“Now that you’re famous for vomiting in front of the cameras, you’re hanging out on the platform? Gutsy.”
I don’t have the energy to deal with taunting. “Leave me alone.”
“You are alone. Everyone feels awkward with you here.”
I slap the electrosheet on the platform, barely keeping myself from hitting him across the face with it. “Is that why you’re talking to me? You like being associated with the loner?”
“Naw, I’m here ’cause you’re hurting business. Besides, you should be thankful. I’m the first person in our village to talk to you outside of the Enforcers.” He slides one hip onto the platform, pushing aside my outstretched legs. “I’m curious about that stump you call an arm.”
“Curiosity killed the jerk.”
He’s unfazed. “So, how are you dealing with being a real Radical?”
“What’s it to you? You’re not a Radical. As I recall, you have only ten months left. Is my freakish memory accurate?”
His pinched face turns into a nasty scowl. “Shut up. Not like you’d understand, Empty Numbers. You’ve never known when you’ll zero-out.”
“I don’t want to know,” I snarl, but he’s already disappearing among the booths. I hit my fist on the platform.
Am I hurting business? Am I hurting my people? And do I really not want to know my Numbers? The assurance is tempting, but I know I’d start relying on it instead of God to direct my future.
I pick up The Daily Hemisphere electrosheet again and read the headline above Skelley Chase’s face.
CWDC Conducts Testing of New Clocks
There it is. They’re doing it already.
Below the headline is my name. I stare at it, trying to force my eyes to move on and read the article. Why is my name under a heading like this?
Parvin Blackwater, the lone survivor of the Wall as recorded in Skelley Chase’s X-book, A Time to Die, may have just altered the future of the USE. Per reports from the Citizen Welfare Development Council (CWDC), she returned from the West six days ago with astounding information about Clock-matching a person after conception.
It is common knowledge this has been impossible and has caused many unnecessary Radicals—Parvin Blackwater being one of them. We can only hope this new information might change the future of Clock-matching. Details behind how she gained this information are still undisclosed. The Council is instituting testing procedures with the new Clock invention. Further information will be shared with the public soon.
A stone-cold chill turns my next inhale into shards of ice. They’re testing the Clocks Jude invented . . . again. Are they using the orphans? Testing to see if they’ll die before their Clocks?
I close my eyes.
Not only are they going forward with the plan Jude feared, but they’re using me as imaginary support. They’re using my fame. The Council is giving me credit for the information they stole from Jude. What will they do next, charge me with his murder?
They could.
They could accuse me and no one with power would argue. Maybe that’s their plan. Maybe that’s why Elan Brickbat didn’t shoot me in the head. Maybe he’s preparing a more public execution.
Or maybe, they’re pinning it all on me so that if it goes awry, then they don’t take the blame.
Why, oh why did Jude give the assassin his information?
It’s the question I’ve loathed to ask myself all week because I’m afraid it will come down to one answer: because of me.
“Stop, Jude,” I’d said when the assassin threatened my life. “Don’t think about me.”
“I always think about you,” he’d responded. And that’s when I saw the decision in his eyes—the decision to give up all his protected information to the enemy.
Because of me . . . and because of something Solomon’s supposed to know, but doesn’t.
I clench my fist over my eyes. I never asked Jude to do that. I pleaded with him not to, but something in him must have thought the assassin could shorten my Clock. Something in him was willing to doom the world for the sake of my life.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Jude! Stupid Jude, whom I might have loved if he’d lived longer . . .
I force my fist away and stare up at the sun to distract me from these dark thoughts. I must not cry in front of my village, not in front of Dusten.
The post board on the side of the county building changes with a flicker, now revealing the headline I just read. My face is up there, too, next to Skelley Chase’s. Some people stop their bustling in the market to read the new information. There’s nothing I can do to stop them.
How will universal Clock-matching affect Unity? Registered Radicals come here because they like this style of life. Not everyone wants a Clock. I don’t want one, now that I see how much of a faith-crutch it was.
