A Pawn's Betrayal

by Ernie Lindsey

  Mosley sits up straight and spins around quickly. “Ellery? The Kinder?”

  “Yeah. You know about her?”

  “Distant, distant relative on my mother’s side. We’d always wondered where she’d gone. She was in your encampment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hiding, no doubt.”

  “We didn’t see it that way, but yeah, I guess so. From the stories Finn told me, she caused some trouble.”

  “Depends on what you believe in the history books.”

  Targon clears his throat and says, “Kinder history aside, you’re telling me that the DAV vanguard swarmed your village, murdered everyone, and yet you two somehow made it out alive? But how is that poss—” He catches himself. “Never mind. I forgot about—never mind that, either.”

  I understand that he doesn’t want Miller and Mosley to know yet. I try to cover the information gap in case they have loose lips or questions that would lead to answers we don’t want to give yet. “You’d never believe it, but a group of Republicons saved us. They helped us the entire way. They were heroes.”

  Targon says, “Republicons?” Miller, Targon, and Mosley all three laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am, and they followed us right up to the gates. I wanted them to come with us because I’d promised them freedom and forgiveness. They didn’t trust that my word would carry any strength inside these walls.”

  As we approach the president’s mansion, pulling up in front of the most gigantic set of stairs I’ve ever seen, leading up to an unbelievably large house, Targon sits upright and readjusts himself in his seat. “Probably a wise move on their part, Mathers. You bring a gaggle of those filthy creatures through that front gate, Logan likely would’ve put bullets between their eyes before they knew what hit them.”

  “They’re not filthy creatures,” I say, but my words are ignored as the three soldiers pile out of the Jeep. Finn gives me a reassuring smile and we follow.

  The rain falls around us, splattering off the greenest trees, the thickest, deepest grass, and the most beautiful flowers that I have ever laid eyes on, aided by the glow of lights way up on the porch. The white columns holding up the porch roof seem taller than most of the pines back home. Great glass windows stretch across the front from one side to the other—windows so large that they would take up an entire wall of my old shack. Flowers hang from pots and even though it’s relatively warm out, smoke swirls up and out of a chimney high, high overhead.

  What a waste, I think. So much wood and shingles, glass and brick… We could’ve repaired every home in our outpost and only just taken a nibble out of this—I don’t even know what to call it. I’d heard one of the Elders use the word “monstrosity” at some point in my life, and even though I thought it had something to do with a monster that they joked about crawling through the woods, it seems appropriate.

  The president’s house is a monster, and it makes me wonder why one family would ever need so much room.

  As we climb the steps up to the front door, Targon orders Miller and Mosley to stand guard on the porch. They don’t act like they’re fond of the idea, but orders are orders, and they stand in the rainy wind, at ease, with their arms behind their backs and chins high.

  Targon marches over and knocks on the door.

  Mosley catches my attention with a sharply whispered, “Mathers!” I look at him. He checks on Targon over his shoulder, then says, “What’re you really doing here? And don’t lie to me. I can tell something is going on. Scouts don’t get an invitation to the president’s house, ever.”

  I don’t answer the question he asks. To do so would cause too many problems too soon. Instead, I reply with a question of my own. “Will you fight to keep your freedom?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you do whatever it takes to keep chains off your wrists?”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise?”

  He smirks. “If a promise is worth anything these days, yeah.”

  Targon shouts, “Mathers, let’s go.” I glance over. The front door is open. Finn and Targon wait by it, accompanied by another soldier standing just inside the threshold.

  I whisper to Mosley, “If you’ll keep your promise, I’ll find you when I’m ready.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  Targon impatiently shouts again. “Mathers!”

  “Coming!” I say, leaving Mosley standing there, staring at me. Inside his mind, drifting through a haze of thoughts, I hear him thinking, I hope I’ll have a chance to show her later.

  I look back and almost ask him what he means, then catch my words. I don’t want to freak him out, not yet anyway.

