The Isle (13 page)

“
Y
ou can leave your things in the Omni,” Sipu says, turning off the engine.

As Ter and I watch the water in the airlock drop, a faint blue light flickers on in the metal room. Soon, there's no water at all.

The moonroof slides open, and Sipu hops out first. She grips the wheel on a circular steel door, spinning it a few times. As soon as it swings open, she rushes away, forgetting about us.

“She's off fast.” Ter and I glance at each other, confused. His cuffcomm buzzes. “It's Ren,” he says, typing a reply. “She's just making sure we found each other.”

He comms her back and shimmies through the moonroof. For a moment our kneecaps touch. I don't mind if I'm
blushing; it makes my cheeks pink.

Ter offers me his hand. So much has happened, I'm not thinking. . . . I give it to him. Quickly, I remember and pull away.

But . . .
I felt something
, I realize. A leftover tingling, like clingy static.

Resting against his palm, I find five half fingers. Wrinkled skin has grown around a second set of knuckles.
It's working! They could come back
—a bubbly feeling in my chest makes me want to laugh.

I bite it back, though.

My hands are ugly
, I think. They don't mean to be, and I know it's not my fault, but they are. I don't even have fingernails. They look like alien hands, or the hands of a monkey. With this boy standing in front of me, I want to hide myself.

I should be grateful.
I am grateful
. But I see the ugliness, too. Curling my knuckles away, “Don't look,” I tell him. “The water isn't done working yet.”

Ter's seen, though; it's too late.

He doesn't pull away. He just lets me take my hand back. “They did that to you at the lab?” he asks, green eyes inches from mine.

I've never been this close to him before . . . not since Miss Nale's, when maybe we'd eat lunch together if Ren wasn't around. I always knew his eyes were green, but now that I'm so close, I realize I was wrong. That's not the right word for them at all.

Once, hunting pennies, I found this crayon . . . it was called
electric lime
. I've never had electricity, and I've never
seen a lime in real life, but it fits perfectly.

What were we talking about?

I've forgotten everything: my hands, my fingernails, the dictionary definition of ugly. I only know that I'm standing here, and a boy—
this boy
—is standing with me.

“Lucas! Are you happy now?” Sipu yells in the other room. We whip around at the noise.

“Yes. Very,” comes his muffled answer. “You think you can pull a stunt like that in the tunnel, and I wouldn't find out? Didn't you wonder how I knew Derek and that girl would head through there in the first place? Holo cams. And Kitaneh agrees knocking out your husband isn't very nice; now you'll have to earn your right to the springwater. I doubt she'll even let you into her apartment until she trusts you again.
If
she trusts you again.”

A crinkle of worry forms between Ter's eyebrows. He helps me out of the mobile and pulls open the heavy steel door.

A boy, red-haired and very muscular, sits at a desk.
He looks just like Derek
, I realize, but I know it's not him. This one's too angry.

Sipu slams both hands down on the table. He ignores her. “Here you go.” She gestures to Ter and me. “I've captured the maimed girl and her friend. You can do the rest,” she shouts.

Captured?

Lucas pushes a button under the desk. The steel door sucks closed, locking with a heavy
chink
.

I gulp as the red-haired boy, Lucas, stands. He makes me want to bolt for the door. He moves so slowly, like those holos from science class of wild cats stalking in the brush.

Not saying a word, Lucas reaches into his pocket and tosses her something.

She catches it with both hands. Fingers fumbling, she pops off the cork to a small glass tube and tosses it aside. Then she chugs.

It's the water. . . .

“You lied to us?” I ask Sipu, whispering.

When she's emptied the vial, she drops it onto the floor—the glass explodes like a dying star. Sipu can't meet my eyes. She lets her blond bob hide her face, drying her lips with one sleeve.

She didn't want to.

“Why'd you bring us here?” Ter asks, putting himself between me and Lucas. His voice is cool. Like we're having a friendly conversation, but also like he might be my bodyguard, if necessary.

“Tie them up,” Lucas tells Sipu.

“I said you could take it from here,” she spits.

Scowling, he kicks his chair. As it screeches to a stop in the middle of the room, he grabs a line of wire from his desk drawer.

He stalks up to Ter, who backs away, hands raised.

I don't breathe. I back away too, until I'm pressed hard against the airlock. Lifting my cheek from Ter's black T-shirt, I peek under his armpit—and duck just in time.

He throws a punch, nearly drawing his elbow into my face. When he lets his fist loose, it connects perfectly with Lucas's shoulder.

Lucas shifts an inch, maybe.

Instantly, he throws a hook under Ter's chin, knocking his head against the steel door. A line of blood trickles down the nape of his neck. He doubles over. I reach for his hand—“Ter?” I ask as he staggers onto his knees.

