Authors: Kate Wrath
I manage a curt nod.
"Here," he says, pressing a canteen into my hand.
"Drink up."
I do as told, taking a long pull from the canteen. Cool,
watered-down whiskey. A strange combination of temperatures and effects. I
pass the canteen back to him and wipe my mouth on my arm. I push myself to my
feet before I can change my mind. Scar-nose catches my elbow halfway up, and
supports me.
"I'm fine," I say, standing on my own.
He gives me an uncertain look. "You're a bit pale.
Maybe you should rest."
I dart one look past him, down the street at the stairs,
then nod as I fight down my racing heart. "I'm not used to this heat
anymore," I mumble, turning back the way we came. But I feel that I've
failed. I was supposed to do this, and I’ve chickened out.
We trudge back toward my apartment, and none of the guards
comment.
As we walk back, my head starts to clear, my body relax.
Whatever unsteadiness claimed me, it's dissipated. I'm fine—aside from being
angry with myself. Of all the horrible things I've seen, I can't believe I
allowed this one to affect me so. I'm stronger than this. I know I am. That
prisoner’s death had little to do with me, and it wasn't my fault. Kobee
purposefully misinterpreted me. And it's not like the body's still there,
rotting in the sun, so why should the place affect me like that?
The hot, moist air clings around my face, sucking the breath
out of me. I keep walking and drag in slow, deep breaths. I won't let this
take me over. I won't. I think of snow, and wind, and clear, shivering air
drenched in the scent of pine. I think of laughing with Apollon. I'm fine. Absolutely
fine. So maybe what happened in Saint Louis has attached itself to this in
some subliminal, screwed-up chamber of my mind. That's done now. I did what I
had to. My friends are alive.
I'm
alive. I can't regret that. I
don't. No, it's just all working itself out, and then I'll be fine. That's all
this is. Nothing more.
I take the steps up from the lower terrace without slowing.
I'll take a while to regroup, then I'll do this thing. As I step, step, step
my mind wanders back to the dream, and I experience the same certainty I felt
when I woke up. The cell is the next clue.
We're three-quarters to the top of the long, sun-washed
flight when I register the voices above. I stop.
Familiar but vague—it's that guy I sent packing. What was
his name? McCain? He's saying "...was a complete failure and caused
three—almost four—days of production delay throughout the quarter. When you
consider the tremendous cost—"
"Yeah, yeah," comes Kobee's voice, not at all
softened to diplomatic tones. "It was a risk and we knew it. We could
have come out way on top if it had worked. You win some, you lose some."
A smile works its way onto my face as I stand, arms-crossed,
imagining Kobee's take-no-shit expression. I think he's starting to grow on
me.
Spec's voice is much softer, filled with reason. "We
have plans in place to help cut our losses. The damage isn't as much as you
think it is, because we set up a contingency that went into effect immediately
whe—"
"That doesn't change the fact of the oversight,"
McCain snaps before Spec can finish. "And let's just be straight about
this. We all know that
Jason
never would have missed it."
There are murmurs of agreement, followed by a long, profound
silence. How many people are up there?
When Jonas speaks, it's in his smooth, low, convincing
voice. God help them if it affects them half as much as it affects me.
"I'm the first to admit that I'm lacking Jason's
memories. That's obviously a disadvantage, which is why I've been working
closely with Spec and Kobee, who have been fine to oversee things all along.
They're quickly bringing me up to speed—"
"Speed?" It's a voice I don't recognize, but full
of obstinance. "We don't see anything happening. Do you
know
how
much resources and energy were put into Lily's plan? The lives lost? And for
what? All these grand ideas and promises were waved around, but it turns out
we were suckered. It was about bringing you back all along. And as sweet as
that sappy story might be, it's not nothin' compared to a future without
Sentries. So Lily played us, and she didn't do shit. And I think you're
playing us now."
"Now listen," Kobee is saying, but Spec is
clearing his throat, and the murmurs are growing around them.
Jonas' voice hovers over everything. "Lily did exactly
what she said she would do."
That quiets them down.
