Among the Brave (18 page)

What kind of person is willing to kill or save a boy’s life on a whim, just like that?
Trey wondered.
What kind of government allows someone to have that kind of power, all by himself?

A uniformed guard showed up at the door and entered without speaking. The warden looked at him disapprovingly

“Nedley, drive this man’s vehicle over to the infirmary and have his prisoner treated there,” the warden said. “Officer Jackson, you can give him your keys.”

“I—I feel responsible for the prisoner, sir,” Trey said. “I’ll drive him there myself, if you just tell me where to go.”

“Oh, no,” the warden said. “Son, you need to learn about chain of command. Mark my words, you’re going to advance high up in the Population Police, and you need to learn to delegate. Nedley—do as I say!”

Trey saw no choice but to hold the keys out to the silent Nedley.

What’s going to happen when they discover that Mark isn’t really chained up?
Trey wondered.
What if this is all a trick? What’s Mark going to do when this strange officer climbs into the truck?

But that last worry, at least, proved unnecessary Trey glanced out the window and could see: Mark appeared to have passed out from the pain once again.

“Oh, and Nedley?” the warden was continuing. “Gas up his vehicle before you bring it back.”

“Yes, sir,” Nedley said in a dispirited voice.

Trey watched anxiously as Nedley climbed into the truck, started it, and pulled away. The warden misread Trey’s concern.

“So good to see a young recruit taking his responsibilities seriously,” the warden mumbled. “I
will
request that you be transferred here after you deliver your prisoners to Churko. This is a much more prestigious posting. See this phone here?” He pointed to a dark, heavy phone that seemed to occupy a place of honor in the center of his spotless desk. “I’ve got a direct, secure line that goes straight to Population Police headquarters. I’m talking to the highest-level officials constantly Out at Churko—bahl I bet half the time headquarters forgets they’re there.”

“Your status is impressive, sir,” Trey said politely, though he was distracted worrying about Mark, worrying about Lee and the others, worrying about the mysterious prisoner he was supposed to take back to the guard at Population Police headquarters.

We don’t need that prisoner to trade for the key to Mark’s cage anymore,
They realized with a jolt
If I can get all of us out of here safely, what should we do with the extra prisoner? Leave him by the side of the road for the mobs to attack?

And then Trey felt a wave of shame. He was thinking like a true Population Police officer, seeing human life as disposable. He swayed slightly, suddenly feeling faint.

The warden was still talking about the glories of the Nezeree prison.

“We’re a model for the entire system, I tell you—oh, just put it over there. Dismissed.”

An aide had come in with a new uniform for Trey. The warden glanced at his watch as the aide put the uniform down on a chair and silently departed.

“It’s time for my morning inspection of the barracks,” the warden said. “I am never late. Tell you what. You go back into my personal quarters and take a shower and change. Have some breakfast, too, if you like. I’ll be back momentarily. And we’ll have those prisoners ready for you in a flash.”

“Yes, sir,” Trey said. He picked up the clean clothes and went through the door the warden indicated. But his legs were rubbery, and his mind felt equally numb.

What are they doing to Mark right now, while I’m getting a nice, hot shower? How long until Lee gets here? What if we can’t pull this off?

A tiny, tiny part of his brain suggested slipping out the nearest window and finding a place to hide, but he ignored that impulse. He undressed and stepped into the shower instead, turning the water on full blast

If they see through my bluff at least I’ll die clean,
Trey thought bitterly.
The warden would like that.

The hot water did seem to clear his brain. For the first time he noticed that the water faucet handles were pure crystal, the showerhead was shiny brass. After he’d toweled off and gotten dressed again, he used the towel to wipe out the expensive-looking tiles of the shower floor and walls. He soaked up every last drop of water so it looked as though the shower had never been used. The last thing he needed was to upset the warden over something stupid like a messy shower. He deliberated about what to do with his old, filthy uniform, and finally tucked it into a waste can hidden under the sink

He was halfway out the bathroom door when he remembered the Grants’ and the Talbots’ papers, still tucked in the old uniform’s pockets.

Surely they don’t matter now,
he thought. He was dangerously close to thinking that nothing else mattered either, that he and his friends were doomed, regardless. But he forced himself to turn around anyway and rescue the papers yet again. He stuffed them into a hidden pocket in his new uniform.

If I can save the papers, maybe I can save my friends, too,
he told himself superstitiously.

And then he was antsy, wandering from room to room, fretting about when the warden would come back, when Mark would reappear, when the prisoners would arrive.

How bizarre,
Trey thought.
I don’t know how to sit still anymore.

He forced himself to choke down two English muffins and a bowl of cereal in the small but well-stocked kitchenette, but it was more out of necessity than desire. Though he knew he needed the energy, he couldn’t force himself to concentrate even on food.

When he was up and wandering again, he noticed voices coming from behind a closed door just down the hallway from the warden’s office. Thinking the warden had returned—or that maybe his friends had finally arrived— he leaned toward the door to listen.

“. . . at the top of our news. . .” a voice was saying.

Television?
Trey thought.

He knocked lightly. When no one answered, he turned the knob and opened the door a crack. The television was speaking to an empty roomful of chairs. Trey eased into one of them.

The warden wouldn’t get upset about me watching TV, would he?
Trey wondered.

The last time Trey had seen a television, he’d learned about the Population Police overthrowing the government So he regarded this one uneasily.

