DESERT

Book One

INSIDE THE WALL

The world she discovers,

Is the world they fear.

Are you ready for the truth?

A. TEBBS

Distribution Enterprises, Inc.

Senior year is hard enough for Alysse Simms with looming Global Union assessment exams, a harpy teacher who hungers for her humiliation, and a long time crush falling for her best friend.

Only, Alysse has bigger problems—like the enemy preparing for another civil war, a seismic bomb, super human guerrillas, disappearances, and a plot to wipe out the population of an entire community by a man whose ambitions have no limit.

As Alysse digs to learn more than what she’s taught at the Academy, she must choose who to trust, including Pete, a guy who walks his own path. Together, they ask questions everyone else avoids.

Probably because everyone else is scared of the truth.

And they should be . . .

www.desert-books.com

Desert: Inside the Wall

Copyright © 2017 by A. Tebbs

Published by Distribution Enterprises, Inc.

P.O. Box 699 Paris, Arkansas 72855-0699

Production arrangements by

RJ Communications

93 Lake Avenue

Tuckahoe, NY 10707

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except as provided by USA copyright law. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Paperback Designed by Vince Pannullo

Cover design and illustration: Daniel Kvasznicza

Developmental editing: Peter Heyrman, Bear Press Editing

Copyediting: Bethany Brown, Independent Editing

First Printing 2017

Printed in the United States of America

by Litho Printers & Bindery.

ISBN: PAPER BACK 978-1-5136-2288-0

HARD COVER: 978-1-5136-2287-3

eISBN: 978-1-5136-2286-6

Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 2017952594

◊◊◊

For Craig, Desert wouldn’t exist

without your encouragement, persistence, and vision.

For my children, who patiently waited

for Desert to “finally be done.”

To Jenna, thank you

for your suggestions and encouragement.

◊◊◊

Exclusive  behind-the-scenes and character POVs

are marked by ♦symbols♦ within the text.

Come online to read more.

www.desert-books.com

PROLOGUE

Desert Compound, outside the Wall

North of the City of Oasis

Fifteen Years after the Second Civil War

“DEB, what are you doing here?” an Oasian guard says, wearing a bullet proof vest under full body armor.

“Hey, Dan,” replies a plump woman with short, curly hair. Her only protection is the bright orange shirt she wears, labeled “VOLUNTEER,” a logo of hands clasped in friendship on her back.

Deb leans closer to a nearby wall as she examines some elaborate graffiti, the only source of color among the brown apartments and littered dirt streets. “How do they make something like this using only spray cans?”

Dan scans the street behind them before glancing at the whole wall, jaw tight. “It wasn't long ago these apartments were new . . . The Dissenters trashed this place fast.”

“People do strange things when hope is lost,” Deb replies, stepping back from the building  and nodding toward the city in the background. The tops of new buildings glimmer in the rising sun, surrounded by a tall city wall. “They want to live back inside Oasis.”

“Then they shouldn't have started a war. I haven't forgotten what the Dissenters did,” Dan reminds with an unforgiving tone. “Don't let these people fool you—they're looking for blood.”

Deb squeezes his forearm, smiling reverently at him. “I only have one more thing to do, then we'll be out of here.”

Dan checks his semi-auto and scans the quiet street, eyes searching the windows and doors for any movement. “Whatever it is, make it fast,” he spurs in a low voice, continuing on with his patrol.

Deb abandons the graffiti and hurries back to the donation tables, eyes searching desperately among the lines of people whose heads hang low, their eyes scarcely looking up at each other, let alone her. A few are even worse off, like the short man who walks past her, bone thin and jabbering constantly to some invisible foe.

Deb exhales in relief as she spots a tall, skinny man among them. She approaches him with a large welcoming smile, which falters only slightly as his odor reaches her nose. “Long time, no see.”

The man stands unchanged, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Deb touches his arm and repeats the greeting. He slowly turns his head, squinting at her. Dark circles under his eyes stand out against his pale skin, and he’s lost another tooth since last she saw him.

“Jake, are you okay?” she asks.

As his eyes draw in, they light up with recognition. “Do you really want me to answer that?” he teases sourly, running a shaky hand through oily hair.

“No,” she recoils humbly. “Of course you're not okay. I know that. Have you eaten lately?”

“Eaten what?” he mocks. “That stuff they give us can hardly be classified as food.”

Deb hands over her lunch without hesitation, watching the others like she wished she had more to give. Jake opens the bag, savoring the smell of the sandwich and salad. “I don't suppose you brought cheese cake.”

“Sorry, I already ate it,” she chuckles.

He laughs awkwardly, as if unaccustomed to the process, when one glance from a guard sinks him back into soberness. He reaches for Deb's arm, hand trembling. His fingers feel like ice, despite the heat. “Are you getting close? I can't take much more of this!”

“Hang in there, Jake. Think of your wife and daughter— they need you,” she urges, eyeing a drone flying overhead. “Do you have the list?”

Jake nods and waits for the nearest guard to look the other way before passing her a small microdrive. ♦

Deb pockets it quickly. “I'll contact you as soon as I have answers. Tell the volunteers at the third table I said to give you a bottle of pain killer.”

“Thanks,” he nods appreciatively, hands still shaking.

Back at the tables, a man with leathery skin and cracked lips fixates on a small pair of shoes. He picks them up and examines them tenderly while anger creeps into his eyes, the lines on his face deepening.

Deb walks over and smiles innocently at him until she notes his strange expression. When she spots the shoes, alarm spreads over her face. “How did those get in there? I'm terribly sorry.”

“You ever get stabbed in the back,” the wiry man says slowly, turning his eyes from the shoes to her, “only to have someone start twisting the knife?”

“It was an innocent mistake,” she says, taking the shoes from the man. Deb takes a step backward and yanks on the arm of another volunteer. “Tyler, would you help me here?”

“What can I do for you, Deb?” he says, politely. The off-duty police officer's face turns sober as he takes in the scene. He leans toward her, speaking in a hushed tone. “Load everyone up into the van.”

Deb turns to comply, but the angry man blocks her way. “No harm was meant,” she says sincerely, her heart racing.

“Seemed thought out to me,” he says slowly and meticulously before shoving the table, sending most of its contents onto the ground. Several other angry Dissenters join his side.

“Everyone, calm down,” Tyler says, his voice resonating with authority and firmness, confirmed by his intimidating frame.

An older volunteer, John, whose frame still holds some of its former military strength and agility, joins him. “Everyone just return to your lines and someone will help you with what you need.”

One group doesn't return to their lines. Instead they kick over the remaining tables while the first man raises a fist in the air. “You want to give us what we need?” he yells, livid. “Then give us back—”

“Everyone freeze!” a guard yells, pointing a gun down at the crowd from the top of a roof. Most of the crowd scatters, but a few dozen stay, determined to get justice.

The man grabs Deb, spinning her around and locking her in a choke hold before pressing a knife to her throat. “John, get the others out of here!” Deb gasps, his arm tight around her throat. John nods at Tyler while remaining near Deb's side.

“Volunteers—move!” Tyler shouts out as he grabs the nearest volunteers and herds them toward the van, practically shoving them inside. “Hurry, John needs my help.”

As he loads the last one, angry hands grab at him, trying to get past him into the van. He fights against them, kicking the van door shut with one free leg. “Lock it!” he yells as the mob overpowers him.

Volunteers with shaking hands clumsily force down the locks while a young woman hops into the driver's seat, frantically searching. “Where are the keys?”

“We can't leave the others behind! We have to do something,” her friend yells back.

“We can give a lot more help in a moving van!”

“Deb has the keys!” another volunteer yells back just as a loud whack comes from the back. They all look wide-eyed past the resulting crack to see numerous angry Dissenters, armed with bricks.

Jake walks over to Deb's captor, his hands up in the air. “I know you're angry. I'm angry, too, but none of this is her fault. She's here to help us.”

“Just let her go,” John says, slowly inching closer. “She's innocent.”

“No, John,” Deb protests weakly, unaware that Tyler is struggling against captors of his own nearby. “Get out of here. Think of your family.”

“I think I'm gonna stay right here,” John replies in a deep voice as he moves in closer.

“Back off or I'll kill her!” the man yells. Deb tenses as his knife presses harder against her throat causing both John and Jake to pause, hands in front to show they mean no harm.

Up above them, a city guard throws down smoking canisters. Screams erupt as most of the rioters flee, leaving only eight. “Let's go!” the leader yells to the others, dragging Deb.

The remaining hardened Dissenters spur John and Tyler, who follow Deb with their hands above their heads while Jake watches motionless in the stinging smoke as his only hope is taken to a storage room in a nearby building.

“Barricade the door,” the leader yells, finally releasing Deb who falls down. Several men quickly roll heavy barrels to block it.

“Please just let us go,” Deb pleads. “If you hurry, you can leave before the guards get here.”

“They have our IDs locked in by now,” the leader replies, his jaw clenching.

“Everything happened so fast. If you just go . . .” Tyler adds.

“It's too late!” the man shouts, thick saliva collecting on his cracked lips. He turns to another captor. “Open a barrel!”

“Do you know the punishment for opening guard stock?” the guy responds.

“We just took hostages and you're worried about guard stock?” the leader laughs.

Realization dawns on the man as he hurries to open a barrel, his cheeks flushed red. Soon the captors are dipping their hands in, drinking water as fast as they can.

John and Tyler make eye contact. John nods as Tyler starts inching toward Deb. The leader whips his head around. “Don't even think about it!” he yells, yanking Deb closer.

“I'm sure there's a way we can work this out,” she gasps, her cheeks wet. “Why not just surrender?”

“They'll shoot anyone who leaves!” the leader screams. “You wanna die? Be my guest!” Deb cringes as he jerks her around, twisting her arm at an unnatural angle.

“Let her go. You're hurting her,” Tyler says firmly, inching closer.

“Hurting her?” the leader scoffs. He shoves Deb away, pulls out a gun, and points it right at Tyler. With each word, his rage increases: “You don't know what pain is!” ♦

CHAPTER 1

FIRSTS

Alysse Simms

Inside Oasis

Same Morning

HONK! HONK! 

“Tori's here,” my mom calls, handing off the lunch I packed last night as I run past her. “Don't forget Alysse, no matter what people see on the outside . . .” she calls after me.

“Stay true to what's on the inside,” I call over my shoulder as I skip down the stairs. “Thanks, Mom.”

I heave up my bulging backpack and slip out the front door where an expensive convertible sits on our cracked driveway. Inside waits my BF Victoria Clement with her gorgeous blond hair, flawless skin, and perfect figure. She's the only girl I know who turns down cake and pizza, even when no one's watching.

“Hey, senior!” she greets with high octane. “Ready for the first day of our best year?”

“Absolutely,” I fall into my seat, this car sitting lower to the ground than her last one.

She starts to reverse, but pauses to take in the massive city wall towering behind my pitifully small house. “I still can't get over how close to the Wall you are. Do you ever worry you'll be attacked?”

I shrug. “The Wall is too tall for anyone to climb.”

She twists her head to peer at the top, gauging the wall's height. “Dissenters could still launch a bomb over.”

A disbelieving laugh escapes my lips. “Thanks for that thought. It'll come in handy, like tonight, when I'm trying to sleep.”

She cringes, switching her foot back to the accelerator. “Forget I said anything.”

I watch the Wall shrink in size as we drive east, sobered as I think about the Dissenters.

More than twenty years ago, the Dissenters tried to take over the entire government. When the rest of us resisted, they switched to the dirtiest tactics, killing the innocent with everything from germ warfare to bombs. So started our Second Civil War.

With superior technology on our side, we cut off their communication and cornered them into a small region beyond the desert, isolating them from the rest of us. My city, Oasis, sits right on the border of that desert. If that isn't enough to keep war on our minds, outside our Wall is a group of Oasian traitors who joined the Dissenters during the war. Once identified, we kicked them out of the city and into a Compound, where they've lived ever since.

I turn my back to the Wall and refocus on my incredibly spotless surroundings. “Oh no, Tori! Is this for real?” I exclaim, examining the parallel lines on her immaculately clean carpet.

She peeks down at the floor in a panic. “What's wrong?”

“Who gets up early on the first day of school to vacuum their car?” I accuse, shaking my head mournfully. “As your friend, I recommend immediate counseling.”

She rolls her eyes. “I thought you were going to recommend a good cleaner.”

“To do what? A white glove test?” I slide a finger along the dashboard, not finding one speck of dust. Instead, I find a brand new handheld device sitting in her dock, its pearl finish glimmering in the sunlight, its screen blank and inviting. “Is that a JS 900?” I gasp.

“New e-binder for a new school year,” she confirms, sounding like an advertisement. “You can try it despite your comment about my needing a shrink.”

I gently pick up the strong yet super light device, its chrome jacket perfectly smooth and scratch free.

“Try the full color Holo App,” she encourages.

“Full color on a hand held?” I gaze in amazement as a perfect miniature hologram dog chases its tail on my lap, so cute and so real, I have to resist the urge to pick it up. “That's it: I'm asking your parents to adopt me!”

“You can have them, and you can use my JS 800, too,” Tori offers wryly. “It's in the glove box.”

“Thanks!” I set her 900 down adoringly before retrieving the 800. “So, your parents still haven't chilled out?”

Her face switches from humor to annoyance. “Last week alone, my mother hired a fashion consultant to inspect my wardrobe while my father hired a new tutor to drill me on foreign languages.”

“I thought you were fluent in three.”

“He wants five,” she says dryly, raising one of her perfectly shaped eye brows.

“Senior year is already so intense, why won't they relax?”

She shrugs. “It's their last year to sculpt me.”

As we drive, the streets become more manicured and exotic, until finally we reach the Oasis Academy of Leadership and Training, a prep school which reminds me of a life sized miniature golf course. Our manicured lawns are perfect for teeing off, and our buildings are replicas of significant historical places. For example, we study art in a mock Louvre and learn history in a Pantheon. ♦

The insides of the buildings are just as cool, like the flame thrower exhibit in the lobby of the science building. Guys line up year-round for a chance to torch our rival's mascot with twenty foot flames.

“Your parking pass,” requests a campus guard at the entrance gate as he scans our IDs.

Tori taps her JS with her French manicured nail and a holo card appears for him to scan. “Welcome to your senior year,” he greets, opening the gate.

We drive underground into the coveted senior parking garage, where students are already leaning against their luxury vehicles, laughing and posing.

Tori and I grab our stuff and make our way to the pyramid, for political science. This year, we finally have class on the top floor.

At the pyramid's entrance, we join other students in a long line that moves quickly as a guard verifies IDs.

Tori walks up, passing her shimmery watch under the scanner. “Welcome, Miss Clement,” he greets with an approving smile.

I gaze at her watch with envy. The only mandatory ID I can afford is the injectable chip. They tell you it's painless, except that it's not. I swipe my scarred wrist over the scanner and it flashes red. The guard looks over in annoyance, reading the screen. “You are not assigned to this building.”

I pull up my schedule on the JS and sure enough, my first hour no longer shows poli-sci. “But I was signed up,” I protest. The guard doesn't even flinch, he just folds his arms and stands in my way.

“It's probably just a glitch,” Tori smiles at the guard, running a hand through her hair as she checks out the name on his badge. “You know, Tim, it is the first day after all. I'm sure no one would fault you for allowing her to talk with the professor.”

He looks both ways, considering the proposal before turning back to her with a grin. “You're probably right.” His smile fades as he turns to me and yanks a thumb over his shoulder. “Go ahead.”

As we climb the stairs inside, Tori twists her long, golden hair into a bun, sliding a pen in to hold it. I spent thirty minutes on my hair, and hers looks better. How does she do that?

“Hey, about track,” Tori asks. “Are you in?”

“I don't know . . .” I cringe. “I'm not really a big fan of pain.” We walk into class, automatically sitting up front to comply with her father's rules.

“Running helps relieve stress,” she encourages in singsong.

“While humiliating myself in public creates it,” I singsong back.

“Is that Peter Mansfield?” a girl whispers behind me. “That arrogant jerk is even fatter than last year.” Pretty harsh of her, considering the rumor that she had lipo done over the summer.

I turn and watch students make room for Pete, who's winded from the climb. I've been worried about him. He's tipped the scale in the wrong direction these last three years, not that I'm judging. I'm starting to have the same problem, although on a smaller scale.

Pete started packing it on about the same time he started globetrotting with his dad, a jovial and rather big bellied man who's always on the go. With nearly every country in the world involved in at least one war, the Mansfield defense weapons and surveillance company has no shortage of business.

In fact, Pete's grandfather designed the weapon that kept our nation from Dissenter takeover during the Second Civil War. That patent is a never-ending goldmine, making his family's fortune one of the largest in the world. And who's the only heir? Pete. 

No pressure there.

I smile and wave at Pete while Tori stiffens, turning her back and focusing on her JS with determination.

“Hey, Alysse,” Pete greets me, ignoring Tori's ignoring him.

“You wanna sit up front for a change?” I ask.

“Yeah, right,” he smirks, glancing at the empty seat with revulsion. “How long have we known each other?”

I squint. “Um, about eight years?”♦

He raises an eyebrow. “Have I ever sat up front?”

“No.” I arch an eyebrow back. “Have I ever not invited you?”

“Have fun, sweetheart,” he says, winking before working his way to the back.

Tori leans over, whispering. “I forgot—why are you friends with him?”

“What's wrong with Pete?”

“I really can't say,” she shrugs, a mischievous look on her face. “The words I need to describe him are all restricted on campus.”

“You should give him a chance,” I encourage. “He's cool once you get to know him.”

She turns around to glance at Pete, who's leaning back in his seat, his feet propped up on his neighbor's desk as he plays games on his JS. “Well, that's not going to happen,” she says in a calloused tone. I open my mouth to persuade her otherwise when Aaron Tallin walks in, robbing me of the ability to speak.

His summer tan is a work of perfection, making his green eyes all the more noticeable. I drop my eyes down to my desk, acutely aware of him as he walks past me. He's the son of the highest official in the city of Oasis, Statesman Tallin. If that wasn't enough, Aaron's also captain of the rugby team, a good student, and super friendly. I peek over at him talking with his friends, biting my lip to keep from smiling. Looks like poli-sci is my new favorite subject.

That is, until Mishell Ludd walks in, something I should have anticipated. As president of the I Love Aaron Club, a.k.a. ILAC, Mishell changes her schedule every year to match his. “Hey, Tori!” she greets, flipping back her blond hair with visible dark roots, her makeup creasing on her round face as she smiles.

“Oh, hi, Mishell,” Tori responds, looking up and smiling politely before turning back to her JS.

Mishell's smile falters. She half-glares at Tori before looking for a seat. Then she spots me and a new smile surfaces, predatory in nature. She leans over my desk, whispering: “My father is Head of Oasis Internal Security. Tori's father is chairman of a Multinational Pharmaceutical. Then there's your father, CEO of Sewage, which makes you the princess of—”

“Quiet down!” a slim, tough woman demands, entering class wearing a fashionable blazer and suit pants. Her hair is wound so tightly into a bun, it has to be cutting off circulation.

Mishell resumes her search for a seat with the perfect view of Aaron while I approach the teacher's desk. “Professor Harden?”

She looks up from her desk, her eyes narrow. “Dr. Harden,” the woman snaps abrasively.

“Dr. Harden,” I correct apologetically with a smile. “My name is Alysse Simms. I'm scheduled for this class but wasn't on the list.”

“Some would have taken that as a hint,” she says, her voice icy.

My jaw drops. Did she just say that?

Tori joins us, all smiles. “Dr. Harden, I'm thrilled to finally meet you,” she redirects with gusto as she shakes hands with the professor.

The frown on Dr. Harden's face switches to adoration. “Victoria. How is your mother?”

“Super excited I finally get to take your course,” Tori gushes. “We've all heard how vigorous you keep the curriculum.”

“How else will you be ready for the challenges which await you?” Dr. Harden asserts, her chin held high.

“Very true,” Tori replies before leaning close, her voice lowered. “May I ask a personal favor? I know your class is in high demand, but I was hoping you could squeeze Alysse into your roster. She's my study partner.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Harden pauses, clearly weighing which option is less revolting, losing favor with her new favorite student or allowing the displeasing shadow of a nobody into her class. “Very well, I will add her. Take your seats.”

Dr. Harden looks up from her JS and faces the class dramatically. “Attention! I just received word Oasis is on yellow alert.”

Audible groans erupt. Yellow alerts result in school lock-down. Red alerts are even worse—all citizens are basically placed under house arrest.

“Does that mean we're stuck on campus again?” moans Chris to the side of me. He's a light framed winger on the rugby team and one of Aaron's friends.

Dr. Harden turns and stares at him, her face an emotionless mask. He squirms, face flushing as the silence lengthens. Other students shift in their seats, waiting.

“Here, at the Academy of Leadership and Training, students do not speak unless called upon,” Dr. Harden leers at last. “They also sit up straight!”

Chris immediately fixes his posture as Dr. Harden turns back to the class with an intense gaze. “Dissenters have attacked yet again. This time the Compound took Oasian hostages—two males and a female. If not for our worker's program, we could seal the gates once and for all.” Her eyes center on a new student whose hand is raised. “Yes, Alma?”

“Zere are Dissenters here? I sought zey all moved to zee Lost Territory,” the slender girl asks, her short dark hair flaring out in organized chaos.

Dr. Harden looks around the room, her smile broadening with pride. “Aaron, would you explain our precarious relationship with the Compound to our foreign exchange student?”

I spin around, finally free to stare at Aaron's perfect frame and dimpled smile.

“During the War, we discovered and moved all local Dissenters into a Compound outside the Wall where they live to this day. After the war, we were left with the dilemma of what to do with those traitors. My father instituted an education program and a workers' program to help them support themselves.”

“And you can see the gratitude they show us,” Dr. Harden adds in a sarcastic tone as Aaron sits back down. “This morning's attack is further proof that the Wall is insufficient protection—” She pauses, visibly annoyed. “Peter?”

“Clarification, please,” Pete says, a mischievous look in his eyes. “I thought the attack occurred outside the Wall.”

“That is correct,” she says, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Then surely the problem is with our going out there, rather than with the Wall itself.” Pete grins in response to a few appreciative chuckles, including Aaron's.

“The point is, Peter, something has to be done with the Compound,” she replies sharply with narrow eyes as the class snaps back to attentive silence. “There are several pending bills regarding the Desert Compound. In the remaining time, you will each write a five page essay on what you consider to be the best solution.”

Another essay about the Compound? I flex my brain, searching for some angle Dr. Harden hasn't already seen.

Five minutes later, Tori glances over at my blank screen. “What are you doing? Start writing,” she mouths.

“I can't,” I mouth back. She knows why, though it's something I could never admit at this school: I have friends that are Dissenters.

CHAPTER 2

BEING TRUE

––––––––

THE Compound isn't as simple as Dr. Harden makes it out to be. Yes, there are sectors you'd have to be crazy to visit, where gang members would likely kill you just for being Oasian.

But there's other sectors, like the place where my family and I used to volunteer, back when things were relatively peaceful. At age ten, I remember handing out water bottles to families waiting in line under a hot summer sun.

I met many others my age, none of whom were the violent anarchists I had been taught about in school. They were nice and, well, normal. I wanted to ask why they had joined the Dissenters, but with political discussions banned, I couldn't.

“Just write what Dr. Harden wants to hear,” Tori silently mouths. “Seal the gates.”

And leave my friends out there to fry? I think to myself, not daring to voice it—school is hard enough. I hate to think what would happen if others thought I was a Dissenter Sympathizer.

“Ninety percent of our city's blue collar workforce comes from the Compound,” I whisper instead. “Close the gates and then what will we do?”

“And what will you do with no diploma because you failed poli-sci?” Tori breathes back.

“Feel good about myself,” I whisper. Just then Chris glances up, his face hard to read, before turning back to his essay. I make a mental note to keep my thoughts to myself.

I draw lots of swirls on Tori's JS 800 as she resumes writing. I'm having a hard time deciding which is worse: an “A” you feel guilty for or an “F” with a clear conscience. I sigh and compromise on a likely “C,” where neither the teacher nor I are thrilled with the answer.

Several seats behind me, Dr. Harden approaches Pete, who's still leaning back, feet propped up as he plays on his JS. “You should be writing your essay,” Dr. Harden whispers harshly.

“I already did. I knew you'd want one when I saw the news,” Pete says nonchalantly, waving his JS in front of her receiver. Her grip tightens as his essay appears on her screen.

Just then my phone starts vibrating. I scramble to switch it off.

“Alice!” Dr. Harden barks from behind.

“My name is pronounced Uh-leese,” I correct tentatively as she approaches.

“Who cares?” Mishell whispers loudly. A few others snicker.

“You are aware of our rules concerning electronic devices, are you not?” Dr. Harden motions condescendingly. I deflate, placing my phone in her outstretched hand.

“That's an electronic device?” Mishell mocks louder as Dr. Harden holds it up like a dirty sock.

Harden sneers. “You may have this thing back after you turn in a five-page essay on why electronic communication can never be used in class, Alice.”

The bell finally rings and Tori leans toward me. “I can't believe she called you Alice again.”

I'm still fuming as I glance up at Dr. Harden who is sitting smugly at her desk. “I can.”

By lunchtime, my goal of sleeping tonight is looking pretty dismal, with my English professor adding a twenty-page research paper, and my French teacher assigning an intense translation.

I sigh as I dutifully pass the cafeteria, eating my lunch on the way to the library. Inside, I sit and start on an outline for Harden's penalty essay, determined to get my phone back today when I hear footsteps approach from behind.

“I was wondering where you went,” Pete quips, sitting opposite me. “Tell me you're not studying.”

“It's your fault,” I fire back.

“My fault? What did I do?” he grins, holding up his hands in innocence.

I narrow my eyes and fold my arms. “You provoked Dr. Harden.”

“Come on, Alice, you can hardly pin that on me,” he leans forward, teasing. “It's clear she forgot her morning meds.”

“All the more reason not to provoke her. You should be writing the essay, not me,” I point out, turning my attention back toward Tori's JS.

“There's no need.” He grins, putting my phone on the table.

I blink in disbelief. “Tell me you didn't steal it.”

“Didn't need to,” he raises his chin arrogantly. “I smoothed everything over.”

“How?”

“I have my ways. Why do you even want this thing?” Pete picks it back up, examining the electrical tape that keeps the back from falling off. “It's slower than Mishell's IQ.” He slides it across the table to me.

“Shhh, it might hear you. We've been through a lot together,” I say, catching and cradling it before checking my messages. “Pete!”

“What?” he replies with false innocence.

“You're the one who messaged me?” I demand, right as the bell rings.

“I'm also the one who bailed you out,” he grins before running off.

Unbelievable.

By the time school ends, I'm desperate to go home and veg out, having been tested enough for one day.

“Ready for track?” Tori beams as she joins me at my locker, way too cheerful about postponing freedom for an unnecessary hour of work and pain.

“I don't know,” I stall. “We have so much homework-”

Tori grins playfully, biting her bottom lip. “Aaron switched rugby practice to the track field.”

I pause briefly, weighing the situation. “You know, we'll study so much better if we exercise first.” I hook arms with her and head toward the gym.

Which is how I get tricked into sweating in the least attractive pose possible out on the track field. My attempts to keep up with Coach's drills, most of which are inspired from his past glory days in boot camp, are failing miserably.

I'm in the middle of burpees, whose name alone is a reason to avoid them, when I spot Aaron pumping up his team with a pep talk, upbeat as always. He turns his head and looks our way, causing me to mix my left foot with my right, which is probably why I trip.

“What poise and grace,” Tori teases as I stand back up, droplets pouring off my bright red face.

“Why did I agree to this?”

“Heel clicks,” Coach yells out. I stare in disbelief at Tori who enthusiastically jumps into them like she's got liquid energy running through her veins. She's one of the few. Most of the team is groaning and slowing down.

“Where did all these slackers come from?” Coach barks, causing several of us to jump. “What did you do all summer? Sip sodas in front of your holos? Show me some vertical. Like you mean it!”

I grind through several more exercises, risking a glance at Aaron during a batch of high knees. He's running hard with his team, determined to stay in front. The only one who manages to pass him is Chris.

“Alysse—care to join us?” Coach yells. I drop down, realizing the others have moved on to caterpillars. My arms shake as I lower myself for another push up. “Why did I let you talk me into this?” I gasp as Tori grins despite the strain.

“You realize this is all just warm up . . . right?”

Forty-five torturous minutes later, Coach yells out: “That's it for today. Go home and throw out your junk food. Our first meet is next weekend and most of you aren't ready for a 5K! Team dismissed!”

Runners around us clear the field fast. I'm wondering why, when Coach calls out: “Victoria, hold up.”

“Yes, Coach?” Tori responds brightly, turning to face him while my survival instinct tells me to blend in with our surroundings.

“With the team this ill prepared, I need you on several events,” he shakes his head, disappointed. “Would you be willing to do my supercharge diet next week?”

“Sure, Coach,” she agrees without even a flinch. I breathe a sigh of relief as we walk away.

“One more thing,” Coach calls from behind. “Get your friend Simms there on a level two.”

“A level two?” I panic, grabbing her arm as we walk away. “What's that?”

She laughs, looking me over. “Don't sweat it—it just means lots of salads, lean protein, and simple carb reduction.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as I stretch muscles that are already turning sore. “If boot camp was so horrible, why does Coach want to re-live it?”

“Because this time we suffer, not him,” she says with a knowing smile as she pulls out a green juice from her bag. “Hang in there—it'll be worth it.”

The moment I get home, I let my backpack fall off my shoulders and make a bee-line for the kitchen, in desperate need of pizza and chocolate ice cream.

“Hey, Mom, is there any—?” I grind to a stop in the doorway as her quiet sobs reach my ears. My mom sits slumped at the table, her eyes swollen and puffy. “What's wrong?” I almost whisper.

She looks at me, almost like she doesn't dare answer. “I assume you heard about the hostage situation in the Compound?” She sniffs, tossing a tissue into the garbage.

I nod, waiting.

“Your dad knew things were unraveling. It's why we stopped volunteering a year ago,” she says, bracing herself. “Deb's in the hospital and Tyler's gone.”

“Gone? As in dead?” I gasp. She looks at me miserable, not even able to say it out loud. “What did the Dissenters do to them?”

She grimaces as she reaches for another tissue. “We don't know at this point, only that Deb had to have her arm amputated and that Tyler was shot in the chest.”

Deb's the one who introduced us to Lifting Hands ten years ago. She's a lamb, totally incapable of inflicting harm, even in self-defense. Then there's Tyler. Hands down, he is the coolest police officer I've ever known and his wife just gave birth to twins. ♦♦

I sit down, scarcely aware of the chair beneath me. “How do people become so . . . sub-human?”

My mom sniffs one last time before gathering herself and heading to the kitchen determined. “I'm taking Tyler's family dinner and several freezer meals, and your father is arranging a fundraiser for the Wilson family.”

I jump to my feet. “I'll help.”

Several hours later, I'm lying on my bed e-surfing when my parents knock softly at my door. “Your mom was telling me about the help you gave,” my dad says approvingly as they both come in. “We're really pleased with how you give your time—” He freezes, eyes fixed on Tori's JS. “Where did you get that?”

“Tori gave it to me,” I reply, holding it close to my chest protectively, a sense of foreboding taking hold.

“Alysse,” my mom utters, shocked, as if I were holding some illegal drug. “Even if we had the money, we wouldn't get you one.”

“No JSs,” my father insists, his face set like stone.

“Everyone at school has a JS—literally,” I reply. It takes all my self-control to keep my tone respectful. “You should see the looks teachers give me when I hand in paper assignments.”

“This is not negotiable,” my dad enunciates slowly. “Give the JS back in the morning.”

After they leave, I do one final search on Tori's JS: How to get anti-tech parents to join the current century. Even the last century would be a step up.

CHAPTER 3

UNWANTED ATTENTION

––––––––

“THIS really isn't necessary. Tori is happy to pick me up,” I argue as I pass over my favorite breakfast—jam and cream cheese on a bagel. I take a bite of tasteless steel cut oats with cut up apple, no sugar. I choke on the tasteless, mushy glue, all just to keep coach happy.

“It's been a long time since we got to talk,” my dad says, finishing the last of his toasted bagel, the cream cheese melting into the crisp crust.

I turn my back, the temptation almost more than I can handle. “Okay, how about we discuss why it's fine for me to use a phone but not a JS?” I ask in cool politeness as I keep my eyes on the boring salad I'm packing for lunch.

“Phones are for communication and interaction only. JSs, on the other hand, have countless programs, detracting from your ability to focus, reason, and interact with real people in real time,” he rattles like an infomercial.

“In other words, Dad doesn't want you turning zombie,” taunts my brother Ethan as he walks into the kitchen. He rents a room at home while attending Oasis Community College. My parents don't charge him much—just enough to keep him real.

“Wait, you're coming, too? Let me guess—your car broke down again. It hangs out more at Kevin's garage than here,” I tease Ethan.

“Maybe we can take your car,” he mocks, grabbing a bagel, heaping on lots of butter and jam. “Oh wait, that's right—you don't have a car.” He takes a bite in front of me, savoring the taste while I fold my arms and stare.

“Let's go,” my dad orders in a stern voice, ushering us out the front door to our rusting car.

As I climb in, I break off a piece of peeling paint from the car door, flicking it to the ground. “Dad, do you think maybe it's time for a new car?”

“A new car?” he says, puzzled as he pumps the gas, hits the dashboard, and turns the key. “There's a few good years left in this one.”

Come on, car, I think wistfully. Don't start, don't start. The treasonous engine putters to life, ready to deliver me to the guillotine. My eyes squeeze shut. No!

“How is your new year going?” my dad asks with bravado.

“About to take a turn for the worse,” I mutter, miserable.

He clears his throat. “How are your teachers?”

“Annoyed I don't use a JS like everyone else,” I jab as we pull up to a stop light.

He cranks his torso and head around to look at me. “You're not going to cooperate, are you?”

I scoot further to the left, out of his line of sight.

“Hey, Dad,” Ethan jumps in, happy to take my place. “My chem professor says he knows you from college . . .”

Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at the main gate of Campus. Two guards jump to their feet, visibly alarmed as we pull up to the check point. They circle us, carefully scanning every inch of our car.

Behind us, cars start lining up, the first of which bears an Oasis flag on its license plate—the Statesman's car. I grimace and slink down further in the back seat, hoping Aaron doesn't see me.

“Find anything?” one troubled guard asks another.

“Nothing,” he shrugs.

The first guard squints, rubbing his chin as he considers our mismatched car. “Check again.”

I suppress an anguished groan.

The longest sixty seconds of my pitiful life later, the guards begrudgingly give up and wave us through.

“They don't stop anyone else . . .” I complain as my dad pulls forward.

“They're duty bound to investigate anything out of the ordinary,” my dad excuses automatically, wedging our puttering, pathetic old car in between two limos as if he's trying to humiliate me on purpose.

I climb out and bolt, wanting to separate myself from the artifact as fast as I can. “Hey, wait!” my dad calls after me, punching the horn. To my horror, the horn gets stuck. Everyone within a hundred feet stops talking and stares at us. I quickly distance myself from the mortifying scene as he hits the steering wheel several more times. He finally wins round one and the horn goes quiet. “Alysse!” he calls through his open window.

Only the fear of another horn tap compels me to respond. “What?” I yell, exasperated.

“Have a good day,” he cheers, waving big.

I give a sarcastic thumbs-up and pretty much whimper “Thanks.”

In the distance, Tori stands in the middle of ILAC, waving me over with a look of sympathy. Next to her is Mishell wearing a look of diabolical enjoyment. I brace myself and join them. “Hey.”

“What was that thing?” Mishell mocks loudly, jerking her head in the direction of our departing car. “Is it even legal to operate?”

“You mean that mobile junkyard was hers?” an ILAC member laughs quietly.

“Fitting, don't you think?” Mishell sneers, applying another thick layer of bright red lipstick.

“Mishell,” Tori warns in a low voice.

“What?” she shrugs innocently. “I'm just pointing out—”

“AARON ISN'T COMING TODAY!” yells a sophomore in sheer panic, running toward us. “Another family trip!”

“What?” Mishell spins to face her. “What's the point of even coming to school?”

Tori nudges me with a teasing smile. “At least this way he didn't see you get dropped off.”

“I'm not sure about that—there was an Oasis limo behind me this morning,” I glance around, worried.

Tori smirks. “My money's on ILAC; they know his schedule better than he does.”

Just then Raezer saunters up and wraps his arms around two girls who giggle, his hair styled so bizarrely, it's hard not to stare. “Hel-lo, ladies! Who has their homework from calculus?” He looks at Tori, who raises an offended eyebrow. He dims ever so slightly as he moves to the next person. “Mishell?”

“Like I take calculus,” Mishell reminds with her usual air of superiority. She stares admirably at her reflection in a nearby window as she realigns a stray hair.

“What about you, Alice?” Raezer mocks. I ignore him, stepping closer to Tori.

Raezer's smirk diminishes slightly. He looks around and spots an overly thin girl named Kess. “Hey B, I need last night's homework.”

She shrugs her slumped shoulders. “I'm not in calculus.”

“Then find somebody who is, B. Make it snappy!” he barks. Kess hurries off.

I open my mouth to say something, but Tori shakes her head no. “Let's go,” she says, hooking arms with me.

I twist my head around, feeling sick for not standing up to Raezer. “He has no right to talk to Kess like that.”

“Kess likes being used,” Tori stresses firmly. “And she's a notorious backstabber.”

“I still don't like it . . . any more than I like doing this,” I say handing over her JS, my fingers finding it difficult to let go. “My parents are refusing to leave the stone age.”

She takes it back in complete disbelief. “Compared to your parents, mine seem almost rational.”

Just then, a bright, cheerful ding emits from both JSs. She reads the incoming note on our class board for some time before uttering a triumphant “Yes!”

“Yes, what?” I stare at her, expectantly.

“Dr. Harden wants us to go to the library and start on our research assignment. Check out the topic choices.” A holo list appears above her JS, with one topic highlighted. “I already wrote a paper on international drug regulations for my dad this summer.”

I eye her, enviously. “And to think, I used to feel sorry for you when your dad gave you homework over the summer.”

We pass numerous partially filled tables until Tori finds one tucked away at the back. While she settles in her seat, pulling up her report and making minute changes, I hurry among the shelves, pulling out several thick volumes. By the time I have everything I need, I can barely see over the top as I carry the pile back to our table.

Suddenly, Aaron appears at my side. “Could I see that one?” he asks, pointing to the book at the bottom of my heavy stack.

“Sure,” I smile, recovering from the shock of his sudden appearance—so much for ILAC's credibility. I awkwardly shift, contorting as I attempt to turn the stack without dropping it.

“This morning was hilarious,” he mentions casually with a dimpled smile. “Does your horn get stuck a lot?”

“I don't know,” I respond, my face growing hot. “We don't normally use it.”

He scans the barcode, downloading the entire volume into his JS with ease. “Probably a good idea until you get it fixed. Thanks for the code,” he says with a smile and a wink before heading back to his table.

“Anytime,” I call after him, precariously re-balancing the pile, grateful our table is close by. Just as I reach my seat, Ryan, an overly ambitious rugby player who could double as a brick wall, slides into my seat.

I maneuver quickly to keep my pile from cascading onto his thick, clueless head. He stares avidly at Tori, not flinching as I drop my books at the other end of the table with an intentional thud. “What are you writing about?” he asks her, entranced and still clueless as I fetch a new chair.

“The Green Revolution,” Tori answers blandly, eyes not leaving her JS.

“I wanted to write about vaccine discoveries,” he leans eagerly toward Tori. “Do you think you could help me?”

“You want my father, not me,” she responds curtly without bothering to look up.

I watch in disbelief. If I talked to guys that way, I'd be ostracized. Tori only gets more attention.

“Want to go to a movie on Saturday?” Ryan asks next.

Case in point.

“Sorry, I'm meeting with several ambassadors,” she replies curtly, eyes still on her report.

“What about next Saturday?”

She looks up, her face pleasant but reserved. “This semester is super busy. Thanks anyway.”

Ryan walks away a few inches shorter. I put down my pen, turning my attention back to Tori. “What?” she asks, glancing at me over the top of her JS.

“The ambassador thing is in the morning, not all day,” I remind.

“What am I supposed to say? 'You're not my type?'” she challenges coyly. Her eyebrows draw in as she looks over my shoulder. “I've got to go. See you later,” she excuses, jumping up from her seat almost like it was on fire.

I spin in my chair to see Oasis' number one heir headed our way.

“Princess Vicky in a hurry?” he mocks as he sits down in her now empty seat.

“She prefers Tori,” I say defensively as I open a book and start copying.

“Right,” he placates. “What do you see in that plutocrat?” I put my pen down and stare at him. “Pluto what?”

“Plu-to-crat,” he enunciates slowly, enjoying himself. “The wealthy, ruling class who looks down at us mere mortals.”

I almost snort as I gesture at his leather jacket and his JS 990. “And you aren't?”

“We earned our money,” he says confidently, scanning several of the volumes in my pile with his JS. “Besides, Mansfields aren't interested in ruling.”

“Well, Mr. Not-Interested, you don't know Tori.” I lean forward and whisper surreptitiously. “She's awake.”

“Huh.” Pete lifts a doubting eyebrow. “What makes you so sure?”

“We have real conversations off campus,” I confide.

“Something I'll never witness,” he smirks. “Seeing as how she won't even talk to me.”

“She probably doesn't want her phone taken away,” I chide, burning through ink as I copy info at mach speed while he compiles data for his report with a few taps.

Hours later, I'm waiting for chemistry to begin when I realize everyone has gone zombie over their JSs, even the professor. I stretch my neck, straining to see what the big deal is when I spot a holo vid of the hostage attack from over Alma's shoulder.

A mini holo Deb stands petrified while a Dissenter shoves a table, in a total rage. My throat and stomach tighten as the Dissenter next turns on John.

“Nut jobs, every last one of them,” Pete vents as he sits next to me, placing his JS between us.

“Not all of them,” I breathe with less conviction than normal as I keep watching the video on his screen.

“Oh, no,” Pete groans. “Not the unfailing optimist again.”

“Sometimes all you need is a catalyst, and everything changes for the better,” I whisper, viewing the holo closely.

“I missed the beginning. What set this guy off ?”

“Some donation he found on the table,” he shrugs. “He handed it to that lady, and it just exploded from there.”

