Echoes of Us (29 page)

She spoke softly, but steadily. “Because it was the right thing to do. It’s been too long, Addie. And I kept telling you—things were going to explode. The hybrids were going to take the brunt of the damage. You must see that. And Jenson is dangerous. By delaying this footage, you were giving him more time to plan—to come up with some scheme that would leave you with no cards, instead of one.”

“We have no cards now,” Addie cried. “Jaime—”

“He wasn’t going to give you Jaime,” Marion said. “Please, Addie, I know it’s hard to accept, but this—”

Addie squeezed our hands into fists. Never in our life had she been prone to violence, but I felt the whirl of it in our blood. “This wasn’t your choice to make!”

“Was it yours?” Marion said.

I wanted to scream at her. Force that calm from her face. Make her understand the horror of what she’d just done, because she didn’t—she didn’t understand—

“Addie,” Dr. Lyanne said softly. She took us by the arm. We hadn’t even noticed her approach.

Addie tried to speak—started to explain—but one look at Dr. Lyanne’s face, and we knew it wasn’t necessary.

Dr. Lyanne had, in some ways, left Nornand because of Jaime Cortae. Had begun to doubt the rules and treatments for hybrids because of him. Had stolen him away to safety, then had him stolen back from her.

“Come away, Addie.” Dr. Lyanne’s fingers tightened around our arm, the only betrayal of her feelings. Her expression was granite sharp.

She pulled us away from Marion, who was still seated, cold sunlight shining on her stark features.

“It was the right thing to do,” Marion called after us. “You just care too much for this boy to see it.”

We trembled, but we did not turn around. Did not reply.

The broadcast shattered everything. I’d known Jenson had built himself up as a hero and protector in the public’s eyes, but I’d underestimated just how well he’d inserted himself into the country’s heart. Mark Jenson; his plans; his cure—they’d comforted a country in desperate need of comfort and assurance.

Now all that was destroyed, right as the new administration was taking its first, wobbling steps. I thought of what Jenson had said that day on the café terrace. How we were playing with a fire we didn’t know how to control. Just because we hated him—just because he was so wrong about so many things—didn’t mean he was wrong about everything.

Jenson was ripped from his pedestal. That much was certain. The new president publicly condemned him. Everyone, it seemed, scrambled to distance themselves as much as possible from him and his fall, fearing for their own reputations in this tumultuous time.

But what now? That was the question on everyone’s lips. Jenson was gone, and whatever plan the government had to blame the old president’s death on hybrids was shaken—possibly never to recover.

But what would the administration do next? What would
we
do next? As much as Addie and I wanted to just sink into our fury at Marion, we both knew it was a waste of time. Anger could not change the unchangeable. We would have to act.

But this time, the first move wasn’t to be ours.

President Loyde announced a speech to be given at the Capitol mall. One open to the public, and broadcasted live to the country. He promised to address the nation’s fears and concerns. To finally clear up the confusion and controversy surrounding the old president’s passing. To show us that there was no reason to give up hope. That though Jenson had proven to be corrupt, it didn’t mean all his programs were bunk as well.

He promised to show us, in person, the boy who had been cured, and who represented the future.

“I
want to be there.”

Addie and I said it again and again over the next few days. To our parents. To Ryan, and Lissa, and Jackson, and Dr. Lyanne. To Marion, we said it only once.

She was the only one who didn’t argue against the idea. Who said she might be able to get Addie and me identification saying we were her intern, or something, and get us into the press area nearest the podium. We’d have to be disguised, of course. But like when we’d hidden in plain sight at Hahns, the press corps was the last place anyone would think to search for us.

It would still be dangerous. Our parents attempted to convince us that while
someone
ought to be at the mall for the speech, it didn’t have to be
us
. But the suggestion withered as they realized we’d never accept that. Realized, too, perhaps, that Addie and I were beyond their control now.

Ryan and Lissa tried to convince us not to go alone, but we all knew that a gathering like this, when tensions were so high, was the last place for anyone who could be misconstrued as foreign, or other. If it wasn’t safe for Addie and me, it was ridiculously dangerous for both of them.

“I have to see him,” Addie said to Jackson and Dr. Lyanne. “Who knows when we’re going to get another chance to be this close? To—to possibly learn something that might help a rescue later? I know I won’t be able to do anything—I won’t
try
to do anything. But I want to see him, and not just on TV.”

And I want him to see us.

That was the unspoken second part. We hoped, even with the disguise and the distance, Jaime might look and recognize us, so he’d know we hadn’t abandoned him. We were still coming for him, even if it took a little longer.

We arrived at the mall just after nine, about an hour before the speech was supposed to begin. The crowd was already enormous. People thronged the security lines, and beyond that, the mall itself. Everyone was eager to see, and hear, and know. I understood the need.

People were waiting to be told what the future would bring. What they were supposed to be doing. What effect these past few months would have on their lives, and their country.

“Stay close,” Marion whispered to us. Her eyes met ours, but only for a moment. Ours was an uneasy understanding, an even more uneasy peace. Marion had worked quickly, getting us the promised ID, making sure we had a credible backstory in case anyone asked, and telling us how the setup for the speech was expected to go. Perhaps she was trying to make quiet amends, or show us she’d always been on our side.

The security check for the press corps had happened before we ever reached the Capitol mall. Our heart had pounded as we went through, certain the security guard would recognize us. But he didn’t, just waved a metal detector over our body and motioned us through when he saw we weren’t carrying any bags or purses.

