Chapter 13
This fabric is perfect for cold, Kaleb said. That was the only indication of where we were going.
Callum met me on the tarmac, giving me a brief kiss on the cheek for a wall of camera flashes. When I glanced up questioningly,
though, he looked away. He won’t lie to me—but he won’t tell me everything, I guess.
They handed us ear-protection headsets with microphones, since we’re traveling by hovercopter this time, but Callum didn’t
say anything, didn’t even look at me as I slipped mine on. Still, he held my hand as the copter lurched into the air. When
I squeezed his hand, he squeezed back, but neither of us said anything.
The land below stretches on and on, blurring from the neon and silver of the city into long stretches of dun, until the color
seeps out into gray, into white. Snowflakes grow along the window. A shiver of anticipation sneaks along my spine.
In reply, and without dropping my hand, Callum reaches over to my leather seat and depresses a button. In a moment, heat soaks along my spine and seat, even though I’m warm in the fleece-lined boots and leggings. It’s like my chair has its own personal heater. Who knew that was possible.
I could ignore it, the cold outside. We’re thousands of feet away from the sprawling snowy tundra. With Callum’s hand in mine,
I could pretend the window was just a screen. I could avoid every discomfort and fall into this script. Last night, I read
until the words blurred under my eyes and then tucked the tome under my pillow for safekeeping. Not the most creative hiding
spot, but that’s where Lyceum left it for me and who would think to investigate the president’s family? I left the Fellowship
on their summit of Caradhras, shivering in the snow.
I turn off the seat warmer.
Finally, Callum turns to me, his eyes wary. “You look beautiful, by the way. I don’t think I’ve told you yet today.”
I try to smile back, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s just saying this for the benefit of the guards, the pilot, or the
microphone at his lips. It’s just a computer, Hux had said. Computers can be hacked. The way my stomach dips has nothing to do with the altitude we’re losing in preparation
for landing. We really can never talk. There are microphones and cameras everywhere.
Can’t talk to Callum. Can’t talk to Nef, or my parents. Can only get orders from Hux to run and half-formed plans from Lyceum, scribbled on books.
Blinking against the way my eyes suddenly burn with frustration, I force my gaze to follow Callum’s, out the window. We’ve
veered off land. An endless sheet of blue-gray with white-capped waves stretches. There’s something hypnotic about it, the
endless battering of an ever-rising sea. It’s a beautiful thing that is slowly reclaiming the earth. Another end of the world,
I guess, at least for so many coastal cities over the years.
When I glance at Callum for a hint, his eyes have fixed on the horizon, and I follow them to a ship in the distance, at first
little more than a speck of white against the slate gray of an endless horizon. The hovercopter’s engine kicks into a lower
gear, and Callum’s hand tightens on mine as we descend. He only releases my hand to slip into his winter jacket, moving his
ever-present plain golden campaign button from his shirt to the outside of his coat, and then, as we swoop down, he threads
his fingers back with mine.
“It’s around here somewhere,” the captain says. Even though I missed much of his introduction over the roaring of the copter
blades, I instantly recognize him from his well-fitted red wool turtleneck and knit cap. Dressed like that, he has to be the captain.
“Aha!” he crows, after digging around under the controls for a bit. He smiles as he offers me a pair of binoculars.
“What am I looking for?” I ask, holding them up and scanning the grayness through the massive windows.
Inside here on the bridge, I’m actually starting to sweat in my warm clothing, but I keep it on for the benefit of the dozen or so camera-wielders grouped off to the side.
I must look ridiculous: fuzzy clothing, puffy coat, binoculars up.
When I pull them down, the captain grins and jerks his head at Callum, as if to say, You tell her the good news.
Except Callum doesn’t answer. My own smile stutters as I try to be a good sport, lifting the binoculars once more.
“Here,” Callum murmurs, and I jolt at the sudden closeness of his body, the warmth that I seem to feel even through all these
layers of clothing. The roughness of his palm is butterfly-light as it guides my knuckles and the binoculars until I see a
small white shape, a different texture along the unforgiving bleakness. Fuzzy, fluffy. A black button nose and dark, glittering
eyes.
I gasp. “No,” I whisper.
“They’re calling her Marcy,” Callum replies, and when I lower the binoculars, he’s almost smiling despite whatever mood has
gripped him all day. When I gape up at him, he even chuckles a bit.
“She’s beautiful,” I breathe, choked up despite myself. “I thought they were extinct.”
