Forged (22 page)

I'M RUSHED BACK TO UNION
Central by car. My vest is stripped off, and with the exception of an already-surfacing bruise, I'm uninjured. Elijah still suggests I see a doctor, but there's only one place in the hospital I care about visiting.

The same medic who threw me out earlier is exiting Bree's room as I sprint down the hall. He's got this terribly drained expression on his face, and when he puts his hands up to stop me, I feel my chest rupture.

“Easy, son,” he says. “Easy. She's not—”

“Let me see her!” I shout, straining against him.

He grabs my shoulders, shakes me, but I'm already deteriorating.

“I have a right to know!” I feel my knees giving out. “I don't care if she's . . . I have—”

“She's not awake!” he yells. “And she's on a lot of meds. You can't barge in there like a madman.”

Not awake
. The next breath I draw feels like it feeds double the air into my lungs.

“The bullet entered from the back and was lodged just below her armpit,” he explains. “She's lucky she didn't end up with a shattered rib.”

“But she's okay?”

He nods. “She might lose some mobility on that side, but she's going to be fine.”

I lean forward, trying to peer through the doorway. “Can I . . . ?”

“Just go easy. She's got a long recovery ahead.”

Bree's propped up against a pillow when I enter, sleeping. She's wearing a clean tank, and beneath it, her right shoulder is bandaged. They've even seen to her pulled stitches. A fresh piece of gauze covers the corner of her mouth and a good portion of her cheek.

I move quietly into the room, sit on the edge of her bed. She doesn't stir.

“Hey,” I say. “Bree?”

Her eyes drift open, and when she finds me sitting
there, I swear she actually glows.

“Hey,” she echoes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

“You scared me, Bree.” I put a hand on her thigh and she curls her fingers around mine. “I'd have lost it if you . . . I wouldn't have made it.”

“You don't need anyone to get you through life,” she says slowly, like the words are a labor to produce.

“I need you.”

“No you don't.”

“But I
want
you,” I tell her. “I want you in every moment. Everything's better with you.”

“Greedy jerk.”

I shrug.

“No denying that?”

“Not when it comes to us.”

She manages a smile, but it looks like it drains her. I give her fingers a light squeeze.

“You know,” she says, “I'm not so weak that you can't kiss me.”

“You want me to kiss you?”

“Don't make me beg,” she says.

So I don't.

The days following the Sunder Rally are an odd bunch. Oddly surreal. Oddly in limbo. Oddly . . . optimistic.

I have a cobwebbed bruise the size of my fist on my chest, and I've never felt more lucky. My announcement of Frank's death was broadcast on repeat throughout Taem and the other domed cities and eventually, the Order stood down. Or maybe they stood up—for the citizens, for the average life they were always supposed to be serving. Turns out many of them had doubted their work for a while, but felt too trapped to do anything about it. The pay was good. Their families needed the earnings. The job gave them access to medical care and water and other goods that weren't easy to come by outside service. Still, by the time the fighting ceased entirely, the casualties were numerous for both sides. So many fallen Order members. Even more average citizens.

Ryder's body was found among the trampled in the public square, leaving Elijah to inherit the role of Rebel commander. Already he has teams working to shut down the Forgery production lab at the Compound, and in the coming days he's set to meet with Vik and high-ranking Order officials to discuss the future of the once-divided country.

“You'll stay and help with the transition, right?” he asks me. “The people will want to see the
fugitive for freedom
playing an active role.”

Even before he says
please
, I know I can't. There's a Wall I need to climb, a dusty community I need to revisit. I've only delayed this long because I'm waiting for Bree to be well enough to travel. But Elijah looks so hopeful that I strike a compromise. I'll see to my hometown, and I'll return.

“No promises on how long I'll stay, though,” I warn. “I never really pictured myself living somewhere so . . .”

“Free? Liberated? Revolutionary?”

“Big,” I say.

Two days after that, Vik shows up wearing a pair of impressive dress pants and a collared shirt. His hair is parted and swept out of his eyes, and when he winks at me, I suddenly know why the picture in Frank's office looked so familiar. That woman's eyes—they are also Vik's. He has her mouth, too. And Frank's chin and polished composure.

Adam said it was just a story, but now I have to wonder if Vik purposely discouraged the rumors.

Vik's the right age—maybe thirty years younger than Frank. He'd have been born roughly a decade after Frank came into power, when the governing methods were only just beginning to grow questionable and the first few generations of the Laicos Project's Heisted subjects faced operating tables.

