Homecoming

by Kass Morgan

  “And in order to protect each other and ourselves, we must follow certain rules,” Rhodes said. Here it comes, thought Bellamy, clenching his hands into fists, as if he could somehow hold back the words he knew would change everything. “Life on the Colony was peaceful. Everyone was safe and provided for”—clearly this man had never lived on Arcadia or Walden—“and we were able to keep our species alive because we respected authority, did what was expected of us, and maintained order. Just because we now live on Earth does not mean we can abandon that adherence to a code that is more important than any one of us.” Rhodes paused again, letting his words sink in.

  Bellamy took in Wells’s and Clarke’s faces, and he could tell from their expressions that they were all on the same page. Rhodes was full of shit. He had said nothing about the hundred being forgiven for their crimes—which they had all been promised in exchange for their “service” to humanity when they came down here on the first dropship. And based on the number of happy reunions Bellamy had witnessed that day—one or two among the non-Phoenicians—obviously none of their families had been given priority on the next wave of ships. The number of lies this man was spewing in one short speech was repulsive. But even worse, it seemed like a lot of people were eating it up. Open your eyes, Bellamy wanted to shout at them. We survived fine here without these idiots, and we’ll be fine without them. Don’t listen to a word this jerk says.

  “I trust that each and every one of you”—Rhodes was wrapping up, his words flowery but his tone ice cold—“will recognize the greater good and do exactly what is expected of you, for your own personal well-being but also for the continuation of our very race. Thank you.”

  A chill shot down Bellamy’s spine. This wasn’t a warm and fuzzy motivational speech. This was a warning. Do what I say or you will be removed from the herd, the Vice Chancellor was threatening them. Bellamy didn’t trust himself to toe the line, that was for sure. He had never been much of a rule follower on the Colony. And now, here on Earth, where he had spent entire days and nights alone, deep in the woods, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d obey anyone ever again. For the first time in his life—in all their lives—Bellamy was free. They all were.

  But Rhodes was never going to forgive Bellamy’s act of treason on the launch deck. Bellamy saw that clearly now. Instead, the Vice Chancellor and his followers would make an example of him, which meant execution. Probably publicly.

  A decision appeared whole in Bellamy’s mind, already considered and made. He had to get out of here. He would come back for Octavia when it was safe. Clarke and Wells would look after her for now. Bellamy took a large step backward, farther into the woods, his eyes locked on the back of Rhodes’s head. On his second step, he backed right into a tree, smacking it hard. He fell forward with a grunt and struggled to keep his balance. He managed to stay upright but stepped, heavily, on a pile of dry sticks near his feet. They cracked loudly, the snap-snap-snapping echoing right out into the clearing.

  Hundreds of heads popped up to follow the sound. The guards raised their guns to their shoulders and zigzagged the barrels at the tree line. With surprisingly quick reflexes, Rhodes turned and scanned the landscape for the source of the sound. Bellamy was stuck. He couldn’t move, or he’d definitely be spotted. His only option was to stay perfectly still and hope that Rhodes and his guards all had terrible eyesight.

  No such luck. Rhodes spotted him almost instantly, his face pinching into a delighted grimace. They stared at each other for a long moment, during which Bellamy wasn’t sure if the Vice Chancellor recognized him as the one who had held the Chancellor hostage. Then a flash of sheer joy passed across his usually inscrutable face.

  “There!” Rhodes yelled to his guards, pointing straight at Bellamy. The uniformed crew crossed the clearing in record time. Bellamy spun around, counting on his knowledge of the woods to put him at an advantage. He could sprint over tree stumps and duck under low branches at top speed. But he’d gone no more than a few meters when he felt one, then two bodies throwing themselves against his, knocking him to the ground. The guard who landed on him grunted and scrambled to get his hands around Bellamy’s arms. Bellamy fought back, hard, shoving and kicking as he wrestled his way to his knees, then to a standing position. His heart pounded so hard he actually felt his ribs vibrating with each beat. Adrenaline coursed through his limbs. He felt like one of the animals he’d tracked and killed to keep the hundred alive.

