by Megan Lynch
Samara held her breath, finally collected enough to be angry and sound enough not to show it. “I did try to convince him that it was a bad idea, ma’am, but he insisted. There was nothing I could have done to stop him from at least asking the team.”
“My intelligence officers are not the boy’s mother.”
“Neither am I, ma’am.”
As soon as it escaped her mouth, Samara regretted it. Clovinger turned slowly, in a way that eerily reminded her of someone else: Warden Paul, head of Fox County Juvenile Detention Center, where Samara met Jude and began her years-long habit of defending his trouble making. The regret was then replaced with something else, something ferocious. She still thought Jude’s idea to bring Cork along was a terrible one, but there had been too many adults standing in Jude’s way. As important as Clovinger was, Samara wouldn’t allow her to call Jude names. She stood straight.
“I think it’s time for you to go, Miss Shepherd.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Clovinger was the first to turn away, perhaps desiring to make a dramatic exit while remaining in the same room. She walked behind her desk as Samara walked back through the door and into the marble hallway.
She didn’t catch her breath again until she was halfway down the long outdoor walkway. She wanted to immediately confront Jude, talk to Stephen, commiserate with Denver, ask Bristol if this was all for the best. She remembered life with her watch. When she had one, she was instantly connected to all of the people in her life and this feeling was largely absent. Samara had never allowed feelings to last long because they didn’t have to last. She could just message someone, call someone, or open a program, and the feelings would morph into something else. Anger would turn to vindication, sadness to comfort, boredom to stimulation. She could have a watch here if she wanted it, but she’d gotten used to this new way of life, and sitting with these feelings, prodding them and looking at them from different angles, did something to her brain she recognized as good.
Usually. But today was different. When she was confident that she was out of sight of Clovinger’s window, she bolted. And she didn’t stop running until she reached Bristol’s apartment.
Chapter Nine
Bristol didn’t even break his stare on the canvas when he heard the door open, thinking—or maybe not thinking at all—that it was just his sister or brother-in-law. When he heard Samara’s voice calling him, however, he jumped to his feet so quickly that the palate crashed to the floor.
She was at his bedroom door before he knew it. Face red, hair disheveled, and shirt stained dark at the armpits, everything about her appearance waved a red flag in Bristol’s mind.
“What’s wrong?”
“Clovinger…Jude…” She threw her briefcase on his bed, then herself. “Just give me a minute.”
During the excruciating moments while she caught her breath, Bristol sat back down on the chair and wrung his hands, trying to guess what could rattle her like this. Finally, she put her feet on the ground and told him what happened.
“I just feel tired,” she said when she was done. “I feel tired of trying so damn hard. I’m tired of caring. I want to go back to playing games and worrying about grades. I want to eat a dinner that my mom made. I want to talk to my dad about nothing again. I want to go back to wishing I had a big life instead of actually having one.”
Bristol nodded. “I feel the same way.”
“We didn’t have freedom, but we had comfort.” She seemed to catch herself and turned away. “At least I did. I didn’t appreciate it.”
“No, I did too. But I can’t think too much about what I’ve lost. It gets me in a depression and it’s hard to get out. It helps me to live with a little bit of denial.”
“It’s exhausting to fight for your life.”
“That’s not what they think we’re doing. That’s why it’s so easy to deny us. It’s like The Fat Man and The Loop.
“The Fat Man?"
“And The Loop. Just—what’d Denver call it? A morality exercise. Say a trolley is hurling towards a group of people, but you’re on a bridge where the trolley will pass and realize that if you push something heavy down onto the track, it will stop it from killing all those people. But the only heavy thing next to you is a fat man. Most people say they wouldn’t push him down—they would never be able to do something like that. But there’s a variant called The Loop. If you ask someone whether they’d pull a lever to divert the trolley, even if that same fat man is on the opposite track and will be killed, most people say they’d still pull the lever to save the group of people. Pulling a lever doesn’t seem like killing.”
“Clovinger’s pulling the lever.”
“No, Clovinger will come around. She’s smart, and she won’t stay mad forever. She realizes that to cut you off is to kill us. We just have to convince the population here that sending us back is a death sentence that they themselves are signing.”
Samara fell back on the bed, curled her legs into her body, and turned to her side, eyes closed. Bristol’s heart thumped at the sight of her.
“I need a break.”
“Take one.”
Samara’s chest rose and fell, but she kept her eyes closed. “What are you working on?”
Bristol’s cheeks prickled. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“It’s not ready.”
“Since when has that stopped you from showing me?”
He hated when she said things like that. It was only four years ago that he asked her to marry him—and she’d refused. Neither of them had dated anyone else since then. There was no way she didn’t realize the weight her words carried. But then she opened her eyes and looked up at him, her curls still spread out on his quilt. He sighed and turned the canvas to her.
She gasped and sat up.
He didn’t really consider himself a realist. Especially in the past few years, his art had become more and more conceptual. But he couldn’t get this image out of his mind, and for a week now, he had striven to paint it with the most detail he could muster.
