His face transforms into his charming half-bored, half-confident smile and he looks at the camera. “Today, Parvin Blackwater will be the first USE citizen to be Clock-matched with the new invention she brought to us.”
“Hey! I didn’t bring it to you. You know that.”
He rolls his eyes. “What’s the point of speaking, Parvin, when your voice will be cut out of the video?”
“Because it’s truth!” I turn my head to the Enforcers lining the walls, standing behind the cameras, guarding the other Council members. “The Council stole this information from Jude. They almost killed me in the process! I never brought it to them.”
Skelley yawns. “Let’s get to the Clock-matching shall we?”
Brickbat comes behind the couch and places the helmet on my head. Tiny pricks enter my skull, but the pain is brief. Skelley almost puts the thin bracelet on my left wrist then, after a moment’s hesitation, moves it to my right arm, then back to my left. He snaps the two ends together and they tighten until there’s no way the bracelet would slide over my swollen stump. He connects a wire from it to the helmet.
I close my eyes and focus on breathing. This is the Clock-matching. It’s not torture. The portions of the helmet connected to my head grow tight. Just breathe. Tighter. Breathe. Numerous sharp pricks.
Then it stops. The helmet is removed.
I glance at my wrist. I don’t want to know my Numbers, but they’re projected into the air–red Numbers on a blue screen.
031.035.18.32.12
Parvin Brielle Blackwater
Thirty-one years. That’s what it says, but it’s wrong. It can’t control me.
“Cut!” Skelley shoots me a glare. “Okay, take her back.”
The Enforcers converge on me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the red blinking symbol of government control. I have a Clock. For the first time in my life, I have my own Clock.
And I hate it.
The Enforcers don’t let go of my arms the entire eight-hour train ride back to Unity Village. All I can think for eight straight hours is Willow, Solomon, Willow, Solomon, Clocks . . .
We finally arrive, and the Enforcers shove me out of the train doors. I stumble onto the Unity train platform. When I look back, one throws my pack through the air. It hits me in the face and I fall. The Enforcers close the door and watch me until the Lower Missouri Transit leaves again.
I’m home.
And I’m alone.
Is Solomon still in Prime? Does he think I’m dead? He might think I’m captured. Without my NAB, I can’t tell him anything. But once the Council releases that Clock-matching video, Solomon will know they got me. If he’s alive and safe.
This is the second time I’ve left a man behind by getting on a train. Only this time, it wasn’t my choice. And this time . . . I want that man to come after me.
I scramble to the ticket counter, but know before even asking that I’ll never be able to purchase a ticket out of Unity Village again.
I’ve been marked.
Still, I have to try.
The ticket clerk—a fat man with a brown toothbrush mustache—pricks my finger on a small needle connected to the in-desk screen. Red messages flash. All I see is the word DENIED before he shoves my hand away.
“But I’m . . . I have a Clock.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I gotta obey the messages.”
Even if it wasn’t denied, I have no specie to pay for it. I plunk onto a wooden bench and stare up at the rickety roof that never stops the rain. Was I right to give in to the Council? Will Brickbat really send Willow to the orphanage? What will they do to my people here?
At least they sent me back instead of imprisoning me in Prime.
They have Unity Village in their sights—all because of me. It was hard to think on the train, while seated between two beefy Enforcers who wouldn’t let me speak or even move, but now that my back is against the rusty wood of home, clarity drifts in.
I’m sorry, Solomon. I have to focus on my people. I can’t go back to Prime yet. I must warn Unity that the Council is going to target Radicals and Low Cities . . . because of me. Jude saw this coming, but I still don’t understand all the potential repercussions.
The only way I can warn people is to speak . . . like Solomon suggested. Like God’s been telling me to do ever since I returned.
So far, speaking has brought only trouble. But I have a feeling it will make a difference now. I must do it, despite my fears and insecurities. Like those in the underground church in Prime—I’m stepping out. The Bible says that in faith Abel died, but he still speaks. I will still speak.
I’ll start tomorrow. Friday. The market will be active. People may throw tomatoes again, they may refuse to listen, but this is part of my calling.
I imagine myself strong, standing atop the hearing platform. When they panic or feel the first tinges of fear, I must be strong for them. I can do this.
As for Willow . . . her life has never been in my hands. God knows I want to rescue her, but He’s redirected my focus. I have to trust He’ll keep her safe or, at least, keep her where He wants her for now.
Please guard her until I can find her.
With a grunt, I push myself to my feet and pick up my pack. It’s lighter. I already miss my NAB. A quick glance tells me my Bible is still in there. Ha, they left the thing of true value behind.
By the time I reach the house, it’s dark. A candle flickers in the window. Mother, Father, and Tawny sit at the table eating something out of wooden bowls. I allow myself three seconds to watch them through the window, then push open the front door.
The cot is gone and the house is back to normal.
“You’re back.” Mother exhales.
I try a smile. “I’m back.”
Tawny sets down her spoon. “So what’d they do to Willow?”
