Lastly, I read my blackmail message. It seems so amateur now.
My nerves stretch tight. Calm down. People are praying for me right now. At least, I hope they are. Idris, Solomon, and Fight. I’m not alone.
I think back to their call to step out. I like the idea of sacrificing for God. It’d be nice to have that much zeal. Is that what I’m doing right now?
Not really. I’m a sheep walking in to slaughter, but who else do the Radicals have to fight for them? No one.
And that’s worth dying for.
“The Council will see you now.” The receptionist points to a heavy metal door on my left.
I feel mildly like I’m at the county building on Assessment Day again, but this is worse. Much worse.
“Thank you,” I rasp.
I step up to the door. It has no handle, but slides open when I’m an inch away from touching it. Inside is dark, almost black, but I step forward anyway. Before my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I’m assaulted by a strong, heart-stopping scent—a tangy sour smell that brings to mind a bored smile and a warbled voice.
Lemon.
My eyes adjust and the first thing I see is a green fedora on the opposite side of the room.
Skelley Chase smiles. “Come in, Parvin.”
13
My first impulse is to cry.
I don’t.
This awful surprise—on top of my fears—obliterates my anxiety and turns me to stone. Even if all is lost, I will do what I must, because I am up against all odds. That’s when God thrives.
The door zips shut behind me.
“I should have known you were part of the Council.” My voice is strong. In command.
Skelley Chase leans back in his chair. “Yes, you should have.”
It makes so much sense. His involvement in my story—how else could he have published such a rebellious biography?—his demands that I journal about every person I met in the West, his lack of punishment for shooting Reid.
I cannot let this distract me.
The room is a circle and I am at the edge. Five black chairs line the walls of the room, each with a person in it. Skelley Chase is directly across from me. To his right is Elan Brickbat in a suit so white it glows.
Closest to me, on my left, is man I don’t recognize. To my right sits a woman with smooth hair that curls at the base of her neck. I can’t tell what color it is in this dark lighting, but no matter. It’s her curious face with raised eyebrows that gives me hope. She might be one to listen.
Last, to Skelley Chase’s left, is the president of the USE, Ethan L. Garraty. His face is easily the kindest in the room, though he doesn’t look very aware or involved in the situation.
I stand tall. “Where’s Willow?”
“Not dead,” Brickbat says in his wet, throaty voice. “Yet.”
“She was supposed to be here. Those were my terms.”
“You have no leverage to make any terms.” Skelley Chase examines his fingernails. A thin metal cord encircles his wrist, not decorative enough to be a bracelet.
He’s speaking to me. The murderer. The betrayer. “Why did you shoot Reid?” The question is out of my mouth before logic can reel it back. I look only at Skelley Chase. My voice breaks. “Why? I did what you asked.”
For the first time since meeting him, I see something other than arrogance and boredom. It’s a flinch, a tiny twitch by his left eye. It almost looks like regret. Then it’s gone.
From my sight, but not from my mind.
My hand and sentra still in my pocket, I snap an emotigraph. He trained me well.
“Irrelevant.”
I’m back in Faveurs with him, being “completely open” as he demanded I once be. He can’t wave this question away. Not now. “It’s completely relevant. Why did you shoot him?”
“We needed your face, Parvin. The public respects you.”
“So you could use me as your poster child? Tack me up with lies? Not good enough, Mr. Chase.”
He leans forward in his chair. “I gave you a second chance. Your brother was ready to die. You weren’t.”
My fist clenches. “Yes, I was. Still not good enough, Mr. Chase.”
He looks away. “I have no reason to provide you with an explanation—”
“You have every reason!” He owes this to me. And he knows it. That eye flinch gave him away. “Tell me!”
His gaze snaps back to mine. “The Council needs you—”
“—Not good enough!”
“The public needed you—”
“—Still not good enough, Skelley!”
He leaps from his seat. “I needed you to live!”
There it is. I broke him. Sweat glimmers beneath the brim of his hat and the single light in the ceiling. There’s my answer.
He needed me to live.
No, that can’t be right. That sounds personal, like he cares about me. That’s impossible. He shot my brother. People who care about others don’t shoot innocent people.
Skelley sinks back to his chair and clears his throat. “I needed you to live, for the Council’s reasons.”
Nice save, but it’s not working. President Garraty stares at Skelley, eyes wide, as if he’s never seen him lose his cool. I broke him within five minutes of being in the room.
How?
“Why did you need me to live?”
Brickbat cracks a thumb knuckle. “We have jobs for you.”
I let loose a defiant laugh. “No thanks.”
“Let me remind you, Miss Blackwater, just how easy it would be for us to dispose of you.”
“No reminder needed, thank you.”
“You don’t understand. By you I mean Radicals. You threaten to blackmail us, but your . . . boldness, shall we call it? . . . has bumped your precious village up on our list. We have something special planned for your little Low Cities. I think you ought to listen to us.”
He’s tearing through my wall of courage. What does he plan to do to Unity? “You don’t control me.”
