by Zoe Cannon
“But you’re going to get through it. I promise.”
She had sacrificed her mother’s life for nothing.
“Becca? Say something.”
The tears came all at once, ripping from her body like a violent storm. She collapsed against Heather; vicious shudders tore through her with each gulping breath. A mewling noise escaped her lips. She reached for her mask and found nothing. The mask was gone, washed away, as lost to her as her mother.
The resistance. Everyone she had met in that little apartment. All so committed to their cause, each in their own way. All dead.
Jameson. His life sputtering out against her hands.
Micah. She loved him and she had betrayed him. Had been willing to let him die, had been ready to give the prisoners the weapons that would kill him.
And her mother. About to die because of her. Because of the risks she had taken, the lies she had told.
For nothing.
For nothing.
She didn’t know how much time had passed before she pulled away. “Is she…” The last word lodged in her throat. Her voice, rough and shaky with emotion, was unfamiliar to her ears.
“She’s still alive,” Heather answered. “Or she was last I heard, anyway. But I’m sure we’d have heard something if… I mean, they can’t execute Raleigh Dalcourt quietly.”
Maybe she still had time. Maybe she could still make this right. “I need…” Tears clogged her throat. She tried again. “I need to talk to Milo.”
“There’s nothing he can do. Investigation isn’t involved anymore. Processing is handling everything now.”
“Is he working today?” Sunday evening. Not many people would be. But her mom would have been. And so, she suspected, would Milo.
“I think so, but—”
“I need to see him.”
“If you go into Investigation talking about how your mom is innocent…” Heather hesitated. “You know what’s going to happen.”
She had promised her mom that she would say whatever she needed to say. That she would go along with the official story. That she would keep herself safe at all costs.
But her mom hadn’t known that this was all her fault.
“Take me to see him.” Her voice cracked. “Or I’m going on my own.”
“They won’t let you in the front door.”
“They will if you’re with me. You work there. You can get me in.” Her swollen eyes met Heather’s. She refused to look away.
Heather shook her head. “Talking to Milo won’t help anything. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Maybe not.” She wrapped her arms around herself. Without her mask to protect her, she would fall apart, all her secrets spilling out onto the floor at Heather’s feet. “Take me to see him.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes I do.”
“You don’t have to throw your life away for her. You don’t owe her that.”
Yes I do. She didn’t say it aloud this time.
Heather watched her for a long time. Waiting for some crack in her armor, maybe—but she had no armor left. Waiting for her to start being reasonable—but it was too late for that. She had left reasonable behind when she had decided to stop the reeducation program. When she had thought she could stand against an untouchable enemy.
“Fine.” Anger tightened Heather’s voice. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“Becca.” Milo rose when she entered the room. “I expected I would be hearing from you.”
Becca turned to Heather. “Wait outside.”
“You can still change your mind.” Heather’s plea was pitched for Becca’s ears only.
“Wait outside,” Becca repeated.
Heather’s hands clenched. She stalked out of the room.
Milo motioned Becca closer. “I haven’t forgotten my promises to you. I’ve already talked to the people who will set your transfer to Investigation in motion. You have nothing to worry about.”
She crossed the room, hunched in on herself with all her protection gone, ruthlessly shoving aside the voice that told her to run. She didn’t need that voice anymore. She didn’t need anyone looking out for her survival.
“That’s not why I’m here.” Her voice still betrayed her, even here. Emotion scraped across her throat with every word, rubbing it raw before leaking from her lips. “I want to take back everything I told you before. About my mother. None of it was true.”
Milo shook his head. “It’s understandable that you would be having second thoughts. But it’s out of your hands now, and out of mine. Internal has already deemed your information to be accurate. Technically, I should report you for suggesting otherwise—but I’m willing to forget we had this conversation if you leave now and never mention this again.”
“No. I’m not leaving. Not until you listen.”
Frustration colored Milo’s voice. “I’ve given you a chance, Becca. A chance to move beyond your mother’s reputation instead of sharing her fate. Most people in your situation never get that opportunity. Don’t throw it away.”
Time slowed down. Every pause between her heartbeats felt like an eternity. Another opportunity to walk away.
“My mother didn’t kill that prisoner.” Her voice was ugly, raw, weak. Her mask was gone, scattered in pieces across the floor of her apartment.
But she didn’t need it anymore.
She drew in a deep breath, shuddery with tears.
“She didn’t kill him. I did.”
Milo said nothing.
“I was the one working with those dissidents, not her. I stole my mom’s keycard months ago. When Jameson was arrested, I went down to the underground levels to save him.” She had to pause for breath before she could continue. “There was no way to get him out. He couldn’t walk, and we wouldn’t have been able to get past the guards anyway. He… he asked me to kill him.” Another breath. Two. “And I did.”
And she was done.
