Captives

by Jill Williamson

  Levi took hold of her hand, thinking he’d never let go.

  “Witnesses,” Jordan said. “This man and woman wish to become one. Let us hear their pledge and hold them to it.” He looked at Levi. “Levi of Elias, you bring a request to the elders of Glenrock?”

  “I want to marry Jemma of Zachary,” Levi said.

  Jordan turned to Jemma. “Jemma of Zachary, your favor has been petitioned. What’s your response?”

  “I accept the offer.”

  Jordan leaned close to his sister. “Even though he snores?”

  She smiled and tugged on Levi’s hand. “Yes.”

  Jordan straightened and looked at the other faces in the room. “Does anyone have reason to speak against this union?” When no one spoke, he asked, “What elder will speak for this couple’s commitment to one another?”

  Aunt Chipeta stood up. “I will.”

  “People of Glenrock, you have witnessed an offer of marriage, an acceptance, and an endorsement by a village elder.” Jordan’s face blanked, as if he’d forgotten what came next.

  Levi held up the rings.

  “Right.” Jordan took the rings from Levi and held them on his palm. “Exchange these rings as a token of your promise to one another.”

  Levi and Jemma took a ring and slid it onto each other’s fingers.

  “All right then,” Jordan said. “She’s yours! Take her in your arms and—”

  “Don’t forget the Father!” Naomi said.

  “Of course!” Jordan clapped his hands. “My wife is wiser than me. Will you both serve our Father, the God in heaven, better together than you could on your own?”

  “We will,” Levi and Jemma said together.

  “Then I declare you married! Be fruitful and multiply, and stay true to the ways of our elders. Kiss her, Levi, and keep her ‘til God takes you home.”

  The little remnant from Glenrock cheered.

  Levi wrapped his arms around Jemma’s waist and looked down into her eyes. “You know, since the invention of the kiss, there have only been six kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one will leave them all behind.”

  And it did.

  CHAPTER

  42

  The Safe Lands Guild had summoned Mason to appear before them in regard to the escape of the harem women. He’d heard rumors they’d summoned Omar as well, after Jemma and Levi disappeared from the RC, but so far no one had been able to locate him. He hoped his brother was somewhere safe.

  An hour and a half before the scheduled meeting, Mason dressed in the new outfit he’d bought, thinking it better not to appear before the Guild in scrubs. He came into his kitchen and glanced at the clock in the glass of the oven door. Time to go.

  As he walked toward the door, he noticed the framed picture that hung over his couch was crooked. He crossed the room—stalling, he knew—and pushed up one corner of the picture until it was even.

  Something fell off the top of the frame and landed with a soft thwup on the back of the couch. Mason picked up a small black rectangle and stared at the tiny words MiniComm that were engraved just over an on-off switch. The device was turned on.

  He’d seen these before. On Ciddah’s desk at the SC and on top of her Wyndo screen the night of Lonn’s liberation. She had to have put it there. Ciddah was helping Lawten spy on him.

  Mason’s throat swelled, making it hard to swallow. He blew out a shaky breath and sat down on the couch. She’d no doubt left this device in his home the night Kendall had given birth, which meant that whoever was listening should have heard all his radio conversations with Levi. And now Mason had been summoned. No excuse he could give would stand against his own voice making subversive plans. Should he ignore the summons and try to find his brothers?

  But if the Guild knew what he’d been doing, why hadn’t he experienced opposition when he’d helped the women escape?

  He thought back to when Ciddah had gotten up and gone over to the Wyndo the night of Lonn’s liberation. Had she turned off the device? Changed her mind about helping Lawten? Or maybe she wasn’t working for Lawten, but gathering information instead. But for what or whom?

  Still feeling like his heart was lodged in his throat, he placed the MiniComm in the exact location where Ciddah had left it on top of the picture.

  He’d been nervous about the summons before, but now … Lord, help him. Suddenly, he felt very alone in this city. He should’ve left with the others.

  But the children …

  Without recordings of him and Levi plotting, he didn’t believe they could prove he’d had anything to do with the escapes. There’d been no cameras that night, not with the power out, so there should be no images of him driving the women across the Safe Lands. And he had the clerk from BabyKakes as a witness—and supposedly Ciddah.

