Forged (19 page)

I HOP FROM THE LADDER
and my feet hit the water with a splat.

It smells fouler than death down here. Like mold and waste and stale liquid.

“Watch your mouth, the bandage.”

“Relax, Gray. I'm not about to stick my face in this filth.”

Her words might be slow and clumsy, but the Forgery's knife certainly didn't injure her sarcastic tongue.

The tunnel is barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and the only light source comes from street-level grates every hundred paces or so. As we walk farther into the sewers, the murky water grows deeper. Thankfully there's a raised walkway at the next intersection. The new cross tunnel is twice as large, with a ladder leading to an elevated area
running parallel to the water flow. I try not to think that my hands are holding rungs Bree's filthy boots just trekked waste against as I climb after her. Overhead, an occasional vehicle rumbles past on the streets.

“Do you think they'll track us?” I ask.

“They'll try. Especially once they get a reading on where that Forgery last transmitted.” A backward glance. “You should see the signs in town. Frank's promoting the heck out of the Sunder Rally, asking everyone across the country to tune in. He's even offering extra water ration cards to families as a way to ensure they'll attend in person.

“The Rally's going to open with executions—a bunch of unlucky bastards getting the axe publicly—and then he's unveiling the Forgeries. He's not calling them that, of course. It's painted like he's going to introduce everyone to a new task force, additional law enforcement to protect and serve each community, even the domeless ones.”

“I was supposed to be a part of those executions,” I tell her.

“I know. All of Taem does. You're the biggest selling point. Frank's been dismissing the news the
Harbinger
printed—the truth behind water resources, the deaths in Stonewall, the battle at Burg. He claims all that blood is on your hands, that the Rebels and AmWest are terrorists and you're pulling the strings.”

My mind drifts back to what Isaac once stated on the Gulf:
Revolutionaries and terrorists are one and the same
. We
are
the minority, threatening the norm. But it's right, what we are doing. Isn't it?

Bree glances over her shoulder. “What happened to your neck?”

I didn't pause long enough in the bathroom to examine myself in the mirror, but I imagine I have rope burns from my near hanging. Maybe bruises, too.

Bree scowls as I tell her the story, then follows it with her own. The drive east with Sammy and Clipper was uneventful. Rebel sources confirmed I was being held at an interrogation center on the outskirts of the city. As planned, Harvey leaked the time I was to be moved to Union Central, plus the route the car would be taking. The Rebels coordinated their attack, detonating roadblocks at predetermined intersections to turn around the armored car and lead it to a dead end of their choosing. Street teams held the incoming Order forces at bay as Bree and Sammy moved in for me.

“Where's Sammy now?”

“At the safe house,” Bree says. “Unless something went wrong.”

She pauses as we reach another junction, then swings her legs over the edge of the walkway and scrambles down the ladder. Back into the waste. She points at an offshoot about
the size of the tunnel we used to first access the sewers.

I sigh, and follow.

The safe house is no more than a block from where we emerge aboveground.

Sammy and Clipper are waiting for us, along with Elijah. The place belongs to his cousin, who we're introduced to upon arrival. Elijah has been staying here for the last few nights. Ryder is in town, too, at a different location.
Preparing
, Elijah explains.

If I never hear the words
preparing
and
planning
and
waiting
again, it will be too soon.

We are shown to the basement where we'll stay for the night, and it's not pretty. A few cots are set up between dusty crates and storage boxes. A lone window just inches shy of the ceiling might offer some light come morning, but right now the cluttered room is dingy and gray. There is moisture in the air. I feel like I'm back in the sewers.

“You think this is a show or something?” Bree snaps.

Clipper averts his eyes from her bandaged cheek, suddenly very interested in his boot tips.

“What happened?” Sammy asks.

“A knife,” she answers.

“A knife?”

“Did you go deaf since I last saw you?”

Sammy's eyes flick my way, and I give him a tiny headshake. Bree has absolutely no desire to talk about what happened in that factory. I know it as surely as if she said it to me. Maybe someday she'll be able to go into detail, but for now—just as I've buried the tragedy of Blaine in my core—she only wants to move forward.

As Bree picks the locks of my cuffed wrists with a bent bit of metal, Sammy rattles off details Elijah shared with him before we made it to the house.

