A Watcher’s first loyalty is to the Supreme Executive. A command from the Executive is as much the dear wish of a Watcher as the Watcher’s own thoughts. In fact, a Watcher must seek to rid themselves of independent thought, and desire only to be a vessel of the Supreme Executive. For it is in this deep symbiosis that the Love Collective will truly function to its full potential.
(Elite Watcher Training Manual, 51st edition, page 176)
The next morning, Executive Lover Crucible appears in the Watcher Dorm, a greasy look of satisfaction on his withered face.
“I will be supervising your lessons from now on,” he says after I have nearly prostrated myself in greeting. As if to prove his point, he waves a thin white infotab in his desiccated hand.
I school my face into blank acceptance, but my mind goes into overdrive. Crucible is here? Why not Akela? “Of course, Executive Lover,” I say, hoping he can’t see any distaste in my expression. Crucible always looks me up and down as if I’m a tasty morsel he wants to devour.
“May I ask why?” I ask primly.
“You may not.”
I wish Dorm Leader was here. Or Wil.
“Find me ten Haters before lunch,” Crucible commands, pointing to the Watcher room door. “I have set you coordinates and locations. All you need to do is inform on the attendees.”
“Yes, Executive Lover.” I bow, fighting off mutinous thoughts. My least favorite person is sending me to my least favorite place. Why is he so confident I’ll find Haters, anyway? What do I do if they’re all innocent?
Crucible dismisses me with a curt nod, and I force my steps into the darkened, soundproof hellhole that is my workspace for the day. I lock the door behind me for good measure.
“Welcome, Apprentice Flick,” the announcer’s voice sounds as if she’s trying to soothe me to sleep. But the lights below and around me become the pulsating lasers of a nightclub.
Bodies jump up and down to the throbbing beat and bass, faces lost in the mesmerizing power of the music. One entire wall of the club is taken up by a mirror-lined bar, where Lovers in black outfits serve drinks to a drunken crowd. I swoop between cameras, seeking quiet corners where small pockets of patrons interact, heads close together. In the tiny corridor leading to a bathroom, I catch a dealer palming a small package of contraband to another customer. Red flag numbers one and two.
“Small fry, Apprentice,” Crucible squawks in my ear. “Get me something decent, not this piffle.”
Alarmed, I don’t bother waiting for the Squad to appear but move upstairs to a room behind thick-carpeted walls. A series of gold letters announce VIPs Only. The beats are muffled to the level of dull thuds. More vivid are the sounds of clinking glass and laughter. A semicircle of lounges sit around a central table, littered with bottles and half-eaten plates of expensive food.
In one gilded corner, a large man reclines on a leather lounge, his white linen suit a glaring contrast to the black decor around him. His face is bloated and flushed, and he rubs at his bald head with chubby fingers. Two navy-clad women lean toward him, hungry smiles on their faces. They feed the VIP grapes—delicacies worth more than most Lovers would earn in a year. His laughter bounces around the room as if he doesn’t care that he just swallowed an apartment’s worth of credits.
To the left of the bald man, a crowlike figure perches uncomfortably on a spacious leather couch. He looks very out of place in this debauched gathering. His figure is trim, but his face looks worn beneath the regulation-style black hair that spikes up around the top of his head. Two small gold bands around his collar tell me he has an important position in the Hall of Love.
“Oh relax, Zee,” croons the grapes man. “At least have one drink, for Love’s sake! You haven’t even said hello to our beauties.” He makes a loud smooching sound, his moistened lips puckering toward one of the women.
“Why did you invite me here, sir?” Lover Zee asks, looking as if he had swallowed something spiky and unpleasant.
The large man lets out a bellowing laugh. “Why wouldn’t I invite the newly appointed Under Secretary to the Security Sub Commissariat? Really, Zee, you have no idea how far you’ve come in these last few months.”
“Speaking of that, Chief Lover, I—”
“Here. Have a grape.” The Chief pushes one of the women so hard she flies at Lover Zee with a distressed squeak. Zee catches her clumsily on his lap, then drops her as if she were a burning ember. The woman lands awkwardly and skulks away into a lounge on the other side of the room.
Wiping his hands nervously on his pants, Zee stands. “Thank you so much for the invitation, Chief Lover, but I really must be going. I can’t . . . There’s somewhere I have to be. You are my tribe, all of you. I mean it.” Zee’s eyes dart from side to side.
