A Time to Rise, page 29
Zeke nods his head. “Council members, your rooms have been prepared. There is a medic Enforcer in each room to take care of any injuries.”
Adria rises and attempts to smooth back her traumatized hair. “Finally. Why wasn’t all of this put together beforehand?”
Zeke steps aside, not responding to the rhetorical question. As Brickbat sweeps past me, he says to the room, “We’ll reconvene in two hours to discuss how to move forward.” He narrows his gaze at me. “And we’ll decide what to do with you.”
My “medic Enforcer” is Solomon. I hardly recognize him when I first walk in. His head is covered in a bloodied bandage that blocks one eye and dirt turns his naturally light skin into a mish-mash of stains.
“What happened to you?”
He taps the bandage. “Not mine. Well . . . the dirt is mine, but the blood isn’t.”
A bandage of someone else’s blood? “Smart. But don’t get infected.”
“There’s a clean bandage beneath this one.”
And, of course, he’s already thought through those details. I glance around. My door is closed. When I test the handle, I find it locked from the outside. “Just you and me in here . . . again.”
He reaches me in two strides, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Parvin . . . how are you?” His eyes search my face, looking for internal wounds beneath the external scratches.
“I’m fine.” As the words slip out, so do tears. Why? I am fine. I shake my head and sniff. “Really, I . . . there’s nothing wrong.” I barely escaped an exploding building. I was kidnapped. I don’t know how to fix the problems. I’m partnered with our enemies. “I thought you were dead.”
But I’m fine.
In a moment of emotional vulnerability the words I want creep into my despairing mind. I want to be with Solomon in a place of shalom where all of this is over. I want to return to my family. “I want . . . to rest.”
The words jog an old wound—a time when I wanted to live because I was sick of resting. One measly year has flipped all that.
Solomon guides me to the bed and we sit. I take a few long deep breaths, expelling the pessimism. “So . . . what happened?”
Solomon scans the ceiling, probably checking for cameras or bugs that I didn’t think about. Then he speaks low. “You left and we had to wait until it was clear. Opa Fin could have disabled the booby trap if he wanted . . . but he didn’t.” His lips curl. “He’s dead now.”
“The bomb?”
Solomon nods. “He wouldn’t disable it, so I fiddled with it and disarmed a part. As we walked out, he set it off. We got some scratches, but I had on the Armor suit.”
Solomon is a tech guy. His blood picked up the Hawke brilliance—can he see that now? I lower my voice, though it can’t possibly drift through these thick walls. “Willow and Elm are okay?”
He shakes his head with a hollow chuckle. “They’re more resilient than any suit Wilbur Sherrod could make. But Willow’s skin change is . . . spreading. She gets more set on revenge every day.”
Oh no. “So where are they?”
He rubs a hand over his face. “They have their own mission. They won’t tell me, but I think it has to do with the Council members. They refused to come with me and, since you were my goal, we had to part ways.”
I squelch the threat of worry that tries to creep up in my mind. They’re in Your hands. “What about Gloria and Sasha?”
“It took us a good hour to find them. They were pretty shaken. The dogs that remained behind had torn away some of Sasha’s bindings, but they were harnessed to the sled.”
I imagine Gloria with her gag and her tied hands, wondering if her dogs would be okay. “I let them die—the dogs. Only three made it back to the town alive.”
“It couldn’t have been your fault, Parvin.”
“If you were so close behind, why didn’t you guys catch up to me?”
“Because there were a lot of us on few sleds. Gloria and Sasha agreed to take us all, but the dogs needed breaks often. We figured Skelley was driving your sled pretty hard. We never could have caught up without injuring the dogs. We tried.” His hand strays to mine. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I wish I could somehow convey to Gloria and Sasha how much I cared about their dogs—how I fed them and made sure they rested. But it doesn’t matter because some still died.
