The People’s Gate is a sort of back door, allowing Thirds easier access to the First Quarter. It’s beautiful, the black marble favored throughout the First Quarter relieved by gray sculptures of men and women holding the base of the columns that form the only direct portal through the wall that divides the First Quarter from the Third. A bridge fits into the gate’s mouth like a tongue, spanning the river to allow free access to the marketplace.
For all their beauty, the statues supporting the gate have always struck me as odd. I suppose when the Liberation Army first built the gate, they still thought of Third workers as the center of society, happy in the labor that enabled the City’s survival. It seems almost silly to see carved scenes of bricklayers singing through their efforts and factory workers smiling as they present the fruit of their labors to all who walk by. The Third Quarter wasn’t such a happy place earlier today. Maybe trying to sing with a lungful of brick dust really takes it out of you.
I don’t much want to sing my way through the long hours I put in at the canning factory. My hands are permanently chapped from the steam, and sometimes it seems as though my back will never unbend from hunching over the jars all day.
It isn’t a bad job. Tai-ge’s family put me there, and I’m grateful. Better than anyone connected to my mother deserves. But when Comrade Hong was presented with the honor of rehabilitating such a high-profile traitor, she wasn’t willing to have me track welding dust into the house or cough linen fibers from the textile mills onto her clean dishes.
There’s a line at the gate now, each of the workers undergoing a quick inspection by a set of Watchmen before they are allowed to leave. There have never been Watchmen guarding the People’s Gate before.
My hand, thrust deep inside my coat pocket against the cold, closes around something hard. My attention on the gate, I don’t look down to see what it is, vaguely remembering that Dr. Yang shoved something into my pocket while we were underground.
The Reds pull the woman at the front of the line aside, the flash of four stars at her shoulder sending pulses of alarm up and down my throat. When I finally glance down at the object in my hand, I gasp and throw it away from me with a hiss. A single red star.
I crouch down to look at them, lying on the street. So harmless-looking. Dr. Yang is deluding himself if he thinks I can run around wearing these when a single glance at my hand, or a glimpse of the birthmark on my cheek, would have me on the ground with my elbows tied together before I could even say hello. My fingers close around them, and I stuff them back in my pocket before the workers in line at the gate have the chance to notice.
The setting sun drags shadows long across the narrow streets, all the way to the orphanage’s peaked roof, which I can see just over the wall. Was this really Dr. Yang’s plan, depositing me in the First Quarter and hoping I might be able to sneak past the tide of Watchmen searching for me in the lower quarters? How can I get back to where I’m supposed to be? And if I disappear, the Hongs, the Outside patrollers, the bloody Chairman himself will think I really was responsible for that bomb. My days of waiting for the ax to fall will dwindle down to single digits.
Across the street from me, a crumbling dragon guards the entrance to a First home. His forelegs stretch around the lintel, but each of his clawed paws are cut off with a deep cross chiseled into the stone, ending in a gray crumble.
The statue’s mangled paws grasp at my mind, a thrill of fear dancing down my spine. If I miss my dose of Mantis tonight, it won’t matter what the Chairman thinks I did. I might not make it through the night. The family that lives here might not either. The entire block could be dead in their beds by morning.
The red star comes back out of my pocket. I can’t think of another way. This must have been what Dr. Yang meant for me to do.
I pin the star to my coat with shaking hands and take a step toward the gate, but a hand grabs my shoulder and tugs me back. I gasp in pain as my ribs seem to grate against each other. The Da’ard must have completely worn off by now. The person gripping my shoulder wears a dark woolen coat, thick hood casting shadows over his face in the failing light. A red star sits on his shoulder, snarling at me like a snake.
“What do you think you are doing?” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from the guards.
He waves to the Watchmen lounging by the wall. “If you try to go through the gate, they will arrest you.”
Fighting the gentle pull of his hand toward the alleyway, I stand straight as Dr. Yang advised, my voice taught with a First’s impatience. “I have an important errand to run in the City Center, and if I don’t . . .”
The boy glances back at me, and I catch a glimpse of white teeth in what I think is a smile. “Don’t kid yourself, Jiang Sev. I wouldn’t be surprised if all the Watchmen in the City are out looking for you right now. They don’t go by halves when it comes to dangerous fugitives. Dr. Yang sent word for me to meet you. The situation up here has escalated.”
My stomach twists when he says my name paired with Dr. Yang’s. If this First isn’t arresting me for wearing a single star—for even being in the First Quarter—then I’m not sure I want to be walking with him. “Dangerous fugitives? I’m sixteen. I’ve lived in an orphanage helping encephalitis lethargica patients for the last eight years. I am the prime example of what the reeducation campaign is doing for Fourths. The Hongs are teaching me what it means to be a part of a real family. I work at a canning factory every single day to support the war effort.” I jerk my hand out of his to show him my chapped fingers. They look much more impressively worn with all the extra scrapes and slivers left over from the bridge. “That all screams ‘loyal comrade’ to me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Tell that to the Watch.” He looks up the street, where an elderly couple is ambling toward us, hand in hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before someone decides that two people running around with their hoods up look suspicious.” He leads me into a side street and produces a hat and a scarf. “Put these on. It’s cold.”
“You think a scarf covering half of my face is less conspicuous than a hood? With a manhunt on?” I twitch my hood back and pull the hat down low on my forehead, then wrap the scarf a few times around my neck, tucking the last loop up around my chin. My hair is tight against my cheek, hiding the birthmark.
“Womanhunt. If anyone walks by or tries to talk to us, we’re a couple out for a walk, understand? Follow my lead and try not to say anything.” He pulls back his hood. Somehow, I’m not surprised to see the young man from the library. He inspects the scarf and the hat, one hand hovering next to my cheek where my hair hides the mark. “Don’t worry. I won’t kiss you or anything.”
“What?”
As an answer, he yanks me back into the street and sets a very slow pace. A stroll, like the older couple just passing us. The man gives my companion a knowing smile as we emerge from the alley and stops. “I thought that was you, Yi-lai. Care to introduce me to your friend? I don’t think we’ve met.”
Yi-lai’s lips part in a grin and he says, “Of course. Premier Sutan, meet Wenli. Her family just came back in after a round overseeing the farm at Lunzi.”
“Oh, the Outside farms. I’m so glad I’ve outgrown having to take my turn overseeing our operations out there. We need the food, and those Seconds and Thirds need First oversight, but just being Outside . . .” The Premier gives a theatrical shiver and looks at me as if expecting me to say something. When I don’t, he smiles again and says, “How do you like being back in civilized company, Wenli? What are your parents’ names? If they are working with the propaganda team, I’ve probably already met them.”