But I won’t talk. I won’t tell them a thing.
Skelley nods to the Enforcers around my chair. They unstrap me and, as I’m led from the room, Skelley says, “You have one hour.”
When I enter the off-white hallway with numbers and screens all over the walls it hits me. I have to tell Solomon. I have to tell him good-bye.
Suddenly life seems too short. For a moment, I wish I were someone else.
The Enforcers halt under the number seven and tap several numbers and symbols on the keypad. They scan a portion of my arm and then thrust me through the wall.
I stumble to all fours, landing on my knees. My palm presses against the chilled cement flooring. I stay there, staring at my hand. Loose hairs fall in front of my face and the strands are trembling.
What have I done?
I can’t look up. I hear Solomon move from across the room. Any second he’ll ask me what’s wrong. I can’t tell him. I can’t watch him break.
Is this what Jude felt when he told me his Clock was short? Was it this hard for him? I didn’t make it easy on him. I hope Solomon makes it easy for me. Yet . . . I want to know he cares.
“Parvin?” His voice is soft, but unstable.
The knuckles on my hand have turned a splotchy mixture of red and white from pressing on the floor too long. I need to stand up. I need to face this. I need to speak—to tell Solomon what’s going on, no matter how hard it is to do so.
I tear my gaze from the ground and lift up my eyes. He’s crouched in front of me, rocking on the balls of his feet. The rims of his eyes are red and tears blur the perfect teal color I’ve come to love, but he’s fighting it. His jaw muscle pulses.
Why did I look?
He shakes his head and clears his throat. “Are . . . are you okay?” Then he runs a hand down his face as if he knows it’s a dumb question, but I smile. I don’t know how, but I do. Sometimes the dumb questions are needed to ferry us into the sorrow.
He helps me to my feet.
He won’t meet my eyes. In fact, he releases my shoulders and turns his back on me, facing the wall. “Parvin . . . what’s going on?”
Just say it. Just get it out. “You’re escaping.” He doesn’t move. Just say it! “Without me. I’m going to cooperate with the Council until you’re free.”
There. It’s out.
Solomon bows his head. I might have imagined it, but his knees seemed to buckle for a moment. I should comfort him . . . but I want to be comforted. It’s selfish, I know, but I need a dose of assurance. I need the whisper of, “It’s okay,” to cement in my mind that death isn’t the end.
I feel so distant, like I caused a chasm to open between us. “Solomon?”
“I knew you’d do something like this,” he croaks.
Is he angry at me? Defense boils away my despair. “What choice do I have?”
He turns and his piercing gaze hits me head-on. He’s not angry. His mouth is open slightly and remnants of tears leave his lashes separated. His eyebrows crease . . . just a little—enough to reveal helplessness, resignation, and strength.
He takes my hand and pulls me forward until he can wrap his arms around me. “I’m staying with you.”
I shake my head against his chest, bunching the white material on his uniform beneath my cheek. “No.” Yes! “No. You’re the only one who can rescue everyone.” I reach up and pull the matchbox suit from my braid. I flip it over and see the stick figure.
Armor.
I press it into his hand.
“It’s not right. Why don’t we all escape together?”
“I can’t. They’ll always know where we are because of my medibot. You have to go, Solomon. Entrust me into God’s hands.”
His voice turns low and harsh. “I slipped a Brawn suit into your pack. Can’t you . . . can’t you get that and escape too?”
Oh, such desperate hope. “They searched my pack. All the Council members are wearing a suit. Besides, my pack’s in my cell and . . . I don’t think I’ll be going back there.”
I lean back and look up. We’re so close. He wipes a tear off my cheek with his thumb. I didn’t know I was crying. “Solomon, get everyone out of here. The Armor suit will keep you protected for a time. Then go rescue Willow and the other orphans. The Council is threatening them. After they come and get me, then you rescue everyone else. The Council will be busy with me.”
