Chapter 15
I don’t know if there’s a good time to find out you’re claustrophobic, but there’s definitely a bad time. And it’s right now,
as I’m about to be loaded into a submarine in front of a wall of cameras.
We were up before dawn again. I thought maybe the PR team would give us a breather after our literal assassination attempt,
but it seems that the Union Conference waits for no one. Kaleb and his team primped and prodded me while I was still blinking
sleep from my eyes, chugging down a coffee that was shoved into my hands by an unknown force. Then we were in a hovercopter,
dropping down onto the cement face of a helipad that rests on top of a research rig off the coast of Vermont.
It’s not until I’m leaning against the rusted orange metal bars, frigid air whipping against my navy windbreaker, that I fully realize what we’re doing. Below us, riggers and engineers prep a giant metal tube, its back just barely cresting the blue-gray water.
A submarine.
“I’ve actually never seen Manhattan,” Callum says from behind me, and I jump, startled. He laughs, holding his hands up, both
of which hold more coffee. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
My whole body relaxes once my brain realizes that it’s him. My Callum, in yet another perfect outfit, his shiny golden button
on his chest. Even though there are dark circles under his eyes, a puffiness even his own glam team can’t entirely hide, there’s
an openness to his smile that could never be anything less than breathtaking.
“You scared me,” I say as he joins me at the metal railing. Engines hum and the ocean crashes; I feel a strange safety in
knowing that no microphone is going to be able to hear us.
“Why are you jumpy, Ripley? Something happen?” Callum jokes, holding the coffee out to me. The hot cardboard feels good on
my frozen fingers, and I sigh out a humorless laugh as I look up at him.
“Did you sleep at all?”
I tell myself the cameras might be watching as I reach up and brush his hair off his forehead, but I know I don’t really care
about that.
Callum closes his eyes and leans into my touch, a low hum on his lips. I trace my fingers down his cheekbone, and he grabs
my hand with his and presses my palm over his mouth.
I shiver at the kiss.
Three days. I should use this time to talk to him—who knows how much uninterrupted time I’m going to have. But there’s something
so peaceful and real about the way his eyelids flutter as he pulls my hand back. It’s like there’s a spell on us, and I’m
selfish enough to not want to break it.
“Not really. You didn’t either, I know,” he murmurs, releasing my hand and thrusting his chin at the coffee, motioning for
me to drink.
I take a sip to stall. He can’t possibly know about my meeting last night, right? The drink is hot and sweet, and I’m hoping
the caffeine and sugar will perk me up as I shift gears to his previous comment. “Wait. Manhattan?”
It all comes together as I look down.
Manhattan has been underwater for fifty years. The only way to access it is—
“So that’s our submarine,” I say out loud.
“Yup,” Callum says, letting the p pop on the word.
“We almost died yesterday,” I laugh, half joking. He smiles, and it slowly gives way to a chuckle. I’m feeling exhausted and
a bit manic, so I lean closer to him. “They think the best thing to do for our PTSD is to shove us into an oceanic death tube?”
Callum snorts deliriously as he swigs his coffee. “Now, now, Ripley. PTSD can only be diagnosed after six months. We don’t
have PTSD. We still have what is clinically referred to as shock.”
The wind changes direction, and it’s so sharp I almost lose my coffee over the railing. I redouble my grip as Callum launches his hand out to help me. His concern and his touch warm me more than a drink ever could. That can’t be faked. It’s an instinct—no thought, just feelings.
He has to feel the same way about me. The entire world depends on it.
“You’re a doctor now?” I mumble out.
“No, but I heard about it on my DopaMine feed this morning.”
I stop, reality slipping over my shoulders like a sopping wet blanket. “They were talking about us on your DopaMine feed this morning,” I correct.
Callum gives a curt nod. Below us, the submarine crew flutters around to prep for our journey, small as ants. In my peripheral
vision, I can see Callum watching me.
Finally, he sighs. “If you don’t want to do this, I’ll tell them no.”
I stare down at the frothing water. I’ve heard stories of Manhattan. There are still some pictures of it when Alba shows results
of “cityscape” and “skyscraper.”
Just a couple of days ago, I was excited at the thought of getting a glimpse of the sky. No matter how I wound up in this
situation . . . I will never get the chance to see Manhattan again.
“ ‘It’s a dangerous business,’ ” I murmur nervously. “ ‘Going out of your door.’ ”
Behind us, one of the handlers calls to Callum. It’s time to go.
