Taken (Erin Bowman)

TWENTY-FOUR


MY LEGS FEEL WEAK.

“Whatever you’ve heard in Taem, it’s not true.”

“But there are wanted posters,” I say, “and a list of crimes.”

“He was framed, Gray. Harvey wasn’t gathering followers. He wasn’t killing soldiers or selling information or plotting the downfall of AmEast. He was running from the Order because he is innocent.”

I slide up onto the dresser because my feet can no longer support my weight. “How can you know that?”

“Elijah brought Harvey in a few months ago, and Harvey told us the whole story. Said he wanted to help us, too.”

“What if he was lying?”

My father laughs lightly. “He’s fifty-five.”

“So?”

“So Claysoot has been around for nearly fifty years. If Harvey was responsible for the Laicos Project, he would have been a child during its inception. It’s impossible.”

Harvey’s age had been listed with other Operation Ferret details; I just hadn’t realized what the numbers meant. I kick myself for this. Had I noticed, maybe Emma and I would have left the room sooner, avoided Marco. Maybe she’d even be with me now, instead of in a jail cell.

“But why would Frank blame Harvey?”

“It serves him best. The more crimes Harvey has committed, the more people are on the lookout for him.”

I remember Frank’s words in his office that first day I arrived in Taem: He uses fear as a weapon. Frank wasn’t talking about Harvey . . . he was talking about himself. Everything he’d told me was a twisted version of the truth, the version that he knew would earn my trust.

“I don’t get it. The Heists, the entire project. What’s the point?”

“It’s a very long story.”

“I have time.”

We are in too deep to stop, and my father knows it. He barrels ahead. “Any details Frank mentioned regarding the war were probably accurate. This country suffered greatly in the wake of fighting, which happened long before the project. Even still, AmWest remains a threat. Most of its people live in ruins, like the communities do outside Taem. They have one organized force on the western shore, and right now their attacks are sporadic and uncoordinated. But put them all together—the people living in poverty and the people actively attacking—and they are many. So many. Frank knows that if they united themselves long enough to cross the borderline, claiming back land and freshwater, he couldn’t stop them.

“The only way to ensure that won’t happen is with greater numbers. Frank wants more soldiers, an endless supply. He wants good ones, too, physically fit and mentally strong. And what better way to get tough and stubborn and resourceful individuals than to make them grow up in the harsh conditions of a place like Claysoot?”

“That seems incredibly inefficient,” I point out. “Having to wait eighteen years to Heist a single soldier.”

“We are a means to an end, Gray. He is not after us, just our qualities. It’s the Forgeries he cares about.”

There’s that word again. I know what it means in the blacksmith shop where Blaine would forge new spears and axes, molding and shaping them to his liking. But in this context, I think it means something more.

“The Forgeries are the point of the Laicos Project,” my father says. “When a boy was Heisted, he went into the labs, where Frank tried to replicate him. He’s achieved some level of success, just not the kind he craves. Harvey told us Frank can make one Forgery off any given boy. His end goal is of course limitless copies: one Heisted boy who can be replicated one, ten, a hundred times over. If Frank had that sort of army, he could wipe AmWest out in a matter of days.”

I sit there, stunned. Just a few days ago I trusted Frank, felt at home in his presence. And now . . . this. Harvey is innocent and it’s all Frank. Frank, who is grooming the perfect soldier. With Claysoot as his mold. And the Outer Ring, the smoke—that’s him, too. The dead climbers weren’t victims of a self-functioning piece of Harvey’s experiment. They fell to Frank, who burned anyone that threatened the future of his project by trying to escape it. Emma and I were the first to be saved because . . . of Maude! I told her I was Blaine’s twin as I ran from her house. Maybe it was Frank she was talking to that night. Maybe she told him what I said and Frank had Emma and me saved because he wanted to know how I tricked the Heist.

“I just . . . I can’t believe I bought all his lies,” I stammer. “How did he get away with locking a bunch of children up? And how did no one stop him? How did no one question him as the Wall was raised?”

“It’s stamped with Quarantine on the outside,” my father says. “AmWest released a virus that killed thousands back during the war. Claysoot was passed off as a quarantined community still suffering from that illness, and people happily avoided it.”

My knuckles have gone pale from squeezing the edge of the dresser. Frank put his arm on my shoulder. I trusted him. I think about my trip to the infirmary to be Cleansed, the tracker implanted in my neck. I wonder what else happened to me when I was there, if a piece of me now sits in some vial in his labs.

“We have a little documentation, if you want to see it with your own eyes,” my father adds. “Ryder got his hands on some partial research records when he ran years ago.”

“It’s an extremely interesting read,” a voice says from the open doorway. Bree is standing there, holding a clean set of clothes for me in her arms. “Full of surprising details.”

I look to my father, suspicious that he’s withheld information.

“I’ve told you the basics,” he says, and I believe him. His voice is steady, and I have a feeling if he were lying, I’d be able to sense the quaver, the way I can with Blaine. “But I’m sure Bree will show you to the library if you’d like to read them yourself.”

She shrugs, uninterested. “Yeah, I can do that sometime. I’m heading to the Basin now though, for dinner.”

“Good idea,” my father says. “Gray needs a proper meal.” He eyes the state of my Order uniform and adds, “It wouldn’t hurt to stop by the washroom beforehand, either.”

Bree drops the clothing on my cot and turns to leave.