She had confessed to dissident activity. There was no turning back from that.
But she didn’t want to turn back.
Her life meant nothing. Her fight meant nothing. If she tried to help the kids she had risked everything to save, she would only be condemning them to death. The best she could hope for now was to save her mother from the fate that should have been hers.
At least she could undo this mess she had created. At least there was someone she could still save.
“You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?” Milo murmured. “This isn’t some misguided attempt to protect your mother. You killed that prisoner.”
Her voice was weak, but steady. “I did.”
Slowly, cold fury spread across his features, turning his mouth to a blade, his eyes to shards of ice. “You’re a dissident. I risked my reputation, every shred of influence I’ve gathered, to help you—and you’re exactly what the rest of Investigation 212 thought you were.”
She didn’t respond.
She only waited.
Waited for him to make the call. For the Enforcers to swarm the room. She waited for the sign that would tell her she had saved her mother’s life.
But he didn’t move.
“You will be transferred to Investigation 212.” His face was inscrutable, though that same cold fury still flashed in his eyes. “You will not repeat your confession to anyone else. You will play the good citizen until 117 runs out of ways to delay your mother’s execution, after which an anonymous report about your dissident involvement will make its way to Enforcement, too late for anyone to connect you to the possibility of Raleigh Dalcourt’s innocence without more loss of credibility than Public Relations will allow.”
But… she had confessed.
He knew what she was. What she had done.
He knew her mother was innocent. And he didn’t care.
“I don’t understand.” It was all she could think of to say.
“After your mother’s execution, I will be known as the investigator who uncov
ered the most dangerous traitor Internal has ever known—and the investigator with enough influence to bring down Internal’s golden child. No one will mistake me for a dissident after that… and no one will dare stand in my way.”
Becca’s stomach roiled. “You’re having my mother executed so… what, so you can get promoted? Make people a little more afraid of you?”
Hypocrite, a voice inside her taunted. As if Milo were the only one willing to sacrifice her mom for his own ends.
But at least she had done it for something that mattered.
“This isn’t about me.” A look of mingled disgust and contempt crossed Milo’s face at the suggestion. “It’s about all of us. It’s about Heather, and everyone like her. Children of dissidents unjustly condemned for our parents’ actions. With every victory, I gain more respect, and I will spend every drop of that respect to ensure we’re protected.” A bit of the anger faded, melted into weary lines. “It’s getting worse. Even you must see that. Public opinion turns against us more every day. And there is no one else willing or able to do what I do. So I will do whatever is necessary to stand between us and the rest of the world. To give us all the lives we should have had.”
“Even sacrifice an innocent woman. Internal’s best interrogator.” My mother. Her guilt spiked as she said the words.
There was no uncertainty in Milo’s expression. No regret. Nothing but cold conviction. “Even that.”
He was doing what she had done. Sacrificing the woman she had sacrificed. To protect the same people she had tried to protect.
It doesn’t matter, she wanted to tell him. You can’t save them. It always ends the same way.
He couldn’t save them. She couldn’t save them.
But she would save her mother.
“You aren’t the only one who can help me,” she said. “I can confess the truth to anyone.”
“And I will make sure you’re never believed.” Not a single flash of worry in his eyes. “You’ll remember that I kept the rest of Investigation from recommending your arrest, when arresting you would have been the obvious thing to do.”
She believed him. He had protected her then. He could protect her now.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
She nodded, empty, drained. “I understand.” She sagged under the weight of it, and her mask was no longer there to hold her up.
He smiled without warmth. “Good. Go home. I’ll talk to you again when the transfer goes through. It should happen by the end of the week.”
He motioned her out the door.
And she left for the only place she could go.
* * *
Heather dropped her off at her apartment first. “Let me stay with you,” she said as Becca got out of the car. “You shouldn’t have to be alone.”
But Becca couldn’t have company for this. “I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Heather hesitated. “You don’t seem quite…” She struggled for words. “You seem like you could use a friend.”
“I’m fine.” If only she had salvaged enough of her mask to make it sound convincing.
Heather looked like she wanted to protest.
“I’m fine,” Becca repeated.
“Call me if you need anything, okay?” said Heather. “Even if it’s just to talk. I remember what it’s like. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Becca nodded mechanically. “I will.”
And Heather left.
Becca watched Heather’s car pull out of the parking lot. She watched until it was gone.
Then she got in her car and started driving to 117.
Milo was probably right. He could probably keep her confession from having any effect. But if anyone would listen, if anyone would fight Milo’s manipulations, it was the people in 117. The people who worked with her mother, who admired her, who saw her as a colleague and a role model.
Becca would try, no matter how slim the odds. She would try because she had to try. Her plans were gone. Her chance to change the world was gone. This was all she had.
