“I became a Radical on Sunday.” A woman beside us looks to be about Mother’s age and a girl in her twenties sits beside her. Her daughter, maybe? “We were also at the Vault gathering with Evarado when the Enforcers found us. They ripped up the few Bibles that were brought because they weren’t USE approved and then destroyed the Clocks of those who couldn’t escape in time. Mine was one of them.”
I gasp. The government is making Radicals and then labeling us a threat?
Solomon moves from beside me and kneels with the woman. I join him and allow him to pray. The daughter is praying as well, and their voices blend. The woman joins in and suddenly my self-consciousness disappears and I find myself praying.
My voice is light, soft. And I’m fully in God’s presence. “God, You are greater than the Clocks. You are. You are showing us that it is better to trust in You than to have a Clock. It’s scary. I’m scared. I’m sure this woman is scared, too. Give us the courage. Give us Your strength.”
I’m breathing hard when I stop and I’m not sure why. Some of the praying voices drift off. While we prayed someone else had shared a personal story or struggle, but I didn’t catch it. A circle of people prays around that person, too.
I hug the woman. She squeezes my hand. Solomon returns to my side and Fight starts speaking Scripture. I don’t know where he’s reciting from, but the words tumble from his mouth, smooth and easy. Verse after verse after verse. Everyone finishes praying, but he keeps going.
For an hour.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. Listening. Resting in the words.
When he finishes, a long calm—like a deep breath—rests among us. When others begin to move, breaking the silence with the shuffle of their clothing and feet against concrete, I address Fight. “How did you memorize all of that?”
I thought my memory was good, but Fight’s is phenomenal. If I knew the entire Bible, then I wouldn’t be in the predicament I am now—desperately craving His Word, but having no access to it.
Fight raises an eyebrow. “I got one of the last Bible caps.”
Idris gasps and turns to him. “I didn’t know that!”
He nods sagely. “Yup. My parents bought a canister at the first rumors of the government putting Bible caps on hold. They gave one to each of us kids, even though it was against the law.”
I want to pretend I understand, that I know what they’re talking about, but I don’t. And I refuse to be left in the dark, even in prideful ignorance. “Um . . . what’s a Bible cap?”
Solomon mentioned a Definitions cap when he drove me back to Unity Village. Is it similar to this?
They all stare at me and, for a millisecond, I feel foolish–but then Idris launches into an explanation without a second blink. “Caps are pills, only instead of medicine they contain information that you can consume. Once you’ve ingested it, all that info enters your bloodstream and travels up to the brain. The caps are programmed to know when the blood reaches the brain and then the information is deposited in the right places. Like a tattoo . . . on your grey matter.”
Fight stares at her.
She shrugs. “What? Jude told me. You know he’s the tech-head.”
“So . . . people just ingest information?”
She folds her arms and looks at me. “Yeah! School’s only a few weeks a year. But the government controls which caps you get and when. They’re not sold in stores anymore. You need to apply for each cap.”
“School in Unity Village is . . . different. I sat at a desk in a classroom.” For hours. And hours. Withstanding the torment of bullies.
Fight leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Really? I would kill to experience traditional schooling.”
“Sounds boring and long to me.” Idris grimaces.
“Shut-up, textbook-brain.” Fight winks at her.
Ingested information. In Unity, we’re forced to fight for a seat in the school and here people just . . . swallow information? It’s not fair. Years of life could have been spared from sitting at a desk. Reid’s life, my life, the lives of all the students in Unity.
“Any one stepping out?” Fight’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
Stepping out? I look at Solomon. “You’ll see,” he whispers.
Evarado, the Hispanic boy, stands. “I am. On Sunday, I am travelin’ back to my home. There is no gathering there and my familia is too afraid to start one. I think it is for me to start.”
Several people around me nod.
“Need anything?” someone asks.
Evarado sits down. “I have enough specie. I need prayer the most. In my town are many Enforcers.”
Fight sweeps a look over the group. “Any advice?”
“Be brave!” someone shouts. A few people laugh.
“I’m stepping out, too.” Idris stands. “The Enforcer I met tonight . . . well, I think I left him before doing what God asks of us. I flirted to distract him, but I never told him about Jesus. I was too afraid.” She pops her neck. “But I’m going to find him again.”
Fight leaps to his feet. “Whoa, now, Idris. Don’t be foolish. That’s like walking up to the government and telling them to arrest you. What if they destroy your Clock?”
“Sit down, Fight.”
He mutters in a low voice near her ear, “Don’t you think we should talk about this first?”
“No. Boyfriend or not, God trumps you, and He’s asking me to step out.”
Fight slumps back to the ground and rests his arms on his knees, no longer leading the group. Pouting. I can understand a little of his hesitance. Idris is playing with fire. But I guess if it’s God’s fire, it’s okay.
“So, stepping out means doing something dangerous?” I ask Solomon in an undertone.
“It’s more like taking a step of faith that often makes us uncomfortable. We have to become uncomfortable in our lives to become comfortable in our faith.”
