The Divergent Library: Divergent; Insurgent; Allegiant; Four: The Transfer, The Initiate, The Son, and The Traitor (Divergent Series)

by Roth, Veronica

  Saying her name still gives me a little twinge of pain, a pinch that lets me know her memory is still dear to me.

  Christina watches the rails ahead of us and leans her shoulder into mine, just for a few seconds. “I think you’re right.”

  My memories of Tris, some of the most powerful memories I have, have dulled with time, as memories do, and they no longer sting as they used to. Sometimes I actually enjoy going over them in my mind, though not often. Sometimes I go over them with Christina, and she listens better than I expected her to, Candor smart-mouth that she is.

  Cara guides the train to a stop, and I hop onto the platform. At the top of the stairs Shauna gets out of the chair and works her way down the steps with the braces, one at a time. Matthew and I carry her empty chair after her, which is cumbersome and heavy, but not impossible to manage.

  “Any updates from Peter?” I ask Matthew as we reach the bottom of the stairs.

  After Peter emerged from the memory serum haze, some of the sharper, harsher aspects of his personality returned, though not all of them. I lost touch with him after that. I don’t hate him anymore, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.

  “He’s in Milwaukee,” Matthew says. “I don’t know what he’s doing, though.”

  “He’s working in an office somewhere,” Cara says from the bottom of the stairs. She has the urn cradled in her arms, taken from Shauna’s lap on the way off the train. “I think it’s good for him.”

  “I always thought he would go join the GD rebels in the fringe,” Zeke says. “Shows you what I know.”

  “He’s different now,” Cara says with a shrug.

  There are still GD rebels in the fringe who believe that another war is the only way to get the change we want. I fall more on the side that wants to work for change without violence. I’ve had enough violence to last me a lifetime, and I bear it still, not in scars on my skin but in the memories that rise up in my mind when I least want them to, my father’s fist colliding with my jaw, my gun raised to execute Eric, the Abnegation bodies sprawled across the streets of my old home.

  We walk the streets to the zip line. The factions are gone, but this part of the city has more Dauntless than any other, recognizable still by their pierced faces and tattooed skin, though no longer by the colors they wear, which are sometimes garish. Some wander the sidewalks with us, but most are at work—everyone in Chicago is required to work if they’re able.

  Ahead of me I see the Hancock building bending into the sky, its base wider than its top. The black girders chase one another up to the roof, crossing, tightening, and expanding. I haven’t been this close in a long time.

  We enter the lobby, with its gleaming, polished floors and its walls smeared with bright Dauntless graffiti, left here by the building’s residents as a kind of relic. This is a Dauntless place, because they are the ones who embraced it, for its height and, a part of me also suspects, for its loneliness. The Dauntless liked to fill empty spaces with their noise. It’s something I liked about them.

  Zeke jabs the elevator button with his index finger. We pile in, and Cara presses number 99.

  I close my eyes as the elevator surges upward. I can almost see the space opening up beneath my feet, a shaft of darkness, and only a foot of solid ground between me and the sinking, dropping, plummeting. The elevator shudders as it stops, and I cling to the wall to steady myself as the doors open.

  Zeke touches my shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. We did this all the time, remember?”

  I nod. Air rushes through the gap in the ceiling, and above me is the sky, bright blue. I shuffle with the others toward the ladder, too numb with fear to make my feet move any faster.

  I find the ladder with my fingertips and focus on one rung at a time. Above me, Shauna maneuvers awkwardly up the ladder, using mostly the strength of her arms.

  I asked Tori once, while I was getting the symbols tattooed on my back, if she thought we were the last people left in the world. Maybe, was all she said. I don’t think she liked to think about it. But up here, on the roof, it is possible to believe that we are the last people left anywhere.

  I stare at the buildings along the marsh front, and my chest tightens, squeezes, like it’s about to collapse into itself.

  Zeke runs across the roof to the zip line and attaches one of the man-sized slings to the steel cable. He locks it so it won’t slide down, and looks at the group of us expectantly.

  “Christina,” he says. “It’s all you.”

  Christina stands near the sling, tapping her chin with a finger.

  “What do you think? Face-up or backward?”

  “Backward,” Matthew says. “I wanted to go face-up so I don’t wet my pants, and I don’t want you copying me.”

  “Going face-up will only make that more likely to happen, you know,” Christina says. “So go ahead and do it so I can start calling you Wetpants.”

