Elected (The Elected Series Book 1) (15 page)

It seems every time we assemble now—every time we have a town hall—it erupts in violence. I cringe at the thought that our society is taking steps backward. Back to when we relied on technology to kill and maim each other.

“Calm down!” I shout. “This is folly! You’re fighting against your own people! There are so few of us left!”

They don’t hear me. There’s chaos as the guards try to hold people back, but the group at large is pressing in on the Technology Faction. They’ll crush them, I think. The protestors will be suffocated with the guards stuck right in the middle, about to be trampled. I can’t believe it’s come to this. A full-out riot.

“Stop!” I yell. “Stop right now!”

There’s another dull thud, something thick hitting a hard object. I can’t tell where it originated until I see a fist rising up amidst the crowd to hit another man in the back of his skull.

Now Vienne is yelling too. “Peace! Please, peace!” she shouts, but to no avail. So close to her, I’m the only one who has a chance of making out her words.

I see a circular orange object crashing toward the stage from the circle of technologists. The pumpkin hits a chair to my right. It splatters into four squishy sections, sending seeds flying. But it’s not just a pumpkin. The squishy masses have shards of metal sticking out from them. I only have a few seconds to analyze what the pumpkin holds before more objects come flying from within the Technologists’ circle. An apple hits me in the arm, hard, something sharp digging its way into my biceps. I’m cut, but worse, it’s hit my upper biceps, colliding with the burnt flesh still healing from the marriage binding.

I yell backward again, warning Vienne to get down. I hold my arm, watching the Technologists closely to make sure nothing else is coming toward us. But there’s no way to stop the onslaught now.

At once ten arms go up from the Faction’s circle, and each holds a bunch of apples. All of the apples glint with bits of metal sticking out of their skin.

Before the surrounding guards can stop the Technologists, the apples are thrown with full force all at once on a single, coordinated command. They hit the stage with a multitude of thwacks. Some of the shards of metal stay attached to the fruit, but others fling outward once the apples hit the stage. None have hit me, and I stare back at once to show the group we’re unhurt.

But we’re not. Someone on stage has indeed been hurt. And it’s the worst possible person.

Vienne.

17

She stumbled backward, away from the onslaught of apples and tumbled off the raised stage. I hear a sickening yell, primal and wounded. It’s my own voice as I run to Vienne. She lies still on the ground, her left arm sticking out grotesquely in an awkward position from her shoulder.

Griffin is already next to Vienne, having left the metal worker in the care of the other guard on stage. A few other people surround Vienne too, trying to revive her. I scream again, calling her name. She’s been hit in the head and the shoulder. Already a large welt is bulging on her forehead. She’s knocked out cold, but at least she’s breathing, her chest rising and falling in even swells.

Tomlin rushes over with a glass of cold water. A doctor runs forward too, holding something fragrant, lemon rind, I think, under Vienne’s nose. I don’t even know what’s going on offstage right now. All I can focus on is Vienne. The doctor turns her shoulder sharply in its socket. I hear bone and cartilage grind together, and the sound hurts my teeth. Vienne’s shoulder clicks back into place, and the action revives her. She yells out in pain.

Griffin holds one hand on my shoulder to steady me and puts his other hand on Vienne’s perspiring cheek.

“She’s going to be okay, Aloy.” He doesn’t bother using my official name. I don’t care. I just nod at him, unable to take my eyes off Vienne’s face.

“She’s going to be okay,” he says again. Maybe he’s trying to reassure himself. His eyes are stricken, round and wide in his face. It looks like he was the one who was hit, his cheeks are so red. Vienne going down, under his watch, is like a knife in his side, I realize.

I finally look into the crowd. Everyone is quiet, watching us with open mouths. They’re all transfixed on Vienne, scared for her too. Even the Technology Faction is subdued. Nothing is being thrown anymore. All fist-fighting has ceased.

I’m not sure how to proceed. I don’t know how to punish all of the Technologists who’ve thrown objects. East Country has never convicted more than one person at a time before. Mass execution is unthinkable. I turn to the guards. “Please take this man away,” I say, gesturing to the metal worker. At least I know how to deal with the squirming man who’s the one person still trying to get out of the guards’ hold to attack me.

