A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  What a day.

  As I walk down to another store that sells emotigraphs, I have to ask myself . . . is this prettiness for me? Do I just want to impress Solomon’s friends or is this to impress Solomon?

  I don’t want to drift back into the selfishness that spurred on my biography.

  And why did I go along with those workers? Why didn’t I tell them about the Council’s lies? About the purpose behind my actions?

  I sigh and enter the emotigraph store. It’s small and cramped, with polished wood flooring, wooden shelving on every wall, and a wooden register stand. A narrow man stands behind it with thick glasses and a pointed nose. He doesn’t look up when I enter.

  The shelves are covered in stacks of thin emotigraphs and organized according to mood. Happiness, Encouragement, Anger, Motivation, Fear . . . Why would anyone buy a fear emotigraph?

  In the middle of the shop is a specialty stand with my X-book on display. It’s surrounded by stacks of emotigraphs–the pictures I sent to Skelley Chase. There’s the one I took when I was bleeding in the cave after the wolf attack. Grey with his wounded foot. My stitched-up leg. When I first saw Willow. A picture of Ivanhoe in three stacks.

  A lurch hits my throat and I look away. Those weren’t for entertainment.

  But what were they for? Why did I take them? How are they affecting people now? I hope they motivate people into action, but I can’t bring myself to believe it.

  In the corner is a bookstand under a sign reading Spiritual Wellness. Odd among the many emotigraphs, but this store seems geared toward emotions and inner health. Some of the books have scuffed corners or broken spines. A post above the stand reads, Trade-ins: 3 specie. At the bottom of the spiritual wellness shelf is a single Bible, crammed between Emotigraph Therapy and Calming Your Technological Spirit.

  A real Bible—leather and paper. I gasp and snatch it from the shelf. At last! The bottom corner displays the USE’s seal—a Wall and Clock—over a small sentence: Council approved.

  The door opens and two men walk in, browsing the romance section of emotigraphs. Yuck.

  I walk up to pay for the Bible.

  The clerk barely glances up from his NAB on the desk. “All trade-in books are three specie.”

  I’m glad he doesn’t ask for some sort of identification. I hand him three of my precious coins. They’re not a loss at all, but I’m a bit ashamed that this costs only three while the dress in the bag I carry cost three hundred.

  He looks at the coins, then frowns. “You’re from a Low City?”

  The coins are stamped with the USE symbol. Nothing on them would reveal my city status. “So?”

  He straightens and folds his arms. “I can’t take your coins. Where’s your wrist code?” That’s when he meets my eyes. His mouth opens and closes like a suffocating guppy.

  I struggle to maintain cool confidence. “Why can’t you take my specie? I promise it’s valid.” Is he really so prejudiced against Low Cities? Maybe he’ll give me the Bible for free, now that he recognizes me.

  “I don’t want to get mugged, Miss Blackwater.” He speaks in an undertone. “Best you find a bank to transfer that to your wrist code before someone mugs you.”

  I stuff the coins back in my pocket. “It’s money! You don’t take money?”

  He shrugs, but then his eyes alight on the Bible. “Where did you get this?”

  “Your trade-in shelf.”

  He snatches it off the counter and tosses it into a bin behind him. “I don’t sell Bibles. Someone snuck that on the shelf—not for the first time, mind you.”

  I half-reach for it. “Then just give it to me. I’ll get rid of it for you.” Please!

  “No. I’ll be burning it tonight.”

  “You can’t! I’ll give you as much specie as you want. You can’t refuse specie.”

  “No one’s carried the real thing in years.” He eyes me. “And no store’s accepted it for payment either. It keeps crime lower.”

  “Well, that’s not how it works in my village. People there don’t mug each other. We’ve got respect and order.” My gaze rests on the Bible lying in the bin. “Is there any way I can purchase that? It says it’s USE approved! I desperately need it. Can’t you take the coins to your bank? Or . . . or—” my stomach churns at the very idea, but I spew it out anyway, “—I could sign some of your emotigraphs.”

