Chapter 5 #2
“We’re looking for Lyceum. Ms. Astor brought me in!” I choke out. It’s one thing to have a blade at my throat during training,
but this is different.
I don’t even know if that was the right thing to say. What if these people just killed everyone in the tunnels? Maybe the administration found out. Did I just reveal everything to the Hammers?
“HEY! LET THEM GO!” someone cries from farther down the tunnel, panic echoing through the space. I crane my neck as far as
I can without pressing against the knife but can’t make out who is talking. The person holding me seems to recognize the voice,
which apparently holds at least some authority, because I feel the reluctant way in which my captor looses their grip. Hands
against my spine shove me forward. I stumble a few steps toward the edge but keep my feet. At my side, Nef does the same.
And then her eyes widen.
I follow her gaze toward our savior. I know he’s older, but I didn’t expect him to look so much older. His shoulders are wider,
his hair longer.
“Uri!” Nef sobs. She lets out a strangled noise as she launches herself at her brother, and he catches her, pulling her in.
The two figures behind me lower their masks, and I recognize them. One is a redheaded girl who was two years ahead of me:
Lena McDaniels. She had kind eyes, but they seem more wary now.
The other is a boy with dark hair—Jacob Yen. He was three years ahead of me.
Behind them, more figures step out of the shadows, no doubt drawn by the commotion.
As they step into the light, I recognize more faces.
Nineteen-year-olds, twenty-year-olds. Kids I remember from school who should have “graduated,” ones that I thought had been sent to fight in the war.
If the Hammers could find them, they’d do far worse.
President Graves likes to make examples of draft dodgers—I’ve seen the footage even on my DopaMine feed.
They’re risking far more than I could even imagine.
I thought what I was doing was brave, but looking at them, I realize I still have a lot to learn about what that word means.
Uri lets Nef go and then turns to the curious faces watching them. “It’s okay. She’s my sister. And . . .”
“My best friend, Ripley,” Nef supplies, and I feel myself smile despite the circumstances. I’m glad to know I’m still her
best friend even though I almost got us both killed. Then she turns back to her brother, voice taking on a frantic edge. “What
the hell are you doing here?” She seems torn between being elated and being really, really pissed. I get it—I’d feel the same
way. He’s avoided the war overseas by marking himself for death at home.
“I’ll explain in a minute,” Uri says.
He doesn’t take his arm off Nef’s shoulders when he turns to look at me. “We’re Lyceum. You said Ms. Astor sent you. She was
supposed to be back tonight, but never showed. Is she with you?”
My stomach drops, and I swallow hard. I didn’t think I’d be the one having to tell them about this. I’m not sure I know how.
“The Hammers did a raid on the training ground classrooms,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. I swallow hard, not wanting my
voice to crack.
“They found a book on her,” Nef adds.
Uri looks stricken as the words hit him; behind me, someone gasps.
“A book?” Uri asks.
“But Ms. Astor was so careful,” someone else says.
Tell the truth, a little voice inside me prompts. “It was my book,” I say quickly. “She’d lent it to me, and I brought it back. It’s my
fault.”
No one refutes my claim, and even though bile rises in my throat, I force myself to meet as many eyes as I can. “I’m sorry,”
I say. “I am so, so sorry.”
Uri shakes his head, finally stepping away from Nef.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice tinged with a strange mixture of sadness and resignation. “We all know the risks
when we join. Ms. Astor most of all. Come on. We’ve got work to do. She wouldn’t want us to waste time. The election is coming
up faster than we think.”
“She’ll be back soon,” someone says hopefully. “Like with Mark—his sentence at the farms was barely a year.”
Doubt pricks my mind. They’ve been eager to replace proctors with Alba, so I’m not sure she’ll be back.
Still, the terror in my chest lessens as I look around. They aren’t going to kill us. A couple of kids toward the back of the crowd peel off, heading back to their duties, seemingly satisfied that we’re not a threat.
“Who are the Machs?” I ask, watching their retreating backs.
Uri glances after the other kids, something dark in his expression. “Not Lyceum,” he says finally.
Uri and Lena lead Nef and me through a network of massive tunnels. I gape when the shadows give way to the Edison bulbs that
spill light around us.
Nef stays close to Uri behind us, and I stick by Lena in an effort to give Nef and Uri some privacy. They have a lot to talk
about, I’m sure.
“You said something when you first grabbed me. You thought we were . . .”
“Machs,” Lena says, keeping her eyes dead ahead.