I squint, trying to figure out what's in her hands, but it's too small and blurry to tell. “Why would he blow up over something that's free?” I question, totally perplexed, my heart aching as Deb, Tyler, and John get dragged to a storage room, where one of the Dissenters pulls out a gun, pointing it right at Tyler, yelling that Tyler doesn't know what pain is. My legs tense, wanting Tyler to make a run for it even though I know he's already dead.

Tyler tries to persuade the guy to put the gun down, while one of the Dissenters warns the man they are being watched. The guy looks up at the camera, aims his gun . . . The screen goes blank.

“Did you catch that?” Pete asks urgently as he replays the holo.

“Which part?” I mutter.

“The audio—someone messed around with it.” He rewinds the holo to where the Dissenter accuses Tyler of not knowing what pain is. “Check their lips and listen again,” Pete instructs, zooming in as Tyler tells the guy to put his gun down.

A hollow feeling forms in my stomach as I catch what Pete means. The audio doesn't match the movement of Tyler's lips. “Who would change it and why?” Before Pete can respond, the bell rings.

“Shall we begin?” Professor Titan announces from the front. “Be sure to follow the directions carefully. The last kid who ignored my instructions melted his face.”

“Are you serious?” a girl in front of us asks in alarm.

“Absolutely,” he says with relish as he steps behind Pete. “The guy's name was Mansfield or something.” Titan's mouth twitches, almost revealing a smile.

“Oh, I thought you were going to tell them about that professor who blew up an entire lab,” Pete jabs back playfully.

“Kishbob,” Prof. Titan sputters. “It was only half a lab. Tell that father of yours to stop making up stories.” Titan winks before walking on.

“Dissenters have totally abused our generosity,” Pete says once we're dismissed, his voice carrying down the nearly empty hall where a janitor stops cleaning a window, glaring at us with open hostility. Pete catches the look. “And then Dissenters wonder why Oasians want the gates closed permanently,” Pete announces loudly right before the bell rings. Students flood into the hallway, creating a tidal wave between us and the resentful worker.

We squeeze past a group of ruggers talking loudly. “Why hasn't your father called in the Domestics yet?” Ryan asks Aaron.

“He's waiting for the senate to get on board,” Aaron responds with a tone of impatience, as if he, too, is fed up with the Dissenters.

I lean toward Pete, curious as we open our lockers. “What are Domestics?”

“Domestic Guards from the Global Union, a.k.a. Domes,” Pete clarifies casually as I start my transfer of textbooks from my locker to my backpack. “But my dad calls them morons.”

My face scrunches. “Are they that bad?”

“Morons, as in oxymoron. They come from any country but your own—hardly domestic, and their lack of weapons makes them more like witnesses than guards.”

“Then they can't help us with the Dissenters,” I reply, feeling weighed down by more than just textbooks.

Pete doesn't notice. He's too distracted by an approaching gang of nervous ninth graders, each nudging the other forward. “Not again,” he mutters thoroughly irritated.

♦ A skinny kid finally bucks up enough courage to approach. “Peter Mansfield?” The kid holds out his hand, his skin so pale it's likely his only exposure to light comes from a JS.  “I just wanted to say what an honor it is to meet you,” he greets in a nasally, squeaky voice.

Pete brushes by him without even a nod. “Just say it,” Pete mutters, seeing my look of concern as I glance back at the disappointment evident in the kid's eyes.

“That response won't win many friends,” I suggest lightly.

He laughs mockingly. “Like I want to be friends with users.”

Another ecstatic student blocks our way. “Peter Mansfield?”

“Did you say Peter Mansfield?” A girl whips her head around to get a look. “I'm a big admirer. I've been waiting forever to meet you!” She smiles big, looking him up and down.

Pete turns to me, “I told you so” written all over his face.

“Okay, so you have a point,” I squirm, backtracking. “Still, it doesn't hurt to be polite.”

“Is that so?” Pete says with this dangerous look. I groan as he spins around and backtracks through the group of bright-eyed freshmen to the first kid before smiling and extending a hand. “What's your name?”

The kid's face lights up as he accepts Pete's hand and shakes it enthusiastically. “Nick Tavernil.”

“Well, Nick, Alysse here thinks I was rude. What do you think?” Pete asks, watching me as much as Nick.

“You weren't rude at all,” the kid says, still looking at him in awe.

“Uh, huh,” Pete sends me a smug look. “Say, could you do me a favor, now that we're friends?”

Nick's eyes grow with excitement on his nearly transparent face. “Sure!”

“Just tell all your buddies—” Pete breathes as Nick eagerly leans closer, straining to hear. “— TO LEAVE ME ALONE!” Pete vents at the top of his lungs, his words echoing down the hall.

They all jerk back and scatter, with Nick nearly tripping as he scampers away. Older students laugh wildly, already aware that Pete likes his space.

Pete turns to me with a smirk. “Any better?”

“Oh, yes,” I agree, taking a step back myself. “I'm certain you just made a friend for life.”

CHAPTER 4

CAUGHT OFF GUARD

––––––––

SATURDAY, instead of hanging out and having fun like my peers, I clean houses, scrambling to save up enough for college. The clock moves faster than my hands, and I find myself behind schedule, which is why I take a short cut, walking past one of the worker stations.

Blocking the sidewalk is a group of workers that look like they just stepped out of a maximum security prison, one with weight lifting as the only activity.

“You think things gonna change around here? Oasians don't care ‘bout you,” spits a solid looking young man talking to a large group of workers, all who appear younger than twenty-five.

I tiptoe back, retracing my steps when one of the workers spots me and grunts. Within seconds, the group spreads wide, their eyes on me as they block my way.

I quickly look around for a guard or cop in vain while sliding my hand into my pocket, dialing Oasis' emergency number discreetly, my phone hidden from sight.

I'm debating making a run for it, when I recognize one of the workers, who also happens to be one of the biggest.

“Max, long time no see,” I greet as animated as I can. “How's your mom doing?”

He eyes the others, not pleased with my greeting. “What do you care?” he blurts out.

“I was just concerned about your mom's headaches. Does she still get them?” I gush, ignoring his toxic hatred as I dig in my pocket for the headache formula Tori gave me the first week of poli-sci.

Max shifts his weight, some vulnerability sneaking into his eyes. “The migraines have gotten worse,” he mutters, looking at the others more than me.

“I have something that might help,” I say, trying hard to sound casual and unafraid, aware the group is searching for a reason to attack me. At this point, any excuse would do.

Max grunts more than thanks as I force the small bottle into his hand. I use it as an opportunity to cut through the group before they have time to catch on.

“Just have her follow the instructions on the bottle. Let me know how it works!” I call in a natural voice as I cross the street, watching them from the corner of my eye.

“Didn't know you was a deserter, all for yur mother,” I hear one of the group mocking him.

“You talkin' 'bout my mother?” Max threatens, grabbing the guy by the shirt and dragging him around as if he were a mannequin. The others quickly drop the issue.

I'm halfway down the block before I dare lift my phone to my ear. “CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?” an exasperated dispatcher yells, on the other end. “This better not be a prank, because that's a serious offense and a patrol is already on its way—”

“I'm here!” I interrupt. “There's a group of workers looking for trouble.” I glance over my shoulder, making sure they're not following me. “I wasn't attacked but the next person won't be so lucky . . .”

That evening, I approach my brother's warzone, the place he fondly refers to as his room. “Hey, Ethan?” I peek inside. There's some sort of muffled response amid the piles of junk. Finally I detect a lump of clothes moving on his bed. “Are you alive?”

“No,” he utters irritably into his pillow.

“I'm sorry to hear that. Despite being dead, will you let me borrow your car Saturday mornings?” I plead.

“Can't,” he mumbles inaudibly. “Can't or won't?” I fold my arms.

He lifts his head just long enough to grumble: “Both.” His head falls back down before I hear an agitated groan. He slowly lifts his face. “It's not that I don't want to help, but my schedule constantly changes. I can't agree to something like that. Why don't you ask mom for the family car?”

“Most Saturdays Dad has overtime,” I explain, leaning against his door. “I wouldn't even ask, except I had a close call today.”

My brother slowly sits up, as if he were eighty instead of twenty. “Close call?” He listens carefully, asking many questions as I tell him about the workers.

“Guys like that aren't supposed to have work permits,” he says when I'm done, running a hand through his hair and exhaling loudly. “I wish I could let you borrow my car, but most Saturday mornings I need it.”

I sigh, leaning against his door, discouraged. I'm about to shut the door when another solution comes to mind. “You know, there is a safer route, but it's so long I would need to bike it. Could I borrow yours?”

“Sorry, sold it to buy parts to fix my car.”

“Would you give me a ride to Urbane after dinner to buy one?” I try one last time.

“Now you're talking,” he agrees, laying back down. “Just let me know when dinner's ready.”

“Sure.” I gently close his door and head to my room, hearing his snores within five steps.

Later that evening, a door chime rings as I enter the bike shop. A sixteen-year-old with MARC embroidered on his shirt perks up, and I can see why. The shop is full of bikes and empty of customers. I gulp as Marc rushes over for his only chance at a bonus.

“What can I get for you?” he invites, rubbing his hands together like a starving man who just got served prime rib.

“I'm here for a bike,” I mistakenly reply. He instantly walks to the display wall and lifts off a bike whose price would empty my whole year's savings.

“This is just the bike for you,” he announces with a toothy grin that reminds me of a shark. “GPS, anti-theft, perfect ride, diamond grid tires, surround sound, and multi-color settings—” he beams as the bike frame begins shifting through colors of the rainbow when he tilts it, ending on leopard pink as loud dance music breaks out from the handle bars, “—making this bike the safest and most tasteful ride available for a beautiful Oasian gem—” he half yells.

“Except this gem has a budget,” I interrupt, shutting off the music with a strained smile. “Do you have any used bikes?”

He gasps, grabbing onto the handle bars for support. “Used?” he stutters.

I exhale, exasperated. “OK, obviously not. Where are your more economical bikes?”

“You don't want leopard pink?” he asks, scrolling through more color options. “What about tiger purple—now that's one for today's aggressive women.”

I scrunch my face. “How about I just take a look around?” I leave him stuttering protests as I walk toward the back where several basic bikes are crammed in close together. With significant maneuvering, I extract a simple, white bike, pleased to see this one won't bankrupt me.

“But the tiger print,” Mark quibbles, holding up a purple tiger striped helmet and matching gloves.

“I'll have to sacrifice and pass them up,” I reply. I also pass on a JS mount, new paint job (he really thinks a girl like me should go for a more vibrant color), holo-map, and an inflatable life vest that attaches underneath the seat, just in case I somehow ride off the dock into Oasis Lake.

“At least buy a helmet!” he insists, almost reduced to tears.

“I'd like that one,” I say, pointing to the cheapest and most inconspicuous helmet on the rack.

He doesn't even argue, but places the helmet in a bag, dejected. “Anything else?” he asks, more from duty than hope, his ambition to reach Employee of the Month now crushed. Over his shoulder I notice a small black canister with bright orange flames.

“Yes, I'd like that pepper spray, too.”

He just shrugs, grabbing me a can before scanning my ID, subtracting the total purchase from my account. I slip the pepper spray into my purse, glad to be more prepared.

That evening as I pull out my pajamas, about to go to bed, my dad comes to my door. “You're finally home,” I smile.

“Your brother and mother told me what happened,” he says, calmly. “Before you ride around town cleaning any more houses, I want to do some training with that pepper spray of yours.” ♦

“Now?” I ask, pajamas still in hand as he walks out.

“Yes, now,” he calls from down the hall . . .

“Try again. Remember, break the hold at the weakest point,” my dad instructs an hour later, having already drilled me on spraying from numerous different positions before moving on to breaking choke holds and hand holds, things I didn't know he knew.

I look down at his hand holding my wrist with a strength I didn't expect. I try again, bringing my fist down on his hand before finally twisting my wrist out. He smiles. “Better, much better. We'll practice again tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 5

NEW ALLIANCE

––––––––

“MY uncle wants me to tour his alma mater,” Tori narrates a week later on the way to school. “I tried to tell him I'm not going to I.R.U.—” her voice trails off as she slows to a stop. “That's different.”

Blocking the Academy's security gate are three Oasian City guards in full armor carrying weapons at their sides. One approaches Tori's window.

“Is there a problem?” Tori asks confidently.

“All occupants are to be searched before entering school grounds,” the guard barks. “Out of the vehicle.”

Tori smiles, holding out her watch. “You'll find letters signed by city officials certifying I am an outstanding citizen, free of suspicion. As such, I am exempt from searches.”

The guard scans her and nods. “You are cleared, Miss Clement.”

Another guard gruffly approaches my window. “Out!”

“Yes, sir,” I comply, having no such letters.

“Ma'am!” she yells.

“Yes, ma'am,” I cringe, glancing direly at Tori before climbing out.

“Arms and legs apart,” the guard barks, tapping impatiently as I comply. She pats me down roughly and quickly, her face set like stone behind her sunglasses. The other guard circles me with a scanner, careful to cover even my shoes. They step back, and the female nods in response to a questioning look from the male.

“Proceed,” he announces.

I hop back into Tori's car, shuddering as we drive away. “What was that all about?”

“That was super unnecessary,” she agrees, glancing into the rear view mirror. “You know, it wouldn't be that hard to get you certified. All we have to do is find a level two city official or higher to vouch for you.”

“You neglected to mention the giant fee,” I remind.

“I could help you with the fee,” Tori offers tentatively as we climb out.

“Absolutely not,” I reject, firmly shutting the door behind me. “It's bad enough you give me rides all the time.”

“Hey, Mason,” Tori says a little too brightly, greeting one of the Timpson cousins as he steps out of the car next to us. “Your hair is getting a little long for code, isn't it?”

A little long? The guy could pose for the cover of a surfer magazine with his long sun bleached hair and tall, tan frame.

He smiles in an easygoing manner. “Like code matters?”

His cousin Jason climbs out the other side, his phone glued to an ear, looking a lot like Mason, except with shorter hair, via orders of his dad—a judge. “Come on, it would be the dream job!” he begs with fervor. “But . . . yes, sir.” He puts his phone away, placing a hand on his cousin's shoulder, clearly distraught. “I'm afraid my father lacks vision.”

“Something wrong?” Tori asks, eyes creased with concern.

“We wanted to drop out of school to become city guards,” Mason informs.

“Only my dad won't let me,” Jason pines. “What's the point of studying when we could be paid to frisk girls?”

Tori and I roll our eyes. “Don't worry, Jason,” Tori recovers first, a mischievous grin forming on her face. “I can think of a career that would suit you even better. The only down side is you'd have to perm your hair and dye it red.”

They look at her and then each other, mouths open. “Huh?”

“Clowns,” I mouth, as Tori hooks arms with me and starts walking away.

Jason nudges his cousin, following us. “Did you see that? Tori actually made a joke. The vixen has a sense of humor after all.”

“We're going to be late,” she snaps, lifting her chin and walking faster.

As we hurry along, I see Pete a ways off and almost wave for him to come join us when I remember Tori's stubborn aversion to him. They'd be great friends, if only I could get them to sit down and talk. What if . . .

“Tori, are we still studying at your house today?” I ask slyly.

“Of course,” she replies, thrown off by the question. “Great,” I say enthusiastically. “I'll meet you at your place.”

She looks at me in surprise. “You don't need a ride?”

I hide a grin. “Not today, I have to take care of something first. I'll meet you there.”

After school, I convince Pete I need a ride. He discusses our chemistry experiment as we walk out to the senior parking garage, approaching a vehicle so exotic, I can't tell where the doors begin or end. “What an amazing car!” I gape.

“Calling this work of art a car is insulting,” Pete says.

“Oh,” I grin sheepishly. “Well, I love the color of your 'work of art', yellow is so cheerful.”

“That's exactly what we told the salesman. ‘Find us a car and make sure it's yellow,’” he teases as we come within range. “Open,” he commands.

The edges of the door appear as it splits in the middle, opening horizontally. The bottom forms a step while the top flips up.

A few guys nearby nod appreciatively as we climb into Pete's exquisite masterpiece with ease. Pete nods back as the doors automatically close behind us.

Pete drops his JS into a compartment between our seats, clearing his throat as his eyes drift to my phone.

“Are you ever going to explain this weird ritual?” I ask as I drop my phone into the compartment.

“I'd prefer not,” he replies, driving us out of campus grounds.

“Wait! Head left at the light,” I call out, realizing we're in the wrong lane.

“Toward the Hill?” Pete asks as the wheels pivot ninety degrees, the car driving sideways, moving to the inside lane which leads to where the wealthiest in Oasis reside. Living on the Hill is another reason he and Tori should be friends—they're practically neighbors.

“I'm confused,” Pete questions. “Your home is the other way.”

“I'm studying at Tori's,” I reply as casually as I can.

“Oh, the Clements,” he replies with a scrunched face, ♦ as if he just caught a whiff of today's chemistry experiment. 

“You should come, too,” I invite with a big smile, as if the idea had just occurred to me.

“You know Tori doesn't even like me—not that I care,” he adds quickly, eyes trained as he watches to make sure I believe him.

“Of course she likes you, about as much as you like her,” I prod amiably. “Please come, we could use a brain like yours.”

“Mmmhmm,” Pete responds with the excitement of a slug.

“Please . . .” I beg with big eyes and a pouty lip. “I need help. I'm stuck in calculus.”

His eye twitches as we climb the Hill.

“Besides, her chef makes these amazing croissants wrapped around mini sausages,” I add as we reach her mansion.

“Fine,” he turns the wheel and we pull up on her driveway. “But I'm not staying long.”

Without hesitation, Tori's guard opens the gate, something he's never done for me, even though Tori and I are best friends. By the time we reach the front door, her family's attendant Stan appears in the threshold as an impromptu butler. “Welcome Mr. Mansfield and Miss Simms. I assume you are here to see Miss Victoria,” he says, super attentive.

“Yes, we have a study session,” I reply, smothering a laugh.

“Please follow me.” He leads us to a soothing room I've never seen before. Carved panels with painted calligraphic borders accent the walls, giving the room a bright glowing ambiance. “Please wait here while I inform Miss Victoria,” Stan announces before dismissing himself.

The sofas are so white, I hesitate to sit on them. Pete, however, seems more at home, leaning back and looking around the room with a smirk. “You were right—Tori's no princess,” he whispers.

Within two minutes, Staci, Mrs. Clement's assistant enters the room, filling in as hostess. She strains under the weight of a heavy tray. “Our chef prepared a few hors d'oeuvres in case you are hungry.” She carefully places the silver platter on the coffee table and curtsies before she leaves.

“I should bring you more often.” I elbow Pete, switching to a formal, official tone. “Peter Mansfield, what a pleasure it is for you to grace our front steps. Would you be so kind as to permit me to tie your shoes?”

“Would you stop it already?” he says, shaking his head while fighting off a huge grin.

Just then, Tori comes to an abrupt halt at the entry, raising both hands as if facing off with a skunk. Her eyes seek out mine and her head jerks slightly as she silently mouths “What!?” I just savor an hors d'oeuvre, as if I have no idea what she means.

She puts on a stiff hostess smile and walks in, sitting next to me. “Joining our study group, Peter?”

“Peter is my dad,” he responds curtly. “It's just Pete, and I don't study.”

“No need to rub it in,” I jump in lightly, making as if Pete were being funny instead of rude. “Tori, consider Pete a consultant,” I redirect, pulling out my textbooks. Tori reaches for a celery stick, not amused.

“Big fan of rabbit food?” Pete notes.

“I'm careful about what I eat,” she says, her posture perfect. “I assume you aren't.”

“Are you kidding? Just look at me,” he winks, grabbing a second croissant-wrapped frankfurter, enjoying every last bite in front of us.

A laugh escapes her lips as the ice finally breaks. “Aside from heart attack food, what else do you like?” she taunts.

“Electronics,” I pipe up. “He's revived my family's computer more than once.”

She considers Pete with gauging eyes. “Really? You know, my console was running slow last night. You up for a challenge?” She raises an eyebrow.

Pete rubs his hands together. “Lead the way.”

We follow Tori into the home office where wait three consoles: one large, sleek, and black; another medium and pink; the last small and dark purple.

“Oh look, papa bear, mama bear, and baby bear,” Pete teases, gesturing at the trio.

“Are you going to mock or fix?” Tori folds her arms.

Pete sits, placing his JS on the purple console. A holo desktop instantly appears. I can't help but quietly grin at the shocked look on Tori's face as Pete bypasses her retinal and ID chip scan.

Pete opens and closes files and programs with incredible speed. “You have the hardware. Your software isn't what I would've chosen, but it's okay,” he adds before laughing. “Wow, I don't think I've seen this much spyware except at school.”

“But I have an anti-spyware program,” Tori protests, motioning to an icon on the interactive panel.

Pete smirks. “That government commissioned garbage is spyware. It monitors your entire system.” He downloads several programs. Within minutes, her console is running perfectly.

I smile at Tori, vindicated.

“Okay, so you're good with technology,” she admits.

Pete spins in her chair and leans back with a cocky grin, motioning to her dad's console. “Wanna take a look?” he asks Tori, raising an eyebrow.

“You're kidding,” Tori gasps, eyeing the hall.

“Not a good idea, Pete,” I warn quietly.

“Well?” he challenges Tori, ignoring me.

“For real?” she asks, unable to hide her interest.

Taking that as his answer, he slides over to her dad's console and places his JS on top. A vivid holo desktop appears, super bright and clear. Pete bypasses three security tests before he gets in.

“What's this?” Tori asks, pointing to one of many programs he opens.

“Warns me when someone is accessing remotely,” he says, moving fast. “Can't let baby bear get caught, now can we?”

“And this?” Tori asks, pointing to another.

“Covers our tracks. Can't let Papa Bear know we were here.” A spreadsheet of videos appears on the holo screen. “Hmmm,” Pete smirks as he taps one. “Tori, did you know about this?”

A view of Tori's front seat enlarges, filling the entire screen. “He has a camera in my car!” Tori whispers, outraged, staring at the screen.

“More than just your car. This particular video could cause some turbulence if not corrected.” He taps the screen and we see ourselves huddled around her father's desk.

Tori turns to spot the camera up high behind us while I watch Pete reset the feed until the video shows us back at Tori's station. Tori turns back to the screen as Pete starts exploring programs and files.

“What is this?” she asks, pointing to an icon labeled Scorpion.

“No,” Pete refuses firmly.

“Too hard to crack?” Tori taunts.

Pete's face goes slightly pale. “Some things shouldn't be touched.”

“Then you do know what it is,” Tori begins to interrogate.

“No time.” Pete starts closing programs fast.

That's when I notice his alarm program flashing. Soon that one is closed, too. Pete grabs his JS and we discretely slide back to Tori's station.

“He's on,” Pete says, glancing over, the holo desktop now gone.

“On? It looks off,” I point out.

“Can you hear the hum? That console is working,” Pete responds.

After our close call, we go back to the other room and dive into calculus. Pete and Tori spend an hour taking turns explaining problems until finally my brain can't absorb any more information.

“Oh, Alysse, my father said he'd be happy to vouch for your family if you decide to get certified,” Tori says as I gather up my stuff. “And my mother seriously wouldn't mind covering the fee.”

“No, thank you,” I remind firmly.

“Which certification?” Pete asks, grabbing another hors d'oeuvres.

“Search exemption.” I zip my bag a little too hard, misaligning the sides. “Why are the city guards even at the Academy? I didn't think they were allowed to search students.” 

“Didn't you hear?” Pete asks, looking back and forth between us. “The Academy received multiple bomb threats last week. Apparently, the Dissenters have decided to get revenge on city officials through their children.”

“Why didn't the guards tell us?” Tori asks.

“Since when do they tell us anything?” Pete mocks. “Truth is a gem buried beneath layers of propaganda. You have to dig to find out anything.” He leans back, eyeing Tori with skepticism, wiping his hands with a napkin. “I'm confused, Alysse. You said Tori isn't a zombie.”

Tori narrows her eyes, insulted. “I can think for myself.”

“We'll see about that,” Pete says, a mocking smile forming on his lips as he glances up at the closest camera before leaning close and whispering. “Pop quiz: who started the second Civil War?”

“According to us, the Dissenters. And according to the Dissenters, us,” Tori immediately responds in a hushed voice, raising her chin.

“And according to you?” Pete challenges.

“Both—we have corrupt laws, and they have violent protests,” she concludes quietly as she walks us to the door. “Your turn, Pete-not-Peter. Who owns the Testra Territory?”

“You mean our national park, the one big enough to be its own time zone?” I question in a whisper.

“National park?” Pete coughs, eyeing me. “Haven't you ever wondered why we aren't allowed inside it?”

“The big eared bats were in danger,” I auto-reply.

“In danger of what? Having their pictures taken?” Pete snorts, shaking his head. “We're not allowed in because the whole region belongs to the Dissenters. We lost it during the war.”

I freeze, staring at him. “Wait—that whole area is theirs? How did we lose three state's worth of land when we won the war?”

Pete raises a questioning eyebrow. “Who says we won?”

“We won—but barely,” Tori asserts in a hushed tone.

“We didn't win,” Pete argues in a whisper. “They got what they wanted—separation.”

“Agree to disagree?” Tori offers, opening the door for us.

“You're welcome to your own wrong opinion anytime,” Pete shrugs, undisturbed. “Nice finally meeting you, Tori.”

Tori raises an eyebrow at Pete's thinly veiled jab. “Are you insinuating that I'm fake because I don't spill everything I know among people who wouldn't appreciate it anyway?”

Pete hovers by the door, a new level of respect entering his eyes. “I see your point.”

“All right!” I jump in like a talk show host, wanting this session to end on a good note. “Next time, I'm giving the pop quiz. Thanks for a fun time, Tori!” I wave as we walk out to Pete's car.

“So, Tori's a plutocrat, huh?” I ask smugly as he pulls out of the driveway.

“Okay, she's cool even if she is a little P.C.,” ♦ Pete admits. “But she's still a princess—how many servants did we meet before she came in?” A painful look crosses his face. “And her dad's console . . .”

“Are you in love?” I tease, watching him drive something even the Clements could never afford. “If you like Dr. Clement's console so much, why don't you just buy one?”

“I have my reasons,” Pete says, his usual smile missing.

CHAPTER 6

UNSEEN

––––––––

A week later, I sit in first hour, waiting for class to start, something feeling unsettled. It's not until I spot Dr. Harden's profile outside the door that I remember what. I dash up front, placing the essay I woke at five a.m. to finish on the corner of Dr. Harden's desk.

“What was that about?” Chris laughs as I sit back in my seat.

“If I don't have my essays on Dr. Harden's desk before class begins, she counts them as late and docks me twenty points,” I confide as Dr. Harden walks in, giving me a scowl before turning her attention back to her JS.

“Why does she hate you so much?” Chris asks, catching the look she gave me. “You're one of the nicest people I know.”

“I think she's more interested in social strata than amiability,” I confide in a whisper, my cheeks pink from Chris's compliment.

Dr. Harden clears her throat as she puts down her JS, turning to me. “Alice, I never received your assignment.”

“I left my essay on your desk before the bell.”

“Where?” Dr. Harden asks, an icy smile forming.

“Right on the corner . . .” I examine her desk—the packet is nowhere in sight. My fists ball up. “I put it on your desk!”

“Why don't you send me a new copy?” she asks in the same tone she would use to recommend a restaurant to a tourist. “Oh, that's right—you're too poor for a JS. Very well, you receive a zero.”

“All you have to do is check the security video!” I protest, standing up.

“Any more outbursts, and I'm red flagging you,” she invites smugly, eager for me to take the bait. I bite my tongue with extreme effort as I sit back down, Mishell smirking triumphantly at me.

Chris raises his hand, frowning. Dr. Harden looks down her nose at him, reminding me very much of a vulture, sizing up a meal. Dr. Harden nods her consent begrudgingly. “I watched Alysse put the essay on your desk,” he asserts.

Her features stretch thin. “What good does that do? I can't give credit on an essay I never received.”

Tori raises her hand. Dr. Harden closes her eyes ever so briefly before turning to Tori, forcing a pleasant smile. “Yes, Victoria.”

“Considering there was a witness, could she be granted an extension on the assignment?” Tori asks brightly.

Harden deflates, like a child who just had candy yanked from her hands. “I suppose, but just this once,” she snaps before launching into her lecture.

At lunchtime, Pete glances at Tori, amused, as she looks up at the dark gray sky yet again. We're the only ones out on the green, the rest of the students not wanting to risk rain that only comes once or twice a year.

“Want any?” Pete offers us, opening his pizza box.

“No, thanks,” Tori says, revolted. “Real food?” She offers, holding out a container of celery and carrots. He shakes his head, equally revolted.

Meanwhile, I grab some celery and a pizza. “So, Pete, why didn't the Dissenters in the Compound move to Dissenter Territory after the war?” I ask, happy for a safe place to discuss such things.

“It's complicated,” Pete replies. “They lost their citizenship during the war, which means they can't get travel permits. Without permits, they can't go anywhere in the Global Union, let alone some place off limits like the Lost Territory.”

“Why didn't the Dissenters from the Lost Territory come for them?” I ask.

“With tensions high, any attempt to recover them would be viewed as an act of aggression,” Tori interjects, removing her light sweater. “Maybe an act of war.”

“Couldn't some other country take them in?” I press.

“What country would dare?” Pete wipes his greasy hands with a napkin. “The prominent GU nations refuse to trade with any nation who intervenes with the Dissenters.”

“Then there's no way out?” I ask, thinking of my friends stuck out there.

“Dissenters have two options: one, find a certified sponsor and pay a hefty fee for re-citizenship; or two, walk hundreds of miles through uninhabited desert with the hope that other Dissenters won't shoot them on sight—” He freezes, his eyes narrowing.

I turn around and spot Aaron walking toward us. I notice something different about him. He's . . . alone. No ILAC, no rugby team—just him. That's a first.

Pete's agitation grows with each step Aaron takes, while Tori appears guarded. As for me, I've forgotten how to breathe.

“Hey, you guys,” Aaron greets with a smile, a dimple appearing on one cheek.

Tori nudges me. How do you say 'hi' again?

She rolls her eyes while covering for me: “Hey, Aaron.”

“What do you want?” Pete openly glares.

“Ah, Peter. Always direct,” he smiles politely before turning to face Tori. “My parents are having a social this Saturday; it's a regular who's who in the GU and I'd be honored if you would join me. I'll pick you up at 7 p.m.” He hands her a rose with a card attached.

Her mouth hangs open in shock as he stands up and walks away fast. He's a full twenty feet away before Tori recovers. “Wait a second—”

He spins around fast. “You'd love to come? That's great. We'll have a blast.” Aaron continues to walk away backwards.

“I didn't say—” Tori tries to assert, yelling.

“That you're ecstatic,” he interrupts enthusiastically. “I know, so am I! I'll see you Saturday!” He waves, turns a corner, and is gone from sight.

Pete whips his head back to Tori. “Was that a drive-by?”

Tori stuffs her lunch in her bag, her lips so tight they're beyond white—more like iridescent.

“Where are you going?” I ask, my eyes on the rose given to her, not me.

“To tell him off,” Tori says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “He can have his rose back; I'm not going.”

I shake out of my trance. “Tori, it's not your fault he isn't interested in me. If you want to go, then you should go,” I offer.

“Even if you didn't like him, there's no way I'd go with that arrogant jerk!” she huffs as Pete stands up, face flushed.

“Where are you going?” I ask, baffled.

“Lost my appetite,” he says, grabbing his lunch and dumping it in the nearest trash before walking away, not even looking back.

I turn back to Tori, completely lost. “What's wrong with him?”

“Oh, Alysse, do you really not know?” she huffs impatiently. “Why do you even like Aaron? He's a politician.”

“He cares about people,” I champion. “On my first day at school, some kids had me cornered in the hallway—” ♦

Tori interrupts in perfect monotone, “Aaron was walking by, saw what was going on and told them to cool it.”

My mouth clamps shut as I square my shoulders. “You may think Aaron has no heart, but if that's true, why would he stick out his neck for a stranger?”

“Stick out his neck? He's the Statesman's son. People jump to please him,” Tori interrupts, more annoyed than I've ever seen her. “Don't you see what just happened? Aaron throws me a rose, tells me I'm going on a date, and walks away. Do you really think that's what I want?”

“He didn't actually throw the rose,” slips out of my mouth automatically. Tori glares before spinning on her heel and walking away quickly. I close my eyes painfully—I guess defending Aaron is an old habit.

As I sit quietly in my abandonment, the sky opens and rain pours down all at once in a storm that belongs more in a jungle than here. I scamper to gather my stuff, rain pelting me as I sprint for the nearest building.

By the time I have my mascara under control and my hair and blouse restored to a dry state, I find an enraged Tori has one of Aaron's friends cornered. “What do you mean he's not here?” she demands.

“He's at a leadership seminar,” Ryan recoils despite Tori's being a head shorter and weighing a third of what he does.

“He was here a few minutes ago,” Tori vents, waving the rose in his face like a loaded weapon.

“I'm telling you, I haven't seen him all day,” Ryan says, cross-eyed.

Hydee, an anorexic ILAC girl behind me, shrieks like a Siren. “Is that Aaron's rose? He came all the way back from the airport to give you that?”

“Airport?” Tori derails from her tirade.

“He was between flights. He won't be back until the big social,” Hydee explains, completely oblivious to Tori's aggravation. Tori tosses her the rose with disgust while Hydee squeals, clinging with delight to the rose once owned by Aaron.

Pete never shows up during P.E. nor do I see him the rest of the day, which adds to my list of frustrations, especially when I convert something incorrectly during chemistry, resulting in a new compound that'd be great for anyone who wants all their hair to fall out.

After school, I ditch track and head straight home for a party of my own where I'll invite my close friends: ice cream, fudge, and cookie crumbs. By the time I reach my street, I'm convinced pizza and chips must attend as well.

CHAPTER 7

PERFECT TIMING

––––––––

I stall as I reach my house. My dad, who's never home this early, is kneeling in the front of what could be called a yard, except it's more like a clay slab, completely void of anything useful like grass or palm trees.

“Hey, Alysse,” he greets. “I was just getting these weeds under control.” His smile fades as he takes a closer look at me. “What's wrong?”

So inconvenient that my dad is good at reading people. “I'd rather not talk about it,” I reply.

“Okay,” he says, unabashed. “I need help with these weeds.”

“Now?”

“Definitely now,” he asserts, returning to his weeds.

“Dad, I have tons of homework,” I protest.

“Alysse,” he warns in that voice.

“Fine.” I run inside to change. When I come back, I start tearing up weeds as fast as I can, ice cream still on my mind.

“Don't forget the roots,” he reminds.

“Why can't we just spray them like everyone else?” I say, yanking on a root that's suctioned deep into the damp clay.

“Because we're not like everyone else,” my dad replies lightly. “Are you going to tell me what's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmmm. What are the possibilities?” he considers as he carefully removes another weed. “Homework? Fight with a friend? Boy trouble?”

I stab the next weed.

He smiles slightly. “Guess I'll go with boy trouble.”

I yank on the weed impatiently. “If you really have to know, Aaron asked Tori on a date today.”

“Aaron?” he asks, eyes squinting as he stares off in the distance. “Isn't that the guy you like?”

“He's the guy everyone likes—except Tori. So, who does he ask? And she's going to tell him no!” I stab another weed.

He scratches his head. “Are you mad that she got asked, or that Aaron asked her, or that she's saying no?”

“All three!” I yank the weed from the ground so fast, specks of dirt fling all over.

“Maybe someday you'll be glad Aaron didn't ask you,” my dad encourages, brushing the dirt off his shirt.

“Thanks, dad. I feel soooo much better.” I shake off the dirt from the offensive weed and toss it to the side.

“I'm serious. If this young man can't see how amazing you are, why would you want to be with him?” He smiles, holding out a small, gorgeously wrapped present.

“What's this?” I ask, my anger temporarily yielding to curiosity.

“At age five, you knew how to find out,” he teases.

I toss my gloves aside and carefully unwrap the beautiful wrapping paper, discovering an expensive jewelry box. I gasp, opening the box and . . . my countenance falls. “Uh, dad. I don't play dress-up anymore.” I hold up a plastic diamond ring. “I grew out of that, oh, ten years ago?”

“What? You don't want to play pretend?” he says brightly. I groan. “Hmm. Well, I do have this other gift,” he offers as he extracts a crinkled up brown paper bag from his pocket. “Here. Only the best for my daughter!” He holds out the mess, beaming with excitement.

I take the brown crumpled bag, one eyebrow lifted in skepticism. “Uh, thanks . . . I think.” I reach inside and pull out a heavy heart-shaped watch, made from what appears to be platinum. The heart is framed with small brilliant diamonds that glitter even under a cloudy sky. “Dad, this feels real,” I awe.

He nods proudly. “It's an early graduation present. Looks like I couldn't have timed it better, forgive the pun.” My dad gives me a lopsided grin.

He takes the plastic ring and holds it up. “We live in a day of fantasy. With one tap on a JS, people can pretend to be someone else, or with someone else. Only, it's fake. No lasting value and no real relationship will form.

“What about you?” he leans in, looking at me closely. “Are you willing to pay the price for the real deal?” He takes the watch and clasps it around my wrist.

“Real relationships take sacrifice and hard work, but they are worth it,” he squeezes my shoulder. “Don't settle for fantasy. Be the most attractive and amazing person you can be, and then find someone who appreciates what you've become and be sure to return the favor.” He smiles at me, and I can't help but smile back.

“Oh, and this watch is imbedded with your new ID chip so—”

“No more injections! Thanks, Dad!” I hug him.

“You're worth this and much more, don't ever forget it,” he says, squeezing my shoulders again as he looks me in the eyes.

“Robert,” my mother calls as she walks out. “You have a call on the home phone.”

Something about the way she says it and the way he perks up tells me there's something I don't know. My dad hops up, taking time to give my mom a kiss before going into the house.

My mother comes up, offering me an apple and some cheese. “Did your father tell you?”

“Tell me what?” I ask, accepting the snack with eagerness.

“Your dad lost his job today,” she announces sadly as I'm about to take a bite.

My mouth hangs open, the apple forgotten in my hand. “What!”

“It'll be all right. With his talents and intelligence, he'll find something new in no time,” she reassures in full confidence before heading back inside.

I look back at my expensive watch. With losing his job, my dad could easily have returned it, and I never would have known. I want a guy who loves me just as much or more. Aaron barely knows my name—it's time to get over him.

As I go back to weeding, I think about Tori, and feel sheepish for not seeing her point. By the time I finish the last weed, I'm ready to be honest. I message her: You were right. Aaron should've asked.

“Of course he should have,” Tori says through her open window as she drives up, a smug look on her face. “Missed you at track.”

I cringe guiltily. “Yeah. I just wasn't up for it today.”

“Well, how about homework at my house? You up for that?” she teases.

“Sure. I'll be right back.” I head inside and wash my hands, focusing hard on my watch instead of the ice cream calling me from the freezer. I can get over Aaron without it.

“How was practice?” I ask Tori as we drive to her house.

“Brutal,” she brags, as if pain were an accomplishment, worthy of pursuit. “Coach gave us six Xs.”

Each X requires running a mile before doing some punishing exercise. One's bad enough, but six? My eyes grow big. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was still mad at Aaron,” she laughs. “I tried messaging the arrogant jerk but it kept coming back undeliverable.”

“Sounds like he won't let you say no,” I observe, biting my tongue to keep from challenging the “arrogant jerk” comment.

“If he shows up on my doorstep Saturday, that's his problem, not mine,” Tori snips, her chin set high.

Once we get to her house, Tori reaches for the door handle only to have the front door yank open. We jump back, startled.

“Victoria, what took you so long!” her mother questions as she checks her JS, her brown hair now straight and platinum blond.

“What's wrong?” Tori asks, not really wanting an answer of any kind.

“Leave your backpacks here,” her mother says urgently. “We have to go—now!”

“Where?” Tori asks, both alarmed and confused as she slowly lowers her bag to the floor.

“I went through your closet. You have nothing of the caliber you need. We barely have time for a custom-made,” her mother rambles anxiously, wringing her hands. “Did you know you are the only person in Oasis to receive an invitation to the Social?” She claps her hands like a giddy young school girl.

Tori's face goes stone cold. “Who says I'm invited?” she asks in monotone.

“Jill told me this morning that Aaron was asking you!” her mom continues ecstatic. “They are catering to some really powerful international leaders this weekend . . .”

“Mother,” Tori interjects. “Aaron didn't ask me.”

“Even the Global—” Her mother freezes. “What?”

“Aaron didn't ask me. He ordered me,” she vents, her jaw set. She yanks up her backpack. “I'm not going!”

“But Victoria—this is the opportunity we've been waiting for,” her mother stutters in shock.

“No mother, it's the opportunity you've been waiting for," Tori says fiercely, her eyes afire.

I stare back and forth between the two of them as the silence lengthens and the tension builds. “Um, Tori, why don't I take your backpack upstairs for you?”

“No need,” she snaps, starting up the stairs.

“Did you know he came over to ask my permission first?” her father's voice calls softly from the hall as he walks out of his office. Tori freezes on the stairs, her back still turned.

“He seems respectful and upbeat,” he continues calm and methodical. “I'm surprised you are insulted by his interest in you.”

She slowly turns around, facing her father, her eyes narrowing slightly. I hold out a hand for her bag, which she absently relinquishes. I tiptoe up the stairs and down the hall, knowing I shouldn't listen, but . . .

“I'm supposed to be pleased he asked you not me?” Tori vents.

“Does that really surprise you?” her father counters, still just as calm. “Your mother and I have heard about all the rejections you've been dishing out. Granted, you're too young to get serious, but you aren't dating at all. What are you waiting for, Victoria?”

It's quiet for a moment. “I'll consider it,” she says quietly.

When she walks into her room, I have to ask. “Tori, what are you waiting for?”

She stands by her window, staring out at the manicured lawn, searching for her answer. “Something real,” she finally says, still facing the window. “You complain about everything in your neighborhood being fake—fake jewelry, fake wood floors, fake grass.”

She turns and faces me, unusually serious. “In my neighborhood, we have antique mahogany furniture, marble flooring, and fine jewelry.” The anger fades away and she reveals a curious, vulnerable look. “Your parents really love each other, don't they?”

Her question throws me off. I think about it for a moment and nod in agreement.

She plays with her curtain, smoothing out the wrinkles. “They don't treat you like some project. If you get a good grade, they are excited for you. If a guy asks you out, it's because he wants to date you, not access the family fortune.”

