I Am Margaret (31 page)

“If you’re that set on saving us all, tell him you won’t marry him until we’re safe.”

“No. I do my best to do the right thing, Jon, but I’m not sure I could. You said it yourself, if Bane stays around here, he’s going to get himself killed. Getting him somewhere safe, in one piece, is very high on my list of priorities. Being on the inside of these walls isn’t just leverage on Bane, you know.”

“I think you underestimate yourself! Just get him to get you out!”

“
No.
I
think you overestimate me.”

Jon put his head in his hands as though actually contemplating tearing his beautiful russet hair out.

“Then I’m sorry, but I hope to God you don’t win. ‘Cause this escape thing is far too slender a straw to hang on to and the alternative is too ghastly to contemplate.”

The alternative was something I was trying not to contemplate at all. Since Jon looked as though he was considering elaborating on just this theme, I carefully replaced the manuscript in his clothes’ chest and took my ‘art case’ back to the table.

The thirtieth of April dawned clear and blue, a chilly morning quickly warming under the energetic rays of the sun. The winning story was to be announced in a special program live on both EuroRay and EuroVee One at seven in the evening, when it would be read out to the world. We had no television, so we’d have to make do with EuroRay.

The day continued hot and bright. Jon fidgeted incessantly. I struggled to write, gave up on the book, wrote a substandard installment of the Fellest Ewe and finally went to lie on my bed and try to pray, except I wasn’t too sure what I wanted to pray
for
. I fell back on
your will, Lord
and when my spinning head felt ready to explode, took pity on Jon’s obviously equally troubled state of mind and went down to his bunk to read aloud.

What if I’d won? What if I
hadn’t
?

I don’t think Jon was really listening, either. He looked as grim as I’d ever seen him.

“You still up for hearing the postSort Comp results?” I asked Rebecca, as we walked back up the stairs after supper.

“Yeah, why not,” she said, and when we got back to the dorm she took her little radio out and began to fiddle around, setting it up. Our signal was rubbish out here, so we didn’t listen as much as we might’ve done. The static drove Jon crazy.

“And whose name will they announce if your story does win?” Jon asked me softly.

“Well, Sue’s if they read from the entry information, but mine if they read from the manuscript,” I murmured back. “Bane typed it up with my name on the first sheet.”

“Right.”

Then the EuroBloc anthem was playing as the program began. No one showed the slightest inclination to stand. The presenters came on, babbling tantalizingly for some time, all in Esperanto, of course, trying to build excitement and whip up tension. It was wasted on me. I was already so tense, the slightest knock and I would go off like an antique alarm clock.

“And now, we have here with us from the EGD, Doctor Victor Renquez. Doctor Renquez, I believe you are holding the winning manuscript?”

“Indeed I am, Steve. I have here in my hand the actual, original manuscript of the winning short story and in just a moment more, I shall read it to you all.”

“Is it good, Doctor Renquez? What’s your opinion?”

“Oh, I think it’s good, very good indeed. The judges voted almost unanimously and this was certainly the one that had my vote. Quite an unusual entry. A real taboo-breaker.”

“So it’s about a rather unusual subject, I take it?”

“It is indeed. One of those things no one talks about. Though this story calls the very reasons for that silence into question. I’m actually not sure if I’ve ever read anything quite like it.”

“So it’s original?”

“Oh yes, most definitely original.”

“Well, then, Doctor Renquez, perhaps you should put us all out of our misery.”

“As you wish, Steve.” The ostentatious rustling of pages sounded even over our crackly reception. “Right then. The winner of the Eighty-Third postSort competition.” My mouth had gone so dry I was having trouble swallowing. I gripped Jon’s hand under the table and struggled to maintain an expression of only mild interest.

“
The winning short story is...
The Thousand and One Lives of Annabel Salford
.”

My heart dropped away, down, down to my toes and a wave of ice-cold fear swept up to my throat, even as a dizzy, unreal sense of triumph enveloped me. I won! I
won
. And

I knew in that moment I hadn’t really believed it could happen and all my brave words to Jon weren’t worth the paper they were written on.

“
Are you sitting comfortably, everyone? Then I shall begin.
The Thousand and One Lives of Annabel Salford
, by Susan Crofton.”

***+***

20

THE POSTSORT NOVEL

I was in such a daze of terror and triumph it took a moment to register. Sue’s name? How could he be reading Sue’s name from the
manuscript
? Jon gave my hand a questioning squeeze.

Doctor Renquez was beginning to read my story out, but I didn’t want to hear it. Bad enough everyone else would have to. I slipped away to lie on my bunk and think.

Susan Crofton. If Doctor Renquez actually
was
reading from the manuscript—and there was every reason to suppose so, when the program was being televised—then Sue’s name must be on it.

“Margo?” Jon had followed me. I pulled my legs in so he could climb up and sit beside me. “Has this Sue done what I think she’s done? Or could it be... the EGD?”

Planning to use my story for its propaganda value while quietly disposing of its naughty author…

“Well… The EGD are mostly real fanatics, aren’t they? I don’t think they’d be willing to hold up a reAssignee’s work as the winner, however useful it seemed. I really think it must’ve been either Bane or Sue.”

“Bane? You think?”

