The guard tsk-tsks. “Now that’s no way to treat a guest who’s come all this way to see you. Why don’t you greet him properly?”
“The black butterflies get the same treatment when they visit me, and I never get any complaints from them,” Cathwell retorts.
I frown. Black butterflies? What is she talking about? I didn’t sense her lie, either, which means she believes in whatever she just said.
Cathwell stands, but rather than approaching us, she glides to her bed and unceremoniously drops her armload of papers atop it. She keeps her back to us as she sorts the sheets into messy piles.
She obviously doesn’t want to talk to me. Even though I know it’s likely only because I’m from the military, I wonder if she’s already decided she doesn’t like me.
“Lieutenant Cathwell.” My voice is steady. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Major Jay Kitahara.”
“Former.”
“What?”
“Former Lieutenant Cathwell. I’m not in the military anymore.” Not once while she speaks does she look at me.
I glance at the scattering of notes she left on the floor, already at a loss as to what I should do. I bend down to gather the few remaining sheets, but when I glance at their contents, all I see is messily written gibberish. Why was she so protective of them? What was she even trying to write to begin with?
I don’t linger over it, but cross the short distance to Cathwell to return the papers.
Her eyes are focused elsewhere as she accepts them.
“Miss Cathwell, this is no way to treat a guest,” the guard says. The politeness has left her voice. The nervous indigo her presence had emitted earlier melds into an irritated pink.
Cathwell’s eyes narrow. Her presence pulses a brief, irritated pink to match the guard’s.
She dislikes the guard being here. In the same heartbeat I think it, her dark blue eyes finally meet mine. I’m unable to read her expression.
“Um, excuse me,” I say to the guard.
She appears surprised at being addressed, but hides it swiftly. “Yes, sir?”
“Could you give Lieu—Miss Cathwell and me a few moments alone?” I ask. “I’d like to speak with her privately.”
“I’m afraid that is not allowed. We keep careful watch over our wards here, Major.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.” I make my tone as peaceful as possible. “I merely thought Miss Cathwell might feel more at ease with less people present. I would get you immediately if I thought anything was wrong.”
The guard eyes me suspiciously. I think she’s going to refuse me. Instead, she says, “You have ten minutes. I’ll be right outside this door. As soon as anything seems wrong, you tell me right away or you’ll be held liable for whatever happens.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
The guard watches us so intently she’s nearly glaring as she takes her leave.
I return my attention to Cathwell. Her eyes are following something through the air. Or they would be, if anything was there. She’s frowning, but she holds out her hand, forefinger extended, to whatever she imagines she sees. After a few heartbeats and with an unfathomable expression, she lowers her hand once more.
I don’t want to ask what just happened. I’d heard the lieutenant can be distracted and eccentric, and now doesn’t seem the time to inquire about it.
I choose my words with care this time. “I hope I didn’t interrupt any of your plans for the day.”
“Do you mean the tests or the sleeping or the being ordered around by guards?” She’s returned to not looking at me as she speaks. She’s already put all her notes in their respective piles, and with no desk in sight, I wonder where she’ll store them.
“Um, all of it?”
“Then don’t worry. I won’t be missing much.” Perhaps I’m imagining it, but she sounds bitter. Her neutral-toned presence offers me no clues.
I wonder what it must be like for her, to have been holed up in this place for so long. I nearly ask how long it’s been since she last went into town. Last heard the music of skilled street performers. Last tasted the dried fruits or cooked meats from Market. Last spoke with someone other than Austin who wasn’t a guard or another prisoner.
That’s too personal, however, and I don’t want to make her uneasy or dislike me even more than she already does. So instead, I say, “Nice, uh, weather today, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know. Outside time isn’t for another hour.” She waves a hand around her windowless walls, apparently having decided to store her stacks of paper under the bed, because she relocates them with her free hand.
“Why in the world would you choose to stay in a place that dictates when you can and can’t go outside?” I ask before I can think better of it.
Her eyes flick to me. She doesn’t look away this time.
I think she’s going to snap at me, but she says quite steadily, “Why in the world would you choose to risk your life in the military for a bunch of Etioles who have only ever looked down on you? For people who would rather see you dead than alive?”
My voice is equally level when I answer her. “No one has the right to kill other people. I believe in protecting all lives, gifted or not.”
She laughs, but it’s a harsh sound. “Do you think if you just work hard enough, fight hard enough, that you can make things right? That all will be well and the gifted and ungifted will learn to live together peacefully? They will never accept you, Major.”
I flinch. From her tone, from her words.
Suddenly, I’m fourteen again, standing outside my father’s door as he speaks to our maid. Random details are frustratingly clear. The low thrum of the washing machine in the next room over. The rough grains of wood in the floorboards, every speck standing out. The smell of apple-scented candles and lavender. The scratchy wall beneath my palms. And then my father’s voice, every syllable pulling a taut string in my chest. It’s his fault she’s dead.
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“But you do. You’ve known it for a long time.”