  The shopkeeper shakes his head. “Sorry, lady.”

  He doesn’t look sorry. He looks like he wants me out of his shop. The two men surveying the romance section shoot glances in my direction. I grip my bag of new clothing and stride out of the store, my chin held high but a burning in my eyes.

  My ears alert to the light shutting of a door behind me. I glance to my left, pretending to look in a store window, and catch the reflection of the two men from the shop directly behind me. Close behind me.

  I speed up.

  They speed up.

  “Leave me alone!” I break into a sprint, gripping the handle of my bag so tightly that my fingernails cut into the palm of my hand.

  I don’t hear running behind me. I enter the small square park at the base of Jude’s apartment building, where people recline on benches or sit on the grass. Only once I’m in the sight of witnesses do I look behind me. The two men are gone. Maybe they were never there.

  My heart hammers my eardrums. Am I paranoid? I catch my breath and then round the corner of the building to the entrance door. I enter the code Solomon told me this morning. The door unlocks and I step inside.

  An inch before it latches, fingers slide into the crack and swing it open. The men from the emotigraph shop step in. I careen backward until I hit the wall. This room is too small. To go up, I need to enter the elevator code. To go out, I need to pass them.

  “Good sunset,” one says in a voice that conveys things are anything but good.

  I shake my head, but my voice won’t work.

  “We don’t want a fuss.”

  I press firmer against the wall. That’s the only message he needs before he lunges forward and grabs my hair.

  “What do you want?” I screech.

  His friend hisses, “Hurry up.”

  The first man is yanking at the bag in my hands, but my money is in my pocket. I push at him and he slaps my hand away.

  “No,” I croak. “No, go away.”

  I’m weak. I’m pathetic. Why am I not fighting?

  Fight.

  I can’t.

  I must.

  I drop the clothing bag and shove my hand in his face. He reels backward. Escape. Escape. Escape.

  But he’s got his feet under him again. I thrust my hand into my pocket and pull out the pouch of money. “Here!”

  He stops.

  “Here,” I say again, calmer, holding it farther from my body. “I don’t care about specie, but clearly you need it.” My head spins. My vision is blurry. Just take the bag, mister.

  He lifts an eyebrow and yanks it from my fingers.

  My voice trembles, but I continue speaking, afraid that if I stop they’ll attack me again—this time for something else. “I don’t want it, I don’t. All I wanted was that Bible in the emotigraph store.”

  He glances in the bag. “This is all ya got? I thought ya were famous.”

  I shrug. “I haven’t seen a single coin from my biography. Skelley Chase kept it all for himself. Would you expect anything different? I’m Low-City scum.”

  They don’t say anything else, but after one last queer look, they both exit at a run. I stand for a long minute, swaying against a headache and trying to convince myself to be strong again. My money is gone. I gave it away.

  Why would I give it away? How will I buy a train ticket back to Unity Village? How will I eat?

  What a mess.

  Maybe it’s good. Maybe it’s just another s
tep toward becoming weaker and relying on God’s provision and strength. But why would He allow those guys to attack me?

  I crush a wave of anger and then find myself praying. That was . . . awful. Did You have a reason for that? Are those guys going to somehow turn to You now? Or maybe my little bit of money will get them on their feet.

  What else could I have said to those men? I could have told them I don’t blame them. I could have said something spiritual, like . . . like a Scripture. Instead, I sounded desperate, like every other victim I’m sure they’ve mugged.

  After three tries, I enter the elevator code and return to the apartment. I still have my new clothes. Let’s see if I can cover whatever bruising is cropping up on my face from the scuffle and make myself pretty for tomorrow’s illegal church hang-out.

  I blink against the hot tears threatening to fall. Those men made me grovel. But . . .

  I will not let them make me cry.

  11

  “Hey, it’s Jude’s girl!”

  A chorus of “Heys” breaks out, mainly in male voices, and a group converges—slapping Solomon on the back and pulling me into so many rough man-hugs I’ll never differentiate who gave which hug or whether or not I liked it.

