by Kat Zhang
I stopped climbing. From this distance and height, we could only see a small portion of the crowd; buildings blocked the rest of the square. But we could hear the people, loud and clear. They sounded happy. They sounded like they were at a football game or a concert.
Cold sweat pasted our shirt to our back. We clung to the ladder and stared at that sliver of the crowd, picturing its entirety. How many people had shown up because they believed every word of Jenson’s speech? Because they wanted nothing more than a cure, and they were so proud that the Powatt institution would aid in its perfection?
Below us thundered hundreds of people who hated us, and they didn’t even know who we were.
I forced us upward and upward until we reached the edge of the roof. The wind had picked up, or maybe we just felt it more strongly here. We took one more moment to stare at Lankster Square and the colored shapes of the people below.
Then I grabbed the sheaf of papers from our bag. On his rooftop, Vince would be doing the same. I didn’t need to look at the posters; Addie and I had helped Cordelia design them. We had three sets, Vince another three. Six sets in total. Six distinct posters, each bearing the face of a single child. Three girls, three boys, brought to life through Addie’s pencil.
Each was a hybrid someone in the group had been locked away with. One who death had stolen before Peter came knocking with another, more gentle freedom.
Three girls, three boys. Their names and ages were printed below their faces:
Kurt F. 14
Viola R. 12
Anna H. 15
Blaise R. 16
Kendall F. 10
Max K. 14
I’d thought about choosing Sallie and Val, Kitty’s old roommate, to be one of the children depicted. Addie had even prepared a sketch of her, asking Kitty for the little girl’s description. But in the end, we decided it would be too dangerous. There hadn’t been many hybrid children at Nornand, and fewer still had escaped. Anyone tracing Sallie’s picture and name might be able to guess who was involved.
The wind battered at our hair, made the posters whip about in our hands. The face on top belonged to Anna H. Anna H., fifteen, with short, dark hair and light eyes and a smile like she wanted to tear up the world. That was how Cordelia and Katy had described her for Addie, watching carefully as Addie drew sketch after sketch.
Close enough, Cordelia had said finally. God, it’s been so long. I wish I’d had a camera then, you know? If I had, I’d still remember exactly what she looked like.
In a few moments, dozens of copies of Anna’s face would fly scattering into the wind. Would rain down to the streets below.
I dug around our bag for the walkie-talkie, then lifted it to our ear, listening. It was still quiet. I set the firecracker in the middle of the roof. It was so small—smaller even than our closed fist. I flicked open our lighter, stared at the flickering flame.
“Ready,” came Lissa’s breathless voice through the walkie-talkie.
A pause.
“Ready,” said Vince. Then Cordelia.
“Ready,” I whispered into the walkie-talkie.
There came another cheer from the crowd—a wave of noise that was sandpaper against our ears.
I gripped the lighter. A blast of wind blew the flame so close to our skin I felt a scorch of heat.
The walkie-talkie crackled with static. Then Josie’s voice funneled through. “Go.”
Wind scratched at our eyes. I knelt down, lit the fuse, and ran to the edge of the roof. I released the sheaf of papers. Threw them into the air.
The firecracker exploded.
Then, from across the square, another explosion.
Then another. Another.
Echoes. Echoes. Echoes.
The crowd screamed again. A completely different kind of scream.
The sky filled with paper wings, the names of dead hybrids, the words stamped across their faces: HOW MANY CHILDREN HAVE DIED FOR THIS CURE?
FOURTEEN
I’d known the boom of the fireworks would reverberate. I’d underestimated just how much. How four explosions bouncing around the closed-in square seemed like dozens.
I’d heard fireworks before. Fourth of July. Hot summer nights. This sounded different. There was no sharp, warning whine before the explosion—the explosion wasn’t a deep, rolling boom. The firecrackers went off in sharp, staccato pops.
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.
Like gunfire.
Our knees gave out. I dove down, arms covering our head, before my mind even registered what I was doing. When I stood again, half-bent over, the crowd was in chaos. A rippling, screaming, terrified mass of people that made me freeze in horror where I stood.
