Captives

by Jill Williamson

  Jemma’s face lit up. “I will never doubt again.”

  “There will never be a need.”

  CHAPTER

  40

  Omar sat on the soft red chair in the task director general’s office, giddy with the knowledge that Renzor again owed him. As usual, Kruse stood beside the desk, holding his Wyndo and looking too busy to bother with Omar. Wait until the task director rewarded him—then Kruse would pay attention.

  The task director leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Strong, what shall I do with you? You must know I’m not a fool.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Omar said, distressed by the tone of the man’s voice. A tone void of gratitude.

  “How do I know you didn’t help them? You never turned in your enforcer uniform.”

  Because he’d forgotten. And he’d been holding out hope. “I didn’t help them. I stopped them.”

  Those vulture eyes watched him. “How did you know to listen to the radios?”

  “I told you. I know my brother. And when I heard that someone in a DPT uniform was shooting, I figured it was Levi, since he tasks in maintenance and is still a scavenger at heart. He would’ve stolen radios from someplace. Why not from where he tasks?”

  “But where did he get the gun? And how did he know where and when to shoot? These are things an enforcer has the resources to learn.”

  Cold despair threatened to bring tears. Anything but tears. Omar composed himself, fought to control his emotions. “But I caught him. I brought him to you.”

  “And I grow tired of seeing your face. You’ll report to the Registration Department—”

  “I don’t believe this!” How could the task director think he’d helped Levi?

  “—for task reassignment—”

  “That’s not fair! I helped you!”

  “—and receive new lodgings in the Midlands.”

  Omar breathed slowly through his nose, glanced at Kruse, who stood like a tree shading the task director. A tree oblivious that Omar was even there. “That’s my only option?”

  “Unless you’d rather join your brother in the Rehabilitation Center.”

  “Gee, let me think it over, will you?”

  “Your attitude does not bode well for your future here.”

  “So sorry, sir. If you ever got up out of that chair, maybe I’d do a better job at kissing your—”

  “Good day, Mr. Strong.”

  Omar pushed off his chair, set both hands on the edge of the task director’s desk, and leaned forward. “May you be liberated soon, you flaking zombie.” That was finally enough to get Kruse’s attention. The pink-painted assistant threw Omar out of the office.

  Omar took the stairwell to the Registration Department, trembling so badly he had to sit on a step and vape just to calm down. This was all his brother’s fault. Levi, who just had to be a hero. And now Levi was going to be liberated. Another death for Omar to feel responsible for.

  Because liberation had to be death, and Bliss some twisted idea of heaven. Right? But Omar couldn’t imagine people looking forward to death, even with the belief of returning as someone else. He also didn’t put it past the Guild to lie.

  Where else would the people go, though? Helicopters and planes came and went from the area every so often. Maybe they took the liberated to some city called Bliss? No, that was just desperate thinking.

  Why didn’t the Safe Lands nationals question any of it? They all longed for liberation as if it were a puff of brown sugar. Couldn’t these people think for themselves? Why did they scarf down everything the ColorCast fed them?

  After a quick visit with Dallin, Omar walked across the street to the Snowcrest, stewing over his situation. Living in the Midlands would make visiting the clubs in the Highlands more difficult. He hoped Skottie would come get him. The only positive thing to come out of this situation was that his reassignment meant he would be tasking as a SimArt designer. Dallin told him to report to a place called Sim Slingers.

  Omar pushed up his sleeve and studied the black lines that wrapped around his arm. Maybe now he could do his owl.

  Back in his apartment, he packed up his clothes, his art supplies, a few paintings, and several vials of juice. He was up to a brown sugar three now and a ten with grass. In the back of his mind, he wanted to cut back, but every time he went to buy more, his willpower betrayed him.

  He went into his bathroom to grab his shaving tools and studied his reflection in his bathroom mirror. He didn’t look sick. How long until his skin started to flake? How long until his veins started to show?

  Belbeline.

  Her name made him ache. Memories of her laugh, her touch, her eyes. Why couldn’t he forget her? Brush her off like Skottie did with women? It was pathetic that he couldn’t.

