Possession (2 page)

The olive branch is the symbol of good. It signals our allegiance to the Association of Directors. More like Association of Dictators, if you want my honest opinion. But no one does.

“So now you’ve seen the Southern Rim,” the pilot said. “Was it everything you expected?”

I didn’t know how to answer, so I kept my mouth shut—a first for me. That was the Southern Rim? No magic, no golden pathways, no perfect escape from my sucky life. The wall now towered in front of me, closing off any thought of freedom.

The hovercopter hung in midair as a door slid open in the wall. Darkness concealed whatever waited inside. And what would I find on the other side? Could I come back? Maybe I would never see Zenn again. My mouth felt too dry.

“We’re going in there?” I asked.

“After I process your file,” the pilot said. He made a note on a small screen. A long list popped up.

“I’ve cited you before,” he said, smiling slowly. I remembered the last time: I’d left the City of Water after dark, crossed through the crops growing in the Centrals, and tried to enter the Southern Rim. I’d dressed up real nice in a fancy white dress and old platform shoes—which
were the reason I’d been caught. No one can run in shoes like that.

I endured six rounds of questioning until I admitted I’d stolen the shoes from the basement of a house in the Abandoned Area—another off-limits place—another violation of the rules. Wearing contraband (which I didn’t know about at the time) from an illegal area, trying to enter another forbidden district, and then there was all that nasty business about lying. Like it’s the worst thing on the planet or something.

You see, Goodies don’t lie. Ever. Honesty is sort of bred into us, but somehow mine got out-bred. Maybe when I stopped listening to the transmissions. Or maybe because I just don’t give a damn.

And I’m a good liar, but that’s all been properly documented in my file, which the pilot was now reading with interest. “Mm-hmm,” he said. “A liar, a thief, and now the Green wants you. It’s no small wonder, Vi.”

I absolutely hate it when strangers use my nickname like we’re old friends. I ignored him as he eased the hovercopter closer to the wall. A red beam scanned the rose on the bottom and a signal flashed. The pilot steered into a long tunnel with black walls, hardly a wall and more like a building. As we careened through it, panic spread through me—something I hadn’t felt since learning Zenn would be leaving me behind
to join the Special Forces. I wished he’d given me my birthday present before the stupid pilot arrested me.

When we finally cleared the tunnel, I gasped at the view below me.

A second city loomed behind that wall—an entire city.

People swarmed in the streets. Silver instruments and shiny gadgets winked up at me from the vast expanse below. My stomach clenched painfully, and I forced myself to keep breathing so I wouldn’t faint.

The fierceness of the advanced tech burned in my brain. I can
feel
technology, I’ve always been able to. And this whole new part of the Goodgrounds produced some serious tech buzz. My head felt like it was in a particle accelerator set on high.

“So here we are,” the pilot said. “The Institute—the birthplace of tech.”

No wonder I felt like throwing up.

Everyone knows prisons have row after row of identical cells where the good-turned-bad live with concrete beds, toilets in the corners, and no projections to pass the time. Mechs escort rule-breakers to meals, and criminals are only allowed outside at certain times. I’d seen all this in school.
Be good, or we’ll put you in here.

But prison wasn’t anything like what I’d learned in class. A silver floor stretched into stark, white walls that glared down at me as I followed a wheeled Mech through a door labeled
WARD A
.

I stopped just inside the entryway, staring down the hall. Numbered doors hid the cells beyond, but I didn’t detect any hint of puke. This was far better than Lock Up. In there,
it’s everyone for himself. Or herself. Girls don’t normally get put in Lock Up, but I’d been there four times. The rules are really stupid. Like it matters if I don’t lock my window at night. Who’s going to come in? It’s against the rules to be out after dark.

I had to wait for a hearing. Mechs took me to the bathroom and back. (No toilet in the corner—I’d hit the big time.) They brought me packets of food that I mixed with bottled water, which tasted funny. Metallic, almost. Tech-cleaned. One wall projected the scenery outside, and I wondered if the weather was accurate.

My mother wouldn’t come. She’d been notified, but I knew she didn’t care. The Southern Rim was a long trip for a daughter she didn’t want. I’d broken the rules one time too many the first time. She could have at least sent an e-comm. Even Zenn—trapped in the den of Special Forces agents—did that.