I shouldn't have opened my mouth. . . . Lucas sees me. Grabbing my wrist, he drags me across the concrete to the other side of the room. I wince as Ren's leggings roll away, and the floor scrapes off a layer of skin at my hips.

He passes the line of wire over and under my palms, like it's a cold, hard snake. If he notices something is wrong, that my hands aren't all there, he says nothing. He ties the line so tight, I can feel the blood squeezing, aching through my fingers.

The ankles are next and I begin to lose hope. I can't expect Ren to come for us—she has no idea that we're here. I don't even know if she's okay, much less able to save me. For the billionth time. Curling myself up into a corner, I lay my head to the concrete. This time I don't cry.

Tied up beside me, Ter's barely awake—there's only the smallest sliver of white in his eyes. His head droops like he's sick. I lean against his shoulder, wanting to comfort us both.

Sipu paces back and forth, across the room. She's fidgety. When she looks at Ter and me, I try to harden my face.

I can't.

I should resent her . . . hate her for lying to us and bringing us here—but deep down, I just feel bad for Sipu. Lucas, her own husband, blackmailed her. She'd be dead if she hadn't listened. When she looks at me again, I give her a weak smile.
Not a friendly one—one that says
I understand
.

Projected onto the brick wall in front of Lucas's desk is a holo of the governor. He's standing on a balcony, talking to a roomful of reporters. Lucas's eyes and ears are glued to the image. “We knew this guy was bad news,” he says. “Kitaneh better not screw up this time. Things are only getting harder for us. He's getting desperate. He knows finding the spring is the only way to avoid a Second Appeal.”

When they show a close-up of Governor Voss, I close my eyes.

“Exactly,”
Sipu agrees, then pauses to face Lucas. “Which is why we cannot be stuck in the old ways. We've never dealt with a situation like this before.” Under her breath she mutters, “Why do you and Kitaneh not see this?”

“Sipu, if we were doing things the old way, they'd be dead already,” Lucas answers casually, throwing his thumb at Ter and me. “Kitaneh and I have always seen eye to eye . . . on a lot of things. Not just this.”

Sipu's breath catches in her throat. She stiffens.

Seeing this, Lucas drops his eyes. “The old ways worked,” he goes on. “Hundreds of years, the spring stayed hidden. Nobody was killing each other over it or using it to start wars. We never saw immortality doses in the streets. Nobody was getting rich off it. Then comes this guy.” Lucas nods to the holo projection of Voss. “And her friend Ren—” He's pointing at me. “Now? It's all over.”

How can he say that?
I can't stop the words from coming out of my mouth—“But so many people aren't sick anymore,” I tell him. “For us, nothing's over. It's all just begun. Right
now, Voss is keeping hundreds of people in a prison waiting to die.
They're
the ones it's over for.”

Lucas lifts himself from his chair.

I shouldn't have said anything.
My heart beats so fast, I feel the blood pounding against the wire snake around my hands. They ache.

Lucas drops to a knee right in front of me. “Oh, kid,” he says, snorting, squeezing my cheeks until they hurt. “It's over for you too. You're alive for one reason: so your friend Ren will come and find you. That way, we won't have to find her.”

He jerks my head back and forth, and Sipu rushes to stop him. “Lucas—let her go. She's just a girl,” she says, gently trying to pull him away.

Lucas releases me, but Sipu backs off too late. He glares at her, teeth gritted, and raises his hand—
he's going to hurt her.

His open palm hangs in the air.

T
he kitchen, where I've been assigned (technically, Lorelai) is hot, bustling with movement. Other girls from the line, also wearing black dresses and ridiculous paper crowns, fill flutes with a seemingly endless supply of freshwater. Gallons upon gallons Voss is giving out for free—a slap in the face to everyone, even West Islers, I'm beginning to understand.

I glance around, looking for someone to report to, when I get a comm from Ter.

           
Got her. Sipu picked us up.

Sipu?
That wasn't part of the plan. . . .

A girl, short with long black hair, pushes me a silver tray. “Take this,” she says.

I nearly drop it.

Backing away, I see her face—dark skin, round face. Wedded eternally to Derek. It's as if all movement in the kitchen slows down—steam from pots of boiling fresh pause their billowing, and no one moves. We're the only ones in the room.

“Kitaneh—”
I breathe.

Our eyes lock.
“You.”

We look around, neither knowing who's gonna make the first move.
Would she try to kill me? Right here, in this kitchen?
She's in disguise. She won't want to give herself away. . . .
I hope
.

Kitaneh points a chopping knife at me. “Why are you here?”

“Why are
you
?” I say, no knife, though.

Her jaw stiffens and her eyes go cold. The other girls look at us. Kitaneh lowers the blade and begins violently carving carrots.