The Chief Lover snorts as Lover Zee nearly runs from the room. “Looks like we’ve got another over-starched recruit on our hands. Too conscientious by half.”
A wave of laughter cackles around the guests.
“Where should we transfer him to, I wonder?” the Chief Lover taps his chin. “Warehouse patrols? Rural supervision?” Each of his suggestions is met by another round of jeers.
Crucible’s voice crackles through the speakers. “Flag the whole room,” he croaks. “Fareyn can just find himself a new Security Sub Commissariat, for all I care.”
“Sir?” I squeak.
“There’s more than enough there to fill your quota,” Crucible’s disembodied voice snaps. “Flag ’em.”
Fingers shaking, I follow his orders, leaving only the two navy-uniformed women unchecked. It’s not their fault they had to work this room. In the status display on my screen, I see the Love Squad signal approaching. No doubt the whole place will be shut down in a few minutes.
“I said all of them,” Crucible bellows through the speakers.
I jump in fright. “Sir?”
“Are you deaf?” His harsh voice takes on an incredulous tone.
I bow to the air in front of me. “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I live to serve the Love Collective, sir.”
Hands shaking, I hover over the two women’s faces. My heart is screaming at me to stop. They don’t deserve this. But Crucible has ordered it. I cannot disobey his order, especially not if I want to keep my own head. Feeling slightly sick, I press the red button twice, and the whole room is finally highlighted in accusatory colors.
“Target acquired,” croons a soft female voice. “Love Squad proceeding to location.”
Nausea builds. I know Crucible wants me to witness the arrest, Watcher that I am, to ensure that all flagged citizens are properly apprehended and removed from the room. But I really want to take it all back. Or run away until there is no breath left in my lungs.
Dreading the inevitable, I swing around the room, listening for any treasonous conversations. Apart from the Chief Lover’s jibe at Lover Zee, all of the talk seems innocuous. Trivial competitions and betting on the next Lovers’ Pavilion show. The occasional lascivious comment directed at the two women, who pretend that they’re enjoying themselves while sharing secret looks of disgust.
Doors burst open, shattering the heartiness of the room. A dozen black figures explode into the space. With practiced precision, the soldiers drag frightened partygoers away. The fat man struggles to rise from his cushioned bed, angry protests on his lips.
“Now see here,” he begins.
He gets no further because a Love Squad officer immobilizes him with a swift jab. It takes four officers to lift him out. Before long, only toppled glass bottles and a distant thumping beat remain.
“I’ll allow you a pass,” Crucible’s desiccated voice crackles. “But only just. Get back to VR and practice drills.”
Crucible’s training regimen soon becomes a habit. Every day I spend hours upon hours finding people using the Watcher sphere. I work until my hand cramps and my ankles ache. Crucible won’t allow any rest.
Snapping out of another intellectual party where I’ve flagged four philosophers Crucible detested, he sends me to watch a street scene. Although I’m sure he wants me to follow the well-dressed group emerging from a designer store, a man in dirty linen clothes draws my attention.
Unseen by the Lovers around him, the man runs through the streets as if being pursued. Glancing over his shoulder, he bumps into a Lover’s shoulder. The Lover overbalances. Their glass goggles fly from their heads and the Lover crashes to the ground in a white linen heap. But the man in dirty clothes runs off, his arms in a rough gesture of apology.
The injured Lover shouts. But the crowd of Lovers, still so caught up in their own AR goggle world, barely register anything. A few Lovers hear the sound and stare around them. But the AR is too powerful, so nobody sees anything. The injured Lover lurches into traffic to retrieve his glass visor. Meanwhile, the figure in grubby clothing disappears down an alley.
I turn away, pushing the vision back to the designer store.
“Follow him,” Crucible commands, voice dripping with displeasure.
“Yes, Executive Lover.”
I shift the controls and seek out the grubby figure again. The software connects the separate cameras seamlessly, so it feels as if I’m in a drone, flying behind the man as he flees toward a dead end. Concrete walls hem him in between trash piles and broken furniture. Just when I’m about to lock on to his figure with the red circle, he crouches and slides down into a large stormwater drain, disappearing from sight.
“Executive Lover?” I call, knowing he is watching me from outside the room.
“Yes, Apprentice?” Crucible’s voice is rife with irritation.
“This suspect has disappeared into the drain system.”
“Send in the biological measures,” he commands. Confused, I look around the sphere in front of me for some kind of clue as to what he’s talking about. He must be watching me because he makes a frustrated clucking noise.
