The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(40)

Lehrer was playing some kind of game; that much was clear. He’d all but admitted it that night in the courtyard when Noam first joined Level IV—and again, when he taught Noam magnetism.

But what were Lehrer’s plans for Noam?

If Lehrer was manipulating him, then Noam was really screwed. He had no idea how the hell he was supposed to outwit the smartest man alive.

True to promise, Noam was allowed to keep his job at the convenience store, which had been spared the firebomb postoutbreak by a scant four hundred yards and opened back up again last week. If anything, Larry, the owner, was desperate for staff since half his people died in fever, and though he must’ve known that Noam survived the virus—that Noam was a witching now—he didn’t ask too many questions.

Noam was dying to go straight to Brennan and hand over the data and watch the look on Brennan’s face transform from disgust to delight. Would have, if not for the early shift. He might not have his dad to support anymore, but going to work felt more important than ever. Another way to prove Noam wasn’t one of those government soldiers, not really, that his blood still belonged to the west side. To Atlantia.

Level IV covered taxi fare, but Noam took the bus. He liked that better: sitting on a hard plastic seat next to someone’s grandmother holding that week’s groceries in her lap, the kid in the back blasting music from his phone, the man in a secondhand suit on his way to a job interview. He tipped his head toward the window and watched the familiar buildings slide past. Still his city, even with an empty scar where Ninth used to be. Still his, even if—had he come here wearing his cadet uniform instead of the ill-fitting civvies Howard gave him—his city wouldn’t want him anymore.

The thought stuck in his chest like a swallowed chicken bone, scratching against the inside of his sternum the rest of the way across town.

Noam sat behind the counter at his corner-store job and rubbed his thumb against the flopcell’s outer shell. He found he could actually read the data off it without a computer, just like this. He went over that email so many times he memorized it, every dirty word.

What next? That was the question he kept coming back to. Lehrer wouldn’t intervene—he had some mysterious unspecified plan—but that meant it was up to Noam to change things in Carolinia.

This was a start. Atlantians had no voice in government, but Noam could be their ears.

So Noam went straight to the Migrant Center when he got off work.

“He’s not here,” Linda said when he asked to see Brennan, which was an obvious lie—but at least she didn’t try to stop him when he shouldered into the building anyway, heading down the narrow hall to the back rooms.

“Hi,” Noam said when he pushed open Brennan’s door.

Brennan, at his desk, jerked his head up too quickly to disguise the flicker of guilt that passed over his face. Only then his expression twisted toward anger instead.

“I told you—”

“Yeah, I remember. But you’re gonna want to see this.”

Noam plunked himself down in the chair opposite Brennan’s and slid the flopcell across the desk.

“What’s this?”

“Stick it in your computer and find out.”

Brennan’s eyes narrowed. “Is it malware?”

Noam glared at him, just long enough for Brennan to sigh and take the flopcell.

Noam watched Brennan read the email, both hands gripping the bottom of his seat. He was surprised Brennan managed to keep himself under control, considering what he was reading. Only a slight tic in his jaw betrayed Brennan’s true feelings.

“How did you get this?” Brennan asked at last.

“How do you think?”

Brennan looked up. Noam was perversely satisfied to know he had Brennan on the end of a string, that he finally found something Brennan wanted badly enough to forget Noam was a witching.

As if Noam would let him forget.

“My presenting power—you know, my magic”—he leaned on the word just to watch Brennan flinch—“gives me power over technology.”

“Diplomacy only works so far with Sacha,” Brennan muttered at last. “Until now it has been the sole tool in our arsenal. But . . .” He glanced back at the email. “This gives us an advantage. We know what he’s planning, and so we can prepare for it. We’ll have protests organized and be ready to march the second the news is made public. We’ll organize a citywide labor strike, sit-ins . . .”

Noam waited in impatient silence while Brennan reread the email, fingers tapping against the edge of his desk. At last, when he couldn’t stand it any longer, Noam burst out:

“I can get more.”

Brennan’s attention leaped up. Noam wished he didn’t need that attention so badly, that it didn’t make something warm bloom in his chest, the same feeling he got when Brennan and his father picked him up when he was released from juvie two weeks after his thirteenth birthday, Noam pinned between them with his father’s arms around his body and Brennan’s hand a solid weight at his nape. That feeling of finally.

“I can get around the antitechnopathy wards on the government servers if I have enough time. I can figure out what they’re up to.” He was at the edge of his seat, all but willing Brennan to listen.

Brennan sighed. “I can’t pretend that doesn’t sound . . . obviously I’m tempted, Noam. But we can’t sink to their level. Your father and I have always disagreed on this, but I do believe peaceful protest is the only way. Besides, I don’t want you going back to prison.” A beat passed, Brennan’s mouth twisting. “Perhaps I was unfair to you before. You must know I have your best interests at heart. How can I live with myself if I let you damn yourself on my behalf?”