Chapter 11 #2
words seem to echo through others’ mouths, as the camera-wielding crowd hooks into the drama of the unfolding story.
Ettie glances up and winks, keeping her arm at her side even as she motions with her fingers to go go go!
Before I can think any better, I race to the stairs and down until I reach a door.
A dim line of light leaks from underneath.
I yank at the handle, spilling awkwardly into the room beyond.
I’m opening my mouth to call out that I’m a member of Lyceum and come in peace or whatever, but then my eyes adjust to the dimness.
Empty.
The whole place is empty.
But not because I got it wrong. This was one of Lyceum’s strongholds. I’m in a railway corridor, and there are bookcases lining the walls, but they are all empty.
Single pages flutter over the rails and concrete, and I step over them as I make my way deeper into the tunnel. Tears prick
against the back of my eyes.
No.
This was my shot. My chance to stay connected to the thing that made me feel less alone. I need that even more now.
“Hello?” I call. My voice echoes sadly, the only reply I’m going to get, as I stumble over something on the ground. Books.
Just a few, and nearly destroyed, their pages ripped out, vomiting forth between cracked covers.
With shaking hands, I wrap my fingers around what’s left.
Beloved.
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring.
1984.
I let out a small sound—almost a cry, I guess, as I gather the books up gently and unzip my bag. I know I can’t have books
in my bag. I know.
But I can’t leave them here. Not when they might be the last books I get a chance to read.
I’m finished zipping up my bag when a noise sounds above me. I step back instinctively from the shaft of dusty light that
unfurls with a metal-on-metal shriek. A dark shape cuts through the light, the black fatigues of a Hammer descending from
street level on a rope.
I freeze as the slight figure dips smoothly down to the tracks, my heart thudding as I wait for thousands more to swarm me,
to unholster their nightsticks, to figure out what I am.
Instead, this one removes their helmet, loosing a French braid down their back. “Ripley Hart,” she says. “He wasn’t wrong.
You really are just a giant pain in the ass.”
I blink at her, not daring to breathe. “Who are you?”
“Becka. Banks.”
I swing my bag onto my shoulder, praying it doesn’t look as heavy as it feels.
“Banks,” I repeat, confused. I’ve heard the name before—in the server room. With Hux. “I thought you were in Europe. Hux was . . .
he was broken when you left.”
“And if he could see me now.” She grins. “Thankfully, Pretty Boy is safely back in Post Angeles. And I’m still on American
soil.” Her smile falters as I race to keep up with the lies. Why would she lie? Hux is here. Does she not know?
“I didn’t pass the screening,” she adds. Suddenly she finds her nails very interesting. “Or I guess, I passed a little too well.”
I stop, the horror of what she’s saying sinking in. The screening. With the declining birth rate, President Graves instituted mandatory fertility screening for all eighteen-year-olds before
sending them off to die. Because there is a third option, between fighting and data mining. It’s just one that I hadn’t even
considered.
Becka clears her throat, like the unspoken words lodged in her chest.
“Anyway. The guards called for backup. And imagine my shock when I roll up, ready to find a necklace, and realize that the
president’s daughter-in-law is missing. Then, I saw the dumbass Lyceum marking on this building. And I knew where the Lyceum dumbass probably went.”
I can’t move. How does she know? My mind races.
She works for the administration. Lie.
“I just needed some time alone,” I explain, and Becka lets out a harsh laugh. It echoes even farther than my hello had.
“Right. We don’t have time for this, because those guards up there are going to realize that Ettie was never even wearing
a necklace to start with, and then you’re going to have to answer some very uncomfortable questions. So let’s cut to the chase.
I’m a Mach. Just like Hux.”
I bristle but fight to keep my expression calm. “Why would you tell me that?”
Becka sighs, irritated. “Because I’m trying to get you to trust me. And I don’t have time to slowly build this slow-blooming girl power friendship. So I’m throwing the truth out there. I’m a Mach. And I know you’re with Lyceum. Or were. Because clearly you
bet on the wrong horse.” She motions to the empty bookshelves. “And with your little boyfriend? You’re in the big leagues
now. The Machs sent me to recruit you. We can protect you, protect your parents, and get President Graves out of office. Whatever
it takes.”
All they have to do is wait nine months. Nine months, and he’ll be gone. They don’t need to kill him. “I am not a terrorist,” I say.
Becka rolls her eyes. “This is a war, Hart. You either fight the administration or you sit out—and you end up fighting for them. Maybe you haven’t realized that. They’ll take your life; they’ll take your body. That ring on your finger is just a
shiny collar. They own you.”
She’s close now, and I can see the fear in her eyes. It breaks my heart, and my voice cracks. “The administration is using
you, and that’s evil. But the Machs are using you too. They’re killing people, Becka. Innocent people. Kids. I won’t be a
part of either of those. There has to be another way. A third option. I won’t let anyone use me.”
Becka’s face contorts, mouth dropping open with confusion, and then shock. And then, slowly, her lips stretch, unmasked glee spreading across her face. She wipes a hand over her mouth as if to hide the smile, but it’s too late.
“You don’t know,” she breathes. “Shit. You don’t.”
“What don’t I know?” I bite out.
Becka lets out a laugh as she bends at the waist. “Girl, Lyceum sold you out. They are the reason you’re here.”
My blood goes icy.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but my voice shakes.
Becka steps closer. We’re almost nose to nose.
“I do. You think they took you in because your writing inspired people?” She twists her face and raises her voice at the last words, mocking me.
“No, boo. They figured out who Orion was. And who you were to him. It was easy to fake an application for the administration’s internship. His daddy needed a
pretty face next to his pretty son to distract the country from everything ugly he wants to do. How perfect, the actual Girl Next Door. Who cares what his son thinks about you. The president loves you. You’re going to win him a third term.”
What? Dizziness rushes through me, a wave nearly knocking me to the ground.
The whole tunnel seems to expand around me until I’m just a pinprick, just a girl, beneath a city, beneath a nation at war, beneath a world on the brink of its true ending.
“You’re lying,” I whisper. It’s illegal.
He’s been president for eight years. It may be late, but he’s going to endorse a successor. Any day now.
“Oh, I wish I was,” Becka says with a short laugh. “But I’m not, and I think you know that.”
I saw your heart, Ripley, Ms. Astor said.
We need heart. We need you: someone who believes this isn’t the end of the world.
Someone who can help us write a new beginning.
Then, my brain spits out the memory of Meg and Candice, their lips curled in derision.
Right. It’s your love of writing that brought you here.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Becka says.
“Do what?” I ask, my voice still quavering.
Becka scoffs at me. “Whatever this is.” She flaps a hand at me and whatever heartbroken face I’m making. “Get angry, Ripley.
Now isn’t the time to feel sorry for yourself and play undercover librarian. You could be the most powerful soldier, behind
enemy lines. You could change the fate of the war—of the world.” Becka’s watch beeps; she glances down at her wrist and swears
under her breath. “Well, time’s up. We go upstairs, and we pretend we were up there the whole time, looking for that necklace.
Got it?”
I don’t say anything, in part because I’m trying not to throw up.
“Hart,” she snaps.
“Got it,” I force myself to say. Because I can’t think of anything else.
She slips her helmet back on and reaches for my arm to guide me. I stumble back up the stairs in a daze. We filter back into the group just as Ettie laughs and declares she wasn’t even wearing a necklace. On her dazzling smile, the Hammers redirect us—toward the White House. My new home.
“Before we get there,” Becka hisses, “think about whose side you want to be on.”