by Lisa Henry
Rory smiled. Lowell smiled back.
Soon, Rory would be his.
Why didn’t he take the plea bargain?
“Oh, Rory,” Lowell sighed, and shook his head. “I just wish you’d come to me first.”
Such a generous man. A kind man.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and it nearly came out on a sob. “I’m so sorry.”
Tate had been sorry too. He’d begged for forgiveness, hadn’t he? He knew how much it ached, to have wronged someone. Ached so much he wanted to crawl on his belly on the floor like a worm.
Rory stared past Lowell. Past every face in the room—Ruth’s, and Zac’s, Mr. Mitchell’s, and Alexandra’s. Hers was wide-eyed and widemouthed, pale with shock. Rory found Tate’s face again. Tate would understand. Tate would help him. Tate would accept him, even though Rory had never truly accepted Tate. Now he did. Except Tate looked like he was frozen, his brows drawn together in a frown. His jaw was working, like there were words that he couldn’t force through his lips so he was chewing on them instead.
Lowell sighed loudly. “This is the tragedy of the outside world. The people there are so accustomed to crime and greed and injury that they fall so easily into their grip. These are good people, though. Just unfortunate.”
Rory nodded. Yes. He didn’t deserve Beulah. He was tainted. Filthy and dishonest, the bad world he came from rotting him from the ground up. He’d be damn lucky to stay here as a rezzy now.
And Tate? Was Tate lucky? Was Tate rotten too?
Tate had punched him in the face, but when Rory looked at him now, he didn’t see rot, didn’t see taint. He saw only a man—a man in pain.
“You understand the consequences of your actions, don’t you, Rory? You understand that because of your crimes and because you refused our customary plea bargain—costing the taxpayers money for this wasteful trial where you have no defense for you or your actions—you’ll serve lifetime restitution?”
“I understand,” Rory said. “I’m sorry for wasting taxpayer money and your—and everyone else’s—time.” The itch at the back of his skull was there again. It was sharper now, starting to dig in. Starting to hurt. And there was Tate, staring at him, but now he was . . . he was standing, mouth still working, hands gripping the bench in front of him so that his gold-brown knuckles were nearly white. “I have no defense.”
“Liar!”
For a second Rory didn’t know who’d shouted it, but then Tate yelled it again.
“Liar!” Tate raised a fist and pressed it against his temple. “He’s lying! I know him, I know him. He’s not a thief, not a criminal. He’s a good man, he’s a good man!” He squeezed his eyes shut, his head ticking sideways over and over. He was holding his head in both hands now. And then he said it, the word that was itching at the back of Rory’s mind, itching, itching . . . “The chip! It’s the chip! The chip! The chip lies! The chip . . . makes us slaves!”
The whole courtroom erupted in shouting, everyone rising from their seats, the judge shouting for order as the bailiffs rushed forward.
And in the middle of it all, Tate screamed, went as pale as death . . . and tumbled, twitching—no, seizing, he was seizing—right over the back of the bench in front of him and onto the floor.
he first thing Tate heard was crying. He forced his heavy eyelids open and stared up into the dimness at the shadowed white ceiling. The room was cold. It smelled of antiseptic. And his head . . . Fuck, his head was killing him. Like a hangover but a hundred times worse. Must have been a hell of a night. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.
He turned his head. There was someone in the bed beside his. Someone crying.
“Aaron?” he rasped.
There was a girl sitting beside Aaron’s bed, and she turned when Tate spoke. Alexandra. Tate remembered her from the courtroom yesterday.
“You’re awake,” she said. She looked very pale. “I’m glad.”
“What . . .” Tate squinted.
“You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
“What the fuck happened?”
Suddenly, Alexandra smiled. It was a weak, trembling smile, and it was tearful, but there was no mistaking the joy on her face. “You did it, Tate. I don’t know how you did it, but you overrode the chip’s programming, right there in the courtroom, right there with everyone who’s anyone watching. The justice saw. The media saw. The police saw. The people saw.”
