Imposter (13 page)

Mira

The door clicks shut behind Will, and the vacuum his presence leaves surrounds me.
That was too close. You’re getting sloppy.
I close my eyes, and his face materializes out of the darkness. I swear he almost recognized me. He almost knew it was me inside my head and not Socrates. More than a little part of me wishes he had.

I unclip Ben’s leash, and the dog trots ahead of me to sniff around the room.

“At least I’ve got you.” I laugh. It’s sad when my only friend is a dog.

My hands itch. I scrub them on the front of my pants to buy some time.
What do I do now?
I have to do something. I shouldn’t just be sitting here behind closed doors like this.
What kind of leader am I supposed to be if I keep hiding?

I stare at the ceiling port for the AVIS screen. Everybody watches these things. It would help me keep in character. If I turn it on for a little bit, it might also distract me. I hop up on the bed.

“AVIS, on.” My voice sounds rusty even to my own ears.
Come on, Mira. As Socrates, you should know how to do these things.

“Voice recognized.” The screen turns blue. “Good afternoon, Socrates. How may I be of assistance?”

“I don’t know, maybe just turn on something interesting.” Perhaps this will help me leave my worries behind and watch a show or two. It always worked for the Chesaning girls at the farm. They constantly blathered on about this show or that.

The screen flashes through a myriad of colors. “Do you have any preference?”

“Whatever you think is best.”

AVIS seems to consider this for a minute. “Based on your past viewing history, I’ve selected a local news broadcast. Will this suffice?”

“Yes.” I lie back on the bed and try to make my mind relax as an image floods the screen.

It’s the Smith. I recognize the bright white front of the American History Museum, so pure it would dazzle even in the snow. People three or four deep line the sides of the drive. Some of them hold signs made of large pieces of cardboard or paper. Others heft big, blank e-slates in the air with phrases like “Free America, All America, Live Once, Only Once” flashing on them. Others have images hovering above their heads like a huge version of the holo-reader Ellie uses. Children dart in and out of the crowd, unafraid of being trampled. Every single one of them is wearing white.

A glowing laser line separates the protest space from a narrow path to the front door, punctuated by heavy cement posts. The police guarding the building must be used to this, as some slouch against the barricades while others sit on the steps. Some have little e-screens pulled up in front of them while others appear to be taking naps. Only one or two are paying attention. If this is how much they care, then the protesters can’t be that dangerous.

When they realize they have the media’s attention, the protesters start chanting. I can’t make out their words because the equipment the news team uses muffles their cries.

“Day twelve of the protests in front of the Smith. Ever since Socrates arrived yesterday, more and more people have flooded the area.” The camera zooms past the reporter and darts into the crowd. It zeros in on several of the protesters’ faces. “Wearing the colors of the Seconds, these rebels show their distaste for what Socrates has done and their support of the Free America Bill.”

I scan the crowd. So that’s why they’re wearing white. Some even have yellow sashes or belts knotted around their waists.
How can they promote the Bill while protesting the man who’s making it possible?

A slim young man with fiery red hair stands up on one of the police barricades. He dusts his hands off on his pants theatrically and holds his arms out as though to embrace the audience. A couple of the guards around him snap to attention, and one rests his finger lightly on the holster of his Artos.

I study the rebel again, but he doesn’t seem like much of a threat. He smiles widely at the screen, pulls out a small black disc, and holds it to his throat.

“Socrates!” he bellows over the roar of the crowd. That disk must amplify his voice because even those at the back of the group quiet down in anticipation. “We know you’re in there! We’re out here, and we want to talk to you. Don’t be a coward. Don’t hide behind your walls and your guards. Come out here and speak to us. Lead us like you’re supposed to, and show us that what you’re doing is the right thing. Help us understand why you’re fighting to free our people when you just murdered one of our children. If you really support this Bill, come out here and prove it!” The crowd roars behind him. “You say you want to free our people, but you don’t even know who we are. Prove to us that you’re not a monster. Prove to us that you can be the kind of leader we can stand behind, or get out of our way!”

My back stiffens, and without realizing it, I stand up. I’m not a monster, but I see why they think I am. I am a Texan. I can talk to them, show them that this version of Socrates is not the horrible creature they think he is. Isn’t that what Ellie said? It’s not who I was in the past that matters, it’s who I am now that people listen to.

“If you think you’re worthy of leading us, get out here and prove it!” The man’s audience roars in agreement. “Because if you can’t, you better step down and get out of our way. We’re bringing this revolution to the Smith, with or without you!”

This guy’s right. I am a coward hiding behind my nice safe walls and all the lies I’ve told to survive. If I were any kind of leader, I would be out there, supporting my people and doing the right thing. Maybe that’s not what Socrates would have done before the Exchange, but that’s what he’s going to do now.

As I move toward the door, Eliot’s voice rings in my head, telling me not to screw up what Socrates worked so hard to orchestrate. If she knew I wanted to go out there, she would kill me. I hesitate, but after glancing at the screen again, I slip my shoes on. The real Socrates would go out there. I try to summon his face, but it slips away, overtaken by a little girl who died many years ago. Maybe it’s time I become that figurehead the rebellion needs.

