by Lisa Jade
“Anyway… listen, Kath. I know that flowers don’t fix what happened. We can’t change the Cull, no matter how much we may want to. With the chaos outside, you know there’s nothing we can do. Trust me, sis. If I could do something – anything – to bring Toby back, I would do it in a heartbeat. And I know you would, too.”
I rest my hand on the railing. I feel inexplicably moved by Mom’s words – perhaps it’s the knowledge that she did, in fact, do the only thing she could think of. She tried. Poured her whole damn heart into it. But it didn’t work.
“But that’s no reason to be so hard on yourself,” she pushes on, “what happened isn’t your fault. I know you blame yourself because you spoke against the leaders, but that doesn’t mean you’re to blame. It’s an awful, evil system. I don’t even know where to begin trying to change it; but I know the first step. It’s knowing that this is outside of you and I. It may be our problem, but it’s not our fault.”
Huh. What’s going on? My face is hot again, but this time I can’t bite back on the tears. I’m suddenly glad to be facing away from the others.
Dad leans forward again and nudges the camera, his tongue poking out in a way I’d consider comical, if not for what’s being said. Mom’s eyes glisten with unshed tears – something shifts just below her and she leans down, scooping a small, blonde child into her arms. The girl’s only a couple of years old, but already her eyes look just like her Dad’s. There’s a lump in my throat as Mom pulls the girl closer.
“I can never bring Toby back, as much as I may want to. But I will always be here for you, okay? Whether you want me around or not, I’ll still be here. Both of us will be. No matter what happens, Kath, we’re not going anywhere.”
She turns to the camera and draws her lips back in a warm, if somewhat false, smile.
“Everything will be okay in the end. I promise.”
As the screen dies, an uneasy silence falls over the Atrium. The others sit silently behind me, waiting for my reaction. I don’t know what they expect. Should I be overjoyed at having seen and heard my parents for the first time? Should I ask questions about Kath and Toby and Nathaniel? Whatever reaction they’re expecting, I’m bound to let them down.
Because I’m crying again.
I thought that time on the boat was the only time. After that, I’d vowed never to cry in front of someone again – if I allowed myself to cry at all.
But I can’t help it. Suddenly, I’m thinking about all the years I missed out on. Going to school. Learning to read. Playing with my brother. Being scolded by Dad. Thanks to the Cull, every day of that life was stolen away like it meant nothing. And the days that did happen – learning how to walk and talk, falling asleep to my Mother’s voice – are gone as well, because my memories have been taken away. I can watch this video a hundred times or more, and it’ll remain the only memory of my parents that I have, because when they took me away they took my past and my future. Now it’s too late. I’ll never get it back.
The tears are hot against my skin. It would be almost funny if it weren’t so painful. I turn away and head for the stairs, walking fast enough that they don’t see my face. I stride past the other groups, who also sit in a reflective silence. Nobody speaks as I pass by, but I can still feel their eyes on me. Wondering where I’m going. Why I’m suddenly running. There are footsteps behind me, too – I recognise the clunky weight. But I don’t want to talk to Jay right now.
I finally come to a stop in their memorial garden. That statue seems to scream out at me. The plain, insipid faces can’t hope to mimic the expressive faces of Mom and Dad – but it’s the closest I have to them. The nearest I’ll ever have to them being here physically. I reach out and rest a hand on the marble, feeling the cool stone warm under my touch.
Jay steps up behind me, concern in his voice.
“Noah?”
I gulp hard, trying to bite back on the tears, but it doesn’t work.
How could they? How could the leaders decide, as though it were nothing, that my entire existence could be easily reduced to little more than a political debate? That the memories I had were disposable, that they meant absolutely nothing? The sadness is suddenly replaced with anger. It’s red hot, snaking through my veins and making the tears even hotter.
“Noah.”
I turn to face Jay in the darkness, making no attempt to disguise the liquid on my cheeks. I’m so angry it’s getting hard to breathe. As his face falls, I know he didn’t mean to do this. He wanted it to be comforting, like some kind of replacement for the memories I’ve lost. Perhaps he thought this would make me happy. It didn’t work. Instead, something unfamiliar struggles inside me. Rage.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice tinged with fear. I swallow hard.
“I will be.”
He doesn’t respond to that. He just steps up beside me and rests a comforting hand on my shoulder. For a little while, we just stand in the silence of the Atrium, staring up at the only reminder of our parents we have left.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We return to the others after about ten minutes. They seem to assume that my reaction was the result of intense sadness, that I couldn’t stand to see the life I’d missed out on. And sure – that’s part of it. But for the most part, I’m just angry.
Until now, I’ve been focussing on the world in front of me. Growing used to being here, getting to know the others. To me, it had meant more to know about them than to learn about the Cull itself. I guess I was trying not to think about it.
Not anymore. Now, I can feel the same ferocity building in me that I’ve seen in Jay. That immense anger at what’s happened, and why – the uncontrollable desire to fix it, no matter what it takes. Any trace of guilt I felt about the helicopters fades in an instant. I don’t care anymore. I’d do it again if I had to. The feeling is both frightening and exhilarating. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so strongly about anything before.