Frank is moving forward with his plans as though nothing has changed. Sunder Day is tomorrow and he is still pretending that I'm in his custody. “The illusion of order precipitates order itself,” he's been saying to his closest advisors. At least that's what Harvey's relayed.

“Has anyone heard from Emma?” I ask.

“Yes, my clairvoyant connection to her has been quite strong lately,” Sammy says. Then, more seriously: “We haven't been in touch with September yet, but Elijah said something about trying tonight. So maybe soon?”

Meaning Harvey leaked my transport information to the team, but never mentioned how Emma joined us in Bone Harbor. I feel the left lock click and the metal cuff swings open. I roll my freed wrist, but the knot of discomfort in my stomach only intensifies. Bree grabs my other arm, and as
she goes to work on the lock, I share my fears about Emma's motives.

Sammy shakes his head. “She wouldn't cross us like that. I know her.”

“You knew her Forgery,” Bree points out, “and that thing was ruthless.”

“But why?” Sammy continues. “What can she truly gain from this?”

“Could she—?” Bree cuts off and swears. “Maybe she's still a Forgery.”

“She's not,” I insist. “I checked her eyes. And you killed her one model.”

“Maybe you saw what you wanted because of who she is, what she means to you. Maybe—”

“Dammit, Bree, I'm not that blind. This is her.”

Sammy rubs his knuckles with a thumb. “Then what the hell is she after?”

“I have no idea. She must know something we don't.”

“Sounds like one hell of a secret,” Bree says.

Sammy rambles off a few theories, none of which make much sense, but he's already been betrayed by Emma's Forgery, and I don't think he has it in him to withstand it again. He loves her, even after everything, and he wants her to be a person worthy of that.

The second cuff clicks open, and I massage my wrist.

“I'm still dropping the files tomorrow, right?” Clipper says.

“Absolutely,” I answer.

This doesn't change a thing. Clipper needs to deliver the virus-bearing thumb drive, and the Order recruiting event tomorrow—part of Rally activities and open to any citizen thirteen and up—is the perfect opportunity. It will get him inside Union Central, in plain sight, without raising any suspicions. Harvey will retrieve it from the predetermined drop point and go immediately to work. All while the rest of us get into position downtown.

The Rebels and Expats will make a stand—in Taem, in other domed cities, in exposed and underprivileged towns. Harvey's virus will see to the Forgeries once the alarm is tripped. And the three of us—me, Sammy, Bree? We'll be camped out with Frank in our sights, waiting. First clean shot any of us have, we take.

“I don't know, guys,” Bree says. “It's possible Harvey and Emma are working together. Maybe it's not the smartest idea to have Clipper deliver the drive. The Expat-Rebel strikes will still happen, and we can still be looking to take that shot at Frank. But we don't
have
to tweak the alarms. Especially when there's no proof the fail-safe won't work in the Forgeries' favor.”

“I'm going in,” Clipper insists. “Harvey's good. I've seen it.”

“The same way Gray saw that Emma is?” she counters.

“Sometimes I think you're too proud to ever admit you might be wrong.”

“Clip, you can rub this in my face if I am. Actually, I hope it comes to that. Because I've got a bad feeling.”

“So we just give up because you've got a
feeling
?”

“No, we make the decision as a team.”

“Team!” he erupts. “
Team?
You're the only person who's still bent on hating Harvey. The
team
decided what to do days ago, so join or back down.”

“Elijah's right upstairs,” Sammy says. “We could have him weigh in.”

“Nothing changes,” I say firmly. “The fail-safe could give us an incredible advantage, and we're not backing down just because Emma's got us on edge. I don't care what Elijah has to say about it.”

“Then I hope someone has maps,” Bree mutters. “We should review tomorrow's route.”

Beneath the city's dome, Rebels prepare for the coordinated strike. The same should be happening in Haven and Lode and Radix. Gears are already in motion. The fail-safe will be the unexpected component. A surprise cog.

