by Tarah Benner
“Is that why you left?” I prompt. “To escape the corruption?”
She hesitates. “No.”
“Then why?”
“You don’t need to know why.”
“I think it’s a valid question.”
The woman lets out a resigned sigh. “I left to keep my family intact. That turned out to be a mistake.”
“What happened to them?”
“I don’t have a lot of time,” she repeats.
“And I don’t have a lot of reason to trust you,” I snap. “Tell me what happened.”
She takes in a long breath and closes her eyes. I can tell that whatever memory I just dredged up is a painful one, but I have this inexplicable urge to know more.
Finally, she gives in. “When I was twenty-four, I fell in love with a man I knew I’d never be able to marry. He was a Recon sergeant, and I was working in Systems — network security.”
I get a prickle of unease when she mentions my department. I imagine her sitting in headquarters — perhaps in my very cube — performing a very similar job to the one I have now.
“Two seasons before, the compound had experienced massive crop failure . . . and we hadn’t recovered. We were in the midst of another low-birth year, and the board was worried. They raised stipends for tier-three workers, and for a time, they actually began encouraging them to start families. So we got married.”
“You married the Recon sergeant?” I repeat in disbelief. Recon operatives don’t marry.
“Yes. And the next year . . . we had a son.”
She closes her eyes briefly, and when she opens them again, they’re haunted with darkness and deep-seated anger. “It quickly became clear that Recon did not want their operatives to have any sort of family life. They still believed that a spouse and children were a distraction for their operatives. If you ask me, they were more worried about non-Recon personnel discovering the truth about the drifters.”
Yeah, that sounds like the board, I think. “So what happened?”
“They sent my husband out on a mission meant to kill him,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice. “And they succeeded.”
“Shit,” I breathe.
“To make matters worse, the new president was pushing to have all intersection unions disbanded. And once my marriage was deemed invalid, my son would be placed in the Institute.”
The woman’s eyes narrow. “They’d already killed my husband. I wasn’t going to let them take my boy. He wasn’t going to grow up an orphan . . . not knowing who I was . . .”
“That’s why you left?”
She nods. “I thought that if I managed to escape the compound, I could find somewhere that was safe. My husband had told me about places on the Fringe where the radiation wasn’t as bad. I thought I could make a life for us.”
At the look on my face, she lets out a dark chuckle. “I know how crazy this must sound to you, but —”
“Where did you go?” I interrupt.
“I fled to the city, hoping to find some other survivors . . . families with children who might have some compassion.” Her eyes get very distant, and I can tell she’s reliving some of the darkest times of all. “That turned out to be a mistake.”
“What happened?”
“Salt Lake City was completely destroyed. The radiation was horrendous. My son and I got very sick. When we returned to the desert, I started to recover, but he didn’t. He needed medical care . . . the sort of care that just wasn’t available out here after Death Storm.”
She sighs, and I see just how much that time haunts her — a single mother trying to piece together a life on the Fringe for her sick child.
“The compound leaders knew I’d fled. In their eyes, I was a traitor. I couldn’t go back. But he could.”
“Your son?”
“Yes. The compound was desperate to repopulate. I’d heard they were bringing in Fringe babies and even older children to keep population counts on track. The food insecurity had made people too scared to have kids of their own. My boy was only eighteen months old, and he had excellent genes. He was just what they were looking for.”
The woman shifts so that her face is mostly in shadow, but I can see her profile: the square jaw, sharp cheekbones, short blond hair.
“I managed to get a message to one of my husband’s friends in Recon. We made the arrangements, and I . . . I left him out there.”
“You left your son outside the compound?” I croak.
“This friend of the family . . . I knew he would look after my boy — tell him the truth about his parents when the time was right. My son wouldn’t be just another John Doe all his life. He would know his history.”
My throat is so dry I can hardly speak.
“Did he ever tell your son?” I ask. “The friend of your husband’s?”
She shakes her head. “It’s hard to say. I haven’t ever worked up the courage to try to contact him . . . until now. I need you to get a message to my son,” she says. “I checked the placement records. He’s in Systems, too. I need you to tell him . . . tell him he needs to leave. I can get him somewhere safe. You, too, if you help me.”
“What if he doesn’t believe this?” I ask, my voice shaking.
I don’t want to voice my suspicions aloud. I don’t want to suggest that I could be him — that this woman could be my mother. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part, but it fits.
“Give me a moment to speak to him. Bring him to this computer in thirty-six hours. I’ll be here again.”
Somewhere in the distance, I hear a loud beep that tells me that someone from another section is trying to gain access to Systems. The woman hears it through my mic, and the sound seems to spur her into action.
“I have to go,” she says, her eyes darting frantically around the dark space.
“What’s your son’s name?” I ask.
“Celdon. Celdon Reynolds.”
My heart stops, and everything slows down.
“Wait!” I splutter.
“I’m sorry . . . I have to —”
And then she’s gone.
The video-chat window disappears, and I’m left staring at a black screen.