Tate’s memories were fuzzy, but when he focused, when he closed his eyes and visualized, he could see them. Rory, sitting on the stand. Lying. Saying terrible things about himself that Tate knew weren’t true. Because he was a good man. Tate remembered that.
Except . . . Nausea rose in his gut. They’d fucked. Tate didn’t fuck guys but he had, hadn’t he? The disgust hit him hard.
“Oh fuck,” he said. “God.”
The sobs grew louder.
Aaron. Aaron was crying. He was curled up under the sheets, his back to Alexandra. Her hand was on his shoulder, stroking him distractedly, and he was vibrating.
Lowell had hurt him. Had hurt them both, but had hurt Aaron infinitely more. “Aaron—” Tate choked out.
Now, Alexandra’s smile broke apart and fell into a deep frown. “His chip’s out too. He’s been awake for a few hours but he won’t . . . he won’t talk to me.”
Shit. Tate couldn’t blame him. He’d seen the way Aaron had looked at her at the trial. “You knew him, before?”
She nodded.
Yeah, well. Tate wouldn’t want the girl he’d had a thing for to see him reduced to an object of pity, either. And it was more than a thing, he understood that now. At some time, Aaron had really cared about Alexandra. Even with the chip, Tate had seen it on his face.
Right now, Tate wasn’t even sure he could tell Paula. And if there was anyone who couldn’t or wouldn’t judge him or pity him, it would be her. She’d done some bad shit for drugs herself . . . and God, how he’d judged her then. He didn’t now.
Thinking of her triggered something else, another thing smothered under his sickening need to obey, nearly lost. Emmy. His eyes stung. He didn’t want to remember everything she meant to him, not now, but there she was, every fragment of feeling the chip had suppressed in him rushing back, and all of them about her. All that love and care and beauty, all flooding him at once, filling him with so much grief and regret that he thought he’d overflow.
And now he wasn’t sure he could ever stroke her hair again or kiss her skinned knees when the memory of everything that had happened since he’d left her felt so fucking filthy.
Tate squeezed his eyes shut. Not everything. Everything with Lowell, sure. But Rory had been different. Wasn’t fair to hate the guy for taking what Tate had offered so desperately. And it had felt good, mostly.
Okay, no. He didn’t want to think about that now. It was probably only the chip that made it feel good anyway. And in the grand scheme of things, Rory didn’t matter at all. Only Emmy did.
Emmy, who’d been the thing to bring him to this shithole in the first place.
Emmy, who needed the money he’d stolen for food and clothes because her mother couldn’t care for her and Tate was going to take her and give her a fresh start and—
Oh God. She was still out there with no one to care for her. How long had it been? How long had Tate been here, drugged by that fucking chip, suppressing what was important? For how long had he left Emmy alone?
“Alexandra,” he said, sitting up in bed too fast. His head spun, but he didn’t let himself lay back down. “Can I leave? Can I go? My daughter— I have a daughter. I have a daughter! She’s on the outside somewhere with no one to look after her.”
Alexandra’s hand stilled against Aaron’s shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s . . . unprecedented, what happened. The judge wants to talk to you. There’s a board of inquiry being set up. Most of the legal fraternity is saying that the chips can’t do what they did, but the judge said he won’t ignore your allegations without due p
rocess. He ordered your chips removed so he could be sure they weren’t interfering. You . . . you have to stay and tell the truth, Tate. We need you. All the rezzies, past and present, need you. Aaron needs you.” She bit her lip. “And you’re still a convicted criminal, I guess. A violent one. It’s all up in the air.” And then she gestured to the foot of his bed, where his ankle was cuffed to the rail.
“Oh God,” Tate choked out, covering his eyes, and suddenly he was crying as hard as Aaron. “Please, you have to help me! I have to get out of here!”
“It’s the middle of the night,” Alexandra told him. “The ARR are here undercover, guarding you both . . . and Rory too, but the hospital is probably crawling with people loyal to Lowell and the rest of his scumbags. You’re safe here for now, okay? And as soon as you stand up in front of the inquiry, this will be over. Whatever happens then, I’ll help you.” She bit her lip again. “The ARR, we have contacts on the outside. I can see if they can . . . if they can find your daughter for you. I can’t promise anything.”
