So I nosed my board south, then angled it toward the ocean. I tried to empty my mind, but it filled with pieces of last night.
* * *
“He’s all yours.”
As Starr says those words, a sharp pain radiates through my chest. Not a physical wound, but an emotional gash. What is she playing at? I clutch the microchip in my jeans pocket, desperately willing my eyes to take in some light, see something.
I can’t. And that infuriates me. I jump from the unfamiliar sheets and take four steps before someone stops me with a hand to the chest. The air whooshes out of my lungs. I fall to my knees. Silencers are applied.
“Sleep,” someone says, someone with superextreme voice power. I know the tone.
Thane.
* * *
As I cleared the Rises and saw the windswept beach, the memory ended. I wondered if my hair had been cut, my eyes enhanced, before Thane got ahold of me. Had he done it? And who had helped?
“Sleep,” echoed in my head in varying tones that all belonged to Thane. If he’d put me under and then boxed me up in the white room in Rise Twelve, then…
Was he the Thinker of Twelve?
If yes, then holy-blazing-hot-stars-alive.
If not, then he at least knew who the real Thinker was. Could he know about the assistant? Could he be that person in my head?
So many things didn’t make sense. Like why some of my citations were erased and some weren’t. And how I was on the Watched list.
Of course you are, the assistant said over my cache. I lost my balance, fell from my hoverboard.
I wasn’t that high, but I still yelled, “Rescue!” to my board. It zoomed down and under me just before I splatted on the sand.
My back cracked against the surface, but I managed not to knock myself unconscious.
My cache was off. No one should be able to use it. Well, maybe a technopath, but neither Trek nor Starr had that ability. There definitely should not be voices on my cache.
But there are, the assistant said. I analyzed its qualities: Robotic, impossible to determine gender, completely unplaceable.
Who are you? I thought it hard, trying to figure out where to place the question. Without my cache to focus my thoughts, I wasn’t quite sure where they went and who could hear them.
And the assistant would never answer such a question. In fact, s/he didn’t speak again. I sat in the damp sand, staring out over the miles and miles of churning water.
I remembered the only time I’d been this close to the ocean. My mom had brought me during the break between primary and secondary school. I was twelve. We didn’t touch the water; that’s against protocol. But Mom packed flavored vitamin water and salami sandwiches.
Now, the air held the chill of winter mixed with the birth of spring. My birthday was coming in less than two months. I couldn’t help but wonder where I’d be in April, if I’d even be alive.
Rain started to fall; I pulled my hat lower over my face and ignored the transmission telling me to seek shelter immediately. Sitting there, watching the water darken into black waves, feeling the relentless thrum of icy raindrops on my shoulders, I allowed myself to open the vault inside.
I let myself miss my mom. Powerfully.
I let myself hold Raine again. And again. And again.
With my clothes thoroughly soaked, I got up and walked toward the spot where the ocean waves licked at the earth. What’s one more broken protocol?
I crouched, put my hand on the sand, let the glacial water wash over it. Instinctively, my body recoiled from the cold. I fought against it and moved farther out, my shoes sinking into the wetness. I abandoned all reason and dove under the next wave. Like I knew how to swim. I didn’t—no one did.
I let the power in the wave push and pull and tangle me up. I broke the surface, gulped air, and went back under. “I am underwater!” I shouted, gallons of salty liquid muting the sound.
I crashed through the surf, and screamed it again. “I am in the ocean!”
I half-expected EOs to descend from the torrential downpour, or the assistant to acknowledge my rebelliousness. Nothing happened.
So I dragged myself out of the water, my face numb from the freezing temps. I mounted my board and flew home, grateful Thane had canceled our afternoon session—again. I’d seen enough of Thane for a while. He must’ve felt the same.
I also ignored the three citations I’d received for (a) skipping lunch, (b) logging too many leisure hours on a Saturday, and (c) not reporting to an indoor location within five minutes of inclement weather.