  More guards arrived and began to surround Bellamy. He took a couple of short steps toward one of them, but at the last second, he ducked, whirled around, and ran in the opposite direction. The guards scrambled to keep up. Bellamy bolted a few steps farther into the shady woods, still hopeful that he could shake them.

  But they didn’t use their bodies to stop him this time. A sharp crack pinged off the tree trunks, and dozens of startled birds fluttered out of the highest branches. Bellamy cried out as a piercing pain tore through his shoulder.

  They had shot him.

  Bellamy fell to the ground and was instantly swarmed with guards, who roughly lifted him up and bound his arms behind his back with no regard to the blood pouring from his wound. They dragged him into the clearing.

  “Bellamy!” He heard Clarke’s voice as if from a long distance. Through hazy vision, he saw her pushing her way through the crowd, yelling at the guards as she approached. “Leave him alone. You shot him—isn’t that enough? Please, let me look at him. He needs medical attention.”

  The guards parted, allowing Clarke through. She wrapped her arms around Bellamy’s chest and helped him sink to the ground. “It’s okay,” she said, her breath ragged. She ripped his shirt at the neck and pulled it off his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s too serious—I think the bullet passed right through.” Bellamy nodded but couldn’t speak through his gritted teeth.

  “Your orders, sir?” one of the guards called out across the clearing to Rhodes.

  Bellamy didn’t hear the answer. He had only one thought as he sank into unconsciousness: He’d rather die than live on Earth as a prisoner.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wells

  Wells normally slept outside, preferring the silent, star-filled clearing to the overcrowded cabins, but he’d spent the past two nights on the floor in the infirmary cabin, barely sleeping at all.

  Clarke spent every possible moment at Bellamy’s side, cleaning his wound, checking for fever, and saying whatever silly things she could to distract him from the pain. But she also had dozens of other patients to tend to, and so Wells pitched in as much as he could. He made sure Bellamy was drinking water and, in Bellamy’s more lucid moments, kept him informed about what’d been going on in camp.

  Wells suppressed a groan as he rose to his feet, yawning while he rubbed his shoulder. There weren’t nearly enough cots to go around, and Wells had made sure they went to the injured. He glanced down at Bellamy, who’d finally fallen asleep after a painful, restless night. There didn’t seem to be any blood leaking through his bandage, which was a good thing, but Clarke was growing increasingly worried about infection.

  He looked at Bellamy’s pale face and felt a new surge of fury toward the Vice Chancellor. His father would’ve never let the guards shoot Bellamy, regardless of whether he realized their target was his son. Rhodes had a lot to say about order and justice, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned about practicing what he preached.

  Wells slipped outside, careful not to let the door slam. Early mornings used to be his favorite time on Earth. He’d have an hour to himself to watch the sunrise, before the rest of the camp would wake up and begin the day’s routine: The kids on water duty were up first, heading down to the stream with empty containers and messy hair. The firewood team was next, always racing through the chopping to see who could get it done fastest. They had quickly settled into a community, with their own customs and traditions. In many ways, it was a happier, freer life than anything they had known on the Colony.

  But although it’
d been less than seventy-two hours since the other Colonists arrived, those mornings felt like a distant memory. He hadn’t seen Sasha in days. They’d both agreed that it was safer for her to stay at Mount Weather until Wells figured out the right way to tell Rhodes about the Earthborns. He felt her absence as a physical ache.

  The normally empty clearing was scattered with groups of miserable-looking people—new arrivals who hadn’t secured spots in the cabins and had spent a sleepless night staring terrified at the unfamiliar sky, or disgruntled members of the hundred who had chosen to brave the wet grass and frigid air rather than deal with the intruders who’d invaded their space.

  A few adults were already standing around the cold fire pit, clearly waiting for someone to come light it for them. A group of guards stood off to the side, deep in conversation as they gestured toward the ridge where the splinter Earthborns had first appeared. After weighing the pros and cons of revealing that there were other people on Earth, Wells had told Rhodes about the two groups yesterday—about the peaceful ones led by Sasha’s father, and the violent ones who’d killed Asher and Priya. Ever since, Rhodes had stationed around-the-clock guards at the edges of the clearing.

