Dove Arising (35 page)

A few seconds later, I hear the first collective shriek of horror, a terrible sound of many tones and timbres.

“What’s that?” I cry.

“It’s not important,” Wes fires back.

The uproar grows louder, laced with the shuffling of Militia boots.

“Please, can we check on the people up there?” I put on an extra spurt of speed and grab the collar of his jacket.

“No time!” Wes hollers as my hand jerks him back.

“Listen!”
I screech to a halt, and he stumbles.

Without the hammering of our footsteps on the tunnel floor, the shouts from upstairs take on concrete meaning. “Hurt me, not her!” booms a man’s voice, amplified by the speaker system. Cygnus, back at home, has steered the video pods he’s commandeered into the Atrium. They haven’t caught him yet.

“Not Belinda!” shouts the man.

Wes’s hand clutches the canvas of his jacket, over his heart. “Oh . . .” he whispers.

Belinda—could it be the girl I saw in Shelter? So much time has passed since that day. Bright, lively Belinda, tugging my hair with her tiny fingers. If I’m reeling from the man’s plea, Wes—who has presumably tended to her on multiple occasions—must be splintering on the inside.

“Please!” begs the voice.

I rub Wes’s shoulder with one hand, then lean both my forearms and my forehead against him, breathing him in. I need closeness to a true
human
—not necessarily someone flawless, just someone capable of compassion—so I don’t lose all faith.

“Let’s go.” I try to shake his arm and find it unyielding. “Let’s try to help.”

Wes takes a few steps back, eyes on the ceiling. “This significantly alters our plan, but I agree. Someone’s got to end this.”

Nostrils flared, he fumbles in his pockets and pulls out a tan sleeve the size and shape of a finger. I’m unnerved when he slips it onto his thumb. He feels the ceiling with his other hand until his fingers catch on a tiny groove, to which he presses the covered digit. The patch of floor below us shoots upward like an elevator, taking us with it. I’m flabbergasted.

“Sanitation manhole into the center of the Atrium. The workers go in and out to clean up pedestrian residue.”

“Your thumb?”

“I worked in Medical, remember? Bloke from Sanitation had a nasty cut on his leg and needed surgery. While he was knocked out, I made a fingertip mold and created a composite in the lab.”

Wes shrugs as we rise into the epicenter of a new sort of moonquake.

They ignore us when we step off the lift, whether they’re in black Militia gear, clutching Electrostuns and cans of sedative aerosols, or in filthy robes, screaming newly coined slogans.

Three bodies lie between us and the two privates, who flank an emaciated man. His limbs are wrapped around a bundle of dirty cotton and flesh. Everything’s the same about Belinda’s face, which is just visible beneath her protector’s sleeve—except her smile, which is missing. Her eyes are squeezed shut in terror.

On the big screen behind the privates, Belinda, and the man—who I assume is her father—is a magnification of their faces, or in the Beetles’ cases, their soulless helmets.

“I repeat,” says one soldier, “you are under arrest for leading an unauthorized exit from Shelter and instigating a disruption to public life—”

“I won’t leave Belinda here, not after you waved those—those sticks at her.”

“Come quietly, or we will take both of you.”

“Why him?” demands a teenage boy behind me. His voice is hoarse from breathing in smoke; looking at him, I remember the young people in Shelter, clinging to their pipes. “You pickin’ on him ’cause you can’t get all of us at once?”

“Stop!” shouts Wes, extending both arms to restrain him.

Too late—the boy rushes toward the group and into scraggly white fingers of electricity from a private’s Electrostun. When two other demonstrators try to break his fall, they too tumble down, writhing.

Sensing that the privates are distracted, Belinda’s father dashes toward the nearest hallway, leading her by the hand. Perhaps he imagines that there, they can hide among the citizens watching the spectacle. As Belinda scrambles to keep up, her tiny face wears an expression of pure terror, making her appear childish and weary all at once.

A corporal, standing at the fringe of the Shelter crowd, points a sleek weapon at the runners. The pellet intended for Belinda’s father emits sparks as it flies, and strikes his daughter instead.

On the Atrium roof and on their handscreens, the entire base watches her little body hit the floor.

39

AT FIRST, I FEEL NOTHING; I’M BUOYANT AS helium, floating past the big screens, up above the ceiling. In reality, I’ve fallen to my knees, and within moments Wes is tugging me up by the arm, the strength in his fingers threatening to snap my bones.

The corporal corrects his aim with clinical precision and shoots Belinda’s father; the man falls an arm’s length from his daughter and drags himself to her side. He puts two fingers to her neck, his face contorted with grief. When he doesn’t feel a pulse, he gently closes Belinda’s eyes and curls into a fetal position on the floor.

She’s gone. No child could survive the 50,000 volts meant for a grown man.

I remember Leo and the pain I caused him. I’ll never use an Electrostun on civilians again.

With nothing more to see near the two bodies, the Shelter demonstrators seem to notice our black Militia clothes in their midst. They shout at us and prod my torso until I stand. When they recognize my face, they withdraw, whispering words like
captain
and
tragic
.