We bolted for the ladder. Our hands slapped against the rungs. We climbed down, down, down—
The crowd was still screaming. People in the building below us shouted.
People in the building below us.
A man stuck his head out the window, turned, and stared right at us. We stared back. He was thirty or forty or somewhere in between. He had short hair and a blond beard. He had old acne scars and dry lips and wide, round eyes that would not, would not leave ours.
Something unintelligible slipped from his mouth, something that was shock and fear and anger slammed together.
He knew. I was utterly, utterly certain that he knew.
There was a feeling like being knocked sideways—but it wasn’t real. It was only in my head, in our minds. It was Addie shoving herself into control, grabbing the reins to our limbs, yanking our hands free from the rungs so she could scramble to the ground.
We couldn’t hear the crowd anymore, or maybe we could and just couldn’t distinguish it from the yelling coming from much closer by. The alley below us was still empty of people, but the shouting surged closer. Louder.
Our feet touched the ground. Addie threw us away from the ladder and hurtled down the alley. We didn’t know which way we were going. We just ran.
Police sirens shrilled through the air.
Footsteps pounded behind us. We put on a burst of speed, our head whipping around. It was Cordelia. Her eyes lit up when she saw us. She shouted, gesturing wildly, urging us onward. Where was Lissa? Where was Vince?
We reached the end of the alleyway. Slammed a hard right. Nearly smashed into a store window. Saw the poster pasted there.
A poster with Jaime’s picture.
For one confused, breathless second, my addled mind thought, But we didn’t make posters of Jaime.
Picture-Jaime wore Nornand’s blue uniform, with its starched collar and short sleeves. His hair was thick and curly, no part of it shaved to bare his scalp. A picture taken presurgery.
Who had been in control when the camera snapped the photo? Jaime? Or the soul who’d been lost?
Not lost. Murdered. Carved bloodily from his body with a violent scalpel.
The words on the poster finally registered. This wasn’t like one of Addie’s posters at all. This demanded Jaime’s return to government hands. Without thinking, we snatched the poster from the window. Stuffed it in our pocket.
A stream of fleeing people gulped us down. Cordelia grabbed our arm and yanked us deeper into the crowd. We tried to tell her No, no, we can’t. Please don’t. We can’t— but we couldn’t speak and she wasn’t listening.
More police sirens. An elbow rammed into our face, pain exploding in our cheekbone. We jerked from Cordelia’s grasp. The crowd separated us in seconds. She spun around, fighting the mob to reach our side again.
Our feet couldn’t find the ground. Our vision faded at the edges. We were in the streets of Bessimir again, in danger of becoming nothing more than a smear on the asphalt. We were seven years old again, locked in a trunk with nothing but the darkness and heat and our dried tears for company.
We stumbled to the sidewalk. Police sirens blared in our ears. We turned just in time to see Cordelia darting across the road
. She was probably furious at us. She was probably wondering what the hell was wrong with us, and why couldn’t we just keep up and do what we were supposed to do.
A police car swerved around the corner—
—And hit her.
It hit her. It slammed on its brakes, but it hit Cordelia, and she rolled across the hood, collapsing to the concrete. For a moment, she lay still, her arm thrown across her face, her pale hair stark against the dark road. Then she struggled upright. She kept running, limping. Back in the direction she’d come.
An officer jumped out of the car. Shouted after her, but the torrent of people had already swallowed Cordelia whole. Then he turned. Cursed. He stared at us—rightatusrightatus.
Another few yards, and he might have hit us instead. But right now, we were just another terrified, horrified, petrified face. Not worth his focus. He jumped back in the car and yelled unintelligible noise into his radio.
We stumbled, tripped, hobbled our way to Robenston. Our memorized maps fractured in our mind. We struggled to make sense of the pieces, moving from street to street, avoiding eye contact, hiding when the police passed.
It was only firecrackers, I wanted to say.
Where was Cordelia? We saw the car hit her again and again.
She must be.
Were Devon and Josie okay? Was Lissa? Vince? Christoph?