Still, the rage compounding in my skull is easy to hide. I force my body to relax, leaning against the wall as we sit in our little circle around the globe of light. The others are laughing and lightly teasing one another. Whatever reaction they had to my outburst, it’s gone now. Either they expected it, or they’ve mutually decided not to mention it. Either way is fine by me; I stretch one arm overhead and let out a long, dry yawn.
“Sleepy already?” teases Jay, “it’s not been that long a day, has it?”
I consider this. Actually, it has. It must be the early hours now – it’s been just over a day since we gathered in Jensen’s room, eager to plan our actions. Since then, it feels like it’s been non-stop. I could sleep for a week.
“Have the leaders said anything about our little stunt?” asks Pan. He nods.
“Just the typical stuff, from the sounds of it. Distrustful, chaotic children causing damage to civilised society. Supposed assassination attempt.”
“She really said that?”
“You know Maynard. She always knows just what to say to make us seem like the bad guys. Though I have to say, maybe shooting down a fleet of helicopters didn’t help.”
I blush madly.
“It was not a fleet!” I insist, “it was three. I, uh, guess that doesn’t make it better though, does it?”
“Not really. Bad, but necessary.”
Jensen leans forward, intrigue in his eyes.
“I was surprised you even knew how to use a gun. Is that standard for the Mill?”
I shrug.
“Kind of. I was taught how to use a shotgun. It’s a bit different from that explosive thing Pan had.”
Pan and Jay exchange nervous glances, and for a moment I think he’s going to yell at her. After all, she’d begged me not to tell him about that weapon. She’d tucked it against her thigh and only passed it over to me when we had no other choice. From that, it’s fair to assume Jay doesn’t approve of firearms. As she explained earlier, normal guns are hard to come by. Incendiary case launchers, though? Just owning one is a death
sentence.
But then he smiles at her, and I know it’ll be fine. Whatever bond those two share won’t be broken so easily. Besides, by bringing that gun, Pan saved us. It might have been my finger on the trigger, but that wouldn’t have been possible if she’d not thought to bring it along in the first place.
I bite back on another yawn.
“Alright, already,” says Pan, “I get it, it’s late. Come on, we’ll head to bed.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, though my voice sounds like a small child refusing to put their pyjamas on, “I can keep going.”
“It’s been a really long day,” says Nate, “I’m going to bed now, too.”
The others quickly agree, and soon enough I’m tugging my torn shirt off in the relative privacy of Pan’s room. I no longer care if she sees my back, unlike my first day here – and frankly, I’m too exhausted to care.
Still, she eyes me carefully from across the room. She’s curled up on her little bunk, her blanket pulled around her shoulders and up over her head. Only her eyes watch from the tiny gap in the folds.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
She shrugs.
“No reason.”
Perhaps on another day, I’d try to draw her into a conversation to figure out what’s wrong. But right now, I really don’t care. I switch off the light and collapse into my bunk, pulling the sheets tightly around my body. When my eyes slip open again, though, she’s still there. Sparkling green eyes glimmer even in the darkness.
“Okay. Seriously. Why are you staring at me?”
“Are you happy?”
“Huh?”
She leans forward, clutching the edge of her bunk like a small child.
“You know the truth, now. Are you finally happy?”
“Yes.”
“And are you going to stay?”
“As long as you’ll have me,” I laugh. That seems to comfort whatever inane worry she seemed to have, and finally she flops down onto her bunk, exhausted.
For a moment, I stare at the rivets on the ceiling and try to imagine yet again that Pan’s gentle breathing belongs to Nel. I wish I could tell her what’s going on – what’s happened in the time I’ve been away. I wish I could tell her that I found my brother, saw my parents. That I fought a dictator and got out alive. That I shot down some helicopters and fought off an armed Guard. That I finally understand why she always believed in family. How everything at the Mill is wrong, even though it’s still home. How much I miss her. I imagine the conversation we’d have, the explanation I’d give.
Pan falls asleep quickly and I find myself sitting up in the darkness, rubbing blearily at my eyes.
“Atlas. Show me that clip one more time.”
One more becomes two, then three. Soon it doesn’t even stop between clips, simply looping my parent’s faces until their expressions and voices are engrained in my memory. Sadness mingles with joy as I peer through the shadows at faces that seem both unfamiliar and yet incredibly meaningful. I catch myself wishing I could remember something more.
A week flies by quickly after that, and my days are filled with laughter. Whatever sorrow used to hang over the Atrium seems to have dissipated, and those few strangers who still regarded me with suspicion now greet me with smiles.
It’s strange – to some degree, it doesn’t matter what I do. My screw ups are forgiven almost immediately, my awkwardness dismissed without question. I wonder why for a little while, but then push it aside. It’s pretty clear that the name Ada is enough to get me off most things. When we spar, I can see them holding back. Nobody wants to hit me anymore.
I take to waking in the middle of the night and pacing the Atrium with nobody but Atlas for company. Nobody has asked me to return the little device, and I’m happy about that. I don’t plan to give it up any time soon.