I should’ve gotten (d) wrestling with the ocean waves.
But I didn’t.
* * *
Zenn said nothing when I entered through the balcony door, teeth chattering and dripping wet. I managed to store the microchip from Starr next to my mom’s before tossing my nearly frozen clothes into the street.
The citation for littering came ten minutes later, while I stood in the shower.
I deleted it and collapsed into my own bed.
After twelve hours of sleep, I consumed a plate of bacon, eggs, and, of course, toast. There’s always toast when Zenn’s around, even at three a.m. on Sunday morning, which was when we sat at our table, shoveling food into our mouths.
“You want more?” Zenn asked as he stood up and moved to the food-dispenser.
“Orange juice,” I said around a mouthful of eggs. I felt like I hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. I probably hadn’t. Maybe meal plans and dietary restrictions were a good idea. I pushed that thought away as Zenn ordered up the orangey deliciousness.
I’d been doing that a lot: burying unpleasant thoughts.
“I’m going to see my mom tonight,” I said, right out loud, while the food-dispenser generated my drink.
“Cool.” Zenn set the glass down in front of me.
Conversation over. I finished eating and went back to bed.
* * *
In my hands I hold a small, leather-bound book, unremarkable, with nothing stamped on the outside to indicate what lies within.
But I know. I feel it vibrating in my skin, sinking into my pores. It’s my dad’s journal. I have his page of notes memorized, and I pull up the first one. Northern border friendly—19—Cedar Hills.
Page nineteen will hold the rest of the clue, maybe even a map so I know where to find the city of Cedar Hills.
My fingers shake, my breath quakes in my lungs, as I open the book. The paper feels rough, thick.
The first page is blank. So is the second. I frantically flip the pages, desperate to find all the pieces, see and hear and smell my father’s writing.
But I don’t.
The book is completely blank. Useless. Untouched by my father.
* * *
I woke up panting, the crushing hopelessness a tight knot in my chest. Sunlight pooled on the silver floor, and I sighed. I needed something shiny in my life.
I went to the window and stood in the direct sunlight. I let it warm my bare chest, let it cascade over my face, burn into my open eyes.
A citation for excessive sleep sat in my inbox. I wanted to reply with something that would surely earn me another citation—but that would require me to activate my cache.
And I wanted my thoughts to belong to myself, and myself alone, as I prepared to go see my mom.
I didn’t know what I’d say. I didn’t know what she’d say. I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. She was my mom, and I was her son, and she deserved a better good-bye than what I’d given her a few weeks ago.
I had the flat to myself, and part of me wanted to stay and enjoy the silence of Sunday afternoon. I had a feeling the tranquility coursing through me would be the last time I felt that for a while. A long while.
I slid the microchips into my pocket and stepped onto my board.
* * *
On Block Three, nothing had changed. Yet everything felt drastically different. The couple walking down the street arm in arm felt suspicious. Orchestr
ated.
Two kids whose names I couldn’t remember played on the front steps of the building across the street from my mom’s house. They laughed, they ran up and down, their happiness pouring into the air.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that happy. Maybe I never had. My internal sensor cried shady! and again I suspected that something wasn’t right.
And, of course, it wasn’t.
A little help would be nice, I cached, hoping the assistant was listening. I just need an hour or so.
A few seconds later the garbled voice spoke. You’re in the clear. I couldn’t tell if it was Trek or Starr or Zenn or someone else entirely. And I didn’t really care at this point.
Thanks.
The security at my house hadn’t changed. I pressed my finger to the sensor portlet, waited for the beep.
Inside, the air rippled in cool waves. The only light came from the skylights, washing the living area in navy shadows and white brights.
I paused when the door clicked closed behind me, trying to locate my mom’s emotions. A tremor of fear filtered through my senses.
“Mom?” I called, so she wouldn’t think a random stranger had busted into her house.
My mom flew down the stairs, yelling, “Gunner!” and sweeping me into her arms. I crushed my mom in a lame attempt to keep from falling apart.