  Wells walked over to the fire pit and forced a smile. “Good morning,” he said.

  The group nodded at him, but no one spoke. He knew how they felt, because he’d felt the same way during his first days here—disoriented, traumatized by the journey to Earth, but also haunted by the loss of the people left behind. He also knew that the only way to move forward was to keep busy.

  “Who wants to learn how to start a fire?” he asked. They all accepted his offer, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, but only one—a woman in her twenties—hung around long enough to try it on her own. Wells stacked logs in her arms and steered her back toward the fire pit. He showed her how to stack the logs in a pyramid to get the best airflow and walked her through the steps of lighting them. When they were done, she smiled, and he saw a tiny spark of life return to her eyes.

  “Great job,” Wells said. “Keep an eye on that, and when there’s some food to cook, we’ll build it up a little more.” He headed toward the small groups who had gathered for hunting duty, passing the cluster of guards on the way. He felt their eyes on him and stopped. They stood with their guns over their shoulders, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

  Although he’d been stripped of his officer’s rank when he was Confined, he cleared his throat and addressed them with the same voice he’d learned during training. “One of you should head out with each hunting party. We’ve got a lot of people to feed, and those guns could come in handy.”

  The guards looked at each other as if checking for permission, then shrugged and followed him. Wells divided them up and gave them a few tips on walking quietly so they didn’t scare off their prey. The only two who stayed behind were the ones Rhodes had assigned to guard the infirmary cabin, to ensure that Bellamy didn’t escape.

  The clearing grew increasingly noisy as hungry people spilled out of the overcrowded cabins, searching for something to eat for breakfast.

  They were in desperate need of several more cabins, which would require a massive harvesting of logs and at least a week of building. He’d have to train twenty or thirty of the new arrivals to get it done quickly, before the weather got cooler. They also needed more water buckets, which they’d have to shape from metal wreckage. He made a mental note to send a group over to the crash site to get at least ten good pieces that could work. None of this would matter, though, if they didn’t get more food here, and fast. With Bellamy out of commission, that was going to be harder than ever. Wells exhaled slowly and organized his thoughts, letting the morning sunlight warm his face for a moment.

  Opening his eyes, he crossed to the supply cabin and stopped to talk to the Arcadian boy who stood out front, reviewing a list. They had started keeping an inventory and assigning shifts to track what came in and out. Wells was about to ask the boy how they were doing on spare clothing when someone cleared his throat behind him. Wells turned and found himself face-to-face with Vice Chancellor Rhodes. Rhodes was studying Wells with a curious look, his lips pressed together in a tight smile that didn’t seem to reflect any actual happiness. Two older guards flanked the Vice Chancellor. Wells recognized them from his officer training—one had been his firearms instructor, and the other had once made him do five hundred push-ups. He grimaced at the memory.

  “Good morning, Officer Jaha.”

  “Good morning, Vice Chancellor Rhodes. Officers.” Wells saluted them, a gesture that felt out of place beneath the vast blue sky and soft clouds that floated overhead, instead of the harsh lights of Phoenix.

  Rhodes held out his hand to Wells, and Wells took it. Rhodes gripped his fingers a bit too hard and shook his hand for a moment too long. Wells had always been a model guard and officer, respectful of his superiors and the rules. He had excelled at every stage of training, usually landing in the top spot in his class. He had taken pride in knowing and following protocol, even if it meant the other trainees ribbed him—or worse, whispered behind his back that the Chancellor’s son was sucking up to their teachers. But Wells didn’t care. He wanted to prove himself on his own merits, and he had. No one could deny that Wells was a first-class officer. But today, standing in the clearing, his hand held hostage by the Vice Chancellor, Wells suddenly felt nothing but disgust. It was as if he knew what was about to come out of Rhodes’s mouth before he even spoke.

  “You have shown remarkable leadership, Officer Jaha.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Wells braced himself.