  I’m not sure how I feel being called Jude’s girl, especially with Solomon next to me. I never thought of myself as Jude’s girl, even after our awkward declaration of attraction.

  I don’t look at Solomon.

  We’re in the basement of an abandoned industrial factory of sorts. Cement pillars form a labyrinth design holding up different portions of wall or ceiling throughout the room. They must have been painted at some point because a thin membrane peels in places off the beams.

  Two electronic screens have been slapped on opposite walls and programmed to send in what looks like real sunlight, even though it’s almost midnight. The massive, high-ceilinged room is still fairly dark. I imagine people lurking in the shadowed corners.

  Solomon and I arrived late. He said everyone tries to arrive at different times so we don’t draw attention to the location. With the amount of creeping and sneaky hiding we did to get here, I doubt anyone even saw us let alone connected us with the other people arriving over the course of an hour.

  I look around at the many faces. More men than women, but that might change by the time the meeting starts. I’ve never been around so many men my age—a pack of God-loving males who see me as famous. Who want to know me.

  The man who called me Jude’s girl comes up and puts his arm around my shoulder. “Gee, you’re a pretty little thing.”

  Gee, little and thing aren’t my favorite compliments. He has medium-length rust-colored hair held up in a spiked style by a thick belt cinched around his head. The belt shadows his eyes, but he leans close enough for me to see the playful smirk behind them.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He’s tall and smells incredibly manly. Baggy pants, a loose cut-off black shirt, and heavy boots. He’d do well in the West.

  “Parvin”—I’m surprised to hear a smile in Solomon’s voice—“this is Fight.”

  I rotate to look into Fight’s face. “That’s your name?”

  He shrugs and folds his arms. “Yup.”

  “Well, nice to meet you.” I almost offer my hand, but after he draped his muscular arm around me, I sense that a handshake will just make things awkward. What would fit nicely is coyness—a raise of my eyebrow, a sensual smile, a witty remark.

  I settle for silence and inch closer to Solomon.

  There’s a strange mystery behind Fight’s dominating personality . . . best viewed from afar, I think. Besides, I didn’t come here to play. Or to be fickle.

  A tall, thin girl with blond hair twisted back from her face strides into the building. “Hey all!”

  A smeared tattoo on the left side of her face looks like smoke. Both her ears have at least seven piercings. She wears a loose black tank top that shows off her midriff, and studded black straps crisscross up one arm for no apparent reason other than fashion.

  She wears rings and metal bolts for earrings, which match her necklace. Her tiny black skirt appears made up of woven belts.

  What is it with belt fashion?

  “You’re late, Idris,” Fight shouts.

  She stops in front of him, resting the strapped arm on her hip. “Only ’cause I was savin’ your hide, you lazy red-haired beacon.”

  “I’ve been here for two hours.”

  Her eyes narrow, revealing the dark eye makeup giving her such a fierce appearance. Or maybe she’s just fierce. “Yeah, and I’ve just spent two hours chattin’ with an Enforcer about complete nonsense, hoping he’d forget about the whole thing. He saw you, Fight. He saw you looking all cocky like you always are, and he followed you. I had to run into him like it was an accident, risking my own hide, and talk about the weather while dodging his kisses. You owe me some brain cells.”

  Fight laughs, pulls her tight against him, and plants a firm kiss right on her lips. “Done. They just transferred.”

  Her lips don’t smile, but her eyes do. She leans back and slaps his arm. “Shut up.”

  “Besides”—he shrugs—“you had your Clock with you.”

  She pats the top belt of her skirt and I see the glowing Numbers lining the thick leather—small enough that I can’t make them out, thank goodness. I don’t want to know anyone’s Numbers anymore.

  What is it with High-City people and their decorative Clocks? I’d never seen Numbers displayed differently until I found Solomon’s armband.

  “You bet I had it. The best-looking Clock in all of Prime, thank you very much. But that wasn’t the problem.” She pounds a finger in Fight’s chest. “You are. What if he’d followed you here? Where would we be?”