His message was short, only a few lines about how he couldn’t get away for the trial, how he was trying to get me out of prison. But he’d signed it
Love, Zenn
and those two words provided all I needed to endure prison and whatever it held.

I don’t remember time passing. It was just gone. Finally, I followed a shiny Mech down a wide hall, my heart beating furiously fast. Mechanical whirrings from its wheels scratched
against the polished steel floor. The only other noise came from a motionless Mech in the middle of the hall. The oily smell of burning gears filled my nose as the beeps became one constant alarm.

Two guards emerged from the room at the end of the hall. Their gray uniforms almost blended into the surrounding walls. I twisted to watch them deactivate the malfunctioning robot by reaching under the chest cavity. So that’s how—

My Mech tugged at my collar, forcing me to turn around. It had rolled out of line and stopped in front of a door. Another robot-guard already waited there, and next to it stood a guy who made my every sense pause.

His sun-stained skin gave everything away. He was bad.

He wore the uniform of someone who’d been in prison for a while. A name had even been sewn on the shoulder:
Barque
. He couldn’t be much older than me and stood almost as tall as the six-foot Mech, completely relaxed. Maybe he knew something I didn’t.

He looked at me and grinned like we were going to a fabulous party together. Alarm spread through me when my mouth curved up in response. Raising his tech-cuffed hands to his spiky black hair, he tapped his head. “Nice hair,” he mouthed to me. One glance from his Mech, and he dropped his suntanned hands and stared forward again.

The shiny metallic doors widened, ready to devour me whole.

“Violet Schoenfeld,” a voice boomed. “Jag Barque. Come forward.”

The name of the bad boy echoed in my head. What kind of name was Jag Barque? I’d heard stories about how sometimes the Baddies got to name themselves. Surely this Jag guy was one of them. Who would torture their kid with a name like his?

The Mech swiveled forward and stopped at a table as tall as its canister-chest. It opened a briefcase, pulled out a black cord, and plugged it into the podium. The briefcase rotated and the top half flopped back, revealing a touch screen. My picture filled the wall in front of me. My name ran along the bottom, followed by a list of my offenses.
Crossed a border. Illegal electro-comm. Broken curfew. In the park after dark, with a male. Resisted arrest.

My jaw tightened. I’d climbed that damn ladder to the hovercopter, swaying in the gusting wind. It was a miracle I hadn’t fallen to my death. Now I was being accused of resisting arrest. As if all the other offenses weren’t enough. What a joke.

It took everything I had to keep my mouth shut. This was court. My Mech representative would speak for me, unless someone asked me a direct question.

A man sat high up in the middle of a long row of seats, a
glossy black counter in front of him. He rested his arms on it and stared down at me with a look. The
don’t-mess-with-me
kind. I hated him immediately.

Projection screens filled the wall behind him, and he kept glancing down at something. Probably another list of my broken rules.

Next to me, Jag’s Mech-rep lifted a significantly bigger briefcase and plugged two feeds into the silver podium. Jag’s picture appeared next to mine. His jaw was strong and square, in contrast to my rounder features. His skin was colored by the sun, while mine remained pale as eggshells. Our hair was practically identical, and my stupid lips curled up again. He had wicked hair too.

Several more projection screens lit up with pictures of Jag, each different. In one, his hair had the black all washed out. His white smile and bleached hair clashed with his brown skin. For some reason, he laughed beside me.

The Greenie in front of us frowned. Another of Jag’s pictures showed him with his hair all shaved off. What little remained looked brown, and I wondered if that was his natural color. His shirt was open at the throat, the short sleeves exposing his bare arms. His blueberry eyes sparkled like he’d heard something funny.

My traitor mouth betrayed me again.

“Something amusing, Miss Schoenfeld?” the Greenie asked.

While I tried to straighten my lips out, Jag chuckled again. The quiet sound echoed off the high walls of the courtroom. My Mech-rep looked at me. “Answer him.”

“No, sir,” I choked out. Another picture revealed Jag passing out phones to Goodies, easily recognized by their umbrella hats and long sleeves. And then I knew. Jag was from the Badlands, and he’d been caught here, distributing illegal tech.

