A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  “Why d-did you climb up here? There was a c-camera by the O-Opening.”

  He coils some of the rope, then helps me to my feet. “And it was focused on the Opening, not me. I know it sounds backward, but this was the least monitored spot.”

  “Okay, so what’s your p-plan?” The wind intensifies and steals my speech. We need to get moving. I can barely talk against the ice water in my bones.

  We head to the other side, angling toward the ocean. “I’m going to steer the cargo ship through the projected Wall.”

  “What?”

  He repeats himself, but I understood the first time. Solomon plans to overtake the cargo ship by himself and then steer it through the projected Wall by himself? “You’ll die! That Wall singed Dusten to a crisp!”

  Poor Dusten.

  “I’m going to set it to coast through. The Wall will only destroy human DNA, so the ship should get through fine without damage. I’ll jump off before it goes through and then climb back over the solid Wall. We can then board it from our side. It would be great shelter, it has food, blankets, heat . . . and maybe we could figure out how to get out of here.”

  He stops walking. “You’ll have to stay up here on the Wall until I come back.”

  As if! “If you d-didn’t want me to come with, why did you throw down the rope?”

  He loops more of the rope slack around his shoulders and neck so it doesn’t trail behind as far. “I needed you to tell me if it was long enough to reach the ground.”

  I roll my eyes and pick up some of the slack, coiling it around my own body. “You were a thousand feet up! I couldn’t hear you.”

  Solomon smiles and leans close to my ear. “I’m glad you’re with me.” His breath puffs heat against my skin.

  My face warms—a blessing at this crisp height. I gather the last few feet of rope and we resume our pace. “Why don’t we just destroy the projection?”

  “How?”

  “I think there’s a control room.” My throat grates against the dry wintery air. “I overheard the Lead Enforcer telling another Enforcer to go check with maintenance about the Wall flicker. There’s got to be a control room.”

  I need to tear down this Wall. As a symbol for the people. For hope.

  I try to gauge his reaction. His brow forms a tiny thoughtful frown. He looks up, as if into a cloud of thoughts. “You might be right, but we can’t bank on that.”

  “We can’t bank on the fact that you’ll get off that cargo ship before it goes through the projection and kills you. We can’t even bank on the fact that you’ll get to the cargo ship!”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” His joke falls flat.

  Great. Nice job, me. Way to ruin his confidence. But I have to be straight with him. This plan can easily fail before we even try.

  The ferocity of the wind lessens for a moment. I take advantage and relax my vocal cords into regular raised speech. “We could go for the control room first. Then if that fails, we’ll go to the cargo ship.”

  A cloud of breath reveals his sigh. “No. One of us should go for the control room while the other goes for the ship.”

  “Split up?”

  “I’ll go for the ship. If I fail, then at least you’re working on the projection so the people can come through to the East side. I’d also be a good distraction for you.”

  “Yeah, but if I succeed and stop the projection, you’ll have to wait for me to join you on the ship, otherwise I’ll be stuck in a tower full of Enforcers!”

  His frown deepens. “Dress like an Enforcer just in case. The Antarctica uniforms have masks.”

  “I’m way too short to pass as an Enforcer.”

  “I doubt they’d notice.”

  “Trust me . . . they’d notice.”

  His lips turn up and the wind’s temper recommences. “So whoever takes out the control room—if there is a control room—is a sitting duck.”

  “Quack.” I can’t help it. Why does the idea of death, failure, and destruction make me lose all sense?

  Solomon laughs and I join him. It’s short lived because the wind slips right through our curled lips and between the skin of our bones.

  I nod. “I’ll try for the control room. There’s no way I can man a cargo ship. And I’ll just have to find a way to get to the ship before you sail it through.”

  “I’m not sure I can man the ship either.”

  I roll my shoulder so my coils of rope settle better. “Yes, but you’re a man. And you’re a Hawke. Inventions and machinery are in your blood. At least if we get the projected Wall down, the people can come over to this side and help us.”