“Once we made it back to the USE, it took a while to figure out where you were. We finally saw the news announcement about you and the Council, as well as the Clock recall. It seemed to incite the Radicals at the Wall even more. They’ve been demanding freedom through that gap for a long time, and I guess that escalated into planning an attack on the Council building. I was lucky I got on the inside when I did. I was hoping the bomb would decimate the control room for the Wall.”
“Me too.”
“At least you’re alive.”
“And you . . . you came for me.” Solomon abandoned any opportunity to try disabling the projected Wall. For me.
“Of course I did.” He adjusts the bandage on his head. “So . . . how are we moving forward? Any plan yet?”
“I need a pirate chip.”
He nods once. “For Skelley?”
“Or Adria—the technician that Erfinder told us about is a Council member.”
He shows very little surprise. “I heard.”
Maybe I shouldn’t ask Solomon to do this. He’s already at risk by his mere presence. Zeke would be less noticeable, but would Zeke do something like that for me?
I twist the thin blanket covering the bed in my fingers. “Solomon, I’m nervous for you. I don’t know what’s going to happen.” If Brickbat catches him . . .
“Me neither, Parvin. But God’s not nervous.”
•••
When the Council reconvenes in our cement shoebox, the news screen is chanting. “Take down the Wall! Take down the Wall! Take down the Wall!”
These shouts come from people outside the Council building and by the gap in the Wall. Skelley watches the screen with a tiny crease between his eyes. Focused. Thinking. Brickbat’s entrance is quite the opposite—a silver tornado striding in so fast he causes a breeze to blow my hair in my face.
Before he can say a word, Skelley gestures to the screen. “Elan, we have a problem.”
Brickbat hunkers by the screen in his Brawn suit. I peer closer. Then the camera zooms and I see what Skelley’s referring to. An army marches upon the gap in the Wall, only this isn’t an army from our side.
It’s a zoomed scene of the Wall. On the other side of that wavery projection film is a face that doesn’t belong in our newspaper. It doesn’t connect with this side of the Wall.
Standing in a red-and-black outfit that screams Wilbur Sherrod’s handiwork, with an army of silver-suited people behind him . . .
. . . is the Preacher.
He’s brought an army from Ivanhoe.
30
The Preacher came to our defense.
My mind dances around the mental picture of the Preacher crawling off his throne of pillows and deciding to lead an army to the Wall. With the Ivanhoe Independent destroyed, does that mean he had to walk to the Wall? That’s even harder to imagine
The Preacher walks forward and speaks to the rioters through the projection. Since the Enforcers were called away, there’s no one to protest his actions. The reporters scramble to catch what he’s saying, but none succeed. The rioting USE people cheer and clamber over the barriers toward the gap. It reminds me of when I first brought down the Wall, but this is bigger.
Much bigger.
Brickbat screams—a holler of fury that would deafen all ears within a mile radius. “Get Enforcers there now!” He whips out his NAB and taps furiously.
What will Enforcers do? There’s still a projection separating our worlds. But the Preacher’s very presence brings comfort. I smirk and lean closer to the screen . . . closer to freedom.
A soldier from Ivanhoe’s frontline reaches out and touches the projection.
The fool.
He shrieks and yanks his hand back. It’s now charred and smoking. The Preacher shouts something to his men, but the Ivanhoe army fumbles. Their heads swivel to their leader.
Then Enforcers appear. How did they get there so fast? It’s been only ten minutes or so since Brickbat sent orders on his NAB. But they’re there—at least a hundred of them. One steps forward to speak with the Preacher, but he has none of it.
Instead, the Preacher advances in his red-and-black outfit, a transparent film of cloth covering his head. With long strides, he walks toward the gap in the Wall, not slowing even when he reaches the projection. Some of the USE Radicals go quiet, some scream a warning, but he waltzes through the projection and emerges on the other side—on this side—unharmed.
When he crosses, the Enforcers fall backward like someone struck them. The camera zooms in to show that terror coats their faces like liquid masks. To them, the projection was power. The Council was power. But they never met Wilbur Sherrod—they never glimpsed the wacky brain beneath his afro. The Preacher has, and he came prepared.