“I’ll give you the address,” Tate said. “I’ll write it down for you. Please, can someone go there? See if my daughter's okay?”
Alexandra cast a look at Aaron, who hadn’t turned, hadn’t spoken at all. Just cried and trembled and made hoarse sounds. And then she nodded. “It’s the least I can do,” she said. “You saved him, after all. Although, saved him for what . . .” She got off the bed and bent down to pick up her bag. She took a pen and a notepad and handed them over to Tate. “Write it down. I’ll take it to someone in the group. You’ll be okay in the meantime. The medical staff here are good, and the nurse on your ward is one of us. She’ll keep an eye on you.”
“Okay.” Tate wrote Paula’s address down carefully, then handed the pad back to Alexandra. “Please. Please make sure someone does this.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, touching his cheek hesitantly. “You try to rest. And . . . look after Aaron for me, okay? You’re probably the only one who understands what it was like for him.”
No, Tate thought. Lowell was far crueler to him than he ever was to me. But he couldn’t tell her that. That was Aaron’s story to tell, his secret to reveal, when he was ready. Tate nodded instead.
Alexandra shot another worried look at Aaron and then left the room.
Tate closed his eyes again. His head was still aching, but he thought that maybe he could sleep. And maybe if he slept, he wouldn’t have to replay every awful memory in his head.
Or question why none of them seemed to be about Rory.
“Here’s how it’s going to be,” Aaron said suddenly.
“What?” Tate opened his eyes, surprised to find that Aaron was now facing him, lying on his side, eyes huge in the half dark of the room.
“That’s what he said. ‘Here’s how it’s going to be.’” Aaron shuddered. “I thought he was joking. I didn’t steal. Kept waiting for the punch line.” His face twisted, his voice choked with fresh tears. “‘Here’s how it’s going to be, Aaron.’”
Tate felt tears on his face too. “I’m sorry,” he managed to get out, even though it was meaningless.
Aaron shook his head. “Don’t be. To be honest, when you came, I was . . . I was relieved. A part of me, at least. A part of me was jealous—the chip, the chip made me jealous, afraid you were going to—”
“You don’t have to say it,” Tate whispered, and Aaron nodded, thankful.
“But a part of me, the real me, was relieved. Because I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t alone with that . . . monster anymore.” The strangled sound that escaped him was almost like a laugh. He threw the sheet off himself suddenly and yanked down the collar of his hospital gown to point to the tape on his chest, covering his nipples. “Look. They took them out. The plug too. I’m scarred there. Might need surgery even. Might never regain normal, normal . . .” He sucked in a shaking breath. “She knows. Alex heard them tell me. I’m glad she was there to protect me, but I hate that she knows. I wish she didn’t know.”
Tate didn’t know what to say.
“I was supposed to be her boyfriend,” Aaron said. “I thought I could be, anyway, if I was smart enough and stuff, and maybe learned more about politics, but she’ll never look at me like that again, will she? She’ll never look at me like I’m the kind of guy who can be clever and funny and strong, because she knows. She knows what he made me into.”
“She knows it’s not your fault.”
“Does it matter?”
“It has to,” Tate said. “It has to. Oh God.”
Aaron’s bed creaked, and suddenly he was in Tate’s bed, under Tate’s covers, hugging him tightly. And Tate told himself that it should have mattered, that this should have disgusted him a little—the memory of what had happened between them under Lowell’s command was sickening—but it didn’t, because maybe Alexandra was right. Maybe Tate was the only one who did understand Aaron, and maybe he needed some fucking comfort for himself right now, as well.
He hugged Aaron back, not caring if they were both crying and not caring if they were close enough that he could feel Aaron’s mouth against his neck. This wasn’t sexual. This was clinging on to someone who needed him, and someone he needed in return.
The things they’d done didn’t matter. Didn’t count. The sick things that Lowell had ordered.
But there had been other moments, when Lowell hadn’t been home. When Tate had reached out and held Aaron’s hand. When Aaron had leaned against him for support. When they’d touched, not accidentally, but because in those quiet moments when the fear and the pain fought back against the chip, a touch was necessary.
