Elected (The Elected Series Book 1) (18 page)

23

I don’t even know how to physically do what he’s talking about, but I have to admit the thought has crossed my mind. I want so much to run into his arms and tell him it’s a fantastic idea.

I can’t speak for fear I’ll say yes, so I just shake my head back and forth. It’s all I can manage.

Griffin nods back at me, like he knew I’d say no. Then he turns again and exits through the gate.

Does he know my “no” isn’t my real answer? I want to tell him in other circumstances I’d, of course, want to be with him. But I’ve already told him we cannot act on our feelings together. I’m the Elected now, and I’m married. Any indiscretion I do with Griffin is not only a slight against my country; it’s a betrayal of my wife. Vienne’s having sex with Griffin is different than my being together with him. For her it’s a duty. For me it would be a desire.

I wipe my hand in frustration across my lips and refrain from running after Griffin. I keep myself busy for the rest of the day, trying not to think of the impending evening when Vienne and Griffin will be together. Vienne tells me since I’ve moved into her quarters, she and Griffin will use my old room. I don’t want to be in the house when it’
s happening, and I rack my brain trying to think of what I can do with my time. Something that will erase their images from my mind.

I refrain from having dinner with them, instead sequestering myself in Vienne’s quarters, flipping blindly through her books, trying to find one that will sufficiently pique my interest. And as I root through Vienne’s things, what I will do tonight is suddenly clear. I grab the circular metal object I’d placed into Vienne’s care weeks ago, carefully hiding it in a dark, canvas bag. I pull a tunic with a hood over my head, covering myself so I won’t be recognized. I want to be outside, under the stars and beneath the tree where Griffin’s hand first brushed my face. I know sitting under the tree will be my own unique form of torture, but it’s the place I want to be tonight.

The moon is high but heavy clouds block its light, as well as any glow from the stars. The evening is dark, so my guards don’t even see me sneak out of the front door and across the Ellipse. My escape reminds me of five years ago, when I last snuck out of my own house.

The townspeople are tucked away in their makeshift tents on the lawn or in their houses a mile away. Even the few people who are out roaming the grounds this evening don’t pay me any attention. I gather the bag closer to my chest, afraid to leave it bumping against my side like a normal bundle. I hold it in the crook of my elbow as I find the deep, thick roots of the oak tree. The ground is still warm from today’s heat, and this is fine with me, as the dirt feels pliable and soft against the back of my bare legs.

I know what I’m about to do is dangerous, but right now I don’t care. I realize I vowed not to use the Mind Multiplier again, but I feel like defying something, even if it is just my own decree. I need to know a few things, and this is as good a time as any to find them out. I want to know what’s happened to my parents. And I need to understand if Mid Country is our enemy or not.

I strap on the helmet, connecting the plastic tubes into their various ports. I look around once more just to double check no one can see me within the shadows of the tree. Satisfied I’m truly alone, I switch on the contraption.

Instantly the helmet vibrates against my head, humming with power. I’m struck with an intense feeling of physicality. An image of Vienne and Griffin holding each other close crosses past my eyes with such allure I almost reach out to touch them—pull them apart. The two of them touch each other’s hands, arms, and necks. I see Griffin look at Vienne with tenderness and see her look up at him beneath long, batting eyelashes.

This is not what I wanted to see! I close my eyes and push hard at the thought, thrusting it far back into the recesses of my brain. The strain of the concentration causes my eyes to water, but I’m rewarded with a different picture instead. In fact, there are three images dancing across my brain at the same time. One is Vienne dressing Margareath’s supposedly dead body, Margareath suddenly gasping awake, clutching at Vienne’s blouse. I know that one is true already.

The next picture is one I really want to see. It’s of my parents, alive and well. They’re walking hand-in-hand past a set of fir trees. The lusciousness of their surroundings gives me pause. The ground is shiny, green and fresh. I can almost smell the pine cones. It’s moist where they are. In a forest. A cornucopia of greenery. With waterfalls and ponds. They’re happy. How they’ve found such a paradise is beyond me, but at least they’re safe.

I try to hone in on this particular thought stream, stay with it for a while, figure out where they are, but the third picture burns into my retinas, pushing at the other images, setting fire to the image of my parents like a piece of paper engulfed in flames. The edges of that thought twist and curl up in orange licks. Try as I might to hold on to it, my parents fly off like a piece of ash. So I concentrate on the other image instead—this third one that so badly wants to get in.