I can’t tell him what they’ll be doing to me . . . or what I’ll be doing for them.
We both slide down the wall and sit in the corner—his arm around me, my head on his shoulder. “Why, Parvin?”
That question breaks my dam of resolve. I tell him why. I tell him about the Council’s threats, about the doubt sown in the High Cities, and I tell him I’m not afraid.
“Don’t you see?” He needs to know my choice is worthwhile. “The Council will test me and, if Jude did make these Clocks inaccurate and I override my own Clock, that’s proof. That’s proof that they can’t run the USE by everyone’s Clocks.”
He groans. “They’ll get proof another way. At some point, someone else with an overridden Clock will step forward. Why does it have to be you?”
“Because this is the only way to get you and everyone else out safely.”
“But even if they have proof, they won’t do anything about it.”
My smile is grim. “That’s not our problem. Our job is to get the word out. God will spread it.” This is when I see the connection.
God’s asking me to speak again . . .
… only this time it’s through my actions.
Solomon has no comeback. The air is hushed and heavy. I curl my knees to my chest and press as close to him as I can. He holds me tight and we stay that way for the rest of the hour. Sometimes his jaw moves and I catch whispered words of prayer. Sometimes a section of my hair grows wet from his tears. He touches my face softly with the tips of his fingers. I fall asleep to it, escaping one last time before I meet my end.
40
WHO ARE YOU?
I am yours.
WHO AM I?
You are my God. My times are in your hands.
TRUST ME.
I will. I love you.
I wake, bathed in confidence. When I rise, it is with the assurance that He is worth it. God is worth any form of testing the Council could put me through. The last time I thought I would die, it was to escape this world. Now, it is to cleanse this world. With my death, the Council will see the fault in the Clocks. They’ll no longer have their tool of control.
With my death, I free my people.
This . . . this was my calling.
An Enforcer with freckles and buzzed dark red hair stands by the door. Is that what woke me? Solomon jolts awake. I’m already up, ready. I’m almost . . .excited.
I walk toward the door, but Solomon launches to his feet and grabs my arm. “No. Wait. I . . .” His face scrunches and he sucks in a breath through his nose. “I . . . what do I do?”
His plea is so broken. The Enforcer remains by the door, but doesn’t hurry me. Compassion?
I place my hand on the side of Solomon’s face. “Wait. Be patient. We’ll see each other again.” Just as Jude once told me—death is not a loss, not when I’m joining my Lord.
I’ll see Solomon soon.
He places his hand on top of mine and doesn’t fight the tears this time. I smile. “See? You believe I’ll die despite my Clock. Your sorrow shows me you know God is greater than the Clocks. And . . . you’re right.”
He takes my face in his hands, his fingers tangling a little in my hair. We’re inches apart and I soak in a last look. He’s going to ask if he can kiss me. I know it as if the message is telepathic.
But I don’t make him ask.
I pull him down the last few inches and our lips touch. It’s a firm and sweet kiss
. My stomach flutters. Then it’s over. Just the one.
“Good-bye,” I whisper.
He rests his forehead against mine and closes his eyes. “Good-bye.”
I turn away from him and take the three steps to the Enforcer. I guess our kiss was meant to be a good-bye.
Just before I pass through the electronic wall, Solomon speaks up. “‘And through his faith, though he died, he still speaks.’”
I look over my shoulder.
His arms hang at his side and his shoulders droop, but he lifts his chin as if attempting to be strong. “The verse of the week—I think it’s meant for you.”
We don’t break our connection until I walk through the screen. Then he’s gone, replaced with a false wall. The Enforcer looks down at me. We don’t move. I finally meet his eyes and see something.
Turmoil. Confusion.
“It’s okay. I’m ready.”
His Adam’s apple bobs hard. He starts walking, inching us down the hall. Hesitant. “He used to be an Enforcer, didn’t he?”
I smile. “I’ve found a lot of Enforcers are good men who pursue truth. It’s been a nice surprise.”