Skelley leans forward and steeples his fingers. “You still don’t get it, Parvin. You’ve been our tool from the start. This is no new thing. You’ve played along, obeyed, and delivered information whenever we wanted it.”
His confidence is back. Maybe he’s trying to scare me because I cracked him for a moment. “I’ve never been your tool.”
He smiles. “Oh really? Let me enlighten you. I came to Unity Village to find out more about Jude Hawke from his brother, Solomon. I believe you know him? Well, through . . . providential circumstances, I met you—an inconsequential Last Year teenager with desires to save and discover the world. As a side interest, I took on your project to monitor your rebellion. I knew that if I didn’t monitor it, you might connect with that troublemaking Enforcer and his brother.”
A trickle of dread worms its way down my spine.
“When Solomon Hawke fought for your freedom, it was the perfect window. I sent him to ‘inspect’ your nano-book. I knew full well he’d gather your information for contact later.”
Skelley stands. “Then, when in the West, the two of you led us straight to Jude. Every journal entry you sent me was forwarded straight to our sniper. To him, following you was like tracking an elephant.”
With every sentence, he moves a step closer. “Jude gave us the information we wanted . . . all because of you. Don’t you see?” I’m backed against the wall now. “Your quest for shalom, your pursuit of rightness, has accomplished everything we wanted. You . . . are controllable.”
I stare at him, my inner horror freezing my limbs. He’s delivered the ultimate insult and he knows it. Controllable—everything I don’t want to be.
It was my fault. All of it.
Skelley sits back down, his smirk plastered on his face.
Brickbat yawns and p
icks up where he left off. “If you don’t cooperate with us, we will kill Miss Willow.”
Solomon was right, they’re using her as leverage. “You can’t kill her.” My voice comes out small. “You can’t control anyone’s Numbers.”
Brickbat’s face turns red. “Says the girl who watched us control her brother’s Numbers.”
“Reid knew he was going to die. He was ready. He chose to die.” These words sound very similar to when Solomon said Jude chose his death.
“Do you really want us to try to kill your little albino?” Brickbat speaks just short of a shout, his voice suffocating beneath the gurgle in his throat. He needs anger management. “We’re all curious how this new Clock will work on her.”
“You have no right to her. She’s not a citizen of this country.”
Brickbat smiles. Skelley doesn’t have his smirk on anymore. President Garraty stares at his shoes.
“She’s an illegal trespasser”–the woman’s voice is low and smooth–“with no parents or guardians. She is under our care for investigation. She is considered an orphan.”
“I am her guardian! And she has parents in the West.”
“An eighteen-year-old cannot have charge of a child,” Skelley says. “Parvin, you need to cooperate.”
“Why, so I can be controllable?” I throw my arms up. “You can’t use Jude’s invention. You stole it from him, murdered him, and tortured orphans. If you kill Willow, if you use Jude’s invention, I will spread all of that information across the press.”
I’m threatening them back. It’s my only defense. Otherwise Willow will be doomed. God, what do I do?
Everyone is silent for a moment. I stare into each of their eyes, except President Garraty’s, because he’s looking at the floor. “Mr. President?”
He looks up at me.
“You are the leader of our country, don’t you have anything to say?”
His eyes dart between the other Council members. Skelley folds his hands in his lap. “President Garraty is the voice to our country. Presidents are chosen from a seat on the Council, but all decisions are made by the Council as a whole.”
By whole, he means by him or Brickbat, because President Garraty doesn’t look like the type of person to stand up or argue for anything. More deceit. More lies.
“Does the public know that?”
“Of course it does.” Brickbat spits the words at me. “How do you think we received positions on the Council? The public also senses that this new Clock-matching will tremendously help our nation.”
“By help you mean eradicate all Radicals.”
“Of course.” Skelley stops Brickbat from what was sure to be a scream of frustration. “Radicals weaken the system. They deplete our resources. It’s because of them that we even need Openings in the Wall. Once everyone is Clock-matched we can fill in Opening Three. No one need ever go through it again.”
He fixes me with a firm stare. “It’s what you wanted all along, Parvin.”
My throat closes. Fill in Opening Three? That’s my gateway to freedom! If the Council closes passage through the Wall, we’ll be trapped in the USE forever. I’ll never get back to Ivanhoe, Willow will never get home, and believers like Idris and Fight will always have to hide to worship God.
I shake my head. “What I want is unity between Radicals and Clocked people. I want unity between the USE and the West side of the Wall. I want the barriers torn down!”
“We’re giving the people freedom.”
I stand straighter, my arms stiff at my side. “No, you’re taking away our choice!”
Brickbat shouts so loud, I jump. “You’re forgetting your little albino girl! Shut up and cooperate or she’s dead. And so is your Enforcer friend.”
“You’re forgetting that I’ll go public.” My voice is weak, the threat feeble. I can’t leave Willow to Brickbat’s whims.
Skelley chuckles. “Parvin, I think you’ll find it a little hard to get the press to listen to you.”
They don’t know about my offer from Gabbie Kenard. I can write anything. They don’t know the power I have. “You’d be surprised, Mr. Chase.”