Vienne sits up in the dirt, groaning with the effort, and whispers close to me. “Did your arm hurt?” I think she’s asking about the apple hitting my biceps, but then I wonder if she believes the superstition about feeling your true love’s pain on the brand. My thoughts turn to my throbbing arm. In the middle of all this chaos is Vienne asking if we’re true loves? Or does she just want to know if I’ve been hurt by a thrown object too?

I decide to go with the simplest answer possible to ease her tensions. “Yes, it hurts, but I’m fine.”

She leans in again, whispering in my ear. I listen for a moment and shake my head at her in disagreement. Like me, she’s thinking what to do with all of the people who threw the grotesque fruit.

“It’s the only way,” she pleads. “And you said you’d listen to me.” I look at my new wife, lying on the ground beside me. She’s the one who’s been really hurt, and yet she’s able to so quickly forgive.

I reluctantly heed her advice. I shout toward the Technology Faction, trying to make my voice sound calm. “I would like to throw the lot of you into prison, however Madame Elected has asked me to show mercy on this day after our wedding. This is not the correct way to demonstrate your dissent, but I’ll host you in the White House to talk through your vision. Nothing good can come from violence. Instead, your words will be heard.”

One man from the mob speaks for the group, his voice also tempered. “Thank you, Elected. We’ll take you up on that offer. We have much to say to you. Much to suggest. Much technology to start producing.” He pauses, seemingly embarrassed. “We’re sorry Madame Elected was hit. She wasn’t our intended target. We’ll pay whatever penance you deem appropriate.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, not having decided yet what penance I’ll dispense to the people who obviously aimed their weapons at me. “Please disperse now.”

I motion for the crowd to leave, keeping the Technology Faction within the circle of guards as people exit the Ellipse. Once the rest of the people are gone, the guards escort the Technologists out. For so long, these people kept hidden. Now the Technologists are so bold and so defiant of me, they feel they can unearth themselves. I can almost feel my power and influence waning, like they’re tangible things that can be wrestled out of my hands.

Griffin, Tomlin, Vienne, a small group of guards, and I are left on stage. Besides us, the open air hall is empty. I wipe the back of a hand across my sweating brow.

“I’m sorry,” says Vienne, sitting down heavily on one of the chairs. “Instead of announcing the metal scan in a noncontroversial manner, it seems I made it worse.”

Griffin comes to her defense. “It wasn’t you who made it worse. The Technology Faction obviously had something preplanned no matter what was said.”

Comforting Vienne is my job. I come to stand near her, putting an arm on hers. “Their reaction had nothing to do with you. There are strange happenings across our country right now. People are worried.”

“We need to investigate the nirogene supply as soon as possible,” Tomlin says.

“Yes, today,” I say. “And I want Vienne with me. The people need to see her as a partner by my side. Not as a delicate flower.”

Vienne smiles up at me as I say this. I can tell it’s what she wants even though she’s hurt.

“I’d like to come too,” says Griffin. “If there are indeed weapons stashed on the border, I’ll bring the metal scanners and start the search there.”

“Very well. First Vienne rests, then we’ll set out on horses.”

We wait two hours before Vienne finally convinces us she’s fine. Griffin runs back to the White House to get a third horse for himself and two more for a set of guards. We ride off at a fast canter and, within the next hour, we’re in front of the hills bordering East and Mid countries. I can smell the pungent odor of nirogene being harvested.

Griffin attaches his horse to a rock and starts the metal search, sprinkling chemical in lines across the dirt. Vienne and I walk directly to the mouth of a cavern, determined to talk to the miners. Two men meet us at the cavern entrance, their shovels thrown over their shoulders.

“Quite a display at the town hall today, Electeds,” says one.

“Yes,” says Vienne. “That’s why we’re here.” She shields her eyes from the glaring sun but at the same time covers herself more tightly with her jacket. The days are getting warmer but still there’s a chill in the air.

“I should have come weeks ago,” I say, apologizing for not investigating the nirogene supply as soon as my father and I heard about it. “I just didn’t realize exactly how limited our supply was getting.”

“We’re reaping just as much of the mineral as normal, though,” says the second man.

“Then where do you think it’s going?”

“Beats us. Although, one of our newest harvesters, Camine, insists bottles are disappearing.”

“From where do you think thieves are accessing the supply? The mines or in the chemist’s shops?” Vienne asks.

