No Return (The Internal Defense Series)

by Zoe Cannon

  Chapter Three

  Becca paused after stepping out of her car. She scanned the parking lot, letting her gaze rest on each vehicle in turn. At this time of night, cars filled almost every available space—but not the car she was looking for.

  Good.

  The apartment building, although identical to her own, felt more like home than hers probably ever would. She tensed as she took in the familiar sights—the patriotic poster taped to a third-story window, the single scraggly tree next to the front door, the walls painted in harsh Internal white.

  Quit stalling.

  She strolled casually across the lot, as if she weren’t here to commit a crime punishable by death.

  If only her life were the only one on the line.

  Through the door. Up the stairs. She dug her key out of her pocket as she walked on autopilot down the hall. Her feet stopped at the right door before she consciously saw it.

  Halfway to putting the key in the lock, she hesitated.

  There was still time to turn back.

  But if she did, she would be walking away from her best chance to protect the resistance.

  Last night she had ridden along with Kara and Micah as Jared had driven them to one of the nearby resistance safehouses. She had hoped to use the time to learn everything else Kara knew about the infiltration program. But Kara hadn’t known anything besides what she had told Becca in the clearing.

  If Kara couldn’t tell her anything more, Becca needed to find the information however she could. No matter what it might cost.

  I have to protect them. That’s all that matters.

  She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  A chill hung over the apartment, as if it had stood empty for days. She flicked on the light. Even three years after she had moved out, everything looked exactly the same as she remembered.

  No. Not exactly the same.

  Scuff marks marred the stretch of carpet in front of her, as if someone had paced back and forth in this one tiny spot for hours. Next to the couch, a fist-sized indentation broke the symmetry of the wallpaper. The room held a sour antiseptic smell from being cleaned too many times.

  She passed through the living room and entered her mom’s bedroom. The sheets, usually smoothed with military precision, had come untucked from the mattress; the blankets lay scattered across the floor. Either her mom had thrashed and flailed her way through a lot of nightmares lately, or she had violently unmade her bed in a fit of insomnia-induced frustration. Becca was all too familiar with both.

  Her mom’s computer desk sat wedged into the space between the bed and the door. Becca had suggested, more than once, that her mom should set up her computer in Becca’s old bedroom. But even now, three years after Becca had moved out, Becca’s room sat empty, as if waiting for her to come back. The computer remained where it had always been.

  Becca took a step toward the computer. She hesitated, heart pounding in her ears.

  In the past three years, she had run into a lot of situations where her mom’s work files might have helped her. But she hadn’t touched them in three years. Not since accessing classified files under her mom’s name had brought her mom within hours of execution for dissident activity. Every time she had been tempted, the memory of their goodbye had surged to the front of her mind, and she had found another way.

  But this time she didn’t have that luxury.

  Earlier today she had made contact with the other core members of the resistance, letting them know the situation, telling them what to look for. They had promised to comb through their networks for anyone and anything suspicious. But they didn’t even know the names of everyone in their networks, let alone their personal history; the resistance was a complex web of limited connections, designed to make sure nobody could give up too many names under interrogation. And she didn’t know how many people they were looking for. What if they found two spies and thought the threat was over, when Internal had actually sent in twice that number? Her mom’s files could give her all the spies at once—or at least point her toward how to find them.

  Leading the resistance meant weighing lives against each other and deciding which ones to sacrifice. And tonight, that meant risking her mother’s life.

  She sat down at the computer desk and reached into the top drawer. Her fingers closed around her mom’s security fob. Apparently her mom still kept it in the same place. Good. She pulled it out.

  The fob’s tiny screen displayed six numbers, a password that changed every minute. The password, when she typed it in, unlocked the files with the same ease she remembered. Her mom’s high-level access opened up in front of her. So easy. Too easy. She could almost forget that everything she did in here meant rolling the dice with her mother’s life.

  I have to protect them. Whatever it takes.

  Despite the years that had passed since the last time she had done this, she still remembered everything she had learned about Internal’s arcane file interface. Steadying her breathing to focus her mind, she began to search for anything that could relate to reeducated spies inside the resistance.

  And found nothing.

  A minute passed, then five minutes, then an hour. Becca read interrogation transcripts until she wanted to gag. She studied prisoner files, memos, surveillance reports on dissidents and interrogators alike. Nothing about reeducating dissidents and sending them to infiltrate the resistance. Not even so much as a hint that the program existed.

  As one hour stretched into two, a thought began to creep through her mind like an unwanted stray cat. No matter how many times she shooed it away, it refused to leave.

  Maybe the reason she couldn’t find any proof that it existed… was that it didn’t.

  How desperate had Kara been to get Micah back? Desperate enough to do whatever it took to make Becca help her? Desperate enough to lie?

  If the program didn’t exist, Becca’s people were in no more danger than they had been two days ago.

  If the program didn’t exist, Terrence had died for nothing.

  One more file. One more. If she didn’t find anything here, she would accept that she’d been had and go home.

  Hoping the file would give her something, hoping it wouldn’t, she began to read.