“Hey, Vik,” I say as he shakes my hand in vigorous congratulations. “What's your full name?”

“Viktor Frank LeRoy.”

“LeRoy's your father's surname?”

“My mother's. I've never met my father.”

Never met him, I believe, but that doesn't mean he's clueless as to who his father is. This always seemed personal to Vik, the fight, the outcome. He lashed out when Frank made contact one too many times, including an attack on Taem's dome just to prove it could be done. Like a boy trying to show his father that he's his own man. And his middle name . . .

Vik leaves to find Elijah for what will be days upon days of meetings, and I decide it doesn't matter. I won't press this. Vik is his own person, and from what I've seen, he's good.

Bree's on her feet again. Despite many warnings, she keeps attempting push-ups, only to be greeted by a searing pain in her shoulder that is followed by an immediate scowl. She doesn't scowl when she apologizes to me though—for doubting me, Harvey, the plan. She speaks with complete sincerity, and I tell her to forget it. It's behind us. It doesn't matter anymore.

“I still have to admit I was wrong,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I was, and you deserve to hear that from me. And also because I don't want you to be able to hold it against me. I'm crafty like that.”

We learn that September and Aiden are on their way east. They fared well despite the fighting that broke out in Bone Harbor on Sunder Day, and while I'm anxious to see them, I'll be gone by the time they arrive. Bree's well enough to travel now, and we're leaving in the morning. All that remains is looping in Emma.

Her response is not what I expect.

“I'm staying here,” she says when I find her exiting Sammy's room. She has a medical kit in her hands and bandages tucked under one arm. “The hospital's overflowing, and I can't afford to step away, not with so many injured. Tell my ma that I love her, and that I'm here whenever she chooses to follow. You are going to tell them to climb, right? That's why you're going back?”

Not to tell them to climb, but to tell them the
truth
, to let them have what so many victims of the Laicos Project never did: a choice. Still, I nod.

“How's Sammy doing?” I ask.

“Oh, he's a huge baby. He keeps saying he needs bandages changed, and it hurts, and he swears he's getting an infection.” She rolls her eyes. “He could have been out of his bed days ago. He had the smallest puncture in his lung from the car crash. So small we didn't even operate. It's healing on its own. The only bandage he does have is on his left wrist—a sprain—and it's certainly not infected.”

“He just likes when you visit him,” I say. “Hence all the complaining.”

“He reminds me of Craw,” she says. “Overly fond of girls, cocky, sarcastic. Good-looking and aware of it.”

“Yeah, but Sammy really does like you. I've seen it. You don't owe him anything, but I still think you should give him a chance.”

“Why do I get the feeling you're looking out for me?”

“Because I am.”

How can she not see that? That I might not be
in
love with her, but that I still love her, that I'll always want the best for her. In the same way I never want to see Sammy hurt. In the way I'd have done anything to keep my father or Blaine alive.

“Thank you for everything, Emma. On the roof, in the hospital . . .”

There aren't enough words to express my gratitude. She suffered a lot at my hands. Then she saved me when I was beaten, and Bree when she was down. She saved everyone, really, and didn't ask a thing in return.

“I haven't forgiven you for what happened at the Compound,” she admits. “I don't know if I ever will. But I still want to see you happy. Does that make any sense at all?”

“So much.”

“Good. Now don't screw things up.”

She gives me her typical half smile. Unlike the last time she commented on my feelings for Bree, this doesn't feel like a threat. It doesn't feel like anything but a comment. I wonder if I misread Emma back in Pine Ridge. I've never been able to truly read her, I realize. I can't look at her and know exactly what she's thinking. I can't hear her words before she says them. Not the way I can with Bree.

“I need to get back to the hospital wing,” she says. “Maybe I'll see you soon.”

“Yeah. I hope so.”

It's a good-bye, but not really.

“How can you leave?” Sammy says that evening. We're sitting on Union Central's roof, a drink passing between us as our legs dangle over the edge of the building. “Remember those futures we predicted back in Pike? I'm supposed to be old and fat and living next door to you. I can't do that if you run off as soon as everything's settled.”

“That future had me living in some quiet clearing in the woods,” I remind him. “Not to shock you, but Taem doesn't really fit that description.”

“Do you not see all the grass on that training field?” He points to it. “Green everywhere. It's a downright jungle.” He takes a long drink. “It's a shame Harvey's missing this.
He knew all along that he wouldn't make it, huh?”

“I think so. From the moment he spotted the fail-safe in his code.”

Sammy whistles. “He never quite looked the part: hero, legend.”

“He played it well though.”