I like this. I like hearing how other people are going to push themselves for God. It makes me want to share my story with these people. I stand up. “Um . . . I think I’m stepping out, too.”
My body turns into a sheet of goosebumps, but I press on. “Tomorrow I’m meeting with the Citizen Welfare Development Council. You might have seen in the news that they’re undergoing new Clock testing. It’s Jude’s invention and it will force all Radicals to be Clock-matched. It’s dangerous. Jude died trying to keep this information from them.”
As I talk I realize this is a lot more complicated to explain than I thought. I don’t want to talk too long. I just want their support. “I’m trying to stop them. And I’m trying to rescue a friend.”
“Willow?” Idris asks.
I nod.
Fight comes out of his pout. “Wait, but didn’t you give the Council all this Clock-matching info?”
“No!” My shout reverberates off the stone.
“Shhhh!” Evarado hisses.
“They’re spreading lies. I tried to protect Jude.” I sit back down, hard, not wanting to defend myself any more than that.
“Do you need anything?” someone asks to my right.
Specie. I need specie because I got mugged today. But do I really need it? I shake my head. “No.”
Solomon takes my hand and squeezes. My stomach lurches and the goosebumps return. “Any advice for her?”
Fight resumes his glare at the floor.
“They could kill you,” Idris says.
“That’s not advice, just common knowledge.” I mean it as a joke, but it comes out hollow. “This is something I need to do. The threat is bigger than anyone understands.”
“Clock-matching sounds bueno to me.” Evarado scratches a spot on his knee.
“Me too.” The new Radical woman on my left leans forward.
I look from one to the other. “The government is alr
eady forcing you to meet and fellowship in underground meetings. This invention is just another tool of control—another way to force you into something. Personally, I like being a Radical because it forces me to trust God with my time. I’m closer to Him because of it.”
“It would make us all igual . . . you know, equal.”
“You’re wrong.” My face warms–my voice came out so loud Evarado jumped. But I need to make them understand. “It would give the government full control over all of us. Look what they do already! They persecute Radicals in the Low Cities, they don’t let Radicals get jobs, train tickets, medical care, etc. What more will they do when being a Radical is no longer a voluntary choice? Forbid marriage between people with low Numbers? Take away food? Force you to join their military? Universal Clock-matching is the ultimate tool of control.”
Everyone stays silent. I don’t think it’s because they agree.
“We will pray for you,” Idris says.
I need to be strong. The response of these people reminds me of the ignorance the Council is creating. The High-City people really don’t know what’s going on. Not even here, in a safe meeting of shalom.
Can I possibly do this? What if the Council does kill me?
And through his faith, though he died, he still speaks. God can speak through me in any way. Even when I’m dead.
But . . .
I’d really prefer not to die.
12
“Don’t come with me, Solomon.”
We stand on the small balcony of Jude’s apartment. The sun is at the end of its rising. I’ll be before the Council in less than an hour.
The long hours from last night’s Q&A still ring in my memory. My eyes are tired, my voice is tired, but my hope is wide-awake. It’s funny how, in telling my own story to Idris, Fight, and the other believers, I saw God’s hand through it all for the first time. I’d never seen the patterns before—rescue, purpose, shalom.
I’m more confident in my faith today than ever before. Good. I need it today more than ever.
Solomon stands close to me. So close. My face tilts up to meet his gaze and we stand like this for a long moment. He brushes his fingers up and down my arm lightly.
I shiver. “It’s not safe for you.” Elan Brickbat will be there. The Enforcers already carved up Solomon’s face. Brickbat might kill him on the spot. And he’s just one Council member. What might the others do?
To give the Council Willow and Solomon as leverage against me is like instant surrender.
“I don’t care,” he says. “You need me there.”
I shake my head.
“Yes, you do. You don’t need to be strong all by yourself. They’ll be less likely to do anything to you if I’m by your side.”
“They’ll be more likely to use both you and Willow if you’re there. Don’t you understand, Solomon? Just wait for me and, when I return, we’ll go visit your father and get more answers about Jude’s invention.”
“You can risk your own life, but won’t allow me to risk mine?” His statement hits me, but he says it without passion. He knows as well as I do that he needs to stay.
“I’m sorry.”
He closes his eyes for a long time and drops his hand. “God honored my prayers for your life two weeks ago. I’ll ask Him to do it again today.”
“I’m sorry.” This time it comes out choked.
I turn and leave the balcony before he can open his eyes. Once I’m in the elevator, I look up as it closes. He’s still out there. I remember the last time we separated in a similar situation. He was arguing against Sachem for my life. He held my hand until we were pulled apart.
This time, it’s my doing and not Skelley Chase’s.
The elevator descends. Solomon has gotten the worst side of everything. He fought for me and then lost me to the Wall. Then he risked his life to send Jude to protect me and he lost me to Jude. Now he may lose me to the Council—the very people who killed his brother.
His is a story of loss.
Someday, I want to change that. I want to give Solomon something he can keep. Maybe my heart will loosen enough to let that gift be me.