  At first the file looked as useless as the others. Some long and jargon-filled memo about resolving conflicts between Investigation and Processing. Her eyes glazed as she began to skim.

  And jolted back into focus as the meaning of the words she had just read sank in.

  …all dissidents suspected of involvement in last year’s mass breakout…

  Becca’s resistance.

  …dissidents under the age of 25 are to be turned over to Reeducation without interrogation, regardless of crime…

  Anyone young enough to be reeducated.

  …partnership between the Investigation and Reeducation divisions…

  Reeducation to create the spies. Investigation to give them their orders.

  …severe consequences for any interrogator judged to be impeding the progress of this initiative.

  Kara had told her the truth.

  Becca scrutinized the rest of the document, searching for specifics, for anything that could help her track down the spies. But there was nothing else. Nothing but a bland, We appreciate your cooperation in this matter.

  She closed the file. Closed her eyes.

  The program existed.

  And the memo hadn’t brought her any closer to stopping it.

  “Becca? What are you doing here?”

  Becca’s eyes flew open.

  Her mother stood in the doorway.

  * * *

  Becca hurriedly swept her gaze over the desk. She had closed all the files. The security fob was safely tucked away in its drawer. There was nothing left that could condemn her.

  She turned back to her mom. “We were supposed to get together tonight.” The lie flowed from her lips with the ease of practice. “We planned it last week, remember? I came over st
raight after work, like we agreed. I figured you got held up with some urgent interrogation, so I went on your computer to pass the time.” With luck, her mom’s usual after-work exhaustion would be enough to make her believe their plans had simply slipped her mind.

  Guilt swept across her mom’s face. “I’m so sorry, Becca. I completely forgot. I’m glad I happened to come home—I’ve been working on a difficult prisoner all day, and I planned to stop in for a quick bite to eat before heading back to work. Of course I’ll stay now that you’re here. The prisoner can wait.”

  And now Becca was stuck trying to make conversation with her mom for however long dinner lasted. “If work needs you—”

  “The prisoner can wait,” her mom repeated. “Lucas will handle the interrogation if necessary.” She had that hungry look in her eyes again, that I never see you anymore look. It seemed like she had been wearing that look for the past three years.

  Her mom leaned in closer, studying Becca’s face. She frowned in concern. Fear flashed through Becca for a moment—had her mom read something in her eyes?—before her mom spoke. “Those dark circles under your eyes are getting worse.”

  This again. The panic faded, but the tension remained. “I’m fine,” she answered by rote.

  “You’re getting worry lines around your eyes.”

  “It’s just stress. You know what working for Internal is like.” Always the same old dance—motherly concern on one side, treasonous secrets on the other. By now Becca knew all the moves by heart.

  Ever since Becca had first joined the resistance, her mom had remained blind to her dissident activity. Becca attributed it to willful ignorance—to the simple refusal, on some subconscious level, to admit that her daughter was just like the people she tortured for information every day. But that didn’t make her blind to the toll it had taken. Every time Becca visited, her mom’s questions about her life and health became more frequent, more pointed, and harder to avoid.

  Becca didn’t visit much anymore.

  “You look like a dissident after a month of sleep deprivation,” her mom persisted. “Have you been sleeping?”

  At least Becca knew one sure way to make the questions stop. She cast a pointed glance toward her mom’s bed. “About as well as you.”

  Her mom didn’t say anything.

  “The support groups are getting popular enough that Internal is thinking of bringing in a few more people to run them.” Becca met her mom’s eyes. “Maybe you should sign up.”

  Her mom looked away, like Becca had known she would.

  “I’m serious, you know,” Becca said quietly. “You really might want to think about it.”

  But her mom had already left the room. “Let’s see what we can find for dinner,” she called over her shoulder. “I hope we have some food in the house. I’ve been living on sandwiches from the cafeteria for the past month. With the latest crackdowns, I’m lucky if I have a few spare minutes each day to breathe, much less cook a proper meal.”

  Becca followed her mom out to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator. Stuck her head inside one cabinet, then the next. Her mom hadn’t been exaggerating. The bare kitchen would have been more than enough to fuel the other resistance members’ jokes about how Raleigh Dalcourt lived on nothing but the blood and tears of dissidents.

  Becca’s voice bounced off the back of the cabinet. “The support groups aren’t as bad as you think.”

  “I’m too busy protecting this country to waste my time on a support group I don’t need,” her mom replied with an edge to her voice. “The dissident situation is only getting worse. I assume you heard about Enforcement 260?”

  A ripple of emotion—grief, anger, fear—ran through Becca’s body before she could smooth it away. She nodded shortly. “It was all over the news.” This morning’s news report had been the usual five-minute propaganda film, this time denouncing the band of dissidents who had broken into Enforcement 260 to rescue the fugitive Micah Nevin. A heroic Enforcer, sensing the danger before anyone else, had gone out after them alone, but had only managed to bring one of them down before they murdered him in cold blood. The remaining dissidents and the fugitive were currently at large, most likely hiding out in their secret underground bunker while they planned out their next move.

