“The tether isn’t coming back,” I said, to everyone, but especially to him. “It will not return in a day, or a week, or a year. The Law has written itself into a corner. If we follow the Law, we will all die. We cannot print food. Food can’t be brought in from the outside. We can’t leave to find it.
“The Rights Holders will leave us for dead because the Law is pitiless and inflexible. Silas Rog himself will die by his own hand, starving with the rest of us while insisting we must not make food without the proper license.”
I saw fear now on faces in the crowd. Rog kept his smirk, but it was beginning to weaken. I reached into my bag.
“But the dome itself now shelters us from those Laws that would kill us.”
My voice faltered here as a worry overtook me. Not every Law was madness. If what little I had read was true, many were born out of logic and then twisted over time. Freedom of Speech was a Law that had been lost. There was a path—a history I did not know. A new ember kindled in my brain. I pulled out one book, and then the other.
“Silas Rog would have us believe there is a single book to save us—to prove Freedom of Speech is a right. I’ve been to his library and searched for the book, but what I found instead was a trap, built on the myth Rog himself created.”
I held one book up higher.
“This book shows how the molecular inks work. It has a key and the codes that will let us know which will kill us, which can feed us and how we can make food on our own. But this is not the book.”
I held up the other.
“Neither is this. The myth of that book is a lie, cooked up by Silas Rog to offer a simple, enticing solution. But there is something Rog missed.”
Rog’s face crumpled a little more. He tried to shake off the officers while the crowd cheered me on.
“No single book shows the way, but all of them, together, do. Our history is recorded there—right and wrong, every step and misstep, all the things Rog and his kind have scrupulously hidden. They are just waiting to be discovered.”
I thought of my name, Jimenez, and knew it was no accident it had been shortened. I wondered what other names might have been changed, and what purpose it served.
“They made us forget who we are, took our names and stole our culture.”
I looked to the center of the city, where Rog’s library rested above the dome. For all I knew, it was burning now—but even if it was destroyed, I felt certain our history could still be found.
“Freedom of Speech was our right.” I spoke loud and clear and shook the pages of the book I held. “And no matter what the Law now says, it is still our right.”
Henri took the stage and stood behind me. Margot followed, and Kel moved to my side, hardened with resolve. I put the books on the podium and reached back to find Margot’s hand.
“The simple act of charging us for every word and gesture allowed the Rights Holders to control far more than a small piece of property: they held our rights, our freedoms and our very lives.”
Penepoli raced up onto the stage, her eyes bright and desperate. Mandett stayed on the ground, soaking everything in. Kel took my other hand and squeezed, and I squeezed back, unafraid of charges or shocks to my eyes. My whole body glowed with pride in what we had accomplished.
“Every book warns us at the beginning: All Rights Reserved. But I don’t believe it. Every right will not be reserved. Our rights will not be reserved. We will be free.”
*
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story has had nearly as many lives as a cat, which is to say one, but also, something like nine. A lot of people helped me in a myriad of ways, and while it sounds trite to say I couldn’t have done this without them, I truly couldn’t have done this without them.
There is Val Gintis, and Jill Carrigan, who long ago suffered through a story I once wrote—kind of like this one, but so very much worse. There is Lee Gjertsen Malone, who helped critique and refine my writing, and guided me down the path of being an Author.
There is my agent, Lisa Rodgers, and the whole JABberwocky team, whose excitement and enthusiasm for this book brought us all on an epic journey to find it the right home.
There is my editor, Lauren Smulski, who improved my writing with her keen eye and her ability to lightly suggest a brilliant change—and everyone at Harlequin TEEN who, like wizards, took the words I wrote and have somehow transformed them into this book in your hands.
There is Connie Biewald and Jen Kay.Goodman and the Fayerweather Street School, who helped me put this book in front of readers about Speth’s age. (I’m very sorry, Ollie, about Sam.)
There is Sean Hill and Daniel Sroka who, at very different times, helped provide feedback and fresh eyes. (Delicious, fresh eyes.)
There is Cory Doctorow, who fired me up on the topic of Copyfight more than anyone I can think of, and M.T. Anderson, who made a path for this story before it was written.
There is John Luther Adams, whose music is the only thing I can listen to while writing these days.
And then there is my family, who have supported me through everything—especially Evia, who inspired me to warn the world away from the one depicted in this book. And, most of all, my wife, Jenn, who knows too well the many ways she made it possible for me to write, and stay grounded, and move forward until I had something good.