I exit the elevator and stumble over a brown paper-wrapped package on the ground. I pick it up and turn it over.
To: Parvin Blackwater is written on the paper in thick black ink.
Is this from Solomon? If so, why would he leave it on the ground out here? I lodge it against my body with my left arm so I can unwrap it with my hand. The wrapping is poorly done. When it falls away, I hold in my arms . . .
A Bible.
The same small USE-approved Bible from the emotigraph store. This isn’t a gift from Solomon. It’s a gift from those guys who mugged me . . . from God.
What a strange twist of a blessing.
I hug the Bible to my chest. Thank you. Thank you!
I AM WITH YOU.
Don’t I know it.
After putting my Bible in my shoulder pack, I enter the small park at the base of the apartment complex. A wooden bench rests by a small path. As I walk the path, I find myself under dogwood trees—beautiful cream blossoms glimmering under the morning sun and reflecting advertisements from the buildings above.
Their flowers are wide and perfect. Petals flicker with a gust of wind. These trees have marked my journey. They surrounded the hearing platform in Unity Village when I was sentenced to the Wall. They covered the albino forest where I lost my hand and God taught me to sacrifice and be weak so He can be strong in me. Dogwoods decorated Ivanhoe, where I first developed the plan to create safe passage for Radicals sentenced to the West. And now they bend above me, each blossom like a resting butterfly, as I prepare to challenge the leaders of our country.
I reach up to pick a blossom, but the moment my fingers touch the stem I know something’s wrong. It doesn’t come off. The stem is too stiff, the petals too . . . smooth.
Wait . . . it’s October. Dogwood trees don’t bloom this time of year.
“What are you doing?” An old man with a grey mustache and a gardening advertisement tattoo on his forehead walks toward me from the apartment building. He wears a tool belt and gloves. He examines the flower I almost picked. “These are fragile. I could write you up for destruction of property.”
“I-I’m sorry, I thought they were real.”
His brow scrunches. “Real? Why would I ever put real plants in a garden? Pollen, allergy risks, and wasted water alone would have my company shut down!”
My tranquility is gone. “But . . . dogwoods don’t bloom in October.”
He folds his arms. “I can’t very well replace the tree every season, can I? People like blooms. Spring. No one likes bare branches in winter. Besides, the blossoms glow at night and save on street lamp costs.”
So these are the glowing trees I saw when I first arrived. “But the whole beauty behind seasons is the fact that they’re temporary.”
“I’ve got gardening to do, girl.” He bends down at the base of another dogwood tree and opens a door in the fake trunk. He pulls out a wrench and some wires.
Some gardener.
I continue on, trying to hold on to the beauty I felt when I saw the dogwood trees and not the discouragement now weighing on me. Why is everything fake here? Even the people seem fake, covered in paint and masks and tattoos. They live off artificial emotions from emotigraph stores. They believe lies from their leaders and don’t seem to mind. They treat Clocks like fashion statements.
I tug the sleeve of my coat over my stump. Solomon helped me remove my tracker this morning, just in case things go wrong and I have to flee. He’d put it in my left arm so I’d be able to take it out on my own if I had to. Now it’s bandaged to my upper arm. My stump doesn’t tingle as much as it used to when I think about my hand. The old stitching scars are smooth and healed. It’s become so normal to me now.
> I reach the address of the Council and stop. The building is a sleek silver oval and . . . it’s floating. It’s at least twenty feet off the ground, with a long, arched walkway from the ground to the door. Beneath the building is a thick slab of what looks like black metal.
What is the purpose of a floating building? How does it float? If Jude were here, I bet he’d know. Maybe Solomon knows.
Here I go. Please . . . guide me, God. I take the arched path up to the double-door entrance. Inside, a line of Enforcers stand on each side of the entrance. Between them are different colored films floating in the air.
“Please proceed through the safety detectors,” the Enforcer on my right says.
Walk through that pink screen? It could do anything to me. I reach out and stick my fingers through. Nothing happens.
“Please proceed through the safety detectors.”
I fill my chest with nervous air and step forward. Nothing happens. I walk through a light green film and then a blue one.
“You may continue,” a different Enforcer says, so I enter the rest of the building. Signs lead me to an elevator up to the third floor. It opens into a lobby with grey carpeting and chairs that look like little white eggs with a hole in them. A petite woman sits behind a tall white desk that curves around her. Only the top of her head pokes out.
“Um . . . I have a nine o’clock appointment with the Council. My name’s Parvin Blackwater.”
She doesn’t look up. “Yes, Miss Blackwater, it is only eight fifty-four. Please take a seat until your appointment.”
I sink into an egg chair. It’s not comfortable at all, but I stay seated. Six minutes before I stand before them. What will I say? How will I start? Will they honor my demand that Willow be present?
I reach my hand into my pocket and take an emotigraph with my sentra. Then I pull The Daily Hemisphere from my pack and reread the articles about the Council claiming I helped them. I skim a few articles about Skelley Chase, too. I’ll be asking the Council what their connection is with him. They let him get away with Reid’s murder. I can’t let that go.