  She’d become the one person he’d thought he could trust in this place.

  Clearly, he couldn’t trust anyone.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. If you were taken from your home and thrust into a culture different from your own, how do you think you’d react?

  2. Have you heard of the saying, “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence”? Omar was unhappy at home and believed that life would be better in the Safe Lands. Have you ever thought life would be better if you lived in another place?

  3. Levi had a great relationship with his father; Omar had a poor one; Mason was somewhere in between. Do you think parents ever intend to play favorites?

  4. Many of the men in Glenrock don’t appear to tolerate Mason’s training to be a doctor. Is that fair? Why or why not?

  5. Is it a woman’s birthright to be attractive and charming? What pressures do women face to measure up to certain societal standards for beauty? What pressures have you seen firsthand?

  6. Do you think a paradise can also be a prison? Name some examples, if possible, that prove your opinion.

  7. Safe Landers don’t believe in death. How does this affect the way they live?

  8. Is Mason misguided in his hopes to find a cure for the Thin Plague? Why?

  9. Why does Omar fall so easily once he enters the Safe Lands, while Mason remains steadfast? What details from their personalities come into play?

  10. Levi doesn’t want to forgive Omar, but Jemma does. Do you think forgiving someone means condoning what they did? Why?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Beth Moore for her Daniel Bible study, which inspired this story. And to: Amanda Luedeke, Jacque Alberta, Jeff Gerke, Stephanie Morrill, Chris Kolmorgen, Gillian Adams, Steve Rzasa, John Otte, Bill Myers, Kara Christensen, Kayla Ousley, Susie May Warren, Andy Lusco, Angie Lusco, Greg Bremner, Greg Armstrong, Neil Bauer, Marge and Chuck Wright, Eric Wiggin, Robert Treskillard, Go Teen Writers, Melanie Dickerson, Shellie Neumier, Nicole O’Dell, Richard Williamson, and as always, Brad, Luke, and Kaitlyn Williamson.

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  JILL WILLIAMSON

  Check out this sample chapter from Replication, now available in softcover.

  (CHAPTER ONE)

  martyr stared at the equation on the whiteboard and set his pencil down. He didn’t feel like practicing math today. What did math matter when his expiration date was so near?

  His wrist still throbbed from Fido’s teeth. Martyr touched the strip of fabric he’d ripped from his bedsheet and tied around his wrist to stop the bleeding. He hoped the wound would heal before a doctor noticed it. A trip upstairs to mend it would be unpleasant, as the doctor would likely use the opportunity to perform tests. Martyr shuddered.

  To distract himself, he glanced at the other boys. Every Jason in the classroom except Speedy and Hummer scribbled down the numbers from the whiteboard. Speedy sketched Dr. Max’s profile, staring at the doctor with intense concentration. His hand darted over the paper, shading the dark face with a short, black beard.

  Hummer—as always—hummed and rocked back and forth, hugging himself. Martyr never understood why the doctors made Hummer take
classes instead of putting him in with the brokens. Perhaps it had to do with Hummer’s being so much older than the other brokens, or the fact that he could walk and didn’t need special medications.

  Movement at the back of the room caught Martyr’s attention, and he twisted around to get a better look. Dr. Kane stood outside the locked door, looking in through the square window. A stranger wearing glasses stood beside him, much shorter and a little rounder than Dr. Kane. The man’s head was also shaven like Martyr’s, but the way he carried himself next to Dr. Kane showed he was nothing like a clone. Martyr’s pulse increased. There hadn’t been a new doctor on the Farm in a long time.

  Dr. Kane opened the door, and both men stepped inside. Martyr gasped. The new doctor wore color! A narrow strip of fabric ran from his neck to his waist. Martyr jumped up from his desk and headed for the stranger.

  “J:3:3!” Dr. Max’s tone slowed Martyr’s steps. “One mark. Take your seat immediately.”

  Yes, but one mark was not so bad. Martyr quickened his pace. If I could just touch the strip once …

  Dr. Kane shooed the new doctor back into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him. Desperate, and knowing the door would lock once it closed all the way, Martyr stepped into the shrinking exit. The door slammed against his bare foot, and a sharp pain shot through his ankle. He winced and wedged his torso into the crack.