Taem itself is growing restless. Elijah reports that fights
are breaking out on the streets. Shops are being looted. A water conservatory was tipped as citizens overwhelmed guards in an effort to score a few extra gallons for their families. He says a few of these acts are our people, already at work stirring the pot. As for the others? They're natural, cropping up among ordinary citizens. Sunder Day is meant to remind them of their freedom from the West, the day their lives became safe again, but this year, it's doing the opposite. Before the Continental Quake and the War, there was always enough food, water ration cards didn't exist, and the Order didn't patrol streets all hours of the day. But Bea's paper is the spark that started a wildfire. Stories that began in Bone Harbor crept east.
You aren't alone in wanting something better
, those pages promised. And people are finally believing it.

Still annoyed with Bree, Clipper heads to bed early, and the rest of us pore over city maps and sewer lines late into the night. The Rally couldn't be happening in a more central location. We have plenty of options to get there, but the sewers will be safest. Bree points out where we can split up, and we decide on a rendezvous point for later. By the time we settle into our cots, sleep does not come easily.

I close my eyes and try to conjure Blaine behind my lids. It shouldn't be difficult, and yet I can't picture him properly. A few features are off, foggy. I've forgotten the exact shade of his eyes and the angle his mouth would take when he'd shoot
me a disapproving look. He's already becoming a ghost, a memory, and yet the pain is as sharp as the day I lost him.

In the darkness a cot creaks.

I feel Bree beside me, lifting my sheet, sliding into my arms.

“What's wrong?” I whisper.

She presses her face into my chest. I kiss the top of her head. The cot is not quite big enough for two, but that hardly seems like something to complain about.

“Nothing,” she responds. “Everything's perfect now.”

We fall asleep like that—together. We'll face tomorrow the same way. And if I have her—if we have each other—I know there is nothing we can't face.

CLIPPER IS ALREADY GONE WHEN
we wake. Bree bolts upstairs and peers out the windows with the hope she can still catch him.

“I wanted to tell him good luck,” she says, letting the curtain fall back into place. She glances over her shoulder at me, and her conflicted expression reeks of regret.

“Knowing Clipper, I doubt he's still angry with you,” I say. “Don't worry about it.”

She nods repeatedly, but I feel like she's struggling to convince herself it's true.

Elijah left sometime during the night to set up his post, but his cousin sees us off. He gives us extra scarves and hats to keep our faces shielded, and we head out as civilians file
to the Rally downtown. We make it to the sewers without incident, and ditch our extra layers in the safety of the tunnels. Sammy breaks off first. Another block underground, and it's Bree's turn. My hand finds her wrist as she turns to leave.

“Are you okay? How's your cheek?”

“Stitches itch, but I'm fine,” she says.

“Bree, I want you to know that—”

“No good-byes,” she demands. “I'll see you in a bit.”

She kisses my cheek and is gone, her boots slapping against the water and waste. I watch her climb the ladder to the street. She doesn't look back, not even as she pulls herself aboveground and out of sight.

It all feels too familiar, this sort of parting before the impossible. Last time she kissed my cheek and ran into Taem's belly we left the city with her in my arms, unconscious and bleeding from a bullet wound to the shoulder. I put a fist to my forehead.

Nerves. Damn nerves.

When I was young, I was daring and bold and stupid. I jumped from high tree limbs. I loosened arrows too close to town. I wholeheartedly believed that I was invincible. But I see the truth now: I'm human. Frighteningly, fleetingly human. Like Blaine who is gone because of a bit of metal no larger than my pinky.

I count to ten and then make myself move. At the next junction, I hang a left. Exactly as planned, a ladder waits.

I grab a rung and climb.

My post is a top-floor office overlooking Taem's public square from the southeast corner. Through the window, I can see the crowds beginning to gather, citizens and Order members alike. The raised platform I stood on last fall has been reconstructed since the fire, and its new beams look smooth as ice compared to the aged building at its rear.

I'll have a decent shot. Maybe. It all depends on where Frank ends up standing. Stupid Rally security. If Order members weren't posted on the roofs, in addition to the streets, this would all be a lot easier.

I lock the door even though the building is empty and climb onto the desk. I push away the ceiling panel directly above the computer. Reaching blindly, my fingers find the rifle Bree and Sammy planted when they arrived in Taem a few days earlier. Long barrel, attached scope, one magazine. A year ago I'd never heard of a gun, and now, while I still tend to mix up model names, I can list off basic anatomy. It's a skill I'm not sure I'm glad to have acquired.

