and smoothed back my hair. Then Violet started to sing. The haunting melody wrapped around me, realigning my senses and stitching all my broken pieces into a cohesive whole.

  With difficulty, I sat up and opened my eyes. Faint light filtered through the drawn blinds in my bedroom. Not quite morning yet. Vi knelt next to my bed, still singing in that soothing tone.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “You entered my dream,” she said, cutting right to the point. “How did you do that?”

  I regarded her in the semidarkness. Her ordinary brown hair fell across her forehead in jagged bangs. But her eyes radiated with an inner light I’d never seen before. Her entire existence seemed to hinge on my answer.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  She nodded with understanding, a strange sort of acceptance in her upturned mouth. “I’ve done that too. Entered dreams, I mean.”

  “Um, okay.” I wasn’t sure if this dream-viewing thing was a talent or not. “Do you—do you remember your dream?”

  “Yeah.” She sat back on her haunches and sighed. “I’m always running.”

  “But you saw me, right?”

  “Yeah, this was the first time I’ve ever seen anyone.”

  “Did you hear what I told you?”

  She pressed her eyes closed and cocked her head to the side. I waited, hardly daring to breathe. Minutes passed. Vi didn’t move, and I didn’t dare to even breathe too loud lest I disrupt her.

  As time clicked by, I realized how much my body ached. I had little half-moon scabs on my palms from where my own nails had dug in. My back felt like I’d taken a beating, and my head throbbed.

  The light coming around the blinds was just beginning to brighten when I received an e-comm from Cannon. I opened it, since it didn’t require any movement.

  It’s raining.

  That’s all the e-comm said. He always messaged me when it rained; it was a tradition of ours. I smiled to myself and returned his lame message. It’s pouring.

  He didn’t answer with the traditional Don’t melt. I fiddled with the hem of my shirt, twisting the fabric harder with each passing second. When he didn’t respond, I checked the time stamp on his e-comm. It was several days old.

  I looked toward the window. Sunlight pooled on the floor just behind the curtain. It wasn’t raining. For some reason, this made me miss Cannon with a fierceness I didn’t think possible.

  Where are you? Comm me so we can sneak over to the Medical Rise later, okay? And yes, you can afford to take a break.

  I composed and sent the e-comm to Cannon, desperation mixing with worry. What if—?

  “Jag,” Violet said suddenly, and I jerked my attention back to her. “His name is Jag.”

  “Yes!” I cried. “You remembered. What else do you remember?”

  “Nothing. I can’t—”

  An alarm cut off the rest of what she said. Before Vi could get to her feet, my father’s physicians entered our bedroom, needles drawn.

  Behind them came Zenn.

  And then Gunn.

  Over the next few minutes I broke protocol about ten times:

  1. I leapt to my feet and put my arm protectively around Vi. Touching: not allowed.

  2. I ordered the doctors to “get the hell out.” Swearing: against protocol.

  3. I opened my cache to the physicians and tried to tell them that nothing is wrong and hey, can you put down the giant needles? Now, technically this isn’t against protocol (I can have cache convos with whomever I want), but asking them to go against their orders? Definitely a problem.

  4. After one doctor ordered me to surrender, I grabbed his face in my bare hand. He shrieked and fled the bedroom. Terrorizing government officials: frowned upon.

  5. I may or may not have kicked two physicians. I wasn’t sure which protocol law that broke, but I’m sure there was one. Side note: Vi has a wicked short temper. And a really tight right jab.

  6. When Gunn used his voice and ordered the doctors away, I yelled, “And stay out!” I immediately received a citation. Behavior unbecoming a Citizen: not allowed.

  7. Zenn scurried into the living area with Vi, and I eavesdropped on their hurried conversation (totally against protocol). I couldn’t hear much, but I got the gist. Vi: angry. She felt betrayed that Zenn hadn’t told her about Jag. Zenn: apologetic, yet firm. As per his usual.

  8. Zenn used his voice and told Vi to go to sleep, which she did instantly. “You beast!” I screamed, launching myself at him. “You’ve been keeping her under all this time!” My fingers raked across his neck before he shoved me away. Attacking a
nother person: not allowed.

  Okay, so that’s only eight, but I’m sure some of those held double charges. I’d have to meet with my father.

  * * *

  Do not cry, I commanded myself. You will not cry in front of Gunner. Not again. I sat in the ergonomic in my living area while Zenn bustled over to the food-dispenser and ordered coffee.

  Gunner perched on the other chair, his face pinched with worry exhaustion. “Good thing we arrived at the same time as those doctors.”

  “Yeah, good thing,” I murmured. “When’s the last time you slept your mandated hours?”

  He gave a laugh that held nothing funny. “Last week?” He scrubbed at his face. “Yeah, last week, the night before you got caught and taken to lab seven for the drain.”

  “I didn’t—wait a second. Last week? That drain”—I cringed at the word (and wondered how Gunn knew to use it)—“that was last week?”

  His eyes came open bloodshot. “You’ve been out for eight days. You missed a boatload of school.” A wry smile curved his lips. “Rumors are flying, Hightower. Cannon’s been gone too.”

  The earth seemed to spin faster. Sudden fear gripped my heart, and squeezed. Where was Cannon? Was he okay? Maybe he hadn’t responded to my e-comm because—I cut the thought off before I could finish it with something horrible. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Cannon’s name on the Alias list. Everything twisted upside down and backward.

  Zenn pressed a hot mug into my hand, and the world righted itself. “Drink up, Raine. We’ve got some plans to make.” He handed Gunn a cup and settled onto the floor, nursing his own drink. “Gunn, their dispenser is wonky. I ordered coffee and got milk.”

  Even as I watched, steam tendriled from Zenn’s mug—clearly not milk in that thing. His neck bore the battle lines of my fingernails, but he’d smeared some techy cream on it and the redness was already fading. I should apologize for accusing him of keeping Vi brainwashed deliberately. But I couldn’t, not yet.

  “Milk?” Gunn and Zenn looked at one another for a moment too long before Gunn nodded. I didn’t have the energy to ask about the creepy starefest and coded convo.