“Not here,” says the miner quickly. “Definitely not disappearing from the mines. We load buckets of the compound onto wheelbarrows and move them into town over a couple of days. Each wheelbarrow is guarded by two miners. I count them myself before they leave the hills.”

“So you think the chemists are the thieves?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that exactly. It’s a mystery where the bottles are going.”

“Can we speak to Camine?” asks Vienne.

The second man goes to fetch Camine, who returns in a few minutes, holding his lunch in one hand. He’s all of fifteen years old.

“Am I in trouble?” he asks, looking up at me with a mixture of anxiety and sun in his eyes.

“No, but I have some questions for you. Were you working here the day Imogene visited the hills? Did you see her?”

“Yeah, it was odd she was here,” he says. “We usually deliver the chemical straight to her in town, but she said she was here to see the supply firsthand.”

“So she was investigating it too?” asks Vienne. “Or she was stealing it herself.”

“Don’t know. She was acting kinda weird.”

I think back to my last day with her. Those phrases dripping out of her mouth like acid. The blurry look in her eyes. She must’ve used the helmet for a long time before she was discovered.

“She said things were falling from the sky,” says the boy, lifting his hand to shadow his eyes from the sun.

“Have you seen things fall from the sky?” Vienne asks.

“Ummm... no. I’d have told someone about that, for sure. But, it would sort of explain where the pellets come from,” Camine says, cautious with his response.

“Pellets? What do you mean?” asks the head miner, all of a sudden interested.

“I mean, these little pellet things.” He cups his hands into a small circle. “I’ve never seen them fall from the sky. But sometimes when I get here in the morning for the early shift, I find a couple lying around.”

As if on cue, I see Griffin running back toward us. “The ground,” he calls out. “It’s turned orange!”

I follow where he points and reach the orange dirt mound first and start kicking up the dirt stained with chemical. Griffin’s metal scan has done its job, turning the dirt a reddish-orange color where metal’s been found. The scan turned up four separate mounds. From a distance they look like large anthills, but upon closer inspection, they’re lumpy, odd in their puffiness like each mound has pimples.

Griffin and I work to dislodge the dirt and, after a second, we see the “pellets” Camine was referring to.

“Is this what you saw before?” I ask him in disbelief.

“Yeah. What are they?” Camine bends down so he’s kneeling in the dirt. He fingers one shiny pellet between his thumb and forefinger.

Having been schooled in history and past warfare techniques, I know right away, but it takes the others a moment to register what the odd metal cylinders are. I fall to my knees in the dirt, pulling out the cylinders handfuls at a time. I just can’t believe how many of them there are.

Vienne breathes out one word as she too realizes. “Bullets.”

18

There are hundreds of them. We scoop them out of the ground in handfuls, depositing them in wheelbarrows.

“What are we going to do with them?” asks Vienne, her hands covered in the chemically ora
nge dirt.

Griffin answers for me. “Melt them down. Just like Aloy’s father did years ago.”

“I don’t know how these got left out,” I say, incredulous.

We send the miners all back to their work. Last thing we need are a few bullets straying into their hands as souvenirs. This thought worries me—I’m starting to distrust my people. I shake the notion from my head, intent on clearing out the ground of these vile cylinders as fast as possible.

“Can you imagine if Imogene had found these and loaded her gun?” asks Vienne.

No, I don’t want to imagine. I roll one of the cylinders in between two of my fingers, pushing it back and forth across my palm, thinking fast.

“These are different than the ones my father melted,” I say into the air.

“What do you mean ‘different’?” Griffin asks.

“I’ve seen sketches of the old bullets. These are more circular, little ovals with a stamp in their side. I peer closer at the pellets to see the stamp. It’s a ship cresting over a series of waves. This is strange too, as ships were also eradicated years ago.

Ships, of course, make me think of my brother.

“They’re newly made?” asks Vienne, pulling me away from my thoughts of Evan.

“Yes, I think so.” The metal isn’t corroded at all. See how shiny it is?”

“You think our people have the capability to construct these?” asks Griffin.

“No, we don’t have the technology. I’m sure of it. Our people didn’t make these. These came from somewhere else.”

“Someone is hoarding them here. Getting ready for an ambush?” asks Vienne, a few bullets in her palm.

“Maybe,” I say.

“If it’s for an ambush,” asks Vienne, “why now? We’ve maintained peace with the surrounding countries for so long. Why would they start a war with us now?”