“Yeah—we have no fortune,” I shrug, crestfallen. “In fact, as of today, my dad is jobless.”

Tori spins around. “What happened?”

“I'm not sure. I can't see it being his fault—he's smart and has an awesome work ethic.”

“Probably someone with connections has a nephew who needed a job,” she deducts cynically, before her eyebrows knit with concern. “Sorry, Lysse.”

I shrug my shoulders, wanting to return to the original topic. “So, you can't decide if Aaron is for real or not?”

She shoves the curtain away forcefully. “Why are we even discussing this? I'm not dating the only guy you like.”

“Tori, you are the best,” I say, giving her a hug. “But Aaron doesn't even see me. I'm done with him.”

Tori smiles approvingly. “It's about time.”

“Clearly Aaron's not right for me, but what if he's right for you?” I point out.

She scoffs. “He's probably another user. I get hit up all the time.”

“User? World leaders are coming to his home this weekend, his mansion is bigger than yours, and the ILAC girls follow him everywhere. What does he need you for?”

She tilts her head, befuddled. “Then what does he want?”

“Um, here's an idea,” I say, unable to restrain the sarcasm. “Maybe, he actually likes you.”

Her hands rest on her hips. “Then why didn't he ask me?”

“Because you would have said no!” I vent in frustration with a slight cringe. Defending Aaron is not helping me get over him. “Look, it's just a date. It's not like you have to marry him or anything.”

There's a knock at the door. “Have you decided?”

“I'll go,” Tori shouts. She grimaces and whispers. “She probably listened to the whole thing.”

“Hurry!” her mother calls impatiently from further down the hall.

“You know Alysse, Aaron does have a downside,” Tori says, grabbing her purse. “He's not very smart.”

I roll over and stare at her, my mouth forming an O. “What are you talking about? He's in lead for valedictorian.”

“Still,” she says, sitting down on the bed. “If he had any brains, he would've asked you.”

CHAPTER 8

NOT PLANNED

––––––––

THE next Saturday afternoon, I pause in my sweeping of the Lifting Hands warehouse to peek out the blinds. Our car sits alone in the lot. “That's so strange.” I drop the blinds and search for a dustpan. “No one else came.”

“They were probably too busy,” my mom excuses, her face unusually tense as she finishes packing the last box, the warehouse now empty.

I sweep up my pile, knowing Tori is getting ready for Aaron's big social tonight. I shove the thought aside, reminding myself I'm not interested in Aaron.

“What are we supposed to do with the leftover donations?” I ask, the Lifting Hands Van now full of boxes.

“I'm doing one final drop-off to the Compound,” she says casually, as if talking about a shopping list.

“What?” I absently drop the broom with a loud crack. “Have you forgotten what happened to Deb?”

“Deb didn't have an armed escort,” she replies, examining the contents of the last box.

“Forget an escort—this is insane! Did Dad agree to this?”

“We've . . . discussed it,” she says, her neck flushing.

“In other words, NO.” I yank up the broom. “That explains why no one showed up. The other volunteers value their life and limbs. Why don't you?”

My mom loudly snaps the lid of a box shut before giving me a forced smile. “Would you put these two boxes in our car? We're not allowed to donate food to the Compound anymore.”

I load the canned goods into our car, glancing back at my mom as she climbs into the driver's seat. She's determined to do what normally takes six volunteers, and that's without transferring everything from the van to a guard truck.

For some strange reason, I climb into the passenger seat. “This doesn't condone your decision, but I'll help you load the boxes only. I am not going out there.”

“You couldn't go anyway,” she replies, her eyes sad. “Minors aren't allowed in the Compound anymore.”

Despite my aggravation, it's hard not to admire the beauty of Urbane as we drive through the business district of Oasis. The glimmering buildings sparkle in the sunlight—especially the View, a twisting tower that reaches higher than the rest, its top shaped like a diamond to remind us only certifieds are allowed inside. From what I've heard, the top floors are even more restricted, saved for global leaders.

We pass the View and approach the North Gate, where Compound residents enter. The entry zone used to be like an airport, with fast moving lines and scanners. Now, it's like a war zone, with heavily armed guards wearing thick armor, searching workers in fully enclosed cages.

“Your permit, list of cargo, and statement of purpose,” a solemn guard demands as my mom pulls up, his eyes more on the workers than us. As he scans the Lifting Hands' JS my mom holds out, he lifts an eyebrow. “A donation run . . . they approved this?”

“This will be the final run,” my mom replies in a soft tone, leaning back. “The program is shuttering.”

He bristles all the more, thumbing at the gate. “Lady, maybe you haven't heard, but we're just shy of a full-scale war out there.”

“He has a point,” I whisper.

She ignores me, eyes on the guard. “I understand. Do you need anything else?”

He pauses and his expression darkens. “Open the back!”

We climb out and unload each box, placing it onto the inspection table. One by one, he dumps them, checking each item with the donation list before allowing us to repack.

“You didn't list this hat,” he nitpicks harshly.

“I can add it to the list right now,” my mom offers.

“You'd need a Modified List form.”

“Could I leave the hat behind?” my mom tries.

“Then you need an Item Removal Form.” He folds his arms, his jaw set hard like iron.

I lean toward my mom. “Why don't I go grab us something to eat?”

She nods, her face strained but undeterred. “That would be a big help.”

I go off to hunt down some overpriced tourist food. When I return half an hour later, my mother looks like a pro, calmly absorbing every curve ball the guard can throw at her.

“Approved,” he snarls at last. “Leave all electronic devices here.” He slides a small container toward her.

“I need my phone in case my husband calls,” she insists.

He smirks with way too much enjoyment. “It stays or you do. I don't care which.”

She hands over her phone with clenched teeth. “You, too,” he says, pointing directly at me.

“I'm not going into the Compound, I'm only helping transfer the load.”

He looks down at me with a gaze even more intense than Coach's. “No unauthorized devices in the entry zone.”

“Yes, sir.” I immediately hand over my phone.

The loading dock is even more intense. Instead of military trucks, they now drive tanks on wheels. One tank slows as my mom approaches the vehicle. “I have a delivery permit,” she announces.

The driver scans and reads the permit, his face darkening. “No room!” he snaps before hitting the gas. My mom hops out of the way just in time to save her toes.

She repeats the process two more times before walking over to me, her fists in tight balls. I place a hand on her shoulder, looking her in the eyes. “Mom, this isn't worth it.”

As she stares into my eyes, tension eases out of her body and her expression takes on fresh determination. “Grab a box and get ready,” she instructs as a new transport approaches. 

She grabs a box of her own and marches straight to the center of the road, eyes blazing as if she meant to melt the truck instead of stop it. “Thanks for waiting for us,” she calls boldly as the transport slows to a stop. “I need you to open the back.”

“What are you talking about, lady?” the driver yells back, jerking one hand in the air.

She sets her box on the hood of the transport, blocking the driver's view as he yells out more protest.

“Alysse, the back!” my mom calls.

I hop up and bang on the back door loudly several times before it opens.

“Hey, don't let her in,” the driver yells from the front.

“It's all right; I have my permit,” my mom yells, passing her wrist under the trucks scanner which flashes green. We go back and forth, loading boxes fast. The guards inside watch, visibly annoyed as we fill what little space was available.

One guard shifts and knocks four boxes over. “Oops.” The other guards smirk as I hop inside to re-stack the mess. Just as I pick up the last box, the whole transport lurches forward. I have to grab a rail to keep from falling like the boxes I just stacked.

“Wait!” I yell, panicking as I work my way to the back. “STOP!” my mom yells, clinging to a rail at the back door, almost falling out. “She has to get off.”

“This ain't a bus, lady,” another guard corrects, shutting the back door behind her as she climbs in.

“My daughter was just helping load!” my mom explains in pure panic. “She can't go out there!”

“Ma'am—look out the back!” another guard barks, pointing behind her. “See that? It's the Wall and it's behind us. Right now, this is the safest place she can be.”

CHAPTER 9

WAKING UP

––––––––

I stare out a small glass window, about the width of my hand. The Compound is so unrecognizable from what I remember, I'm doubting myself. I can't even compare it to third world slums—it's more like an occupied junkyard. Boarded up windows and broken doors line the street, trash and graffiti their only decor. And that's just the buildings— the people look even worse, their skin ragged, their teeth yellow or missing.

“Look lady, I don't care what your authorization form says! I'm telling you, this ain't a safe stop no more,” barks a thin but strong guard nearby. His badge is labeled Mitch, but I'm not about to ask whether it's his first name or last. He just finished his shift and from the looks of it, a very long one.

“I appreciate the warning, but I'm moving forward with this scheduled stop,” my mom says, stepping around him.

Mitch's mouth drops, his eyes full of disgust. A bigger, bulkier guard steps in her way, his red hair so light it's almost blond. “The last volunteer who ignored warnings lost an arm and cost a good man his life,” he says soberly, his badge reading Johnson.

“This is where Deb and Tyler were taken?” I stand up on my feet and grab my mom's arm.

She turns to me, unlacing my fingers and giving them a squeeze. “Stay here,” she says in a determined voice, her eyes blazing and her teeth gritted. I watch in horror as my mom climbs out.

“Better not get any of my friends killed,” Mitch calls out after her as two guards rotate out.

A new guard climbs in with a confused look on his face, slamming the door shut behind him. Beneath a fine layer of dust, the guy's uniform is crisp and unfaded, his badge easy to read: Trieman. He looks young, like he can't be much older than me.

“What's with the volunteer outside?” he asks Mitch.

“You mean the do-gooder freak show? She wants to hand out gifts to our classy friends,” Mitch complains.

“She's not a freak show,” I correct. Trieman looks over, surprised as he sees me.

“And that's the daughter,” Mitch sneers.

“What mom would bring her daughter out here?” Trieman asks.

“She didn't bring me. It was an accident—” I start to explain before sighing. “It's a long story.”

I let the other guards explain while I turn back to my “window,” peering outside, wondering what has possessed my mother.

A man passes by, looking like a walking skeleton, his empty eyes narrowing into tiny slits as he spots me. I take a step back, tripping over a box.

“Don't worry about Mitch,” Trieman says as he catches my arm, his short dark hair mashed down from the helmet he was wearing. “We're not going to let anyone hurt your mom, even if she doesn't belong here.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, as I right myself. I attempt to smile before resuming my post, trying to catch even a glimpse of her. Several minutes later, there's some clanking at the back door, and I nearly give myself whiplash to watch it open.

A guard of medium height and solid build climbs in, his uniform dusty and faded, his name badge unreadable. While the guard isn't as old as my dad, he's not as young as the other guards either.

“How's it look out there, Captain?” one of the fresh guards asks him.

“Entire shift was way too quiet. They're up to something,” the captain says, loosening his chest plate. He looks down at me in surprise. “Another one?”

“She's the daughter of the freak—” Mitch catches his mouth, almost in time. “—lady outside putting us all at risk.”

“Speaking of, why is a pretty girl like you trying to get herself killed?” questions Johnson, who's not much older than Trieman.

“Watch it, Johnson,” the captain warns, amused as the eye piece attached to his helmet scans my ID, getting immediate information of almost everything about me. “This one is under-age.”

“You're a minor?” Trieman grimaces, scooting away. The captain removes his helmet and gets down to my level, looking me hard in the eyes like my dad did once, when I broke a window at age eight. “How'd you sneak out?”

“I didn't sneak,” I enunciate forcefully. “I was only helping transfer boxes in the loading zone when your driver took off without warning.”

“Their permit covered up to six volunteers and they were making us late for rotation,” Mitch jumps in defensively. “We didn't know the girl was a minor.”

The captain sighs with the same look my brother used to get anytime he had to babysit me. I go back to staring out the makeshift window while the guards hold a quiet discussion behind me.

Eventually my mom climbs back in, and the transport takes off again. We do two more stops, my mom delivering several boxes while fresh guards rotate out and tired ones climb in, each wanting to know why I'm here, triggering a repeat of the earlier conversation.

The transport grows stuffier the later it gets despite the A/C. “Tell me we're almost done,” I demand from my mom, not sure how much more I can take.

“This is the last stop and the safest part of the Compound,” my mom reassures. She steps out of the transport only a moment before poking her head back in. “Captain Price, I could use a hand and my daughter could use some fresh air.”

He watches me, his jaw working as he decides. “She stays within a hundred feet of the transport,” he commands firmly.

“Of course, Captain,” she replies. I quickly grab the last two boxes and step out, inhaling a breath of fresher air. I know immediately why my mom chose this sector for me to help: the buildings are mostly undamaged and the streets clean.

Skittish Dissenters cautiously approach us, frequently checking to see where the guards are. As I place a couple of boxes on a nearby table, a woman carrying several ration packets walks by.

“Tell me you brought food,” she demands more than begs as she glances into the boxes.

“Sorry, we weren't allowed,” I shrug.

“I'm sick of eating this garbage,” she says bitterly.

She looks thin and pitiful, causing me to dig in my purse for some contraband. It's a good thing Coach can't see me as I hold out a candy bar. “We could trade,” I offer, curious to try a ration to see how gross it is.

“We're not allowed to trade packets,” she says wide eyed, taking a step back.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to offend,” I back pedal.

She scarcely hears me, her eyes are drawn to the bar like a magnet. “Consider it a gift, then,” I offer it to her open palmed. She snatches it and runs off without a thank you.

I shrug, letting out a puff of air as I step back, nearly colliding with a young woman holding a book. “Sorry,” I quickly apologize. She just mutters something incoherent and keeps walking.

Something about her face reminds me of a girl I once hung out with, only it's hard to know for sure. It's been years since we last met and her clothes are the complete wrong style and size. “Jessica?” I test.

She turns and looks at me, staring for a moment before recognition lights up in her eyes. “Alysse?” Her mouth spasms as if wanting to smile but unable to remember how. “It's been forever.”

“It's been too dangerous to come out,” I explain as we hug.

Her attempted smile fades as she nods. “It's not safe for anyone anymore,” she sighs, hugging her book close as she looks around and shivers. “My family never did belong here.”

The despair in her voice tugs at my heart. I wish there was something I could do. “What's this?” I distract, motioning at her clutched literature, the title scraped off.

“My favorite book.” She glances at the guards, waiting for the moment they look away before shoving the worn-out book into my hands. “Here, something to remember me by. I've got it memorized anyway.”

“I'll treasure it,” I reassure, sliding the small book into my purse to examine later, wishing now that I hadn't given that ungrateful lady the candy bar as I scamper to find something to give back. “I don't have any books, but I do have some clothes. Hold on.” I quickly rummage through a box, looking for some cute outfits I saw earlier while my mom and I were packing. Thankfully, I have the right box and pull out some clothes just her size, including a dress.

“It's been a long time since I've worn anything like this,” she says, almost smiling as she holds up the pretty dress against her thin frame.

“I wish I had some boys' clothes for your brother, but all we had were adult sizes. . .” I put the box down and reach into my other pocket. “You know, I do have some gum.” I pull out the half-filled packet and try to hand it to her, but she just stares at it like it's going to explode, the blood drained from her face.

“What's wrong?” I examine the gum more closely. It looks undamaged, but maybe it's not enough. “I wish I had something better, but I didn't know I was coming today,” I try to explain.

She looks side to side, her lips tight as her face flushes crimson. She just shakes her head and starts to walk away.

I step toward her. “Wait! I know it's not much, but won't you take it?”

She spins, her eyebrows furrowed in disgust. She shoves the gum away and throws down the clothes before running off.

“Jessica?” I call after her. She turns a corner, refusing to look back.

I stoop over, picking up the rejected gifts, wondering why gum would be offensive. I leave them on a nearby table, in case she changes her mind.

Walking back to the transport, the first woman passes by, sliding something into my hand. “Consider it a gift,” she whispers as she passes.

I look down at a pouch which reminds me of an old-fashioned instant camping meal where you add hot water. I pocket the dessert packet in amazement, both eyebrows up. Who can keep up with mood swings like these?

“Alysse, you ready?” calls my mom from near the transport.

“More than ready,” I call back with enthusiasm.

“See anyone you recognized?” she asks as I join her.

“I thought I did,” I sigh, staring at the Wall in the distance, wishing I was on the other side like Tori, getting picked up by Aaron for a date.

The sun dips behind the city wall, casting a shadow over the entire Compound. It becomes eerily quiet as people disappear from the street, leaving only the occasional whir of a drone passing overhead. “Do they have a sunset curfew?” I ask Trieman.

“In another fifteen minutes,” he nods, looking unsettled as he holds his weapon ready.

We're almost back to the North Gate when the transport slows to a stop. “Eyes and ears. We've got a cement blockade in sector 5-D,” the driver announces through the speakers. Mitch opens a hatch on the ceiling, climbing up to the crow's nest, while the other guards position themselves at a panel, eyes on their sights as they point their barrels through the slits.

“Man down, five o'clock,” shouts one of the guards. “It's Will.”

Three guards quickly jump out of the transport while two other guards stand by the door, guns ready. When the others come back, Johnson is carrying a groaning Will, his helmet missing and his hair matted with blood.

The guard next to my mom immediately gives up his seat so Johnson can set the wounded guard there, securing the harness around the semi-conscious man while my mom cradles his head, offering to help. Another guard opens the first aid kit and hands it to her, before returning to his station, gun ready.

My mom starts checking Will for the extent of his injuries as if she were a seasoned ER doctor, not a homemaker. “Fractured rib, slight concussion . . .” she mumbles.

I watch, disturbed, until Trieman yells: “Here they come.” I stare out my slit, my ribs tightening as Dissenters pour into the street like ants spilling out of a nest. Their intent is clear as they approach, many wielding heavy pipes.

“Clear the road!” the driver yells through his riot speaker. The crowd yells back as bricks and glass bottles start bombarding the transport.

“Put ‘em to sleep, boys!” the dusty guard commands even as a glass bottle shatters next to his barrel.

Trieman squeezes his trigger and there's a popping sound. One of the rioters wielding a pipe drops to the ground, a dart protruding from his neck.

The guards pop away, dropping dozens of rioters only to have more take their places. “Running low!” Johnson calls out from the other side.

Captain Price twists his head slightly, speaking into his mic. “Top Gunner, give them a warning.”

The crow's nest on the roof of the transport starts whirring and spinning. I crouch, covering my ears as several explosive shots fire into the air above us, vibrating the whole transport. The silence after the warning doesn't last long. Rioters start chanting, advancing on the transport again. Just then, there's a bright flash, and I find myself in something like a dream, except it's more real than reality:

The colors and detail are clearer and brighter than anything I've ever seen. Outside the mob is still yelling, their voices easy to isolate from one another including several deep voices which yell: “Coming through!”

The crowd splits apart, allowing a large team of Dissenters to run at us with incredible speed, carrying some sort of steel beam with handles welded on. The beam hits the transport hard enough to nearly pierce the wall.

There's another flash, and suddenly everything is back as it was, the guards defending against the assault. “I think they're going to ram us,” I call out, not able to help myself— that flash felt too real.

“Won't do ‘em any good,” Johnson replies. “This baby weighs twelve tons with matrix reinforced walls.”

“Switch to live rounds,” Capt. Price shouts from behind us. “Make ‘em dance.”

I cover my ears as the ground in front of the crowd starts exploding, dirt spraying wildly. The crowd backs up, but only briefly before breaking into a run toward us.

“Brace yourselves!” shouts Trieman as the crowd parts to reveal what looks like a beam from a building, carried by forty men running straight for us, as fast as they can. When the beam hits, it's nothing short of a car crash, knocking me from my seat and causing the wall to bubble in.

The top gun opens fire, the spray of bullets compelling the men to drop the beam and dive for cover. A nearby crowd watches, including a man toward the back who's so muscular, he must be eating three times the normal ration.

His eyes narrow, assessing the situation instead of panicking like the rest. Just then, another scene opens before my eyes:

The big guy breaks into a fast run, almost a blur. He jumps high in the air, landing on the roof of the transport.

“Mitch is in danger,” I shout out before the flash even ends, this time trusting what I see.

Capt. Price considers me a moment before calling into his mic. “Get down here, gunner. Now!”

I hear the hatch above open as I stare at the big dissenter tearing through the crowd, dodging people and streams of bullets.

Just as Mitch drops back inside, we hear the sound of something heavy land on top of the transport. Mitch barely locks the hatch when someone above tugs at it hard, the hatch groaning followed by a loud snapping clang.

“No way!” a guard who watched from the back freaks out, adding a few colorful adjectives. “What is that thing?”

“You mean what was that thing,” Mitch replies as control panels drop down from the roof, allowing him to operate the crow's nest from inside. I hear a fast whirr and thud as the guy is knocked clear off the roof, landing a ways away.

The ever-growing crowd converges on us again. “Driver, get us out of here,” Price barks before yanking me away from the slit and down into my seat. “Buckle up!”

I instantly work on making sense of the harness straps when a strange cylinder drops in from a window slit, landing in my lap.

While Trieman and I freeze, unable to believe what we see, Capt. Price lunges for it, immediately throwing it back out, ducking as he yells: “Seismic. Get us out—”

A shock wave hits us like a moving semi. The whole transport spins, tips, and balances at an angle before slamming back down on the remaining good tires.

Now both walls are indented, the second extreme enough that I'm amazed it's still attached, just like my throbbing head. My ears ring constantly, muffling anything the guards are yelling while smoke pours in from the windows, stinging our eyes and throats.

The transport reverses and veers hard and fast to the right into a narrow alleyway—too narrow. The stucco walls to the sides of us crumble, filling the transport with choking dust as we plow through, running over everything in our path. I cling to my harness while covering my nose and mouth with my shirt.

“Faster,” Johnson yells in his mic. “Some are gaining on us.” The driver responds, and we get tossed like ice cubes in a blender as the transport picks up speed.

Two endless minutes later, we hit road again, sighing in relief when the driver announces over the intercom: “We're inside the Wall.” Just then, a small fleet of armed helicopters fly overhead, straight toward the riot scene, their bright searchlights sweeping the ground.

“How'd Dissenters get their hands on a seismic?” Trieman freaks out.

“Forget the seismic,” Johnson goes off as he unfolds a stretcher for Will. “Did you see that man jump on top of the transport as if he was wearing boosters?”

“That was no man,” Mitch corrects harshly. “That was a guerrilla.”

“Not in front of the civilians!” Capt. Price barks before pointing harshly at Trieman. “You, over here.”

The young guard flinches at the disappointment radiating from the seasoned captain's eyes. It surprises me when the captain whispers instead of yells as they step aside. “You have some of the fastest reflexes I've ever seen in hand to hand and one of the deadliest shots. I don't ever want to see you freeze over a bomb again,” he whispers sternly as the young guard looks down in shame. “When something unexpected happens, you act. Never hesitate. You got that?”

Trieman squares his shoulders and looks him in the eye, saluting him. “Yes, sir!”

“You,” Price says, turning and snapping his fingers while pointing at me. “Over here.”

My eyes grow wide as I unbuckle with nervous hands, not entirely sure my legs will support me as I walk over. Capt. Price scans my watch, checking my identity again.

His eyes narrow, burrowing into mine. “How'd you know about the ram and Mitch in harm's way?”

I gulp, knowing I look like a Sympathizer who got cold feet—how else would I have known what was coming? But if I explain about the flashes, I'll end up in a psychiatric ward for observation.

“I got a glimpse of the ram beforehand,” I stammer, “and I had a feeling Mitch would be next. I guess you could call it intuition.”

Capt. Price eyes me skeptically, when Mitch chimes in eagerly: “Is she with them?”

Capt. Price pauses considering me. “Not likely. After all, she saved your hide,” he finally concludes, before yelling at the group. “Everyone gets a mandatory medic check!” He points a finger at me and then my mom: “Especially you two.”

My limbs feel disconnected from my body as we climb out the back. Mitch slams the back door shut, and a potted plant slides off the roof. He catches it and hands it to me with a scowl. “How'd you like their thank you?”

CHAPTER 10

BAGGAGE

––––––––

“WHAT did you do Saturday?” Tori asks Monday morning, after I place my essay on the corner of Harden's desk.

“Cleaned a warehouse,” I begrudgingly evade. I can't discuss it, not with my gag order from Saturday.

“Broadcasting this attack will only embolden more attacks,” a lieutenant instructed coolly as we sat across from him after getting cleaned up and checked out. “You keep your mouth shut about the attack, and we'll overlook your daughter's illegal jaunt into the Compound.”

I carefully shift in my seat, my back and shoulders bruised pretty bad from when the seismic went off.

Pete walks past, still surly as he heads to the back of class, while Chris comes and sits next to me with a smile. “How was your weekend?”

My forced smile takes on a twist. “It was a blast—how about yours?”

He proudly displays his raw knuckles. “I probably knocked on four hundred doors, collecting signatures for a petition. Speaking of, some officials want to invite representatives from the Compound to sit in city council. What do you think?”

“I think they're more likely to blow up a conference table than to sit at one,” I point out with a shudder.

“Oh.” He sits back, distant. “I thought with you being a volunteer and all, you'd want reintegration.”

“And bring that mess into our city?” I laugh hollowly, my ears still not the same. I bite my lip as I notice disappointment in his eyes. “I didn't mean to mock your efforts; it's just my mom and I got attacked by Dissenters recently.”

Concern replaces the disappointment in his eyes as he leans closer to me. “What happened?”

“I can't really talk about it,” I grimace, playing with the bottom of my shirt.

“Say no more,” he says knowingly, totally relaxed as the bell rings. “Oasis hands out gag orders like fast food.”

Despite today's lecture being surprisingly interesting, I have trouble focusing. Even discussion about the ML7 virus being sprayed in subways and airports prior to our second Civil War does little to shake Saturday's events from my mind.

“Millions of innocent people breathed death right into their lungs, thanks to the Dissenters and their obsession for power . . .” Dr. Harden tirades.

How close did we come to dying? I shiver despite the sun’s shining on me from the window, memories of the mob and my flashes making it hard to pay attention.

“. . . an incredible metabolic rate, which made it deadly. Aaron?” Dr. Harden calls.

“What was the incubation period and the mortality rate for the ML7 virus?” he asks.

“I believe Victoria, whose grandfather helped create the vaccine, can answer that. And pay attention to the answer since it will appear on our next quiz,” Dr. Harden says, beaming at Tori.

“The carrier is contagious within twenty-four hours of contraction,” Tori recites. “First symptoms arise within forty-eight. Mortality rate is sixty-three percent . . .”

So many died needlessly, just like Saturday. I cringe as I realize something else. Capt. Price saved all of our lives, and I didn't even thank him! How could I forget to thank him?

“Alice!” Dr. Harden calls sharply.

I jolt, sending my pen flying. Chris quickly picks it up and hands it to me while other students laugh. “Thanks, Chris,” I mumble, my cheeks bright red. “Yes, Dr. Harden?”

She tilts her head, looking at me in disbelief. “If you're done disrupting my class, we would like to hear what profound thoughts you found more important than my lecture.”

Students snicker more with each passing second as I scrape my brain for something I'm allowed to say. “I'm glad we built the Wall,” I announce at last with the utmost sincerity.

“How insightful,” Dr. Harden derides with a sneer. “I believe that was covered the first week. Since the lesson didn't sink in, you will write the five-page essay on why we have a wall, in addition to the five-page report on resolution C495-27f. Both are due by Friday.”

“A penalty essay?” I toss back loudly. “What a surprise!”

She looks at me stunned, her mouth hanging open for a moment before her eyes narrow, readying her rebuke. The bell beats her to it, and noise mixed with laughter immediately fills the room.

I quickly bolt out the door, eager to get away from Harden. I'm at my locker by the time Pete catches up, commenting sardonically, “You're glad we built the Wall? Kissing up to Harden?”

“I'm not kissing up,” I argue, passing my watch over the scanner which flashes red. “In case you didn't notice, I have two essays to write.”

Pete ignores my comment, studying me with a careful eye. “You've always been for reintegration.”

“We're past that point, don't you think?” I huff, trying my watch again—still red.

“Need help?” Pete asks right as someone slams their locker shut. The sudden sound rattles me like a gun shot, adrenaline pumping through my entire body. Only a burst of deeply ingrained self-control keeps me from telling them off.

“Yea, I definitely need help.” I lean against the wall, closing my eyes as I hug my books close.

“Alysse, what's going on? You seem wound up,” he says, now concerned instead of surly as he pulls out his JS, scanning my watch and then scanning my locker's security pad. My locker opens as the light switches to green.

“Do you remember Jessica—that girl I met while volunteering? I ran into her this weekend . . .” I tell him about the gum, neglecting to mention it happened in the Compound.

Pete shakes his head. “Makes about as much sense as the whack-jobs who took hostages and murdered Tyler, all over a pair of shoes.”

“That's what I thought,” I reply, pulling out my English textbook and putting my poli-sci notes away, Jessica's book left behind at home. I didn't have much time to look it over this weekend, but I read enough to know it's Dissenter literature, which makes it banned. I'm not sure why, considering most of what I read was boring.

“Hey, Pete—you're a weapons expert,” I comment as casually as I can. “What's a seismic?”

He lifts an eyebrow as he checks his messages. “If you mean a seismic explosive, it's a crazy strong bomb, small, like a grenade, but twenty times stronger.”

I bite my lip. “Did Dissenters use them in the war?”

Pete laughs. “Nooo. They're major overkill for civilian targets. Dissenters usually went with dirty bombs. Seismics are top of the line in the compact armor piercing category, and very expensive—even Oasis doesn't order them.”

“Who does?” I ask, shutting my locker.

“I don't know. Special ops, maybe,” he shrugs.

CHAPTER 11

NEW PARADIGM

––––––––

AFTER school, I search for Tori, excited for track for the first time. Maybe I'm still wound up from the transport attack, or maybe it's my dad's challenge to live my best, but I'm eager to test myself and see what I can do.

I find Tori next to Pete, ordering juices at the organic stand in the cafeteria. Pete's back to his jovial self.

“Ready for track?” I ask Tori, watching Pete from the corner of my eye.

“I can't, Lysse,” she shrugs. “Pete and I made a deal. I'm his new personal trainer for the next three months.” ♦

“Yeah, if a set of stairs gets the best of me, it's time to do something. Who better than Tori to show me the ropes?” Pete says, face scrunching as he sips a spicy lemon twister.

“Pete wants to go super aggressive, which means there will be times we can't give you rides, like today,” Tori adds as she tilts her head apologetically. “You don't mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” I unconvincingly shrug it off. “Pete will do great. So, I guess I'll see you guys around, yeah?”

“Yep,” they wave as I walk away. I glance back before heading to the field. A happy Pete is zoned in on an animated Tori, and it occurs to me Pete just might have a crush on Tori.

“Figures,” I mutter, regretting taking Pete with me to study at Tori's.

I grow restless as I wait for Coach and the team, so I decide to hit the track alone. I start with a slow jog, lengthening my stride and warming up my muscles. Then, when I feel ready, I dig my shoes in, gripping the custom track as I break into a sprint.

A thrill fills me as my muscles flex, propelling my body forward. I reach a new speed ushered by a drive I have never felt before.

Unfortunately, my energy burns fast, puttering out. Maybe, just maybe, Tori's constant pestering about getting the right kind of fuel would help. For the first time in my life, I'm ready to really find out, not like I did with the level two diet, where I cheated almost daily.

“Hey, Coach. Could I try your supercharge diet?” I ask after practice.

At first he stares at me, his eyes blank with shock, but enthusiasm quickly overcomes his disbelief. He bends low, his face right in line with mine. “That depends on your commitment and toughness! It takes resolve to blaze ahead when things get ugly. Are you man enough to stick with it?” he resonates with energy and spunk.

“Will woman enough work?” I ask, suppressing a laugh.

He eyes me, as if measuring my level of grit. “I'm assigning you a two-week reboot,” he decides, talking more to himself than to me. He pulls up a holo diagram chart on his JS while I'm still trying to figure out what he means by reboot. “The green list foods are a go—they're foods for fast metabolism. The yellows are neutral, and the reds are a no-go, they'll sabotage your performance.”

I stare at the list in disbelief. “All my favorite foods are red,” I complain.

“Which is why you're crashing halfway through practice,” he says gruffly, pointing at me with his finger. “You aren't wimping out on me, are you?” He squints one eye, staring me down.

“No, Coach.” I lean back, wide eyed. “Reds are a no-go. Copy that.”

“During your reboot, you'll reset your appetite by going green only. After your two weeks are up, you can slowly add some yellows, but keep them under control,” he warns as if I'm about to go into battle.

I feel a determination wash over me. “Yes, sir. I can do this.”

T h r e e

d a y s

l a t e r . . .

I CAN'T do this! ♦

I walk into the kitchen, grabbing yet another boring, nonfulfilling apple and munch on it. Seriously, I'm so hungry, I'm tempted to eat the core. How did I ever think I could last fourteen days on food like this!

I grab a bag of kale and start eating it by the handful like popcorn. Mmmm—popcorn. Why can't popcorn be on the list?

I groan and ransack the living room closet, digging in search of our TV—an antique my dad picked up over the years. Its downloaded movies are old-fashioned, but at this point, who cares? I need distractions until dinner when I finally get to have a chicken breast. Too bad it has to be baked, not fried. At this point, a pound of batter would be nice.

I finally find the recluse TV, dusting it off before setting it up on the coffee table. I slump on the couch, my arms and legs heavy and achy, as if I had the flu, while thoughts of the seismic, the guerrilla, and my inexplicable flashes wash over me.

♦ Ethan walks in, and I consider discussing the flashes with him. Since my dad and brother were at the gate as we drove in, they saw the damaged transport and were included in the gag order.

Ethan plops down next to me and grabs my bag. “Thanks for sharing; I'm starving.”

“Trust me, you don't even know what hunger is,” I groan, trying to focus on the movie instead of cake, cookies, and ice cream. Ooh—and pizza, hot dogs, nacho cheese . . . basically any food except the ones on Coach's list.

Ethan looks into the bag, his eyebrows draw in. “What is this stuff?”

“Rocket fuel,” I snap, annoyed, as I snatch it back. “It'll help me be a super star in track.”

“Then why are you sitting here like a couch potato?”

“Hush. I'm trying to watch this,” I gripe impatiently, turning up the volume while hugging my bag of kale.

Both of his eyebrows go up while he gives a shrill whistle, not saying one more word.

I am going to starve to death.

Monday after school, I drag myself to track munching on a carrot, craving three hamburgers and a mountain of fries.

“How's that diet going?” Coach digs, his eyes intense as if attempting x-ray vision. “You been cheating?”

“No, but if it gets any worse, I'm going to slip into a coma,” I complain as I stretch, imagining how awesome it would feel to lie down on my bed right now.

“You've got junk food withdrawals,” he says, patting me on the back. “Hit the deck hard, and get your blood pumping—you'll feel better.”

I'll feel better? Yeah, I'll feel better when I go for a dive in a pool filled with fudge sundaes.

I start the jump squats, hardly able to move. “Give me more than that, Simms,” Coach barks from the front. “Feel the pain. Embrace it, and then, conquer it!”

I force myself down, despite the very real feeling I may not come back up. I jump up as high as I can, and something happens: I feel a thrill as I spring into the air.

I go for it again and again, the fatigue starting to wash away, replaced with a surge of energy. When track ends, I'm not tired like usual. By the end of the week, I'm actually keeping up with the other girls during a 100M dash.

“Thatta girl,” Coach calls proudly from the side.

If I think I've been suffering, it's nothing compared to what Pete's going through. At the end of October, he shows up late to Harden's class with dark circles under his eyes, his usual carefully styled hair sticking up at odd angles like he just rolled out of bed.

During lunch, he has yet another boring salad, desperate to impress Tori to the point that he's resorted to rabbit food. It does little to improve his mood during P.E. where we go up against Hydee and the Timpson cousins. While Hydee stands around, waiting for P.E. to be over, the Timpson's keep calling out special names for their moves.

“Halley’s,” Jason calls out, setting the ball center, just in front of the net.

“Comet,” Mason yells as he jumps high, spiking it down with incredible velocity.

Tori dives for the ball, just saving it. Pete gives it a boost, getting it over the net. Meanwhile, I'm freaking out—Mason's jump reminding me of the guerrilla who landed on our transport.

“Pete, have you heard of anyone ever jumping over eleven feet?” I ask while Mason calls out “sidewinder,” setting the ball for Jason.

“You mean eleven vertical feet? Not without boosters,” Pete scoffs before cussing as the ball comes shooting down on our side too fast for him to hit. “Can we talk about this later, Lysse? I'm trying to focus,” he complains, his jaw flexing like he's resisting turning into a werewolf while Tori tosses the ball back to the other team.

“Sorry, I just wondered how high people can jump,” I defend, eyeing Pete.

“Alysse, the ball!” Tori calls out. I look up just in time to get whacked on the shoulder.

“Brilliant,” Pete grumbles. “Now we're going to lose.”

“Since when do you care about the score?” I argue as I chase down the ball and throw it to the other side.

“Check your vent,” Tori calls out to Pete in singsong from behind. I glance back at her, mouthing a silent: “What?”

Pete looks over at Tori in surprise. He laughs, shaking his head as the tension eases out of him. “Never mind, Alysse. If you're talking about vertical, the best athletes in the world jump as high as five feet, give or take a few inches.”

“Not more, like eleven?” I ask, rattled.

“Hey, Mason, what's your vertical?” Pete asks as Mason gets ready to serve the ball.

“Forty nine inches,” Mason replies proudly.

“So, what's with the vent comment?” I ask Tori in the locker room after P.E.

“Just helping Pete remember his body is under stress. When people lose weight, it leaves them subject to mood swings,” she says, carefully folding her clothes before placing them in her locker. “Venting reminded him to just let those feelings go instead of taking them out on friends.”

“Smart,” I comment, tossing my clothes into my locker and shutting it tight.

“Coach says your performance has improved,” she nudges me.

“I'm doing alright for myself,” I reply, balling up my towel and tossing it into the basket. Score.

By the end of November, it amazes me how quickly both Pete and I change. Personally, I had no clue I could feel like this. After one especially good practice where I passed up all the girls (except for Tori who's still helping Pete), Coach pulls me aside, a grin on his face.

“I'm going to add two more events to your docket. I know your parents don't like technology, so here,” he hands me a packet of papers. “This is your training schedule. I want you to master these exercises as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir!” I open the packet and start on the first one, eager to forget the Compound and focus on rocking the next meet.

CHAPTER 12

ON GUARD

––––––––

TOWARD the end of November, I pass my wrist over my locker's scanner, but all it does is flash red. “Come on,” I mutter, glancing down the empty hall, the other students already on their way to class. I need my calculus homework before I can join them.

“Need help?” asks a male voice behind me.

“Ahh!” I fumble for my pepper spray which I hold up at eye level as I spin to face my opponent, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Don't shoot!” yells the world's shortest janitor with a thick accent, his hands up in the air.

It wouldn't matter if I did—I would've shot right over the top of his head.

As the janitor sees my weapon of choice he lowers his hands, exhaling. “I thought you holding something else.”

“Who are you?” I ask, redirecting my sprayer right at his face.

His eyes cross as he considers the orange flames. “I Perel. I maintenance here since school open twenty-two year ago. You ask Principal Rogen.” He smiles winningly despite missing several teeth.

I slowly lower the pepper spray. “Sorry about that.”

“No be sorry,” he dismisses with the flick of his hand. “Most these workers, I not let near any my grandchildren. I help, yes?” he asks, gesturing at the locker.

“What?” I ask, having completely forgotten my dilemma. “Oh, yes.”

He pulls out a mini flashlight and takes a careful look. “No is the scanner. Is something on the scanner.”

He pulls out a tool and carefully removes a tiny piece of gray electrical tape. I wave my watch over the scanner, and it immediately flashes green, my locker opening.

“Anytime you need help, just ask Perel,” he says, cheerful and upbeat.

I marvel at this short, enthusiastic worker, so different from the mob that attacked our transport. “How are you so happy?”

“I have good family and good Boss.” He leans forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “And I have secret super power.”

“What power is that?” I whisper back conspiratorially.

“When I clean floors, I become invisible,” he whispers proudly. “My grandchildren, they call me Invisible Man. Here, here, look.” He digs into his cart and pulls out one crayon drawing after another.

I laugh as I study a Picassoesque rendition of Invisible Man surrounded by sixteen children. “Are all these your grandchildren?” I ask in surprise.

“Yes,” he beams with pride.

“That's a big family to feed. I bet you're grateful for rations,” I observe before realizing my lack of tact.

“No!” he refuses with every fiber of his short frame. “I no user! Beside, ration no is food, is garbage. Now my wife, she cook real food, feed whole family,” he says, rolling his r's with a proud look on his face.

“These are wonderful,” I say, handing back the pictures, while digesting his comment about the rations.

He pushes the pictures back into my hands. “No, you keep. Your locker need more color.”

I run over to my class and slip through the back door without being noticed. Professor Bullen, who's very deep in his tenure, is too busy “teaching” calculus (which for him means reading his class notes from thirty years ago, back when he understood math).

“About time you showed up,” Tori whispers, sitting in the back next to Pete (something I never thought I'd see). “I was about to call the guard.”

“Locker got stuck again,” I explain.

Tori sends Pete a look, and he shakes his head, which she answers with an annoyed look before shrugging. I feel a twinge of jealousy at their silent conversation and turn my focus to the class's holo screen, double checking my answers to yesterday's assignments. Professor Bullen hates correcting our papers, so we just correct our own. He doesn't care if we cheat or not, since our grade is based on exams, not our homework.

I sigh, finding one I got completely wrong. Normally, I'd raise my hand and ask for help, but Professor Bullen doesn't like questions, they disrupt the flow of his monologues. “Help,” I whisper, handing my page to Pete.

Pete quickly isolates where I made a wrong turn, highlighting it and handing it back. He leans back in his chair, making it easy to get a clear look of how much weight he's lost. It's impressive.

“Did you hear about the Dissenter guerrillas?” Pete asks, playing around with his JS while the professor begrudgingly helps a rugger with his problem.

“Gorillas?” Tori questions while I reach into my bag for my water, working hard to keep my face neutral.

“Gene altered, super strong Dissenters. I just read about them this morning. Guards have been reporting sightings of them for months, only to have the reports covered up,” Pete whispers.

I take a drink, trying to act natural as he pulls up a holo of a man running crazy fast down a dirt street in the Compound.

“Pete, I doubt these 'gorillas' are real. Someone likely played with the holo, probably just to drum up more fear,” Tori argues, glancing to make sure the professor is still helping the rugger.