Like that worked.
She cried. I cried. She stroked my face, saying she couldn’t believe I’d come back and asking how long I could stay.
I swiped at my tears and said I couldn’t, but that I’d come to say good-bye. The right way.
Understanding emanated from her, but her eyes told a different story. One filled with sadness and fear. Hope and love. Worry and regret. Joy and pride.
When I handed her the chip I’d taken from our safe, she brushed my not-long-enough hair off my forehead. “I’ve always known you’d finish what your father started.” She smiled, but it looked like it hurt. “I protected you for as long as I could. Almost seventeen years.”
“You did great, Mom.” A lump full of words and secrets and fears gathered in my throat. I swallowed, but that didn’t help. “I have one question, though.”
She nodded. “I’ll answer it if I can. I assume you’re secure?”
“Yeah, I’ve had some help there. So I’m wondering why I have your last name and not my father’s.”
A faraway look entered my mom’s eyes. “Safety reasons, he’d said.”
I leaned forward. “Who said?”
“Your father had to leave just before you were born,” Mom said. “Director Hightower struck a deal with your dad. If he put his name on an Alias list for the Association, he could leave Freedom, no questions asked. We couldn’t use the name Schoenfeld, so we used Jameson.”
“What’s the Alias list?” I thought of Thane Myers and how he’d used the alias of Lyle Schoenfeld.
“It’s a list of names Association officials can use when they can’t use their own.”
“But what does that mean? Why would anyone in the Association need to use an alias?”
Five minutes, Gunn. I’m sorry, but Hightower wants to know where you are right now.
“Mom, I have to go.” I stood up. I didn’t want her to be in danger.
She hugged me again. “I love you, Gunner. Be careful. Come home soon.”
“I love you too, Mom.” That’s all I could say. But I think she heard everything else I held inside.
As I hurried away from Block Three, my fear escalated, spreading through my body. The assistant wasn’t Trek. He would’ve never said, “I’m sorry.”
Raine
28.
Cannon, you have to message me back. I sat on the edge of my bed on Saturday night, composing an e-comm to Cannon. I’d sent one this morning, adding to the others. He hadn’t responded once.
Please, I just need to know if you’re okay. I’m sorry about everything. Just message me back, okay?
I sent the e-comm just as Vi entered the bedroom. “Ready?” she asked.
I clipped my transmission feed into my e-board in response. Our plan was to stay up tonight so I could ask her about what I’d read in her file. Zenn had sent Vi a code to program the e-boards to simulate sleep patterns and fabricated dreams.
Vi clicked her feed into the e-board too, and we both lay in our beds. I asked her to tell me about her life in the Goodgrounds. I promised there’d be no questions from me. (Of course, I broke that promise after about three minutes.)
“Wait, wait. You and Zenn snuck into the Abandoned Area?” She’d been telling me about her escape from prison with Jag, and how she’d stayed in the Abandoned Area alone.
“All the time,” Vi said. “Once, I dared him to stay out all night so we could watch the sunrise from the attic of this old house.” Her voice grew wistful. “We didn’t sleep a wink, just talked and drew patterns in the dust and lay in each other’s arms.”
“Sounds nice,” I said.
“Yeah,” Vi said. Then she talked of tanned skin, hair dyed without an enhancer, tech facilities that shouldn’t exist, the beauty of the desert in the dead of night, and then the reflective quality of the ocean at sunrise.
Fact: Violet loves the ocean. Just listening to her talk about the water could infuse passion into the most dispassionate soul.
She made it through her whole story without once mentioning Tyson. “So, who’s Tyson?” I asked.
She recoiled as if I’d slapped her. “Who?”
“Tyson,” I repeated. “His name is in your file.”
Vi blinked, and her eyes came open a little sharper. “Her. Tyson is a girl. My sister.” Her voice shook with emotion.