  That’s when she notices me and I suddenly wish I were taller, fiercer, and sexier. My black skirt and new top did exactly what I’d hoped—made me look dainty and stylish. But now I want to match this girl. This . . . warrior who stands up to Enforcers.

  “Hey, Enforcer.” She gives Solomon a quick hug. “Sorry about Jude, but we all knew it was coming. How you holding up?” He doesn’t even get a breath to answer before she says, “Never mind. Dumb question. And no, I’m not gonna ask about your face. But you look nicer without the tattoo. Is this Jude’s girl?”

  My name is Parvin, thank you very much. “Hey.”

  “I love all that shalom stuff.” She hugs me, too, in a clash of belts and leather. I don’t know what to say. I guess I expected a slug in the arm. “Heck, you’re brave.”

  “Oh, um . . .” I curl my loose hair behind my ear. “Well, thanks.” Can I be any wimpier?

  “Keep eet down,” someone hisses from behind the group. Everyone turns around. A teenage Hispanic boy sits against one of the cement pillars.

  “New guy?” Idris looks to Fight.

  “Yeah.” Fight walks over to the boy. “It’s nice and soundproof in here, man. We’ll be fine.”

  “Well, don’ be careless.” The boy scowls. “Soun’ like you been fine for a while. I was at Vault when Enforcers broke in. Got a bullet to the leg.”

  Fight kneels. “We’ll be careful. As Idris said, my cockiness got in the way.”

  Everybody settles into a place on the floor against a wall or pillar. Solomon and I sit against the wall across from Idris and Fight. Those in the darker corners scoot closer.

  “All right everyone,” Fight says. “What’s been happening in—”

  “I want to hear from Parvin.” This from Idris.

  I jolt back against the concrete wall, as if to escape the request. The chill in the cement becomes one with my emotions. No. No thanks. I don’t want to speak.

  SPEAK.

  No. Not now. Not yet. I’m going to speak in front of the Council tomorrow, isn’t that enough?

  I look to Solomon, but he doe
sn’t say anything. Why should he? The silence mounts. I clear my throat. “Wh-what do you want me to say?”

  “Well, what are you doing here? What’s up with your connection to the Council? I mean, Solomon brought you, so you must be trustworthy, but I’m curious. What happened to Willow? What did you discover about God? Is there religious freedom in the West? How can we get there?”

  Solomon holds up his hands. “Calm down, Idris. This is Parvin’s first time gathering with fellow believers. How about we have a Q&A afterward?”

  She folds her arms. “Fine.”

  No! How about instead Parvin gets to leave in peace after this? That’s my vote.

  “Okay”—Fight picks up where he got interrupted—“what’s been happening in the last week?”

  “I got caught.”

  I peer around Solomon to see the young woman who spoke. She’s sitting on a pillow with an arm in a sling and heavy bruising on her face. Her voice is thick. “The Enforcers found me housing a Radical. She and I were reading through the Bible . . . she was fourteen.”

  “Oh no,” Idris breathes.

  The woman nods. “I know it was careless, with her being underage and all, but she was curious. I couldn’t keep it from her. The Enforcers beat me and then took her away three days ago.” She starts to cry. “I am so afraid for her. I haven’t seen her since.”

  Light muttering surrounds her. Prayers, I realize. But before I can consider joining them, someone else starts.

  “My aunt and her family were killed on Monday.” Next to Fight, a middle-aged man with a high forehead and glasses closes his eyes as he speaks. “They lived in Neos, the Illinois High City, and had been sharing verses, talking about things that aren’t on the approved sermon lists. The Enforcers made her and her two sons dig their own graves, then shot them. Their deaths matched their Clocks, so they were ready. But it doesn’t make it much easier for me. At least it was for the Lord.”

  Fight lays his hand on the man’s arm and starts praying, low and intent. Idris joins them, and then several others. My throat burns. I had no idea this happened in the USE. These people aren’t even Radicals, they’re just believers–and still they’re attacked by the authorities. Even more so than Radicals.