“Tell that to the guards attacked back in October. A guerrilla managed to evade live rounds and jump to the top of a transport—tried to open the top access and ripped off the metal handle in the process. While guards dealt with him, a mob swarmed the transport, dropping in a grenade. Fortunately, it was thrown back out just in time.”

I choke on my water and start coughing to the point that the professor looks up, staring at me while I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I say weakly, as he turns back to the rugger.

Both Pete and Tori eye me suspiciously before sharing another silent look. “You okay?” Pete asks.

“Yeah. So, Dissenters tried to blow up a transport,” I distract, turning red as Professor Bullen clears his throat loudly, staring straight at us again.

“We better talk about it later,” Tori whispers while Pete watches me with squinted eyes.

CHAPTER 13

NEW QUESTIONS

––––––––

THE next morning, I sink into the cracked but cozy passenger seat of Ethan's car on the way to school, two boxes of canned goods at my feet. “Thank you for doing this; I know it cuts into what little sleep you get.”

“I'm sure this Perel guy will appreciate the food,” Ethan yawns as he pulls up to the drop off point. “Stay safe, okay?”

“Thanks.” I heave up the two boxes and walk toward the maintenance building. People pass by, laughing and discussing their holiday plans. I can't help but feel lonely, especially with the gag order.

Halfway to the maintenance building, the heavy boxes start to slip from my grip when, suddenly, the weight is gone.

“Here, let me get those for you,” Chris says with the same easy smile I've seen him use on the cheerleaders.

“Thanks,” I sigh, rubbing my shaky arms.

“Any new gag orders?” he asks with a wink.

“No,” I half laugh. “Just new questions. How's your petition going?” I ask.

“Dismally,” he replies, walking close and shifting the boxes to better see me. “Though apparently you and your mom aren't the only ones who've been attacked, not that we're allowed to discuss it.”

I glance around for listening ears, pleased Chris isn't just another zombie. “What's with the rising tension in the Compound?” I ask quietly, mentally comparing Perel to the mob. “It seems the more we do for them out there, the more they hate us.”

Chris's eyes light up as we enter the maintenance building. “I have some info on that. Why don't we discuss it some place quiet after practice?”

I glance around the empty room, wondering why not now. “Uh, okay. Want to meet in the library?”

“Nah, the library is a little too stiff. How about the beach?” he suggests as he squeezes the boxes into Perel's cubby.

“Okay, sure,” I agree, wondering if this qualifies as a date. “So, how did this weekend's game go?”

He gives me an enthusiastic play-by-play of the latest rugby match as we work our way to class. “You should come—our games are awesome,” Chris invites casually.

“Sounds fun,” I respond, distracted by Pete standing near the class door, shoulders slumped. I peek in the window and sure enough, Aaron and Tori are huddled together, probably talking about their latest party. Poor Pete. Maybe he should get over Tori just like I got over Aaron.

I wait until Chemistry to broach the subject. “Hey, Pete,” I greet brightly as he walks in the door, Professor Titan having already given us our instructions for the day.

“Hey,” he replies, yanking on a lab coat. He sits, practically glowering as I load up a tray. I scrape my brain for a safe topic, something to get his mind off Tori, when I remember a packet in the bottom of my purse, stuffed in my backpack.

“Hey, Pete, do you know if this is still safe to eat?” I ask, pulling out the long forgotten ration and tossing it to him.

He sighs, taking a look before a half smile forms on his face. “I'd say you’re safe. These things have a shelf life of, oh, twenty years.”

I take it back and tear it open, curious as to how gross the rations really are. I dip a finger and try a taste. I don't know what Perel and that lady were complaining about. It has a nice, sweet cinnamony taste . . .

An overpowering, metallic taste kicks in, nearly causing me to cough and gag. Instead, I calmly drink my water, wishing I had mouthwash while Pete resets our scale.

I wipe my eyes carefully, clearing my throat. “Hey, Pete. You have to give this a try—the taste is unforgettable.”

“Can't. It'll ruin my diet,” Pete dismisses, spooning out red powder into a ceramic dish on the scale.

“I didn't say to eat it. Just try it,” I offer, hiding a smile.

“It must really be good for you to be this pushy.” He puts the spoon down before dipping a finger. As he tastes it, he nods, a pleasant look on his face until . . .

“Whooa!” Pete vents as he lunges for his water, his face contorted while I break out laughing, not able to stop. He polishes off his whole bottle, his face still puckered up. “You finished, yet?” he snaps, annoyed. “I assume you want to do the experiment.”

I wipe my eyes again, taking a few calming breaths. As Prof. Titan looks over, I quickly grab a beaker and start pouring out a clear but strong liquid. “Can you believe we pay for that stuff?” I ask. “I wouldn't be surprised if they used strychnine.”

“We could find out. Titan's cool, he'd let us use the lab after class,” Pete replies, pouring the next chemical into our beaker. “Where did you get that packet anyway?”

“It was a gift,” I evade as he prepares to light the burner.

“Wait,” he says as he starts to light the burner. “During calculus, you choked on your water when I talked about the Compound attack, you've been jumpy for weeks, and you won't discuss where you got this packet. . .” he whispers.

“You don't miss much, do you?” I reply, touched he would notice. Just then his burner ignites, acting more like a blow torch than a boiler, nearly reaching the ration packet.

“But you couldn't have gone out into the Compound. Civilians aren't allowed out there,” Pete whispers as he eases the flame back down. I snatch the packet off the table and he stares at both me and the packet, waiting for one of us to confess. I shrug as I put the packet away.

After the final bell, Pete and I stall, waiting for the other students to clear out before approaching the front desk. “Hey, Professor. Can we do a little extra credit?” Pete asks as I pass him the packet. He places it on Prof. Titan's desk.

“Great idea because your work is pitiful,” Professor Titan complains, clicking his tongue. “You only aced five of your last five assignments. I'm waiting for some spark of real genius.”

He leads us to a strange machine sitting in the back. “Now then, what are we testing?” Titan asks as Pete measures and pours a small amount into a vial, mixing it with distilled water.

“Rice pudding—it was a gift,” Pete says, placing the vial in a slot in the machine, which spins repeatedly. On the holo screen, a few ingredients begin to appear. The longer the vial spins, the longer the list grows.

Titan whistles loudly as the count of ingredients reaches thirty. “When I was growing up, rice pudding had milk, sugar, and cinnamon. Oh, and rice of course.”

“Come on, Professor. Your mom didn't sprinkle on a little barium and aluminum oxide?” Pete teases as he reads the growing list.

I point further down the list, repulsed. “Chlorinated sugar? That can't be healthy.”

Professor Titan swipes his finger, highlighting four specific ingredients. A new chart pulls up, graphing the molecular structure of each of the four and their effects on the body. “Those are some strong sedatives.”

“Sedatives I can understand, but arsenic?” Pete identifies, toward the bottom.

A sick feeling twists my stomach. “But arsenic is a poison.”

Pete turns to Titan, who's pulling up various charts. “Given these amounts, what are we looking at, Professor?”

Titan combines a few charts, looking up various formulas, mumbling to himself for a few minutes before a computer generated holo of a human body appears in time lapse, organs flashing red as they start failing.

“This cocktail will result in a slow but steady accumulation,” he concludes as the whole body flashes red. “Four years, maybe five, before chronic organ failure and certain death.” He cautiously hands back the packet. “Pete, you may want to reconsider your choice of friends.”

“What if that stuff is the reason Dissenters are acting crazy?” I ask Pete quietly as we exit the science building.

“I'd say it's likely. They're on more meds than my grandma,” Pete comments as we walk under the domed entrance. Before I can head off to track, Pete grabs my arm. “I'm right about your going into the Compound, aren't I?”

“I'm not admitting to anything,” I reply firmly, arms folded.

Impatience flits across his face. “Alysse, I can keep my mouth shut.”

I smile wryly. “Haven't you ever heard of a gag order?”

“I knew it!” he announces triumphantly, before pulling himself back to a whisper again. “Based on your reactions, I'd say you were out there when the transport was attacked, maybe even saw the bomb go off.” Pete waits and watches.

I start to walk away, but reconsider, tossing over my shoulder: “I was told it was a seismic.”

CHAPTER 14

NEW ANSWERS

––––––––

AFTER track, I scan the white sandy beach that borders the crystal blue mineral lake of Oasis, seeing plenty people enjoying the sunshine, but no Chris.

“Hey, Alysse,” calls a voice to the side of me. I turn and spot Chris at a table next to a brightly painted seafood shack.

I'm tempted to cover my ears as I approach, island music blaring from the shack's speakers. “Nice spot for a quiet conversation,” I half yell as I sit down next to him.

He just laughs, offering me some of his fries and battered fish strips. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. I'm supposed to avoid fried foods on Coach's diet,” I decline despite being ravenous after running my heart out during track. “But I'll join you.” I pull out a sprouted multi-grain wrap.

“Our coach doesn't care what we eat, as long as we trash the other team,” Chris shrugs, taking another bite. “Before we begin, let's put away any electronics. No distractions.” He shuts off his JS and stores it inside a shiny pouch.

“Distractions? Right,” I tease, glancing up at the music speaker before shutting off my phone and slipping it into my purse.

“Okay, in response to your earlier question,” he leans close, his brown eyes excited and unwavering. “Not everyone in the Compound is a Dissenter. During the war, anyone even suspected of being a Dissenter was relocated out there, without due process or even a trial.”

I sit back disturbed. “You're saying some of them are innocent Oasians?”

“I'm guessing at least half are innocent,” he replies bitterly, a burden evident in his eyes. “My dad said during the war whole families just disappeared, their half-eaten dinners still on the table.”

A stray volleyball lands at our feet, a player yelling out: “Could you grab that?”

Chris picks up the volleyball and punches it hard enough to fly in a great arch, overshooting the net and players while I consider all angles of Chris's claim carefully. “If some are innocent, why not hire a lawyer and prove their innocence?” I press.

“How? A move to the Compound is always accompanied by a loss of citizenship,” he scoffs. “With their accounts seized and their property auctioned off, they have no money for a lawyer, and that's if they were allowed to use our justice system, which they're not.”

As I finish my wrap, Jessica's words come back to me: My family never belonged here.

Chris just might be right.

I want to ask him about the guerrillas, but I decide to wait, just to make sure I can trust him.

Chris wipes his greasy fingers and balls up his trash, tossing it into the nearest can. “Unless you have more questions, we should probably get started on homework. Want to study at my house?”

“Wait, you don't want to study here?” I joke as the air vibrates around us.

We walk a few blocks to a house that's not much larger than mine, but it's well built with beautiful accents.

“Make yourself at home,” Chris invites as we walk into the kitchen. I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and sit at the table, watching Chris from the corner of my eyes, when in walks a girl about fifteen or so, a mental disability evident on her face and in her frame. She comes right over and touches my nose with her finger.

“Hi,” I greet in a sweet voice. “What's your name?”

“Bessie. She's my sister,” Chris answers for her. “Bessie, this is Alysse.”

“Nice to meet you, Bessie,” I greet as she takes my apple. I quickly smother a soft laugh that threatens to escape. “So, what do you like doing?” I ask while grabbing a new apple.

“She home schools and helps with my mom's business,” Chris adds, making himself a sandwich. “Oh, and she loves painting.” Chris holds up his sandwich. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” I hold up my apple to Chris as Bessie takes a bite of her own and continues to the living room.

“My mom figured with all of Bessie's needs, it made more sense to teach her herself,” he says quietly, watching the living room door. “She does talk, by the way. She's just shy.”

Chris sits next to me with his sandwich, turning his JS back on, which chimes like the new year as messages come in. While he catches up on his social life, I lay out my homework, taking up half of Chris's kitchen table with my texts and spirals.

We hunker down and get to work. While Chris studies just as hard as I do, his leg kind of bounces, like someone who's itching for another run.

Two hours later we've finished everything except Harden's assignment, which we keep putting off like going to the dentist, when Chris's mom walks in.

“You should receive your order by next Thursday . . . We appreciate your business. Have a great night,” she finishes, taking off a headset. She sighs, looking at the empty stove. “I don't suppose anyone made dinner?”

“Sorry,” Chris says, motioning to his pile of homework. “By the way, this is Alysse Simms—she goes to the Academy.”

“Ah, this is Alysse,” she says, smiling at me and shaking my hand while Chris turns red. “I've met your mom. What a wonderful, courageous lady.”

“What do you mean courageous?” I ask, taken back.

“Oh, you know . . . moms have to be,” she retreats a bit, checking the clock. “I better get dinner started.” She turns, grabbing pots and pans before opening the fridge.

“Let's get poli-sci over with,” Chris says, elbowing me after glancing at his mother.

“Writing Harden's essays just got harder, especially after our discussion,” I huff, leaning back.

“Nah—essays are easy. Just write anything like 'Dissenters are the source of all the world's problems'. That'd get an A plus. 'Not enough money, it's the Dissenters fault. Have a runny nose, that's on them, too,'” he rants in a hilarious imitation of her.

His mother drops a pot loudly, looking at him in alarm. “Careful with your words, son,” she warns firmly.

“Sorry, mom,” he apologizes, turning a little red at the ears as we both sober and get back to work.

CHAPTER 15

WINDOWS

––––––––

I spend lunch the next day trying to verify Chris's claim, but it proves difficult. I can't find any Dissenter court records, guilty or not.

“Maybe Dissenters weren't tried in Oasis,” Tori suggests during P.E. She serves another ball to Pete, who returns it hard while I stand to the side, keeping score as I wait for my turn.

“Check military records,” Pete advises. “Accused Dissenters might have been classified as prisoners of war.”

“Tori, is there any way you can talk to Aaron or his father about the crazy ingredients in the rice pudding?” I ask.

Tori hits her ball back to Pete before glancing my way, squirming. “That might not be a good idea. Aaron's political leanings are more like Dr. Harden's.”

Pete stretches hard to reach the ball in time, sending it back her way. “And you're dating that moron why exactly?”

Tori completely misses her ball, her eyes checking on Aaron who continues his lively game with Chris, undisturbed. She turns back to Pete, shooting daggers with her eyes while I fetch the ball.

“Because he might be like me, closely guarding what he really thinks,” she fires back in a whisper before turning on me next. “Speaking of, I still can't believe you didn't tell us about the transport attack.”

“Technically, I still haven't,” I point out in a whisper, passing her the ball. “Tori, you've been dating Aaron a while. Isn't it time you find out where he stands?”

She sighs. “I know, it's just, his father is Statesman. If Aaron feels the same way I do, great. But if not . . .”

Pete makes a squelching sound as he drags his finger across his throat. “Adios to your father's license and position. No wonder your parents are more excited about your boyfriend than you are,” Pete taunts.

Tori tosses the ball high up, slamming it with her racket. “Not helping!” I call to Pete.

“I'm not the one that encouraged her in the first place,” Pete calls back as the ball goes way out of bounds.

“Where do I find military court records?” I deflect back to the original topic.

“Try I.M.A.,” Tori suggests.

“Will you come with me?” I ask, having never been to International Military Academy, an elite college located one hour southwest of Oasis.

They both get this look like I just asked them to swallow bugs. “Why waste hours researching what we already know? There's no way we'd toss people into the Compound without a trial,” Tori refuses.

“I partly agree with Tori,” Pete says, but with a smirk. “Why research what we already know? Of course we tossed them in without a trial.”

Tori's mouth draws thin, looking a little too much like Harden for my liking, before stomping off to join Aaron. Pete and I share a look, both of us very concerned.

After school, I sit at a nearby cafe, a pumpkin spice hot chocolate with vanilla cream swirl next to me, my excuse for being here.

My real reason is the ID-free holo stations, ones that let you log on without a scan. I message several departments within Oasis government, stating I want to give an anonymous tip about a crime, wanting to know the procedure.

A week later, I've sampled every flavor from mint cream to amaretto to acai twist, but I'm not any closer to reporting the poisoning.

Every government agency in Oasis wants my ID number before they'll investigate my claims. Even the police require an ID before filing a report. If I hand it over, I might as well walk around with a name tag:

Alysse Simms

Compound Sympathizer

My last hope lands with the Prosecuting Attorney's office, who says there might be a way to file a complaint without an ID number. I sip up the last of my peppermint swirl as his secretary messages back: Good news! We can skip the ID number if you provide us with the corresponding police report.

It's probably a good thing my cup is empty because I can't help but crush it.

Saturday, I take the tram to the North Precinct wearing a blond wig and large sunglasses. My legs keep tapping uncontrollably, either from two weeks of chocolate, or from my fear of being labeled a Sympathizer, I can't tell which.

I hide my ID watch before walking into the bustling station, where the doors spend more time open than closed with all the people passing through. Along the walls sit numerous workers in handcuffs, all waiting to be processed.

“I didn't do it!” shrieks a worker with a shaved and tattooed head. Two officers grab him by the arms and start dragging him to the back, all while his mouth explodes with four letter expletives.

“Is it all right if I get myself a cup o' joe?” yawns a wiry handcuffed worker sitting at the side, who acts like he's on a field trip instead of being booked.

An officer sitting at his desk nearby nods his consent. “You know, Manny,” the officer adds as an afterthought. “If you were to just quit stealing, you wouldn't have to come here every weekend.”

“Can't help it, sir. Some things want to come home with me so badly, they jump into my pocket, I'm tellin' you,” he shrugs. “What I really need is more money—got any extra?”

“Shut your trap and get your coffee, before I change my mind,” the officer barks.

I approach the front desk, wishing now more than ever that Tyler Wilson was still alive—he'd investigate the poisoning without any hesitation. People in the Compound killed one of their best advocates.

“I need to speak with a police officer.”

“Your name?” she asks, clearly pleased to see an Oasian. “I'd rather not say,” I adjust my sunglasses, feeling self-conscious.

She doesn't even blink but just moves on with the report. “What is the nature of the complaint?”

“It's about the Compound.”

“The Department of Compound Relations handles any grievance you have with the Compound.”

“You don't understand,” I whisper. “Someone wants the Dissenters dead.”

“Then they can run for Mayor,” she says louder than I'd prefer while frowning.

“This is important,” I press, beyond frustrated. “Someone is poisoning the rations!”

“I'll take care of this, Sue,” a man asserts from behind me. “Come with me, Miss.” I slowly turn to look up at a tall, skinny officer with a badge labeled Rann and breathe a sigh of relief. He was one of the officers who worked with Tyler Wilson.

Back at his desk, Officer Rann considers me soberly, leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped together behind his head. “The Dissenters are being poisoned?”

“Yes. I overheard a worker say the rations are disgusting, and I was curious. I tested a packet, and this is what I found,” I say, pulling out the full ingredients list.

He leans forward, looking me in the eyes. “Miss Simms, you could get in trouble for pulling a prank like this.”

My eyes jerk up, meeting his as my heart pounds. “How did you know . . .”

“Do you really think a wig would keep us from recognizing the daughter of the family that helped raise money for the Wilsons?” he says.

I scoot to the edge of my seat, in earnest. “Then believe me when I say, this is no joke.”

Just then, the gangly worker brushes past us, spilling a drop on Rann's desk. “Whoops, my bad.”

“You here again?” mocks an officer on the other side of him as Manny rebalances a personalized mug, his name in bold letters on the side. “One of these days they're going to put you away for good,” the officer barks.

“Nah, I don't steal nothin' of value. Just trinkets and small thrills,” Manny dismisses, taking a sip and savoring it. “Besides, it's worth being arrested just for the coffee.”

The officer throws a half-eaten doughnut at him. “Go sit down, you lousy little . . .”

Manny retrieves the doughnut off the floor and dunks it, enjoying a big bite before taking his seat again.

Officer Rann turns his attention back to me, thankfully less stern than a moment ago. He drums his desk a few times with his finger, eyes narrowed as he grabs the container and opens it, sniffing. “How did you get this sample?”

“I'd rather not discuss it,” I say, wiping my sweaty hands on my pants.

“I see.” He leans down, whispering. “Seeing how it's illegal to possess any packet not assigned to you, why don't I investigate this . . . unofficially?” he winks.

“Would you? Thank you, Officer Rann,” I beam, relieved.

“No more snooping,” he says sternly, steering me outside. “Let me handle this. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

I leave the station, excited to go home at last, a huge weight lifted, when I realize I forgot to leave him the copy of the lab results. As I walk back to the entrance, I see Officer Rann through a window just as he tosses my sample into the garbage. �

I freeze. What?!?

Half an hour later, I walk into the lobby of Oasis News on the other side of Urbane, still wearing my wig and sunglasses, hoping the news media is more willing to do their job.

“It's important that you don't use too much pressure,” a curvy receptionist rattles off knowingly, painting her nails. “Otherwise he'll walk.”

“But he hasn't called since our date last night,” the other receptionist says in a panic. “Does that mean he doesn't like me?”

I clear my throat loudly. “Hi. I have a story that needs investigating.”

“What's the nature of the story?” the first asks, blowing on her nails.

I lean forward, dropping my voice. “The Dissenters.”

She nearly knocks over her polish as she grabs her JS, thoroughly excited. “Did you get attacked?”

“It's bigger than that,” I explain dramatically. “The Dissenters are being poisoned.”

She puts down her JS, rolling her eyes before resuming her nail painting job. “Wow! Never heard that one before. Besides, it's already been proven false.”

“I have evidence that says otherwise,” I assure urgently.

“Sorry, all of our reporters are currently unavailable,” she says in monotone, smiling smugly. “Why don't you try the police?”

I slump into a seat on the tram, ripping off the wig and glasses and stuffing them into my bag with unnecessary force. Why did I ever think I could make a difference?

I'm still fuming with frustration when a polished and well-dressed stranger sits in the seat next to me, despite several empty seats around us. “I believe you,” she says as she pulls up a crossword puzzle on her JS.

I look around us in confusion. “Are you talking to me?”

“Look out the window,” she whispers urgently.

“What?” I ask, now even more confused.

“Just do it,” she breathes. I look out, not sure what I'm supposed to be seeing. “My name is Cassie and I work for Oasis News. I overheard you talking to the receptionist. You are not the first to come in.”

“I have a sample,” I relay, talking to her reflection in the window. “It's been tested and confirms my story.”

“Doesn't matter,” she exhales. “Even if I cover the story, the producers will never air it and my career will end—that is, if I don't disappear first.”

“But we have to do something,” I whisper toward the window. “It's evil to poison one person. What is it to murder an entire community?”

She glances at me briefly before returning to her JS. “I'm just telling you the producers won't do it. I wish things were different. Have you tried the OPA's office?”

“She won't take the case without a police report,” I gripe. “I tried the police station, but the cop who said he'd investigate threw away my sample after he thought I'd left.”

She nods. “Hardly surprising considering how many officers Dissenters have killed. I know a judge who could persuade the OPA to investigate, if we can convince him you're telling the truth,” she offers, nervously.

“Really?” I ask, intrigued. A computerized female voice comes over the intercom, announcing the approaching platform.

“This is where I get off. Don't ever call me at the news station. Message me at this address if you learn anything new,” she passes her JS over my phone, transferring her contact info while receiving mine. “Use dogs instead of Dissenters and pound instead of Compound, okay? I'll contact you after I speak with the judge.”

“Thank you,” I say as the tram slows to a stop.

“If you knew what was ahead, you wouldn't be thanking me,” she says soberly, getting off without looking back.

CHAPTER 16

SPRINTING

––––––––

THE next Wednesday, I pass my watch over my locker's scanner. It flashes green, but stays closed. “Now what?” I vent.

“Here.” Pete punches it, and it immediately pops open.

“How did you do that?”

He leans against his locker, arms crossed with confidence. “Mind over metal.”

“Muscles like yours don't hurt,” winks a girl passing in the hallway. Pete winks back with a grin.

I shove my textbooks into the locker with a little more force than usual while Pete watches the girl. When I finish, I nudge him, trying to get his attention. “We're going to be late.”

“Like I care?” Pete scoffs, nodding at the next girl who walks by, eyeing him from beneath her long, glittery lashes.

“Suit yourself,” I quip, eyes narrow as I briskly walk away, my backpack digging into my shoulder.

Pete catches up with me, taking my pack. “Here, I can carry this for you. Have you heard from Cassie?”

“No,” I admit, trying to hide the bitterness in my voice. “I had hoped she wasn't just another dead end.”

A laugh escapes his lips. “I still can't believe you went to the police. They're more likely to shake the poisoner's hand than slap on a handcuff.”

“I had to do something,” I whisper defensively as we turn a corner, coming into view of the Pyramid. “My old friends and their families are out there being poisoned, too.”

“If you want this investigated, we're going to have to do it ourselves. If we do, you can't just show up at some agency to report it,” Pete says harshly. “You could walk right into the office of the person who ordered the poisoning.”

I shiver. “Point taken.”

“Normally, we would start with a list of who wants the Dissenters dead, but since that includes almost everyone, we should start with the company that makes the rations instead. After all, with homework, finals, and ISTs coming up, we don't have enough to do.”

“You forgot work and track,” I add as we get stuck behind Ryan who's too busy trying to impress a couple of ILAC members to walk at a decent pace, forcing us to slow down to a crawl.

“Speaking of track,” Pete nudges me with a proud look on his face, “Tori said you rocked the last meet.”

I hold back a smile. “Let's just say I didn't embarrass myself.”

“Well, Miss Hot-on-the-Field, let's see what you got,” he challenges. “Race you to class!”

Pete takes off, dodging around Ryan the Road Block before tearing down the sidewalk. I chase after him, catching him at the door, but then losing him again on the stairs, which he takes three at a time, all while laughing. I leap up the stairs, two at a time, but it's no use—he still reaches the top first with time to spare.

“Wow, Pete,” I exclaim, hunching over to catch my breath. “You should try out for rugby.”

He grins, not breathing nearly as hard as I am. He flexes his bicep a little more than necessary as he hands me my backpack. “Yea, Tori said I turned things around even faster than expected.”

“Aaron must be jealous by now,” I razz, nudging him before pulling my sun streaked hair into a pony tail. It's now more honey than brown, thanks to all the sun during track.

A puff of air escapes his lips. “Why  care what Aaron thinks?”

“Because you're incredibly close to stealing Tori away,” I point out the obvious.

“What about me?” Tori asks, walking up with a bounce in her step and two ILAC members at her sides. Pete starts coughing or laughing, I can't tell which.

“Uh,” I hesitate, trying to untie my tongue from a very big knot. “I was just appreciating what an amazing job you did, training Pete,” I finally spit out.

“Thanks,” she grins in an animated way. “I was cleaning out my locker this morning, and I started thinking, maybe your parents wouldn't mind your having a JS if you use it only at school.”

“We are talking about my parents, aren't we?” I roast. “The ones who barely let me have a phone?”

“Some parents just need a little extra persuasion,” ▓  Pete says, pulling out his JS while messaging back and forth with my dad. After a few volleys, I get a message from my dad allowing me to use the JS at school, and school only.

It's like the Pyramid flipped upside down. “How'd you pull this off?”

“I have my ways,” he replies as Tori hands me the JS.

“And I have my parties,” Tori jumps in, ecstatic. “The first being right after finals.” She waves her JS over ours, transferring a holo invitation. “You and your families are invited.”

“Like my parents go anywhere together,” Pete scoffs. “I'll have to decide which one to bring, if either.”

“Hey, Pete!” an ILAC member greets with a wink. Pete nods back with a grin.

“Well, Pete—you could bring a date instead,” Tori hints before joining Aaron at the front of class.

Pete squints his eyes and turns to me. “You thought I was interested in Princess Vicky?”

“You're not?” I ask just as Chris passes by.

“Hey Alysse, the bell's about to ring,” Chris reminds.

“Ah!” I check my watch, dropping the conversation and bursting into class just in time. Harden looks up at me in disappointment as I place my assignment on her desk right as the bell rings.

“Thanks, Chris,” I whisper as we take our seats.

“Anytime,” he winks.

Pete walks in, more annoyed and less amused. “Lots of guys like her, I thought you did too,” I defend in a whisper as he walks by.

“Since when am I like other guys?” Pete points out.

Chris glances at him confused before turning back to me. “Hey, are you going to Tori's party?”

“Yeah. It should be a lot of fun, knowing Tori,” I reply as Pete sits in the back, still annoyed.

“You know,” Chris continues casually. “Since we're both going, why not go together?”

It takes me a moment to catch on that he's asking me on a date. I work hard to hide the surge of excitement that passes through me. “Sure, sounds great,” I respond as if I get asked out every day.

“Awesome,” he says, pleased. “I'll pick you up at seven.”

All day, I walk around like everyone else, carrying one small, lightweight gadget instead of a cumbersome backpack. In fact, after track, doing my homework is a pleasure. I just curl up in a comfortable lounge chair in the library, JS on my lap as I listen to my favorite songs while looking up dates and definitions, thrilled Harden can't ever “lose” one of my essays again.

I even find a video that explains my calculus assignment ten times better than my professor did and finish my math problems with ease, leaving me time for a few games.

After I finish, I stand up to stretch, surprised to find my body stiff, as if I haven't moved for hours. I glance at my watch, shocked to learn that's exactly what I did.

My mom messages me—Where are you?

“The Library will be closing in five minutes,” the librarian announces from the speakers as my stomach growls.

Still at school, just finished studying, I cringe.

Stay there. I'm coming to get you.

I start walking to the pick-up zone when I remember I'm not supposed to bring the JS home. I zigzag back towards my locker to drop it off.

As I reach the senior hall, the hairs on the back of my neck start standing on end. It's dark and super creepy with the lights set on night mode. I open the door and wait, listening for any sign of another person nearby, my pepper spray in my pocket.

Maybe I'm paranoid, but my skin is crawling enough that I message the school security, requesting an escort. While I wait for a guard, I head to my locker, eyes double checking the hall as I load my textbooks into my backpack for the last time. I finish by placing Tori's JS all alone in my now uncluttered, perfectly normal locker.

I heave up my swollen backpack and walk toward the exit to look for the guard. Before I can reach the door, a shape steps out from a gap between the lockers, wrapping one arm around my neck while a free hand clamps over my mouth tightly. “Don't make a sound or I'll kill you,” he spits into my ear.

This can't be happening!

My heart isn't pounding—it's stalled, just like my brain that's unable to grasp the concept that this problem is real, and it's now!

“You think you're better than me!” he vents, dragging me to a back exit. “You think Oasians deserve more . . .”

As I suffer through his incoherent ramblings, I can hear Capt. Price's words to Trieman: Never hesitate!

If I fight back he'll kill me, I protest.

If you don't fight back, he'll definitely kill you, Capt. Price sounds off. Use what your father taught you!

I force my freaked-out mind to focus on finding a way out of this. I finally remember the pepper spray and pull it out, aiming it the best I can at the worker's face despite not being able to stand properly.

As soon as I squeeze the nozzle, the right side of my face starts stinging while his left arm tightens around my neck. His other hand whacks the sprayer from my grip.

My dad didn't cover that during training! Now what?

Fight him harder than that! Capt. Price barks, irritated.

I drop my left shoulder and slip off my backpack, which is no easy task as he drags me backwards, his arm in a vice grip around me. I swing my pack up over my right shoulder with all my strength, slamming him in the head.

“You're going to pay for that!” He releases his arm from around my neck and spins me to face him as he winds back to hit me. Block it and start screaming! my imaginary captain shouts.

I heave up my backpack as a shield to the janitor's crazed assault, screaming as loudly as I can. “Shut up!” the janitor hisses with all the venom in his body.

I scream all the louder before swinging my backpack at him over and over, until he steps back. Then I drop it low and swing it up one last time, giving it everything I have. As my pack hits him in the shoulder and face, the zipper bursts and stuff explodes, flying everywhere.

With this split-second distraction, I turn and sprint as hard as I can, my screams echoing down the hall. Within seconds, I hear him close behind me, terror flooding me as he grabs my shirt.

I yank my shirt away from him with a twist. Before I even know what happened, I've tripped and I'm sliding to a stop down the super polished floor. The janitor flies past me before  sliding to a stop, his eyes focused down a perpendicular hall before he sprints back!

I start screaming, preparing to kick him when he jumps over me, sprinting away at full speed. I watch his receding figure, confused, until a guard skids around the corner, almost running me over. “That man attacked me!” I yell, pointing at the shadow now reaching an exit.

The guard takes off in a full sprint, while I stand up in a stupor, adrenaline still pulsing through my veins, only now I feel weak instead of strong.

I walk in a trance back to my stuff which is strewn across the hallway, nearly falling as I step on something that rolls. “A lot of good you did me,” I give the can an angry kick where it crashes into a wall, oozing peppery liquid.

I bend over and start gathering stuff, my hands shaking wildly. I keep cleaning anyway, as if returning the hall to order will somehow undo what just happened.

“Are you okay, Miss?” someone with authority asks from behind. I spin around, my body poised to fight despite the fact that it's a guard, not my attacker.  “I—” I try to answer, my voice hoarse as I shiver involuntarily.

A female worker comes up and wraps a blanket around my shoulders. “Don't worry about the mess, we'll take care of it,” she reassures, leading me to a bench. “Just come sit down over here,” she says, handing me a sandwich and soda.

What feels like hours or maybe seconds later, my mom comes into the Hall. “Alysse? Are you all right?” I shake my head, not able to form words. I'm more terrified than when the seismic landed in my lap.

My mom wraps an arm around me while the guard starts filling out a report, asking me numerous questions. After explaining what happened, I scan through row after row of campus worker IDs. “None of these are him,” I say.

The guard gets a puzzled look as he goes through his JS. He squints his eyes as if contemplating something impossible. “Try this batch.”

I scan more IDs. Just when I'm about to give up, one picture jumps out at me—it's the guy who attacked me. “That's him!“

“ID confirmed,” the guard says into his mic. He squats down, looking me in the eyes. “This is the same man we have in custody. You won't be seeing him again.”

“This worker told you he'd kill you if you made any noise?” Principal Rogen asks as he arrives, reading the report.

I nod. “I assumed he was going to kill me anyway.”

“You handled the situation extremely well,” Principal Rogen praises, squeezing my shoulder. “We conduct careful screenings of all workers and this is unprecedented. We hope this does not damage your view of the Academy.”

“It's not the school's fault he went psycho,” I mutter.

“I appreciate that, but I doubt the press will agree with you," he says, visibly stressed.

“I see no reason to alert the press,” my mom says, her arm around me. “The guards did a good job of rescuing my daughter, and we prefer to protect our privacy.”

“That would be helpful to the Academy,” he turns to me, asking sincerely: “Is there anything we can do for you?”

I shrug, wrapping the blanket tighter around me, when a thought crosses my mind. “Could you arrange a new locker?”

“Certainly,” he says, relieved. A guard approaches and whispers something to him. “If there is anything else I can do, please let me know,” Principal Rogen reiterates before following the guard.

While a counselor discusses trauma support with my mom, I overhear the guard and the Principal, their hushed voices carrying down the empty hallway.

“This man isn't employed here,” the guard says with great concern. “I checked his history twice. None of our departments ever hired him.”

“Then how did he get on campus?” Principal Rogen asks, thoroughly alarmed.

“He's in the database as an authorized visitor,” the guard reports.

“Only Oasians can be authorized visitors, not Compound workers,” Principal Rogen asserts.

“I'm just reporting what I found, sir,” the guard replies.

“Message all the guards,” Principal Rogen instructs, his jaw set and sober. “We're having a meeting tomorrow at six a.m.” ♦

CHAPTER 17

HAUNTED

––––––––

“TIME for a study break,” Tori announces, tossing her JS onto her bed. “How about trying on outfits for the party?”

“No, thanks,” I mutter, eyes dazed as I read my notes.

“Alysse, can I be honest?” Tori asks, more for rhetoric and less for permission, as she sits next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “It's been a week now. I know that janitor freaked you out, but if you stop enjoying life, he wins.”

“I'm still enjoying life,” I argue, tossing my notes next to her JS. “Just last Saturday, I volunteered for story time with the guards' kids.”

“That's a start,” she says, yanking me to my feet. “But what about your dating life? With all your workouts and healthy eating, we're the same size, which means you can borrow one of my outfits,” she says excitedly.

“The same size?” I know I've lost weight, but it's not until we stand side by side in the mirror that I see she's right.

“Now, let's explore your options,” she says, walking into her closet that's as big as my room and more organized than a candy store. She browses various outfits grouped according to color, making her closet look like a rainbow. Somewhere in the blues, her hand darts in and pulls one out. “This color would be perfect on you. Try it on.”

“Easier said than done,” I reply. I twist like a contortionist to squeeze into the fitted dress.

As I adjust it, she brags “Who called it?”

I glance unknowingly in the mirror. “It's a gorgeous dress,” I admit. “But it only fits if breathing isn't a priority.”

“Which for a party like mine, it isn't,” she claps her hands excitedly. “Now what should I wear?”

Finding Tori an outfit proves ten times harder. The first isn't classy enough, the next is too classy, another isn't colorful enough, and the next is too bright.

Finally, after the eleventh try, she stands in front of the mirror, not exactly excited, but not ripping it off either. “I suppose,” she sighs, turning her body this way and that, while looking in the mirror. “Aaron likes this color, and my mom likes this cut . . .”

“But what do you like?” I prod, worried.

Before she can answer, her JS blares an emergency tone. Tori hightails over to her JS in a panic, opening an immediate link.

An upset holo of Aaron appears on her console. “MY BEST WINGMAN LEFT FOR VACATION ALREADY!” Aaron yells.

“Chris left? That doesn't make any sense—finals are next week,” she says both calm and bewildered, while I'm doused with even more disbelief than Aaron. I message Chris, thinking it's all just a big mistake, because Chris doesn't seem the type to bail and leave people hanging.

“Forget finals—tonight we face our rivals, the biggest game of the season! He didn't say a word,” Aaron vents, his face twisted in outrage. “No call, no warning, nothing!”♦

“Don't worry—you still have enough talent to win the game,” Tori reassures with a soothing tone.

Aaron continues his rant. “Every single one of our new plays included his skill set. This is not looking good!” Aaron bursts, ending the link as abruptly as it began.

“He's missing a game, and abandoning our date?” I wonder, unnerved, especially when I receive an auto-reply: Family emergency. Will get back to you as soon as possible.

Family emergency? I switch to calling, leaving Chris a message, asking him to let me know what's going on. Almost immediately, my phone starts vibrating. I juggle, eager to read the incoming message—only it's Cassie, not Chris: Judge found a P.I., Joey, willing to help. Meet him tomorrow 2 pm at the beach shack.

“What is it?” Tori asks.

“There's a judge willing to order an investigation if this private investigator can gather proper evidence,” I explain.

She peeks at me, wincing. “Well, if a judge is willing to listen, then I don't need to talk to Aaron, right?”

“I guess,” I shrug as relief washes over her. “Tori, how will you know where he stands if you don't test the water?”

“Oh, I will, when the time is right,” she reassures, her eyes big and avoiding my gaze. “Shall we get back to studying?”

The next day, Pete messages me as I ride my bike to the appointment. You sure you trust this Cassie?

I trust her, I message back with more confidence than I feel.

On the way to my meeting, I stop by Chris's house, just in case there's been some kind of mistake. As I pull up, I double check the address, certain I got the street number wrong, because the house I pull up to has people freely coming and going through the open front door. On the front yard is an holo-sign, announcing an estate auction, starting today. Even worse, there's a For Sale holo-sign under the house number.

I abandon my bike and slip inside, bypassing a scanner and a hostess setting up links on visitors' JSs, using the same table where Chris and I studied.

I bolt up the stairs where all of the bedroom doors are open—including one covered wall to wall with sports teams.

Inside, there's a woman wearing a blazer and a skirt, her hair up in a twist. She's busy taking down Chris's clothes from the closet and boxing them, taking care not to damage her brightly colored nails. “Here for the auction?” she asks enthusiastically when she spots me.

“Something like that,” I respond, glancing around the room, my stomach full of lead.

“There's a teen girl's bedroom across the hall you might be more interested in,” she points out, misreading my look of disgust.

“Thanks. Out of curiosity, whatever happened to the family that lived here?” I ask.

“Moved,” she shrugs.

“If they moved, why wouldn't they take their stuff?” I ask weakly.

“Some families don't want the headache. We've recently had four houses just like this,” she sniffs as the sick feeling in my stomach increases four-fold. “If you find anything you'd like, just scan it and submit your bid,” she chirps cheerfully, labeling the box with the name of the new owner.

“Right, thanks,” I mutter hollowly, stepping to the side as she carries the full box down the stairs. I lean against the wall feeling positively dizzy. Chris's words echo eerily in my mind as I look around the empty room: Some families just disappeared.

I walk over to Chris's dresser, slowly opening drawers, all of which are still full and quite chaotic. Sports magazines and gear, socks and underwear, everything is still here, even his JS which sits on his nightstand. When I tap it, a holo of Tori's invitation rotates as it floats above.

His sister's room is even worse. Her wall is decorated with schoolwork and art she made herself. Her closet and drawers are the opposite of Chris's, with everything folded and put away with compulsive care.

The smell of fresh paint permeates the room, but it's not until I'm leaving that I find the source: the paint on the door frame is still glossy and not completely dry.

As I take a closer look, I spot a long, thin crack, that follows the entire length of the frame. Tacky paint comes off onto my finger as I touch along the seam. I can imagine Chris and Bessie huddled in her room as whoever invaded their home busted in the door.

Horror and rage fills me, surpassed only by the frustration that if I report what I think really happened, I risk having the same thing happen to my family.

Island music blares on my deaf ears as I walk into the same shack where Chris warned me about what Oasis was capable of. The irony is so thick, I could package it as I sit at the counter and order a water. The waitress is so miffed that I add an order of fries and a smoothie.

The lime green speakers hanging from the ceiling have moved onto the fifth or sixth song when a thin, medium sized man with small eyes and a straight, prominent nose sits down next to me, pretending to read his JS. “Where did you have this ration tested?” he asks abruptly.

I don't immediately answer, especially after what I saw at Chris's house. “What is your name and who set us up to meet?”

“Joey is name enough for you and one of the last decent judges in Oasis wants my help. Now who else have you told?” he questions as he steals my fries.

“Why?” I ask, thrown off with the direction he's going, let alone his helping himself to my food.

“Rumors have surfaced that a teen sympathizer tainted a ration, wanting to damage relations,” he says, grabbing some ketchup.

“I didn't taint anything—” I exclaim, outraged.

“Shh!” the man hushes harshly, hitting the bottle, trying to get the ketchup out. “A mass poisoning is not a one-man operation. There will be many involved. Now, who have you told?”

