change your mind, there’s no vruxing way I’m letting you go in there alone. I’m not losing you again.” Logan’s jaw hardens, and he balls his hands at his sides.
I can see there’s no changing his mind, either.
“Okay,” I say. “Together, then.”
Logan nods stiffly. “I’ll tell Beechy.”
He limps past me and opens the door.
I stand alone in the bunk room after he’s gone, releasing the panic I was bottling up so he wouldn’t see it.
I hope I made the right decision when I agreed to this. I hope I haven’t put Logan in a position where I will lose him forever.
But worrying about what’s going to happen won’t change a thing; it will only make me more vulnerable to losing control of myself again.
I will count to three, and then I will take control. I will stop being afraid.
One
Two
Three
I walk out the door.
* * *
“You’re sure this will work?” I ask, watching the nurse, Uma, fill a thick syringe with black ink.
Machines beep around me in the medical bay, and the scent of antiseptic fills the air. Beechy brought me and Logan here so Uma could alter the citizenship numbers branded on our wrists, which officials could use to identify us with their special scanners in the work camp.
“Don’t worry, she knows what she’s doing,” Beechy says, giving me a reassuring smile. Logan stands beside him, his arms folded, waiting for his turn in the chair.
Uma finishes filling the syringe and sets the half-empty tube of ink on a tray. She flicks the syringe. “The consistency should be right. But this may hurt, honey. Usually doctors use a special machine for branding.”
“I’ll manage,” I say, trying not to squirm in my seat. I want her to hurry and get this over with. If I could remember my first branding, I’d know more what to expect. But new children in the work camps are tagged with their identification number within a few days of birth.
At least we’re altering only two of my numbers, not giving me a brand-new set.
“So how will this work?” Logan asks. “You give us each a new tag and the officials won’t be able to identify us in their system?”
“Yes,” Beechy says. “Their scanners will pull up a new profile, a fake one. Sandy and one of our techs figured out how to hack into the Core citizen registrar through our computers. There’s a file for every single citizen in both the cities and the work camps. We’ll create a brand-new file for you connected to your new tag number. No one should notice it among all the other files, and then officials shouldn’t have any reason to suspect who you really are. It’ll be safer than tampering with your real file, since that could alert Charlie to the fact you’re both still alive.”
“Good,” I say. I’d prefer if Charlie wasn’t certain of that fact until I’m standing in front of him with a gun aimed at his forehead.
Beechy glances at his time-band. “I hate to leave, but I need to hand out mission assignments and check on how the prep is going. We’re aiming to leave in about an hour.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “You can go.”
“Good luck,” he says, and heads out of the room.
“Lay your wrist flat on the armrest,” Uma says, setting the syringe down and picking up an antiseptic wipe.
I set my left arm on the rest and flex my hand. The harsh light directly overhead makes the inked characters on my wrist—S68477—paler than usual. I focus on the beeping of the monitors and the rustle of the curtains around the beds as Uma wipes my skin.
“Ready?” she asks, picking up the syringe.
“Ready.” I do my best to keep still as she guides the needle under my skin and squeezes out a drop of ink.
“Is it bad?” Logan asks.
“Stings a little.” It could be much worse.
The curtains stir around the cot across the aisle from my chair.
“I need some help,” a male voice says. A short cough follows.
The other nurse on duty walks over. “Everything all right, Mal?”
The nurse
I can see there’s no changing his mind, either.
“Okay,” I say. “Together, then.”
Logan nods stiffly. “I’ll tell Beechy.”
He limps past me and opens the door.
I stand alone in the bunk room after he’s gone, releasing the panic I was bottling up so he wouldn’t see it.
I hope I made the right decision when I agreed to this. I hope I haven’t put Logan in a position where I will lose him forever.
But worrying about what’s going to happen won’t change a thing; it will only make me more vulnerable to losing control of myself again.
I will count to three, and then I will take control. I will stop being afraid.
One
Two
Three
I walk out the door.
* * *
“You’re sure this will work?” I ask, watching the nurse, Uma, fill a thick syringe with black ink.
Machines beep around me in the medical bay, and the scent of antiseptic fills the air. Beechy brought me and Logan here so Uma could alter the citizenship numbers branded on our wrists, which officials could use to identify us with their special scanners in the work camp.
“Don’t worry, she knows what she’s doing,” Beechy says, giving me a reassuring smile. Logan stands beside him, his arms folded, waiting for his turn in the chair.
Uma finishes filling the syringe and sets the half-empty tube of ink on a tray. She flicks the syringe. “The consistency should be right. But this may hurt, honey. Usually doctors use a special machine for branding.”
“I’ll manage,” I say, trying not to squirm in my seat. I want her to hurry and get this over with. If I could remember my first branding, I’d know more what to expect. But new children in the work camps are tagged with their identification number within a few days of birth.
At least we’re altering only two of my numbers, not giving me a brand-new set.
“So how will this work?” Logan asks. “You give us each a new tag and the officials won’t be able to identify us in their system?”
“Yes,” Beechy says. “Their scanners will pull up a new profile, a fake one. Sandy and one of our techs figured out how to hack into the Core citizen registrar through our computers. There’s a file for every single citizen in both the cities and the work camps. We’ll create a brand-new file for you connected to your new tag number. No one should notice it among all the other files, and then officials shouldn’t have any reason to suspect who you really are. It’ll be safer than tampering with your real file, since that could alert Charlie to the fact you’re both still alive.”
“Good,” I say. I’d prefer if Charlie wasn’t certain of that fact until I’m standing in front of him with a gun aimed at his forehead.
Beechy glances at his time-band. “I hate to leave, but I need to hand out mission assignments and check on how the prep is going. We’re aiming to leave in about an hour.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “You can go.”
“Good luck,” he says, and heads out of the room.
“Lay your wrist flat on the armrest,” Uma says, setting the syringe down and picking up an antiseptic wipe.
I set my left arm on the rest and flex my hand. The harsh light directly overhead makes the inked characters on my wrist—S68477—paler than usual. I focus on the beeping of the monitors and the rustle of the curtains around the beds as Uma wipes my skin.
“Ready?” she asks, picking up the syringe.
“Ready.” I do my best to keep still as she guides the needle under my skin and squeezes out a drop of ink.
“Is it bad?” Logan asks.
“Stings a little.” It could be much worse.
The curtains stir around the cot across the aisle from my chair.
“I need some help,” a male voice says. A short cough follows.
The other nurse on duty walks over. “Everything all right, Mal?”
The nurse
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