“I think you should leave.”
I startle at the low voice so near my ear. The milkman stands beside me, his hands tight around the handles of his pushcart. He has a heavy brow, thick eyebrows, and a droopy type of face. All his bottles are empty except three small ones. He wears a button-up shirt beneath a thick overcoat and his hair is nicely combed to the side.
“Leave?” I lower the electrosheet.
He doesn’t look at my face, but I know his glare is directed toward me. “Get out of Unity Village. Leave us alone. You’ve brought only trouble and death.” He speaks in undertones, deep in his throat.
I’m not sure what to say to the man I used to wave to in the mornings. “I-I didn’t mean to cause any harm.”
He drops the handles of his pushcart, grabs the shoulder of my coat and yanks me off the platform. I stumble into him, my pack swinging wildly on the crook of my bad arm.
“Leave!” He throws me into the mud.
I careen backward and land on my side. My pack flies off my arm, tumbling somewhere behind me, and sludge covers the right side of my face. The clamor of the market goes still. Everyone is looking at me lying in the grime with one hand and a tainted reputation.
The milkman kicks a splatter of mud at me. “Get out of here! Go on!”
I scramble to my feet. “I’m not a dog!” The words come out choked and teary. Oh no, there are tears.
“You might as well be!”
A tomato smashes into my temple, its cold pulp mixing with the mud. “Yeah, go away!” someone yells from behind a booth. Another tomato hits me in the chest. “We’re not safe here anymore now that you’ve turned the government’s eye on us.”
I’m here to help you!
The milkman shoves me again. I stumble too slow, slam against the wood of the hearing platform, and fall again. I don’t plan to get up this time. I’m sobbing so hard that words are too distant a thought to make it to my mouth.
“What is going on?” A new, familiar voice breaks into the clamor. It’s angry and loud—louder than I’ve ever heard him before.
Heavy black leather boots step in between me and the milkman. I can’t stop sobbing long enough to look higher than the boots, but I know who they belong to.
“Sure, protect her, Oliver,” the milkman says. “But we saw you hide away when her story came out. Even you are frightened.”
“Yes, I am frightened,” Father shouts. “I am frightened by your disunity. If you think danger has come to our village, it is among ourselves, not from the government.”
“Not yet.” The milkman sneers.
Father’s rough woodworking hands curl around my shoulders, lifting me out of the mud. “Come with me, sweetheart.”
I cling to his coat with my mud-slicked hand, forcing my legs to support my crumpled form. Someone loops my pack over my other shoulder. I look up.
Solomon.
He is breathing hard and doesn’t meet my eyes. That doesn’t stop me from seeing the fire behind his—that same fire I once saw when he argued for my
freedom six months ago. He finishes tying the flap of my pack closed and then wipes a thumb over my cheek. It comes away covered in mud.
Father leads me out of the square toward the woodshop.
“Don’t expect milk on your doorstep anymore, Oliver!” the milkman hollers from behind us. “No matter how much you vow to pay me, I won’t support this.”
We round the corner. Finally, we reach the back of the woodshop where I release Father and slide to the ground, crying into my knees harder than my lungs will allow. Gasping. Choking. Shuddering breaths.
Father sits beside me, pulling my pack off and then cradling my head against his shoulder. “Shhh,” he says in his deep whiskery voice. “Shhhh.”
I don’t quiet for a long time. All I feel is the suffocating blanket of my peoples’ hatred. They hate me. They hate me, yet I love them and fear for them. Why?
Why do I not hate them?
“What have I done?” I can’t fix this. I am nothing.
“You’ve done what they’re too afraid to do.”
I sniff. “What’s that?”
His hand tightens around my shoulders and his voice comes out in a rasp. “Lived.”
7
I don’t tell Mother or Tawny what happened at the market, but for some reason they’ve become more cordial toward me—Mother being more human and Tawny being more like a sister than an evil witch. Did Father say something to them?