“What’s it called?” she asked.
“I’m thinking of calling it ‘Portrait of a Grieving Mother.’”
On the canvas, his mother—the image of his mother—was crouched in the kitchen of his old apartment, fingers dug into her scalp, while her face was caught in a scream. But instead of tightening her face, he’d loosened it, trying to make it look like the scream was coming from within, from some deep and secret place, that she’d just received news that made it impossible not to scream. Working on it had been wrenching. He was sure, with every stroke, that he was painting what was once a true moment. This had been the worst week of his life since arriving in Edinburgh.
Samara looked without speaking for a long time, until Bristol began to see it through her eyes. His mother, screaming low and slow, longing for her children. His eyes became wet. Finally, Samara reached out and cupped his cheek with her hand. He turned his face toward hers, but he didn’t want to look at her. She came in from below and kissed him, the same as he’d remembered it for all those years ago: soft.
He kept his hands at his sides, even as she ran hers across his hips. “Samara,” he said.
“Mmhmm?”
“This isn’t right.”
“It feels right to me.” She nuzzled at his neck.
He didn’t want her like this—in a moment of weakness, as a distraction from their lives—but he didn’t have the strength to resist her. He pulled her body tighter into his with his right hand as he switched off the lights with his left.
Chapter Ten
Jude could see that Cork was uncomfortable as soon as he told him the new plan. But Jude had done too much to quit now: in ten days, he’d stolen a watch, programed it with a fake identity, hacked the Metrics database to register Cork’s new identity as a Two, and made sure that the launch team had read a memo—supposedly from the general—to allow Cork on Jude’s airship. The days when he deferred to others were long ov
er. He’d noticed, even at sixteen, that he was often the sharpest person in the room. Talking while on a watch notwithstanding, of course.
“This is going to work,” said Jude. “No one believes me, but I need you there.”
“You’ve hacked into Metrics—why the heck would you still need me? All I can do is talk and play dumb games.”
“That’s the only way to communicate with them! I’m going to be dead in five minutes without someone who can do it. All I have to do is pretend to be shy while you distract them, and then I’ll plant all the devices while you game and gab. They’ll thank us when we all come home alive.”
“And if we don’t?”
“That’s not going to happen.” Jude handed him his new watch. “We leave tomorrow. And there’s no way I can do this without you.”
“They think Stephen is going to help you.”
“I’ve told them, many times, that Stephen is going to be with me everywhere except the Young Transportation Officials meeting. And that’s what I’m worried about. I’ve already registered you in their database.”
“Have you at least told Stephen about this?”
“He’s going over on a separate airship, so we’ll meet him at the hotel.”
“So, no.”
“Not yet. But once he sees you at the hotel, he’ll be on board.”
Cork sunk his head back, exposing his bourgeoning Adam’s apple to the ceiling of Jude’s room. “He should know, at the very least.”
“The less he knows, the better. He could get in trouble if word gets out before we go over.”
“What, and you won’t?”
“Oh, I’d be in a lot of trouble if I didn’t know how to cover my tracks. I’ve got this. I’ve double and triple and quadruple checked.” Jude searched his friend’s face, trying hard to find more confidence. The truth was that Cork had become more than a friend, more, even, than a brother. Jude wasn’t sure what he wanted of him exactly, he just knew that the two of them should be together. He sucked on his lower lip. “I…I really can’t do this without you.”
Cork’s face slowly transformed into a half-grin. “What time tomorrow?”
“Meet me downstairs at dawn.”
Stephen came to visit shortly after Cork left. Jude knew it was him from the soft knock on his dorm door.
“Come in.”
“It’s me,” Stephen said, stepping in. He held a brown bag stamped with the name of Jude’s favorite tea shop. “Brought some chocolate pastries.”
Jude cleared a spot on his desk and offered Stephen the chair. Stephen pulled out a flaky treat and put it on a napkin in front of Jude. “I wanted to check in with you, make sure you were okay.”
“I’m okay,” Jude said, not touching the pastry. The scent of it was alluring, but he suddenly felt both afraid and very guilty now that Stephen was here, in the flesh.
“I know that it’s scary,” said Stephen. “And I know how you’ve struggled. But you can do this. And this is the start of something big. Jude, I don’t think I’m being hyperbolic when I say that we’re about to change history.”
“I know.”
Stephen grinned and bit into his pastry. “Well, it’s good to be around someone who is also changing history tomorrow.” He nodded at Jude’s treat. “D’ya think I poisoned that? You’re gonna be a great spy someday.”
Jude snickered, thinking, You have no idea, but picked up his pastry and took a big bite, trying to get rid of it—and Stephen—as soon as possible. “What does Denver think of you coming to check on me?”
“Oh, this is the first she’s let me out of her sight all day. We walked here together. She’s downstairs having one of these with Samara. Or at least that was the idea. She hasn’t eaten anything today.”
“Better get back down to her then.” He stuffed the rest into his mouth, then spoke thickly. “We should get to bed.”