  When I reach the door—it feels like miles across the porch—Targon says, “Mathers, this is Sergeant Ellison, head of President Larson’s household guard detail. He’ll be escorting us inside.”

  I snap to attention and salute him. Sergeant Ellison is short with broad shoulders and a jawline that’s square like a window. He has untrusting eyes and a uniform so expertly pressed that he could slice butter with the creases. For once, I intentionally try to hear what’s going on in his mind, and I’m actually sort of surprised when it doesn’t work.

  Which means there’s nothing going on in there or he’s really good at hiding his true intentions.

  Or, perhaps that ability isn’t quite fully functional yet.

  Either way, I can feel him questioning me with his eyes—Finn, too, is noticeably uncomfortable under the glare of Ellison.

  He says, “Captain Targon, sir, again…I’m sure you’re aware that this is highly unconventional, especially with the president in his current state. Big day tomorrow.”

  “We’re all well aware, Sergeant. You have a job to do—I’m aware of that—but seeing as how what we have to say to him might entirely alter his opinion of the matter, I suggest you get us in front of the president five minutes ago.”

  Sergeant Ellison takes a deep breath and nods, relenting. “Aye, sir. This way.”

  We step into the home and I’m immediately bombarded with bright lights and warm colors, the smell of coffee and a wooden floor so shiny, I can almost see my reflection in it. I’m amazed that they managed to do such a thing. Our floors back home were made of dried oak—rough and full of splinters. Targon’s boots squeak as we walk across it, and he pauses to wipe his feet on a rug. I’ve only even seen one of those before, and that was in General Chief Hawkins’s former home. This one looks like someone took a lot of time and care to make it beautiful.

  Sergeant Ellison sees Targon wipe his boots and offers a surly stare. Targon shrugs and we keep walking.

  It’s nearly midnight but well dressed people are scurrying around, carrying boxes, throwing blankets over chairs and covering pictures with plastic. The men have on black pants, white shirts, and white jackets, along with shoes free of dirt and grime. The women wear black dresses with white aprons, cute little hats on their heads and hosiery that most women back in my encampment would’ve laughed at for the sheer ridiculousness.

  Targon says, “Getting prepped for the exit, huh?”

  Sergeant Ellison flicks his chin toward a tall, lanky, elderly gentleman carefully pulling a painting down off the wall. “Come tomorrow, old Crabtree and his staff will be nothing more than livestock driven north, just like the rest of us. By God, if it were up to me, I’d tell President Larson to go to hell and we’d fight them off. I’d rather die a free man than live as a servant to a corrupt politician.”

  I hide my grin behind a cough. As untrusting and snide as Ellison may appear, I like the way he thinks. He could fight for us.

  However, four people against an army, regardless of whether two of them are Kinders, would be like an ant nipping at the heel of a black bear. We’re going to need more, and my only hope is that President Larson will change his mind about handing over the PRV in exchange for better treatment.

  Is that realistic hope or the naïve dreaming of a child?

  Chapter
7

  Growing up, the Elders in our encampment, Grandfather included, accused me of two things. The first was being too mature for my age. They always said it like it was a bad thing, that I should’ve spent more time being a child, but when your parents disappear from your life and you’re forced to help care for an ailing grandfather, you grow up in a hurry.

  Not to mention the fact that you need to find food and supplies, you need to keep your clothes mended and your shelter stable, all without the help of an entire family. With most of my kin dead or gone, half of life’s responsibilities fell on my shoulders. I rarely had time to join the other children my age, playing games like Catch the Rabbit, when there was so much work to be done.

  And, as a result of that, it led to the second thing they accused me of—choosing to view the world through logical eyes when someone else is clearly operating on emotion. Maybe it’s why I butted heads with Hawkins so much, or maybe it’s why I never got along with the other girls while they were trying on dresses and giggling over the boys in our encampment who were so proud of the three hairs on their upper lips.