“Did you read that in one of your books?”
I kill the rest of my coffee, and Callum does the same. “I must have.”
I toss my cup in the trash and offer Callum a thin smile. “Time to be brave.”
“Bravery is bullshit,” I whisper, and Callum tightens his grip on my hand.
We’ve been underwater for fifteen minutes, and every creak and groan of the hull fills me with adrenaline. Whenever I think
we’re deep enough, surely, we dip even farther down. The light above grows dim, and it feels like a door closing over my head.
I step closer to the glass and look down. There’s nothing but blackness.
On the metaphoric bright side, the submarine is much bigger than I thought, and much fancier than I ever expected. There’s
a massive viewing portal on both sides—a half circle of glass twenty feet in diameter, with a blue velvet sofa situated around
the base. There are even bedrooms and conference rooms along the edge of the hull. A full crew works the controls from the
starboard side, moving levers and pushing buttons situated on a chrome baseboard. They keep up a running chatter, voices low,
but it’s like another language to me.
In addition to the crew, four camera-wielding online personalities were permitted to join us, as well as a full security detail.
Which, unfortunately, includes Hux. I would have recognized him from the tension in his black-clad body alone, but there’s
also the huge scab on his face that’s a dead giveaway.
I can feel his gaze boring into the back of my head as I stand in front of the glass with Callum, sending my heart fluttering
like a hummingbird. Perhaps the coffee was a mistake.
I step closer to our private window as the press loiters on the other end of the sub. Callum interlaces our fingers and drapes
them on my hip, holding me close. In a moment, he’s steadied my heart rate.
“How was the meeting with your father?” I ask quietly.
Callum shakes his head. “How are you?” he asks, thumb strumming along the back of my hand. His finger brushes my hip, and
I flinch away from the fireworks against my skin. As our eyes meet, his thumb moves to my ring, spinning it gently against
my knuckle.
“You saved my life,” he breathes into my hair. “You saved both of us.”
Outside, I see the first hint of what we’re looking for: a crumbling highway. It’s cracked in half, draped in seaweed and
barnacles. Above, I recognize the shape and scrawl of an exit sign, but the white lettering is too rusted out to parse.
“Surely your dad is rethinking things, right?” I whisper back. “Now that his son was almost killed?”
Callum sighs. “The opposite, actually. He’s more determined not to let the terrorists win. We must be onto something if they’re resorting to this kind of violence.” Callum does such a good impression of his father that it makes my skin itchy.
I glance over my shoulder. Hux tosses something in the air as he sits on a stool alongside the other guards, and I curse under
my breath as I recognize the poker chip.
He’s screwing with me.
But I don’t have time to screw around. I’ve got three days. Biting my lip, I focus on keeping my voice light and convincing,
barely pleading: “People are scared, Callum. Your father has been pushing the limits of his presidency for a while. Signing
laws without Congressional approval? Dismissing the Supreme Court? Gerrymandering the Senate race? He’s making people feel
powerless, so they’re taking power where they can. If they’re reacting this way based on what he has done, what are they going
to do when he announces that he’s taking away their vote, forever?”
Callum tightens his grip on my hand. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Ripley. I won’t let it.”
I pull on his arm, pivoting him to face me. “I don’t care about me,” I say, shocked by how true the words are. “I don’t want
you to be in danger. And, truthfully, I don’t want the country to have a dictator. It’s wrong, Callum.”
It’s a risk whispering this to him out here, but I have to try. Suddenly it all feels so flimsy. I can’t believe I thought
that I could fix this with my words.
As I look up at his face—I realize he’s the third option.
Not Lyceum, who lied to me, or the Machs, who want to kill me.
Callum is the only person who hasn’t lied to me.
The one person I can trust to follow his moral compass, who wants to fight for what’s good but in a way that’s good, that’s right, that’s legal.
And he’s the one person I believe can actually do it.
I blink hard, hoping I can hide the rising tears in my eyes, but it’s no use. Callum’s expression collapses at the sight.
A hand wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into his broad chest and sheltering me as he glances behind us. There are two
cameras pointed at us and three in selfie mode, using us as the backdrop.
Callum narrows his eyes, then seems to make a decision.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I nod, too choked up to risk talking. He nods, sharply, and in a moment I see all the power and resoluteness of his father.
Before I can react, he grabs my hand again, this time pulling me to one of the doors that lead to the private rooms.