“You’ll wait for him, Bree,” my father says. “He doesn’t know his way around and I need to head to a meeting.”

She eyes the door. “But I’m starving.”

“You’re waiting for him, and that’s an order.”

Something in his tone snaps Bree to attention. “Yes, sir.”

Owen nods curtly and after telling me he’ll see me in the morning, excuses himself. Once he’s out of sight, Bree exhales dramatically and flops onto the cot. “You have five minutes.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll conveniently become too busy to take you to the library after dinner.” She keeps her eyes on the ceiling, smirking.

I grab the clean clothes and leave in a hurry.


The shared washroom at the end of my tunnel is small and modest, but it feels good to soak my skin. I lather quickly, rubbing a bar of soap over my arms and head. To my satisfaction, I find the once brittle hair on my scalp to be softening ever so slightly.

The clothes Bree has provided are simple but comfortable. A cotton tunic and linen pants. Clean socks. I almost feel I am back in Claysoot when I slip them on. I return to my room and stuff my Order uniform into the dresser.

“You look semitolerable now,” Bree says. I roll my eyes at her but she’s already turned her back on me. “This way. Dinner’s in the Basin.”

Back in the Basin, beyond the market and crop fields and near what appears to be a rudimentary schoolhouse, is a large building that Bree refers to as the Eatery. The layout reminds me of the dining hall in Taem, large tables and crude wooden benches filling the space. There’s an open kitchen at the far end of the room, and we join the line of people waiting to get food. The angry eyes that greeted me earlier are nowhere to be found. I blend in seamlessly in my drab clothing.

The food is surprisingly tasty but carefully rationed. I’m still hungry when I finish my small meal—a cup of soup, a piece of bread, a half ear of corn—but some food is better than none. Bree and I sit at a table with several other Rebels whom she instantly joins in conversation. She avoids introducing me, so I simply listen.

“We haven’t found them yet,” Bree tells a stout boy sitting beside her.

“You said Luke had one, though,” he interjects.

“Dammit, Hal, do you never listen?” another girl at the table argues, chucking a clump of bread at his face. “They caught one of them days ago, and Luke’s been questioning him, but no new developments since then.”

“Well, thanks for putting it so bluntly, Polly.” Hal throws the bit of bread back at her. It hits her square between the eyes and falls into her soup, crust first. The impact splatters broth onto the front of her tunic and the brown braids that frame her face.

“If we’re talking details,” Bree says, clearing her throat and making it apparent that she, and only she, has all the facts, “the man we caught isn’t giving up anything. Won’t tell us any of the operation’s details or a possible location of Evan’s troops. My guess is they’re long gone.”

“Gone where?” Hal asks.

“Back to Taem,” she says. “I think our chances of catching them are few and far between, and the man in the interrogation center will likely die under Luke’s blade before revealing anything.”

“Bummer.” Polly sighs. She drags her bread across the base of her cup and sops up the remaining broth.

“Yeah,” Bree agrees, “but at least we’ve got Gray now. Maybe he can shed some light on the mission.”

“You were with the Order?” Polly nearly shrieks, acknowledging me for the first time.

“No . . . not really,” I say. “I was about to be executed, so I was trying to come here. But then I ran into the Order’s camp, and my brother was there, and I tried to—”

“So your brother’s with the Order,” Hal interrupts. “Trash. I don’t know why we show mercy to your lot. I think we should only take the ones that show up at the Crevice with their hands over their heads and walk in, begging to join. The ones that risk their lives attempting to get here are the only trustworthy ones.”

“That’s what I was trying to do,” I argue.

Hal snorts. “Sure. Or maybe that’s just your story. Besides, running to us because you were going to be executed proves nothing other than the fact that you only care about your own hide.”

“He’s Owen’s son,” Bree says. “If he’s anything like his father, we just might end up happy we have him. And his brother, too, if he ever wakes up.”

“Maybe,” Hal says. “Or maybe he’s a Forgery. It’s a crapshoot with these flaky acquisitions.”

“Excuse me folks, but I think I’ll determine if he’s a Forgery.” There’s a middle-aged man standing behind Hal and Polly and staring at me. He’s wearing an odd sweater that lacks arms and struggles to hold an otherwise bland shirt in place. I know who he is. Those eyes, those dark, dark eyes.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” he continues, “but I need to borrow Gray here. Turns out, Fallyn convinced Ryder it would do good to run a few tests to be sure.”

“To be sure of what?” I ask.

“That you’re who you say you are. That you’re not a Forgery.” He smiles, and it fills out the otherwise hollow coves of his cheeks. His eyes even brighten a little. He is so plain in person, so feeble. I wonder why Frank wants him back so badly—and alive, no less—if he isn’t actually responsible for the Laicos Project.

“Oh, go on already,” Bree grumbles, elbowing me in the side. “Harvey couldn’t hurt a fly.”

Harvey chuckles lightly and lifts a hand from his pocket. “How foolish of me, not introducing myself. I’m Harvey Maldoon. I head up all technological operations here in Crevice Valley.”

“Gray Weathersby,” I say, shaking his hand. He has a weak grip and even softer fingers.

“Well, that is what we are about to confirm. That you are indeed Gray Weathersby.” He smiles again, waving an arm in a sweeping motion. “Shall we?”

He leads me from the table and down yet another darkened passageway as Bree and her friends stare on with interest.





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