“
He
might
have reasoned that my name anywhere at this stage would put the publication of that all-important novel at risk. But he would’ve told me, y’see.” My mind skipped back over the contents of the last month’s letters. No. There’d been nothing that might mean,
by the way, I took the deception a little further than you wanted, sorry but tough ‘cause I think it’s best
. “And he hasn’t. So, yeah, it was Sue.”

I think I’d known from the moment I heard it. She’d read the story, and like Jon and Bane she’d thought it stood a chance of winning. So she’d stolen it. Re-typed the cover page with her name.

“Why’d she do it? Revenge on you, for managing to hang on to Bane even from inside the Facility? Caroline seemed to think she fancies him something awful.”

“Well... yeah, she always has, rather. But it could’ve been simple greed,” I said bluntly. “Even the most mediocre novel published as a postSort Comp prizewinner will sell enough copies to make one comfortable for life. Comfortable by Salperton standards, anyway.”

Jon raised his eyebrows bleakly, this time. “A tempting dish of money and fame, with a garnish of revenge?”

“
Maybe.
No
, that’s not fair…” I rubbed my temples. My head was starting to ache. “We don’t
know
that. What if
she
did it to make sure my book got published?”

Jon raised his eyebrows for a third time, skepticism all over his face.

“
Gah
,” I waved a hand in frustration. “We
can’t
know, Jon! I’ll give Sue the benefit of the doubt, ‘cause she’s my friend, but I’ll also ensure there’s absolutely no way she could stop me proving my authorship of the book. ‘Cause I’m not stupid. I just hope Bane stops and uses his head before trying to skin her with his tongue.”

“Whatever you want to say about ‘benefit of the doubt’,” said Jon, the triumph of the moment still illuminating his unseeing eyes, “I’m sure this must hurt. But I rather think it’s the best thing that could’ve happened, you know!” Then the happiness slid from his face. Ah yes. He’d just remembered he’d no longer wanted me to win.

“From the point of view of that damn book, anyway,” he went on grimly. “The worst thing that could’ve happened in pretty much every other respect.”

Yes… my heart gave a happy-fraid lurch. It seemed safe to assume my name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Had it really been high-mindedness and concern for Sue that made me insist Bane typed my name on the manuscript? Or had my subconscious been laying a little safeguard? A safeguard unwittingly eliminated by Sue. The Lord always brought good out of evil. It was one of the reasons why, in the end, evil could never win.

Assuming I could get the novel manuscript to the publisher without Sue seeing it and panicking, they’d publish it without the slightest suspicion. Perhaps it did take a rather different view of Sorting, but…

“
You
do
think they’ll publish it?”

“Oh, yes. Positive. It’s just fiction, isn’t it? Fiction made up by an eighteen-year-old New Adult who’s never been near a Facility in her life. Just a work of the imagination. With an exciting subplot about the Underground. With whom she obviously hasn’t the least connection or she wouldn’t dare to write about it! The EGD may be rather less thrilled with the novel than with the short story, but they won’t actually stop it being published. After all, there isn’t the slightest reason for anyone to take it seriously, is there?”

“Except, once it’s safely published, you’re going to give them one, aren’t you?”

“Yes. That’s been the plan all along, remember?”

Jon’s lip turned down unhappily, then he brightened.

“Suppose it’s too much to hope Sue has a novel lined up already?”

“
Hand on my heart,
I
didn’t think I was going to win. When would she have written one, anyway? She’s been in school all day. And she’s certainly never written anything longer than a short story before, or she’s kept very quiet about it. And without meaning to be rude, I honestly don’t think she’d keep quiet. So she needs mine.”

Jon looked disappointed, but before he could speak Rebecca’s voice rose above the crackling speech from the radio.

“
Ugh, this is
horrible!
I’m not listening to this!” And she spun the tuning knob until she found some staticky music. A few people who clearly hadn’t yet understood where the story was going looked disappointed, but soon got up to dance. I went to join them, my arms lifting, spinning in a slow circle. I had some thanks to express. Surely among my incredibly mixed feelings I could find some thanks? Appeal there was no problem with. A really, really big appeal.
Strength, Lord? Give me strength to see this through!

By the time everyone got fed up with the ghastly racket and Rebecca put the radio away again, I’d danced into stillness and stood by the window, feeling eased and uplifted, as I usually did after that mode of prayer, but...
Bane, I miss you so much
…

Pushing away painfully happy memories, I fetched my ‘art case’ and began to type. If I wanted two weeks to polish and edit, with all the necessary re-typing, then I had just two weeks to finish it. I’d no time to waste.

That night, I lay on my back, staring up into the darkness. Jon had lain awake for some time, clearly almost as troubled by the competition result as I was. But he slept at last, his breathing deep and even beside me.

The thirtieth of April. The result wasn’t the only reason I’d been dreading this day. Time to try the Act of Acceptance again.
No
. Not time to
try
it. Time to make up my mind to do it or not do it. And if to do it, then to simply… do it.

I just sort of contemplated the prayer for some time. I wasn’t being paranoid now—
if only
—the fear had become all too rational. But unless I actually meant to chicken out and not send the manuscript in, the worst might happen whether I said the prayer or not.

In a strange way that actually made it easier. I no longer felt I’d risk inviting it because I’d already done that, in every word and line and paragraph of my book.

My terror was still there, undiminished. Grown. An appalling monster of fear, much larger than Bane’s dragon. Would I
really
send it in?
Could
I?