I’m glad it’s been persistent; I need to see this one. This image shows me the hills along the border of East and Mid Countries. A dark figure walks cautiously over the top of one of the highest peaks. The figure carries a bucket. At the bottom of the hills on our side of the border he sinks down to his knees, the bucket beside him on the ground. The man begins digging with his hands and then pulls out a small metal object, which gleams in the moonlight.

I look hard to see what the man is holding. It has a small handle with a pointed metal triangle at its base. I prickle as I easily become aware of its name. A shovel. We have these in East Country too. However, this shovel is different. At once it comes to life, vibrating in the man’s hands. The shovel starts moving great masses of dirt, more than a person could dig by oneself. In just a few seconds a large hole is made in the earth. The figure sets down the automated shovel and dumps the contents of the bucket into the hole.

On instinct, I put my hands to my temples, just below the helmet, pushing on my brain, trying to see more. I think I know what is being poured into the hole, but I need to be sure. I make the Multiplier show me the hole’s interior. And, of course, the objects inside are bullets. The man backs up, starting to kick dirt over the hole. He finishes and then looks left and right, suspicious of being seen. Finally, he starts running back up the hill, eager to reach the other side.

That’s when it happens. I hear two sharp cracks in my head. The sounds hurt my brain as they reverberate between my ears. I try to discern if the cracks come from the real world or from the world the Multiplier is showing me. It’s hard to tell, but when I see the man lying on his stomach, I’m instantly watching by his side, looking down at his body. There’s blood leaking from his heart. It pools next to him, and I’m confused why we didn’t find this man weeks ago. His body should be lying out in the open, on our side of the border. He is certainly dead. Our patrols should have found him the second the sun came up, at least.

But then the answer becomes shockingly clear.

An airride whirls into view, silently descending out of nowhere. It lands next to the still body. As I watch dumbfounded, the jet’s doors open and another metal object slides out. It looks like a steel box, but it moves. The box starts its work, sliding over the pooling blood, leaving nothing but dirt in its wake. Then it attaches itself to the figure’s limp body and hefts the man along the ground to the side of the airride. The box is having a hard time, as the body is obviously too heavy for it. The man is crammed inside until the door has room to close. After a moment the aircraft ascends again, disappearing behind the clouds in a matter of seconds. I look down at the ground in front of me, but there are no traces of the man. He and his blood are both gone.

I try to focus, figure out what’s happened, but my head is beginning to hurt. In fact, it pounds; I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. But I keep trying to focus through the constant throbbing. Why would Mid Country send in a man to deposit the bullets but then gun him down and take his body? Is he a rebel, hoarding ammunition to take over his own country? Is he Mid Country’s form of a Technologist?

If Mid Country picked up his body via an airride, they have to be using technology too. So is the man not following orders correctly? Was he punished for depositing the bullets? Or maybe he stole the bullets from Mid Country. And maybe the airride didn’t come from Mid Country at all? Who knows who else is out there?

This is all so confusing. My mind pulses, trying to take it all in, decipher what I’ve just seen through the haze falling over my brain.

And all of a sudden there’s a sharp pink light crashing through my head, like a tidal wave breaking over a beach. Then a yellow light. Like a pulsing jackhammer, the light flashes behind my eyes. I know it’s coming from inside my own head, but I claw at it with vigor. I can’t stop myself from pulling at the skin on my own face. I scratch my nails across my cheeks. I need the light to stop! I’ll go blind! I pull at the sides of the helmet, but suddenly I can’t seem to pry it from my head.

Other images bombard me, coming at rapid speeds. Vienne’s future baby crying. Griffin’s father hosing down one of our horses and then ramming a long arrow into its side, blood gushing from the horse’s guts. Margareath screaming behind the armor glass in the prisoner’s quarters. Imogene breaking the armor glass and running at me with hands at my throat.

I can’t seem to get the images to stop coming. They’re horrible, garish pictures. They don’t even make sense, but the most alarming part is in between the bright flashes of light and these repugnant thoughts, I can’t seem to remember how I’m supposed to get this helmet off my head. I can’t seem to think about anything except for the barrage of pictures floating behind my eyes.