  Christina gets in the sling feet-first, belly down, so she’ll watch the building get smaller as she travels. I shudder.

  I can’t watch. I close my eyes as Christina travels farther and farther away, and even as Matthew, and then Shauna, do the same thing. I can hear their cries of joy, like birdcalls, on the wind.

  “Your turn, Four,” says Zeke.

  I shake my head.

  “Come on,” Cara says. “Better to get it over with, right?”

  “No,” I say. “You go. Please.”

  She offers me the urn, then takes a deep breath. I hold the urn against my stomach. The metal is warm from where so many people have touched it. Cara climbs into the sling, unsteady, and Zeke straps her in. She crosses her arms over her chest, and he sends her out, over Lake Shore Drive, over the city. I don’t hear anything from her, not even a gasp.

  Then it’s just Zeke and me left, staring at each other.

  “I don’t think I can do it,” I say, and though my voice is steady, my body is shaking.

  “Of course you can,” he says. “You’re Four, Dauntless legend! You can face anything.”

  I cross my arms and inch closer to the edge of the roof. Even though I’m several feet away, I feel my body pitching over the edge, and I shake my head again, and again, and again.

  “Hey.” Zeke puts his hands on my shoulders. “This isn’t about you, remember? It’s about her. Doing something she would have liked to do, something she would have been proud of you for doing. Right?”

  That’s it. I can’t avoid this, I can’t back out now, not when I still remember her smile as she climbed the Ferris wheel with me, or the hard set of her jaw as she faced fear after fear in the simulations.

  “How did she get in?”

  “Face-first,” Zeke says.

  “All right.” I hand him the urn. “Put this behind me, okay? And open up the top.”

  I climb into the sling, my hands shaking so much I can barely grip the sides. Zeke tightens the straps across my back and legs, then wedges the urn behind me, facing out, so the ashes will spread. I stare down Lake Shore Drive, swallowing bile, and start to slide.

  Suddenly I want to take it back, but it’s too late, I am already diving toward the ground. I’m screaming so loud, I want to cover my own ears. I feel the scream living inside me, filling my chest, throat, and head.

  The wind stings my eyes but I force them open, and in my moment of blind panic I understand why she did it this way, face-first—it was because it made her feel like she was flying, like she was a bird.

  I can still feel the emptiness beneath me, and it is like the emptiness inside me, like a mouth about to swallow me.

  I realize, then, that I have stopped moving. The last bits of ash float on the wind like gray snowflakes, and then disappear.

  The ground is only a few feet below me, close enough to jump down. The others have gathered there in a circle, their arms clasped to form a net of bone and muscle to catch me in. I press my face to the sling and laugh.

  I toss the empty urn down to them, then twist my arms behind my back
to undo the straps holding me in. I drop into my friends’ arms like a stone. They catch me, their bones pinching at my back and legs, and lower me to the ground.

  There is an awkward silence as I stare at the Hancock building in wonder, and no one knows what to say. Caleb smiles at me, cautious.

  Christina blinks tears from her eyes and says, “Oh! Zeke’s on his way.”

  Zeke is hurtling toward us in a black sling. At first it looks like a dot, then a blob, and then a person swathed in black. He crows with joy as he eases to a stop, and I reach across to grab Amar’s forearm. On my other side, I grasp a pale arm that belongs to Cara. She smiles at me, and there is some sadness in her smile.

  Zeke’s shoulder hits our arms, hard, and he smiles wildly as he lets us cradle him like a child.

  “That was nice. Want to go again, Four?” he says.

  I don’t hesitate before answering. “Absolutely not.”

  We walk back to the train in a loose cluster. Shauna walks with her braces, Zeke pushing the empty wheelchair, and exchanges small talk with Amar. Matthew, Cara, and Caleb walk together, talking about something that has them all excited, kindred spirits that they are. Christina sidles up next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Happy Choosing Day,” she says. “I’m going to ask you how you really are. And you’re going to give me an honest answer.”

  We talk like this sometimes, giving each other orders. Somehow she has become one of the best friends I have, despite our frequent bickering.

  “I’m all right,” I say. “It’s hard. It always will be.”

  “I know,” she says.

  We walk at the back of the group, past the still-abandoned buildings with their dark windows, over the bridge that spans the river-marsh.

  “Yeah, sometimes life really sucks,” she says. “But you know what I’m holding on for?”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  She raises hers, too, mimicking me.