I whoop.
Brickbat backhands me.
I tumble and slam against a wall.
“Elan!” Skelley shouts.
My vision is black, and I shake my head to clear it before trying to untangle my limbs from the ground. When the room returns to focus, Skelley crouches in front of me and Zeke stands between Brickbat and us.
Brickbat doesn’t seem to care. He glares at the news screen.
Skelley doesn’t ask if I’m okay, but I catch concern in his eyes and I’m sure he didn’t mean for me to see it. Who is this man?
He lifts me by the elbow until I have my feet under me. I slide my arm away—resisting the urge to jerk it from his grasp. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
He nods once, then returns to the screen.
That was weird.
I try to focus too, and sense Zeke hovering near me on the chance that Brickbat strikes out again. I spit blood from my mouth. Probably should have found a wastebasket, but the metallic saltiness almost gagged me.
So that’s what Tawny had to endure every time her dad came home.
I suddenly want to hug my own father, tighter than ever before, and thank him for who he is. To quell the temptation of these thoughts, I focus on the screen again.
Enforcers are shooting the Preacher.
Bullets ricochet off his suit and he raises his arms as if he welcomes them. Show-off. Radicals rush to him, but I don’t know what they expect him to do. He has only the one suit.
But then he’s slamming a palm into each person’s chest and dull grey suits slither over their bodies, covering their heads like the Armor suit.
“Come!” He turns and leads them back through the Wall, doing a cocky dance-march with his feet like some futuristic pied piper. Some are hesitant and inch a finger through the projected screen before they commit fully. Some walk backward toward the gap, keeping an eye on the Enforcers.
And there he is—the conceited leader of Ivanhoe finally got off his plush couch to rescue my people. Sure, he’s pompous, but it’s still a glimpse of Jesus to me.
The Enforcers don’t seem to know what to do. Do they shoot? Attack? They can’t go after the people. Their lines crumble and their hesitance spurs on more Radicals, who swarm toward the Preacher.
“Get our military there, now!” Brickbat punches the wall. I flinch.
Zeke steps forward. “But sir, bullets don’t—”
“Then capture him! And anyone else trying to go through. We stop this now. This is a breach of the agreements of the United Assembly!”
“So was blowing up the Ivanhoe Independent!” I duck behind Zeke to avoid Brickbat’s wrath. My voice bounces off the walls and slaps me in the face. Don’t argue with a fool.
“Take her to her room.” Brickbat jerks his head toward Zeke.
Without missing a beat, Zeke snaps his fingers and another Enforcer comes into the room, snags my arm, and pulls me out. I struggle only once before looking up. The Enforcer is Solomon.
I gasp and then say in an undertone, “Solomon, we have to do something.”
“I know.”
“Have you found the pirate chip yet?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I’m looking.” He rushes me into my room, closes the door, and then fiddles with a panel in the wall that’s under a metal sheet. A green button turns on a projected screen on the wall.
Solomon presses a few more buttons and the screen is projecting the news. I run to it, pressing my hand against the flickering video. I’m there. I’m with my people as they step to freedom.
Three men from the Ivanhoe army step through the projected Wall in dull grey suits, like the ones the people have. They have limited resources—only a handful of suits per person. I can’t imagine how long Wilbur’s been slaving away to create these. How did he know to make these suits? Did Solomon contact him?
As time passes, the Enforcers gather to try and stop the Preacher and his men, but the Ivanhoe army is armed, too. At the first wild Enforcer bullet, the Ivanhoans send arrows through the projection. The arrows explode upon impact, letting loose thread-thin weighted nets that yank Enforcers to the ground and keep them there.
In this moment, I know that the USE is no match for Ivanhoe. It never was. The Preacher says there is no leader of Ivanhoe, but Ivanhoe is united in fighting for good. For freedom. There are even albinos in the army. Did they come from the forest?