  “Accused” might be the wrong word, because the way I see it, both of those qualities saved the lives of a thousand people, if only for one more night before they are to spend the rest of their days in slavery.

  However, neither one of these traits come in handy while we stand in front of President Larson, completely and entirely perplexed that he’s so unwilling to listen to reason.

  Targon stands off to the side, hands behind his back with his chin resting on his chest. It’s a look of defeat. In fact, I’m surprised his eyes are open. He’s so useless to our cause that he might as well be asleep.

  Sergeant Ellison stares at us, mouth agape, and I can’t tell if he’s amazed by the incredible news regarding what Finn and I have revealed, or if he’s astonished that we were able to get ourselves in front of the president and tell him such ridiculous lies. I still can’t read the sergeant’s mind, and right now, that ability would come in handy.

  The library is open wide like a clearing in the woods. All the furniture has been cleaned out with the exception of President Larson’s desk. The emptiness makes it seem that much larger.

  General Chief Hawkins, who had the largest house in our encampment, would have easily been able to fit his entire home inside this one room. It smells like pipe tobacco and the remnants of dusty leather, two scents I’m familiar with due to salvage missions way back when.

  Grandfather told me that the smoke from pipe tobacco works its way into the wood of a home, and on hot summer days, when you’re scrounging for anything of use, the rainy humidity causes the old boards to bloat and release smells that have been trapped for a century or more.

  I remember the scent, those days with Grandfather, and I long for the past.

  Books, books, and more books line the shelves of all four walls—thousands of books and it makes me wonder what kind of history is contained within them—and above them are the mounted heads of whitetail deer and black bears. Flames pop and crackle in a stone fireplace nestled in the corner. It’s an odd placement, but who am I to judge? They do most things differently down here.

  President Larson paces behind a desk the size of a dinner table, shaking his head as he walks from one side to the other. His hair is white like cotton sheets—long and pulled back into a ponytail. His cheeks are shaved clean but it doesn’t make him look any younger the way the skin sags around the corners of his mouth. He’s wearing a purple robe over black, shiny pajamas.

  I had a pair of pajamas once. We traded them for a week’s worth of deer meat.

  His eyes are a shade of blue that reminds me of the sky peeking through clouds. They’re intense and distrusting.

  “No,” he says, “I will not have it. The arrangements are set and the papers signed. I will not send this republic into war simply because you children think you’re part of some silly experiment that died out two hundred years ago. I don’t believe it anyway. You two? Kinders? Ridiculous, and frankly, Ellison, I’m surprised that you let them inside.” The president turns on his head of guard detail and thrusts a finger at him. “If we weren’t marching north tomorrow, I’d have that badge ripped off of your uniform.”

  Sergeant Ellison closes his mouth and simply nods. “Of course, sir, I understand.”

  “And you,” President Larson says to Targon. “Guardian of the gates, huh? Allowing this riff-raff inside these city walls. You obviously weren’t thinking either, were you?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “There will be no excuses. None. Do you hear me?”

  “It’s not an excuse, sir. They’d taken a DAV captain prisoner—Tanner, I believe his name was—and…and I can’t even explain it, Mr. President. He confirmed their story.”

  “And you’d trust some blackcoat’s word? I put you in charge of the gate for a reason, Captain Targon, and that reason wasn’t to blindly believe every moron that had a story to tell.”

  Finn takes a step closer to the president’s desk. Sergeant Ellison holds out a hand as if to stop him. It’s shaky, and I can tell that he’s reconsidering, that he believes us, at least partially. Instead of grabbing the officer’s hand and slinging him across the library, Finn gently nudges it away. Ellison doesn’t resist, but from the corner of my eye, I see his hand resting on the handle of his firearm at his waist. He’s probably questioning whether or not that’ll do any good either.