  “The moments that don’t suck,” she says. “The trick is to notice them when they come around.”

  Then she smiles, and I smile back, and we climb the stairs to the train platform side by side.

  Since I was young, I have always known this: Life damages us, every one. We can’t escape that damage.

  But now, I am also learning this: We can be mended. We mend each other.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To me, the acknowledgments page is a place for me to say, as sincerely as possible, that I don’t prosper, in life or in books, because of my own strength or skill alone. This series may have only one author, but this author wouldn’t have been able to do much of anything without the following people. So with that in mind: Thank you, God, for giving me the people who mend me.

  Here they are—

  Thank you to: my husband, for not only loving me in an extraordinary way but for some difficult brainstorming sessions, for reading all the drafts of this book, and for dealing with Neurotic Author Wife with the utmost patience.

  Joanna Volpe, for handling everything LIKE A BOSS, as they say, with honesty and kindness. Katherine Tegen, for excellent notes and for continually showing me the compassionate candy center inside the publishing badass. (I won’t tell anyone. Wait, I just did.) Molly O’Neill, for all your time and work and for the eye that spotted Divergent from what I’m sure was a giant stack of manuscripts. Casey McIntyre, for some major publicity prowess and for showing me astounding kindness (and dance moves).

  Joel Tippie, as well as Amy Ryan and Barb Fitzsimmons, for making these books so gorgeous Every. Single. Time. The amazing Brenna Franzitta, Josh Weiss, Mark Rifkin, Valerie Shea, Christine Cox, and Joan Giurdanella, for taking such good care of my words. Lauren Flower, Alison Lisnow, Sandee Roston, Diane Naughton, Colleen O’Connell, Aubry Parks-Fried, Margot Wood, Patty Rosati, Molly Thomas, Megan Sugrue, Onalee Smith, and Brett Rachlin, for all your marketing and publicity efforts, which are far too substantial to name. Andrea Pappenheimer, Kerry Moynagh, Kathy Faber, Liz Frew, Heather Doss, Jenny Sheridan, Fran Olson, Deb Murphy, Jessica Abel, Samantha Hagerbaumer, Andrea Rosen, and David Wolfson, sales experts, for your enthusiasm and support. Jean McGinley, Alpha Wong, and Sheala Howley, for getting my words on so many shelves across the globe. For that matter, all my foreign publishers, for believing in these stories. Shayna Ramos and Ruiko Tokunaga, production whizzes; Caitlin Garing, Beth Ives, Karen Dziekonski, and Sean McManus, who make fantastic audiobooks; and Randy Rosema and Pam Moore of finance—for all your hard work and talent. Kate Jackson, Susan Katz, and Brian Murray, for steering this Harper ship so well. I have an enthusiastic and supportive publisher from top to bottom, and that means so much to me.

  Pouya Shahbazian, for finding Divergent such a good movie home, and for all your hard work, patience, friendship, and horrifying bug-related pranks. Danielle Barthel, for your organized and patient mind. Everyone else at New Leaf Literary, for being wonderful people who do equally wonderful work. Steve Younger, for always looking out for me in work and in life. Everyone involved in “movie stuff”—particularly Neil Burger, Doug Wick, Lucy Fisher, Gillian Bohrer, and Erik Feig—for handling my work with such care and respect.

  Mom, Frank, Ingrid, Karl, Frank Jr., Candice, McCall, Beth, Roger, Tyler, Trevor, Darby, Rachel, Billie, Fred, Granny, the Johnsons (both Romanian and Missourian), the Krausses, the Paquettes, the Fitches, and the Rydzes—for all your love. (I would never choose my faction before you. Ever.)

  All the past-present-future members of YA Highway and Write Night, for being such thoughtful, understanding writer buddies. All the more experienced authors who have included me and helped me for the past few years. All the writers who have reached out to me on Twitter or e-mail for camaraderie. Writing can be a lonely job, but not for me, because I have you. I wish I could list you all. Mary Katherine Howell, Alice Kovacik, Carly Maletich, Danielle Bristow, and all my other non-writer friends, for helping me keep my head on straight.

  All the Divergent fansites, for crazy-awesome internet (and real-life) enthusiasm.

  My readers, for reading and thinking and squealing and tweeting and talking and lending and, above all, for teaching me so many valuable lessons about writing and life.