I sit down beside her. “They said she’s an orphan under the care of the government.”
“Is she safe?” Mother passes me a bowl of lamb stew.
Safe . . . what a drifting word. We use it so flippantly, but when’s the last time any of us has been safe? What does safe mean? “I hope so.”
I relay as much of the small journey as I can without losing control. I don’t tell them about my plan to speak tomorrow. I don’t think I could withstand Mother’s disapproval. “Unity Village is in danger because of me. The Council is going to force us all to Clock-match.”
Tawny’s knuckles turn white around her spoon. “Really?” Her eyes are round. Hopeful.
“It’s not a good thing, Tawny.”
Father folds his hands and meets my eyes. “This could be a logical step toward political peace.”
I stir the stew. “Political peace?” The Council’s lies have reached my family. “What about freedom? Freedom to choose not to have a Clock.”
“That’s not freedom.” Tawny flips her hair. “Why would anyone not want a Clock?”
“I don’t want a Clock.” I make sure my sleeve covers my new wrist Clock. I don’t want them to know. They’ll think I’m a hypocrite.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, well . . . I wouldn’t be a Radical anymore and I could finally plan out my life without uncertainty.”
“Why not start living your life now?” As the words exit my mouth, I catch myself. Tawny’s a little bit like I was before my Last Year. I had waited and waited, too uncertain about my life to try anything.
“And what would I do?”
“Well, what do you want to do?” I take a bite of stew, ignoring the sensation that I’m acting like a Mentor. What are your Last-Year desires? Does she have any?
She sets the spoon down in the bowl. “I think I’m finished.” Her voice is so quiet, I barely hear her. She gets up and walks into her room.
I’m an idiot. She’s been a widow for barely two week
s and now I ask what her dreams are? They all probably died with Reid. Maybe she wanted to settle down, build a family, and be a homemaker.
“I’ll go get the cot.” Father stands from the table.
I rise with him. “No need, Father. I’m going to stay in Solomon’s house. I’ll clean it up a bit for his return. Besides, I need to know when he gets here.” If he gets here. If the Council hasn’t hunted him down and killed him.
Mother gathers the bowls and scrapes the leftovers back into the pot on the wood stovetop. “I don’t think that’s wise, Parvin.”
“Why not?”
“Staying in a single man’s home? What would people think?”
My face warms. “He’s not even here, Mother.”
“It doesn’t matter. People know you’ve been spending time with Mr. Hawke—you traveled to a High City with him . . . alone. And those who know he lives in the old Newton house might get the wrong impression if they see you there.”
“What, that I’m sleeping with him or something? That’s what you’re implying, isn’t it?” My voice crescendos. “Yes, because that’s what I should be worrying about—whether or not people think I’m a . . . a . . . tramp. Even though they already attacked me and threw tomatoes at me, they judge me for Reid’s death, for putting Unity Village at the top of the Council’s hit list, and for pretending to have a Clock my whole life.”
“Calm down, Parvin.”
Father walks into their bedroom. My gaze follows him. I want him to stay and take my side—take any side, just so I know where he stands.
“Mother, I can’t control whether or not people want to judge me.”
“You can remain above reproach.”
I put on my coat and grab my pack. “That’s not a lesson you taught when you told Reid and me to hide the fact that we had only one Clock. It is in this house that I feel the most judgment. The only reproach I need to stay above is God’s, and He knows my motives.”
I open the front door. “I cannot sleep here again. I lose sight of my vision in this house.”
I leave her standing in the center of the kitchen, a dishcloth in one hand and a dirty bowl in the other. That is the picture that is imprinted on my mind as I try to fall asleep in one of the extra bedrooms of Solomon’s house. A week ago, I celebrated having Mother back. Now I’ve left her.
She’s not my strong point any more. I don’t know when that changed or if I just changed, but now I’m more alone than ever. No Willow, no Solomon, no Mother. Can I still do this with only You, God?
I guess we’ll see tomorrow.
The day is dark with heavy wind and grey clouds. My new sturdy boots scrape against the rough hearing platform wood. Father gave them to me this morning.
I take the stairs this time. The market is full. I can’t breathe.
I stand in the middle of the platform, wearing the new tan dress I got in Prime with my tattered coat. I want to clasp my hands together, but can’t.
I clear my throat. No one looks. I glance back at the post board over the rooftops, lining the side of the county building.
Parvin Blackwater Visits the Council
Below that is a picture of me standing before the floating Council building in Prime. I don’t know who took the picture or how, but they captured it perfectly so that it looks like I’m hesitating in excited awe. My hair is blowing around me and I have a content look on my face. They probably caught me in the middle of a prayer, when I surrendered my fear to God. But to everyone else, the photo looks like I’m meeting the president for tea and crumpets . . . whatever crumpets are.
More deceit. More lies. More attempts to make me look like the Council’s puppet. The only good thing on the post board is that the Wall is still closed. Soon, though, there will be an announcement that I have the first new Clock.