Reid’s journal disappeared. I hope Tawny is reading it.
I avoid the market the next day, but I want to find Solomon. It will be an embarrassing and shameful encounter—especially after yesterday’s incident—but I have to talk to him about the article in The Daily Hemisphere. The Council is using me to represent their corruption. My village thinks I’m on the government’s side. Now that I’m free of house arrest, I need to do something about this.
I refuse to be used again, the way Skelley Chase used me. Not by anyone. I’m the only one who can fight for myself. I must be like Reid. After all, he’s not here to be the example anymore.
The Wall closure is temporary. Soon there will be more Radical killings. Only I can help them, though I still haven’t figured out how. So many problems and I seem to be the only one who sees them.
Solomon wants me to speak to the people, but after yesterday . . . I can’t. I can’t even think about it, despite my calling.
I’m supposed to protect and save them but . . . they don’t want to be saved. So is that still my calling then? I shake the thoughts from my head. They hurt. They’re heavy, and I’m too weak.
Maybe the strength will come tomorrow.
I visit the Newton’s old house. Is Solomon home? Will he be able to talk or will he still be under the power of his Testimony Log? I need to move forward, and he is the key.
What will he say about yesterday? How much did he see?
I care that he saw. I wish he didn’t. Does he think I gave the Council Jude’s information? Does he think I’m bringing danger to my village with all this attention?
I stand on the doorstep a few minutes. Should I knock? Surely we’re at a level of friendship where I can knock on his door. Surely.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
I almost flee, but instead force myself to stand and wait. I practice a few smiles. They all feel fake. The door doesn’t open. I knock again. Nothing.
Maybe he’s at the containment center. Maybe, now that I’m free, I can visit Willow.
The Lead Enforcer, Sachem, is behind the entry desk. He glances up from his NAB when I enter. “Get out of here.”
I fold my arms. “I’m here to visit Willow.”
He looks back down at his NAB. “Get out.”
“Please, sir. She’s the only friend I have and I promised to watch out for her.” I need to know what the Council plans to do with her.
His chair squeaks as he leans back. “You’re going to get your friends killed if you keep pushing your limits. Enforcer Hawke was a great resource for this town before he started up with you.”
My mouth goes dry. “Was? H-He’s still a great Enforcer.”
“Not anymore.” The way Sachem says this brings goose bumps to my arms.
“What do you mean?” Something’s wrong. I start to shake and I can’t place why.
Sachem pinches the bridge of his nose and then rubs his eyes. “He was stripped of his Enforcerhood yesterday for disloyalty and subversion.”
“Parvin!” Willow shouts from down the cell hall. “Parvin, they hurt the Hawke!” Her voice is tiny, but might as well be a gong to my nerves.
“Where is he?” I growl at Sachem. He stands and rounds his desk, heat in his eyes. “Willow!” I back toward the exit. “I haven’t forgotten you!”
Sachem reaches for my arm, but before he can touch me I hurtle out of the containment center. I fly through the market, ignoring the undecipherable shouts that follow me, and round the corner of Straight Street gasping for breath.
Solomon was stripped of his Enforcerhood? Was it my fault?
I pound on Solomon’s door, forgetting even to be nervous about visiting him. “Hawke?”
What does it mean to have one’s Enforcerhood stripped away? I pound again. “Solomon Hawke!” It comes out as a scream. This is Jude all over again—getting a concussion, having his arm amputated by the albinos, putting the assassin’s pirate chip into his skull.
I’m helpless.
I wrestle with the door latch. It’s locked or stuck. I slam into the door with my shoulder. Once. Twice. Three times. I am met by the crunch of breaking wood. Good thing it wasn’t one of Father’s latches—I never would have broken through.
