35. BEEKEEPER
Lawson—
The vacuum seal releases with a hiss. I stagger to my feet as Captain Mom strides in, buckling her empty gun holster. She shuts the door quickly, but if the seal reengages, the blood whooshing in my ears drowns it out.
I have to find Aidan and make my confession. Yes, I was GeeGee, but I changed my mind. I have to know that I’m loved as my whole self, or that I am not.
I face Mama across the cork floor and the fallen knife. She takes off her helmet and tosses it past me onto the bed. Static electricity lifts her hair. She stands on the balls of her feet, arms loose at her sides, ready to fight me.
If she ruled the world, I’d launch myself at her right now and forget she’s my mother, but she doesn’t, and I’m short on time. I don’t speak. The words jammed up against my teeth would only get me sedated.
“Hi,” Mama says.
I stick my hands in my pockets and say, “You were too late.”
She rocks back on her heels, watching, measuring.
“You took too long and they killed Tab.” I’ve been playing pretend for years, but this is my most important performance.
Her shoulders droop. “I know. I couldn’t believe it, but they killed the other actors, too.”
I take a step closer. “I was wrong.” Another step. “They would have torn me to pieces, just like you said, if you hadn’t given me this scar.” My fingers brush across the hollow above my hipbone, tracing the ridge of flesh through the fabric of my shirt. “Thank you for that.”
“Actually, it’s a tracking chip,” she says. “That’s how we were able to find you.” Her eyes narrow.
She’s testing me. Maybe thanking her was too much. She wants me to know there’s no escape, but she needn’t bother. I stoop and snag the knife. She jerks away, and her back hits the door. I flip the knife so I’m holding the blade and extend it to her hilt-first.
“Thanks for always having my back,” I say.
She grabs the hilt, a little too eagerly. I tense without meaning to, muscles clamping down. My fingers press together on the flat blade. Smooth metal slides millimeter by millimeter between the pads of my fingers, and then she has everything and I am unarmed. It feels like standing naked in the middle of the Arena. I look down to hide my emotions.
“We have the others in lockdown,” she says. “We’re hoping you’ll talk to them for us.”
Which explains why I’m here instead of rehabilitation. The mission isn’t yet complete. Maybe she wants me to keep my edge. Maybe she thinks Real Dealer Lawson makes the ideal soldier. She’s almost right about that.
She’s just forgotten one thing about anarchists. The most important bit. We don’t take orders.
I search the face in front of me, more familiar than my own. The square jaw, the rounded tip of her nose, the dark circles under her eyes like fading shiners. If only she locked me up to save me from the pulses. If only she wanted what I want with Aidan, truth and forgiveness, but her face gives away nothing but exhaustion.
“But why?” I swallow. “You have them already.”
If she weren’t used to pulse-controlled sheeple, she’d see through the wide-eyed innocent act in a second, but she says, “The media department wants a record of them agreeing to the pulses. The lost children coming home. Think you can get us that?”
I look at my torn jeans and t-shirt, black and red and filthy. I scrub my hands down my thighs, collecting grime. Dirty hands feel right.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m your man.”
She turns for the door but then looks back over her shoulder. “I’m really sorry about the Bees. I know you had a soft spot for them. Sergeant Hansen acted alone on that one, and I, well, let’s just say I’m glad your gender-confused friend wasn’t among them.”
There are no tells to give her away but I don’t need one. I grew up in her army; she’s the one who taught me to lie. Massacres never happen without the Captain’s permission, and she does wish Aidan had been there.
She opens the door and holds it wide. “Come on.”
I stare into the mirror of my mother’s face. Good-bye.
She jerks her head. “There’s already trouble.”
Fierce pride fills me. D-town is fighting back. I focus on the worn toes of my boots, hiding my expression, as I step past her. She takes back her gun from the guard waiting out in the hall. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from grabbing for a weapon, then yank them out again when the guard steps in front of me.
“You one of them?” The visor of his helmet is up. There’s strain around his mouth and a bruise forming under one eye.
My hand balls into a fist.
“Stand down,” the Captain says, stepping quickly between us. “Don’t mind him,” she tells me. “The pulses are off for the day.”
My face goes slack. I can’t summon an expression, can’t remember how the muscles in my face work.
Off? Like off, off?
I wet my mouth. “For how long?”
“Not long at all. Don’t worry.” She sets off at a jog down the curving hallway.
I follow. The cork floor adds spring to my step, making me run like a G-spot, too perky. The hall bends to the right, curving tighter and tighter as we spiral in on the center of the compound. I trail my fingers along the pale green wall, probably leaving smudges, but the Captain doesn’t order me to stop. She moves with purpose, unlocking a final fortified door.
We step into an airy reception area with high ceilings and round skylights. Stalks of bamboo grow from flowerpots straight toward the early evening light. A ponytailed receptionist sits behind a desk made from yet more bamboo. The femme turns as the door opens and does a double-take on me. I focus on her to keep from staring at the door in the convex wall on the other side of the reception area. Under my gaze, her russet skin reddens by degrees, like a stove heating.
My heart jackhammers against my ribs and the walls seem to pulsate as I follow my mother across that last bit of smooth floor to the door of the re-education room. She adjusts her grip on her gun and my stomach does a slow, sickening flip. Aidan is behind that door, if Aidan is anywhere.
While the Captain unlocks the door, I’m powerless to stop my glance through the viewing window into the classroom.
There’s Aidan, the only D-towner standing. Wrist bones so sharp it’s a wonder they don’t tear through skin. Tendons standing out in too-thin arms. The Om tattoo on the back of that one’s scalp is darker than any bruise.
“Are you ready?” the Captain asks.
My gaze jerks from the door, down to my knuckles. Something about the curve of Aidan’s shoulders has made my hands curl into fists. The Captain is watching me. I nod and reach past her. She steps aside.
My fingers close around the door handle, the metal slipping against my sweaty palm as I twist it.
“Lawson, wait,” she commands, sounding suddenly anxious. “Do you know who you are?”
My hand is on the door. I can say anything I want to. I turn my head and look directly into my mother’s hazel eyes.
“Yeah,” I say. “I am the beekeeper.”
I throw open the door just as she reaches out to stop me.