Resonance (16 page)

CH
APTER TWENTY-EIGHT

M
Y PARENTS WERE WAITING FOR
me when I arrived home, wearing the expectant look that typically signaled I'd screwed up.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing,” my dad said, too quickly. “We haven't gotten much time with you lately.”

I wondered if Addie had prompted this sudden desire for quality time. But I'd promised I would try to talk to my parents, and considering how much time they were spending at work, this might be my only chance.

“Are you hungry?” my mom asked. “I can fix you some leftovers.”

“What's going on?”

“I wasn't sure you'd eaten.” She bristled. “Forgive me for wanting to make sure you had at least one healthy meal.”

My dad laid a hand on her arm. “Winnie.”

She took a deep breath. “Councilman Lattimer paid me a visit today.”

“Oh?” Somehow I managed to go hot and cold at the same time.

She busied herself assembling a plate of spaghetti and meat
balls. “He wants you to visit your grandfather tomorrow.”

I pushed away from the island. “Tomorrow? That's too soon!”

“I know you're not looking forward to it, but the Consort needs to act quickly. We're less than two weeks away from the Tacet.”

“We shouldn't even be having a Tacet,” I said, seizing the opening. “Most of those Echoes aren't hurting anything.”

“Statistically, any branch of the size we're cleaving is likely to contain several unstable Echoes,” my dad said. “They'll only destabilize over time.”

“So the answer is to kill them because they
might
pose a threat?”

“Nobody's killing anything.” My mom set the plate down with a clatter. “Monty put this into your head, didn't he?”

“I can think for myself. And I think Echoes are as real as we are.”

“They aren't, kiddo,” my dad said. “You don't kill a shadow when you turn off the light. The object is still there.”

“They're people, not objects!”

“They're not born, and they don't truly die. So they can't be alive.” He was so patient, so certain.

“How do you know? Who gets to make that call?”

My mom stalked across the room as if she was leaving the discussion entirely. My father motioned for me to stay where I was. She went up on tiptoe and pulled down a massive leather-­bound book.

“Here,” she said, carrying it in both hands. “This is the scripture that tells how the world began.”

She set the book on the table and opened it, turning the tissuelike paper as carefully as my father handled the threads. She read in her crisp alto.

“‘In the beginning was the dark, and the Lord spoke and chose the light, and the world cleaved, and the song of the new world was pleasing to His ears. Worlds begat worlds like the branches of a tree, and each favored branch was touched with His song. He anointed the ears and hands of His most favored children, and granted them freedom to Walk among the branches so they might preserve and magnify His song.'”

She passed me the open book. “See for yourself.”

“I haven't read this in years,” I said, turning over the pages. It looked like an illuminated manuscript, drawings crowded around the sides of the verses.

“Probably your first day of training,” my dad said. “Reading the opening verses is part of the invocation. You'll read it again at your convocation, when you begin your apprenticeship.”

“It's ancient,” I said, closing the Bible. “And it's not an excuse.”

My father covered my hand with his, trapping it against the gilt-embossed leather. “We were chosen, not by the Consort, but by something greater, to do this. Every religion in the world has Walkers. Every one of their sacred texts confirms that this is our calling.”

“It doesn't say we're supposed to kill people!” I yanked my
hand free. “What if preserve means to
protect
the Echoes? To help the multiverse expand? What if there was a way to separate the Echoes from the Key World, and let them carry forward on their own?”

My mom looked faintly repulsed. “Sever the threads between them? Del, an untethered Echo would be a person with no soul. It would be cruel to force that on any creature.”

“But if they could survive . . . doesn't that mean cleavings would be murder? Because we're taking away their chance to live?”

“It's not that simple,” my dad said. “Consort scientists have been studying this phenomenon for longer than any of us have been alive. The ethicists, too. Do you really think they'd sanction cleavings if that were true?”

They were so earnest. They were as certain in their belief as I was, and arguing further was pointless.

People see what they want to believe, hear the truths that confirm their own ideas. Walkers relied on that trait to deal with Originals, but the Consort used it to control us, too.

“Del, sweetheart . . . these are natural questions to have, especially as your apprenticeship draws closer. Nobody wants a Cleaver who can't think for herself.” My mom forced a smile. “If cleaving isn't the path you want to pursue, we can find you something else. Navigation, maybe.”

“Mom, please. I suck at navigation.”

“I'm sure you'd be very good. It's a question of applying yourself.”

I rolled my eyes. So much for giving them a chance.

“We want you to be happy,” my father added. “To find your calling, the way we have. If Monty's muddying the waters, it's for the best tomorrow is your last visit.”

“Maybe it is,” I murmured, and went to warn Simon that our deadline had changed.

CHA
PTER TWENTY-NINE

Days until Tacet: 10

A
MELIA AND SIMON WERE FINISHING
breakfast when I let myself in the next morning.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I made plenty.”