  More visibility. Exactly what the resistance couldn’t afford right now.

  But if she hadn’t done what Kara had wanted, she wouldn’t have found out about the spies. The resistance needed that information more than they needed to lie low.

  I did what I had to do to protect them.

  “Does Internal know anything yet?” she asked.

  Her mom shook her head. “If Public Relations were giving us time to focus on genuine interrogations, we might be getting somewhere. But instead they’re leaning on us to give them someone they can parade in front of the cameras. They want this wrapped up as soon as possible, and that means a tidy confession that ends with all the dissidents in question conveniently dead.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s the wrong way to go about this. If people know this fugitive is still out there, the fear will keep them focused on the larger threat. And the more time we spend giving Public Relations what they want, the less time we can devote to ending that threat. But of course, it’s not our decision.”

  A sour taste filled Becca’s mouth. Innocent people, tortured into giving false confessions because of her.

  I did what I had to do.

  “I heard something the other day.” She would have to tread carefully here. The program wasn’t public knowledge—it couldn’t be, or she would have already heard about it through 117’s active rumor mill. But if there was a chance of learning more, she had to take it.

  “About what?” her mom asked.

  “A new program.” Becca watched her mother’s face. “A collaboration between Investigation and Reedu—”

  Her mom drew up sharply. “Who told you this?”

  She had said too much. And she couldn’t answer, not even with a lie. The last time she had blamed a rumor on someone, that person had ended up dead. “I don’t remember. I heard it around.”

  “Officially, there is no such program. That’s what you’ll say if anyone mentions this in front of you again. After which, you will record their names and bring the list directly to me.” She fixed Becca with a demanding stare.

  Becca nodded. “Of course.”

  The intensity in her mom’s gaze faded. Her shoulders relaxed as she took a step back. “Even I don’t know much about it,” she said. “I do know it involves infiltrating the group responsible for the breakout—never mind that Surveillance lost two of their best agents that way. If you can trust anything that comes out of an investigator’s mouth, they have ten spies inside the group already.” She clucked her tongue. “It’s ambitious, I’ll grant them that.”

  The words hit Becca like a punch to the chest.

  Her heartbeats flew into a scattered rhythm. Her lungs refused to open.

  Ten spies.

  The resistance, including all the informants and sympathizers who worked with them, was maybe a hundred people strong. Ten spies meant one out of every ten of her people had been captured and tortured and turned. One in ten of her people reported to Internal now.

  She had imagined two or three. Five at most. Even those numbers had made her feel sick.

  What were they supposed to do against ten?

  Focus, she ordered herself. But her concentration skittered away from her like oil on a hot pan.

  “…stealing away some of our best leads,” her mom was saying. “Hauling them off to the reeducation centers before we can so much as ask them their names. Not that I would expect anything else from Investigation. They proved their incompetence when they let that traitor investigator nearly frame us both for dissident activity. This is nothing but an attempt to salvage their reputation with a shortsighted, ill-advised…” Her mom kept talking. Becca didn’t hear her.

  One in ten.

  I don’t know
how to protect them.

  Something slid out of place inside her. Some crucial piece of her control.

  Loosening. Slipping away.

  First the others’ arguments and protests, their discontent growing with every meeting. Then Kara’s blackmail. And now this.

  Too much.

  I don’t know how—

  She cut off the thought, swift as a gunshot to the head.

  I will be who they need me to be. There is no other choice.

  She gripped the counter. Closed her eyes. Took a slow breath, and another.

  I will protect them.

  She straightened—and found herself staring directly into her mother’s eyes.

  Her mom’s gaze hardened, growing resolute, as if she had come to a decision. “No,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “I can’t watch this anymore.”

  Becca had only slipped for a second—but her mom had seen.

  She let go of the counter, banishing the last of her shaky uncertainty. “It’s just stress,” she repeated. Calm. Capable. Confident. No fear, no guilt, nothing that could give her away. “We’re all stressed these days.”

  “Have you looked at yourself lately?” Her mom brushed Becca’s cheek with her hand. “You look like you’ve been punched in the face. Your skin is practically gray. You’re losing weight—I can almost see your ribs. And the way you talk… you sound like a robot. There’s no spark in your eyes anymore. You’re not the Becca I know.” A strange, desperate sort of worry slipped into her voice. “It scares me, Becca.”

  Becca pointed through the kitchen doorway to the dent she had spotted earlier. “And the mother I know doesn’t punch walls.”

  Her mom tensed, but shook her head. “No, Becca. Not this time. I’ve been letting you turn this around on me for too long. You’re done.” She crossed her arms. “I’m your mother. It’s my responsibility to help you however I can. So you’re going to talk to me. You’re going to tell me what’s wrong, and we’re going to fix it together.”

  Becca ignored the tiny tug of longing in her heart at the thought of talking to her mom the way she used to. “You don’t need to do anything. I can take care of it myself. I’ll try sleeping pills. Maybe get more exercise.”