We’d lost our walkie-talkie in the chaos. There was no way to make contact.
We found a street sign that said Robenston Rd. Relief brought a tremor to our hands, a rush of heat through our body. We were supposed to meet at the bus stop. We weren’t sure which direction that was, but we picked the one that would take us farther from the Square.
We saw Christoph’s red hair first. We caught the freckles on his pale skin and his bright eyes that grew brighter when he saw us, too. Then Ryan was turning around; he was walking—running—walking toward us. I forced myself to keep from running, too. We couldn’t attract attention.
His arms went around us. I pressed our forehead against his shoulder, blocking out the world. I said, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Where’s Josie? Where’s Cordelia? She—”
“She’s fine.” Ryan’s words were a whisper in our ear. “Josie and Lissa found her. They’re driving back to their apartment. They’re going to drop Lissa off. Where have you been?”
“I got lost.” It was the only thing I could say about it. I looked up from Ryan’s shoulder and saw Vince watching us. No, Jackson. “Did you get it?” I whispered to Ryan. “The information?” He nodded.
Christoph interrupted before either of us could say more. “We’ve got to go.” His voice was curt, but his eyes raked over us, and he frowned at our cheek. It was still throbbing. I touched my cold fingers to the hot skin. “We’ve got to go, now, before Peter and them hear about this and someone discovers you’re not where you’re supposed to be.”
We waited, but the bus didn’t come. It took eons to flag down a taxi. Even longer to reach Emalia’s apartment building. Here, everything was as we’d left it: calm, undisturbed.
“Come up with a story for that bruise,” Jackson said as Ryan and I clambered out of the car. I promised I would. The taxi pulled away again.
Ryan and I ran up four flights of stairs. I scrambled to unlock Emalia’s door. We burst inside to see Lissa already waiting, pacing the living room. Nina sat nervously on the couch behind her.
“Thank God,” Lissa said, hurrying toward us. Then: “Your cheek—what happened?”
By the time Henri came downstairs, face grave, shoulders stiff, Addie and I had an answer. I’d had one of my moments—lost control of our feet for a minute and tripped into one of the chairs. Nearly poked an eye out. Bit of a klutz, aren’t I? I can’t—Henri, what’s wrong? No, we haven’t watched television since this morning. Lankster Square? What happened? Tell us.
Please tell us.
FIFTEEN
Henri stayed with us until Emalia came home. Then the two of them disappeared back to Henri’s apartment with Peter, leaving us alone to watch the aftermath on the evening news.
I called Cordelia’s apartment as soon as they were gone. Josie answered, her voice brisk and casual until she realized who was on the other end. Then she dropped her pretense. Cordelia was in a lot of pain, but nothing unbearable. She refused to go to the hospital. She’d fractured her ribs when she was younger, and they hadn’t done much for her then.
“I’ve got her pretty drugged up on pain meds,” Josie said, “but I think she’s right. Even if she’s fractured a rib, there isn’t a lot that can be done for that.”
“How do you know it’s not something worse?” I said. “What if she’s got internal bleeding?”
“Look, we can’t afford a trip to the hospital right now,” Josie said quietly. “We don’t have the money for it, and we don’t want to take the risk—however small—of someone putting two and two together. Cordelia’s fine right now, I promise. If anything comes up to suggest differently, anything at all, I’ll take her to the hospital.”
I hesitated. “No, if anything comes up, contact Dr. Lyanne.”
“Okay,” Josie said. “Right. Good thinking. And, Eva? I’m sorry it got so crazy out there today. I know you might not have been expecting that.”
I looked over our shoulder, at Lissa curled tight on the couch, eyes glued to the television screen. At Nina white-knuckled beside her. Ryan was the only one who looked back at me.
“Thanks for keeping your head clear,” Josie said.
I thought about the hazed walk to Robenston Road, the way I’d frozen on the ladder when I should have kept climbing, the way I’d broken down in the middle of the crowd, dizzied by the crush of bodies.
“Head clear,” I said. “Yeah. I guess.”