  He was met by Dr. Kane’s hand pressing against his chest. “J:3:3, return to your seat this instant. Two marks.”

  But the color on the new doctor was too tempting.

  Something indescribable stirred inside Martyr. “He has color, Dr. Kane.” He tried to remember the word—like carrots, like the caps on the doctors’ needles, like the slide. “It’s orange!”

  Martyr pushed the rest of his body through the doorway, and Dr. Kane moved with him, keeping his imposing form between Martyr and the new doctor—the same way Martyr did when a Jason picked on Baby or another broken.

  Chair legs scraped against the floor, and the Section Five math class rushed from their seats. With a quick glance that seemed to hint more marks were coming, Dr. Kane reached around Martyr and yanked the door shut before any other Jason could escape, leaving Martyr in the hall with the doctors.

  Identical faces filled the square window, but Martyr could barely hear the Jasons inside. The silence in the hallway seemed to heighten the severity of Martyr’s actions. He glanced from Dr. Kane’s stern expression to the new doctor, to the strip of orange color.

  The man stepped back, face pale, eyes wide and slightly magnified through his thick glasses. He clutched the orange fabric with both hands as if trying to hide it. “Wh-What does he want?”

  Dr. Kane rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “It’s my fault, Dr. Goyer. It’s been so long since I hired someone. Years ago we stopped allowing any adornments below level one. They were a danger to the doctor wearing them. Plus, the boys don’t encounter much color down here. It causes problems, as you can see.” Dr. Kane turned to Martyr with a tight smile. “J:3:3 is harmless, though.”

  Dr. Kane’s casual tone emboldened Martyr to carry out his plan. He reached out for the orange color, exhaling a shaky breath when the doctor allowed him to touch the fabric. It was smooth, softer than his clothes or his sheets or the towels in the shower room. A napkin, perhaps? Maybe it hung there so the doctor could wipe his mouth after eating. “What’s it for?”

  The new doctor tugged the orange fabric from Martyr’s grip. “It’s a tie.”

  “Enough questions, J:3:3,” Dr. Kane said.

  Martyr cocked his head to the side. “A napkin tie?”

  “Three marks, J:3:3. Back against the wall, or it’ll be four,” Dr. Kane’s deep voice warned.

  Martyr inched back and glanced down the hallway. Rolo jogged toward them, clutching his stick at his side, his large body bouncing with every step. Johnson, the other day guard, loped along behind.

  Martyr fell to the ground and immediately wrapped himself into a ball, covering his head with his arms. His curiosity had gotten him in trouble again. Three marks meant three hours of lab time. All to touch the orange napkin tie.

  It had been worth it.

  “What’s he doing?” the man named Dr. Goyer asked.

  Rolo and Johnson’s footsteps on the concrete floor drowned out Dr. Kane’s answer.

  Rolo jabbed the stick between Martyr’s ribs. “What’s up, Martyr?” Another jab. Rolo liked when the Jasons fought back. “Getting into mischief again?”

  Johnson’s familiar crushing grip pried Martyr’s arm away from his face, despite Martyr’s efforts to keep it there.

  Rolo stopped poking long enough to whack Martyr on the head, sending a throbbing ache through his skull. “Get up, boy.”

  Martyr complied as best he could with the stick still poking his side. He hoped the stinger wouldn’t engage.

  Rolo grabbed Martyr’s other arm, and Martyr bit back a groan as the guards dragged him up and pushed him against the wall.

  Rolo slid his stick under Martyr’s chin and pressed up, forcing Martyr to look at him. “See, now? We’re not so awful, are we?” Rolo’s eyes were clear and cold. Martyr knew it was best to nod.

  Johnson smirked at Martyr over Rolo’s shoulder. Johnson had thick brown hair, a bushy brown beard, and a mustache. The boys were not allowed beards or mustaches or hair. They visited the groomers once a week to be shaved—to keep from looking like Johnson.

  “These are our day guards,” Dr. Kane said. “Robert Lohan, known as Rolo to the boys, and Dale Johnson. Men, this is Dr. Goyer. He’ll be starting next week.”