Her head was clearer than it had been in a long time. Her thoughts were single-pointed, filled with nothing but her narrow purpose. Go to 117. Confess. Save my mother. Nothing existed in her universe but this. Not the reeducation program. Not Micah. Not her failure. She didn’t have to think about any of it anymore.
Go to 117. Confess. Save my mother.
It took her no time at all to reach the processing center. Strange to be getting here at this time of day, with the sun down and the parking lot mostly empty. She pulled into a parking space, but didn’t get out. Not yet.
It couldn’t be over yet.
She slammed her fist against the dashboard, suddenly furious with herself. Even now, she was still waiting. Even now, some part of her, some naive and deluded part, thought the world was going to work its magic and turn her into a hero. She would complete her impossible mission, finish what the others had started. She would stop the reeducation program. She would accomplish something before she died.
Hadn’t she learned this lesson enough by now? Didn’t she know by now that there would be no last-minute miracle?
Jameson had known this. Him and all the others. They had tried to tell her. She hadn’t listened.
She pressed her aching hand to her mouth. Bit her bruised knuckles so hard they bled.
Jameson and the others had known this… and they had still fought.
What had they been fighting for?
Jameson had never told her. She had never learned what he believed, what he lived for, why he kept banging his head against the same brick wall day after day. She had never known his victories—he must have had them, otherwise he would have walked away a long time ago, but he had never shared them with her. He had closed her out, because he had seen her as young and idealistic, blind to reality—and clearly some part of her still was, because otherwise she wouldn’t be out here hesitating, waiting for the chance to make her grand gesture.
Jameson hadn’t been waiting. He had known the truth. Had known it well enough and bitterly enough to take offense at Becca’s idealism.
But if the impossible remained impossible, if the regime remained untouchable, then what was the point? What was the point of any of it?
It didn’t matter. This was all irrelevant now, insignificant. These thoughts were only getting in the way of her perfect clarity.
She didn’t get out of the car.
There had to be some point to it, didn’t there? There had to be some reason people didn’t just give up and walk away. Because there were always more dissidents. Not just people who noticed the wrong things or asked the wrong questions, but people like her. People like Jameson. People who fought.
She went still as it hit her.
There were always more dissidents.
Maybe there was no end to this. Maybe there was no victory. But there was no defeat, either. Even now, even with the others dead, Becca had survived. And if she had died along with them, there would still be hundreds of other dissident groups scattered across the country, unaware of her fate, their own missions unaffected. And if Internal wiped out every dissident group in the country today, tomorrow someone would wake up and decide a better world was worth fighting for.
And maybe that didn’t have to mean a world without Internal in it. Maybe it just meant a world with dissidents in it.
A world with hope.
There was still more she could do.
The knowledge settled in around her with the weight of the inevitable and the promise of the new. It brought with it a faint tinge of disappointment, a strange and bitter dread. It would have been easier to die here.
But she had plans to make.
She couldn’t stop the reeducation program. Couldn’t save all those future kids destined for a place there.
But she could save some of them.
She could save Kara.
Maybe Jameson would have dismissed the kids
as insignificant. She didn’t care. He had had his victories. She would have her own.
He had made his sacrifices. She would make her own.
She wouldn’t go to her mother’s rescue.
A year and a half ago, when Becca had been locked in one of those cells, her mother had charged in to save her. Becca could have done the same for her.
But her mother had been the one to teach her about making sacrifices. About doing what was necessary.
Back then, Becca had gotten her last-minute miracle. Her mother would have none.
Tears blurred her eyes as she drove away.
And then she pushed them back. She gathered the shards of her mask around herself and began to piece it back together.
She wasn’t done with it after all. She still had work to do.
Part Three
Chapter Eighteen
Every day, as she indexed files in the bowels of Investigation 212, Becca listened to the rumors—Raleigh Dalcourt had been executed, Raleigh Dalcourt had been released, Raleigh Dalcourt had confessed to dissident activity. Every day she pretended not to notice the predatory warning in Milo’s eyes whenever their paths crossed, and how much more often their paths crossed than chance would dictate. Every day she avoided Heather and Vivian, ducking into empty rooms to keep from passing them in the hallways, hurrying to her car on her way out of the building before anyone could catch up with her. Reminding herself that friendship was pointless when her future was measured in days.
Every day she tried to improve her plan, her stupid desperate hopeless plan, her only chance at saving Kara and the others. Every day she failed. Every day she told herself, One more day. I’ll give it one more day.
And then, two weeks to the day since her trip to 117, two weeks to the day since her mother’s arrest, Heather knocked on her door.
“I know you don’t want to talk,” said Heather in a rush, like she was afraid Becca would close the door on her. “But this is important. Can we come in?”
We? Becca looked past Heather. Vivian and Ramon stood behind her. Vivian wore an expression of grim determination, while Ramon watched Becca intently.