I feel my own hands pulling at the helmet, grasping at the plastic tubes, trying to pry them loose too. But a flash of dark red light crosses over my forehead, moving from right to left. I feel myself slump against the tree, my head falling first. I want to help myself, but it’s like I’m seeing my body from the outside looking in. I can’t do a thing. I just watch myself fall onto my side, the helmet still securely attached to my head.

And then everything goes black.

24

Hands are on my face. At my sides. They’re pulling at me, jostling me. I want to ask them to stop. To tell them they’re hurting me, but I can’t speak. And I can’t see. All I feel is heat beating down on me. I’m so hot. So hot! I reach up, trying to cool myself. But my hands are caught. I hear a voice at my side, deep and vibrating in the recesses of my mind.

“Lie still, Aloy. For God’s sake, stop trying to pull out your own hair!”

It’s Griffin. At his voice, I try even harder to open my eyes. I manage to inch the eyelids apart a bit, but the searing sun threatens to burn them, so I shut my eyes hard again.

“Can you talk, Aloy?” asks Vienne. “Thank goodness you’re all right!”

All right? I’m far from all right.

Vienne is on the opposite side of me, her knees in the dirt to my left. She bends over me, running a hand through my hair and putting a cool, wet cloth on my brow. I try to sit up, positioning a hand in back of myself. It’s hard, but I force myself to balance on my arm and once again try to open my eyes. I see Griffin, Vienne, Tomlin, and four guards all encircling me. I’m sitting on the ground underneath the big oak tree.

“Be careful,” Vienne insists. “I think you bumped your head.”

Bumped my head? I glance around, trying to get my bearings. And then
I remember using the Multiplier and thrash my arms around, feeling for it next to me. When I can’t feel metal under my fingertips, I make myself move my head down even though it causes waves of pain to crash through my brain.

I need to find that helmet! If they know I’ve used it, then I’m just as bad as Imogene. I’ve used technology! I flinch in big awkward spasms.

“What are you looking for, Elected?” Griffin asks, using my formal name now, to jar me back into acting composed.

I look up at him with wide eyes, trying to convey my needs without saying them. But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know the Multiplier even exists, so he can’t decipher my strange actions. Instead, he looks at me with concern.

I scan the ground in front of me and to my sides, but nothing’s there except for the empty canvas bag. It lies dirty and open a few inches away from me. The helmet is nowhere to be found.

I look over at Tomlin, thinking he’s taken it. He’ll wink at me or give me some sign he’s taken care of it. But he just looks at me with worry on his face—his eyes innocent of any knowledge I’ve used the helmet.

Everything feels fuzzy. The images of last night still flash across my brain, but thankfully the bright, earth-shattering colors have dissipated. Griffin and Vienne help me to my feet. They walk me at an exceedingly slow pace back to the house with Tomlin and the guards making a semicircle in back of us.

I spend the rest of the day indoors with either Griffin pacing at my side or Vienne gingerly stepping around, offering me mint tea. I need to be alone to digest the images of last night—the implications of Mid Country arming itself or killing off a defector who was hoarding weapons—the picture of my parents holding hands in a green forest. When the sun is finally setting, Griffin and Vienne make their excuses, mumbling something about eating in the dining room. They leave the room, and I’m alone for the first time all day. I sigh, sitting back on my elbows.

I try to concentrate on the images I can remember, but they’re still just pictures roaming in and out of my consciousness. I can’t seem to grasp them fully. What I need is real information. And so, without thinking further, I stand up and exit the room. I tell the wary guards this time I’m staying within the borders of the estate, so they let me leave without them.

I’m not lying to them. I make my way past the foyer, through the conference room on the first floor, and out toward the kitchen. On my walk, I glance past the open door of the dining room, but I see no one inside. No matter, I think. Griffin and Vienne probably already finished. The good thing is I have at least a few minutes more to myself. They aren’t around to fuss after me or follow me where I’m going next.

I nod at the kitchen staff as I pad through on soft soled shoes. I grab a couple of apples from a satchel and a few sugar cubes from a bowl on the counter. And then I proceed out the side door into the stables. My mind is still foggy, but as I guessed, Griffin’s father, Maran, is the only one in the stables, washing off the horses and grooming them until their coats shine. I’m reminded of the gruesome picture of him piercing one of our horses with a long arrow, but I blink to rid the ridiculous thought from my head.