I pushed myself up on my elbows to look at her. “Your sister?” Her brief hadn’t mentioned any siblings.
“Yeah.” Vi turned away from me, but not before I saw the tears in her eyes. “My father killed her.”
“Thane did?”
Vi’s only answer came in the form of sniffles.
I lay back down and focused on the ceiling. I wondered what it would feel like to have a sister. My relationship with Vi was as close as anything I’d ever had with another girl.
How would I feel if my father killed her?
Fury. Endless grief. Terror.
The same way I felt about Gunner leaving Freedom.
Leaving me.
* * *
I’d been asleep for a couple of hours when a physician woke me. “Drink this.” He held a small glass toward me. The bottom was rimmed in silver metal, and the glass held a thick, white substance.
I clenched my teeth and spoke around them. “What is it?”
“Medicine.”
“I’m not sick,” I said.
The physician leaned closer, his eyes angry and narrow. “Yes, you are.”
“I feel fine,” I insisted, though I suspected what this “medicine” was for. My dad wanted to fix my ability to drain. He’d probably tasked this physician with the responsibility to make that happen.
“Drink it,” the physician said. “Or I’ll force you to drink it.”
A pit of desperation formed in my stomach. I didn’t want my ability back. But I didn’t see how to get out of the situation, especially when the physician pulled a syringe from his pocket.
“How will this bring back a genetic talent?” I stalled.
The physician’s mouth tightened. “This will help you relax. Your father thinks it will help.”
Relax. Right. I shook my head.
“Fine,” he said. “We can do this the hard way.”
“No,” I said quickly. “No. I’ll drink it.” I reached toward the glass. It felt colder than ice against my fingers. I shivered when I pressed it to my lips. The liquid inside slid down my throat in one gulp, equally as icy as the glass.
The chill spread through my chest and into my stomach, just like the post-drain meds. The physician left without another word. I watched Vi sleep in the bed across from me, feeling spongy and strang
ely detached from myself.
Maybe the medicine won’t work, I thought, but I’m not great at lying to myself.
* * *
On Sunday night (fourteen hours until Jag’s trial, thirteen until the breakout), Zenn knocked on the door. Vi flew out of the bedroom where she’d been painting her fingernails blue.
She shrieked when she opened the door, and his deep laugh reminded me that he loved her.
Zenn poked his head into the bedroom. “Gunn’s gonna be a little late. He went to see his mom.”
I started to wave him away when I saw his hair. No longer white-blond, he now sported the same spiked black hair as Vi. And Gunn. And Jag.
“Nice, right?” he said, laughing. “So you’re gonna be at the Education Rise? Unauthorized level?”
I nodded, unsure how this conversation wasn’t being monitored. As if he could read my mind—which he probably could—Zenn held up his hand. “I got a personal scrambler.” A thick silver band hugged his middle finger. Every few seconds, a brilliant turquoise shimmer skated over the surface. It reminded me of the ring Thane always wore, but I’d never seen Thane’s flash.
I put my e-board aside and crossed over to him. “How’d you get that? Trek’s been denying my petition for months.”
Zenn flashed a quick smile. “I don’t need permission from Trek.” His words held more than letters, and I tried to figure out what he meant. Did he know the assistant? Was he the assistant?
“So, the unauthorized level …” Zenn said.
“Oh yeah,” I answered. “Eight a.m. sharp. I’ll be there.” I appraised him. “And you?”
“Gunn and I and him are look-alikes now. The three of us will fly in separate directions, hopefully spread the officers out. They’ll meet up out there, and I’m going to take a little swim.”
My heart sped. “In the ocean?”
“Yep.” Zenn laughed at the incredulous look on my face. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I know how to swim, Raine. Vi does too. Water folk are taught to swim before they can walk.”
The thought of swimming terrified me. The ocean was strictly off-limits, used only for food, and then only in case of an emergency. And it was February. The air alone froze my lungs together. I couldn’t imagine what icy water could do.
Surrender Page 20