But . . . why was he at my hearing?

“Let’s get on with it,” the Greenie said. “Full council convening in thirty seconds. Mech-749? Your recommendation?”

Mech-749 had obviously been assigned to me, because it spoke. “Removal, your Instituteness.”

“Mech-512?” the Greenie asked Jag’s Mech-rep.

“Unrehabilitational, your Most High Institute.”

“Not worth the time?”

“No, sir,” both Mechs said together.

I had no idea I’d have to learn lame Mech-language to understand the conversation, but the man up front didn’t seem confused. I seriously needed to scratch my arm, but my hands were bound in tech cuffs, which sent a shiver of current through my bones.

A door behind the “Most High Institute” opened. Ten green-robed men walked in. They moved behind the MHI and settled into seats on his right. Ten women entered through a different door—decked out in the same green Institute robes—and took the seats on the left.

Yikes, twenty-one Greenies in one room. Whoever this Jag Barque guy was, he was in deep.

In unison, they looked at built-in projection screens on the counter, the glow illuminating their faces.

“Violet Schoenfeld?” they asked in chorus, like they’d rehearsed it a dozen times before.

Then I knew.
I
was the one who was in deep.

“Miss Schoenfeld,” the middle Greenie said. “Do you have anything to say?”

I looked at Mech-749. Did I have anything to say? What kind of stupid question was that?

“Not really,” I said. “I was just walking in the park with a friend.”

“A boy,” a woman said, leaning forward.

“Yeah.” I looked at her. “Zenn’s my match.” Surely being with Zenn wasn’t against the rules.

“This is the”—the middle Greenie glanced at his p-screen—“seventh time you’ve been apprehended.”

I counted quickly in my mind. Eighth, actually, but I wasn’t
going to bring it up. My first crime happened before I’d turned twelve and wouldn’t be on my Official Record. Not sure if I was supposed to speak or not, I opted for not.

“Violet, you are aware that many on this council find you unrehabilitatable.”

“That’s a long word,” I said, which roused a low chuckle from Jag.

The Greenie creased his eyebrows and scowled at the counter. He typed something that couldn’t be good for my case. “It means that you no longer fit in the Goodgrounds.” He spoke each word with care, so softly the sound didn’t echo in the courtroom. It took several seconds for them to sink in.

I glanced down the row of Greenies, trying to decipher their cold glares and tight lips. “What?”

“When did you stop plugging into the transmissions?” A bald man at the end of the row leaned forward and stared at me, unblinking.

“I plug in,” I lied. Another projection screen jumped to life. Not sure what all the red lines meant, I tried to calm my heart and breathe normally.

He smiled like an indulgent parent does when they catch their child eating a chocolate TravelTreat. “Not for a year, I believe.”

“Check the records,” I challenged. “My comm is linked in every night. Mandatory eight hours.”

All twenty-one Greenies touched their p-screens and clicks echoed through the ridiculously huge hall.

“She’s right,” a woman said. Her voice was low and her eyebrows high. “Still, such a Free Thinker . . .” She made a face like she’d tasted something sour and typed into her notes.

“What happened to your hair?” Another woman fixed her tiny black eyes on me. Her long silver hair lay like a frozen waterfall of tech filaments against her dark skin. She had a large nose with high cheekbones. She looked like a hawk.

“My mother made me cut it,” I lied again.

“Why?”

“She didn’t think I was plugging in either, even when I showed her the printouts.” A projection of the evidence in question replaced my picture on the wall behind the Greenies.

As if. Like I listened to the transmissions. I quit maybe a year ago, maybe longer. I’d figured out how to disconnect my communicator. So technically, I did plug my comm into the transmissions every night. I just wasn’t listening.

After that, I wasn’t in Their control—but I was tired. I didn’t sleep well, living in constant fear that somehow They’d find out. Brainwashed before I could speak, I was terrified of Them. Even now.

“Miss Schoenfeld?” the Hawk prompted.

I glanced at my Mech-rep. “Pay attention. She asked why you had to cut your hair.” The robotic voice did nothing to settle my nerves.

“Umm, my mother used perma-plaster to secure the link in place. It got all caught in my hair.”