  We reach the edge of the Wall—the East edge—and Solomon peers over. We’re in between the cargo ship and the Enforcer tower. “Too far to be seen, but close enough to our target points.”

  He kneels down and thrusts the pick into the icy rock. When he tugs on it, it comes out easily with a chunk of snow. We try another spot. Then another. Then he walks away from the edge and tries again.

  It finally sticks, but my trust in its firmness is shaken. He knots the rope around it, tugs, then looks at me. “That’s the best we’ll get.”

  “That’s heartening.”

  “I’ll go first and you come right after me. That way if you slip, I can catch you.”

  The defiance in me wants to say, “I won’t slip,” but he’s right. The half-starved handless girl with zero muscle will slip.

  As if bidding us a somber farewell, the wind settles into silence. “Parvin, before we go, you should know that . . . I’m not actually a Hawke. Not through blood, anyway.”

  I stop fiddling with Mother’s coat and meet his gaze. “What do you mean? You are Jude’s brother, right?”

  He stares out toward the gelid ocean. “The Hawke family adopted me.”

  “Adopted?” Why does this seem so strange? Adopted sounds . . . fragile. I picture Solomon as a little boy in ragged clothes, covered in dirt, and hunched against a cold wall with a dwindling bowl of porridge.

  “Why do you think Jude was so concerned about that specific orphanage?”

  My hand flies to my mouth. “Is that where you’re from? His orphanage?” The orphanage where Willow is.

  “He picked me out for a brother.”

  I shouldn’t ask. I should hold my tongue. I should . . . “What happened to your birth parents?” Please don’t shut me out. Please.

  “We weren’t compatible. I was seven.”

  Jude would have shut me out. He was similar to Mother—didn’t like getting too deep. But Solomon is letting me know him. I cherish his vulnerability. If he lets me know him . . . maybe that means he wants to know me. “Weren’t . . . compatible?”

  “Nope.”

  You’ve got to give me more, Solomon. “What does that mean?”

  He flaps his arms against his coat to warm up. “I guess it’s a little different in Low Cities. Do you know what divorce is?”

  I snort. “I’m not that cut off from the world. Divorce is as common as marriage in Unity Village.”

  “Just checking. Well, when couples decide they aren’t compatible after a few years of marriage, they divorce. It’s the same with parenting—at least it is in High Cities. If a parent or parents decide they’re not compatible with their child, then the government gets custody over the kid. Over me.”

  That doesn’t seem right. “So your parents are still out there?”

  “The people who caused my existence through unrestrained ‘acts of love’ are still out there, yes. But they’re not my parents.”

  Oookay. Did I say something wrong?

  “My parents are the same as Jude’s parents. Even though we don’t share blood, they’re my parents. I just wanted you to know some of my history because . . . you keep telling everyone I have inventions in my blood. Well, I don�
�t.” His voice sinks.

  I sit on the edge of the Wall. “I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t know.”

  “Shall we get going?” He pulls on the rope as one last test. His expression is soft and the tension spiraled in my chest relaxes. He’s not angry.

  He doesn’t mind my questions or my mistakes. He’s calm and open. I nearly hug him for it. Instead, I hand him one of the potatoes in my pocket. “Let’s eat and go over our plan one last time.”

  “I have something better.” He gives me an energy bar from his pack. He unwraps it for me and it tastes like Eden. “We’ll climb down the rope, you go to the Enforcer tower and steal a uniform. Then you find the control room for the projected Wall and shut it down. Meanwhile, I head to the cargo ship, sneak on, and steer it through the Wall.”

  I liberate the deep breath trapped in my lungs. It comes out slowly, but not slowly enough for me to accept our plan without a nasty twinge of anxiety.

  “Ready?”

  No way! “I guess.”

  He pulls out a lump of cloth strips. Without asking, he wraps my left arm three times, focusing on my inner elbow and bicep, then binds it off. Next he wraps my right hand so it’s in a bandage mitten. “We’ll be sliding down. It’s much faster and we don’t have the strength to climb.”