Tate closed his eyes. Hadn’t Rory given him those moments too? It hadn’t all been sexual with Rory. Sometimes it had been nice to just touch because they were friends and because, since they’d already fucked, it was stupid to keep barriers up. What use was personal space when a guy had put his dick up your ass?
He wondered what it would be like now with Rory. Without the chip. Would it be awful?
Rory was being kept in a separate room—that must be for a reason. Because they thought Tate might hate him? If that was the reason . . . Tate didn’t hate Rory. Couldn’t hate him. Maybe he didn’t want to think about him too hard, but that wasn’t the same as hate.
Oh God. Rory had been chipped. Tate hadn’t even acknowledged it before now. He must have been chipped, to have lied on the stand that way.
Had he been hurt, the way Tate and Aaron had, even in that short time? Did he have that matching scar? Cradling Aaron against him, Tate realized the only feeling he had for Rory now was concern.
ory had only had the chip for a short time, but when it was gone, it somehow left a gaping hole behind. Fear trickled in. He was stuck in a hospital room. He didn’t know where he was or what had happened exactly, and every time the door opened, he was afraid it would be Lowell. Or Tate.
There was a police officer at the door, and often another man came and sat inside. He was with the ARR, he whispered, although his badge said he was a nursing student. Rory didn’t know whether to believe he was ARR or not, or if the police officer knew. He felt a little safer with the guy there though. Every time Rory fell asleep, he was afraid he’d wake up changed.
He remembered the courtroom as though it was something he’d seen in a movie—from a distance. Something not quite real. He remembered the commotion after Tate’s collapse and Lowell’s strident denials. Too late for that, though. Far too late. In the interests of a fair trial, the judge had ordered the chips removed from Rory, Tate, and Aaron—Rory might have thought he’d dreamed that part, but the guy from the ARR had confirmed it quietly. Which made things precarious now. Made Rory’s heart race every time the door opened. Because no way in hell would Lowell let them speak against him. He’d lose everything, and a man like Lowell wasn’t going to give up his power so easily.
Where was Tate? And Aaron? Were they okay? Did they, too, have someone posted in their rooms to guard them?
They m
ust; Alexandra was here somewhere after all. She wouldn’t let Aaron out of her sight.
And Tate? Who was looking out for Tate?
It should be me.
But would Tate even want to see him, after everything?
In the end, it didn’t matter. Rory wasn’t allowed to leave his room, and Tate probably wasn’t, either. His only visitors were medical staff, the man from the ARR, and a very shell-shocked Cal Mitchell.
“I wouldn’t be surprised at all if you want different representation,” he said when he pulled a chair close to Rory’s bed. “This is all . . . well, incredible. It’s incredible. The chip really makes you lie?”
“It makes you want to please,” Rory said. The words were sour. “It makes you become a slave.”
Mitchell sucked in a sharp breath.
“What? Is there something wrong with using that word?” Of course there was, in enlightened Beulah. “What else do you call it when someone has no choice about anything they do?”
Mitchell bowed his head. “God. I told defendants to take the plea bargain.”
“You didn’t know.” Rory figured Mitchell was no more culpable than most other people in Beulah. And maybe he was even less culpable than Rory, who’d adapted so well to the whole rezzy system that he’d fucked Tate, and what was worse, gone on to debase him at Lowell’s house. Tortured him, just like Lowell had tortured Aaron. It didn’t matter that he’d thought Tate had wanted it. What did intent count when the harm was the same?
Mitchell lifted his gaze again. “The media is in a frenzy over this. Are you up to facing an inquiry panel? It won’t be public. Just a panel of justices.”
Rory’s stomach clenched. “Not Lowell?”
“No. Mr. Lowell is on administrative leave.”
Administrative leave. Not even under arrest for his corruption and crimes.
“Okay.” Rory nodded. “When?”
“They’re setting up now,” Mitchell said. “In a conference room here in the hospital. It was thought . . . prudent to do it quickly, and quietly.”