“Hi,” I say as I walk up behind him.

He turns slowly, a water bucket still in his hands. When he sees me, he doesn’t smile as I expect. I watch as he flinches slightly, like he’s not sure whether to lower the bucket or let its water splash all over me. I furrow my brow for a split second and this seems to snap Maran out of staring. He lowers the bucket to the ground, water sloshing out of the side in a wave.

“Shouldn’t you be inside, Elected?” he asks. “I heard you suffered a nasty fall. Bumped your head.” His words are careful. They are devoid of warmth or comfort, like I’m talking to a different person from the caretaker I’ve known for years.

I absently drag a sugar cube across the bottom of my lip, feeling the course texture, tasting just a hint of the sweetness.

“No, I’m fine,” I say. Then I lift my hand with the food in it. “I brought you an apple. And some sugar cubes for the horses.” I hand him the red fruit and wordlessly walk to the closest horse, offering a treat. I turn back around and see Maran rolling the apple over and over in his hands. I suddenly wonder if he’s upset Vienne and I somehow stole Griffin from him. Since Griffin started living in the White House, he sees his father less. He’s no longer Maran’s veterinary partner. Maybe this accounts for his cool demeanor. I start to say something about it but then decide to leave it up to father and son. Griffin is his own man. He can make his own decisions.

So I delve into the main subject of my visit instead. “My parents’ horses,” I start, “can you tell me more about their condition?”

Maran leans against the side wall, still rolling the apple in his left hand. “They’re both in good shape. I already told the guards all that for their report.”

“Yes, I know. I read it. But I was hoping you could tell me more. Like their hooves, for instance. Did they have anything unusual caught in their feet? Blades of grass maybe? Or pine needles stuck in their coats?” I’m thinking of the lush forest where I saw my parents.

“Needles? Where would they have run into pine trees?”

“Who knows what’s out there in the wilderness, where my parents went?”

“I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Why do you want to know? It’s not like you’re looking for your parents so you can make them return and tell you how to run the country.”

His voice is like an accusation. I look up, surprised at his tone. And at the fact he’s guessed my intention.

“That’s not your concern,” I say, my words flowing slowly over my tongue.

Maran continues, unruffled. “Because the Electeds before you relied on their own minds and the thoughts of their own people to make decisions. They didn’t go running back for their parents.”

“Maran?” I’m taken aback by his rudeness.

He is undeterred. “Because the Electeds before you knew where they stood on the issues. And if they didn’t, they got their advice from the people themselves, not from their parents. They were not dictators.”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I wasn’t expecting this line of conversation from him.

It’s my duty to listen to individuals. So I force myself to listen to Maran now, even though my head is still throbbing, and now I desperately want to leave the stables.

Maran’s voice strengthens, growing higher with his obvious frustration. “You don’t listen. More of the people want to start bolstering our defenses. You don’t hear them out. We should be manufacturing weapons. We are left like sitting ducks.” He tosses the apple into a stack of hay at his side.

I stare at Maran for a minute. When I do speak again, my voice is measured. “We haven’t been attacked by anyone. There’s no need to manufacture weapons.”

His voice is almost a growl. “That’s incorrect.”

I look over at him skeptically, wondering what information he has that I don’t. “No one’s been attacked,” I say again.

His response is stark. “You have.” Maran meets my eyes directly.

“That wasn’t an attack on our people. Only me.”

Maran looks back at one of the horses, idly running his hand over its flank. “You’d think that would be enough to incite you, but still no.”

“I won’t be incited to create technology easily. Not even by that.”

“A real leader would take action.”

“I am taking action. Setting up shifts to patrol the hills. Destroying the bullets.” I choose my next words carefully, trying to distill truth from him even though it is hard for me to hear. “You don’t think I’m a good leader?”

He looks at me again. His lips edge into the slightest indentation of a smile, happy to have the opportunity to finally tell me to my face. His one word is crystal clear as it comes out of his mouth.

“No.”

I turn on my heels, not wanting to hear more right now. I know I should ask Maran more questions. Or stay and just listen. My father told me he often didn’t agree with the views of his people, but he always listened to everyone... except the Technologists. It goes with the office, he’d said. But the thought that Maran, my parents’ trusted veterinarian and Griffin’s father, should think this low of me is too much right now. I will follow-up with him later when my head is in a better condition.