He leads me, with dragged steps, down the hall toward the room with the dentist chair.
Through his faith, though he died, he still speaks. That was the first verse of the week I ever read. It’s a last gift from God to me. My message and calling will continue even if I’m gone.
I sit in the chair and close my eyes, releasing a long breath. The straps are familiar bindings now. I try not to think about how helpless I am against their choice of torture.
“Ready?”
My eyes fly open to see Skelley walk into the room. I meet his gaze. “Yes.” I’m ready to die . . . for God’s timing. For the perfect timing.
He fiddles with several things on a table to my right. I don’t look. I don’t want to know. It’s just us in the room now. I should say something, but what can I say?
“I don’t hate you, Skelley.”
The noises from the table stop. “I don’t care one way or another.”
What a liar. No one wants to be hated, do they?
Skelley sets up a camera and a few screens flicker up on the wall. Take your time, Give Solomon a nice long window for escape.
I don’t know how he’ll do it, but I know he will. What can I do other than trust that God’s hand is over those I love?
Skelley comes over and turns on my Clock. There they are, thirty-something years on it. They’re meaningless.
“Those are good testing Numbers.” Brickbat and the other Council members walk into the room, still wearing Brawn suits. Solomon couldn’t fight his way through them if he wanted to.
It’s good that I’m here as a distraction.
Enforcers line the walls around me. Good—the more who are here, the fewer there are to catch Solomon and the others. Has he escaped his room yet? The Armor suit should allow him to walk through that screen thing, shouldn’t it?
“Ready to speak?” Skelley steps into the camera’s view and stands to my right.
I glance up to see my face on a wall screen for a moment and then back at the camera lens. “What do you want me to say?”
Brickbat’s eyes narrow. “You know what we want. Improvise. We’ll film it until you get it right.”
How long has it been? Ten minutes? Fifteen? That’s not long enough for Solomon. What do I do?
TRUST ME.
My tongue is dry. I can’t do this. Oh God, I’m so scared. “I . . . I . . . I can’t do what you want.”
Brickbat steps forward and grabs my shoulder. His fingernails bite into my skin, digging under my collarbone. “Do I need to get one of your friends in here with a knife to his throat to help you cooperate?”
I try not to wince. “It doesn’t matter.” A tear trails down my cheek. “I won’t do this.”
Brickbat jerks his chin at the red-headed Enforcer, the one who originally delivered me to the dentist chair. “Go get her boyfriend.”
He hurries from the room. I wait with eyes squeezed tight. What seems like mere seconds later, the Enforcer runs back into the room. “Sir.” He addresses Skelley and avoids my eyes. “The . . . prisoners, sir.” His gaze flicks to mine and sweat lines his temple.
He doesn’t get any other words out before Brickbat screams at him. “Spit it out, Enforcer!”
“They’re gone, aren’t they?” Skelley’s almost smiling as he says it, not because he’s on my side, but in a, “I’m-a-cat-and-you-just-made-this-game-of-chase-more-fun,” sort of way.
My relief escapes on a sob.
Skelley turns off the camera. “Send a group of Enforcers to track them.”
Brickbat clamps down on my shoulder one last time and I yelp. Then he releases me. “Let’s get on with the testing. That’ll make her obey.”
Oh, I’m already being obedient . . . just not to Brickbat.
“I have it here.” Skelley steps forward with a needle. Brickbat makes sure a different camera is on—probably some sort of documenting device.
“Any last words?” There’s a sick glee in Brickbat’s voice, like he’s mocking me. He can’t wait to see me hurt. What’s in that needle?
Last words. Last words. “What are you going to do when I die?”
“You’re not going to die,” Brickbat sneers. “Haven’t you seen your Numbers? We have so many lovely tests for you to go through, I’d hate for you to miss them.”