The door swings open. I stumble through an entry, into the kitchen that is far wider than ours. The house is frigid, no warmer than outside. A plate of crusty day-old food sits on the table. The fork lies on the ground. Two chairs and a rough bench rest on their sides. Candlesticks are crushed and smeared into the wood floor, as if they were stepped on in a scuffle.
“Solomon?” My pulse batters every centimeter of my skin. Ringing inhibits my hearing. A stench reaches my nose—old blood. I gag.
A hallway in the back leads to three different doors. One is cracked open. I trip over a crooked chair on my way and fall through the first door on the right.
There he is, lying on a wooden cot with a thin cotton mattress. The lone blanket has fallen to the floor, revealing his body in nothing but a sleeveless white undershirt and thin shorts that are probably his underwear.
Both are soaked in blood.
I swear every bit of exposed skin is swollen with green, purple, and black bruises, many of which have cracked, leaving trails of dried blood down his body onto the floor.
The worst part is his face. It’s turned toward me, but his eyes are so swollen they couldn’t open even if he wanted to look at me. The entire left side of his face is covered in thick blood, dried enough that it’s almost black. Pools of it lie in the corner of his eye, on his cheek, in his ear.
My knees buckle, but I grab the shadowed dresser beside me and pull my body back up. Trembling, I toss the blanket over his body before dashing out of his house, knocking chairs aside in my wake.
“Mother!” I’m screaming her name before I’m even in the house. “Mother! Tawny!”
They burst from their rooms just as I enter and bang my knee against my own cot.
“It’s Hawke!” I feel my face crumpling. I mustn’t let it. I need to hold it together long enough to talk. “He-he’s been . . . a-and there’s blood . . . everywhere.” I’m losing it. “I-I don’t know . . .” My gasping comes stronger, more desperate. “Help! Please, he’s d-dying!” I can’t say dead, even though that’s what I fear.
Without waiting for a reply, I run back to Solomon’s house.
God, please pull Tawny and Mother out of their grieving. I need their he
lp. I need Your help.
When I’m back at his side, I light a candle found on his dresser. The moment the wick catches fire I wish I hadn’t thought of light. It reveals the full extent of his injuries. He’s paler than a full moon. His dark blond hair sticks to his forehead from sweat.
Sweat. He must be alive.
“Hawke.” I clear my throat. “Solomon.” I take his limp hand in mine. My fingers brush against rough skin. I turn over his hand and stare at his lacerated palm. His other hand is the same, as if someone repeatedly shoved him to the ground.
What do I do? What do I do?
This strong Enforcer is dying. The man who fought for me. The man who sent his brother to save me in the West.
I care for Solomon Hawke. Maybe not in the same way I cared for Jude . . . not yet, anyway. But I care enough that I will be crushed if he dies. I’ll be alone. He’s the only other one who shared my story with me. Everyone else is an outsider.
Mother enters the room, holding a cloth to her nose and another damp one in her hand. Tawny stands in the doorway, her eyes wide and her hands over her mouth. It takes me one glance to realize she’ll be no help at all.
If only Willow were here. She and Mother would make a vicious healing team.
Mother seems to realize Tawny shouldn’t be present. “Go fetch Oliver.”
Tawny flees.
“What happened?” In this moment of trauma, Mother’s as normal as she ever was before these six months of madness started.
My voice—thank you, God—comes out collected and determined. “The Lead Enforcer said Solomon was stripped of his Enforcerhood for disloyalty and . . . and something else. Subvi . . . sub . . . subversion, I think.”
Her eyes widen and she presses the damp cloth to the left side of his face.
“Mother, how bad is it?”
She takes a deep breath, then seems to fight a gag. “It’s good that you found him today.” Her fingers turn red as the blood moistens and seeps through the cloth. “Did you locate his Clock?”
I choke on my own saliva. “No, I forgot.” How could I forget? It’s as if, now that I’m a Radical, I’ve completely overlooked the role of the Clocks and the information they can give.
A Time to Speak Page 9