  All of the people listed above have made this series what it is, and knowing you all has changed my life. I am so lucky.

  I’ll say it one last time: Be brave.

  SPECIAL THANKS

  In the spring of 2012, fifty blogs helped spread their love for the DIVERGENT series by supporting the release of INSURGENT in a faction-based online campaign. Every participant was integral to the success of this series! Thank you to:

  ABNEGATION: Amanda Bell (faction leader), Katie Bartow, Heidi Bennett, Katie Butler, Asma Faizal, Hafsah Faizal, Ana Grilo, Kathy Habel, Thea James, Julie Jones, and HD Tolson

  AMITY: Meg Caristi, Kassiah Faul, and Sherry Atwell (faction leaders), Kristin Aragon, Emily Ellsworth, Cindy Hand, Melissa Helmers, Abigail J., Sarah Pitre, Lisa Reeves, Stephanie Su, and Amanda Welling

  CANDOR: Kristi Diehm (faction leader), Jaime Arnold, Harmony Beaufort, Damaris Cardinali, Kris Chen, Sara Gundell, Bailey Hewlett, John Jacobson, Hannah McBride, and Aeicha Matteson

  DAUNTLESS: Alison Genet (faction leader), Lena Ainsworth, Stacey Canova and Amber Clark, April Conant, Lindsay Cummings, Jessica Estep, Ashley Gonzales, Anna Heinemann, Tram Hoang, Nancy Sanchez, and Yara Santos

  ERUDITE: Pam van Hylckama Vlieg (faction leader), James Booth, Mary Brebner, Andrea Chapman, Amy Green, Jen Hamflett, Brittany Howard, O’Dell Hutchison, Benji Kenworthy, Lyndsey Lore, Jennifer McCoy, Lisa Parkin, and Lisa Roecker

  PRAISE FOR THE DIVERGENT SERIES

  #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERS

  USA TODAY BESTSELLERS

  INDIE BESTSELLER LISTS

  GOODREADS CHOICE AWARDS FAVORITE BOOK OF THE YEAR

  GOODREADS CHOICE AWARDS BEST AUTHOR OF THE YEAR

  GOODREADS CHOICE AWARDS BEST YA FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION BOOK OF THE YEAR

  ALA TEEN
S’ TOP TEN #1 FAVORITE BOOK OF THE YEAR

  ALA BEST FICTION FOR YOUNG ADULTS

  ALA QUICK PICK FOR RELUCTANT YOUNG ADULT READERS

  ROMANTIC TIMES AWARD, “BEST YA PROTAGONIST”

  ROMANTIC TIMES AWARD, “BEST YA FANTASY/FUTURISTIC/SCIENCE FICTION NOVEL”

  AMAZON.COM BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR

  BARNES & NOBLE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR

  CHAPTERS/INDIGO BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR

  NPR BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR

  “The next big thing.”—ROLLING STONE

  “Move over, Katniss. Tris is the next in line.”—USA TODAY

  “Thrilling.”—US WEEKLY

  “If you haven’t heard of Veronica Roth, just ask a teenager. They’ll know all about the twenty-four-year-old author of the wildly successful books. The trilogy might be ending, but Roth’s career is clearly just getting started.”

  —THE TODAY SHOW

  “Veronica Roth is the current rave among teen readers.”

  —ASSOCIATED PRESS

  “Veronica Roth is already beyond hot but could become the next young adult author to blast off into orbit.”

  —NEW YORK POST

  “The imaginative action and glimpses of a sprawling conspiracy are serious attention-grabbers, and the portrait of a shattered, derelict, overgrown, and abandoned Chicago is evocative as ever.”

  —HOLLYWOODCRUSH.MTV.COM

  “Promising author Roth tells the riveting and complex story of a teenage girl forced to choose between her routinized, selfless family and the adventurous, unrestrained future she longs for. A memorable, unpredictable journey from which it is nearly impossible to look away.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (STARRED REVIEW)

  “Roth paints her canvas with the same brush as Suzanne Collins. The plot, scenes, and characters are different but the colors are the same and just as rich. Fans of Collins, dystopias, and strong female characters will love this novel.”

  —SLJ

  “With brisk pacing and lavish flights of imagination, DIVERGENT clearly has thrills, but it also movingly explores a more common adolescent anxiety—the painful realization that coming into one’s own sometimes means leaving family behind, both ideologically and physically.”