No Return (The Internal Defense Series)

by Zoe Cannon

  “I love you.” Her mom’s voice hid as many fractures as her face. “I will always love you. More than my own life. More than Internal. More than anything.”

  Becca’s own voice broke as she answered. “I know. And I love you. I never stopped, no matter how much I hated Internal, no matter how hard I fought against them. And if you do this, I won’t ever think it means you love me any less.”

  “I’m proud of you, you know.” Hesitantly, her mom reached for her hand. She squeezed lightly, the way Becca had done a moment ago. “I hate the fight you’ve chosen… but I’m proud of you for fighting. And for never giving in, despite the odds against you, despite everything you’ve had to sacrifice.” She shook her head, as if to herself. “I don’t know why I never saw how much you had changed. How strong you had become.”

  “I learned it from you. You’re every bit as strong as I am.” Becca paused. “You’re strong enough to do this.”

  Her mom studied Becca’s face as if she were trying to memorize it. As if this were the last time she would ever see it. She didn’t speak.

  The fractures seemed to mend as Becca watched. Something shifted—something small, something subtle—and the broken shell who had walked through the door was gone. The woman in front of her was Raleigh Dalcourt, Internal’s most dangerous interrogator. The woman in front of her was her mother, so much less and so much more than Raleigh Dalcourt could ever be.

  That was how Becca knew what her mom had chosen.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” her mom said softly.

  Becca nodded. “So are you.”

  Becca reached out to her mom. Her mom reached out to her. They met halfway in a hug—leaning against each other, comforting each other, lending each other their strength.

  Becca would do what the resistance needed. She would be what they needed. She was the resistance leader again.

  And she was a girl, folded in her mother’s arms, certain that everything would be all right.

  Epilogue

  Every table in Lucky’s Pizza was packed.

  The smell of beer and soda filled the air; the walls rang with voices raised in excitement and anticipation. A waitress balancing a pizza and two trays of drinks sucked in her stomach as she tried to squeeze between two of the extra tables that had been moved in for the occasion. Along the wall where the old banner had hung, a new one read, Celebrate EXECUTION DAY with us—Internal Defense employees drink free!

  Around the room, people checked their watches and fidgeted in their seats. Hands waved as a dozen people at once motioned the two haggard waitresses to come take their last-minute orders.

  Not long now.

  “There she is!” someone called.

  A hush fell over the room as every head swiveled to the TV mounted on the far wall.

  On the screen, a young woman strode into view, flanked by two Enforcers. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, and she winced visibly with every step, but she held her head high as she stared directly into the camera.

  The resistance leader.

  The room held only a single chair, simple and unadorned, the black metal stark against the white walls. The Enforcers started to pull their charge down into the seat; she shook off their grip and sat, managing to make the movement look almost elegant despite her cuffed hands and obvious stiffness.

  As the Enforcers positioned themselves to either side of the chair, she spoke.

  “My name is Rebecca Dalcourt.” Her voice, though low, easily filled the now-silent restaurant. “And for the past three years, I have led the dissident organization responsible for last year’s escape from Processing 117.”

  * * *

  In the clearing behind Processing 117, surrounded by unmarked graves, the three remaining core members of the resistance rubbed their hands together for warmth as they huddled around a small laptop screen.

  “Last year, under my direction, my organization carried out an attack on Processing 117 that led to the escape of hundreds of the country’s most dangerous dissidents.” The voice sounded tinny through the speakers, but they could still hear every word. “By preventing their executions, we deprived society of seeing justice done. By costing Internal the information their interrogations could have provided, we impeded the capture of thousands of other dissidents. And by helping these traitors go free, we allowed them to continue spreading their dissident ideals. The country is still enduring the aftereffects of our actions.”

  Most dissidents confessed their crimes with a bowed head and a broken voice. Becca did neither. She spoke proudly, as if she were sitting in that chair by choice. As if she wanted the world to know what she had done.

  Jared, watching the screen with unblinking intensity, mirrored her movements as she spoke. She straightened her shoulders; he straightened his. She tilted her chin up; he did the same. Like he was practicing. Preparing. Trying to learn how to step into her shoes.

  “In addition, we have worked to destabilize the country in other ways,” Becca continued. “We have spread dissident propaganda with the intent of poisoning others’ minds against the regime. We have helped fugitives and escaping prisoners evade detection. We have infiltrated every branch of Internal Defense and used that influence to sabotage their operations.”

  A tear leaked from Kara’s eyes—then another, and another, rolling down her cheeks to land on the frozen ground. She covered her mouth to hold in a wordless noise of protest.

  A hand, not hers, brushed across her cheek to wipe the wetness away.

  Kara looked at Micah.

  Gently, he drew her hand down from her mouth, his fingers damp with her tears and his own. He rested her hand in his, barely touching, eyes questioning.

  After a moment of hesitation, she threaded her fingers through his.

  His warmth flowed into her, and hers into him, as they cried together.

  * * *

  “Through our actions, we have caused untold harm to the regime, the ideals of citizenship, and the foundations of our society,” the resistance leader finished. “I am here tonight to accept the consequences of those actions.”

  A few miles from the clearing, in a small apartment identical to every other in the row of Internal housing, a girl of about sixteen sat with her knees pulled to her chest and her eyes fixed on the screen. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t think she could have if she had tried.