Radicals scramble to be next in line to cross as more Enforcers are taken down. Some swarm the Preacher, grabbing for the matchbox outfits. It’s in that moment of chaos that Brickbat’s military arrives in armored trucks and helicopters. They blast the field with explosives and other tech I can’t make out amidst the smoke, attacking civilians, Ivanhoans, and Enforcers alike.
Soldiers and Enforcers swarm toward the wreckage and tussle with some of the Ivanhoe men. They’re not trying to subdue them; they’re instead wrenching Wilbur’s outfits out of their hands.
“Why can’t Brickbat let go of this?” I grind out to Solomon. “Why is he so set on control?”
Several minutes of this pass until finally the Ivanhoe army retreats back to the West side and out of view. The only problem is . . . now the USE soldiers have Wilbur’s suits. Now Brickbat’s men can walk through the Wall.
Solomon squeezes my hand. “I’m going to keep looking for pirate chips.”
I nod, not taking my eyes from the screen. “Okay.”
Then he’s gone. The confusion and chaos is too much to watch after a while. I flop on my bed, clutch my Bible to my chest and pray. Minutes pass. An hour passes. Solomon doesn’t return. Once my praying—which consists of begging more than anything else—ends, I dare to return to the screen.
The Radicals wander around the gap, too afraid to attack the thick wall of Enforcers, yet too brave to give up. The Preacher and his men have retreated out of sight, but I know he’s not done. If anything, this has angered him.
There’s a knock on my door and a soft call. “Miss Blackwater?”
It’s Solomon’s voice, so I open, trying to maintain a professional air in case others are watching. The hallway is empty save a few Enforcers, who already know that Solomon’s a spy.
Beneath the bloodied bandage and dirt floats a wildness in Solomon’s eyes.
“What is it?”
“I’ve found something, and you’re not going to like it.”
I prepare myself. The way he presents the information, it doesn’t seem serious enough that Father might have died or . . . Mother. “Okay.”
“I was searching the different rooms for pirate chips, and in a padded tray in one of the rooms I found these.” He pulls his hand from his pocket and shows me three small silver squares.
Small like matchbooks.
“Armor suits.”
I gape. “What? How? How did they get these?”
Solomon chews his cheek. “Well . . . down a different hallway—in a cell—they have Wilbur Sherrod.”
31
“What?” My shout echoes loud enough to alert anyone nearby. Like Council members.
Let them come.
I’ll kill them. Every last one. “How do you know Wilbur’s here? How did they get him?”
“I saw Enforcers leading him to his cell after taking him to one of the healers. He looks bad, Parvin. I think they’ve had him for a while.”
The panic builds in my chest. I look at the little Armor suits. “How long have they had him? You and I saw him in Ivanhoe just before the New Year!”
“Long enough to make three suits. I think the Council provided Wilbur with some faster tech.”
“But why? Why do they even want these?” I know the answer as I ask the question. They’ve been stealing the Armor suits from the Preacher’s soldiers, too. The Council wants an army that can pass through the projected Wall where other armies can’t.
I’m growing frantic. The infiltration of the Council into Ivanhoe shakes me more than any other threat. If they can get in there, kidnap Wilbur, and force him to work for them, they have more power than I thought. “No wonder The Preacher came to fight. He’s not here to help Radicals. He’s here for Wilbur.”
My poor, afro-headed Irish employer. “We need to free him.”
Solomon nods. “Yes, but not until we have some sort of plan to get out of here.”
I hate the idea of Wilbur locked in some stiff, unimaginative cell, forced to use his creativity for a government that will attack his own people.
The night brings new terrors of angry people on the news. They attack the ruins of the Council building with fire and thrown bottles. No purpose this time other than venting their rage at injustice.
They don’t like that the Council subdued the Ivanhoe army.
They don’t like that the projected Wall is still up.
They don’t like a lot of things, and I don’t blame them.
The rage spills into other areas of Prime—homes, businesses, news stations. In between flashes of anger, Enforcers try to rescue pedestrians or families from the mob. It’s the epitome of disunity. Everyone is against everyone. But the majority seem to be against the Council, against the Wall projection.