I’m blessed really . . . to have a meaningful death. To have a death that I know is accomplishing something worthwhile. Maybe that’s how Jude felt. “Dusten died before his Clock. You can’t stop this. Jude did this on purpose. He knew you’d get the invention information and he made sure it was flawed.”
I said the wrong thing. At the mention of Jude’s name, Brickbat’s head whips around to look at Skelley. “She knows something.”
Skelley closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s regretting my words for me.
Brickbat rounds on me and presses my strapped wrists against the cold metal chair arms. “What do you know?” Spit flies in my face.
His fury pushes my body against the seat in a recoil. “Nothing. What do you mean?”
“Jude Hawke told you something, didn’t he?” I shake my head, but Brickbat looks at Skelley again. “Get me a pirate chip.” Skelley sighs, walks to the table of tools, and opens a drawer beneath. “The terminating type.”
“Elan—”
“Do it! Focus words: Clock, Jude, invention—”
Skelley fiddles with a small device I can’t make out. “Jude Hawke didn’t know anything. Why should she?”
“—Hawke, Numbers, church, might as well throw Solomon’s name in there, too.”
Skelley walks over. “Got it.”
Brickbat grabs the chip from his hand and squints at it. “Is the termination set? That will be a perfect start for the testing.”
Skelley doesn’t look confident now. His eyes flit to me with a mild crease of concern. “Toxin termination.”
“That’ll work.”
I hold gazes with him. “I’m going to die, Skelley.”
He shakes his head, but I nod. It’s coming any moment. I’m not scared anymore. How can I be scared of the pirate chip if Jude wasn’t? Jude was brave. I will be, too.
“My Numbers are in God’s hands. No one—not even you—knows if you’ll have a tomorrow.”
“Shut up.” Brickbat grabs my hair.
“It’s my time to speak.” Only not in the way they expect.
“No,” Brickbat says, “it’s your time to die.”
“God can speak through my death.”
He laughs. “Show me.”
He nods to Skelley, who turns on some sort of NAB—probably the one that will drink up the secrets they’re going to steal from m
y brain. But I don’t have the answers they want—I don’t know why the Clocks can be overridden. Solomon and I have only pieces, guesses.
Skelley clears his throat. “This chip has a condensed version of the toxin that almost killed you before. If, indeed, you are right about the Clocks being faulty, then you’ll die, but it will be more like falling asleep.”
One of the Enforcers in the room shifts his weight. This will be good for them to see. Witnesses are good—they spread truth and gossip. And that one red-headed Enforcer—the one who announced Solomon’s escape—I think . . . I think he helped us.
Someone connects a few tubes to my arms and my vitals pop up on a screen to my left.
“You wanted to die so badly last time”—Brickbat yanks my head forward so my chin is jammed against my chest—“maybe your wish will be granted.” He inserts the two needles from the chip into the back of my neck.
A white flash blinds me for a moment. Skelley stares at the NAB screen. I can barely see words streaming across it—my memories. My information. My mind.
Will I forget the information they’re stealing?
“Done.” Skelley looks up.
The pirate chip lets out a pop and I grow woozy. Brickbat removes the chip and my head flops back on the headrest. The room is blurry. My stomach churns, but the heavier temptation is to sleep.
Sleep.
Death.
The vitals monitor on my left releases a series of shrill beeps. Through the haze, Skelley’s low voice drifts to my ears. “You know what we’ll have to do if she does die.”
“She won’t die.” Brickbat’s voice is a distant echo.
“But if she does . . . that means the Clocks—”
“She won’t die!”
An Enforcer’s voice from my left speaks up. “Um . . . sir?”
I’m going. There’s no fighting it. In fact, it’s relaxing. I’m folding backward into the warmest, firmest embrace that’s ever touched a soul.
I’m coming home. And, in doing so, I’m freeing my people.
I allow one final blink before succumbing to the warmth. In that blink, I see Skelley step forward—blurred by my mental fog. His voice comes from somewhere far away. “Parvin?”
A Time to Speak Page 42