  “Do you see?” her mother demanded, pointing at the screen accusingly. Her hand shook. “Do you see what’s going to happen to you if you keep this up?”

  The girl barely heard. The resistance leader’s eyes seemed to lance into her, down to her core, to the secret thoughts she didn’t let herself admit. She couldn’t look away.

  She’s willing to die for what she believes in. Shame snaked through her thoughts.

  “Do you think I haven’t noticed how you’ve changed since your father was arrested?” her mother continued. “Do you think I haven’t heard the things you’ve said about Internal?” She shook her head. “I won’t let you turn out like him. You’re going to watch this, and you’re going to think about what it means, and then this is going to stop.”

  The girl slipped her hand into her pocket. Her fingers found the edges of the folded paper she had carried with her for weeks. The paper the investigator had given her—the investigator who had assigned herself to her family after her father’s arrest, who had fought to keep her out of reeducation, who had talked to her like a friend and held her while she cried.

  If you’re going to fight Internal, the investigator had said, at least call this number first. Let these people help keep you from getting yourself killed.

  Internal was right to arrest my father, she had replied woodenly, paralyzed with fear at the thought of an investigator suspecting her of dissident activity. At the thought of anyone seeing the thoughts that had begun to creep into the back of her mind, the thoughts she could barely acknowledge to herself. I’m not going to fight them. I’m not going to do anything.


  You will. I recognize that look in your eyes. A strange expression had crossed the investigator’s face at that. You remind me of someone I know.

  The girl had stuffed the note in her pocket without looking at it. She still hadn’t opened it. Instead she kept it in her pocket, rubbing the edges ragged, telling herself she was going to throw it away.

  “Are you paying attention?” Her mother shook her shoulder. “Look at her. Do you want to be sitting there one day? Do you?”

  On the screen, a second figure stepped into view. She moved like an ice sculpture come to life, all hard lines and cold grace. The Enforcers stepped back at her approach, as if the mere force of her presence had swept them aside.

  She and the resistance leader had the same eyes.

  “My name is Raleigh Dalcourt.” She spoke like the resistance leader—with that same intensity, that same confidence. That same quiet conviction. “I hold the position of senior interrogator at Processing 117. And three days ago, I discovered along with the rest of the country that my daughter, Rebecca Dalcourt, is a dissident.”

  She reached for her belt. For the gun that rested there.

  “When I joined Internal Defense, I swore to protect our citizens to the best of my ability. My loyalty lies not with the traitor beside me now, but with my responsibilities as an interrogator and as a citizen. I will not let personal relationships interfere with my duty. I will eliminate the dissidents in our midst, no matter who they are or where I find them. I will make any sacrifice necessary to protect the people I swore to protect, and I will do it without hesitation.”

  She placed the gun to the resistance leader’s temple.

  “This dissident has engaged in crimes against her country and her fellow citizens. For these crimes, she has been sentenced to death.”

  The girl didn’t notice as her mother’s hand tightened on her shoulder. She was too focused on the resistance leader. On her quiet exhale as the gun barrel met her skin. On the peace in her eyes where fear should have been.

  She’s willing to die for what she believes in. I can’t even look at a piece of paper.

  “That’s going to be you if you don’t get this figured out.” Her mother’s fingers dug deeper. “Do you understand?”

  At the same time, Raleigh Dalcourt spoke, her voice as solid and unyielding as the concrete walls of Processing 117. “The sentence will be carried out immediately.”

  The resistance leader looked straight at the camera. Straight at the girl. The slightest smile flickered across her face.

  The gun fired.

  As the echoes of the gunshot faded, the girl answered. “I understand.”

  And she did.

  She knew what she had to do.

  About the Author

  Zoe Cannon writes about the things that fascinate her: outsiders, societies no sane person would want to live in, questions with no easy answers, and the inner workings of the mind. If she couldn't be a writer, she would probably be a psychologist, a penniless philosopher, or a hermit in a cave somewhere. While she'll read anything that isn't nailed down, she considers herself a YA reader and writer at heart. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and a giant teddy bear of a dog, and spends entirely too much time on the internet.

  Visit http://www.zoecannon.com to find out what Zoe is working on now, and sign up for updates on new releases here: http://www.zoecannon.com/newsletter.

  You can also find Zoe on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ZoeCannonAuthor

  On Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/cannonzoe

  On Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/zoecannon

  Or email her directly at zoe@zoecannon.com.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my husband, for giving me the emergency confidence boosts I needed and an infinite supply of moral support;

  to my fellow Infinite Inklings, for spreading the word, sharing the journey, and generally being awesome;

  to the Great Bay Writers, for powering through the 600-page first draft and letting me know that yes, the story really would be better if I had written it the way I wanted;

  to all the reviewers and bloggers who have helped this series find its fans;

  and, last but not least, to every reader who took a chance on the first book and followed Becca’s story through to the end. A story doesn’t really come to life until it’s shared—until then, it’s just daydreaming on paper. I created Becca, but you made her matter.

  More Books by Zoe Cannon

  The Internal Defense Series

  The Torturer’s Daughter

  Necessary Sacrifices

  The First Unforgivable Thing (novella)

  Anthologies

  The Adventure of Creation

  Darkest Worlds: A Dystopian Anthology

  Through a Tangled Wood (available as a free ebook)

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