Citizens gathered at the mouths of the hallways can’t restrain themselves anymore. From all four directions, they shuffle into the Atrium, heads down. The sheer amount of empty floor space emphasizes their pitiful numbers—there aren’t even a hundred. Will outrage spread as what they’ve seen sinks in?

Anka appears among them, fighting her way through with her knobby elbows and knees, calling my name, tugging Umbriel by the hand.
Why are they here?

“Cygnus has been messing with the broadcasts,” Umbriel pants. “At my place. You weren’t prepared for that either, no? Why’d he and Ms. Mira keep it secret? I— Hey, look at the screens! He’s still going.”

Above me are alternating shots of Mom’s tranquil face falling to her chest and Belinda tumbling downward, sheathed in electricity. The Shelter crowd piles around Wes, Umbriel, Anka, and me, pushing us into a tight knot. Cygnus knows how to burn people’s pain into them, just like Janus—but unlike the mustached Committee member, he’s affecting dozens of people without saying a word.

“If they find out Cygnus did this, he’s done for,” Wes mumbles.

“Everything’s gone to grits, anyway,” Umbriel says.

I need him to focus. “Where are Ariel and your dad?”

“They’re at home. My mom’s things are gone—Ariel and Dad were so upset . . . I had to leave.”

“Why’s Cygnus still in there?”

“He’s concentrating on something ‘important.’ Something else, as if he hasn’t already done too much,” Umbriel sighs. “Anka didn’t want to leave him—and it’s close to impossible to get Anka to go
anywhere
she doesn’t want to. You know.”

Anka brushes her sleeve across her eyes. “Umbriel, you promised we’d get Mom back. I used to believe anything you said, but now . . .”

Wes stoops down to look her in the face. “
I
asked Umbriel to take you to Shelter. It’s a scary place, but your mom’s friends are there, and they’ll help you.”

Anka furrows her brow. “Really?”

“Really.” Wes’s smile is small and not at all patronizing.

Anka points at me. “What’s going to happen to her?”

“Phaet’s in trouble. I am too. So we’re going somewhere far away for a while, a place where no one can hurt us. But we’ll come back for you—as long as we’re able to breathe.”

Until Umbriel and Anka find Dovetail, they’ll need protection. I pull my Lazy from my belt and shove it at Umbriel.

“No! You keep it,” Umbriel says. “I can’t let you run around unarmed.”

“I’m armed,” I say, even though all I have left is a set of daggers. “
Take it.
”

He does.

“Don’t stay away too long,” Anka says.

“Shh.” I hug her, burying my face in her soft hair. “Stay strong. Take care of the boys.”

Instead of clinging to me, as she would have mere months ago, Anka gently pushes me away and looks me in the eye, chin tilted up.

As we’ve been talking, the Shelter crowd has backed away in what I thought was a gesture of respect. But when Wes hits me on the arm and points at the dark cluster of five figures pushing closer, I see that it’s not us the protestors are avoiding.

It’s the Militia’s reinforcements.

Anka grabs a handful of Umbriel’s robes and pulls him away, even as he fights to reach me. Brown robes obscure their passage.
Good girl.
If something happens to me, I don’t want them to watch.

“Phaet Theta,” the General’s amplified voice drones. Holding his Lazy in one hand and stroking it with the other, he leads the four helmeted soldiers toward Wes and me. “Captain. You disobeyed a direct order, caused a public spectacle, and colluded with an illegal organization, all in under twenty-four hours. We’ve wasted precious time trying to arrest you for court martial.”

“Not court martial,” Wes tells him. “Death. You ordered me to kill her.”

The General points the Lazy in Wes’s direction. “You’re up to your ears in grits for the same crimes, Kappa.”

His four soldiers move toward us, magnetic handcuffs in hand. Each set of bonds is as soulless as a pair of empty eye sockets.

Someone calls, “You going to kill them too, once we’re not around?”

Although people shush the speaker, a young woman from the other side of the Atrium shouts, “A mother, a child. Who’ll be next?
Us
? No more dead!”

The four soldiers freeze. In the ensuing silence, I hear the zap of an Electrostun, a falling body, and shrieks of horror.

“No more dead!” a dozen people chant.

“What if someone isn’t rich? Won’t even have a chance to try and pay her way out!” a man on the far left yells. “No more dead!”

“No more dead!” With every repetition, more people join in, until the Atrium fills with the voices of Shelter, their echoes, and the echoes of those echoes. The brown of their robes pushes into Militia black. Waving their fists, the people nearest us bear down on the General’s unit.

The soldiers scattered across the Atrium anticipated this, though, and they spray invisible gas from small bottles. Their helmets protect them, but the protesters sway as it hits their nostrils, euphoric expressions on their faces. The scent is sickly sweet and somehow familiar. Nitrous oxide.

“They must have grabbed the stuff from Medical.” Wes puts his visor down and inches away from the invisible poison. If only I were wearing my helmet too. I throw my forearm over my mouth.

While the soldiers are distracted, Wes and I elbow past bodies in various states of consciousness and dash to the side of the Atrium. Sputtering from holding my breath, I lean against the wall and gulp down untainted lungfuls of air.