  “Particularly for one so young.” Rhodes emphasized the last word, twisting it into an insult. “On behalf of the Council, I would like to thank you for your service, young man.” Wells said nothing. “You have set up a satisfactory—if temporary—camp here on Earth.” The Vice Chancellor’s top lip curled in disdain. “But you have taken on far too much responsibility for someone your age, when you should be enjoying your youth.”

  Wells pictured the arrow piercing Asher’s neck just inches from his own, saw Priya’s bloated body hanging from a tree, felt the gurgling and terrifying hunger pangs they’d all shared in those first few days. Some youth, he wanted to spit at Rhodes. But he kept his lips pressed together.

  “We more experienced leaders will take over now,” Rhodes continued, “while you enjoy a well-deserved break.”

  Wells’s nostrils flared, and he felt his cheeks get hot. He struggled to keep his expression soldier-neutral. Rhodes was taking control—but he clearly had no idea what he was getting into. Neither had Wells at first, but now he had several weeks of crucial knowledge that he could share. His voice steady, his tone diplomatic, Wells said, “With all due respect, sir, those of us who came down on the first ship have learned quite a bit in a very short period of time. Things are more complicated down here than they may seem, something we learned the hard way. We can save you a lot of time and trouble. Allowing us to share what we’ve learned will serve the greater good of everyone here.”

  Rhodes’s smile grew tighter, and he let out a choked laugh. “With all due respect, Officer, I think we are well qualified to handle anything that may arise. The sooner we bring order back to this community, the sooner we can all feel safe.”

  Wells knew the look in Rhodes’s eye. It was the special combination of disdain, mockery, and envy that he’d been seeing in people’s faces his entire life. Being the Chancellor’s son had never been simple. Rhodes looked at Wells and saw a spoiled, know-it-all child. Wells could single-handedly build a cabin for each of the new Colonists, and Rhodes would still see him as an entitled show-off. As the son of the one person who had stood between the Vice Chancellor and the top job, Wells was the symbol of Rhodes’s frustration.

  Any goodwill Wells may have earned as the person who kept the hundred alive for the first few weeks was quickly dissipating, along with his influence. If this was his last chance to speak directly with Rhodes, then he
was going to use it well.

  “Yes, sir,” Wells said in his most respectful tone. Rhodes saluted him stiffly, clearly pleased with himself. He spun on his heel and began to walk away, the guards trailing him like obedient pets. “There is just one thing,” Wells called to Rhodes’s back. The Vice Chancellor stopped and turned back, looking annoyed. “The prisoner, Bellamy Blake.”

  Rhodes’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”

  “He is vital to the survival of this camp.”

  “Excuse me, Officer?” Rhodes shook his head in disbelief. “Are you referring to the young man who almost got your father killed?”

  “Yes, I am, sir. Bellamy is by far the best hunter we have. He has kept us all alive. We need him.”

  The smile fell from Rhodes’s face, and his expression grew cold. “That boy,” Rhodes said slowly, “is a murderer.”

  “He’s not,” Wells said, trying hard to sound calmer than he felt. “He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He was just trying to protect his sister.” He’d hoped Bellamy’s protectiveness would strike a chord with the Vice Chancellor, but the word sister only prompted a sneer. Wells could only imagine what would happen if, out of desperation, he admitted that Bellamy was his brother.

  “He’s the reason your father isn’t here,” Rhodes spat. “The reason I’m in charge.” With that, he spun around and stormed away.

  Wells watched him go, his heart sinking. There would be no leniency for Bellamy. No mercy.

  CHAPTER 8

  Clarke

  The stitches weren’t holding. Clarke clenched her jaw as she cleaned the wound on Bellamy’s shoulder for the third time that day. She knew objectively that her frustration wasn’t helping, but she was half out of her mind trying to figure out what to do next. She could take her chances and hope Bellamy’s body fought off an infection and began to heal despite the stitches. Or she could remove the stitches and put new ones in—but that would put him at risk for reopening the wound inside, which could set him back.