“And how do I know you're not in on it?” I spout off.

“Do I look paid off?” His lips release a puff of air as he gestures at his worn-out jacket before resuming his beating on the unyielding ketchup bottle.

“Hold on,” I say, pulling out my phone and messaging Cassie. Could you describe the PI?

Sure. Slight frame, medium height, dark hair, big nose, really pushy, but sharp and brutally honest, too.

I'd laugh at her description as Joey extracts the ketchup using a knife, if I hadn't just seen Chris's house.

“All right.” I lean closer, whispering. “Officer Rann is the one I spoke to, but all he did was trash my sample the moment he thought I left. I tried to tell Oasis News, but the ladies at the front desk weren't interested.” There's no way I'm telling him about Pete and Tori—they wouldn't betray me.

“Oasis News? That explains the leak,” he snorts. “Do you have another sample of the ration?” he asks, peering at me amid his noisy chewing.

I dig out a small sample of the ration, the rest safe at home, hidden in my room. I feel like some rookie drug dealer as I slip him the small plastic pouch. Then again, considering all of the rice pudding's additives, I more than qualify.

He opens the top, pinching a little and sniffing it with his protruding nose. I can almost see his wheels spin as he does an analysis of his own. Next, he dips a finger and places a slight amount on his tongue, pondering. His face scrunches up distastefully as the metallic stage hits him. He grimaces and pockets the pouch.

“This evidence is inadmissible, as you are not allowed possession,” he states matter-of-factly.

I cringe. “I think that's a sick and twisted law. They've left no way for a concerned citizen to get a packet legally.” I take a slow sip thinking. “What if a Dissenter were to test his own packet, out in the Compound? That would be legal, right?”

“Dissenters aren't citizens, and courts only accept results from certified labs,” he responds curtly.

“You mean paid off labs,” I mutter under my breath.

He pauses, a slight smile curving his lips. “I'll have to find a different way.” He drinks a sip of his water, smacking his lips. “Yep, well. I'll take the case.”

“You will?” I ask, feeling my hope renewed.

“Here is my hourly rate and my account number,” he says, passing his JS over my phone. “I require a deposit to cover the first twenty hours, after which I will bill by invoice,” he directs, waiting for my transfer.

I choke on my smoothie as I read the invoice on my phone. “Wait—I can't pay this.”

He turns his sharp eyes toward me like a bird of prey. “Surely, you don't want me to risk my neck for a bunch of Dissenters for free? Private investigation is my profession, not my hobby, and I have a reputation to back that up.”

“I'll call you if I figure something out,” I mutter, jabbing at my smoothie with my straw.

CHAPTER 18

TESTING

––––––––

THE next Friday, I whack at my whining alarm, eyes still closed. I finally succeed in silencing it right before it crashes to the floor.

Our final day of testing before winter vacation—that glimmer of hope is all that motivates me out of my bed.

Half an hour later, I make my way to the door. My mom comes up to me, handing me a protein shake and a lunch.

“Thanks—you're a life saver,” I yawn.

“Don't forget our challenge—do something nice for someone today,” she smiles. “Good luck on your exams.”

“Thanks,” I reply, heading out to where Tori waits, sipping a purple smoothie.

“Hey, girl,” she greets as if it's nine a.m. instead of six. “Are you ready to pass our winter exams with the greatest of ease?”

“No,” I yawn again before sitting in the passenger seat. “Harden's going to do everything she can to fail me. If I misspell even one word, she marks the whole answer wrong.”

Tori quickly finishes her sip. “If you tell her about that janitor attack, you'd become her new favorite student.”

“Are you kidding? A Dissenter attacking a student within the walls of our own campus?” I laugh dryly as she drives us to school. “It'd be like dumping fuel on a dry, grassy field, and lighting a match. We'd never hear the end of it. Besides, I told the principal I'd keep it quiet.” I rotate my protein drink in my hands, having a hard time caring about winter exams anyway.

Tori looks over at me, concerned. “You're not still worried about Chris, are you? People move all the time.”

I peek up at her. “Tori, you are a wonderful friend. You're loyal, you're thoughtful—” I hint.

“But?” she probes, catching on.

“You're falling asleep.”

“I am not!” she protests, her purple smoothie nearly spilling as she looks back and forth between me and the road. “How can you say that?”

“How can you say Chris moved!” I throw back. “His JS was on his nightstand! Who leaves their JS behind?”

“We would during a house fire.” She avoids my gaze.

“Well, the house was totally un-charred. If they were taken in the middle of the night, they wouldn't have time to grab their JS, let alone message anyone . . .”

We reach the top of the Pyramid an hour early. Tori settles into study mode immediately, her eyes scanning her JS fast. I try to do the same, but Chris's empty chair haunts me.

I'm not the only one. Other students trickle in, their eyes darting briefly to Chris's seat before taking their own. Despite their concern, they all settle into studying, as poli-sci is a prerequisite for admittance into any university in the Global Union.

Students stare at their JSs, hoping to cram any essential information into their brains at the last minute, except for one: Pete who slides into the chair next to me.

“Hey Alysse, do you want a ride tomorrow?” he whispers, pulling up a game on his JS.

“A ride? A ride where?” I mumble, staring at my own notes, trying to remember what idiosyncratic means.

“To the party,” he laughs. “You know, Tori's party—tomorrow?”

“Oh, that party.” My eyes dart to Chris's seat, now occupied by Pete, a cocktail of emotions stirring in my stomach. “Well, my parents are coming, so I don't need a ride,” I whisper, numb.

“Of course you don't need one, but I was hoping for some company,” Pete half jokes, a hint of pain in his eyes.

I put down Tori's JS, facing him fully. “Your parents aren't coming?” I whisper.

“They both wanted to come until they realized the other wanted to go,” he whispers bitterly. “Then they both suddenly couldn't because of previous commitments.”

“I wish your parents would get over themselves!” I vent, outraged. “Forget them. You can ride with us.”

Pete raises an eyebrow. “Last time I rode with you guys I watched a kid on a big wheel pass us.”

“Hey,” I whack him playfully. “At least our car's fuel efficient.”

“So's the big wheel,” he challenges, pulling a game back up. “Can I pick you up at eight thirty?”

“Doesn't it start at seven?” I point out as the Timpson cousins walk in.

“Don't tell me you want to go on time?” he groans dramatically, as if that's the worst thing in the world. “I'm a Mansfield. I don't show up on time. How about eight?” he negotiates as if his reputation were on the line.

“And I'm a Simms. I have to be home by ten thirty,” I remind as Dr. Harden walks in. I turn back to my notes, reading furiously. “Seven thirty.”

He grimaces as the bell rings. “I guess.”

Dr. Harden immediately stands at the front of the room. “You have one hour to complete the exam, beginning . . . now.” She taps her JS and the first question on the exam appears on our JSs.

1. Name all idiosyncratic characteristics of regulation C495-27f that allowed the nation to identify internal Dissenter threats . . .

I should've studied more.

CHAPTER 19

HELP

––––––––

“FINALLY, the holidays!” Hydee shrieks as she joins ILAC members in the senior hallway after school.

“A break from teachers and work and—” Mishell replies as she looks at me . . .

“Ready to hit the track?” Tori chirps, joining my side.

“Hmmm. You remind me of a girl who convinced me to join track,” I tease. “How many practices have you missed?”

“Come on, you have to admit the changes in Pete were worth it,” she smiles until she checks her messages.

My phone is buzzing with one of its own. “Coach canceled practice,” I announce with glee while Tori sights. “Hey, if you want to go running that badly, we can do some laps on our own.”

“What?” Tori looks at me in surprise. “Oh, it's not that. It's my mother with another party emergency.”

I look over Tori's shoulder at her mother's lengthy essay filled with requests and complaints, my mom's challenge on my mind. “Maybe we should help.”

Tori laughs until she realizes she's the only one. “You're serious?”

“Come on, how bad can it be?”

A while later we stand at her front entry, her mother's frantic voice audible even outside the front door. “It's not too late to turn back,” Tori offers, too polite to say “I-told-you-so.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” I reply, remembering my mom's pass-it-on challenge from this morning.

The volume instantly sky rockets as Tori opens the door. I cover my ears as we follow the echoing shrieks to the living room, where workers scamper around in a frenzy. Mrs. Clement stands in the middle of a large room like a stock broker, her hair now shoulder length and cherry red.

“Wow, Mrs. Clement,” I greet in my most upbeat voice. “You look fabulous! That hair color definitely suits you.”

The staff around us freeze, watching for her reaction. She slowly spins to face me, her mouth hanging open.

“Tori and I wanted to help,” I continue as if she had politely responded instead of gaped. “Is that the list?” I grab her JS, highlighting a few of her to-dos with my finger before handing it back. “We'll get started on those three. Let us know if you think of anything else.”

I can almost hear crickets as I cheerfully escort an equally stunned Tori out the back door. “I've never seen her speechless,” Tori says as we go to the backyard.

“First item is checking the backyard system . . .” I reply.

Several hours later, we've eaten dinner and are onto our fifth item: re-wrapping party favors. ♦

I pick up a pearly white box with red ribbon from a neatly stacked pile on the entry table. “Why are we re-wrapping these? They already look great.”

“Because she wanted the boxes wrapped in scarlet, not cardinal,” Tori says, holding up a roll of the new ribbon next to my box. “Apparently cardinal has too much pink to be classy.”

I step closer, squinting my eyes as I try to detect the subtle color difference between the two ribbons. “Really?”

Tori laughs. “Now you see why I hate shopping.”

An hour later, our sore fingers are nearly done with the entire pile, when Mrs. Clement walks in. She picks up one of the unchanged cardinal boxes and smiles approvingly. “Thank you, girls. This looks much better.”

Tori and I share a look, laughs threatening to escape.

“You know, Alysse,” Mrs. Clement turns to me as I immediately swap my amused face for a listening one. “It's getting pretty late. Why don't you spend the night?”

“That'd be great. I'll just message my mom,” I beam, slipping my hands into empty pockets before glancing around the room for my phone. “I left my stuff by the fountain. I'll be right back.”

Flood lights flicker on as I march outside into the night, walking on their short cut grass to their hedge maze. Even without Tori's help, it doesn't take me long to reach the middle where Mrs. Clement recently had a fountain installed. I circle the bubbling waters where Tori and I spent some time relaxing in between tasks ♦ and, sure enough, my backpack waits at the base.

I snag it and start messaging my mom as I work my way back out. I pay more attention to my message than the maze, because I soon find myself at a dead end.

I retrace my steps, looking for the turn I missed, when the floodlights switch off, refusing to come back on no matter how vigorously I wave my arms.

After five minutes of wandering in the dark, I dig out my phone with a certain degree of humiliation. I'm in the middle of messaging Tori for help when I trip, sending my phone flying.

I kneel and grope, finding plenty of rocks but not my phone. Finally, I get eye level with the ground, discovering that not only am I at the edge of the maze, but that my phone is under the bush, partway out the other side.

I consider cheating and just slipping under the bush and out of the maze when some spider webs convince me otherwise. I shake off the willies and look for a stick with which to retrieve my phone when gravel crunches close by. I instinctively freeze, my experience with the janitor still close to home.

I hope to spy Tori as I peek under the hedge. Instead, I spot two pairs of men's shoes, both of high quality. One pair is custom made and so polished that the shoes reflect the half-moon like chrome.

“Why is the Compound still endangering Oasis?” sounds a precise and icy tone as the chrome shoes come to a stop within inches of my phone.

“There were unforeseen interactions with previous medications,” answers Dr. Clement's voice. “To complicate matters, your new water rationing laws have interfered with dosage. But do not be concerned—we will get the Compound under control,” he reassures.

“We don't want them under control. We want them dead!” the man with Chrome shoes whispers harshly. I stop breathing.

“Your experiment failed,” Chrome continues, every word like a hiss. “Those things out there are hardly submissive. Exterminate them, and the others, now!”

“If you kill off the Compound all at once, people take notice,” Dr. Clement stutters. “If you follow my prescribed time line, they'll be exterminated within five years, and Oasians will be ready for a new crop of workers—”

“Tell me, do you enjoy your new home?” Chrome interrupts, his tone suddenly polite.

Dr. Clement pauses before answering. “Yes.”

“Your new Chair in the company?” Chrome continues with false levity.

“Of course,” Dr. Clement shifts, agitated.

“The girls we've sent you,” Chrome taunts.

“Enough!” Dr. Clement bursts.

“I decide when it's enough!” Chrome hisses murderously, pure hatred accenting every syllable. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

It's silent a long time. Dr. Clement finally speaks up, “We're doing everything we can.”

“Release Scorpion,” Chrome demands.

“We can't,” Dr. Clement protests in a panic. “It would spread to the city.”

Chrome shoves something toward Dr. Clement, who takes a step back to catch himself. “Then we're done here,” Chrome hisses, leaving abruptly.

I take a silent breath. Dr. Clements drops the box and something tumbles out. As he puts it back in the box, I can see how badly his hands are shaking. He turns and walks back the way he came.

I stay crouched down a long time, afraid to move until my phone lights up, buzzing. No longer concerned about spider webs, I lunge under the bush, scrambling to silence it. My heart races, pounding in my ears as I freeze and wait to see if Dr. Clement or the stranger return. After a minute, when I'm certain no one is coming back, I read my mom's message: You can stay.

Only now, I don't want to.

I stumble through the maze, my being lost having little to do with the darkness. I eventually discover the exit only to find Tori waiting at the back door. “I almost called in a search squad,” she teases, her parents standing behind her, her dad pale, watching me.

“Didn’t mean to worry you. Your fountain is even more mesmerizing in the moonlight,” I respond cheerfully as Tori pulls a twig from my hair. “Oh, and I dropped my phone only to have it land under a bush. It took me a while to retrieve it . . .” I explain.

“While you were out, I spoke with your mom, telling her what a big help you were. She said it's fine that you stay the night,” Mrs. Clement cuts in, beaming as if that were good news. “Tori, why don't you show her to the Blue Room?”

Both of Tori's eyebrows go up, impressed. “Blue Room it is.”

“Oh, Mrs. Clement, there's no need to hassle over me,” I excuse, inwardly panicking. “I can just sleep in Tori's room.”

“I know girls too well to fall for that. If I stick you in the same room, you'll be up all night talking,” she lectures with a knowing smile. “Besides, you'll sleep much better in your own room.”

Not tonight I won't.

I follow Tori up the stairs, literally speechless as I resist looking behind to check on Dr. Clement. “Blue Room,” Tori announces in sing-song as we reach a room that could easily be the cover to any home design magazine.

Tori turns to me expectantly, and I realize I'm supposed to be thrilled right now. “Oh . . . it's beautiful. I've never stayed in any place like this,” I comment, wondering if Dr. Clement has a camera in this room, too.

Tori hesitates, eyeing me with a concerned smile. “You're deadly serious right now.”

“All too true,” I agree, this not being the right time to talk about what I just learned. “It was a long day, wasn't it?”

“At least it's over now, and tomorrow is going to be awesome,” she says enthusiastically.

“Definitely unforgettable,” I agree, forcing a smile.

“Late nights make puffy eyes, girls,” announces Mrs. Clement's voice from the intercom.

Tori's hand jumps to her heart. “Yes, mother,” she calls, rolling her eyes before giving me a hug. “Good night, Alysse.”

“Night,” I respond, the good part completely ruined.

Later, as I lay in a bed fit for royalty, my pepper spray in hand, I keep one eye closed and the other on the door. I wish I had told Mrs. Clement I was too sick to stay. It would have been so true, considering how nauseous I feel.

Every creak, every squeak, spikes the adrenaline in my system. The hours pass slowly in what becomes the longest night of my life. My mind reviews the maze over and over, wondering why Chrome is desperate to kill off the Compound.

Sometime after two a.m., the door creaks open, and I can hear steps approaching as I hold my breath. As the footsteps draw closer, I squint one eye, spying the outline of a man holding a rope.

Without any warning, I launch a pillow at him before running to the window and jumping out, landing right in the middle of the maze. I race, my phone ringing nonstop no matter how many times I shut it off. Finally, I just toss it far away and head the opposite direction, conscious of a pair of shiny shoes gaining on me.

I turn a corner and come face-to-face with Dr. Clement. “You just had to meddle, didn't you,” he accuses.

“I'm not the one who said yes to poisoning a city!” I yell before taking a faltering step back, tripping and falling. I land on satiny padding, the night suddenly becoming day. I try to yell for help, but I can't move or speak.

I try all the harder as Pete, Tori, and my family pass by, all dressed in black and crying. A man in a dark suit starts to lower my coffin down into the ground. As my casket closes, the last thing I see is the Chrome-like shine of his shoes.

CHAPTER 20

TRIPPIN'

––––––––

“RISE and shine,” calls out a cheerful voice, followed by the sound of curtains opening.

I squint despite closed eyes as sunlight bursts into the room. I rotate in bed, the satiny pillow brushing my cheek, reminding me of my nightmare. I sit up with a snap, my heart pumping as I remember where I am and what I heard.

“You okay?” Tori laughs.

I slow my breathing, forcing a weak smile. “On a beautiful day like this, I'm just thrilled to be alive.”

“Well, I second that. Breakfast is served,” she invites before heading out.

I thrash out of bed and stumble into the bathroom. One glance in the mirror proves Mrs. Clement is right about late nights. I place a cloth soaked with cold water over my eyes before taking a cool shower, washing away any hint of grogginess. I need my mind to be sharp—I can't afford to make a mistake right now.

Twenty minutes later, I join Tori at the buffet table, trying to think of something normal to say. “So, how do you stay healthy with all of this available?”

“High nutrition makes it easier to control portions,” she replies, taking a small shot glass of some green juice as Dr. Clement and his wife come in.

“Smart,” I say, following Tori and mindlessly grabbing whatever she does while watching Dr. Clement from the corner of my eye. I breathe easier to find his attention on his JS and not me. I can't help but notice the deep lines etched on his face. He's aged a lot within the last few years—now I know why.

That evening, I sit in front of my mirror, dazed. Anyone looking at me would say I look dynamite. I've worked hard for it, too, skipping most of my favorite foods while gnawing rabbit food, running track, even putting foul smelling concoctions on my hair to get rid of the frizz. ♦

Next to me is a journal filled with notes from last night— everything I overheard and even a drawing of Chrome's custom made shoes. Next to it are three envelopes containing letters summarizing everything I learned: one for Pete, one for my parents, and the last for Tori.

“Pete's here,” my mom announces from the door.

I sigh, not wanting to go to the party, but knowing Dr. Clement will notice if I don't and put two-and-two together. I grab an envelope labeled For Pete and place it into my purse. The other envelope, labeled Dad and Mom, I leave behind just in case something goes wrong tonight. The third, For Tori, I place in my hiding spot in my room.

“Hey, Pete,” I greet as normal as possible, walking down the stairs.

Pete does a double take and whistles. My mom nudges my dad and nods in our direction.

My dad looks up from his news report, his eyes growing serious as he looks at us. “Remember what we discussed,” my dad says, his tone more like a warning than a request.

Pete clears his throat, tearing his eyes off me. “Absolutely, sir,” he replies, opening the front door for me, not saying anything else until we're in his car. “How did you celebrate your first free day?”

I force myself to be animated. “This morning? Hung lights for Tori's party. What about you?”

He lifts his chin, a pleased grin on his face. “Navy Seal Workout. Tori convinced me workouts kill stress better than eating. And you should see the things she has me drinking.”

“I can imagine. I'm still recovering from one she gave me this morning.”

He laughs in the way I love. It reminds me of the carefree Pete from years ago. “Tori knew the quickest way to drop the extra weight was juice fasting,” he continues.

“Juice fasting?” I question.

“It's not the juice most people think of. I'm talking pure liquid nutrition from raw veggies, greens, and fruits. Things like carrots, parsley, and apples. It gave my body what it needed to burn off all the unwanted baggage,” Pete brags, confident. “What do you think of the results?” He rests an arm on the back of my seat so I can see him better.

I look over, meaning to take a quick glance but finding it hard to look away. Even with his buttoned-up shirt, it's easy to see he has great definition.

“Wow, Pete. Nice work,” I say, fighting hard to sound normal despite a tightness in my throat.

He grins. “Micro-nutrients all the way. My chef's Hulk is actually hard to finish.” His hand brushes my knee as he shifts. It really gets my attention.

“Hulk?” I laugh awkwardly.

“Green, muscle making machine,” he grins unaware. “I'm now in the third phase—maintenance. I eat at least twelve servings of raw fruits and veggies every day.”

We twist around the Hill, and the Clement Mansion comes into view, lit elegantly in the dark night.

“Nice job on the lights!” Pete exclaims. ♦

“Thanks,” I mumble—the Clement mansion looks completely different to me now that I know Dr. Clement got it in exchange for his soul.

Pete glances at me, concerned. “Aren't you excited? It's going to be a killer party.”

“That's what I'm afraid of!” I exhale, covering my face with my hands. “Pull over!”

“What's wrong?” Pete asks, confused, as he pulls to the side of the road.

“I was going to wait until after the party to show you this,” I rattle off, stuffing the envelope into his hands.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything as he reads what happened in the maze. He glances at the first sheet, then flips it over. Most people would think he's skimming, but I know Pete. He's a super-fast reader who soaks it all in. Ask him in three weeks what he read, and he'll remember it all, in nearly perfect detail.♦

Pete's eyebrows raise higher and higher with each page he reads. “Wait—this happened last night?” he asks urgently, yanking open his middle console and placing my phone right next to his JS on the dash.

“What are you doing?” I ask, unsettled.

“Hold on,” he replies, his face scrunched in concentration as he zooms through programs. Ten minutes later, the muscles in Pete's face relax as he puts our electronics away, shutting the compartment with a snap.

A video of the moon appears on his car's holo screen. “What are we watching?” I ask. He just shushes me.

There's a sound of gravel crunching growing louder and louder until two men come into view, appearing like giants as they stand over the camera. Between the awkward angle and the half-moon above them, I can't see either of their faces.

“Why is the Compound still endangering Oasis?” a man asks with a precise and icy tone.

“This is from my phone,” I mutter in disbelief. “How did you get this? I wasn't recording.”

“But Oasis Internal Security was. Why spend money installing cameras to spy on an entire city when everyone already carries their own?” he asks with a wry smile.

My mouth slowly sags as I contemplate what he's saying. “Then my phone—”

“Would be transmitting even now if it wasn't stowed away. Check out my anti-surveillance.” He points to his dashboard where a small green light is lit. “Anytime a device transmits from inside the car, it lets me know.”

He opens the compartment which holds our electronics and the light switches to red. He closes it, and the light goes back to green.

I can't help but utter an offended cry as I contemplate I.S. spying on me my entire life. “Do you know how to disable the surveillance?” I ask.

He half grins, cocky. “Of course, but if I do, I.S. will bug everything I own and send an agent to shadow me indefinitely, but that's not my point. I.S. stores a twenty-four-hour backup of all recording directly on the device, just in case there's a disruption of signal. That way, in theory, nothing gets missed.”

We continue watching the video up to the point where I grab my phone from under the bush. The screen goes fuzzy, as if a three-year-old is filming. I don't know how I.S. can stand watching stuff like this because it drives me nuts within ten seconds.

“We need a visual on Chrome,” Pete mutters. “Let's check Clement's surveillance videos.”

“You're not going to hack into his system, are you?”

“Already did,” he grins confidently as my mouth gapes. “You should be glad. You hardly want Clement to see this.” He pulls up a new video, this one shows the top of my head as I'm crouched down in the maze, afraid to move.

I gasp, fear gripping me. “He watched this?”

“No, it was stored in his hard drive,” Pete reassures. “I swapped it out with a new video after making a few changes.” Pete goes through several videos, looking for a shot that shows Clement and his guest in vain. “They were standing in a blind spot,” Pete concludes, shutting off the holos. “Probably on purpose.”

I sit back in my chair, remembering Chrome's demand of Dr. Clement. “Pete, what's Scorpion?”

“An arachnid,” Pete auto replies.

“No use lying. I know you know,” I stare at him.

Pete gets this look, like he just had a taste of Tori's green drink from this morning. “I'm not open to discussing it,” he says firmly.

I sink into my seat. “What are we going to tell Tori?”

“What can she do, other than confront her dad or lose faith in us?” Pete points out, checking the time. “Speaking of, if we don't show up soon, Dr. Clement might suspect something. Ready?” He looks me straight in the eye.

“Yes,” I wince, as if being injected with another ID chip.

“On the bright side, we'll be making a late entrance after all,” he says with an impertinent grin. He puts the car back into gear and takes us to the front entry, where a valet waits to open my door. I stumble slightly as I climb out, my face turning red as a few nearby guests chuckle appreciatively at my suave entrance.

“Relax,” Pete whispers.

“Say that wearing these heels,” I hiss back.

“Here,” he says, offering me an arm.

I blush as I take it, not from tripping but from Pete’s standing so close. Then I spot Dr. Clement with his wife and Tori greeting guests at the door. My blush fades as goosebumps form on my arms.

“Just imagine Tori's dad as a nerdy freshman with acne,” Pete whispers as we approach the entry, giving my hand an encouraging squeeze before walking straight to Dr. Clement, extending a hand. “This is quite the setup you've got here.”

“Pleased you like it,” Dr. Clement responds as he shakes Pete's hand. He turns to me with a smile. “Thanks for saving Eve's sanity yesterday.”

I force a big smile. “Glad I could be a help.”

“Hey, you guys,” Tori greets, her smile growing as she spots my hand on Pete's arm. Her mother clears her throat, radiating disapproval. “Or rather, welcome,” Tori corrects stiffly. “Please, make yourselves at home. Activities are located in the lower level, backyard, and basement.”

Jason and Mason walk up behind us. “Hey Tori, Aaron. Where's the grub?”

“In the main room,” Tori laughs. “Leave some for us.”

“That's easy,” Jason dismisses the comment with a lazy shrug. “We don't eat carrots and celery anyway.”

At the buffet table, Jason and Mason pile their plates high with brisket, smoked turkey, and ribs along with light, buttery rolls while Pete and I go for salads.

I laugh for the first time since the maze as Jason takes a slow, mouthwatering bite of barbequed rib in front of Pete. “How's that rabbit food working for ya?” he taunts.

“Rabbit food?” Pete scoffs, smacking Jason on the back a little harder than necessary. “You mean gorilla food.”

“Seriously, man. How can you eat that after all the playing and lifting we did today?” Mason asks.

“Playing and lifting? In addition to the Seal workout? You turning jock on me?” I elbow Pete, trying to sound jovial instead of nervous. My smile fades as I glance over his shoulder. Why would Tori invite her?

“Alice got an invitation?” Mishell mocks as she prances toward us, Hydee and Raezer in tow.

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” I reply, standing tall, not even slightly fazed by her toxicity.

She raises her chin. “My father's chairman of Internal Security not sewage.”

“Is there any difference?” Pete snorts, taking a bite of smoked salmon.

“My father's work keeps people like you safe,” she brags.

Pete just laughs. “My dad's weaponry is what keeps us safe.”

Mishell's mouth drops, and she freezes a moment, unsure, before turning back to me like a wasp determined to sting. “There can be only one reason why Alice got an invitation: the Clements needed their toilets cleaned!” Her friends guffaw, almost spilling the pirated adult drinks they hold with pride.

“That angle is getting old. Working to support myself is a good thing,” I snap.

Jason points a half-eaten rib at her. “Hey Mishell, what's it like to rub shoulders with the homeless in Shadowland? You still live there, in those run-down apartments, yeah?”

Mishell turns ashen as Hydee's eyes and mouth form perfect Os at this scandalous tidbit of information. Shadowland is the cheapest section of the city—reserved for top tier workers and the least affluent Oasians.

“Well, that's no surprise,” Mason adds. “Everyone knows Mishell's only at the Academy because of a scholarship.”

I enjoy watching Mishell go completely speechless until I spot my dad, frowning at me from a distance.

“Oh, good. I'm starving,” Aaron says as he walks up, clueless about the tension he just broke up.

Mishell laughs as if he were the funniest man alive, batting her long fake eyelashes at him. I almost feel sorry for her. Did I ever look that desperate?

While Aaron piles up a plate, four college-age girls cut in front of Mishell and her friends without apology. The girls look almost identical: slim figures, tight clothes, and bold makeup. The only difference is their hair color. It reminds me of the same candy in different wrappers.

“Hi, boys,” they greet, seductively.

Chocolate turns toward Pete, her raven hair cascading to the side of her face. “Pete, where have you been hiding? We've missed you the last several parties.”

“Can't you tell? He's been working out,” Strawberry says as she steps up to him, squeezing his bicep. I resist the urge to slap her hand away.

“Hey, Mandi,” he greets with a grin, unable to hide he's pleased.

A live band begins playing in the backyard. “Crimson Red!” Jason and Mason say at the same time, giving each other an elbow bump before running out. Butterscotch shrieks about how she loves Crimson as the whole group follows except Pete and me.

“Let me guess, you want to—” Pete drops off, as if the very idea was too horrible to say out loud.

“It might be fun,” I suggest, eager to put as much distance between us and Dr. Clement as possible.

“I guess,” he sighs like Tori about to go shopping with her mother. “There's not really anything else to do.”

Outside, a large group has already formed a circle to watch Mason break dance in the middle. As we join Tori, a guy next to Aaron leans forward to get a better look. “Who are your friends?” he asks Aaron over the loud beat. ♦

Aaron stops watching Mason long enough to figure out what he means. “Oh—this is Alysse Simms and Peter Mansfield,” Aaron introduces absently, eyes back to Mason as he whoops in approval.

“Mansfield?” Aaron's friend raises an eyebrow as he steps around Aaron and offers Pete a hand. “I heard you were coming. It's great to finally meet you.”

Pete shakes it reluctantly as Jason jumps into the circle, impressing the rest of us by walking on his hands before spinning on his head. “And you are?”

“Rick Pruett, Aaron's cousin,” the guy responds, unfazed.

“Good to meet you,” Pete nods dismissively as the music switches to a slower tempo.

Rick steps my way, his hand out and mouth opening, but before he can say anything, Pete grabs my hand and leads me away.

I start to protest, wanting to stay and dance, when Pete spins me around and starts two-stepping. “Wait . . . Peter Mansfield, dancing?”

“The alternative was worse,” he replies tersely. “Besides, you said it can be fun.”

“Depends on the partner, or partners in their case,” I point toward the Timpson cousins. Pete's aggravation eases into amusement as we watch Jason and Mason start dancing with all four candy girls.

“Pete, you've been working out,” I imitate Strawberry in a sultry voice. I squeeze his arm and my pretense drops. “Wow, Pete—it's like a rock!” I slap a hand over my mouth.

“It should be with as much weight lifting as I've done,” he grins down at my red cheeks before getting back to business. “I assume you heard about Chris,” he breathes.

“Yeah—all his family's stuff is up for auction,” I reply, the thought of Chris adding guilt to my conflicting emotions. “Do you think someone put his family in the Compound?”

“More likely an underground prison—the same place your dad will go if the wrong people decide he's a Sympathizer,” he assesses.

I stop dancing and stare at Pete, no longer finding it difficult to focus on something other than how he looks tonight. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn't your parents tell you?” Pete asks, shocked. “I warned them months ago when your father was added to the Sympathizer watch list. It's why he was fired and your home was bugged.” He spins me out.

“What!” I cry out.

He spins me in, pulling me close. “They didn't tell you?”

“No!” I cry, feeling outraged and afraid at the same time.

Pete's JS goes off, his whole body tensing as he reads the message, breaking off our dance.

“What's wrong?” I ask despite the fact I can't handle any more bad news.

His eyes narrow, as if suspecting some sort of trap. “My mom's here.” ♦

“Your mom? I thought she wasn't coming.”

“She wasn't,” he responds, annoyed. “I'll be right back.”

I wait several minutes, my mind spinning. How could my parents neglect to tell me we were under surveillance?

Someone taps my shoulder. “Ah!” I jump.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,” Tori apologizes jovially, Aaron at her side. “We're headed for the game room. Do you . . . What's wrong, Alysse?” she asks.

“Ask me another time,” I deflect quickly, not one bit ready for that conversation. “Game room? Sounds fun.”

“Are you and Pete dating?” Aaron asks as we walk to Tori's basement. “It seems like you're together a lot.”

“We . . .” I hesitate, not sure of what to say or even how I feel.

Just then Pete walks up behind me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “We're not dating; we've just known each other for many years. We're practically brother and sister.”

A few minutes ago, I didn't think I could feel any worse.

I was wrong.

CHAPTER 21

TAKING CHARGE

––––––––

“NICE shot,” a girl exclaims as Mason sinks a puck at the air hockey table.

“Too hot for you,” Mishell sings loudly at the karaoke machine on stage while guys discreetly ogle the group of ILAC members dancing behind her.

Strawberry brushes against Pete as we check out our options. “How about a game of pool?” she teases.

“Are you sure you can handle me?” Pete shoots off. I watch in disbelief as he abandons me without even looking back.

Tori hooks arms with me as I watch Pete with significant annoyance . . . or maybe it's fuming rage. “Forget him; let's have some fun,” she invites, leading me to her new hyper reality gaming system, a gift from her uncle.

I'm in the middle of racing ♦ Aaron and Tori, when Aaron's cousin Rick joins us. Up close, I can see Rick shares the same green eyes and dimple as his cousin, only his hair is darker, and he has a more chiseled look, like someone who's very serious about his workouts.

I'm watching Rick jump off a cliff with his snow board when I hear this shrill laughter that grates me so bad, I end up neck deep in a virtual snow embankment.

I lift my high-def goggles and glance back over my shoulder to see Pete surrounded by two candy girls having the time of their life. “Do you know those girls?”

Rick looks over, lifting his goggles and smirking. “Party girls, hired to liven things up and keep certain guests happy.”

My jaw drops in outrage. “Tell me you're joking.”

“Nope,” he says, thoroughly amused. “They are first class and well paid.”

I snap my goggles back on, determined to have the time of my life. “Can you show me how to jump off that cliff without crashing?”

Rick smiles, about to show me, when a familiar voice booms from the intercom. “Alysse?”

No! This is not happening! “Yes, Dad?” I cringe as sixty plus peers simultaneously pause to access the source of parental meddling.

“Times up,” my dad announces, his voice echoing through the room.

“Poor little Alice's bedtime?” Mishell slurs loudly from the karaoke machine. Several inebriated teens break out in a wild, raucous laughter.

I carefully remove my gear and set the controls down, despite a deep urge to smash them, and march over to Pete, ignoring Mishell and everyone else in the room.

“Hey, Alysse—want to play?” Pete asks, chalking his cue as if he was the only one in the entire room who didn't witness my moment of humiliation.

I lean close, whispering. “My curfew's up.”

“Ah, man! Already?” he announces louder than I want.

I fold my arms, waiting for him to finish so he can drive me home, while Strawberry and Chocolate study Pete with far too much enjoyment.

Pete glances up at me. “Isn't your dad waiting? You better get going.”

The floor just drops out from under me. I get that this isn't a date, but he's the one who insisted we drive together! He should drive me home!

I look down at the gorgeous dress Tori lent me. If Pete thinks I'm going upstairs to beg my parents for a ride home, he's delusional. I walk over to the stage and hop up.

“Can I borrow this?” I say as I grab the mic from a stunned Mishell. “Can I have your attention? My name is Alysse. I have a ridiculously early curfew and need a ride home . . . any takers?”

I enjoy watching Pete speechless as several guys yell out and wave their arms high while walking toward the stage. “Hmm, who should I choose?” I announce slowly and playfully, pleased when Rick pushes his way to the front.

“I've got you covered! Aaron can vouch for me,” he shouts above the din.

“Yeah—he's a first-class idiot, but he can drive!” Aaron yells out, followed by wild hyena-type laughter.

“Tori, what do you think?” I ask over the mic.

“Rick's a great guy,” she calls back, elbowing Aaron.

“Sounds like Rick's our winner,” I announce cheerfully as a few of the other guys belt out audible disappointments. “Thanks for the mic.” I toss it back to a wide-eyed Mishell who drops it.

Rick offers me his arm, and we head upstairs, passing a chocolate fountain where several of the matrons hover, gossiping as they dip fruit and cake under the dark satiny streams.

“Why are you still here? Dad and Mom already left,” calls a familiar voice from behind.

“I have enough supervision, thank you very much,” I reply, turning to face Ethan and his girlfriend Marie. Ethan does a double take as he sees Rick.

“This is Rick Pruett, Aaron's cousin,” I quickly introduce before my brother can ask where Pete is. “He was nice enough to offer me a ride home.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ethan says, assessing as they shake hands firmly, neither releasing the grip right away. “I trust you can keep your hands, lips, and everything else to yourself ?”

“Are you kidding?” I protest, eyes shooting daggers at my brother.

“Don't sweat it,” an amused Rick reassures me before turning back to my brother, raising both hands in a gesture of compliance. “I'll be the perfect gentleman.”

Ethan turns a serious finger toward me. “Message me the moment you're home.”

“Fine.”

Outside, a sputtering old car waits at the roundabout. An attendant hurries to get my door, but Rick blocks him. “I'll get that.” The man gives a disappointed nod and takes a large step back as Rick opens the passenger door.

“I'd give you a hand in, but I'm not allowed to touch you,” Rick teases with a grin.

“Sorry about my over-protective brother,” I apologize as I slip down into the worn seat.

“If I had a sister as beautiful as you, I would be just as protective . . . maybe more,” he winks before shutting my door.

I'm used to guys hitting on Tori, not me. I'm not really sure how to respond. I wave my watch in front of his GPS as he climbs in, but it keeps glitching. Rick looks over with a sheepish grin. “School's expensive.”

“You're doing better than I am. I don't even have a car,” I encourage, giving up on the device. “Just head for northwest Oasis.”

“Then you're not a freeloader like everyone else?” Rick asks as he forces the car into drive despite stiff gears.

“Not even close," I reply with a hint of resentment.

“What about your boyfriend Junior Warbucks?” Rick asks.

“Pete's not my boyfriend,” I state emphatically.

“If he's not your boyfriend, why did he dominate you on the dance floor? I wanted a turn, too.”

“Pete and I have been friends almost forever. We got talking and lost track of time.” I shrug, self-conscious. “Take a left here and go straight to West Wall Ave, then take a right.”

“You live by the Wall?” Rick asks, alarmed.

“Oasis is expensive,” I toss back. “I wouldn't even be at the Academy if it weren't for a scholarship.”

“That makes two of us. I'm a junior over at I.M.A.”

That explains his chiseled look. “I've heard they're intense,” I comment, awed.

“It's not for the faint of heart,” he says with a crooked smile. He's as attractive as Aaron, just in a different way.

“So, where are you from?” I ask, working hard not to stare too much.

“Everywhere,” Rick says. “My dad was in the service.”

“Brothers, sisters?”

“One brother, he's ten.”

I sit and listen as he starts sharing stories. I'm so wrapped up in all the places Rick has lived . . . “Wait—we passed my house.”

Rick comes to a stop, and reverses back to my driveway. “Thank you for the ride,” I say as I start to open the door.

“Wait!” he calls out as the door falls halfway off.

“Sorry.” I cringe.

He jumps out and hurries to my side. “It's not you. This door has issues.” He maneuvers it back into joint and holds it open for me, literally.

“Thank you again,” I say, careful to step out with far more elegance than when I arrived at the party.

I take a few steps when I hear what I thought was coming. “Hold on a second.” Rick requests. I turn to face him. “Aaron and Tori are going to dinner and an opera next Friday. Want to double?” He smiles at me, that dimple showing up again.

“You sure you want to?” I dare with a teasing grin. “I should warn you, my parents have pretty tight rules.”

“Like hands off and a strict curfew?” he asks as he shuts the door carefully.

“That's just for starters. The interrogations come later,” I warn dramatically.

He smiles with that dimple of his as he walks me to my door. “I think you're worth it.”

“Then I'll see you Friday,” I reply.

“We'll pick you up at six.”

“Good night,” I grin before ducking inside. After I lock the door, I lean against it and blow a loose strand of hair out of my face, thrown off by the roller coaster night. Seriously, I think I experienced the full spectrum of human emotion within the last twenty-four hours.

I'm partway up the stairs when my father calls from the couch: “One moment, please.”

I stop mid-stride. I know that tone—it means a guilt trip is coming. I slowly turn to face him.

“I know Mishell makes life hard for you,” he begins sanctimoniously. “But getting even doesn't fix anything.”

“You expect me to stick up for her?” I ask in disbelief as I walk back down the stairs.

“She's had it pretty rough,” my dad persuades. “Her mother was accused of being a Sympathizer and was taken into custody years ago.”

“Really?” I reply, absorbing that information while messaging Ethan. “Dad, I want to discuss this strict curfew—leaving before everyone is bad enough, but announcing it over the intercom?” I pause in my message in absolute disbelief.

He looks over his glasses at me. “Hmm. I guess that would be embarrassing.”

I fold my arms. “No. Tripping in front of class is embarrassing. What you did was traumatizing.”

“I see.” He clears his throat. “As for the early curfew, you'll thank me when you're older. Most life-changing mistakes are made during the teen years.”

“Uh, huh,” I reply, blandly. I stay planted, wanting to discuss the maze, as well as the bugs in our house.

Dad lifts an eyebrow. “Is there something else?”

“Could we go for a walk? Mom, too?”

“A walk, huh?” He glances at the dark window before looking at me questioningly. “It's rather late. How about tomorrow morning?”

“Fine,” I agree, annoyed my parents treat me like I'm thirteen instead of seventeen. “I'll go to bed a lot earlier than my friends, but that's okay—I'll thank you when I'm older.”

CHAPTER 22

VOICING

––––––––

THE next morning I join my brother in the kitchen. He's carefully adding milk to a huge mixing bowl overflowing with cereal.

My phone dings with a message from Pete. Want to come play volleyball with us? After what he pulled last night? I almost laugh as I message back. No thx.

I go to the cupboard and pull out a box of cereal which ends up being completely empty. I grab a second box and shake it. Not even crumbs. I look at my brother, clear my throat, and hold up both boxes.

Ethan glances at me. “Early bird gets the cereal . . . So, did Rick ask you out?” Ethan continues, taking a huge bite.

I toss the boxes into the recycling bin. “In fact, he did. We're doubling with Tori and Aaron to the opera.”

“That kid must really like you to suffer that much,” he mutters while munching his cereal.

“That kid, is only two years younger than you, and what's wrong with opera anyway?” I ask, irritated.

