Forged(63)

“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.





THIRTY-TWO


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.