The beep sounds again — louder and more insistent this time — and I pull up the security footage from the camera outside the door to headquarters.
Sawyer is standing in the tunnel. I key in my code to buzz her in, and I hear the heavy doors open out in the bull pen.
My mind is racing. That woman — the drifter who hacked into the compound network to warn us — was my mother. She wasn’t a drifter at all. She’d been in Systems like me, and my dad was a Recon operative.
My mom wasn’t abandoning me when she gave me up. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me. She wasn’t some worthless degenerate trading her baby for cash. She made the only decision she could to keep me alive, and by the sound of it, that decision still haunts her.
“What the hell?”
Sawyer’s voice jerks me out of my trance, and I wheel around in my chair. She’s standing in the door to my cube staring at my second monitor, where I have one of Constance’s reeducation videos playing on low volume.
It had been partially hidden by the security feed, but as soon as I closed that window, the old man in the empty tunnel started speaking again. I’ve grown so used to his monotone voice that I hadn’t even noticed the video.
Constance is entrusted with the sacred duty of protecting the flock. And when one of our brothers or sisters poses a danger to the flock, it is our responsibility to remove the threat.
“What the fuck are you watching?” she demands.
“Nothing,” I say, hitting a few keys to close out of the window.
“It didn’t look like nothing,” she says with a suspicious edge to her voice.
“What’s going on?”
“I just came to tell you that Harper was released,” says Sawyer. “I saw her last night. She made another deal with Shane. It isn’t good . . .” She trails off, starin
g at my face as though she’s searching for answers.
“Shane?”
Sawyer nods. “She made a deal to keep Eli off death row.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.
“Yeah . . . you could say that.”
“How are the AWOL Recon people?” I ask.
“No signs of infection,” she replies. “We had to release the girl, but the guy is being held in the psych ward for monitoring. He seems . . . off somehow.”
“Well, yeah. The guy was held prisoner by the drifters. What do you expect?”
“It’s not that,” she says with a shiver. “I just have this feeling like . . . like something bad is going to happen.”
“Are you sure that’s not just because of Harper’s crazy theory?”
“No. They aren’t infected. There’s no sign of the virus whatsoever. I’m not sure why the drifters held them hostage or why they’d release them, but something doesn’t fit.”
From her slow, distracted cadence, I can tell her mind isn’t on the AWOL Recon operatives at all. She’s still turning something over in her head, examining it and weighing the possibilities.
Suddenly my interface buzzes, and a small dialogue box appears in the upper right-hand corner of my screen. I dismiss the notification, but that second it appeared was long enough for Sawyer to read “Jayden Pierce” on my screen.
“Why is Jayden calling you?” she snaps.
“Uh, I’m doing some work for Recon. They want a program to crunch all their drifter data so —”
“Oh, shut up!”
Sawyer’s voice is angrier than I’ve ever heard it, and when I turn off my monitor, I can see her furious expression reflected in the glass.
“Stop — lying.”
I turn slowly in my chair to face her and instantly wish I hadn’t. Sawyer’s mouth is curled in rage, and her eyes are flashing behind her glasses.
“It’s been right in front of us this whole time, but I never saw it coming.”
“Sawyer, let me —”
“No!” she yells. “I’m not going to just sit here and listen to your bullshit anymore.”
She shakes her head, looking too incensed to speak, but it doesn’t stop her. “All this time, I thought Harper and Eli were fighting an uphill battle. Constance was too big and too powerful. But they never stood a chance! How could they when Harper’s best friend was working against them?”
“No!” I say quickly. “I wasn’t. It’s not what you think.”
“God, will you shut up?” She lets out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie.”
“I haven’t been involved with them long. I’m still on Harper’s side.”
“Why the hell would I believe that? You’re part of Constance. That video you were watching . . . All those bruises . . . It was them.”
“They did that to me because I was trying to help Harper.”
“Help her?” Sawyer splutters. “What, by torturing Eli?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” I say quickly. “And I kept Eli alive in there.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s the truth! I would never do anything to hurt Harper. You know that!”
“I don’t know anything anymore,” she says, shaking her head and fighting back tears.
“Look, there was nothing I could do to keep them from bringing in Eli. I didn’t even know he was there until the other day.”
“Right . . .”
I sigh, feeling annoyed that Sawyer won’t hear me out.
“Do you know why I joined Constance?” I ask finally.
“I don’t care.”
“Well, then you’re a shitty friend. I know I’m not winning any awards right now —”
“We’re not friends,” Sawyer growls in a tremulous voice. “You made that perfectly clear the other day. But I thought you were at least friends with Harper.”
“Fuck! I’m sorry, okay? Just listen to me for a second. Constance has been pursuing me for ages — ever since I was placed in Systems. I never even considered it before. But after Harper found out about the Fringe Program, this asshole Devon Reid approached me and said my mom wasn’t killed like Harper said.”
“So you joined to what? Get back at Harper?”