He nearly chokes on his cereal. “Do you want the full list? So, what's going on with Pete?”

“Like I know,” I shrug, grabbing a grapefruit and a knife before sitting at the table.

“You could always try, I don't know . . . asking?” Ethan suggests casually.

“No!” I stab the grapefruit.

“Easy!” he says, watching the knife.

“Ready for that walk?” my dad asks as he and my mom waltz in.

“I don't know, Dad,” Ethan warns, gesturing at the knife. “You might want her to drop the weapon first.”

“Yeah, I'm ready,” I reply, placing the knife next to my ringing phone, leaving both behind.

“Nice quiet spot you chose,” my mom half yells as we sit on a city bench in front of one of the city's A/C turbines.

“I like the privacy,” I half yell back, peeling my grapefruit like an orange. “We can pretend it's a bubbling stream.”

“How about a raging river,” my dad interjects impatiently. “What's this about going on a date with a junior in college?”

“He graduated high school early. He's only two years older than I am,” I inform them matter-of-factly. “Besides, he's a real neat guy.”

“I heard he's the Statesman's nephew,” my mom prods, concerned. “Alysse, if you say the wrong thing—”

“I'm fine, Mom. I've spent four years watching every little thing I say at the Academy. I think I can handle a date. Besides, Rick's not spoiled like Aaron. He pays his own way,” I quickly defend, knowing they aren't big fans of politics or politicians. “But that's not what I want to talk about. Pete told me our house is bugged,” I blurt out before they can question me further. “Exactly when were either of you going to tell me?” I rip off part of the peel before giving them an accusatory stare.

“Yes, that,” my dad says, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses, ones I suspect he would keep even if we could afford corrective eye surgery. “We had that problem resolved. We didn't want to alarm you over something that was no longer an issue.”

I rip off another section. “Yeah, why alarm me over petty things like being under surveillance or flagged as a potential Sympathizer?”

My parents share a look, their eyebrows drawn in. “Don't worry about my being flagged,” my dad dismisses unconvincingly. “I have plenty of people vouching for me. We'll be fine.”

“Yeah, right,” I reply, thinking of Chris. I shift uncomfortably, looking down at the grapefruit. “There's something I should've told you a while ago, but you hate politics so much, I didn't dare bring it up.” I tell them about the ration packet and how we tested it, only to find it was poisoned.

My dad looks at me pointedly, as if seeing me for the first time. “How did you get a packet?”

“I traded a lady out in the Compound for it,” I admit, burning red.

My dad throws both me and my mom off by chuckling. “Well, you are definitely my daughter. Months ago, I had concerns myself over some chemicals the city wanted me to add to the Compound's water treatment.”

My jaw drops. “Really?”

He nods, still amused. “The new regulations made no sense. I tested the next mixture and found, as you did, that someone had created their own unique blend. I obviously kept using the old treatments. When my superiors found out, I was fired.”

I feel a surge of pride, the way my father was willing to lose his job rather than assist in a poisoning.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself. “There's more you need to know.” I explain my attempt with the police, as well as Cassie and Joey. “I didn't know you were on the watch list when I went in,” I explain, worried.

My dad jumps up and starts pacing, his eyes intense when he stops to look at me. “Alysse, that was a reckless thing to do. You should have come to your mother and me first! For all we know, you tipped off the poisoner,” my dad vents.

“It gets worse,” I reply, not even attempting to defend myself. I dive into Chris's disappearance and what I overheard in the Clement's maze. I want to tell them about the flashes, too, but I've already reached their breaking point for the day.

My mom pulls me close, her face ashen while my dad goes back to sitting down, sliding a hand down over his face. “Alysse, if those men had any clue you overheard—” he drops off, unable to finish.

“I know. Anyone comfortable ending the lives of tens of thousands of people isn't going to hesitate killing a teen girl.” I toss the peel in a city trash can as I shudder.

“All right,” he says, slowly exhaling. “No more discussing anything with anyone before talking to your mom and me first.”

“OK, but I already told Pete,” I admit. “He hacked a copy of the surveillance from the maze.”

My dad looks impressed. “I'd like a copy.”

“Then you'll have to ask him yourself,” I reply, folding my arms super tight.

“That's fine,” my dad accepts. “And I want to meet this Cassie and Joey myself.”

“I can arrange that.”

“Good,” he glances up and down the street as the turbines spin behind him. “From now on, I decide what they learn and when.”

CHAPTER 23

RED CARPET

––––––––

I doubt my dad would approve of how close Rick and I are sitting. There isn't much choice with the big box of sports gear from last night's game in the backseat of Aaron’s luxury car.

Tori turns to look at me for the umpteenth time tonight. She can sense something's bothering me.

“What did you think of the restaurant?” she asks, as if talking culinary will get me to divulge what's been going on.

“It was very . . .” I search for the right word.

“Foreign,” Rick whispers in my ear.

I stifle a grin, my first genuine one in several days. “Tasteful and authentic,” I reply.

“I still have no idea what I ate,” Rick whispers in my ear, keeping my smile going. “You know, I was going to bring you flowers, except Tori warned me you don't like them.”

“Oh, I like flowers, just not bouquets. They die so quickly, it's depressing,” I reply, ears turning a little red. I turn away, watching out the window; his open interest in me still throws me off.

“I'm curious—” I start to change the topic when we pass a group of workers similar to Max's friends. They're clipping bushes that are already trim, their eyes on each passing car, as if asserting their territory. The sight really unsettles me.

“Are you seeing this?” I ask, tensing as I spot two more groups of workers, both busy scoping and not working. “Since when does it take seven workers to clean one window, let alone this late in the day? Something's up.”

Rick takes a look, his face serious. He pulls out a JS that's seen better days and starts messaging. As we pass another group, he wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Don't stress. My friends will look into it.” ♦

Ten minutes later, I've forgotten the workers, too busy soaking in the beautiful opera house. I'm examining a painting as Aaron and Rick talk rugby nearby when a man walking in a rather jagged line bumps into me.

“Sorry 'bout that, Miss,” the man exclaims jovially, while Rick steadies me. The man's cheeks are as red as his drink and his belly as round as the glass he's holding.

“Dr. Doyle, a pleasure to see you,” Aaron greets enthusiastically.

“Aaron, what a splendid coincidence,” Dr. Doyle announces loudly, as if we were in a sporting arena instead of an elegant lobby, giving Aaron’s hand a vigorous shake. “I see you are still dating this lovely young lady, you lucky dog.” He nods at Tori, bowing ever so slightly. “How are you, Victoria?”

“Pleased to see you,” Tori smiles, extending her hand. “We didn't know you were in Oasis.”

“I decided to come out and see what all the fuss is about,” he laughs, his voice deep and musical.

“Dr. Doyle is Professor of Bioengineering and Dean of the Science Department at I.R.U.,” Tori explains to Rick and me. “Dr. Doyle, this is Rick Pruett, Aaron's cousin, and my friend, Alysse Simms.”

Dr. Doyle almost drops his glass when Tori introduces me. He steps closer, blinking. “Simms, you say? You aren't related to a Robert Simms, are you?” He raises an excited bushy eyebrow.

“Yes . . . he's my father,” I answer, puzzled.

“What chance!” he exclaims, clapping his hands like a schoolboy, unaware he is spilling part of his drink. “Years ago, I had the first place title for the International Pillar Competition in the bag until your father came out of nowhere and stole it,” Doyle laughs. “If I remember correctly, he pursued both chemistry and microbiology at the same time. His thesis spurred a great deal of scorn, probably because we all wished we had thought of it ourselves!”

I'm speechless at this point. My dad never talks about those years.

“Then, on graduation day, he never showed,” Doyle continues his walk down memory lane with unfocused eyes. “He had several prestigious careers open to him, but he just disappeared instead.”

Tori's eyes light up, glancing from Doyle to me. “Hey Alysse, has your dad chosen a new position yet?”

“He's available?” Doyle jumps in, giddy. He holds out his JS, his contact info on a holo card floating above the screen. “Please, tell your father I have the perfect project for him to lead. And with our international grant, it pays handsomely.” ♦

I pass my phone through the card, accepting the link. “I'll do that.”

“Brilliant man, your father, just brilliant. It's been a real pleasure.” He nods and turns to leave, nearly knocking over another patron. “Oh, pardon me.” He chuckles at the shocked look on the woman's face and continues forward unfazed.

Halfway up the grand staircase, I stumble myself. “Don't tell me you've been drinking, too?” Rick teases.

“It's these heels,” I laugh nervously. “Tori, how do you do it? Yours are taller than mine.”

“Heel mastery was one of my mother's many requirements before I was allowed a driver's license,” she replies, head held high.

We enter the top box nearest the stage with rich mahogany and velvety fabrics. I lean over the railing, able to see the orchestra pit far below us.

“What's I.M.A. like?” I ask, watching his profile while zooming in on the orchestra.

“Brutal comes to mind,” he replies, playing around with his binoculars. “Our Commanding Officers demand exact obedience, occasionally confusing us with the enemy. You climb, crawl, jump, and heave until every muscle in your body is screaming. Then you do it again,” he says, looking over at me with a smile. “And if your C.O. is in a bad mood—again.”

“Then it's all physical?” I ask.

He leans back, thoughtful. “No, the mental is worse in some aspects. I just finished an intense course on Dissenter cells.”

“Your parents must be proud,” I attempt to compliment, having difficulty breathing every time he smiles at me.

“My mom is.” Rick's smile fades away, pain flashing in his eyes. “My dad would be except he died when I was twelve.”

I lower the binoculars, eyes on Rick. “What happened?”

His eyes harden. “Shot in the back by a Dissenter he was helping.”

I gasp. “I am so sorry, Rick.” I place a hand on his arm, my words pitifully inadequate.

He nods, clearly uncomfortable talking about it. “My uncle has been great though, treating me like a second son. He's the one who lined up my scholarship at IMA.” His face lightens, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “He also lined me up with two tickets to someplace special. What do you think about bringing in the New Year on the top floor of the View?”

“The View? The crowning jewel of Oasis?” I cringe. “I'd love to, except I'm not certified, and even if I apply right now, the process takes a month or more.”

“You're not certified?” he questions, startled. As the lights dim, we take our seats. Rick messages on his JS while I grieve, wishing I had gotten certified back when Tori offered.

The orchestra is playing the opening score when my phone starts buzzing. “Wait, what?” I whisper, fumbling as I read my newest message.

Rick catches my phone, smiling as he hands it back. I reread the message to be sure I read it correctly: the city of Oasis confirms my certification has been authenticated.

“You did this?” I whisper to Rick, amazed. “How did you do it so fast?”

“I know a few people,” he winks. “And don't worry about the fee—my uncle waved it. Now that you can enter the View, what do you say to New Years?”

“Yes,” I half-laugh, giving him an unexpected hug. “And thank you so much.”

He just grins a the opera begins. ♦ ♦ Its voices and set are so stunning, an hour and a half flies by, leaving me wanting more as the curtains close for intermission.

Aaron stretches as the lights brighten, tossing his binoculars and program aside. “Finally! I thought it would never end.”

“It didn't,” Tori laughs. “Consider this half-time.”

“If this is half-time, where's the corn dogs and drinks?” Aaron says. “I'm starving.”

Tori shakes her head in amazement. “You just ate a huge dinner.”

“I'm with Aaron,” Rick says, placing his binoculars and program carefully in their place. “I need calories.”

“There's a concession downstairs,” Tori says, taking Aaron's binoculars and program as well as her own and putting them away.

Rick turns to me. “Care to join us?”

“And navigate those stairs again?”

“Come on,” Aaron says, steering Rick away. “They want us gone so they can talk about us.”

The moment they leave, Tori scoots closer, her laser beam gaze now focused directly on me. “Pete says you've been avoiding him. He's really concerned.”

“I thought we were discussing Aaron and Rick. Besides, Pete wasn't too concerned when he dumped me halfway through your party,” I scoff.

“Dumped you?” She pulls something out of her purse. “I think he was trying to protect you. As is, his mom barely had time to keep this from circulating.” She hands her JS to me after pulling up an article: Mansfield Heir Slips in the Gutter.

“Serves him right for playing pool with party girls,” I snap as I read about how he's throwing away his future on some girl who just wants him for his money. As I scroll down, there's a picture of me on his arm. My fists tighten. “I feel like crushing something,” I whisper.

“Pete doesn't want you exposed to this kind of garbage,” Tori persuades. “That's why he distanced himself at the party.”

“Then he should have told me,” I hand back her JS, annoyed. “Just like you should've told Aaron you're studying nutrition. He kept mentioning I.R.U. during dinner as if both of you are going.”

“I am considering I.R.U.,” she says slowly, eyes looking away.

I twist in my seat, facing her fully with a gasp. International Relations University is the corrupt politicians' school of choice and Dr. Harden's alma mater. “What about your dream of studying nutrition and opening a health resort?” I demand.

“My father says it's a dead end. He thinks I should become an ambassador,” she explains, her face lifeless.

Her father? The one cheating on her mother and poisoning a whole community? I grab her by the shoulders, looking her square in the eyes. “Your father isn't the one who helped rescue Pete from a body he didn't want,” I remind firmly. “You did—without a degree. Don't throw your talent away.”

“All right, all right. I won't.” She smiles softly as I let go. “Rick really seems into you.”

I can't help but smile as my stomach gives a strange twist. “I still can't believe I'm on a date with him.”

“Why not? You've worked hard.”

“That's the truth,” I let out a puff of air, glancing at the other boxes in the theater.

Aaron and Rick walk back into our box, Aaron talking. “Did you get accepted into the interrogation program?”

“I start in January,” Rick beams with pride as he sits.

“Who do you interrogate?” I ask, putting aside my program.

“Dissenter spies,” he replies as if it's no big deal, watching me from the corner of his eyes.

“Real ones?” I ask, surprised and concerned.

“Yea—I'm in the accelerated program,” he confirms proudly. “It's my job to get them to talk.”

“You should drag them to this opera,” Aaron says. “They'd talk in no time.”

“Nah, operas are considered excessive torture,” Rick replies, a slight grin on his face as Tori and I protest.

“But the company is most agreeable,” they both quickly counter.

The lights lower and the second half begins. I lay aside my worries and focus on the music. Half an hour later, we finally reach my favorite song. I scoot to the edge of my seat, peering through my binoculars. The tenor starts singing this rich, deep melody when Rick's JS starts buzzing nonstop.

Rick's face grows serious as he reads his messages. “We gotta go,” he whispers to me, pulling me to standing as a guard approaches the maestro in the orchestra pit.

“What's going on?” I ask as Rick kicks Aaron's seat and nods toward the exit. Aaron grabs a hold of Tori's hand who looks up startled.

Down below, the maestro brings the music to a stop. The tenor wanes off, turning to see what happened as a different guard walks to the center of the stage.

“I regret to announce that a citywide red level alert has been issued. All citizens will return to their homes immediately for further instruction.”

Rick's phone buzzes again. “We've got to go—now!” Rick says, pulling me by the hand, his tone serious and urgent.

“What's happening?” Aaron asks as we hurry down the stairs.

“No time!” Rick urges us. “Run!”

Tori and I slip off our heels and the four of us sprint as other patrons begin pouring into the lobby behind us, bringing a symphony of complaints and demands with them.

Down in the parking garage, it's already chaos, with valets bringing cars around as fast as they can. Aaron and Tori get in line with the other guests.

“No time!” Rick yells as he lifts me over the valet barrier before jumping over himself. Aaron and Tori follow suit as we bolt for the car, jumping in. Aaron even drives right through one of the valet barriers and straight out of the garage.

As Aaron turns left, we see several hundred rioters down the street in front of us. These hefty guys look like they come from the roughest sector of the Compound, moving like a slow tsunami down the street toward us. They're tipping over cars, bashing in store windows, entering buildings, and setting stuff on fire.

Among the mob are a few who are too fast and strong to be regular men, like four guys that flip a car over when it normally takes twelve.

“I think I'd like to go the other way,” Tori breathes.

Aaron finally snaps out of it and his tires squeal as he turns around, heading the opposite direction.

“Did you see those guerrillas?” I panic, pointing at the group now behind us.

“Guerillas? What are you talking about?” Tori asks, turning to look where I'm pointing.

“The guys who just flipped that car,” I reply.

“Guerrillas aren't real,” Aaron says from the front, glancing at me through the rear-view mirror. “They're just rumors.”

“Tell that to the car,” I come back, Rick sober and silent to the side of me, messaging again.

We don't get far before we run into a handful of solo rioters who got ahead of the group. One runs up to an older man who's struggling with his car's ID scanner. I watch in horror as the rioter cold cocks the senior in the back of the head.

“No!” I cry out as the man drops to the ground. I roll down my window as the rioter begins kicking him. “Leave him alone, coward!”

I throw my heel at him, hardly able to believe my eyes when it hits its target. The rioter staggers, slightly dazed.

“Aaron!” Rick yells from the backseat.

“On it,” Aaron yells, slamming the breaks and backing up close, screeching to a stop. Rick hops over me and bursts out the car door, rushing to the aid of the old man. I wait by the open door when it occurs to me we don't have enough room: Aaron's sport's equipment has to go.

Before Rick reaches the old man, the rioter shakes it off and struts toward Rick, like a predator refusing to give up his prey.

Rick ducks just in time to miss the wild swing of the enraged rioter, furious with our interference. Rick uppercuts him hard, and the rioter stumbles backward, falling to the ground this time.

Another rioter in the distance sees it, livid. He shrill whistles to his fellow rioters before turning and sprinting toward us fast. Way too fast. My stomach twists and the hairs on my neck stand on end.

“Rick, guerrilla!”

Rick immediately lifts the old man, carrying him to the car fast. I spot a bat amid Aaron's sports gear out on the street and grab it before resuming my post at the door.

Before Rick can reach me, there's a bright flash and suddenly:

I'm sitting in the car, the guerrilla coming up behind us. It's like time slows down as he throws a metal tube of sorts. I watch it pierce the back window, tiny shards of glass sparkling as they explode away from the point of impact. As the tube continues forward in slow motion, I can see it's headed straight for Rick’s head.

Suddenly I'm back on the street, holding the door with Rick placing the old man in the back seat. “Aaron, Go!” I shout as I jump in, bat in hand, slamming and locking the door behind me.

“Rick, watch out!” I yell as I shove him towards the other door, away from the middle. I jerk back, both of us looking behind as the guerrilla throws a metal tube like a javelin. The hard tube penetrates the rear window before Aaron can hit the accelerator, passing through where Rick's head was only a second earlier and lodging in the front dash next to Aaron's hand.

A startled Aaron slams the gas pedal all the way down. We peel out fast, and the guerrilla resumes his sprint with un-human speed.

“Here,” I call, handing Rick the bat while fumbling for the window control. Right as I find it, the guerrilla catches up, running alongside us.

Rick scoots to the edge of his seat, bat ready and facing the guerrilla, but that doesn't stop my blood from disappearing in my veins as the guerrilla launches headfirst into my still open window.

As the guerrilla lands with his upper body inside the car, he pulls back a fist to punch Rick. I shove the guerrilla hard, pushing him into the back of Tori's seat while Rick deflects the fast punch away from his face and into Aaron's headrest, which snaps off entirely.

I knee and elbow the guerrilla in the torso as hard as I can while Rick rams him with the bat, shoving the guy back out the window with incredible strength.

Just when I think Rick has pulled it off, the guerrilla, with lightning fast reflexes, grabs hold of the frame, his feet shuffling fast to keep pace with our car despite the increased speed.

“No way!” Aaron yells, checking out the speedometer. Rick punches the guerrilla several times while I grab my remaining heel and bring the sharp spike down with all the force I can on his hand.

The guerrilla loses his grip on the frame and tumbles, rolling numerous times before coming to a stop. He sits up dazed as his buddies reach him, throwing sports gear and rocks at us, all in vain.

“You okay?” Rick asks me.

I push my messed-up hair out of my face. “Fine. You?”

“Never better,” he leans back in his seat, catching his breath before handing me my thrown heel. “You rock, Cinderella.”

“Told you heels double as a weapon,” Tori jokes weakly.

I laugh shrilly, more from stress than her joke while Rick pulls out his JS and starts messaging. My laughter dies out as a massive convoy of police and guards shoot past us at high speed, their sirens wailing as they head toward the riot.

“You were saying something about guerrillas not being real?” I tease Aaron as he looks in his rearview mirror at the convoy now shrinking in the distance.

“I've since reconsidered,” Aaron admits, his eyes forward and sober.

“What exactly are guerrillas anyway?” Tori asks.

“Nothing we can talk about,” Rick instructs in a serious tone as he puts away his JS. “My superiors have instructed us to let the guards handle whatever we saw and keep it to ourselves. The last thing they want is a city-wide panic.”

“Is this another gag order?” I sigh, leaning forward to see him properly.

“If we're all in agreement, does it need to be?” Rick asks.

“No, I suppose not,” I reply as the old man starts to slump over. I move out of the way while Rick repositions the man between us. I take off my jacket and press it against a laceration on the man's head. He groans, semi-conscious.

We drive to the nearest hospital, pulling into their emergency drop-off. Rick and Aaron carry the man in where the emergency staff quickly take over.

“He'll be all right,” Aaron says. “He's in good hands now.”

“I hate to leave, but I've been called into duty.” Rick puts his coat around my shoulders, squeezing them. “I had hoped our first date would be memorable. Does this count?”

CHAPTER 24

DELIVERIES

––––––––

FIVE days later, I'm lying on my bed, projects piled around me. On my phone are articles with the latest breaking news:

OASIS PRESSURES STATESMAN TALLIN

TO SIGN G.U. AGREEMENT IN RESPONSE TO RIOT

Rick explained the agreement would bring in Domestic Guards to take over the Compound, allowing more Oasian guards in the city. He can't tell me anymore than that, including why the red alert is still in effect long after the riot was over.

I pull Jessica's banned book out of my hiding spot in the wall. With the red alert and resulting free time, I've read her book three times, trying to find something, anything, to explain what's going on. Instead, it's full of common sense stuff about how government should be run.

“Hey,” my mom greets soberly from the door as I hastily shove Jessica's book under my pillow. “The city-wide alert is finally lifted.”

“About time! I'm super behind on my cleaning route. Can I use the car?” I beg.

“Yes,” she agrees, handing me the old-fashioned keys, our car being one of the few left that uses them. “Be back by four thirty and stay away from the danger zones.”

“Absolutely,” I agree, grabbing my purse. I turn to see my mom still standing in the doorway, a strange look on her face. “Something wrong?”

She hesitates slightly. “Your court appearance to testify against the janitor has been canceled.”

“Let me guess, his lawyers got it pushed back again,” I say with disgust, putting my journals away.

“Not quite,” my mom says with such a tone that my eyes are drawn to her like a magnet. “He had a heart attack in his prison cell. He's dead.”

I slowly lower my pile of papers, disturbed. “A heart attack? He couldn't have been over thirty years old.”

“It is strange,” she says, deep concern in her voice.

I spend the morning cleaning houses, taking a break to stop by an elaborate estate, where in the back sits a small lime-green casita.

As I pull up, kids pour out of the house like clowns from a car.♦ I climb out, gift basket in hand, while they gather around anxious for attention.

“Happy Christmas!” Mr. Invisible greets, walking out the door.

“Looks like I should've made more baskets,” I laugh, nearly tripping as a four-year-old runs full speed towards me and jumps up, trusting that I'll catch him even though he's only met me once.

“No, this very generous. Many thanks,” he reassures, accepting the basket with a smile. He looks down at his grand kids with a serious gaze. “Where are your gifts?”

Their eyes grow wide, exclaiming cries of embarrassment before disappearing back into the house just as fast as they appeared.

He chuckles, the only happy worker I currently know, as if he's immune to the tension building in the city. I shove my phone deep into my purse, determined to get some answers. “Perel, can I ask you something unusual?”

“Sure, Perel, he alway help,” he grins.

“You remember the man who took hostages in the Compound?” I ask, explaining the man who blew up over a pair of shoes before telling him about Jessica and the gum. “Why would anyone get that upset over free gifts?” I ask.

Perel's signature smile is missing as his eyes scan the quiet yard before looking back at me. “Gum for boy, yes? And shoes for little girl, yes?” he hints. “The man who take hostage—he desperate, have nothing to lose.”

“Nothing to lose?” I question.

“Think longer, you understand,” he says, stepping back as kids come pouring back out, shoving an assortment of shiny rocks, special buttons, and ribbons into my hands.

I thank them, fully distracted, before climbing back into my car. As the kids wave goodbye, I pull up an article on my phone, one from the day hostages were taken in the Compound.

I zoom in on the accompanying picture, centering on the man glaring at Deb in pure hatred. A man with nothing to lose . . . because he already lost everything?

In his hands are shoes with a little bow on top. I bet, once upon a time, that man had a little girl who would've loved those shoes.

Behind him, the crowd is filled with the same hopelessness and rage—all adults, no children. My mind flies back to my day in the Compound. I never saw any children. Not one.

I message my dad before heading to an unscheduled stop: the Department of Dissenter Relations.

Inside the large building, the stations dedicated to Complaints and Concerns are so busy, it's like opening hours on Black Friday, while the Vouchers and Permits stations are so empty, they seem closed for the holidays.

I approach the worker permit kiosk, prepared to do something I've wanted to do for years, but never could: vouch for Jessica and her family.

In order to vouch for a Dissenter, not only do you have to be certified, you should also be rich. Vouching for four workers will completely wipe out my car savings. I fill out the form and gulp, submitting the application. I mean, I got this far without a car. What's another year . . . or two?

The applications for Jessica's father and brother come back rejected, no reason listed. I march over to the only V&P receptionist present in the building. She's working overtime munching on holiday cookies while playing a holo card game.

“Excuse me,” I smile big as she tries to ignore me. “I'm having some trouble. Two of the Compound residents I was going to vouch for came back denied. I need them added.”

The receptionist sighs loudly as she minimizes the game and scans my watch before scrolling through several menus. “Their names do not exist within the system,” she finally announces.

“There must be an error,” I insist, trying to see her screen. “I've met them; I know they exist.”

“Then they either transferred or died,” she informs me in a bored tone, pulling back up her game.

“Can you look it up? It's important to me,” I request.

“Sorry, that's beyond my level of authorization,” she says, not looking sorry in the least.

“Well, I still want to vouch for the mother and daughter.”

“After the riot?” she scoffs, staring at me. I just wait. Her shoulders sag as she pulls up a voucher form. “Fine. I need to rescan your ID . . .”

After half my savings disappear, she turns back to her game. I clear my throat, wanting to test my latest theory about the shoes and gum. “There's more?” she sighs.

I pass her a list of Compound kids I know. “Would you look up these names?”

She lifts an eyebrow before typing in the names one by one. “Is this a joke?” she asks. “None of these names exist in the system.”

“That's all I need to know,” I gulp, hurrying out the doors and into my car where I sit, feeling sick instead of elated.

I visibly jump as my phone rings, breathing a sigh of relief as I see a pic of my favorite customer on the screen. “Hello, Ms. Taylor,” I greet, trying to sound normal.

“Alysse, I was wondering if you could pick up some eggs and milk for me before you come by to clean my house,” a friendly, feminine voice requests. “Make sure the milk is skim, of course. None of that fatty stuff.”

“Sure, Ms. Taylor,” I reply, glancing at my watch. “I'll pick some up right now.”

“What would I do without you?”

Thirty minutes later, I carry two full grocery bags through her front door.

“Thank you!” Ms. Taylor greets, her tailored suit pants complete with flawless hose and shiny black heels. “I wish I had remembered to ask for some lettuce, celery, and organic cold cuts, too.”

“You mean like these?” I ask, placing the bags on her island while pulling out the requested items and loading them into her nearly empty fridge and freezer. “I also took the liberty of getting you dried cranberries, sprouts, flatbread, and praline ice cream.”

“You know me too well,” she laughs, checking her JS. “I have to run. You remember what to do, right?”

“Water the begonias, clean every room floor to ceiling, feed the boys and take them for a walk,” I relay, putting her groceries into a pristine fridge.

“Perfect,” she says, grabbing her slim briefcase and taking three steps toward the garage when she stalls. “Alysse, how would you like to be my estate manager?”

I pause. “Ms. Taylor, I'm totally flattered, but I'm still in school. I'm afraid I can't.”

“I've interviewed numerous applicants, and I simply can't imagine giving any of them access codes to my house. Who knows what they'd do while I was gone?” she complains, feeling her pockets and checking her briefcase.

I spot her JS on the counter near the sink and fetch it for her. “See,” she says as if that were irrefutable proof. “You know me, and I trust you. I simply must have you,” she insists.

“Ms. Taylor, anytime you need help, just call. I'd be happy to work it in,” I deflect while pulling out a non-toxic cleaner with fresh orange scent from beneath the sink.

“That isn't good enough. I have to wait for you to bike across town,” she pouts, pulling out her JS when she gasps with sheer delight. “That's it! That's what's missing in our agreement.”

“What is?” I pause in wiping down the counter tops, my lips tight, holding back a laugh.

“My mother's car—she doesn't need it any more. I can add you to our policy and permit, and you can keep a mileage log of any personal use. We'll just dock it from your pay,” she says, handing me her JS, our contract on the screen. “That way you can come by in the mornings, or after dark.”

“Really?” I ask, hiding my excitement. The upside to having my own car is nearly endless. “What exactly would I do?”

She starts listing everything from overseeing bills to organizing her closets to assisting with her parties while I add them to the contract. “I think that's everything,” she says.

“Your terms are very generous. How can I say no?” I pass my watch over her JS and press my thumb at the bottom of the contract, barely able to contain my excitement.

“Great, because I have another trip in four days. I'll send you a copy of my schedule,” she says, pulling up her security codes on her JS and scanning my watch, authorizing me for access to her home. “While I'm gone, make sure the boys go into their kennels at night, otherwise they run around barking instead of going to sleep. Oh, and during the day, they are banished to the backyard. Last time I left them in the house unsupervised, they tore apart my custom sofa.”

“Will do.” I pocket my phone and spritz the counter.

She takes five steps before coming back. “Oh, and if it's a hot day, be sure to fill their doggie pool so they can cool off.” I hide a grin as I copy that down into my planner, knowing she'll think of at least four more things before she leaves.

When I finally get home, a car is pulling up to my house, its driver's seat empty, something not uncommon in Oasis. Driver-less is available to any certified who's willing to pay for the permit, giving them access to the city's navigation system.

I climb out of my parents' old beat up dinosaur and take a closer look at my new contract. The color and design are so boring, the car's practically invisible, but I don't care. I've never seen anything so wonderful in my life.

CHAPTER 25

UNEXPECTED

––––––––

“HEY, Alysse,” Pete waves from his front yard as I drive up, the sun close to setting.

“Merry Christmas,” I say in Ebenezer fashion, climbing out and handing him a present. “I considered replacing this with coal, but with everything I've seen this winter break, I'm feeling generous,” I spout off before spinning on my heel to leave.

“Happy holidays to you, too,” he responds with some cheek, putting down his remote to an antique RC plane as it coasts to a stop after landing. “Alysse, wait.”

I turn around, tired. “I'm not in the mood to talk.”

“Great, cause I need you to listen,” he teases with a grin before sobering. “I'm sorry about the party.”

I fold my arms. “You humiliated me.”

“I didn't mean to,” he apologizes. “This article was—”

“Tori told me,” I cut him off, my cheeks flushing.

“I handled it wrong,” he admits, shrugging. “When are you going to forgive me—New Years?”

I tilt my head to the side, lips in a tight line as I remember the way the candy girls flirted with him. “Nope.”

“Valentine's Day?” he asks in an overly romantic tone.

“Yeah, right,” I say, a new smile fighting my scowl for space on my face. Pete waits, confident. The smile wins. “Fine, you're forgiven.” I walk back to my car.

“Alysse, wait.” Pete chases after me. “Why don't I have Larry drop your car off? I'd like to give you that ride home,” he persuades with a half-smile. “Besides, I have something to show you.”

“All right,” I agree, reaching inside and selecting my house on the GPS. I step back and it drives away.

“New car?”

“One of my client's. It's part of our agreement—I'm now her estate manager,” I announce proudly, my cheeks burning.

“Way to go,” Pete says, grabbing his plane and putting it inside their vast garage filled with more than one row of spotless, expensive vehicles.

“Check out what I found yesterday,” Pete says, handing me his JS as we walk to a cherry red exotic.

On his screen is a Worker Permit Approval Report from the Department of Dissenter Relations. I lift an eyebrow as I look at Pete. “Do I want to know how you got a hold of this?”

He ignores my comment, pointing down toward the bottom. “Most days there are, at most, a few dozen new work permits granted. Then, three days before the riot, there are eight hundred plus, all of them red-flagged as aggressive towards Oasians. Someone planned that riot.”

“Who would want a riot?”

“Probably someone with an obsessive compulsion for polished shoes,” he hints. “A  riot only worsens relations between us and the Compound. And it gets worse. Your janitor has the same approval code, meaning whoever approved these rioters for the worker program, approved your janitor.”

“Did I mention the janitor's now dead?” I ask. “Heart attack.”

“This isn't looking good,” Pete comments.

“And that's not all,” I comment before telling him about Perel's comment and the missing children. “Do you think the poisoning killed the children? It would explain the reactions to shoes and gum.”

“I doubt it,” Pete replies, tapping the car twice. Both doors open, and we climb inside. “Titan's estimate was four or five years to organ failure, and if our information is correct, it's been less than a year.”

“I'd ask Perel, but he was nervous as it was.”

“Either way, you've had a busy vacation,” Pete says as we pull out of his garage, the car's motor completely silent. “Expanding your route, getting promoted, . . . saving an old man from a guerrilla.”

A holo of the riot rescue appears on his car's console, showing the guerrilla spear Aaron's car with a metal tube. I gasp, leaning forward for a closer look. “How did you get this? Tori said all the holos out there are guerrilla-free.”

“You have to know where to look,” Pete says, cocky.

“Truth be told, when that guerrilla chased us, I thought it was game over,” I admit as we circle down the hill.

“Does this mean you're done attending operas with King Loser?” he says, driving us north.

“King Loser?” I scoff. “He saved an old man taking a beating. And what do you care? We're practically brother and sister, remember?” I taunt, annoyed.

“You can do better than that guy,” Pete complains, his grip tight on the steering wheel.

“Better? My family is broke and unknown, which around here, means I'm a nobody,” I point out. “Or have you forgotten the article?”

“There are more important things than money and a name,” he says, a flick of pain in his voice as his jaw flexes. “I'd trade both for a happy family.”

My ears start to burn as silence settles into the car. “Touché,” I whisper.

We pull up to my house just in time to see the holiday lights switch on. Inside, my family waits, ready to celebrate Christmas and happy to spend time together. I doubt if Pete’s parents are even home.

“Hey Pete, do you want to stay for dinner?”

He turns off the engine, a smile forming on his face. ♫

“Do I get an extension on my New Year's Eve curfew?” I ask my parents the next morning as I check my watch, a pile of unopened Christmas presents at my feet. I sigh, sending an annoyed glance at Ethan who's still talking with Marie on his new phone.

“No,” my dad says, unapologetic.

“I'm almost eighteen! Why would I leave before the fireworks?” I argue. “Two more hours.”

“Have you forgotten the riot? I don't feel good about your going at all,” my mom counters.

“Just so you know, we never made exceptions for your brother, either,” my dad adds.

“The View has top security—I'll be fine. Besides, this is a once in a lifetime experience!” I press.

“And getting killed is a once in a lifetime experience, too,” my dad counters with a look that says: keep it up and you're not going at all.

“Why don't you go ahead and open your presents?” my mom suggests.

I drop my protest, accepting defeat as I pick up Rick's present. The card reads: Hope this won't depress you. I open the box, utterly confused until I see a gorgeous glass rose.

“Ohh—how romantic!” Ethan teases as I lift it out slowly.

“Let me guess, you got Marie a brand-new pair of socks,” I shoot back, laying the rose carefully on the coffee table, admiring it.

“Shoes—and she loves them,” he corrects, picking up Pete's tiny gift.

“That's mine, I believe.” I hold out my hand.

“If you really want it,” he shrugs, tossing it to me.

To everyone's surprise, I catch it with ease. Another bonus to my new way of living is my improved reflexes. I open the gift to discover a solitary paper folded in half, two words written on it: Look outside.

I spy out the window but can't see anything. “Uh . . .” I reread the note and look again, still not seeing anything. “I'll be right back,” I tell my family before stepping out the front door. I look up and down the street, even looking up into the sky—nothing.

I shrug, turning to go back into the house when I spot two potted iris plants on either side of the porch that weren't there last night as Pete and I talked on the porch.

“How lovely,” my mom says, coming out. “Those are from Pete? I'm confused—you said Pete was interested in Tori.”

I touch one of the soft petals. “I'm confused, too.”

CHAPTER 26

SURREAL

––––––––

RICK smiles as I grip his arm while looking down yet again. I can't help it—no one ever told me the top floor of the View is the diamond itself.

Not only are the floors, walls, and ceiling transparent, but the furniture as well, making the whole experience of standing hundreds of feet above Oasis rather surreal.

The party itself is redolent of a Global Union summit, with Mao suits, kurtas, and keffiehs everywhere inside the giant gem.

Rick checks out an appetizer tray passing by only to turn away, disappointed. “Not hungry?” I ask.

His face scrunches in disgust as his stomach rumbles. “Not for maghaz.”

“We could rejoin Aaron and Tori instead. I think they found another visiting dignitary,” I tease, taking a sip of my lemon water.

Rick looks down at me openly, studying. “I'd rather learn more about you. After the riot, you mentioned something about another gag order, which suggests you've had at least one.”

“Well, if I have, I can hardly talk about it, now can I?” I tease, no longer nervous about Rick's blatant interest in me.

“My new clearance authorizes me to pull the incident for review. I just wanted to hear it from you,” Rick replies back, reminding me of Capt. Price as his eyes focus completely on me. “Why did your mother go out there?”

“No clue,” I scoff. “I did everything I could to persuade her otherwise.”

“By sneaking out and joining her?” Rick questions with the intensity of a lie-detector.

“I didn't sneak,” I defend, annoyed. “A pile of boxes got knocked over—I simply climbed in the transport to clean it up and the driver took off without warning.”

“Right,” he says, not believing me. “Why go out among Dissenters after a policeman lost his life and a volunteer lost her arm?”

“You mean Tyler and Deb, and for the last time, I didn't mean to go out,” I protest a little too loud, warranting a questioning look from Tori who pauses in her translation. I immediately switch to sipping my water.

“Except, your family used to volunteer out there on purpose,” Rick presses in a whisper, leading me slightly further away from Aaron and Tori and their current dignitary.

“It was different back then,” I try to explain. “The people we helped wanted peace—at least, I thought they did. I guess we were like your dad—hopeful.”

Rick considers my answer. “Well, I'm glad you didn't pay the same price,” he says, tension lowering as he rests a hand on my anxious shoulder. “Tell me about your dad, what's he like?”

“Smart, quiet, dedicated,” I reply, relieved for a new subject. “He's working hard hours to make ends meet.”

“Does that mean he passed up Prof. Doyle's offer?” Rick questions, baffled.

“My dad's not into big pressure or overhead,” I explain. “Doyle's lab has both in vast quantities.”

A tray of something that looks like buffalo wings passes by. Rick perks up as he checks it out, only to turn away in disgusted disappointment—frog legs. “Tell me about your mom,” Rick moves on.

“Very observant. She likes helping others,” I shrug.

“She doesn't work?” Rick asks, spotting a tray of crab cakes and signaling the attendant fast.

“She does, but it's pretty much pro bono,” I reply, amused as he lightens the tray considerably, making half the contents disappear.

As he rifles down the crab cakes, he gets an incoming message. Judging by the excited grin on his face, it's a good one. “I have a surprise you're going to love! I'll be right back, okay?”

“O-kay,” I reply, startled.

Rick leaves me stranded at Tori and Aaron's side who are attentively listening to a Secretary General. His accent is too thick for me to decipher, so I settle for nodding and laughing whenever they do.

Fifteen minutes later, I sigh in vexation as he launches into another monologue, catching the word insurgent or something like that. I start to wonder where he gets this many action stories when the buttons of his sports jacket are so strained, I can't imagine him wrestling anything meaner than a jelly doughnut.

“Party favor, madam?” offers an attendant who looks like a model fresh off the runway.

“Thank you,” I reply, accepting a small box wrapped in silvery paper, a metallic bow on top. Inside is a beautiful bracelet with twisting vines of what appears to be white gold, set with petite red and white gems.

“How beautiful,” I gasp, carefully placing the box inside my purse. “Could you select one for my date? He had to step away on some business.”

“But, of course,” she says, examining the tray carefully before selecting one with a satisfied smile. “I'm sure he would like theese one,” she says, handing me a flat, rectangular present.

“Thank you. So, do you help with all the top floor parties?” I ask. The attendant gives me a double look, eyebrows drawn in. My smile quickly drops. “Oh, are we not allowed to talk?”

“Is fine we talk; I just not expect question for me,” she recovers quickly, speaking confidently with only a slight accent.

“Are guests that rude?” I ask, concerned.

“To most, I am like robot,” she whispers, more amused than offended. “Only here to serve.”

Aaron and Tori join us, the Secretary General finally finding a new audience. “Party favors,” Aaron exclaims as he grabs a gift, ignoring the attendant.

She looks at me as if to say I-told-you-so, and I flinch at Aaron's behavior, especially after he waves her off like he's shooing away a fly, his attention now back on Tori. The attendant rolls her eyes ever so slightly and turns to go.

“Oh, wait,” Aaron calls after she takes a few steps. “Where are my manners?”

She comes back, eyes hopeful as she gazes on Aaron.

“Would you like to select a gift?” he turns toward Tori, completely clueless as the attendant shrugs at how appalled I am.

While Tori chooses, Aaron greedily opens his gift, only to look deflated. “I already have this one,” he gripes, placing the unwanted JS 950 back on the attendant's tray.

His spoiled discontentment evaporates from his face as he nudges Tori, spotting an older woman in a blazer and tailored pants. “Ah, Madame President . . .”

I turn away, completely disenchanted. As I do, I see the entry zone down beneath us, realizing we're next to the north windows. Beyond the Wall, it's hard to see much of anything, the dark desert night black in comparison to the brightly lit party.