“Maybe their resources are waning,” I say. “Maybe they’re desperate. That was how war started before. When the resources were so thin countries started stealing from one another via unmanned airrides.”

Griffin picks up the metal scanner and begins sprinkling more chemical in outward circles. “I’ll do a more extensive scan right now. And I’ll come back later with a larger force. We’ll scan up and down the hills.”

“Yes,” I agree. My head is lost in thoughts of Mid and West Countries arming themselves against us, intent on stealing our resources. We’ll have to take some kind of defensive action, but I just don’t know what yet.

We load three wheelbarrows full of bullets onto carts attached to our horses. We’ll melt these down tonight. First I’ll remove the gunpowder from the casings, as my textbooks instructed. Then the metal workers can heat the ovens to melt the gold shells.

The question is what I’ll do with all the gunpowder. Where I’ll put it. Later that afternoon when I’ve personally escorted the bullets to one of the metal worker’s huts, I ask Tomlin to meet me and dispense his advice.

“I’d sprinkle the powder around. There will be so little in any area, it can’t be swept up and collected,” he says.

I nod, and Tomlin wordlessly helps me crack the casings and deposit the gunpowder in crude sandy piles. He scoops up a few heaps and starts sprinkling them outside. Tomlin does this methodically, distributing the gunpowder little by little as I continue to open the shells.

We’re almost done as the burning ovens reach the required temperature. I think of all the firewood being wasted to fuel this huge bonfire. We could have used this wood in so many better ways.

The moon is high in the sky by the time we’re loading all of the shells into the fire. My face is red from the effort and the heat. Tomlin stands beside me, scooping shovel after shovel into the fire. A metal worker churns the fire with a poker, turning over the wood, while I stir the shells inside the oven.

I watch as the flames lick and eat the golden metal. The fire is so hot, it’s blue. It’s mesmerizing to watch, and finally Tomlin taps me on the shoulder to indicate we’re done. I turn, bright spots dancing in my vision from staring into the flames so long.

“It’s finished. We can go home,” he says.

I nod, wanting desperately to crawl into bed after today’s riot and the ensuing treasure hunt at the hills.

As we walk back through town to the White House, I fill in Tomlin on our guesses regarding the bullets’ origins.

“Very troubling,” he says with a hand at his brow. “If Mid Country is planning an ambush, it’s unprovoked to be sure.”

“Unless...” I stop in my tracks. “Unless my parents incited it. Arrived there and made them mad?”

“Couldn’t be,” says Tomlin. “Your parents would die before causing trouble for East Country. And the timeline would be off. Imogene was investigating the nirogene supply at the hills long before your parents left.”

“True. So now we have Mid Country dropping off bullets in the hills, my parents’ whereabouts possibly adding to the tension with Mid, and a nirogene supply being stolen from somewhere inside our own country. I’m going to have to take some decisive action soon, don’t you think? To ensure that we won’t be defenseless?” We both grow silent, mixing these problems around in our heads to try to make sense of them.

As we near the house, I look up at the moon, round in the sky, and think of Vienne. She’ll be in her quarters now, and that’s where I’ll be heading too. To sleep next to her, in her warm embrace. I remember what else I’ve been meaning to ask Tomlin.

“What happened to Vienne’s parents?”

“Her parents?” He doesn’t look directly at me.

“There aren’t any graves for them.”

Tomlin puts a hand to his chin, taking a moment before speaking. “I specifically picked a child who didn’t have parents. Your father and I thought it would be easier choosing someone... unencumbered. Someone whose parents wouldn’t ask questions about you.”

I nod. “Okay, but what happened to them? Why aren’t there graves? Even if they just left and never came back, we’d have put in headstones for them. Like we’ve done with my parents.”

Tomlin stops outside of the doors to the White House.

“You’re very astute, Elected. You were always my brightest student. You pick up on things no one else does.” He stops for a moment and looks up at the sky, worried. I prompt him.

“What is it? Where did she come from?”

“Vienne... well... we don’t know what happened to her parents. They...” He stops again, swallowing hard. “I found her near the hills when she was about three years old. Wandering along the border. No one was with her. She doesn’t even know.”

“Know what... exactly?” I’m already worried about the answer I think is on the tip of Tomlin’s tongue.

“She came from Mid Country.”