“You’re wrong. You’ve just given up.”
“Me?” She smiles with closed lips. “And why would you say that?”
“Why else would you stay in this prison?” I wouldn’t normally speak so harshly, but the memories of my father are still surging beneath my skin and everything in me is screaming to prove her wrong. “You have the chance to live freely, but instead, you’d rather spend your life wasting away in this place, where those Etioles you appear to hate so much decide everything you do. You gave up your free will.”
Her hands clench into fists at her sides. Before, even if she was irritated, she put on a calm front. Now she’s furious and letting it show. But even so, her voice grows lower and quieter rather than louder. “You don’t know anything.”
“Really?” I raise my hands, taking in the whole room, my blood still pounding. “I know I would never let someone keep me in a cage. I know I would choose freedom and fighting for what’s right over holing up alone in this place. I know I would at least try.” There’s a tiny voice in my head that tells me I need to stop, that I’ve already gone too far, but I ignore it. “Just what are you doing here? What can you accomplish inside a prison? You’re merely afraid to come back, choosing the easy way out by hiding here.”
I’m breathing hard by the time I’ve finished. I feel so frustrated, so—so unsatisfied. As though no matter how much I might say, it wouldn’t be enough. I would still feel this gnawing emptiness inside my chest. Suffocating.
And yet, even so, I know what I said was wrong. She’s a veteran soldier who’s likely had her own share of difficulties. She didn’t deserve to hear any of that. I was upset and unfairly took it out on her.
Cathwell is breathing hard, too. The cold fury is gone from her expression and her presence, replaced with something else, something I’m unable to identify. “Get out.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
; “I said get out. Now.”
Guilt presses down on my chest. How could I have said all those things? I want to try apologizing to her again, but she’s already turned her back on me. The lines of her shoulders are straight and stiff. Unyielding. She’s not going to say anything more to me.
“I understand,” I say quietly. “It was an honor to meet you. I hope you will consider General Austin’s request.” The words fall lame and awkward to land straight into silence.
My heart pounds with the knowledge that I failed as I open the door and inform the guard that we’ve finished.
I barely notice where we’re going as I trail after her. How could I have said such awful things to someone who has her own past and problems she’s likely struggling with? I think of her notes written in nonsense and the way her eyes followed nothing through the air, hand extended to something imagined.
I was arrogant. I didn’t even consider her position, and yet I spouted all my unasked-for ideals at her. I told someone I know nothing about that she’s taking the easy way out.
Austin was wrong. He never should have relied on me.
3
LAI
EVEN AFTER MAJOR Kitahara has left, his insistent words remain. Just what are you doing here?
What am I doing? I originally came here to escape the things I didn’t want to face, and to be better able to help the Order. In the military, I was under constant scrutiny as a Nyte and a highly ranked officer. There were too many eyes, too many responsibilities. Here, I can focus solely on the Order. No one even thinks to suspect me of anything.
But as my guard escorts me outside to stretch my legs and see the sun, I think how nice it would be to step out into the daylight anytime I liked without someone keeping watch over me. As I write coded notes for the Order back in my room, detailing what supplies are drastically needed and hints of rebel movements that were reported at the last meeting, I think of how much more information I could get from inside the military. Not only on the rebels, but on what the military and Council are up to as well. The Council has been anti-Nyte for as long as Nytes have been around. There’s no telling what they’ll do. And considering they’re in control of the entire sector, military included, they need watching.
Could I really keep up with both work in the military and with the Order? How often would I be able to sneak out? How much more difficult would it be? This place might be a prison, but it’s hardly secure. Central is leagues away in comparison. As a soldier, I could always just walk out the front door, but how long until someone noticed my long and frequent absences and started asking questions?
These thoughts spin through my head all that day and the next as I drag myself through the usual routines. Stuck inside my head with nowhere to go and no one to talk to. Even playing the piano Austin fought to get for me, usually such a source of happiness and peace, can’t break me from my indecision.
Entering this prison was never the wrong choice. After I came here, I was able to sneak out and spend my nights helping build the Order up to what it is now. All our members who now have a place to call home, all our established information networks—they’re in place because I was able to completely devote my time to the Order. But I’m not necessary for recruiting and information gathering anymore. We have enough members now that others are assigned to those tasks.
What good am I doing here? I could be doing more. I could be doing better.
Despite the fact I already told Austin no, and even kicked out the messenger he’d sent, I can’t stop thinking about going back to the military. Familiarity. Freedom. Control. But also more responsibility. Bad memories. Expectations.
By the end of the day, I’ve thought of the same things so many times over that I feel like I’ve just been walking in circles for the past day and a half. My head hurts, and I’m still no closer to an actual decision.
Come on, Lai, I tell myself. You’re better than this.
That evening, as I’m practicing my usual strengthening exercises in my room, I catch sight of a dark smudge out of the corner of my eye. A black butterfly. The second in only two days.
My heart rate picks up.