  What if he simply filled his PV with a brown sugar ten? That would end this for good. Then he’d know if liberation was a load of dung.

  But whatever remained of the old Omar insisted he should leave before he did any more damage to himself. Get out of the city. Go to Jack’s Peak or Wyoming.

  Jemma’s face came to mind suddenly, surprising him at the powerful emotions she stirred within him. He’d heard on Charlz’s scanner that she was in the RC. Jemma was one of the few people who’d always been nice to him, treated him kindly, and stuck up for him when his Father treated him like a cowardly animal.

  Omar hated her. But the thought made him laugh. He wanted to hate her. But who could hate such light and beauty? Such goodness. No one. Especially not Omar.

  Perhaps, if he was careful, he could find a way to help her.

  The buzz of his doorbell made him jump. Belbeline? His heart swelled within him. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Wanted him back. He ran to the door and pulled it open.

  Instead, Skottie stood on his doorstep, Charlz leaning beside him. “It’s about time, peer,” Skottie said. “Don’t you answer your transmitter?”

  As Skottie brushed past on his way into the apartment, Omar gazed down the hallway hoping for a glimpse of a red-haired beauty. But the hallway was vacant, filled only with memories. He closed the door.

  “You listening to me, Omar?” Skottie said. “Just look at him!”

  Omar turned then and saw that Skottie was supporting Charlz’s weight, that Charlz was bloody and dazed. “What happened?”

  “Now you’re home,” Skottie said. “You been vaping the sweet stuff today?”

  “A little.”

  “Well, help me get him to the couch. He weighs a ton.”

  Omar moved to Charlz’s right, and together he and Skottie hefted their friend to the couch. “Who did this?”

  “Otley,” Skottie said. “Turns out Janique is one of Otley’s claims. When she heard Charlz was in the RC, she came to find out what happened. Otley didn’t like that. Had Charlz worked over. They interrogated me too, asked a lot of questions about you and your outsider brother, like we know anything about that prude. But they didn’t hit me. Just Charlz.”

  For the first time, Omar noticed that Skottie and Charlz both had an X by the numbers on their faces. “They Xed you guys?”

  “Yeah, and kicked us out of the enforcers. Guess where I get to task now? Stimming taxi driver. And I’ve got to move to the Midlands. I’ve never been so fried in all my life.”

  Charlz spoke, slurred and soft. “I gotta clean poop.”

  “Sewage cleaner,” Skottie said. “They made us both retake the test. Charlz was too out of it to really read the questions. He botched it bad.”

  Omar sank onto the couch beside Charlz. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have tried to catch Levi. And I definitely shouldn’t have dragged you guys with me. Maybe my father was right, maybe—”

  “Stim down,” Skottie said. “Charlz and I aren’t minors, you know. We make our own choices. Frankly, I don’t blame those rebels for trying to get their peers away from Otley. Wish I had some way to burn that overgrown, hairy downer. Make him regret he ever saw me.”

  “Wait. You think my brother
was right to shoot out the power?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Now that I’m banned from enforcement, the law just doesn’t matter. Not like it used to.”

  “Wish I could liberate Otley,” Charlz said.

  Omar’s mind felt like it was working clearly for the first time since he’d arrived in the Safe Lands. Skottie knew that Camella woman in Surveillance. They’d all done their tour of the RC in class. And Charlz had a collection of stunners. “I have an idea that could make the enforcers wish they’d never demoted us. But you need to help me get my brother and his girl out of the RC.”

  “Serious? Now you want to help him?” Skottie said.

  “I’ll help you do anything that’ll make Otley mad,” Charlz mumbled.

  Omar raised his eyebrows at Skottie.

  “Fine,” Skottie said. “But you better have a plan, ‘cause I don’t want a premie lib.”

  “Did you guys turn in your enforcer IDs yet?” Omar asked.

  Skottie shook his head.

  Charlz said, “No.”

  “Me either. Skottie, tap that girl up in Surveillance and see if you can stop by. Charlz, I’ll need you to help me get past the front desk and take out the enforcers at the RC, then keep watch. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just need to clean up.”