I understand the servant getup—
she's here to kill him.

“Do you feel guilty at all, girl?” she asks. “Now that Voss is so loved by everyone, he will come after you, and us, more determined than ever before. This is because of you and what you have done, handing out water to the sick like it's some kind of drug.” She continues chopping, harder now.

I step closer, not caring—she's here for Voss; she won't blow her cover on me. “And what about you? Don't you feel
guilty at all,
girl
?” I say. She doesn't get to play holier-than-thou because she's ancient and I'm not. “A cure for the Blight existed right under your damn basement, but instead, you let people suffer. Guilt-free, you are,” I scoff, sarcastic.

Kitaneh drops the knife onto the cutting board and turns to me. “You have
no
idea what you're talking about,” she says, gripping the counter. “I do what is necessary, but I am not without conscience. I'd die tomorrow and give up this ‘calling' if I thought humankind wouldn't destroy itself.”

I wanna call bullshit; Kitaneh protects the spring with more ferocity than a rabid dog. Then again, that kind of fanaticism tends to run deep—kamikaze deep.

Kitaneh turns to scrape the extremely well-chopped carrots into a metal bowl. “I don't even care why you're here.” Dismissively, she waves her knife. “Voss isn't the only one who won't live to see morning,” she whispers.

Then, Kitaneh smacks my arm with her wrist. “What are you doing standing around? Take it, I said!” She's handing me the tray, and everyone's watching.

I do as she says, her threat ringing in my ears, and hurry out the kitchen. The glasses of fresh wobble in my hands, and I just about fall directly into the main ballroom. The party hasn't even begun yet—
who the hell am I supposed to be serving?

I steady myself, putting on my best servant face, and get my bearings. I'm in a long room with a new window every five feet. The ceilings are so high, they could fit ten of me standing. At the center, a wide, winding stairwell
opens up to the dance floor blocked off by men and women also in black. They're not dressed like us servers, though. They're sporting jackets and ties, mics and holocams.
It's a press release, or an impromptu State of the UMI
, I realize, cursing my luck.

Governor Voss steps out onto a balcony. Everyone hushes.

With no mask, I'm a sitting duck. I weave through the crowd, back turned to the governor as long as possible. A woman in a wheelchair dressed entirely in black sits beside him. She's hunched over, her face covered by a black lace veil.

Emilce Voss . . . his wife. It must be her.

“Thank you all for coming,” Governor Voss begins. He looks over the room, occasionally making eye contact with some of the media. I, however, avoid his eyes like the Blight. “My wife and I are overjoyed to have you in our home, documenting the new developments that have taken place in the UMI—more specifically, in the Ward. Hopefully by now you've come to learn that my medical team has found a cure for the HBNC virus. And, if you haven't, I'd advise you find yourself a new career.”

The journalists and reporters offer an anxious but well-timed laugh.

Voss pauses, smug and self-satisfied up there in his ivory tower. “The HBNC virus, nicknamed the Blight,” he begins, “has ravaged the UMI's poorer neighborhoods for years. Finding a cure for the virus was the only way to reunite our nation of islets. And, after years of hard work, we were
finally rewarded. The cure was distributed and, one day later, the virus had been eradicated among the population by nearly seventy-five percent.” He looks at the closest camera, dead-on. “I thank each and every citizen for your support these past few years. Without your faith, this day would never have arrived.”

The governor pauses, turning. “I'd also like to thank my beautiful, supportive wife, Emilce. She's stood by my side while I made the eradication of this plague my priority, sometimes overshadowing all else.”

Emilce stays utterly still. Everyone looks to her for a sign, a gesture, something to show she's heard him, but she gives nothing. Voss sighs. With one final exhale and a tip of his water glass, he toasts to the room. Everyone mimics him, tipping their glasses. Quickly, I raise mine, so I don't look like the odd man out.

One man mumbling notes into his cuffcomm raises his hand. The governor's jaw locks. “I hadn't planned on taking questions today—”

“Wouldn't be much of a press conference if you didn't!” the reporter quips back, laughing. “Now that you've got a handle on the Blight, will you consider a Second Appeal, Governor Voss?”

A hundred pairs of eyes are on him, not including the cameras. Those count for everyone watching on the West Isle and the few with holos in the Ward.

“Right now, my priority is to continue the search for viable freshwater aquifers
within
the UMI.”

I almost choke on my drink, 'cause I know what he really means—“viable freshwater” is code for the spring.

If he thinks that he can stamp out that question, though, he's mistaken. Someone else, a blond woman, raises her hand, though he's clearly not calling on anyone. “What if it doesn't exist? You've exhausted the original budget for this search. When will you do what's best for the UMI?”

