“I know the answer’s probably obvious, but I have to ask, are you a Non-pact?”
She stops walking and looks at me. It’s apparent from her expression that she’s insulted. “Obvious? There’s no good way to take that question, Locke. It’s obvious because I clearly look and act like a Non-pact? Or obvious that I’m not because I don’t look or act like one? Just how do Non-pacts act and look to you?”
I sigh. “I was led by a Non-pact to a dark basement, where I met you, Livvy. You appear to be working for the Resistance. That’s what I meant by obvious. Why are you all so knee-jerk defensive?” I shake my head and continue walking.
She keeps step with my long stride, like a frothing Jack Russell trying to sink its teeth into me. “Knee-jerk?” she says. “You’ve lived life as a citizen, Locke. Maybe it was another era, but you know what that freedom feels like. I’m a fifth-generation Non-pact. It’s been 125 years since the Civil Division. My great-great-grandfather was an engineer. He built bridges and buildings that touched the sky. He had ancestors that reached back to the Mayflower. He chose not to become part of the Division. He didn’t believe in it.” She grabs at my arm. “Stop walking, dammit! I’m talking to you!”
I stop. Defensive doesn’t even begin to describe what I’ve unleashed.
“You’ve been back for what, a year? Most of that time you were coddled on a luxurious estate. Wait until you taste thirty-eight years of being a Non-pact like I have. Wait until you have to tell your children that they can’t play in a public park because you might all be arrested. Wait until you’ve known someone who has violated public space and they’re sent off to the desert and you never see them again. Wait another thirty-eight years and then you can lecture me on being defensive.”
I stare at her, her nostrils flared, her chest rising in heated breaths. Is she going to bite my leg?
“Why don’t you tell me what you really think, Livvy?”
She looks at me, her brows pulling together like she’s confused.
“It’s a joke, Livvy. Trust me, you don’t need to say another word. I get it. You do joke, don’t you?”
She reluctantly pulls the corners of her mouth back in an embarrassed smile. “Okay, maybe I overreacted a bit.” She tucks her chin to her chest.
I roll my eyes. “A bit.”
“Knee-jerk. Is that a curse word from your time?”
I look sideways at her to see if she’s playing with me. She isn’t. “Yeah. One of the really bad ones. Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”
Her reluctant smile and my stab at levity don’t erase the tension between us. Words have been said that can’t be taken back, and I learned a long time ago that words have longer lives than people.
We walk the rest of the way to the PAT station in silence. Thirty-eight years of being held back. Yeah, tough. But I had 260 years without a voice at all. You can’t even compare the two. We’re not even in the same stratosphere. Coddled? I’d trade places with her anytime. At least she still has family. I can never get mine back no matter how many laws are swept away. But what I’m mostly thinking is I’m not waiting around another thirty-eight years for the world to change. I’ve already done too much waiting.
When we finally return to the apartment, Carver is gone and Xavier is just leaving.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Home.”
It seems an odd thing to say. Like he’s clocking out from a typical day of work. It didn’t occur to me that he even had a home, unless he calls that abandoned basement where we met home.
“Me too,” Livvy chimes in. “I’m late.” She grabs her coat and heads for the door.
Where do Non-pacts live in the middle of Boston? They’re both in a hurry to get there. They leave, Xavier telling me the same thing as the night before. “Pantry’s stocked. Don’t leave.”
Good night to you too.
I look around. An apartment all my own. It’s something I would have bragged about in another lifetime. With everyone gone, the extravagant space that came at high cost to others is cold. It’s only an in, just like me.
One more lesson: Don’t be fooled by the fancy apartment, the expensive clothes, or even the promise of Favors. You’re only a pawn to help them achieve their goal. Nothing more than you were for Gatsbro. First and foremost, watch your own back. Their backs come second.
Secrets
For the first time since I’ve been here, Boston is the Boston I want it to be. Almost the Boston I remember, and ironically enough, it’s darkness that has brought me this gift.
This darkness is nothing. Barely dark at all. Only middle of the night darkness. Three A.M. darkness. Wind still on my face darkness. Sliver of moon darkness. I listen to the rustle of life. Probably rats in the bushes. Maybe a family of ducks. The sounds that darkness should hold.
I sit perched on the enormous gnarled root of a tree in the Commons. My fingers run along its knots and veins like I’m touching an old knobby knee. I’ve been here for two hours, almost forgetting why I came, taking it all in. The rest of the world is drugged. I watch while it sleeps. Calm. It gives me a sense of power.
I came to Boston, feeling tough, ready to take on a simple Favor. A loaf of bread for a Non-pact. Justice. Show off some of my newfound strength. Prove something. Be a man. Tough like my uncles who never let anyone walk all over them. But it’s already getting complicated. It’s grown from a simple ten-piece puzzle to a towering Jenga. Nothing is ever simple, or quick.
The wind picks up, blowing hair across my eyes. The bushes rustle. The nightlife is nervous with my presence. I stand, reluctant to leave, and look back at the Tudor Apartments directly across the street from me. It looks almost exactly the same as when I lived here, except that the building that it used to butt up to is gone, maybe a casualty of the Civil Division. Now a five-story office building built in Old Boston style replaces it. I came to watch the apartments, perhaps spot Secretary Branson coming or going, ready to lead me right to Karden, but not a single person has gone in or out of the building since I arrived. A few scattered windows glow dimly with golden light in the lower apartments, but the top two floors are completely black.
I turn to leave but then a flash of white on the roof catches my eye. It’s gone again just as quickly. A bird? It reappears farther away. Someone is at the edge of the roof looking out over the Commons. I duck back in the shadows of the tree so I can’t be seen. It’s a person. A woman, or a girl, I think. Nine floors up and in the dark it’s hard to see details. Raine? Maybe Dorian or Jory who work there? Someone else? I can see only the shoulders of her white nightgown and loose black hair tossing in the wind, and then she does the unexpected—she climbs up on the ledge and sits, her feet dangling over the edge, her gown whipping in the wind. Nine floors up.