  “Good.” A rebellious thrill surged over Omar, making him feel powerful, strong.

  “How we know Skottie’s up there?” Charlz asked as they walked up to the front doors of the RC sometime after three in the morning. The sky was like a canvas coated in midnight paint flicked with glitter and illuminated by an oblong half moon.

  “We don’t,” Omar said, bringing his gaze back to earth. “We just have to hope he is.”

  “And you’re sure she can override the Authorization System once we get to the cells?”

  “According to Skottie, she can log us in as anyone she wants.”

  Thanks to Charlz’s connections with several female receptionists, they faced minimum questioning as they entered the RC, passed the front desk, and called the elevator. When the door finally slid open, Omar was relieved to find it empty inside.

  He’d been smart to come at night. Fewer enforcers tasking at this hour. Fewer witnesses and possible fights. Omar wasn’t looking forward to having to punch someone.

  As soon as the elevator doors opened, Charlz slid in and covered the yellow camera lens as Omar put on a creepy Luella Flynn mask Charlz had grabbed from his apartment on the way over. It smelled like chemicals. Omar had wanted to wear the Finley one, but Charlz had insisted on first pick. Omar would never get why anyone would pay credits for stupid masks like these, though he was glad Charlz had them. His friend’s odd quirks were finally coming in handy.

  The elevator opened. Charlz stuck his boot against the door and peeked into the guards’ chamber. “I see one. He’s mine.” He drew his stunner and ran out of the elevator.

  Omar drew his own stunner and followed, but by the time he reached Charlz’s back, the clicking of Charlz’s weapon had stopped and an enforcer lay on his side, moaning. Omar took the man’s weapons and handcuffs, which he used to secure the enforcer’s arms behind his back, then dragged the man into the bathroom and ripped off his shoulder radio. Omar attached the radio to his shoulder and returned to the guards’ chamber.

  Charlz was sitting at the front desk still wearing his Finley mask. “I’m Finley Gray, coming to you live from the RC. Find pleasure in life.”

  Omar glanced up at the camera and hoped Skottie had it covered. “Only one guard?”

  “It’s three in the morning, peer.”

  Omar looked at the computer screen, though the information meant little to him. “You find them?”

  “Cell thirty-nine and forty. Should be all the way to the end.”

  A man’s yell drew their attention to the bathroom. The guard.

  “I’ll take care of him.” Charlz said. “Get your people.”

  Omar held his stunner ready in case there were guards inside, and, with a long breath, he opened the door.

  The cell block was dark but for three lights evenly spaced along the ceiling. Omar knew from his training tour that they shut down most of the lights at ten o’clock each night. No sign of enforcers. He strode down the aisle, his breath a steady hiss against the rubber mask.

  His gaze darted back and forth across the aisle, checking the cell numbers. Ten, eleven … sixteen, seventeen … Halfway there. He glanced up at a yellow surveillance camera and really hoped Skottie had been able to get his girl to help.

  When he reached the end, he nearly stepped on Levi and Jemma’s arms, which were stretched out into the corridor, fingers intertwined. The way they were both lying on the floor against the bars, he couldn’t open either cell without waking them.

  He stood there, frustrated, trying to decide which to open first. An image of Levi choking him to death popped into his mind. He spoke into the enforcer’s shoulder radio. “E112 to Highland Gatekeeper, requesting entry to prison cell forty.”

  “Please verify identification,” a woman’s voice replied.

  Omar set his fist against the black pad on the cell door and held his breath. Come on, Skottie. His girl better come through.

  “Identification verified,” the woman said.

  Omar blew out his relief and nudged the door open. Jemma sighed dreamily, released Levi’s hand, and rolled over enough that Omar was able to squeeze inside. He crouched, reached for Jemma’s shoulder and —

  “What are you doing?” Levi’s voice made Omar jump. “Get away from her!”

  Omar turned to see Levi standing at the door of his cell, gripping the bars and glaring.

  “It’s me, brother,” Omar said, remembering his mask. He spoke into the radio again. “E112 to Highland Gatekeeper, requesting entry to prison cell thirty-nine.”