  Finn says, “President Larson, sir, I understand how difficult this is for you to believe and we could go on and on, explaining our pasts, but it’s the truth. Caroline and I are Kinders. The last two on Earth and if you don’t believe our word, at least give us the opportunity to show you.”

  I stammer, “F-Finn, I’m not so sure—” I don’t know why I’m nervous, because the president isn’t necessarily someone I’ve revered, or generally knew much about over my lifetime. If he had walked into our encampment one day, I wouldn’t have known him to be anyone other than a lost traveler who was lucky he hadn’t gotten waylaid by a horde of Republicons. But, the way he’s pacing back and forth like an angry, cornered mountain lion gives me the sensation that he’s going to pounce at any moment, claws extended and fangs bared.

  “He needs to see, Caroline. We have to show him something.”

  “Young man,” President Larson says, “there’s nothing you can show me that will change my mind. I don’t care which senator put you up to this—it was probably that damn bleeding heart Willoughby, wasn’t it?”

  Finn shakes his head. “I don’t know who that is, sir.”

  “Somebody put you up to this. They’re trying, unsuccessfully I might add, to appeal to some sensitive side that I’ve never had. I mean, what in God’s name is this? Some zero hour appeal, some last ditch effort to change my mind? How utterly pathetic—whoever sent you…how utterly pathetic. Not that I’m entertaining the notion for a second, but even if you really are a Kinder and you floated off that floor and flew around the room, you aren’t listening to me.” His cheeks flush red and he pounds the desk with a fist, shouting, “The agreement has been settled. Crake and I have come to terms and you’re too young and too ignorant to understand how much bigger this is than a single person or two moronic children, traipsing in here with some ridiculous story about being superhumans. You don’t understand. You do not understand.”

  “We came here on our own, Mr. President. I promise you that, and you can’t just let the blackcoats march in here and take your people!”

  “I most certainly can, and I will. And do you want to know why? Do you? I’ll tell you why—it’s the smartest move, something you will never comprehend because you haven’t been in a position of power. You’re a bug under the heel of a boot and the DAV army is the one wearing it. We’re all pathetic bugs. If we tried to fight back, how many lives would be lost? How many families would be destroyed because we sent husbands and sons outside those gates, only to watch them march to their deaths? Answer me that. How many? Yo
u might think that the DAV commanders would be reluctant to murder their new property, but what’s a few thousand when you have another forty thousand remaining? They’re going to come and they’re going to take whatever they want, regardless of our capabilities. By surrendering my people, at least they’ll remain alive.”

  While I can sort of understand the logic in his reasoning, I’m reminded of what Targon told me earlier. It makes me angry, and I don’t care if the mountain lion pounces with his claws ready—we need to fight back. I say, “They’ll live their lives as slaves and you’ll never get your fingers dirty again, will you? You promised Crake fifty thousand pieces of property for what? A comfortable bed and no chains around your wrists, ever? What if he changes his mind? What if you’re stolen from underneath your warm blankets in the middle of the night and shoved down into a ditch with a shovel? Did you ever think of that?”

  President Larson shakes his head, but I see the flutter of uncertainty in his eyes when he says, “He wouldn’t. Men of a certain pedigree have respect for one another.”

  “Do they really?” My tone says everything he needs to comprehend where I’m going with this. “And besides, did you give your people a choice? Did you ask them if they wanted lives in chains or if they wanted to fight for their freedom?”

  President Larson scoffs and chuckles in disbelief. He leans forward on his desk, grinning at me with yellow teeth. “You think I would actually give those knuckle-dragging imbeciles a choice in how they live their lives? Especially when it comes to something this important? Mathers…these people eat themselves to death. They drink and smoke and screw their way into early graves, every single day, and you think they’re smart enough to contribute to a decision that will prevent all out war? You might as well give a dog the choice between licking his balls and chasing a cat into the path of a car. Maybe, maybe if you understood how big this could get, you could comprehend the enormity of my decision.”