Working the little crop patch takes up most of my time, but the more I do it, the more I feel like something’s missing. There’s something unpleasant about chopping wood alone – something weird about being the only one pacing the field. I’ve grown so used to having scores of people around me, and though I value those moments stolen for myself, I find a little hint of sadness threatens to break through during quieter moments.
Morning’s still not broken overhead when I lower my spade, resting it against the spiked railing. I can’t help but admire my handiwork – clean lines of newly sewn seeds, perfectly spaced, at the ideal depth. I smile, unable to disguise my pride.
“Looks good.”
I look up. Jay’s standing by, his arms crossed as he mimics me, looking up and down the rows with mild intrigue.
“You’re up early,” I say, “couldn’t sleep?”
“I sleep like a baby just lately. I woke up early to work on my plan for the Cull.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s coming up in a few months, isn’t it?”
He nods sadly.
“Yeah. I have to come up with another way to fight it. We have more people than ever, but there’s still only a handful of us who are willing to speak out openly. When Mom and Dad were in charge, we were a public protest group. But they drove us underground and now, agreeing with us openly is basically confessing to a crime.”
“What do you normally do?” I ask, realising that I should have questioned this weeks ago.
“We usually try to recruit people on the run up. The leaders always prepare for the Cull with broadcasts, but Jensen’s become pretty good at hacking them. We replace their threats with messages asking people to join us.”
“Does that work?”
“Not really, no. People don’t think it’ll happen to them, so they ignore us. It’s only when the Cull happens and they do lose someone that they get in touch. But we still put ourselves out there and let them know we’re here for them. We have contacts around Thorne who can bring people to us if they’re approached – if they’re trustworthy, that is.”
I nod, deciding not to point out how easily they trusted me within a day. I suppose the whole ‘Ada’ thing probably swayed them – the Clover wouldn’t have lasted very long if they were always so lenient. Jay leans back against the railing, clearly deep in thought.
“During the Cull itself we’re out on the streets, protesting. It’s dangerous as all hell and we always end up taking some casualties, but for the most part we try to fight off the Guards and protect some of the kids.”
“You manage to save some?”
“No, never. Even when we manage to chase away the Guards, they just come back later when we’re not around. The Cull isn’t just one day, you know. They usually take between five and ten percent of the kids, but sometimes it’s more. They can’t do it in a day, and ever since we hacked their plan a few years back, they don’t even have a strict method. There’s no plan for where they strike first, and they don’t warn us who’s being taken; so it’s nearly impossible to actually stop them.”
I watch him for a moment. I hadn’t imagined it would be that hard.
“I’m sorry.”
He furrows his brows.
“For what?”
“All the time I’ve been here, I’ve been so distracted with who I am. It was all I cared about. But what I should have cared about was this. Stopping the Cull.”
“Hmm, I noticed that. You’ve found your spark, haven’t you?”
“I don’t know about that. But I am angry. That video showed me what they took away – and they do the same thing to thousands of people every year. I didn’t care all that much about the Clover when I arrived here, because it felt like there was a disconnect. It’s easy to ignore something when it doesn’t affect you. But now, it does. Now I realise just how sick this is.”
I half expect there to be sympathy twisting on his face, but when I look up, Jay’s smiling.
“What?” I ask.
“I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
I smile back. In the week that we’ve been siblings, I’ve started to pick up on the smaller similarities between us.
Things I didn’t notice before, things I probably wouldn’t have cared about if not for everything that’s happened. When Jay smiles, one side of his mouth curls a little more than the other. Just like me. Despite all my years away, I didn’t even realise I did it until I came here.
But the warmth is broken, suddenly, as I think about what’s coming. The Cull is close – less than four months away. We’ve not been able to come up with any way to stop it, so it’s going to happen. I think about the children living right above our heads, about how their memories may not be the same in a few weeks’ time. And that’s only if our theory is true.
In an ideal world, I’m the rule rather than the exception. Ideally, every child that’s been taken has had their minds wiped and their bodies put to work. It’s still a grim, messed up theory, but it’s better than the alternative.
“Maybe we should just tell everyone the truth,” I say, “share what we know.”
“No. We know that one person survived the Cull, but that’s not enough. Like you just said, people only care about something when it affects them. We need to find a way to prove that this wasn’t an exception.”
“Maybe you need to have a little more faith in people. I’m sure this would be enough.”
“Since revealing the truth to those within the Atrium, not a single person’s stepped forward to join the main group. Even knowing what we know, people are still too afraid to step forward and risk everything.”
His voice is hard now, bitter. I wipe a smudge of dirt from my face and push my hair back from my face. Pan took a pair of scissors to it last night, trimming it back as best she could; and though she apologised a dozen times for the state of the new, choppy style, I don’t mind it. It’s smoother and neater and doesn’t feel so lank and heavy.
All things considered, I look practically the same. To anyone who knew me before, the changes are small and practically invisible; but to me, my reflection has never looked more different. My dirty hair is trimmed and tidied, and now that I’m not spending countless hours in the scorching sun, there’s a quarter-shade difference in my tan. Whatever bruises I had from a hard day’s work have faded now, little more than tiny shadows on my skin. In short, I feel better than ever. Just having a good night’s sleep has made the world of difference.