  He wraps his own hands and binds them off with his teeth. I offer help with my one good hand but we both know it’s a futile suggestion. He grips the rope and scoots over the edge. I come directly after him. Upon first grip, my forearms squeal out their weakness.

  “Let’s go.” Easy for him to say.

  “‘Let’s slide a thousand feet to our death,’ would be more accurate.”

  The last thing I hear before his body zips down the stiff rope is his laughter. I wrap my left arm around the rope, grip with my right, and slide. It’s fast. Thrilling. Good thing I’m not afraid of heights.

  The Wall scrapes against my outer arms, but I turn my face away and let my body tear past the resistance. I bump over the knot between ropes and tighten my grip. The wind whistles around me. I hate it. Rotten icy warmth-sucker.

  The bandage on my elbow bunches, but I keep going. A shout reaches my ears over the hiss of my own descent. I squeeze the rope and jerk to a stop. When I look down, the ground is only a few feet below me. Solomon steadies me at my waist and sets me gently in the snow. It’s heavy and reaches my knees. Thankfully it’s drier than Missouri snow and doesn’t immediately soak through my clothes.

  We’re here. We’re on the other side! I take a moment to register what we just did. We climbed over the thousand-foot Wall . . . and didn’t die.

  The top of the tower station is visible over a snow crest. In there . . . is warmth. Solomon turns toward the sea. His Enforcer coat will shield his identity from afar. Will it get him aboard?

  Solomon takes my face in his hands. I meet his light teal eyes. I could describe them as deep and mysterious, but the very act of looking intently into another person’s eyes is so rare I expect that it’s always deep and mysterious.

  “I’m not going to tell you to be careful.” His eyes crease, but his mouth doesn’t release a smile. “Be brave.”

  “Please survive.” I hope he senses my mixture of feelings—the care, the confusion, and the maybe-love—because I’d never be able to express them with words.

  “I can’t promise.”

  “I know.” But it needed to be said.

  He stares at me, intense. My gaze drops to his lips before I can stop it. My lips have only touched those of dead men, both times in an attempt to save their lives. What does a kiss feel like when it’s alive, warm, and from someone who whisks my insides into cream?

  But . . . I don’t want Solomon to kiss me. Not like this, when we’re about to part ways into our separate forms of suicidal sacrifice. No good-bye kisses.

  “If you survive all this, maybe I’ll kiss you.” There, I said it.

  He pulls me into a hug. “If we survive all this, I hope to do much more than just kiss you.”

  I lean back. “What?”

  He grimaces. “That came out wrong.”

  I laugh. “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “Well, don’t take it the wrong way.” He winks and then closes his eyes. “God, we do this for You—for Your people. Bless our attempts, that we may save lives and bring Your shalom back. Give Parvin the eyes and ears to find the control room. Make us invisible. Let it be.”

  “Amen.”

  He kisses my forehead, then breaks into a jog toward the ocean. I watch him for half a breath.

  We just talked about kissing. And I didn’t feel guilty.

  I smile and then creep in the opposite direction. To the station. Already, the worry in my mind has been replaced by a thirst for heat and shelter. I run through the plan in my head.

  Get to the station undetected. Yeah, right.

  Sneak in. Knock, knock . . .

  Steal an Enforcer uniform. Preferably from a peg on the wall, not from a body.

  Get into the Enforcer uniform. Hurray for having only one hand.

  Find the maintenance room. Anyone have a map?

  With any luck, it will control the projected Wall. Riiiiiight.

  Destroy it. Should’ve brought a hammer.

  No big deal, right? A shadow cuts off the sun’s warmth. I’m here.

  There’s the stone-carved entrance I walked through only yesterday—before Dusten died, before Kaphtor was shot, and before I was made a leader whom everyone hates. There are no guards outside, but I’m not surprised. It would be foolish to station them out here.