I crouch alongside the window and peer through the slats of the blinds. The wall behind the platform is alive with visuals of other domed cities. Similar squares. Steadily
growing crowds. A group of Order members struggle to raise a canopy-like tent over Taem's platform. Just what I need. Another obstacle to fire around.

I open the window, set up my shot in accordance with where I think Frank will sit onstage. Then comes the waiting.

I wish we were wired—me and Sammy and Bree. The silence gives me too much time to think about all the things that can go wrong. Did Clipper make the drop? Has Harvey uploaded the virus to override the alarm system? How many of the people filing into the square are on our side? When they burst into action, will others join, or will the Order silence them in a flash? And what about Emma? Emma, Emma, Emma.

Sometime around midday, the official festivities begin. The stage swarms to life, filling with high-ranking Order members and political officials. And of course, Frank.

I peer through the scope and mutter a curse.

Harvey is shielding Frank like a bodyguard. From the northwest corner of the square, Sammy won't have a shot at all, not with the video-illuminated wall at the back of the stage and the canopy raised overhead. And Bree—at the other southern corner of the square—likely has the same shot I do: one that requires shooting through Harvey to get to Frank.

I can almost picture her reaching for the trigger anyway.
Two in one
, she'd say.

But what if he hasn't gotten to upload the virus yet? I wait, breath held.

A shot is never fired.

Good, she's thinking the same as me.

We'll just have to be patient. Harvey will move eventually. He knows we're here waiting, and he'll drop his act at the right moment.

A series of speeches are made, some given by Frank's officials on the stage, others broadcasted onto the wall behind the platform as the Order speaks from various domed cities. The war is recounted, the freedom won from the raging West, the need to keep the figurative walls between the two countries strong and high. Claims that AmEast has never been stronger, that the Order has secured a new future for its people. Out of ash and destruction, Frank made it possible to once again feel safe.

There are no executions. Frank would never admit it, but I bet he opted for motivational speeches over executions because of the growing tensions beneath his dome. He doesn't need more martyrs.

When he finally stands and approaches the microphone, the crowd falls eerily silent. Harvey still shadows him on one side, a second advisor on the other. I wish I were on the roof, wish I could just get up and relocate to a position where I'd have a clear shot. This damn window and its limited width.

Frank thanks the people for their patience as he hunts down more water for the masses, announces his gratitude that they have let him lead for so long.

“It has not been an easy job, but we grow stronger each day,” he says. “As does the Franconian Order. Our numbers have increased exponentially, and these new soldiers will serve you, the people of AmEast, tirelessly.”

At his words, an influx of Order members appear at the edges of the square. Some look identical. Forgeries.

On the wall behind Frank, additional forces can be seen filing into the streets that surround the square. The video feed flutters between Taem's streets and those of other domed cities. In each, the number of F-GenX models is overwhelming, the civilians encircled like livestock in a corral.

“Many of you are aware of the growing threats we face—AmWest's inability to realize the war is over, our own people led astray by terrorist propaganda and untenable lies. I assure you now that I will not let these people jeopardize our future—
your
future. I will continue to fight for AmEast. I accepted this role hesitantly years ago, and today I happily embrace it.”

“And what of all the people you have struck down to maintain your perch?” a voice says. “Those who dared to question if you were the right man to
embrace
your role?”

The crowd parts around the instigator like he breathes death. He's speaking into a cone-shaped device that amplifies his words, and when he momentarily lowers it, recognition flickers over Frank's face.

“Ryder, old friend. What gutter did you crawl out of to attend these festivities?”

“Why, I crawled from the woods, Dimitri, from my ruined home. Although you already know this, seeing as you dropped the bombs on us. On me and anyone bold enough to admit we didn't think your rule was the best Taem—or AmEast, for that matter—could do.”

“Careful what you say here, Ryder.”

On the adjacent rooftop, I can make out a few Order members taking a knee along the building's edge.

“Do I sound too much like the
traitorous
West?” Ryder turns to address the crowd, raising his voice. “If a few hundred of us here think like the West, maybe the West isn't that horrible. And if thousands of us think like the West, perhaps we are the majority. Perhaps it is Frank and his Order who are outnumbered.”