I walk around the back of the house, shuffling my feet as I go. I can’t reconcile the two personalities my people expect of me. I can’t be decisive but also waffle back and forth on the whim of the crowd. I can’t bend to the tyranny of the minority, the Technology Faction. I remind myself the majority of my people still want to follow the Accords. I can’t be the puppet of the Technologists, forfeiting the Accords of long ago.

But maybe there is some way I can provide a concession. Some way to show them I’m taking defensive action to protect us. Some way to make them happy. Bring them hope. I think of my plan with Margareath. That would suffice, but people won’t know the outcome of that endeavor for a long time, and it still needs to be a secret. They need something now.

I’m racking my brain, walking back and forth in front of one of our park benches. That’s when I hear giggling coming from a shed on the grounds. I walk toward it fast, thinking it’s some kids messing around on the property.

“Hey, you guys, come out of there,” I call as I get closer. The giggling stops immediately.

I venture closer and pull hard on one of the shed doors. It doesn’t give; something’s pushed up against it. I stand on my tiptoes, rubbing through years of dirt filmed on the shed’s one window. When I see skin, I jump back. It’s white and creamy, and I’d know it anywhere.

“Aloy!” comes Vienne’s startled voice as she throws open the shed doors to peek out at me.

I stand open-mouthed as she buttons her shirt, and I watch as Griffin fumbles, tying the drawstring of his pants.

“We thought you were in bed,” she says, guilt written all over her face.

“Enjoying yourself, are you? Sounds like you’re both having a pretty good time. And you certainly weren’t kidding about over and over again.”

“It’s not like that,” Griffin says, his voice gruff.

“Not like that? I heard you two laughing back here. Having the time of your lives.” My words are like tiny pins, each one pricking my lips as I say them.

Vienne moves to my side, reaching for my arm. She holds out a stick of paper. “It’s this. This is why we were laughing. Out of joy. I’m pregnant!”

She thrusts the paper under my eyes. It’s a thin sheet of litmus with neon green in the center.

“I don’t understand,” I say, quieted. “I don’t know what this is.”

“It’s a birth predictor. You lick it right after... after... you know.” She doesn’t want to state out loud that she and Griffin just finished having sex. “It lets you know instantly if the woman’s egg was fertilized.”

I swallow hard. The paper in front of me flaps in the soft breeze, but I hold onto it like a lifeline so it has no chance of flying off. “It’s really true? You’re pregnant?”

“Yes!” Vienne jumps up, wrapping her arms around my neck, her elation bold and bright now that I seem to grasp the import.

I swing her around, forgetting everything about Maran, my anger at Griffin and Vienne’s stolen moments, or even my aching head. Madame Elected is pregnant!

“And after only two times,” says Griffin, a devilish smile spread over his face. “Not over and over again.”

I look over at him and set Vienne down on her feet. I walk to Griffin, so we’re standing straight in front of each other. “Thank you, Griffin. Thank you so much.” I say it slowly so he’ll feel the depth of my gratitude down to his core.

He smiles wider, embarrassed. “Sure thing. No problem.” He brushes a hand through the hair in front of his eyes, trying to take the attention off himself, break my intense gaze.

I am so happy it’s finished, I can think of nothing else. This will be what unites our people. Gives them something to hope for. How can they not band around Vienne and me after this? This is what will stave off the Technology Faction, letting them know there won’t be chaos after my term is over.

I reach up and hug Griffin hard. He’s surprised at my sudden, whole-hearted embrace and even more surprised when I let him extend the hug into something more. He pulls me closer, burying his face in my neck. After a moment Vienne clears her throat, and I let go of Griffin, almost embarrassed Vienne has witnessed this moment between us.

The largest smile bursts through my cheeks as I take Vienne’s outstretched hand. “Come. Let’s go tell Tomlin,” I say.

The three of us walk as a happy trio back to the house. We ask where Tomlin is, almost bursting to tell the first people we see. Instead, we hold back, wanting Tomlin to hear it first.

A maid points us in the direction of the old oval office. I almost run over to it, with Vienne and Griffin quick on my trail. I fling open the door, ready to pronounce our good fortune before Tomlin can read it on our faces and guess for himself. But, as I heave open the heavy wooden doors and the three of us look into the stately room, we realize there is no good fortune waiting for us inside.