  “Please verify identification.”

  Omar slipped out of Jemma’s cell and set his fist against the pad on Levi’s door. “Keep your voice down, or you’ll wake everyone,” he said to Levi.

  “You betrayed me again, Omar. What’s your angle this time?” Levi asked.

  “Identification verified,” the woman said.

  Omar pushed in the door. “To get you and Jemma out of here.”

  Levi glanced at the stunner in Omar’s hand. “You going to shoot me with that?”

  “No! Look, I’m sorry about before. I’m trying to make it right. But we don’t have much time, so come on!” Omar ran back into Jemma’s cell and grabbed her arm. “Jemma! Wake up!”

  Levi tackled him from behind, and Omar felt all air leave his body. Levi smashed Omar’s face against the concrete, and though Omar tucked his chin to protect his nose, his right temple slammed into the ground. Blinding pain shot all the way down his neck. The mask was little cushion.

  “Stop it!” Jemma said. “Levi, don’t!”

  The weight vanished from Omar’s back. It took a moment to straighten the mask, and when his eyes looked out through the holes, the cell was empty. He pushed up to his feet and saw Levi and Jemma halfway down the aisle, standing at another cell. Levi shook the door.

  “Who’s in there?” Omar asked, jogging to catch up. “One of ours?”

  “None of your business,” Levi said.

  “E112 to Highland Gatekeeper requesting entry to prison cell …” Omar glanced up. “Eighteen.”

  “Please verify identification.”

  Omar pressed his fist to the pad on the door just as Levi slammed his shoulder into Omar, knocking him out of the way. Omar stumbled to the side and barely caught himself on the bars.

  “Levi, stop!” Jemma said.

  But Levi pushed past her and grabbed Omar’s shirtfront. “Stay away from me.” He slammed Omar against the cell grate. The back of Omar’s head struck —

  “… now, Omar? Huh?”

  Omar blinked. Two bars pressed into his back. He squinted. What had Levi asked? “Uh … I’m trying to …” Omar said, struggling to
breathe over the pain throbbing in his temple and the back of his head, straining to remember. “Make it right. That’s all. Know I can’t, but …” He choked back a sob. “Just trying, okay? Should … hurry.”

  “Identification verified.” The woman’s voice came through the speaker on his arm.

  The door clicked open. Levi elbowed past, knocking Omar to the ground again. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He stumbled into bars on his right and took a deep breath, watching as Levi and Jemma helped a man with a bandaged leg out of cell eighteen. Omar grabbed the nearest bars and stepped toward them, but his leg gave out. He fell, nausea gripped him, and he threw up.

  “Omar!” Jemma appeared at his side. “Levi, help!”

  “I’m helping Zane!”

  Jemma’s face swam before Omar’s, a haze of beauty and concern. He opened his mouth to tell her how pretty she was, how he missed looking at his drawing that used to hang above his bed. But her face went away, and Levi was there, scowling like always.

  “You never … smile,” Omar said. “Why you … hate me, brother?”

  The scowl faded to a look of shock. Levi heaved Omar up to a standing position, but Omar’s legs still weren’t working. Omar slumped in Levi’s arms.

  “Wasn’t supposed to happen,” Omar whispered. “Forgive me.”

  Levi crouched and bent Omar’s body over his shoulder.

  The rest was a blur. Omar floated. Charlz spoke. Stairs. Screaming. Clicking stunners. Levi’s voice. A yelling woman—not Jemma. Cool night air on his face. No mask. Sleep …

  When Omar opened his eyes, his head was in Jemma’s lap, her fingertips brushing through his hair. He wanted to stay in this place forever. But then the pain came, swelling from within, crushing his skull.

  “He tried to set things right, Levi, and you could have killed him,” Jemma said. “He asked forgiveness. You should respect that.”

  “Are you hearing yourself, Jem? He may as well have killed eighteen people with his own hand. Not to mention whatever happened to your mother and mine. How can I respect that?”

  “And are you hearing yourself? He asked forgiveness. End of story.”