“Would you excuse me,” I say to unhearing ears before stepping closer to the window. I shield my eyes from the bright lights, finally able to see the dark outlines of the Compound. I watch the flickering lights of the drones circling above and the transports below, making their rounds. I doubt they're having much of a party out there.

“There you are,” Tori calls loudly, linking her arm with mine. She switches to an urgent whisper. “What are you doing? No one looks out the north windows.”

“I got curious—”

“Yeah, well, that didn't exactly work out for the cat,” she hisses, exasperated. She briskly walks me back to Aaron, his well-dressed father standing by his side, eyeing me with some misgiving. My heart skips a nervous beat.

“Here she is,” Tori announces as we join them. “Rick's date and my friend, Alysse Simms.”

“Ah, yes, the talented young shoe thrower,” the Statesman says, shaking my hand.

My nervous smile reveals my embarrassment. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

He continues looking at me with inquisitive eyes. “I'm concerned to find you away from the party. I hope my nephew isn't neglecting you.”

“Rick has been very attentive,” I reassure, the Statesman's eyes boring down on me. “He left a moment ago to arrange a surprise.”

“You seemed fascinated by the north windows,” he presses, unswayed.

“Just concerned, sir,” I offer respectfully. “I don't know what we're going to do with the Compound.”

“We never should have built it in the first place,” Rick says as he walks up, joining us. “It's dangerous keeping your enemies outside your gates.”

“Better outside than in,” Statesman Tallin corrects amiably, giving his nephew a firm squeeze on the shoulder.

“Only when you seal the gates,” Rick comes back, just as amiable.

“Recruit me thirty thousand replacement workers, and then we'll discuss closing those gates,” his uncle volleys back in a pleasant but firm tone.

“I'll hold you to that, Uncle.” Rick nods his head with polite submission, but I notice a significant amount of resentment in his eyes.

“I must greet the other guests. I hope you all enjoy the party and a pleasure to meet you, Miss Simms,” the Statesman says, nodding at our group before walking away, two well-dressed bodyguards shadowing him I hadn't even noticed.

“Well, Alysse, are you ready for your surprise?” Rick turns to me, all trace of the resentment gone.

“Yes!” I reply relieved, handing my empty glass to a worker.

“This way,” Rick winks before steering us through the party at a steady pace, Aaron and Tori close behind.

I hand Rick his gift as we walk. “An attendant passed out party favors while you were gone.”

“Thanks.” He opens it and his eye go wide. “Cool!” Rick says, ecstatic, as he checks out the JS 950. “My 700 is about to die on me.”

We reach the South windows, where the city of Oasis glitters beneath our feet. “Here we are. Take a look,” he encourages.

Just as I'm about to ask what we're looking at, something bursts in the sky right in front of us, a few sparks landing on the glass. I check my watch, astonished. “But it's not midnight.”

Rick grins proudly, his face lit by the firework in front of us. “Aaron and I arranged a pre-show.” ♦♦♦

“I can't believe it,” I breathe, never having seen fireworks this close up.

Rick steps close, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “I like learning about your family. Tell me about your brother. Is he around much?”

I shake my head, very conscious of Rick standing close to me. “His schedule's pretty sporadic. Not only is he attending Oasis Community College, but he works two jobs.”

“Does he avoid attention like your parents, or is he more involved in the community?” Rick asks, watching me instead of the fireworks.

I just laugh at the question. “He's too sleep deprived to do either.”

“What about you? What are your ambitions?” Rick asks.

“To make a difference,” I whisper, colors bursting in front of us.

With the last firework, my curfew alarm dings, and mine isn't the only one.

“Let's get you home, Cindy,” Rick says, shutting off his alarm and offering me an arm. “Before your coach turns into a pumpkin.”

CHAPTER 27

UNREAL

––––––––

“I should've just paid valet,” Rick says, checking his watch as we ride an elevator in a parking garage, a long way down the street from the View.

“Valet at the View?” I scoff, my arm wrapped around his as we arrive on the fourth floor, the doors sliding open. “You saw the food, and they hand out JS's and jewelry as party gifts. I can only imagine what they'd charge to park a car.”

Rick laughs appreciatively before scouting the garage as we exit the elevator. We've only taken a few steps when he freezes, listening. I stop in my tracks, watching him.

“What's wrong?” I whisper. He holds up a finger. I wait, looking around, completely quiet, unable to see or hear anyone, not that it matters. Something feels wrong.

The lights start flickering as I snap off the cap on my pepper spray in my purse, goosebumps forming on my arms as I glance around for the nearest exits, just in case. My pulse quickens as I realize the elevator has moved on to the seventh floor, and the floor's only stair wells are situated at the opposite end of the garage.

We take a few cautious steps toward Rick's car when the lights shut off. “Not again,” I mutter as the emergency lights flick on, casting a red tint.

“Come on,” Rick urges, flicking on a small flashlight dangling from his car remote. He grabs my hand tightly, his eyes intense and focused as we walk faster to his car.

As we pass a particular row of cars, a van's lights flick on blindingly bright as it peels out, its engine completely silent. Rick jumps to the side with astonishing reflexes, pulling me out of the way just in time to avoid being hit.

“This way, GO!” Rick commands. I abandon my heels as we run for it, dodging behind parked cars and hurdling over a median to the next row of cars.

The van circles around, trying to reach our aisle as Rick lunges to unlock his car's front door. I yank out my phone, dialing the police.

Before either of us succeed, a short but solid man rushes out from behind the neighboring car, lunging for Rick with incredible speed.

Rick barely dodges Mr. Solid, who shoots past him and collides with the car, leaving a dent. Mr. Solid spins, using Rick's own car to shove off, before lunging back at Rick impossibly fast.

My fear spikes as Mr. Solid succeeds in tackling Rick to the ground. He and Rick grapple and wrestle so fast I can't even keep up with who's doing what.

I want to help, but I find myself frozen, not just with horror, but also with the impossible fact that Rick is keeping up with a guerrilla.

“Oasis Emergency Number—” a voice calls.

I jerk the phone to my ear. “We're being attacked—”

I instinctively flinch back as a kick heads my way, wind sweeping my face from a near miss. I lower the phone and a kick I can hardly see knocks it from my hand, sending it flying high into the air.

Rick punches Mr. Solid from behind and I grab for my pepper spray, not knowing if it even works on guerrillas or how I'll possibly get a clear shot, when the garage around me changes with a flash:

It's the same garage only now it's like mid-day under a red sun, everything sharper and clearer than in real life. I watch as the van screeches to a stop behind us, blocking in Rick's car. The door slides open to reveal a man unlike anything I've ever seen.

His black eyes give him a monsterish look, made worse by the red dye on his face and shaved head. He has so many tattoos, at first I mistake them for a shirt.

In the same moment, I can hear the driver's earpiece from inside the van. “I don't care what went wrong. Teach the OiT a lesson and bring in that girl!”

“Copy that,” the driver replies, nodding at the man who jumps out with such form, it's like he's immune to gravity. He lands lightly despite his massive frame that's somewhere between six and seven feet tall, reminding me of a Giant.

The Giant tosses me into the van before turning on Rick who’s only just managed to place Mr. Solid in a head lock. He doesn't see the Giant headed straight for him.

The flash ends, giving me barely any time to prepare, as the van screeches to a stop behind us. My heart pounds like crazy as the door slides open, the Giant jumping out.

I don't wait for the Giant to reach out for me. I immediately duck down, spraying his face from below before circling behind him as he wipes his face, now enraged.

“Rick, watch out,” I cry as I charge one of the Giant's legs from behind, throwing my entire weight into the back of his knee. It doesn't do much other than buckle his leg, but it does give Rick time to respond.

While the Giant swings an arm behind him like a wrecking ball, knocking me to the ground, Rick releases his headlock on Mr. Solid in time to twist, avoiding the Giant's kick which ends up bashing in the back door of Rick's car.

Rick lunges forward, delivering a punch to the Giant's face that knocks his head sideways and back. Rick starts to follow through with another punch, but Mr. Solid launches into Rick's midsection, taking him back down.

Rick works ferociously hard, but the guy is like an octopus, re-grabbing every time Rick starts to break away. “Alysse, run!” Rick yells at me, elbowing Mr. Solid several times in succession.

Before I can take off, hands lift me up off the ground, carrying me toward the waiting van.

“No!” I scream, clawing at the Giant's face behind me while bringing my foot up to kick the only other vulnerable spot I can think of.

He grunts angrily, his face turning darker red as he tosses me. I land on my back on the hood of a car, the air knocked out of me. I roll off the hood, landing on the ground before coming up on all fours, trying to figure out how to get my lungs back to working.

I barely get in one breath when steely arms lift me into a bear hug that makes it impossible to breathe, especially as a hand covers my mouth. I scream, muffled, as I hit, kick, twist, turn, scratch and bite, but it does nothing to get me away from the crazy powerful grip.

As I run out of air, I need another flash, another anything, to tell me what to do. Spots appear in my eyesight as darkness tunnels my vision.

Then, without warning, the pressure is gone.

I fall down in a heap, the world spinning around me as I cling to the ground, gasping. It takes a while for my vision to clear before I see Rick now fighting not one, but two guerrillas.

Rick dodges a right hook from the Giant before running up the nearest car, flipping over as he comes down, hitting both the Giant and Mr. Solid with a double kick, knocking both back.

They quickly recover and re-attack, the Giant sending Rick a round house kick which Rick ducks while simultaneously catching Mr. Solid's punch, twisting his arm behind his own back and shoving him away. Rick next throws a rear kick that the Giant barely avoids, the kick landing on a car, creating the deepest indent thus far.

While Rick's stamina and speed initially surpass the guerrillas', the double team start to take their toll. While blocking a punch from the Giant, Mr. Solid manages to lock Rick in a hold from behind. Rick's watch busts off as he struggles to get free but not before the Giant gets in a hard punch, nailing Rick in the stomach.

Driven by the pain registering in Rick's eyes and out of desperation, I ram Mr. Solid as hard as I can. It doesn't stop him, but it does distract him, which Rick uses to his advantage, turning his full attention to the Giant with an assault so fast, the Giant can't keep up with it. Rick ends with a hard jump kick to the chest which knocks the Giant backward through the open van door and into the van.

As Rick turns on Mr. Solid, we hear echoes of sirens enter the garage at ground level. Realizing his time is up, Mr. Solid drops into a roll, bypassing Rick and jumping up into the van next to the Giant's motionless form as the van screeches away.

Rick takes a few running steps after it, but soon thinks better of it, coming back.

I cling to the car next to me, nothing feeling real. Not the garage, not the attack, not even me. Nothing.

Until Rick pulls me into a hug. 

After an hour of questioning, poking, and prodding by police and paramedics, ♦ Rick and I re-approach his car. With shaky hands, I tug at Tori's destroyed dress, trying to piece it back together before glancing at Rick whose face bears a cut, a swollen lip, and a black eye.

“I never meant for this to happen,” Rick says, looking guilty as he checks out my bandaged hand.

“It's not your fault we got attacked,” I reassure as we limp along, my tailbone feeling each step. “You did an awesome job defending us.”

“But you got hurt.”

“Better hurt than kidnapped. The police said these guys are holding Oasians for ransom or worse,” I reply, swiping away an annoying tear, taking a slow breath before any more can follow. “So, what are you?”

“What am I?” He looks at me disturbed. “I'm Rick, what are you talking about?”

“Well, 'Rick,' I believe most professional fighters couldn't last one minute with a guerrilla, let alone fight off two,” I point out, coming to a painful stop and facing him.

“I told you, I'm in the advanced training program,” he says, looking away, his face stoic. “That includes advanced fighting.”

A puff of air escapes my numb lips. “Even with superior training, no one can move as fast as you did.”

Rick breathes out in frustration, running a hand through his hair. “Come on, Alysse, you've seen what the Dissenters created with those monsters. We had to do something.”

“I.M.A. experimented on you, didn't they?” I whisper as we reach his car.

“I can't talk about it,” he states firmly as he yanks open the door. “And neither should you, unless you want to paint a target on my back.” For the first time, Rick looks vulnerable despite so easily holding up a heavy door.

“If it puts you at risk, then I won't say a word,” I assure, climbing in carefully, the exertion causing my ribs to scream.

He smiles a small thanks before shutting the door and circling around to his seat. “What did you mean 'not again'?” he asks as he places the car into drive.

As I tell him about the janitor, his grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white. Rick makes a sudden small backhanded wave when I finish. “This is exactly what I was talking about! My uncle should've ended the worker program years ago,” he says angrily.

That's hard to argue as I cradle my ribs, adjusting the way I'm sitting. I grimace and glance down at my watch, which somehow came out of this unscratched. “With this attack, I can only imagine what my new curfew with be.”

“What time is it?” Rick asks, his busted watch and old JS tossed into his bag.

A firework bursts behind us. I give a grim smile, shifting painfully in my seat. “Happy New Year.”

CHAPTER 28

CHANGES

––––––––

I shield my eyes from the morning sun as I lean back in the passenger seat of Pete's car Monday morning, head aching from all his questions—he's worse than the police.

“Pete, if we talk about the attack anymore, I'll end up crying right before school starts, and there's no way I am going to Harden's class with puffy eyes.”

“Just one last question.” Pete drums the steering wheel with his fingers as he drives into the senior parking lot. “You said one of the attackers jumped out when you reached Rick's car. This 'solid' guy was already in position, waiting?”

I scrunch my eyes and pinch my nose, as if that will help me squeeze more information out of my brain. “Yes, he had to have been.”

Pete does a few final taps as he parks before turning to me. “Is it all right if I drop you off here? I have something I need to do.”

“You mean like class?” I ask, hugging my coat close.

“Nah, this is more important,” he dismisses.

I climb out slowly and painfully before grabbing my bag. “Okay. I'll see you later, right?”

“Yeah, I'll be back soon,” he reassures, before he shuts the door behind me. I can't help but watch him drive away, wondering what's so important.

“Hey, Alice, want a ride?” Raezer mocks as he and his friends encircle me like hyenas, hoping for a bite.

“Leave me alone, Raezer,” I respond, both tired and calm; there are plenty of campus guards nearby.

Raezer's eyes narrow in a snarl as he steps in my way, his chest inches from my face. “Girl, it's about time you learn a few lessons.”

I almost laugh. He may be a head taller than I am, but he's no guerrilla. I lift my chin. “I said, GET AWAY FROM ME,” I yell, already planning my next three moves.

“Is there a problem here?” Aaron calls as he and Tori approach from a distance.

The group melts and recoils while Raezer backs away. “No, no problem,” he shrugs. “Just asking how her vacation went.”

“Did she tell you she's dating Aaron's cousin?” Tori asks, picking up on Raezer's weirdness.

“You're dating the Statesman's nephew?” Raezer parrots back, glancing at Aaron (who's watching to make sure Raezer backs off) and his friends (who are watching for his response). “Whatever,” he snaps as he leaves, motioning for his friends to follow.

“Are you okay?” Tori says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“Ah,” I cry out, hugging my ribs.

“Sorry,” she says, lifting her arm fast.

“It's not you, it's that stupid Giant,” I grimace. “I think he might've fractured a rib . . . or two.”

Tori's gets a stern look as she lectures: “You shouldn't even be here. You should be home healing.”

“And start the semester behind? No thanks,” I half-laugh until my ribs remind me not to do that.

We head up to first hour, my feet resisting as we walk to the front. I can't help but wish that the Global Union didn't require political science year-round—I'm not looking forward to another semester of Harden.

Dr. Harden walks in, sending me a look that says the feeling is mutual.

I turn away and place Tori's JS on my desk, shifting ever so carefully in my seat, trying to spare my abused tailbone before pulling up a game on the JS, not wanting to think about New Years while the rest of the class comes in, talking of nothing else.

One minute before the starting bell, Rick walks in, completely limp free. His lip is back to normal, and there's only a slight hint of his black eye and cut.

Girls in the class start whispering excitedly, dazed by this I.M.A. student wearing his full uniform, looking twenty-five, instead of nineteen.

Dr. Harden immediately greets him before inviting him to sit behind Aaron in Chris's empty seat, which lands him next to me, much to the disappointment of ILAC members.

“This is a surprise,” I whisper.

“I've been invited to speak, spur of the moment. How are you holding up?” he asks, his eyes warm.

“Mending,” I reply, taking a closer look at his face. “Is accelerated healing part of the program?” I breathe.

“One of the perks,” he grins, a dimple appearing. “Just like my new promotion. I'm now an Officer-in-Training, thanks to that attack.”

“Congratulations on your advancement. You've earned it,” I understate. “Impressive interviews, too. You're all over the news.”

“Have you changed your mind about an interview?” he asks. “You deserve a lot of credit.”

“Think I'll pass,” I reply, not eager for the limelight nor working with Oasis News. I haven't forgiven them for refusing to investigate the poisoning.

The bell rings, Pete's seat still empty as Dr. Harden steps in front of her desk, beaming dramatically. “I tried to warn city officials. We already know who the Dissenters are. We know what they are capable of. Still, we open our gates to them. Now, Oasis not only suffered a riot, but also widespread damage and a series of kidnappings. At this very moment, dozens of Oasians are being held for ransom that will surely be used to fund another war.

“Today, we are privileged to hear from the only Oasian to successfully fight off the kidnappers: Officer-in-Training Rick Pruett, nephew to Statesman Tallin and cousin of Aaron. He not only fought off Dissenters on New Year's Eve, he also saved his friends and the executive producer of the Stage from falling into the clutches of Dissenters during the riot.”

Rick turns slightly red as the class breaks into applause. Dr. Harden waits a moment before raising a hand, motioning for silence. “While OiT Pruett is scheduled to address the entire school-body this Friday, he is here today to teach us how to safe guard ourselves from the enemy. Please give our I.M.A. hero a warm welcome.”

ILAC members take Dr. Harden's instruction to heart, clapping and whistling louder than everyone else combined.

“If you want heroes,” Rick announces, ILAC members quickly quieting down, “you need only look to the guards at our gates. They work hard every day to keep Oasis safe.”

He pulls out his new JS 950, placing it on the classroom's console. The lights dim as Professor Harden's desk moves back, making room for a holo of the garage, the lighting even better than New Year's night. The privacy screen blurring my face is the only part that isn't crystal clear.

Rick plays the holo the entire way through. The class whoops each time Rick nails a guerrilla during their fight, moaning when he receives a blow. I just cling to my desk, a tightness around my chest, as if the Giant is squeezing me all over again. As the holo ends, it's a shock to discover that what felt like eternity took less than three short minutes.

I also notice severe editing of the holo, like the slowing down of Rick's fight scenes and the indents on the cars being removed, leaving Rick and the guerrillas to look like intense, but normal fighters.

Rick replays the holo, stopping and zooming in to give defense pointers. “As you can see, the big guy left himself wide open on his 8 o'clock . . .”

Guys in my class ask for full sized replays of the fight scenes in slo-mo, wanting to study the punches and kicks some more.

When they request a third encore of Rick's jump kick to the Giant, Dr. Harden steps forward. “That's quite enough; you can review the holo further after class. OiT Pruett will now take some of your questions.”

More than half the room raises their hands as guys spend twenty minutes asking about his training regimen, while Dr. Harden quizzes him about ending the workers' program. The last question comes from Hydee, curious if he's single.

Rick glances at me, a twinkle in his eye. “I'm not available, if that's what you mean.” Hydee twirls her lavender hair around her finger, sighing in disappointment.

“Thank you, OiT Pruett. All students need constant reminders of just how dangerous our enemies are,” Dr. Harden says, sending Hydee a stern look as Rick sits back down next to me.

Rick looks at me in concern while Tori whispers: “Are you all right?”

“No,” I freely admit, shivering. “Rick, how could you talk about it so calmly?”

“Training. Besides, I've been through far worse,” he whispers, his eyes dark and burdened.

Before I can ask what he means, Dr. Harden clears her throat, pulling up a holo map of our country. “It's time to focus,” she says, looking straight at me. “By studying the weak post-war acts put in place after the Dissenters broke away, we can learn why we have such a mess today . . .”

While Dr. Harden spends twenty minutes spouting off about post-war acts, my mind replays the New Year's attack, especially when the Giant squeezed the air out of me.

“Who can name the first resolution passed after the commencement of the war?” Dr. Harden calls from the front. She scans the room before honing in on me with a wicked smile. “Alice?”

My mind goes blank. “It's . . .” What was that name?

She taps her foot impatiently. “We're waiting,” she demands.

“Domestic Terrorism Prevention via Early Intervention,” I spit out at last.

Her eyes narrow in resentment. “Name the second.”

Get a life! almost slips out of my mouth. I rack my brain, feeling eyes on me again, especially Rick's. “I know the resolution, Dr. Harden, I spent an hour memorizing all twenty of them.”

“Then, tell us already,” she smirks.

“I can't. My brain's freaked out over the holo,” I finally admit.

A few students snicker as Dr. Harden's smile becomes indulgent. “If my class is too much for you to handle, you can always transfer.”

Tori turns to me, aggravated. “Why won't you tell her?”

Dr. Harden turns to me. “Tell me what?” she demands.

Rick leans close, taking hold of my bandaged hand to the confusion of both Hydee and Harden. “Sooner or later, it'll leak out. These things always do.”

I sigh before turning to Dr. Harden, announcing in a clear voice: “I was the girl the Dissenters tried to stuff into the van.”

A hushed silence covers the room and disbelief spreads across Dr. Harden's face while the blood drains out. “That was you?”

“During our date,” Rick interjects proudly. “And you should know, her name is pronounced Uh-leese, not Alice.”

Students start talking to their neighbors while messaging their friends. “I knew it vas Aleess,” whispers an ecstatic Alma to a disgruntled Mishell. “I cood tell from zee outfit.”

“Quiet down,” Dr. Harden calls weakly, still recovering from the unpleasant shock. She forces a smile on her face as if addressing Tori instead of me. “I wish you had told me before. If you're too upset to continue, we could arrange a meeting with the Academy's counselor.”

Her sudden “thoughtfulness” not only offends me, it also snaps my mind back into gear. “That's hardly necessary. I remember the second act—it's Terrorism Prevention via Early Detection.”

“Excellent,” she beams.

In the hall, students surround Rick and me, Alma asking me what it was like while Jason and Mason give Rick a high-five. “Dude, you totally flattened those guys. Are you trained for cage matches?”

“No, I just fell back on my training. Stop by I.M.A. sometime, and I'll show you more,” Rick nods.

Tori cuts her way through to my side, beaming. “Did Rick tell you? Mr. Spendler, the Stage producer we rescued, gave the four of us season passes. Aaron and I thought we'd break ours in this Saturday. You guys want to join?”

“I don't know,” I hesitate. “Urbane didn't work out so hot the last two times we visited.”

“My dad signed the G.U. agreement this morning,” Aaron reassures. “Once Domes take over the Compound, city guard presence will double overnight.”

“I'd love to see the ingrates riot with fully armed guards stationed at every corner,” Rick smirks, stepping close to me. “Let's give the Stage a try.”

“I love the Stage!” Hydee shrieks. “Take me!”

“I was asking Alysse,” Rick responds, amused.

“All right,” I quickly agree to Hydee's disappointment. Her frown deepens as Rick wraps an arm around my shoulders. It hurts like crazy, but even the Giant couldn't drag that information out of me right now.

“Alysse,” calls a familiar voice, and Pete suddenly appears from behind. “We need to talk,” he says urgently before noticing Rick's arm on my shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

“He was a guest speaker in Political Science this morning, which you'd already know if you had been there,” Tori lectures with folded arms.

Pete shrugs, unconcerned, before turning to Rick, a hard-to-read look on his face. “That was impressive fighting,” Pete says, offering him a hand.

Rick takes his arm off my shoulders to shake Pete's hand with an abnormally tight grip. “Just followed my training.”

“Right.” Pete's eyes narrow, processing that information before turning back to me. “Alysse, something came up with the dog pound.”

“Oh, I see,” I reply, turning to Rick. “Would you excuse me a moment? This won't take long.”

Rick reluctantly nods, joining Aaron and a few hopeful ILAC members discussing his new scholarship while Pete takes hold of my arm, leading me away.

“Pete, ribs,” I remind, breathless.

“Sorry.” Pete softens his hold. “Can you hurry? This is important.”

I follow more quickly, one eyebrow lifted. “What is it?” I whisper when we're twenty feet away, Tori joining us.

“What? I'm in on the dog pound, too,” she defends as Pete looks at her annoyed. “What's going on?”

Pete turns back to me, his blue eyes serious. “Your kidnappers weren't Dissenters.”

“What?” Tori and I ask simultaneously.

Pete pulls up an unedited holo of the New Year's attack, slowing down a fight scene. “Look at how these guys move, their technique. These guys aren't Dissenters off the street. They're professionally trained fighters.”

I resist the panic that overtakes me every time I see the guerrillas and force myself to watch the video analytically— the kidnappers are extremely disciplined.

“I had this holo analyzed by several professionals. All but one thought the kidnappers were ex-military,” Pete whispers as I glance at Rick who's watching us.

“One thought they were Dissenters?” I grimace, hopeful.

“No, the dissenting opinion believed they were paid assassins,” he auto-corrects, clueless as to how freaked out this conversation is making me. “There is zero chance your kidnappers came from the Compound.”

“Who would hire professionals to kidnap me?” I ask. “We have no money, no position.”

“But plenty of knowledge,” he points out, looking me in the eye. “Question: did the janitor attack before or after you reported the poisoning?”

“After . . . why?” I ask despite the twisting feeling in my stomach telling me I don't want the answer.

“I think the poisoner found out about you,” Pete says, very serious. “Consider the facts: a fake janitor hacks into a high-tech system, sneaks into a high security campus only to fail kidnapping you. Then, before he can appear in court, he dies of a sudden heart attack.

“Then a team of hired professionals tries to take you, failing only because you had an I.M.A. bodyguard,” Pete whispers.

I suddenly forget how to breathe.

“If the poisoner found out about her, she wouldn't be here right now. He would just kill her,” Tori argues, annoyed.

“Unless he has a few questions for her first.” Pete drops his voice low. “Like why she decided to test a packet and who else knows.”

As Pete's words soak in, a cold wave forms goosebumps over my whole body. If Pete's theory is right (which is a valuable albeit obnoxious habit of his), then I could be attacked again any moment. I grab a railing for support as my knees go weak.

“What's going on?” Rick demands of Pete as he and Aaron join us. “She's paler now than she was on New Year's Eve.”

“There are rumors the kidnappers were trained professionals, not Dissenters,” Tori says to Pete's chagrin. “You fought them. What do you think?”

Rick looks unnerved by the question while Aaron immediately barks off. “Pete, you're always trying to stir things up, looking for something that's not there.”

I watch Rick, whose face turns a slight orange color, his jaw working as he glares at Pete. “What have you been telling Alysse?”

“What you wouldn't,” Pete accuses with sharpness.

“They did seem trained,” I reiterate.

Rick's jaw flexes, as if debating whether to answer. “They were Dissenters,” he finally blurts out, firm. “Just because they were trained doesn't make them otherwise. Dissenters have programs, too.”

“But why were they waiting for us?” I press.

“I'm the Statesman's nephew,” Rick almost laughs. “Can you imagine the ransom I'd bring in?” He turns to Pete, his jaw tight. “I know what you're doing. Stop trying to scare her away from dating me.”

Pete steps forward, shoulders back, unfazed and undeterred. “You have no clue what I'm doing, and she has every reason to be scared,” Pete argues. “If those men wanted ransom, they would've tried to throw you in the van, not her.”

CHAPTER 29

TIME TO RUN

––––––––

“THAT'S it—you're moving to your Aunt Margie's,” my dad announces when I finish telling him what Pete told me. My mother and brother stand close by, the four of us huddled in the backyard, our barely touched dinner still on the table. “Your mother and I will make the arrangements. In the meantime, I want you to pack your stuff. Essentials only, and nothing you can't carry.”

“What about graduation?” I gasp, shifting on the gravel next to my mom's rose bushes, thinking about Rick, Pete, and Tori.

“Graduate out at Aunt Margie's,” Ethan interjects. “Unless you'd like to stay and cross your fingers like Chris and his family.”

I grimace. “I'll pack right now.”

“Good,” my dad replies, looking at Ethan and me with intensity. “Your mother and I have to go meet with someone—alone. While we're gone, neither of you are to open the door for any reason.”

“I won't be here, Dad. I've got a major project due in twenty minutes,” Ethan replies.

“Alysse can't be home alone,” my mom demands.

“Take your sister with you. Keep her safe while we're gone,” my dad instructs. Ethan nods, sober.

“So, are you getting serious with Marie?” I ask Ethan as we drive through the warehouse district to a set of old business buildings, parking among the scattered cars.

“Maybe.” He gets a sheepish grin as we climb out and enter the nearest building. We take a narrow hallway, passing several classes until we reach the end of the hall. Inside is a professor whose frizzy hair, wrinkled clothes, and casual demeanor are the antithesis of an Oasis Academy professor. Ethan runs up, handing off a micro-drive. “Here you go, Professor Chaise.”

“Ah, Ethan,” the professor holds up the micro-drive to the light, as if it's a see-through vial. “Technically, you are five minutes late, but seeing how I haven't started class yet, my sympathies run high with regard to tardiness.” He pockets the drive.

My phone buzzes with a message from Rick: I stopped by your house with some awesome news, but you weren't home. Where are you?

At my brother's college, attending class with him. So, what's the news?

I just got admitted to I.R.U.'s Organizational Leadership Masters Program, with a full-ride scholarship.

My stomach sinks as I sit in a chair next to my brother. Rick's excited to go to I.R.U.?

I found a way for you to get a scholarship, too. Can we meet and talk after you're done?

How about in an hour? I reply, knowing I need to explain I'm moving to my aunt's, glad for the excuse to turn down I.R.U.

“Professor, I don't get it,” a student in front of me complains. “Why can't I choose tri-bombs for my thesis?”

“Internal Security has recently banned tri-bomb research,” the professor refuses, flustered.

I raise my hand and the professor eyes me suspiciously, as if I'm trouble.

“My sister,” Ethan interjects. “She's tagging along today—I hope you don't mind.”

“I'm just curious—what are tri-bombs?” I pipe up.

“Well . . . I don't suppose it's a crime to read some firsthand accounts of witnesses. Flashy kinds of things, have three phases before the actual explosion . . .” he mutters, digging through his bag and pulling out a JS older than Rick's 700. He opens several files before finding the right one. “Here you go.”

I take the JS, the conversations of students around me fading to the background as I sit down next to Ethan. I spend nearly the entire class reading different witness accounts on the dim screen. The last one is of a lady who left the room just before the bomb went off:

“There was this horrible smell, like spilled cleaner right before a series of small explosions, like firecrackers, and then everything flashed bright white along with a massive burst of air that knocked me off my feet . . .”

I pause in my reading as I hear some muffled yells and loud crashes in the hallway. As they grow closer, I X out of the article, my pulse accelerating.

I pull out my phone, messaging my parents and Pete: Something's wrong.

Ethan scoots a couple of seats over to look out the class window. He returns with a pale face, messaging my parents. “I.S. agents have surrounded the building.”

I immediately message again: I.S. here at my brother's college. Lots of them. Scared.

“Listen closely, Alysse,” Ethan whispers urgently. “I.S. are power trippers. Just do what they say and don't draw attention to yourself,” Ethan whispers urgently, starting a video link on his phone before placing it in his shirt pocket, the camera facing out.

The door bursts open, slamming loudly against the concrete wall as guards dressed in blue uniforms flood into the room.

“Hands up!” screams an agent.

Both Ethan and I instantly comply, my buzzing phone left in my pants' pocket while Ethan's phone continues recording beneath his collar.

The agents' eyes dart back and forth from student to student, guns pointed right at us. They begin grabbing students and shoving them toward the door.

“Get your hands off me!” protests one student.

The agent grabs him by the t-shirt and yanks him close, bringing a gun up to his face. “Are you resisting?” he says, as if inviting the guy.

“No, whatever you want, man!” the terrified student shouts as the rest of the class gasps, raising their hands a little higher above their heads.

I quickly comply as an agent motions for me to get in a line that goes to a hallway where other students are already sitting on the floor, single file, next to the wall.

“ID,” an agent snaps at a girl down the hall from me. She holds up her scarred wrist which he scans roughly. “Backpack,” he demands.

She hands over her backpack which he dumps and inspects. “Free to go,” he finally says as the girl scampers to re-stuff her pack and run out the door.

The next student isn't so lucky. As soon as his wrist is scanned, the agent grabs him by the hair, pulls him to standing and slams him against the wall. “Dissenter spy!” he announces. Other agents rush forward and handcuff him, before leading him out the front door.

As they continue their search, a student further down the hall jumps up and runs for it. Students scream as the nearest agent fires his gun, the round barely missing the escapee and leaving a hole in the wall. The student dives to the ground, covering his head as a small plume of concrete dust hovers near the wall behind him. Two agents run at him full speed, landing on him with their knees before they cuff him and drag him outside, too.

My ears are still ringing as I look up to the menacing figure standing over me. “ID!”

“I'm certified—exempt from searches.” I hold my breath as I stretch out my shaking arm. He scans the watch and shoves my arm aside, clearly disappointed. “Free to go,” he motions.

I start to leave, but a nearby agent with an Oasis insignia and several bars on his uniform steps in my way. His black, curly hair is trimmed short and greased back, his black mustache crinkling as he looks back and forth from his JS to me. He scans my wrist, an evil smile forming on his lips as my eyes focus on his name badge: Ludd.

Ludd, as in Mishell Ludd? This is her father?

“You didn't inspect her bag,” he barks to the other agent.

“She's certified, Chairman,” the agent quickly explains.

“Hand over your purse,” he barks, ignoring the agent.

“I'm certified, exempt from searches,” I reply with far more confidence than I feel.

“Only the guilty say that.” He yanks my purse from me, plunging his right hand inside before dumping it out onto the ground where a small gun with the Dissenter flag etched into the handle appears among the contents.

“Dissenter spy!” the chairman announces with enjoyment.

“You planted that!” I protest as he shoves me against a wall, his knee in my back as he grabs first one wrist, then the other, handcuffing me.

“You have a special date with someone who's anxious for one of those ration packets you've been handing out,” he whispers in my ear. “Do what exactly what I say and you just might live.”

“No!” I shriek, yelling to the others: “He planted the gun!” I lunge and fight, as if up against a giant, but it's all in vain with my hands cuffed behind my back.

“Internal Security can't arrest minors. You're violating Oasian law!” Ethan yells out to my dismay. If he gets arrested, too, it will only make things worse.

The chairman jabs at a few agents who are hesitating, unsure about all of this. “Scan the boy!” Ludd barks.

I watch in horror as my brother is yanked to his feet and his watch is scanned. “Dissenter spy,” an agent announces.

“What's wrong with you people! All of this is illegal!” Ethan shouts as they drag both of us to the front door where an agent adds ankle cuffs to me and my brother, immobilizing us.

“Leave us alone!” I shriek, still struggling and lunging, as they drag us outside to where a large van waits, the other “Dissenter spies” already chained inside.

“Hang in there, Lysse. Help is coming,” my brother says, resisting as four agents force him inside the van and chain him to his seat.

“You’re next,” orders the chairman, shoving me forward, when several police cars pull up, officers jumping out with the unmistakable sound of rounds pumping into chambers as they aim weapons our way.

Agents next to the van jump inside, slamming the doors behind them. The van takes off, tires squealing. “Ethan!” I scream after it.

“Lower your weapons!” barks Officer Brecker. Tyler once told me about an Officer Brecker who backed Tyler up during the arrest of a three-hundred-pound psycho. A glimmer of hope flutters in my heart.

“You have no authority here,” Officer Brecker challenges.

The chairman grabs me by the arm, yanking me in front of him like a shield, his gun brushing against my neck as he aims it at the police officers. “This is a high-level investigation of a Dissenter threat,” Chairman Ludd yells, an artery popping out on his forehead. “This is outside your jurisdiction.”

“Anything in my city is under my jurisdiction,” Officer Brecker shouts back. “Lower your weapons or we place you under arrest!”

“You want to be responsible for the thousands who will die if I let this girl go?” he shrieks, his eyes bulging as spit sprays from his mouth, increasing the resemblance between him and his daughter.

“That's a minor you're holding,” a different officer challenges. “That's two violations of Oasian law.”

“All of you are going to regret this. You're Sympathizers, every last one of you,” Chairman Ludd yells, going from red to purple. Despite my pounding heart, I wonder how anyone that color can still be alive.

“Lower your weapon NOW,” Officer Brecker commands. “I won't say it again.”

The chairman and his outnumbered agents lower their weapons. “I don't know who your friends are,” the chairman spits in my ear. “But they won't be around forever. You'll pay for this.”

He shoves me forward and Officer Brecker catches me, starting to lead me away when several vehicles pull up and more I.S. agents pour out, all armed.

The chairman gloats, lunging for his dropped weapon. “Get that girl!” he commands his men.

Officer Brecker throws me over his shoulder and runs for the corner of the nearest building, a gunshot ringing out as dirt explodes next to us.

We round the corner while the other officers dive for cover before returning fire. “Who are you?” he asks as he drops me to the ground to uncuff my feet.

“It's not who I am, it's what I know,” I reply, shaking uncontrollably at this point. “I.S. already took my brother and several others.”

He spins me around, my hands still cuffed as he holds me against the wall. He takes off my watch, chucking it far away.

“What are you doing?” I gasp, my panic renewing four-fold.

“My job,” he replies curtly.

A gunshot rips through the air followed by screams. Officer Brecker shoves me to the ground, holding my head down as three more shots are fired.

A moment later, a sedan drives up, its rear door open. Officer Brecker grabs my arm, yanking me to my feet. “If you want to live, get in that car!”

I sprint as fast as I can go with hands cuffed, diving headfirst into the back of the open car. “Stay down!” another officer orders me as Brecker climbs in behind me, the car taking off before he can slam the door shut.

“Where are you taking me?” I beg.

“Stop talking!” someone hisses. I start to peek out the window, but Officer Brecker shoves me back down.

Eventually the car stops at some sort of loading dock full of workers speaking foreign languages as they load crates. Officer Brecker yanks me out of the car, rushing me toward a black van with dark tinted windows.

“No—” I start to scream, pulling back, trying to get away. He covers my mouth, dragging me to the open side door of the van and shoves me inside.

CHAPTER 30

SEARCHING

––––––––

“I.S. holds grudges. They won't forget our interference,” Officer Brecker says as my eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness. “Two of my men nearly took a hit.”

“I'll make it up to you,” responds Pete's  voice.

Relief floods me as I recognize Pete dressed like a worker. The grim police officer removes my cuffs before hopping back out and climbing into the other vehicle, wasting no time in leaving.

Pete pulls me into a hug, the van door shutting behind us. “It was an I.S. raid,” I burst. “They've got Ethan and several others.”

“I know—Ethan sent me footage of what was going on, right until an agent noticed his phone. We have to hurry,” he says, climbing into the driver's seat, a different watch than normal on his wrist.

Just then, a taxi pulls up, and an older couple hops out with agility that defies their age. As they hurry into the van, I recognize the pale faces of my mom and dad despite their wrinkly skin and gray hair.

“Alysse, are you okay?” my mom asks, hugging me close.

“You followed my instructions?” Pete asks my parents.

“To the letter,” my dad responds giving me a hug.

My parents ask me about what happened while Pete drives us to the back of the main Mansfield Defense Warehouse.

Once there, we rush inside the worker's entrance where Pete hands us three blue uniforms from a cabinet. After a fast change, we head upstairs and take a catwalk to one of the few remaining lit offices. Positioned outside its carved doors are two armed guards and a console with a secretary.

“Mr. Mansfield is not available,” Jill says, her eyes fixed on her holo screen as she continues typing. Pete clears his throat and she looks up, sitting tall as her eyes grow wide. “Oh, Mr. Mansfield. You wish to speak with Mr. Mansfield?”

“Immediately,” Pete replies.

“Of course,” she says, tapping her ear piece. “Mr. Mansfield, your son is here. It appears urgent . . . of course, sir.” She turns to us. “He is ready for you.”

The guards step to the side as the doors open. Inside a spacious office, Mr. Mansfield stands behind a bar, pouring himself a green drink, his belly far smaller than when I last saw him.

“Please, be seated,” Mr. Mansfield directs, gesturing at the black leather couches that create a semi-circle in the middle of the room. Pete just heads straight for his dad's console while my parents and I sit down. “Would you care for anything?” Mr. Mansfield asks, eyebrow raised as he glances at his son.

“You've dealt with I.S. Before,” my dad responds. “We need advice on how to get our son back.”

“I.S. took your son?” Mr. Mansfield asks, disturbed, as he passes out waters.

“Yes, Ethan and several other students from Oasis Community College, all Oasians, all in broad daylight,” Pete announces gravely from behind his father's desk.

Mr. Mansfield puts his green drink back down. “When did this happen?”

“Minutes ago,” I rasp, my voice shredded from all the screaming.

“Pete?” his dad calls, watching his son.

“Already tapping surveillance to track their Vs,” Pete responds, not breaking his concentration.

Mr. Mansfield sits down opposite me. “Alysse, tell me everything . . .” He listens carefully, reminding me so much of Pete with the way he pays attention to every detail. Mr. Mansfield turns to Pete when I finish. “I trust you followed protocol.”

“With exactness. No one knows the Simms are here,” Pete reassures before pulling up a holo map of Oasis. “Ethan's trail goes cold right here.” Pete points at a location on the holo map. “Whatever garage this is, the surveillance is closed. None of my internal taps are working. Can we use a satellite?”

Mr. Mansfield inputs the code before turning back to my father. “Do you have an exit strategy ready?”

“We were in the middle of finalizing the details,” my dad says. “In the meantime, we have a safe house.”

“Good. It's time to use it,” Mr. Mansfield replies.

CHAPTER 31

HIDING

––––––––

FOUR days later, I stand on a balcony overlooking Urbane, wearing a short red wig and a fake ID on my wrist. I'm now a tourist named Allie Savve.

I lean on the railing—the closest I can get to going outside at this point. Our safe house is a nice apartment which, for the last week, could double as a funeral parlor, with my mom and I constantly on the verge of tears while my dad paces, checking his phone for news every few minutes.

Tonight, it's even quieter. My parents are meeting with a specialist who's negotiating the bribe for Ethan's release, leaving me with nothing to do but imagine what I.S. is doing to Ethan right now, the screams of the terrorized students still ringing in my ears.

I check the JS Pete left me. There's still no coverage of the college raid, and Cassie says it isn't the only raid. More Oasians are missing every day.