The rest of the press corps jostled around us, checking cameras and video cameras and microphones. Their badges glinted in the morning light. No one paid Addie and me the least bit of attention. According to our ID, we were Dana Stevens, intern. Security hadn’t allowed us to wear a hat, but the short, dark-colored wig made us into a different person.

The area around the podium was still empty, the president not yet due to arrive. Addie glanced behind us, to the rest of the crowd. Restless, aimless energy poured from them, some talking to one another, others staring straight ahead, or up at one of the giant screens situated around the mall. The screens were black for now, but I could imagine the new president’s face towering over us.

He must realize how tenuous his new position was. Was he frightened of this mob of expectant people?

Then Addie whispered

The small group moving toward the podium consisted mostly, it seemed, of security. We couldn’t even see the president at first. Some of the guards split off from the main group, situating themselves at intervals from the podium.

The crowd quieted, little by little. A few clapped. Then the clapping grew, and spread, and became a roar that reverberated in our chest.

“Thank you, and good morning,” the president said. He smiled a little. Not too widely, but not too hesitantly, either. His suit was gray, the material textured and heavy. He looked, I thought, much the same as he’d looked when he was vice president. More like an elderly college professor than the head of the state.

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. He talked about the tragedy that was his predecessor’s passing. The decades he had served the country. The good he had done for it. The years they had known each other, and the kindness and fortitude of heart he knew the man had possessed. He didn’t, despite his promise, say what had caused the ex-president’s death. Perhaps he meant to address it later. Much of the crowd, I was sure, was waiting for an explanation.

The only words Addie and I waited for were Jaime’s name.

And then, finally—finally—we heard it.

Jaime Cortae
.

It was mixed in with something about hybrids and the cure and the future of the country. About how Jaime was proof of—of something. We heard it mostly as a buzz of sound, because Jaime was walking toward the podium.

He moved better than we’d ever seen. There was only the smallest hint of a limp—none of the sailboatlike swaying he’d suffered from back at Nornand, when we’d first met. Someone had cut his hair, tamed the mess of brown curls. Maybe it was our imagination, but he looked different. Taller. It had been months since we’d last seen him by the side of that highway.

Addie whispered.

We weren’t the only ones staring at Jaime. Every screen had cut to his face, blown it up so it towered over the mall, copy upon copy. His eyes looked glazed. His hands were shaking. Nerves, anyone else might think. But we knew Jaime. Knew the damage the surgery had done to his body.

I was so enraptured that when Addie said

I didn’t react at first. It wasn’t until she called my name the second time that I heard the frightened urgency in it. Snapped back to the here and now.

And realized what she’d noticed out of the corners of our eyes.

Two men had appeared at the edge of the crowd. One stared at Jaime. We’d seen them before—there was something
wrong
about them, something that made our stomach clench, our blood roar.

I said, the realization a wrecking ball.

It was all I had time to say. The first man rushed forward. His hand was buried in the inside pocket of his coat—

“Jaime!” we screamed.

His head snapped toward us.

We ran. Rammed through the reporters separating us. Sent video cameras crashing to the ground.

The security guards had seen the man. They made for him, too—but Addie and I were closer. Reached the man first.

Together, we tumbled to the ground. The gun clattered against the pavement.

The guards were on us in a moment. Arms ripped us away from the man. Forced us still. Scooped up the gun. Someone jabbered into a radio.

“Jaime,” we said breathlessly. “Where’s Jaime?”

Then we saw him. He’d frozen halfway to the podium. A guard was headed for him, but he darted away. Ran for us. We tried to grab him, and when we couldn’t, he grabbed on to us instead.

He was breathless, but he smiled so wide, and for a moment, all else was overwhelmed by the joy of having him here in front of us. Of knowing he was all right.

Then the rest of the world came crashing back.

W
e froze.

The cameras had caught everything. Blown it up larger than life and multiplied it across the mall, on screen after screen.

The two men who’d tried to attack Jaime proved volatile prisoners. They shouted and twisted. It took several guards each to subdue them.

Addie kept saying.

A handful of seconds lasted forever. And in that eternity, Addie and I made eye contact with the president of the Americas. With the man who now led our country.

Then a guard grabbed Jaime by the arm. Another two took hold of us. Between them, they pulled us from the mall, out of the blinding sunlight, and into the darkness of a waiting van.

Things happened very quickly. Then very slowly.

The drive. The hustle into what seemed to be part of the Capitol building—we saw too little of the exterior to be sure. The march through the lush hallway. The search for weapons and recording devices.

Then—and now we did protest—they took Jaime away again.

That was the fast part. The slow part consisted of Addie and me getting locked into a small sitting room, the door shutting in our face and remaining shut no matter how we pounded or shouted.

Eventually, we gave up. We didn’t doubt we were being watched.

The very design of the room spoke of wealth, stateliness, and tradition. The carpet was thick, the chairs heavy, polished wood. An oil painting of some battle I was sure was meant to be the initial Revolution against the hybrids hung on the wall.

We sat down on one of the chairs. Stared at the painting. The walls. The door.

I said. It was the only explanation I could think of for his men’s actions today.

Addie gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

In the end, Jenson was as irrational and human as anyone.

We sat in that luxurious room, waiting.

Time passed. An hour? More?

Then the door opened again, and the president stepped inside.

I was so shocked I almost fell off the chair.

He looked older in person. He studied us as we studied him. He’d shut the door behind him, so we appeared to be alone, but I didn’t trust that. There were certainly cameras in here, watching everything. The guards posted outside would be listening, too.

“Addie, isn’t it?” he said. “Addie Tamsyn.”

Here was the voice I’d been hearing on the television and the radio my entire life, addressing me directly.

Only, he wasn’t addressing me.