“No, thanks.” I couldn't have forced food past the lump in my throat. Instead, I looked around the kitchen, cluttered and warm and familiar. If we won, we could come back here. If not, this was the last time I'd see the apple-green walls, the chipped sink, and the pictures of Simon stuck to the fridge. The last time I would see Amelia.

She frowned. “If you're sure— Iggy! Down! Bad dog!”

Iggy dropped to the floor, mouth full of sausage links, too blissed-out to look ashamed. I cocked my head at Simon in a silent question—had he asked her about Gil's part of the map chord?

He shook his head and reached down to pat Iggy, ignoring my scowl. We were running out of time.

And then I understood. The longer he put off asking Amelia for the frequency, the longer he could pretend this was his life.

“What is it?” Amelia said, glancing between us. Neither of us replied. I stared at the toes of my boots, unable to meet her eyes, hearing the quaver in her voice. “You're leaving, aren't you? But you just got here.”

The chair creaked as Simon shifted his weight. The tension smothering the room made it clear she wasn't talking to me. Simon stared at his half-eaten stack of pancakes.

“Amelia . . . ,” I said, trying to catch Simon's eye. He refused to look at me. “I told you that I found a message from Rose. Part of a frequency.”

“I remember.” She twisted her ring nervously.

“I thought Monty had the other half. But I was wrong. He had one
third
.”

Her hands fell to her lap.

“And so do you,” I said. “Gil gave you his key, didn't he? To pass along to Simon.”

She tried to smile. “He knew you'd come for it eventually.”

Something clicked inside me, like a tile in a mosaic. If Gil had known, so had she: A Simon other than the one she'd raised would return.

“But we looked,” Simon protested. “We've checked everywhere.”

“All you had to do was ask,” she said. “I always loved to watch him Walk. He would reach into the air and find another world. It was like magic. You have his hands, you know.”

Simon looked at his fingers as if he'd never seen them before.

Gently she slipped off her wedding ring and ran her thumb
around the edge. Then she held it out to him, a gold circle shining at the center of her palm.

“Your wedding ring?”

“I never take it off,” she said. “I'd imagine my Echoes feel the same way. Go ahead.”

He took it and inspected the inner surface. “The frequency's engraved.”

She laughed. “The clerk at the jewelry store thought we were a very strange couple.”

“You played dumb when I asked you about the frequency,” I said, unaccountably hurt. “Why would you lie?”

“I'm tired of sacrificing the people I love. I thought if I kept quiet, you'd be kept safe.”

“What changed your mind?” Simon asked.

“You won't change yours.” She brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I'll sacrifice whatever I have to, if it gives you a fighting chance.”

C
HAPTER THIRTY

T
HE BEST LIES REQUIRE BELIEF—BOTH
the deceived's
and
the deceiver's. You have to become the person you're pretending to be, so that your actions are second nature, as smooth and fluid as a magician's scarf. The barest hesitation will break the spell.

That's how Monty had lasted so long. He wasn't playing the addled grandfather—he
was
the addled grandfather. He'd found that facet of himself and polished it to a high gleam, blinding us to his other aspect, the Monty who was driven and desperate and shrewd.

Even now he was teaching me. When I entered CCM, I let myself be the Del I needed Lattimer to see: young, scared, and in over her head.

Because it was the truth. Just not the whole truth.

“I trust your parents have given the school a plausible excuse,” Lattimer said when he met me in the sublevel's arctic hallway.

“Probably. School isn't exactly my priority these days, sir.”

“Not a priority, but important nevertheless. We have neither the time nor the resources to devote to the more mundane aspects of your education.”

I could never figure out if Lattimer bought his own lies. Was he so convinced that the Walkers were doing the right thing, he genuinely believed the Free Walkers were a threat to the Key World? Or was he more concerned with keeping his hold on power, on letting his view of the world stay intact? It's hard work, rebuilding your beliefs when they've been smashed into dust. I could almost—not entirely, but almost—understand how he had justified the Consort's actions to himself.

I didn't doubt he would destroy anyone who threatened his certainty. He'd guard that even more fiercely than the Key World itself.

“Shaw says you're doing well in class. You haven't reported more bouts of frequency poisoning.”

“No, sir. I've been careful.”

He paused outside Monty's cell, handing over my earpiece. “Today is your grandfather's last chance. Feel free to make that fact clear to him. If he doesn't provide us with actionable intelligence, I'll finish his interrogation personally.”

I swallowed hard and kept my voice steady.

“What can I offer him?”

“Excuse me?” he replied, startled into a direct question.

“I grew up with Monty. I know how to make him behave, and it's not threats. Forcing him to do something doesn't work nearly as well as offering him a treat. A bribe.”

“Very well.” He waved his hand. “Offer him whatever you think will be most effective.”