I tried everything to get the Clock band off last night—hacking with one of Father’s chisels, warming it over the fire, sawing it with clippers. But there’s not much one can do without a left hand.
I return my focus to my people, milling in the market below me. How in time’s name do I start? The longer I stand here, the faster my heart beats.
I can’t do this.
YOU MUST.
God, I can’t do this!
YOU MUST.
Before I overthink and talk myself out of it, I force words through my lips. Any words. “Um . . . hi everyone.”
Not a single head turns. I try again, louder, over the din of shoppers. “I’d like to say something!”
A few browsers stop. Their gazes are as friendly as a rabid dog’s.
God . . . help!
Someone points at my left arm and whispers to the person next to them. I don’t hide my stump. It makes more people look at me. That’s what I need.
Where do I start? My visions of firm voice, and strong posture are gone. I’m an inconsequential whisper speaking to shadowed minds. “I just came back from a High City where I met with the Citizen Welfare Development Council. I’m sure some of you have heard about the new Clock-matching testing going on.”
I pause for affirmation but no one nods. A few go back to their shopping.
“They’re going to force everyone to have a Clock. They stole an invention from my friend—murdered him for it, actually.”
No one’s looking at me anymore. The peaches, stew, and shoulder packs are all more interesting. Panic swells. Don’t they get it? Don’t they see the looming tornado about to hit?
“I know you hate me!”
Movement stops. Sound stops. Life stops.
Then they turn. To me.
“I know you hate me.” I meet their gazes. “I get it. I messed up. My selfishness put Unity Village on the map and now the government is cracking down on us.” I ignore the Enforcers who inch closer to the platform.
“Because of me, the Council now has an invention that can Clock-match a person at any age. They’re bringing it to Unity Village and no one will have a choice to be a Radical.”
I have their attention now. “The government is trying to get rid of Radicals, no matter their innocence or if they’re registered. If you know of any Radicals, please tell them they’re in danger.”
“Danger?” the milkman sneers. “You think Clock-matching is danger? I know ten Radicals who would kill for a Clock. This is the answer to our problems.”
Several shoppers nod. “Is it true? They really have a Clock that matches after conception?” The basket weaver’s eyes are excited, hopeful.
I’m hesitant to answer. “Yes.”
She clasps her hands in front of her. “Time be blessed!” Another woman hugs her and that’s when I see how skewed their view is. They want the Clock-matching.
People laugh and a, “Hurray!” rises above the celebration.
They see this as an answer to prayer. I’m the only one who sees it as a threat. Am I wrong? Is this a good thing? I imagine Brickbat’s face when he said, “We have something special planned for your little Low Cities.”
No, this is not good.
“You don’t understand! The Council despises Radicals and Low Cities and everything we are!” No one’s listening. They’re all hugging and shouting and spending their specie on food to celebrate.
“Do you want to be stripped of your freedom? How many more laws do you think will come, dictating your life because of your Numbers?”
I’m invisible.
I spoke . . .
And all it did was stir them the wrong way.
I sit on the platform the rest of the day, and the next, and the next . . . hoping people will ask more questions or will come to me for help. None do. Their faces are brighter, they check the post board every morning, and hope is evident in their every action. Everyone in this town knows a secret Radical.
I read The Daily Hemisphere—something the Council didn’t ta
ke from me—waiting for more news. It comes Monday morning.
Parvin Blackwater is the First to Receive a New Clock
Beneath it is a photo from when I was matched. My eyes are closed and my fist clenched on my lap. I’m pleased to see that I don’t look happy. Thankfully, my Numbers are blurred out. The article shares that the matching will come first to the Low Cities, in honor of my bringing the invention to the Council.
High City Enforcers will arrive at each Low City over the next several days to set up a matching station. All USE citizens are required to show up for matching.
The Council is using Jude’s invention already. Why are they in such a hurry?
“I’m going to be the first,” Dusten Grunt hollers to anyone who will listen. “First in line! First with a new Clock!”
First to die. He’s dooming himself.
The first person to call me a hypocrite is the milkman. Next is some woman I don’t know, and then Dusten.
A day passes and all I can bring myself to do is lean my head back against the restraining post and pray. I’ve never prayed quite so hard for anything and my prayers all sound the same. God, save my people. Open their eyes. Show me what to do.
It’s fascinating watching my love grow more and more for these people who seem to hate and reject me. It goes against everything I know myself to be—angry, impulsive, bitter.
I’m a little frightened. I cannot explain this strange love and that means I cannot control it. I fear it may disappear any day, but something like this—when out of my control—just confirms it’s not of me.
The Enforcers arrive on Wednesday on an old boxcar train instead of the carbon-fiber one. A few people stand on the train platform and cheer. Cheer. For Enforcers.
What is happening to this village?
My people are choosing this. How can I save them?
I watch each tattooed face step off the train. I wait until the doors close and the train heads up to Nether Town, taking my tearful heart with it.
Solomon didn’t come.
Where is he? What happened to him? It’s been almost a week. Did the Council get to him or did he go visit his father for answers?
A Time to Speak Page 16