“That he did.”

Sammy lets a bit of alcohol free of the bottle. It rains onto the training field below.

“To Harvey Maldoon,” he says.

“And Clipper.” I touch the boy's twine bracelet on my wrist.

Sammy tips the bottle again. “To Clayton ‘Clipper' Jones.”

“To . . .” My voice snags.

“To Blaine Weathersby. Brother, friend, father. Gone but never forgotten.”

Sammy continues. With my father, then Adam, and Ryder, and on and on. Back through others we've already mourned, and on to those whose names we don't even know—those who fell throughout the Rally.

The bottle is nearly empty when Bree joins us. She squeezes between us, sitting so her legs hang over the edge like ours, and snatches the bottle from Sammy.

“You're supposed to send your condolences to the stars. That's a waste of perfectly good alcohol.”

“Do you have no decency or respect?” Sammy says.

She takes a long swig and cringes at the strength of it. “Bad arm or not, I can still whoop you, Sammy.”

“True story,” I say.

“And to think I was worried I'd miss you guys.” He gazes out over the city. His profile shows a bump in his nose where it didn't heal right after being broken in Burg. That winter feels like it happened a lifetime ago, and to a different group of people.

We sit in silence for a while, the three of us with our shoulders pressed together. Lights wink off in homes as the hours pass. A couple of fireworks blast off down near the square. Somewhere, music is playing.

Much later, Bree calls it a night. She and Sammy give each other an awkward good-bye—part hug, part good-natured shoving—and I'm hesitant to follow. I didn't realize how much I'd miss having Sammy around until the very moment we're about to part ways.

“You'll stay in town, then?” I ask him.

“I spent so many years wanting justice for my father that I barely know what to do with myself now.” He rubs the back of his neck. “The bulk of the fight might be over, but there's a long road ahead. I think I should be here, to help Elijah and Vik. Plus, Emma will come around in time, but only if I'm here to come around to.”

“She thinks you're cocky,” I point out. “And arrogant.”

His face pales.

“But also attractive.”

A flicker of a smile. “Duly noted.”

Sammy grabs my right hand and pulls me into a hug, his other hand clapping my back.

“I never had a sibling, Gray, let alone a brother, so I couldn't understand your pain. Not until now. Don't stay away long.”

In the mouth of the stairwell, I pause to glance over my shoulder. Sammy's standing at the edge of the building, the bottle dangling from his fingers as he gazes skyward.

I've lost a twin but gained a brother. Life never ceases to surprise me.

THAT NIGHT MY DREAMS ARE
wicked. Shooting Bree, only to find out she isn't a Forgery. Blaine's murder, except I'm the one holding the gun. My father, grabbing my ankle as the
Catherine
goes down, pleading that I not leave him. And blood. Blood and screaming and explosions and an endlessly looping alarm that slowly drives me mad.

I wake sweating. It takes a moment to remember where I am and that Blaine is permanently gone. That my father is at the bottom of the Gulf. That Clipper won't ever see his fourteenth birthday. I thought sleeping next to Bree would help keep the terrors at bay, but maybe it's impossible to hide from shadows in the dark.

I slip out of bed and move to the window. Union Central overlooks the city, and from our room I have a pristine view of dark rooftops and the distant horizon. The sun is just beginning to rise.

I hear Bree yawn, and then she's beside me, looping an arm around my waist.

“Nightmares?”

I nod.

“We could go,” she offers. “Might as well, if we're both up.”

Elijah sent Raid, the Rebel captain representing Group B, to Dextern. Bree and I have Claysoot to take care of this morning, Saltwater immediately after. An early start makes sense.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

I grab her chin and kiss her.

“Never mind. I know now.” She smiles, and the bandage on her cheek crinkles.

She is beautiful. Radiant. A wildfire blazing. And not just the girl standing before me, but all the intangible pieces, too. I can see the whole of her now, and knowing what's beneath her skin makes me feel so invincible that I wonder how I made it through a single day before her.

I kiss her again.

“I'll get my things,” I say.

Her hands trail my forearms, anchoring on my wrists.
“This. Just a moment longer?”

“You say it like it's a chore.”

We take a car and a ladder, and Bree drives.

“You first,” she says at the Wall.

The smell of the trees is intoxicating—fir and pine and sap—and the sight of clay streets at the hunting trailhead almost brings me to my knees. From a distance, the homes look more worn than I remember, less stable. A goat bleats at us. The young girl feeding him freezes, then flees toward the Council Bell.