I watch as it flutters purposefully toward me, the edges of its wings hazy and indistinct. Unnatural.
“Can’t you just go away already?” I mutter. But verbally and mentally wishing the things away has never worked before, so I hold out my finger for the messenger to land on. As soon as it comes in contact with my skin, it starts to disintegrate like so much dust in a gust of wind. Words as fuzzy as the shadow creature’s form sound in the back of my head. We’re moving, Lai. Are you ready?
The echoes of the words continue ringing in my head even after their deliverer is gone. This is the fourth butterfly in the past week. It’s been a long time since I received so many so close together.
Ellis must be trying to get to me. She knows I’ll take so many messengers as a bad sign—and with good reason. Ellis isn’t the kind of person to make empty threats.
What does that mean? Are the rebels actually about to make good on their promise to start a war with the ungifted? Are they planning to do something huge—soon?
Calm down. What if that’s just what Ellis wants me to think? What if she’s trying to push me into reckless action?
Uncertainty fills me. Is this a warning or a trap?
And just like that, I’m sick of it all. Sick of my uncertainty, so strange and foreign a thing to me, sick of everyone pulling strings I’m miles away from being able to see.
There’s nothing I can accomplish in this prison anymore. The time in which it was useful to be here has come and gone. Complacency, easy routine, a false sense of achievement in being here—all of it an excuse to avoid taking the first huge, risky steps necessary to counter the rebels.
That stupid major was right about me. I’m just hiding here.
If there’s anything I hate more than my own weaknesses, it’s other people guessing them correctly. And I am not the sort of person to prove others correct about me when it comes to being weak.
I’m going to go back to the military. And I’m going to gain everything I can from that.
I close my eyes. My gift allows me to exchange thoughts with people, but it’s harder the farther away the person I’m trying to communicate with is. However, the more trust I have with someone, the farther away I can contact them from.
It’s easy to imagine the road I always take to the Order, the bustling main street that eventually goes into the upper-class district before petering out into side alleys that lead to storehouses. Fiona? Are you there? And is Trist with you?
Silence. Then, faintly, We’re here. What’s wrong?
Can we meet tonight?
All three of us? You know that’s risky.
I know. But it’s important.
More silence.
If it was possible to sigh inside one’s head, I imagine that’s what Fiona just did. Understood. The usual place?
See you there.
* * *
After sneaking out of the prison some hours later, I pause at the edge of the trees walling the solitary building off from the rest of the city and grab a tattered pack out from the hollow beneath some tree roots. A worn pair of pants, a black shirt, and my green field jacket greet me. I quickly change into them before stuffing my prison uniform inside and stowing the bag back in its place. When the coast is clear, I step out onto the nearest street.
About a fifteen-minute walk later, the streets have gone from deserted to crowded. It takes some effort to mute all the voices shouting in my head to mere background noise. It’s easier when I can do something with my hands to anchor my attention outside of me, and harder when there are more people around—and the streets around Central Headquarters are always busy. Yet despite my effort, some stray thoughts still leak through.
Don’t forget to pick up bread for the—
Man, this girl is always such a riot—
I bet I can beat him now with my new byc—<
br />
Quiet. Quiet. Block it all out.
Red-bricked buildings pile one on top of another, fighting for space. Above them, I can barely see the shine of the dome that caps the sector past all the walkways and added-on floors. There are no trees. The cobblestone roads are haphazard, the only central point being a couple streets down, where Market is set up in a huge open square and vendors man their stalls each day.
I walk in the opposite direction. I pass by several well-trafficked shrines whose thin silver ribbons wave in the wind. The Etioles worship all sorts of gods, none of whose names I know or ever care to learn. Gods for love and loyalty and wrath, gods for air and fire and mountains. When Nytes first began appearing about twenty years ago, the Etioles lost it. First they were ridiculous enough to praise us as being the gods’ messengers. Then a plague affecting only children struck right around the same time Nytes were discovered—an incurable sickness that persists even now, though the mortality rate has lowered. So the priests decided that, actually, we went against the gods, that we were demons sent to wreak havoc in the world.
I have never met a Nyte who believed in the gods.
As such, we all have our own theories on how Nytes came to be. Some say leftover radiation from the nuclear war that nearly destroyed humanity hundreds of years ago—the same radiation that created Ferals, the creatures that roam Outside—somehow leaked into the sector. Nytes primarily come from Sector Eight, after all. Much to the other sectors’ Councils’ frustration. It makes staging and winning a war against our sector to gain resources much harder for them, fortified as our military is with its gifted soldiers. And the Nytes who were born in other sectors have a habit of moving to this one, looking for a place to belong. Not that such a place exists here.
Some say the plague was the cause of Nytes. The timing was too much of a coincidence. With the kids it struck, it either killed them or turned them superhuman. Personally, that’s what I believe.
Not that it much matters. We’re here now, and figuring out the cause isn’t going to fix anything.
A Soldier and a Liar Page 3