“Okay, Jude. You’re probably right.” Stephen stood up, placing his half-eaten pastry back into the bag. “But since my airship is leaving first and I won’t see you again until we’re on the other side, I wanted to tell you something.”
Jude wanted his room back. “What?”
“You’re much more capable than you think you are. And you’re braver than you believe too. I’m proud of you.”
Jude’s face burned and the chocolate threatened to come back up his throat. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He moved in for an awkward hug. Jude stuck his arms out and gave him a little pat on the shoulder while Stephen locked him in. “Well…see you over there.”
Jude’s stomach lurched as Stephen turned to go. “Stephen?”
He turned around. “Yep?”
Jude sucked in some air. “Good…luck.”
“Good luck to you, Jude.”
The door closed behind him gently. After a bewildered moment, the floor swayed, and Jude grabbed the little trashcan under his desk to vomit into it.
Cork met him at dawn, as planned. An unmarked car picked up both boys, and though the driver of the vehicle was surprised to see two boys there, Jude asked him to check his messages, and sure enough, the driver had the fake memo from the general. All checked out. None of them said much on the three-hour ride far into the countryside, until the car stopped at a nondescript air field and dropped them off. Jude held his breath as a soldier opened his door. No one seemed surprised when Cork slid out of the seat too.
One of the spies, a member of the launch team, stepped off the medium-sized black airship, shimmering like a mirror, and approached them. “Boys ready?”
Jude nodded, not daring to look at Cork. Without another word, he turned and walked back toward the airship. They followed.
The inside looked quite different from the airship they’d come over on. That one must have been a cargo ship, Jude thought. The inside of that first ship was expansive, and they all sat on the floor. There hadn’t been any windows. This one was the same shape—round—but it had a smaller circumference. There was a semi-circle of gray seats, and they could see that when the hatch closed, there would be a large window to look out from the semi-circle. Jude and Cork sat in the middle.
The launch team spy nodded at them. “This ship’s programmed to land about forty minutes outside of the city. The directions to the hotel will appear on your watches. All the best, boys.” He closed the hatch.
Jude and Cork didn’t look at each other until the ship began to hover above the ground. Jude had never seen Cork look so white before. Neither of them was particularly experienced at this sensation, but they knew what was coming next. The airship suddenly flew straight up into the sky smooth enough, but it was still able to jolt their systems.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” said Cork.
“You won’t. The worst is over. We won’t feel anything else until the descent.”
“How long do you think until we get there?”
“It’s a four-hour flight,” said Jude, but before he finished his sentence, they were already descending. It was the same as he remembered it—slow, but distinct—his ears even popped again.
Cork looked terrified. “Maybe they forgot to tell us something?”
No, thought Jude, no no no no.
The same spy as they’d just approached the window and opened the hatch. “We’re aborting the mission. I regret to inform you that we’ve been compromised.”
Jude gulped. “Compromised?”
“We just received confirmation that Stephen’s airship has been shot down.”
Chapter Eleven
When Denver saw the two men in trench coats approach her building from the window, she thought, Oh, there they are. She didn’t expect them to come so quickly, but there was a piece of her that did expect them.
They told her that her husband had died as soon as his airship had crossed over into Metrics airspace, and she nodded. Since Bristol was out, they asked her if there was anyone they could call to be with her.
“No thank you,” she said. “I’m sure s
omeone will be here soon. I’d like to be alone now.”
They nodded respectfully, and showed themselves out. Breath seemed to freeze in Denver’s lungs. Feeling outside of her body, she was aware of herself crossing the room and crouching down on the floor.
Haunt me, she pleaded in her mind. Haunt me.
But no one answered. Her child was in the ground and her husband was burned and broken into pieces, probably floating in the Atlantic Ocean. Earth and water. She was alone in the air.
Samara came sometime after the men had left, but how long after, Denver could not say. An hour? Three? Five? She lay on the thin woven rug with her arms and legs spayed outward and listened to the knock. Just from the sound of the fist on the door, she knew it was Samara, so she did not get up. She wanted to see her, and she knew that Samara would come in anyway, even if she didn’t answer. She was right.
Samara kneeled down and lifted Denver’s head into her lap.
Denver’s thoughts ran into each other in her head, so much so that she had the urge to say them out loud, just to pick them out of the mix and clear her mind. So after a prolonged silence, Denver said, “It’s the guilt that stings the most.”
“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” said Samara in a low voice.
“I do. It was a mistake to let him go, but I made a bigger mistake before that.”
“You haven’t made any mistakes, Denver.”
“Will you stop that? Yes, I have. I let myself be fooled by him in the very beginning of our marriage, when I was convinced that Metrics was punishing me for my mom’s rule breaking. I thought he was a loser, working late and then spending all evening playing games on his watch instead of showing interest in us. He was actually coordinating with the Red Sea. Those first months were wasted. I wasted them. I didn’t know—” She wanted to say she didn’t know how precious the time had been, but her throat was blocked.