"We're working on putting it together," Jonas
says. "I have a team decoding a significant portion of data. But it's
going to take some time. And there's more in Lily's head that we'll need to
draw out. But there are some issues."
"Issues?" McCain says after a pause.
"The chip was damaged," Jonas tells them.
"Extracting the data has been difficult. But we have enough to prove that
Lily did exactly as she said she would. I'll show you, if you like."
The murmurs rise again, but with a different tone this
time. All of this is making me more than uneasy. I don't need any more
pressure from anyone about cutting open my head. Expectations. Pushiness. I
clamp my jaw, turning my head sideways, curling my fingers in until my nails
cut into my palms. I force long breaths through my nose. I won't march up
there and tell Jonas off in front of everyone. I'll wait. I have to wait.
"Listen," Jonas says, "this is a major
priority for me. I've seen first-hand how the Sentries destroy things, and I'm
going to take them down if it's the last thing I do. But I need time to work
on this. And I need you all to do your part. Together, we'll change
everything. The whole world."
The stir of voices tells me that they're buying into
it—Jonas' little crusade. Down with the Sentries. Open up the world to a wave
of vicious fucking bugs with automatic weapons. The thing is, part of me buys
into it, too. I remember how I felt looking down into the churning, bloody
water. Absorbing the necessary tragedy... only, was it really necessary? Does
it have to be? For a moment, I close my eyes, and with the breeze on my face I
can remember the immensity of the world outside. We're all in a box. Just
like Jack said, on the river. What if we could be free?
My heart tugs—this way, then that. There's a sorrow
attached to the hope. A hopelessness attached to the sorrow. Maybe there's
not any way for us.
I sigh and trudge up the last stairs while the conversation
continues.
"How long is this going to take?" asks the
consternated voice. As I come up to the top, I see that it's attached to a
droopy-eyed man, short and stocky.
"A matter of months," Jonas says with complete
certainty. Then he notices me, his eyes darting to me, to my circle of guards,
but his expression staying solid.
I sigh again and move past him. I'm tired. The murmur
raises again, and falls. I head for the apartment. There's a guard already at
the door, making sure our living area stays safe. He nods as I pass him. The
other guards pool around outside as I shut the door behind me and drag myself
up the stairs.
I lay down on the bed and close my eyes. It's warm, so
warm, though the shades are drawn down. Sunlight filters through in a subdued golden
hue pitched with brown shadows. Resting my hands on my stomach, I let out the
breath that I seem to have been holding. I didn't know how tired I was. In
only moments, I'm drifting.
Something wakes me—something soft—a noise. I open my eyes
and turn my head, expecting the cat. Jonas is shuffling around in the kitchen,
obviously foraging for a snack. It doesn't seem all that long ago that we were
subsisting on crumbs, and now there's food when we want it. Decent food. I
sigh. He's right that we have a good thing here.
"Awake?" he murmurs softly, like he doesn't want
the question to wake me if I'm not.
"Mmm." I roll onto my side facing him and realize
that what felt like only moments of rest had to be much longer. The shades are
still down and now the apartment is dark—not completely dark, but that dim
almost-night where shapes are shadows. Where, if you were reading, you'd be
forced to finally put down your book, or light a lamp, because squinting would
no longer cut it. I peer at Jonas across the apartment. "I slept a long
time."
"Yes," he says. "You were tired. Are you
hungry?"
"I could eat." I sit up and stretch, feeling the
softness of the evening, the long, relaxed pull of the sinking sun, and a newly
invigorated wakefulness born of my sleep. I feel like I want to get up and do
something. To take Jonas by the hand and go out into the cool evening to eat
our meal in the salty sea air. But there's a discomfort. I have to remember
it. To make myself remember it. I frown at him. "You were a little
quick to make those promises, don't you think?"
He looks at me over his shoulder as he braces a coconut
while sticking his blade vertically against its shaggy hide. He has a rock,
too, which he turns his attention to, now, raising it into the air above the
knife. He brings it down hard, and with one solid thud, there's a crack. The
knife and rock clatter onto the metal counter as he grabs up the largest piece
of coconut, trying to save what's inside. At last, licking his fingers, he turns
to me. "I believe in what I promised," he says, holding out the
coconut. "You want some?"