Hands grip my arms and I startle. Enforcers are on either side of me—the largest, tallest, strongest Enforcers I’ve ever seen. They melted out of the shadows. Have they been here the whole time? Their hands squeeze, tighter, bruising.
“Surprised?” Skelley smirks.
They rummage in my bag, jostling me. “Stop! You have no right to touch my things!”
“You’re a Radical, Parvin. We have whatever rights we want.”
“I’m a registered Radical! I’m completely legal and protected by the law.”
“Radicals—registered or unregistered—have no rights any longer. The world is changing . . . all thanks to you.”
An Enforcer hand emerges with my NAB. He flings it across the room and Skelley catches it with one hand. “Besides, I bought this for you. It’s always been on lend. Now I want it returned.”
“Give that back!” My connection . . . my only connection to Gabbie Kenard and to fulfilling my blackmail threats, is in his hands. All the messages I ever wrote to Solomon, all my journal entries written in private anguish on the West side, are now his.
Brickbat clears his throat. “Gabbie Kenard no longer works with The Daily Hemisphere.”
Did he read my thoughts?
“In fact, you might not ever hear from her again. Same with your little Willow.”
I sag and the Enforcers hold me up with their hands of steel. Giving in to the bruises is the least of my worries now. What was I thinking?
“What do you want?” My voice is empty.
Skelley seems to be done talking. He opens my NAB and the blue glow lights up his bored face. Brickbat rubs an eyebrow with his forefinger and crosses his legs. “First, tell us about the man who made your Vitality suit—Wilbur Sherrod.”
I didn’t expect this. Wilbur Sherrod is an old memory. I can’t even remember the names of all the suits I tried. “That’s all I know about him—he made the suit.”
“What other suits did he make?”
I try to jerk a shoulder out of the Enforcer’s grasp. It doesn’t work. “I won’t give you any information unless you promise not to use Jude’s Clocks and to set Willow free.”
But their promise would mean nothing to me. Perhaps they know that, because they don’t give it.
“Next, we want you to be the first privileged citizen to be Clock-matched with our new invention—”
“You’re not listening!” I bite the inside of my cheek, but panic simmers on my skin. Clock-matched? Me? I’m too weak in my faith to have Numbers again. I can’t have a Clock or I’ll start trusting God less. I can’t give in.
But they have everything—my NAB, Willow, Jude’s invention.
God is stronger than Clocks. I don’t have to let it change me. Do I even have a choice?
YES.
I sigh. I do have a choice and I know what it is. I can’t give Willow up because of my own weak faith. I have to cooperate . . . and I’ll have to trust that God has a reason for this.
“If I cooperate, will you send Willow back across the Wall?”
Brickbat sneers. “No.”
“Why not? You’re going to close up Opening Three anyway!”
“If you cooperate, she’ll return to the government-run orphanage we’ve chosen for her.”
Which means she’ll remain under their power. They’ll still use her to blackmail me. But I’ve gained one thing from this: she’s at an orphanage. Now I’ll know where to start looking when I start my rescue mission.
“Okay.” It comes out as little more than a croak.
Brickbat gives a single nod and the Enforcers haul me out of the room. Before the door zips shut, his voice echoes with a parting sentence: “I’ll say hello to
Willow for you. Personally.”
14
I sit in a fake doctor’s office with a helmet of needles next to me.
I’m on a film set that looks like a sterile yet welcoming High-City hospital room. Workers set up filming equipment. Enforcers pour in and take their positions near every entry and exit.
The frenzy frightens me, so I close my eyes “I didn’t know this would be filmed.”
“Of course.”
I open my eyes to see Skelley standing there. I want to smack the nasty grin off his face.
“Your story needs to be told, remember?”
“You’ll say nothing,” Brickbat growls.
Skelley shrugs. “It doesn’t matter if she does. This isn’t being filmed live. We can cut out anything we don’t like.”
It’s happening too fast.
Breathe deep. I’m not alone, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. Even terrified.
Brickbat sets a thin metal cord on a tray beside the strange wiry helmet mechanism. The cord is like the one around his own wrist, around Skelley’s wrist. I’m trembling. Stop it. Stop looking at that freaky helmet.
The only thing that keeps me in my seat is the thought of Willow. This isn’t a big deal, being Clock-matched. It’s just information. But the filming . . . the filming will convince the world I’m on the Council’s side.
What have I achieved? What did I think would happen? That I could walk in and blackmail the Council into relinquishing the information they are willing to kill for?
All that’s happened is I told them every bit of information I knew about Wilbur’s suits. Oh, and I succumbed to their Clock-matching.
Willow is safe.
Not for long.
I know about the plan to fill in Opening Three.
That’s true. That’s something. Maybe this isn’t all lost.
I meet Skelley’s gaze. He presses a button on one of the cameras. I try very hard not to pant. Panic shrinks my lung capacity for a moment. But I finally manage to speak. “Go ahead.”
Skelley sits in a cushy chair next to me. I move my legs so they don’t touch any part of him. Filth. That’s what he is.
A Time to Speak Page 15