“Machs. Who are they?”
We leave a circle of light and dip back into shadow, and she’s silent.
“It’s a nod to Machiavelli,” she answers eventually. “Which, in reality, is just a sad attempt to slap an intellectual title
on what they really are: terrorists.”
“You thought we were terrorists?” I ask, shivering as the cold seems to seep down to my bones. “Did you not hear both of us
lose our minds when we had to put our hands through spiderwebs?”
“With the size of the black widows out here, I don’t blame you,” Lena throws back, half kidding. “But the Machs are recruiting harder these days. We both know the election is going to be a big one.”
“Why have I not heard of them?” I ask, and Lena pulls a flashlight from her belt, handing it to me as we head to a section
of tunnel that doesn’t have any lights.
“You haven’t heard their name, maybe,” she replies. “But you’ve heard of them. Their . . . handiwork. I’m sure you’ve seen it. That yacht that sank off the northern coast? That was them. The fire that blew through that strip
of new beach house development in South Texas? Machs. Turn that on,” she says, pointing to the flashlight.
I hadn’t realized I’d stopped moving. I follow the suggestion, letting the light hit the back of Lena’s boots as she forges
ahead.
I thought those were accidents. Catastrophic natural disasters are the norm, and it makes sense that a yacht or a line of
seafront mansions would be collateral damage the news would showcase. And maybe part of me had hoped one of the countries
we’re fighting was responsible.
“Why haven’t I heard of them until now?” I ask, trying to keep the accusation from my voice. After all, I’ve just met this
girl, and she had a knife to my throat two minutes ago.
Lena snorts. “Right. Terrorists want people to be scared. Talking about them gives them power. You think President Graves is the type of guy to willingly give away any of his power?”
“Why not work with the Machs?” I ask, feeling like the question is obvious. “You both want to take Graves down. ‘The enemy
of my enemy is my friend,’ right?”
Lena stops short, and I almost trip in an effort not to run straight into her back. She whips around, grabbing my flashlight
and shining it up under her face, which highlights her tight expression. “Are you kidding?”
“Whoa. What is this?” Uri asks, half teasing as he and Nef catch up to us.
“She sounds just like one of them,” Lena practically spits, lowering the light and clicking it off. “She just asked why we
don’t join forces with the Machs.”
A wave of defensiveness kicks up in my gut. “I’m not suggesting Lyceum blow things up. I’m actually saying that if anyone
can convince the Machs that there is a better way to stop Graves, it would be you.”
Lena lets out a humorless laugh. “Right. Uri, did you hear that? We should just talk to them. Use our words and our feelings.
Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I was just asking a question,” I shoot back.
Lena thinks about this, looking to Uri for a second before rolling her shoulders.
“You’re new. I shouldn’t take three years of frustration out on you.
I just . . . the question is so simple. And the answer seems simple too.
But it’s not. Every attack the Machs pull off gives President Graves justification to crack down harder on what freedoms we do have left.
And we can track the way his policies creep toward dictatorship.
The Machs are almost always the catalyst.”
I nod. “I get it. The enemy of your enemy . . .”
“Is a big pain in our ass. That’s it,” Lena finishes, nodding back. Then she looks over my shoulder to Uri. “We’ve gotta get
to the prep room if we’re going to get the pamphlets out.”
For a second, I worry I’ve blown it, that they aren’t going to let me join. Hopefully Nef can stay. She has Uri to vouch for
her. I hope they don’t send her away just because she came with me—
“—Hart. Let’s go.” Lena’s voice pulls me back to the present, where Lena, Uri, and Nef all wait for me to catch up.
We walk for another ten minutes before reaching a large metal door, so wreathed in shadow I would have completely missed it.
Lena knocks twice, and then twice more. A code. After a long pause, the door squeaks open, hinges groaning against the weight.
It looks like this place used to be a closet. A large closet, of course, but still a closet. Now, tables line the space from
wall to wall, all covered with stamps, pens, and rolls of paper. Dozens of kids I thought were long gone look up as Nef and
I stand in the doorway.
“Nef and Ripley. New recruits. They’ll be on print,” Lena says brusquely.
A girl with dark braids raises her hand. “Over here.” She motions for Nef and me to join her at the end of a table.
Uri squeezes Nef’s shoulder before urging her on, and I follow.
I stare down at the pamphlets as the girl, Mo, explains where to write the list we’re printing in all of the pamphlets:
Twenty Questions President Graves Needs to Answer Before the Union Conference Next Week