We are greeted by arrow tips and drawn bows. The boys holding them look so young. And scrawny. Bree and I show our palms, explaining we mean no harm. It takes a moment, but I'm recognized.

“It can't be.” Maude steps through the growing crowd. She's even frailer than I remember. Behind her, Carter is fighting her way between packed shoulders.

“Gray! Where's Emma? Where is my daughter?”

Maude plants her cane in the clay earth, frowning. “I trust you have an explanation?”

The bare necessities will take only the morning, but sharing the whole of the story—explaining
why
—feels impossible. Some experiences can't be fit into words, no matter how many you have at your disposal, or the duration
of time you're given to string them together. Still, we try.

A decent number of people climb right away. For others, the news is too much to channel into action. They might leave eventually, but Claysoot is their home. It is all they've ever known. I remember that feeling of uncovering the truth all too well. It was flying and drowning at once, the world exploding beneath your feet. For some, it is paralyzing.

When I finally have a chance to visit Kale, it's nearly noon. My chest is burning. This will be a hello and good-bye in the same breath.

“Pa!” Kale comes running. She's grown like a weed in the months I've been gone. I drop to a knee in the doorway and let her collide with my chest. “Pa!” she says again. “You're back!”

It breaks my heart. The look on her face. The sheer joy. The fact that she can't tell the difference.

“No, it's Uncle Gray, Kale,” I say to her. “It's Gray.”

“Where's Pa?”

I can barely find my voice. Her eyes are Blaine's. Everything else about her is Sasha, her mother, but Kale's eyes are blue and clear and good and I feel like I'm looking at my brother.

“He's not with me, pea. He's not coming back.”

“He's traveling still? Mama said he was. She said to look
at the sky when I wanna talk to him cus he's 'sploring the clouds.”

I kiss her blond curls. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Sasha appears behind Kale. She's frowning, but it doesn't feel sad. More bittersweet than anything.

“I missed you so much,” I tell Kale. “And I know your father, wherever he is, misses you even more.”

She smiles.

“I feel terrible about this, but I have to go away for a few days.”

“You just got here.”

“I know. But there's this one last thing I have to do.” One thing. Always one more thing. “I promise I'll be back, though.”

“And then you'll live with us forever!” Kale exclaims. “You'll be home.”

“Home's here, Kale.” I press a finger to her sternum. “And here.” I press hers to mine. “The building doesn't matter. It's the people. When you're with them, and even when you're apart, they're still home.”

She's beaming. I think she only hears me saying
home
. My eyes sting.

“Don't be sad, Uncle Gray. Here, happy!” She pushes her wooden duck on wheels into my hands and runs off to play with a rag doll.

“Was it quick?” Sasha asks as I stand.

“Faster than a crack of lightning. He didn't feel a thing.”

The corner of her lip twitches. “Good,” she says. “That's good.”

It is late afternoon when Bree and I board a boat on the eastern coast. A stout man takes payment of our labors in exchange for passage, telling us we can start by mopping down the deck.

The work is hard but good, and the feel of a worn wood handle against my palm is a welcome contrast to a gun's grip. To think I was once sick of such standard work. To think I
wanted
to pick up a weapon and race into a fight.

A burst of wind catches me off guard, and I shield my eyes. The smudge of coastline gets smaller. The horizon beckons. There are islanders to visit, a reunion with Heath that Bree's anxious to have. Then a city to return to, and a whole host of possibilities beyond that. I'll take it one day at a time. They may not be visible yet, but the right paths will materialize. The absence of something, I finally realize, does not mean it does not exist.

A pair of gulls screeches overhead, riding the air as though they're made for nothing else. Though the cries are radically different from a loon's, I remember.

“Bree!” She looks up from her work. I clasp my hands
together and blow on my thumbs. The loon call is even more feeble than the one I managed in September's kitchen.

“That was pathetic,” Bree says.

“It's progress. I couldn't do it at all a few days ago.”

“How are you supposed to get better if I praise mediocrity?” She points a finger at me. “And mediocre is a generous upgrade.”

With the mop resting in the crook of her elbow, she whistles a few times to prove her point.

“It's a small miracle I love you,” I say.

She grins. “Same.”

The captain yells at us to get back to work, and I'm sure to splash Bree with mop water before I do. She curses me. I'll pay for it later, but in the moment, everything is perfect—the birds and the horizon and the boat and Bree. I don't know what comes next, but I know we'll manage. We'll forge our way. We have each other and deep in my gut—at the very center of my being—that feels like enough.
More
than enough.

I feel it, and so I know it.

Some things never change.