“Code 50-34,” he informs me impatiently. “Call it in with the coordinates, and the Hall will send in a tracker drone.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. I follow Crucible’s instructions and wait to hear from the Hall’s communication channel. I have to ask. “Sir, why have I never heard of it before?”
“They’re only for subterranean work. Strictly speaking, they were decommissioned a few years ago. But I’ve sent a message explaining that your request is at my authority. You won’t have any problems.”
Sure enough, after a delay which stretches out for minutes, a terse reply comes back through the audio channel. “Executive request granted. Biological measure dispatched.”
I spend a few more minutes watching the entrance to the drain but see nothing.
Crucible, again, is closely observing me. “You won’t see anything from there,” he mocks. “When the drone is finished with him, there won’t be much left to embrace. Get on with the next case.”
I give an obedient nod as my body goes numb. What did I just do?
When Akela finally calls me in for a briefing in the secret bunker, I blurt out my problems as soon as I’m through the door.
“I can’t do it anymore.”
Akela frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t stop seeing them, Akela. Every face is still up here.” I tap at my temple. “Can you even begin to know what that’s like? I remember every single one of the people I have reported. How can I live with that on my conscience?”
Akela doesn’t answer.
I pour my frustration into the silence. “Before I got my memories, you said I was completely the wrong person to be a Watcher. And you’re right. Today Crucible made me send in biological measures for a fugitive.” Akela’s face pales. “It’s . . . it’s killing me.” My eyes sting with tears. Akela reaches out to comfort me, but I avoid her. “How long do I have to keep doing this? I can’t spend the rest of my life in darkened rooms informing on people. Their blood is on my hands.” I thrust out my palms, half expecting to see them stained red.
“You can protect people, too.”
“How? Crucible’s always breathing down my neck, thanks to this audit. If I don’t report every suspicious person I find, I’ll be arrested.”
“I know it’s hard, Cadence, but—”
“No. You don’t know,” I nearly shout. Her pained look brings a stab of guilt. Of all people in this universe, it’s Akela who knows how hard it is to be a Siren in plain sight. She knows that more than anyone.
“I’m sorry.” I rub at a dull ache that is starting to throb in my temple.
“Don’t get me wrong, Cadence. I’m sorry you have to go through this struggle. But the situation is dire. With the Executive more suspicious than ever, I’m afraid we have no alternative.”
“I need to get out of here. Put me into the Coders cadre. I can write hidden code for you, hack into systems. I can make sure the Sirens are safe from the surveillance algorithms without having to report anyone. You saw my Filtering results. Coding was my best score.”
She runs a hand wearily across her face. “You can’t go on field trips if you’re a Coder.”
Reality finally hits, and I slump down into a chair. “Oh.”
Akela watches me, her expression thoughtful.
A heaviness settles on me. If I can’t leave the Academy, then I can’t get the Song. If I can’t go looking for the Song, then I can’t hang out with Wil either. Or sing for other Sirens.
“You see the dilemma now? Getting you field trips was the payoff.”
“So I either have to report people or give up collecting Song fragments?” I ask.
Lyric help me.
“There’s a line in Lyric’s saga that seems appropriate right now,” Akela remarks.
“What is it?”
She starts to sing softly. It still echoes around the concrete walls. “‘Throw your cares on him because he cares for you.’”
“How?”
She sighs. “I always get into trouble when I try and do the Composer’s work for him. It’s best to let him be him.”
“Can he do anything?”
“‘Greater is the Muse in you than the one who is in the world,’” Akela sings again. “I hold on to that one a lot when I’m worried.”
A sudden thought shines in my head like a beacon. A brief glimpse of a woman’s fearful face illuminated in a window, cowering as a man raises his fist toward her. My last excursion to Love City, and the scene I couldn’t forget.
“What if—I mean, what if there is a way I can redirect the squads?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, can I send them to arrest people who are actually hurting others, instead of people like Sirens? Crucible keeps on making me watch intellectuals at parties. Could I focus on catching people who are hurting other people for real? You know, like people who beat other people up or take their stuff.”
“Mm,” Akela demurs. “Didn’t he say he didn’t want small fry?”
“Yeah, but—”
“That’s going to be tough,” she says. But she is obviously thinking.
I watch her hopefully.
Akela puts her fingers together. “You’ll have to send him a lot of targets.”
“It’s not perfect,” I admit. “But, in having to look at them, it’s the only way I can stay sane.”