“She’s the last,” Callum says, sighing. His warm breath settles along the nape of my neck. “It’s kind of . . .” He trails
off, hunting for the word. “Depressing.”
“Amazing,” I say at the same time. We trade a confused look, Callum’s lips twitching into a nervous smile, as if he’s unsure if he’s allowed to laugh. “I mean,” I continue, “she did it. She’s surviving. It’s not over yet.”
“She’s alone.”
There’s a sharp feeling under my ribs as I look out at her.
Alone.
I watch her as her dark eyes rove, searching for something.
“She’s not alone,” I say quietly. I don’t know if I’m saying it for her, or for me. I don’t even know if I believe it.
Callum’s arms snake around me, and he squeezes tight, a gesture that’s more friendly than romantic, but the warm strength
of it blocks out the refrain that’s humming under my skin: Alone, alone. I lean into him.
“I’m so glad it’s you,” he whispers. What he said to me as he slipped the ring onto my finger.
I surprise him—and myself—by turning and planting a kiss on his cheek, close enough to his lips that the photographers, from
their angle, might not see the difference. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” I reply.
For the first time all day, Callum smiles. For real.
Our “kiss” will be played on a hundred million screens, and Callum’s answering grin. I wonder, with a twist of guilt in my
gut, what environmental disaster or war casualty our news story will be superseding. Propaganda princess, Hux had called me.
The door on the other side of the bridge slams open, all the cameras turning with a sudden gust of whispers. I turn just in
time to see Rodrigo Courtesand—the president’s environmental liaison—step inside, followed by two black-suited guards. And
right after them, Hux walks in, a dark cap pulled low on his head.
I turn back to look out the window.
“Want to go outside?” Callum asks, and I nod.
It’s freezing, but I barely notice, either due to my warm clothing or the hot blush of shame burning through me. Callum stays
close as we walk to the upper deck, settling against the railing. The photographers elect to stay warm inside. Even though
their zoom lenses probably follow us, we can at least speak freely.
“I can’t believe we found her,” I whisper.
“I’m not convinced she’s real,” Callum replies, voice just as low. I glance up at that. “I wouldn’t put it past my father.”
“You think it’s one of the Hammers in a fuzzy suit?” I joke, and Callum wrinkles his nose as he moves his head from side to
side, like he’s weighing the likelihood. “I can think of a few who would volunteer.”
I bump Callum’s shoulder. “I know your dad wants us to have a nice first date, but I don’t think he cares that much.”
Callum goes quiet for a second, like he’s making a decision. “My dad wants to repeal the Peary Act.”
I rack my mind for why that sounds familiar.
“It protects dumping in the Arctic Circle,” Callum explains. “But not really in practice. We’ve already been doing it, for years. And when that news comes out, he wants it to be legal—like changing the rules in the present makes it like they never existed in the first place.”
My hands tighten on the railing, and I remember Hux’s words. Another part of the world will end, he’d said. He was right.
I watch Marcy, my stomach roiling with Callum’s words.
“He hopes that finding Marcy will prove that everything is fine out here.”
Anger bites up the back of my throat, and I close my eyes. “She’s alone. She’s the last one. Of course things aren’t fine.”
I open my eyes to watch as Callum nods slowly. “Why are you playing along?”
He sighs. “He’s doing a lot wrong, Rip. I know that.” He leans his elbows on the railing, looking down. “But he’s got a plan.
He wants to fix things. Things like this.”
“How will repealing the Peary Act fix this?” I ask, trying and failing to hide the anger in my voice.
“If we repeal the Peary Act, the administration was promised a huge donation from MayTech,” he explains, naming Alba’s parent company.
“It’s a compromise. Do you know what we could do with that money?
How much research, preservation I could do?
That’s politics. It’s give and take, Ripley.
It’s imperfect, but . . . he wants to fix things.
You know my father, Ripley. He’s not a bad person.
He just . . .” he starts, and then shivers, like he’s trying to shake something off.
“I don’t want to lie to you, Ripley,” he says, turning his gaze to mine.
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
His gaze widens, and I can see him trying to figure something out. “Once it comes out that he’s been allowing dumping here
for years, his opposition will use it as fuel to tear him down.”
“So let them. What would you do if you could be free? Just . . . leave this place? Leave the spotlight?” I let myself dream
for a moment. Callum and I, running away together.
Callum sighs. “I can’t just walk away, Ripley.”
He motions to Marcy. “Can you?”
My heart swells. That’s my Callum.