  “Was it necessary to strike him?” Dr. Goyer asked Rolo. “He wasn’t being violent.”

  Martyr looked from Dr. Kane to Rolo, then to Rolo’s stick. Rolo always used his stick. Most of the time it wasn’t necessary.

  Rolo snorted, like Dr. Max sometimes did when one of the boys asked an ignorant question. He tightened his grip on Martyr’s wrists.

  “The guards know how to keep the boys in order,” Dr. Kane said. “I don’t question their methods.”

  “But why sticks?” Dr. Goyer asked. “Why not something more effective? A taser?”

  “We use tasers if things get too far.” Johnson bent down and snagged up Martyr’s pant leg, revealing the stinger ring on his ankle. “They’re remote controlled, and each has its own code. Lee, up in surveillance can turn each one on manually or in a group. If the boys gang up on us and manage to swipe our weapons, the tasers knock ‘em flat in a hurry.”

  Dr. Kane put his hand on Martyr’s shoulder and squeezed. “But J:3:3 doesn’t cause those kinds of problems. He sometimes gets a little excited, that’s all. Take him up to Dr. Goyer’s office, Robert.” He turned to Dr. Goyer. “This will give you a chance to try our marks procedure and get to know one of our subjects.”

  Martyr eyed Dr. Goyer. Would the new doctor be angry that he had touched the orange napkin tie? Would the marks be miserably painful?

  “What do I do with him?” Dr. Goyer asked.

  The guards pushed Martyr toward the elevator, and he struggled to look over his shoulder at the new doctor.

  Dr. Kane’s answer made Martyr shiver. “Whatever you want.”

  Martyr lay strapped to the exam table in Dr. Goyer’s office, which he’d discovered was the third door on the right. He twisted his head to the side and squinted. The lab-like office rooms were always so bright. The lights buzzed overhead and the smell of clean made him sick to his stomach, reminding him of the hundreds of times he had lain on a table in such a room while a doctor poked and prodded. All the labs looked the same: a desk for the doctor, an exam table, and a long counter stretching along one wall with cupboards above and below. It had been five years since Martyr had been in this particular lab, though. He would never forget the last time.

  The third door on the right had belonged to her. To Dr. Woman.

  Many years had passed since the incident. Martyr was certain Dr. Kane would never allow ano
ther woman to enter the Farm because of what had happened, and the thought made him feel lonely. Dr. Woman had been kinder than any other doctor.

  But it had gone bad.

  Martyr blamed himself.

  The door opened and Dr. Goyer entered. The light glinted off the man’s head as he looked down at a chart, and Martyr wondered why this doctor had to see the groomers when the other doctors were allowed to grow hair.

  Dr. Goyer jumped back a step when he saw Martyr on the table and put a hand to his chest, but then moved about the lab as if he hadn’t seen Martyr at all. Martyr waited and watched Dr. Goyer file some papers, wipe down his counter, and sit at his desk. He was no longer wearing the orange napkin tie, only a white coat over a white shirt and black pants. Martyr frowned. Dr. Goyer would probably never wear the orange napkin tie again.

  He hoped Dr. Goyer wouldn’t use pain today. Occasionally he got lucky with his marks and only needed to answer questions or try new foods. Dr. Goyer hadn’t carried in a steamy sack full of food, though.

  Dr. Goyer suddenly spoke. “What am I supposed to do with?

  Martyr met the doctor’s eyes. They were brown, like the eyes of every Jason on the Farm. Martyr knew the color brown well. “What do you want to do?”

  The doctor rubbed a hand over his head. “I don’t know … I don’t know. They gave me a list of starter questions, but you’ve probably had all those by now.”

  Martyr had answered them often. “What’s your number? Do you have a nickname? What’s your purpose?”

  Dr. Goyer smiled. “That’s right. Can we just … talk?”

  Martyr relaxed. Talking would likely be painless. “Yes, we can.”

  “Do you like living here?”

  The question confused Martyr. Where else would he live? “What do you mean?”

  “Do you enjoy it? Do you find it fun?”

  “Some days.”

  “What makes a good day?”

  “No marks. No fights. Food with color. Being with Baby. Especially a day where no one is trying to hurt Baby.”