“Chief Dunn, what are your feelings on the subject?” another member of the press interrupts. My breath catches and I shift deeper into the crowd—I hadn't even seen Chief from here. “What's the point of having a military nation if the military has no say in decisions that affect us all?”

The room goes silent. Chief and Voss exhange glances. Voss nods and Dunn steps forward, the trunk of his torso nearly taking up half the balcony.

“I support Governor Voss.”

That's all he says.

But as he disappears behind the banister, Dunn gives Voss a death glare to end all death glares. And he keeps his hands behind his back like they're actually tied together. Like there's nothing he can do.

Chief Dunn wants a Second Appeal.

The room devolves into a chattering mess. Reporters hold up their mics and shout over one another, determined to be heard.

“Before the Blight hit, Chief Dunn once mentioned enlisting the Ward in a draft. Is that still a possibility?”

“You could offer incentives!”

“But they should
want
to fight for the cause!”

All the hairs on my body stand tall, and my muscles tighten. I want to make human punching bags of these people.
They really believe we're disposable
. Then I remember the protest, and that I shouldn't be surprised.

Gripping the banister with both hands, Voss looks down, his skin sallow and shadowed. Even under the chandelier's soft light, his cheekbones form cutting angles. He stands at the white podium, waiting. The room settles.

“The First Appeal devastated our population and Magistrate Harcourt
still
refused to reopen the aqueduct. Chief Dunn agrees that a search for a local water source is of preeminent importance.”

Translation: Voss will never stop looking for the spring.

I knew this was true, but to have him say it to my face? I have no choice. I could let Kitaneh do the job—if I thought for a minute she'd succeed. Considering how the Tètai have had over a hundred years to bury this guy and he's still here . . . well, I wouldn't put my money on them.

I have to do something.
Now
.

Dunn ushers a visibly agitated Governor Voss out of the spotlight. The two disappear abruptly behind the balcony.

Sometimes opportunity presents itself. Sometimes, you have to hunt it down.

Time to hunt
.

I discard my tray on a table next to a decorative bowl of nice-looking rocks.
Where did he go?
I can't see Voss wanting to rub elbows with the reporters, not after that show—educated
guess says he's still on the second floor.

Backtracking, I scan the banquet hall for another way up. At the far end, past the kitchen, I find a second stairwell. Though it's been blocked off, it don't even look like it's trying. A thick, velvety rope droops across the banisters. I hop over and race up the stairs.

At the top, I find a drink cart stocked with bottles of liquor. Voss's personal stash, I imagine. You don't drink the stuff if you don't got the money or the means to rehydrate yourself later. And Voss has the money.

Wheeling it down the hall, I peek into room after room. They're all empty. I pick up my pace. At the final room—the one closest to the balcony—I hear a voice. I crouch low and listen.

“Ungrateful—I'm finding it for
you
,” a man growls.
Voss
.

I slip inside the room.

It's long, with a rich burgundy ceiling and gold molding. In the center, a glass chandelier hangs. A mirror hung horizontally above a set of drawers gives the illusion of an even larger space. I lower myself so I can crawl in. The silk rug gives nothing away. I don't even allow myself the luxury of breathing. My chest is brick-heavy, clenched and tight.

Could I really do it?

At the sound of a woman's voice, I go stiff—
he's not alone
. I scurry past the drawers, toward a plush armchair tucked into the corner. Sliding behind it, I arch over the armrest and listen.

“Can't you just be patient? I'm doing this for us,” Voss continues, insistent. In the center of the room, the woman dressed in black, his wife, lays on a cot. She looks more like she's about to attend her own funeral than a gala thrown in her husband's honor.

He's gripping her ankles like she'd run if she could.

A nest of plastic tubes connected to an IV snakes out from her forearm. Inside the IV bag, a muted greenish liquid drains into her body.
It's the serum he stole.

Governor Voss picks up one of her hands, but he may as well be holding a corpse.

Actually, a corpse would be indifferent to his touch. Her hand tightens into a fist. “Old age is not a disease,” I hear her rasp.
“Let me die.”

The governor drops her hand, backing away from the cot.

From the bar in the corner, he pours himself a drink the color of caramel, which he downs in one sip. The crystalline glass drops like a hammer onto the table. Without offering his wife another look, he strides toward the door—about to pass my hiding spot.

I reach for my blade—I'm too slow. Been wasting my time, listening to their pathetic saga
. Can I still do it?

Slipping back behind the plush ivory chair, my heart beats so fast I can barely feel a rhythm at all. Hilt in hand, I wait until Voss faces the door. He lays his hand on the knob, about to turn.

I could do it like this, a blade in his back.

Except . . . I'm a statue. Worse than that—I'm wallpaper.
I don't move. I don't know if it's fear or a random bout of morality kicking in, but I
can't
move.

The door opens.

The door closes.

The governor is gone.