“No!” I snap. “I never blamed Harper for lying to me, but . . . I had to know what really happened to her.”
I break off. After rationalizing my actions to Eli and Sawyer, I realize how feeble my reasoning must sound.
“Listen,” I say. “I needed this. I’m fucked up, Sawyer. I’ve lived my whole life thinking that my mom abandoned me. And when Devon told me he could take me to her —”
“You can’t be that stupid!” Sawyer interjects.
“She’s alive,” I whisper. “I found her. A drifter just broke through the firewall to access our network, and it was her.”
“How can you tell?”
“She told me. She’s looking for him — me — her son.”
In that moment, I want nothing more than someone to share my enthusiasm. But Sawyer doesn’t give a shit about my mom right now. All she can see is my lie. As far as she’s concerned, joining Constance negates everything else.
“Well, I’m really happy for you,” she says in a flat voice. Her gaze lingers on my fading black eye for a moment, and then she gives me a look that says I’m dead to her.
She turns to leave, but I reach out and grab her arm. “Sawyer —”
“Don’t touch me!” she yells, wheeling around and balling up a fist as though she plans to strike me.
She doesn’t. We just stand there frozen, both of us unsure what to do.
“I’m not on their side,” I say in a pleading voice.
I know she doesn’t believe me, but if I just keep saying it, maybe I can somehow undo the damage I’ve done.
“You’re full of shit, Celdon. You’ve always been full of shit.”
In one sharp motion, she jerks her arm out of my grip and stalks out of my cube.
“Sawyer, wait!” I call, jogging after her through the rows of sleeping monitors.
She keeps walking until she reaches the door and then turns around with a weary look on her face. “What?”
“Please . . . Please just don’t tell Harper. She’d never forgive me.”
“I can’t believe you’d ask me to do that.”
“I’m going to get out of here,” I say, feeling desperate. “I’m going to find a place that’s safe — a compound that hasn’t been hit by the virus — and I’m gonna get Harper out of here.”
But Sawyer just shakes her head, and I can tell by her expression that I’ve completely lost her.
“Wow. You are in trouble if you’ve started to believe your own bullshit.”
I don’t know what to say to that because it’s the truth.
“You may live your life on lies, but I don’t,” she says. “Tell Harper the truth . . . or I will.”
fifteen
Harper
The way my hands are shaking, you’d think I’d never been alone with Eli before.
Most of the time we’ve spent together has been shrouded in tension and unspoken feelings, and when I thought he was dead, that was what I regretted most. Now, knowing he’s alive, it feels as though I’ve been given a second chance.
After I saw him over his lunch break, we agreed to meet up on the observation deck after sundown — away from Constance’s prying eyes and the scrutiny of Recon.
Now I’m sitting on a blanket all alone, trying to keep my racing heart under control.
The observation deck is completely deserted. Nearly everyone in the compound is eating in the canteen or socializing in their compartments. They have no idea what’s at stake — that everything they take for granted could be gone tomorrow.
Eli’s proof of that.
The sun’s dying rays bleed off the reflective panels down below, and I find myself studying the solar fields in a way I never have befor
e.
I can’t even imagine Eli in ExCon. As much as he hated reporting to Jayden and risking his life on the Fringe, Recon was part of his identity. He sacrificed everything for the uniform and lost so much to get that lieutenant insignia. And Jayden ripped it away from him as though it meant nothing.
I don’t know how long I sit there staring out across the desert, but the temperature drops, and I pull my gray sweater a little tighter.
Suddenly the door slams across the deck. A tall figure emerges from the darkness, brushing through the immaculate green grass as he strides toward me.
It’s too dark to make out Eli’s face, but I can identify his confident stride from the stiffness of his back and the light sway of his arms. He may not be a lieutenant anymore, but he still carries himself like a Recon officer.
Feeling nervous, I stand up and tuck my hair behind my ear. I brushed it and rebrushed it before I left my compartment, but I’m sure it’s mussed again from all the anxious fiddling I’ve been doing.
Finally, Eli steps into the moonlight, and I’m able to study him up close.
He’s no longer wearing the loud orange jumpsuit and a layer of salt and dust on his skin. His hair is damp from the shower, and he’s got on a dark-blue T-shirt and the same pair of jeans he wore that first night in his compartment.
My heart sinks when I see what his time in Constance did to him. His pronounced cheekbones seem sharper than normal, and there’s absolutely no meat left on his already chiseled arms. He must have lost a good ten pounds in the few days we’ve been apart, and I’m unprepared for the hatred that spills into my chest when I imagine Constance starving and torturing him.
For several seconds, I just stand there. Eli is looking at me in a way he never has before: He’s tired, helpless, and completely lost.
“Hey,” I murmur, reaching out for his hand.
“Hey.”
He takes it and squeezes it once, and I feel another roar of anger at the injustice of it all.
But there are other feelings, too. I’m nervous and hopeful and so incredibly grateful that he’s alive. All those feelings rush to the surface, making my body go haywire.