“Our glorious leader gave an enormously well-received speech to the populace last evening,” a man was saying, over footage of Aldous Krakenaur standing with raised fists before a huge cheering crowd.

Where are the starving people begging for food?
Trey wondered.

Feeling antsy again, he got up and began flipping through channels. The same footage was on the first four stations. The fifth channel was Krakenaur again, but alone at a desk in a room Trey recognized as Krakenaur’s office at Population Police headquarters. A tag line at the bottom of the screen read, “Population Police Official Network.”

It made sense: If the Barons had their own stations, why shouldn’t the Population Police?

Krakenaur was staring into the camera—and, it seemed, out at Trey—with frightening intensity

“These five men were caught smuggling last night,” Krakenaur was saying. He held up a handful of pictures. The camera zoomed in to focus on each face individually.

Peering into the TV screen, Trey gasped. The first picture was the sentry from the bridge the night before. He guessed that the others were the men he’d seen carrying bags across the bridge the night before. Except, in the pictures, they were all dead.

“They were stealing food from our citizens,” Krakenaur was saying, icily The camera focused on him again. “Death is too good for traitors like these. From now on, smugglers will be executed on sight. In my eyes, they are as vile and offensive as third children.”

Someone off-camera handed Krakenaur a sheet of paper. He glanced down to read it Just from the small bits of televised news he’d seen before, Trey suspected that in a regular newscast the camera would have switched to someone else or some other footage. Watching a man read a note would have been considered dead airtime. But the camera stayed trained on Krakenaur, as if it might be treason to focus elsewhere without his permission.

When Krakenaur finally looked up, his eyes seemed even colder and harder, and his voice was filled with even icier fury

“I have just been informed of other traitors,” he said. “A father and son, working in our midst Population Police officers—trusted, respected, given great responsibility And they have betrayed us! They have betrayed us all!” He pounded his fist on his desk. Trey flinched as if he were right there in the same room with Krakenaur’s rising wrath. As if Krakenaur’s fist were hitting
him.

“Jonas Sabine and his son Jonathan will be executed as soon as we finish interrogating them,” Krakenaur said. “I am hereby instructing all Population Police officials to disregard all orders from Jonas or Jonathan Sabine. Hold all documents they have signed, and detain anyone carrying documents with their signatures. We are tracing the extent of their treachery, even as I speak. We’ll be notifying everyone involved as soon as possible.” Then he addressed someone off-camera. “Do we have pictures?”

Trey heard a muffed “Yes, sir” and “Right away, sir,” and a crashing sound, as if someone had knocked over a chair scrambling to obey Krakenaur. A hand slipped pictures onto his desk, and he held them up in front of the camera.

‘All Population Police officers must report all conversations and encounters they’ve had with these two men,” Krakenaur was saying as the camera zoomed in. “Or else you will be considered traitors too.”

The pictures came slowly into focus. The son’s photo was first: a freckle-faced boy with a jaunty smile and features that Trey recognized instantly.

“Liber,”
Trey whispered.

It was the boy who had found Trey on the Talbots’ porch, the boy who had saved Trey’s life by telling him to hide instead of reporting him. One of only two Population Police officials that Trey had ever heard speak of freedom.

Trey felt a horrible sense of dread rising in his gut.

When the father’s picture appeared, he was not surprised. It was a man with gray hair and eyes that looked familiar—familiar because they matched his son’s. Trey had noticed the resemblance only the night before, but not quite made the connection.

It was the Population Police guard from the Grants’ house. The one who had arranged all the documents Trey had brought to Nezeree.

“Disregard all orders from Jonas or Jonathan Sabine,” Krakenaur had said. “Hold all documents they have signed, and detain anyone carrying documents with their signatures. We are tracing the extent of their treachery, even as I speak. We’ll be notifying everyone involved as soon as possible.”

Could Trey and his friends escape Nezeree before the warden found out?

Distantly, Trey heard a phone ringing in another room. As if in a trance, he stumbled out of the TV room toward the ominous sound. He tripped into the warden’s office, and it was exactly as Trey feared: The phone on the warden’s desk was ringing. The one that was a direct line to Population Police headquarters.

Chapter Thirty-One

Trey dived under the warden’s desk and yanked the phone cord out of the wall. He wished he had a knife. But he didn’t, so he put the plastic tip of the cord in his mouth and sawed it against his teeth. Finally, finally, he managed to bite off the end, leaving the wires frayed.

“What is the meaning of this?” a voice exploded behind him.

Trey spit out the plastic connector and hid the phone cord deep in the carpet. He backed out and slowly straightened up. The warden was just coming in the door. What had he seen? What had he heard?

“C-c-cockroach, sir,” Trey stammered. “I’m so sorry. I saw this bug running behind your desk, and I know how those things multiply, and I thought if I caught it—”

“Did you?” the warden asked.

“No, sir. I wasn’t fast enough. I’m sorry, sir.”

The warden regarded Trey doubtfully What if he decided to get down on his hands and knees to look for himself?

He won’t,
Trey tried to assure himself.
He’s too fat to fit

The warden glanced down at his desk. Was Trey being paranoid, or was the warden looking straight at his phone?
Had
he heard it ringing?

A printerlike machine behind Trey began churning out paper.

“Looks like I’m getting a fax,” the warden said. “Step aside, Officer Jackson. It’s undoubtedly classified, and you wouldn’t have clearance yet to see that.”

There was a challenging note to his voice, but Trey took hope from the word “yet”