I touch the doorknob just as it swings open. Will, his eyes thunderous and his fists clenched, stands in the doorway.

“No.” He pushes past me and stalks into the room. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re not doing it.”

“What are you talking about? You have no idea what I’m going to do.” I fiddle with the hem on my sleeve so he can’t see the lie in my eyes.

“Right.” He chuckles and shuts the door behind us. “I have monitors set up that let me know what my charge is doing, and when I saw what you were watching, I knew there would be trouble.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Try and stop me.”

“Socrates, please, think for a minute. Those protesters out there are dangerous. Damon especially. He’s trying to rile you up and make you do something reckless. It’s working.”

“You know him?”

Will flushes. “I’ve heard of him. I don’t know him personally, of course. I just want you to be safe.”

“Uh-huh.” Like I believe that.

“Look, the most important thing right now is that you don’t take his bait. Stay here, please.” He grabs my arm and turns me away from the door. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’m begging you; please don’t go.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Maybe your friend is right, and I’ve hidden in the shadows for too long.” I think back to Socrates’s life. “I can’t lie, I’m pretty comfortable. I give speeches, teach a few classes here and there, but that’s about it. There is little risk but also little reward. Maybe it
is
time for me to take a chance.”

Pained frustration settles on Will’s face. “Not like this. Please, if you want to join the rebels’ side, wait until it’s safer for you to do so.”

“Will it ever be safe?”

Will barks out a quick laugh. “Probably not, but it’s more dangerous right now than ever before.”

I offer him a wobbly smile. “Then all the more reason to make a change, right?” I glance down at my hands, so small and delicate.
Can I really do this?
“They want a revolutionary; it’s time I give them one.” I slip past Will and head down the hall toward the front of the building. He calls out my name, but I don’t stop. I hear him swear as the door to my room slams shut behind him.

Ben lopes to catch up to me and nudges my hand with his nose. I skate my fingers down the back of his head and neck to his collar. Gripping the soft supple leather, I immediately feel more at ease.

“At least we have the dog. We might need him out there for protection,” Will grumbles as he catches up to me and thrusts the leash into my hand. “But for the record, I think this is a really bad idea, and you’ll probably get us both killed.”

Will

The universe must want me dead; that’s the only way I can explain it. As I follow Socrates’s quick, light footsteps down the hall, I mentally tick off my most recent near-death experiences. First, there was the confrontation with Lewis Carroll, being kidnapped and drugged, then the guards who followed us to the supply room, and now a suicidal First who doesn’t care what happens to himself or those around him. That doesn’t count my affiliations with the Lifers, which could get me killed, or Evie, whose wrath is even more dangerous than the rebels.

Socrates stomps through one of the side doors, Ben trotting at his heels. At least he didn’t waltz right through the middle set of doors.

“Socrates, wait, please!” I plead, but either he doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, because he ignores me. However, he can’t ignore the huge crowd that seems even bigger now that we’re outside and away from the safety of his room. The First skids to a stop, his hands start to tremble, and he clutches Ben’s leash so tightly his knuckles turn white. I come up behind him and stand quietly at his side.

“Crazy, isn’t it?”

A small frown creases Socrates’s brow. “I never thought there would be as many protesters for a law that will help free the Texans as there was for the Exchange.”

Like a hive of bees descending on a fresh field of flowers, the rioters begin to notice us. Sensing the changing tide, the police officers stand up and follow along with them. After glancing at us, the officers turn to face the crowd. Several of them have their hands resting lightly on their weapons.

One of the officers jogs up to us. “I’m going to need to ask you to get back inside, sir,” he says to Socrates. Sweat glistens on his pale forehead. His hand twitches, and he constantly clicks his Artos’s safety on and off. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too dangerous. Please go back inside. Your man”—he nods at me—“can take you back to your room.”

“No.” Socrates stiffens, and he takes a deep, fortifying breath. “They want to know that I support them. They want a leader.”

“They don’t want a leader.” I try to keep my voice low enough that the crowd won’t hear me. “They want someone they can blame, someone they can attack if something goes wrong, and that’s exactly what you’re giving them.”

“Sir, listen to him. It’s not safe for you out here.” The officer’s uneasy gaze shifts from us to the crowd. “You need to go back inside.”

Socrates turns toward the crowd as Damon ducks under the barricade and slips past the guards.

“Hey!” one of them yells, torn between following the young rebel and keeping the crowd at bay.

“Stop!” shouts another, who looks at his partner, helplessly.

But Damon doesn’t stop. With a rakish smile, he leaps up the stairs and hands the voice-projecting disc to Socrates.

“Thank you.” Socrates takes it delicately and holds it in his palms.

“You put it to your throat if you want to talk.” He mimics the motion, and the First presses the small device to his neck.

Damon grins, tips his imaginary hat, and turns to face the crowd. Ever the showman, he grabs Socrates’s hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he roars, cupping his free hand around his mouth for more emphasis. “You came here to speak your mind! You came here to be heard! You came here to make a difference! And you succeeded!”