Frank raises a hand. The gunmen on the roofs ready their weapons.

“What are you going to do, Frank? Shoot me? Shoot all of us?” At Ryder's comment, the undercover Rebels move forward, threading through the crowd like a herd moving
among trees. They surround Ryder, forming a barrier of bodies and pushing everyone else to the outskirts of the square. These outlying civilians look between Ryder's army and the Order, uncertain who to stand with.

“That's what you do to those who oppose you, is it not?” Ryder continues. “Execute them? Hunt them down? Eliminate them before they can find anyone else sharing their views?”

At this, the wall behind Frank roars to life with new footage: Rebels picking their way out of the rubble of a collapsed Crevice Valley. Bone Harbor homes being torn apart during search-and-seizure efforts. The hotel we stayed at in Pine Ridge billowing with smoke and Order members combing the streets. And then I see Burg, too, as it was when Frank first tried to terminate the Laicos Project there, and then Burg again, under snow and explosions. The latter is captured from the view of an aircraft, Adam's men swooping in to give us a chance for escape.

Photos flash between the clips. My father. Clipper's mother. Xavier tossing a dart and Bo mid customary tapping. I even catch a glimpse of Blaine and me sitting in Crevice Valley's hospital when he was still recovering from his coma. There are other faces I don't recognize, but I'm positive their lives all ended too soon.

I knew Clipper was compiling this footage, but nothing
could have prepared me for seeing it back-to-back, one image after another. It's like a blow to the chest.

The video compilation flies by faster: arrests, fires, water-rationing lines, one-off executions in dark side streets. Boat inspections and boat sinkings.

All at the Order's hands.

“You claim AmWest is our enemy,” Ryder yells. “You claim to keep us
safe
, but we have safety with one another.” He turns to the crowd. “AmWest has managed without an Order and without water rationing. They have helped some of our own when we were in need, and they are willing to stand with us now, right here. On Sunder Day. It is time for a new split in the East: the people from the Order. We don't need the shelter and security Frank promises. We need to stand together now, before it's too late. Before we really are outnumbered. These new forces in the square, these soldiers he passes off as recent recruits, are only the beginning. Go on, Clip!” Ryder yells to the sky. “Show them.”

The visuals change again.

A poorly lit, expansive room I once stood in dumbfounded. Row after row of Forgeries. Glowing. Growing.

“If you think the Order is overbearing now, just wait until their numbers are endless,” Ryder says.

Move, Harvey
, I mutter to myself. From my angle, he's still blocking all but Frank's shoulder.
Move
.

“This is the AmWest threat he shows you,” Frank says, his tone as calm and sure as ever. “Do not be fooled. Ryder is the one who has hidden all these years while I fought for you.”

The visuals update, showing additional feeds from the Compound. The production level, but also the warehouse, the docks, the Franconian emblem on the crates and boats, and uniformed men walking the hallways.

The people on the outskirts of the crowd murmur, whisper.

“You've heard the rumors,” Ryder says. “Some of you might have even read about them in an underground paper. There
is
a resistance. There is a boy as wronged as you; a fugitive standing for freedom.” Bea's paper lights up the screen. My face. Her captions. Her lies that are becoming truths right this moment. “He is here, among us. He is just one person, but he will fight if you do, and together, we are many.”

The whispers grow to a chorus. As the Forgeries press in on the outskirts of the crowd, weapons ready, the first aggressive contact begins: a shove, an elbow, a thrust.

“So I speak not just to you, citizens of Taem, but to all the domed sister cities, and to the people cut off from shelter years ago and still scraping by every day,” Ryder continues.

Frank's head whips to the screen. The panicked words of an advisor are picked up by the microphone. “This is broadcasting everywhere? Cut it. Cease transmission.”

“Will you stand with me, with the East
and
the West?”
Ryder urges, arms outstretched.

“Does no one have a shot?” Frank says, a hand at his ear. He's speaking to the Order but like his advisor, he's too near the mic.

“Let us Rally,” Ryder finishes. “Let us Sunder our ties with the Order.”

“For the love of God—Take it!” Frank shouts. “Anyone. Take the shot!”

A blast.

Ryder crumples.

Someone screams.

And the fighting erupts.