“I mean it,” she said. “Some people fall apart when things get tough. Some people aren’t strong enough to keep going.”
I bit our lip. “Did you get what you needed?”
“Yeah,” she said. “But ask Devon about it, all right? Some things . . . the phone isn’t best. I’ve got to check on Jackson and Christoph. Look, you know we can’t let Peter suspect anything, right?”
I told her I wouldn’t. She promised to get back in touch soon. I sat down next to Ryan in the living room and squeezed his hand, nodding to tell him everything was all right. He gave me a brief, tight smile.
Nina hadn’t inquired about where we’d been. Something in her eyes, in the quick, furtive looks she threw in our direction, told me she could guess. Something in the tight line of her mouth told me she didn’t want to ask.
Peter didn’t call a general meeting after the incident at Lankster Square. It was better, Sophie explained, if everyone went about their regular business and didn’t do anything the slightest bit suspicious. Large gatherings, even if they were in the supposed privacy of Peter’s apartment, might be noted.
The Mullan siblings, Addie, and I had our own gathering, secreted in our bedroom while Kitty watched TV. Devon was remarkably nonchalant as he explained how he and Sabine had snuck into the Metro Council building with out-of-date identification, altered to look like new. They’d found Hogan Nalles’s office quickly enough.
“Sabine knows how to pick a lock,” Devon said. He didn’t sound impressed. Devon never sounded impressed. But he did sound a little less bored than usual, maybe.
“I’m not really surprised,” Hally said.
Devon shrugged. “We should learn. If we’d known how to do it at Nornand . . .” He trailed off, his eyes meeting ours. “It’s a good skill to have.”
“For criminals, maybe,” Hally said. Her brother didn’t argue, but he didn’t look entirely like he agreed, either.
News of the fireworks in Lankster Square had reached Metro Council Hall quickly. Devon and Sabine heard the commotion outside as Devon set to work on Nalles’s computer, but no one thought to check his office, and
they were able to sneak out without being detected.
“So you found it,” Addie said. “The information Sabine wanted. The plans for Powatt.” We were the only one seated on our bed, our legs tucked tightly beneath us. Hally and Devon sat on the ground, her leaning against the nightstand, him with his back against our bed frame. Devon nodded.
“And?” Hally said. Her arms were crossed, her hair spilling over her shoulders, hiding part of her face. Her usual brightness had sharpened to a hard point. I saw everything I needed to see in the unhappy slant of her mouth.
“I didn’t have time to read it all.” Devon shot her a look. “There was a timetable. They’ll be delivering and installing the machinery in a few weeks. There will be groups of officials coming to scope out the place. Some kind of open house before the kids get there. Sabine saved it all to a disk.”
Hally frowned. “She has a computer?”
“She uses one at the college downtown,” Devon said. “Apparently, she’s been sneaking on campus for years. Even sat in on a few of the bigger lectures. No one notices.”
“Did you find names?” Addie asked. “Of the kids who’re going to get sent there?”
Devon shook his head. I thought about the poster of Jaime we’d grabbed while fleeing from the Square. JAIME CORTAE, it read. AGE: 13. HAIR: BROWN. EYES: BROWN. HEIGHT: 5'0". WEIGHT: 85 lbs.
It reminded me of Jaime’s patient file at Nornand. I’d folded the poster up and slid it underneath our mattress. We couldn’t bear to get rid of it, but we could hardly bear to look at it, either.
Hearing Jenson announce a search for Jaime on national television was bad enough, but it was still just a man on a screen. There was a certain distance, a certain belief that one young boy was too small to be found in this enormous country, that danger still wheeled high and unseeing in the clouds. Stumbling upon the poster here was like seeing a flash of talons, feeling them nick our cheek.
“Well,” Addie said, a word and a sigh. “Now what?”
No one responded to that, either. We looked at one another. Sitting in the pastel softness of our Emalia-decorated bedroom, it seemed insane that earlier today, we’d been tearing through the streets, terrified of being caught. Of getting thrown in jail or worse.