I hear a knock at the door, my heart pounding until I check the peephole, grateful to see Pete dressed as a chauffeur, his favorite way of getting around town unnoticed.

“I'm not even going to ask if you're okay,” he says after I shut the door behind him.

“No news of Ethan. I'm going insane,” I admit.

“So's Tori. She's convinced I know where you are,” he says as we sit on the couch.

“I still think we should tell her about the maze,” I say, miserable. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“You assume she wants it,” Pete counters. “Have you been training with your dart pens?”

“Yeah, I have nothing else to do,” I reply, a small case with two pens in my pocket—a gift and invention from Pete's father. Each pen has six potent darts, capable of sedating a grown man. “I've been practicing with duds over and over.”

“Good. Where is your family moving when you get Ethan back?” he asks, twisting so he faces me.

“Out in the country, near my aunt,” I reply, grabbing a pillow to hug. “I don't suppose you'll come visit me.”

“I can't. I'll be out at I.T.E.”

The pillow drops out of my hands, tumbling to the floor as what he just said sinks in. “Pete, that's in the lost Territory!”

“An added bonus, no doubt,” Pete replies, wry. “Do you really want to stay in the Union after all you've been through?”

“I know the Union is messed up, but for all you know the Lost Territory is worse.” I search his blue eyes, hoping this is another prank of his. “You can't be serious about joining the Dissenters.”

“Come on, Alysse,” he says with begrudged patience. “Think of what you know about the Dissenters. Not what you've been taught, what you know. Think of Jessica's book— you, yourself, said it's just common sense.”

“But the attacks, the RL7 virus,” I argue. “How many people died, thanks to Dissenters?”

“You saw how Chairman Ludd set you up, planting a gun in your purse. What if the Dissenters were set up, too?”  he asks. ♦

I fold my arms so tightly, I cut off the circulation. “We're not talking a planted gun; we're talking about a series of attacks, even an entire war. How could anyone orchestrate something that big without getting caught?”

“Because the audience is full of zombies avoiding the truth until it’s too late,” Pete points out.

I jump to my feet, aggravated as I pace the floor. “Okay, let's assume somehow the entire second civil war was a set up. Even if you make it to the Lost Territory alive, and the Dissenters aren't murdering psychopaths, and the Lost Territory is some sort of Utopia, your citizenship will be revoked. We'll never see each other again,” I finish, surprised by how deep that thought stings.

“True . . .” he says, grabbing me by the arms and holding me still. “Unless you come with me.”

I stare, breathless.

“We'd have to be careful,” he says, his eyes distant, calculating. “If we were to get caught leaving . . .”

The thought dispels any excitement I felt over Pete asking me. I sink back down onto the couch, feeling as though I just ate lead. “Pete, what if you're wrong about Dissenters?” I ask, distraught.

“Since when am I ever wrong?” he smirks.

We hear a special buzz at the door that tells me when my parents are back. I hop off the couch and glance out the peephole, seeing two tourists from Ireland. They look exhausted as we let them in.

“Our negotiator is meeting with them even now,” Dad responds to my questioning look after I re-lock the door.

We all sit down on the couch, silent. After a little while, I clear my throat. “Um, Dad, Mom, after we get Ethan back, I was thinking, moving out to Aunt Margie's might not be the best idea.”

“What do you mean?” Mom pries.

“Moving there is no different than swimming to another spot in the same pond, hoping the alligator eats us last.”

My dad leans forward, extremely serious as he looks me in the eye. “Moving will buy us some time. If you're trying to suggest we stay, the answer is no. We're moving and that's the end of it.”

“Oh, I agree about moving,” I quickly pipe up. “I just thought, well, Pete had this idea—maybe we should consider moving somewhere outside the Global Union . . .” I gulp, bracing— “like the Lost Territory.”

They both stare at me, surprised.

“Pete and I thought maybe Dissenters aren't what we've been taught,” I quickly add. “I have some Dissenter literature, you can read for yourselves.”

“We're familiar with their views,” my dad says, turning to Pete with significant respect. “I take it this means you found a way to get out there alive.”

“Then, you're interested?” Pete gawks.

“We've done all we can here,” my dad replies as I stare, dumbfounded. “What can you tell me?”

“My coyote says we don't need travel permits. He'll sneak us out of the Union and establish our new Citizenship,” Pete explains as my dad's phone dings.

As my dad reads the incoming message, we don't even have to ask what it says. The blood draining out of his face tells us all we need to know.

“Do you need to up the bribe bid? I can help,” Pete offers.

My dad holds my mom close as she reads the message, his hands shaking. “It's not the bribe bid. Ethan's already changed hands.”

Three hours later, Pete's gone home, and I'm lying in bed, not even close to asleep. I walk over to my window, peeking out, wondering where Ethan is, wondering if he's even alive.

Suddenly, there's a blindingly bright flash:

As the flash fades, I find myself in a parking lot, Rick close by, dressed in civilian clothes. “Getting Ethan wasn't easy,” he announces. “I.S. didn't want to hand him over. My commander had to use heavy persuasion.”

The flash ends and I come to, still holding onto the blinds, my heart pounding. Why didn't I think of Rick before? He doesn't like I.S. any more than we do. Of course he'll help get Ethan back.

Only, I can't call Rick. Not only would I expose our location, but I.S. would be listening in on the whole thing. In fact, I.S. must be shadowing him by now, hoping I'll contact him. I have to meet Rick someplace I.S. free—like I.M.A.

I leave a note on the dresser in case my parents don't fall for a bed stuffed with pillows. I can only imagine their response to my plan. They don't know about my flashes— they wouldn't understand and I don't have time to convince them.

I take my employer's car, which has dark tint and the added bonus of being registered certified, something that saves me from being stopped by officers lining the quiet streets of Oasis, streets quieter than usual, especially for a Friday night.

At the South Gate, the guards just wave me through, opening the certified lane for me. But that doesn't keep me from holding my breath long after I've passed the check point and left the city.

As I drive toward I.M.A., I use Pete's privacy program on his borrowed JS to send an anonymous message to Rick: Meet me at I.M.A.'s certified gate in half an hour?

Who is this? Rick messages back.

There's only one way to find out, I message back.

I arrive at a parking lot full of expensive cars except one. I smile slightly at the rusty paint which stands out horribly against all the newer models.

I pull my wig on snugly before climbing out, waiting near the gate, wanting to see him before he sees me. Before long, I recognize him walking out the certified gate dressed in civilian clothes.

I glance around nervously before starting my approach, opening my mouth to call his name.

“Rick!” calls an I.M.A. girl with bright red hair as she hurries to catch up with him.

What is Strawberry doing here, let alone dressed in uniform? I quickly change plans and sit at the nearest bench, noticing too late that it's occupied at the other end with a happy couple enthusiastically engaged in P.D.A.

I ignore them, angling my JS's camera at Rick, zooming in, while slipping on an earpiece and turning up the volume.

“I wasn't expecting you, Mandi,” Rick grins, tossing his bag in his car as she joins him.

“But you're glad, right?” Mandi teases, letting out her hair and leaning against the car. “Want to go for a drive—for old times' sake?”

My jaw drops. He used to date her?

“Can't,” Rick says, shoving his bag in his car. “I'm headed for Oasis to help look for the Simms girl.”

Simms girl? Did he really just call me that?

“Rick!” calls a deep, angry voice.

I glance up and my blood turns to ice. There's a huge IMA student who looks like the Giant, minus the dye and tattoos. His face is filled with a fury that terrifies me despite its being directed at Rick, not me.

The guy walks past me and the PDAs who release suction long enough to determine which show will be more interesting.

“About time you showed up,” Rick derides.

“How long have you known about this?” the guy demands, his question saturated with every foul expletive ever invented as he holds up his JS.

“Long enough,” Rick responds with icy calmness, his language just as foul.

My brain clicks on, telling me I should be recording this. “They're sending me to the outer ridge!” the guy yells, looking as if he's ready to kill.

Rick's eyes narrow, fearless and annoyed. “Good! Then you won't screw up anyone else's career.”

The big guy charges Rick who stands perfectly still until the last split second before pivoting his hips, deflecting the punch with amazing speed, using the big guy's own momentum to bring him crashing down.

The big guy rolls and quickly bounces back to his feet with the same kind of reflexes as the Giant who attacked us.

Rick closes the distance and punches the big guy hard in the face. “That's for not pulling your punches in the garage!”

I gasp, almost not believing what I'm seeing and hearing.

The Giant lunges again. Rick jerks his head back, the huge fist just barely missing his nose. Rick fakes with a high jab and knees him hard in the stomach. “That's for the sucker punch,” he says as the Giant doubles over. “And this is for exposing me as a hybrid to the girl!” Rick does a lightning quick spinning back kick, knocking the Giant on his back.

The Giant gets up, hunched over and glaring at Rick. “You said to make it look real!”

“That's the only directive you followed,” Rick yells with predictable expletives. “I said attack us, not squeeze her to death!”

“I wasn't killing her,” the Giant yells, defensive, his hand touching his cut lip. “I was blacking her out for transport.”

“Idiot!” Rick vents. “I never told you to take her. I was making progress.”

The Giant holds up two fists, looking ready to give it another go. “Commander wanted her brought in.”

“What are you talking about?” Rick growls, furious, as he steadies himself to deliver another assault. “This is MY operation. Commander gives orders through me, not you.”

I'm fighting hard not to hyperventilate while Mandi steps between the two. “Paul, just head out,” she persuades. “There's no point to any of this.”

“No point? He stole my slot!” Paul responds, still livid. “He lost the girl, and they gave him my interrogation slot!”

“Of course they gave me the slot. You don't have what it takes to get answers,” Rick says with a comfortable callous to his voice.

The couple next to me start talking, and I can no longer hear what Rick says. All I know is Paul is still furious. He looks as if he's going to swing at Rick again, but finally decides against it and walks away, his eye already swelling shut.

My heart pounds as I realize how close I came to never knowing Rick set me up. I watch Mandi and Rick continue talking, only able to pick up a word here and there. Despite my new-found terror of Rick, I decide to get closer.

I walk calmly to the nearest row of cars before hunching over, grateful its night. Crouched down, I casually slide behind a car, gauging how to get nearer without being spotted. I go down another row and pretty much crawl until I can hear them, still recording.

“Wish they'd transfer you down to our unit. I daresay you're better at interrogation than I am. More enjoyable, too,” he says, pulling her closer.

“When you have some gross, smelly ingrate ogling you, it's hardly enjoyable,” she responds flatly.

Rick snorts. “Too bad you didn't hook Mansfield.”

“He's tough to crack—terribly introverted. Still, he would've been a nice trophy,” Mandi responds. “Between the Simms girl and Mansfield, the whole thing has been a loss.”

“Not a complete loss,” Rick says with humor in his voice. “You'll never guess who I got assigned to interrogate.”

She gazes on him, mildly entertained. “Who?”

“The girl's brother,” Rick says, laughing.

It's like the ground beneath me gives way. I drop further into a crouched position, dizzy.

“Getting him wasn't easy,” he continues. “I.S. didn't want to hand him over. My commander had to use some extra heavy persuasion.”

Mandi smiles smugly. “Made any progress with the brother?”

“We haven't got past the breaking phase. I was working with him just now,” Rick says before laughing coldly. “You should've seen him the first time I walked in. Like he swallowed a live eel. He tried to attack me and everything.”

“What an idiot!” Mandi responds, her language just as foul as Paul and Rick's. “Like he'd stand a chance.”

“I taught him some respect, but he hasn't coughed up anything useful just yet,” Rick goes on. “They're shipping him out tomorrow morning to a high security holding cell, and then he'll wish he had talked to me.”

“After they’re through, he'll wish he'd never been born,” Mandi adds.

“I'm actually going to miss that punk,” Rick says to a laughing Mandi. “Oh, and guess who's head of security in the Detention Complex?”

Her laugh goes shrill, enjoying a delicious bit of news. “Who?”

“Jeff Marshall,” Rick mocks. “That boy scout's gotten even worse—does everything by the book. Kept interfering with my interrogation of Simms.”

“Enough career talk,” she says seductively. “Are you sure we can't go for a drive, for old time’s sake?”

“I suppose I can make time,” Rick says, reaching for his car door.

“Yuck, not that old thing,” she recoils in disgust. “Where's your real car?”

“Over here,” he says, the callous tone back in his voice. They walk over another row and climb into something small, black, and very sporty before driving away.

I climb back into my car, reeling at the way Rick comforted me after an attack he planned. And now he's torturing my brother. Does he even have a soul?

I do the best I can to ignore the astonishment, anger, and fear pulsing through me. Instead, I focus on the vital part of what I've learned: somewhere inside I.M.A. is my brother! He's alive, he's here, and I have very little time to do something.

I consider the risk in messaging my parents and Pete when another flash takes over.

I see myself in a long, brightly lit hallway, wearing a cleaning outfit, my brother not far away with a guard standing at his side.

As the flash fades, I reach for my spare cleaning outfit on the backseat, remembering how Perel loves being a worker because it makes him invisible.

Now that I know how to get around campus, I switch my focus to figuring out where Ethan is.

Something else occurs to me, something so simple. Rick never locked his old car and his bag is inside. The last thing he did was interrogate my brother before leaving!

I sneak up to Rick's car and try the door, forgetting the tricky hinge until it's too late. With a grunt, I brace the door with my leg, grabbing his bag before heaving the door back on, heart pounding as I expect guards to come rushing over any moment, guns trained on me.

None do as I slip back into my employer's car, going through Rick's bag in near darkness until I find his old JS and the watch that broke New Year's Eve.

I pull up Rick's schedule on the dim JS screen with ease. Unfortunately, nothing is logged in for the last couple of days. While the last few entries don't mention any interrogation rooms, they do show his new barrack's number.

I record videos of myself for my parents, Pete, and Tori, explaining what I've learned and what I'm about to do just in case I don't make it back out, which, considering the odds, is practically guaranteed.

CHAPTER 32

STEPPING INTO THE DARK

––––––––

I brace myself as I pass through the scanner of the certified gate, still dressed as a tourist wearing my fake ID watch.

Both guards get a concerned look, one nudging the other, whispering something. I grab my bag tighter, when the first guard turns to me with a smile. “Would you step this way, Miss Savve. May we ask the purpose of your visit here today?”

“I have a surprise for a certain OiT,” I understate, the irony bringing a mischievous smile to my face despite my terror as I hold onto Rick's JS as if it was my own.

“Is the Officer-in-Training expecting you?” asks the second guard.

“I believe she said she was surprising him,” the first guard corrects. “What's in the bag?”

“Part of the surprise,” I say, adding a bit of Tori to my smile as I pass it over.

They pull out the cleaner's uniform, both raising an eyebrow. Thankfully, they don't even notice Rick's watch in the pocket.

“That's one lucky OiT. Good luck with your surprise,” the first says, handing me back my bag.

“Thanks,” I utter sincerely, cheeks red, grateful I'm certified and not subject to invasive searches or intense questioning.

I head to Rick's dorm, glad to see he has a room to himself, now that he's an OiT. I use his watch to go inside, tossing my “goodbye gift” of nuts and jerky onto his perfectly made bed. I hope he chokes on them.

A holo card slowly spins above his desk, catching my eye. I tap the card, and today's schedule expands, along with several inspirational phrases that I don't bother reading. All I care about is what was slotted at seven pm: intel C23.

I expand the schedule, tapping C23, and a map of the Central Intelligence building appears, a light blinking at the third level below ground. Hopefully, it's where they're keeping Ethan, and hopefully, it has light security.

Just then, I spot Rick's closet. Opening it, I find extra uniforms folded perfectly on a shelf. Ethan and Rick look similar enough, it might just work, especially if he has Rick's watch. I grab a full uniform, and toss it in my bag before taking time to reinsert the pin on the band of Rick's watch.

Within minutes I transform into someone invisible with my hair in a tight ponytail, my make-up removed, and my boring cleaner uniform providing the finishing touch.

I head for the tall building, using his watch to access a back door, excited when it opens to reveal a worker's entrance. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding as I walk down a narrow utility hallway. Halfway down, I spot two women in a tense exchange.

“Come on, Jill, I'm really sick. I can barely stand up,” a young woman, pallid and sweaty, pleads.

“We're short as is,” a surly middle-aged woman responds stubbornly. She looks up, spotting me. I lower my head and turn to leave.

“Where do you think you're going?” Jill snaps harshly. “I called in a replacement over an hour ago! Where have you been!?”

“I came as soon as I could,” I reply, catching on.

Jill reaches for my scarred wrist, ready to scan it with her worker issued e-device. “Let me see your temp docs.”

I gently pull my wrist back, speaking softly and shaking my head. “I don't have any.”

“I.M.A. . .” Jill scoffs as her e-device dings several times indicating her workload has grown larger. “The most renowned strategic university in the Global Union and HR does this again. The second time this month!” Her phone dings yet again, and she turns back to me, resigned. “Forget it—you'll be working low clearance areas anyway. Your name?” she demands.

“Allie. Don't worry, ma'am—I'm a good worker,” I reply sincerely.

“You had better work miracles tonight because we're behind schedule,” she complains, reading something on her e-device. She pauses in her first message and looks back up, furious. “Why are both of you still here? Lily, get her started on your route!”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lily says, leading me to a cleaning closet while Jill rushes out of the building, mumbling and cursing to herself.

Lily turns to me. “Use my cart tonight. It's loaded and ready to go. You'll be cleaning common areas and bathrooms on floors one through five. Map and checklist are here,” she says, passing her wrist over an e-device attached to the cart. A map of IMA appears on the screen.

“Under the circumstances, you actually met Jill on a good night. Oh, and if you want to keep this job, I suggest you hustle,” Lily says before stepping back, moaning as she wraps one arm around her stomach, the other reaching for her bag.

“I won't let you down,” I say, baffled at how quickly this fell into place as she walks away, miserable.

I study her map, thrilled it includes emergency escape exits and security stations. I make my own copy using a paper and the dart pen, grateful it actually writes.

I put my bag in a drawer at the bottom of the cart before starting with the fifth floor, cleaning as fast as I can while brainstorming ways to get down to sub-level C.

Level by level, my anxiety rises as I fail to find any way down below. When I finish the last bathroom of the final floor, my arms feel heavy as I put my supplies away. A nearby clock reads three a.m.. Ethan is going to be shipped out in a few short hours, and I'm no closer to getting him than when I started!

I glance up in the mirror, tired and disgusted when I spot some movement in the corner—an I.M.A. guard standing behind me in the doorway with a scowl on his face.

“Where's Lily and Marissa?” he demands.

“Stomach flu, sir,” I say, my pulse rising rapidly.

“I've never seen you before. What’s your name?” He eyes me suspiciously.

“Allie. I'm filling in for Lily, sir,” I slowly and quietly exhale.

“Where's Jill?” he barks off suspiciously, stepping closer.

“I don't know, sir. Last I saw, she was overwhelmed— we're short-staffed tonight,” I stutter, maneuvering the cart between him and me.

“We need a cleanup on sub level A,” he says, jerking a thumb toward the door.

“I don't have clearance yet, sir,” I quickly admit.

I can hear an angry voice yelling from his ear piece even across the room. “Copy that,” he says, flinching. He looks back at me. “We'll make an exception. Let's go!”

“Yes, sir,” I grab my cart and follow him, working hard to disguise my amazement.

Inside the elevator, all I can see are buttons for floors one through ten. He passes his watch over the panel and an eerie glow lights up underground level buttons A, B, and C.

When the doors open again, the guard leads me down a long concrete hallway, walking briskly past several heavy, closed doors until we approach the only open one. I don't have to see the cell to know someone has recently been sick inside.

The guard stays back, his face scrunched in disgust. I head in, trying not to breathe as I restore the room to cleanliness.

“Who are you?” barks a different guard from the doorway a few minutes later. I visibly jump as I turn and look up at a very solid guard. Even his neck muscles have definition.

“I'm Allie, sir.”

“Where's Lily?” he demands, Risner on his name tag. “She went home sick, sir. I'm covering for her.”

“We need you on level C.”

I blink at him, hoping the shock isn't showing up on my face—did he really say level C? “They made an exception for me to clean here. I'm not actually cleared for any sub-level, sir,” I promptly reply, while moving my eyes to the floor.

“I'm your clearance. Move it!”

“Yes, sir!” My heart starts pounding as I follow him with the cart.

We get into the elevator where Risner tilts his head and talks into his mic. “Cleaner retrieved, heading down to the Zoo.” He releases his mic and turns to me. “Level C is where we keep our most vicious animals. Under no circumstance will you speak to a detainee or touch anything apart from your assignment. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply sharply.

The doors open and we pass two equally solid guards, one of whom is massive and tall. Both are armed, standing watch over another narrow hallway. I start to worry they'll see the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, but no matter what I do, I can't get my heart to slow down.

I follow Risner down the long hallway, doors spaced close together, each with a slit of a window no human being could ever squeeze through.

We pass room after room, drawing closer to C23. With each step, it becomes more surreal, even my breathing seems artificial somehow. I stare in disbelief as he stops at C23.

The guard opens the door for me and steps back.

A bed . . . a sink . . . a commode.

No Ethan.

My heart sinks. “The detainee?” I say, hesitating at the door.

“We moved him to another cell so you can clean,” Risner relates, his eyes so focused on my shaking hands, I can almost see the thoughts forming in his mind. “You're perfectly safe,” he snarls, annoyed. “We won't let any of the animals near you.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say. “Permission to begin cleaning?”

“Proceed,” Risner says, looking on with the first bit of approval I've had all night.

I pull on some long gloves and get to work, trying not to breathe. Between cleaning up and the idea this room is Ethan's, my stomach gets uneasy.

My mind works furiously, trying to imagine how my brother and I could possibly take the guards down, but I'm no soldier and I've already seen Rick in action. I have the two pens Pete gave me, but even with perfect aim, at least one guard would have time to return fire with something far more lethal.

As I clean, I can hear scuffling sounds and moans from another room, then some muffled conversation, and finally a shrill scream: “I told you I don't know!”

My whole body starts to shake. The lifeless lights, stale air, and demented echoes of this dungeon are horrifying. I have to get Ethan out of here!

All too soon, I have the room back to a sterile, clean state. I start to panic as I stall for time, slowly putting away my supplies despite an impatient sigh from Risner in the hall.

I go back for the last bottle when I spot vomit on the bed's blanket. “One more thing, sir,” I announce as I check my cart for clean sheets and a blanket.

I can't find any until I remember the drawer below—the same one I used to hold my bag. Inspiration lights me up. I grab Rick's clothes, watch, and the map out of my bag, hiding them in a clean blanket and sheet.

Back in the room, I strip the bed and add new sheets, slipping the items under the fitted sheet, hoping they'll be found by Ethan, not the guard.

I use the dart pen to write a short note for Ethan: Meet me at my employer's car. I barely place the note when I sense Risner behind me, the pen still in hand.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“Following orders,” I say, pocketing the pen in the front of my apron as I smooth down the blanket and sheet with my other hand. “The room and the linens are now clean.”

“I was talking about this,” he barks, taking the pen from my apron pocket and waving it in front of my face. “This won't do you any good.”

“I . . .” My heart pounds harder than ever.

“I am the one who reports your overtime, not you,” he says with a smirk, pocketing my pen, leaving me with only one.

“Yes, sir,” I say, ducking my head, relieved he misunderstood but also grieved I've lost half my darts. Risner goes inside to inspect the room while I head to my cart, and start pushing it down the hall. I'm almost to the end when he calls out. “Stop that girl!”

I release the cart, one hand clinging to my last pen, the other covering my heart that's had one too many attacks these past three months. The third and tallest guard steps in front of me, blocking my way. My eyes slowly raise to his name tag, expecting to see guns drawn on me. Instead I read Hoffman.

“What are you doing?” Hoffman asks.

“Taking my cart back to the elevator?” I respond, palms sweaty.

“Get back here!” yells Risner from behind.

I turn my cart around and push it back. The hallway seems to stretch for miles. Why didn't I find a better place to hide the clothes?

Risner stands there, arms folded, tapping his foot impatiently. “Did I dismiss you?”

I drop my chin. “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“We have another cell with the same problem,” he points down the hall. When we arrive at the cell—this one is worse. I slip the gloves back on, working hard to hold myself together.

As I select some lemon fresh cleaning solution, I spot Hoffman leading my very sick and weak brother back to his cell. What if Ethan doesn't even notice the clothes and watch?

I freeze for a moment, considering what to do when I pick up a bottle and drop it on the ground. Both Ethan and Hoffman glance up. Ethan pauses, his eyes first squinting then growing big, right as Hoffman shoves him into his cell. Fresh hope drives me as I hurry to clean the next room.

“Finished?” Risner asks five minutes later.

“Ready for inspection, sir,” I respond, stepping to the side.

“Approved. Move your cart to the other side of the hallway and wait for an escort.”

Just then, Hoffman brings a detainee down the hall and back to his room. Before they can make it, the man bends over and loses it.

“You worthless piece of junk,” Hoffman berates, backing away from the spray. I pull back out the lemon cleaner, my head down, wondering how much more of this I can handle.

Apparently I'm not the only one. The prisoner collapses to the ground, completely pale.

“Risner, take him to the clinic,” the lead guard commands from the end of the hall. Risner's neck muscles tighten as he picks the guy up like a garbage bag.

I turn back to my cleaning, frazzled but savvy enough to notice the grimace on the greenish hue of Hoffman's face. “Is there a problem?” he barks irritably, his skin sweaty as he stands over me.

My eyes immediately return to the ground in front of me. “Just looking forward to breathing some fresh air, sir.”

“You and me both,” he says. “Let's go, cleaner.”

I push the cart back to the elevator as Hoffman follows close behind. I wait while he passes his watch over a panel, attempting to call down the elevator, all while his jaw flexes like he's in pain but too tough to admit it.

“Should I call for a physician?” I ask.

The head guard glances at me long enough to glare before staring back down the hallway. “These animals have had enough coddling for the night.”

I force a smile. “I meant for your fellow guard here,” I point to Hoffman, who's obviously in pain. “Isn't stomach flu highly contagious?”

The head guard glances at the stuck elevator and back to Hoffman whose mouth is clenched. “Just take the stairs. Go!” the head guard commands before taking over the elevator's panel. While he enters a security code, turning his back, I watch the sickly guard hurry down the hall. As he passes Ethan's cell, Ethan, now wearing a full uniform, quietly slips out and follows the guard to the far end.

“Tough day?” I distract, loading my spare pen behind my back as the lead guard starts to turn back around, his name tag labeled Marshall.

Hoffman, now at the far end of the hall, finishes entering a code at the scanner before bursting through the stairwell door. My brother slips in right behind him.

“You have no idea,” Marshall mutters, his sharp eyes narrowing as he turns to the hall, the door swinging shut.

“Security,” he calls into his shoulder mic. I hide the pen in the hollow of my hand, my body tense as I aim at his neck from behind the cart. I should immediately squeeze the pen before he can report my brother's escape, but something I can't explain holds me back.

“We need replacement guards on Level C . . .” Marshall continues.

My tension eases as I drop the pen back into my pocket. I wait as casually as I can for the elevator during the two longest minutes of my life. My only distraction is Jeff Marshall, who saved my brother from what Rick really had in mind. Too bad Marshall doesn't know what I know. He'd probably help.

“May I be dismissed, sir?” I ask as the elevator opens.

“Dismissed,” he says, holding the doors open as I push the cart in. He keeps his eyes focused on the hall except for an occasional glimpse down as he programs the elevator to take me back up to the main floor. “Resume your normal duties, cleaner,” he commands, scanning my e-pad with his JS.

“Yes, sir.”

“That must have been some kind of surprise. You were gone a long time,” the certified gate guard inquires fifteen minutes later. The stars above us are still bright against the sky that has just started to lighten in the east.

“My biggest ever,” I reply, dressed back in my clothes, wig on and makeup re-done.

“Have a great morning.” He hands me back my bag.

As I walk toward the car, I can't spot Ethan anywhere. I climb inside and check my watch as I nervously drum my fingers on the steering wheel, at a complete loss. Now what?

“About time you showed up,” a familiar voice whispers.

My head whips around as I look behind me where a large lump is huddled on the floor.

“Don't look, just get us out of here,” he urges.

“Consider it done.” I choose Oasis on the GPS and select driver-less, climbing into the back seat and giving him a hug just to make sure he's real. “Ethan, what about your ID chip?”

“Still inside the cell at I.M.A.,” Ethan says, holding up a bandaged wrist that bears Rick's watch.

My eyes dart to the dark road in front and behind us. I'm still adjusting to the fact that Ethan is here in the car, safe now. “Ethan, are you okay? We've been so worried.”

“How exactly did you pull that off ?” He ignores my question, his face difficult to see in the dim light. “Where's Dad and Mom, and why did they let you do it?”

“They don't even know I'm here. No one does. I came on a hunch and spotted Rick—”

“You won't want to hear this, but—” Ethan starts.

“Rick is a filthy, back stabbing liar! Oh, and heartless, too,” I vent. “He thought it was humorous to be your interrogator.”

“You already know.”

“More than I want,” I start, as I put back on my wig. “I came to I.M.A. because I thought Rick could help me find you. Hah,” I laugh out loud. “He did. He actually helped me find you.”

Ethan's face grows dark. “That lowlife helped you?”

I explain what I saw and heard when I reached I.M.A. Ethan is even angrier than I am. I ask what Rick did to him, but he won't say.

“Come on, I just risked my life here . . .” I point out.

“Which you never should have done!” Ethan snaps. “You could've been killed!”

“Just tell me one thing,” I plead.

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

He laughs bitterly. “Yeah, sis. I'm okay now. Not that you should have done it, but I owe you.”

“You're welcome,” I say, smiling. I pull out Pete's JS, turning it back on. A slew of messages come flooding in. I message mom and dad, telling them I found what was lost and that we're okay but that our vacation trip could get really interesting. Then I message Pete: Let's go jogging. Meet me at U.

“Meet me at U?” my brother asks, looking over my shoulder.

“My gift to him for Christmas—an Oasis map with my favorite jogging trails. U is closest to his house,” I reply as we enter the certified tunnel the leads up to Oasis. As we near the end, I notice a car in my rear view drawing closer.

I hop into the front seat, disengage driver-less and speed up a little, switching lanes. It matches.

“Ethan . . .” I grip the steering wheel, starting to hyperventilate. “We're being followed.”

“Don't panic,” he responds.

“Are you kidding? That's all I've done this week!” I accelerate even more, trying to keep it from looking too obvious.

I slow down as we pass through the Oasis certified entry, getting scanned as we go. The guards just nod, our light green. Once inside the city, Ethan hops up front. “Let me take over,” he says as I scoot to the side, giving him the wheel. “The jogging trail is on the hill?”

“That's right,” I reply, thrown off as he tears through an intersection, zooming down the street and through a parking lot at breakneck speed that makes me want to shut my eyes. He passes through to the street that wraps around the Hill.

“Set the GPS for Urbane, and then get ready to jump out of the car and run!” he instructs as we reach the hill.

I select Urbane on the GPS, understanding his plan but not so pleased about the jumping out part. “You're going to slow down before we jump, right?” I ask nervously as we toss our fake IDs onto the front seat. I sit hunched with the door cracked open, waiting for the right moment.

He slows the car way down on a turn, next to the heavily landscaped hill before hitting driverless. He instantly hops into the back seat, tapping my arm. “Now!”

He steadies me as I throw the door open and jump. He immediately follows. I try to land on my feet, but slam into the ground instead, the world spinning around me as I roll to a stop. I hardly know which way is up as Ethan grabs my arm, urging me to the landscaping nearby.

We don't take time to figure out what hurts, but just scramble behind the nearest bush right before a small sporty car comes into view, the newly rising sun casting an orange tint on its black paint. I dip lower into the bush a few moments later as several I.S. vehicles come speeding down the way, engines roaring as they follow Rick in pursuit of my employer's car.

I'm rubbing my elbow when Ethan taps my shoulder, gesturing for us to go. We keep low to the ground, crawling among the bushes that line the jogging trail that twists up among the properties on the Hill. It's the same one I've used to reach Tori's house numerous times.

I glance at Ethan, scratched, bleeding, and dirty, his clammy skin looking gray as he doubles over, breathing harder than I am as he cradles his ribs.

Anger floods when I realize it probably came from part of Rick's “respect” lesson. After a moment, Ethan attempts to straighten up. That's when I spot movement behind us.

“IDs, now!” an I.S. agent yells at us, holding up a scanner while a second agent holds us at gunpoint, closing the gap.

“Sure. It's right here,” I say, one hand up, the other reaching into my pocket and loading a dart. I aim Pete's pen and shoot in one fluid motion, lodging the dart perfectly into the armed agent's neck while Ethan knocks the gun aside as it discharges.

The first guard drops his scanner and starts to pull out his weapon, but Ethan disarms the guy so fast, I'm not sure what happened. All I see is grappling right before Ethan flips the guy down onto the ground.

With a clear shot, I squeeze and a dart appears at the agent's neck. When it doesn't stop him from reaching for his weapon, I shoot a second.

Ethan quickly dismantles the weapons, tossing them in the bushes. “How did you learn to fight like that?” I grunt as we roll the heavy, limp agents behind the bushes, my pen ready in case more agents decide to join the party.

“Ask me some other time,” Ethan says, the grayish tint returning to his face.

“Not some other time,” I whisper back. “How'd you learn to do that?”

“Dad trained me,” he says, lips tight as we resume our trek, going far faster than I thought he could considering the damage he's received.

“Dad trained me too, but he didn't teach me that!” I argue.

“We'll talk about it later!” he whispers as we reach a water fountain where Pete waits in his jogging gear, livid. Surprise washes over his face as he recognizes Ethan at my side. He immediately motions for us to follow him.

“Take the tunnel to the end and wait for me there,” he whispers, ducking behind some thick shrubbery.

“What tunnel?” I ask as a section of the stone wall slides open, allowing us entry. Before I go in, I touch Pete's arm, eyes full of warning. “Guards and I.S. aren't far behind us. I won't be offended if you turn us away.”

He nods an acknowledgment before practically shoving me inside the tunnel. The doorway re-shuts, sealing us in darkness. I'm debating turning Pete's JS back on, if only for the light, when dim lights appear, revealing a long, dark tunnel. We follow it down as it grows steeper until it seems to dead end. As we reach the bottom, we see another tunnel to the left, taking us somewhere underneath the Mansfield's estate. After walking a distance, the path starts climbing again. We've hardly reached the end when a door opens, letting us into a small bedroom where Pete is already waiting.

“How did you get him?” Pete asks the moment we're through the door.

“No time,” I gasp. “We barely escaped I.M.A. and the guards won't take long to figure out where we bailed from the car.”

“I.M.A.?” Pete closes his eyes briefly, concentrating. “The hair dye kits are in the bathroom,” he instructs, pale as he calls his estate manager. “How quickly can we stage a party with all the trimmings . . .?”

Ethan and I scramble to change the color and cut of our hair while Pete comes back, holding the craziest outfits only a tourist would wear. I slip into a party dress, with my new blond hair far shorter and flinging out, making me look like a spunky version of Tori.

“I'm going to draw too much attention looking like this,” I say, eyeing my reflection with a knot in my stomach.

“Which is why you won't look like you're on the run,” he smirks, handing me a small box. “I thought you'd want this back.”

I open the box and gasp. “Pete, how did you get this?” I ask with delight, slipping my dad's gift back onto my wrist.

“My new side kick, Nick Tavernil, fetched it for me,” he winks. “I've swapped out the ID. You're now Alison Tammer—” His JS alarm goes off. He cusses as he grabs me, while counting down in a whisper. Pete opens a seamless panel inside the floor of the closet. “Hurry!”

With the help of a ladder beneath the surface of the floor, I drop into the dark hole, barely able to see a few cots and some furniture in the dimly lit bunker with a low ceiling. Pete whispers something to my brother about a backup plan before Ethan joins me, now dressed like a punk rocker with spiky jet black hair.

A night light turns on as Pete seals the entrance shut. I crawl onto a cot, so exhausted, I don't even remember falling asleep.

“Don't make a sound,” Ethan whispers, waking me, his hand ready to cover my mouth in case I'm careless enough to make noise. Sleep flees from my body as I sit up, every hair on end as footsteps above us creak the floor.

Ethan leads me to an entire armoire that's swung away from the wall, revealing a tunnel. We quietly enter the tunnel, my heart jumping every time someone stomps above us.

The light in our hideout turns off as the armoire swings shut, a wall closing behind it, sealing us from the bunker.

We sit in the dark tunnel, holding perfectly still in a time warp which seems to have no end, holding still long after the footsteps finally leave.

The dim lights flicker three times, and Ethan reopens the wall, letting us back into the bunker. I go back to the cot, weak, my hands refusing to stop shaking.

“When was the last time you ate?” Ethan asks, watching my hands.

I shrug, having no clue if it's day or night. Ethan opens a small cabinet, grabbing us a few waters, as well as crackers and small cans of tuna salad. He sips at the water and nibbles at the crackers, his stomach still not recovered.

As for me, I peel off the top, ravenous. “So, does this count as later?” I whisper with maybe a little too much sarcasm.

“Alysse—”

“I risked my life, or worse, to help you escape. I even cleaned up vomit. I think I can handle the truth.”

“Listen,” Ethan says calmly, looking me hard in the eye while his fake piercings throw me off—especially the nose ring. “We are being hunted in a city with one of the best surveillance systems in the Global Union. If we get caught, they'll use torture to figure things out. I've had practice—you haven't. I tell you more and innocent people get hurt, starting with you.”

“Well, if we're lucky enough to survive, will you tell me when we reach the Lost Territory?”

“Lost Territory?” Ethan asks, startled.

“Pete found a way to get us out there. And Dad and Mom are all in agreement.”

“So am I,” Ethan says eager, a genuine smile on his face. “Do you think Pete would let Marie come?”

“I'll do my best to persuade him if you tell me the truth,” I offer, still annoyed despite knowing the reason.

Ethan lets out a puff of air. “I'll tell you if we make it out.”

Some time later, the access opening above the ladder rattles and opens. “All clear,” Pete calls, the hum of distant music drifting in from above. “I'll take you, one at a time, to rendezvous with your parents in Urbane before we meet my coyote,” Pete explains, now dressed like a chauffeur. “Ethan first.”

I wait a tense ten minutes before Pete comes back to lead me into the backyard where workers circle around, serving numerous guests as they enjoy food and a live orchestra, all against a backdrop of numerous I.S. vehicles around the perimeter, just barely off the Mansfield's property.

“You've done your search, now get your people away from my property!” Mr. Mansfield barks at a holo link on his JS before spotting me and offering a polite smile, not even recognizing me.

It gives me the courage to follow Pete to the front, near where I.S. is camped out.

Pete leads me to where a limo waits, filled with guys and girls my age, among whom are Jason and Mason. “I'll see you soon,” Pete whispers to me, squeezing my hand as he helps me into the limo.

“You rock!” Mason greets as I sit next to him, giving me a high five.

“You know?” I ask, smiling weakly as a girl kneels in front of me, a glittery purple mask painted on her face.

“Pete called us,” Jason adds with a wink as I flinch away from the girl's hand.

“Relax, we're going to have some fun tonight!” she says as she artistically adds copious amounts of makeup to my face as the limo pulls out of the Mansfield's gate.

No one is surprised when I.S. stops us. “All guests in this party are certified and exempt from searches,” the limo driver announces.

“Not tonight,” an agent barks, reaching in and unlocking all doors, while another agent opens the rear side doors.

“Watch it!” Mason barks, glaring, while the girls all start booing then laughing, acting inebriated. The agent starts scanning everyone, looking right at me as he scans the new watch Pete gave me. I focus on looking annoyed instead of terrified, trying to keep my hand from trembling, my other hand ready to pull out the dart pen.

“We don't have all day!” Jason demands.

The agent snarls, releasing my wrist and moving on, scanning everyone in the limo before slamming the door shut behind him.

The whole ride, I play with the small purse in my lap while the others talk about surfing and summer vacation. I'm grateful for their lighthearted playfulness, it's all that's keeping me from going to pieces.

The group escorts me into the View, passing by guards who stop us, but none of them even give me a second glance. It's not until I see my reflection in the glass entrance that I understand why. Even I don't recognize myself. Not with the blond spunky hair and the bright, glittery butterfly wings painted around my eyes.

There are more guards inside, but at this point, I'm no longer scared of being caught. Now I'm just worried about my family.

The group escorts me up several levels to a restaurant, where I spot my brother mixed in with other college age guys who are watching a game on a nearby holo.

“Everything go okay?” Pete asks as he sits down next to me, now dressed like Mason and Jason, while a middle-aged couple sits down at the table next to us.

“Yeah, I.S. were morons, like usual,” Jason yacks as a waitress brings over some ribs.

“We'll have you and your brother go first this time, then your parents,” Pete whispers to me, nodding at the nearby couple.

My jaw almost drops as I barely recognize them, their skin tan and hair dark black with gray streaks. I'm so distracted by their changed appearance, it takes me a while to catch on to what Pete just said. “Wait—what about you? Aren't you coming?” I ask, my insides giving a twist.

“I have some more things to wrap up,” he says, giving my hand a kiss.

“But you have to come—it was your idea,” I protest.

“We'll see each other soon. I still want to take you out on a date, one where you can explain to me how you got your brother outta there,” Pete says, squeezing my hand as a man who looks like a tour guide walks up, dressed in a button-down shirt and dark slacks, his trim hair combed over.

“Welcome to Oasis,” the man greets, shaking my hand. “I understand you've had quite the trip already. I'm sure you're eager to see your new accommodations. Follow me,” he says confidently as Pete gives me a hug goodbye.

The man seems so familiar, like I've met him before. I try to figure out where, all while hoping Pete's instinct is right. Hoping the Dissenters are the opposite of most everything we've ever heard . . .

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♦ About the Author ♦

Three things inspired the creation of Desert: a poster, a dream, and a news clip. The author spotted the first inside a teen section of a local library. It showcased an attractive guy and girl with superhuman strength, standing together, ready to defeat the bad guys, a cold-hard look in their eyes.

A. Tebbs decided to write a book with a kind-hearted heroine, one who doesn't turn calloused. She wrote in early mornings and late nights, squeezing Desert into her hectic schedule. Then, after three years of working, she received a scathing peer review. Rather than give up, the author hit the drawing board, taking two more years to create the Desert we now enjoy.