The crowd screams in response. Socrates jumps at the amplified rumbling noise. Damon laughs, and I grimace. This definitely isn’t going to end well.

Socrates clears his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He repeats Damon’s words, but unlike the rebel’s voice, his are much quieter and less self-assured. “We… I mean you… have been enslaved for far too long. It’s time for your people to have the basic freedoms denied to you for over two hundred years. I support the Free America Bill because it will give you that freedom.”

“Freedom isn’t a gift!” someone shouts from the crowd. “Freedom is a right. You’ve taken everything from us, and we want it back!” After the words leave the speaker’s mouth, other protestors start chanting, “We want it back! We want it back!”

Socrates’s hand clenches Ben’s leash tighter, and he bites his lip. If I’m lucky, I can probably get him back into the building safely before the crowd gets really dangerous. It might be the only thing that can save our lives. 

Damon’s cool, calculating stare meets mine over the First’s head.
How does he want to play this?
Without a doubt, he has a plan. He’s so passionate about the revolution that he’ll use anything to his advantage.

The crowd’s chants grow louder. Socrates’s terrified gaze meets mine, but then darts away. When faced by hundreds of people who hate you, I guess it’s only normal to be afraid, no matter how old you are.

“You killed Mira!” someone else shouts. “You killed Milissa, Alyxander, Donovann, and Stephan. You’re a murderer. This Bill doesn’t change that!”

Biting his lip, Socrates jerks free of my hand and takes a step toward the crowd. Taking a deep breath, he steadies himself. “They had a choice! I didn’t murder anyone. They chose to become Seconds.”

“They were children! You murdered them!” The crowd roars even louder.

Out of the corner of my eye, a couple of the protestors break away and leap over the barricade. The guards converge on the perpetrators, and the shouts from what is rapidly becoming a mob take on an even more enraged tone. They turn the electricity on the barrier higher, and it zaps a few more people, who fall to the ground twitching.

With the distraction in place, Damon drops his easy smile, and his true expression of fury takes over. He’s not the enthusiastic showman any longer. Adrenaline pumps through me as I register his threat. He digs into his pocket and then quickly pulls out his clenched fist. A sliver of a needle patch shows through his fingers. I freeze, forgetting the roar of the crowd and the escalating violence. The real danger is right here. Damon’s going to kill Socrates. Whatever’s in that needle patch, it’s lethal.

“We don’t want your help!” Damon shouts, drawing several more exuberant chants from the crowd. “Mira was our friend, our sister, our cousin. We want revenge!”

The blood drains from Socrates’s face. Damon jerks his hand back to slap the patch against the First’s neck. Depending on the poisonous concoction, hitting him there could kill him instantly. I leap forward and throw all my weight into blocking his arm, redirecting it down instead of at the First.

Damon stumbles back, betrayal flashing across his eyes. Unable to stop the momentum, he slaps the needle patch against his own shoulder. Damon’s mouth opens in a silent scream as he collapses to the cold, hard concrete steps. His eyes roll back in his head, and he starts shaking. White froth foams at the corners of his mouth, followed by thick, bubbling blood. He must have bitten his tongue. After a few seconds, he stops twitching. I lean down and check his pulse. There isn’t one.

The roar of the crowd grows to deafening levels as several protestors throw themselves against the barricade, sacrificing themselves short out the electricity so their comrades can break through.

“We have to go. Now!” I grab Socrates by the elbow and drag his slight body through the glass double doors. Ben helps in his own way by grabbing the First’s sleeve in his mouth and tugging him along. Socrates stumbles, almost as if he’s in shock and unable to move. He doesn’t fight us, but he doesn’t help either.

Once the doors shut, I lean against a tall, white pillar and run my hands over my head. “That was a complete and utter disaster.”

Socrates takes a moment to collect himself before answering. “I should have listened to you.”

“Yeah, I did kinda tell you something bad might happen.”

Socrates’s troubled gaze meets mine. “Damon tried to kill me, didn’t he?”

My blood turns cold as I think about the rebel and that little bit of silver, as deadly as the most dangerous weapon, cupped delicately in his hand and ready to strike. “I’m sorry about that. I knew he was a Lifer, but I didn’t think he would ever do something so violent.”

Socrates frowns. “They’re going to blame me for his death, aren’t they?”

“Probably. Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do about that. The news will state that it was an assassination attempt that backfired, but that won’t change what most of the citizens believe.” I rub my temples, so much for keeping Socrates out of trouble. I’ll be lucky if Eliot really doesn’t kill me.

Socrates touches my arm, mistaking my headache for sorrow at the loss of a friend. “You knew him, didn’t you?”

I shake myself free of his touch. “Yeah, but it was a long time ago. I haven’t talked to him in years.”

“Before he became a Lifer?” Socrates’s voice is quiet, but his words hold so much weight. They bear down on me, onto my soul, as heavy as a pile of rocks.

“Yes.” I hesitate, trying to figure out what I should and should not tell him. “In my line of work, I have to keep current about the latest threats. I’d heard he’d joined the movement, but not that he was a menace. If I’d known there was to be an assassination attempt, I would have locked you in your room to keep you safe.”