  God, help me figure You out. Do with me what You will, please give me food, keep me safe, and forgive me for whatever I’ve done wrong. My muscles relax. It’s been a while since I prayed my own version of the Lord’s Prayer. It reminds me of all the times I entered danger, and all the times God got me out of it with a deeper purpose.

  Despite the fact that He let me lose a hand and make mistakes, I trust Him. I trust You.

  I hunch against the Wall for several minutes and use my teeth to remove the wrappings on my hand. The tower station has no windows, but I still feel watched. Deep breath. No . . . don’t breathe. Just go.

  I run.

  Four steps toward it, I crash to the ground. The heavy snow and my numb legs defeat my determined sprint. I push myself up and run again. Carefully. Like a secret agent, I plaster my back to the wall next to the entry steps.

  It’s so cold!

  Now or never. I climb the steps, lift the latch ,and stride in. Be brave. Oh, Solomon . . .

  This hallway seemed chilly the first time I entered it, but now it’s a shelter . . . especially because it’s empty. Thank You!

  The door slams shut behind me, latching with a deep boom. Drat. Now anyone in the next room—the uniform room—will know someone’s here. I dart to the other side and tuck myself in the corner by the door hinges. If someone comes in to check, they won’t see me easily. I could even . . . attack them. Maybe.

  The door doesn’t open and it’s too thick for me to hear through. I wait long enough for my breathing to slow. This is working so far. I’m in! Now . . . to get the Enforcer uniform.

  God, I know I’ve only been asking for things lately but . . . please give me an empty room. Please!

  I grip the latch with my perfect hand. He healed me. He kept the rope from breaking. He can do this for me if He wants. And if He doesn’t want to, then He has a reason.

  Creak!

  The door screams out my presence as I move it. I thrust it open all the way and poise on the threshold to flee if need be.

  The room is warm and . . . empty. Not a single Enforcer.

  But neither is there a single uniform hanging on the wall. The pegs are bare and I stand exposed.

  Footfalls clang down the stairs to my right.

 
26

  I have a handful of seconds before I’m caught.

  Across the room to my left is a wooden door, but bursting through an unknown door is just as bad as bursting into the stairwell to meet my enemies.

  Eep!

  May God translate that into a coherent prayer.

  I tiptoe-run to the wooden door and slip through just as the voices enter the circular entry room behind me. Quiet as a cougar, I ease the door closed behind me. It rests against the frame and I don’t let it latch—they might hear it.

  Once I release the handle and remember to breathe, I turn around to face whatever I’ve walked into.

  It’s another hallway. The walls and floor are grey stone and plaster. Muted yellow light flickers from long tube bulbs in the ceiling. The coloring of this hall makes me shiver, but the temperature is equal to the entry room. My toes prickle inside my soaked boots, unused to the warmth.

  Four doors—each with a glass window—lead off the hallway, two on each wall. They look like they might lead to offices. Are people in those offices?

  I press against the corner so that if someone walks through the wooden door, the door will shield me from view. I need to search for the control room, but the voices from the entry creep through the cracked door.

  “It is irresponsible, sir.” I heard that voice before going through the Wall. It’s not the Lead Enforcer. Who is it?

  “It’s not my call, Reece.” Ah, there’s the Lead Enforcer’s voice.

  “Didn’t you see the Radical groups dispersing? They might kill penguins to survive! Even touching a penguin used to be illegal.”

  Reece—the old guy who looked like a bookworm. The guy more concerned about the environment than about human lives. But maybe that’s the problem—he doesn’t see us as humans.

  The Lead Enforcer sighs. “It’s just a small portion of Antarctica.”

  “Small portion?” Reece chokes on his own outrage. “This coastal region is one of the richest, survival-friendly habitats for Antarctic life. Where will they go if the Radicals ruin it?”

  “They’ll come to our side of the Wall, where you can examine, draw, and study them to your heart’s content.” The silence following the Lead Enforcer’s statement says it all. Reece is mollified. What a fickle environmentalist.