I shake my head.
He raises the coconut to his lips and drinks all its scented
juice. When he finishes, he sets the smooth, white flesh in the brown, hairy
husk aside and wipes his mouth on his arm. Even that—there's something so
sensual in the way he does it. My gaze lingers on his lips. He raises his
eyes to me and smiles.
"You're making promises that aren't yours to
make," I protest, pasting on my best scowl. "How can you promise
them something that's in
my
head?"
"I know you," he says. "We've been through
the same things. I know you see what needs to be done."
I shake my head, looking away. There's a sigh that wants to
come out, but doesn't.
"Tell me you don't see it," he says, and there's a
hint of that voice—that connection—that
us
and that
we
and that
we're
in all this together
.
Every part of my being heightens at that tone, straining to
listen to the soft, whispered meanings within. But is that him? Is this me?
Which him and which me? How do I puzzle out the words and the answers to them?
"You can't make those promises," I snap, clinging
to the concrete anger, the heavy, earth-binding uncertainty. "Those are
my
promises to make. Whatever you think, whatever you believe in, they're mine.
But you go around here telling everybody what you're going to do, how you're
going to change it all." I'm on a roll now, standing up, gesticulating.
"Well, it was
my
plan in the first place. And if it's going to
happen, it's going to happen in
my
time."
Jonas has taken a chair and sits, leaning forward, hands
clasped, head bent and listening to me intently while staring at the floor. Or
ignoring me completely while staring at the floor.
"You think you can just pick up everything by
pretending to be
him
?" I fling my hand out into the empty air at
my side. "That you can play the part and have everybody bow down to you?
Live like a king if you say the right things and make the right faces?"
He's shaking his head now, but I don't care.
"Well, it's wrong," I say. "That guy might
have been right about Lily manipulating everyone, but that's what
you're
doing now. You're telling them you're going to do something that might be impossible
even
with
whatever's in my head. Eventually, they're going to figure it
out, you know."
"It's not impossible," he says in a measured tone,
still looking at the floor.
"How do you know?" My voice is painted with the
incredulity of the question. "You might not want it to be impossible, but
the truth is we don't know anything."
He glances up briefly, and the unexpected doubt in that look
is enough to make me sorry for my words.
I sigh heavily and trudge to the chair beside him, pulling
it back from the table with plenty of room before I flop down.
"Look," I say, my voice tinted with gentleness, "you can't keep
on pretending like this. Eventually they'll figure it out. And looking like
Jason, talking like Jason—it won't save you from their anger." A silence
thickens between us. I let out a soft, voiceless laugh. "The
sungoggles.... All the hanging out with Spec and Kobee." I laugh again,
bitterly. "All the stupid, fake kisses." Now I'm the one looking at
the floor.
But Jonas laughs, and there's a warmth in his laugh as he
raises his eyes to me. "Maybe I actually
like
kissing you."
His teasing voice makes me blush, and it takes me a second
too long to be able to look away.
"Did you ever think of that?" It's like all the
waves of the sea rolling around in that voice, pulling you in, pulling you
under.
I turn my face away, lips parted, looking at the door. My
voice is dry, lifeless. "You're not funny."
"Maybe I'm not
being
funny," he says, but
when I glance back, his green eyes are sparkling with inner amusement.
I kick up to my feet and head for the door. "That's
not even close to OK." I'm not sure if he says anything, or does anything
more than watch me go. I'm too focused on running down the stairs, on the
feeling of my face burning, burning, and inside me the swelling of emotion, the
disappointment, the longing. The worst is I can't decide which way to take
it—there's the chance that he's just poking fun, getting back at me for
chastising him. But then there's the chance that it's another manipulation, an
attempt to line me up, one of the pieces on the front line of his little game.
And that makes me angry—a beyond-anger born out of pain, out of hopeless hope.
I turn my mind away, pray that none of my guards notice my tears as they stalk
me through the darkness. I take deep breaths and tell myself a million times
that Jonas doesn't realize how the teasing hurts me. He's not that cruel. He
isn't. I say it to myself again and again. He isn't.