“He wants out,” I said.

“Then offer him his freedom. We won't grant it, but he doesn't need to know that.”

I suspected he already did.

“Now. I want all the information on this weapon that you can pry out of him. I want details—and anything he can tell you about a man named Gilman Bradley.”

I tucked my hands into my pockets to hide their trembling. “You think he knows where this guy is?”

“Gil went to his grave years ago. But he was your grand­father's navigator, and by all accounts, the creator of the weapon we're seeking. Information about him might help us locate it more quickly.”

“I'll do my best,” I said.

Lattimer opened the door, and I edged past him, hands still in my pockets, toying with an origami star to settle my nerves.

Monty sat, chained to the table, chin on his chest. He looked even smaller than usual, and when he lifted his head, a yellowing bruise circled one eye.

“You came back.”

“I did.”

“I told you not to.”

“And yet here I am.”

He leaned back in the chair, careful and stiff. I hadn't expected him to be so slow, hadn't calculated for it. Not good. “What have you brought me?”

“An offer,” I said. “Tell me what I want, and I'll get you what you want.”

“You know what I want.”

I looked straight at him, until he returned my gaze. “Lattimer wants information. He wants to know about Gil Bradley's weapon. He says he can get you out of here if you cooperate.”

His eyes narrowed. “Does he, now? And I should trust him?”

Monty's hands lay clasped on the table, cuffs around both wrists. I covered his hands with mine. “Trust
me
.”

As I spoke, I fished a set of paper-clip picks from my sleeve, my movements concealed by our joined hands and the bulk of my sweater. His eyes flew to mine.

“My freedom,” he said.

“In exchange for the information we need. We're running out of time.” I nodded encouragingly and slipped him the picks. “So I need you to focus. Try to remember anything you can about the weapon, or the frequency it's in.”

“It was so long ago,” he said piteously. He twisted his wrist to make the keyhole more accessible. “My memory . . . my ears. They're not what they used to be.”

“Push him,” Lattimer ordered.

“You have to give them something,” I said, raising my voice as the lock clicked, loud as snapping bone. “What about the weapon Gil Bradley developed? Can you tell me about it?”

“It wasn't ready,” Monty said. “Even before Gil was taken, they knew they needed time to . . . refine it. To figure out how it could best be used. So they waited and kept it hidden. So well hidden, the Consort doesn't know what they're looking for.”

“Wait's over. We need specifics, not vague hints.”
Something
that will draw the Consort's attention away from Simon.
“I'm not going anywhere until you tell me.”

Monty's mouth worked soundlessly, his eyes growing distant and watery. His hands, I noticed, were perfectly steady.

“It's a kind of circuit breaker,” he said finally. “Diverts all the energy in a branch away from the parent world and back into an Echo. The Key World relies on that energy, so it's a bit like cutting off the food supply.”

My stomach dropped. Was this true? Amelia was convinced there was no weapon, and I'd never expected Monty to give the Consort real information—but even his lies had the ring of truth.

“They're going to starve the Key World? Why?”

He shrugged. “Because the Consort's greedy. They can't leave the Echoes well enough alone, so we wanted to turn the tables. Once the Walkers have seen the light, they'll reverse the process.”

He looked down at his wrists, his carefully arranged hands hiding the fact the cuffs were open.

“Is that enough?” he asked, voice quavering as if answering had worn him out. “Will that satisfy him?”

I checked my watch. Enough time had passed for Eliot to work his magic.

“I'll ask.”

I knocked and the guard opened the cell door. Lattimer stepped out of the control room and headed for us.

“Councilman,” I called, hand on the doorframe, wedging a paper star into the lock so it wouldn't catch. “How'd I do?”

“Quite well,” he said. “I'll admit, I didn't expect him to capitulate so quickly. You're very persuasive.”

I edged closer to the guard, wrapping a lock of hair around my finger. “What about the circuit breaker? Could it work?”

“We won't know until we examine it,” Lattimer said. “Press him for more details. How big it is, how we can trace it.”

“I don't think he knows. Or if he does, he's forgotten.”

“Then jog his memory.”

“Do I have to go back?” I asked, swaying. “I'm not feeling great.”

Lattimer scrutinized me. “You look feverish.”

I touched the back of my hand to my forehead. “Could I have a glass of water?”

He jerked his head at the guard closest to the elevator, who nodded and went upstairs. I lifted my hair off my neck and fanned myself. “It's really hot down here.”

He stepped away, grimacing. “I assume this is some sort of illness you contracted at school?”

“There's a virus going ar—” I staggered into the remaining guard, knocking him into the wall. He righted us, but not before I unclipped the Taser from his belt. With a quick pop and crackle, he went down.

“Delancey!” Lattimer snarled. “You're—”

“You told me to think about my future,” I said. “I've decided to branch out. So to speak.”